Impyrium

  By the time they arrived at the Spider’s tower, Hazel had convinced herself that a ship would be taking her to a jungle island teeming with cannibals. In Uncle Basil’s books, jungle islands were always teeming with cannibals. She had often wondered how they got any sleep. How could you go to bed knowing your neighbor wanted to eat you?

  The page stopped at a pair of golden doors. Two shedu flanked them, gargantuan winged bulls with bearded human heads. These specimens were so ancient that their skin had hardened. To a casual observer, they resembled onyx statues more than living creatures. But they did move. One dipped its head slightly to appraise them. Hazel felt a tingling in her gut, as though its gemstone eyes were boring through her. The Faeregine seal pulsed with an inner light and the page pushed the doors open.

  Hazel, Sigga, and Dàme Rascha followed him past a dozen guardsmen into a vast atrium. A moist breeze was blowing, heavy with the scent of plants and flowers that rose up on either side. Birds twittered and called from lofted perches, swooping occasionally in colorful flashes of plumage. The atrium was far larger than the tower’s external dimensions. Hazel’s senses told her this was not some illusion or architectural trick. Old Magic saturated the dense air.

  True to her epithet, the Spider was waiting at the room’s center. Hazel was accustomed to seeing her grandmother wearing her crown and court regalia. But here, in her private quarters, she wore only a simple red robe and sat at a table for two. She glanced up as they approached, her gaze sharp as a scalpel. When they bowed, she pointed a bony talon at the opposite seat.

  Hazel slid stiffly into the chair, conscious of her posture. The Spider’s eyes never left her as she sent the others off with a dismissive wave. Rascha and Sigga followed the page down a path lined with rhododendrons.

  The two sat in silence for several minutes while servants brought water, wine, and little dishes of greens, nuts, and fruit. Hazel fought the urge to fidget. She longed to break the silence, but etiquette dictated one should wait for the hostess. When the Spider finally spoke, her voice was a gravel croak.

  “Are you really so frightened of me?”

  Hazel met those wide-set Faeregine eyes, so alert and impenetrable. “I suppose I am.”

  The empress nodded. “I’m not fond of children,” she remarked. “A century has passed since I was a child. I no longer understand them. But it is time I understood you.”

  Hazel glanced down at plate. “There’s not so much to understand.”

  “That is not what I’ve been led to believe.”

  “I do not know what you’ve been told, Your Radiance.”

  “Do you not?”

  Hazel winced slightly. “Does it have to do with the master?” She did not know why she brought this up other than it was exceedingly uncomfortable to sit before this woman and guess what she wanted to hear. Silence and authority were a powerful combination.

  “Are your referring to your abominable progress with Masters Montague, Plath, and Strovsky?”

  Gods, this woman was terrifying. “Yes.”

  “That is a concern but not the concern,” said the empress. “I am referring to your abilities with magic. I have reason to believe they are considerable.”

  “Dàme Rascha flatters me.”

  A pause. “Do not patronize me. I want a demonstration.”

  Hazel wiped her clammy palms on her robes. “What would you like me to do?”

  The empress gestured at the veritable jungle surrounding them. “A hibiscus has recently been planted in this atrium. Find it and make it grow.”

  Hazel pushed back from the table. This would be child’s play.

  The empress shook her balding head. “Remain seated.”

  Hazel’s shoulders slumped. Sitting back down, she gazed round at the lush greenery. The plant would not be in plain sight. Sipping her water, she closed her eyes and cast her mind out into the room. The process was the opposite of squinting to bring something into focus. Instead, Hazel relaxed her eye muscles and let the sensation trickle back into her brain. Images became soft and blurred, buoyant and pliant. She did not try to steer this inner sense but let it drift like a balloon. The feat required instinct, not intellect.

  The hibiscus was fifty feet above them, planted in a ceramic pot upon a balcony. Hazel’s mind burrowed to find the seed suspended in rich black soil. She coaxed it gently, whispering words of waking and growth. From far off, she heard her grandmother’s voice.

  “That’s it, child. Bring it here.”

  Hazel transported the hibiscus as surely as if she cradled it in her hands. Her back was to the balcony, but her mind’s eye showed the pot floating down to them even as the plant twined through the soil and bloomed into a brilliant pink flower. Once it set down gently on the table, Hazel opened her eyes to see a hummingbird feeding at the blossoms, its wings a shimmery blur.

  “Very good,” said the Spider. “Now incinerate it.”

  Hazel blinked. Why would she burn something so beautiful? A second hummingbird arrived and the two began a darting, dancing contest for the right to feed. Hazel shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Incinerate it.”

  Hazel felt a flash of defiance. “I won’t. If you’re so eager to see it burn, you do it.”

  Amusement shone in the Spider’s cold eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. You’re the Divine Empress.”

  “I am many things,” the Spider mused. “A linguist, a strategist, a survivor. But I am no sorceress. Neither was my predecessor.”

  Hazel was confused. “I don’t understand. You faced down that Lirlander. You knew his truename.”

  The empress shook her head. “No. I merely have spies. We’ve known for months that Lord Kraavh would be named ambassador and that he was hostile to the treaty. My spies agreed to share details concerning the demon’s truename but not the name itself. This was sufficient to make the desired impression.”

  Hazel was staggered by the implications. “What if your spies were wrong? What if they had lied?”

  The empress shrugged. “Ruling requires calculated risks.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  “For now,” said the Spider. “But our seams are showing and our enemies have noticed. Magic is unpredictable, the Old Magic even more so. Over the centuries, it has dwindled in our bloodline. Our family’s abilities no longer surpass those of our rivals. There may even be Houses Minor that equal us in this regard. In the past, we Faeregines dominated the world with magic. Today we must rely on propaganda and institutions we control. Even these are under threat.”

  “The Lirlander Seals,” Hazel breathed.

  The Spider nodded and mixed a little water with her wine. “The Seals make us masters of the seas. We control them and the Otherland Gates. Our family still has the bank and what remains of our mystique: they are all under siege. The world must see that the Faeregine fire has not gone out. Our family requires a weapon.”

  Her meaning was perfectly clear. “I don’t want to be a weapon,” said Hazel.

  “It is your ambition to study magic, is it not?”

  Hazel lifted her chin. “Yes. But I want to create things, not destroy them. If that’s what’s required to rule, perhaps our family has ruled long enough.”

  The Spider’s thin lips pressed tightly together. Her eyes glittered with cold malevolence. “I envy your ignorance,” she muttered. “You’ve no notion of what your ancestors have kept at bay these many centuries. But you will understand soon enough. The burdens our family bears far outweigh our privileges.”

  “I’m well acquainted with the burdens of being a Faeregine,” said Hazel.

  A terrible smile appeared on her grandmother’s face. “Are you indeed? We shall talk again after Midsummer when you’ve made your first pilgrimage. Your views may change once you’ve stood before a dragon and peered beyond the Otherland Gates. Humans have short memories, my dear. People have forgotten why people begged Mina the First to become Divine Empress all those y
ears ago. They clamor for technology, having forgotten that it would have destroyed them if Astaroth and his Cataclysm had not taken such dangerous toys away. That is the people’s privilege. It is a Faeregine’s burden to remember.”

  These words struck a profound chill. Hazel could no longer meet that terrible gaze, but she clung stubbornly to her position.

  “Perhaps it is. But I’m not going to become a family weapon.”

  “You will do what is required,” said the Spider simply. “Your powers will sow doubt among those who conspire to overtake us. When the Great Houses see that we remain formidable, they will fall in line. When the masses witness new Faeregine miracles, rebellions will cease. Much depends on you, child. Why do you think I left you out of the succession?”

  Hazel glanced up. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  The Spider sipped her wine. “I forget nothing. Your sisters meet the public’s expectations of how a Faeregine should look and behave. You do not. While they occupy our rivals’ attention and fulfill their royal duties, you will be free to develop your abilities. I have great plans for you, but you must be forged with a hotter fire. The vye’s leniency has nearly ruined you. She’s more of a nursemaid than a proper tutor.”

  “Dàme Rascha is the finest tutor in Impyrium,” said Hazel, her voice rising. She would not let anyone—not even the empress—speak ill of Rascha.

  The Spider did not reply, but studied Hazel in silence. At length, she rang a little bell and ordered a servant to fetch Dàme Rascha and Sigga Fenn. When the pair returned, the Divine Empress addressed the Grislander first.

  “You are responsible for this one,” she said, gesturing lazily at Hazel. “We will assign another Red Branch to Isabel. You will not divulge a single detail of my granddaughter’s activities to anyone. Is that understood?”

  Sigga bowed.

  The empress turned to Rascha. “Do you believe the Old Magic still exists among us?”

  The vye looked taken aback. “There have always been mortals who possess sparks of stronger, more primal magic than that of other mehrùn. But such beings were exceedingly rare, even among your ancestors. I do not know if any exist today.”

  “You lie,” said the Spider. “You believe my granddaughter is one. Why else would you have asked the Promethean scholars how to verify its presence?”

  Rascha’s face fell. Her glance at Hazel was oddly apologetic, as though she knew and regretted where this was heading. “Nothing has been confirmed,” she conceded. “But there are signs. In several areas, the princess’s abilities surpass those of qualified mystics. With time—”

  The empress cut her off. “She is to qualify as a Third Rank by her birthday.”

  Dàme Rascha opened her mouth and shut it. Hazel had never seen her look so unsettled.

  “Your Radiance,” said the vye delicately, “profoundly gifted individuals require years of study to achieve even First Rank. The volume of knowledge, the nuances—”

  Again, the Spider interrupted. “Excuses do not interest me. My granddaughter will meet every requirement of a Third Rank by her thirteenth birthday. If she fails, you will be pilloried and exiled to the Grislands.”

  The vye bowed.

  Hazel was stupefied. She stared at her grandmother, hating her with every fiber of her being. The woman was evil. The instant Hazel betrayed her love for Rascha, the Spider saw a weakness she could exploit. The ultimatum had not been issued with any anger or malice but a detachment that was infinitely more unsettling. The Spider did not make idle threats.

  “One more thing,” she added, looking sharply at Hazel. “This task does not excuse you from your other studies. You will pass each class—with honors—or I will have to reconsider my leniency with your tutor. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hazel did not want to know what that might mean. All she could do was nod.

  The empress returned to her supper. “Good. Dàme Rascha, you shall have access to anything that you feel my granddaughter requires. I expect weekly reports on her progress.”

  The vye bowed. “It will be as you wish. But I must voice my concerns. These demands will place profound, perhaps unbearable, strain upon your granddaughter. Old Magic is powerful, Your Radiance, and it must be nurtured carefully. There are disturbing precedents. Her Highness is but twelve years old. She is the last Faeregine.”

  At this, the empress actually laughed.

  “She’s not the last Faeregine, you fool. She’s the first in a thousand years!”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE BIG LIE

  Good men weep for justice.

  Better men bleed for it.

  —Pablo Antola, heretic. Executed 898 P.C.

  Six days after boarding the Transcontinental, Hob finally beheld Impyria. Framed by the window of his sleeping compartment the city looked like a painting, a sprawling silhouette of domes and spires against the dawn. Even at this distance, the capital’s scale was astounding. By comparison, Cey-Atül had been a fishing village.

  He dressed quickly, washing his face and putting on the gray suit the train’s tailor had made for him. By the time his employer emerged from his sleeper, Hob was immaculate. Yawning, Mr. Burke tucked a worn bronze pendant inside his dressing gown and selected one of the newspapers arranged neatly on the table.

  “Eager to depart, I see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Burke glanced out the window. “We’ll have inspection soon. Are you ready?”

  Hob nodded as he poured their coffee.

  “Good,” said Mr. Burke. “Let me see your papers.”

  Four days earlier, a young woman had visited their car and taken Hob’s photograph. She returned the next evening with an identification card, travel visa, and work permit. Now Hob promptly thrust the stack at Mr. Burke, who shook his head.

  “Remember, submitting one’s documents is a bore. The intrusion is a nuisance.”

  Hob tried again.

  “Better,” said Mr. Burke. “Inspectors are small men. Make them feel it, but not too much or they’ll get officious. What’s your name?”

  Hob answered. He had memorized every detail, even serial numbers. The documents were fakes, of course, but the information was accurate whenever possible. The purpose was not to create an entirely new identity but legitimize Hob’s presence. The authorities had cracked down since the last uprising; all visitors were screened and muir needed special permission to live or work in the capital. Mr. Burke peppered Hob with questions about his home province and their affiliation. Hob answered each in turn, weaving lies with truth. Satisfied, Mr. Burke returned to his compartment to dress.

  Forty minutes later, the train idled at a security checkpoint. Two inspectors entered. The tall one ordered Mr. Burke to the far end of the compartment. The other followed him, noting something on a clipboard. Hob remained where he was and produced his papers. The inspector held them up to the chandelier as though searching for a watermark or some flaw in the paper.

  “From the Northwest, I see. How long have you worked for this Mr. Burke?”

  “Eight months.”

  “What does your Mr. Burke do?”

  “He owns Impyrial Imports on South Market Street. Near Hangman’s Square.”

  The inspector gazed about the luxurious cabin. “Must do a brisk business.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What were you doing in Cey-Atül?”

  “Mr. Burke’s thinking of opening a northwest branch.”

  “And what do you do for him?”

  “Run errands, keep accounts. Whatever he needs.”

  The inspector suddenly seized him by the wrist. Turned Hob’s hand over, he stared at the tough and callused skin.

  “Rough hands for an errand boy.”

  Hob tried not to panic as he met that piercing gaze. “Woodworking. It’s a hobby.”

  The inspector remained inscrutable. A moment later, he released Hob and returned the documents. “Fair enough,” he muttered. “But soak ’em in bath salts, s
on, or the next fellow might think you’re lying.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The inspector whistled to his colleague. “We’re done here.”

  After the two men departed, Mr. Burke laughed at Hob’s account of the interview.

  “Woodworking, eh? Quick thinking. We’ll see to those hands.”

  Hob remained somewhat shaken. “Why did he let me go?”

  Mr. Burke peered out the window where officials were rooting through suitcases. “Don’t assume he did. The craftier ones will squeeze out a bribe and then have you followed anyway. We’ll take precautions.”

  The two disembarked at Crossroads Station twenty minutes later. While a porter fetched their luggage, Hob gazed up at the sun, a watery white disk beyond the green glass roof. Hundreds of birds wheeled in colorful flights, their calls mingling with the din of droning loudspeakers and hissing steam engines.

  Hob fell in step with Mr. Burke as the porter followed with their bags. He tried to mimic the brisk-but-bored affectation of a passersby, but he practically twitched with excitement. He was in Impyria, the very heart of the empire. The people he was passing were important—they made laws and wove magic and imposed order on the world. Dusk was cold and dull, a tiny outpost smothered in snow and pine needles. Here everything was light, an explosion of colors and sound, swift riptides of people and money.

  Money. It was everywhere. Even muir servants dressed in tailored suits or clothes trimmed in ermine or sable. They trailed after silk-robed mystics, or hurried ahead to summon palanquins or carriages from the ranks of those waiting in front of a glowing glass mosaic.

  Minutes later, Hob sat in back of a carriage clattering down a cobbled street teeming with people, rickshaws, and trolleys gliding on iron rails. Hob glanced up as they passed a streetlamp ablaze with scarlet flames.