The Empty Throne

For the most part, I scanned the rocks and water from the natural pathway, but where the Kappa fell out of sight behind the stone formations, I clambered around or over them to slosh through pools and eddies. I would not overlook any crevice that could conceal a body, despite how much I dreaded seeing my cousin’s remains.

At a clatter of rocks behind me, I spun around, hand falling to the long knife sheathed at my hip. Who else was down here? Sepulchres? Scavengers? I strained my ears to hear, but the sound did not repeat. Rolling my shoulders, I forced the muscles in my neck and arms to relax and hurried onward.

I searched until the cold seeped into my bones and my knees begged to yield. Though I fought against the notion, it was becoming increasingly obvious that I wasn’t destined for success—the weights strapped to Zabriel’s wrists and ankles had probably taken him to the river bottom. A dozen or more Water Fae would be needed to search for him, and since I had no elemental connection at all, my efforts would remain futile. Enmeshing both hands in my hair, I tugged hard, releasing a howl of despair and frustration. I had failed yet again.

I turned to retreat, only to slip and lose my footing. With nothing to grab on to, I fell into the water...into the river...into the sea near Evernook Island. I coughed and sputtered, looking frantically around, my clothes and pack dragging me down toward a fearful death. In time past, my nature as a Water Fae would have allowed me to calm the torrent with the palm of my hand, or with a pulse of thought ask it to bear me to shore. But time past did me no good. Should I even bother to fight? In light of my failures, maybe this was the ending I deserved. But, no, I couldn’t give up, for a flicker of memory told me there was someone with me in the water. I thrashed about, trying to figure out who I had forgotten. Then my thoughts seemed to clear. Where was Illumina? My younger cousin and I had fled the all-consuming fire on Evernook Island together, plunging into the Bay of Arvogale in order to escape.

“Illumina,” I called, voice thick and raspy. But there was no answer, just the rush of water in my ears. I held my breath, trying to quiet my own movements. Had she drifted away? Drowned? Had I lost both of my cousins this night?

But that wasn’t right. Zabriel hadn’t died on the island—he had been executed in Tairmor. And I wasn’t in the bay near Sheness; I was near to drowning in the river in Tairmor, hallucinating like a madwoman as the current pushed me farther downriver. What was happening to me? Why was my mind playing tricks?

Despite my escalating terror, I waged a battle against the Kappa’s current. With a mighty effort, I propelled myself to its bank and clawed my way onto the rocks. Though I wanted to curl into a ball and rest, I forced myself upright, my muscles quivering and protesting the movement.

Fighting paralyzing cold, I bungled my way along the path in the direction I had come, icicles forming in my wet hair and frost decorating my clothing and pack. At length, I made it back to the original passageway, then on to the trapdoor, where I struggled to scale the still-dangling rope to haul myself out of the tunnels. After concealing the entrance once more with rocks and rubble, I reentered the city and rushed toward the poorer section of southern Tairmor, familiarity and the thought of food and warmth providing the impetus I needed to keep moving.

Eventually I became aware of the wide berth I was being given on the street, and I realized I’d been mumbling out loud while I walked along, my head down, watching the road just in front of my feet. Those I passed must have thought me insane, but that didn’t bother me. In truth, being insane wouldn’t have bothered me, either. I was too cold and tired and frightened and heartbroken to care.

Though I tried to fight the urge, what I wanted was the unique brand of comfort to be found at The River’s End pub. But could I do that to myself again? I sighed, hating to admit Tom Matlock had been right about Cysur Naravni, called the Green or Black Magic on the streets. He was the one who had originally warned me about it, taking special care to ensure I was aware of its dangers; he’d told me it wasn’t worth its price, and I’d scoffed at the idea that I might fall so far.

I rubbed my forehead, unable to shake the image of Tom’s brows drawn close in concern over his silver-gray eyes; nor could I shirk off the shame the image inspired. Perhaps what I needed wasn’t Cysur, but a good night’s sleep, a luxury I’d been denied for some time. Nightmares appeared to be creeping into my waking hours, making me feel out of place and time. Clinging to the hope that sleep might be the cure for all my ailments, I headed toward the place that would give me the best opportunity to claim it.

When the Fae-mily Home came into sight, I stopped and surveyed the area, trying to assess the danger that a Constabulary might be waiting for me inside. Despite my altered appearance, I didn’t want to take any chances. When my hunger and exhaustion turned into physical pain, I hastened across the pitted road and into the shelter, leaving behind the incessant sound of the rushing waters of the Kappa that permeated the capital city.

I entered to be bathed in warmth from the crackling hearth fire in the corner. There were doors to my left and right that led to storage and laundry rooms, and a podium straight ahead. Through an archway beyond, a dining area stirred with life, and the enticing smell of cooked meat wafted upon the air.

Despite the noise, Fi heard the ringing of the bell above the front door and scuttled into the vestibule, ready to offer a meal and a bed to her newest patron. When she saw me, she halted as though she had encountered a barrier, the momentum of her body pitching her slightly forward. Her lips parted, her short brown hair almost standing on end; then she rushed forward to thrust her arms around me. Her embrace was reassuring, the heat from her body enough to melt the ice that had formed in my gut at the moment of Zabriel’s execution.

“Anya, I’ve been so worried,” she exclaimed, holding me at arm’s length to examine me. “Are you all right? You dealt me a blow with that blond hair. And that black eye you’re sporting. You look...”

“Dreadful?” I supplied with a feeble laugh. “Not exactly what you’d expect from Fae royalty.”

“It’s not that. Just you’ve surely been through a lot. But I’ll fix you up in no time.”

Her wide-set blue-green eyes told me it wasn’t just her naturally maternal personality that had set her to fussing.

“What’s going on, Fi? Why so worried?”

“Lots of unsettling things these days. For one, there’s been another execution, a Faerie no less. That’ll stir up the Fae-haters in this city. And Luka and his Constabularies have been asking after you. I told him you wouldn’t do anything bad, and he said it was about keeping you safe.”

Her mention of the execution hit me harder than I expected, and I stumbled to the fireplace mantel, putting a hand upon it to steady myself.

“It’s not my safety that interests Luka,” I scoffed.

If possible, Fi’s eyes grew larger, and her hands dropped to her skirt to fidget with its folds.

“That pirate they executed. Brought here from Sheness. You didn’t have anything to do with him, did you?”

I hesitated, unsure how to answer her question, and my throat tightened. I fought the sensation, afraid that if I let my emotions filter into my voice, it would make her more inquisitive. She didn’t know who Pyrite was—who he had been—and I wasn’t sure I could make myself say the words.

“You can’t tell Luka I’m here,” I implored, choosing to address Fi’s original assertion. “It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone.”

She took my hands, her jaw set. “Don’t fret, Anya. I won’t say a word to Luka. But when he was here, he swore to me he wasn’t out to harm you. If things change, you can go to him. I know it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I held back a sigh, shifting my gaze to the window. In the aftermath of the horrific outcome of my relationship with Shea, I would always err on the side of caution when dealing with humans, and Fi would always err on the side of trust. Albeit trust well-placed, as far as I could tell. The temptation to put faith in Luka Ivanova was a pulsing force, a tide reaching ever closer to land. He almost single-handedly funded the Fae-mily Home and had proven himself sympathetic to Fae causes and human faults. He’d begged Shea to hand over her father so that he wouldn’t be forced to punish her in Thatcher More’s stead. Indeed, he’d shown outright disdain for the law that made Thatcher’s wife and three daughters collateral when he’d fled arrest, thus subjecting any of them to serve his sentence. Luka appeared to be a friend, and it would have been easy, a relief even, to give my fate over to him. But still I took care, for my ability to trust had diminished right along with my Fae nature, the actions of the hunters and Shea’s betrayal eating away at my core.

Fi’s voice pulled me from my deliberations. “You need to eat, and I’ve got a room where you can stay out of sight. It’s not but a closet, but it’ll keep you from the cold.”

“Sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

“One thing more. A message arrived for you like you said it might.”

My heart leaped—Gwyneth. Before we’d parted company in Sheness, I’d told her she could contact me at the Fae-mily Home. News from her might lift some of the gloom I was feeling.

“Where is it?”

Fi waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not going anywhere. Dinner first. You look starved.”

Though I wanted the letter, I hadn’t had a full stomach in days, and the promise of food proved irresistible. I followed her to a room at the rear of the shelter, near a door that led into an alley. She lit a lamp on a small table to reveal a space that met her description with no embellishment—it was cramped, with a cot between the night table and the wall, a washbasin and mirror in the corner, and a narrow window that was set too high to open or offer a view. But it met my most important criterion: it was secluded. I would be comfortable and, in all likelihood, safer here than anywhere else.

“I’ll fetch you a plentiful meal,” Fi offered, cheeks tinged bright pink as she darted about to wipe away dust from the little-used space and give the linens a healthy shake.

“No need for that.” I laid a hand on her forearm to bring her fussing to an end. “The room is perfect. Thank you so much.”

She hustled away, her blush deepening to red, and I deposited my pack on the floor near the bed. By the time I had washed my hands, she had returned with a heavily laden platter—chicken, warm bread with cheese, cooked vegetables, and a mug of spiced cider. The aroma washed over me, and despite the manners that had been drilled into me over the years, I fell upon the food like a starving animal. I sat on the edge of the bed, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth, almost swallowing the first bites whole. Fi left again while I ate, returning with an armful of clothing and a medicinal compress.

“I don’t want you cold on the street.” Her voice contained a trace of a scold as she set leggings, socks, a tunic, and a sash on the bed next to me. “You’ve worn through your old ones.”

I nodded, unwilling to stop chewing.

“And this,” she added, giving the compress a shake before setting it atop the pile, “is for your eye. It’ll bring down the swelling.”

“Thank you.” I spit out a bit of bread along with the words then mumbled an embarrassed “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. But you might want to slow down—there’s plenty more where that came from.”

When I finally set down my fork, Fi reached into a pocket hidden among the folds of her layered skirt and produced a rolled and wax-sealed letter. Too excited to be polite, I sprang to my feet and snatched it from her hand. Though my brain told me it was crazy, I couldn’t quell the wild surge of hope I felt that the paper would reverse the events of the past couple of days. Perhaps, against all odds, Zabriel had survived the fall and made it safely back to Sheness, and this was the letter that would explain everything. Hands shaking, I broke the Dementya family seal, but what I read when I unfurled the note was a simple statement of shared grief.

Anya, I’m so sorry. There was nothing you or I could have done. He was dead the moment he was betrayed, though I still can’t grasp what happened. And I still can’t believe he’s gone.

Write me. Please. Come and stay with me and my father in Sheness if you like. You’re always welcome here.

I’m thinking of you.

G.

At the bottom, hastily scrawled as though she had considered not including it, was an added message:

If you retain any care for Shea, she’s in danger now that he’s gone. His friends are unforgiving.

I crumpled the letter in my hand, angry at Gwyneth for even mentioning Shea. Whatever happened to my former friend was out of my hands. More than that, it was of her making.

“Is the news bad?” Fi asked.

“No, just not what I wanted to hear. Tell me—when did this arrive?”

“Only this afternoon. By snowbird to the Dementya station, then by servant here.”

I nodded. Although snowbirds were notoriously difficult to train, they were swift fliers and therefore favored as messengers by the wealthy, a class that included the Dementya family. And if the news had been spread this quickly to the coast, it had probably been flown across the sea to all the reaches of the human world, sparking celebrations at many port cities. Gwyneth’s father, Leo Dementya, was the owner of a fleet of ships that had been raided on more than one occasion, placing him among the revelatory group. What would she do if he asked her to join in a toast to the death of such a notorious pirate and criminal? At least I didn’t have to pretend happiness. Gagging at that thought, I rushed to the washbasin, struggling to keep my food down.

“Are you sick?” Judging from the concern wrinkling Fi’s brow, I looked as pale and clammy as I felt. “Should I send for a doctor?”

“No, no, I’m fine. But I should have listened to you—I think I ate too fast.”

She pursed her lips, not quite believing me, and I spoke up, wanting to head off additional questions.

“Listen, Fi, if any more letters come—”

“I’ll hold them for you—your eyes only.”

I forced a smile and returned to the cot, taking a sip from my mug of cider.

“I’ll be going, then,” Fi said, removing another item from her hidden pocket. This time when she extended her hand, it held a key. “For the door into the alley. No one ever comes or goes by it. Just use it to please yourself.”

“Thank you, again, for all your kindness.”

She picked up the food tray. “You deserve better, but it’s my best.”

Before I could respond, she exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. With a moan, I forced myself to my feet and crossed the short expanse of floor to push the lock into place. Settling down once more on the bed, I squeezed my eyes shut and applied the compress to the right side of my face.

I wanted so badly to exhale the tension from my body. But it was no use, not when guilt and sorrow over Zabriel’s death threatened to consume me and ever-present fear clogged my veins, at times almost immobilizing me. Queen Ubiqua—assuming she was still alive—would come to Tairmor with her entourage despite that there was no longer a living Prince to retrieve. Of course, she might not know of Zabriel’s execution, but whether or not she did, the political ramifications of a royal Faerie heir dead at the hands of the humans were potentially colossal. Nothing short of parlay between the leaders of our races could suffocate the impending outcry.

Unbidden, the drawing I had discovered in Illumina’s sketchbook rose once more to the forefront of my mind, the sketch depicting a young woman collapsed in the snow, bleeding out magic at the base of a tree. If my deepest, most secret suspicions were true—that Illumina had been there that night, had been the woman who stroked my hair and shushed me where I lay in agony on the cold ground—then how could I be confident she had conveyed the message she was sent to deliver? Or was this what she had wanted? Me, barred forever from the Faerie Realm, and Zabriel equally unable to return to threaten her ascension to the throne? In the end, it didn’t matter, for the Queen had more than one source of information. The three months upon which Davic and I had agreed were up, and he would bring all the forces of Nature to bear to find me, with my father’s assistance. And the Fae Ambassadors to the Warckum Territory would have sent word of the execution of a member of our race. No, the Queen and her entourage would arrive, the only unknown being when.

And while she was here, grieving her son, I would have to face her with nothing to offer but apologies. I wouldn’t try for excuses. She’d wanted me to succeed her, but I’d abandoned Chrior without her blessing, lost my wings, failed to safeguard the Royal Anlace—a timeless relic from the Old Fae that had never even been held by a non-ruler before me—and watched Zabriel die.

I took a long drink of the cider, hoping its warmth would help me to sleep. But just when I felt my consciousness drift, I sat bolt upright in bed—there was one thing I might be able to reverse. I slapped my cheeks in an effort to come fully alert, then tried to recall the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the Anlace.

Shea and I had been arrested at the West Gate of the city. We’d been searched for weapons, and I’d snapped at one of the men to be careful with the blade. During our escape, when we’d stolen back our packs and supplies, the Anlace hadn’t been there. So what had become of it?

I rubbed my temples, trying to conjure an image of the guard in my mind, and the answer came to me. He’d tucked the Anlace into a pouch at his hip, perhaps realizing the knife was valuable. And that meant I had to find him, and fast, before Ubiqua arrived in the capital.

With some semblance of a plan, I doused the lamp and fell asleep with the image of the Anlace, a brilliant ruby glinting from within its golden grip, floating before me, just out of reach.

Chapter Five

THE TRAIL OF THE ANLACE

I gathered my belongings and returned to the streets before the sun had risen, using the exit into the alley to avoid encounters with any of the residents of the Fae-mily Home. The day was wet and gray, and felt somehow colder than if it had been snowing. Rain had a penchant for slithering under clothes and against skin that snow couldn’t rival, and I had been feeling the damp more acutely since the loss of my magic. Water had reverted to treating me like everyone else.

As the sun blinked its dreary way into the sky, shop owners threw drifters out of alleys; coughs and sneers rose in a dissonant chorus; and foul-smelling citizens leaned against lampposts and building-fronts puffing on cigarettes—poor person’s smokes that had none of the richness of traditional tobacco and thus reeked far worse. I hurried along in an effort to avoid unwanted gazes, the cigarette smoke fading as the din of the river mounted.

An enormous marble bridge situated in the center of the city spanned the river to connect the two sides of Tairmor, and I slowed to behold it. It served a practical purpose for transportation, but its origins delved far deeper into human history: it was a memorial to the soldiers who had died during the Faerie-Human War generations ago. In order to put an end to the interracial conflict, my people had created a boundary—known as the Bloody Road—to prevent nonmagical beings from entering our Realm. The use of our elemental connections to earth, fire, water, and air to suit that purpose had been so powerful that it had devastated the enemy’s forces, destroying bodies beyond recognition, and sometimes reclamation, and scattering limbs across a wide swath of the Balsam Forest. The Bloody Road was the barrier that kept me from reaching home.

By this time the rain had stopped, and I stepped foot onto the monument. I ran my hands along one of its railings, fingering the etchings that reminded me of the love carvings surrounding the entrance to the Great Redwood in Chrior. The bridge was inscribed with the names of every soldier who’d been lost in that final battle. How often did it inspire the humans to think of and honor those who had died? Or was it just a stark reminder of our actions? Indeed, the hatred that had lingered between the races had been the impetus for Queen Ubiqua’s marriage to William Ivanova, the Governor’s elder son. But not even the magic of the wedding mage had been powerful enough to see him safely across the Road. He had died trying to cross it, desirous of living with his wife, who was pregnant, in the Realm of the Fae.

Despite this tragedy, Wolfram Ivanova had remained staunchly pro-Fae in the ensuing years, believing if not knowing that a grandchild might have been born to him. But though the Governor’s policies and laws were pro-Fae, not all the people in the Warckum Territory agreed with him, just as not all the Faerie people supported Queen Ubiqua’s goal of peace with the humans. For me, this was no abstract concept, for Illumina had followed in her father’s footsteps and was among the dissenters. My back muscles convulsed with phantom pain at the thought of my younger cousin, and I hurried across the bridge, periodically glancing over my shoulders, my anxiety resurfacing.

At long last, I trekked through a quaint residential area and into an adjacent business district, where a bell in a steeple atop a church spire announced the time to the residents of this part of the city. Up ahead rose the massive stone dam that diverted the course of the Kappa near the West Gate. I could already feel the dampness of the river spray against my skin.

Activity in the city had picked up considerably, both along the road by which I drew near to the West Gate and over the bridge from the south that had been the location of Shea’s and my arrest. Carriages and convoys rattled under the thirty-foot-high passageway, its doors swung wide to provide for two lanes of traffic and then some. Numerous Constabularies were on duty, trying to keep order, but despite their efforts, angry shouts rose with frequency from those eager for admittance but lacking in patience.

Dodging traffic and horse droppings, I scurried to the base of the wall that surrounded the city. The gate’s architecture made a shadowed alcove where the curve of the guard tower met the stone-lay, and I dropped my pack in its protective cover before inching around for a better view of the guards. I was looking for a robust fellow slightly shorter than me with a round face and a swagger to his walk.

The scarlet-clad Constabularies worked in pairs, and I found myself staring at the backs of those closest to me. One member of a duo would check papers and enter information in a logbook, while the other scanned wares and equipment for irregularities. Those folks who passed inspection were pushed into the city like tagged cattle; those under suspicion were taken by other guards for further questioning. I examined the men in front of me, but all were too tall to match the image I had stored in my memory. One in particular was almost twice my height, and as thick as a bull—not someone I’d want to cross.

Needing to get a look at the Constabularies on the other side of the road, I weighed my options. I could fight through the mass of people, horses, carriages, and wagons, or try to gain some height and a viewpoint. I studied the tower next to me from top to bottom. There were battened windows just above my head and crevices in the mortar large enough for my fingertips. I ran a hand over the stone surface to check that it was coarse enough to provide some grip, then swung my cloak off my shoulders and deposited it with my pack.

If there was one side effect of growing up with the ability to fly it was that I had no fear of heights. I fitted the toe of my left boot between two stones, found a handhold above my head, and launched myself upward. Body pressed close to the tower, I lodged my opposite foot on the window ledge and redirected my momentum toward the sconce bolted into the stone over it. After grabbing on to it for support, I pulled myself up to balance on the top of the window frame above the heads of the swarm.