The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  They’d thought of each other then.

  I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even noticed.

  But now a hundred little gestures—a comforting hand here, a slight nod or smile there—flickered through my mind. A hundred little gestures now seen with completely new meaning.

  And now, Avrell was coming to Venitte with me, while Eryn stayed here.

  Far down the hall, Eryn began to cough, the sound painful to hear. She raised a cloth to her lips, while Avrell gripped her shoulder, his expression tortured as the fit worsened, as she tried to control it.

  And suddenly it was too personal a moment to be seen by me, by anyone.

  “Keven,” I said, turning, but he was already directing me toward one of the arched doorways that led off of the main corridor, had escorted me through and into the hall beyond, the guards following, before either Eryn or Avrell noticed us watching.

  “How long?” I asked, when I’d regained my breath, when the harsh hot stone in my chest had receded.

  Keven looked at me as we walked, face troubled. “Off and on for years.”

  I thought about how I’d suspected Avrell of wanting to assassinate Eryn in order to seize the throne, thought of what pain it must have caused him to watch her sink into madness, to come to the decision that the only way to help her was to kill her, and felt sick to my stomach.

  “Here we are, Mistress.”

  I glanced up, saw that we’d made our way back to the main corridor near the inner doorway, had passed through and were now in front of the door to Erick’s room.

  I drew in a breath, was surprised to hear it catch. Then I entered, Keven following close behind.

  The room reeked of old sweat and sickness, of a body that had remained stationary for too long. I went to order the windows open, then realized that they were already open, that the reek I smelled came from the river.

  I’d smelled the scent before, on the Dredge, and I felt my gut twist. It was the reek of despondency, of hope lost.

  Of death.

  On the far side of the room, at his desk, Isaiah looked up, his expression bruised and weary. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “I know,” I said. I moved across the room, pulled a chair up close to Erick’s bedside. Reaching out, I almost touched his hand, almost gripped it in my own, but then remembered the invisible needles that would prick his flesh at the touch.

  Withdrawing, I leaned back, tried not to sigh, blinked back the tears that threatened inexplicably at the corners of my eyes.

  “Keven.” My voice came out rough and thick. “Get Marielle. Have her bring Ottul here, with Trielle’s help.”

  I felt him hesitate, sensed Isaiah’s disapproval.

  “Are you certain?” Keven asked.

  I nodded. “I don’t know what else to do. And we’ve waited long enough.”

  Keven didn’t reply, just moved toward the door and murmured something to the guardsmen outside, then returned. I felt him at my back, felt Isaiah moving away from the bed, back to his desk. Both of their presences were comforts.

  But neither of them were the comfort I sought.

  I wanted William. I wanted to feel his fingers twined in mine as I stood by Erick’s bedside. I wanted his hands on my shoulders, as they had been the last time I withdrew from the Fire inside Erick, holding me, giving me strength. I wanted his touch.

  Because the last three months had been hell. The last three months of staring at Erick’s sickly pallor, at his sweat-drenched skin, at his flushed face. William had made it bearable.

  And now William was gone. Over petty jealousy.

  I hadn’t realized I’d miss him this much.

  Someone knocked on the door and Keven moved to answer it, opening it wide to allow Marielle, Trielle, and Ottul inside. The Chorl Servant moved uncertainly between the two Servants, stepping away from Keven, her gaze wary.

  Then she caught sight of me and halted, anger flaring in her eyes.

  Anger sparked deep down inside me as well. Narrowing my gaze, I said, “Come here.”

  Ottul hesitated, chin lifting in defiance—

  But then something in that defiance crumbled. Grief flickered through her expression, and I thought of the hours Marielle said Ottul spent kneeling on the floor of her rooms, back hunched, rocking as tears streaked her face and she whispered guttural prayers. Grief that had started when she’d learned of the other Chorl captives’ suicides.

  With a glance toward Marielle, toward Trielle, Ottul stepped forward and bowed her head.

  I drew in a deep, steadying breath, then said, “Look at him.”

  When Ottul didn’t glance up, didn’t move, I barked, “Look at him!”

  Ottul started, her head snapping up, eyes flashing. Behind her, Marielle and Trielle flinched; Keven stiffened.

  But Ottul looked where I pointed, looked at Erick. Her eyes flared again with heat, with hatred, but then her brow creased in confusion and she turned back to me.

  “What did the Ochean do to him?” I asked. “Tell me what she did to him, and tell me how to stop it.”

  I could feel the tears burning at the edges of my eyes again. When Ottul didn’t answer, I reached forward, grabbed her arm, and hauled her forward to the side of Erick’s bed, felt her resist, her eyes wide. “Tell me what she did to him,” I repeated, and then I tore open the shirt above Erick’s chest, exposed the angry red mark above his heart.

  Ottul gasped and jerked backward, one hand clutching at her chest, the other gesturing as words poured from her in a rush, short and sharp and clipped. My hand latched onto her upper arm again before she could flee and I dragged her to a halt. She fought me, tried to twist out of my grasp, fell to her knees, her voice cracking.

  “What is it?” I spat. “What is it and how do I heal it? Help me!”

  “No,” Ottul whispered, then broke into her own language. Her eyes closed and she sank lower to the floor, collapsing forward, until I was forced to let her go or hold her upright. “No! Not help,” she gasped, her terrified words degenerating into sobs. “Not help.”

  I stood back, all of the anger sapped from me, replaced by a dull sense of resignation. I watched as Ottul sank over her knees, her arms pulled in tight, hands clutched behind her neck. A protective curl, completely different from the kneeling position she used for prayer in her room.

  She was frightened, had taken up a defensive posture, her shoulders trembling. I recognized it from the Dredge, arms and knees tight to protect the face and most vulnerable parts of the body from harm, that let the rest of the body absorb the blows.

  Ottul expected to be beaten.

  I felt Keven draw close behind me. “I don’t think she’s going to help.”

  “No. I don’t think she can help. I don’t think she knows how. But she’s seen this before.” My voice was lifeless. I drew in a deep breath, smelled Ottul’s terror on the river, sharp with salt. “Take her back to her rooms.”

  I turned away as Marielle and Trielle moved forward, gathered Ottul up, and led her to the door. I listened as her sobs continued, interspersed with broken words, with gasps and moans. I could follow her movements, tremors reverberating on the river.

  When the room had quieted, I sighed.

  Then I dove deep into the river and pushed outward, toward Erick’s Fire.

  Hello, Varis.

  I settled into the Fire, the seething pain from the needles piercing Erick’s flesh a nagging intrusion in the background. A familiar intrusion now.

  Erick.

  I felt Erick’s essence twist, felt him scrutinize me. What’s wrong?

  I’d thought I’d controlled myself before Reaching, but at Erick’s words, layered with concern, with a vicious protectiveness that was meaningless where he now lay, trapped inside his own body, I broke.

  The fear over Eryn’s sickness, the despondency over Er
ick’s condition, the fact that Ottul wouldn’t be able to help, the turmoil over William and Brandan, the tender bitterness seen in the kiss Avrell had given Eryn—all of it welled up and surged forth in uncontrolled sobbing, all mixed together, all indistinguishable. A miasma of raw emotion that felt too large for me to hold.

  Erick responded by drawing me in, uttering nonsense words to hush me, rocking me back and forth as he’d done before, when I’d killed the fat man who’d snuck up behind him while he was taking care of another mark. Back then, he’d bundled me up in a blanket that reeked of grease and sweat while I cried hysterically, and he’d taken me back to my niche.

  I smelled the grease and sweat of that blanket now, felt it enfolding me, smothering me . . . and I fought it back, pushed up and out of its comfort. I wanted nothing more than to let Erick hold me, to let him take the pain away, but not this time. I hadn’t come here to be comforted.

  I can’t, I sobbed, thrashing away, the ache and turmoil melding over into anger. I can’t help you, Erick. Eryn has tried, I’ve tried, and now even Ottul can’t help you. I don’t know how to help you, Erick! I don’t know what to do!

  The admission tore something deep inside me, a pain that was visceral, almost real. A pain like that which had torn Eryn inside, that was tearing her up even now, that was killing her, visible only in the hacking coughs . . . and the speckled blood on her hands.

  The pain sapped the last of my strength. I quit struggling out of Erick’s comfort . . . and found that he was no longer offering it.

  We sat in silence. I could hear my breath—his breath—echoing raggedly in his chest. As if we’d physically struggled, actually fought.

  There was a distance between us, a gulf that felt as if it would never be breached.

  Perhaps, Erick began, his voice strangely empty, lifeless. He hesitated a long moment, then continued. Perhaps there’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do.

  I didn’t answer. Because I’d been thinking the same thing for the last month. Ottul had been my last hope. I just hadn’t been willing to voice it.

  And because I didn’t know where that left him, where it left me. I was afraid of where it left us.

  What . . . should I do?

  I didn’t like the tentativeness in my voice. I could hear an unspoken possibility hidden behind the words, a possibility that I couldn’t voice, that I would never have brought up, had never intended to bring up.

  A possibility that apparently Erick had also considered.

  End it.

  My breath halted.

  My gut instinctively clenched, screamed no, but I’d distanced myself from the roil of emotions, had fought them back.

  I can’t stay like this forever, Varis, Erick said, and I felt his anger as he voiced the unspeakable. But not the unthinkable. I can’t live like this! You’ve tried everything you could think of, Eryn’s tried, Isaiah’s tried, there’s nothing left to try!

  I thought of Ottul. Perhaps she’d misunderstood, perhaps she could help after all—

  But I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen her reaction, had sensed her terror on the river. She couldn’t fake that, couldn’t hide it.

  I could smell the death in the room.

  Varis, listen to me. Erick reached out in the Fire. But not in comfort. He grabbed me, shook me, his anger palpable, his fury at what he had become bleeding into my essence like oil. You don’t know what it’s like in here, Varis. His voice was a vicious growl. I’m trapped in here! I’m trapped in here with nothing but memories! Memories like this!

  And with a violent lurch, he dragged me in, dragged me into himself, past the barrier between us, the barrier that kept us separate from each other, that kept us distinct. I cried out, in denial, in shock—

  And then I screamed. A hideous, roaring scream of pure and utter pain as white-hot fire touched skin. A scream that tore at my already raw throat, that went on and on as the iron spike pressed deeper in my thigh, searing flesh, muscle, tendon, the black stench of cooking meat filling the stone chamber.

  When the iron spike was removed, the man who’d held my naked body upright during the torture, hand entwined in my hair, another around my neck, body tight against my back to keep me from writhing, thrust me to the side. I landed with a thump on the sand-covered floor, wrenched my shoulder, my legs—tied with thorny vines—twisting beneath me. I barked at the new pain, but the throb in my shoulder was nothing compared to the sizzling heat from my thigh.

  Arms tied so tight behind my back that my chest muscles screamed at the tension, I rolled until my forehead rested against the sand. It felt cool against my sweat-drenched skin, and I sobbed, sand blowing away from my face.

  A sandaled, blue-tinged foot fell in front of my face and I squeezed my eyes tight. Cloth rustled as the man knelt down beside me, a hand gripping my face, turning it harshly, squeezing until I snapped open my eyes, stared up at him through the blur of tears, of sweat, of blood.

  Haqtl. The head priest. Black eyes. To complement the black tattoos that writhed on his face, stark against his yellow-and-red-banded shirt.

  I sucked in a ragged breath, tasted blood on my lips, phlegm. Today would be a bad day.

  Haqtl thrust my head back down into the sand, ground it in deep, grit getting into my eyes, sucked into my lungs as I tried to breathe, as he shoved harder, closing off the last tendrils of air. I struggled, began to kick and twist, thrashing my legs, the muscles in my chest reawakening with renewed pain, the white-hot patch on my thigh cracking open, blood trickling down my leg, but the struggles were weak . . . so weak. I’d been here for days, for weeks, each day the same, each torture unique.

  But the worst days were with Haqtl.

  I ceased struggling, and with a wrench, Haqtl lifted my head free, glared down at me as I spat blood and sand into his face. He didn’t flinch, simply thrust me onto my back.

  “Queotl,” he barked, a phrase he’d repeated a thousand times during these sessions. He placed one foot on my chest, began exerting pressure. “Queotl!”

  The pressure increased, pain beginning to shoot through my back, my arms caught beneath me. The thorns from the vines used to tie them began to dig into flesh, into scratches that had finally scabbed over that morning after days of abuse.

  I began to roar, Haqtl pressing down harder, the thorns digging deeper, until the roar broke into wretched sobbing.

  Haqtl’s weight lifted. I rolled to the side instantly, released the tension in my arms, on the vines twisted around and around the muscles there.

  “I don’t understand you,” I spat in anger, then rolled back again.

  Haqtl glared down at me, face severe.

  “I don’t understand you!” I bellowed.

  Without flinching, Haqtl stepped forward, barked something else, something I’d never heard him say before.

  The Chorl behind him moved instantly, bringing forth a box. Carved of wood, riddled with curved icons like the tattoos on the Chorl men’s faces, on Haqtl’s face, the Chorl priest set the box down in the sand beside him and lifted off the lid.

  From within, he withdrew a thin needle as long as his hand, the spine of some seashell or sea creature, and a clay bottle stoppered with wax. He pierced the wax with the spine, withdrew it slowly, then set the bottle back into the box.

  I jerked back when he stepped forward, a drop of liquid falling from the tip of the needle onto my skin. Where it landed on my chest, my skin burned, an agonizing burn that spread into the surrounding muscle, deep, deeper, like a thousand needles, as if my skin had literally caught fire.

  And he hadn’t even touched me with the spine.

  I writhed to one side, sand spraying outward as I kicked, and Haqtl barked another command, the two Chorl warriors stepping forward. One kicked me in the stomach, then fell to my side with one knee planted on my chest. The other grabbed my legs.

  Immobiliz
ed, I could only watch as Haqtl came around to my head, knelt beside me and raised the spine over my chest, over my heart. He glared down into my face, mouth set . . . and then he closed his eyes.

  A blanket fell over me, a pressure that smothered me from neck to toe.

  Haqtl began to murmur something, a whisper, barely audible.

  And the spine began to descend.

  I tried to struggle, felt the muscles in my neck tense as I willed myself to jerk free of the Chorl warrior’s hands, as I commanded my body to move!

  But the blanket that smothered me didn’t slacken.

  A moment before the spine touched the skin over my heart, before it sank into flesh, pierced skin and dug deeper, and deeper still, Haqtl opened his eyes . . . and smiled, his whispered chant falling silent.

  And then I screamed—

  And Erick thrust me back, pushed me from the memory with a roaring cry of his own, our two howls melding until we both broke at the same time, gasping into the trembling silence.

  Still heaving, Erick said, more calmly than I expected, voice hoarse, ragged, That is what I’m living with. Those memories. That pain. That is what you’re asking me to endure, over and over again.

  Varis, I can’t remain in this body. I can’t live with it anymore. You need to set me free, Varis. You need to end it.

  You need to kill me.

  And then he released me, withdrew, left me sobbing again, my essence twisting in upon itself, unable to reach out for comfort, unable to find comfort within. Is this what it had felt like for Avrell, when he’d tried to free Eryn from the throne and finally realized his only way to save her was to kill her? Had he suffered like this?

  I didn’t know. I’d dealt with him for less than a year on a regular basis. He’d shown none of this pain when he and Borund had ordered the Mistress’ death. But if he had felt this way, if he had felt this vicious scintillant pain, as if someone had knifed him in the gut, someone close, someone trusted, how had he survived?