The Black Queen (Book 6) (4 page)

He made himself stand still. He couldn’t move backwards, but he wouldn’t let himself move forward either. His sister sat on the Black Throne, at least metaphorically. She was the one who ruled the Fey, not he. He had no right to be here.

“What is the point of this?” he asked.

“The Black heir is supposed to sit in the Black Throne.”

He was shaking. “You felt you needed to tempt me? Why?”

“Go closer.”

“I’m close enough, thank you.”

“It is your throne,” Madot said.

“It is my sister’s throne.”

“She has not sat in it.”

“She didn’t even know it existed. Neither did I.”

Madot stood by his side. “Which is why every Black ruler has a Shaman. The Shaman takes the ruler to the Black Throne. Once the Fey ruled from here, but since we have expanded our Empire, this room is largely symbolic.”

“My great-grandfather was here?”

“Rugad sat in that chair,” Madot said. “I watched him. It frightened him, as it frightens you.”

Gift remembered his great-grandfather. Nothing seemed to frighten that man. “I am not frightened,” Gift said, not sure if he was lying. “I just don’t understand why you need to tempt me now.”

“The Warning,” she said.

“Repeat it to me.” He heard command in his voice. He had tried to purge command from his entire system, but it kept reappearing.

He had to leave.

She said, “‘The hand that holds the scepter shall hold it no more, and the man behind the throne shall reveal himself in all his glory.’”

“And you believe that I am the man behind the throne?” he asked.

“Your sister will leave the Black Throne. So the Warning says.”

“It says nothing about the Black Throne. It could refer to Blue Isle.”

“Blue Isle is a small place compared to the Fey Empire.”

“Blue Isle has a Place of Power. It may be small in land, but it is large in the history of the world.”

“Still,” Madot said. “Your sister sits on Blue Isle’s throne, too, does she not?”

“I have never been behind her. I am not even an advisor any longer.”

“You are the heir. If she dies or leaves, she has no children to follow her. It will be your hand that holds the scepter.”

“So you say,” Gift said. “But I see nothing of that in this Warning. And why, if I take the throne, is this a Warning? I am of Black Blood. I am, as you say, the legitimate heir. This should not be a problem.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Blood against blood,” she whispered.

He felt another shiver run through him despite the warmth of the room. Members of his family from the Fey side could not fight against each other. The Fey phrase, “Blood against blood,” referred to that. Gift had been taught the meaning like this:

Black Blood could not fight against Black Blood. It led to chaos and death. The last time Black Blood warred on itself, centuries ago, three thousand people died. It was said to be a raging madness that made fathers turn upon sons, sons upon mothers, mothers upon daughters. And it happened throughout the Fey Empire. Only one in ten survived. The Fey Empire was small in those days. Now it covered over half the world.

“I would never kill my sister,” he said. “Even if I didn’t care for her, I know what happens when people of Black Blood kill each other. I understand my responsibility to the Fey.”

“I have Seen it,” she whispered. “There is a madness loose.”

“Loose? Or will it be turned loose by something we don’t know?”

She took his hands. Her fingers were like ice. “Touch the Black Throne,” she said. “For me.”

“Why? So that you can become Shaman to a Black King?” His words were harsh, his voice as cruel as he could make it. He hadn’t expected this here. He had experienced it in the palace on Blue Isle, and it had been the reason he had not seen his Uncle Bridge in Nye. But he hadn’t expected it among the Shaman. He hadn’t believed, until this moment, that Shaman could have ambitions.

“I do not want to be Shaman to a Black King.” Her entire body was rigid. She almost cringed before him. There was something else then, something he didn’t entirely understand.

“It’s a test,” he said. “You want to see if I am lying to you, if I really want the Black Throne.”

Her nod was almost imperceptible. If he hadn’t known her so well, he wouldn’t have seen it.

“Why isn’t my word good enough?” he asked.

“The fate of the world rests on your shoulders,” she whispered.

“The fate of half the world,” he said. “My decision only influences the Fey Empire.”

“Whoever sits on the Black Throne determines how big that Empire will be,” she said.

He hadn’t been this angry in years. She had no right to test him like this, no right to doubt his word.

And then he heard his own thoughts, how entitled they sounded, how much like his great-grandfather. She had a right. She needed to know if she was bringing him into the fold as Shaman or as a future Black King. The Shaman did not want the next Black King here.

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “If I do as you ask, then you must promise me one thing.”

She raised her head. Her eyes reflected the red in the room. The light gave her face an eerie cast. “What?”

“If I prove that I do not want the Black Throne, promise you’ll train me as a Shaman. You’ll give me the full training, including the parts you’ve been denying me because you’re afraid of what I might do with the learning.”

She looked away from him. That movement was confirmation that she had been denying him, that even she was afraid of him.

He stood at his full height, hands clasped behind him, feet slightly apart in military style. The stance of a ruler. He knew it. He did it deliberately. He wasn’t making this agreement with her as an apprentice. He was making it as an heir to the Black Throne.

“All right,” she said without looking at him. Her voice was soft. “I agree to your terms.”

“Good.” He started toward the throne and then stopped. He had to know one more thing before he touched it, before he did as she asked. “If I touch this Throne,” he said, “does that obligate me to rule the Fey?”

“No,” she said. “If anyone could touch the Black Throne and become ruler of the Fey Empire, this place would be heavily guarded. Only true heirs will be drawn to it, and only the one who will sit on the Throne will be comfortable in it.”

He glanced at the Throne, at the swirling blackness of its base. It looked comfortable to him. Too comfortable.

“Why hasn’t anyone brought Arianna here?” he asked.

“She has no Shaman.”

“If this is important, then a Shaman should have gone to her.”

“One did,” Madot said. “Arianna will not leave Blue Isle.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Arianna saw no need to leave Blue Isle. She believed she could rule as well from there as she could from any other place in the Fey Empire. Apparently, no one had explained the Black Throne to her. The Shaman had probably demanded that she come here, and Arianna, stubborn as always, hadn’t bowed to a demand.

Madot was watching him. For the first time since he had come to the Mountains, his impatience had left him. He didn’t want to approach the Throne but he was drawn to it at the same time, the same way he had been drawn to the Place of Power. All those years here he had controlled that feeling.

What would giving in now do?

His dead mother’s face flickered across his Vision. It was a brief flash, and then nothing. He wasn’t supposed to be able to see her here. He could only see her in a Place of Power, and then only when she wanted to visit him. She hadn’t visited him in over a decade.

He tried to conjure her again, but could not. Whatever had passed across his Vision was gone now. The near-Sighting had left him cold and a little shaken. Had she been trying to warn him? Or had he simply seen something he’d wished he could see? Someone who could give him advice at this moment?

He did not look at Madot again. He took a deep breath. Did he want the Black Throne? No. He had never wanted to rule. From his childhood, when his grandfather had died and Gift had been left in charge of the Fey on Blue Isle, he had not wanted to rule. But he had ruled, and he had hated it. He couldn’t imagine a life like that. It was not a life he wanted to live.

The Throne pulsed. Its blackness seemed to move outward. The crest on the wall behind it seemed even more vibrant, more alive, than it had earlier. The sword glistened in the reddish light. For a moment, he thought he could see blood dripping out of the impaled hearts.

He took one step closer. With his right hand he reached out, and touched the Throne’s arm. It was cold. The chill shocked him. Then it warmed and he felt how very comfortable it would be. It would hold him, embrace him. It would be so easy to slip into the Throne, to become part of it.

But something within him resisted the simplicity of it. The Throne was calling to his Black Blood, not to him. He did not want to sit there. Now or ever.

He started to pull his hand away, but the blackness reached out and enveloped him. It felt like the warm and reassuring grip of a friend, questioning him, warning him that he was making a mistake. He stared down, saw that his hand was covered in blackness.

“No,” he said and yanked.

As the Throne released him, golden light shot from his hand and the place he had touched. It was so bright he had to close his eyes. He tumbled backwards and the fall seemed to take forever.

He could see the light through his eyelids. He brought an arm over his eyes, but it was too late. The light flowed inside his mind, illuminated all the dark corners, and threaded through his Vision. He tried to push the light out, but he could not. Instead it reached inside that part of him where his magick lived, and tapped.

The familiar feeling of the world spinning, the only acknowledgment that a Vision was coming, entrapped him. He tried to prevent it. He wasn’t sure if this was a Vision sent by the Powers or something triggered by Throne. And he wasn’t sure if those two things were all that different.

He felt his body land on the stone and then the spinning began in earnest. He could not open his eyes. But he Saw—

—his long-dead great-grandfather alive as if he had never died, sitting on the throne in Blue Isle, smiling at him—

—And his sister was standing before the Black Throne, looking at it with such longing that it frightened him. He wanted to warn her, to tell her to stand back, but he almost didn’t recognize her or the look on her face. He took a step toward her—

When everything shifted again.

—He was in water, thrashing, an undertow pulling him down. Water filled his mouth, tasting of brine and salt. The old Fey in the boat—his great-grandfather again? Or someone who looked like him?—reached for Gift, but if Gift took his hand, the old man would die. And Gift didn’t want that. He didn’t want to cause someone else’s death—

—His sister, her face gone as if someone had draw it and then wiped it away, calling his name—

—His long-ago best friend, the man to whom he’d always be Bound, Coulter, kissing a Fey woman, kissing her, and then Gift grabbed him, pulled his head back, and put a knife to his throat. He had to—

—His sister, screaming—

—In the Places of Power, two Shaman stood at the door, preparing to find the Triangle of Might. He couldn’t stop them. He was trying, trying, but he didn’t have the strength—

And then the spinning stopped. He was lying on his side on the strange stone floor. Gold and silver spread out around him, but the rest of the floor was red. Madot hovered over him. She hadn’t touched him. She knew better. Visions were sacred things.

“How long was I out?” he whispered. His throat was dry, his voice nearly gone. Sometimes Visions took half a day from a Visionary’s life, and sometimes only an instant.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I thought maybe you were dead. You hit the floor so hard.”

Her voice was shaking. What would it have meant if he died here? Would she have been punished? Would the Shaman as a unit? Would Arianna have finally come to the Eccrasian Mountains? Would it have taken his death to bring her to the Black Throne?

He sat up slowly. His whole body ached. It felt as if the light had poked and prodded him, had used instruments on him to see if he hid something that wasn’t there. He closed his eyes. Nothing had been taken from him, and so far as he could tell, nothing had been added. He just felt like a room that had been thoroughly searched.

Madot put a careful hand on his back. Her touch was gentle, but he wanted to shake it off. Had she known what would happen when she brought him here?

“Did you have a Vision too?” he asked.

“No.”

And that was odd in itself. Usually a series of Visions was powerful enough to trigger any nearby Visionary. By rights, all of the Shaman in Protectors Village should have Seen something. And Madot’s Vision should have been as powerful as Gift’s.

He opened his eyes. Her face wasn’t far from his, her small mouth pursed, her lower lip trembling.

“Did you know this would happen?” he asked.