The Orchid Throne

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Tainted water?” I mused. Seemed unlikely, for a purported paradise.

  “No,” Sondra breathed. “Not falls of water, but of flowers.”

  And she was right. Impossible as it seemed, huge swaths of the cliffs were draped with connecting vines blossoming in every color imaginable. The scent that had been swirling over us grew stronger, sweet and spicy, redolent of warm nights and the paradise of sensual ease.

  At the most verdant section, a palace rose from the cliffs and the waterfalls of flowers, an ornate concoction of towers, balconies, and staircases. It perched right on the edge, fanciful as the ice sculptures my mother used to commission for formal midwinter dinners in Oriel, back before.

  Just to the south of the palace, a great cove rounded inward protected by the point of the cliffs on one side, and a built-up fortification on the other. A city, also mainly of the white stone, with domes and spires of gold, also draped in flowers, ranged up and down the hills, cupping around an extensive harbor filled with boats of all shapes and sizes.

  And there, an imperial warship sat docked—with an empty space next to it. Obviously our intended resting spot. Hopefully not one as permanent as the grave.

  “It’s a trap,” I confirmed aloud, aware I also gripped the rail hard enough to crack it. Here is where it would end, with us all drowned or cut down. Figured. The likes of me should never be allowed to set feet on such a paradise.

  “I don’t think so,” General Kara said, surprising me. He’d been quiet so long that I’d nearly forgotten his presence on the other side of Sondra. “If you’d given the order to fire on them, we could’ve crushed those little boats at any time. None of those lads and maids appeared to be warriors, nor did any of them carry weapons that I saw.”

  “They could hide weapons below a false bottom,” I noted darkly. What in Sawehl had made me so soft that I hadn’t given the order? Take Calanthe. Take Euthalia and her Abiding Ring. Take Ambrose and his idealistic tales of seduction. A nearby young woman in a delicate sailboat with a billowing shell-pink sail waved with languid grace, smiling as she deftly kept her place in the water. Had I ever been that young, that innocent? Given the amount of pretty skin showing through the blossoms she wore, they’d have to be unusual weapons if she had them. “They played us,” I said, knowing myself for the worst of fools. “Who could fire on these … children?”

  “Anure,” Kara replied, a pall of remembered horrors reflected in his face, shades of terrors witnessed.

  “But he didn’t on Calanthe,” I reminded them. “He didn’t have to because they…” Welcomed him in. The thought struck me with renewed horror. Had it gone like this? Did I follow in the tyrant’s footsteps?

  “And not exactly children.” Sondra filled in the gap I left, not seeming to notice I hadn’t finished my sentence aloud. “These lads and maids are quite nubile. Perhaps the Calantheans gamble less that the Slave King won’t be another Anure, and more that his time of privation in the mines has left him hungry for the feasts of the flesh.” She gave me an arch look. “Men have been bribed with less enticing spectacles.”

  A growl crawled under my breath for her ill-timed humor, and I swallowed it only because her earlier fragility still showed in the pallor of her skin and the brackets around her tight lips.

  Why she so enjoyed poking me about this, I didn’t know. In all truth, that part of me had burned away along with everything else tender in the boy I’d been. Sexual dalliances belonged to the world of the living, and I had nothing left in me of that. I held no illusions about that much. My stolen kingdom was a realm of scar tissue, burnt ashes, and revenge.

  Which made Ambrose’s insistence that I somehow court and seduce this queen of nobility, the prize blossom among hothouse roses, all the more ridiculous.

  “They misfired there, because I’m not interested,” I managed to say, hoping to put that conversation to rest. No such luck.

  “Besides”—Ambrose studied me, all flippant behavior gone, his gaze penetrating—“your intended bride will no doubt prefer you don’t dally with anyone but her.”

  I glared at him, ignoring Sondra, who made a choking sound as she smothered a laugh. For my part, I quelled any reply to that one. Of all the wild quests Ambrose had taken us on, this one had to take the tournament grand prize.

  “Have I led you wrong yet?” Ambrose asked more quietly, even with a kind of compassion, though I didn’t know what for.

  “You promised an invisible ship,” I reminded the wizard. Then waved my hand at the empty slip at the dock that yawned ahead. “And led me into a likely trap.”

  Ambrose only grinned. “Apparently I need to practice invisibility spells that work on animals, too.”

  Wonderful. Just wonderful.

  * * *

  A crew of more maids barely garbed in diaphanous clothing—if you could call it that—and merry young men who looked like they’d never wielded a sword in their lives met us when we docked.

  They offered garlands of fresh blossoms as we disembarked, but I refused them. And I kept my leather cloak, though the weight of it hung heavy on my armored shoulders in the gentle heat. The welcoming committee answered no questions and made no demands, simply inviting us to come along to the palace.

  As if we’d been expected.

  “Does she have a wizard like you?” I asked Ambrose as we walked up a winding path, laid with white stones and bordered with flowering trees and shrubs, so densely covered the blooms hid the foliage. I tried not to sound like I wanted to kill him, though I furiously wished I’d asked him more questions like this before.

  “Are you asking if Queen Euthalia might have someone with the gift of prophecy in her court to predict our arrival?” Ambrose’s staff chimed as the metal end hit the stones every other step, Merle now riding his shoulder, busily pulling petals from the garland around the wizard’s neck. The sound blended with the pretty song our escort sang, either nonsense words or a language I’d never heard. Though, with my education cut sadly short, I didn’t recognize many. “Possible,” Ambrose declared, sounding pleased by the notion.

  I set my teeth. “You don’t know?”

  “You mean, I should be detecting them through my highly developed wizardry senses whereby we sense one another’s presence in the world?”

  “You can do that?” Sondra asked. The flower garland draped over her hair with lush glory, her pockmarked face almost smooth in the leaf-dappled shade.

  “No.” Ambrose laughed, then sobered at my expression. “I never said I could.”

  “Both of you—stay alert,” I told them, not at all sure how they could be acting like we were heading to a party and not our likely execution. “Don’t be charmed by flowers and song. These people are the enemy.”

  “These are not the enemy, Conrí,” Sondra said softly. “And fuck you for implying I’d relax my guard and wouldn’t have your back.”

  I had no reply to that, so I kept my silence. Kara had stayed back with the ship, a decision I now deeply regretted. Kara, at least, would have been equally suspicious of this pretty place with its pretty people. No one had asked us to relinquish our weapons. They’d only suggested we might be more comfortable without our armor, looking confused and disappointed when I threatened the girl who approached me with her flower wreath. But they didn’t act afraid, which only made me more uneasy.

  The only people who didn’t worry about weapons were those confident in their ability to neutralize anyone who came at them. At least Kara stood ready to retreat to the rest of our fleet and rally them to our rescue. Or to continue the cause without us, in the event of our demise.

  We climbed the last rise and came around the bend, the canopy of trees giving way to a sight I’d never had the capacity to imagine.

  “Bright Sawehl,” Sondra breathed, and I was only glad that she and Ambrose were so rapt by the sight of the palace up close that I could cover my own reaction.

  It looked like something out of the old tales, or a fanciful painting. Made from
the same white stone as the cliffs, it seemed carved from the rock—or grown like a plant—rather than built. With fluid, rounded lines, one level flowed into the next, archways opening into rooms huge enough to see sky beyond through yet more arches. Balconies spilled into each other, connected by spiraling staircases, all dripping with the waterfalls of blossoms.

  Birds in every shade of the rainbow flew in glistening clouds, shifting direction, then settling again in orchards and sending up choruses of song. Our dancing escort sang along, harmonizing with the birds.

  Feeling stunned, I walked on, unable to dredge up the least desire to turn back. As we approached the wide promenade that led up to the palace entrance, I noted the absence of other people. No guards, no walls or portcullis. No apparent doors, even. But also no courtiers lingering on the lovely lawns of tiny violet flowers, or enjoying the many pavilions and lounging chairs overlooking the crystal-clear sea. No merchants bringing in goods or gardeners working on the obviously carefully tended gardens.

  “They’re waiting for us,” Sondra murmured, confirming my take—and that she wasn’t completely enraptured. “They’re taking no chances.”

  Perversely, it made me feel better. This Flower Queen might have enjoyed a lavish and carefree existence by licking Anure’s hand and giving him her belly while others fought and died, but she wasn’t without caution. Perhaps she, at least, had the wisdom to fear the threat we posed. It helped shore up my belief that we still posed one.

  The vaulted entrance hall was equally quiet, leading through various empty salons, all with enormous open arches so that the sea and gardens seemed to come inside.

  “I wonder what they do when it rains,” Sondra muttered.

  “Silly. It doesn’t dare rain in paradise,” I returned, and she flashed me a grin, some relief in it.

  At last we reached a pair of great doors, made of carved wood, that were actually closed. That, too, felt more normal. The Calantheans wouldn’t be human if they didn’t want to close others out once in a while.

  Our escort evaporated and we stood there a moment before the great doors. I tried not to feel like more of an idiot than I already did.

  “Do we knock?” Sondra whispered.

  My rock hammer would take care of these doors. Kara and Sondra had talked me into leaving it and my bagiroca on the ship and had me carrying a sword instead, calling it more kingly—and less a declaration of brute force. I preferred the heavy hammer, though. I’d grown used to wielding it in the mines. The grip fit my hand, and the wicked pick on the reverse spiked what could not be shattered. Swords had to be treated with more care. A stout kick, however, would bring those doors down. And be most satisfying.

  Ambrose stopped me. “I can do this.” He tapped his staff against the doors, face alight with curious interest. It made no sound, but the doors swung open, smoothly and without the hitch of normal hinges. I had no time to examine the things because a grand throne room greeted us, along with a sea of faces to either side of a long aisle.

  It took a moment to assimilate it—the elaborate costumes, the heavy scent of tropical blossoms and sweet wine. The hush of courtiers, underlaid with a whisper here and there. The taut stretch of power humming in the air. It struck me forcibly. Memories of my father’s court at Oriel washed through me, how it had felt just the same—full of the potency of a living realm.

  It made me want to weep for all we’d lost. It made me want to rage and tear the place stone from stone.

  At the end of the aisle, a set of broad white steps led up to an altar of a throne. Six ladies sat on chairs at varying levels leading up, each in a gown of a different shade, all glittering with jewels or streaming with flowers. At the apex, the Queen of Flowers reigned over them all.

  A lovely traitor. Concubine to the tyrant.

  I strode forward, neither hurrying nor dawdling, staring her down as the equal I should’ve been. No—her superior, as I never would’ve so merrily bent a knee to the false emperor. Sondra and Ambrose followed behind, a half step after, guarding my back and flanks. But the queen didn’t glance at them. She returned my stare with a hard and crystalline gaze.

  She could have been a wax sculpture of a woman, but for the living gleam of her pale eyes. Her gown of rich material spilled like fresh blood over elaborate underskirts that must’ve been held out with bone, wood, or wire, the way they stood in artistic forms. A high collar of worked silver rose to frame her face, with hair of the same scarlet serving as cushion to a crown that rivaled the stars for its glitter.

  Amid all that, her face should have looked tiny. In fact, she might be petite under all that scaffolding. But she was far from small, her personal intensity overriding her elaborate costume. She’d coated her face with some kind of pure-white makeup that contributed to the image of her as carved from marble. Crystals glittered on extravagantly long lashes—surely fake—that weighed her lids so she should have looked sleepy. But those eyes … I walked right up to the bottom of the steps and, studying them, found them to be gray, with a faint shading of blue, the color of rain on a misty morning in Oriel. And those eyes were about as sleepy as a stalking mountain cat.

  Her mouth, painted into a perfect bow of glossy crimson, lifted on one side, a jewel at the corner of her lips rising with it. Something amused her. Me, no doubt. One slim hand rested—no, braced—on the great arm of her throne, and she leaned forward ever so slightly, poised to pounce. On her left hand, an immense orchid glowed as if lit from within. The Abiding Ring.

  I said nothing. Did not bow or otherwise defer. Neither did she. Stalemate.

  The temporary détente gave me the opportunity to revise my opinion of her. This was no idle royal chit, frittering away her days in pleasurable luxury. Anure was a fool to think he’d collared her and brought her to heel.

  For the first time, a glimmer of hope lightened the crushing despair I’d carried. Ambrose might be right about her. Magic sang through her, thick and heavy as honey, so strong even I could sense it, and the steel of determination shone in her like a honed blade hidden in a sheath of embroidered silk.

  In respect for that, I inclined my chin, a bare deference to her territory. “Queen Euthalia,” I said. “I am the Slave King. I’ve come to meet with you.”

  The other side of her mouth turned up. Not a smile, however.

  “I’m so sorry to disabuse you of such a charming notion, King of Slaves,” she said in a cultured voice, fluid and like the brush of a cool breeze on hot day. “But this shall be your only audience with Me, as you, and your companions, are now My prisoners.”

  I was going to kill Ambrose.

  15

  The man called the Slave King fumed like a lidded pot left too long over the flame. I half expected steam to leak from his ears, perhaps for his head to pop off entirely, spouting blood and flame to burn Calanthe to bare rock. I refused to show fear, though the first sight of him had nearly dropped my stomach through the floor.

  I hadn’t thought he’d be so large. He wore armor, of a kind I’d never seen, and a badly made, roughly stitched cloak of leather. Made from the skins of his enemies, so the rumors had said. His black hair hung loose around his face and fell down his back in ropes. It wasn’t only the armor that made him look big, however. His square-jawed face spoke of strong bones, eyes a startling shade of fulminous gold intense beneath heavy dark brows. Though pitted and scarred, he wasn’t entirely ugly. Not handsome or elegant, however. Even cleaned up this man would never be mistaken for anything less than a dangerous, violent brute.

  Inside the corset, cold sweat ran down my spine.

  He was indeed the one from my nightmares, the wolf in a man’s skin. The one forever haunting me, holding out that hand, demanding and beseeching while the manacled wolf howled with a broken boy’s voice. I’d known it, so I shouldn’t be at all surprised. The orchid ring billowed on my finger, breathing of fate and disaster. And the presence of magic foreign to Calanthe—coming from the younger man with the Slave King. Slight, giving the
appearance of youth, he leaned on a staff that oozed power. He stared at the ring, his gaze fascinated and green as Calanthe’s deepest forests. A wizard? Perhaps I’d been sent a gift along with this disaster.

  Interestingly enough, the Slave King’s other companion was a woman, a warrior in armor. Somehow the rumors had left out that the rebels included fighting women, much less this one who must be his lieutenant. Unless she was his lover. Possibly both.

  She might’ve been a great beauty once—with periwinkle-blue eyes and hair the color of morning light, straight and fine as silk, that many court ladies would envy—but her complexion, like his, bore pits and scars. They both looked as if they’d been roasted over a slow flame. She returned my study, noting my makeup and clothing with something like contempt.

  None of them had replied to my pronouncement, though I thought the Slave King, at least, understood my words. No matter. They couldn’t argue with me, regardless. The plan had worked perfectly, to my great relief, with no blood shed. Not yet.

  I waved to the guards. “Relieve them of their weapons and take them to their cells.”

  “Why?” the Slave King demanded, his voice startling in his hoarseness, all the more so in his anger, now that he’d given up all pretense of being polite. Though I hadn’t missed that he’d addressed me as one monarch to another, with no honorific.

  I raised my brows in inquiry, not playing into his hostile demand for answers.

  “We came here in peace,” he said. “Is this the hospitality you offer all those who seek to meet with you?”

  Tertulyn laughed, bitterness beneath it, and the sound echoed through court, though with more gaiety. Everyone had turned out to see this spectacle, eager to lay eyes on the Slave King and his retinue for themselves. This gossip would feed the parties for days, if not years.