The Empty Throne

by Cayla Kluver

  I picked up the chair he’d toppled, and, panting, hauled him into it. The sash was still about his neck, and I tied it to the spokes of the chair back. My eyes glued to the man, I hastened to the closet for my supplies, and yanked free my rope. He still hadn’t moved, and I wasted no time in better securing his arms and legs.

  The guard’s breath was ragged, but his eyelids were flickering—he would come around soon enough. What else should I do before he woke? Spotting the napkins on the table, I picked one up, folded it lengthwise, then tied it tightly over his eyes and around his head. I didn’t want him to be able to describe me tomorrow.

  I shifted restlessly from foot to foot, counting the seconds, imagining every one brought his mother closer to home, brought me closer to discovery. This was the most reckless, flagrantly wrong thing I’d ever done. I’d attacked a relatively innocent man in the sanctity of his own home. Had my attack on the guard been politically motivated, there was no question the Anti-Unification League, as the human-haters in Chrior had dubbed their group, would have lauded me a hero. Was retrieving the Anlace worth the risk of becoming like them?

  It was a bit late to ask myself that question.

  My prisoner coughed and wheezed, and I instinctively moved behind him. His respiration was fast and painful, making me feel all the more guilty. Still, I had no intention of hurting him further—though I wasn’t about to let him in on that secret.

  “Who the hell are you?” he rasped, his body stiffening. “What the hell do you want?”

  I’d terrified him. As sick and nonplussed as this made me feel, it was a boon to achieving my goal. If I could keep him scared, he was more likely to talk.

  The guard turned his head from side to side, trying to sense my presence. The loss of my wings and magic had made me clunky by Fae standards, but I was still stealthy compared with most humans, and he had no idea where I was. I leaned forward and put my lips to his ear.

  “You stole something from me,” I muttered, deepening my voice.

  He jumped so violently he almost tipped the chair for a second time, and I felt a rush of power unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I smiled, not from enjoyment but from incredulity—I was a slender sixteen-year-old female, and he could have snapped me in half given the chance. Surprise, stealth, and pain had given me a tremendous advantage over him.

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he sputtered. “I...I never stole anything, not my whole life.”

  He twisted his wrists against the rope that bound him, his wince telling me it was tight enough to burn his skin. Another thing I’d done well.

  “Don’t lie,” I snarled, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. My sash strained against his Adam’s apple, and he coughed. “You like shiny things, don’t you? You took a liking to a shiny little dagger with a ruby pommel. Probably thought it was worth a small fortune, but you underestimated its value. That knife is worth your life. Tell me where it is or I’ll prove its worth to you.”

  “I don’t bloody know where that bloody knife is, bitch!”

  I ripped my knife from the scabbard at my hip with a shink of metal, unexpectedly inflamed that he would dare to demean me for my gender. I should leave him a scar to remind him forever and always what bitches can do. But before I could decide whether to put the blade to him as a threat or as an act of violence, he wailed and whimpered, struggling to lean away from the sound he had heard. His bravery was gone.

  “I sold it. I sold the damn thing.” His voice cracked at nearly an octave higher than its normal pitch. “I’m sorry for what I done, but I don’t have it no more. No need to hurt me. Oh, God, just let me go. I never meant no harm.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “Someone, someone...”

  “A name!” I shouted, heedless of who might hear outside.

  “A collector! A collector on the south side, his name is—is Sandrovich. Kodiak Sandrovich. He’ll still have it. I promise he will. Now let me go. My mother, she needs me. Let me go, for the love of...”

  On impulse, I grabbed the money pouch that hung on his belt and pulled it free.

  “For my troubles,” I sneered, heading toward the door.

  “You can’t leave me like this!”

  “Your mother might appreciate it.”

  I went out into the night, glancing to my left and right before hurrying in the direction of the marble bridge. After a few blocks, the adrenaline coursing through my veins abated, and my legs began to shake, the enormity of what I had just done crashing down on me. I stumbled against a storefront and sank to the ground, covering my face with my hands. I no longer looked like myself or acted like myself. I was desperate, yes, but did that justify abandoning my principles? Should I have worked harder to come up with an alternate approach to reclaiming the Anlace? Or did the extreme importance of my goal justify my horrific methods? I did not know the answer to any of these questions. I only knew I was developing the ability to shut off my conscience in the name of practicality. And that filled me with a deep-rooted dread.

  I raised my head and looked up at the stars, beseeching Nature for the wisdom I sought. But it was the voice in my head that provided an answer and further stoked my fear. What’s practical isn’t necessarily the same as what’s right. Wings have been cut off Fae in the name of practicality; people are executed in the name of practicality; and some even starve in the name of practicality. Pretty poor substitute for a moral compass.

  I forced myself to my feet—staying in the vicinity of the guard’s house was hardly wise—and walked onward. I couldn’t help thinking I’d breached a barrier that might lead to all sorts of unconscionable deeds. Worse, having crossed it, I wasn’t sure it would be possible to turn back.

  Chapter Six

  JUST THE SCARS

  By the time I reached the marble bridge spanning the River Kappa, my energy was dwindling. I couldn’t track down Sandrovich tonight. It was cold and dark, and I had no idea where the man lived or worked. I needed information. This was too important an undertaking to rush into blindly.

  I paused in the middle of the bridge, leaning on the white rail and listening to the water below, for there was only yawning blackness when I looked down. How should I proceed? Reconnaissance, tomorrow, on the south side to see if I could locate the collector. But what about tonight?

  The obvious answer was the Fae-mily Home, but I didn’t want to risk an encounter with Fi, not in light of what I’d done. My gut roiled with remorse, and I didn’t want the kindly Faerie to read the guilt on my face or hear the resulting strain in my voice. But I also didn’t want to roam the streets. I contemplated my options, my head throbbing with the effort to concentrate. I could sleep in an alley, rent a room in an inn with the money I’d stolen, or perhaps find a bed in a human shelter.

  At the sound of footsteps, I jerked my head around, my hand clutching the long knife at my hip. Though the couple approaching from the north looked innocuous enough, leaning close together, I couldn’t help but question their intentions. I backed away, then ran across the rest of the bridge, needing to get off the street, if for no other reason than to spare my rapidly fraying nerves.

  A sign for an inn, advertising its lodgings and public bathing options, caught my eye, and I could see the light of a large hearth fire in its common room through the front window. Despite the hour, people were up, talking and drinking, enough average folk among them that I wouldn’t look out of place if I entered. Because of my hair-dyeing ploy, and the nice clothing provided by Fi, my fear of staying in a better establishment had diminished; and I had plenty of funds, thanks to Tom, Frat, and the Constabulary I had just robbed. I could afford to rent a room for the night—maybe even allow myself the luxury of a bath—and start anew in the morning.

  Before I could change my mind, I pushed the door of the establishment open and darted inside. Laughter and the war
mth of the fire washed over me, assuring me I’d made the right decision. A number of guests were gathered around a table playing a game of cards, their spirits high, more than a few empty glasses among the filled ones that stood at hand. A moment later, a serving girl wandered out of the back, her red hair lighter than mine had naturally been and curling wildly in defiance of management.

  “Room for the night?” she asked, coming over to me.

  I nodded, but before I could form a request for food or drink, she took note of my appearance. “And perhaps a bath?”

  I apparently looked less put-together than I felt.

  “Yes, please,” I murmured, trying to subdue the blush rising in my cheeks.

  “Bath first,” she declared, hands on her hips. “Follow me.”

  The girl led me through a swinging door and down a hallway off of which opened several private bathing rooms. She ushered me into one that was vacant, then shut the door behind us while I took stock of the area. A wooden washtub dominated the center of the floor, and a bench with folded towels sat against one wall, a water-spotted mirror hanging above it. Nothing exuded luxury, but it was nonetheless clean and inviting, and that was all I required.

  “You can undress and hang your clothes here,” the girl told me, motioning to hooks set into the wall beside the door. “I’ll be back with buckets of hot water.”

  I sighed. “Thank you. This will be lovely.”

  She left, and I struggled out of the clothes Fi had given me. While the garments themselves were in good shape, the day’s activities had left me dirty and stinking of sweat. I heard the door open as I finished removing my tunic and, with a twinge of modesty, turned to keep my back to the serving girl.

  Thud, the buckets hit the floor, followed by a half gasp, half shriek. Alarmed and confused, I shot a look over my shoulder, and my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. The serving girl’s gaze was riveted on my back. Hot water sloshed across my feet, and I hopped sideways, smacking my legs against the bench that held the stack of towels. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for one dizzy, mind-blurring moment, I thought I might scream, too.

  Thick, rope-like scars crawled down my otherwise smooth back, from the tops of my shoulder blades to just above my waist. My wings had been attached by bone and muscle and skin, like any extremity, and where my body had frantically tried to repair itself, it had created a pair of raised dark red scars that spider-webbed into whiteness at the edges.

  My breath coming fast and shallow, I sank heavily down on the bench, toppling a few of the folded towels onto the floor, where they immediately soaked up water. I carried a secret on my body. A secret thrust upon me by three strikes of a halberd. I could still feel the imposing shadows of the hunters like a shiver down my spine. People might look at me and see a beautiful young woman, but what lay beneath was ugly and revolting, a mutilation that would drive them away—if I needed any proof, the girl appeared ready to pass out. Who would want to be near the hideous proof of such brutalization? Not me, but I had no choice in the matter. If I did, I would run far and fast.

  Then the worst prospect of all bubbled to the surface of my mind. Had my troubled fourteen-year-old cousin Illumina watched this happen to me? Left me bleeding, only to willingly relive the memory of it later? Relish it even, happily drawing pictures of my agony? Trembling, I gagged. No, no, no, it’s not possible. But something inside me disagreed, a part of me I had been trying to ignore, a part of me that not only believed she was capable of such a thing, but that she had done it.

  The serving girl’s mouth was flapping soundlessly, her face going from deathly white to blazing red, but I could find no words to comfort her. Wanting to disappear, I threw on my tunic and cloak and rushed from the room and out of the inn, dragging my pack along with me.

  The cold of the night air hit me like a slap on the face, and I realized there were tears on my cheeks, beginning to freeze. But I didn’t take the time to wipe them away. I was still running, running, running, desperate to outrun what I had become.

  I knew where I was going, though my conscious mind insisted good sense would return to me; that I would change my decision; that I didn’t have to worry or bemoan my weakness because Anya, the principled niece of the Queen, would rear her head before the end. But the Queen’s niece only served to lend her expertise to the question of concealment as she pushed through the door of The River’s End. I pulled up my hood, unable to dispel my fear of discovery by Tom Matlock or some other Constabulary. I could not afford to be stopped now, not when I so desperately needed to lose myself.

  The man seated at the table near the vestibule looked up at my approach.

  “Back for another go?” he asked, his gold canine tooth the star attraction in his crooked grin.

  I swallowed hard, willing my voice to come out evenly, needing to prove I was in control of what I was doing.

  “More or less. I need to talk to whoever handles your, ah, inventory.”

  “More you use, less you feel.” Robb snapped his ever-present deck of cards, then stood and walked to the cellar door through which lay the cloister of depravity that I craved. He muttered to a larger chap who appeared to be standing guard, and I shifted restlessly, tapping my foot and glancing over my shoulder. I was about to snipe at the men to hurry when they parted company, and I was waved over by the big fellow. I joined him, surveying the gruesome tattoos blanketing his forearms—scenes of beheadings, nooses, and weapons linked together with chains—and something inside said I should flee while I still could. But I stayed in place, seeking an alternate kind of escape.

  The man examined me, presumably taking in my age, gender, rough appearance, and slight build.

  “Follow me,” he gruffly instructed, apparently satisfied I represented no threat, chewing on the stub of a cigar that bounced around with every word he spoke.

  I stayed on his heels while he wove his way through the pub’s patrons and into a dimly lit hallway at the rear of the establishment. He untied a ring of keys from his belt, then inserted one into a door the same color as the stone walls. I might have thought it clever camouflage if not for the unending drabness of this entire place. We stepped inside, and he produced a rusty, leaky old lighter from a trouser pocket. After a good half-dozen attempts, the contraption sparked to life, and he used it to ignite a flame on an oil lamp that rested on a block jutting forth from the wall.

  The room in which we stood was cold and damp, for the pub’s heat did not stretch this far. Its floor was dirt, giving it a musty smell, and it was so small, I could have spat from one side to the other. The man from whom I hoped to purchase a supply of Cysur closed the door behind us, and goose bumps appeared on my arms. What if I was now locked inside? I checked the room for another egress, but there was none. This was an aboveground cellar.

  “What you want?” the man asked, moving to stand behind a desk that took up half the floor.

  I examined his broad face, trying to determine what to say. Though I was a novice with respect to this type of transaction, he didn’t seem the sort to tolerantly guide me along. My mouth opened, but no words emerged. Somewhere—perhaps just in my head—a clock ticked, and my discomfort mounted. I wanted to leave, I needed to stay, I wanted to find a bathroom, I needed to sleep. In the end, I fidgeted, no more able to regulate my nerves than to regulate the clock. The man across from me apparently found this amusing, smiling grotesquely from around the remnants of his cigar.

  Thankfully, Robb saved me from further embarrassment, coming through the door bearing a metal-banded wooden chest. He set it on top of the desk, then exited.

  “Seat yourself,” the tattooed fellow muttered, pointing to a chair against the wall.

  I nodded, sweat running down my back despite the chill in the air. My lack of experience was evident—people were less likely to prey upon someone who appeared self-assured, and I was failin
g miserably in the act.

  The man shifted his attention to the double-locked chest, and made use of two other keys on his ring to open it, leaving me to drag the chair closer. I sat down across the desk from him, resolved to be more assertive to regain what footing I could. He eyed me with a miniscule smirk, letting me know he could see right through my facade, then placed three pouches on the surface between us.

  “How do you take your pleasure?”

  “I need to know my choices.”

  “Figured as much.” He yanked open the first of the pouches and held it out to me, displaying the finely ground powder inside. In the dimness, it appeared black like gunpowder, but when I squinted, I realized it was green, darker even than seaweed swaying in deep water.

  “It’s already cut, ready for snortin’,” he informed me.

  I yanked my head back, shaking it quickly side to side. He pulled the ties closed and moved on to the next pouch, full of brownish, leaf-like flakes.

  “Good if you prefer smoke, like in the den. Downside is it leaves a stink you can’t wash out. This lot you can also chop and wet to rub your gums. But it’ll stain your whole mouth same way the powder stains your nose. The green grin, some call it.”

  “I don’t want evidence about me.” On that point, I could manage certitude.

  “Your type usually don’t. This’ll be what you want. Evidence ain’t so obvious.”

  He removed a vial from the last pouch and set it down to show me the emerald liquid it contained. The light from the oil lamp reflected merrily off the substance—except at its core, where it looked entrancingly cold.