“You’re Rascha,” she said, not asking.
The vye bristled. “Dàme Rascha.”
Sigga merely nodded and glanced down at Hazel. “Hello.”
“You will address the princess as Your Highness,” said Dàme Rascha sharply. “And you are to bow.”
A faint smile played about Sigga’s lips. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I spend little time among royalty.”
She bent deeply at the waist. Hazel acknowledged her with a minuscule nod. Faeregines bowed rarely, and never to servants. When Dàme Rascha slipped emerald slippers on her tiny feet, Hazel selected a pair of spectacles with round green lenses and hurried out after the famous fighter.
The triplets’ chambers were atop one of the palace’s southwest towers and gazed down upon Old College, an ancient quad at the heart of Rowan, the world’s greatest school of magic. A lovely view, but also a long walk to the throne room.
Normally, Hazel found the journey tedious and wished the empress was less of a traditionalist. An elevator would be just the thing in such an enormous palace, but the Spider detested “clockwork” and the Workshop, whose members sought to preserve technology in a world dominated by magic. Given the choice, the Spider would have done away with the engineers and razed their subterranean cities, but an ancient treaty protected their little guild. So long as the Workshop obeyed the rules and abstained from unauthorized innovations, the empress had no choice but to endure it. But you would find no electric lights or moving walkways in her home. In any case, the long trek gave Hazel an opportunity to study Sigga Fenn as the agent walked ahead of them.
Hazel registered every detail of the woman’s stride, noting how servants scurried to get out of her path. Even the Impyrial Guard seemed to fidget and look away at the assassin’s approach. Hazel felt like she had a Cheshirewulf padding before her—a Cheshirewulf that had traveled the world and braved countless perils. It was impossible not to admire and envy her. Hazel had never even visited the mainland. There were many questions she would have liked to ask the Grislander, but protocol did not allow casual conversation. Instead, Hazel turned her mind to last night’s murders.
She was still shocked that such terrible things had happened, and in the very palace. Isabel was the history buff, but Hazel was certain nothing like a murder had occurred in many years. There had been hundreds of dueling deaths, of course, but those weren’t remotely the same thing. The most recent murder she could think of happened fifty years ago, when some distant aunt or cousin had pushed her husband out of Gloaming Tower.
But that had been a lover’s quarrel, whereas last night’s murders sounded like part of an orchestrated crime. After all, Dàme Rascha said the perpetrators had been imposters. Who had they been pretending to be and how had they fooled the Impyrial Guard?
Hazel glanced suspiciously at the soldiers they passed. They were practically interchangeable. What was the name of the one who’d been killed? Beecher. The name sounded familiar. Hazel vaguely recalled a man who had accompanied the triplets to a concert last year. Homely for the guard, but he’d had a kind face. Isabel had joked that he looked like a mastiff. Hazel frowned. Was that the man who’d died?
Descending a final stairway, they reached the hallway leading to the throne room. Its scale always made Hazel feel like an insect. The ceilings were eighty feet high with massive caryatids depicting the dynasty’s early empresses. Each column was carved with a craftsmanship and skill that no longer existed. Hazel glanced up at her ancestors as she passed: Mina I, an angelic goddess; Mina II, the ruthless visionary; Mina III, the hopeful peacemaker; Mina IV, the faceless tyrant.
As the dynasty’s forty-second empress, Hazel’s grandmother would not get a caryatid in the entry hall. Her legacy would most likely consist of a tasteful portrait in a palace gallery along with a grander memorial somewhere on the mainland. Space on the Sacred Isle had grown too scarce for the sprawling tombs and temples of yesteryear.
Some joked that the Spider would never need a tomb. The empress was one hundred and eleven years old, but clung to life with grim tenacity. As they reached the final caryatids, Hazel could make out a small, hunched figure sitting on a golden throne high atop a dais. Even at a distance, Hazel found her grandmother intimidating. She hoped her late arrival would go unnoticed.
She hoped in vain.
Antoine Bole, the palace’s omnipresent chamberlain, was stationed near the doors, dressed in a rose-colored suit that matched his small horns. Fauns were famously exact and Antoine was no exception. Giving Hazel a reproachful look, he led her to the midst of the Impyrial court.
Dàme Rascha did not accompany them into this inner circle. Neither did Sigga Fenn. There were rules governing who could stand where during official gatherings. Since the vye and Grislander were servants, they were confined to the periphery, beyond the ring of wealthy muir, senior officials, and Workshop emissaries. Lesser nobles and mehrùn from Houses Minor formed the middle ring. The innermost circle was restricted to members of the twelve Great Houses.
These individuals were arranged like small battalions around the empress’s dais. They were the most prominent magical families in the world and could trace their roots to fabled heroes and sorcerers of ages past. While the Faeregines controlled the throne, Lirlander Seals, and Otherland Gates, the Great Houses each had their own spheres of influence. Rivalries were intense and feuds could last generations, but the families banded together when threatened by outsiders or upstarts. For every mehrùn, there were a thousand muir who tended to revolt every century or two. Without cooperation among one another, the nobles would have been overrun long ago.
Hazel saw Isabel and Violet ahead, standing amid the ladies-in-waiting, girls from Great Houses who were deemed acceptable companions for the triplets. Her sisters looked bored and aloof, while their uncle Basil stood at a distant podium droning on about the Lirlander Seals. One eye was bandaged and his arm was in a sling, but he seemed to be his chipper self as he detailed how auction proceeds would be used to build roads and schools throughout the Muirlands.
Antoine nudged Hazel forward. She obliged him, weaving her way through the ladies-in-waiting to stand near her sisters as their uncle introduced Lord Kraavh, the new ambassador from the demonic Lirlands.
Excited whispers rippled across the assembly as the ambassador emerged from an antechamber. A frustrated Hazel could see nothing but elaborate hair and dresses. All of the girls were taller than she was, except for Isis Palantine, who was only eight and practically drowning in cream chiffon.
“Can you see anything?” Isis whispered.
Hazel shook her head.
Someone murmured in her ear. “Should we get you a footstool? You’re just so itty-bitty.”
Hazel glared at the speaker but said nothing. Imogene was fourteen, even taller than the twins, and she had famously pinchy fingers. She was also a Hyde, an obscenely wealthy family and the Faeregines’ oldest rival.
“Shut your face, Imogene,” whispered a voice.
Isabel had turned about to fix Imogene with a steely look. Hazel’s sister really was a tigress, particularly where the Hydes were concerned. Imogene’s lip curled. She opened her mouth to retort, but stopped when the ambassador began speaking.
When Hazel heard that voice, a shiver ran through her. Lord Kraavh sounded nothing like the last emissary. This wasn’t some squeaky imp; this was a daemon true. She stood on tiptoe.
“What is he?” she whispered, still unable to see.
A wide-eyed Isabel mouthed the word “rakshasa.”
Hazel gripped her arm. Rakshasas were exceedingly powerful demons that had undergone koukerros—daemonic metamorphosis—many times to reach their state of being. Most were many centuries old. The Lirlanders normally appointed an imp to the Faeregine court out of surly obligation. They never named anyone important to be ambassador, much less a rakshasa.
Hazel fidgeted impatiently. She desperately wanted to see the demon, not merely hear that purring baritone as Lord Kraavh beg
an reciting the Lirlanders’ oath of fealty.
“Three thousand years ago,” he began, “your ancestors conquered my people. In exchange for our freedom, we agreed to forsake the lands of men and live beneath the seas. Thus the deepwater daemonia—the Lirlanders—came to be . . .”
Someone squeezed next to Hazel and thrust a glowing rectangle under her nose.
“Birthday present from my father,” whispered Mei-Mei Han. “What do you think?”
The tiny screen showed a towering, tiger-headed figure with curling ram’s horns. Hazel stared at the demon, practically spellbound.
She did not bother mentioning that the device was undoubtedly illegal. Mei-Mei would not care. The Hans played a role in Workshop relations and Mei-Mei prided herself on having the latest gadgets. It was an open secret that many Great Houses employed expensive—even illicit—technologies. So long as transgressions were minor and discreet, the empress chose to overlook them.
“Where’s the camera?” Hazel whispered, dimly aware that something must be transmitting the images.
Mei-Mei nodded at Esmerelda, middle daughter of the Castiles. Despite her fifteen years, Esmerelda had always been pleasantly clueless. Even now, she was oblivious to the small device perched atop her nest of auburn hair.
“Have you ever seen a rakshasa before?” Hazel whispered.
Mei-Mei shook her head, her eyes glued to the screen.
“Why do you think he’s wearing armor?” said Hazel. Granted, it was splendid—a suit of pearly, nacreous plate—but it seemed peculiar dress for an ambassador.
Mei-Mei shrugged as Isabel shot them a look to be quiet. Lord Kraavh continued his address.
“And finally, we will continue to honor our ancient pledge. The Lirlanders shall attack no ship that crosses our borders, provided it bears a sacred Seal from the true Faeregine.”
Hazel looked up. The true Faeregine? What did he mean by that?
A hush filled the audience chamber. Hazel glanced at her grandmother upon her elevated throne. Many others did likewise. The Spider sat motionless with her customary scowl. Those Faeregine eyes—dark and impenetrable—were fixed, unblinking, on Lord Kraavh.
“Three millennia is a long time,” said the ambassador coldly. “Even for daemonia. And so I have come to inform Her Radiance that this is the final year we will honor the Red Winter Treaty. The Lirlanders look forward to negotiating a new agreement with the Faeregines—and others—who wish safe passage across our seas.”
Hazel was dumbstruck. The ambassador was not requesting a change to the treaty’s terms; he was declaring the treaty finished, and in highly public fashion. It was unspeakably insulting.
“My, my,” whispered Imogene Hyde.
Hazel looked to her sisters. Violet and Isabel appeared grave and composed. They, like everyone else, were waiting to see how the Divine Empress would respond.
The Spider did not disappoint.
The empress did not rise or stir but stared impassively at the rakshasa. When she finally spoke, she used a dialect of Old Impyrian that went back to the Cataclysm, whose devastation not only ushered in a new age for mankind but literally reshaped the world. Few people could speak that tongue, and most of them were in this room. The Spider was sending an unmistakable message: My roots are deep.
“We honor Lord Kraavh for renewing the ancient vows and ensuring peace between our peoples. Three thousand years is indeed a long time. But perhaps Lord Kraavh has forgotten that the treaty required his people to honor the Seals in perpetuity. Perhaps he has also forgotten that the treaty also benefits his people by prohibiting the binding of daemonia . . .”
The rakshasa’s three emerald eyes narrowed.
“If the Lirlanders should abandon this agreement,” the Spider continued, “I cannot punish those who engage in forced summonings. Even Lord Kraavh may find himself subject to the whims of those who possess the means to call upon him. Such knowledge is old but not forgotten.” The Spider raised a bony finger. “There may even be some who recall the eleven letters of your truename . . .”
The threat hung in the air, plain as a drawn blade. If the Divine Empress really knew Lord Kraavh’s truename, she could summon the demon against his will or even destroy him outright. Such practices were forbidden since the Red Winter Treaty brought an end to the Cataclysm and the wars between humans and demonkind.
A nimbus of pale fire flickered about the ambassador. “That would be an end to the peace.”
The Spider nodded. “Which is why the ambassador will wish to reconsider his proposal—and his etiquette—before addressing this court again. He now has my permission to leave.”
Lord Kraavh grimaced as he bent stiffly at the waist, bowing his great head. Turning upon his cloven hoof, he withdrew silently from the hall. Hazel nearly grinned. Score one for the Spider.
Mei-Mei gave a low whistle. “That was a spanking.”
The throne room was now abuzz with excited chatter. Even Imogene Hyde’s smirk had vanished. Hazel’s uncle, looking somewhat flustered, made some rambling remarks that garnered little attention.
Poor Uncle Basil, thought Hazel. Attacked last night and now upstaged by his mother. What else could go wrong?
A sharp rapping answered her question.
The sound came from the empress’s dais, where the Archmage Elias Menlo was striking his staff upon the marble. The archmage came from a long line of famous witches and sorcerers. He was not a handsome man but rangy and rawboned with a plaited gray beard and a crimson skullcap that marked his high office. Hazel felt no affinity when she looked at him, which always struck her as a little sad. After all, the man was most likely her father.
Paternity counted for a great deal among other houses, but not the Faeregines. Direct descendants of the empress rarely married or even learned their father’s identity. This ensured their loyalty remained solely to the Faeregines. Ancient birth records revealed that Impyrium’s archmages fathered many of the early empresses; the rest were sired by patriarchs or sorcerers from the Great Houses. Whether that was still the practice, Hazel could not say.
The archmage ceased his rapping as the chamber fell silent. His voice was warm and rich as a cello’s. “Her Radiance the Divine Empress, ruler of all Impyrium, has chosen this day—this New Year’s Day—to make an edict regarding the succession.”
Hazel froze as eyes turned toward her and her sisters. In a few seconds, one of them (Hazel hoped it would be Isabel) would be designated Your Impyrial Highness. Violet was technically the oldest, but she and her sisters had been born on the same day, which allowed the Spider to choose her successor from the three. The instant the empress died or abdicated, the heir would discard her birth name and become Mina XLIII.
The other two sisters would remain Your Highness until the new empress produced a daughter. Once that occurred, they would be reduced to your grace, which was how one addressed a duke or duchess. Impyrium had lots of dukes and duchesses. They would be given titles and estates and have certain responsibilities—perhaps even some that mattered. But they would never sit the throne.
Hazel’s heart beat like a kettledrum. There were so many people in the audience chamber, people gawking and standing too close. Imogene mouthed something. What was she saying?
It won’t be you.
Hazel was tempted to cackle “Good!” but remained silent. She had no desire to be Divine Empress, had dreaded the possibility since she was five. “Hazel” was a perfectly good name, earthy and unassuming. She had no wish to change it to Mina XLIII. And she’d much rather study magic than rule, particularly now given Rascha’s faith in her potential. As far as titles were concerned, she could eventually be “Duchess of the Dawn” or the “Duchess of Spring” or any one of the ridiculous names they conferred upon irrelevant royals. Whatever happened, the course of her life was about to change, to crystallize into something different. Wetting her lips, Hazel stared defiantly at her grandmother.
Out with it!
The Divine Empress
cleared her throat.
“I hereby designate my granddaughter Violet Gabriela Faeregine as heir to the throne of Impyrium. In the event she cannot serve and remains daughterless, Her Highness Isabel Athena Faeregine will succeed her. Further contingencies will be handled in accordance with our laws. All hail Her Impyrial Highness!”
It took Hazel a moment to process everything. She registered commotion, a tide of silk and chiffon as girls surged past to congratulate their future ruler. Violet lifted her perfect chin in graceful acknowledgment of what she had always regarded as her birthright. The rulers of the Great Houses bowed as she made her way to the dais.
Hazel glanced anxiously at Isabel. She knew her sister must be crushed. It was no secret Isabel regarded herself as the most capable, but she betrayed no hint of envy or disappointment. Indeed, there was nothing but pride in Isabel’s eyes as she watched her sister ascend the steps.
For her part, Hazel was glad she had worn tinted lenses. Dàme Rascha said that mouths could lie but eyes could not. At the moment, Hazel’s were brimming with joy. Relief spread through her body, making her toes and fingertips tingle. She would not be Divine Empress! She had not even been mentioned! Twelve years of numbing anxiety had vanished. She could have floated out a skylight.
A pair of fingers pinched her arm like steel pliers. Imogene Hyde leaned close.
“Congratulations. You’re not only the last Faeregine, you’re officially the least. How does that feel?”
Hazel exhaled. “Wonderful.”
It was late afternoon when Sigga Fenn escorted Hazel and her sisters back to their tower. There were more receptions that evening, but Hazel begged Dàme Rascha to let her skip them.
To Hazel’s surprise, her tutor relented. She imagined this had more to do with the vye’s need to mourn her cousin than coddling her pupil.
Indeed, Hazel’s presence had barely caused a ripple that afternoon. The palace was humming with talk of the Lirlander Vault, the Spider’s rebuke of Lord Kraavh, and the new Impyrial Highness. But no one bothered discussing these events with her. For Hazel, the afternoon had consisted of tiny cakes and even tinier conversation.