The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  I laughed. “Yes, they are. A lot in Amenkor will seem different.”

  He grunted.

  William came up on my other side and Erick’s hand dropped from my shoulder. He gave me a meaningful look, then wandered away as William leaned on the railing.

  “Mistress.”

  “Master William.”

  We caught each other’s eyes, and I grinned and butted him with my shoulder.

  And then we passed through the narrow inlet between the watchtowers. A tingling sensation coursed through me, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

  Varis.

  William straightened at my side, frowned. “What is it?”

  I shuddered, shook myself. “I don’t know. For a moment, I thought . . .”

  “Thought what?”

  I looked William in the eye, saw the concern there, the frown that barely touched his mouth. “I thought I heard a voice. Eryn’s voice.”

  William’s frown deepened, but ahead, a clanging of bells began to ring out, spreading from the watchtowers up through the city. As the Defiant slid into the dock, the escorting captured Chorl ships waiting out in the bay, the noise grew. People lined the wharf, waving and yelling in welcome. I watched as a covey of guardsmen pushed through the crowd and onto the dock, led by Darryn and Nathem.

  I frowned, my stomach clenching.

  William gasped, and I turned.

  “Look!” he said, and pointed toward one of the other docks.

  A ship was berthed there, but it was unlike any ship I’d seen. Larger, its hull rising at least another man’s height over Bullick’s ship, and wider as well. And it carried more sails.

  On the far side sat another, and in the docks beyond, even more. Only the two closest to the Defiant appeared finished, though. The rest were still being built.

  “They’re Borund’s ships,” I said, and smiled tightly. Because that sickening clench in my stomach had not receded. I tasted bile at the back of my throat, swallowed the bitterness, then steadied myself and turned back to the dock.

  Captain Darryn and the Second, Nathem, were waiting, their escort of guardsmen behind them.

  I pushed back from the railing, felt William hesitate, then follow.

  We met Avrell, Erick, Marielle, and Westen at the head of the plank.

  Avrell looked grim.

  I paused, almost reached out to touch him, but turned as the plank slapped down onto the dock, crewmen tying the ship down in a frenzy of activity. The crowd continued to roar, but the sound had dulled, had faded into the background. I’d latched onto Darryn’s face, saw the control there, the tightness.

  Bullick descended the plank, greeted Darryn, Nathem, listened a single moment, then shot a look back up toward me before stepping aside.

  I descended the plank slowly, the sounds of the crowd receding even further, all activity on the wharf withdrawing, a numbness filling me, tingling in my arms, in my fingers, in my legs. A familiar numbness. A familiar pain.

  As soon as I stepped from the plank onto the dock, I asked, “Where’s Eryn?”

  Darryn’s jaw clenched, and I saw the answer in his eyes.

  He didn’t say a word.

  “Take me to her.”

  He nodded, motioned toward the waiting carriages.

  * * *

  Nathem had laid her body out in the throne room, before the throne, surrounded by candlelight. A white shroud covered her, draped down the edges of the table, the shroud itself stitched in gold with the Skewed Throne symbol. Beneath the cloth, her hands had been placed one over the other on her chest. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale and smooth. Her black hair pooled around her head like spilled ink.

  “We found her here,” Nathem said, his aged voice cracking with emotion. “At the base of the throne.”

  I stared down at her face, at the wrinkles that even death could not smooth, at the paleness of the skin, the lines of her throat, the chain of gold that someone had placed around it, at the gold-embroidered fringe of the white dress just visible at the edges of the shroud itself. I felt Nathem shift uncomfortably to my right, sensed Avrell to my left. No one else had accompanied us into the chamber except Erick and Westen, and they remained at the entrance, withdrawn, respectful.

  I wanted to reach out and touch her, but couldn’t. I didn’t want to feel the coldness of her skin beneath my fingers, didn’t want to feel the death there.

  Instead, I lifted my gaze to the throne, felt the heat of the candles against my face, smelled the bitterness of their smoke.

  And then I stilled.

  Because the throne was no longer cracked.

  Even as I watched, it began to twist, the rough granite seat morphing into a chair with a short, straight back, no arms.

  Garus’ seat, from the Council of Seven.

  I gasped, looked down at Eryn’s face again.

  “What did you do?” I whispered.

  The throne shifted again, settled into a large round ottoman. Silicia’s ottoman.

  I stepped away from Eryn’s body, circled the shrouded table, and mounted the three stone steps of the dais to stand before the throne.

  I reached out to touch it, but hesitated.

  Because I could feel it now, a presence, hovering in the room. Not as weighted as before, not as smothering, but it was there.

  And yet, I couldn’t feel it. Not as I had before.

  Because it wasn’t part of me. Because I wasn’t part of it. Because this throne was vacant. No one controlled it. No one had claimed it. Yet.

  I stilled, stared down at the stone as it began to warp yet again, becoming a river rock, worn smooth with water and age.

  “She healed it,” Nathem said behind me, voice quiet. “She said that she was dying, that there was nothing that could be done to save her, and so she wanted to try to fix the throne, to repair it. She said that you’d given her the idea, that you’d told her its creation required a life, a sacrifice. So she decided to sacrifice herself to heal it.”

  I let my hand drop to my side, turned to face out into the throne room, into the mostly empty chamber. I met Erick’s gaze, Westen’s. Their faces remained blank, their backs straight, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their daggers.

  I shifted my gaze to Nathem, to Avrell. Nathem bowed his head. But Avrell met my gaze, his face wet with tears, mouth tight with grief.

  “You are the Mistress,” he said, his voice raw and thick. “You are Amenkor.”

  I stared into his eyes, into the sorrow there, into the pain.

  And into the hope.

  I turned back to the throne, reached out, hesitated again, for a single breath, for two—

  And then . . . I touched it.

  Acknowledgments

  For The Skewed Throne:

  First and foremost, I want to thank my editor Sheila Gilbert and my agent Amy Stout, for taking a chance on a new author and for not only believing in the story, but for helping to make it that much better. Baked goods will be had by all! Thanks as well to Steve Stone, the artist who captured the essence of the entire book in the cover art. I’m still stunned. Getting a first novel published is exciting enough; working with Amy, Sheila, Steve, and everyone else at DAW to get the story into book form and on the shelf is truly exhilarating.

  Thanks also to everyone who read this novel in any or all of its various forms: two great friends and fellow writers, Patricia Bray and Jennifer Dunne; the best cycling partner in the world, Cheryl Losinger; the person who kept me sane while writing and teaching, Jean Brewster; the Vicious Circle—Carol Bartholomew, J. Michael Blumer, Kishma Danielle, Laurie Davis, Bonnie Freeman, Dorian Gray, Penelope Hardy, Heidi Kneale, Robert Sinclair, Larry West—an experimental critiquing group at the Online Writing Workshop that experienced greater success than I expected; and everyone else at the OWW who at some point critiqued one of my many
novels and short stories posted there. All of them offered invaluable insight into this book.

  I must acknowledge one first reader in particular: Ariel Guzman, a true best friend and critique partner, who was there from the very beginning, when I first set words down on paper in the eighth grade and announced I wanted to be a writer. He’s suffered through everything I’ve ever written, and that first novel attempt was truly horrid. I still shudder. Without his encouragement along the way, I would never have made it to this point.

  I must also thank Alis Rasmussen, for offering to read my first real (and as yet unpublished) novel and for offering two particularly relevant pieces of advice: “patience and persistence” and “cut at least half of the words out.” She guided me through the rough terrain between the plateau of simply writing, and the heights of actually being published. She also introduced me to my first con . . . and everyone has regretted it ever since.

  And last, but certainly never least, my family: my mother, who showed me that strength comes from the inside; my brothers, Jason and Jacob, who are the only other people more excited about this book than I am; and George, who has taught me more about myself than I thought anyone possibly could.

  Nothing is more important than the people that support you and encourage you throughout life, especially those that encourage your dreams. These people not only made this a better book, they made me a better person.

  For The Cracked Throne:

  The Usual Suspects:

  Ariel Guzman, a good friend, who is my first reader and who always manages to keep things real, even in a fantasy.

  Patricia Bray and Jennifer Dunne, two fellow writers. We all get together once a week to talk shop . . . and end up drinking, gaming, and being thankful there isn’t a fan web-cam watching us. That we know of.

  Steve Stone, the artist who has brought all of my novels to life with such great covers. The Ochean is perfect!

  The Family: my brothers, Jason and Jacob; my sisters-in-law, Janet and Chrissie; and my mother. Without their support, I wouldn’t remain sane long enough to get anything written.

  And finally, the most important person in my life, George. For all the little things, especially the understanding that I have to write, even if he doesn’t understand what I write or why.

  For The Vacant Throne:

  First and foremost, I want to thank all of the readers out there who took a risk and picked up The Skewed Throne, the first book by a new author. I hope you’ve enjoyed Varis and her companions throughout their journeys in the Throne books, and I hope that you continue to take risks on new authors in the future.

  There are certain friends that not only suffer through my first (and second and third and . . .) drafts, but also manage to somehow find it in their hearts after that to hang around and support me in my personal life. Or at least entertain me. *grin* They are Ariel Guzman, Jennifer Dunne, and Patricia Bray. Thanks for being there. And for bringing me chocolate. (Yes, they are my dealers. No, go find your own dealers.)

  My editor and agent, Sheila Gilbert and Amy Stout, are responsible for bringing you these books. They saw the potential . . . and then beat it out of me. After that, Debra Euler, Marsha Jones, and all of the others at DAW that work behind the scenes took care of the packaging. This is as much a labor of love for them as it is for me, and for that they have my thanks.

  And lastly, my partner, George. He’s now seen me struggle through two books, with all the stresses and joys that such a struggle encompasses. Here’s to all the future struggles to come.

  If you’d like to find out more about the Throne books, and other projects, check out my webpage at www.joshuapalmatier.com or my LiveJournal at jpsorrow.livejournal.com.

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