“A warning,” one of the guards answered roughly, already motioning to the other guardsman, who took off back toward the wharf at a run. “Unknown sails on the horizon.”
Chapter 3
Fear spiked on the wharf as word spread, the raucous celebration grinding to a halt. Masses of people broke away from the docks and headed up to the palace walls in a slow-moving but orderly tide as the warning bells fell silent. But just as many people scrambled to find weapons, joining the guardsmen on duty at the edge of the water, as they’d been drilled to do by Darryn. The river churned with mixed emotions—fear, despair, determination—and I felt myself harden under the tumult.
“Is it the Chorl? Did they attack our trading ships?” William asked, moving up beside me and the guardsman who’d remained behind to protect me. Tension ran off him in tendrils. Others approached as well, almost everyone who’d been on the platform, including Westen, Avrell, Marielle, and Eryn.
“I don’t know,” I said, but I pulled back the sleeve of my dress, ripping the fabric slightly as I exposed the sheath containing my dagger.
“All of the citizens have headed back to the palace,” Avrell said. “For whatever good that will do. We still don’t have gates.”
“The guard is on the way,” Westen added. “Catrell is organizing the men who remained and can fight on the docks.”
We waited in silence, breath held, ears straining. The quiet was unnerving, the only light the torches and lanterns lining the docks and the bowls of flaming oil lighting the palace and the broken walls. Wind gusted from the ocean, tugging at my dress, my hair.
Then new bells broke the darkness and the guardsmen all around sighed in relief.
“Not the Chorl,” Westen said. “A foreign trading ship.” He frowned as the bells paused, new notes ringing out. “And it shows signs of damage.”
I thought immediately of the ships we’d just sent out. Had they run into trouble already? But Westen had said the ship was foreign. And the incoming ship could have been damaged by many different things—a storm, pirates.
Yet, somehow, I didn’t think so.
Had they encountered our own trading ships? Had they even seen them?
“It could be a while before the ship docks,” Avrell said. “Should we head back to the palace?”
I hesitated. I wanted to know what had happened to the ship, and whether it threatened the trading ships that had left the port just over an hour before. But Avrell was right. It could be a full hour before the captain was ready to speak with me.
“Spread the word that it isn’t another attack,” I said, “but keep a contingent of guardsmen here at the dock, just in case.” I caught Westen’s eye. “I want to speak to the captain as soon as he’s ready.”
The captain of the Seekers nodded. “I’ll escort him to the palace myself.”
Almost two hours later, a page boy halted, breathless, in the open door of an audience chamber inside the palace.
“The captain of the Reliant is here to see you,” he gasped a moment later.
At my nod, he darted away, leaving me alone with William, Avrell, Eryn, and Keven. Keven stood beside the section of floor where I’d paced the last hour, a solid beacon of calm. Not as soothing as Erick’s presence would have been in the same place, but still calming. Avrell stood not far off, beside Eryn, who was seated to the side of the single table at the end of the room.
I’d asked William to stay, had seen Avrell frown in disapproval. But I’d ignored the First. With Erick barely alive, I found William’s presence comforting.
“The Reliant?” Eryn asked.
Avrell frowned. “One of Lord March’s ships, from Venitte, I believe. They must have left the city close to the first day of spring to have made it here this fast.”
“Or been traveling with little cargo.”
Avrell raised his eyebrows at that, and I felt a surge of irritation. I didn’t understand what the comment might mean, but before I could ask, William said, “The trading ships can travel faster if they aren’t loaded down with the weight of cargo.”
I gave him a thankful glance, tried to ease the tension in my shoulders. Even with William and Keven in the room, I felt on edge.
Westen appeared in the doorway.
“May I present Captain Tristan of the Venittian ship Reliant, and Brandan Vard,” Westen caught my eye, his face and voice impassive, his warning clear, “Servant of the Lord of Venitte.”
Avrell and Eryn stiffened, Avrell’s hand tightening on the back of Eryn’s chair.
Then Captain Tristan stepped into the room. He wore the formal jacket of a captain, like the merchant jackets, but without the heavy embroidery to signify rank. A dark blue, like William’s, it was banded with gold at the cuffs and neck, with gold buttons and red-and-gold-tasseled epaulettes on the shoulders. His mouth was pressed into a thin, grim line, the skin beneath his eyes dark with exhaustion.
Brandan Vard entered a step behind him, his face a schooled mask that did not successfully hide the last dregs of shock and horror beneath it. Slightly older than me, he wore a simple shirt and breeches, although the material was obviously of high quality. A large circular gold pendant hung from a chain around his neck, a domed and spired building emblazoned on the front. A familiar building. I frowned a moment, then remembered.
I’d seen the building from Cerrin’s veranda, overlooking the harbor and channels of Venitte. Cerrin had looked toward the building when Venitte had been under attack by the Chorl the first time, had intended to go there to join the other six members of the Council, until his wife and children had died. It was the seat of power in Venitte.
My gaze shot toward Eryn and Avrell, but both were focused on Tristan, who’d moved to face Eryn. With a stiff but respectful bow, he said, “Mistress, I bring word of warning from Lord March and the city of Venitte. Although it would appear that it comes too late.”
An awkward silence fell, broken only by a cough by one of the guardsmen who’d entered behind Tristan and Brandan. Tristan rose, brow knit in confusion.
I stepped forward. “I am the Mistress of Amenkor.”
Comprehension dawned swiftly, no more than a flash across Tristan’s eyes. He turned sharply and repeated his bow to me, more stiffly this time. “I deeply apologize, Mistress. We had not received word of your ascension in Venitte at the time that we sailed.”
“When did you sail?” Avrell asked.
“Three weeks ago. We came directly here, without stopping.”
Avrell glanced toward me. “I sent couriers to Venitte the moment you took the throne. They should have arrived well before the end of winter.”
“By land or by sea?” Tristan asked.
“Both.”
Eryn shifted in her seat. “None of the ships made it to Venitte, I assume?”
Tristan’s expression tightened. “None.”
“The only ship that returned after heading south was Mathew’s ship,” William said. “He didn’t make it as far south as Venitte. He chose to stick close to the coastline, hitting numerous smaller ports, rather than going out into the main trade routes, those that the Chorl targeted.”
Tristan grunted. “So you know of the Chorl?”
“We know of the Chorl,” I answered, my voice dense with anger. Both Tristan and Brandan understood, however. They would have had to pass through the charred shell of the lower city to reach the palace. “They attacked Amenkor on the first day of spring.”
“But you managed to drive them back.” It was a statement, not a question. And it held an undertone of respect.
Avrell shifted forward. “What about the couriers I sent by land? None of them arrived either?”
“None. We’ve had no word from Amenkor—from any port north of Bosun’s Bay—since autumn.”
“What happened?” Westen broke in.
Before Tristan could answer, Brandan—silent until now— stepped forward. “The Chorl. They’ve seized control of Bosun’s Bay and the surrounding area.”
> No one in the audience chamber moved. I’d known that the Chorl could not stay on the Boreaite Isles for long, but I hadn’t expected the expansion to the coastline to be so swift. Not after the attack on Amenkor.
But then the full import of what had been said sank in. The Chorl must have seized control of Bosun’s Bay before winter to have halted Avrell’s couriers. They’d already begun the invasion of the coast before coming here, or at least seized enough land to live off of during the winter. I didn’t remember Bosun’s Bay being in the Ochean’s plans when I’d filtered through her memories while she was on the throne. But then I wasn’t focused on what she might have done elsewhere; I was focused on her and what she intended for Amenkor.
Amenkor had been a distraction, the promise of the Fire and the throne’s power too much for her or Haqtl, the leader of the Chorl priests, to resist.
But now, Haqtl and Atlatik, the captain of the Chorl warriors, must have returned to their original plan.
“How far away is Bosun’s Bay?” I said abruptly, breaking the silence.
“A map!” Avrell snapped to one of the guardsmen at the door, “Find Nathem and have him bring a map of the Frigean coast.”
“And find Captain Catrell,” Westen added.
One of the guardsmen nodded and left immediately. Everyone else shifted closer to the table, William moving to my side, close enough I could feel him. I glanced back at Keven, who shook his head grimly.
“How did you find out about Bosun’s Bay?” Avrell asked.
Brandan glanced toward Tristan, who nodded for him to answer the question. He straightened, one hand holding the emblem around his neck. “Lord March noted that a significant portion of our ships were being lost over the course of last summer. He sent out search parties. They discovered the Chorl on the Boreaite Isles and in Bosun’s Bay just before the ocean became too rough to navigate for the winter.”
“And you didn’t send word?” Westen remarked, although it was clear he already understood what had happened.
“Of course we sent word,” Brandan snapped, then stopped himself. His hand had clenched on the disk about his neck, but he forced himself to relax, to breathe. “We sent warning by land. Obviously, the Chorl had infiltrated farther inland than we estimated. They must have stopped our couriers.”
Westen nodded.
“Is that how your ship got damaged?” Eryn asked. “Were you attacked by the Chorl?”
“No,” Tristan said. “The Reliant wasn’t part of the search effort, and we knew enough to bypass Bosun’s Bay on our way here. The trade routes were a little trickier to sail through without meeting up with the Chorl, but we managed.”
“Then where did you get attacked?”
Tristan met Westen’s eyes squarely. “Just south of Temall.”
Avrell swore.
“Did you meet any other ships on your way here?” I asked. “We sent a few trading ships south, with an escort, a few hours before your ship was sighted.”
Tristan shook his head. “No. We didn’t see anyone. But we were staying close to shore because of the damage we sustained. If your ships headed out into the trading lanes, we wouldn’t have met.”
At that moment, Nathem entered, a bundle of rolled parchment in his arms, followed immediately by Captain Catrell.
“Nathem,” Avrell spat, motioning his Second to his side, while at the same time Captain Catrell said, “What’s going on?”
As Avrell and Nathem began sorting through the maps, William leaning forward to help, Westen answered. “The Chorl have apparently taken over Bosun’s Bay, and Captain Tristan here says that he encountered the Chorl as close to Amenkor as Temall.”
Catrell frowned.
And then Avrell cried, “Here,” and slapped a map down on the table.
Everyone leaned forward, Nathem and William placing weights at the corners of the paper to hold it down, Avrell pointing with one hand to a location on the edge of the coast marked with a heavy black dot, script off to one side. “Here’s Amenkor,” he said, to orient everyone. His finger followed the edge of the curve of coastland marked out in black, blue shading to one side for the ocean, greens and yellow to the other. “Here’s Temall, about five days’ south of here by ship. Another three days beyond that is Bosun’s Bay.” Both Temall and Bosun’s Bay were marked with smaller dots.
Avrell’s finger halted, but my gaze continued down the coastline, until it came to rest on Venitte, almost the same distance from Bosun’s Bay as Amenkor. And, like Amenkor, it was marked with a large black dot, the city’s name scrawled across the parchment in curved letters. It lay in a jagged cut in the land, like a tear at the edge of the paper, a large island filling up the space left open by the tear. Two channels of water surrounded the island, then sliced inland toward Venitte itself.
I thought about standing on the cliffs above Venitte’s harbor, watching as the Chorl first attacked fifteen hundred years ago, shivered as their ships slid into sight through the channels on both sides of the island. I felt Cerrin’s initial confusion, followed swiftly by horror and rage as the first volleys of fire arched up from the Chorl ships and fell onto the Venittian ships in the harbor and the houses perched on the cliffs.
William brushed up against me. I caught his concerned look, frowned, and shook my head.
“We ran into the Chorl ship just past Temall,” Tristan said, bringing my attention back to the map, pointing to the ocean just to the south of the town. “About here.”
Catrell frowned. “Just one ship?”
Tristan nodded, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. “One was enough to almost take us. If Brandan hadn’t been on the ship . . .” He trailed off, and Brandan straightened slightly.
“I had to use the Sight to force them off,” Brandan explained.
The tension that had spiked and then faded when Brandan had been announced escalated once again. A wariness that I could feel in all of the guardsmen in the room . . . and surprisingly, from Tristan himself.
Tristan seemed to be of higher rank than Brandan, and yet he feared the Servant. A fear that wasn’t evident on his face, but could be felt easily on the river.
“I’m surprised you escaped at all,” Westen murmured. And in his voice I heard the echoes of what Mathew, Erick, Laurren, and the rest of the doomed crew of The Maiden had endured when they were attacked by the Chorl. I’d forced everyone to live through those events using the throne, forced everyone to feel their desperation, their pain, their deaths.
Tristan’s irritation escalated at the suspicion hidden in Westen’s voice, in Catrell’s gaze. A suspicion I felt as well . . . until I realized why Tristan’s ship had survived, why Brandan’s presence had turned the Chorl away when Mathew and his crew had never had a chance.
“Did the Chorl ship have any Servants?”
“What do you mean?” Brandan interjected.
The tension between the two groups heightened.
Drawing in a steadying breath, I said, “We sent out a ship of our own to find out why the trading ships had vanished. It was destroyed, completely, because the Chorl ships it encountered had Servants aboard, women with the Sight who could control fire.”
Tristan’s eyes went wide, and he swore under his breath, his hand making a reverential motion across his chest that reminded me of the Skewed Throne gesture the people of Amenkor used when they saw me.
Brandan rolled his eyes. “No, they did not have any Servants on board.”
“That we know of,” Tristan added more seriously. I’d seen the same reaction at the mention of fire from almost every captain and sailor I’d met on the wharf.
Brandan shifted, his brow furrowed, eyes locked on the map.
I frowned.
“If they’d had Servants on board,” Eryn said, her voice hard, “they would have used them.”
“It must have been a scouting party,” Catrell said, diverting everyone’s attention back to the map. “They must be interested in Temall.”
“With
good reason.” Avrell leaned back from the map, his hand splayed on the table for support. “Bosun’s Bay and the surrounding area may have had enough resources to keep them through the winter, but not through that and the spring as well. It’s not that large of a port. Even if they began farming,” he pursed his lips at this thought, the idea obviously striking an unpleasant chord with everyone from Amenkor, “they’d still need more resources. Temall is the closest option.”
“What do you mean, ‘if they began farming,’ ” Brandan said sharply.
“The Chorl aren’t here to raid,” I said. “The islands where they come from were destroyed. They need land, a place to live. They’re here to conquer.”
“And it appears,” Westen said quietly, gazing down on the map, at the town of Temall, “that they’re heading north. To Amenkor.”
North. To Amenkor.
Westen’s words from the night before echoed in my head as I made my way to my chambers to wash after a morning dealing with the daily disputes brought before the Mistress as well as the dispatches Tristan had brought from Venitte, with another visit to Ottul, whose almost daily lessons in the common tongue of the Frigean coast—a task I’d assigned Marielle—were advancing, if at a slow pace, and with training sessions both with Westen and the Seekers as well as Eryn and the Servants. My muscles ached from all the practice, my body weary from the exertion.
And from lack of sleep.
I was still dreaming. Of Cerrin mostly, but occasionally of some of the others of the Seven who had created the Skewed Throne. Not every night, and most not as vivid as that first dream of Cerrin attacking the Chorl Servant outside Venitte in the olive groves and wheat fields. But all of them were emotionally draining. I’d woken numerous times with tears streaking my face, a hard knot of grief buried in the center of my chest. Other times I’d jerked out of sleep in rage, usually after dreaming of Liviann or Garus.
Except they weren’t dreams, I thought as I entered my rooms, pulling off my sweat-dampened shirt, followed by my breeches, using the motions to stretch the tightness out of the muscles in my shoulders and lower back, wincing slightly. I poured water from the waiting pitcher into the basin on the table against one wall, soaked a cloth, and began to wipe the grit and grime from my face and body.
The Vacant Throne Page 8
