I turned back to the throne, ran my hand across its surface once again. “If the Chorl are returning to Amenkor,” I said, and let the thought trail off. The Skewed Throne was the only reason we’d survived the first attack. If we could replace it, before the Chorl attacked again . . .
North. To Amenkor.
I shrugged the ominous words aside, stepped back from the cracked throne. I hesitated at the top of the dais, then turned my back on the hollow emptiness of the room, and moved down the dais, Eryn falling into step behind me.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To see Brandan Vard,” I said. “I want to know what he knows about the thrones.”
* * *
“And that should take care of the last of the petitions from Venitte’s merchants’ guild,” Captain Tristan said. He took the sheaf of papers Avrell held out to him, checked the last few pages to verify that all of the marks and sigils were in place, and then tucked them into a large satchel. “I’m glad to see that the guild here in Amenkor is recuperating. Four new apprentices have been raised to merchants in the last few days, so I’ve heard.”
I didn’t like Tristan’s tone, caught Avrell’s hooded glance as he made his way back to his seat in the small audience chamber, then looked to Brandan. But the Venittian Servant’s gaze was locked onto me, waiting for my answer, so I turned back to Tristan. “Alendor and his consortium were rather devastating to the merchants’ guild here.”
Tristan smiled, his lips thin. “Yes, so I hear from Regin. He’s somewhat defensive about the matter, although I gather that you played a role in . . . eliminating the consortium.”
I frowned as his eyes narrowed, felt a subtle shift on the river as his attention focused on me. “Yes. I killed Alendor when it was discovered he was stealing Amenkor’s food and selling it to the Chorl.”
“You’ve killed many people, so I’ve heard.”
I bristled, felt myself shift in my chair into a more defensive position. “Yes.”
Tristan’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised you admit that so freely.”
“I grew up in the slums of Amenkor,” I said. “I killed to survive . . . and then to escape.”
Brandan grunted, but Tristan didn’t take his eyes off of me. “That explains . . . much.” He reached to fill a glass from a decanter of wine. “Regin and Borund wouldn’t say much about your past when I asked. Instead, they chose to defend your reign as Mistress. But the Lords and Ladies of Venitte, including Lord March, will be interested once they learn that there is a new Mistress in Amenkor—in you, in Amenkor’s stability.” He sipped from his glass and settled back. “They say in the streets that you are a Seeker.”
Behind, I felt Avrell stiffen in outrage, but I leaned forward, met Tristan’s gaze squarely. “I was trained by a Seeker on the Dredge. He taught me what I needed to know to survive. He taught me enough that I used it to escape to the upper city, to the wharf, where I became Borund’s bodyguard. But I am not a Seeker.”
Tristan said nothing, met my gaze without flinching. His brow creased as he considered what I had said, as he judged it, and in that moment I realized that he already knew everything I’d told him, that he already knew all about my past. He’d learned as much as he could in the past day, from Regin, from Borund, and from the people on the streets. And those people knew everything. I’d kept nothing from them.
Which meant he knew about the attack on the city as well, and the past winter.
“What about Venitte?” I asked, letting my irritation at being tested tinge my voice.
“What do you mean?”
“You know about the Chorl, have known for at least a month, since your ship left port to come here three weeks ago. What has Venitte done to prepare for the Chorl?”
Tristan hesitated, until Brandan cast him a sharp look. Setting his wine to one side, he rested his elbows on the edge of the table between us, fingers clasped beneath his chin. “Since the first ships disappeared, and we began to suspect that their losses were from something other than bad weather or pirates, we’ve set up patrols at the mouths of the two channels leading in to Venitte. We’ve also established outposts along the coast and farther inland to the north, since none of the trading ships to the south of Venitte have vanished. But at the time that the Reliant left the port, the Chorl had made no attempt to attack Venitte directly.”
“They were focused on Amenkor,” Avrell said.
“Apparently.”
“And what about the throne?” I asked, slipping deeper beneath the river so I could judge Tristan’s reaction.
He frowned, honestly confused. “What throne?”
My gaze shifted toward Brandan, who’d tensed. He was no longer watching me. His gaze had fallen to his hands, his face blank. “At the time that the thrones were created, there were two—one for Amenkor . . . and one for Venitte. They were created to protect the coast from attack, created specifically to defend against the Chorl. What happened to Venitte’s throne?”
Tristan snorted. “The throne of Venitte—the Stone Throne I believe it was called—was lost nearly fifteen hundred years ago. We’ve never used it. We’ve never needed it.”
I turned my attention fully on Brandan Vard. “Is that true? Do the Servants in Venitte not use the throne?”
The Venittian Servant took a moment to gather himself, then said, eyes on me, “The Stone Throne vanished within ten years of its creation. The Servants in Venitte have never used it in their training. No one knows where it is, although many have searched for it over the years.”
I didn’t answer, my frown deepening. Because Brandan was telling the truth . . . but not the complete truth. He knew something more about the throne, I just couldn’t figure out what.
“What about the Chorl Servants?” I asked. “How do you expect to defend against them?”
I’d asked Brandan, but it was Tristan who answered. “I don’t know yet. Lord March and the rest of the Council doesn’t know about the Servants as far as I know. We haven’t encountered them. But if what you say is true—and after seeing the city, after hearing what the people of Amenkor suffered during the attack, I have no reason to disbelieve you—then we’ll have to plan a defense against them.”
“We have our own Servants,” Brandan interjected. “We’ve been trained to fight as part of the military’s Protectorate.”
I almost snorted, but caught myself. “Amenkor had Servants as well. We barely survived. The Chorl Servants have changed since the attack fifteen hundred years ago. They’ve learned to combine their powers, to such an extent that, in order to stop them, I had to destroy the Skewed Throne itself. Are the Servants in Venitte ready for that?”
Brandan’s eyes flashed at the tone of my voice. “How dare you—” he spat, leaning forward, but Tristan placed a warning hand on his arm to cut him off. He turned on the captain, but Tristan glanced down toward the gold medallion that rested on Brandan’s chest, and after a tense moment Brandan settled back into his seat.
“The Servants in Venitte will have to be ready,” Tristan said, a hard edge to his voice. “Now, Mistress, if you’ll excuse us, we have business to attend to with the new guild members.”
“Of course,” Avrell said, rising as both Tristan and Brandan stood. They nodded as they left, and Avrell closed the door to the audience chamber behind them, turning immediately to me.
“Brandan knows more about the throne than he’s letting on,” I said immediately.
Avrell nodded. “I agree. And Tristan is more than a simple captain from the merchants’ guild. He must have a connection to one of the Lords or Ladies of the Council. We’ll have to be careful around both of them.”
I stood, moving toward the door. “I need to know more about the creation of the thrones, about what happened to the Stone Throne and the Skewed Throne after they were created. With the Skewed Throne dead, the Stone Throne may b
e the only way to stop the Chorl when they next attack.”
As Avrell opened the door and preceded me into the hallway, my escort of guardsmen waiting outside, he said, “I’ll see what I can find in the archives. And I’ll have Catrell keep a discreet eye on both Tristan and Brandan.”
* * *
When Marielle first entered Ottul’s room, a box of random objects in her arms, she found the Chorl Servant kneeling on a folded blanket in the middle of the room, body hunched down over her knees, hands cupped over her head. She rocked back and forth in the tucked position, a low, murmured chant barely breaking the silence of the room.
Inside the White Fire at Marielle’s core, I watched through Marielle’s eyes as she paused at the threshold, felt the warding being reset behind her.
Does she do this often? I asked through the Fire.
Marielle nodded, frowning. Almost always. And always facing the same direction: west.
What is she doing?
Marielle shrugged. I don’t know. And I haven’t worked with her long enough to find out.
I grunted.
Ottul suddenly stilled, her chanting cut off sharply. In a strangely fluid motion, her back curving upward, she lifted herself, sitting back onto her knees as she turned toward the doorway with narrowed eyes.
Her expression was fixed in anger, but tears streaked down her face.
When she saw Marielle, however, her anger faltered.
“Hello, Ottul.” Marielle moved toward the table in the middle of the room, set the box down and began removing objects from it—a wooden bowl, a goblet, a scarf.
Ottul reached forward instantly for the scarf, but Marielle’s hand closed over hers before she had a chance to draw away.
Both froze, Marielle catching Ottul’s confused gaze. “What do you say?” she asked.
Ottul’s brow wrinkled in angry annoyance, but then she sighed. In a tight growl, thick with accent, she said, “Hello, Mar-ell.” Then, when Marielle didn’t let go of her hand: “Pease?”
The plaintiveness of the tone twisted in my gut, touched something inside Marielle as well, for she loosened her grip on Ottul’s hand, let her pick up the blue-green scarf. The material was fine, from the Kandish Empire across the mountains, and Ottul ran the scarf across her hands, her arms. She wore Amenkor clothing now, Marielle having persuaded her to give up the filthy green dress we’d found her unconscious in beneath the pile of collapsed stone. But her dress was coarse, not as fine as the scarf, and tan in color, accentuating her blue-tinged skin. The neckline was low enough that the edge of a tattoo could be seen just beneath her collarbone. That had been a surprise. I hadn’t realized the Chorl women had tattoos, although I vaguely remembered seeing one on the Ochean. The men wore their tattoos openly, on the arms and face. The women seemed to prefer their tattoos hidden.
When Ottul drew the cloth up to her face, rubbed it against her cheek, Marielle reached out, slowly, and touched the four gold rings in Ottul’s ears.
Ottul jerked back, breath hissing out harshly through her teeth, a barrier slamming up sharply between her and Marielle on the river—
But when Marielle didn’t react, she halted.
“What are they?” Marielle asked. “What do they stand for?”
Ottul frowned. The shield around her wavered, then dropped.
She stepped forward, one hand lifting to Marielle’s ear. “You . . . no.”
Marielle smiled. “No, I don’t have any.”
Ottul’s frown deepened. Then she touched the first ring in her left ear. “Ona,” she said, and began to draw the river close about her, not as a shield, and not in an attack. Instead, she seemed to be playing with the river at random, swirling its eddies, pushing it this way and that, creating whirls, tightening it and releasing it.
Manipulating it.
She pointed back to that first gold ring and said again, “Ona.”
The first ring indicates she can use the river—the Sight, I said through the Fire. That she’s a Servant.
Marielle slid into the river deeper, began to manipulate it, and at the same time said, “Ona.”
Ottul smiled, but tightly. A layer of sadness tainted the river, a whiff of emotion, strong and sweet and potent, like an onion. “Ona.” Her fingers touched the second ring. “Ket.”
On the river, Ottul pulled the currents of the river into a shield, the threads woven tightly.
Marielle did the same. “Ket.”
Ottul nodded, touched the third ring. “Tora.”
Releasing the shield, she drew a small bundle of the river into an outstretched hand, into a configuration the Servants in the palace had never seen before.
But I had.
I sucked in a sharp breath a moment before Ottul ignited the threads. Fire burst forth in her hand, a few inches above her palm, contained there, held there—
But not controlled. Not like the fire that had snaked its way across the deck of The Maiden and killed so many of its crew. This was simple fire. Ottul could call it, could perhaps hurl it toward targets so that it retained its integrity, but she couldn’t force it to obey her will. I could feel the strain of simply holding it in her hand already; sweat beaded her forehead, and her concentration remained on her hands, on the flames.
I can’t make fire, Marielle said internally, a twinge of worry snaking through her.
You could, I answered, if I showed you how, if we practiced. But for now—
I slid through the Fire and seized control of the river through Marielle. Sensing my intent, she held out her hand, palm upward.
I drew the river close, spun the threads the same way Ottul had done, as I’d done through Cerrin’s memories, only tighter, more controlled, and then I ignited them.
Marielle flinched when the fire sparked and bloomed in her hand. In a shaky voice, she said, “Tora.”
I let the fire go, Ottul doing the same.
“And the last ring?” Marielle asked.
But Ottul turned away, moved toward the windows.
“What comes next, Ottul?” Marielle said. “Ona, ket, tora . . . ?”
Without turning back, Ottul said, “Qal.” She hesitated, then said bitterly, “Ona, ket, tora, qal, etai, kona, u mer.”
The words were angry, laced with hatred, with an undertone of fear and want I didn’t understand. The scent of onion strengthened, until Ottul’s shoulders slumped, the scarf still clutched in one hand forgotten.
Enough for now, I said to Marielle. Work with her on other things. But keep working with her. I need to know if she can help with Erick.
Marielle grimaced at Erick’s name, then nodded, shifting forward to the box again, letting Ottul remain at the window.
I withdrew from the Fire, Reached back through the palace to the outer chamber of my rooms, slid into my own body with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion washed through me, arms tingling with sensation. I leaned my head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, waiting for the trembling to set in—
And noticed another presence in the room aside from the Servant set to watch over me while I Reached.
I lifted my head with effort, my strength drained, opened my eyes. “What is it, Keven?”
Face set in a serious expression, he said, “We have a problem.”
* * *
“This is how we found them,” Catrell said, his voice tight.
I stood in the doorway of the cell, one hand against the gritty granite of the wall to one side, still weak from the Reaching. The stench of death hung in the air, blood and piss and shit mixed with dampness and decay.
The Dredge. A rankness so familiar it barely turned my stomach.
But this wasn’t the Dredge. This was a cell in the depths of the palace, where the thirteen Chorl warriors captured alive during the Chorl retreat had been kept.
Now, those thirteen Chorl lay slumped a
gainst the walls of the cell.
I stepped into the room, knelt down beside the nearest body.
The man’s head rested against his chest at an awkward angle. I lifted it, felt the awful fluidity of the neck, the bones snapped, and set it back down gently. I glanced over the rest of the bodies, noted they still wore their Chorl clothing, the garish colors now blackened and stained with weeks of wear and use. They’d refused to accept the clothes we’d offered them.
Catrell moved into the room behind me, crossed to another body, the Chorl’s shirt black with blood.
“Most of them have broken necks,” Catrell said from where he’d knelt. “Four of them killed themselves with this.” He pointed to a thin spine jutting out of the man’s chest over his heart, no longer than a knife, with no handle. “It’s some kind of shell or bone. And there are inscriptions etched into it.”
“Where did they get it?”
Catrell shrugged. “I don’t know. One of them must have had it on him and we didn’t find it when we searched them, when we took their armor, their weapons. Perhaps it was in a shoe, the lining of their clothing. Something.”
“Are you certain it didn’t come from one of the guards?”
Catrell stilled, hesitated, as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.
I stepped around the body, came to within a few inches of Catrell’s face. “Are you certain this was suicide, and not some guardsman taking out his anger over the attack on the city?”
He nodded. “Yes, it was suicide. We wouldn’t have snapped their necks, wouldn’t have killed them so cleanly. They would have been bloody and bruised and beaten. And none of us would have used a shell’s spine as a weapon.”
I frowned, glanced back at the bodies. Because he was right. The deaths were too clean to be revenge. And I’d never seen a knife like the one used to kill the last four Chorl.
But I didn’t understand it. Why would they kill themselves? They’d remained in the cells for over a month. Why now?
Catrell hesitated—I could taste it—then asked, “What should we do?”
The Throne of Amenkor Page 81