The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  I had a fleeting moment to think, Trap!, a fleeting moment to feel terror cascading down through my muscles like ice—

  And then the Mistress wrenched the arm holding the dagger out and away, snapped it around with enough force to pull me off-balance. I lurched forward into her back with a gasp, lost my hold on my dagger. It clattered to the floor, down the three tiers of steps to the walkway.

  Terror slid into panic. I froze.

  The Mistress reached around her own shoulder with her free hand and grabbed my shoulder. The shuddering thud of the battering ram echoed through the room. Wood splintered, groaned. Metal shrieked. The Mistress jerked me around in front of her, my arm twisting. She shifted her grip on my wrist, pulled it up sharply behind my back, and drew me in close, our foreheads touching. Her sweat dripped onto my cheek, her wavy black hair tickling my neck. She smelled of wine and cheese.

  “Not quite yet, little hunter,” she gasped in the throaty voice. “Not unless we have to. There’s another way now that we’ve gotten rid of your dagger.”

  And I looked into her eyes, body still in shock, muscles still frozen in panic.

  She hadn’t lost control. The real Mistress still held the insanity at bay.

  A sharp grinding pop filled the hall and the Mistress pulled back as something heavy and metallic hit the floor. The noise from outside in the corridor grew suddenly louder: shouts of triumph, a bark of command.

  I recognized the voice. It was Baill’s.

  “Not much time at all,” the Mistress murmured to herself, then turned back to me. With a thin smile she flung me down the tiered steps to the walkway, in the direction of the throne, away from my dagger.

  I landed hard, unable to control the fall. But as I hit the flagstone, the panic that had seized my muscles released, replaced with anger.

  She’d tricked me. And now I had no weapon.

  I snarled, twisted out of the sprawl into a crouch, and caught the Mistress descending the tiered steps slowly, almost languidly. Behind her, my dagger lay on the floor, and farther down the hall a glittering hinge from the large doors. The base of one of the doors was skewed into the hall, wood splintered.

  The door shuddered again, bucking inward. The men outside bellowed.

  I focused on the Mistress. Her face had turned solemn, grim. “It’s time, Varis.”

  My gaze flicked to my dagger, so far out of reach, then back to her face. Desperation clawed at my arms, at my chest. My breath came ragged and torn through my nose, my jaw clenched, anger a hot lump in my throat.

  The Mistress halted between me and the door. The Skewed Throne stood behind me.

  “It’s time,” she said again, with a hint of sorrow, and then she raised her hand.

  I reacted without thought, not certain what she intended, what she could do, only knowing that without the dagger I had only one defense: the river.

  I dove beneath its surface, pulled the Fire around me as closely as possible as I felt the currents envelop me, smother me, the world graying, drowning. I dove deeper, and deeper still, using the force of my anger, my fear, noting the details in the stone, in the door, in the floor, in the light, as they shifted and clarified. The sounds of the battering ram, of the men in the hall outside the two doors, of the guttering flames in the sconces and on the candelabra, collapsed into the vibrant background wind I’d known since I’d almost drowned in Cobbler’s Fountain.

  For a moment, the river held me as it had always held me, warm and comforting, like my mother’s embrace.

  But then the other pressure—the throne—pounced down upon me, a surging, growling ocean of sound and sensation. I screamed, the sound reverberating around the room, and drew the White Fire up as a shield against the onslaught. But the pressure, so vast, so dark, so like the ocean, smothered me, crushed me flat against the flagstone of the hall. Granite cut into my back, each minute crack in the time-worn flagstone like a chasm, each grain of dirt and grit like a boulder. I screamed again as the pressure built, but the scream faltered as the breath was pressed from my chest.

  And then I realized that the Fire still held, that it formed a thin shield between me and the howling pressure of this other presence on the river. Trying to draw breath, strange spots already forming on my vision, I pushed the shield of Fire upward with all my strength, pushed it away a hair’s breadth, another, then an inch. I gasped through clenched teeth, desperately sucked in air, and pushed harder, straining at the forces, at the eddies and currents that wove around me in a mad frenzy. I shoved the Fire upward until I could finally draw myself up and settle back onto my heels.

  Breathing hard, I glanced up at the Mistress, my anger unleashed, coiling and spitting inside me. I intended to kill her now, no hesitations, no doubts.

  She’d halted a few steps in front of me. Behind her, the door shuddered again, but the noise was relegated to the background, so muffled by the raging voices I held outside the Fire it almost couldn’t be heard.

  The Mistress frowned, her hands at her sides.

  I didn’t give her a chance to think, to respond. As I’d done with the bearded man on the street, I pulled as much of the river as I could as tightly to my chest as possible, compacted it down, and punched it toward the Mistress’ chest, my eyes dark with intent.

  She raised one hand casually, palm flat, facing toward me.

  The hard ball I’d thrown at her hit an unseen wall a foot from her hand and stopped. A backlash of force surged toward me, hit me hard in the chest. I gasped, in surprise and in pain, landed hard on my ass, coming up sharp against the first step in the dais to the throne.

  A cold wave of real fear coursed through me, cutting through the anger like a scythe.

  The Mistress knew of the river, could use it as I could.

  I licked at something warm at the edge of my mouth, tasted blood. Ignoring it, I narrowed my gaze, concentrated through the pain in my chest and the taste of blood, and focused on the area in front of the Mistress’ hand.

  Faintly, I could see lines of force, almost nonexistent, woven so elegantly and so tightly they seemed to merge with the raw energies of the river around her. The energies formed a solid wall.

  The gathered ball of energy I’d flung at her seemed suddenly childish and frayed.

  “What is that?” the Mistress asked quietly, advancing forward. Her tone was hard, demanding. “What is that around you? It tastes familiar. . . .”

  I scuttled up the steps of the tier, to the base of the last step, but the Mistress continued her advance, the subtle wall protecting her moving with her. I could feel the Skewed Throne at my back. It was a vortex of energies, white and blazing, the focus of the prowling pressure that had tried to overwhelm me and still beat at the shield of White Fire that protected me.

  The Mistress halted, the wall of force she held before her inches in front of me. I couldn’t back up any more. The throne blocked my way.

  The Mistress’ frown grew deeper and then she locked eyes with me. “What is it?” she demanded again, voice as hard as stone.

  I didn’t answer. My eyes were hooded, the anger back. My gaze flicked toward my dagger, so clear beneath the river, too distant to retrieve, then returned to hers.

  Neither one of us moved for a long moment, our breath the only real sound. Somewhere in the background, another grinding pop reverberated through the room, followed by a much heavier clatter. Ripples of force shuddered through the flagstone up the hall to the dais and the throne as one of the main doors pulled free of its last hinge and struck the floor. Men shouted, surged into the room. I could taste the steel of their blades, the tincture of their armor. I breathed in their sweat and fear and confusion as they halted, taking in the Mistress and me on the dais. I felt the air shift as they moved aside, letting Baill and Avrell move to the front of the room. But it was all muted, flattened somehow.

  The only thing that mattered was
the Mistress. Her eyes, her will, her intent.

  She watched me silently.

  Then her mouth tightened. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  And she reached forward, her flat palm changing into a clawed grip. The wall she’d used to protect herself released and she grasped the front of my shirt, lifted me up, and thrust me back onto the throne.

  For a moment, the room held, the Mistress taking one step back. No one else moved. The throne beneath me twisted and shifted, the sensation sending a feverish heat through my skin, making it crawl and shudder, prickle with sweat. The river held unchanged as well, the energies roiling.

  Then the river exploded.

  The Fire flared, rising to consume everything in sight as the swirl of gray energy that had once been the river blackened, charred, became a frenzy of pure motion that refused to resolve into images, into sight. The throne room fell away, and the voices that had plagued me since I’d entered the palace surged forward. As I cowered behind the Fire, I realized that was exactly what they were: voices. A thousand voices, more, all screaming to be heard, all hammering at the shield of Fire, demanding my attention, howling for it. It created a maelstrom of vicious wind, a hurricane force that threatened to overwhelm the Fire, to overwhelm me. And I knew with sudden certainty that it would have crushed me if not for the Fire.

  I strained against its force, held the Fire rigid and impenetrable, and after a while realized the Fire would hold.

  I relaxed, eased back within the confines of the shield. It still took effort, but not as much as I’d thought. I couldn’t hold it forever, but for now. . . .

  I drew a deep breath, let it out in a slow sigh.

  Varis.

  In the white of the shield, the voice was barely a whisper, a rasp of dead leaves blown against cobbles.

  Varis.

  I shifted toward the voice. The throne raged around me, the voices angry. Some spat curses, others howled, others whined. A group joined forces and surged against the Fire and I was forced to fight them back, tasting sweat against my lips, tasting blood. They retreated.

  Varis.

  I found the voice. A woman’s voice, deep and throaty. A voice I recognized. It was the woman who had sung earlier. Not the child, nor the old woman. And not an amalgamation of many voices. A distinct voice, soft and calm, but tinged with fear.

  Varis, there isn’t much time.

  I’m here, I thought, pausing at the edge of the Fire. The woman’s voice came from the far side, among the whorl of the other voices.

  A sigh, a hint of wine and cheese, of desperation. You have to take control. I can’t hold it any longer.

  I shuddered. Control of what?

  The Skewed Throne.

  I don’t understand. The Fire wavered. I flung it back up, tasted more sweat at the effort, salty and sick.

  The throne. That’s what this is, Varis. All of these voices, all of these people. They are the men and women who created the throne, the women who have sat upon it since that creation. All of them—all of their thoughts, their hopes, their dreams. They are the throne. But they need someone to control them, someone to order them, keep them in check.

  You control them.

  A snort, a sigh. That scent of wine and cheese again. I did control them. But not anymore. Something happened. Something happened to the throne when the Fire passed through it. But it was too subtle a change. I didn’t notice it, not until later, when it was much too late. By then, there was nothing I could do. And the other voices—oh, gods. . . .

  Dread bled through the Fire, pooling like oil, thick and viscous. I heard sobbing.

  You have to take control, Varis. I can’t hold them together any longer. There are too many. Far, far too many! I barely managed to keep control in the throne room tonight.

  I was already shaking my head. No.

  You have to. And now the voice was harsh again, cold. The voice of a woman used to being obeyed. You have to take my place, become the Mistress, or Amenkor will fall. I’ll destroy it, without knowing what it is I’m doing. I’ll destroy it, Varis, without meaning to. It’s already started. You have to stop it.

  No.

  Silence. Then you’ll have to kill me.

  I winced, felt sweat prick the corners of my eyes. I blinked back tears. And if I kill you, what happens to the city?

  A pause. Something beyond the Fire shifted, a shuddering, gathering of forces that was vaguely familiar, something I’d done on the river many times, only this was much more powerful.

  The Mistress pushed herself forward, to see what would happen. For a moment, the voices surging all around the Fire quieted, expectant.

  The city will survive, the Mistress said with a heavy sigh, the energies shifting back. But barely, and not as it is now, not as Amenkor. It will be changed, completely. And many will die.

  The voices hesitated, as if stunned, but then roared back to life.

  Why?

  Because the city needs a ruler. I’ve done so much damage—

  No, I broke in. Why me?

  Silence. Because you have the Sight, what you call the river. Because you know how to survive. The woman paused. And because the Fire changed you as well. I felt it before I pushed you onto the throne, but I didn’t recognize it. The Fire is protecting you. I can sense it clearly now. It has to be you, Varis. I don’t think anyone else can handle the throne anymore. It’s too powerful. It will kill anyone else. It has killed everyone else. Avrell tried with others that had the Sight, many times, but the throne overwhelmed them all. It crushed them. Killed them. But you have the Fire to protect you. They didn’t.

  Her voice, so soft and clear at the beginning, had become strained.

  I’m not going to be able to hold them off much longer, Varis. I felt a surge on the other side of the Fire, like a punch. The voice gasped. Oh, gods! I can’t—

  Then the voice was lost, torn away violently. I reached out, tried to hold on to her, my breath caught up short.

  At the same time, a shudder ran through the Fire again and I was forced to hold the Fire steady instead. I stood behind it, frozen, feeling suddenly empty, drained, and lost. Abandoned.

  Despair washed over me. I was trapped in my own little niche.

  And then I thought about the Mistress.

  She’d given me a choice.

  I listened through the Fire to the voices. Thousands of them, howling and jabbering. Their noise increased, roaring even higher as they assailed the Fire. I felt it beginning to give. They wanted me, needed me. I could feel them pulling, trying to draw me in and consume me.

  I shuddered.

  Kill the Mistress, or take the throne.

  There was no choice. Not in the end. Not if I could save the voice, the woman whose throat had already felt the touch of my dagger. Not if I could save Amenkor at the same time.

  I rested my head forward, sighed heavily, then looked out into the black maelstrom that was the Skewed Throne, the thousands of voices that had sat upon it, that had become it. The thousands of voices that could consume me utterly, as they’d consumed the women Avrell and Nathem had tried to place on the throne before me.

  For a moment, I heard those women screaming, so hard their own voices tore their throats. I felt them convulsing, muscles spasming, twisting them, contorting them. I tasted their blood as they bit out their own tongues, gouged out their own eyes, clawed their own faces.

  Then I drew in a deep breath, steadied myself, and dropped the shield of Fire, exposed myself completely to the river, to the throne.

  I didn’t even have time to gasp. The throne pounced and sucked me in.

  It was like the time I entered the tavern behind William. The sensations—the sounds and sights and smells—overwhelming. I thought I would be crushed, but it was infinitely worse. Instead, I was picked up by the maelstrom of voices, tossed abou
t on the wind of their noise, turned and twisted until I was completely disoriented. My breath came in short little gasps and I felt my chest constrict, my throat tighten.

  And then the images began. Only they were more than images. They were parts of the voices, parts of their lives.

  And I didn’t simply witness them, I was forced to live them.

  * * *

  A scream and I stared across a wide round room made of black stone toward Silicia a moment before she collapsed to the floor, a trickle of blood snaking from her mouth where she lay. But there was no time for concern. The power in the room was too great, shuddering beneath our control. I winced as it stabbed a dagger of raw hate down my left side, the pain visceral, enough to make me stagger, but I held firm. My gaze flicked around the room, toward the five others that still stood with me, encircling the two thrones that stood in the center of the room.

  The power grew, surged higher, oppressive and dark, and as one, those of us that remained focused the power on the thrones, concentrated it, wielding it like a sword or hammer.

  Sweat broke out on my brow, and another sheeting dagger of pain coursed down my side. I gasped, felt my hands clench into fists, felt my back arch as every muscle in my body pulled taut. But still I forced the power down, compacted it, squeezed it into the granite of the two thrones.

  Thunder rolled through the room, vibrated in the obsidian floor. Someone else cried out, the shout cut short. Garus, I thought, my love. A different pain shot through my heart, but I couldn’t turn to see him. Not now. The power was too intense, the construction of the two thrones almost complete. A moment more, just a moment, and we would be finished. . . .

  Something slipped, a barrier dropping away as the power culminated, crested, and suddenly it began to funnel into the thrones, fast, faster than we had calculated. Those remaining in the group gasped as one, and through the sudden funneling roar of energy I felt one of the others—Atreus?—struggling, trying to pull herself out of the construct. But it was too late, far, far too late.