Impyrium

  The vye placed the portrait in Hazel’s uncertain hands. “Nature can be unpredictable. Sometimes a child does not take after either parent but a distant relation. Even a long-dead ancestor.”

  “Like reincarnation,” Hazel breathed.

  The vye grunted. “Nothing so extraordinary. It is merely atavism.”

  Hazel’s gaze wandered over the fine brushstrokes. “Where did you find it, Rascha? I thought every picture of her was destroyed.”

  “I did too. Three years ago, I found it in the archives, misplaced among portraits of past scholars. Her likeness to you startled me, but I did not realize who she might be until I noticed the signet ring. When I checked the date, I hid the painting so that no one else would find it. Enough rumors surround you.”

  Hazel was profoundly grateful. The last thing she needed was anyone making connections between her and the monster in this picture. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Hazel. “Does my grandmother know?”

  The vye shook her head. “I told no one. Even if another portrait survived, it would have to be an early one for anyone to notice similarities between you. Mina the Fourth’s experiments radically altered her appearance. The adult looked nothing like this child.”

  The adult looked nothing like a human, thought Hazel, recalling the dreadful tales she’d heard.

  “Why do you keep calling her Mina the Fourth?” said Hazel. “Everyone else calls her the Reaper.”

  “That is why I am showing this to you,” said Dàme Rascha. The vye tapped the gilded frame. “This child is not the Reaper. Not yet. This was painted two years before Arianna Faeregine’s coronation, when her talents were just beginning to emerge. This girl had limitless potential. But her teachers failed her.”

  Hazel wrinkled her brow. “They must have taught her something. She’s the greatest sorceress in history.”

  Rascha shook her head. “Merely the most powerful. She never learned control, and for that, I blame her teachers. In their eagerness to stoke a fire, they did not notice its flames spreading beyond the hearth. Those flames nearly consumed the world.”

  Hazel took a deep breath. “So . . . I suppose this is your way of asking for perfect circles.”

  The vye laid a hand on her shoulder. “Little things make big differences, Your Highness. In magic and in life.”

  Hazel gazed down at the girl in the canvas. Instead of horror, she felt sympathy, even a sense of kinship. “Could I have this? I’ll keep it secret, I promise.”

  “Let me think on it,” said Rascha. She turned to face Sigga Fenn, who remained a silent, watchful presence in the shadows. Hazel had forgotten the agent was even there. “You are not to speak of this. Not even to Her Radiance.”

  The Grislander rose. “The Red Branch answers only to the empress, Dàme Rascha. Not her devoted servants.”

  “Please don’t tell her,” said Hazel. “I’m begging you.”

  The agent gave her a considering look. “I will not volunteer anything, Your Highness. But if the empress asks, I must answer.”

  Sigga displayed the tattoo on her wrist as though it were a handcuff and not merely a symbol. Hazel understood. The Red Branch did not merely swear allegiance to the empress; its members were bound by magical oaths that could not be ignored. Such measures were required to ensure the empress’s safety in the presence of such dangerous persons. Sigga was free to despise the Spider’s orders, but she could not disobey them. None of them could.

  Far below, Old Tom chimed six o’clock. Hazel looked uncertainly at her tutor. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. We didn’t cover half of what you wanted to.”

  Dàme Rascha blinked, as though whisked from deeper thoughts. Almost two months had passed since their fateful interview with the Spider. The empress’s mandate had taken a heavy toll on Hazel, but it was taking an even greater one on the aged vye. Up close, Rascha looked drawn and grizzled, almost faded.

  If you fail, she’s the one who pays, thought Hazel. She tried not to fixate on the Spider’s ultimatum, but the idea of Rascha suffering for her own shortcomings was paralyzing. Hazel could not bear to think of her tutor’s head thrust through a stockade and exposed to the jeers and stones of a hired mob. Pillory was bad enough for human criminals; it would be even worse for a vye. Hazel would have to dig deeper.

  “I’m staying,” she insisted. “We’ll sup here and keep at it until I make a perfect circle.”

  “No,” said the vye wearily. “You must attend. Besides, a break will do you good.”

  “A dinner party’s not a break,” Hazel groused. “All that smiling and worrying about whether you’re using the correct spoon. Why do there have to be so many?”

  The vye grunted. “Such engagements can be tedious, but you must go. These things are expected of a Faeregine.” Taking the portrait, she placed it back in the chest. “Go get ready. The coach leaves at seven and you must not keep your sister waiting.”

  Hazel did not have to ask which sister Dàme Rascha was referring to. Since the Spider’s proclamation, a small army trailed perpetually in Violet’s wake. Guards, servants, and lesser nobles all eager to protect, pamper, or flatter the future empress.

  An hour later, Hazel arrived at the turnabout near the winter gardens to find them buzzing about Her Impyrial Highness like midges. Apparently, the triplets would be traveling in style this evening, for the scream of the empress’s prized stallianas pierced the night air. The instant the cavalry escort’s mounts heard these terrible cries, they flattened their ears and turned anxiously about. Hazel understood why. Stallianas were to horses what tigers were to house cats.

  A moment later, the stallianas came into view. They rounded a coach house at a trot, eight gargantuan, rust-red horses with braided black manes and bared, jagged teeth. Sparks flew from their hooves as they pulled the empress’s luminous golden coach. With every lash of the driver’s iron whip, the animals screamed in a chilling chorus. They came to a panting halt before the Faeregines, tossing their great heads and appraising the cavalry horses with wild, predatory eyes. Tongues of blue flame danced and flickered about the creatures’ forelegs, for stallianas were creatures of both fire and flesh, bred by Mina XXV some thousand years ago.

  Isabel was almost giddy at the sight. She loved horses—even ones that could eat her. “Gorgeous,” she cooed, standing on tiptoe to pat the nearest’s shoulder.

  The driver leaped down to open the coach’s door and help the triplets into its sumptuous interior. Violet offered a prim nod and sank into the cushion opposite her sisters. Her thick black hair was braided, a tiara winking in the soft lamplight.

  “Ladies,” she purred, plucking at her gloves. Isabel opened her bag and removed her math book. Dinner or not, they had classes tomorrow. “Hello, Violet.”

  Violet pursed her lips. “You’re forgetting your etiquette.”

  “Sorry, Vi,” murmured Isabel. “I’m not saying ‘Your Impyrial Highness’ when it’s just the three of us. I’ll do my duty in public, but I’m not kissing your behind in here. Incidentally, how’d you convince the Spider to let us use the stallianas? They’re the only things she loves.”

  “I have every right to use the Impyrial coach.” Violet sniffed. “I’m your future empress. You might show some respect.”

  Isabella turned the page. “I share a bathroom with my future empress. It dispels the awe.”

  “You’re impossible,” Violet muttered. Outside, there was a stamp and clash as the cavalry took up formation around the coach. An honor guard would escort the Faeregine triplets to supper, and that did not include the Red Branch. Hazel peeked through a velvet curtain.

  “Don’t do that,” said Violet. “We’ll look like kids.”

  “We are kids,” said Hazel excitedly. “Don’t get twisty. I just wanted to see where Sigga was.”

  “Like it matters,” said Violet.

  Outside, the driver gave a whistle and lashed the stallianas. The carriage gave a jerk as it lurched into motion. For several seconds the girls were jostl
ed about, but then their progress became wonderfully smooth. Looking out, Hazel saw that they were now airborne. Their escort meant they could not leave the ground entirely, but the carriage seemed to skim just above the cobbled drive as the stallianas pulled the carriage in their fiery wake. The cavalry was nearing a gallop just to keep up with their easy, powerful gait. It was a marvelous sight. Too bad Violet had to ruin it. Letting the curtain fall back across the window, Hazel turned to face her sister.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said quietly.

  “Nothing,” said Violet, sounding bored. “No need to get ‘twisty.’”

  Isabel closed her book. “You meant something by it.”

  Her Impyrial Highness took a deep breath; apparently one needed patience to deal with lesser beings. “All I meant is that Hazel needn’t fret over protection. No one’s coming after her. Why would they bother?”

  “Because she’s a Faeregine,” said Isabel pointedly.

  “Really?” said Violet. “Could have fooled me.”

  Hazel’s mouth fell open. She could not decide which was more painful, her sister’s words or the sneer that accompanied them. Violet had always been distant but never cruel.

  Isabel leaned forward. “Take that back or I’ll black your eye, dinner or no!”

  “I won’t,” said Violet. “I’m tired of making excuses for Hazel. She doesn’t belong in our classes; she refuses to fit in our circle. Did you know she actually failed Montague’s last exam? She barely passed Strovsky’s.”

  Isabel looked aghast. “Is that true, Hazel?”

  Hazel did not answer. What was she supposed to say? That she had a secret mandate from their grandmother to become a Third Rank by her birthday and was barely sleeping? That she was so desperate to keep Rascha safe she could scarcely breathe, much less concentrate when she’d taken that test? It didn’t help that the Muirlands bored her to tears. She was doing the best she could.

  “Of course it’s true,” said Violet. “Imogene overheard the masters discussing whether Hazel should be held back. Can you imagine? Grandmother would never allow it, but that doesn’t mean Imogene won’t blab—she’s a Hyde. The situation is humiliating.”

  Isabel ignored her. “Hazel, you should have talked to me. I’ve barely even seen you outside of class lately. What’s going on?”

  Hazel could not look at her. She wanted to confide in Isabel. And pride howled to inform Violet that the Spider was counting on her, not Her Impyrial Highness, to resurrect the family mystique. But she swallowed the temptation. Violet could think whatever she wanted.

  “Hello?” pressed Isabel.

  “Nothing’s going on,” said Hazel. “I’m sorry I’m such an embarrassment, Violet. It must be very trying for you.”

  Violet rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a martyr, Hazel. It’s hardly attractive. Just do us a favor and stay quiet when talk turns to politics.”

  “Fine. I’ll gossip quietly with Uncle Basil.”

  “Uncle Basil won’t be there,” said Isabel.

  Hazel was about to ask why, when she recalled where they were going. The Sylvas were barely a Great House. Uncle Basil would never cross the island to dine with the likes of them. This raised a question Hazel neglected to ask when the social secretary told her of the engagement.

  “Wait,” she said wearily. “If it’s just the Sylvas, then why are we going?”

  Isabel sighed. “They cashed in a Debt, the crafty buggers.”

  Even Hazel, despite an almost willful ignorance of such things, knew the difference between debts and Debts. The latter were contracts between noble families, obligations that had to be met whenever and however the holder chose. Families like the Faeregines and Hydes collected House Debts like chess pieces, hoarding them for years, even centuries, until they were needed. Hazel was amazed a family like the Sylvas possessed one from the Faeregines.

  “How did they get it?” she asked.

  Isabel shrugged. “Some ancestor of ours probably got drunk and lost a fortune to some ancestor of theirs. It’s got to be old. Mina the Twenty-first forbade Faeregine House Debts ages ago.”

  “Then it must be very valuable,” Hazel mused. “Why would they waste it on a dinner party?”

  “They want to honor me,” said Violet. “Besides, the visit brings their house glory. After all, their future ruler is coming to call in the royal coach. They requested the stallianas specifically.”

  Hazel snorted. “But that’s absurd.”

  Violet stiffened. “It is not absurd. Unlike some, the Sylvas realize a new empress means new opportunities. I’m impressed such a commercial family—they’re practically merchants—would use a House Debt to pay their respects. It’s gracious.”

  “It’s grasping,” Isabel countered. “Don’t fool yourself. They want something. And what changes are you talking about?”

  Violet gazed about the compartment. “This is all very nice, but it’s ridiculous that we’re using the same antiques as our ancestors. Grandmother’s old-fashioned to a fault. She’s far too strict with the Workshop, but she’s ruled so long she won’t listen to reason.”

  Isabel clucked her tongue. “Maybe she’s ruled so long because she’s been strict with the Workshop. You’ve heard stories about life before the Cataclysm. People had all kinds of advanced technologies—explosives and computation machines—and they nearly ended everything. There’s a reason they were outlawed. Ever consider that?”

  Violet removed her stole. The carriage was growing stuffy. “You argue for sport.”

  Isabel grinned. “It’s fun.”

  “It’s common.” Violet sniffed. “Where are we, anyway?”

  Hazel peeked out the window to see dead, petrified trees lining a jagged chasm. “Hound’s Trench.”

  Violet sighed and rearranged her bracelets.

  Hazel continued staring out the window. “Do you believe the stories?”

  “Do I believe a hero made it with a spear?” said Isabel. “Um . . . no.”

  Hazel followed an owl as it soared over the chasm. “Nothing grows there. People say it’s haunted. Olo told me—”

  Isabel cackled. “Stop right there. I love Olo, but she’s an idiot. Last year, I told her I was becoming a vampire. I’d swear she still believes it. Muir are pitifully gullible creatures.”

  “Hmmm,” said Hazel. Isabel had no patience for things she couldn’t see or touch, no use for myths or fairy tales unless they had practical application.

  The Sacred Isle was not large, but the Sylva estate was still several miles away, perched on a spit of wind-lashed rock. Hazel gazed quietly out the window. Across the channel, Impyria’s lights twinkled on distant headlands. So many lights, so many people doing as they wished. Hazel felt a stab of envy.

  The stallianas gave a scream as they passed between two enormous maples flanking a wrought-iron gate. A horn sounded ahead. Others joined in, their notes mingling into one. Violet sat up, her face a mask of regal composure.

  “Be sure to smile for the cameras,” said Isabel, tossing her book aside and batting her eyelashes.

  Hazel grimaced. It had not occurred to her that there would be photographers at a private dinner party. She hated having her picture taken, particularly with her sisters. Cameras adored them, but they did cruel and unusual things to Hazel. In private, she could—given proper light and squinting—detect a certain charm to her features. But cameras did not squint. Pictures never showed the cute little pixie in Hazel’s bedroom mirror. Instead they captured a minuscule ghost trailing a pair of goddesses.

  Hazel slipped on her tinted glasses from the purse on her lap. Violet didn’t notice until the carriage wheels touched gently down and they came to a halt.

  “Take those off. It’s dark out.”

  But Hazel would not. Her glasses were a pacifier, a shield between her and the world. Immature? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. She practically leaped out the instant a groom opened the coach’s door. The sooner she was out, the sooner this phase would be o
ver.

  She stood in the cold, pinching her clutch, head submerged in furs while flashbulbs rippled like broadsides. They were not for her, of course, but for Violet, who stepped lightly down from the coach and posed by the stallianas.

  The three sisters walked between an escort of soldiers toward a weathered manor of rough stone twined with pale ivy. Countless windows blazed with light, illuminating an ornamental moat where black swans turned lazy circles. Swans were the Sylvas’ sigil. A sculpted pair graced the entry, their features blurred by time and the elements. The same could not be said for Lord and Lady Sylva.

  For the patriarch of a Great House, Eduardo Sylva was very young, having inherited the mantle when his father died during a voyage to Zenuvia. He was perhaps thirty with a trim red mustache and beard. A slew of medals were pinned to his suit: Order of Orion, the Vanguard, Gryffon Society. On soldiers, they represented real achievements. For men like Lord Sylva, they were virtual birthrights, awarded on any pretense of valor or merit. Almost all the patriarchs trotted them out on special occasions. Hazel thought they looked ridiculous, like overgrown boys in costume.

  Lady Sylva was far more interesting. She was a Yamato by birth, but had the misfortune of being the youngest daughter. Her older sisters married Hydes, Jains, and Castiles, she had to make do with a Sylva, an undeniable step down until the Fates saw fit to sink her father-in-law’s ship. Now, at the tender age of twenty-five, Akiko Yamato Sylva was already matriarch of a Great House. None of her sisters stood to rule theirs for many years, which may have explained why she looked so content. She stood beside her husband, fair and petite, black hair arranged in an artful mess. That she was reputed to be a Second Rank mystic only enhanced her aura.

  Spreading her arms, Lady Sylva bowed so deeply she was nearly prostrate. Her words rang out like an incantation. “Daughters of Heaven, your presence honors us beyond measure. From Magic, truth; from Blood, honor; from Unity, strength. Suns unconquerable.”