The Complete Broken Empire Trilogy: Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns, Emperor of Thorns. Mark Lawrence

      38

      I swallowed darkness, and darkness swallowed me.

      Without light, without the beat of a heart to count the time, you learn that eternity is nothing to fear. In fact, if they’d just leave you to it, an eternity alone in the dark can be a welcome alternative to the business of living.

      Then the angel came.

      The first glimmers felt like paper-cuts on my eyes. The illumination built from a distant pin-point, splinters of light lodging in the back of my mind. A dawn came, and in an instant, or an age, darkness fled, leaving no hint of shadow to record its passage.

      ‘Jorg.’

      Her voice flowed through the octaves, an echo of every kind word and every promise fulfilled.

      ‘Hello.’ My voice sounded like a cracked reed. Hello? But what do you say to heaven when you meet her? Two syllables, weakness and doubt underwriting both.

      She opened her arms. ‘Come to me.’

      I crouched, naked on a floor too white for any shadow to dare. I could see the dirt on my limbs, like veins, and blood, blood from the wound that killed me, dried and black as sin.

      ‘Come.’

      I tried to look at her. No point in her held constant. As if definition were a thing for mortals, a reduction that her essence would not allow. She wore pale, in shades. She had the eyes of everyone who ever cared. And wings – she had those too, but not in white and feathers, rather in the surety of flight. The potential of sky wrapped her. Sometimes her skin seemed to be clouds, moving one across the other. I looked away.

      I crouched there, a knot of flesh and bone, with only dirt and old blood to define me beneath the scrutiny of her brilliance.

      ‘Come to me.’ Arms open. A mother’s arms, a lover’s, father’s, friend’s.

      I looked away, but she drew me still. I felt her breathing. I felt the promise of redemption. I had but to lift my eyes and she would forgive me.

      ‘No.’

      Her surprise fluttered between us, a palpitation of the light. I felt tension in the muscles of my jaw, and the bitter taste of anger, hot at the back of my throat. Here at last were things familiar to me.

      ‘Put aside your pain, Jorg. Let the blood of the Lamb wash your sins away.’ Nothing false in her. She stood transparent in her concern. The angel held her gifts in open hands, compassion, love, … pity.

      One gift too many. The old smile twisted on my lips. I stood, nice and slow, head bowed still. ‘The Lamb doesn’t have enough blood for my sins. May as well hang a sheep for me as a lamb.’

      ‘No sin is too great to repent,’ she said. ‘There’s no evil that cannot be put aside.’

      She meant it too. No lie could pass those lips. That truth, at least, was self-evident.

      I met her eyes then, and the wash of her love, so deep and so without condition, nearly carried me away. I dug deep and fought her. I manufactured my smile once again, cursing myself for a slack-jawed fool.

      ‘I left few sins untasted.’ I took a step toward her. ‘I cursed … in church. I coveted my neighbour’s ox. I stole it too, roasted it whole, and finished it off with gluttony, a deadly sin, the first of the Seven, learned at my mother’s breast.’

      The hurt in her eyes hurt me, but I’d lived a life striking blows that cut two ways.

      I moved around the angel, and my feet stained the floor, leaving bruises that faded in my wake.

      ‘I coveted my neighbour’s wife. And I had her. Murder too. Oh yes, murder and more murder. So few sins untasted … If I’d not died so young I’m sure I’d have met you with a full list.’ Anger closed my jaw. Any tighter and my teeth would have exploded. ‘If I’d lived but five minutes longer you could have put patricide at the head of the tally.’

      ‘It can be forgiven.’

      ‘I don’t require your forgiveness.’ Veins of darkness reached across the floor, growing outward from where I stood.

      ‘Let it go, Child.’ A warmth and a humour ran through her words, so strong it nearly carried me with it. Her eyes stood as windows to a world of things made whole. A place built of tomorrows. It could all be made right. I could taste it, smell it. If she weren’t so sure of her success, she’d have had me, there and then.

      I held to my anger, drank from my well of poison. These things are not good things, but at least they’re mine.

      ‘I could go with you, Lady. I could take what you offer. But who would I be then? Who would I be if I let go the wrongs that have shaped me?’

      ‘You would be happy,’ she said.

      ‘Someone else would be happy. A new Jorg, a Jorg without pride. I won’t be anyone’s puppy. Not yours, not even His.’

      The night crept back like mist rising from the mire.

      ‘Pride is a sin too, Jorg. Deadliest of the Seven. You have to let it go.’ At last, a hint of challenge in her words. All I needed to give me strength.

      ‘Have to?’ Darkness swirled around us.

      She held out her hands. The dark grew and her light quailed.

      ‘Pride?’ I said, my smile dancing now. ‘I am pride! Let the meek have their inheritance – I’d rather have eternity in shadows than divine bliss at the price you ask.’ It wasn’t true, but to speak otherwise, to take her hand rather than to bite it, would leave nothing of me, nothing but pieces.

      Glimmers held her now, glimmers against the velvet blackness. ‘Lucifer spoke thus. Pride took him from heaven, though he sat at God’s right hand.’ Her voice grew faint, the hint of a whisper. ‘In the end pride is the only evil, the root of all sins.’

      ‘Pride is all I have.’

      I swallowed the night, and the night swallowed me.