Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Hazel was heartbroken. “You betrayed us, Uncle. Why?”

  “I didn’t want to,” he said. “But people don’t mind their own business. First Razael poked her nose in my affairs. Then that smudger, Gus Bailey. And now, you.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t kill Dr. Razael,” said Hazel. “She was your tutor.”

  “I had no choice,” said Lord Faeregine. “I have debts, girl. Serious debts to serious people. I had to skim the bank’s coffers, but Razael spotted discrepancies in the ledgers. She was furious—always expected too much of me. I stopped embezzling, but that only played into Burke’s hands. Instead of money, he demanded access to the Lirlander Vault.”

  “And so you pretended to stumble upon a crime,” said Hazel.

  “The whole thing was a disaster,” he admitted. “Razael got suspicious when I left the festivities and followed me. Once word got out about the vault, she’d have known I was involved. I had to silence her. Regrettable, as were the injuries to that young soldier. Poor lad, but we needed a witness to corroborate my story. Someone wide-eyed and credible—someone who’d never seen the vault and wouldn’t realize I’d left it unlocked earlier that day. The imposters never had the key.”

  “So who were they?” said Hazel. “These imposters.”

  “That Ms. Marlowe who washed up on the beach. And her prize student.” He gestured toward his inner office.

  “Harkün?” Hazel hissed. “But he’s in the Red Branch.”

  “Necromancy’s his first love. He started dabbling years ago and crossed paths with Marlowe. She practically became his mother. She convinced Harkün he was the empress’s slave, a prisoner of the vows he’d taken when he joined the Red Branch. But the Coven found a way to break those bonds and Marlowe pried him away from us. I won’t describe what Harkün would like to do to your friend for shooting her. But he intends to revive his teacher.”

  “How is he going to do that?” said Hazel. “Ms. Marlowe’s dead.”

  Uncle Basil shook his head. “Death isn’t the end for a necromancer, Hazel. Harkün can resurrect her using blood magic. Very dark stuff. All he needs is her reliquary.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Hazel observed. “Sigga Fenn has it.”

  Lord Faeregine sopped his bread in some yolk. “He’ll take it from her soon enough. Harkün’s not fond of your Grislander. She’s tried to keep tabs on him. Dangerous mistake.”

  “Sigga’s dangerous too.”

  “Not like him,” said her uncle. “Gus Bailey almost died of sheer terror before Harkün cut his throat. Between the two of us, I think Harkün was behind the Typhon explosion.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  Lord Faeregine smiled bitterly. “To put me further in Burke’s debt. Harkün isn’t my servant, Hazel. He is my keeper. Once Typhon ruined me, Burke and his partners demanded Bragha Rùn as collateral.”

  Hazel was puzzled. How could Uncle Basil have stolen it? Every Faeregine had to swear before the empress’s shedu they hadn’t taken the blade. The creatures were born lie detectors. “We all took oaths,” she said. “How did you lie to the shedu?”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t. The thief was your young cousin Amelia. You met her the night Typhon exploded—that little brat visiting from Southaven. Toddlers can be most cooperative and no one thinks to question them. She took the blade from Prime while I gave her a tour of the throne room. It cost me two squares of chocolate. Of course, no one would have known it was missing if you hadn’t tried to give our ancestral blade to a page. Very disappointing, Hazel.”

  “You’re one to talk. You gave Bragha Rùn to our enemies.”

  This did not appear to trouble him. “Look, my dear. If you hadn’t revealed what was in the Lirlander Vault, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now. We’d be at war. I could have made a fortune on supply contracts, settled my debts, and ended this sordid business with Burke. When you ruined those plans, he demanded that I smuggle his people aboard one of the warships escorting Rowana. Not an easy task, I can assure you.”

  Hazel was appalled. “All so they could murder me? You’re my uncle!”

  He sighed. “I wasn’t happy about it, but they have these absurd theories. Think you’re the Reaper reborn. That’s why they want you dead, Hazel. I couldn’t talk them out of it.”

  “Why didn’t they have Harkün use Bragha Rùn?” said Hazel. “Why involve Hob at all?”

  “They needed to wait until you were under the dragonfever,” he answered. “I don’t make pilgrimage so we couldn’t send Harkün without arousing suspicion. Besides, they had faith the boy would come through. Who knows what went wrong? Perhaps the boy’s psychnosis was weakened when he fell under Talysin’s spell.”

  “So you admit Mr. Smythe is innocent, that he was under Mr. Burke’s control.”

  “What does it matter?” he said. “The boy’s going to be executed.”

  “It matters to me,” said Hazel. “And he won’t be executed if I have anything to say about it. There’s still a week until his trial.”

  Uncle Basil gave her a pitying look. “Don’t be naïve, Hazel. You cannot help the boy. The person you should be worrying about is yourself.”

  “Why?” she said. “Are you going to murder me, Uncle Basil? Twenty people saw me enter this room. My guards are right outside that door.”

  He shook his head. “These offices are soundproofed. Sound comes in, but it doesn’t leave. Even without the passive fetter, you could scream yourself hoarse and no one would hear you. But I have no interest in seeing you die, Hazel. You’re my favorite niece. Besides, it would raise questions and Harkün has more subtle tools at his disposal. You’re going to have a seizure, my dear, a fit that leaves you brain-dead. Here we were having a delightful brunch and you just pitched over, frothing and choking. There was nothing I could do. Your recent sickness must have caused the seizure. After all, you’ve always been frail and dragonfever is notoriously unpredictable.”

  “Please don’t,” said Hazel. “I’m warning you.”

  “Sorry. It’s pushing noon and I’ve got a busy day.”

  Wiping his mouth, Lord Faeregine pushed back from the table and went to knock on the door to his inner office. “Come out, Harkün. I need you.”

  The door opened, but it was not Harkün that emerged.

  It was Sigga Fenn.

  The Grislander had hidden herself in that office for the last two days, lying in wait to ambush Harkün once Hazel asked her uncle if they could speak alone. Hazel doubted there had even been a struggle. Sigga’s daggers were both red to the hilt.

  Lord Faeregine staggered backward. Toppling over an ottoman, he retreated from the Grislander like a frantic crab.

  “Guards!” he cried. “Help! Murder!”

  Hazel watched him with real sadness in her heart. “No one’s coming, Uncle. You said it yourself: no one can hear you.”

  Lord Faeregine bolted for the door, only to find Merlin hovering before him. He tried to swat the homunculus aside, but the familiar transformed into a seven-foot vye.

  “Rascha!” he gasped.

  She lifted him by his neck, her voice thick with rage. “Dàme Rascha. Witch, mystic, and cousin to Dr. Razael—the vye you murdered. The vye that raised you!”

  Uncle Basil kicked weakly as his face turned purple. Sigga looked up from untying Hazel. “We want him alive.”

  With a snarl, Rascha slammed Lord Faeregine onto his massive desk. He lay sprawled, his face squashed against the mahogany.

  “This is a mistake,” he sputtered. “You’re making a mistake!”

  Hazel eased up from her seat. Her weakness and nausea had nothing to do with the passive fetter. The plan she’d devised with Sigga and Rascha had played out to perfection, but it did not change the fact that her uncle—a man she’d loved and trusted—had betrayed them. Isabel would be devastated. So would Violet. The Spider? Who knew what she thought of her son. Hazel turned to Sigga.

  “What about Harkün? Is he still alive?
”

  The Grislander shook her head. “Harkün’s too dangerous to subdue. I had to eliminate him.”

  Hazel removed Mei-Mei Chen’s recording device from her bag and pressed the stop button. “We have plenty of evidence. It’s certainly enough to reduce the charges against Mr. Smythe.”

  Sigga looked less sanguine. “Hob’s not a murderer, but he’s not innocent, Your Highness. Spying is a capital offense.”

  “My grandmother can pardon him,” said Hazel. “I’m sure she’ll listen to me.”

  Hazel heard smothered laughter. It came from Uncle Basil.

  “What’s so amusing?” she demanded.

  “That page you’re going to pardon?” he said innocently. “He’s being executed.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hazel. “Mr. Smythe’s trial is next Saturday. The empress promised I could give testimony.”

  Lord Faeregine grinned. “And you believed her. There are no trials, girl. Just executions today at Hound’s Trench. At noon, each traitor takes a plunge.”

  Hazel’s insides turned to icy sludge. She stared at her uncle. “You’re lying.”

  Outside, Old Tom began to chime twelve o’clock. Uncle Basil tutted. “Better hurry!”

  Hazel ran to the door, yanked it open, and rushed past the startled guardsmen. Rascha shouted her name and Sigga was on her heels, but Hazel did not stop. There wasn’t a moment to waste on debate or hand-wringing. Her footsteps rang in the hallway. Rounding a corner, she burst out Maggie’s front doors. As she dashed down the steps, Hazel felt a tug at her elbow.

  “Your Highness,” said Sigga. “Hound’s Trench is miles away. Even a zephyss couldn’t get there in time.”

  Hazel pulled free and flew down the pathway, scattering a group of masters opening umbrellas in the drizzle. She couldn’t feel the rain on her skin, only the heart beating in her chest, pounding so furiously she feared it might rupture. She’d never run so fast, had never done anything with such reckless desperation. Her magic was gone, but she nevertheless focused her mind and all her desire on transformation. She needed to become a deer, a bird, an arrow—anything swifter than herself—something fast enough to reach Hound’s Trench before . . .

  Another bell. Was that the six or seventh? Hazel ran even faster. One shoe flew off, then the other. Sigga was calling her. The Grislander sounded anxious, even frightened, but Hazel did not stop. And yet, she had not even reached the Old College gates. She was sobbing now, weeping. Fear and frustration boiled over, became blind, incandescent rage. It was burning her, engulfing her from within. The pain was unbearable.

  AT LAST!

  The Reaper’s cry nearly broke Hazel’s mind. She had not gone anywhere. Like Sigga, she had been lying in ambush, gathering herself, awaiting the moment when Hazel’s magic would rekindle.

  It returned in a wild rush of energy, like the fires of a dormant forge roaring suddenly to life. But these flames burned fiercer than ever before. Their heat was all consuming, as was the Reaper’s desire to seize control and devour whatever remained of her descendant, her chosen vessel.

  But Hazel fought. She fought as she never had before—with a frantic, desperate need to exist, to persist, to live and love, to save her friend. But the Reaper was desperate too. Within her mind, Hazel encountered a tidal wave of hate and hunger that had waited too long. There was no shame in surrendering to such an indomitable will. Hazel was not her own person; this life was never intended to be her own. She was a sacrifice—a sacrifice the Reaper had made to herself over two thousand years ago.

  It was time to die.

  But Hazel refused to surrender. She would not fade. She would fight until the end, until the Reaper, the Spider, and everyone else in this flawed and beautiful world understood exactly who she was.

  She was Hazel Faeregine.

  The strain became unbearable When Hazel screamed, her body burst asunder.

  Rain fell steadily on Hob as he studied his killer’s face. The guardsman stood ten feet away. He was young—little older than Marcus Finch—and there was something vaguely ridiculous about his professionalism, his rigid refusal to make eye contact with the prisoner he was about to execute. Instead, he looked over Hob’s shoulder, carabine clapped across his chest, rigid as a toy soldier waiting for his key to be wound.

  There was a toy soldier for each of the twenty-two prisoners arrayed along this stretch of Hound’s Trench. Each prisoner was a member of the Fellowship, but Hob only knew a few. Viktor was four spots down on his left, Badu eight spots on his right.

  Early that morning, a warden had roused Hob and marched him to a holding cell where other prisoners were dressed in gray robes. Some were sobbing; others protested they hadn’t had their trial. Hob said nothing until the priest offered him a thimble of sinwine to atone. He declined. Morrgu didn’t care about sins or sacraments. She cared only that Hob had been so stupid and weak as to find himself in this predicament. No afterlife awaited him. Only nothingness.

  At least the magistrate had finally shut up. Hob did not want to spend his final moments listening to a flabby judge sputter outraged invective on the subjects of moral rot, the ingratitude of the masses, and the empire’s duty to mete punishment.

  The speeches had ceased when Old Tom began to chime. Hob tried not to count the tolls. Instead he listened to the soft rain, the murmuring surf, even the wind moaning in the dead black gorge behind him. There were many tales of hauntings and evil deeds at Hound’s Trench. Right now, Hob believed them all. Would he become a ghost? Or would his body simply shatter on the rocks and be swept into the harbor? At least he would be with his father.

  He tried to focus on this as Old Tom neared the stroke of twelve. He spied the Divine Empress among the spectators. The Spider was in her palanquin, a frail and wizened figure watching with grim intensity. Hob stared at her, hating her. Lady Sylva was in the crowd too. Her pretty face looked more haggard than when he’d last seen it. She must have had many sleepless nights, wondering if her contact with the Fellowship would come to light. Inquisitors visited Hob three times during his brief captivity, but he had not been able to give any information. Psychnosis faded slowly.

  The next toll made ten.

  Lightning flashed in the southern sky. Above the palace and Old College, storm clouds were swirling with unnatural speed, their depths turning greenish-black. Spectators turned as a curtain of heavy rain swept toward them. Some took shelter beneath the nearest trees.

  Eleven.

  Bowing his head, Hob gave thanks for his life and said farewell to three people. He would miss them.

  Twelve.

  He straightened as the guardsmen hefted their carabines and took two brisk steps forward. Hob wondered if the soldier would finally look him in the eye.

  He never did.

  The gun’s stock struck Hob squarely in the chest and sent him over the precipice. He fell like a stone. Wind screamed in his face, muffling several cries around him. There was a jolt of pain as his foot struck an outcropping. The impact flipped him over. Below, black water swirled amid jagged, foam-crusted rocks. It was rushing up to meet him. There was a searing flash of light, an earsplitting thunderclap. And then . . .

  He stopped.

  Hob stared at the sloshing brine below. Crabs were scuttling among the rocks, clambering over bits of clothing and splintered bone. Glancing over, Hob saw that the other prisoners were suspended. Their faces exhibited the same shock and disbelief that he was feeling.

  An invisible force enveloped him, a tension like the field between two opposing magnets. Hob began to rise. All the prisoners were floating upward, their gray robes dripping rain. Hob gazed dully ahead at a wall of charred rock. He heard some prisoners crying and giving thanks to whatever gods they worshipped. Not him. He’d heard too many tales of false or prolonged executions. It was a form of torture.

  But when he reached the top, Hob realized he was wrong.

  A god had answered their prayers.

  It stood before them, so blindingly rad
iant Hob could barely look upon it. At first, he thought it must be the High King, but then he realized the figure was much too small. Several seconds passed before he understood he was gazing upon Hazel Faeregine.

  The princess stood with her back to the hovering prisoners. She was breathing heavily, her fingers twitching as crackling white fire writhed about her body. The ground beneath her smoked and hissed as though a meteor had struck. No guardsman or spectator remained within fifty yards of Her Highness. They sprawled at a distance in the muddy grass. Even the empress’s palanquin had been blasted back and tumbled onto its side. The Spider crawled out slowly. She, like everyone else, stared in stunned silence at the terrifying presence before them.

  Hazel’s voice rose above the dwindling thunder.

  “There will be no executions.”

  All eyes turned to the Divine Empress, whose sharp black eyes were fixed on her granddaughter. At length, the Spider nodded her acquiescence. And then she smiled. A cold little smirk that smacked of pride.

  And triumph.

  CHAPTER 24

  A MUIRLANDER IN JULY

  The cell was built for two, but Hob was the only occupant. He sat in a corner, squinting at the sunlight that poked from a slat near the ceiling. It appeared each morning for a few minutes before it was gone—his only glimpse of the outside world. Closing his eyes, welcomed its warmth, and hummed the tune he’d heard so many times at Mother Howell’s.

  A likely young lad sought his fortune.

  He set out one day in July,

  with shoes newly soled and a rucksack too old,

  he strode past fields of barley and rye.

  His ma had not wished him to leave.

  She offered two bits of advice:

  If you’re looking for gold,

  best be lucky I’m told.

  And if not,

  learn to reef, knot, and splice.

  He rode the rails east to the ocean.

  He rolled his pants up to the knee

  and bathed his feet fine

  in sea foam and cold brine