“Find someone else like me,” I said, but my voice was defeated. I’d already decided.
“No.” He shook his head, a smile touching his lips, and I saw again that flicker in his eyes, as if he were leaving something out, as if he’d lied in some way. But he’d heard the defeat in my voice as well. “There is no one else. It has to be you.”
I stared at them all, one by one—Borund, Avrell, and Erick. Something wasn’t right, something that I couldn’t see.
This is what I am, a small part of me murmured.
But this time it was my decision, my choice.
I sighed, the sound heavy, and asked, “How do you intend to get me into the palace?”
The Palace
Two days later, I found myself tucked into a niche in the palace, squeezed into shadow, knees to my chest, looking down on a corridor lit by oil sconces. I’d come in through the passage beneath the wall. Avrell had given me a rough sketch of the palace, page boy clothing, and the key to a linen closet. I wasn’t to be seen. No one was to know I was there, especially not Baill. And I had to kill the Mistress tonight. The ships had to be released in the next three days. There was no time left.
Almost the moment I started the hunt, a passing Servant saw me, asked for my help. But the marks were my choice now, and so after helping her with the baskets I let her go. I waited until she was gone, then headed for the linen closet.
I passed through rooms, gardens, halls. I slid into a familiar waiting room, ducked into shadow, listened to Avrell tell Nathem he had ordered the Mistress’ death. After they’d passed, I slid from room to room with less stealth and more speed, until I’d found the linen closet Avrell had told me about, the one with the arrow slot I could squeeze through to enter the inner sanctum, the true palace.
I’d entered the throne room, seen the Skewed Throne itself, listened to it.
And now I stood before the Mistress’ own chambers, dressed in a page boy’s shirt and breeches. The hallway blazed with light, every sconce flaring high, flames flapping and hissing. The entire palace was lit, every hall, every corridor, every room. I could feel the energy in the building, people searching, scouring the halls, the audience chambers, the storage areas. I could feel them, guards and servants, everyone Baill could call to hand, even though I held the river at bay, the voices of the throne there too strong, too demanding for me to trust myself beneath its surface. I hadn’t used the river since entering the palace.
No one stood guard over the Mistress’ chambers.
I didn’t hesitate, even when a shiver of doubt coursed through me. Someone should be here, watching. Avrell had said he’d placed guards here, to watch over her. But it didn’t matter. Part of me already knew what I would find.
I plunged into the rooms, into the antechamber with trailing curtains, soft scattered pillows, tables of fruit and drink and platters of cheese. Empty. I slid without sound to the bedchamber, drew close to the veiled bed itself, drew back the curtains.
Empty.
And then I knew.
Baill wasn’t hunting me, he was hunting the Mistress. She’d slipped past the guards at the door again, just as before, had hidden herself somewhere in the palace.
And I knew where she would be.
She’d been calling me all night. I’d just refused to listen.
The Throne Room
The corridor to the throne room was still empty and I stepped up to the wide double doors without skulking, standing straight, back rigid, blade drawn but held loose at my side. I stood in front of the wooden doors banded with delicate ironwork for a long moment, staring at the subtle curves of the iron, the gleam of the rounded metal studs that held it in place, the polish of the wood beneath. Old wood, the age obvious. But the grain still glowed with an inner warmth.
The Mistress waited for me inside, with the throne. I hadn’t seen her before, but I knew she was there. She’d been calling me with the voices—that dry rustling of leaves—since I’d entered the inner sanctum of the palace. Avrell had said she knew when someone was approaching, and she knew about me, knew I was here. The river hadn’t masked me from her at all. Nor the Fire.
Fear crawled across my shoulders, making the muscles tense and twitch. My hand clenched the handle of my dagger, then released.
But then why were there no guards to protect her? Why hadn’t Baill and a retinue of twenty guardsmen been waiting for me outside of the Mistress’ chambers if she knew I was coming?
I glanced down the empty hall, suddenly wary. Someone should have been here. Unless . . .
I turned back to the iron-banded door with a frown.
Unless the Mistress wanted me to come.
I suddenly thought about the ease with which I’d moved through the palace, the lack of guards, the way Baill had drawn them away from the entrance to the audience chamber. At the time I had thought the lack of guards was fortuitous, or something arranged by Avrell himself, but now. . . .
What if the Mistress had arranged it all, instead of Avrell? What if she’d somehow led Baill astray?
I shivered, steeled myself, shoulders tightening. It didn’t matter. I had agreed to kill her, to save Amenkor. If I could get close to her, I still might have a chance, whether she knew I was coming or not.
I reached for the ornate wrought-iron handle of one of the doors and pulled it toward me. The wood groaned, the sound loud in the empty corridor, but I didn’t cringe, didn’t duck into the nearest shadow. I stepped into the throne room instead, pulling the Fire that still curled deep inside me around myself in a protective wall.
The force that was the throne, that writhed and warped within the throne room and pricked the back of my neck, came suddenly, but I was expecting it this time. With a horrifying weight, it pushed me down, tried to force me beneath the river. For a moment, it almost succeeded, the Fire I’d raised to shield myself flickering as if doused with water. I grunted under the onslaught, brought my hands up to ward the intense pressure away, even though there was nothing physical for me to fight against, but the Fire held, drawing strength as the pressure relented, backing off.
But it didn’t leave. I could feel it, filling the room, saturating it. I tasted it with every breath, felt it prickling against my skin, alive and predatory. It sent sparks of static through my skin, like lightning. I shivered at the sensation, tried to brush it aside.
I suddenly remembered that I’d felt the presence once before, weeks ago, when I’d come with Borund through the passage beneath the palace wall to meet with Avrell that first time. It had tasted me then, when I’d used the river to make certain Avrell was sincere. I remembered hearing the brush of dead leaves on stone.
It hadn’t been certain then, had withdrawn, but it wanted me now.
The thought raised the hackles on the back of my neck, set every instinct for danger I’d learned on the Dredge on edge.
I could feel it pacing the room, felt its presence like the growl of a feral dog, but I forced myself to breathe, to scan the room.
Eight thick granite pillars rose to the vaulted ceiling, four on each side, resting at the top of three tiered granite steps, surrounding the wide flagstone walkway from the doors to the throne, just as before. But now every sconce along the hall had been lit, the throne surrounded by bright candelabra; only a few of the candles had been lit when I passed through the room before. The white-and-gold emblem of the Skewed Throne hung above the throne, the folds of the banner sharply defined in the light—a banner I had not seen before, in the darkness. I refused to look at the throne itself, at its shifting shape. I could already feel the feverish heat against my skin, the same heat I’d felt when I’d entered the room before.
The hall was empty, the two doors on the other side of the room—one of which I’d used to enter the throne room earlier—both closed.
A wave of uncertainty passed through me. I suddenly felt as if I were being hunted,
as if someone were watching me from the shadows.
I hated being stalked.
I took one step forward, searching the darknesses behind the pillars to either side. The weight in the air surged forward like a tide, restless, the growl vibrating in my skin, but abated when I winced but did not waver.
My grip shifted on my dagger, slick with sweat.
I moved forward, not pausing now, searching the shadows behind the pillars, searching the niches. But the room was truly empty.
I halted in the center of the throne room, confused. I knew the Mistress was here, could feel her eyes on me. I could feel the throne as well, somehow heavy and solid, even though I could see it shift at the corner of my eye, could feel it gnawing at my stomach. It felt more real than the room itself.
I swallowed, turned away from the throne, back toward the door I’d entered through—
And a laugh echoed through the room, soft and cold. The laugh of a child. Behind me, the door groaned and pulled itself shut with a hollow thud.
My mouth went dry, my tongue parched. My breath quickened and something hard and hot lodged itself at the base of my throat.
The laugh came again, closer, and I spun, settling into a light crouch instinctively. I reached for the river, out of habit, out of necessity, and the pressure stalking on the air surged forward again greedily, rising high, the world shifting into gray and a roar of wind before I jerked myself back with a shudder. Pulling the Fire closer, I shot a glare of anger out into the room, drew myself up straight, and searched the room again.
The laughter had come from inside the room. Someone was here.
I stilled when a new voice filled the room, singing quietly to itself.
“. . . o-ver the water, o-ver the sea,
Comes a Fire to burn thee.
White as whitecaps, harsh as the scree,
Here it comes to judge thee.”
The woman’s voice finished with a chuckle. The sound filled the room, throaty and deep. Totally unlike the child’s laughter a moment before.
“It came for me, Varis,” the throaty voice said. My flesh prickled, my hackles standing on end at the sound of my name. I tasted my fear, like old musty cloth. “Oh, yes, it came. And it destroyed me.” Another laugh, this one bitter and choked, dying off harshly into nothing.
Calming myself, I grew still and listened instead. For a breath. For a rustle of clothing. For the tread of a foot. But there was nothing, the voice echoing strangely, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I turned. Someone watched me, was judging me, and I struggled not to slip beneath the river as I would have done on the Dredge, because I could feel the throne watching as well, circling patiently.
“What’s the matter, Varis?” the woman’s voice said smoothly, mockingly. “Can’t you see me? Can’t you find me?”
I clenched my jaw in anger, tightened my grip on my dagger.
Another chuckle, again soft and throaty, cut off sharply as the woman barked, “Perhaps you aren’t using the right Sight!”
I halted my slow, careful spin and the voice laughed again, this time the sound draining down into choked sobs.
Enough, I thought.
Standing straight, I chose a random spot between two pillars on one side of the room and stared at it resolutely, my breath tight and angry.
The sobbing ended and the air in the room shifted from confrontational to curious. I felt the shift like a wind across my back and shivered.
“Not going to play, are we?” A different voice, aged but still strong. The voice harrumphed, like an old woman. “We’ll see about that!”
I jumped, startled, my hand raising the dagger defensively. The last statement had come sharp and close, as if the old woman were standing right beside me. But before I could even catch my breath I saw movement at the base of one of the pillars, heard the rustle of cloth.
A woman uncurled from a hunched-over posture, the folds of her dress falling to her sides. She was clothed in white, with long hair as black as pitch, the simple dress stitched with smooth, curved lines of gold at the throat and at the hem, the lines curling upward like fire, as if she were surrounded in the vague outlines of flames. Her skin was smooth, not aged with wrinkles as the voice suggested, and her cheekbones were high.
But it was her eyes that held me. A depthless brown. The darkest features of her narrow face somehow, even against the ebony hair. They captured me, didn’t allow me to look away. They commanded me, ordered me to obey even before she spoke.
“You’ve come to kill me,” she said, her voice neither the child’s voice, nor the singer’s, nor the old woman’s, but a strange mixture of all three, resonating with even more voices underneath. “So do it.”
The muscles on my shoulders crawled, an unsettled feeling trailing down my back. I’d walked right past her when I’d searched the room, close enough she could have reached out and touched me . . . killed me. I hadn’t seen her, hadn’t even felt her. My back stiffened and I suddenly felt vulnerable, exposed.
And angry. She was toying with me, batting me about like a cat with a rat.
“Why couldn’t I see you?” I asked, voice harsh. But inside I was reeling, trying to figure out what she wanted, what she needed. Was she insane? Or was she simply having a little fun?
Her brow creased a moment, but then she smiled. “Because you chose not to see me. You’ve come to kill me, but you don’t want to. So much easier not to kill when you can’t find the mark, isn’t it, Varis?” Her head lowered, her eyes narrowed. “But you see me now. And you haven’t got much time, Varis. I can occupy the guards only so long. They can’t be held at bay forever. Even Baill.”
As if she’d called them into existence, guards pounded on one of the side entrances to the throne room, voices muffled by the door. The door began to rattle as they tried to force it. The sounds echoed loudly in the room.
The Mistress didn’t move. “Kill me now, Varis. They’ll find their way in eventually.”
But I didn’t move. I didn’t trust her. The image of the cat and the rat was too vivid in my mind.
The rattle at the side door stopped. Shouts rang out. Someone called for Baill, someone else for Avrell.
“You have to kill me,” the Mistress said, her tone soft and reasonable. “You have to kill me or the city will crumble. It’s already started. You’ve seen it. On the Dredge, on the wharf, even here at the palace.” She raised her head, held herself imperious and still. “And I want to die, Varis,” her voice still calm. “I want you to kill me.”
Cold shock ran through me, from my neck down to my toes. The dagger felt suddenly heavy in my hand, weighted, my body somehow light.
“Why?” I asked, my voice sounding distant, removed.
She smiled, and at the edges of her eyes I saw the insanity I’d heard in the laughing child’s voice, in the song, in the old woman’s voice. I’d seen it enough on the Dredge, recognized it as easily as I recognized the feel and weight of my dagger, cold and deadly and familiar. I recognized it now, staring up into her face, and realized that she held the insanity at bay. Somehow the real Mistress had found herself amid the madness, and she was clinging to herself with a cold, granite desperation that was steadily slipping away from her. If I didn’t act soon, she would lose control completely.
“I’m destroying Amenkor, Varis,” she said, her voice strong but wavering. “The Fire did something to me and I can no longer control the throne. It’s begun to take over, to consume me. You need to kill me before it takes over completely.”
I hesitated, still uncertain, and her face suddenly hardened into a frown.
“Do it,” she barked, her voice filling the room, the command clear in her voice, in her stance. “Please.”
It was the tremble in the last word that convinced me, the way her lips pursed at the end, her muscles rigid with
effort. I still didn’t trust her, the cat and the rat image still too real, but I had to try. It was an opportunity.
I gripped my dagger firmly, stepped forward, up the tiered stairs, watched her warily as I moved to her side. She drew in a deep breath and as I shifted in behind her, I realized sweat lined her forehead, stained her dress with fear and the effort to control herself. She lifted her head, exposed her pale neck, her stance taut, breath coming in gasps through her nose, and closed her eyes.
I drew up close behind her, but halted.
She was too tall, at least a foot taller than me. I couldn’t reach her neck.
I shifted my stance, changed tactics, adjusted so I could slide the dagger into her back, low and quick, but she must have realized my problem. She sighed and grabbed her dress in two fists, kneeling in front of me. Tossing her head back to clear her hair, back straight, she exposed her neck again.
“Do it now,” she said, and the strain in her voice was clear, made worse when the main entrance doors began to thud.
The guards were at two of the entrances now, were trying to break through with what sounded like a battering ram.
“Quickly!” the Mistress spat.
I reached forward, around her head, one hand on her shoulder to steady her, the edge of the dagger against her throat. I felt her heat through the cloth of the dress, felt the embroidery. Her pulse shivered up the blade of the dagger into my hand.
I drew a short breath, tensed the muscles in my arm, but hesitated.
It felt wrong. Too deliberate. Too manipulated.
It felt like the eyes of a cat, watching coldly, body perfectly still, as the rat began to twitch, to gather its muscles for a darting escape.
It felt like entering the alley while following Alendor. An ambush.
Fear suddenly spiked through me and I tensed, muscles contracting, ready to slip the dagger across her throat in one smooth motion—
But I was too late, too slow. The cat pounced.
A hand clamped down hard on my wrist, locked so strongly I felt my forearm go numb. At the same moment, the Mistress shuddered beneath my other hand, her muscles pulling taut.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 29
