“Yes.”
Daeriun glanced down at me, at the utter conviction in my voice. I didn’t look away from the fields, from Westen and the other Seekers’ progress.
“They’ve reached the wall.”
“How can you tell?” Daeriun asked.
“Because I can see them.”
Daeriun grunted.
I caught Brandan’s gaze in the darkness, saw him smile slightly and nod.
Ahead, the torch that lit the shuttered windows of the stable flickered and suddenly went out. For a brief moment, no more than a breath, a shadow appeared near one of the manse’s windows and then it was gone.
Daeriun’s breath stilled, held—
And then the light in the main manse died as well.
I heard Sarra mutter a mild curse, heard Thad whisper harshly to her, “And we let these men walk free in Venitte?”
I smiled. “Catrell?”
“It hasn’t been twenty minutes yet.”
I turned and he nodded, trying hard not to smile as well.
“I’ll send them in now,” he said.
I’d made my point to Daeriun, to Thad and Sarra as well. Let them report back to their respective Lords and Lady.
The guardsmen formed up around us, Catrell calling out orders as armor creaked, as swords were drawn, the rustle of over a hundred and fifty men getting ready for battle. Sinking deeper beneath the river, I felt their tension, their fear being channeled into heat, into sweat and readiness. Their breath caught on the air, someone coughing, another spitting to one side, but their faces were calm, almost anxious to begin.
Thad edged closer to Daeriun, eyeing the men with suspicion. Sarra cast him a sidelong look of disdain.
“Stay to the road,” Catrell said.
And then they were moving, not running, but jogging down the road in the moonlight, a black shadow slicing through the silver of the wheat, heading straight for the gates of the manse.
As the last of the men passed, Daeriun muttered grudgingly, “Impressive.”
I said nothing, focused on the estate below.
The force hit the gate and split, half surging forward toward the manse, the other half heading toward the storage building. A smaller force broke off and headed toward the stable.
The door to the manse was breached, men rushing inside. The stable door gave with no resistance, guardsmen charging into the room beyond.
On the rise, the entire raid happened in eerie silence.
Too much silence. I frowned.
“I don’t see any Chorl,” Thad said smugly.
I shot him a dark glare, but then men emerged from the manse. Catrell and Westen. I could tell by their stance.
“I think we can join them now,” I said, and started downslope without waiting for the others, staying close to the road, paved in the manner almost all roads in Venitte were paved, with wide flat stones. I felt General Daeriun follow, Tristan, Brandan, Sarra, and Thad not far behind, but I ignored them.
“What happened?” I said the instant I passed through the gates of the manse.
Westen and Catrell turned. The rest of the guardsmen were milling about in the open courtyard between the buildings.
“There’s no one here, no Chorl, no supplies, and barely any servants,” Catrell reported, his voice without inflection, although he was clearly troubled. “We’re searching the grounds now.”
“I told you this was a mistake,” Thad muttered.
I glanced toward Westen. “Did you find anything?”
“The storage building has been used recently. There are heavy gouges in the floor, obvious markings in the straw and dust that something had been stored there and moved within the last few days. Markings on the grounds indicate it was loaded into carts, but once the carts reached the road . . .”
He trailed off and I grimaced. There would be no markings on the road.
“What else?”
He frowned. “In the stables.” Motioning us forward, he pulled open the stable doors, the musk of horses, straw, and dung wafting outward. Thad wrinkled his nose in disgust, raised one hand to his mouth, but when the rest of us entered without hesitating, he followed suit. A horse snorted and shook its head as we passed, coming to the edge of its stall, watching us with large dark eyes, but Westen headed to the back of the stable.
To an open trapdoor in the floor.
I moved up to its edge, stared down into its dark depth. I could see stairs leading downward, felt a breeze brush against my face.
A dank breeze, heavy with salt and the taste of the sea.
My nostrils flared. “Where does it go?”
“The Seekers followed it to the caves beneath the cliffs, all the way down to the channel. There’s a dock down there, recently built, at least three boats tied there. And they found this.”
Westen held out his fist, opened it to reveal a thin black cord, or rather, three cords twined together. Tied to the cords at intervals were shells of various sizes and colors, most smooth and mottled, a few spiny and sharp.
The necklace sent a visceral shiver of hatred through me.
I drew back, caught Westen’s gaze, Catrell’s, both of whom looked grim.
Anyone who had survived the attack on Amenkor knew what these were. The Chorl had worn them, on their wrists, around their necks, braided in their hair. Like jewelry.
And the men who had tortured Erick had worn them.
Sarra, Thad, and Daeriun leaned forward.
“What is it?” Daeriun asked.
“A necklace,” Tristan said shortly. “Worn by the Chorl.”
Thad snorted. “And how do you know?”
Tristan met Thad’s gaze. “Because I saw the Chorl wearing them when they attacked my ship.”
“But there are no Chorl here,” Sarra said skeptically, turning toward me. “How do we know your Seekers didn’t plant this here?”
“You don’t,” I said flatly. “But we certainly didn’t build the dock in the cave below.”
Sarra grunted in agreement. She still radiated doubt, but there was a sheen of belief to that doubt as well.
“What about the servants?” Daeriun asked suddenly. He’d leaned back from the shell necklace, turned now to Westen and Catrell. “Has anyone questioned the servants?”
Westen nodded. “I did. They know nothing. In fact, all of them were sent to the estate yesterday morning. They said there was no one here when they arrived.”
“And you believe them?”
“Yes.”
Daeriun nodded his head.
“Then we have nothing,” Thad said shortly. “You’ve wasted our time and insulted Lord Demasque as well.”
Then he turned and stormed out. Sarra hesitated, frowned down at the wide trapdoor, large enough to allow two men to climb up at once, large enough to heave a crate through, or a barrel, but then she left as well.
Brandan and Tristan stepped forward and watched them go.
“This is not going to go over well in the Council,” Brandan said grimly.
“No, it’s not,” Tristan agreed.
I snorted. I could already feel the pit of my stomach churning with nausea. In rage, that somehow Lord Demasque had known we were coming, had moved the Chorl to another location. And in the thought that I’d have to face Lord March and the Council members with nothing to show for it except a braided necklace.
“But there is one thing.”
Everyone turned toward the low, rumbling voice, toward General Daeriun, who faced me.
“You’ve convinced me.”
“It will require all of us, working together, to do what you want, Liviann.”
The Council of Seven stood in the center of the obsidian chamber, clustered around two granite thrones. Liviann stood immediately before the two stone structures, a small smile touching her lips, a strange light in her eyes. Alleryn reached forward, tentatively, and touched the stone, her hand brushing down the rough granite. She frowned, trading a glance with her sister Atreus. A meaningful g
lance, although I couldn’t tell what it meant.
“Why are the seats so blocky, so rough?” she asked.
“I wasn’t trying for aesthetics,” I said. “And you’ve seen the stones the Servants have been using to focus their powers. The stones change shape. The effect is relatively minor in the stone they use, but if we do this, if we actually attempt to create these two thrones, I think the effect will be much more . . . severe.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t think they’ll remain this shape for long.”
Alleryn’s frown deepened.
Liviann turned toward me. “When can we start?”
“Wait,” Seth said. “We, as a council, haven’t even decided whether we want to do this, Liviann. From what Cerrin says, this . . . procedure sounds dangerous. It doesn’t even sound as if the thrones will be stable.”
“And do we really need them now?” Atreus added. “With the stones that Cerrin created, the Servants have been able to upset the balance. We’ve spread the Servants out through the armies, managed to drive the Chorl out of all of our supply lines, pushed them back to a few of the coastal cities. Their own Servants are falling on all sides, to the point where they rarely risk them in battle anymore.”
Liviann snorted. “But the Chorl aren’t gone, Atreus. They’ve been pushed to the edge of the coast, yes, and we have Garus to thank for that. And Cerrin, of course. But that hasn’t resolved the real problem—the Chorl themselves. They’re hanging on to the coast—”
“We’ll have them uprooted before winter sets in,” Garus interrupted, cutting Liviann short.
“But will they be gone?” Liviann snapped. “No! They’ll retreat. Back out into the ocean, back to wherever they came from. But they’ll know that we’re here, that we’re vulnerable. They’ll rebuild their forces, train new Servants, and they’ll be back.” She took a step toward Atreus, the youngest of the Council straightening, her chin up, nostrils flaring, not retreating beneath Liviann’s menacing step as the older Council member came a little too close. “That’s why we need the thrones. Because this threat won’t be ended when the Chorl retreat. It will remain. The Chorl will figure out a way to counter the effect of the stones and they’ll be back.”
Liviann withdrew slightly, ran her hand over the arm of one of the thrones, almost a caress. “This tipping of the balance in our favor is only temporary,” she said, her voice more calm. The smile had returned to her lips, but now it hardened. “We have to protect the Frigean coast at all costs.”
Seth looked as if he would continue to protest, his eyes black. He’d taken a step toward Alleryn and Atreus, created a subtle division between the members of the Council, Liviann, Garus, and Silicia on one side. I stood trapped in the middle.
Garus had seen the division as well. He watched Seth with a slight frown. They’d been partners for over forty years, had their arguments, their disagreements.
But never over something as incendiary as this. On the Council, they almost always agreed, as Atreus and Alleryn almost always agreed.
“We need the thrones,” Garus said, to the whole Council, but he kept his focus on Seth, and there was an admonition in his voice, almost a warning. “The Frigean coast needs the thrones.”
Seth stiffened. “We’ve survived without them. The Chorl will retreat. And they’ve managed to disrupt our supplies enough that the coming winter won’t be easy. We should conserve our energy for surviving that. The Chorl won’t be returning in force any time soon. We have time.”
Garus drew in a deep breath, ready to argue, the intention clear—
But Liviann intervened. “Enough. I call for a formal vote.”
Garus stilled, jaw clenching. “Very well. I think my choice is clear.”
“And mine,” Seth said.
Alleryn and Atreus shared another look. Atreus nodded, and Alleryn said, “The two of us oppose the creation of the thrones.”
Liviann frowned, turned to Silicia. “And you?”
“I don’t see where creating them now or later makes much of a difference. I vote to create them.”
“As do I,” Liviann said.
Everyone’s gaze fell on me. All except Garus.
“It appears that it’s up to you, Cerrin.”
I stared into Liviann’s eyes, saw the hunger there. She wanted the thrones, not to protect the coast, but because they would represent power. For the Council, of course, and she would die with the Council’s name on her lips. But she wanted the thrones for herself. She wanted to rule the Council.
I knew I should oppose her, knew I should never have built the thrones, never have brought them before the Council, before her. The stones I’d created for the Servants were nothing compared to the thrones. The stones were temporary, could be wielded in the battlefield until their power was drained and then discarded. The thrones . . .
But I was tired. Tired of the Chorl, tired of the Council, tired of living with the harsh, ever-present ache in my chest. An ache that could never be filled, could never be alleviated, could never be broken.
Except by death.
The creation of the thrones would require a sacrifice, would require a death. Without it, the effects—like the stones the Servants now used—would only be temporary. Even with all of the Council combined, the thrones would not last beyond a year without a death to solidify the Threads, to hold them. And Liviann wanted the thrones to survive beyond that, wanted them to survive all of the Council member’s deaths.
One sacrifice. One death.
I closed my eyes, felt the ache . . . there . . . beneath my breastbone. A pulsing ache, throbbing with every beat of my heart. An ache that felt warm with sunlight, that reeked of the flowers on the veranda above the sea, that grated with the sound of children’s laughter.
I’m so very tired, Olivia.
I sighed, the sound heavy and long, and opened my eyes, felt the faint sting of tears in the back of my throat.
Drawing a slow breath, I said, “I am the Builder.”
And what does Lord March say? Eryn asked, and even though she sat alone in the garden outside her own rooms, surrounded by sunlight, by large white-flowered vines and large-leafed shrubs, the sky above blue and cloudless, the air clear, she broke into hacking coughs.
Through the White Fire, I could feel the spasms as they shook her. Eryn’s stomach tensed as the pain seared through her abdomen and into her chest, into her legs. A liquid pain that seemed to burn her very bones. I could feel her weariness through the pain, could feel her stubborn refusal to give in to it.
When she finally quieted, the cloth she had held to her mouth was stained bright red with blood. Not dotted with tiny flecks, or even small spots.
The cloth was saturated.
Eryn tried to hide it, barely even glanced toward her hand before she closed the cloth into a tight fist.
But I hovered inside her, had released myself enough from the Fire that I felt her wince, felt her jaw clench in mute acceptance and denial, hiding the cloth even as she straightened her shoulders, swallowed the taste of blood, of sickness. I heard her breath through her own ears, heard the harshness of it, the throaty, fluid denseness of it.
Well? she said, her inner voice harsh, layered with warning. She reached for her tea, sun-steeped, tried to smother the copper taste on her tongue, in her throat, with its bitterness.
Lord March has said nothing. I haven’t spoken to him since we agreed to raid Lord Demasque’s estate. I’ve asked for an audience, but have heard nothing. Not from him, not from Lord Sorrenti, Tristan, nor Brandan.
Because it’s a political disaster, Eryn said, slamming her glass down and fighting back another coughing attack. Not only did you find nothing, but you entered one of the Council member’s estates with your own forces.
I had an escort, I said sharply. Members of the Council of Eight knew what we intended, what we expected to find.
And now they’re all scrambling to lay blame, and you’re their scapegoat. They’ll be trying to
convince the other Council members that it was you who convinced them that Lord Demasque had hidden Chorl on his estate, that you tricked them into joining the raid, that they never believed he would do such a thing. Half of them are probably telling him they sent a representative because they knew it couldn’t be true, that they were there to protect Lord Demasque’s interests, not their own.
Lord Demasque won’t believe them.
Eryn snorted. He won’t. But he’ll pretend that he does. And since you know the Chorl were there, since everyone on Tristan’s ship knows it, he’ll use their scramble to get into his good graces to discredit you even more.
But General Daeriun believes the Chorl were there. He must have some influence on the Council.
Not when it comes to the Council of Eight. Eryn frowned. But he does have influence over Lord March. And if everything you tell me is true, Lord March believes you as well.
It was meant to be soothing, because even though I was only present in her mind, in the White Fire at her core, Eryn knew I was nervous. I kept running through the raid over and over in my head, picturing the silvered wheat, the manse, seeing the empty storage building with the traces of straw and dust where crates had obviously rested days, perhaps hours, before the raid.
And the tunnel. The tunnel to the caves, to the small dock, the water lapping up against the stone, the boats bumping against each other where they were tied. They’d even rigged a hoist, to get the heavier crates and barrels through the steepest parts of the tunnel and into the stable.
How long has it been since you slept? Eryn asked, the question casual, cutting into my silence.
I almost didn’t answer. Then, grudgingly: I haven’t slept well since the raid.
Because of the raid? Because of Lord March?
That, and because of the dreams.
Dreams of the throne?
Yes. I hesitated. They’re stronger than before, deeper, more intense. It’s harder to withdraw from them afterward.
Because you’re close to the second throne. Because you’re under its influence there in Venitte. Sorrenti has already admitted that it’s still there, that it’s still in use.
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