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Authors: Mark Lawrence
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when I woke but it hit me now. Old vomit, sweat, animal dung. I believed the Prince of Arrow when he said he would protect the people, give them peace. I believed Jane when she said I needed better reasons for the things I made fate give me. I believed it all. Everything except that it meant anything to me.
I crouched by the woman. Already I had to reach for her name. “The new king didn’t protect you then?”
“There’s a king?” she said without interest, wanting me gone.
“Hello, Janey,” I said, turning the charm onto the girl instead. “Did you see I brought the biggest, ugliest man in the world to show you?”
Half a smile twitched on her lips.
“So what do you want, little Janey?” I asked. I didn’t know what I was doing here, crouched in the stink with the peasants. Maybe I just wanted to beat the Prince of Arrow at something. Or maybe it was just the echoes of that knock on the head. Perhaps Maical was knocked on the head as a baby and that knock had been echoing through his whole life.
“I want Davie.” She kept unnaturally still. Only her mouth moved. And her eyes.
“What do you want to be? To do?” I thought of my childhood. I wanted to be death on wings. I wanted to break the world open until it gave me what was mine.
“A princess,” Janey said. She paused. “Or a mermaid.”
“I tell her stories, sir,” the mother said, half-fearful even now, ruinedand on the edge of despair. I wondered what she thought I might take from her. “My grandmother read,” she said. “And my family keeps the tales.” She stroked Janey’s hair. “I speak them when she’s hurting. To keep her mind from it. Fill her head with nonsense. She don’t rightly know what a mermaid is even.”
I bit my tongue then. Three impossible requests in as many moments. I’d followed them in thinking to be the king. Thinking of my crown and throne, my armies, gold and walls.
She wants her brother, she wants to be a princess, she wants to be a mermaid. And the waste will take her, screaming from her mother’s arms, to a cold slot in the ground. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t do a thing about it.
I touched her then, Janey, just a light touch on the forehead. She had enough death in her already and didn’t need me adding to it. But I touched her, with my fingers, just to feel it pulsing under the skin, eating at the marrow of her bones. The sickness in her called out to the necromancy lying in me, making a link. I could feel her heartbeat flutter under mine.
“Ready to ride, Jorg?”
“Yes.” I swung up into Brath’s saddle.
We set off at slow walk.
“Any of that spice left, Brother Jorg?” Makin asked.
“I must have swallowed it all for the pain,” I said, patting my belt pouch.
Makin rolled his eyes. He glanced back at the ruined farmstead. “Christ bleeding. There was enough—”
The faint sound of cymbals cut him off. The clash of cymbals, the whirr of cogs, stamping, and a child laughing.
“Leave anything else behind, Jorg?” he asked.
“Red Kent was right,” I said. “It was cursed. Evil. Better the hurt fall on the peasants, neh?”
On the plains the winds can make your eyes sting.
Rike pulled on his reins and started back.
“Don’t,” I said.
And he didn’t.
Sleep came hard that night. Perhaps soft months in the Haunt had left me wanting the comfort of a bed. Sleep came hard and the dreams came harder, dragging me under.
I lay in a dark room, a dark room sour with the stink of vomit and animals, and saw nothing but the glitter of her eyes, child’s eyes. Heard only the
tick tick tick
of the watch on my wrist and the
rasp rasp rasp
of her breath, hot and dry and quick.
I lay for the longest time with the tick and the rasp and the glitter of her eyes.
We lay and a warm river carried us, thick with the scent of cloves.
Tick, breath, tick, breath, tick, breath.
And then I woke, sudden and with a gasp.
“What?” someone murmured. Perhaps
I crouched by the woman. Already I had to reach for her name. “The new king didn’t protect you then?”
“There’s a king?” she said without interest, wanting me gone.
“Hello, Janey,” I said, turning the charm onto the girl instead. “Did you see I brought the biggest, ugliest man in the world to show you?”
Half a smile twitched on her lips.
“So what do you want, little Janey?” I asked. I didn’t know what I was doing here, crouched in the stink with the peasants. Maybe I just wanted to beat the Prince of Arrow at something. Or maybe it was just the echoes of that knock on the head. Perhaps Maical was knocked on the head as a baby and that knock had been echoing through his whole life.
“I want Davie.” She kept unnaturally still. Only her mouth moved. And her eyes.
“What do you want to be? To do?” I thought of my childhood. I wanted to be death on wings. I wanted to break the world open until it gave me what was mine.
“A princess,” Janey said. She paused. “Or a mermaid.”
“I tell her stories, sir,” the mother said, half-fearful even now, ruinedand on the edge of despair. I wondered what she thought I might take from her. “My grandmother read,” she said. “And my family keeps the tales.” She stroked Janey’s hair. “I speak them when she’s hurting. To keep her mind from it. Fill her head with nonsense. She don’t rightly know what a mermaid is even.”
I bit my tongue then. Three impossible requests in as many moments. I’d followed them in thinking to be the king. Thinking of my crown and throne, my armies, gold and walls.
She wants her brother, she wants to be a princess, she wants to be a mermaid. And the waste will take her, screaming from her mother’s arms, to a cold slot in the ground. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t do a thing about it.
I touched her then, Janey, just a light touch on the forehead. She had enough death in her already and didn’t need me adding to it. But I touched her, with my fingers, just to feel it pulsing under the skin, eating at the marrow of her bones. The sickness in her called out to the necromancy lying in me, making a link. I could feel her heartbeat flutter under mine.
“Ready to ride, Jorg?”
“Yes.” I swung up into Brath’s saddle.
We set off at slow walk.
“Any of that spice left, Brother Jorg?” Makin asked.
“I must have swallowed it all for the pain,” I said, patting my belt pouch.
Makin rolled his eyes. He glanced back at the ruined farmstead. “Christ bleeding. There was enough—”
The faint sound of cymbals cut him off. The clash of cymbals, the whirr of cogs, stamping, and a child laughing.
“Leave anything else behind, Jorg?” he asked.
“Red Kent was right,” I said. “It was cursed. Evil. Better the hurt fall on the peasants, neh?”
On the plains the winds can make your eyes sting.
Rike pulled on his reins and started back.
“Don’t,” I said.
And he didn’t.
Sleep came hard that night. Perhaps soft months in the Haunt had left me wanting the comfort of a bed. Sleep came hard and the dreams came harder, dragging me under.
I lay in a dark room, a dark room sour with the stink of vomit and animals, and saw nothing but the glitter of her eyes, child’s eyes. Heard only the
tick tick tick
of the watch on my wrist and the
rasp rasp rasp
of her breath, hot and dry and quick.
I lay for the longest time with the tick and the rasp and the glitter of her eyes.
We lay and a warm river carried us, thick with the scent of cloves.
Tick, breath, tick, breath, tick, breath.
And then I woke, sudden and with a gasp.
“What?” someone murmured. Perhaps
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