First Published 2015

First Australian Paperback Edition 2015

ISBN 9781743690673
THE EMPTY THRONE
© 2015 by Cayla Kluver
Australian Copyright 2015
New Zealand Copyright 2015
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole
or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known
or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the
publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior
consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it
is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any
form.white
imprint landscape This12mm
edition is published in arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A..
high
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Published by
Harlequin TEEN
An imprint of Harlequin Enterprises (Australia) Pty Ltd
Level 4
132 Arthur Street
NORTH SYDNEY NSW 2060
AUSTRALIA

® and ™ are trademarks owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporate

affiliates and used by others under licence. Trademarks marked with an ® are
registered in Australia and in other countries. Contact admin_legal@Harlequin.ca
for details.
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press
 chapter one

THE LOVELY
PALE COLOR OF CHEESE

I paced the floor of my room, tired and on edge, playing

the memory of my mutilation over and over again in my
head. Despite the fact I had spent the night in a fine inn in
southern Tairmor, I hadn’t slept at all. The charcoal drawing
I had discovered in my cousin Illumina’s notebook of the
vicious attack that had cost me my wings had thrown me into
turmoil. And the nightmarish image my mind had conjured
of her as the woman who had stroked my hair where I lay
bleeding on the ground had sent panic shooting through my
veins. But in the light of day, my actual memory failed to
provide any clarity about the woman, and my heart refused
to consider any such possibility. Yet, in the deepest recesses
of my brain, doubt ate away at me.
“Anya? Anya, are you awake?”
It wasn’t the words, but the insistent knocking upon the
door that pulled me from my circular thoughts. I frowned,
not wanting to see anyone. My vision was blurred, my head
ached, and nausea roiled my stomach. I wasn’t even close to
ready to face the world.
8 CAYLA KLUVER

“Anya, I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

This time I recognized the voice. It was Officer Tom Mat-
lock, the young man with whom I had spent the previous eve-
ning. After escorting me to the room he had gallantly rented
for me, he had promised to return midmorning to check on
me, and it was he who now stood in the second-floor hall-
way wearing out his knuckles upon my door.
“Coming!”
I tugged at my tunic to straighten it and ran a hand through
my hair, my face flushing at the thought of the kiss he and
I had exchanged but a few hours ago. The caress of his hands,
the pressure of his lips against mine, and the strength and
safety I had felt in his embrace had almost led me to invite
him to stay the night. I shook myself like a dog expelling
water from its coat—this was a moment I should not be re-
living, especially since Davic, my promised, waited to re-
ceive word from me in the Faerie Realm.
I crossed the floor to grant Tom entrance, but before I
could even say hello, he pushed past me across the thresh-
old. I stared aghast at him, for his actions were at odds with
the gentlemanly manner I had come to expect. With a back-
ward sweep of his leg, he kicked the door shut. The motion
was enough to send my overworked sense of danger through
the roof.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded, shifting away from him.
When my calves bumped into the bed, I sank down upon
it, though he didn’t seem to notice—his own agitation had
spurred him to pace the floor almost literally in my footsteps.
“You asked me last night if you’d earned a wanted poster.
Why did you want to know? And don’t tell me it’s because of
the escape you and Shea made from Tairmor, the one I aided.
 THE EMPTY THRONE 9

Nothing further came from that. No, something happened

while you were in Sheness. You have to tell me what it was.”
“Are you saying I’m on a wanted poster?” I managed, my
voice strained as I struggled to process both the information
he was revealing and the demand he was making.
“No, not a poster, and no reward offer, either. But the
Lieutenant Governor has sent word to the Constabulary sta-
tions throughout the city to apprehend you on sight.” Halting
in front of me, he reached into a pocket of his red double-
breasted uniform coat and produced a notice that contained
my name, a physical description, and a sketch bearing a fair
resemblance to my face. “This is being distributed, along
with instructions to bring you to Luka at the Governor’s
mansion.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, and foreboding seemed
to drip from my heart like condensation from the walls of
a cave. This was not good news. I could only assume Luka
Ivanova, the Governor’s son and Commissioner of Law En-
forcement in the Warckum Territory, had been told of the
part I had played with my cousins in the raid on Evernook
Island, the raid that had landed Zabriel, the Prince of the Fae,
under his alternate identity of the pirate William Wolfram
Pyrite, in human custody.
I examined my hands, twining them together in my lap,
and decided to sidestep Tom with an inquiry of my own.
“Have you heard anything about the arrest of pirates on
the coast?”
Tom nudged me under the chin with his knuckles, rais-
ing my gaze to his. “I need to know what happened in She-
ness, Anya.”
“And I’d like an answer to my question.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his normally tidy brown
10 CAYLA KLUVER

hair, leaving it boyishly mussed. “The only news concerns

a massive fire on Evernook Island, but I’ve heard nothing to
suggest pirates were involved. And I haven’t heard anything
related to Pyrite, the most notorious of the lot.”
I nodded, feeling some measure of relief. While I had no
idea what had become of Zabriel after his arrest, knowing
only that he’d been wounded, the humans would surely laud
his capture before sentencing him to a public execution for
his crimes.
“Your turn,” Tom prompted, tapping one foot.
I adopted what I hoped was a reassuring smile and took
a steadying breath. “I told you last night, I found my cousin
Illumina and sent her home to the Faerie Realm.”
“And that’s it? You didn’t break her out of jail? Or engage
in any other illegal activities?” He hesitated, his gray eyes
narrowing. “And you don’t have any connection to these pi-
rates you’re asking about?”
I clenched my jaw but gave no reply, unwilling to tell him
the truth and unable to speak false. Fae nature was complex,
allowing us to confuse, evade, and conceal but not to out-
right lie. While it was possible I was responding out of reflex
and habit, my nature no longer truly Fae, this was a bound-
ary I didn’t want to test, unwilling to fully align myself with
human characteristics.
Exasperated, Tom threw his hands in the air and momen-
tarily turned from me. Feeling that the tide was shifting, and
not in my favor, I came to my feet, ready to face him down.
“You need to trust me, Anya,” he said, but despite his
words, he fingered the handcuffs he carried on his weap-
ons belt.
“I could say the same. And that brings us to the question
at hand, Officer Matlock. Do you intend to arrest me?”
 THE EMPTY THRONE 11

The dull ache in my temples that had almost faded away

came back with a vengeance while I awaited his answer, for
it felt as if the course of our relationship was about to be de-
cided. No matter what, I couldn’t be arrested, not with so
much at stake.
“Will you voluntarily accompany me, or do I need to use
these?”
He patted the restraints, and I closed my eyes—though his
answer was not unexpected, disappointment flowed through
me. I gathered my resolve and perused him, calculating his
size and strength in relation to mine. He was taller than me,
fit, and well muscled, but he was also quite smitten, which
might provide the advantage I needed.
“It seems I have no choice in the matter,” I replied, giving
him a withering stare. “So go ahead and act like the Con-
stabulary you truly are.”
He grimaced, and I extended my arms. He took hold of
one of my wrists, treating me more gently than protocol
would have dictated, and I slammed my knee into his groin.
“Damn,” he gasped, doubling over as he dropped to the
floor.
Though remorse welled within me, I was too far commit-
ted to retreat; nor was I about to make the same mistake he
had and assume our friendship negated any threat. I raised
my clasped hands, and he briefly met my eyes, leaving no
doubt he knew what was coming.
“Sorry,” I muttered before smacking my fists down on
the back of his head. He collapsed, moaning, and I stripped
him of his weapons belt, then flung it to the other side of
the room. Unwilling to waste any time, I gathered my pos-
sessions and stowed them in my pack, my gaze continually
drifting toward Tom where he writhed on the floor.
12 CAYLA KLUVER

“Anya,” he groaned, struggling to push into an upright

position. “I didn’t come alone, so you can’t go out through
the lobby. I’d suggest the window.”
I stared at him, brows furrowed; then my eyes widened in
horror. “You weren’t going to arrest me, were you?”
“I told you last night—I’m partial to redheads. I could
never arrest you.”
“Then why let me believe otherwise? Why…this?” I ges-
tured at him, for he was hunched over, one hand gingerly
prodding his head.
“I couldn’t just let you go this time, not with reinforce-
ments right behind me. So I gave you the chance to spin the
tale of how you got away. I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,
though. And I haven’t even considered the wounding my
pride is about to take.”
My emotions continued to swing, bringing me close to
tears, and I bit my lower lip, using the pain from the pres-
sure of my teeth to remain focused. Shaking slightly, I went
to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you. And I’m so sorry about—”
“Just get moving. The Constabularies downstairs are only
going to wait so long before joining us.”
I nodded and threw on my cloak, then approached the
window, glad to see the rain of the day before had stopped.
A quick glance told me climbing was not a viable option. It
was a straight drop to the ground, with no shutters or lamp
brackets for handholds. I pulled out the rope Illumina had
stashed in her pack—the pack I now carried, for she and
I had inadvertently switched our travel satchels when she’d
left a few days ago for Chrior to inform the Queen of Z
­ abriel’s
arrest—and tied one end of it around the bedpost, secur-
ing the other about my waist. With a final glance at Tom, I
 THE EMPTY THRONE 13

opened the window and hopped up to balance on the ledge,

then eased myself down. My feet had no sooner hit the cob-
blestones then the rope landed beside me, a money pouch
attached.
“You’re terrible at tying knots,” Tom called, and I looked
up to see his face framed in the window. “You’re lucky you
didn’t get hurt. And I expect you to pay that money back
someday.”
With a quick wave, I picked up the rope and money, then
hastened out among those who frequented the establishments
in this part of the capital. Though I had left the inn behind,
I wasn’t necessarily out of danger, and I panned the streets,
watching for the red uniforms worn by the members of Tair-
mor’s peacekeeping force. Whether due to Luka Ivanova’s
desire to apprehend me or not, the Constabularies did seem
to be out in large numbers, and I snugged the hood of my
cloak close around my face to hide my most distinguishable
features—my rich auburn hair and green eyes.
Needing a place to think, I ducked into an alley across
the street from a human shelter, knowing Luka’s men gen-
erally left the homeless in peace. I crouched down among
the damp heaps of trash, trying to ignore the cloying odors,
and forced myself to concentrate on the only question that
mattered. Why hadn’t William Wolfram Pyrite’s arrest been
made known?
I tugged at a few strands of my hair, sorting through the
possibilities I could discern. Was Zabriel dead? No, for news
of the demise of such a nefarious pirate would have been
announced and celebrated, the only downside the lack of a
public execution.
Had he escaped? Highly unlikely, but if he had, Gwyneth
Dementya, daughter of the owner of the largest shipping com-
14 CAYLA KLUVER

pany in Sheness and paradoxically an associate of the pirates,

would have gotten word to me at the Fae-mily Home. I had
already checked once with Fi, the woman who ran the shel-
ter for wounded and displaced Fae, since returning to Tair-
mor, and no note had been delivered, though I would make
sure to check again.
Was my cousin being held for interrogation? I chewed on
the inside of my cheek, the small bit of discomfort helping to
focus and relieve my anxiety. This third possibility made the
most sense. If Pyrite’s arrest were proclaimed, there would
be an immediate and massive outcry for his blood. The best
way to stave off the lust for vengeance was to keep the news
under wraps until he could be made to confess his deeds
and reveal information about the other members of his crew.
I banged my head back against the alley wall, angry at
the conclusions I was reaching. Angry, if I was honest with
myself, at Zabriel and his overabundance of confidence,
stubbornness, and pride. He had fled the Faerie Realm two
years ago at the age of fifteen, and he had never revealed his
whereabouts to his mother. Nor had he attempted to make
contact with the human side of his family. Half-Fae and half-­
human—the son of Queen Ubiqua and William Ivanova,
the Governor’s deceased elder son—he had not wanted to
be claimed by either faction, much less by both. And yet he
had chosen a lifestyle that was destined to put the two worlds
on a collision course.
Nervous energy on the rise, I came to my feet, the thought
of Zabriel confined somewhere—hungry, cold, injured, and
undergoing torture—almost more than I could bear. While I
felt certain his life would be spared if Governor Ivanova were
told his real identity, it was Queen Ubiqua who had decided
to keep news of her son’s birth from his grandfather. It was
 THE EMPTY THRONE 15

not my place to reveal such a long-kept and volatile secret,

but if worse came to worst and my cousin was slated for ex-
ecution, I’d divulge everything, whatever the cost.
But it shouldn’t have to come to that. Queen Ubiqua was
no doubt on her way to Tairmor by now, and Zabriel could
tell the Constabularies who he was anytime he wanted. The
best thing for me to do was wait—and stay out of the Lieu-
tenant Governor’s reach for the time being. Putting two royal
heirs into human custody did not seem wise.
I stepped around the piles of trash to peer into the street,
and immediately drew back, frantically tucking any escaped
strands of hair inside my hood. If anything, the number of
red uniformed men in the vicinity of the human shelter
had increased while I’d sat ruminating. My heart pounded,
for my straits had degenerated in another way—a pair of
Constabularies was stopping the ragged citizens of Tairmor’s
underbelly at the shelter’s entrance. One of the men appeared
to be asking questions, while the other made entries into a
logbook of the sort used by the guards at the gates into the
city.
Why would the Constabularies be doing such a thing?
Would they really go to all this trouble just to find me? Feel-
ing as if a noose were tightening around my neck, I hurried
down the street in the opposite direction, wishing I had the
ability to vanish into thin air.
Believing the search for me would be concentrated within
the poorer neighborhoods, I headed toward the River Kappa
and the deep ravine it cut from northeast to southwest on
its journey through Tairmor, effectively dividing the city in
half. I walked until my feet ached and my stomach begged
for the breakfast it had so far been denied, pleased to see my
16 CAYLA KLUVER

assumption had been correct: the number of Constabularies

dwindled with the increasing wealth of the residential areas.
I crossed the street, intending to purchase a bit of bread
from a bakery, and passed a lamppost to which a brightly
colored notice had been plastered. I glanced at it, then came
to a full stop, daring to trust to luck.
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 exag-
gerated 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
 THE EMPTY THRONE 17

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 sum-
mon a Constabulary.”
“True, but I’m breaking no law. And I think your other
clients might prefer we handle this quietly. If you would sim-
ply provide the service I seek, I will gladly be on my way.”
She considered me while my stomach attempted to tie it-
self into knots—I hoped I was correct in thinking her threat
a bluff. Sticking her nose in the air, she closed the door, giv-
ing 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 mat-
ter 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 peek-
ing 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.”
18 CAYLA KLUVER

“Understood. But if the service is not as promised, recom-

pense will be made.” I opened my cloak to reveal the long
knife at my hip, and, though the receptionist gasped, Alek-
sandra 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 mat-
ter 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 defi-
nitely be improved.” She tapped her index finger against her
chin, considering. “Blond or golden it is, then. This is ac-
complished 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 fall-
ing 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 yel-
low or orange-yellow tint.”
 THE EMPTY THRONE 19

“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 ac-
quaintances.”
“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 famil-
iar, 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 ques-
tions, 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 rep-
resent 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 meet-
ing in the Governor’s mansion.
I leaned against a storefront wall, idly watching a custo-
dian light a gas lamp on the street corner while I weighed my
options. In more affluent parts of the city, lampposts prac-
tically 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
 THE EMPTY THRONE 21

temperature dropped once the sun went down. Street folk

were beginning to congregate around trash cans, bring-
ing 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 re-
arranged to provide insulation from the chill of the ground,
I wrapped my cloak around me and fell into an exhausted
sleep.

“Are you coming?” I asked Ione, Evangeline having al-

ready 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?”
22 CAYLA KLUVER

“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 boul-
ders. “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 gaz-
ing 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 plum-
met 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 every-
one 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
 THE EMPTY THRONE 23

cliff, the toes of his boots sending a bit of rubble on a plum-

met 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, ex-
cept 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 di-
rection 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 land-
ing. 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 young-
ster 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,
24 CAYLA KLUVER

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 pock-
ets, 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.
 THE EMPTY THRONE 25

“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 in-
26 CAYLA KLUVER

formation, 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, none 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 be-
lieve 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. Eskan-
der had soiled his pants before meeting his unceremonious
death. Would Zabriel wet himself, too? Or would the hood
 THE EMPTY THRONE 27

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 deci-
sion to go to his grave with his secrets intact? He was only
seventeen, a year older than me, and his life was too impor-
tant 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 Py-
rite was his grandchild, he would surely stay the execution.
“…not a boy as he appears. Pyrite, who has refused all ap-
peals 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 di-
rectly 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
28 CAYLA KLUVER

my heart. It is my hope that Ilia’s family, along with the fam-

ilies of Pyrite’s other victims, will find peace in the knowl-
edge 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 to-
gether, 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 seat-
ing box, the rush of adrenaline enough to make me believe
I could still fly. Then my head detonated with pain, my vi-
sion narrowing to black, my knees buckling. I pitched for-
ward, 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
 THE EMPTY THRONE 29

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 momen-
tum 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 ig-
norance 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 authori-
ties 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
30 CAYLA KLUVER

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 render-
ings 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 par-
ticipating in the Queen’s Court, her arms and chest freshly
scarred; Evangeline, my friend who had likewise been bru-
talized 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 cof-
fins; 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 re-
main 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 echo-
ing painfully in my head, and it took me a moment to real-
ize 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.
 THE EMPTY THRONE 31

A nauseous chill slithered over me, for the ramifications of

the drawing it contained were almost too vile to contem-
plate. 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 de-
ciding 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 fel-
low 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 some-
thin’ special, that one. Knew ’e’d be tough right to the end.”
32 CAYLA KLUVER

“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 charm-
ingly illustrate this approach, and my gut lurched. “Don’
seem right to pay without knowin’ the 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 valu-
ables. “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 trou-
ble. Don’ care to end up in the ’ands of the Scarlets meself.”
Unable to tolerate more, I bolted from my hidden posi-
tion, barreling out of the alley and down the street, running
until I was too winded to go farther. My head was pound-
 THE EMPTY THRONE 33

ing, 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 dredg-
ing up an herbal salve. Clutching the small pouch, I washed
away some of the blood on my face with water from a pud-
dle, 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 ele-
mental 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 other-
wise have adored him from afar; Zabriel the rebel, crossing
the Bloody Road to enter the human territory in direct de-
fiance 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 connec-
tion 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
34 CAYLA KLUVER

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 any-
thing 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 harmoniz-
ing 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 pol-
lution 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
 THE EMPTY THRONE 35

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.