The Skewed Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  I could let the throne consume me. There would be no more deaths then, no more marks. There would be nothing.

  But then the Mistress would not be released.

  No, not the Mistress. Her name was Eryn. Eryn would not be released.

  And then what of Amenkor? The Mistress had said it would survive, but barely. It would survive but would not be the same.

  I stared up at the shapes moving above the water, blurred beyond recognition. The shapes of the people inside the throne, those that had created it, those that had sat upon it or touched it since its creation.

  If I stayed, I needed to find a way to control them, and I suddenly realized I knew how. It was just like the crowd at the tavern. It was a choice. I could be Ash, sit back and watch, hover around the dead body of Amenkor and do nothing, let the throne overwhelm me, let the guards send me where they willed.

  Or I could be Varis. Ruthless. Hard. Forceful. I could seize control.

  This is who I am.

  I drew a deep breath and pulled everything that I thought of as myself, all of my memories of the Dredge, all of my emotions, everything that was me together, wove it tight.

  And then I pushed myself up through the water. I left my mother behind. Left the six-year-old girl named Ash behind. That wasn’t me anymore. I’d changed.

  At the last moment, just before I breached the surface of the water, I felt the Mistress’ hands—Eryn’s hands—reach down to grab me beneath my arms and help pull me up into the sunlight.

  Welcome to the throne, Varis.

  And it was just like the tavern.

  I opened my eyes to the throne room in Amenkor. Baill and Avrell stood a few steps down from the dais, watching me carefully. Baill’s sword was drawn, but he was a step behind Avrell, the First of the Mistress holding him back with one hand. The rest of the guards were farther back, clustered around the broken throne room door and the pillars to the right and left.

  I glanced down. The Mistress had collapsed to the floor, her figure crumpled. Her face was worn, sheened with sweat and tears.

  Beneath me, the throne no longer twisted and turned, warping itself into different shapes. It had solidified into a stone curve with armrests and no back, the edges of the armrests curled under. My arms rested lightly on its edges, hands gripping the ends. My back was rigid.

  I felt a heavy throb beating all around me, recognized it from Eryn’s memory of the tower.

  It was the city. Amenkor. From the Dredge to the palace. A steady pulse of teeming life. I could reach out and touch each one of those lives if I wanted, could watch them live, could help them. Those in the slums, rooting through garbage. Those on the wharfs and in the ships blockaded inside the harbor. Even those sorting through the burned-out rubble of the warehouse district.

  I drew in a deep breath, felt the city warm and vibrant inside of me.

  I let the breath out with a sigh. The city could wait.

  I turned toward the Mistress, who began to stir. On the river, lines of energy entrapped her, bound her to the throne. I began to pull the threads apart, carefully. The voices fought me, but I knew myself and ignored them, thrust them into the background as I’d done my entire life with all the noises of the Dredge that were unimportant. Just like the tavern.

  By the time the Mistress roused completely, sitting upright with a groan, she was no longer the Mistress. She was Eryn again, wholly her own.

  She raised a trembling hand to her head and gasped, shooting a glance toward me. Avrell stepped toward her, one hand outstretched.

  “Mistress?”

  She turned toward him, then shook her head. “No,” she said, then sobbed, hiding her hands in her face.

  Avrell’s hand dropped and he stood up straight, turning toward me. His face became a solemn mask and he folded his hands formally before him. He bowed his head slightly.

  “Mistress.”

  I turned to Baill, eyes hard and intent.

  He glanced toward Avrell with a frown, then lowered his sword and sheathed it. He bowed down, the motion quick and barely deferential. “Mistress.”

  Behind him, the guards that had gathered, mixed with a few white-robed servants, bowed down as well, a clatter of sound and shuffling cloth.

  I wondered briefly how many of those servants were true Servants, young girls and women who had a touch of the power like me, who had been brought here to be trained with the hopes that one day they could control the throne.

  I wondered how many of those Servants had died on the throne when Avrell and Nathem had tried to replace Eryn.

  Avrell stepped forward to catch my attention.

  “What of the city?”

  I felt the city rushing inside me, hurt but vital, beaten but not destroyed.

  I smiled and thought of the Dredge, of the wharf, of the palace itself. I felt the scar of the fire in the warehouse district, felt the ships gliding on the waters of the bay, felt the River surging through the center of the city. I heard the steady pulse of its blood in my ears, full of heat and strength.

  “It will survive,” I said, and behind my voice I heard other voices, all of the women who had sat on the throne after its forging, all of their strengths, all of their memories.

  It would not be easy.

  But it would survive.

  1 Forthcoming in hardcover from DAW Books