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.
And in case you missed the first two novels of
The Throne of Amenkor,
we hope you enjoy these excerpts from
THE SKEWED THRONE
and
THE CRACKED THRONE,
both of which are available in hardcover
and paperback editions from DAW.
From The Skewed Throne:
VER one thousand years ago, a great fire swept through the city of Amenkor. Not a fire like those burning in the bowls of standing oil that lined the promenade to the palace, all red and orange and flapping in the wind that came from the sea. No. This fire was white, pure, and cold. And from the legends, this fire burned from horizon to horizon, reaching from the ground to the clouds. It came from the west, like the wind, and when it fell upon the city it passed through walls and left them untouched, passed through people and left them unburned. It covered the entire city—there was no escape, it touched everyone—and then it swept onward, inland, until it vanished, nothing more than a white glow, and then nothing at all.
It is said the White Fire cast the city into madness. It is said the Fire was an omen, a harbinger of the eleven-year drought and the famine and disease that followed.
It is said the Fire murdered the ruling Mistress of the time, even though her body was found unburned on the wide stone steps that led up to the palace at the end of the promenade. There were bruises around her throat in the shape of hands, and bruises in the shape of boots on her naked back and bared breasts. There were bruises elsewhere, beneath the white robes that lay about her waist in torn rags, the robe held in place only by the angle of her body and the gold sash of her office. There was blood as well. Not gushing blood, but spotted blood.
But the legends say the Fire killed her.
Fire, my ass.
Tucked into the niche set high in a narrow corridor of the palace, I snorted in contempt, then shifted with a grimace to ease a cramped muscle. No part of my body moved out into the light. The niche sat at the end of a long shaft that provided airflow into the depths of the palace.
Any blind-ass bastard could tell what had really happened to the Mistress. And the blind-ass bastard who killed her should have rotted in the deepest hellhole in Amenkor. There were quicker ways to kill someone than strangulation. I knew.
I drew in a slow breath and listened. Nothing but the guttering flames of the standing bowls of burning oil which lit the empty corridor below. The airflow in the palace was strong, gusting through the opening at my back. A storm was coming. But the wind took care of the smoke from the burning oil. And other smells.
After a long, considering moment, I slid forward to the edge of the niche and glanced down the corridor in both directions. Nothing.
With one smooth shift, I slipped over the lip of the opening, dangled by white-knuckled fingers for a moment until steady, then dropped to the floor.
“You, boy! Help me with this.”
I spun, hand falling to the knife hidden inside the palace clothing that had been provided the night before: page’s clothing that was a little too big for me, a little loose. But apparently it had worked. I was small for my age, and had no breasts to speak of, but I definitely wasn’t a boy.
The woman who’d spoken was dressed in the white robe of a personal servant of the Mistress and carried two woven baskets, one in each arm. One of the baskets was threatening to tip out of her grasp. She’d managed to catch it with the other basket before it fell, but both baskets were now balanced awkwardly against her chest, ready to tip at the slightest movement.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Her face creased in irritation and anger, but her eyes remained focused on the baskets.
I straightened from the instinctual crouch and moved forward to catch the basket before it fell. It was heavier than it looked.
My hand brushed the woman’s skin as I took the basket and a long thin slash of pain raced up my arm, as if someone had drawn a dagger’s blade across my skin from wrist to elbow. I glanced at the woman sharply, tensed.
The woman heaved a sigh of relief and wiped a trembling hand across her forehead. “Thank you.” After a moment to catch her breath, she motioned to the basket again. “Now give it back. Carefully!”
Relief swept through me. She hadn’t felt the contact, hadn’t felt the slash of pain or anything else out of the ordinary at all.
I set the basket back into the woman’s arms, careful not to touch her skin again, the woman grunting at its weight. Then I stepped aside and let her pass. She huffed out of the corridor, vanishing around a corner.
I watched her receding back, then my eyes narrowed. I wasn’t supposed to run into anyone, especially not one of the true Servants. No one was supposed to know I was here.
I’d have to be more careful.
I fingered the knife again, considering, then turned away, moving in the other direction, shrugging thoughts of the woman aside. She’d barely glanced up from her baskets, too intent on not dropping them. She wouldn’t remember meeting a page boy. Not inside the palace. And there wasn’t any time to spare, not if I was to get to the Mistress’ chambers before dawn. I was in the outermost portion of the palace, still needed to get to the linen closet with the archer’s nook, get past the guards at the inner sanctum. . . .
I shook my head and moved a little faster down the narrow corridor, running through the mental image of the map of the palace in my head, reviewing the timing. The incoming storm prickled through my skin, urging me on. I reached into an inner pocket and fingered the key hidden there.
I had to get to the Mistress’ chambers tonight. We’d waited too long already . . . had waited six years hoping that things would get better, looking for alternate solutions. Six long years since the Second Coming of the White Fire, and since that day things had only gotten worse. Legend said that the first Fire had cast the city into madness. The second Fire had done the same. A slow, subtle madness. And now winter bore down on us, the seas already getting rough, unsuitable for trade. With the mountain passes closed, resources low . . .
As I turned into a second corridor, I frowned, with a hard and determined expression. We’d tried everything to end it. Everything but what legend said had worked the first time the Fire came. Now there was no choice.
It was time for the Mistress to die.
From The Cracked Throne:
"I think I’ll go to the throne room.”
Erick’s face grew somber, his stance tightening with disapproval. "Very well.”
"I just want to check on the city. Besides, I’ve been working with Eryn on controlling myself, and on protecting myself from the throne. I’ll be fine.” I knew from testing the throne on my own that I didn’t need the throne to check on the city, that touching it wasn’t required—I could sense the city even now—but touching it made sensing the
emotions of the city as a whole easier. And right now all I wanted to do was relax.
Erick didn’t look convinced.
In the throne room, at the sight of the amorphous throne shifting at the far end of the hall, my confidence faltered. But I straightened resolutely and walked down the central walkway, Erick at my back. He’d insisted on coming and, since the last time I’d used the throne I’d ended up unconscious on the dais steps in my own vomit, I couldn’t argue with him.
At the base of the dais, I paused. Inside, I could feel the voices of the throne waiting, strangely quiet. I thought about Cerrin, who’d somehow escaped the Fire, and with careful deliberation I slid beneath the river and began to weave the protective net Eryn had drilled into me, trying a few of the alterations she’d proposed to help keep Cerrin and the rest of the Seven under control. Slipping deeper, I threw the net around the blazing sphere of White Fire that contained the voices at my core. The mostly quiet voices grew suddenly grim and disgusted and drew back from the wall of flame.
The net secured, I did another circuit around the sphere, searching for signs of the flaw that I knew must exist, but again I found nothing.
I turned to Erick. “I’m ready.” I was surprised my voice was so steady.
He nodded, his stance alert.
Drawing a short breath, I moved up the steps and sat on the twisting stone.
Involuntarily, I winced, expecting the voices to come crashing down around me, smothering me as they had done before, now that they were close to their source of power. But while the same weighted blanket settled over, making the room feel more real, more dense, the voices barely stirred, only the intensity of their movements behind the Fire increasing.
I let my breath out slowly, let the pulse of the throne course through me. Taking another moment to check the security of the protective net, I smiled at Erick in reassurance, then sank myself in the sensations of the city.
For a long moment, I simply hovered, the city spread out before me, as if I stood on the rooftop of the palace’s tower staring down over its sprawling streets and tightly packed buildings. The roiling flow of the people’s emotions washed over me in rhythmic swells, like waves. The scent of the waves was cool and smooth with tentative contentment. Winter had set in, the ocean was turbulent outside the bay, but here, in the harbor, where the River met the sea, we’d survived. Where before there had been a riot of apprehension, concern over whether there was enough food, uncertainty about the sudden change of power in the palace, and fear about the repercussions of the madness everyone suspected in the old Mistress, now there was hope that everything would turn out all right. There was food. They’d seen it in the warehouses, seen it being off-loaded from the ships, knew that if they were willing to work for it, the food could be theirs. Where before I’d sensed anxiety and despair, now I found industrious activity.
Not everywhere, of course. There was still a feeling of discontent near the Dredge. I focused on that part of the city, until I hovered over the Dredge itself, felt the people flowing down its streets and alleys.
I let the Dredge roll over me, then turned away. I’d done what I could for them. For now.
Next, I moved to the wharf, watched the workers packing fish in salt, rolling the barrels into storage. On the waters of the harbor, others were in small boats, hauling up crab traps, searching even though it was out of season. Still others were working in the rigging of the trading ships or on the decks, making repairs to rope and wood, pulleys and sails.
I stayed here the longest. The sailing ships had always intrigued me, even before I’d begun working as Borund’s bodyguard. While hunting for easy marks on the wharf, I’d often sit for hours watching the dockworkers unloading cargo, dreaming about what strange foods the crates and barrels could carry, of what I could steal if given the chance.
It had been impossible then to imagine that I could have boarded one of the huge ships and left with it, escaped the city entirely. At that time, all I knew was Amenkor. There was nothing outside the warren of the Dredge, the streets and alleys of the wharf and the lower city. But I suddenly realized that I could have escaped on one of the ships back then.
But not now. I was bound to the throne now.
I drew back from the wharf and the activity on the docks reluctantly, then turned my attention to the warehouse district. But even with the sense of regret I now felt, watching the people of the city had worked. I no longer felt so tense, and for a brief moment I’d forgotten about Eryn and the group that had probably already arrived in Colby.
Unconsciously, I looked out over the city along the southern coastline. Where the influence of the throne ended, the undulating flow of the river became listless. The river still existed beyond the city, but it didn’t have the same power without the throne behind it, its scents and tastes weren’t as vibrant. It was just the river, the same power I’d used to survive on the Dredge.
Somehow, with the full power of the throne flowing through me, that now seemed paltry. Even with what I’d learned practicing with Eryn, who even without the throne’s supporting power could do more with the river—or the Sight as she called it—than I’d managed to learn on my own on the Dredge.
Far down the coastline, outside of the influence of the throne, something flared.
I frowned, turned my full attention south.
And caught the flicker of light again. A white light, far enough away that it could barely be seen.
But now that I had seen it I realized I recognized it.
The White Fire.
Without thought, I reached for it. But then Eryn’s warning brought me up short, like a slap.
Frowning, I withdrew to the palace’s tower in my mind, began to pace its length, casting furtive glances out toward the tiny blinking white flame, Eryn’s warning echoing through my head.
It’s too dangerous, her voice whispered from memory. Reaching like that, extending yourself out so far. . . . You could lose yourself, never find your way back.
And that had been when I’d tried to reach out to the Dredge.
This looked much, much farther away.
I drew to a halt at the edge of the palace tower, facing the faint white light. I’d spent a lot of time pushing the boundaries of the throne recently, stretching farther and farther out over its influence without letting the connection to my own body break.
But if I reached for this Fire . . .
Don’t.
I jumped, felt a tingle of guilt sweep through me as if I’d blushed, then steadied myself, the guilt hardening into anger and a trace of fear as I drew in the sharp scent of that strange incense, as I recognized Cerrin.
He stood next to me on the edge of the tower, the wind from the ocean flapping in the tails of his coat, his very presence more solid, more real. Here, the yellow of his shirt was vibrant, his coat a deep, rich brown. His short beard was trimmed to a sharp point and his tawny eyes glittered with a hard intelligence . . . and a deep melancholy.
Why not? I asked
He shook his head. Because what Eryn said is correct. It is dangerous. It is foolhardy. It is stupid. More than you know have lost themselves by Reaching. But also because even if you can find your way back—which I doubt—you will be drained. And for what?
I turned away. How are you escaping the Fire? How are you escaping the net?
We are the Seven. Almost fifteen hundred years ago we realized that we were the last of our kind, the last that had power—true power. The last that could wield all of the elemental magics. There was no one who would follow us. But we knew that someday there would be someone of true power again, and so we tried to preserve our knowledge. So we created the thrones—to preserve what we knew until it could be used again, and to protect the Frigean coast against those who would destroy it.
He looked out over the southern coastline. There is more magic than just the Fire. Or the river. Don’t Reach for the Fire. It’s too dangerous.
Joshua Palmatier, The Vacant Throne
The Vacant Throne Page 49