The Sleeping Prince Read online

  For James Field. For, amongst other things, getting opening-night tickets to The Cursed Child. Thank you, Strdier.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART TWO

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  The night guard on the East Gate reached to scratch the sudden sharp itch at his throat. As his legs gave way beneath him and he crumpled, he saw his fingers, slick with blood, black in the dim glow from the lamp that lit the gate. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The golem stepped over his body.

  The second guard turned, lips parted to scream, or swear, or beg, his sword rising to meet the creature, but too late. A silver flash through the air and the guard collapsed, his blood mingling with that of his colleague.

  The lumpen blank space where the golem’s face ought to be was tilted toward the sky, as though sniffing or listening. It passed through the gate, its misshapen head knocking the lamp, sending it swinging, casting nightmarish shadows over the thick stone wall of the East Gate. As the oil spilled and smoked, and the flame guttered, the golem trod a trail of bloody footsteps through the gate and into the slumbering royal town of Lortune, dragging a club as long as itself in one hand, a large double-headed ax in the other.

  Moments later a second golem followed, an ax and club of its own clutched in its twisted hands. Its weapons had yet to be christened.

  The two creatures moved forward, slowly but steadily, their gait rocking and lilting, the motion more reminiscent of ships on the ocean than anything that moved on land.

  The Sleeping Prince followed them.

  In contrast to the monstrousness of the golems, the prince was beautiful. His silvery-white hair reflected the moonlight, flowing down his back like a waterfall. His eyes, when the light of the lamp caught them, were gold: like coins, like honey. He was tall and slender, and moved with a grace that made each step look like the beginning of a dance. In each of his hands he carried a flat, curved sword, the gold hilts adorned with symbols from a long-dead world, but he had no plans to use them, or to bloody himself at all this night. If all went as he expected, he wouldn’t need to. Tonight, the swords were mostly for effect, so that anyone who happened to be awake—an old woman with pains that kept her from sleeping, or a small boy woken from a terrible dream—might look from their window and witness his magnificence as he walked through their town. He wanted to be seen—not by everyone, not yet—but certainly by a few. He wanted the rumors to spread of how he walked unchallenged into the city and took it. How with only two golems he invaded the town of Lortune and its castle, killing no one, save for those paid to keep Lortune from being invaded. He wanted the townsfolk to whisper behind their hands of how regal he looked as he strolled past their homes. He wanted them to remember that he could have had them all killed in their sleep but he hadn’t; he’d spared them. His people.

  He wanted his new people to think well of him. Eventually at least. His father had told him there were two ways to rule: through fear or through love. He could not expect the Lormerians to love him, not yet, but he could make them fear him. He could easily do that.

  He followed his golems through the silent streets, casting a critical eye over the dirt pathways and roads, the stains from sewage flung from windows onto the pathways, the buildings that huddled in the shadow of the castle, cramped and dirty, looking more like outbuildings than prosperous merchant houses and businesses in the capital of the land.

  His lip curled with distaste as he peered into the windows of some of the homes they passed, with their utilitarian furniture, their drab décor. He looked up at the castle of Lormere, a thick, square keep, flanked by four towers, dark as its occupants slept. Ugly, like the rest of town. But better than no castle at all …

  * * *

  The golems did their work again on the Water Gate, the least secure of the entrances to the grounds of Lormere castle, even with the extra guards assigned by the new king. This time eight bodies—four armed sentries at the gate and four more stationed atop the battlements—had fallen, forever silenced. The Sleeping Prince had been forced to join in the fight this time to end it quickly, engaging the men on the gate while his monsters slashed and lunged at the archers positioned twenty feet above them on the walls. The arrows had bounced off the clay hides of the golems; if they’d realized they were being shot at they gave no sign as they’d harried the men until they fell, before crushing their skulls into the earth.

  There was blood on the Sleeping Prince’s golden tunic and he wiped at it, smearing it across the velvet. His face darkened and in response to his mood the golems swung their clubs and stamped, their movements agitated. He stalked past them, striding along the path that led through the outbuildings, through the kitchen gardens to the castle that loomed up ahead of him.

  Then, impossibly, a horn split the night apart. He spun back toward the Water Gate and broke into a run, the lumbering footsteps of the golems behind him. On the ground a white-faced guard, clearly not as dead as he ought to be, was breathing frantically into a bugle, his eyes bulging with each blast. The Sleeping Prince plunged one of his swords into the man’s chest, the blow stopping his heart, and the horn, in its tracks.

  But it was too late. As he turned back to the castle he saw lights flaring in windows that had been dark moments before. He heard new horns sounding the alarm, heard the shouts of men, and he sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled a sheaf of parchment and a writing stick from it. Frowning thoughtfully, he scribbled some words, then tore the paper in two. He gestured to the golems and they each held out a hand, allowing him to place the torn parchment on their palms. For a moment it rested on the surface. Then, the clay-flesh turned liquid and the paper sank into it, re-forming around it until the paper was concealed within. The shouts became louder, closer, and the whip-thud of arrows began to pierce the air.

  The Sleeping Prince sighed again. Then he and his golems began to walk silently toward the commotion. The Sleeping Prince swung his swords and smiled.

  * * *

  In the Great Hall of Lormere castle, the King of Lormere stood in pale cream breeches and a billowing white shirt, the laces of his boots uneven, watching the Sleeping Prince warily. The Sleeping Prince in turn eyed his opponent, his head angled with curiosity, his own clothes now torn and soaked red, his beautiful hair tainted with gore. His eyes burned in his blood-splattered face, fixed upon the king. Behind him lay piles of bodies: soldiers and guards and servants who had been foolish enough to try to defend their king, sprawled like broken toys across the stone floor. He’d left a trail of corpses marking a macabre path, beginning at the Water Gate, and winding through the gardens and hallways to here, where the battle would climax.

  On the opposite side of the Great Hall, near the door leading to the royal solar, lay one of the golems, inanimate. Its arm had been severed by a lucky guard, weakening the alchemy controlling it, giving a second gua
rd the chance to remove its head. In a fit of delicious irony, it had crushed its destroyer as it toppled in a final act of retribution. The second golem stood in the doorway of the Great Hall, waiting for any final guards who had yet to join the fray.

  There were none.

  The king held something in his hands: a metal disk on a chain, which he brandished at the Sleeping Prince as though it were a gift. The Sleeping Prince smiled indulgently.

  “If we could talk,” the king said urgently, his face pale, his hair a frenzy of dark curls around it.

  “No talk, Merek of Lormere,” the Sleeping Prince said, his smooth, calm voice a contrast to his maniacal smile. “Your men are all dead. Your castle and kingdom are mine. The only words I’ll hear from you are your pleas for mercy.”

  Merek’s dark eyes flashed. “I assure you, you won’t,” he said. “I won’t die begging.” Then he lunged.

  The Sleeping Prince stepped to the side and raised one of his swords, arcing it through the air until it found its sheath in the unprotected breast of the new Lormerian king.

  King Merek made a soft sound of surprise, turning his eyes to the Sleeping Prince, his disbelief childlike. Then those same eyes fluttered closed and he slumped to the ground. The Sleeping Prince watched him, his expression unreadable.

  He stepped over the king’s body and crossed the hall, mounting the steps to the dais. Behind the long wooden table, the sigil of the House of Belmis hung, a shield emblazoned with three golden suns and three silver moons on a bloodred background. With a snort of disgust he tore it down and walked over it, to the high, carved seat at the center of the table. Slumping into it, he ran a finger over the carving, his lip curling once more. Cheap peasant craftsmanship. He deserved better.

  And now that Lormere was his, he would have it.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the door ahead as I approach it, not looking at the soldiers on either side, doing my very best to seem bored, even a little vacant. Nothing special here, nothing worth paying any mind to. Just another villager, attending the assembly. To my immense relief they don’t even spare me a glance as I step out of the drizzle and into the run-down House of Justice, and I exhale slowly as I pass them, some of my tension easing.

  It’s no warmer inside, and I pull my cloak tighter around me as I walk to the chamber where Chanse Unwin, self-appointed Justice of Almwyk, will brief us on the latest word from the Council of Tregellan. Rainwater drips from my hair, down my nose, as I look at the rows of wooden benches and chairs lined up to face the podium at the front of the room; far too many seats for the remaining villagers to fill. Despite how few of us there are, the room stinks and I wrinkle my nose at it—unwashed bodies, wet wool, leather, metal, and fear, all creating a soupy, musty perfume. This is what despair smells like.

  Those of us who are still clinging to life here are wet and shivering. Bitter air and autumn rain have seeped through our thin, threadbare clothes into our skins, where it feels as though they’ll remain for the whole of winter. The soldiers lined up neatly against the walls, on the other hand, are bone-dry, and look warm enough in thick green woolen tunics and tough leather breeches, their watchful eyes roving throughout the room.

  There is a scuffling behind me and I turn, in time to see them stop a man and force him against the wall, patting him down and examining his cloak and hood before releasing him. Heat rushes to my face as I look away, pretending not to have seen.

  Ducking my head again, I slink along the back row, taking a seat on a bench a good six feet away from my nearest neighbor. She grunts, possibly a greeting, though more likely a warning, and her hand rises to touch a charm hanging on a leather cord around her neck. I peek at it from the corner of my eye, watching the gold disk gleam between her gnarled fingers before she tucks it inside her cloak. I know what it is, though I doubt it’s real gold. If it were real gold, someone would have had it off her neck by now—gods, if it were real gold, I might have had it off her neck by now; at least if it were gold, it would be worth something.

  My friend Silas laughed when I told him the villagers were wearing charms to protect themselves from the Sleeping Prince, and I laughed with him, though I secretly thought it wasn’t all that strange to put faith in eldritch magic, under the circumstances. Crescent moons made of salt and bread are hung on almost every door and window in the village; medallions etched with three gold stars are tucked inside collars. The Sleeping Prince is a thing of magic, and myth, and superstition. If I’m generous, I can see why it seems natural to try to fight back with magic, myth, and superstition. But I know, deep down, that no amount of cheap tin pendants will keep him from coming if he wants to. No salt-strewn thresholds or holly berries and oak twigs hung over windows and doors will stop him if he decides to take Tregellan. If a castle full of guards couldn’t stop him, a metal disk and some shrubbery isn’t likely to.

  Before he came back, hardly anyone in Tregellan would have put their faith in something so irrational; it’s not the Tregellian way. There might be the occasional crackpots who still believe in the Oak and the Holly and paint their face and their arse red with berry juice every solstice, but that’s not how most of us live. We’re not Lormerians, with their temples and their living goddesses, and their creepy royal family. We’re people of science and reason. Or at least I thought we were. I suppose it’s hard to remain on the side of reason when a five-hundred-year-old fairy tale comes to life and lays waste to the castle and the people in the country next door.

  Be a good girl, or the Bringer will come, and then the Sleeping Prince will eat your heart, that’s what girls in Tremayne were told. He was a fairy-tale monster, a story to make us obedient, a cautionary tale against greed and autocracy. We never dreamed that he’d wake up. We’d forgotten that he was real.

  I turn away from the woman and begin my catalog of who’s left in Almwyk, accidentally catching the eye of one of the soldiers, who nods at me, causing the ever-present tightness in my chest to squeeze a little more. I nod back curtly and break the eye contact, trying to stay calm, resisting the urge to pat my pocket and make sure the vial is still there.

  I’m really not cut out for drug smuggling. I checked the vial at least six times on the way here, despite the fact I didn’t see a single other soul, let alone have someone come close enough to pick my pockets. Then again, you can’t be too careful in Almwyk.

  Almwyk, by and large, isn’t the kind of village where you’re friendly with your neighbors. Here asking for help or showing weakness of any kind is likely, at best, to result in being laughed at. At worst, it could mean a knife in your kidney if you ask the wrong person at the wrong time. Before the soldiers came it wasn’t uncommon for a body to be hauled into, or out of, the woods and we all turned a blind eye to it. You learn quickly to be blind here.

  The derelict cottages that make up Almwyk are home to the desperate and the damned, those who lost their real homes and lives in other parts of Tregellan for crimes they’ll never, ever confess to. People always say in times of great need, like war and disease, that communities come together, support one another. Not in Almwyk. As the war has crept closer, the cottages have slowly evacuated, and those remaining have descended on them, ripping out whatever they can for their own needs. I bet it’s a matter of time before occupancy isn’t an obstacle to the scavengers, when the instinct to grasp at anything that might make surviving easier will be stronger than basic courtesy. Even now I glance around the room, noting who remains, who is the likeliest threat.

  It’s a game I like to play sometimes, trying to guess the crimes of the people still here. The worst criminals—murderers and the like—evaporated the moment the soldiers arrived, which leaves the middling dregs: the debtors, drunks, addicts, gamblers, and liars. The poor and the unlucky. The ones who can’t leave because there is nowhere else for them to go.

  This isn’t a place people come to live; it’s a place people come to rot.

  * * *

  I bunch my fists under my ragged cloak and watch my f
rozen breath hover in the air as I exhale, before it scatters, mingling with everyone else’s, adding to the damp fug in the room. The thick glass windows are rimed with condensation, and I hate the feeling that I’m breathing in my neighbors’ breaths, hate knowing that even the air I breathe these days is secondhand, or stolen. I can hardly breathe as it is.

  When it seems everyone who’s coming has arrived, sitting dotted around the room like the last of the raisins in a sad plum pudding, Chanse Unwin—surely the realm’s most ironic Justice—strides into the room, chest puffed out, scanning every face. When his eyes land on me he half smiles a greeting, and my skin crawls as his smile rearranges itself into a concerned frown, or a parody of one. He looks so sweaty that I’m surprised the frown doesn’t slide clean off his face.

  He’s flanked by the two grim-faced, green-coated soldiers who were manning the door outside, and they’re joined, unusually, by their captain, a red sash across his barrel chest. When six more soldiers follow them and position themselves around the edges of the space, the atmosphere in the room ripples and tightens.

  Instantly I sit upright, alert as a hare, and around me every single one of my neighbors does the same; even the woman who grunted at me when I sat down unfurls from her crone-like hunch to glower over at Unwin. As my hand glides to my belt to check for my knife, I see other hands moving to boot tops and waists, all of us wanting the reassurance that we’re armed.

  Whatever this meeting is about, Unwin clearly expects the news to be taken badly, and my heart sinks because there’s only one thing he could possibly say at this point that would make us mutinous. The already scant air feels as though it’s congealing in my throat.

  Chanse Unwin looks around the room once more, taking us all in, before pressing his palms together. “I have news from the Council in Tressalyn,” he says, his voice unctuous and self-satisfied. “And it is not good. Three nights ago the Sleeping Prince’s golems attacked the Lormerian town of Haga. They destroyed the two temples there, and once again left no survivors. They slaughtered anyone who refused to bend the knee to him, some four hundred souls. This attack follows the sacking of the temples in Monkham and Lortune, and brings his army within fifty miles of the border between us and Lormere. Based on this pattern, the Council believes he’ll march on Chargate next.”