Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  “That must be Sphinx Rock,” exclaimed Mei-Mei. She pointed to a gap in the trees where a jutting slab of granite vaguely resembled a sprawling lion with a human head. They watched Hazel run her fingertips over it as she passed it by. “Next we need the tree.”

  They found it some thirty yards past the sphinx, a colossal oak that had been split down the middle by lightning. Through the gap, Hob saw Hazel clambering over a tussocky mound toward another crowned by black standing stones. Hob had come across two similar sites in the Sentries but never approached them. The stones looked evil, like fingers stretching forth from the underworld.

  Hob turned to locate Sigga. Through the trees below, he glimpsed the ruins and the lake. But there was no sign of the Grislander.

  A bird gave a throaty call from a nearby branch. Hob turned and saw Hazel standing amid the ring of stones. She turned slowly with a composed, inward expression. The others gathered about the mound’s base, but none dared climb it. Even Dante’s smirk had disappeared, replaced by a look of frank apprehension.

  Crawwk!

  A raven the size of a cat called from a nearby hornbeam. Another joined it in a noisy flap of wings. Three more called from a withered rowan tree.

  Crawwk! Crawwk! Crawwk!

  The hilltop was alive with a chorus of raven calls. Dozens of black shapes were settling on nearby branches to peer down with wet pebble eyes. Sharp beaks bobbed as they fluttered their wings and cried out.

  Tatiana took a step backward. “What’s going on?”

  Mei-Mei shrieked as a swooping raven grazed her. The group backed away, crouching and covering their heads as more ravens began diving and wheeling about. But no bird would touch the standing stones or even fly between them. When Hob saw Hazel reach toward the nearest stone, he cried out for her to stop.

  The princess did not hear him.

  The instant she touched it, the ravens screamed and bolted in a shower of twigs and feathers. An unnatural stillness settled over the forest. Hob broke out in a cold sweat.

  No one moved. Hazel appeared to be in a trance. Her fingers still touched the stone, which had begun to hum. The sound was barely audible, but Hob could feel dull vibrations, like an electric current, coursing through the rocks and soil. Where was Sigga?

  When Hob turned to look for her, he froze. Something was crouching in the split oak’s shadow. For a second, he tried to convince himself the silhouette was simply part of the tree.

  But then it moved.

  The figure inched forward, rising to its full height as it ducked clear of a branch. It remained shadowed, but Hob could see it wasn’t human. It was taller than any man; and when it turned, it revealed a head crowned with broken stag antlers.

  Its face was like something from a nightmare. With each cautious step, the features became clearer. Hob discerned a pair of yellow owl’s eyes set within a primitive visage that was both goatish and manlike. Matted fur covered a powerful body that was stealing up the hill with unnerving stealth. No one else was yet aware of its presence. As for the beast, it did not appear to care about anyone but Hazel. Its eyes never left her as it crept toward the standing stones.

  Was this all part of the challenge? Hob did not think so. Every instinct told him something was very wrong. This was no game.

  Hob would have given anything for his Boekka. As it was, he didn’t even have a pocketknife. Glancing at the ground, he saw a palm-sized rock several feet away. Just as he reached to seize it, Namdu caught sight of the stag-man and screamed.

  The creature gave a hoarse bellow and rushed toward Hazel, scrabbling on all fours. Everyone but Hob scattered and fled from its path. Hob heard the others shrieking, but he couldn’t turn back. He ran at an angle with the rock clutched in his fist. Catching sight of him, the stag-man bared a mouthful of yellowed teeth. Hob let the rock fly, striking it solidly on the cheekbone. The beast tumbled in the wet leaves, clutching its face before scrambling back up.

  Hazel was still touching the standing stone, oblivious to her danger. Hob and the creature converged toward her. Hob was closer, but the stag-man was faster. Jumping a root, Hob planted his foot on a fallen tree and leaped.

  He tackled Hazel at the waist, knocking her flat as something sharp—nails or talons—slashed the back of his unprotected head. An iron grip seized his calf and dragged him backward. Kicking furiously, Hob seized a branch and whipped around to go for the stag-man’s eyes. He missed, but gashed its forehead. The beast leaped backward and crouched as though readying for a spring. Its owlish eyes flicked from Hob to something just past his shoulder. With a snarl, it turned and dashed off on two legs through the trees. Its howl echoed throughout the hills.

  Panting and bleeding, Hob turned to see Sigga crouching over Hazel.

  “Where were you?” he demanded. “Your orders are to protect her.”

  Sigga glanced at him. “You have no idea what my orders might be, Mr. Smythe. I suggest you contain yourself.” The agent raised the princess to a sitting position. Now that Hazel was no longer touching the stone, she blinked dazedly up at the trees.

  “She was here,” Hazel whispered. “I could . . . hear her.”

  More howls sounded from the forest’s depths. Sigga lifted Hazel like a doll.

  “It’s time we left, Your Highness.” She cocked her head at Hob. “You all right?”

  He touched a patch of blood oozing from a small gash over his ear. “Nothing serious.”

  A twig snapped. Hob turned to see a sheepish Mei-Mei peering with concern at Hazel. The others had also returned. Dante Hyde went straight for a scroll propped against one of the stones. “We still might have a chance.”

  “How can you think of the contest?” said Tatiana, her face pale and muddied. Leaves and brambles clung to her expensive clothes, but she did not seem to notice. Her eyes never left the woods. “Hazel could have been killed.”

  Dante cracked the scroll’s seal. “She’s fine. If anything, we should be upset. She’s the one that touched the stone and summoned that thing. Maybe she called it herself. She’s a freak.”

  “Go down to the pavilion,” said Sigga curtly.

  “I don’t take orders from Grislanders.”

  Sigga shrugged. “Stay here then. I’m sure they’ll find most of you in the morning.”

  Dante gazed uneasily at the darkening sky and the tangled trees. More howls sounded in the distance, answered by drums. Pocketing the scroll, he trotted back the way they’d come, trailed by Namdu and Tatiana. Mei-Mei walked with Sigga and Hazel. Hob came last, one hand on his cut, two eyes on the woods.

  Halfway down the hill, Hazel insisted on being set down. While Dante ran ahead with the final scroll, the rest walked slowly through the ruins. Although Hazel was unharmed, she did not appear to know what had happened.

  “You said she was here,” said Mei-Mei quietly. “Who is ‘she’?”

  “What?” said Hazel. “I don’t know what I said. I got dizzy and thought I might faint.” She looked at Hob. “Why are you bleeding?”

  “It’s nothing, Your Highness.”

  Sigga spoke up. “A creature was prowling near the stones. Mr. Smythe protected you. We are in his debt.”

  The agent gave Hob a subtle but unmistakable nod of what? Thanks? Approval? He was still curious where Sigga had been when the stag-man appeared. He ruled out negligence—she hardly seemed the type. If her orders weren’t simply to protect Hazel Faeregine, what were they? Perhaps she wanted to see what Hob would do when danger threatened, but that seemed a terrible risk to take with the princess’s safety. For the moment, however, he could think of no better explanation.

  Why had the stag-man wanted to attack Hazel? Had she broken some taboo by touching the standing stones? If so, why would the masters choose such a dangerous location for the clue? And what had caused her odd behavior? It wasn’t just the Reaper’s tomb; Hazel was behaving strangely well before they reached it.

  Hob could make little sense of it all, but it was the first evidence he’d s
een that there might be something unusual about Hazel Faeregine. This was just the sort of thing Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe wanted to know. He would have to file a report as soon as possible, and be sure to detail the spat between Her Highness and Dante Hyde. If what Dante said was true, the Typhon explosion had plunged Hazel’s uncle—if not the entire family—into financial ruin.

  When the rest of Hazel’s team reached the pavilion, most of the other students were already eating. Hob fully expected to see a concerned Dàme Rascha hurry toward Hazel. But he was surprised to find a stiffly formal Oliveiro waiting for him.

  “Mr. Smythe, I would like a word.”

  Confused, Hob followed him to a stand of trees out of earshot.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  Oliveiro glanced at Hob’s clothes. “I won’t comment on your appearance, for I know some pages were required to perform the messier tasks, but I am extremely concerned by your appalling behavior.”

  Hob blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “One of the lords has made a complaint.” Turning, Oliveiro bowed to Dante Hyde, who strolled over from the pavilion.

  “Sorry to raise a stink, Oliveiro, but I thought you’d want to know one of your own was behaving badly.”

  Don’t lose your temper. Clasping his hands behind his back, Hob stared straight ahead. “May I ask what I did to cause offense?”

  Dante gave a disbelieving laugh. “This is what I’m talking about, Olly! The muir doesn’t know his place. Always talking back or making smart remarks. You’re too soft on them.”

  Turning casually, Dante struck Hob a vicious blow across the face. Hob fell back a step, his cheek burning and eyes watering. He looked for Oliveiro to intervene, but the underbutler was looking gravely down at his shoes. Dante wiped Hob’s spittle from his glove and considered him a moment before drawing his hand back.

  “Perhaps one more for good meas—”

  Dante’s head snapped back as Hob cracked him squarely in the nose. He staggered and fell with Hob atop him. For Hob, the world had turned red. In the moment he wasn’t a palace page or Fellowship spy; he was a Hauja who’d sat séyu and sworn to honor the four spirits whose images adorned his flesh. He did not care that Dante Hyde was mehrùn, or that he belonged to one of Impyrium’s most powerful families. No one was going to strike him at his leisure. He’d rather die than endure such humiliation.

  A strong arm clamped around his neck, choked off his air, and pulled him off. Struggling to free himself, he glimpsed a carabine lying on the grass. One of the guardsmen had him. Tiny spots were swimming before his eyes. He was losing consciousness. A voice cut through the buzzing in his ears.

  “Release him.”

  The guardsman let go and Hob fell onto his hands and knees. Sputtering and coughing, he glanced up to see that Dante had drawn his sword. The earl was pale with rage. Spitting a gob of blood, he aimed a sweeping blow at Hob’s head.

  Clang!

  Hob opened his eyes to see Sigga Fenn standing between them. How she moved so quickly, Hob could not imagine. Somehow the agent had parried the saber with one of her daggers.

  “Get out of my way,” Dante seethed.

  “You will not harm Her Highness’s servant,” she said. There was no anger or threat in her tone. It was a calm statement of fact.

  “He attacked me! For muir to strike mehrùn is punishable by death.”

  “Only if you press charges,” she observed.

  “I don’t need charges,” Dante spat. “I’m pronouncing judgment! It’s my right as a Hyde.”

  Sigga was unmoved. “The Divine Empress pronounces judgment on those guilty of disloyalty. It’s her right as a Faeregine.”

  Dante wiped blood from his nose. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your words by the lake,” said Sigga coolly.

  “You were fifty yards away,” he snapped.

  “I heard them perfectly, milord.”

  Dante sneered. “A Hyde’s word against some mercenary’s from the Grislands? Let’s bring the issue before a magistrate.”

  Mei-Mei Han crept forward holding a palm-sized device whose button she pressed. Dante’s voice issued from its speaker: “There hasn’t been anything special about the Faeregines for a thousand years. Everyone knows it but you. It wasn’t Typhon that went up in flames. It was your whole damn family.”

  Dante’s face darkened. “What is that thing?”

  Mei-Mei sounded gleeful. “Just a ‘silly Workshop gadget.’”

  “Still care to insist upon your rights, Lord Hyde?” asked Sigga.

  Dante hesitated and glanced at his classmates watching the scene from the pavilion. With a furious scowl, he turned back to Sigga and sheathed his sword. “No,” he muttered. “This has all been a misunderstanding.”

  Glaring at Hob, he brushed grass from his coat and stalked off toward the hedge tunnel that led out of the Direwood. His sister, Imogene, ran after him. Oliveiro looked as though he wanted to crawl under a rock. Straightening his cuff links, he drew himself up.

  “Mr. Smythe, that was shameful. Your service is terminated. Go and pack your things.”

  Hazel came forward with Dàme Rascha. “He will not,” she said.

  Oliveiro bowed. “Your Highness, I humbly beg to differ. The boy has—”

  Hazel spoke softly but there was steel in her voice. “My family will not lose a valuable servant because Dante Hyde is a bully. If anything is shameful, it is a grown man who stands by while a boy is unjustly struck in his presence.”

  The underbutler opened his mouth and promptly shut it. He looked astonished, as did everyone else. Who was this girl and what had she done with Hazel Faeregine?

  Master Montague cleared his throat. “I think we will end the day’s expedition here. Mr. Oliveiro, the young man is bleeding and requires medical attention.”

  Sigga helped Hob to his feet and called over the guardsman who had not choked him. “Escort him to the palace. Lord Hyde may be waiting by the tunnel’s exit. If any harm comes to this page, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  The guardsman bowed. Sigga walked with them a ways, resting a hand lightly on Hob’s shoulder. “Tell the healers to treat it with nightshade.”

  “Why?” said Hob. “What do you think that creature was?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but I intend to find out.”

  “I’ll tell the healers,” said Hob. “And thank you, Agent Fenn. I’d be dead if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  She looked down at him. “You helped Her Highness. I helped you.”

  An hour later, Hob was sitting at his desk and trying not to pluck at his stitches. Viktor was also worse for wear and lay in his bunk, nursing various wounds from hall thumper. Hob had not yet told Viktor what happened in the Direwood; his roommate had enough on his plate. Evidently, Viktor and Zeke had lost badly—had not even reached the first marker. Since Zeke was being treated for a concussion, Viktor would have to brave the kitchens alone.

  “They’ll eat me,” he reflected solemnly. “I’ve always known I’d die a casserole.”

  “The hags won’t eat you,” Hob assured him. “You’ve been sniffed.”

  This did little to console Viktor, who began planning his last will and testament. Hob was to get his best boots. There was a soft, almost hesitant knock at the door.

  “It’s open,” said Viktor.

  Hob turned to see Oliveiro in the doorway.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Sure thing, Olly,” said Viktor. “You’re going to help me steal a pie. An underbutler would be a perfect decoy.”

  “I need to have a word with Mr. Smythe.”

  Viktor looked puzzled. “You want me to leave?”

  “Stay put,” Hob said to Viktor. “If you want to fire me again, go ahead, sir. No need for ceremony.”

  The underbutler looked pained. “Er, no. Nothing like that. I’ve come to apologize. In a stressful moment, I did what was proper instead of what was right. I deser
ved Her Highness’s rebuke, particularly in light of additional facts that have come to my attention. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Hob was taken aback, even touched by the man’s sincerity. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised Oliveiro stood by when Dante struck him, obeying mehrùn was all he knew. Getting up, he came over to shake hands. “Of course, sir. No hard feelings.”

  Oliveiro was visibly relieved. “Thank you. Well, good evening, gentlemen.” He glanced about at Viktor’s side of the room, which was strewn with pummeled bread, socks, and other pieces of discarded armor. “You might consider tidying up.”

  “What was that all about?” said Viktor, once Oliveiro had closed the door.

  “Nothing,” said Hob. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.”

  “I gather it’s got something to do with that.” He pointed at Hob’s swollen knuckles and the stitches above his ear.

  Before Hob could answer there was another knock.

  Viktor groaned. “A guy can’t even plan his will.” Rolling off his bunk, he opened the door. “Who are you?”

  A young, conspicuously formal voice answered. “Does Hobson Smythe live here?”

  Hob tried to see who it was, but his roommate was blocking the doorway.

  “What do you want with him?” said Viktor suspiciously.

  “I have a message.”

  “Give it here.”

  “I’ve been ordered to wait for a reply,” said the other party stiffly.

  “Well then,” said Viktor, “I guess you better get comfy.” He shut the door in the visitor’s face. “Smug little bugger. What’s a Hyde servant want with you?”