The Empty Throne

  Aleksandra Donetsky’s Hair Care Salon, I read, examining the illustrations of well-to-do women with highly coifed hair. Offering Perfumes, Curling Fluids, Soaps, and for the first time, Dyes—safe and odorless, in shades of Brown, Black, Golden and Chestnut, Medical Certificates available...

  I skimmed to the bottom of the poster where an address was printed—an address on the same street upon which I stood. I smiled, feeling almost giddy, and hurried on my way, my stomach no longer of concern. Aleksandra Donetsky might hold the key to restoring my freedom of movement within the city.

  I began to check signs, for I had entered a neighborhood market area. Noticing the comings and goings of a few well-dressed women up ahead, I quickened my pace and was pleased to discover the establishment I sought. Without a care for the shabby nature of my attire, I stepped inside, prompting the matronly woman who sat behind the appointment desk to spring to her feet. She wore a corseted dress with enough jewels on her person to match Luka Ivanova, but the exaggerated expression of alarm on her face wasn’t one I’d ever see on his—in part because he wasn’t likely to wear rouge.

  “I believe you’ve taken a wrong turn,” the receptionist snipped, checking me out from head to toe. “We do not run a charitable operation.”

  My mouth flapped open and shut while I fumbled for words; then indignation flared. “I would like my hair dyed. And I am not in need of charity.”

  “In that case, we have no one available to assist you.” She stepped around me, yielding as much space as possible, and I had the feeling she would faint if I touched her. After reaching the door, she held it open. “Perhaps another day.”

  I spotted a row of chairs against the wall, then belligerently planted myself in one and folded my arms across my chest.

  “I’ll wait. All day if necessary.”

  The receptionist patted her upswept hair. “I could summon a Constabulary.”

  “True, but I’m breaking no law. And I think your other clients might prefer we handle this quietly. If you would simply provide the service I seek, I will gladly be on my way.”

  She considered me while my stomach attempted to tie itself into knots—I hoped I was correct in thinking her threat a bluff. Sticking her nose in the air, she closed the door, giving me reason to relax.

  “I shall check our schedule.”

  Taking tiny steps in her high-heeled boots, she disappeared behind a curtain, and I dropped my pack at my feet. No matter how out of place I looked or felt, I was not leaving this salon with red hair.

  A few moments later, the receptionist reemerged to take her place at the desk, closely followed by a petite dark-haired woman in a white apron.

  “I am Aleksandra Donetsky, proprietor of this shop,” she said, daintily extending her hand. I clumsily shook it, half afraid I might break it, and she motioned to the hair peeking out of my hood. “I understand you would like to change the color of your, shall I say, auburn locks. Then come. But money is paid first, and no refunds are given.”

  “Understood. But if the service is not as promised, recompense will be made.” I opened my cloak to reveal the long knife at my hip, and, though the receptionist gasped, Aleksandra merely nodded.

  After we had dispensed with the business aspects of the transaction, Aleksandra led me behind the curtain. The room in which we now stood had been partitioned into several workstations, and she signaled that I should take a seat in a raised chair in one of them. I obliged, then pulled down my hood.

  “Well, well,” she murmured, surveying the tangles and debris embedded in my hair, her hands gripping her hips. “You are aware it is not illegal to use a brush?”

  I gritted my teeth, determined to see this through, no matter how humiliating the experience might be.

  “Do not dismay—I will fix. Now, do you have a color in mind? Darker would be easiest.”

  “But darker would not be a dramatic change. I don’t want to look like myself at all.”

  “I see. Not that I blame you. This appearance can definitely be improved.” She tapped her index finger against her chin, considering. “Blond or golden it is, then. This is accomplished with a somewhat caustic mixture of potassium lye, alum, honey, and black sulfur, so results vary.”

  I flinched at the term caustic, picturing all my hair falling out. But my mind was made up. Even though Faefolk tended to scorn anything but natural hair color, I would see this through and regain the ability to move freely around the city. Madam Donetsky appeared not to notice my reaction and continued to think out loud.

  “Let’s see. With red, I believe we will end up with a yellow or orange-yellow tint.”

  “Orange?” I blurted, becoming more and more fretful.

  “Not orange, my dear. More the lovely pale color of cheese.”

  I sighed. “Cheese it is.”

  Although I didn’t appreciate her glibness, her comments did bring one issue to mind—at some point, I’d want my natural color back.

  “Could you cut a small lock of hair off for me? I want to keep it for comparison.”

  “I suspect you’ll have plenty to choose from. Some of these knots would do a sailor proud. I’ll have no choice but to cut them out.”

  I nodded, and she went to work, placing the first snip in my hand.

  Several hours later, my scalp feeling raw and my eyes burning, the hairdresser declared her work done and led me to a mirror draped with a scarf.

  “Ready to see?”

  I took a deep breath and nodded, and she swept away the scarf. The yellow-blond hair that framed my face was clean, shiny, and beautiful, though not quite in keeping with my complexion. My face looked sallower, but I didn’t mind. I barely knew myself, and I couldn’t have been happier.

  “You approve?” she asked.

  “I approve.” I smiled so broadly my face felt stretched. “And I’ll be sure to recommend your services to my acquaintances.”

  “Not necessary, dear. In fact, please don’t.”

  I laughed, then gathered my belongings and bid her good day. I would return to the neighborhood of the Fae-mily Home, the part of Tairmor with which I was most familiar, grabbing a bite to eat along the way. Only this time, I wouldn’t bother to pull up my hood.

  Chapter Two

  DAY OF JUDGMENT

  Although my appearance had significantly changed, I dared not risk renting a room for the night, for inns asked questions, required names, and checked travel documents. Nor could I stay the night at a shelter. The Constabularies were still cataloguing the homeless, and whether they recognized me or not, my forged travel papers had been obtained to represent me as human rather than to conceal my identity. Even the Fae-mily Home was out of the question, for it would be among the first places Luka’s men would look. After all, it was the Lieutenant Governor who had sent me to Fi when he’d learned of the loss of my wings during our original meeting in the Governor’s mansion.

  I leaned against a storefront wall, idly watching a custodian light a gas lamp on the street corner while I weighed my options. In more affluent parts of the city, lampposts practically lined the streets. But here they were scattered, their solitary pools of amber light leaving much of the area in the clutches of the darkness—and making wandering the streets at night potentially hazardous.

  I blew on my hands, for despite the advent of spring, the temperature dropped once the sun went down. Street folk were beginning to congregate around trash cans, bringing scraps of wood and waste for use in lighting the fires that would provide some modicum of warmth and comfort. Knowing I was in for a long night, I entered the alley in which I had earlier rested. Its proximity to the human shelter gave me a sense of security, however false it might prove to be. With my pack for a pillow, and some garbage deftly rearranged to provide insulation from the chill of the ground, I wrapped my cloak around me and fell in
to an exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  “Are you coming?” I asked Ione, Evangeline having already agreed to accompany me. “We’re going to the Crag. Everyone’s saying Zabriel and some of the other boys are going to take the plummet.”

  Ione’s face pinched with worry. “But, Anya, the Crag is off-limits by decree of the Queen. And the plummet itself has been outlawed by the Queen’s Council.”

  I laughed. “That’s why they’re more determined than ever to do it.”

  “Decide,” Evangeline cut in. “Or we’ll get there too late to see it. We have to climb up to the ledge—if anyone saw us flying around that part of the mountain, they’d know what we were up to.”

  “You said Zabriel will be there?”

  Knowing the decision had been made, for a single glance from my cousin made Ione weak in the knees, I nodded.

  By the time we reached our destination, the boys were already there, joking, bragging, and swigging Sale.

  “Well, if it isn’t my cousin,” Zabriel pronounced, gaze landing on me. “Come to cheer us on? Or shut us down?”

  “I’d say we’re here to witness your stupidity. And that’s a force not even I can stop.”

  Laughter filled the air, and Zabriel, a huge grin lighting up his dark brown eyes, motioned toward a couple of boulders. “Right this way, ladies. Front-row seats from which to watch the daring young men of Chrior.”

  Evangeline skipped past him to stand on one of the rocks, leaving me to take Ione’s hand and follow, for she was gazing moon-eyed at my cousin, her cheeks a vivid pink. From where we now stood, I could see the tops of the trees and the catwalks of the city far below. The view made me dizzy, and the thought of what these boys were about to do made me slightly sick to my stomach.

  Zabriel’s expression sobered, then he turned from us to address his group of followers.

  “Since some of you are here for the first time, let me make the nature of this challenge clear. We call it the plummet for good reason. What you do is tuck your wings tightly against your back, then step off the ledge, falling as far as you dare before opening your wings. If you wait too long, you’ll crash to certain injury and possible death. Even worse, your attempt won’t count if you don’t land safely.”

  A few nervous chuckles followed Zabriel’s explanation, but from the look on a couple of the boys’ faces, not everyone would take the dare this day.

  “Who’s first?” Zabriel asked, scanning his fellows. “Since I’m the record holder, I’ll go last.”

  “I’ll start,” replied a young man named Cobi, who at the age of fifteen was a year older than my cousin, although clearly no wiser. His eyes were on Evangeline, leaving no doubt about whom he wished to impress.

  Zabriel gave way, and Cobi sauntered to the edge of the cliff, the toes of his boots sending a bit of rubble on a plummet of its own. He took a deep breath, but before he could step off, a frantic cry rent the air, and a small body, arms and legs flailing, plunged past.

  “Mother of Nature,” Cobi swore, and everyone rushed forward to see what was happening. Everyone, that was, except Zabriel, who literally dived off the ledge after the child.

  We stood in stunned silence, watching the drama play out in a column of air below us—Zabriel, trying to keep his direction and streamlined position as he rocketed downward, the child, wings partially open, spinning and somersaulting in an effort to slow. Then we launched, spreading our wings to fly after them.

  The fall seemed to take forever, the bodies ever closer to the ground, ever closer to destruction and death. “Pull up, Zabriel,” I shouted, for he had passed the point of safe landing. And yet his wings did not unfurl. Finally, heartbeats from the ground, his black wings opened like a canopy, only to crumple like paper upon impact.

  I landed, along with the others, and we ran toward Zabriel’s form, for there was no view of the child. My cousin moaned and rolled onto his back, his arms releasing a boy no more than eight years of age. Whimpering and trembling, the youngster scrambled to his feet, miraculously unharmed, and Ione swept him into her arms. Heart pounding, I went to the Prince, while Cobi, Evangeline, and the others fell in behind me, fear on all of their faces.

  “Zabriel, are you all right?” I asked, hand hovering inches above him, afraid to touch him.

  He opened his eyes and laboriously pushed himself into a sitting position, one wing hanging at an odd angle.

  “I’m okay. I busted up my wing. Possibly a few ribs. Oh, and my wrist doesn’t seem to work.” He glanced around, searching for the child. “How’s the boy?”

  “He’s perfect, no injuries at all,” Ione responded, her voice filled with relief. She shepherded the lad forward. “His name’s Dagget.”

  “Thanks,” Dagget mumbled, appropriately in awe of his Prince. “S-sorry you got hurt.”

  “What happened up there? How did you go over the edge?”

  “I—I got a note.” The boy rummaged through his pockets, then held out a scrap of paper.

  “If you want to watch the Prince, come to the Crag at noon,” Zabriel read. “Hide on top of the overhang or they’ll make you leave.” He handed the note to me, then addressed Dagget once more. “So you came to watch us plummet?”

  Dagget nodded, then burst out, “We know you’re the best. We just wanted to see for ourselves.”

  “And who sent you this note?”

  “I don’t know.” The boy hung his head. “We just wanted to see you drop. We didn’t mean any harm.”

  Zabriel reached out to muss the youngster’s hair. “I know that. So did you lose your balance? And who is ‘we’?”

  “I came with two friends. But when you didn’t show up right away, they left. Thought making us climb was a bad joke or something. I knew you’d come, though.”

  “Did you slip, then?”

  Dagget shook his head vehemently. “No, not me, I didn’t slip. Someone shoved me.”

  Everyone stilled and silence descended, all of us struggling to comprehend what the boy had said. He could not lie, and, yet, how could his words be true? Then Zabriel clenched his jaw and came to his feet.

  “Who?” he demanded, a storm of anger brewing inside him.

  “I—I didn’t see.”

  “Let me take him home, Zabriel,” Ione softly volunteered, and my cousin nodded, frowning.

  “You should see someone about your wing—” I began, but he cut me off.

  “No. We’re going back up top. I want to know who would do such a thing.”

  I glanced at the others, feeling cold and scared, but none of them met my eyes. Something evil walked the earth in the Faerie Realm, and I had no confidence it left any tracks.

  * * *

  I awoke with a start, for noise had erupted on the street. I rubbed my eyes, then stiffly stood and hefted my pack. I was cold, grumpy, hungry, still tired, and not in the mood for more trouble. Nonetheless, I hobbled to the end of the alley to survey the scene. People were dashing every which way, handing out some sort of announcement, while others had gathered in groups, excitedly talking.

  “What’s going on?” I called to a man hustling by.

  “Execution! One hour’s time. Better hurry or you’ll miss it.”

  “Whose?” I demanded, but he had already moved out of earshot.

  Not knowing what else to do, I fell in with the stream of foot traffic heading toward the execution plank, fear filling my empty stomach. Desperate for information, I grabbed the arm of the woman next to me.

  “Do you know who?” I asked.

  “Pyrite,” she gleefully answered. “They finally caught him!”

  My heart seized, and I halted, wanting to process this information, wanting the flow of time to stop, wanting fate to justify itself to me. But I was pushed onward by the swell of people behind me. Still, n
one of this made sense. Why would the government rush into an execution when they’d already been holding Pyrite for a week? Maybe it was some other pirate. The woman, the fliers, they had to be wrong.

  A tremendous crowd had formed by the time I arrived at the ravine where death sentences were carried out, and the prisoner had already been led to the scaffolding. I pushed my way forward, wanting to get a better look, unable to believe they would be executing such an important criminal on such little notice. On the verge of panic, I climbed on top of a waiting carriage to get a better view, squinting against the morning sun. I swore under my breath in frustration, for there was a black bag over the prisoner’s head. But he was Fae, with wings the color of Zabriel’s—black, rimmed turquoise, extending from his back at a proud but resigned angle, any chance they might have saved him from the plank negated by the weights that bound his wrists and ankles.

  Feeling as if I’d been kicked in the gut, I jumped to the ground, clawing my way closer, wanting to disprove what my eyes told me was true. But the haphazard stitching over the wound in the prisoner’s left wing allowed no room for doubt. Zabriel had been shot at the time of his arrest by a brute of a man named Hastings. The bullet had passed through his shoulder before damaging the wing. I had been there, I had seen it, and I knew without doubt who stood on the plank. I shuddered, besieged by memories of the drop taken by the Faerie hunter Alexander Eskander a short time ago. Eskander had soiled his pants before meeting his unceremonious death. Would Zabriel wet himself, too? Or would the hood that covered his eyes help preserve his dignity? He was a prince facing his end—he deserved to keep his dignity.

  The crush of people in whose midst I stood jostled me, their jawing and laughter churning my gut while their sheer numbers impeded my movement. I felt sick with fear, for I had miscalculated—the Queen wouldn’t arrive in time to demand her son’s life be spared. And Zabriel himself must have refused to reveal his parentage.

  But did I have to honor his stubborn and prideful decision to go to his grave with his secrets intact? He was only seventeen, a year older than me, and his life was too important to let him forfeit it so foolishly. Maybe, just maybe, if I could reach the Governor before the plank dropped, I could stop this madness. If Ivanova were told that the convict Pyrite was his grandchild, he would surely stay the execution.