The Vacant Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  “I want to go home.”

  Epilogue

  EMASQUE AND PARMATI “survived” the Chorl’s assassinations, I said.

  Through the Fire, I felt Eryn’s contempt. What did they say? Where were they during the battles in the city and harbor?

  I snorted. They claim that after the attempt was made on their lives, they were forced to retreat to safety, that they never had a chance to help defend the city after that. There was too much chaos, too much confusion.

  And yet Lady Tormaul managed to join Lord March in the north. And Lord Dussain ordered his forces to engage the Chorl as well, even though he was wounded and could not join them himself.

  I didn’t answer. There was no need.

  But my silence was noted. Eryn’s attention shifted more closely toward me.

  What have you done?

  I pulled back from the Fire, drew myself in so tightly that nothing was exposed.

  Eryn sensed the change.

  What have you done, Varis?

  I stiffened, frowned. What I’ve always done. What needed to be done.

  Eryn sucked in a sharp breath, her body tensed with a reprimand, with a warning—

  But the breath set off a coughing fit instead. Spasms racked her body, her entire chest aching, a sharper pain lancing up from her gut into her lungs, a piercing agony, as if someone were slicing her open from the inside. I reached out through the Fire, absorbed some of that pain into myself, tried to calm the spasms that set off the coughing. I tasted blood in my mouth as I became entwined with Eryn, as I merged with her, the blood thick, rolling over my tongue. I spit the taste of it—cold iron and bitter salt—into cloth, spit again, and again.

  Until finally the fit subsided.

  I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, my arms weak, my breath ragged, but short. I winced as I shifted, the pain in my chest lessening. Tears streamed from my eyes—tears of exertion, of resignation.

  I lifted the rag clutched in my hand, opened it.

  Blood. More blood than it seemed possible to cough up; not a mere speckling. And dark blood. Heart blood.

  Eryn’s blood.

  I withdrew from Eryn’s body, sank back into the Fire, and as Eryn took back control she let the hand with the bloodstained cloth fall to the arm of the chair.

  Thank you, she said. For trying.

  I didn’t respond, didn’t know how to respond. Because the fire in her stomach had not subsided, because the pain—that dagger slicing her open from the inside out—hadn’t diminished even after the coughing faded.

  We sat in silence, Eryn staring across her own chambers, across a room that felt empty even though a Servant waited to take care of any possible need. I should have left her, should have preserved some of the strength I was no doubt draining from Marielle, from Heddan.

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave Eryn alone. Not after what she’d done for Amenkor, what she’d done for me.

  And eventually, she stirred, drew herself up straighter in her chair, became aware that I was still hovering within the Fire inside her.

  When will you return to Amenkor?

  Bullick finished the repairs to the Defiant after the battle in the harbor yesterday. He’s loaded the ships with cargo—William’s cargo—and we intend to head out today. Assuming there will be no interference from the Chorl on the trip north, we should reach Amenkor in roughly three weeks.

  Eryn was silent for a long time.

  Then: I’ll inform Nathem and Darryn.

  I frowned at the gentle dismissal, thought about remaining. . . .

  But there was nothing I could do.

  So I drew myself out of the Fire, pulled myself free, and found the glint of white burning to the south. With a last glance over Amenkor, over the city I hadn’t seen in over four months, that I wouldn’t see again for another three weeks, I sped toward that glint of light.

  I gasped as I entered my own body, felt Marielle and Heddan withdraw their conduits, felt Erick’s presence behind me, the scent of oranges strong, felt Westen’s presence as well, and opened my eyes—

  To find Sorrenti seated in the chair opposite me, waiting.

  I straightened in my seat, but did not nod in acknowledgment.

  “Lord Sorrenti. You look . . . well.”

  He smiled tightly. “It’s been a week since the attack, since the retreat. I’ve had some time to recuperate. The use of the throne was . . . draining.”

  I felt the ground shuddering beneath my feet again, felt the tremors in my legs, recalled the crack the stone had made as the earth split. “I can only imagine.”

  “The current story in the marketplace and on the wharf is that you caused the earth to shudder,” he said.

  “We both know that’s not what happened.”

  “Yes, but I’d like to let the lie continue. No one saw the Stone Throne except for you and your men. No one heard us discuss the throne except your men and the few Venittian guardsmen and Protectorate who accompanied us to the Gutter’s gate. The Stone Throne has been kept hidden for hundreds of years. I’d like it to remain hidden. I can keep the Venittian guardsmen silent. I assume you can do the same with your own men.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let the rumors continue.”

  “Very well.”

  Sorrenti nodded, then stood. I rose as well.

  “I wanted to thank you before you left. On behalf of Venitte, of course, but also on behalf of the Seven. If the throne had fallen into the Chorl’s hands . . .”

  “And is that a direct thank you?” I said, smiling tightly.

  He grinned. “Yes. All of the previous Masters of the Stone Throne thank you, but, in particular, Cerrin does. He can still sense you, especially now that you’ve been close, within the Council of Seven’s inner chamber itself.”

  But Sorrenti halted, his smile fading. He caught my gaze, held it, his expression intent, mouth pressed into a thin line that was not quite a frown.

  “Have you heard?” he asked.

  I tensed, felt Westen and Erick shift stances behind me.

  “Heard what?”

  “Lord Demasque and Lady Parmati,” he said. “They were found dead, in their own bedrooms, on their own estates, their throats slit.”

  I didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. My eyes never left his.

  When it became apparent I wasn’t going to answer, Sorrenti frowned. He looked toward Erick and Westen, lingering on the captain of the Seekers a long moment, then returned his attention to me.

  “Lord March is waiting at the wharf for your departure, for a more formal thank you, and a more formal send-off. Along with General Daeriun and the two other surviving Council members— Lady Tormaul and Lord Dussain.” He nodded his head. “Have a safe journey, Mistress.”

  As soon as he left, Erick and Westen stepped forward, Marielle and Heddan rising as well.

  “It’s time to go,” I said. “I’m tired of Venitte.”

  The breeze from the channel cooled the sweat on my brow as I stood on the veranda. Sunlight glinted off the waves of the harbor far below, ships gliding back and forth in relative silence. A few bells clanged, an occasional shout could be heard; but otherwise it was quiet but for the wind.

  And a sudden shriek from Jaer behind me.

  I turned, leaned back against the stone balustrade of the veranda as five-year-old Jaer came tearing out onto the wide patio, dodging around the chairs and table already set with a decanter of wine, a pitcher of water, glasses, and a tray of bread and fruit. Pallin—two years Jaer’s elder—raced after her sister, her face screwed up in wrath.

  Jaer flew behind one of the potted trees that shaded the veranda, the urn used as its base as large as she was. Pallin swore. “You little . . . When I catch you!” She darted left, and Jaer shrieked again, skipping around the urn, just out of reach. Pallin growled in frustration, faked a move right, but backtracked as Jaer fell for it and snagged her by the arm.

  “Pallin!” Olivia barked, coming out
onto the veranda carrying another tray of food—a haunch of mutton, already sliced. “Leave your sister alone.”

  “But, Mother, she singed off a chunk of my hair!”

  I almost snorted in laughter, but managed to keep quiet.

  “I don’t care. We’ll get one of the servants to trim it back later. For now, let your sister go.”

  Pallin considered, until Olivia gave her the look, lips set into a thin line, eyes slightly widened. In disgust, she pushed her sister away from her, Jaer collapsing to the ground a little too melodramatically. Pallin ignored her, stalking around to the far side of the table, as far from everyone as possible, so she could stare out across the channel and sulk.

  Olivia set the tray of meat on the table, then wandered toward me. Her black hair glistened in the sunlight, and I reached up to caress the olive skin of her cheek. She smiled.

  “Do you have to go in to see the Council?”

  “You know I do,” I said, reflexively. A sudden sickening sensation coursed through my stomach, a thread of dread, of warning.

  I frowned, my hand halting. Taking Olivia into my arms, I kissed the top of her head, breathed in the scent of her hair.

  She looked up into my eyes, pressing in close. “You should eat before you go. Stay with Jaer and Pallin for a while.”

  “I can’t. The Council has important decisions to make.”

  “More important than me, than your children?” She said it lightly, mocking me.

  “Hmm . . . you ask dangerous questions. More dangerous than the Council.”

  She laughed, but that sensation of dread, that acidic burn in the center of my gut, flared higher, and I frowned. I turned, looked out over the harbor, out into the channels, listening intently, expectantly.

  Olivia’s brow creased, her smile faltering. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. It feels like something’s supposed to happen. I keep expecting to hear—”

  Explosions. The muffled sound of explosions against the cliffs. I expected to see fire arching up into the sky, shattering against the tiled roofs of the estates that lined the channels. I expected to smell smoke, taste ash, breathe in the reek of burning flesh.

  Because this is what happened when the Chorl attacked. This was the day—that last day—that I’d spent with Olivia, with Jaer and Pallin, before the Chorl destroyed the peace of the coast.

  Olivia felt my body tense beneath her hands. I knew because the smile faded completely, and she turned to face the channels, to face the harbor, one hand shifting to the center of my chest, resting there in concern.

  We stood there in silence, Jaer and Pallin behind us, both at the table now, picking at the food, the fight over the singed hair forgotten. The wind rustled in the long, thin leaves of the potted plants. Somewhere, a seagull shrieked.

  But nothing happened. There were no explosions, no fires, no deaths. Business continued as usual in the harbor below.

  “Cerrin, what is it?” Olivia asked again, and I hated the concern that laced her voice, hated the fear.

  Where are the Chorl? Where are the Servants, the priests, the warriors?

  I glanced down, Olivia turning her head to see me, so I could see her face, her eyes, could smell the slight citrus scent of her perfume.

  And then I realized, then I remembered.

  This was the throne. This was the haven I’d created for myself. Not the haven I’d expected, and not built at the cost I’d expected, but a haven nonetheless. A retreat from the pain of this loss, this grief.

  I relaxed, tension draining from me like water, sliding free. I reached up and brushed Olivia’s hair away from where the breeze had pushed tendrils in front of her eyes, then cupped the back of her head.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, and then I leaned forward and kissed the worry from her mouth, the wrinkles from her brow.

  “So will you eat?” she asked as I let her go.

  I laughed. “Yes, I’ll eat. I’ll stay here—with you, with Pallin and Jaer—all afternoon.”

  “But what of the Council? What of the Seven?”

  I slid my hand into hers and pulled her to the table. “The Council can wait.”

  “Amenkor, dead ahead!”

  Everyone on board the Defiant crowded to the edge of the deck at the cry, necks craning to be the first to see the escarpment and wall of the city, or the tower of the palace. When the vague shape of the land gave way to the jutting arms that enclosed the harbor, a cheer broke out, the voices of guardsmen and crew mingling. Someone started a jig, another brought forth a fiddle and began playing madly.

  When the watchtowers came into view, I smiled, felt something tighten in my chest, sting my eyes.

  Someone laid their hand on my shoulder, their arm across my back.

  Erick.

  We watched as the walls drew closer, and then he frowned. “Those are new watchtowers.”

  I laughed. “Yes, they are. A lot in Amenkor will seem different.”

  He grunted.

  William came up on my other side and Erick’s hand dropped from my shoulder. He gave me a meaningful look, then wandered away as William leaned on the railing.

  “Mistress.”

  “Master William.”

  We caught each other’s eyes, and I grinned and butted him with my shoulder.

  And then we passed through the narrow inlet between the watchtowers. A tingling sensation coursed through me, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

  Varis.

  William straightened at my side, frowned. “What is it?”

  I shuddered, shook myself. “I don’t know. For a moment, I thought ...”

  “Thought what?”

  I looked William in the eye, saw the concern there, the frown that barely touched his mouth. “I thought I heard a voice. Eryn’s voice.”

  William’s frown deepened, but ahead, a clanging of bells began to ring out, spreading from the watchtowers up through the city. As the Defiant slid into the dock, the escorting captured Chorl ships waiting out in the bay, the noise grew. People lined the wharf, waving and yelling in welcome. I watched as a covey of guardsmen pushed through the crowd and onto the dock, led by Darryn and Nathem.

  I frowned, my stomach clenching.

  William gasped, and I turned.

  “Look!” he said, and pointed toward one of the other docks.

  A ship was berthed there, but it was unlike any ship I’d seen. Larger, its hull rising at least another man’s height over Bullick’s ship, and wider as well. And it carried more sails.

  On the far side sat another, and in the docks beyond, even more. Only the two closest to the Defiant appeared finished, though. The rest were still being built.

  “They’re Borund’s ships,” I said, and smiled tightly. Because that sickening clench in my stomach had not receded. I tasted bile at the back of my throat, swallowed the bitterness, then steadied myself and turned back to the dock.

  Captain Darryn and the Second, Nathem, were waiting, their escort of guardsmen behind them.

  I pushed back from the railing, felt William hesitate, then follow.

  We met Avrell, Erick, Marielle, and Westen at the head of the plank.

  Avrell looked grim.

  I paused, almost reached out to touch him, but turned as the plank slapped down onto the dock, crewmen tying the ship down in a frenzy of activity. The crowd continued to roar, but the sound had dulled, had faded into the background. I’d latched onto Darryn’s face, saw the control there, the tightness.

  Bullick descended the plank, greeted Darryn, Nathem, listened a single moment, then shot a look back up toward me before stepping aside.

  I descended the plank slowly, the sounds of the crowd receding even further, all activity on the wharf withdrawing, a numbness filling me, tingling in my arms, in my fingers, in my legs. A familiar numbness. A familiar pain.

  As soon as I stepped from the plank onto the dock, I asked, “Where’s Eryn?”

  Darryn’s jaw clenched, and I saw the answer in hi
s eyes.

  He didn’t say a word.

  “Take me to her.”

  He nodded, motioned toward the waiting carriages.

  Nathem had laid her body out in the throne room, before the throne, surrounded by candlelight. A white shroud covered her, draped down the edges of the table, the shroud itself stitched in gold with the Skewed Throne symbol. Beneath the cloth, her hands had been placed one over the other on her chest. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale and smooth. Her black hair pooled around her head like spilled ink.

  “We found her here,” Nathem said, his aged voice cracking with emotion. “At the base of the throne.”

  I stared down at her face, at the wrinkles that even death could not smooth, at the paleness of the skin, the lines of her throat, the chain of gold that someone had placed around it, at the gold-embroidered fringe of the white dress just visible at the edges of the shroud itself. I felt Nathem shift uncomfortably to my right, sensed Avrell to my left. No one else had accompanied us into the chamber except Erick and Westen, and they remained at the entrance, withdrawn, respectful.

  I wanted to reach out and touch her, but couldn’t. I didn’t want to feel the coldness of her skin beneath my fingers, didn’t want to feel the death there.

  Instead, I lifted my gaze to the throne, felt the heat of the candles against my face, smelled the bitterness of their smoke.

  And then I stilled.

  Because the throne was no longer cracked.

  Even as I watched, it began to twist, the rough granite seat morphing into a chair with a short, straight back, no arms.

  Garus’ seat, from the Council of Seven.

  I gasped, looked down at Eryn’s face again.

  “What did you do?” I whispered.

  The throne shifted again, settled into a large round ottoman. Silicia’s ottoman.

  I stepped away from Eryn’s body, circled the shrouded table, and mounted the three stone steps of the dais to stand before the throne.

  I reached out to touch it, but hesitated.

  Because I could feel it now, a presence, hovering in the room. Not as weighted as before, not as smothering, but it was there.

  And yet, I couldn’t feel it. Not as I had before.

  Because it wasn’t part of me. Because I wasn’t part of it. Because this throne was vacant. No one controlled it. No one had claimed it. Yet.