Impyrium

  Maybe they won’t say anything, thought Hazel. A second later, she winced.

  “Your Highnesses?” called one of the guards.

  Isabel stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  The soldier bowed. He looked nervous, as well he might. Impyrial Guardsmen never addressed members of the royal family. Not unless they were spoken to.

  “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you be accompanied by Agents Rey and Fenn?”

  “We have a private and pressing engagement,” Isabel replied.

  “Of course, Your Highness. But I must ask you to wait while I contact my superior. There are protocols.”

  Isabel drew herself up. “What is your name?”

  He saluted. “Private Sarcosa.”

  “Tell me, Private Sarcosa, do protocols permit the picking of one’s nose while on active duty?”

  “Of course not, Your Highness.”

  Isabel held up her thumb and forefinger. “And what about flicking the proceeds into a thirteenth-century vase?” She mimicked his technique.

  The man turned a sickly gray.

  Isabel ceased her demonstration. “Spare us a lecture on protocols and we’ll skip the one on hygiene. If you’re concerned about our safety, you may escort us to the throne room.”

  Shifting his carabine, the guardsman fell in step a few paces behind them. No one else challenged the pair as they marched through the palace’s vast but eerily quiet halls.

  The throne room stood empty except for several imps. The sisters made for an alcove of polished black marble.

  “Stay here,” Isabel commanded their escort. “Better yet, fetch two horses and have them waiting in the winter gardens.”

  He demurred. “Your Highness—”

  Isabel repeated her flicking motion. Private Sarcosa departed on his errand.

  “Nicely done,” said Hazel. She wasn’t overly fond of horses, but every Faeregine learned to ride at an early age. On horseback, they could reach Hound’s Trench with time to spare. All they needed to do now was claim Bragha Rùn from its keeper.

  The girls paused before the alcove’s arch where a phrase was chiseled in pre-Cataclysm Latin:

  PRIMUS ULTIONIS

  Isabel exhaled. “Vengeance first. That always gives me shivers.”

  “It’s supposed to,” Hazel whispered. “Have you ever crossed the threshold?”

  “No.”

  Hazel peered within. Bragha Rùn’s keeper was straight ahead, just fifteen feet away. “Ever seen him move?”

  Isabel shook her head. “No. I’m not even sure ‘he’ is a he. It might not even be alive. Maybe it’s a Workshop machine.”

  The “it” in question was Prime the Immortal, eldest of the Red Branch and arguably the most feared being in all Impyrium. No one but the sitting empress knew Prime’s identity; none but the empress could command it. Hundreds of rumors surrounded Prime, but all assumed its origins preceded the Cataclysm. Some whispered it was wicked Cain; others swore it was the angel that slew the firstborn sons of Egypt. The most popular theory was that Prime was an incarnation of the Hound, a demigod who departed this world before the empire was founded. Gazing at the shiny black visage before them, Hazel decided Prime was a mirror. Whatever you feared most, you’d find staring back at you.

  The figure standing within the alcove might have been a museum exhibit—an eight-foot smoothly muscled statue of pure obsidian. No face. No features save the Red Branch insignia on its inner wrist. It was bent at the waist, leaning forward as though to present Bragha Rùn to a petitioner. One hand grasped the dragon-pommeled hilt; the other supported its blade.

  “Run in and get it,” Isabel urged.

  Hazel wavered. “What if there’s an alarm?”

  “Prime is the alarm,” said Isabel. “As long as you’re a Faeregine, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Let’s go in together.”

  Isabel steadfastly refused. “No chance. As long as I don’t help, I can claim I tried to stop you. I’ll be in enough trouble as it is.”

  Far off, Old Tom chimed one thirty. Isabel pinched her. Hazel swatted her hand away.

  “I’m going!”

  Inching her way to the threshold, Hazel eyed the gleaming fiend. There really was nothing to fear. She could even make out a sprinkling of dust on Prime’s feet. A deep breath steadied her nerves.

  Hazel inched into the alcove, her eyes fixed on the giant before her. Bragha Rùn was just a few feet away, its gilded scabbard gleaming under the soft lamplight. She glanced anxiously at the massive fist closed about the weapon’s hilt. The blade looked anchored in place, utterly immovable. It reminded her of one of Uncle Basil’s tale about a sword in a stone. Would Hazel have to free it somehow?

  Prime loomed above her, still and terrible in his faceless grandeur. Hazel’s trembling hand took hold of Bragha Rùn’s scabbard. She gave a tentative pull, but Prime did not let go. Hazel pulled harder, but the sword did not budge. What was she supposed to do? Pry each finger off the hilt?

  Isabel gave a hiss behind her. “Look up!”

  A hole was opening in the center of Prime’s torso, a cavity some six inches across and perhaps eighteen inches deep. It looked like a lamprey’s mouth lined with row upon row of jet-black teeth. Beyond them, something wet and faintly luminous was pulsing like a heart.

  “Something’s in there,” she whispered. “I—I think I may have to reach in.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” said Isabel.

  “There are about a thousand teeth!”

  “Well,” said Isabel. “Try not to touch them.”

  “You’re a help,” Hazel muttered. Removing her coat, she pulled up her sleeve. For once it was a good thing she was so skinny. Assuming she was careful, she should be able to avoid those hideous teeth without too much trouble.

  You can do this, she told herself. One. Two. Three . . .

  Hazel slid her hand within the hole, trying desperately to keep steady. Inch by inch she advanced. All was going well until she was nearly up to her elbow. Then, like a slow spring had been released, the hole closed about her arm. Hazel froze as hundreds of needlelike points came to a gentle halt against her skin. One sudden move and they’d cut her to ribbons.

  “It’s got me,” she whimpered.

  Isabel came forward, but the instant she crossed the threshold, the pressure on Hazel’s arm increased.

  “Stop!” she cried. “Go back. It’s not hurting me, but I think it will if you try and help.”

  Isabel retreated at once. “Can you pull your arm out?”

  Hazel tried, but the teeth were angled inward. Her hand could go farther in but not back. Holding her breath, Hazel pushed forward and tried her best to ignore the sensation of razors dragging lightly over her soft skin. Just a few more inches . . .

  At last, her fingers pierced what felt like a thin membrane. Her hand plunged into a cold, viscous substance. Hazel could sense life in it, a dull current that made her fingertips tingle. Seconds later, the cavity’s teeth retracted so that its walls were smooth as glass. With a shuddering exhale, Hazel removed her arm to find her hand perfectly clean and dry.

  “Well done,” Isabel whispered.

  Something moved in Hazel’s peripheral vision. The hand that gripped Bragha Rùn’s hilt was opening like a flower. Prime was giving it to her.

  She did not need to be asked twice. Snatching the blade by its scabbard, she dashed out of the alcove, her face a rictus of pure terror. Once she was safely out, Isabel started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Hazel demanded.

  “Y-your face.” She tittered. “You look like you’re trying to poop!”

  Hazel scowled. “Shut up. You’re the poop!”

  But Isabel only laughed harder, doubling over into teary hysterics. Whenever Isabel was terribly frightened or distraught, she was apt to start giggling. It was just her way of relieving stress. Nevertheless, Hazel never sat by her at funerals. She tugged Isabel by her scarf.

  “Come
on,” she said. “The horses should be ready.”

  A black charger and a dappled-gray stood outside by the camellias. The guardsman held them by their reins, trying to look professional despite the rain dribbling off his helmet’s visor. Isabel managed to compose herself and thanked the private.

  He bowed. “Allow me.”

  Hazel was grateful for assistance, for the horses were far larger than any mount she’d ever ridden. She pressed Bragha Rùn to her chest as Private Sarcosa lifted her into the gray’s saddle and shortened the stirrups before turning his attention to Isabel.

  Hazel tucked the House Blade inside her coat. It was awkward but not impossible, for Bragha Rùn was a rather short sword. It measured only thirty inches and was fashioned in the style of a Roman gladius, with a narrow crossguard and a straight, broad blade. Hazel thumbed the weapon’s pommel, felt shallow notches scratched in the dragon’s head. Her smiled faded.

  The gravity of what they were doing suddenly hit home. The thrill of sneaking out, of stonecrawling, and taking Bragha Rùn had sugarcoated reality: they were riding to a duel where someone might die.

  “Ready?” said Isabel, taking up her reins.

  Hazel exhaled and gave a nod. Pulling up her hood, she turned the gray about.

  The girls cantered north on the ancient road that traced the eastern shoreline. Below them, the harbor was fogged in, its ships and maze ghostly silhouettes as the rain poured down. Hound’s Trench was over a mile away, past ancient monuments commemorating the Siege of Rowan.

  The Hound was said to have made the trench during that very battle, striking the earth with his spear so that it split apart and swallowed his enemies. While few actually believed this (Cataclysm earthquakes offered a more likely explanation), there was no denying Hound’s Trench was an odd place. It cut into Rowan’s shoreline like an ax wound, a jagged chasm that extended well inland. Nothing grew nearby, and the wind seemed to wail when it blew through its blackened canyons. It was a perfect setting for ghost stories.

  Or a duel.

  Ahead, Hazel saw dozens of figures illuminated by torches thrust into the ground. A belyaël’s eerie notes carried over the wind. Someone must have brought a kitsune or glynfaun, for the belyaël was a notoriously difficult instrument for humans to play.

  Hazel now made out the musician—a fox-like kitsune—along with several imps among the many court brats and FYGs. The crowd was beginning to form a ring. At its center, Hazel could see Dante frowning, arms folded as Imogene spoke into his ear. Where was Hob?

  Everyone turned as the Faeregine girls arrived.

  “Isabel!” exclaimed Luca Yamato. “What are you doing here?”

  Isabel swung off her horse. “Came to see the fun.”

  Imogene hissed a final word to Dante and strolled over. She did not bother wearing a hat or hood, but let the cold drizzle fall on her silvery-blond braids. She gazed up at the dismal night.

  “I thought the sun was supposed to rise whenever Faeregines stirred. What happened?”

  “Sun’s running late,” said Isabel. “Hold my reins and keep a lookout.”

  Imogene offered a withering smile. “Very kind of you to support Dante, but you might have stayed in bed. This won’t last long. It’s not worthy of Volsifer.”

  Volsifer was the Hyde House Blade, a fearsome claymore with an ivory handle and glowing runes down its jet-black blade. It was twice as long as Bragha Rùn, but light enough that Dante could wield it one-handed. He was doing so now, executing a series of flashy maneuvers on the pretense of warming up.

  “Quite the butter scraper,” said Isabel. “What’s the page using?”

  Imogene laughed. “I’m not really sure what to call it.”

  She pointed to some rocks near the cliff edge. Hob was sitting at the edge of the firelight. He was gazing at Dante, but he looked like his mind was a million miles away. Another page stood beside him, tall with a mop of yellow hair. In the shadows at Hob’s shoulder squatted a burly hag holding what looked like a long-handled spade or cleaver.

  “That’s not fit for a duel,” said Isabel.

  Imogene sniffed. “We finally agree on something.”

  Dante thrust Volsifer into the damp earth. “Seconds come forward.”

  Hazel dismounted as the gangly page and Andros Eluvan, Dante’s second, met in the middle of the forming circle. Clutching Bragha Rùn under her coat, Hazel squeezed in between Isabel and Gretchen Klauss. The belyaël trailed off into silence.

  Owyn Menlo stepped in to preside. At nineteen, he was the oldest FYG, a perpetual student who preferred his leisure to academics.

  “Lord Eluvan,” he said, bowing, “and, well, I guess I’ll just call you ‘page.’” No bow. “Are your principles ready?”

  The seconds acknowledged that they were.

  “And does either wish to withdraw or issue an apology?”

  Neither did.

  Hazel tugged her sister’s elbow. “When should we . . . ?” She pointed to the blade hidden in her coat.

  Isabel leaned close. “Just before they start. It will throw Dante off.”

  “Splendid,” Owyn continued. “Lord Hyde has agreed to forego magic, so the matter will be settled with blades only. By custom, only death, surrender by a principle, or forfeiture by his second can bring the duel to a close. Is that understood?”

  The seconds bowed. Hazel crossed her fingers. Perhaps Dante would withdraw once he saw Bragha Rùn. He was a bully and bullies were often cowards when faced with greater strength. And nothing—not even Volsifer—was Bragha Rùn’s equal.

  “Let’s have the principles,” called Owyn. There was a smattering of cheers and boos.

  This is disgusting, thought Hazel. People were acting like the duel was nothing more than a party, an excuse to sneak out to Hound’s Trench.

  Everyone, that is, except Dante. There was nothing jubilant in that cold smile. Hefting Volsifer, he rested the huge blade upon his shoulder and waited for his opponent.

  There were gasps and titters when Hob appeared. The page had removed his shirt and shoes and walked into the ring wearing naught but black breeches. To Hazel’s astonishment, she saw that Hob’s chest and shoulders were heavily tattooed. Ezra Klauss aped his steps, capering and hooting. Hob glanced at him as if he were an insect. Ezra’s grin faltered.

  Isabel leaned close. “If I knew muir tutors looked like that, I’d have gotten one ages ago.”

  Hob came to a halt before Dante. He was younger and a few inches shorter, but Hazel did not get the impression he was at a physical disadvantage. Instead, it looked like a young wolf sizing up a greyhound.

  “Bit more than you bargained for, eh, Imogene?” said Isabel.

  Imogene acted unconcerned. “The page is well built—what of it? Volsifer doesn’t mind cutting muscle. That cleaver looks like it came from your kitchens.”

  Hazel had to agree. Maybe that’s why the hag was present. It was time to even things up. Clearing her throat, she tried to forget that she hated public speaking.

  “One moment,” she called out.

  Everyone turned.

  “Er, yes, Your Highness?” said Owyn. “You wish to say something?”

  “I do,” said Hazel, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’ve . . . well, I’ve just come to realize that dueling is vile, even if there’s an even match. But how can we pretend there’s even a smidgeon of honor in what we’re about to witness? Look at what the page is wielding!”

  Several of the FYGs sniggered. Hob merely gazed at Hazel with an inward expression.

  “It’s more than a disgrace,” said Hazel passionately. “It’s murder.”

  This broke Dante’s glowering silence. “Enough! I won’t have my name sullied. The muir accepted my challenge and chose his weapon. It’s not my fault that’s the best he could lay his hands upon.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Hazel brought out Bragha Rùn, holding the sword up so that all could see the famous blade. Its name meant “red death” in the demon
tongue. Indeed, the gladius was red, from its red-gold pommel to its crimson blade forged from enchanted lymra. According to legend, there was nothing Bragha Rùn could not cut, pierce, or slay. The blade was even said to impart the matchless prowess of the gladiator for whom it was named. It was a weapon fit for a god.

  The crowd was silent. The blade made a dull ring as Hazel slid it from its scabbard and presented it to an astonished Hob. He took it tentatively, offering her a questioning glance. She gave a slight nod. Clutching the scabbard, she returned to the circle and prayed Bragha Rùn would have the desired effect.

  Imogene was furious. Spittle flew as she confronted Hazel. “Letting a servant wield your House Blade? Your family has finally sunk into the sewer!”

  Hazel folded her arms. “Thanks for keeping it warm.”

  Owyn Menlo’s gaiety had dwindled. “Dante,” he said earnestly, “do you still want to do this? There’s no shame in withdrawing . . . to that.” He gestured at Bragha Rùn.

  Yes! Hazel urged silently. Withdraw so this farce can end without bloodshed. You can nurse your pride at home.

  Dante stared at Bragha Rùn, whose blade reflected the guttering torches. Hundreds of feet below, waves crashed upon the rocks, funneling into Hound’s Trench with a drumming moan. In the firelight, Dante’s features betrayed a subtle interplay of emotions: fear, doubt, even defiant anger. Hob stood motionless, his gaze leveled on his opponent. Coming forward, Andros Eluvan whispered in his friend’s ear. Dante’s face darkened. He shook his head savagely.

  Andros frowned and turned to Owyn. “You said a second is allowed to forfeit on behalf of his principle?”

  Owyn nodded.

  Dante jabbed a finger in his second’s chest. “If you do, our friendship is ended. I will come for you myself!”

  Andros held up his hands and withdrew. “Have it your way.”

  Turning back to Hob, Dante drew himself up. His expression was wild, bloodthirsty. Hazel’s hope for a peaceful conclusion vanished.

  “I do not withdraw,” he growled. “I don’t care what you wield, muir. You die this day.”

  Hob did not reply. The crowd’s merriment waned in the cold drizzle. Glancing round the circle, Hazel saw nothing but apprehensive faces. The Castile twins looked like they might be sick. Even Isabel was fidgeting. Hazel took her hand and squeezed it fiercely. She had counted on Dante being a rational coward. Evidently he was neither.