The Empty Throne. Cayla Kluver
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if you prefer smoke, like in the den. Downside is it leaves a stink you can’t wash out. This lot you can also chop and wet to rub your gums. But it’ll stain your whole mouth same way the powder stains your nose. The green grin, some call it.”
“I don’t want evidence about me.” On that point, I could manage certitude.
“Your type usually don’t. This’ll be what you want. Evidence ain’t so obvious.”
He removed a vial from the last pouch and set it down to show me the emerald liquid it contained. The light from the oil lamp reflected merrily off the substance—except at its core, where it looked entrancingly cold.
“Won’t it stain, too?”
He laid down a thick-needled syringe. “Not for drinkin’, for shootin’. Needle comes with the package. Your arm will scar, nothin’ more.”
I clenched my teeth, and my breathing picked up. Could I take that needle and plunge it into my flesh? Capitalizing on my silence, the man added some instruction, pointing to my upper arm.
“Just tie somethin’ tight around here, and the vein in your elbow will pop. Not hard once you get the hang of it.”
“And it doesn’t show?”
“Just the scars.”
Scars.
“I already have those,” I said, and picked up the vial and syringe.
* * *
Chrior was as I had seen it last—a city illuminated by the twinkling of snow in the moonlight. I walked along, the crunch of ice crystals beneath my feet calming and rhythmic. With a smile, I gazed upward at the rings of catwalks that wrapped like a coiled ribbon higher and higher, every level lined with homes and businesses. Normally, the sky would be filled with the glinting of Faerie wings as the residents of Chrior zipped along their way, but shops had already closed for the night, and it was cold. Not too cold for me, though. I needed to be out here. I felt it strongly, though I couldn’t have said the reason.
I passed the hub of the city, aware now of the pulse of the Great Redwood, home of the royal Redwood Fae and the Queen’s Court—my home. I started jogging, aching for it, for the warmth of its heartwood, the love carvings adorning its bark, the elemental gifts like jewels decorating the Queen’s throne of twined roots at the base of its inner walls. I ran until my boots no longer met snow, splashing instead into a reserve of water.
I halted, leggings soaked to the knee from my unexpected encounter. Before me, the snow was melting into a shallow lake interspersed with floating ice. It was the middle of winter, cold enough to maintain a frost in full sun, let alone when the horizon had swallowed the light.
Shadows of the Redwood’s branches stretched toward me across the water, and I stepped back. It was too dark for shadows, the hour too late for them to creep like this. Then an orange glow rose from between the shadowy tendrils, reflecting off the shallow pool. I felt the same glow against my skin, hot enough to make me sweat, bright enough to make me squint, and I raised my eyes to its source.
The Redwood was aflame, its bark screaming and popping, its limbs crackling as they neared collapse, a torch too immense for even a giant to wield. It loomed before me, frightening and yet awe inspiring.
Smoke coiled into the already blackened sky, obscuring any stars that might have emerged for their nighttime watch, and I wished I could hide, too. Tears streamed down my face, my horror too great to contain and my eyes stinging from the effuse. Where was Queen Ubiqua? My father, Davic, my best friend, Ione? I sloshed forward—the Redwood, ancient symbol of my people, was lost, along with anyone who was inside it.
The heat grew unbearable, and I was forced to stop again, but this time there was a figure in my view, a silhouette so slight she might have been another shadow. She stood close by the trunk, closer than should have been possible. She would die.
“Get away!” I shrieked above the roar of the flames. “You have to run!”
But the little girl shook her head.
“All this is mine.” Her soft voice was somehow more audible than my shouts. “My birthright. It may burn and fall, but I will never let it go.”
The flames engulfed Illumina despite my warning cries, and even though she was a Fire Fae, I doubted she could survive. Then the mighty tree collapsed into the cradle of freezing water at its base.
* * *
I awoke stiff and trembling, the spot where I lay damp enough to convince me the vision of the Redwood had been real. I staggered to my feet, blinking against the sun, and caught myself with an open palm on a rough wall. I was again in an alley; worse, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, nor was I sure I cared. At least I’d been smart enough to conceal myself behind a heap of rubbish and had pulled my cloak over me like a Faerie Shroud—except instead of hiding my wings and disguising me as human, it had allowed me to pass for human waste.
I peered out at the crowded street, then rubbed a hand over my face. Where was I? I squinted, feeling as though my senses were muted by gauze bandages, and scanned the buildings for clues. The area was mostly residential, with small shops tucked here and there. Over the crest of a roof, I spotted a spire that was familiar. A bell hung between four pillars under the steeple, and it began to ring out the time. I closed my eyes and counted, forcing myself to concentrate despite the fogginess in my brain. Nine bells. The day was still young.
I stumbled out of the alley, almost tripping over my feet. Needing to think clearly despite sickening vertigo, I took several deep breaths. Maybe the Cysur was more potent in a syringe than in a smoke. I didn’t even know how much I’d taken. My memory of the night before was hazy at best—my only clear recollection was of the tattooed man in the pub measuring the drug for me and showing me how to inject it. What had I done with the rest of the supply? Feeling a twinge of panic, I slid my hand inside my pack and found a strangely shaped pouch—from its feel, I could tell it contained the vial and syringe for which I’d paid. Relief flooded me, followed by shame. Never again, I promised myself. Nature, I could have died. Never, never again. Though my promise was sincere, I didn’t take the next logical step—I didn’t get rid of the drug.
I looked around once more, and the reason the church spire was familiar came to me like a dead weight in my stomach. One of the buildings that formed the alley in which I’d slept was likewise familiar. It was the bathhouse I’d hidden beside last night—I was on the same street where I’d interrogated the guard. I must have retraced my path under the influence of the Green. I grimaced. This wasn’t the smartest place for me to be.
I yanked my hood up and made to walk away, quick and quiet, before anyone took note of me, but a swarm of people across the road drew my attention. The group was centered in front of the home I’d invaded a few short hours ago, mutterings rising and falling while they watched and waited...But for what? I’d expected the guard to report the incident, but why so much fuss? The circumstances might be unusual, disturbing even, but not worth the time of an investigation, especially when I was sure my victim couldn’t describe me. He hadn’t gotten a good look at me last night, and considerable time had passed since he’d been involved in my arrest.
The door to the guard’s home swung open and two Constabularies strode out into a semicircular area their comrades had cleared of civilians. The first was broad-chested and walked with an intimidating side-to-side motion, his shoulders leading. Before he raised his silvering head, I recognized him as Constable Marcus Farrier, the man who had led the inquest into Evangeline’s suicide. Experience told me he was businesslike and callous, having professed in the middle of the Fae-mily Home that he gave not a care for my friend’s fate.
The second Constabulary was Farrier’s much younger partner, Officer Tom Matlock. My breath hitched and I sank onto a storefront bench, watching him peruse the curious who had gathered