“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 broken, 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 eit
her.
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.
The Chorl Servant sniffed in disdain, but her eyes were uncertain. Dark eyes, almost black, like her hair. I drew in a deep breath and recalled something I’d learned a long time ago on the Dredge:
The eyes are everything.
A moment later, her gaze, holding mine with determination, flicked toward the orange I still held in my hand and the corners of my mouth twitched.
“Varis,” I said again, then held the orange up with one hand. “And this is an orange.”
She stared at the proffered orange, her chin tilting upward. Her nostrils flared, and after a moment I could see that she trembled. But not in rage.
With a quick gesture, I dug my thumb into the tough skin of the orange, the sharp tang flooding the river as sticky juice coated my fingers. I peeled the orange deftly, the scent strengthening as images of Erick surfaced in my mind, images I thought I’d forgotten: of him on the Dredge, handing me that first sack of food, his voice soft as he told me there was more where that came from if I helped him find marks in the slums; of him training me in the decrepit courtyards, barking orders or bursting out in laughter as I did something unexpected, catching him off guard. Scents had been everything on the Dredge, and I’d associated oranges with Erick. A good scent; a safe scent. Strong and thick and sweet.
Orange peel fell to the floor, and when I finished peeling it, I jabbed my thumb into the orange’s core and pulled the fruit apart, selected a piece and ate it, spitting the seeds out into my hand and setting them on the window’s ledge.
Only then did I look up at the Chorl Servant again. She watched me closely, a frown touching her lips, her head still held high, bruised neck exposed. But she was breathing deeper now, her eyes latched onto the fruit. She’d been fed only bread, cheese, and a few portions of meat for two weeks. It was better fare than most of those on the Dredge had had all winter. Even if she didn’t know what an orange was, I was betting that the scent of fruit would be familiar.
I’d learned more from Erick on the Dredge than simply how to use a dagger.
I broke another piece from the orange, the Chorl Servant’s mouth twitching, and ate it as I began to pace before the two windows. A slow pace, thoughtful and nonthreatening. “I know why the Chorl came to Amenkor,” I said, talking slowly as I ate, even though I knew she wouldn’t understand. I tried to keep the anger out of my voice, the hatred that rose so readily when I thought about the attack on Amenkor. It wasn’t easy. “The Ochean wanted the throne . . . or rather, she wanted the Fire and thought it was contained in the throne. But the Fire didn’t come from here. It came from the west.” I paused, frowned out the window at the city. “Do you know where the Fire came from? Do you know what it was, what it was meant to do?”
I turned back, caught the Chorl Servant’s expression, and sighed. “I suppose not. If the Ochean didn’t know, why should you? But it’s an interesting question. I haven’t had much time to think about it. I didn’t care much about it on the Dredge—there wasn’t a reason to care, knowing where the Fire came from couldn’t help me survive. And after I became the Mistress, there were more pressing matters. But now . . .”
I paused, took another bite of orange, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
I caught the Chorl Servant’s eye, saw her stiffen at the look. I wasn’t trying to hide the anger anymore. “You do know things I need to know, however. Such as how to combine the powers of the Servants, how to link them. And I’m betting you know something of what’s been done to Erick. So . . .” I pulled another sliver of orange from what remained in my hand and held it out to her, forcing most of the anger out of my voice with effort. “Have a piece of orange.”
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. But the scent of the orange was too strong. Edging forward, she raised one hand tentatively toward the fruit.
In one quick move, she snatched it from me and retreated, scowling. For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to eat it. She glared at me instead, defiant, the orange clutched protectively in one hand.
Then her stomach growled.
She dropped all pretense and stuffed the orange into her mouth, juice dribbling down her chin.
The sight sent a strange shocking ache through my chest. This is how I must have acted when Erick first brought me food. Starved, desperate, almost feral. I remembered how grateful I’d felt, and later, how ashamed, even though there had been nothing to be ashamed about.
My anger—at the Chorl, at the Ochean, at what they’d done to Erick and to the city—faltered, and I frowned. This woman wasn’t responsible for those events. She’d been trapped by circumstance, just as I’d been trapped by circumstance on the Dredge. Until Erick found me.
I didn’t move when she finished the slice of orange, then edged around behind me to take the one I’d left on the window’s edge. Instead, as she began to peel the skin as I’d done, I moved toward the door.
When I reached to open it, she spoke.
“Ottul.”
I halted, turned back.
The Chorl Servant stood between the two windows, back straight, the peeled orange held close in one hand. She held my gaze steadily for a moment, eyes blazing, and repeated, “Ottul.”
Then she faltered, her gaze dropping in uncertainty.
I opened the door, saw Eryn, Trielle, and the guardsmen shift forward out of the corner of my eye, then turned and stepped through, Eryn releasing the warding long enough to let me pass.
“Well?” Eryn asked.
Still unsettled, no longer certain how I felt but unwilling to let the anger go, I said, “I think her name is Ottul.”
I stepped into the hall of the merchant’s guild, Keven and my escort of guardsmen at my back, and felt a shudder pass through me. The room was empty, weak sunlight slanting down through the narrow windows onto the marble floor, dust drifting in the beams. The entire building smelled of age, of dryness and death.
The merchant Alendor had decimated the guild in his attempt to take over trading with his consortium, an attempt I had helped to stop. But not before he and his allies had killed off a significant portion of the merchant class itself. Of the three remaining merchants of power, one had been discovered hoarding food during the past winter and had been stoned to death in the market square by the people of Amenkor after I’d passed judgment on him. The second, Regin, had unwillingly agreed to my seizure of all of the supplies in Amenkor in order to keep the citizens of the city from starvation. And the third . . .
I scanned the murky interior of the once thriving guildhall, found William seated at a table in the far corner. My heart clenched as it always did when I saw his tousled brown hair, his white apprentice’s shirt vibrant in the beam of light that illuminated the scattered sheets of parchment he worked on. Since the battle, since I’d watched William charge into the midst of the attacking Chorl on the wharf, I’d seen William almost every day either at the palace giving a report on the cleanup in the city or the status of the dwindling supplies, or in the city at a work site, overseeing the clearing of the debris from the streets or the removal of the dead.
But I wasn
’t here for a report. At least, not a report about the city.
William didn’t hear our approach until I’d halted before the table. Then he looked up with a start. He stood instantly, his chair juddering back as he lurched to his feet.
“Varis! I mean, Mistress,” he added, his gaze darting toward the guards where they’d settled into position at a distance. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I didn’t send word that I was coming.”
“I see.” His brow creased in confusion as he tried to decide whether this was a formal visit, or a friendly one. He opted for formal, his stance shifting slightly, his tone changing. “What can I do for you?”
I sighed. “I came to speak to you about Borund.”
“Ah.” His hands fell to the table and he dropped his gaze.
“William.” When he didn’t look up, I rounded the makeshift desk and caught William’s shoulders, forced him to look at me. “William, I need to know what’s happening with him.”
“You know what happened with him,” William said, shrugging out of my grip, his voice angry. “Everyone knows! He ran on the wharf. When the Chorl ships hit the docks and the rest of us charged into their ranks, he turned and fled. He left us there to die. He left me there to die!”
The bitterness of William’s words, loud and harsh, echoed in the recesses of the room. He held my gaze a long moment, long enough so I could see the pain in his eyes, a pain he’d hidden the last few weeks, a pain he’d kept hidden even from me.
But then he spun, turned his back on me, and stalked away, toward an alcove containing a few chairs and a small table with a plant.
I hesitated, caught Keven’s questioning look, but shook my head and headed after him.
“He never meant to run,” I said to William’s back, letting my own anger tinge my words.
“How do you know? You weren’t there.”
“Yes, I was.”
William’s shoulders tensed and he turned. “What do you mean?”
The Vacant Throne Page 4
