King of Thorns. Mark Lawrence

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      Wedding Day

       Open the box, Jorg.

      I watched it. A copper box, thorn patterned, no lock or latch.

       Open the box, Jorg.

      A copper box. Not big enough to hold a head. A child’s fist would fit.

      A goblet, the box, a knife.

      I watched the box and the dull reflections from the fire in the hearth. The warmth did not reach me. I let it burn down. The sun fell, and shadows stole the room. The embers held my gaze. Midnight filled the hall and still I didn’t move, as if I were carved from stone, as if motion were a sin. Tension knotted me. It tingled along my cheekbones, clenched in my jaw. I felt the table’s grain beneath my fingertips.

      The moon rose and painted ghost-light across the stone-flagged floor. The moonlight found my goblet, wine untouched, and made the silver glow. Clouds swallowed the sky and in the darkness rain fell, soft with old memories. In the small hours, abandoned by fire, moon and stars, I reached for my blade. I laid the keen edge cold against my wrist.

      The child still lay in the corner, limbs at corpse angles, too broken for all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Sometimes I feel I’ve seen more ghosts than people, but this boy, this child of four, haunts me.

       Open the box.

      The answer lay in the box. I knew that much. The boy wanted me to open it. More than half of me wanted it open too, wanted to let those memories flood out, however dark, however dangerous. It had a pull on it, like the cliff’s edge, stronger by the moment, promising release.

      ‘No.’ I turned my chair toward the window and the rain, shading to snow now.

      I carried the box out of a desert that could burn you without needing the sun. Four years I’ve kept it. I’ve no recollection of first laying hands upon it, no image of its owner, few facts save only that it holds a hell which nearly broke my mind.

      Campfires twinkled distant through the sleet. So many they revealed the shape of the land beneath them, the rise and fall of mountains. The Prince of Arrow’s men took up three valleys. One alone wouldn’t contain his army. Three valleys choked with knights and archers, foot-soldiers, pikemen, men-at-axe and men-at-sword, carts and wagons, engines for siege, ladders, rope, and pitch for burning. And out there, in a blue pavilion, Katherine Ap Scorron, with her four hundred, lost in the throng.

      At least she hated me. I’d rather die at the hands of somebody who wanted to kill me, to have it mean something to them.

      Within a day they would surround us, sealing the last of the valleys and mountain paths to the east. Then we would see. Four years I had held the Haunt since I took it from my uncle. Four years as King of Renar. I wouldn’t let it go easy. No. This would go hard.

      The child stood to my right now, bloodless and silent. There was no light in him but I could always see him through the dark. Even through eyelids. He watched me with eyes that looked like mine.

      I took the blade from my wrist and tapped the point to my teeth. ‘Let them come,’ I said. ‘It will be a relief.’

      That was true.

      I stood and stretched. ‘Stay or go, ghost. I’m going to get some sleep.’

      And that was a lie.

      The servants came at first light and I let them dress me. It seems a silly thing but it turns out that kings have to do what kings do. Even copper-crown kings with a single ugly castle and lands that spend most of their time going either up or down at an unseemly angle, scattered with more goats than people. It turns out that men are more apt to die for a king who is dressed by pinch-fingered peasants every morning than for a king who knows how to dress himself.

      I broke fast with hot bread. I have my page wait at the doors to my chamber with it of a morning. Makin fell in behind me as I strode to the throne-room, his heels clattering on the flagstones. Makin always had a talent for making a din.

      ‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ he says.

      ‘Stow that shit.’ Crumbs everywhere. ‘We’ve got problems.’

      ‘The same twenty thousand problems we had on our doorstep last night?’ Makin asked. ‘Or new ones?’

      I glimpsed the child in a doorway as we passed. Ghosts and daylight don’t mix, but this one could show in any patch of shadow.

      ‘New ones,’ I said. ‘I’m getting married before noon and I haven’t got a thing to wear.’

      2

      Wedding Day

      ‘Princess Miana is being attended by Father Gomst and the Sisters of Our Lady,’ Coddin reported. He still looked uncomfortable in chamberlain’s velvets; the Watch-Commander’s uniform had better suited him. ‘There are checks to be carried out.’

      ‘Let’s just be glad nobody has to check my purity.’ I eased back into the throne. Damn comfortable: swan-down and silk. Kinging it is pain in the arse enough without one of those gothic chairs. ‘What does she look like?’

      Coddin shrugged. ‘A messenger brought this yesterday.’ He held up a gold case about the size of a coin.

      ‘So what does she look like?’

      He shrugged again, opened the case with his thumbnail and squinted at the miniature. ‘Small.’

      ‘Here!’ I caught hold of the locket and took a look for myself. The artists who take weeks to paint these things with a single hair are never going to spend that time making an ugly picture. Miana looked acceptable. She didn’t have the hard look about her that Katherine does, the kind of look that lets you know the person is really alive, devouring every moment. But when it comes down to it, I find most women attractive. How many men are choosy at eighteen?

      ‘And?’ Makin asked from beside the throne.

      ‘Small,’ I said and slipped the locket into my robe. ‘Am I too young for wedlock? I wonder …’

      Makin pursed his lips. ‘I was married at twelve.’

      ‘You liar!’ Not once in all these years had Sir Makin of Trent mentioned a wife. He’d surprised me; secrets are hard to keep on the road, among brothers, drinking ale around the campfire after a hard day’s blood-letting.

      ‘No lie,’ he said. ‘But twelve is too young. Eighteen is a good age for marriage, Jorg. You’ve waited long enough.’

      ‘What happened to your wife?’

      ‘Died. There was a child too.’ He pressed his lips together.

      It’s good to know that you don’t know everything about a man. Good that there might always be more to come.

      ‘So, my queen-to-be is nearly ready,’ I said. ‘Shall I go to the altar in this rag?’ I tugged at the heavy samite collar, all scratchy СКАЧАТЬ