My own shield began to fray at the edges. I pulled back some of the power from the mace, used it to fortify the shield, and just when I felt I’d have to break off my attack entirely, the Ochean withdrew, her sword rippling away on the river.
I gasped, noticed we were both heaving, sweat dripping down our faces, staining our clothes.
We’d circled enough that our backs were facing the pillars, the throne to my left, its shifting form at the edge of my vision. The guardsmen and Chorl warriors were utterly silent, waiting, no one daring to enter the walkway between us. Not when they couldn’t see the weapons being wielded.
The Ochean said something, the words sharp, but edged with respect.
Then she sneered, emitted a short, piercing shriek, and her arm lashed out.
She’d changed tactics. Instead of a curved blade, she hit me with a barrage of fistlike punches, aimed at my midsection at first, then shifting the blows outward.
I hissed through my teeth, felt some of the force seeping through the shield, striking my body with light taps. But if the shield failed . . .
I cried out, poured all of my strength into the shield, not even attempting to counterstrike, and even that wasn’t enough.
I needed more strength, more power.
The voices in the throne responded.
I felt the surge of their support, felt the shield around me sharpen as Alleryn and Atreus reached forward with subtle flows, felt additional strength pouring into my arms from Seth and Garus, Cerrin allowing the previous Mistresses to help through the Fire. The Ochean’s eyes widened slightly, only for a moment, and then the pummeling redoubled, her eyes narrowing, the fists striking at random now, left, right, midsection, thigh, chest, one sharp jab to the head, to the throat, but the shield held.
I began to fight back, Liviann and Silicia taking over part of the shield. Using daggerlike thrusts, I slashed across the Ochean’s shield, cut across her eyes, saw her flinch back, then recover. I used every technique Erick had taught me beyond the Dredge, everything Westen and the Seekers had taught me in the rooms deeper within the palace, everything to maim, to kill, to distract—
And then I realized that even with the throne behind me, even with the Seven and their knowledge, my strength was fading.
But how . . . ?
I suddenly recalled Eryn in the garden, beating at my shield, no longer attempting to pierce it, simply hitting me over and over with force, battering me heedlessly.
Because she was attacking me somewhere else, subtly, the blunt force merely a diversion.
I continued slashing with my dagger, but began searching the river, searching my shield—
And there, I saw the pinhole, saw the threadlike conduit snaking back toward the Ochean, saw my strength being leeched away and used to supplement the Ochean’s, just as Eryn had done during training.
I felt a seething flash of rage envelop me, caught the Ochean’s eye across the aisle between us, then withdrew the power I’d focused on the dagger slashes and with a speed Eryn had drilled into me in the gardens formed a needlelike dart of raw force—a second, a third—and fed them into the Ochean’s conduit one after the other.
The Ochean screamed when the first dart struck, her attack faltering. The second slammed into her a heartbeat later, followed by the third, spinning her around, her hands clutching her side, the conduit between my shield and her snapping as she withdrew it with a jerk.
The pummeling fists dissipated. Her shield wavered, flickered, and began to fail as well, but even as I stepped forward, even as I seized part of the river to retaliate, it shuddered and held.
But her conduit had given me an idea.
Breath coming in hoarse gasps, the Ochean spun back, eyes flashing, straightened as much as she could, pain clear on her face, one hand still clamped to her side. She spat something vicious, her face twisted into a cruel scowl, contorting the subtle beauty of her features. With her free hand, still half-turned, she lashed out again with the sword, the stroke heavier, weighted with more force, more thrust, shuddering into my shield, forcing me down into a low crouch. I cried out as it struck again, and again, then retaliated with my own strokes, using the lash as she’d done earlier. But my cries were exaggerated, the cracks of the lash meant to distract, as she’d tried to distract me.
I began to form my own conduit. Not to siphon off strength, as the Ochean had done. No. This conduit was meant to work in reverse, to send something to the Ochean.
What are you doing? Liviann snapped. She’ll send something back, as you did! Something more lethal than darts!
Let her work! Cerrin spat, cutting off any further remarks from the Seven.
I ignored them, formed the river into a small funnel on my side of the shield, let the tail of the funnel snake outward, toward the Ochean. It stretched, shuddered beneath the flows of the battle on the river above it, stretched and thinned—
Until its tail touched the Ochean’s shield.
I felt her gasp, saw her begin searching the river for the conduit, her eyes flicking left and right. The sword strokes lessened, their strength reduced as she concentrated elsewhere.
What’s she doing! Liviann snapped, screaming at the other voices in the throne, trying to gain the support of the other Seven. Garus! Seth! She’s going to get us all killed!
Wait, Cerrin said. He’d seen. He understood. I could hear it in his voice.
Give her a chance, Liviann, Garus growled, although there was doubt in his voice.
I brought the mouth of the funnel close to the Fire at my core. White tendrils of flame began streaming down the tail, snaking as the conduit twisted and roiled in the currents, but moving steadily toward the Ochean.
The Ochean’s sword strokes halted, her attention completely on the river, her head snapping to the side, frantic.
The Fire had covered half the distance between us . . . two thirds.
If I could tag her—as I’d tagged Erick, as I’d tagged Eryn and Avrell—if I could tag her . . .
I could use the Fire to seize control of her.
The Fire had almost reached her when the Ochean saw the conduit.
She lashed out instantly, a short, decisive gesture, like a cleaver being brought down on a block of wood.
The funnel I’d created snapped, its tail severed where it had been attached to the Ochean’s shield, severed at the tip, so that none of the Fire reached her.
The funnel snapped back, the Fire, the river, lashing out, striking me hard, shattering my shield and throwing me back. I screamed, crashed into the pillar behind me, head cracking into stone, and crumpled to the granite floor, stunned.
I’d barely taken a breath when half the voices of the throne shouted Varis! in warning, the sound mingling with the Ochean’s shriek of triumph.
I flung a shield up, half dazed, felt the Seven pouring their own strength into it, felt the river roil as the Ochean manipulated it, her sword falling fast and swift. Twisting where I lay, blows raining down on the shield, filtering through with bruising force, I gasped, tried to strengthen my defenses, felt the Ochean’s sword change to fists, to thrown daggers, a lash. I heard the Ochean stalking across the floor, felt her presence as she stood above me, her hands stretched out, fingers spread, her face a hideous mask of scorn and hatred and cruelty. Her eyes blazed with determination, any pain I’d caused earlier with the darts masked, buried beneath her contempt.
And I saw my death. I felt drained, barely able to sustain the shield, even with the strength of the Seven, of the other voices of the throne, infusing me. I’d expended too much energy following the battle in the city below, used up my reserves. My muscles trembled with every blow, the seepage through the shield increasing, each stroke sinking deeper and deeper into my flesh.
I felt a shudder of regret pass through me, heard it break free in a sob of pain, of heartrending defeat. I thought of
everything I’d worked for over the last winter: the reconstruction of the warehouses, the desperate search for food, the setup of the work force and the communal kitchens. I thought of everything that Amenkor had accomplished, all lost now, burning beneath the Ochean’s fires, nothing but charred, smoking husks on the harbor and in the streets. I thought of Avrell and Borund, of Catrell and Westen, struggling to hold together the city as Eryn went insane, then struggling to recoup when I’d supplanted her as Mistress and the food supply ran short, unknowingly fighting against Alendor and his alliance with the Chorl.
And I thought of Erick, of his beaten, tortured body lying in the room of pillows, in the Ochean’s personal chambers.
Tortured by the woman glaring down at me now, eyes flashing with malice.
Erick.
She’d kept him alive, even when she knew she’d taken everything from him, when she’d learned everything she could about Amenkor and the throne.
Beneath the Ochean’s assault, beneath the despair, I hesitated.
Why? Why had she kept him alive? There was no reason, no need. Not any longer, not once she’d decided to attack Amenkor first. But she’d kept him alive anyway, had brought him here to Amenkor to witness the attack. . . .
I felt the hesitation shift into certainty.
She’d kept him alive because she wanted him to see what she’d done to Amenkor when it was over.
I felt myself weakening, felt the shield I held faltering, edging closer and closer to my body, more and more of the force of her blows passing through to strike my body. My hands were raised now, as if to ward off the attack.
In another few heartbeats, my shield would fail.
But perhaps . . .
I cried out, harshly, and as if my strength had given out completely, I let the shield fall.
The voices of the throne gasped. Liviann leaped forward, tried to take over as she had once before and reestablish the shield, but I used the Fire to hold her back, heard her scream with frustration, flail against the restraint, felt the other Seven reach forward and haul her back, subduing her.
The Ochean hesitated as the shield failed, as if she thought it were some kind of ruse, but then a slow smile touched her dark blue lips, her almost black eyes. A malicious smile. A triumphant smile.
She drew in a deep breath . . .
Then struck me again, fists punching hard and sharp, once to my face and once to my stomach. My lip split, the pain like fire, and I gagged, curled up into a ball as I’d learned to do on the Dredge, knees tight to my chest, arms close, hands covering my face. But the fists didn’t stop. They continued, struck my back, my butt, my forearms, my shoulders, the back of my head. The voices of the throne cried out in protest, tried to seize control, raise the shield again, more of them this time, not just Liviann, but I forced them all back, held them all in check, felt Cerrin block their access through the White Fire. I suffered through the Ochean’s beating, felt my strength flagging, thought of Erick lying among the bloody pillows, thought of the denizens of the slums pouring out across the Dredge’s bridge to attack the Chorl, thought of all the death and destruction in the city below. . . .
And finally the punches slowed . . . and stopped.
I lay on the throne room floor, trembling, barely able to breathe, my back, my shoulders, my arms and lower legs bruised by the force of the Ochean’s hatred. My muscles screamed with pain. I shuddered, tasted blood from my split lip, but dared not move. I wasn’t certain I could move.
Above me, I heard the Ochean gasping, her breaths thick with phlegm. I listened as she slowly calmed, heard her dress rustle as she lowered her arms.
When her breathing had almost returned to normal, she spat on me. I flinched, but didn’t move, let the spittle trickle down my neck, beneath my chin, mixing with my blood. I kept my hands tight over my face, and waited—for ten heartbeats, for an eternity—
Then I heard her move away.
I drew in a shallow breath and held it, listening intently as her footsteps retreated. Carefully, I lowered one hand, peeked out through my spread fingers.
The Ochean had moved to the center of the aisle again, had turned to face the Skewed Throne, twisting and morphing on its dais. Keven had shifted forward, his face grim, hand on his sword.
I silently cursed him, willed him to stand aside.
The Ochean stepped forward, moving toward the throne.
Keven tensed, made to draw his blade—
With a careless motion, the Ochean used the river to fling him out of the way.
He struck the stone pillar to one side, grunted as he collapsed to the dais, and didn’t move again. But I could still see him breathing.
I felt a renewed surge of hatred.
The Ochean stepped up to the dais, movements poised, casual, even though her blue dress was stained with sweat. She turned at the top, surveyed the throne room, expression triumphant, locking meaningfully on the Chorl captain’s face, on the man in the yellow robes with the reed scepter. Something passed between them, something I didn’t understand, but the Chorl captain’s eyes blazed with hatred a moment before he gave her a grudging nod. The man in yellow merely frowned.
The Ochean’s gaze fell on me. I saw a flicker of satisfaction when she saw me watching.
She wanted me to see, as she’d wanted Erick to see Amenkor’s destruction.
Then she sank onto the throne.
I lifted my head, all pretension set aside. It hurt, more than I expected, and required almost all of my strength. But I wasn’t as beaten and drained as I’d led her to believe.
On the dais, the throne shuddered and twisted. The Ochean sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Her eyes widened and she suddenly stilled, muscles rigid, back stiff.
The voices of the throne paused. The predatory presence of the throne in the room hesitated.
Then the voices rose into a shriek . . . and pounced. As they’d pounced on me when I’d sat on the throne almost five months before. A maelstrom of screams, roaring for attention, howling their hatred, their fear, their disgust. A hurricane that leaped toward the blue-skinned woman who sat on the throne.
And they dragged me along with them.
* * *
I found myself back in the marketplace, trapped in a crowd, jostled and crushed as everyone tried to shove their way to the center of the plaza, everyone screaming, yelling to be heard over everyone else, the voices all melding into an indistinguishable roar. Fear lanced through me as I stumbled and almost fell, shorter than most of those around me. With sudden horror, I realized that here, if I fell, I’d be trampled to death.
But someone reached out and grabbed me by the arm, hauled me upright and pulled me close to them.
“Careful now!” Cerrin bellowed, smiling tentatively down at me.
“What’s happening?” I asked, trying to be heard over the noise.
Cerrin’s face grew stern. “The Ochean touched the throne. She’s trying to seize control.”
“We can’t let her!”
“I know.” He glanced around at the faces in the crowd, gripped me tighter as the mob suddenly surged left. Someone’s elbow jabbed into my side, made me gasp. “They’re fighting her,” he said, nodding to indicate the people—all of the previous Mistresses, all of those that had touched the throne before this. “But she’s strong.”
I glanced around, noted the pure hatred of those in the crowd, saw the panic beneath the anger, the fear. I could smell it, a rank stench of sweat and blood. But the faces of all of the old Mistresses, of all of those that had touched the throne over the last fifteen hundred years, were determined.
I turned back to Cerrin. “Take me to her.”
He stared down into my eyes, frowning, his own eyes filled with doubt.
But then he nodded.
We began working our way through the crowd, Cerrin shoving the terrifie
d and frantic people aside, forcing a passage wide enough for me to squeeze through, then roughly following behind. A few people backed off when they saw it was me, a few spat in my face for betraying them.
I ignored them all, anger building as the crowd grew thicker, more desperate. I started using my elbows, my fingers, jabbing into tender muscles, punching soft flesh. I came up against a man—face unshaven, several teeth missing, hair patchy, thin, and wild—who leered down at me, reached forward to grab my breast. I kneed him in the groin and stepped on his back as I passed.
Then suddenly, I broke through an edge, stepped out into a small space barely three paces across, the Ochean before me, her back turned. She slashed at the crowd around her with a sword, curved like the Chorl warriors’, the strokes smooth but with a hint of desperation. Bodies lay at her feet, most moaning, blood flowing from cuts to their faces, to their chests.
She seemed to sense someone behind her, spun.
Her eyes widened in shock and she jerked back.
I smiled, then reached out and touched her.
* * *
I stood on a porch built of thousands upon thousands of wooden poles, like reeds but thicker and segmented. Huge green leaves covered a latticework of more wooden poles overhead for shade, and lay in thick layers on the floor. I could feel more of the poles beneath the leaves through the soles of my bare feet.
I moved to the edge of the porch, out into the sunlight.
Below, the land sloped down to a pristine beach, the sand a blinding white, the cove beyond a myriad range of greens and blues. The porch was surrounded by more huge, flat leaves, by dense foliage and tall trees, the trunks bare until they branched out at the top into dozens of huge, serrated palms. Closer to the beach, I could see small houses made of the same poles as the porch, thatched in the palm fronds, sandy paths leading from house to house, down to the beach, where strange boats had been drawn up onto the sand. Long and narrow, they could fit barely two men side-by-side, and had no sails.
I stared down at the scene, hands crossed arrogantly over my chest, and watched the people moving among the huts, or down on the shore. Blue-skinned people.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 70