The Empty Throne

by Cayla Kluver

  “Won’t it stain, too?”

  He laid down a thick-needled syringe. “Not for drinkin’, for shootin’. Needle comes with the package. Your arm will scar, nothin’ more.”

  I clenched my teeth, and my breathing picked up. Could I take that needle and plunge it into my flesh? Capitalizing on my silence, the man added some instruction, pointing to my upper arm.

  “Just tie somethin’ tight around here, and the vein in your elbow will pop. Not hard once you get the hang of it.”

  “And it doesn’t show?”

  “Just the scars.”

  Scars.

  “I already have those,” I said, and picked up the vial and syringe.

  * * *

  Chrior was as I had seen it last—a city illuminated by the twinkling of snow in the moonlight. I walked along, the crunch of ice crystals beneath my feet calming and rhythmic. With a smile, I gazed upward at the rings of catwalks that wrapped like a coiled ribbon higher and higher, every level lined with homes and businesses. Normally, the sky would be filled with the glinting of Faerie wings as the residents of Chrior zipped along their way, but shops had already closed for the night, and it was cold. Not too cold for me, though. I needed to be out here. I felt it strongly, though I couldn’t have said the reason.

  I passed the hub of the city, aware now of the pulse of the Great Redwood, home of the royal Redwood Fae and the Queen’s Court—my home. I started jogging, aching for it, for the warmth of its heartwood, the love carvings adorning its bark, the elemental gifts like jewels decorating the Queen’s throne of twined roots at the base of its inner walls. I ran until my boots no longer met snow, splashing instead into a reserve of water.

  I halted, leggings soaked to the knee from my unexpected encounter. Before me, the snow was melting into a shallow lake interspersed with floating ice. It was the middle of winter, cold enough to maintain a frost in full sun, let alone when the horizon had swallowed the light.

  Shadows of the Redwood’s branches stretched toward me across the water, and I stepped back. It was too dark for shadows, the hour too late for them to creep like this. Then an orange glow rose from between the shadowy tendrils, reflecting off the shallow pool. I felt the same glow against my skin, hot enough to make me sweat, bright enough to make me squint, and I raised my eyes to its source.

  The Redwood was aflame, its bark screaming and popping, its limbs crackling as they neared collapse, a torch too immense for even a giant to wield. It loomed before me, frightening and yet awe inspiring.

  Smoke coiled into the already blackened sky, obscuring any stars that might have emerged for their nighttime watch, and I wished I could hide, too. Tears streamed down my face, my horror too great to contain and my eyes stinging from the effuse. Where was Queen Ubiqua? My father, Davic, my best friend, Ione? I sloshed forward—the Redwood, ancient symbol of my people, was lost, along with anyone who was inside it.

  The heat grew unbearable, and I was forced to stop again, but this time there was a figure in my view, a silhouette so slight she might have been another shadow. She stood close by the trunk, closer than should have been possible. She would die.

  “Get away!” I shrieked above the roar of the flames. “You have to run!”

  But the little girl shook her head.

  “All this is mine.” Her soft voice was somehow more audible than my shouts. “My birthright. It may burn and fall, but I will never let it go.”

  The flames engulfed Illumina despite my warning cries, and even though she was a Fire Fae, I doubted she could survive. Then the mighty tree collapsed into the cradle of freezing water at its base.

  * * *

  I awoke stiff and trembling, the spot where I lay damp enough to convince me the vision of the Redwood had been real. I staggered to my feet, blinking against the sun, and caught myself with an open palm on a rough wall. I was again in an alley; worse, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, nor was I sure I cared. At least I’d been smart enough to conceal myself behind a heap of rubbish and had pulled my cloak over me like a Faerie Shroud—except instead of hiding my wings and disguising me as human, it had allowed me to pass for human waste.

  I peered out at the crowded street, then rubbed a hand over my face. Where was I? I squinted, feeling as though my senses were muted by gauze bandages, and scanned the buildings for clues. The area was mostly residential, with small shops tucked here and there. Over the crest of a roof, I spotted a spire that was familiar. A bell hung between four pillars under the steeple, and it began to ring out the time. I closed my eyes and counted, forcing myself to concentrate despite the fogginess in my brain. Nine bells. The day was still young.

  I stumbled out of the alley, almost tripping over my feet. Needing to think clearly despite sickening vertigo, I took several deep breaths. Maybe the Cysur was more potent in a syringe than in a smoke. I didn’t even know how much I’d taken. My memory of the night before was hazy at best—my only clear recollection was of the tattooed man in the pub measuring the drug for me and showing me how to inject it. What had I done with the rest of the supply? Feeling a twinge of panic, I slid my hand inside my pack and found a strangely shaped pouch—from its feel, I could tell it contained the vial and syringe for which I’d paid. Relief flooded me, followed by shame. Never again, I promised myself. Nature, I could have died. Never, never again. Though my promise was sincere, I didn’t take the next logical step—I didn’t get rid of the drug.

  I looked around once more, and the reason the church spire was familiar came to me like a dead weight in my stomach. One of the buildings that formed the alley in which I’d slept was likewise familiar. It was the bathhouse I’d hidden beside last night—I was on the same street where I’d interrogated the guard. I must have retraced my path under the influence of the Green. I grimaced. This wasn’t the smartest place for me to be.

  I yanked my hood up and made to walk away, quick and quiet, before anyone took note of me, but a swarm of people across the road drew my attention. The group was centered in front of the home I’d invaded a few short hours ago, mutterings rising and falling while they watched and waited...But for what? I’d expected the guard to report the incident, but why so much fuss? The circumstances might be unusual, disturbing even, but not worth the time of an investigation, especially when I was sure my victim couldn’t describe me. He hadn’t gotten a good look at me last night, and considerable time had passed since he’d been involved in my arrest.

  The door to the guard’s home swung open and two Constabularies strode out into a semicircular area their comrades had cleared of civilians. The first was broad-chested and walked with an intimidating side-to-side motion, his shoulders leading. Before he raised his silvering head, I recognized him as Constable Marcus Farrier, the man who had led the inquest into Evangeline’s suicide. Experience told me he was businesslike and callous, having professed in the middle of the Fae-mily Home that he gave not a care for my friend’s fate.

  The second Constabulary was Farrier’s much younger partner, Officer Tom Matlock. My breath hitched and I sank onto a storefront bench, watching him peruse the curious who had gathered round, afraid his gray eyes would find me. Despite my altered appearance, he would recognize me if I was foolish enough to give him the opportunity. Even though he had twice before refused to arrest me, I doubted I would be granted leniency this time, especially with Constable Farrier at his side. Besides, I feared if Tom even looked into my eyes, he’d know where I’d been finding comfort of late. And I didn’t think I could bear it if the affection and respect he held for me turned into disdain.

  Though common sense urged me to flee, my gaze remained fixed on Tom. He had pristine posture and was taller than Farrier by a few inches. Both of them wore the scarlet uniforms of the Governor’s men, though Farrier’s insignia and the hat he clutched under his arm were significant of his higher rank. A breeze picked up, and Tom’s dark
hair flitted over his forehead. An urge to reach out and touch it, enjoy its softness, filled me, calling forth the memory of the kiss we had shared, how warm his body had been, how he’d moaned against my lips, how his hands had skimmed my waist, and the tingling sensation his touch had generated inside me.

  I could easily have gotten lost in my thoughts, but a snippet of conversation stole my attention. Two women were ambling away from the scene, freely speculating about what might have occurred.

  “You’ve seen the old crone what lives there. I saw her crying with my own eyes, I did. Right like she had a heart!”

  “Even an old crone is bound to grieve over a murdered son. Especially one what cared for her.”

  I was on my feet in an instant. Rushing forward, I grabbed the arm of the woman closer to me without considering how she might react. She swiveled toward me, eyes wild, looking ready to shout or scream. I released her at once, and her posture relaxed, perhaps because I was young enough to be her daughter.

  “Did you say someone was killed in that house?” I demanded, sounding a bit like an interrogator.

  The woman whose arm I had clutched nodded, her lips compressing into a thin line. “Why d’you think all those Scarlets are out in force? They take care of their own, they do.”

  “Seems someone broke into the house and done in the son,” her companion added. “Don’t know how, don’t know why, but on my word, they’ll confirm it all before the day’s out.”

  Vertigo revisited me, and I swayed on my feet. The women glanced at each other, then helped me to the bench. Having fulfilled their charitable duty, they hurried on their way, wiping their hands on their skirts as though I might be diseased.

  Forcing my breathing to slow and deepen, I tried to ward off panic with reason. The women had to be wrong. News was always distorted before facts were released, and rumors spread faster than weeds. I hadn’t caused the guard serious injury. I had scared him, yes, but he was alive and talking when I left.

  But that was before I’d sought out a needle. I racked my brain, trying to remember the rest of the night. What if I’d reentered the house under the influence of Cysur Naravni? What if I had hurt the man during the time I couldn’t remember? I vehemently shook my head. No, the idea was preposterous. And yet, the alley in which I’d awoken was in the guard’s neighborhood.

  Another terrible thought entered my head. I had spitefully left the guard tied. What if he had struggled to free himself and tipped over the chair? Could the sash have tightened enough to choke him? Had his mother returned too late to give him aid?

  The bell tolled the half hour, and I again looked across the street. A group of Constabularies had just emerged from the house carrying a stretcher upon which was strapped a black-covered form the approximate shape and size of the guard I’d attacked. Remorse hit me like a lightning strike—there was no longer a chance the women were wrong about the man’s fate. A wave of trembling rolled through me, and I stared at my hands. Was there blood on them?

  Unable to bear the sight of the guard’s corpse being hauled out of the home, I bolted.

  Chapter Seven

  THE PRIVATE COLLECTOR

  When my side hurt so badly I could run no farther, I halted and put a hand to my face. It was wet with tears. I stepped into the shadow of a building, struggling to stop the flow. But the more I tried to suppress my emotions, the more they insisted on release. Mortified by my loss of control, I was seized with a desire to bang my head against the stone wall behind me, believing pain might jolt me out of my fit. I had never felt so wretched in my life.

  What I needed was a friend. But it wasn’t Shea who came to mind, or even Tom. It was Fi. Whatever her limited means, I could count on her to give me assistance and comfort, and I was in greater need of both now more than ever before.

  A pair of Constabularies walked past me on the street, and I held my breath. When they were a safe distance from me, I straightened my cloak and hastened in the direction of the Fae-mily Home. The guard’s death had shaken me, but I couldn’t let it pitch me into stupidity and panic. Though my missing connection to Nature now felt like a gaping black hole, and the thought that I might be a killer made me sick to my stomach, no one could connect me to the crime. I was safe unless I gave people cause to suspect me. I was safe and, despite everything, could continue my search for the Anlace.

  When the Home came into view, I momentarily halted, then slunk down a side road and approached the alley from the other end. I groped in my pack for the key Fi had provided to the back entrance, excavating it from the bottom with a handful of dirt and lint, and let myself inside. Grateful for the warmth that rolled over me, I entered the room I had been given and softly closed the door. The accommodations were exactly as I’d left them. Nature bless Fi.

  I abandoned my things, quickly washed up, then decided to chance breakfast. I was light-headed and heavyhearted, and I hadn’t eaten anything since the meal Fi had provided the last time I’d been here. I padded down the hallway to the dining room and peered past the buffet tables into the kitchen, craning my neck to see into the near-empty entryway. Nothing looked or felt abnormal—definitely no apparent signs that Luka Ivanova or his men were here. The tension left my neck and shoulders, and I followed a few insouciant Fae stragglers into the dining hall. There wasn’t a lot of food left, but I grabbed a few muffins from a fresh supply the cooks had added to a serving plate.

  Tairmor published a newspaper—several, actually, thanks to a human invention called the printing press—and a copy of one of them had been left on a breakfast table. With a nervous glance about the room, I picked it up and went to take a seat in a corner, aware that as journalistic competition had grown, so had the outrageousness of the opinions committed to ink.

  The front page bore the chronicle’s handle: The Dragon’s Blood Meridian. I scanned the bold-faced headlines, none of which reflected the news that should have been there—news of an investigation into the barbaric experiments conducted on humans and Fae alike on Evernook Island. Though information about the destructive fire itself could hardly have been suppressed, the activities taking place on the island remained shrouded in mystery. Had the government contained the incident and wiped the facility clean, knowing how damaging it would be to official Fae relationships? Or had most of the evidence burned? Regardless of the reasons, the Meridian was left to report—not without risk I was sure—on the political mutterings in the streets.

  The most prominent of the newspaper’s headlines was: Stuffing the Boxes—How the Rich Man Gets Both His Vote and Yours.

  When we’d first met, Shea had mentioned that although the Warckum Territory supposedly elected its officials by popular vote, Ivanova blood had held the governorship for longer than anyone could remember. Whether or not tampering with the elections occurred, I did not doubt friends of the Ivanova regime benefitted from the Governor’s good fortune, fueling their desire to maintain the status quo.

  I skimmed the article; then my eye was caught by another, smaller headline in the bottom-left corner of the page. It read: Child Disappearances Still Rampant; Still Unsolved. See page 4.

  My heart lodged in my throat, and I practically ripped my way to the middle of the paper. The first paragraph told me all I needed to know.

  A new form of population control may have emerged among the impoverished residents of Sheness. As if disease, starvation, and crime-related deaths weren’t enough, child disappearances are occurring in record numbers. The skeptical among us are questioning law enforcement’s devotion to unraveling the cause. Does the loss of infants and toddlers living in squalor really matter to those in power?

  I crunched the page in my fist, a single word thrumming in my brain: Sepulchres. Whether humans knew it or not, the timing of the disappearances and the nature of the victims pointed to that conclusion and no other.

  I pressed my palms against my
temples, compressing the memories of Evernook Island into a coherent whole. There had been Sepulchres on that accursed chunk of rock, once-beautiful beings who had been trapped on the human side of the Bloody Road when the Faerie race had been driven from the Territory; Sepulchres who had survived their separation from magic by feeding on children, the younger the better, because they were so pure; Sepulchres who had been made even more dangerous to humans by torture and abuse. I didn’t know how many of the creatures might have been imprisoned in that fortress, but it was possible some of them had survived the fighting and fire and gone to Sheness.

  Pushing back my chair, I dashed to my room and locked the door, images of Shea’s younger sisters, Marissa and Magdalene, springing to mind. They and many other innocent children crawled into their beds safe and sound at nightfall, but some awoke to spindly white fingers and mouths scarred shut. I didn’t know how Sepulchres killed, but no child who gazed upon one would die without screams.

  I began to pace, fighting the tide of emotions the memories generated. The human world was gray and black and soiled, full of ugliness and pain—pain that the humans caused themselves and others. And now the masterminds of Evernook had unleashed a horde of monsters. While it seemed clear that Fae-haters were behind the experiments on the island, it wasn’t Fae they were hurting now. I would have reveled in the irony of this fate, except the lives being lost weren’t the right ones. If the creatures would only hunt their tormentors...but then the words I had twice heard from the Sepulchres themselves spilled forth.

  “Save us—save us all,” I muttered, repeating their mantra. “But what does that mean?”

  Frustrated, I dug my hands into the base of my long hair and tugged, unable to attach any more meaning to the words than on the occasion I’d first heard them. The only certainty was that they were a plea for help. Legend told me Sepulchres weren’t predatory by nature. They needed help, and so did the people of the Warckum Territory.