Prince of Thorns

From my encounter with Sageous in the West Yard I went straight to mass. Meeting the pagan had left me wanting a touch of the church of Roma, a breath of incense, and a heavy dose of dogma. If heathens held such powers, it seemed only right that the church should have a little magic of its own to bestow upon the worthy, and hopefully upon the unworthy who bothered to show up. Failing that, I had need of a priest in any case.

We marched into the chapel to find Father Gomst presiding. The choir song faltered before the clatter of boots on polished marble. Nuns shrank into the shadows beneath the brothers’ leers, and, no doubt, the rankness of our company. Gains and Sim took off their helms and bowed their heads. Most of them just glanced around for something worth stealing.

“Forgive the intrusion, Father.” I set a hand in the font by the entrance and let the holy water lift the blood from my skin. It stung.

“Prince!” He set his book upon the lectern and looked up, white-faced. “These men . . . it is not proper.”

“Oh shush.” I walked the aisle, eyes on the painted marvel of the ceiling, turning slowly as I went, one hand raised and open, dripping. “Aren’t they all sons of God? Penitent children returned for forgiveness?”

I stopped before the altar and glanced back toward the brothers by the door. “Put that back, Roddat, or you’ll be leaving both thumbs in the alms box.”

Roddat drew a silver candlestick from the grey rot of his travel cloak.

“That one at the least.” Father Gomst pointed at the Nuban, a tremble in his finger. “That one is not of God’s flock.”

“Not even a black sheep?” I came to stand by Gomst. He flinched. “Well, maybe you can convert him on our journey.”

“My prince?”

“You’re to accompany me to Gelleth, Father Gomst. A diplomatic mission. I’m surprised the King didn’t tell you.” I wasn’t so surprised in truth, since it was a lie. “We leave immediately.”

“But—”

“Come!” I strode toward the door. A pause, and then he followed. I could hear the reluctance in his footsteps.

The brothers began to file out ahead of me, Rike trailing his hand along the walls, over reliquary and icon.

Having secured the priest I was keen to be off. I directed Makin to oversee a swift provisioning and led Gomst back to the West Yard.

“We should not take this Nuba-man on a mission of diplomacy, Prince. Or any other,” Gomst whispered as we walked. “They drink the blood of Christian priests to work their spells, you know.”

“They do?” I think it was the first interesting thing I ever heard Gomst say. “I could use a little magic myself.”

The priest paled behind his beard. “A superstition, my prince.”

A few more paces and, “Even so, were you to burn him, the Lord’s blessing would be upon us and our journey.”





Within the hour, saddlebags bulging, we rode back out into the Old Town. Sageous was waiting for us. He stood alone by the side of the cobbled path. I drew up before him, still uneasy in my mind. He had driven a wedge of doubt into me. I had told myself I’d set Count Renar aside as an act of strength, a sacrifice to the iron will I needed to win the game of thrones. But sometimes, now for instance, I didn’t quite believe it.

“You should accept my protection, Prince,” Sageous said.

“I’ve survived long enough without it.”

“But now you’re going to Gelleth, bound on a path to strengthen your father’s hand.”

“I am.” The brothers’ horses snorted around me.

“If any had a mind that you might truly succeed, they would stop you,” Sageous said. “The one who has played you these past years will seek to tighten the bonds you have loosened. Perhaps the priest will help you. His presence did before. He has value as a talisman, but past that he is empty robes.”

A horse pushed against Gerrod, the rider moving beside me.

I set my hand on my sword hilt. “I don’t like you, pagan.”

“What do you think scared the marsh-dead, Jorg?” No ripple in his calm watchfulness.

“I—” The boast sounded hollow before I spoke it.

“An angry boy?” Sageous shook his head. “The dead saw a darker hand upon your heart.”

“I—”

“Accept my protection. There are grander dreams you can dream.”

I felt the soft weight of sleep upon me, the saddle unsure beneath me.

“Dream-witch.” A dark voice spoke at my shoulder.

“Dream-witch.” The Nuban held out his crossbow, black fist curled around the stock, muscle strained against the load. “I carry your token, Dream-witch, your magics will not stain the boy.”

Sageous shrank back, the tattooed writings seeming to writhe across his face.

In an instant my eyes were wide. “You’re him.” The clarity of it was blinding. “You set my brothers in Father’s dungeon. You sent your hunter to kill me.”