1-Prince of Thorns - Lawrence, KB. 2-King of Thorns - Lawrence, KB. Sleeping Beauty - Mark Lawrence. Red Sister (Book of the Ancestor #1) by Mark Lawrence #[email protected] best_audiobooks Red Sister - Mark KB. Like Show likes. Mark Lawrence is married with four children, one of whom is severely disabled. His day job is as a research scientist focused on various rather intractable.

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They came against her as a child. Now they face the woman. The ice is advancing, the Corridor narrowing, and the empire is under siege from. Apr 19, Download Holy Sister by Mark Lawrence PDF, EPUB, site, Audiobooks Online. 4 ABR- Mark Lawrence -Book of the Ancestor Holy Sister. Read {PDF Epub} Download Grey Sister by Mark Lawrence from the story Range by liontopulos52 with 14 reads. report, charge, thousand. Simple Way to Read.

Sweeter than her elder sister, sharper than her younger sister. Even then I wanted her, even with her murderous brother held back by just an inch of oak and with my chances for escape evaporating by the moment. I ran to the largest window and tore the shutters open. I didn't stop to reply but vaulted down into the bushes, which were thankfully the fragrant rather than thorny variety.

Dropping into a thorn bush can lead to no end of grief. Landing is always important. I do a lot of falling and it's not how you start that matters so much as how you finish. In this instance, I finished concertinaed, heels to arse, chin to knees, half an azalea bush up my nose and all the air driven from my lungs, but with no bones broken.

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I fought my way out and limped towards the garden wall, gasping for breath and hoping the staff were too busy with predawn chores to be poised and ready to hunt me down.

I took off, across the formal lawns, through the herb garden, cutting a straight path through all the little diamonds of sage, and triangles of thyme and whatnot.

Somewhere back at the house a hound bayed, and that put the fear in me. I'm a good runner any day of the week. Scared shitless I'm world class.

Two years ago, in the "border incident" with Scorron, I ran from a patrol of Teutons, five of them on big old destriers. The men I had charge of stayed put, lacking any orders. I find the important thing in running away is not how fast you run but simply that you run faster than the next man. Unfortunately my lads did a piss-poor job of slowing the Scorrons down, and that left poor Jal running for his life with hardly twenty years under his belt and a great long list of things still to do-with the DeVeer sisters near the top and dying on a Scorron lance not even making the first page.

In any event, the borderlands aren't the place to stretch a warhorse's legs, and I kept a gap between us by running through a boulder field at breakneck speed. Without warning I found myself charging into the back of a pitched battle between a much larger force of Scorron irregulars and the band of Red March skirmishers I'd been scouting on behalf of in the first place.

I rocketed into the midst of it all, flailed around with my sword in blind terror trying to escape, and when the dust settled and the blood stopped squirting, I discovered myself the hero of the day, breaking the enemy with a courageous attack that showed complete disregard for my own safety. So here's the thing: Bravery may be observed when a person tramples one fear whilst in secret flight from a greater terror. And those whose greatest terror is being thought a coward are always brave.

I, on the other hand, am a coward. But with a little luck, a dashing smile, and the ability to lie from the hip, I've done a surprisingly good job of seeming a hero and of fooling most of the people most of the time.

The DeVeers' wall was a high and forbidding one, but it and I were old friends: I knew its curves and foibles as well as any contour Lisa, Sharal, or Micha might possess. Escape routes have always been an obsession of mine. Most barriers are there to keep the unwashed out, not the washed in. I vaulted a rain barrel, onto the roof of a gardener's outbuilding, and jumped for the wall. Teeth snapped at my heels as I hauled myself over.

Holy Sister by Mark Lawrence

I clung by my fingers and dropped. A shiver of relief ran through me as the hound found its voice and scrabbled against the far side of the wall in frustration. The beast had run silent and almost caught me. The silent ones are apt to kill you. The more sound and fury there is, the less murderous the animal. True of men too. I'm nine parts bluster and one part greed and so far not an ounce of murder. I landed in the street, less heavily this time, free and clear, and if not smelling of roses then at least of azalea and mixed herbs.

Alain would be a problem for another day. He could take his place in the queue. It was a long one and at its head stood Maeres Allus clutching a dozen promissory notes, IOUs, and intents to pay drunkenly scrawled on whores' silken lingerie.

I stood, stretched, and listened to the hound complain behind the wall. I'd need a taller wall than that to keep Maeres's bullies at bay. Kings Way stretched before me, strewn with shadows. On Kings Way the town houses of noble families vie with the ostentation of merchant-princes' mansions, new money trying to gleam brighter than the old.

The city of Vermillion has few streets as fine.

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He's got the scent. I set off sprinting in the direction of the palace, sending rats fleeing and scattering dungmen on their rounds, the dawn chasing after me, throwing red spears at my back. TWO T he palace at Vermillion is a sprawling affair of walled compounds, exquisite gardens, satellite mansions for extended family, and finally the Inner Palace, the great stone confection that has for generations housed the kings of Red March. The whole thing is garnished with marble statuary teased into startlingly lifelike forms by the artistry of Milano masons, and a dedicated man could probably scrape enough gold leaf off the walls to make himself slightly richer than Croesus.

My grandmother hates it with a passion. She'd be happier behind granite barricades a hundred feet thick and spiked with the heads of her enemies. Even the most decadent of palaces can't be entered without some protocol, though. I slipped in via the Surgeons' Gate, flipping a silver crown to the guard.

They still think of me as the hero of Aral Pass and it's helpful to have the gatekeepers on side when your life dangles from as large a web of lies as mine does. Them's as works best works hardest, they do say. Once inside, I made a straight line for the Roma Hall. As the queen's third son, Father got invested in the Roma Hall, a palatial Vatican edifice constructed by the pope's own craftsmen for Cardinal Paracheck way back whenever.

Grandmother has little enough time for Jesu and his cross, though she'll say the words at celebrations and look to mean them.

She has far less time for Roma, and none at all for the pope that sits there now-the Holy Cow, she calls her. As Father's third son I get bugger-all. A chamber in Roma Hall, an unwanted commission in the Army of the North, one that didn't even swing me a cavalry rank since the northern borders are too damn hilly for horse. Scorron deploy cavalry on the borders, but Grandmother declared their pigheadedness a failing the Red March should exploit rather than a foolishness we should continue to follow.

Women and war don't mix. I've said it before. I should have been breaking hearts on a white charger, armoured for tourney. But no, that old witch had me crawling around the peaks trying not to get murdered by Scorron peasants. I entered the Hall-really a collection of halls, staterooms, a ballroom, kitchens, stables, and a second floor with endless bedchambers-by the west port, a service door meant for scullions and such.

Fat Ned sat at guard, his halberd against the wall. Fat Ned kept a tight lip and my excursions were safe with him. He'd known me since I was a little monster bullying the smaller princes and princesses and toadying to the ones big enough to clout me.

He'd been fat back in those days. The flesh hung off him now as the reaper closed in for the final swing, but the name stuck. There's power in a name. A title and a name like Jalan carry an aura with them, enough to give me the benefit of the doubt-and there was never a doubt I needed that.

I nearly made it back to my room. I said nothing. Sometimes the bishop would just bellow my name when he discovered random mischief. In fairness I was normally the root cause. This time, however, he was looking directly at me. My thoughts jump and my head aches and this quill keeps trembling. The ladies sew with their quick clever stitches, line stitch, cross-line, layer-cross. Sharp little needles, dull little minds.

I hate them with their tutting and their busy fingers and the lazy Ancrath slurring of their words. I've looked back to see what I wrote yesterday. I don't remember writing it but it tells how Jorg Ancrath tried to kill me after murdering Hanna, throttling her. I suppose that if he really had wanted to kill me he could have done a better job of it having broken Mother's vase over my skull. He's good at killing, if nothing else.

Sareth told me that what he said in court, about all those people in Gelleth, burned to dust,,,it's all true. Merl Gellethar's castle is gone. I met him when I was a child. Such a sly red-faced man. Looked as if he'd be happy to eat me up. I'm not sorry about him.

But all those people. They can't all have been bad. I should have stabbed Jorg when I had the chance.

If my hands would do what I told them more often. If they would stop trembling the quill, learn to sew properly, stab murdering nephews when instructed,,,Friar Glen said the boy tore most of my dress off.

Certainly it's a ruin now. Beyond the rescue of even these empty ladies with their needles and thread. I'm being too mean. I blame the ache in my head. Sareth tells me be nice. Be nice. Maery Coddin isn't all sewing and gossip. Though she's sewing now and tutting with the rest of them. Maery's worth talking to on her own, I suppose.

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That's enough nice for one day. Sareth is always nice and look where that got her. Married to an old man, and not a kind one but a cold and scary one, and her belly all fat with a child that will probably run as savage as Jorg Ancrath. I'm going to have them bury Hanna in the forest graveyard. Maery tells me she'll lie easy there. All the castle servants are buried there unless their families claim them. Maery says she'll find me a new maidservant but that seems so cold, to just replace Hanna as if she were torn lace, or a broken vase.

We'll go out by cart tomorrow. There's a man making her coffin now. My head feels as if he's hammering the nails into it instead. I should have left Jorg to die on the throne-room floor. But it didn't feel right. Damn him. We'll bury Hanna tomorrow. She was old and always complaining of her aches but that doesn't mean she was ready to go. I will miss her. She was a hard woman, cruel maybe, but never to me. I don't know if I'll cry when we put her in the ground. I should. But I don't know if I will.

Mark Lawrence

That's for tomorrow. Today we have a visitor. The Prince of Arrow is calling, with his brother Prince Egan and his retinue. I think Sareth would like to match me there. Or maybe it's the old man, King Olidan. Not many of Sareth's ideas are her own these days. We will see. I think I'll try to sleep now. Maybe my headache will be gone in the morning. And the strange dreams too. Maybe Mother's vase knocked those dreams right out of me.

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. 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. 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. I stood and stretched. I'm going to get some sleep. 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.I clung by my fingers and dropped.

One gold ring.

Table of Contents Acknowledgments Prologue 1: Certainly it's a ruin now. We let him ride the old grey with the cart hitched up.