The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  And it wasn’t getting any better.

  We gave Eryn a moment to collect herself as the hacking coughs ended, the silence awkward. She waved us forward again, her face twisted into an impatient grimace, as though she hated the fact that the coughing couldn’t be controlled.

  “The engineers say,” she began again, her voice rough, “that the wharf is in better shape than it looks. The Chorl rammed the docks, but for the most part the damage was confined to the planking, not the pilings and supports. Catrell should be able to clear away the splintered planking and have it replaced within a few weeks. The wharf will be as good as new.”

  “And what about the ships?” We’d descended another level, the texture of the corridors changing. Above, in the palace proper, the walls were mostly white or an eggshell brown, like sand, except for the inner sanctum where the Mistress’ chambers and the throne room were. There the walls were the gray stone used to build the original palace thousands of years before. It had grown as Amenkor grew, the original outer walls subsumed in the expansion.

  Here, the eggshell walls had given way to gray stone again. We were within the confines of the original palace, but deeper. Much deeper than I’d ever been before, even deeper than when Westen, the captain of the Seekers, had led me down here to test me, and later train me.

  “Regin says—”

  “Regin?”

  Eryn’s eyes grew grim. “Yes, Regin.”

  “What about Borund?”

  She sighed. “Borund hasn’t come out of his manse since the Chorl’s attack.”

  My eyes narrowed. I knew why. I’d watched as Borund fled the wharf, the Chorl overrunning the docks. But we needed every able-bodied man if we were going to recover fast enough to face the Chorl again with any chance of winning. “I’ll deal with Borund. What did Regin say?”

  “That the crews of the ships are working as fast as they can to repair the damage, and to upgrade the ships’ defenses. They’re also checking out the Chorl ships left behind, looking for weaknesses, for ways to defend against them if they attack again. He has three trading ships that are seaworthy already. He expects two more can be made seaworthy in the next week. The rest are going to require longer to repair.”

  We drew to a halt in front of an unobtrusive door. Unobtrusive except for the two guards that stood outside, both Seekers I knew. They nodded as we approached, stepped to either side of the door. They radiated a constant tension, their stances deceptively relaxed. I felt myself slipping into the same posture, my hand brushing against the handle of my dagger without thought. All of the guardsmen in Keven’s escort had tensed; word of what the prisoner had done when she first woke had passed through the guards like wildfire.

  They’d been caught off guard before; they didn’t intend to have it happen again.

  “What about the other prisoners? The thirteen Chorl warriors we captured as they retreated?” Eryn said abruptly. “Would you like to check on them?”

  “No,” I said. “Not now.”

  Eryn stiffened at the curtness of my tone, at the rage even I could hear at its edges.

  “Should I remove the warding?” she asked. Her voice had dropped, become guarded, and as I slipped beneath the river, the world graying around me, I breathed in the sweat of fear, sensed her wariness and knew she had already raised a protective shield around herself, had readied it to extend to the guardsmen if necessary.

  “I’m ready.”

  I saw the currents of the river roil as she reached forward toward where the protective warding that shielded the room had been tied off earlier and twisted the eddies, releasing the warding.

  The reaction from inside the room was instantaneous, the door crashing inward on its hinges, wood cracking into stone, a blade-eddy—swift and deadly—slicing out from the interior darkness—

  But it met the barrier I’d placed across the door, the blade-eddy shunted harmlessly to one side.

  Someone inside the room shrieked in frustration, tried to slam the door shut, but I held it open with minimal effort and moved into the opening, Eryn a step behind.

  Using the river, I could see the room, could see the corners, the rough stone of the walls, the straw pallet and chamber pot to one side. A wooden platter that had contained food—bread and cheese and water—sat beside the pallet, barely any crumbs remaining. The Chorl had been starving as well; no food had been wasted this past winter. And standing against the far wall, body tensed, one hand thrust forward, palm flat, chin lifted in arrogant rage—

  A Chorl Servant.

  The hatred I tasted was instantaneous and bitter, tightening inside my chest like bands of iron, making it hard to breathe.

  Behind, I heard Keven order torches brought forward, the room flickering in the new light, revealing the Chorl Servant’s long black hair, her stained green dress. Her posture didn’t change, her nostrils flaring as her glance darted around the room, following the guardsmen as they positioned themselves behind Eryn and me. But she didn’t attempt to use the river, or what Eryn called the Sight.

  Her fear filled the room, reeking of piss and rotten fish. She’d been confined to this room for two weeks. The palace Servants brought her food, cleaned the chamber pot, changed the straw in her pallet. No one had attempted to speak to her after that first day.

  We’d had other things to attend to.

  Now, I glared at her across the expanse of the small room, thinking of the destruction in the city below, thinking of all of the men and women who had died, thinking of Erick. I clenched my jaw at the defiant look in her eyes, at the cold tension in her blue-tinged skin, and the iron bands around my chest tightened. The rings in her ears, four on each side, glinted in the torchlight.

  “What have you done to Erick?” I asked, voice hard.

  Confused shock radiated from Eryn, tightly controlled, an emotion I only sensed on the river. The other guardsmen shifted, edged forward as their own shock slid into anger.

  The Chorl Servant sensed the change, her eyes darting once toward the guardsmen, then back to me. She didn’t understand what I’d said, didn’t understand the coastal language. But she could sense the rage.

  Uncertain, the scent of her fear spiking, she lashed out with the river. I slapped the eddy aside, moved forward with two sharp steps, and wrapped my hand around her throat, shoving her back against the stone wall, my hand squeezing. Her skin felt smooth beneath my grip and I could feel her blood pulsing beneath my thumb, beneath my fingers. She cried out, swallowed against the pressure I’d put against her windpipe, gasped. Her hands clawed at my grip, and she choked something in her own tongue that sounded like a curse. Her black eyes blazed with hatred, but, aside from the hands clawing at my arm, she didn’t struggle.

  I could squeeze, cut off the flow of blood in her jugular until she passed out. Or I could shove my palm forward, crush her windpipe and kill her.

  “What did you do to Erick?” I repeated.

  “Varis,” Eryn said behind me, her voice calm, reasonable, yet filled with disapproval. “Varis, she can’t answer you. She doesn’t know what you’re saying.”

  I ignored her, focused completely on the Servant, on her blue-tinged skin. Skin that stoked the rage, fed it as images of the attack on the city flashed before my eyes, images of fire, of the watchtowers exploding, of ships and buildings burning, walls collapsing. Because of these people. Because of her.

  My jaw clenched and I squeezed, cutting off her breath.

  Her eyes flew wide. And for the first time I saw true fear beneath the arrogance, beneath the hatred.

  And I saw something else as well.

  She was younger than me. Fourteen perhaps, maybe younger.

  The age I’d been when Erick had first found me on the Dredge.

  My intense hatred stumbled, faltered. The muscles in my forearm relaxed imperceptibly. The urge to wring an answer from her surged for
ward, almost overwhelming—

  But it halted at her fear. A familiar fear. An instinctual fear.

  I relaxed my grip and she heaved in a strained breath, the hands that had tightened on my wrist loosening. Then I pulled back, let her go.

  She slumped against the wall as I turned, gave me a hate-filled glare that I chose to ignore.

  “You won’t get anything from her by threatening her,” Eryn said quietly but harshly as I approached the door.

  “I agree,” Keven said, motioning the rest of the guardsmen out into the corridor. “What do you want us to do with her?”

  I halted, frowned as I turned to watch the Seekers close the door behind us, catching a glimpse of the Chorl Servant through the opening. She still huddled against the far wall, her shoulders now slumped, her hand massaging her throat. The arrogance lay over her like a cloak, like a shield, but the defiance . . .

  I recognized the defiance.

  I drew in a short breath, reset the warding over the door, then said, “Move her somewhere close to my chambers.”

  “What for?” Eryn asked.

  I caught her gaze. “We need to teach her our language. I want to know what they did to Erick. And I want to know how to end it.”

  Chapter 2

  “Mistress’ tits!” Eryn expelled a frustrated breath and opened her eyes. Her gaze immediately found mine. Sweat beaded her brow and tension etched the corners of her mouth and eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m sorry, Varis. I can’t find anything at all. I can sense something, but . . .”

  My shoulders tightened, even though I’d been expecting the answer. “Show me.”

  She nodded, and then we both dove beneath the river. The world faded to gray, background noises softening, melding into a hushed wind, until the only thing in focus was Erick lying on the bed. I could feel Isaiah and his assistant in the background, blurs of gray on the general world of gray, could sense the guardsmen outside the opened doorway, but I pushed all of that to the side, concentrated on Eryn’s presence as she manipulated the river over Erick’s body. The eddies shifted beneath her touch, and I edged forward, following her movements.

  “Whatever it is,” Eryn said, her voice brittle beneath the river, distinct and sharp, “I can sense it best right here.”

  The eddies indicated a region just over Erick’s heart, above a small puncture wound in his chest, its edges a purplish red. I grunted. “The Fire I placed inside Erick is there,” I said. “Are you certain you aren’t sensing that instead?”

  Eryn’s lips pursed. “I’m positive. I can sense the Fire as well, even though I can’t see it. It has a different flavor, a different taste.” She paused, her brow creasing in thought before she continued. “I’m not surprised the two are located in the same position, though. The heart is a focal point, a source of great energy. It would make sense to connect something of power—like the Fire, or this . . . this blanket of needles—to such a source.”

  I frowned, pushed forward on the river to where Eryn had indicated and tried to sense what Eryn sensed. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Eryn leaned over Erick’s body. “You’re in the right area. You can’t feel it? It’s like . . . like a strand of spider’s silk brushing against the back of your hand.”

  I closed my eyes, let myself sink into the sensations of the river where I hovered. The currents flowed around me, soft and soothing, pulsing with the beat of Erick’s heart, flush with warmth. Beneath, I felt the steady heatless flame of the Fire I’d placed at his core. I could smell the lavender soap used to wash the sheets of his bed, could smell the musk of his sweat beneath that, along with the scent of oranges. I let the scents enfold me, comfort me for a moment, and then I opened myself to the river, relaxed into its flow, searching. . . .

  Nothing but Erick’s presence. Nothing but the stench of Eryn’s increasing concern. No spider’s silk brushing against skin. No tingling from some layer of the river I couldn’t see. No taste. Nothing.

  I rose with a sharp jerk. “I can’t feel anything,” I said, the words curt.

  Eryn reached across Erick’s body and touched my arm. My hands were gripping my upper arms tight across my chest, and with her touch I could feel how tense my shoulders had become. “We’ll find some way to break this, Varis.”

  The words were meant to be reassuring, but Eryn hadn’t felt Erick’s pain, hadn’t heard him plead for me to end it. I’d warned Isaiah to touch Erick only when necessary, since any prolonged contact made the pain worse. But he was still in pain. And Isaiah had no idea how long Erick could remain like this and survive. He thought having me come to visit, having me talk to Erick through the White Fire as I’d done before, would help, but . . .

  I didn’t know how to respond to Eryn’s touch, so I shifted away slightly and gazed down into Erick’s face. “What about the Chorl Servant?”

  Eryn’s hand dropped from my arm. “Keven says that she’s finally stopped destroying everything in her new rooms. He thinks it’s safe to see her.”

  I caught Eryn’s gaze. “Then let’s go.”

  As we left Erick’s rooms, I sent one of the servants to the kitchen, then gathered my escort around me as we moved down the corridor. It had taken a full day to figure out how to rig the wards around the new room so that the Chorl Servant wouldn’t be able to use the river to subdue the guards. Since she could use the river herself, the wards had to be set so that she could not unravel them from inside the room. A variation of what Eryn had used on the Dredge to keep the denizens of the slums away from the food she’d stored in the warehouse there had been used on her cell. However, these rooms were much larger, so the ward had been expanded and layered. It felt weaker than the previous ward, but so far it had held. As a precaution, we had the other true Servants in the palace standing watch along with the Seekers in shifts.

  If the throne were intact, Cerrin could have shown me how to make the warding more stable. He could have shown me how to combine the Servants’ powers as the Ochean had done during the attack on the palace, when she’d destroyed the walls. Or, more likely, I could have done the warding myself, with the power of the throne behind me.

  But I’d destroyed the throne before he—or any of the Seven that had created it—had had the chance.

  We halted outside of the Chorl Servant’s new rooms, the guardsmen exchanging nods with the two Seekers on duty before fanning out to either side. The Servant on duty—a blonde-haired young girl named Trielle—stepped to the right side.

  “We’ll have to start working with the Servants to figure out how the Chorl combined their strength with the Ochean’s to bring down the gates,” I said as we waited. “We need to learn how to do that ourselves, and then figure out a way to protect against it.”

  Eryn nodded. “I have some ideas about that. We can start experimenting during the training sessions in the gardens. And perhaps, if you can get her to talk . . .” Eryn nodded toward the warded chambers.

  Before I could answer, the servant reappeared carrying two oranges. I took them both, noting Eryn’s raised eyebrows and questioning look, then said, “I want to go in alone. Stay here with Trielle, in case I need you. Set the wards up again after I’m inside.”

  “Very well.”

  I slid beneath the river, the scent of the two oranges sharpening. Eryn reached forward and loosened the warding and I stepped through to the door, the warding drawing closed behind me. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, to steady the hatred that rose instantly when I thought of the Chorl and of Erick, I pushed through into the inner room, expecting an instant show of force from the Chorl Servant—an attack, a shriek, something.

  Instead, I found her standing at the far side of the room, back to a wall, still in the same sweaty green dress she’d worn during the attack, the stains of soot and ash and crumbled stone clear in the sunlight. The room lay in shambles, the bed canted to one side, one leg bro
ken, the mattress torn, straw flung throughout the room. The two chairs had been reduced to flinders. Feathers from shredded pillows drifted about the room at the slightest draft. The curtains from the two windows hung listless, the material ripped and ragged at the edges, lying in rumpled heaps on the floor.

  Anger rose, sharp and sour at the back of my throat, but I ignored it, didn’t react at all, didn’t allow myself to react.

  On the far side of the room, I felt the Chorl Servant’s smug satisfaction falter. Her back stiffened with the same arrogance she’d hidden behind before. Her head rose. I remembered that arrogance in the Ochean. Except, in the Ochean, it had been part of her personality. The Chorl Servant before me wore it like a shield, to hide what lay hidden beneath. I’d seen behind the shield for a brief moment before, when I’d held her in the choke hold. I’d seen that she was not so different from me . . . or at least what I had once been on the Dredge, before Erick found me.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” I said, my voice calm. I stepped into the room, closed the door behind me, felt the Chorl Servant tense, felt the river gathering around her defensively. I didn’t react to this either.

  I moved to one of the windows, looked out onto northeastern Amenkor, out over the three walls to the lower city, the River, and the Dredge, my back turned toward her. She hesitated, the river swirling around her uncertainly. Only a thin slice of the harbor could be seen from this vantage, part of the northern edge, where the land was too rocky and sheer for a wharf. I wanted her to see the portion of the city that had not been significantly damaged by the Chorl, wanted her to see that they hadn’t harmed us as much as she might have thought.

  I set one of the oranges down on the edge of the window opening, kept the other in one hand, then turned.

  “My name is Varis,” I said, watching the Chorl Servant closely. I didn’t expect her to understand, and she didn’t, her brow creasing in confusion. Or perhaps consternation at the tone of my voice. “I’m the Mistress of Amenkor.” I motioned toward the window, toward the city beyond.