Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Hob was impressed. “It’s like arcadia,” he mused aloud. A poor player focused on game pieces; a good player focused on patterns. The Fellowship was taking systematic control of the board while the Great Houses were busy chasing figurines. “You’re dissecting them.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Burke. “I don’t blame you for being suspicous, Hob. Paranoia is common in our profession. But the Fellowship cannot function without trust, and trust requires an element of faith. You are a vital piece in an intricate mechanism. You have your job; others have theirs. If you stop doing your job to question what all the other pieces are doing, the mechanism will break down. This brings us to your mission.”

  Hob braced himself for a rebuke, which, he now admitted, was probably justified.

  “I apologize for our impatience,” Mr. Burke continued. “Your task is a difficult one and you were thrown into it with relatively little training. That you’ve maneuvered your way into Her Highness’s inner circle is remarkable.”

  The word “maneuvered” struck a distasteful chord with Hob; like he’d been manipulating Hazel and taking advantage of her kindness. They weren’t “friends” in any usual sense of the word, but there was a bond. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “You’ve grown fond of her,” Mr. Burke observed mildly. “Not surprising. You’ve been on your own, surrounded by enemies. It’s only natural you’d begin to identify with them.”

  Hob sat up straight. “Hazel Faeregine is not our enemy. She’s more interested in muir rights than you know. The only thing she’s guilty of is being born into the royal family—a family where she’ll never wield real power. I don’t understand why we’re so interested in her.”

  “There is power and then there is power,” replied Mr. Burke. “Her Highness takes her magic rather seriously if she spends every evening locked in Tùr an Ghrian.”

  “Every student at Rowan studies Mystics,” Hob retorted.

  “I see,” said Mr. Burke. “And did these other students slip into a trance and march off to a Reaper tomb? Did a fomorling appear and attack them?”

  Hob’s brow crinkled. “Are you talking about the stag-man?”

  “That ‘stag-man’ was a fomorling,” Mr. Burke explained. “They’re a race of lesser giants, thought to be an offshoot of the ancient Fomorians. Fomorlings are almost extinct themselves. The few that remain tend to be sighted near Reaper tombs.”

  “Why is that?” asked Hob.

  Mr. Burke tended the lamp which had begun to sputter. “I can’t say for certain, but I think they keep vigil to ensure she remains at rest. The Reaper nearly exterminated them.” He set the lamp back on the table and wiped his fingers with a handkerchief.

  “Incidentally, what do you actually know of Mina the Fourth?”

  Hob’s response was like a school recitation. “Born Arianna Faeregine in 308. Ruled from the age of fifteen. The most magically gifted Faeregine, surpassing even Mina the First. She created the Otherland Gates, crushed the Great Revolt, and expanded the empire to its present borders. Assassinated in 401 A.C. Her ashes are scattered across hundreds of burial sites called Reaper tombs.”

  “Rather encyclopedic,” said Mr. Burke.

  “Thank you.”

  The man shook his head. “It was not a compliment. Facts are mere trivia if you don’t bother to think about them. You just described a woman who opened portals to other worlds, pushed the boundaries of magic, and expanded her family’s domain.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd the Faeregines leave her in little bits and pieces all over the globe? The locations of Reaper tombs are well known. Why hasn’t some empress collected her remains and brought her home?”

  Hob had no idea.

  “Can you tell me where to find the Reaper’s memorial?” said Mr. Burke.

  He suddenly reminded Hob of Oliveiro. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I haven’t read anything about it.”

  Mr. Burke gave him a significant look. “That’s because it doesn’t exist. Have you ever come across her portrait in the palace?”

  Hob considered. The palace was filled with countless artworks, and yet he could not recall any paintings or sculpture of Mina IV. There was not even one to accompany her abbreviated entry in his handbook. Even the face of her caryatid in the grand entry hall was blank. None of the others were like that.

  “No,” he muttered. “I haven’t.”

  “Omissions can be telling,” said Mr. Burke. “Why do you think the Faeregines downplay Mina the Fourth’s existence? Practically obliterate her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Burke dropped his voice to a whisper. “Because the Reaper terrifies them. Some powers are too great for the mortal realm, Hob. Their very presence unbalances things and threatens our survival.”

  “Everyone knows the Reaper was a monster,” said Hob. “What does this have to do with Hazel Faeregine?”

  Mr. Burke cocked this head. “Are you familiar with the concept of reincarnation?”

  “Sure,” said Hob. “It’s when a spirit’s reborn in another body. Some religions believe in it.”

  “In a few seconds, you might too.”

  From his case, Mr. Burke removed a picture frame that he held up to Hob.

  “Behold.”

  At first, Hob was merely confused. Behind the frame’s glass was a faded black-and-white photograph of a thin, pale girl, laughing as she ran from a little boy who was chasing her through a garden. Hob brought the photo closer. If her hair had been lighter, he might have been staring at Hazel Faeregine.

  “What is this?” he said uneasily.

  Mr. Burke leaned back against a post. “This is a photograph of Arianna Faeregine, taken a few years before she became Mina the Fourth. We think a court artist used it as a reference for a painting that was destroyed when Mina the Fifth outlawed her mother’s image. Fortunately, a very brave person managed to save this, lest future generations forget what evil can look like.”

  For a full minute, Hob sat in the cold, damp cellar and stared at the photograph. The room was so quiet, they might have been two shades in a tomb. The girl’s smiling face certainly didn’t look evil. Her delighted expression was exactly like Hazel’s when she’d seen her first Euclidean soccer goal. Hob glanced at the toddler chasing after her.

  “Who’s the boy?” he asked.

  “Her younger brother, the Prince Maximillian,” said Mr. Burke. “He was killed the following year in a failed bid to assassinate their mother. They say Arianna never smiled again.”

  Hob gazed sadly at the little boy. He couldn’t have been older than three. Time and again, Hob had to remind himself that he was not looking at Hazel Faeregine. And every time, he fought a convulsive shiver. At last, he cleared his throat.

  “It’s a coincidence,” said Hob. “Lots of the Faeregines look alike.”

  Mr. Burke propped the frame against the wall. “Then explain why you’re as pale as Her Highness.”

  “I never said it wasn’t uncanny.”

  Mr. Burke gave a wry chuckle. “Hazel Faeregine isn’t some commoner who ‘happens’ to resemble a historical figure. We’re talking about a girl born by an Otherland Gate on All Hallows’ Eve. A girl whose unforseen arrival resulted in two deaths—her mother’s and your father’s. A girl who bears no resemblance to her living relatives but is nearly indistinguishable from Arianna Faeregine. If the likeness is merely superficial, why did Her Highness sleepwalk to a Reaper tomb? Why did she suffer a fit during a phantasia depicting the Reaper’s assassination?”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” said Hob. “I almost had a fit myself.”

  Mr. Burke was having none of it. “Hob, you are a rational person. No rational person could possibly require more proof to believe something deeply disturbing is at work.”

  Hob glanced again at the photograph. “But I know Her Highness. She’s not a monster.”

  “Neither was Arianna Faeregine,” retorted Mr. Burke. “By all
accounts, she showed almost no magical ability until adolescence. Everything changed after Maximillian’s death and her first pilgrimage.”

  Returning the photograph to his case, Mr. Burke looked at Hob very seriously. “My ambition is not only to achieve equality for muir but to do so with a minimum of bloodshed. Within two years, Impyrium will have an impressionable new ruler. By that point, we will control most of the Great Houses, several key institutions, and a number of population centers. Her Radiance will have no choice but to accept our proposals.”

  “You’re going to leave a Faeregine on the throne?” said Hob.

  “For a time,” said Mr. Burke. “Radicals may embrace violence but the common man detests it. If we try to tear everything down overnight, we’ll spur our enemies into desperate measures while alienating the very people we are trying to help. We must be strong, wise, and patient. Within a generation, muir will have all the same rights as mehrùn and the aristocracy. Within two generations, there will be no aristocracy.”

  A boyish grin appeared on Mr. Burke’s face. He thumped the table with his fist.

  “We’re smarter than they are, Hob. We’re better organized, and we have a deeper purpose than simply protecting a title or lifestyle. After centuries of oppression, we are almost in position to win this game. Can you even imagine?”

  Hob was not certain he could. He wanted to, but the idea that such an outcome might actually be attainable was so jarring and foreign, he struggled to envision it. It occurred to Hob that he’d joined the Fellowship because he wanted a connection to his father, and he believed in the righteousness of their struggle. He’d given very little thought to actually winning that struggle. Deep down, he’d never believed it was a realistic possibility. But Mr. Burke was making it sound like victory wasn’t merely attainable, it was imminent.

  Mr. Burke’s next words, however, were spoken in a grim tone that recalled Hob sharply to the present.

  “It’s all for naught if Hazel Faeregine is what we fear,” he said. “She won’t just win the game, she’ll incinerate the entire board. The world is still recovering from the first Reaper. It won’t survive a second.”

  Rising from his chair, Hob paced about the cellar. “You’re planning to kill her. Don’t pretend you’re not.”

  Mr. Burke knit his fingers and spoke in a measured voice. “An assassin is in place but I haven’t given the order to strike. Not yet. I have been waiting for more information, Hob. If you do not provide it, I will have to assume she cannot be saved.”

  Hob abruptly stopped pacing. “Wait. There’s a chance to save her?”

  “We have our own scholars when it comes to magic,” Mr. Burke explained. “They believe there are two possible explanations for Her Highness’s resemblance and behavior. The first is that she is truly the Reaper reborn. If so, she must be killed. The second theory is that Hazel Faeregine is an innocent girl being possessed by some other entity, possibly even a fragment of the Reaper’s spirit. If that is the case, an exorcism might save her.”

  Hope flashed, but Hob wasn’t biting yet. “What if it’s neither? What if I’m right and she’s just a girl?”

  Burke gave Hob a meaningful look. “We both know that isn’t true.”

  “Then why bother to see if Hazel can be saved?” said Hob. “You don’t care about her as a person.”

  “Several reasons,” said Mr. Burke. “Despite what you may think, I am not a cold-blooded murderer, Hob. It matters very much to me if I’m ordering the death of an innocent victim, especially a child. The other reasons are purely practical. Assassinating a member of the royal family would trigger a massive response. It would enrage the empress, unify the Great Houses, and set our timetable back years. In addition, if Her Highness is truly sympathetic to the injustices we face, she could be a valuable ally for the reforms I envision. I have no intention of taking her life needlessly.”

  Hob had to acknowledge that this made sense. No good would come of letting his emotions get the best of him. He sat back down. “What do you need me to do?”

  “What I need,” said Mr. Burke, “is the information we asked for when we chose you for this mission. My scholars must have an understanding of Her Highness’s studies and magical capabilities. Only then will we know what we are dealing with. If you cannot paint a clearer picture, we will have to assume the worst.”

  “I understand,” said Hob. “I’ll get you what you need.”

  “I hope so,” said Mr. Burke. “Time is scarce. Her Highness is now twelve. In a few months, she will go on her first pilgrimage and her powers may fully emerge. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “I’ve never sat in on her lessons or seen her do any magic,” said Hob. “I just know that she has some big task or test to complete by her birthday. Dàme Rascha said they would take a vacation once it was over.”

  Leaning back, Mr. Burke folded his arms and contemplated the lamp’s flame.

  “This is valuable information,” he said. “The Spider is the only person who could impose a task of real significance on Her Highness. With Her Highness spending so much time in Tùr an Ghrian, it certainly involves magic. All this urgency and pressure. The Spider’s pushing her granddaughter, trying to accelerate something while she can still influence it . . . I think she knows what Hazel might be. In fact, I’d bet on it.”

  “But the Faeregines themselves disavow the Reaper,” said Hob. “Why would the empress be trying to create a second one?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Mr. Burke. “Rulers see the world differently than we do. Mina the Fourth’s legacy may frighten the Faeregines, but you cannot deny that she saved the empire and enabled her family to sit the throne for another twenty-five hundred years. The Reaper was a forest fire. She razed Impyrium but rejuvenated the dynasty. You need to find out what Hazel Faeregine is doing.”

  “I’ll find a way,” said Hob. “Is there something specific I should be looking for?”

  “No,” said Mr. Burke. “Report everything you see or hear, no matter how mundane it might appear. Do not filter, analyze, or interpret. That’s the scholar’s job.”

  “Understood,” said Hob. “But I need help with Sigga Fenn. She doesn’t believe I’m just a page.”

  He went on to explain what the agent told him about the Impyrial dig site, the rifle found with the golem, and her concerns about Whitebarrow. At this last piece of information, Mr. Burke actually laughed out loud.

  “Sigga Fenn accused you of being a necromancer?”

  Hob reddened. “Not exactly. She just made me drink that potion as precaution. I don’t think it’s funny. My mother and sister live near Whitebarrow.”

  “I apologize,” said Mr. Burke, but eyes were still twinkling. “It’s natural you’d be concerned, but don’t lose sleep over Whitebarrow. That was my doing.”

  Hob stared. “I don’t understand. Whitebarrow was a Fellowship initiative?”

  “Another of Ms. Marlowe’s brilliant ideas,” replied Mr. Burke. “When I was embarking for the Northwest last autumn, she suggested I plant a little seed atop Whitebarrow. Apparently, it’s blossomed. The Faeregines are paranoid when it comes to necromancy. If the Red Branch thinks an old enemy like the Coven is resurfacing, so much the better. They’ll go off on a wild-goose chase while we go about our work.”

  Hob felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He didn’t even mind that he’d have to send another express letter to tell his mother that it was a false alarm.

  “So it’s just a diversion.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Burke, “there are only twelve members of the Red Branch. It helps to spread them thin. Back to Sigga Fenn. Has she actually accused you of anything?”

  “No,” said Hob. “But I can’t pretend I’m not scared.”

  “Naturally,” said Mr. Burke. “But keep in mind she’s made up her mind you’re not a direct threat to Her Highness. If she hadn’t, you’d be dead. But it’s clear she thinks you’re working for somebody. She’s trying to spook you int
o switching sides and coming to her for protection. Common tactic.” He picked up the paring knife and thumbed its edge. “Apparently, she’s doing a fair job.”

  Hob flushed. “Like you said, it’s easy to get paranoid.”

  Mr. Burke looked oddly emotional, as if Hob’s suspicions had wounded him.

  “The Fellowship’s a family, lad. We won’t betray you and I know you won’t betray us. Besides, you’re Ulrich Doyle’s boy.” Reaching into his coat pocket, Mr. Burke handed Hob a folding knife with a handle of polished horn. “I found this among your father’s things—he never carried it for fear he’d be taken. The Doyles didn’t have much, but that’s been passed down through six generations. You’re lucky seven, eh?”

  Hob turned the knife over. It was a toy really, a child’s knife to do some whittling. But for Hob, who’d been rejected by the Hauja, this link to his father’s people was priceless. He didn’t care that a tear was trickling down his cheek. He studied the handle closely, discerned six sets of initials carved in a column. He’d add his later.

  Mr. Burke clapped his shoulder. “Thank you for coming and being frank with me. We’re this close, Hob, and your role is vital. Do your job. I’ll worry about Sigga.”

  Wiping his eye, Hob glanced at the steps. “What if she had me followed?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Mr. Burke laughed. “Because I had you followed. Don’t be offended—standard procedure. We’ve had this cellar for thirty years. Losing it would be most inconvenient.”

  As Hob left, he reflected how much had changed in the past hour. The revelations concerning Hazel were frightening, but Hob felt like he was facing them with a strong sense of purpose and support. He hadn’t realized how truly isolated he’d been feeling. Mr. Burke’s visit rekindled his sense that he was a part of something that was not only going to improve this world but perhaps even save it.

  When it came to Hazel, Hob flatly refused to believe she was the Reaper reborn. There was something else at work, some spirit or demon that was preying upon her. He was determined to save her, just as his father had when she was born. Hob was not deeply religious, but he did not believe such things were mere coincidence. The gods must have had a grander purpose.