And the tunnel. The tunnel to the caves, to the small dock, the water lapping up against the stone, the boats bumping against each other where they were tied. They’d even rigged a hoist, to get the heavier crates and barrels through the steepest parts of the tunnel and into the stable.
How long has it been since you slept? Eryn asked, the question casual, cutting into my silence.
I almost didn’t answer. Then, grudgingly: I haven’t slept well since the raid.
Because of the raid? Because of Lord March?
That, and because of the dreams.
Dreams of the throne?
Yes. I hesitated. They’re stronger than before, deeper, more intense. It’s harder to withdraw from them afterward.
Because you’re close to the second throne. Because you’re under its influence there in Venitte. Sorrenti has already admitted that it’s still there, that it’s still in use.
I didn’t answer.
Are they the same kinds of dreams as you were having here?
Yes. Cerrin’s dreams mostly, about the previous attack on the coast by the Chorl. He’s the one who designed the thrones. He’s the one who sacrificed himself to create them.
Eryn grimaced. They all sacrificed themselves to create the thrones.
Yes, but that wasn’t the intent. It should have only taken one sacrifice, according to Cerrin. He meant to kill himself, to escape his wife and daughters’ deaths, to escape that pain.
Eryn stilled, suddenly thoughtful. But something went wrong?
I don’t know. He thought that he’d die and that the others would continue ruling the coast without him. I don’t think any of the others knew what he intended. I don’t think he told them. They were already split about whether to create the thrones in the first place.
Eryn considered this for a long moment, lost within herself, then seemed to return.
You should return to Venitte, she said. Lord March will summon you shortly, I’m certain.
There was an undertone to her voice, something she wanted to keep hidden, something new that I could not quite sense, not without taking control of her through the Fire. Something to do with the Skewed Throne.
I thought about doing just that, taking control, just enough to find out what she’d been thinking . . . but then I relented. Because whatever it was also had something to do with her sickness, and that was a private pain, one that I already knew I could not help her with, even through the Fire. We’d already tried.
And so I retreated, pushed myself up and out of the Fire, up and out over Amenkor, the sight of the city—the walls, the outer city, the wharf with three ships at dock and five more under construction, the encircling arms of the harbor and the newly broken ground where the wall would be built—somehow calming. Then I sped south, along the coast, toward the pinprick of fire in the city of Venitte, where Gwenn and Heddan had linked themselves to me so that I could Reach this far.
As I sped over land, Venitte almost within sight on the horizon, I caught movement, caught the last vestiges of power as someone used the river. I slowed, glanced down at the ground speeding past beneath me—
And saw the Chorl, saw rank after rank of them, marching down a road, through rolling hills, spilling out onto the surrounding grassland, dotted with little copses of trees, the darker green paths of creeks. A huge line of supply wagons followed the army itself, stretching back into the distance. At the head of the army, riding on horseback, sat Atlatik, his face set, expressionless, the lower half of his left ear sliced off. The tattoos on his face stood out in the sunlight, and his eyes were fixed on the horizon.
On Venitte.
He was surrounded by other Chorl warriors on horseback, all of them uncomfortable astride their mounts, their faces set in scowls or grimaces. Four of these carried huge banners on poles, all four banners carrying the spined seashell that had been emblazoned on the Ochean’s sails as she entered Amenkor’s harbor. The banners were a variety of colors—green, gold, blue, and purple.
Behind this group were Chorl Servants, some trudging along the road in their sandals, most seated or curled up on pillows and blankets in carts and wagons. Mixed in among the Servants were priests dressed in yellow shirts and brown breeches, carrying scepters of reed with brightly colored feathers and shells tied to them.
I didn’t see Haqtl.
And behind them: Chorl warriors. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Their multicolored tunics vibrant in the sunlight, their dark blue tattoos harsh and clear against their lighter skin.
I gasped, felt my heart falter.
Then I spun and fled toward Venitte, toward the city that waited on the coast only three days distant, toward the Fire that burned in its Merchant Quarter inside of my own body.
I fell into that body, felt myself shudder, felt Gwenn and Heddan pull back their conduits as I heaved in a gasping breath, lurched forward, then fumbled as I tried to catch myself and my arms refused to move, tingling as if the blood had drained from them, already beginning to tremble with the use of the river.
I heard Gwenn gasp, felt her reach forward—
But it was Erick who caught me.
“The Chorl,” I gasped, my voice hoarse, weak with disuse.
“What about the Chorl,” Erick said.
And then I realized it was Erick who had caught me.
Erick, not Keven.
I stared into his face, at his slightly grayer hair, shocked, afraid to touch him, even though he already held my arms, too afraid to move for fear that he’d step back and leave me again.
And he grinned.
“Erick,” I said, and then I was sobbing into his chest, trying to control it, but trembling from weakness, from the exertion of sustaining the river for so long, for so far. I breathed in the scent of his sweat, tasted oranges, acrid and sharp, on my tongue, smelled for a brief, bitter moment the warmth of fresh bread, flour, and yeast . . . and everything felt right, everything felt normal again.
Erick held me close, rocked slightly back and forth. I could feel his pulse through his shirt, could sense a lingering weakness there, the last traces of his illness, of his torture, knew that there would still be a harsh red scar on his chest above his heart, one that might never fade. But he was healing, had healed, would continue to heal.
And he was here. Awake. After all the long months.
Finally, after I’d calmed, I pushed away, my arms no longer weak, no longer trembling. It should have taken me longer to recover, even with Gwenn and Heddan there to help me; I’d been gone much longer than expected, had spoken to Eryn longer than I intended. But I shoved the niggling concern aside and focused on Erick. I looked him in the eyes, held them, searched them as I asked, “Are you back?”
He smiled, but it carried with it a layer of blackness, a bleakness that I didn’t think would ever go away. Not after what Haqtl had done to him, not after what he’d endured at the hands of the Chorl. “Yes. Westen is satisfied with my recovery. And Isaiah has finally given me leave to return to duty.”
“What about Keven?”
Erick’s face went blank. “Would you rather have him as your personal guard?”
I gave Erick my harshest glare and his blank expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of mirth, that was quickly smothered and put back under control.
In a dead serious voice, he said, “Keven and I have agreed that you are far too dangerous a person to be allowed to run free, and so we’ve decided that we will both be required to guard you.”
I punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, gasping, faking extreme pain. I knew he was faking because I’d barely touched him. Westen and the rest of the Seekers had taken him almost instantly after he’d been freed from the blanket of needles, had brought him back from his deathbed fast. He’d seen the attack coming, had already shifted out of the direct line of the punch.
When he sa
w me smile, he straightened. “Now,” he said, truly serious this time, all humor gone from his voice, “what about the Chorl?”
“I saw them, on my way back from speaking to Eryn in Amenkor. They’re just north of the city.”
“How many?”
I sat back into my chair. “Thousands of them.”
Erick’s jaw set. “We knew they were coming. It was only a matter of time.”
Behind him, Gwenn and Heddan exchanged a look.
And then Avrell stepped into the door to my rooms, William a step behind, Alonse shadowing them both.
“Mistress,” the First said, his voice anxious, “Lord March and the Council of Eight has sent a summons.”
* * *
“What can I expect?” I asked Avrell as the carriage trundled through the streets of Venitte toward Deranian’s Wall and the council chambers.
The First shook his head. “I have no idea. Lord March could side with you, or not. The other Lords and Ladies may side with you, or not.” He sighed, grimaced. “At the very least, you can expect Lord Demasque to attack you, your credibility. And you can’t use your dagger to defend yourself.”
I turned away from him, the occupants of the carriage—Avrell, Erick, William, a few other guardsmen—falling silent. Avrell glanced toward Erick, who shrugged, but I ignored them, stared out at the city as it passed, my stomach churning. With anger, with anxiety, with fear.
After a long moment, I felt someone’s hand enfold mine. I clutched at it desperately with both hands, breathed in William’s scent on the river, drew in the comfort he offered. I turned toward him, caught his smile as he squeezed my hand, saw Erick’s accompanying frown and quick questioning look toward Avrell beyond him, then turned back toward the window.
Outside, I could see the first signs of the upcoming Fete. Merchants had placed sheaves of grain above their doorways, tied ribbons to their signs or hung wreaths on their doors or in their windows. The hawkers and peddlers in the streets had shifted their wares toward the summer harvest, the first few squash appearing, bright yellow and deep orange, a few mottled with green spots. Tomatoes and cucumbers filled one cart. A woman stood at a street corner, a long thin basket tied to her back, the giant heads of vivid sunflowers sprouting from the top, their centers black.
Reaching for the river, I could feel the mounting excitement in the air. Like that in Amenkor before the festival I’d thrown to celebrate surviving the Chorl. But it was tainted, and I thought about what Tristan had said. That the rumors of the Chorl had penetrated the depths of the city of Venitte, that stories were being told of the attack on Amenkor, of the attack on the ships sailing out of the harbor, of the loss of Bosun’s Bay and the Boreaite Isles. I could feel the uncertainty those rumors caused on the river, could taste the sourness beneath the anticipation of the Fete. It gave my nausea over the upcoming Council meeting a dagger’s edge, and I swallowed its bitterness down as I settled back into my seat.
Then we passed into the shadow of the Wall.
The carriage pulled up to the same wide steps that led to the rectangular pool of water in the plaza surrounded by columns outside the Council building. There, a group of Protectorate greeted us, the commander of the unit bowing crisply.
“General Daeriun sends his regrets,” the commander said, straightening as Erick, Avrell, William, and the other guardsmen stepped out of the carriage onto the stone of the roadway. He caught and held my eyes. “He told me to tell you that Lord March sends his regrets as well.”
I frowned, but before I could ask anything, the commander turned and barked an order, the Protectors on all sides re-forming around us as he led the way up the steps.
“What was that about?” Erick asked, stepping in close so that only Avrell, William, and I could hear him.
“It was about the Council meeting,” Avrell answered, his voice tight. “It’s a warning.”
“Lord March and General Daeriun aren’t going to support us,” William added.
I nodded.
And then we were inside the Hall itself, passing into the shadow of the foyer and through into its outer room. Erick’s eyebrows rose as he took in the size of the room, the ornate marble flooring, the massive banners and detailed carving of the support columns, but he said nothing, his eyes falling to the people, to the clerks and pages, merchants and guardsmen that dotted the outer room. But none of these people were important, so in the end his eyes turned toward the two massive doors that led into the Council chamber, toward where the commander of the escorting Protectorate had paused, had turned to await our approach.
“The Council of Eight is already waiting,” he said.
And then the doors opened and we were led inside.
I slid beneath the river as I passed through the doors. I thought I had prepared myself for what I would find there, but it still made me hiss. A sound so low that only Erick and Avrell heard it, and both of them knew instantly what it meant.
I felt each of them tense, felt Erick bristle and turn, his back slightly to me, facing outward, protecting me, his hands falling lightly to his side. A casual pose, but one deceptively calm. Avrell stepped forward, his chin high, shoulders back, meeting the hostile stares of the Council of Eight directly, protecting me as well, but in a different way, defiant and challenging. William stepped into his place at my side, his hand also falling to the sword at his side.
The Amenkor guardsmen that accompanied us reacted to Erick’s, William’s, and Avrell’s stance, stepping up sharply on all sides, hands on hilts, creating a half circle with Erick and William on its inner edge, Avrell ahead, leaving just enough room for me to pass through its center.
I lifted my head, nostrils flaring for a moment, letting the river course around me. All of the council members were in attendance, watching me. Lord Demasque stood to the left, one hand reaching down toward the table, fingers resting there lightly. His jaw was set in indignant rage. Lord Sorrenti sat to the right, his face impassive. Lady Casari and Lord Boradarn both frowned, and Lady Parmati smiled. A spiteful smile, full of malice and triumph. Lord Aurowan and Lady Tormaul were quiet, and Lord Dussain seemed slightly confused, almost apologetic.
I ignored them all, let their emotions wash over me on the river as I stepped forward, through the opening between Erick and William, until I stood near Avrell’s side but slightly ahead of him. I faced Lord March, noted Captain Tristan off to one side.
“Lord March,” I said, without nodding. “The Council of Eight . . . requested my presence.”
To one side, I heard Lord Demasque snort in disgust.
Lord March did not react at all. “We summoned you, yes. Lord Demasque has a grievance he wishes to make public and clear, against my recommendation.” A few of the Council stirred at this, but Lord March ignored them all, turning toward Lord Demasque instead. “You may proceed, Artren.”
Lord Demasque nodded sharply. “Thank you.” He seemed oblivious to the warning in Lord March’s voice. His entire attention was on me. Drawing a deep breath, gathering his rage around him, he began, “Three days ago, you and your guardsmen raided one of my holdings, an estate on the cliffs over the channel.”
“Yes,” I said.
It interrupted his flow. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. “Why?”
“I believe you know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
I shrugged. “Because you are working with the Chorl.”
“No!” he spat, slapping a hand down on the table. “I am not dealing with the Chorl, as your raid clearly indicated. You found no Chorl on my estate, you found no smuggled goods, no blue-skinned demons, nothing! And yet you persist in maligning my name by suggesting that I am working with the Chorl!”
I waited until he’d calmed slightly. “We found a recently built dock, boats to transport cargo. And we found this.”
From inside the sle
eve of my shirt, I withdrew the braided strand of seashells. They clattered together as the braid unfolded, like beads.
Never taking my eyes off Lord Demasque, I said, “There were Chorl on your estate, Lord Demasque. Someone informed them of the raid, and they left before we arrived.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Demasque spat. “You have one of the Chorl in your party. She could have made that trinket so that you could plant it on my estate.”
“And the dock?” Lord March asked. “The boats?”
Demasque spluttered for a moment, then muttered, “They were installed for my own pleasure, so that I could gain access to my manse without the need to come all the way in to port.”
“I see.”
Demasque stiffened at Lord March’s tone, but gathered himself together. “All of that is beside the point. You were summoned,” he said, spitting out the word, “here, Mistress, before Lord March and the Council of Eight, because during the course of your raid you not only maligned my name before the Council, spreading vicious rumors about me that you cannot prove, but you also damaged my property severely. My crops were destroyed, my servants were terrorized to the extent that they will no longer work for me, and the buildings on the property were damaged by your guardsmen.
“You overstepped your bounds, Mistress, if indeed you can be called such with the Skewed Throne destroyed by your own hands. This is Venitte, not Amenkor. You have no rights here. You are here at our mercy, at our whim. I request reparations for the damage that you have done, and a reprimand, if not formal expulsion from the city.”
My jaw clenched and I felt rage boil up inside me, the urge to reach for my dagger so strong the muscles in my arm tensed with the effort to keep still, to not move. Not because he questioned my rule as Mistress, but because Lord Demasque lied. The servants had been taken before the guardsmen even entered the estate, the buildings had been left untouched. And only a small portion of the crops had been trampled when Catrell and the guardsmen descended upon the gates.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 108