The Vacant Throne

by Joshua Palmatier

  To make certain I didn’t screw up, I thought wryly.

  But I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted out of the city. I wanted to feel the deck of the trading ship rolling beneath my feet, wanted to feel the wind stinging against my face as we sailed, wanted to taste the salt of the spray kicked up from the bow of the ship cutting through the water. I’d dreamed about it since I’d first come down to the docks. An unidentifiable yearning at the time, because it had seemed impossible, but that had changed the longer I’d been around the wharf as Borund’s bodyguard.

  The yearning had grown, I just hadn’t realized it until now.

  “—just send these down to the warehouse, then,” Regin was saying, and I returned to the conversation with a jerk.

  “What?”

  Regin grinned. “I said I’d take care of everything, have everything sent down to the warehouse for loading as soon as possible. And I think the merchants’ guild needs to send William to Venitte, a representative to meet up with the guild members there, inform them of Alendor and his cohorts and what really happened with the consortium. And what’s happening now with the Chorl of course. He needs to stretch his legs as a Master Merchant, needs to start making contacts. This is the perfect opportunity.”

  “I suppose so,” I said. Me and William on a ship for two solid weeks, at the least. I could already feel myself tensing up. And not simply because we’d barely spoken to each other since the incident with Brandan on the wharf.

  “Very good,” Regin said. “Then if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed and headed off down the wharf, immediately calling over his apprentices as he moved, motioning toward the paper Avrell had prepared. Messengers had already been sent before he passed from sight.

  “Where to now, Mistress?”

  Keven had come up behind me. Feeling unsettled, I motioned toward the palace. “I want to go see Erick.”

  Keven’s face grew grim. “Very well.”

  I pursed my lips as we headed away from the wharf, winding up through the streets of the lower city, past stalls and warehouses, taverns and shops. I’d checked up on Erick almost daily at first, had spent hours inside the Fire at his core consoling him, comforting him, speaking to him. I’d managed to pull him up out of his self-imposed stupor enough to eat on occasion, but he always retreated from the pain eventually.

  A pain that neither I nor Eryn could lessen. We’d tried, repeatedly. Tried to dampen it, since we knew we couldn’t deal with the spell directly. A few of our tricks worked, but only for a short time, the seething needles that pricked Erick’s skin returning, sometimes worse than before.

  But it hadn’t all been worthless effort. His other wounds—the burns, the nicks and bruises from the fighting on The Maiden and the subsequent mundane torture by the Ochean and Haqtl and the others—had healed. All except one, the circular puncture wound in the middle of his chest that Eryn had identified as the location of the spell placed on him. That wound was still angry, still raw. The fact that everything else had healed had kept everyone’s hopes up for a while, Keven’s included.

  Not any longer. Erick had been lost for almost three months now. Hope was fading. I’d heard it in Keven’s voice, could see it in the healer Isaiah’s bitter eyes every time I entered Erick’s chambers.

  Perhaps it was time to see if Ottul could help. I hadn’t called on her before because I couldn’t trust her—still didn’t trust her—but I was becoming desperate.

  As we entered the Great Hall of the palace, the long corridor with the vaulted ceilings that had awed me when I’d first come to the palace to kill the Mistress, I said, “You don’t have to come with me, Keven. You can wait outside.”

  For a moment, it was as if a huge burden had lifted from Keven’s shoulders. He straightened, shoulders back, and relief flickered through his eyes.

  But then he sighed and shook his head, his jaw clenched. “No, Mistress. Erick and I trained in the barracks together. We’ve known each other far too long.”

  I nodded, and then a movement far down the corridor caught my eye.

  I slowed, felt the escort slow around me. Keven’s brow knit in consternation, then relaxed.

  Down the length of hall, on the left, near one of the numerous open doors that led to the interior halls and rooms of the palace, Eryn and Avrell stood together, conversing softly. Even as we slowed, Eryn shook her head, and I saw tears on her face.

  Avrell reached up and, with a care that sent a tingling sensation through my chest, cupped a hand to her jaw and brushed the wetness away with his thumb. Eryn smiled, the contrast of tears and happiness terrible and wonderful at the same time.

  Avrell leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. When she glanced up into his face, he kissed her on the lips.

  I suddenly thought of both of them, here, in the palace, Eryn trapped by the throne. I thought of them talking animatedly this past winter as we searched for the supplies Eryn thought she had hidden throughout the city, discussing parties and people, scandal and gossip. And I suddenly remembered being with each of them as they stood on the walls of the palace, the Chorl surging through the newly breached gates, stone crumbling around them, both hurt, both wounded, the world seeming to collapse in on them.

  They’d thought of each other then.

  I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even noticed.

  But now a hundred little gestures—a comforting hand here, a slight nod or smile there—flickered through my mind. A hundred little gestures now seen with completely new meaning.

  And now, Avrell was coming to Venitte with me, while Eryn stayed here.

  Far down the hall, Eryn began to cough, the sound painful to hear. She raised a cloth to her lips, while Avrell gripped her shoulder, his expression tortured as the fit worsened, as she tried to control it.

  And suddenly it was too personal a moment to be seen by me, by anyone.

  “Keven,” I said, turning, but he was already directing me toward one of the arched doorways that led off of the main corridor, had escorted me through and into the hall beyond, the guards following, before either Eryn or Avrell noticed us watching.

  “How long?” I asked, when I’d regained my breath, when the harsh hot stone in my chest had receded.

  Keven looked at me as we walked, face troubled. “Off and on for years.”

  I thought about how I’d suspected Avrell of wanting to assassinate Eryn in order to seize the throne, thought of what pain it must have caused him to watch her sink into madness, to come to the decision that the only way to help her was to kill her, and felt sick to my stomach.

  “Here we are, Mistress.”

  I glanced up, saw that we’d made our way back to the main corridor near the inner doorway, had passed through and were now in front of the door to Erick’s room.

  I drew in a breath, was surprised to hear it catch. Then I entered, Keven following close behind.

  The room reeked of old sweat and sickness, of a body that had remained stationary for too long. I went to order the windows open, then realized that they were already open, that the reek I smelled came from the river.

  I’d smelled the scent before, on the Dredge, and I felt my gut twist. It was the reek of despondency, of hope lost.

  Of death.

  On the far side of the room, at his desk, Isaiah looked up, his expression bruised and weary. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “I know,” I said. I moved across the room, pulled a chair up close to Erick’s bedside. Reaching out, I almost touched his hand, almost gripped it in my own, but then remembered the invisible needles that would prick his flesh at the touch.

  Withdrawing, I leaned back, tried not to sigh, blinked back the tears that threatened inexplicably at the corners of my eyes.

  “Keven.” My voice came out rough and thick. “Get Marielle. Have her bring Ottul here, with Trielle’s help.”

  I felt him hesitate, sensed Isaiah’s disapproval.

  “Are you certain?” Keven asked.

  I nodded. “I don’
t know what else to do. And we’ve waited long enough.”

  Keven didn’t reply, just moved toward the door and murmured something to the guardsmen outside, then returned. I felt him at my back, felt Isaiah moving away from the bed, back to his desk. Both of their presences were comforts.

  But neither of them were the comfort I sought.

  I wanted William. I wanted to feel his fingers twined in mine as I stood by Erick’s bedside. I wanted his hands on my shoulders, as they had been the last time I withdrew from the Fire inside Erick, holding me, giving me strength. I wanted his touch.

  Because the last three months had been hell. The last three months of staring at Erick’s sickly pallor, at his sweat-drenched skin, at his flushed face. William had made it bearable.

  And now William was gone. Over petty jealousy.

  I hadn’t realized I’d miss him this much.

  Someone knocked on the door and Keven moved to answer it, opening it wide to allow Marielle, Trielle, and Ottul inside. The Chorl Servant moved uncertainly between the two Servants, stepping away from Keven, her gaze wary.

  Then she caught sight of me and halted, anger flaring in her eyes.

  Anger sparked deep down inside me as well. Narrowing my gaze, I said, “Come here.”

  Ottul hesitated, chin lifting in defiance—

  But then something in that defiance crumbled. Grief flickered through her expression, and I thought of the hours Marielle said Ottul spent kneeling on the floor of her rooms, back hunched, rocking as tears streaked her face and she whispered guttural prayers. Grief that had started when she’d learned of the other Chorl captives’ suicides.

  With a glance toward Marielle, toward Trielle, Ottul stepped forward and bowed her head.

  I drew in a deep, steadying breath, then said, “Look at him.”

  When Ottul didn’t glance up, didn’t move, I barked, “Look at him!”

  Ottul started, her head snapping up, eyes flashing. Behind her, Marielle and Trielle flinched; Keven stiffened.

  But Ottul looked where I pointed, looked at Erick. Her eyes flared again with heat, with hatred, but then her brow creased in confusion and she turned back to me.

  “What did the Ochean do to him?” I asked. “Tell me what she did to him, and tell me how to stop it.”

  I could feel the tears burning at the edges of my eyes again. When Ottul didn’t answer, I reached forward, grabbed her arm, and hauled her forward to the side of Erick’s bed, felt her resist, her eyes wide. “Tell me what she did to him,” I repeated, and then I tore open the shirt above Erick’s chest, exposed the angry red mark above his heart.

  Ottul gasped and jerked backward, one hand clutching at her chest, the other gesturing as words poured from her in a rush, short and sharp and clipped. My hand latched onto her upper arm again before she could flee and I dragged her to a halt. She fought me, tried to twist out of my grasp, fell to her knees, her voice cracking.

  “What is it?” I spat. “What is it and how do I heal it? Help me!”

  “No,” Ottul whispered, then broke into her own language. Her eyes closed and she sank lower to the floor, collapsing forward, until I was forced to let her go or hold her upright. “No! Not help,” she gasped, her terrified words degenerating into sobs. “Not help.”

  I stood back, all of the anger sapped from me, replaced by a dull sense of resignation. I watched as Ottul sank over her knees, her arms pulled in tight, hands clutched behind her neck. A protective curl, completely different from the kneeling position she used for prayer in her room.

  She was frightened, had taken up a defensive posture, her shoulders trembling. I recognized it from the Dredge, arms and knees tight to protect the face and most vulnerable parts of the body from harm, that let the rest of the body absorb the blows.

  Ottul expected to be beaten.

  I felt Keven draw close behind me. “I don’t think she’s going to help.”

  “No. I don’t think she can help. I don’t think she knows how. But she’s seen this before.” My voice was lifeless. I drew in a deep breath, smelled Ottul’s terror on the river, sharp with salt. “Take her back to her rooms.”

  I turned away as Marielle and Trielle moved forward, gathered Ottul up, and led her to the door. I listened as her sobs continued, interspersed with broken words, with gasps and moans. I could follow her movements, tremors reverberating on the river.

  When the room had quieted, I sighed.

  Then I dove deep into the river and pushed outward, toward Erick’s Fire.

  Hello, Varis.

  I settled into the Fire, the seething pain from the needles piercing Erick’s flesh a nagging intrusion in the background. A familiar intrusion now.

  Erick.

  I felt Erick’s essence twist, felt him scrutinize me. What’s wrong?

  I’d thought I’d controlled myself before Reaching, but at Erick’s words, layered with concern, with a vicious protectiveness that was meaningless where he now lay, trapped inside his own body, I broke.

  The fear over Eryn’s sickness, the despondency over Erick’s condition, the fact that Ottul wouldn’t be able to help, the turmoil over William and Brandan, the tender bitterness seen in the kiss Avrell had given Eryn—all of it welled up and surged forth in uncontrolled sobbing, all mixed together, all indistinguishable. A miasma of raw emotion that felt too large for me to hold.

  Erick responded by drawing me in, uttering nonsense words to hush me, rocking me back and forth as he’d done before, when I’d killed the fat man who’d snuck up behind him while he was taking care of another mark. Back then, he’d bundled me up in a blanket that reeked of grease and sweat while I cried hysterically, and he’d taken me back to my niche.

  I smelled the grease and sweat of that blanket now, felt it enfolding me, smothering me . . . and I fought it back, pushed up and out of its comfort. I wanted nothing more than to let Erick hold me, to let him take the pain away, but not this time. I hadn’t come here to be comforted.

  I can’t, I sobbed, thrashing away, the ache and turmoil melding over into anger. I can’t help you, Erick. Eryn has tried, I’ve tried, and now even Ottul can’t help you. I don’t know how to help you, Erick! I don’t know what to do!

  The admission tore something deep inside me, a pain that was visceral, almost real. A pain like that which had torn Eryn inside, that was tearing her up even now, that was killing her, visible only in the hacking coughs . . . and the speckled blood on her hands.

  The pain sapped the last of my strength. I quit struggling out of Erick’s comfort . . . and found that he was no longer offering it.

  We sat in silence. I could hear my breath—his breath—echoing raggedly in his chest. As if we’d physically struggled, actually fought.

  There was a distance between us, a gulf that felt as if it would never be breached.

  Perhaps, Erick began, his voice strangely empty, lifeless. He hesitated a long moment, then continued. Perhaps there’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do.

  I didn’t answer. Because I’d been thinking the same thing for the last month. Ottul had been my last hope. I just hadn’t been willing to voice it.

  And because I didn’t know where that left him, where it left me. I was afraid of where it left us.

  What . . . should I do?

  I didn’t like the tentativeness in my voice. I could hear an unspoken possibility hidden behind the words, a possibility that I couldn’t voice, that I would never have brought up, had never intended to bring up.

  A possibility that apparently Erick had also considered.

  End it.

  My breath halted.

  My gut instinctively clenched, screamed no, but I’d distanced myself from the roil of emotions, had fought them back.

  I can’t stay like this forever, Varis, Erick said, and I felt his anger as he voiced the unspeakable. But not the unthinkable. I can’t live like this! You’ve tried everything you could think of, Eryn’s tried, Isaiah’s tried, there’s nothing left to try!


  I thought of Ottul. Perhaps she’d misunderstood, perhaps she could help after all—

  But I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen her reaction, had sensed her terror on the river. She couldn’t fake that, couldn’t hide it.

  I could smell the death in the room.

  Varis, listen to me. Erick reached out in the Fire. But not in comfort. He grabbed me, shook me, his anger palpable, his fury at what he had become bleeding into my essence like oil. You don’t know what it’s like in here, Varis. His voice was a vicious growl. I’m trapped in here! I’m trapped in here with nothing but memories! Memories like this!

  And with a violent lurch, he dragged me in, dragged me into himself , past the barrier between us, the barrier that kept us separate from each other, that kept us distinct. I cried out, in denial, in shock—

  And then I screamed. A hideous, roaring scream of pure and utter pain as white-hot fire touched skin. A scream that tore at my already raw throat, that went on and on as the iron spike pressed deeper in my thigh, searing flesh, muscle, tendon, the black stench of cooking meat filling the stone chamber.

  When the iron spike was removed, the man who’d held my naked body upright during the torture, hand entwined in my hair, another around my neck, body tight against my back to keep me from writhing, thrust me to the side. I landed with a thump on the sand-covered floor, wrenched my shoulder, my legs—tied with thorny vines—twisting beneath me. I barked at the new pain, but the throb in my shoulder was nothing compared to the sizzling heat from my thigh.

  Arms tied so tight behind my back that my chest muscles screamed at the tension, I rolled until my forehead rested against the sand. It felt cool against my sweat-drenched skin, and I sobbed, sand blowing away from my face.

  A sandaled, blue-tinged foot fell in front of my face and I squeezed my eyes tight. Cloth rustled as the man knelt down beside me, a hand gripping my face, turning it harshly, squeezing until I snapped open my eyes, stared up at him through the blur of tears, of sweat, of blood.