No, they weren’t dreams. They were memories, with the same connection and intensity I’d felt when I’d been bound to the throne, the same realistic feel as—
I halted, washcloth held against my neck, staring off into the middle distance.
They were memories. Memories of the Seven and the Chorl attack on the Frigean coast almost fifteen hundred years before. Memories that, when I’d been connected to the throne, I would have been able to access if I’d wanted.
But the throne was dead. I shouldn’t be able to access any memories now at all, except those that I’d relived while connected to the throne before the Chorl attack. These were new memories. They contained images and places and people and events I hadn’t known about when the throne was destroyed.
But I knew them now.
I tossed the cloth aside, dressed in the breeches and white shirt that had been laid out for me on the bed, and jerked open the door to the outer corridor, startling the guardsmen waiting there.
“Mistress?”
“Come with me.”
I halted before the throne room door, laid one hand on the polished wood between the heavy bands of iron. The room had been closed off since the Chorl attack. I’d come a few times in the days after, to check on the throne, to touch it, to search for the faintest flicker of life in hopes of filling the cavernous hole where the throne had been inside me.
But when there’d been no flicker, no tingling beneath my touch after a few days, I’d abandoned it and hadn’t come back. There had been no reason to come.
I shoved, the heavy doors swinging open, and entered. The long room was dark, the light from the corridor touching the edges of the first set of columns that lined the sides of the walkway, but nothing farther. Guardsmen slid past me and began to light the torches to either side, the candelabra and bowls of oil scattered throughout the room. As flickering orange light suffused the room, I moved down the walkway, to the dais at the far end where the throne sat, a banner marked with the three slashes of the Skewed Throne on the wall above it. Ascending the three steps of the dais, I halted before the throne itself and shuddered.
The room felt . . . empty. The first time I’d entered, I’d been stalked. An energy, a presence, had filled the chamber, prickled against my skin, the voices of the throne manifest, whispering to me, rustling like autumn leaves against stone, unintelligible but there. And on the dais, the throne had shifted, warping from shape to shape, always changing as the multitude of personalities took control, the motion hurting the eyes. I’d hated it, hated the texture of the room, the feel.
But then I’d seized the throne myself, taken control of those voices, become part of that presence that had prickled my skin. Instead of itching, the presence had become a power, a living, pulsing connection that had extended throughout the city of Amenkor, a presence that throbbed in my blood, that I drew in with each breath.
Now, I reached out and touched the rough granite . . . and felt nothing. No whispering voices shivering through my skin. No thrumming of life, of the city, beating with my heart. The throne remained a single solid form: rough rock, a stone seat with a rectangular back, unadorned.
Except for a crack.
I reached out, traced the crack with one finger. As long as my forearm, from elbow to the tip of my finger, it cut through the back of the seat like a scar, starting at the top, on the left, and angling downward to its center.
The emptiness of the room hurt, a pain deep and hollow. A pain as deep as what I’d felt when I’d found the white-dusty man’s body on the Dredge, along with his wife, killed by Bloodmark to spite me. The pain trembled, threatened to break free as I pressed my palm to the throne, felt the grit of the stone against my skin, the pocks in its surface. I willed the stone to shift, to shudder, to change—
I felt Eryn enter the room behind me, felt her approach the dais and halt at the bottom of the steps.
“Anything?” she asked, and I heard an echo of my pain in her voice. She’d been connected to the throne far longer than I had.
I let my hand drop, drew in a breath against the thickness in my chest. I shook my head. “Nothing.”
She sighed. “There’s nothing you can do, nothing any of us can do.”
“But I’m dreaming,” I said. When Eryn didn’t respond, I turned, repeated, “I’m dreaming, Eryn. I’m reliving memories from the Seven—Cerrin, Liviann, Garus, Seth, all of them. Memories that, unless I’m still connected to the throne, I shouldn’t have.”
Eryn’s brow creased and she came one step up onto the dais before halting again. “But you don’t feel anything when you touch the throne?”
“No.”
“What about the city? Do you feel anything from Amenkor, any connection—”
“Nothing,” I said, cutting her off. “I didn’t feel anything when I went out onto the jut to the watchtower either, and before, that was at the edge of my limits.”
Eryn remained silent, but I could see her thinking, could see it in her eyes as she held my gaze.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” I said, breaking the heavy silence.
Eryn drew in a breath, glanced toward the immobile throne, then exhaled heavily. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” I said, too sharply.
“Varis,” Eryn said, coming up another step on the dais, “the Seven created two thrones. You know this, you witnessed their creation. You were there. What if you aren’t getting these memories from this throne, what if the two thrones were connected in some way and you’re getting the memories—”
“From the other throne,” I finished, the idea catching like fire in my mind. If we could find it, if we could use it to replace the Skewed Throne, if we could use it to defeat the Chorl again. . . . “But where is it? What happened to it once the Seven created it?”
I caught Eryn’s gaze, saw her shake her head with regret. “I don’t know.”
I thought about everything I’d experienced while connected to the throne, every memory of the Seven I’d lived through then, or dreamed of since. “It was intended for Venitte,” I said urgently. “It was intended to help protect them from the Chorl—from any attacking force—just as the Skewed Throne was intended to help protect Amenkor.”
“Then why didn’t Venitte use it?” Eryn asked.
I growled in frustration, feeling as if the answer were at the tips of my fingers, that the memories were hovering just out of reach. “I don’t know! Everything I remember of the Seven came from before the thrones were created . . . or from what the Seven experienced through the Mistresses of the Skewed Throne after it came to Amenkor.”
“Because the Seven sacrificed themselves to create the thrones in the first place,” Eryn said, nodding in understanding. “There wouldn’t be any memories in the Skewed Throne for the Seven after that. There would only be the memories of the Mistresses who took control of the throne itself.”
I felt some of my initial excitement dying down, doused by the realization that what I knew of the Skewed Throne wouldn’t help. “So how do we find out what happened to the other throne?”
Eryn sighed. “I don’t know. But there must be some record of what happened to it somewhere. Have Avrell and Nathem start looking through the archives. Perhaps they can find some mention of it in there. And you can ask Captain Tristan or Brandan Vard. They’re from Venitte. If the second throne was truly intended for Venitte, perhaps they will know what happened to it.”
I turned back to the throne, ran my hand across its surface once again. “If the Chorl are returning to Amenkor,” I said, and let the thought trail off. The Skewed Throne was the only reason we’d survived the first attack. If we could replace it, before the Chorl attacked again . . .
North. To Amenkor.
I shrugged the ominous words aside, stepped back from the cracked throne. I hesitated at the top of the dais, then turned my back on the hollow emptiness of the room, and moved down the dais, Eryn falling into step behind me.
“Where are you going
?” she asked.
"To see Brandan Vard,” I said. “I want to know what he knows about the thrones.”
“And that should take care of the last of the petitions from Venitte’s merchants’ guild,” Captain Tristan said. He took the sheaf of papers Avrell held out to him, checked the last few pages to verify that all of the marks and sigils were in place, and then tucked them into a large satchel. “I’m glad to see that the guild here in Amenkor is recuperating. Four new apprentices have been raised to merchants in the last few days, so I’ve heard.”
I didn’t like Tristan’s tone, caught Avrell’s hooded glance as he made his way back to his seat in the small audience chamber, then looked to Brandan. But the Venittian Servant’s gaze was locked onto me, waiting for my answer, so I turned back to Tristan. “Alendor and his consortium were rather devastating to the merchants’ guild here.”
Tristan smiled, his lips thin. “Yes, so I hear from Regin. He’s somewhat defensive about the matter, although I gather that you played a role in . . . eliminating the consortium.”
I frowned as his eyes narrowed, felt a subtle shift on the river as his attention focused on me. “Yes. I killed Alendor when it was discovered he was stealing Amenkor’s food and selling it to the Chorl.”
“You’ve killed many people, so I’ve heard.”
I bristled, felt myself shift in my chair into a more defensive position. “Yes.”
Tristan’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised you admit that so freely.”
“I grew up in the slums of Amenkor,” I said. “I killed to survive . . . and then to escape.”
Brandan grunted, but Tristan didn’t take his eyes off of me. “That explains . . . much.” He reached to fill a glass from a decanter of wine. “Regin and Borund wouldn’t say much about your past when I asked. Instead, they chose to defend your reign as Mistress. But the Lords and Ladies of Venitte, including Lord March, will be interested once they learn that there is a new Mistress in Amenkor—in you, in Amenkor’s stability.” He sipped from his glass and settled back. “They say in the streets that you are a Seeker.”
Behind, I felt Avrell stiffen in outrage, but I leaned forward, met Tristan’s gaze squarely. “I was trained by a Seeker on the Dredge. He taught me what I needed to know to survive. He taught me enough that I used it to escape to the upper city, to the wharf, where I became Borund’s bodyguard. But I am not a Seeker.”
Tristan said nothing, met my gaze without flinching. His brow creased as he considered what I had said, as he judged it, and in that moment I realized that he already knew everything I’d told him, that he already knew all about my past. He’d learned as much as he could in the past day, from Regin, from Borund, and from the people on the streets. And those people knew everything. I’d kept nothing from them.
Which meant he knew about the attack on the city as well, and the past winter.
“What about Venitte?” I asked, letting my irritation at being tested tinge my voice.
“What do you mean?”
“You know about the Chorl, have known for at least a month, since your ship left port to come here three weeks ago. What has Venitte done to prepare for the Chorl?”
Tristan hesitated, until Brandan cast him a sharp look. Setting his wine to one side, he rested his elbows on the edge of the table between us, fingers clasped beneath his chin. “Since the first ships disappeared, and we began to suspect that their losses were from something other than bad weather or pirates, we’ve set up patrols at the mouths of the two channels leading in to Venitte. We’ve also established outposts along the coast and farther inland to the north, since none of the trading ships to the south of Venitte have vanished. But at the time that the Reliant left the port, the Chorl had made no attempt to attack Venitte directly.”
“They were focused on Amenkor,” Avrell said.
“Apparently.”
“And what about the throne?” I asked, slipping deeper beneath the river so I could judge Tristan’s reaction.
He frowned, honestly confused. “What throne?”
My gaze shifted toward Brandan, who’d tensed. He was no longer watching me. His gaze had fallen to his hands, his face blank. “At the time that the thrones were created, there were two—one for Amenkor . . . and one for Venitte. They were created to protect the coast from attack, created specifically to defend against the Chorl. What happened to Venitte’s throne?”
Tristan snorted. “The throne of Venitte—the Stone Throne I believe it was called—was lost nearly fifteen hundred years ago. We’ve never used it. We’ve never needed it.”
I turned my attention fully on Brandan Vard. “Is that true? Do the Servants in Venitte not use the throne?”
The Venittian Servant took a moment to gather himself, then said, eyes on me, “The Stone Throne vanished within ten years of its creation. The Servants in Venitte have never used it in their training. No one knows where it is, although many have searched for it over the years.”
I didn’t answer, my frown deepening. Because Brandan was telling the truth . . . but not the complete truth. He knew something more about the throne, I just couldn’t figure out what.
“What about the Chorl Servants?” I asked. “How do you expect to defend against them?”
I’d asked Brandan, but it was Tristan who answered. “I don’t know yet. Lord March and the rest of the Council doesn’t know about the Servants as far as I know. We haven’t encountered them. But if what you say is true—and after seeing the city, after hearing what the people of Amenkor suffered during the attack, I have no reason to disbelieve you—then we’ll have to plan a defense against them.”
“We have our own Servants,” Brandan interjected. “We’ve been trained to fight as part of the military’s Protectorate.”
I almost snorted, but caught myself. “Amenkor had Servants as well. We barely survived. The Chorl Servants have changed since the attack fifteen hundred years ago. They’ve learned to combine their powers, to such an extent that, in order to stop them, I had to destroy the Skewed Throne itself. Are the Servants in Venitte ready for that?”
Brandan’s eyes flashed at the tone of my voice. “How dare you—” he spat, leaning forward, but Tristan placed a warning hand on his arm to cut him off. He turned on the captain, but Tristan glanced down toward the gold medallion that rested on Brandan’s chest, and after a tense moment Brandan settled back into his seat.
“The Servants in Venitte will have to be ready,” Tristan said, a hard edge to his voice. “Now, Mistress, if you’ll excuse us, we have business to attend to with the new guild members.”
“Of course,” Avrell said, rising as both Tristan and Brandan stood. They nodded as they left, and Avrell closed the door to the audience chamber behind them, turning immediately to me.
“Brandan knows more about the throne than he’s letting on,” I said immediately.
Avrell nodded. “I agree. And Tristan is more than a simple captain from the merchants’ guild. He must have a connection to one of the Lords or Ladies of the Council. We’ll have to be careful around both of them.”
I stood, moving toward the door. “I need to know more about the creation of the thrones, about what happened to the Stone Throne and the Skewed Throne after they were created. With the Skewed Throne dead, the Stone Throne may be the only way to stop the Chorl when they next attack.”
As Avrell opened the door and preceded me into the hallway, my escort of guardsmen waiting outside, he said, “I’ll see what I can find in the archives. And I’ll have Catrell keep a discreet eye on both Tristan and Brandan.”
When Marielle first entered Ottul’s room, a box of random objects in her arms, she found the Chorl Servant kneeling on a folded blanket in the middle of the room, body hunched down over her knees, hands cupped over her head. She rocked back and forth in the tucked position, a low, murmured chant barely breaking the silence of the room.
Inside the White Fire at Marielle’s core, I watched through Marielle’s eyes as she paused
at the threshold, felt the warding being reset behind her.
Does she do this often? I asked through the Fire.
Marielle nodded, frowning. Almost always. And always facing the same direction: west.
What is she doing?
Marielle shrugged. I don’t know. And I haven’t worked with her long enough to find out.
I grunted.
Ottul suddenly stilled, her chanting cut off sharply. In a strangely fluid motion, her back curving upward, she lifted herself, sitting back onto her knees as she turned toward the doorway with narrowed eyes.
Her expression was fixed in anger, but tears streaked down her face.
When she saw Marielle, however, her anger faltered.
“Hello, Ottul.” Marielle moved toward the table in the middle of the room, set the box down and began removing objects from it—a wooden bowl, a goblet, a scarf.
Ottul reached forward instantly for the scarf, but Marielle’s hand closed over hers before she had a chance to draw away.
Both froze, Marielle catching Ottul’s confused gaze. “What do you say?” she asked.
Ottul’s brow wrinkled in angry annoyance, but then she sighed. In a tight growl, thick with accent, she said, “Hello, Mar-ell.” Then, when Marielle didn’t let go of her hand: “Pease?”
The plaintiveness of the tone twisted in my gut, touched something inside Marielle as well, for she loosened her grip on Ottul’s hand, let her pick up the blue-green scarf. The material was fine, from the Kandish Empire across the mountains, and Ottul ran the scarf across her hands, her arms. She wore Amenkor clothing now, Marielle having persuaded her to give up the filthy green dress we’d found her unconscious in beneath the pile of collapsed stone. But her dress was coarse, not as fine as the scarf, and tan in color, accentuating her blue-tinged skin. The neckline was low enough that the edge of a tattoo could be seen just beneath her collarbone. That had been a surprise. I hadn’t realized the Chorl women had tattoos, although I vaguely remembered seeing one on the Ochean. The men wore their tattoos openly, on the arms and face. The women seemed to prefer their tattoos hidden.
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