Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3)

‘It’s true.’ Miana smiled, quick and unexpected, her frown erased. ‘He never did seem pleased to see you.’


Katherine nodded. ‘My nephew has many crimes to answer for, but the darkest are against my sister, Queen Sareth and her child. Perhaps as he says his sins are left behind on the road. Maybe when we stop at Vyene they will catch up with him once more.’

None around the fire made any move to defend me from the charges.

I spoke up for myself. ‘If there were any justice, lady, God himself would reach down and strike me dead, for I am guilty as you say. But until he does, I will just have to keep moving on and doing what I can in the world.’

Gorgoth surprised me then, his voice so deep at first you might think it a trembling in the ground itself. It took me a moment to understand he had started to sing, something wordless, elemental like the crackle of the fire, and captivating. For the longest time we only sat and listened, the stars wheeling overhead, frosty in the night.

For three nights and days rain thundered from leaden skies, drowning out conversation in the carriage and attempting to drown pretty much everything else outside. The roads before us became rivers of mud. The rivers themselves grew to dark and swirling monsters wielding trees and carts as they surged past. Captain Harran led his force along the alternative routes planned out against such eventualities, taking us through larger towns, through cities where the stone bridges had ridden out many a flood.

I took to Brath’s saddle again. After days pressed against the warmth of Katherine’s cool indifference I could do with a cold shower.

‘Making your escape, Jorg?’ Makin rode up beside me as I pulled away from Holland’s carriage.

The road led like a causeway through a sea of flooded pasture, the waters broken only by half-drowned hedgerows. Hours later the rain failed and the sky cracked open along a bright fault-line. The still waters all around became mirrors, every lone tree reflected, bare fingers reaching below as well as above. So much of the world is about surfaces, the eye deceived, with the truth in the unknown and unknowable depths beneath.

‘Damn.’ I shook my head. I’d come out of the carriage to think about something other than Katherine!

‘My lord?’ A guardsman close at hand.

‘It’s nothing,’ I said.

‘My lord, Captain Harran asks for you at the head of the column.’

‘Oh.’ An exchanged glance with Makin and we picked up the pace to pass those ahead, already slowing.

In the west the sun started to edge beneath the cloud bank to tinge the floodwater crimson. We reached Harran after five minutes of mud and splatter. A small town lay ahead on a rise, an island for now.

‘Gottering.’ Harran nodded to the distant houses.

Marten and Kent joined us.

‘Is the road impassable?’ I asked, the route dipped beneath the flood before rising again just as it entered Gottering.

‘It shouldn’t be too deep,’ Harran said. He leaned forward and touched his horse’s leg to indicate the level.

‘What then?’ I asked.

Marten drew his sword, a slow action, and pointed to the fencing on our left. I had thought it the normal detritus that a flood will wad into any fence or decorate the bushes with, but a closer look told a different story.

‘Rags?’

‘Clothes,’ Harran said.

Kent slipped from his horse and squelched a few steps forward along the road. Bending he retrieved a handful of mud. He held a grimy palm up to me.

I’d noted the white specks but not really paid attention. Inches from my face I could see them for what they were. Teeth. People’s teeth, long-rooted and bloody.

The waters burned red now with the sun drowning in the west. The air held a chill already.

‘And does this mean anything to you, Harran?’

‘The guard travel many places. I’ve heard stories.’ An old scar beneath his eye burned very white. I’d not noticed it before. Harran wore his years this evening. ‘Best get that bishop of yours here. He may have more to tell.’

And so, minutes later, Makin returned with Gomst behind him in the saddle. And Kent who had gone to escort the bishop, not for safety but because of the piety that got burned into him at the Haunt, returned with Katherine.

‘You could have let the princess have your horse, Sir Kent. I’m sure she didn’t want to cuddle up to a crispy bloodhound like yourself.’

‘I wouldn’t let him wade after us in the mud.’ Katherine leaned around Kent’s shoulder and shot me a venomous look.

‘You showed Bishop Gomst your evidence then, Kent?’ I ignored Katherine. I could feel her daring me to say she should have stayed where she was.