The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  Men had died on this wall. Thousands upon thousands, both Chorl and Venittians alike.

  It seemed too white in the sunlight. Too clean.

  Twenty minutes later, the carriages ground to a halt at the base of the wide stairs leading up to the domed Council building, long banners attached to the building and streaming down the walls ruffling in the breeze. An escort of the Protectorate stood in the plaza before the stairs, waiting. As soon as everyone had assembled, Keven positioning Ottul and the Servants in the center of the group, we ascended the steps, passed through another plaza surrounded by high columns, a rectangular pool of water at its center, and then through two massive open doors. The boots of the guardsmen echoed on the marble floor as we crossed the foyer into another room, the people on all sides inside the building pausing in their activities to watch as we were led across this second chamber, lined with huge urns and potted plants, to another set of doors surrounded by more of the Protectorate.

  Words were exchanged, and one of the Protectors slid through the doors.

  And then we waited.

  I exchanged an annoyed glance with Avrell, gazed out into the room, sank beneath the river and watched the flow of the people, the hurried pace of the young messengers, the more sedate walk of men and women conducting business. Two men were having a heated argument in the far corner, and all of the guardsmen radiated tension.

  Then the doors opened again and another man, dressed in robes not unlike those worn by Avrell but burgundy and gold rather than the First’s deep blue, approached.

  “Lord March and the Council of Eight are ready to receive you now,” the man said, and he motioned toward the open doorway.

  Sudden fear gripped my stomach, and the palms of my hands grew sweaty. My hand drifted toward my dagger, but I snatched it away, drew my shoulders back, and nodded to the man in burgundy.

  He led us into the Council chambers.

  Lord March sat in a high-backed chair at the center of a group of tables set up in a U-shape that opened toward the door, the eight members of the Council split into two groups of four, seated to either side, all of them facing the center of the room. Behind each seat were more chairs, where pages and clerks sat, dressed in various forms of burgundy, awaiting the orders of their Lord or Lady. Above each seat hung a banner with the symbol of the house represented on it, all of them except Lord March’s some type of bird, most with elongated legs, thin necks, feathered crests, and long, piercing beaks. The marble floor was patterned, the outside black, pierced by a circle of white rays, all of which sprouted from the curved wall behind Lord March. The curved portion of the wall was made of black stone, the surrounding walls gray-white granite, and with a start I realized I recognized what lay beyond the curved wall.

  The obsidian chamber that Cerrin had called the Council of Seven, where the Seven members had met, had argued and planned.

  And where they’d died creating the two thrones.

  A shudder ran through me, a visceral ache as I recalled the Seven writhing beneath the throne’s power, as I felt each of them die. It left the taste of ash in my mouth.

  “Lord March,” our escort said, bowing, “Lords and Ladies of the Council, may I introduce the Mistress of Amenkor.”

  I dragged my eyes away from the Council of Seven’s chambers, away from the black walls and the taste of blood in my mouth, and focused on Lord March.

  He wore a black-and-burgundy cape lined with gold thread that rustled as he stood, his piercing brown eyes settling on me, holding me, capturing me. His brown hair was streaked with gray and hung down to his shoulders, but his trimmed beard—a fashion that seemed common in Venitte—was almost completely gray, making his eyes appear darker than they were. His face was lined with age, but like Eryn, it made him more powerful rather than feeble. And he radiated that power, his confidence in his position permeating the chamber, as thick in the air as the throne’s power had been when I’d first stepped into the throne room.

  Beneath his gaze—both intelligent and dangerous, almost a Seeker’s gaze, but without the Seeker’s fine edge—beneath his presence, I shifted, aware that I was being judged, that an opinion was being formed . . . and that the opinion would decide everything.

  The gutterscum came forward inside me, stiffened my shoulders, tightened my jaw. The same defiance I’d felt on the Dredge, when some carter had spat at me or tried to kick me; the same defiance that I’d felt when I’d first met the merchants of Amenkor as Mistress.

  Lord March, like the carter, like the merchants, had no right to judge me.

  His head lowered at the subtle change. His eyes glinted.

  But on the river, unlike most of the other Lords and Ladies, he was a mix of red and gray. He could be a danger to me, or not.

  He hadn’t decided yet.

  “Welcome to Venitte, Mistress.” His voice filled the hall, although he did not speak loudly and I could not sense any use of the river to augment it. “May I present the Council of Eight. Lords Sorrenti, Boradarn, Aurowan, and Lady Casari.” He motioned to his right. Lord Sorrenti nodded more deeply than the others, but only by a fraction. His eyes revealed nothing, and he made no gesture indicating that we’d already met. Lady Casari smiled, the expression tight-lipped, almost bitter. They all rose as they were introduced. “And on my left, Lords Demasque and Dussain, and Ladies Tormaul and Parmati.” Demasque frowned as he nodded, his eyes never leaving my face. Dussain was younger than all of the others by at least ten years, smiling as he stood and nodded. Both of the ladies’ expressions were blank, although Lady Tormaul held my gaze as she nodded, before looking down at the table before her.

  As soon as everyone had been introduced, the Council of Eight sank back into their seats. A few pages were immediately called forward with a curt whisper or sharp gesture and sent running.

  Lord March’s attention never left me.

  “Captain Tristan has informed me and the Council of what transpired in Amenkor—of the Chorl attack on the city, of the damage you suffered, not only to the city, but to the throne.” At this, the low murmur that had built as he spoke quieted, everyone watching my reaction. “From what he said, the damage to the port was extensive, and the fact that you are here—when no Mistress has ever been able to leave the city before—tells us how extensive the damage was to the throne.”

  I felt my jaw clench, thought of Lord Pyre’s accusations in Temall, that perhaps I was not the true Mistress, that perhaps the power of Amenkor was dead. There was a hint of this accusation in Lord March’s voice.

  “I’m certain that Captain Tristan’s report was accurate,” I said, “but Amenkor survives. The inner walls have already been rebuilt, as well as the wharf.”

  “And the throne?”

  I turned to face Lord Demasque, felt a flicker of irritation from Lord March at Demasque’s interruption.

  I gathered the power of the river around me, felt Lord Sorrenti stiffen, lean forward in sudden alarm, but I did nothing but make the river heavier around all of the Lords and Ladies, let them feel its pressure, like a weight upon their shoulders. Darkening my voice in warning, I said, “Amenkor is alive and well. Enough that when we learned that the Chorl were not advancing on us, but on Venitte, we traveled here to offer you our assistance.”

  All of the Council of Eight straightened in their seats, the clerks and pages behind them shifting uncomfortably. I let them squirm beneath the river’s weight a moment longer, kept my attention on Lord Demasque, then let the river subside and turned back to Lord March.

  “The Chorl cannot be ignored. They almost destroyed Amenkor. In a day. They’ve seized the Boreaite Isles, have seized Bosun’s Bay, and when we left Temall, Lord Pyre said they were marching on Venitte.”

  Lord March’s frown had deepened. “Captain Tristan informed me of what happened in Temall as well. He claims that your actions have cost us Lord Pyre’s support.”

&n
bsp; The rebuke stung and my nostrils flared in defiance, aware that Avrell had shifted in warning at my side. But before he could caution me, I caught myself. Taking a deep breath, I nodded.

  “Yes. I thought that the Chorl had already claimed Temall, had already begun an advance on Amenkor, so I sent in Seekers as scouts without first seeking Lord Pyre’s permission. He took offense.

  “He also does not feel the Chorl are a threat. He is wrong.”

  Lord March considered the words a long moment in silence, as if trying to make a decision, his frown never wavering. But finally he nodded and leaned forward. “There are those on this Council,” he said, “who believe that the Chorl don’t exist, that they are simply a more organized band of pirates, that these pirates are using the old stories of blue-skinned sea demons to spread fear, to make their raids more successful.” A note of derision had crept into his voice, and I sensed Lord Boradarn shifting in his seat, saw Lady Parmati frown out of the corner of my eye.

  Lord March’s focus shifted from me, toward Ottul. “But I see that you’ve brought proof that the Chorl are real.”

  Lady Parmati snorted. “She could be painted blue, made to look like one of the sea demons from legend.”

  “And risk us inspecting her? Here, in the middle of the Council of Eight?” Lord March was no longer hiding his derision. “This is not one of your staged stories, Lady Parmati. These are not actors spouting words for you and your guests’ entertainment. Are you going to publicly claim that the Mistress of Amenkor is lying? Do you doubt the word of Captain Tristan, of his entire crew? They fought the Chorl, on the trip to Amenkor and again on their way back. Their stories have already begun to spread through Venitte. And those stories are being verified by other captains, other merchants.”

  Lady Parmati tilted her chin up at Lord March’s tone, at his almost visible anger, and her mouth clamped shut. A faint blush had crept up the pale skin of her neck, reaching the base of her curled black hair, piled high and kept in place with two pins. Her dangling gold earrings glinted in the light as she trembled in rage, her eyes narrowing.

  But she did not respond.

  Lord March’s gaze raked the rest of the Lords and Ladies present. “Does anyone else wish to question the Mistress’ intentions?”

  Silence. Not even a whisper of cloth from the pages or clerks.

  But on the river, I could feel the hostility. From Demasque and Parmati, their figures washed in red. Hostility toward me . . .

  And toward Lord March.

  Lord March nodded at the silence, leaned back as he turned to me. “Amenkor has always been an ally. Always, even if we have had our disagreements at times. But in this matter, I do not believe we disagree. From what you have told me, from what Captain Tristan has seen and experienced firsthand, I believe the Chorl are a threat. And if they are marching on Venitte, then we must prepare. I only regret that we could not come to your aid when the Chorl attacked Amenkor.”

  As he spoke, the hostility on the river grew . . . but not from all quarters. Lord Sorrenti—a mixed red and gray—shifted entirely to gray, as did Lady Casari and Lords Boradarn and Dussain.

  Lord March himself became almost entirely gray, with only a faint sheen of red remaining.

  “There was no forewarning,” I said. “There was no chance for Venitte to help us.”

  “As you say. But we have been forewarned about the attack on Venitte, and for that—now that the contention that the Chorl are nothing but bandits has finally been laid to rest—we are grateful. If you will excuse us, we must begin our preparations.”

  I frowned at the dismissal, almost turned and retreated, felt Avrell willing me to do so.

  But I halted, Lord March noting the hesitation even as his attention began to shift.

  He raised an eyebrow in question.

  Allowing my annoyance to color my voice, I asked, “Are we still restricted to our . . . estates?”

  Some of the Council stilled, breath caught at the tone of my voice.

  But, for the first time since we’d arrived, Lord March smiled. “Of course not, Mistress. All of Venitte is at your disposal.”

  I nodded, then turned, passing through my entourage as they parted before me and out through the door.

  * * *

  I didn’t begin trembling until the carriage had made it halfway back to the Amenkor estates, and as I let out my pent-up breath in a long sigh, Avrell leaned forward.

  “That,” he said, “went better than I expected.”

  “In what way?” I asked snidely.

  A smile touched his lips. “You have your own style, Mistress. You’re direct, and you don’t hide your emotions well. In Amenkor, as Mistress, there’s no one to question you, to censure you.”

  “You question me all the time.”

  “True. But you rarely listen.”

  I couldn’t respond to that, noticed that Marielle, William, and Keven were studiously watching the passing city outside the windows.

  “But here in Venitte,” he continued, “you aren’t the only power. You saw the Council today. I expected your style and Venitte’s to clash.”

  “They did clash.”

  Avrell shook his head. “Not as badly as you think. Lord March did more than simply welcome you to Venitte. He announced to everyone on the Council that he recognizes you as the Mistress of Amenkor, with or without the throne. He announced that, whatever dissension there may have been in the Council before this regarding the Chorl, the dissension is now over.”

  “And he’s announced war,” Keven said.

  Avrell frowned, but not in disagreement. “Yes, he has.”

  “Why the frown?” William asked. “Wasn’t that our intent in coming down here? To warn Venitte? To prepare them for the Chorl?”

  “He’s frowning,” I said in answer, “because not everyone on the Council of Eight is in agreement with Lord March.”

  Avrell stared at me a moment. “You’ve never been to Venitte, never seen the Councillors. What did you see in the Council chamber today?”

  I thought back to the room, sifted through all of the emotions I’d felt on the river. Not as the Mistress of Amenkor, but as gutterscum from the Dredge.

  “Lord Demasque and Lady Parmati,” I said.

  Avrell nodded. “Artren Demasque has always been a thorn in Lord March’s side. He’d like more control of the trade routes to the southern isles. He’d like control of them all. And Vaiana Parmati wants control of Venitte itself, something her family has not had for generations. Once, her family ruled Venitte as the head of the Council, the position that Lord March holds now. She wants to reclaim that title. Who else?”

  I shrugged. “Lords Sorrenti, Boradarn, and Dussain—and Lady Casari—were gray by the end of the meeting. The rest were mixed.”

  “Which means?” Keven said.

  “Those that are gray are Lord March’s supporters,” Avrell said, “and no threat to Varis.”

  “The others are unknown. They may be a threat, or not, depending on what happens. It usually means that they haven’t decided whether I’m a danger to them or not.”

  “Which means we need to be wary of them,” Keven said.

  “And we should have Lord Demasque and Lady Parmati watched.” Avrell caught my gaze. “Lord March has given everyone from Amenkor leave to see the city. Including the Seekers.”

  I glanced out the windows of the carriage, saw that we had arrived back at the estates. “Westen will be thrilled.”

  * * *

  “No!” Ottul stamped her foot on the grass of the gardens within the walls of the Amenkor estate in Venitte. “No, no, no!”

  Before her, standing facing each other, Marielle and Heddan let the shields and the threads of the river around them relax, turning toward the Chorl Servant. “What?” Marielle said in exasperation. “We’re doing exactly what you said!�
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  Ottul muttered something in the Chorl language, and Gwenn, sitting cross-legged beside me in the grass at the edge of the garden, laughed.

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  Gwenn giggled. “She said none of us would have survived in the Teotohuaca—the Servant temple in the Chorl Isles. She said we would have been killed for incompetence before we even achieved ket—the second gold ring.”

  I grunted. “Like Ottul’s sister was killed?”

  The smile fell from Gwenn’s face. “Yes.”

  I reached forward and tousled Gwenn’s hair. She ducked her head, grinning tentatively again. “Then I’m glad we aren’t at this temple.”

  On the grass, Ottul had moved up to Marielle’s side, her expression stern. “Like so,” she said, and then she reached out on the river, pulling threads into focus as I’d seen her do on the Defiant during the battle. She made an impatient gesture at Heddan. The other Servant gave a start, then pulled a shield into place before her.

  Once Heddan was ready, Ottul carefully began to weave the threads she’d gathered, muttering, “So, and so, and so!” while Marielle squinted in concentration. I’d seen Ottul do the same thing on the ship, and had thought I could mimic it without her help, but the first few sessions in the garden had taught me it wasn’t as simple as it looked. It was a variation on the conduit that Eryn had designed in Amenkor, but the manipulation of the river was more complex. The threads had to be placed perfectly for the conduit to work.

  Conduit ready, Ottul attached it to Heddan’s shield. The younger Servant gasped as the additional strength augmented her shield.

  Then Ottul severed the conduit and stepped back. “Try!” Except it wasn’t a request. Ottul made the single word a command, without any allowance for failure.

  Marielle shot her a dark look, which was ignored, then pulled the river to her.

  I watched Ottul for a moment, her arms crossed, back rigid, face set in a partial scowl. “She reminds me of Laurren,” I said, under my breath.