Not everywhere, of course. There was still a feeling of discontent near the Dredge. I focused on that part of the city, until I hovered over the Dredge itself, felt the people flowing down its streets and alleys.
Evander had done as I asked, had told those that lived on the Dredge of the work details, of how a man had been punished to protect him, even though he was from the Dredge. And Darryn had spread the word as well, had created the militia using people from the Dredge. Within the following week, Avrell’s work force had doubled. Many were men and women who had simply fallen on hard times after the passing of the White Fire through the city six years before. People who had lived and worked in the lower city before the Fire, their only recourse to abandon the lower city for the Dredge after it had passed. In the fear and uncertainty it had left behind, trade had faltered. But a few were like Evander, like me—gutterscum that had known nothing else but the Dredge, that were willing to take a chance on something better.
I let the Dredge roll over me, then turned away. I’d done what I could for them. For now.
Next, I moved to the wharf, watched the workers packing fish in salt, rolling the barrels into storage. On the waters of the harbor, others were in small boats, hauling up crab traps, searching even though it was out of season. Still others were working in the rigging of the trading ships or on the decks, making repairs to rope and wood, pulleys and sails.
I stayed here the longest. The sailing ships had always intrigued me, even before I’d begun working as Borund’s bodyguard. While hunting for easy marks on the wharf, I’d often sit for hours watching the dockworkers unloading cargo, dreaming about what strange foods the crates and barrels could carry, of what I could steal if given the chance.
It had been impossible then to imagine that I could have boarded one of the huge ships and left with it, escaped the city entirely. At that time, all I knew was Amenkor. There was nothing outside the warren of the Dredge, the streets and alleys of the wharf and the lower city. But I suddenly realized that I could have escaped on one of the ships back then. Perhaps not easily, but it could have been done. I could have traveled down the coast to the south, to the cities Avrell had told me about—to the cliffs of Venitte and the maze of caves and streets of that ancient sister city; to the rolling hills and vineyards of Marland; or even farther south, across the sea to the islands of the Zorelli.
But not now. I was bound to the throne now.
I drew back from the wharf and the activity on the docks reluctantly, then turned my attention to the warehouse district. But even with the sense of regret I now felt, watching the people of the city had worked. I no longer felt so tense, and for a brief moment I’d forgotten about Eryn and the group that had probably already arrived in Colby.
Unconsciously, I looked out over the city along the southern coastline. Where the influence of the throne ended, the undulating flow of the river became listless. The river still existed beyond the city, but it didn’t have the same power without the throne behind it, its scents and tastes weren’t as vibrant. It was just the river, the same power I’d used to survive on the Dredge.
Somehow, with the full power of the throne flowing through me, that now seemed paltry. Even with what I’d learned practicing with Eryn, who even without the throne’s supporting power could do more with the river—or the Sight as she called it—than I’d managed to learn on my own on the Dredge.
Far down the coastline, outside of the influence of the throne, something flared.
I frowned, turned my full attention south.
And caught the flicker of light again. A white light, far enough away that it could barely be seen.
But now that I had seen it I realized I recognized it.
The White Fire.
Without thought, I reached for it, as I’d reached to find Corum on the Dredge that night on the tower, as I’d reached for Erick as he hunted. But then Eryn’s warning brought me up short, like a slap.
Frowning, I withdrew to the palace’s tower in my mind, began to pace its length, casting furtive glances out toward the tiny blinking white flame, Eryn’s warning echoing through my head.
It’s too dangerous, her voice whispered from memory. Reaching like that, extending yourself out so far. . . . You could lose yourself, never find your way back.
And that had been when I’d tried to reach out to the Dredge.
This looked much, much farther away.
I drew to a halt at the edge of the palace tower, facing the faint white light. I’d spent a lot of time pushing the boundaries of the throne recently, stretching farther and farther out over its influence without letting the connection to my own body break.
But if I reached for this Fire . . .
Don’t.
I jumped, felt a tingle of guilt sweep through me as if I’d blushed, then steadied myself, the guilt hardening into anger and a trace of fear as I drew in the sharp scent of that strange incense, as I recognized Cerrin.
He stood next to me on the edge of the tower, the wind from the ocean flapping in the tails of his coat, his very presence more solid, more real. Here, the yellow of his shirt was vibrant, his coat a deep, rich brown. His short beard was trimmed to a sharp point and his tawny eyes glittered with a hard intelligence . . . and a deep melancholy.
Why not? I asked.
He shook his head. Because what Eryn said is correct. It is dangerous. It is foolhardy. It is stupid. More than you know have lost themselves by Reaching. But also because even if you can find your way back—which I doubt—you will be drained. And for what?
I turned away. How are you escaping the Fire? How are you escaping the net?
We are the Seven. Almost fifteen hundred years ago we realized that we were the last of our kind, the last that had power—true power. The last that could wield all of the elemental magics. There was no one who would follow us. But we knew that someday there would be someone of true power again, and so we tried to preserve our knowledge. So we created the thrones—to preserve what we knew until it could be used again, and to protect the Frigean coast against those who would destroy it.
He looked out over the southern coastline. There is more magic than just the Fire. Or the river. Don’t Reach for the Fire. It’s too dangerous.
And then he vanished, his form tattering to shreds like a piece of cloth.
My jaw clenched. He hadn’t answered my question.
Fuming, I stared out at the faint flicker on the horizon. I paced to the edge of the tower, arms folded across my chest, then paced back and bit my lower lip.
But the presence of another White Fire like the one that burned at my core was too tempting, too intriguing to resist.
And I knew I could find my way back, no matter what Eryn or Cerrin said.
Shoulders set, I reached for the distant flame.
For a fleeting instant, the world stretched out below, the sensation terrifying. Like the moment of total balance at the edge of a rooftop just before you jump, when you realize that what seemed like such a short distance down to the ground is really two stories, not one, but it’s too late to turn back. But I could still feel my body, still feel the tenuous connections.
And then I leaped, letting my body go.
The coastline sped by below, too swift to see much more than white spray as ocean waves crashed into rocky cliffs, shooting up huge plumes in the late afternoon sunlight, the thunderclaps that followed muted. I barely spared a glance even for this, my heart thudding at twice normal, my gaze locked on the flickering White Fire ahead. Eryn’s warning was sharp in my memory; I didn’t dare look away, afraid I’d lose sight of the light. It blazed on the horizon, drew steadily closer. Heart pounding, I watched it pulse, like a beacon—
And then, suddenly, it was there.
I fell down into it, felt its flames envelop me without burning, just as the White Fire had on the night it passed through Amenkor
six years before. In the instant before it claimed me, I saw the rocky coastline break into a stretch of beach strewn with pebbles and driftwood, saw a cluster of ramshackle buildings a little farther inland over a crest of scrub grass and dunes, smelled smoke from a real fire, mixed with the scents of stew.
And then there was only the Fire.
* * *
“Would you like something to eat?”
The woman’s voice, rough and uncertain with nervousness and awe, filtered through the white wall of flame that surrounded me, that held me suspended at its center. For a moment, my heart thudded with panic at the thought that I was trapped, like the voices were trapped inside the Fire at my core. I flailed at the wall before me, shoved at it hard, and felt it give way.
I found myself staring out at a bare cottage and an older man seated at a rickety table, face in a tight scowl that appeared permanent, scarred with the sun and covered with a grizzled, patchy beard. Wisps of thinning white hair drifted above his head, his eyebrows the same ancient, steely gray but heavy and thick. A dark mole the size of my thumbprint marred his forehead over his left eye.
He was watching me intently, his light gray eyes sharp.
Beside him, stooped over the pot steaming above the fire, the woman who had spoken—as thin as the man and just as wizened, her long wiry hair kept back from her face by a kerchief—lifted a ladle of the thin stew. “It’s rabbit. Not much, but . . .”
I tried to shake my head, raise a hand to ward away the soup since it was obvious these people had little to eat, but instead I heard myself say, “Thank you, just a cup,” and felt my hand reach out to accept the small steaming cup that was proffered.
Except it wasn’t my hand that grabbed the hot cup and raised the thin stew to my lips to sip. It was Eryn’s hand, Eryn’s fingers that got burned, Eryn’s tongue that was scalded, and Eryn’s voice that spoke. But I felt it all, tasted the salty broth of the stew, smelled the steam.
And suddenly I realized that the Fire I had searched out was inside Eryn, that I was looking through her eyes, feeling what she felt, tasting what she tasted as if I were actually there.
“It’s delicious,” I heard myself say, but the contradiction of hearing Eryn’s voice muttering the words, of feeling Eryn turn her head so that her gaze fell on Borund and Captain Catrell, both huddled inside the small hovel, of Eryn acting without any control by me, was too much. I drew back, isolated myself from Eryn’s actions so that there was a clear distinction between her and me, between what I wanted and what she wanted. I sensed that if I didn’t remove myself, if I remained, I’d eventually get confused between what was her and what was me. And I also sensed that with a little effort I could actually make myself be felt, that I could actually seize control of Eryn.
This must be what it felt like for the voices inside the throne: always present, able to feel what I felt, see what I saw, smell what I smelled. Except they were all dead.
No wonder they wanted control, fought so hard against the Fire I caged them with. Behind the Fire, they couldn’t truly feel me, couldn’t taste and smell and touch. Couldn’t act, not of their own volition. But the temptation to take control was always there, just out of reach.
And no wonder the Mistress couldn’t retain control once the voices were let free. If one of them were let loose, remained loose for too long, the distinction between that personality and the Mistress herself would begin to blur. They’d begin to overlap, until neither remembered where their own personality ended and the other’s began.
Or as Eryn had suggested earlier, until one of the personalities dominated the other.
I shuddered, withdrew even further, not certain whether Eryn could sense me, not wanting her to sense me. I didn’t think she had, but then there’d been no outward sign that the soup was too hot. She’d hidden the pain behind her smile, not wanting to offend the woman of the house. Perhaps she’d hidden her reaction to my presence as well. She’d been the Mistress for almost twenty years; she was practiced at deception.
But how had this happened? How did the Fire get inside her? I hadn’t noticed it in anyone else, had worked with Eryn closely during my training and hadn’t seen it then.
And how would I get back?
Cerrin’s warning about the risks of Reaching too far afield suddenly assailed me and I shot a glance toward Amenkor, realizing only then that I was still beneath the river. But Eryn was inside the cottage and I couldn’t see through the walls of driftwood and lumber. Not without the power of the throne behind me. I’d have to wait until Eryn moved outside.
Uncertain now, wishing I’d listened to Cerrin’s advice and not reached for the white flame on the horizon, I settled back to wait.
Borund and Captain Catrell both took steaming cups of the stew at a stern glance from Eryn, Borund sipping politely, Catrell swallowing in gulps. After a brief pause, Eryn lowered her cup to her lap and turned toward the old man, meeting his gaze squarely. “You sent the boy?”
“Ayu,” he said, his accent thick. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, the chair creaking beneath his weight.
Eryn nodded. “We’d like to see the wreckage.”
“Why?”
Eryn frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He sat forward abruptly. “We’s found parts of wrecked ships afore, and none’s come to see it. Always too busy. Why’s this un different?”
Eryn shot a startled glance toward Borund, who shrugged, then turned back to the fisherman. “Because we sent out quite a few ships recently, and only a few of them returned. We’d like to know what happened to the other ships. If this is one of them . . .”
“Ayu,” the man grunted. He cast a dark eye on Borund, who shifted beneath the glare and took a hasty sip of his stew. He took in Borund’s red-and-gold coat, the clean-cut breeches, and white shirt so out of place in this barren cottage, and his scowl deepened.
He turned back to Eryn. “I ken show ya the wreckage,” he said, but he made no move to rise from his seat, the woman ladling out a much larger portion of the stew and setting it in front of him. As if the matter were settled, he turned to the stew, completely ignoring everyone else in the room except the woman, who began ladling out a bowl for herself.
Eryn stiffened and said tightly, “We’d like to see it before the sun sets, if that’s possible. We want to return to the city early tomorrow.”
The man acted as if she hadn’t spoken, scooping out a chunk of meat from the stew with two fingers and slurping it up. The old woman sniffed in disapproval, thunked her own stew down on the table with force, and gave him a glare.
The old man caught her gaze and for a moment they warred, his scowl deepening, her hands settling on her hips.
Finally, the man snorted, slammed his stew down to the table, and stood. Without glancing at Eryn, Borund, or Catrell, he stalked from the hovel with a curt, “Folla me.”
“Excuse Gellin,” the woman said, her eyes casting daggers at his retreating back. “We don’t see people from the city often.”
Eryn gave her a reassuring smile, then stood, setting the stew to one side. “The stew was wonderful,” she said, then bowed her head and followed Gellin. Borund and Catrell followed close behind, Catrell motioning the other guardsmen waiting outside the cottage to their side.
“He doesn’t seem too happy to see us,” Borund said as they moved past the few ramshackle houses that made up the entire village. All were built of wood and all had a long, thin boat turned upside down outside, traps and thick nets heaped underneath the boats or stored in small hutches next to each house. Through open doorways, faces peered out cautiously. “None of them are very welcoming.”
“Can you blame them?” Eryn said, maintaining her smile. “As Gellin’s wife said, they don’t see people from the city often. I’m certain that when they do see us, they take it as a sign that there’s trouble ahead. I know the elders in
the village where I was raised did. Men from the cities were an omen, a harbinger of bad times. The last time the guard arrived in my village, they took me away kicking and screaming and brought me to the palace. I was only eight at the time.”
The heat in Eryn’s voice caused Borund’s stride to falter.
“Whatever for?” he asked.
“To become the Mistress, of course,” she said, voice blunt and filled with long-held hatred.
Borund backed off, his brow furrowed in consideration.
The old man led them through the village, out across the dune that protected the inland from the waves, toward a rocky rise to the south. They climbed over the granite, using scrub brush and small, twisted trees with long needles and rough bark to help them over the steepest parts. The guardsmen cursed the terrain, their armor clattering against the stone when they stumbled or fell while Gellin smirked, but Eryn climbed the stone smoothly, the stone rough enough to provide plenty of hand- and footholds.
When they crested the rise, they looked down into another stretch of beach, another plinth of rocky outcropping on the far side, the stone biting into the sea. Waves crashed into the rock and hissed onto the stone of the beach. Well above the cove’s waterline lay three large pieces of what had once been one of the merchant ships: a section of mast as thick as my waist and twice my height, the wood scarred and pitted; a large section of the prow; and a flat section of deck, part of the square hole that would have led down into the hold cutting into one of its sides.
“There,” the old man said. His biting tone had mellowed, as if the sight of the crushed ship had sobered him somewhat.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 49