The Immortal Throne Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  Contents

  Title Page

  Maps

  Prologue

  Part One: The Third Messenger

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Two: The Feast of Blood

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three: The Vorago

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Four: Way of the Gulon

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part Five: The Lone Army

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Part Six: Under Siege

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Part Seven: The Gulon Veil

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Stella Gemmell

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  It was an uprising characterized by blood and defined by betrayal . . .

  The fervent hope of the victorious rebels, and all who survived the fight to liberate the City from tyranny, is that the accession of Archange to the imperial throne will usher in an era of peace and stability, of forgiveness and renewal.

  If only that were so.

  As the City struggles to return to something resembling normal life after the devastation wrought by the rebellion, word arises of a massive army gathering far to the north. No one knows where it has come from, or who leads it, but it becomes apparent that its sole purpose is to destroy the City and annihilate all – man, woman and child – who live within its battered walls.

  And while its warriors go forth to fight and die on the battlefield in defence of their homeland and all that they hold dear, so ancient rivalries and bitter family feuds, political and personal betrayals, madness and murder surface within the palaces and corridors of power.

  The City is under siege . . . from both without and within.

  In her epic new novel, Stella Gemmell brings the astonishing story of the City to a spectacular climax and confirms her place as a master of the fantasy genre.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Maps

  Prologue

  Part One: The Third Messenger

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Two: The Feast of Blood

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three: The Vorago

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Four: Way of the Gulon

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part Five: The Lone Army

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Part Six: Under Siege

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Part Seven: The Gulon Veil

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Stella Gemmell

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  ‘NO, BOY! NOT like that!’

  The old man snatched the sword from Rubin’s hand and smacked him with the flat of it. ‘No, you young fool!’ he cried. ‘Look to your sister!’

  Rubbing his shoulder, Rubin turned to Indaro who, unmoved by the weapons master’s fury, demonstrated the advance lunge with power and grace. Holding the stance, she was still as a statue, light as a leaf, firm as a rock. She smiled at her brother without conceit.

  Suddenly dispirited, Rubin announced, ‘I can’t do this any more.’ He felt no envy of Indaro. He adored her and was in awe of her skill. Yet although he was the younger by two years he knew he would never, even if he practised daily and lived to make old bones, make a master swordsman – or even a competent one.

  Neither his sister nor weapons master Gillard moved to stop him as Rubin bounded up the steps of the sunken garden where they practised on summer days. At the top he was struck again by the chill wind off the sea. The Guillaume house, grey and four-square, stood atop the Salient, the rocky cliff piled high between the City and the sea, and it was always windy there. Rubin looked up at the house and was surprised to see their father framed in his high study window looking down at him. But then, He’s not watching me, Rubin realized bleakly, he’s watching Indaro.

  On a whim he ran inside, along grey stone corridors, racing three at a time up the stairs to his father’s study. Outside the door he skidded to a halt.

  Rubin was not frightened of his father – it would be four years yet before he learned the proper meaning of fear – but he did find the man daunting. He seldom saw him, still less spoke to him, but whenever he did there seemed no bond between them, no more than existed between Reeve Kerr Guillaume and one of his servants. Rubin knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  His father still stood at the window.

  ‘I don’t want any more fencing lessons,’ Rubin blurted to his back.

  Reeve turned slowly, his long, ascetic face calm, as ever.

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I know I’m only twelve and it’ll be four years before I join the emperor’s army and I could improve in that time,’ the boy went on, making an argument for his father, for it seemed Re
eve would not. ‘But . . .’ he hesitated.

  ‘But there is little call for fencing skills in the infantry,’ his father offered.

  ‘Yes,’ Rubin went on, encouraged. ‘And I think I’m holding Indaro back.’

  Reeve frowned. ‘Now you are lying,’ he replied, but he did not sound angry with his son, or even interested. ‘Indaro will not suffer for watching you stumble and fall at something she is so very good at. And you know it. You are overstating your case, boy, a case you have already won.’

  Rubin shifted from foot to foot. His father regarded him with hooded eyes, impassive. In a bid to please him, Rubin said, ‘Indaro will be the greatest swordswoman in the City!’

  ‘She already is. By the time she is sixteen she will be able to take on the best of swordsmen too. She is magnificent.’

  The word hung in the air as his father sat down at his desk and bent to his work, a clear signal for Rubin to leave. But the boy loitered, gazing at the book-lined walls, wondering why any one man would need so many books.

  ‘You won’t punish Gillard, will you?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Reeve asked, looking up.

  ‘For striking me.’

  ‘He’s a weapons master. What do you expect?’ Reeve added, ‘Perhaps he hoped you would defend yourself.’

  Rubin still lingered, but now he had a chance to talk to his father he struggled for something to say. The silence was broken only by the scritch-scratch of quill on thick vellum.

  Finally he asked, ‘Is the emperor really immortal?’ This was something the boys he was tutored with talked about. The others believed the emperor would live for ever, had lived for ever, but Rubin argued that everything dies, even the stars, in the end.

  His father did not answer for a few moments, and Rubin thought he was going to ignore the question, but at last Reeve lifted his head again and said, ‘No. It is a title. He is a man like me and, like me, he will die one day.’

  ‘Then who will be emperor?’

  ‘Marcellus, the First Lord.’

  ‘Why? He is not the emperor’s son. The emperor is of the Family Sarkoy. Marcellus is a Vincerus.’ Rubin was proud of his knowledge of the City’s noble Families.

  Reeve regarded him, his black eyes thoughtful. Perhaps he was in reflective mood, for his focus shifted past Rubin, through the grey stone walls and far beyond the cliffs of the Salient. He nodded to himself, a decision made.

  ‘When the Serafim first came here . . .’ he began. Rubin did not know what the Serafim were, not then, but he dared not interrupt this unlooked-for communication, ‘. . . there were many of them, but over time most died or travelled away, perhaps returning from whence they came. There was only a handful left of the original team and this world was harsh and perilous. Their leader Araeon decided, and the rest agreed at the time, that Marcellus should succeed him should he die. They had all been through a great deal, you see, and it was always Araeon who kept them together, kept them strong, kept them alive.’

  ‘Did he have no sons of his own?’

  ‘No. But a great deal changed over the long years. There were quarrels, and worse, between the Serafim, and in time some argued fiercely against Marcellus inheriting. One of them, Hammarskjald, tried to kill Araeon and wrest power. He was branded a criminal and banished from the City. Later it was rumoured he had been murdered on Araeon’s orders, murdered and his body burned. Then as the City became richer and stronger Araeon started calling himself emperor, the Immortal, and stopped listening to what anyone else said. Other Serafim, including the woman who had once been his wife, conspired against him. But Araeon was wily and his reach was long and in time most of the plotters were executed or exiled. And through it all only Marcellus remained loyal, despite everything.

  ‘Loyalty is the most important virtue of all, boy,’ Reeve said, focusing on his son again, ‘but you must choose the recipient of it with care. I have admired Marcellus’ faithfulness down the years, although I think he has been wrong in almost everything else.

  ‘And now there are just three of them left – three of the First. Araeon, Marcellus, Archange. There are other Serafim, myself included, descendants of the First who form the seven noble Families of the City.’

  Sarkoy, Vincerus, Khan and Kerr, Gaeta, Guillaume, Broglanh, thought Rubin. Every child knows these names.

  ‘But,’ his father went on, ‘these three are by far the most powerful. And no one else is like them. So they are wedded to each other in a way no others can be. And when Araeon dies, for he is the oldest, then Marcellus will be his successor.’

  Reeve looked troubled as he stared towards the City, as if sensing coming danger. ‘This is not the subject for conversation on a pleasant summer’s day,’ he commented, and as he spoke the sky started to darken and within moments thunderheads began rolling in from the west. The air in the study cooled and Rubin shivered.

  ‘When you leave this place to join the army, where I pray you will use intelligence and speed and courage to keep you alive, and not your fighting skills . . .’ His father paused and Rubin saw a rare glint of amusement in his eye. ‘. . . I advise you to stay away from people of power. The armies of the Immortal are filled with generals who don’t know a broadsword from a battle axe, and the murky corridors of the Red Palace are peopled by men, and women, whose only thought is how to stab others in the back whilst protecting their own.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘This is treasonous talk, Rubin, and you will not repeat it beyond these four walls. Even to your sister. Araeon is very old, older than the City itself, and is far gone into madness. But he stalks the corridors in many guises and his power is still far-reaching. His physical and moral corruption affects everyone who passes through the Red Palace.’

  He paused and Rubin was captive in his father’s dark gaze. ‘Marcellus has always stood at his right hand and when he takes the throne people will smile and say Marcellus will be a benevolent emperor, but it is a long time since Marcellus was benevolent. He is arrogant and ruthless and he loves power and the uses of power. But,’ Reeve sat back in his chair, ‘he will end this war, I believe, and for that reason only I will be glad to see him succeed to the Immortal Throne.’

  ‘He will conquer the Blues?’

  Reeve smiled thinly. ‘No, he cannot conquer the Blues, as you and your young friends call them. We have been at war with this alliance of Petrassi, Odrysians, Fkeni and dozens of neighbouring tribes for more than a century. We have exhausted our resources in the war, as they also have, but now the City is beleaguered as never before. You know of the blockade, boy?’

  Rubin nodded. From high on the Salient you could just make out the enemy ships in the distant south guarding the Seagate, the main harbour of the City, and others in the north at the entrance to the Narrows.

  ‘The enemy is not at our gates,’ Reeve explained, ‘not fighting beneath our walls, not yet, but the lands all around the City are a desert, where nothing grows and only battling armies flourish.’

  He thought for a while. ‘No, Marcellus will not conquer the Blues. The First Lord is a pragmatist and he has travelled far and wide while Araeon has been prowling the Red Palace. He will forge alliances, beguile enemy leaders with his charm, which is considerable, and negotiate the war’s end.’ He shook his head. ‘The City cannot endure war for many more years.’

  He bent to his desk again, writing quickly as if fired by his own words. Rubin wandered round the room and looked out of the window where rain was starting to spit and spat on the glass. He thought about what he had heard.

  ‘What about the emperor’s wife? Is she still alive?’

  When Reeve lifted his head again the boy saw his eyes were troubled. ‘Archange has not been his wife for a very long time. Indeed, she left the City rather than exist in it with him. But I’ve heard rumours that she has returned and that cannot be a good thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Archange is perhaps the most dangerous of them all.’

  PART ONE


  The Third Messenger

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE EMPEROR EAGLE makes its eyrie in the heights of the mountains, far from the haunts of man. Though built of blood and sinew, bone and claw, like the smallest dunghill scavenger, its effortless command of the sky and all-seeing eye make it a potent symbol, in the minds of her warriors, of the mastery and might of the City.

  It was not always so. For centuries the phoenix held that emblematic role, watching over the rise of the City and its fall by, variously, earthquake, war, social collapse and once, aptly, by fire. But when the emperor called Saduccuss demanded that one be captured and brought to the Red Palace for display, its mythological status proved a drawback. Saduccuss, thwarted, then decreed that the tufted pea-duck, a dramatically beautiful but stupid creature, given to panic, replace the phoenix as the City’s symbol. One was netted and brought to the palace where it hid pitiably in corners, losing its feathers and its beauty until it was mercifully despatched by one of the imperial gulons.

  And it was then that the emperor eagle, formerly the crimson eagle, was promoted to City symbol, having the benefit of aloofness without the disadvantage of being non-existent.

  One such bird, soaring on air currents far above the topmost peaks of the Blacktree Mountains, might have looked down and wondered what the City’s soldiers were doing so high in these crags at dead of winter. Time was when armies packed away their weapons and armour as the chilly weather closed in, retreating homeward like the silver bears which return to their habitual caverns at first frost to doze away the long days of ice.

  Had the emperor eagle been interested, or able, to discriminate between the uniforms of the City warriors and those of their enemy, it might have thought the City embattled. True, its force was the smaller one, but it blocked the entrance to a deep, rocky valley which protected the enemy Blues – an allied army of Odrysians and Buldekki. And the City soldiers were well armed and better provisioned, whereas the Blues had been too long in the field, were short of supplies, low on weapons, far from aid.

  And on this particular day, less than a year before the Fall of the City to flood and invasion, one company of Odrysians, cut off from their main army, was in a desperate plight.

  The dead woman wouldn’t keep quiet.