Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Win Sigga over. Do that and you’re golden. What would earn a bodyguard’s trust?

  Musing on this, he snatched his towel and headed off to the showers. He was due in Old College by eleven. As Oliveiro often quipped, not even death excused unpunctuality.

  Hob was not late, but he had not dressed warmly enough. The March morning was raw, with wild gusts that shook the leafless trees. He stood with twenty other servants by a fountain in front of the Manse, an ancient manor that was Rowan’s oldest building. None of the servants were dressed for the weather, having sacrificed warmth for smartness: gray topcoats, polished boots, and lambskin gloves. They stamped their feet, clutching various supplies for their outing. When one maid griped aloud, Oliveiro maintained that love of duty was enough to keep one warm. This earned a collective groan.

  A page shivered next to Hob. “What are they waiting for?”

  None of the court brats or the fine young gentlemen (otherwise known as FYGs) had poked their nose outside. Instead, they clustered within the Manse’s comfortable foyer and parlors. Many of the FYGs and court brats lived there during the academic year. Hob envied them. He’d heard Manse bedrooms magically configured themselves to suit their occupants. One might bunk in a desert caravan, alchemical laboratory, or even a glass-domed observatory and gaze out upon the stars. Hob wondered what he’d get. Probably a shack in the Sentries.

  “Why freeze your fanny off if you can wait inside?” said a maid from the Skeiner Isles. “The Faeregines aren’t even here yet. Her Impyrial Highness must be powdering her nose.”

  Oliveiro cast a carping eye. “That’s enough, Maeve.”

  Hob shifted his grip on the picnic baskets he was holding. “What is the Direwood? There’s hardly anything on it in the handbook.”

  “That’s because it’s haunted,” said a valet. “We’re crazy to go in there.”

  “It is not haunted,” said Oliveiro firmly.

  “Then why’s the gate locked and guarded?” asked the valet.

  “Because wild animals live inside,” Oliveiro explained. “Once, it served as a refuge for mystic creatures. During the Great War it was even a sanctuary for those who would found Impyria. But that was ages ago. The Direwood is no longer in active use.”

  “Then why don’t they get rid of it?” said another page. “That’s prime real estate.”

  Oliveiro rewrapped his muffler. “The Direwood is a living museum. You’ll understand once we’re inside. Consider yourselves fortunate. Precious few among the staff ever get a glimpse.”

  “Lucky us,” said the page, stamping his feet.

  “Ah,” said Oliveiro. “Here they are.”

  Hob gazed across the quad to see the Faeregine triplets approaching, accompanied by their tutors and bodyguards. Violet and Isabel were in front, wearing robes of Impyrial crimson trimmed in black mink. Hazel walked behind, wearing a long quilted coat. Less glamorous, but more sensible.

  As the Faeregines arrived, the court brats and FYGs emerged from the Manse and filed down its steps. Hob scanned their faces; on the surface these mehrùn were a diverse sampling of humanity descending from many different tribes and nations. But Hob knew that wasn’t really true. Every court brat and FYG shared three things in common: magic, money, and heritage. The twelve families represented by this group controlled half of Impyrium’s wealth.

  Hydes, Jains, Eluvans, Menlos, Hans, Klausses, Chens, Castiles, Yamatos, Palantines, Khans, and Sylvas. Hob eyed them with polite disdain. None of these boys and girls had ever spent a second worrying whether a roof or meal awaited them. Legions of servants catered to every conceivable want. Meanwhile, they got to lord it over those with more talent simply because they belonged to the right family. But Hob imagined many of them didn’t see it that way. They probably convinced themselves that they deserved their station, that they’d miraculously earned the wealth, connections, and privilege conferred upon them the instant they were born. His gaze fell upon a chinless Klauss boy mocking a master behind the man’s back.

  I’d like to see you sit séyu.

  Once the Faeregines joined the group, Master Montague addressed the crowd. “We have a busy day, so please pay attention and be on your best behavior. That includes you, Lord Ezra.”

  Laughter as the Klauss boy reddened. Hob found that he rather liked the master, despite the homunculus on his shoulder.

  “The Direwood is not our comfortable Manse,” said the master pointedly. “It contains creatures that have had little contact with humans for many years. While most inhabit its remoter regions, there’s no guarantee we won’t encounter some near the ruins. We have taken precautions, but no amount of planning can overcome willful stupidity.”

  The master directed a glance at Lord Klauss, before setting off on a path that led around the Manse. The court brats and FYGs followed in chattering cliques.

  Hazel passed Hob without acknowledging him whatsoever. This was not a surprise; no one was to know, or even suspect, that a page was tutoring her. Dàme Rascha, however, managed a nod as she conversed with Isabel Faeregine’s tutor, a stooped faun named Archemnos. When Sigga strode past, Hob caught an unmistakable twinkle in the agent’s eye.

  The servants trailed after the young lords and ladies, passing by academic buildings and the school’s temple. Along the way, they encountered scholars and students who had actually earned their place here. These individuals—some rather accomplished judging by their ornamented magechains—stepped aside to make room. They watched the pampered lordlings and ladies march past. Many darted sympathetic glances at the master.

  Hob trailed behind, trying to decipher Sigga’s look of amusement. Was the agent acknowledging he’d penetrated her disguise? Did she suspect he was a spy? If so, why didn’t she simply have him arrested? Perhaps she wanted to toy with him, jiggle the lure until Hob led her to bigger fish. What if her apparent blunder this morning hadn’t been a blunder at all? What if the Grislander wanted Hob to know she was onto him and goad him into panicking? Anything was possible.

  Don’t think yourself into knots. She doesn’t know anything. You’re just a page tutoring Her Highness. If you believe it, so will they. . . .

  The academic buildings thinned, replaced by cemeteries and caretaker cottages. Statues lined the path, some so ancient that their faces had nearly worn away. Hob held his breath whenever he passed one by; they reminded him of the harbor boatmen.

  Ahead was a wall of mossy stone some thirty feet high and hundreds of yards across. Behind it rose a hedge of trees that disappeared into a canopy of mist. Two guardsmen were waiting by an iron-banded door set into the wall. The master walked ahead to speak with them. All chatter died away as the heavy door was unlocked and heaved open. Even the trees seemed to grow hushed and watchful. No birds called, no squirrels scurried about. Beyond the gate, the path was dark as midnight.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” said one of the FYGs, a gangling Eluvan in a green coat.

  Others quickly voiced their agreement.

  “Students in the mainstream program spend a week alone in the Direwood before graduating from Rowan,” observed the master drily. “You are being asked to spend a single afternoon in the company of fifty classmates. I’m sure you can muster the necessary courage.”

  A tall, well-looking boy of perhaps sixteen, with a tangle of reddish-blond hair and a trace of beard pushed to the fore. Hob knew him from the handbook: Dante Hyde, nineteenth Earl of Eastmarch, firstborn son of Willem and Eva Hyde, and heir to the house that bore his name. Unlike the other FYGs, he wore a military coat and cavalry saber.

  “I’ll go first.”

  Violet Faeregine strode forward with Isabel at her elbow.

  “Faeregines go before Hydes,” said Violet. “We wouldn’t want to upset the natural order.”

  Dante made a smirking bow. “How very brave of your Impyrial Highness.” He nodded at the three Red Branch.

  Another page nudged Hob. “This could be good,” he whispered.

  But
no scene occurred. Her Impyrial Highness merely called for Hazel to join them, and the three sisters disappeared into the tunnel, followed by their bodyguards and tutors.

  Once the Faeregines entered, there followed a fierce insistence on precedence. Dante and Imogene Hyde went next, followed by a flock of Castiles, Yamatos, and Menlos. After them came the Eluvans, Jains, and Hans, elbowing aside the Chens, Klausses, and Khans who would not allow a Palantine or Sylva go before them.

  The servants were also slaves to hierarchy. Oliveiro went in first, followed by two ladies’ maids, four valets, and six housemaids. The pages took playful pains to determine who came from the humblest origins and should therefore bring up the very rear. The victor would win a copper from his fellows. Hob liked his chances.

  “I’m a bastard from the Sentries,” he informed the others.

  His neighbor shrugged. “My parents are cousins.”

  Hob handed over a copper. Once through the door, he found he was in a tunnel formed by dense, interlacing tree branches. The air inside was much warmer and very still. His nose tingled with the scent of pine sap and something else, a musky smell like an animal’s den.

  Despite years of squeezing down mine shafts, Hob found the tunnel claustrophobic. There was a sinister quality to the trees. Their types were familiar enough—oak and beech, black alder and ash—but their trunks and branches twisted so unnaturally that their forms looked bizarre, even tortured. Hob avoided looking at them.

  The group’s procession was eerily quiet. The only sounds were muffled footfalls in the carpet of wet, decaying leaves. Mercifully, the tunnel ended at an archway of intertwining yew branches half-strangled with creepers. When Hob stepped through, he almost dropped the basket he was carrying.

  The Direwood was gargantuan, far larger than should have been possible for anything contained within Rowan’s grounds. It was not merely larger than the school, the Direwood dwarfed the entire Sacred Isle.

  Before Hob crumbling ruins stood surrounded by a sprawling savanna hemmed by dark forests and foothills. Beyond the foothills, a chain of snow-capped mountains loomed over the landscape, extending for miles until they disappeared into a misty haze. For a moment, Hob could only stare at them—there were no mountains on the Sacred Isle. A glimmer caught his eye and he gazed upon a nearby lake. Its surface sparkled gold as shafts of sunlight pierced the drifting thunderclouds.

  “I’m dreaming,” he murmured.

  “No, Mr. Smythe, you are not,” said Oliveiro. “You are witnessing a wonder of the ancient world.” Taking Hob’s baskets, he sent him to help the servants hammering stakes for the lunch pavilion. Hob took a spot nearest the master so he could hear what was said.

  “. . . ruins predate the Cataclysm itself. Back when the Direwood was known as?”

  “The Sanctuary,” said one girl.

  “Very good,” said the master. “Can anyone identify that glorious building over there?” He gestured to the remains of a foundation half-submerged in the lake.

  “What glorious building?” said Dante Hyde. “It’s rubble.”

  The master frowned. “Use your imagination. Anyone?”

  “The Warming Lodge,” said Isabel Faeregine, looking up from a sheet of paper.

  “Excellent,” said the master. “As Her Highness has discovered, your packets contain a map of the ruins. They’re also each marked with a number indicating the team to which you’re assigned. Take a moment to find your teammates.”

  The brats and FYGs milled about, forming ten clusters. Hob glimpsed Hazel looking very young in a group whose members Hob recognized from his handbook: Dante Hyde, a pale Jain count, a gorgeous Castile duchess wearing sable, and a springy Han girl who appeared to be Hazel’s friend.

  “Your teams,” the master continued, “will take part in a contest we have devised to test your knowledge of the empire, this school’s history, and the creatures that inhabit the Direwood. To win, your team must complete three challenges. These will not require magic, simply attentive and cooperative minds.”

  “What do we get if we win?” asked Imogene Hyde.

  “My esteem,” replied the master. “Full marks for the day. And these . . .”

  One of his graduate assistants unveiled a lacquered case containing five quart-size jars. Each was filled with a muddy green sludge that pulsed and flickered with blue witchfire. Hob grimaced as a tiny, six-fingered hand emerged from the murk to press against the glass.

  “Homunculi mandragora,” the master announced proudly. “These come from my private stock and are superior to anything you’ll find in the Impyria bazaars. Each member of the winning team will receive one, prebonded, as soon as their wings develop.”

  The atmosphere changed almost instantly. Homunculi were valuable creatures, prized by mehrùn as assistants and familiars. During Hob’s Fellowship training, Ms. Marlowe said that some could share their senses or even minor powers with the human to whom they’d bonded. Students who had been gawking at the scenery now paid close attention.

  A moment later, the master asked the pages to join the teams. They were to assist, run errands, and carry materials. Hob made straight for Hazel’s group. He had no competition; most of his peers found Hazel’s presence unnerving. The Castile girl promptly handed him her furs, which he stowed in the pavilion. The master held up his arms and made a final announcement.

  “Your clue to the first challenge is in one of your packets. You may begin . . . now!”

  “Who has it?” said Dante, looking about the group. The instant Hazel slid a red envelope from her packet, he snatched it away. “I’ll be team leader.”

  “Why you?” said Tatiana Castile.

  Dante ripped the envelope open and scanned the clue within. “Because I’m oldest, smartest, and a captain in the Vanguard.”

  “Hello?” said the Han girl. “Do we get to see?”

  He tossed the paper at her and took the map from his packet.

  “What’s it say, Mei-Mei?” said Hazel.

  Mei-Mei pushed a long strand of black hair out of her eyes and read aloud:

  “Sons of earth with roofs of turf,

  they plied their trades with skill;

  with magic and coal, iron and gold

  they made gifts for gods and men;

  a head of hair, a ship so rare,

  a hammer forged of thunder.

  To claim your due, follow this clue

  to their sacred shrine down under.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” said the Jain boy, echoing Hob’s sentiments. The clue was gibberish.

  “It’s pre-Cataclysm lore,” said Dante, studying the map. “Old Norse. Dvergar lived here once, descendants of smiths that made things for the gods. You know, Thor’s hammer; that ship the Hound sailed to the Sidh . . .”

  The Jain boy laughed. “Oh come on. Those are fairy tales. They’re useless.”

  Shading his eyes, Dante surveyed the ruins. “Congratulations, Namdu. You’re not just dumb, you’re wrong.” His ice-blue eyes flicked to Hob. “Keep up, muir. Understood?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Dante strode off toward the ruins, his saber clanking at his side. The group hurried after with Hob in tow. Dàme Rascha had joined the other tutors under the pavilion, but Sigga followed at a distance, a rangy lioness trailing a herd.

  Consulting his map, Dante led them down what must have been a main avenue. The dusty cobbles were worn, the buildings little more than sun-bleached skeletons. Turning a corner, they gave a start as a two-tailed cur gave a braying yelp and dashed off.

  “Where are we going?” whined Tatiana.

  Dante pointed at a crumbling facade near a withered yew tree. The nineteenth Earl of Eastmarch was not exactly personable, but did seem capable. All Hydes served in the military and it appeared this wasn’t mere show like it was for so many FYGs. Ducking under an archway, Hob followed them into the roofless building.

  “This was a smithy,” said Dante, pointing at some rusted tools. “And the map
says it belonged to dvergar. This is definitely the place.”

  Hazel peered about. “So I guess now we need to find the sacred shrine.”

  “That will be the forge,” said Dante.

  “How do you know that?” said Mei-Mei Han.

  Dante smirked. “Because the Hydes haven’t forgotten how to craft things. Forges are sacred to smiths. You would know that if your family didn’t rely on silly Workshop gadgets.”

  Mei-Mei flushed and slipped something in her coat pocket.

  Going to the opposite corner, Hob noticed Hazel was already poking about. Kneeling, she brushed some rubble away and raised a bronze ring. “There’s something here.”

  Dante came over. “Of course. The clue said the shrine would be down under. Out of the way.”

  Hazel glanced sharply at him, but merely brushed the dust from her hands. Hob cleared his throat.

  “Beg pardon, Your Lordship, but the princess should be addressed as Your Highness.”

  Lord Hyde spun about with a dumbfounded expression. Had he just been reprimanded by a page? His eyes wandered over Hob, as though finally registering him as an individual and not an anonymous servant. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Hob bowed. “You are His Lordship Dante Hyde, nineteenth Earl of Eastmarch. And this is Princess Hazel Isis Faeregine, granddaughter of our Divine Empress. She is to be addressed as Your Highness.”

  Mei-Mei clapped a hand over her mouth and glanced at Hazel, who had flushed several shades of pink. Dante continued to stare at Hob, his expression wavering between disbelief and rage.

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” replied Hob pleasantly. “I’d be obliged if you remembered it.”

  Tatiana gave a delighted squeal. “And I thought today was going to be boring! Your Highness, you should have this page knighted.” Laying her hand on Dante’s arm, she spoke in a flirtatious undertone. “And you should simmer down, Lord Hyde. You know perfectly well your manners are appalling. Now, are you going to win me a homunculus or not?”