The Empty Throne Page 3

  “...not a boy as he appears. Pyrite, who has refused all appeals for his birth name, despite the fact that it might grant some closure to his family, is a man. And like all men, he is responsible for his actions, his choices. This is his day of judgment, the day when he will pay for every life he has directly or indirectly taken.”

  Governor Ivanova, attired in full military regalia, was addressing the crowd from the forefront of the viewing box near the ravine that was designed to give him and his guests a perfect view. A half-grown pup paced on the ledge in front of him, seemingly caught up in the crowd’s eagerness to see the prisoner die. But I hardly registered the Governor’s speech; I only hoped it would last long enough for me to break into the open.

  “The deaths of fifty-three good and honest men rest on his shoulders, including that of Ilia Krylov, who was not only Executor of the Territory, but was close in my employ and in my heart. It is my hope that Ilia’s family, along with the families of Pyrite’s other victims, will find peace in the knowledge that by virtue of his deeds, his own life will be taken.”

  At mention of the name Krylov, a young woman seated beside Luka Ivanova in the viewing box curled her lip into a snarl that was lupine in its savagery. It appeared the death of the aforementioned government official was significant to her—and so, therefore, was my cousin’s death.

  The Governor, husky and menacing like a bear despite his advanced years, raised his hand as I ducked elbows and curses to push my way to the front of the spectators. I was close—perhaps close enough to distract him before he could signal the guards at the scaffold to drop the plank.

  I gulped in air and screamed so loudly my throat burned. My wail echoed above the din, prompting those closest to me to give way, hands clamped over their ears. Scores of eyes bore into me, but I stared at the only face that mattered, my chest heaving. At last, the dark gaze of Wolfram Ivanova, so evocative of my cousin’s, fell on me. His brows drew together, and the pup at his elbow growled out what seemed to be its master’s reply.

  Now was my chance. I launched myself toward the seating box, the rush of adrenaline enough to make me believe I could still fly. Then my head detonated with pain, my vision narrowing to black, my knees buckling. I pitched forward, my palms smacking on the cobblestones, the weight of my pack grinding into my shoulder blades. Forcing my eyes open against the amplified pulse in my temples, I looked into the scowling face of Constable Marcus Farrier, one of the Lieutenant Governor’s hand-picked officers. His broad build was enough to block out the spring sun, but it was the pistol he gripped in his right hand that told me what had happened—he’d struck me in the face with the butt of the gun and stopped me cold. He took hold of my cloak, and I cowered, but no sign of recognition flickered in his eyes. His purpose was simply to dispose of me, which he accomplished by thrusting me back into the sea of bodies. Disturbance handled, he turned on his heel and nodded to the Governor, who let the blade of his hand slice the air.

  Through the blood in my eyes, I didn’t see my cousin fall, didn’t see his limbs flail in a vain effort to slow his momentum and land feet first, didn’t see him struggle against the handcuffs that bound him. But I heard the plank snap flat against the scaffolding and the people erupt with joy, their hunger for violence sated—the murderer William Wolfram Pyrite was no more. Then I doubled over, heaving again and again.

  The crowd started to disperse, and I stumbled away from the scene and into an alley, collapsing against one of its walls. I pounded my fist against the stone until it bled, then sank to the ground, guilt, sorrow, and despair pressing down on me. I felt like a broken, wounded animal, unable to defend itself and in need of a quick end to its suffering. And like that wounded animal, I whimpered, my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth.

  Though I wanted to blame the Governor for what he’d done, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. He’d acted out of ignorance and in accordance with the law. The one person I could blame—and hate and curse—was Shea, my former human friend who had handed my cousin over to the authorities for the price on his head. I wondered if I might not hurt her the next time we met. If she returned to Tairmor with her family, we might very well encounter one another. To me, she was worse than a traitor; as of a few moments ago, she’d become a killer.

  I closed my eyes, hoping to find some peace, but renderings of pain and loss paraded behind my lids, abrading my already raw emotions: my mother’s red hair aglow upon her funeral pyre; Zabriel, bleeding and in agony, clutching the long knife he had used to try to sever his wings; my younger cousin, Illumina, lurking in the shadows rather than participating in the Queen’s Court, her arms and chest freshly scarred; Evangeline, my friend who had likewise been brutalized by humans, lying cold and dead on the floor of the Fae-mily Home, telltale green staining the skin around her mouth; a halberd striking downward, not once, not twice, but three times, stripping me of my wings and my magic; Sepulchres placing the bones and carcasses of the children they consumed for their own survival into small wooden coffins; Zabriel’s body smashing upon the rocks at the bottom of the ravine before being dragged away by the river’s current.

  My entire body shuddered and I broke into sobs, though no amount of crying or pounding the wall would alleviate the ache I felt. No amount of regret or absolution would quiet it. This was an ache at the core of my being, and it would remain with me forever.

  When I had cried my eyes dry, I wiped my cheeks with my sleeve, then stared vacantly at the stain on the fabric. My heart felt pummeled, each and every one of its beats echoing painfully in my head, and it took me a moment to realize the stain was mixed with blood. I touched my forehead and winced—my injury was perhaps more serious than I’d realized. Though part of me didn’t care, I nonetheless tugged open my pack to rummage through it. I pulled out a cloth to use for a bandage, and my gaze fell on Illumina’s sketchbook. A nauseous chill slithered over me, for the ramifications of the drawing it contained were almost too vile to contemplate. Could she have brought the hunters down on me? For Illumina to lay claim to the Faerie throne, both Zabriel and I had to be out of the way. Could her ambition have pushed her to take such an abominable and unforgivable action? And with Zabriel’s execution, was her path to the throne clear?

  Tightly rolling the cloth, I placed it against my forehead, wanting to stop the memories along with the flow of blood. Too many horrendous things had happened, and I didn’t know how to deal with any of them. Every fiber of my being felt taut, strung tight like a bowstring, ready to snap. A noise from the other end of the alley startled me, and the hair rose on the back of my neck. Was someone else here? Was I being watched? Had Constable Farrier recognized me, after all?

  Before I could come to my feet, three men staggered around the corner, arguing heatedly among themselves as they made their way toward me. Not wanting to draw notice, I sank back against the wall, hoping that if I stayed still, I could blend in with the refuse. I winced internally—for all the help I’d been able to give Zabriel, I was of no more use than garbage.

  The men stopped a fair distance from me, apparently deciding the alley was a good place for a meeting, and began to pass carefully counted coins, shiny baubles, and grumbled complaints among themselves.

  “I would’ve thought ’e’d cry out,” griped a gray-haired fellow with missing front teeth. “Disappointin’ that ’e didn’t. Not nearly so festive when they’re quiet.”

  A smaller man with a jutting jaw and slim nose that brought to mind a rat laughed gleefully. “I ’eard ’e was somethin’ special, that one. Knew ’e’d be tough right to the end.”

  “Not sure we should ’ave to pay,” joined the third member of the group, by far the youngest, clutching his coin with dirty fingers. “He had a bag over ’is ’ead. Maybe ’e was gagged or had ’is tongue yanked out.” He opened his mouth to charmingly illustrate this approach, and my gut lurched. “Don’ seem right to pay without knowin’ th
e details.”

  “You’ll pay a’right,” the rat-like fellow threatened, giving the dissenter a shove. “Thems the risks ya run.”

  Besieged by nausea, I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the gruesome exchange of blood money in which they were engaged. But I couldn’t shut out their commentary.

  “You lost, too, ya know,” the gray-haired man rejoined. “Them wings, them valuable wings, went with ’im over the edge.”

  “That’s right.” The youngest member of the trio had perked up, perhaps realizing he might get to keep some of his valuables. “You bet they’d slice ’em off. But I told ya the Gov’na likes them Fae. Wouldn’t butcher one for sport.”

  I stiffened and my eyes flew open, a spasm of symbiotic pain afflicting the muscles of my upper back. The rat-like fellow frowned, then rubbed his grizzled chin.

  “Maybe we could find ’em. You know, search in the gorge.”

  The other men stared, at last silent, though this blessing was short-lived.

  “And ’ow we goin’ to do that?” demanded the gray-haired member of the trio.

  “I ’eard tell of a secret entrance.”

  “Be off with ya, then. But I ain’t goin’ lookin’ for trouble. Don’ care to end up in the ’ands of the Scarlets meself.”

  Unable to tolerate more, I bolted from my hidden position, barreling out of the alley and down the street, running until I was too winded to go farther. My head was pounding, my side aching, and when I looked at my cloak, I could see smears of blood.

  Stumbling to the side of a building, I dropped my pack at my feet and searched through it again, this time dredging up an herbal salve. Clutching the small pouch, I washed away some of the blood on my face with water from a puddle, then caked on the thick substance. Once more pressing a cloth against it, I yanked free the sash that belted my tunic and tied it over the makeshift bandage and around my head. I closed my eyes and leaned against the building—perhaps if I stayed still for a bit, the bleeding would end and my nerves would calm.

  I didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, and yet I couldn’t prevent my mind from conjuring images of my once-vibrant cousin. Zabriel the daring, downing the mug of Sale that had been spitefully held out to him by Enerris, Illumina’s father, even though it might have killed him for his lack of an elemental connection; Zabriel the charismatic, entertaining one and all at parties in the Great Redwood, for he needed no magic to draw people to him; Zabriel the kind and caring, folding me into his arms after the death of my mother, and spending time with my shy friend, Ione, who would otherwise have adored him from afar; Zabriel the rebel, crossing the Bloody Road to enter the human territory in direct defiance of his mother’s wishes. But even though he had fled his life in Chrior, tired of the whispered speculations about whether a half-human with wings but no elemental connection should be allowed to ascend to the throne, Zabriel had never forgotten his people. He had known more than I about what was going on at Evernook Island, about the plotting against our people engaged in by Fae-hating humans. And he had been equally appalled at the discovery of the ghastly experiments on abducted Fae and imprisoned humans that were being conducted on that Nature-forsaken chunk of rock—atrocities that might never come to light now that his life had been taken. He was the bold one, the clever one, a true man of action. Without his leadership, how could anything be set right?

  I came to my feet and grabbed my pack, feeling as though a stake had been driven into my chest. The burning ache that resulted was almost unbearable, and I wanted to reach through my rib cage and tear it away. Only this was an injury for which there was no treatment, no cure. Nor did there seem to be a way to shut off my brain, prevent it from reminding me of my mistakes and misjudgments, and from conjuring memories better buried and forgotten.

  I glanced about, trying to get my bearings. What I needed, what I craved, was calm, the kind of stillness I’d once found with water, my element. I needed that connection to Nature, the security that existed in knowing there was a harmonizing force guiding all things. I was tired of this human city where the poor tended to be forgotten and reviled; where the constant drone of water created a sensation of drowning; where the vibration of the crashing river coursed through the streets and set me off balance; where the buildings rose tall, as claustrophobia-inducing as the clouds of smoke and pollution humanity fostered; and where my life had spun out of control. I was Fae and didn’t belong here; I was Fae and it wasn’t fair I had nowhere else to go.

  My eyes fell on a building on the other side of the road that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Without conscious direction, my feet had taken me to a familiar place, one to which I never thought I’d return, and one that I should not enter now. But a voice inside my head, a voice that belonged to the damaged part of me, whispered sweetly: What does it matter now? You’ve failed at every task appointed to you—there’s no hope for your salvation. But there might be hope for a temporary reprieve.

  Without hesitation, I crossed the street and pushed my way through the front door of the shady establishment.

  Chapter Three

  FRAT

  I’d been in The River’s End pub twice before, and both times had run into Officer Tom Matlock. I glanced around, then pulled up my hood, for he was the one person who might identify me despite the change in my hair color. My heart fluttered, the thought of him stirring a yearning inside me, but I was afraid if I again put him in the position of choosing between me and his duty, the nineteen-year-old Constabulary would make a different decision. Still, I desperately wanted to feel the comfort of his arms, wanted to let him ease my grief and assure me everything would magically be all right.

  I took a deep breath, inhaling the smells of alcohol and sweat, along with something deeper, sweeter, and more intoxicating. My gaze snapped to a closed door tucked into a vestibule behind the bar. The thick clouds of poison sifting through the cracks in the door frame were the source of this pub’s unusual aroma and, in truth, most of its business. I had once previously gone through that barrier and down into the cellar it guarded—Tom had brought me here during the search for my friend Evangeline, my friend who was now dead by her own hand, unable to live with the abuse inflicted on her by Fae-haters. By the very people my cousins and I had come so close to exposing on Evernook that terrible night.

  I made my way through the pub’s patrons, stopping when I came abreast of the bar, common sense dictating I should go no farther.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender growled.

  “Ale!” I shouted to be heard above the hubbub, having learned a little about what humans drank. He filled a mug, and I slapped a coin on the counter in exchange for it.

  I took a sip, my lip curling in distaste. Ale could offer some relief—assuming I could consume enough—but it wasn’t really the type of relief I wanted. I didn’t just want to forget. I wanted to remember. I wanted to fly again, to once more be Fae, to feel Fae. If what I’d heard about the Green was true, it might be the one thing that could make me feel whole again.

  Heart pounding, I left my mug on the counter and walked toward the door behind the bar, only to discover the vestibule had a purpose: to allow those in charge to keep note of comers and goers. A rough hand clutched my cloak just above my breast, and I was almost lifted off my feet by a burly enforcer whose nose appeared to point in a different direction than the rest of his face did. He snarled unintelligibly, and another fellow spoke up from a seat behind a nearby table.

  “Need gold to get green,” he informed me, not bothering to pull his attention from the cards he was shuffling.

  “How much?” I croaked, eyeing the brute in whose clutches I stood.

  “You ain’t a returning customer. Fifty nick to have a go.” He gave me a lopsided grin, a gold canine tooth reflecting the light. Money must be good in this line of work. “You like it, you come back, we negotiate. Got it?” />
  “Who’s we?”

  “Not sure you’re in a position to ask, but folks here call me Robb. Some even claims I rob ’em blind. Strange that, ’cause they keeps coming back.” With a flick of his wrist, he fanned the cards open in his hand. “But I’m a dealer, plain to see. You want a go or not?”

  I should have said no. Fifty pieces could have rented me a room for the night. And what lay behind that door could take my life in the same way it had Evangeline’s. But if that was Nature’s course, it might well be a blessing.

  The brutish enforcer released me, and I reached into the pack slung across my shoulder to fish out the necessary funds. I tossed the coins on the table, then pushed past the big fellow and through the cellar door. The smoke clouding the top of the steps brought an immediate rush to my head, and I took several deep breaths, savoring my descent into the dim green cave. I took my place among the other users, my ears seeming to plug and my eyes stinging, though the tears that leaked from them felt good. With coherency dissipating to tendrils, I relaxed, releasing my guilt, worry, and pain.

  * * *

  I was picked up by the back of my cloak and thrown outdoors before the sun rose. I skidded across the rough ground and felt something hot and wet on my cheek. Blood? I smiled. It made the air feel less cold.

  I’d been conveniently deposited in an alley. Still entranced by the drug, I rolled until I was tucked against a wall, and closed my eyes, desiring only to reimmerse myself. Soon I was floating off the stone, flying as I hadn’t done in months. I dipped in the air, free-falling a few meters before I spread my wings. The wind buffeted me back up, and my heart swelled, my body tingling all the way to my fingertips. I could have died, then and there, and died happy. Only the dream shifted and changed, the drug joining with my subconscious to conspire against me.