Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Isabel scraped a cookie’s fudge with her upper teeth. “People thought the Reaper was muir until she was our age. Her mother almost disowned her. Archemnos says some talents don’t emerge until you’re fully grown.”

  “Maybe for some,” said Violet. “I’ve had the Old Magic since birth. Why do you think Grandmother chose me to succeed her?”

  Isabel considered. “Reverse alphabetical order?”

  There was no point telling Violet that her claims were absurd. While there were many powerful sorceresses among the Faeregines, Rascha believed the last to truly possess the Old Magic was Mina XXV, a beloved ruler whose subjects called her the Monarch. She was the last Faeregine empress to perform truly rare and powerful magic before numerous witnesses. Like the butterfly for which she was named, the Monarch’s reign was beautiful and brief. Mortemagia claimed her at seventy.

  “Listen,” said Hazel wearily, “I don’t want to argue. You asked what I’ve been doing and I told you. Frankly, I feel better that you know. And now, I’m going to bed.”

  “Not so fast,” said Violet. “I want a demonstration.”

  Just like the Spider, thought Hazel. “You’re not empress yet, Violet, or have you forgotten?”

  An acid stare. “I will be, Hazel. Or have you forgotten?”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued while rain pattered on the roof.

  “I thought we were going to play nice,” said Isabel. “By the way, I’m hurt that neither of you has congratulated me on winning the master’s challenge. I had half a mind to name my homunculus Haziolet. Maybe Viozel, but now . . .”

  Violet made no attempt to laugh. “Our names don’t go together. They never have.”

  Hazel ignored the barb. “Congratulations, Isabel. My team got all tangled up.”

  “I’ll say you did,” said Isabel. “I can’t believe Dante had the nerve to say those things about our family. Such lies!”

  Hazel observed that Violet had gone very pale. Apparently, Isabel noticed too.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Isabel.

  Violet blinked as though jolted from some private nightmare. “Dante wasn’t lying.”

  Isabel made a face. “Oh, what does he know? Dante’s a pig. No, forget that—pigs are too good for him. He’s a mosquito. Revolting and useless.”

  “Careful,” said Violet. “You might end up wedding that mosquito.”

  Isabel’s grin froze. “Don’t even joke about something like that.”

  Violet rubbed her temples. “I wish I was. Hazel’s not the only one with a mandate. I have to sit through briefings with bankers, magistrates, military advisers, house patriarchs. The empress is teaching me how to rule. That’s how I know what Dante said about Uncle Basil is true. It’s also how I know Dante’s father inquired about your marriage rights.” She gave her sister a sympathetic glance.

  Isabel smacked the table. “Never! I’m not even sure I like boys, much less Dante Hyde.”

  “It has nothing to do with what you like.” Violet sighed. “It has everything to do with whatever arrangement the empress and Lord Hyde reach. Your involvement may be required.”

  Isabel looked truly horrified. “How is Lord Hyde in a position to require anything of us?”

  Violet fixed her sister with a hard look. “Because our brilliant uncle invested millions of the bank’s solars on Typhon. Lord Hyde’s rallied the stockholders and they’re demanding a change of control or restitution from our family coffers. Even more humiliating, Uncle Basil personally borrowed money to buy mountains of silk that went up in flame.”

  “Can’t the Spider just take care of it?” said Isabel. “We must have enough treasure to cover Uncle’s losses.”

  Violet laughed. “Most of it’s already committed. These aren’t the old days, Isabel. We need to find who’s responsible and make them pay, or we’ll have to pay with whatever assets the family has. Like it or not, you are one of those assets.”

  Isabel looked stunned.

  “But the newspaper said the explosion was an accident,” said Hazel.

  “Of course it did,” said Violet wearily. “That’s what we told them to report. But nobody actually believes it. You should hear the arguments behind closed doors. Absolutely vicious. Uncle Basil’s practically begging Grandmother to declare war on the Lirlanders. He’s convinced the demons are behind Typhon and the crimes at the Lirlander Vault. You both heard Lord Kraavh on New Year’s. He was openly hostile.”

  Isabel gave a sudden cackle. “I can’t be sold off like some broodmare. I’m second in line for the throne. No potential empress has ever gotten married.”

  Violet’s response was measured. “Times have changed. In the past, we never had to do anything like that. We also never had to consider surrendering the bank or Lirlander Seals.”

  Isabel blanched. “That couldn’t actually happen.”

  “Everything is on the table,” said Violet pointedly. “And if Grandmother can settle this mess by marrying you off, she will.”

  Violet rose from the chaise and stretched. “Try to look on the bright side. Dante’s handsome, rich, and—unlike the other FYGs—he has something like a spine. I almost feel sorry for that page.” She covered a yawn. “And now I’d better go to bed. Lady Sylva’s picking me up at nine. We’re going cross channel to ride in a motorcar.” She glanced at Hazel. “Thanks for sharing your ‘big secret.’ You must feel very special.”

  With that, Violet disappeared into her room. Once she’d locked the door, Hazel toppled facedown on the chaise.

  “Why is she like that?” she groaned. “It’s like she’s incapable of ending a conversation without a teensy dig. For a minute she was almost . . . human.”

  “Which minute was that?” quipped Isabel. She took another cookie and eased down onto the bearskin rug by the chaise. “Is that true what you said about the Mystics exams? Third Rank and all that?”

  Hazel remained facedown. “Yes.”

  “How is that possible?” said Isabel. “Third Ranks have to be able to shadow walk and hydeshift and a million other things I can’t fathom. Can you actually do those things?”

  “I’m trying,” said Hazel. She was intensely private where her magic was concerned. Discussing it made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Even with Isabel.

  “I’d love to see you do something,” said Isabel. “Can you conjure a scrying orb?”

  “Sometimes. You need perfect concentration and Rascha says I’m ‘drifty.’”

  “Forget it.” Isabel sighed. “I just wanted to see my future husband get skewered. Not that there’s any real chance of it.”

  Hazel peeped over the armrest. “What are you talking about?”

  “I thought everyone knew, but I guess you’ve been off with Rascha.” Isabel picked bits of cookie from her hair. “Dante challenged that page to a duel and the page accepted. Not very bright, but undeniably plucky. Cute too, in a muirish kind of way.”

  Hazel tried to remain calm. “When is the duel?”

  “Two o’clock at Hound’s Trench. Everyone’s sneaking out for it. Horrible weather, but I wouldn’t mind watching through a scrying orb.”

  Hazel twisted toward the grandfather clock. Not yet one. She jumped up from the chaise.

  “What are you doing?” said Isabel.

  Hazel had already retrieved her shoes. “I have to stop this. Hob won’t stand a chance.”

  “Who’s Hob?”

  “The page,” said Hazel, turning pink. “I know him. He’s been tutoring me on the Muirlands. He’s why I’m doing better in Montague’s class.”

  Isabel stared. “A page is tutoring you?”

  “Yes,” said Hazel irritably. “He’s not just a page. He’s brilliant.”

  Isabel clucked her tongue. “That’s why you spoke up for him. I’d wondered.”

  “Yes. And I’m not going to let Dante murder him.”

  “You can’t interfere with a duel,” said Isabel. “Not even the Spider meddles with them. It’s custom.”


  “Custom is stupid,” snapped Hazel. “Hob’s just a page. He doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have accepted.”

  “He’s too proud,” said Hazel. “He’s clawed his way up from nothing, Isabel. No money, barely any family. He’s hunted Cheshirewulfs! He taught himself history and mathematics and placed first in the Provinces. Do you know how hard that is? I won’t let someone like that be butchered by Dante Hyde.”

  “He’ll have a fighting chance,” said Isabel. “Dante won’t use magic. It’s blades only.”

  Hazel gave her sister a contemptuous look. “Dante’s brilliant with a sword. Hob’s probably never even held one. Even if he had Bragha Rùn, he . . .”

  Isabel waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Hello?”

  Hazel seized her sister’s hand. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ll give him Bragha Rùn!”

  Isabel extricated herself from Hazel’s grip. “You’ve lost your mind. Let a page use Bragha Rùn? It’s the best blade in Impyrium.”

  “Exactly!” said Hazel, hopping excitedly. “No one’s ever lost with it!”

  Isabel continued looking at her as though she’d gone insane. She calmly reminded Hazel that Bragha Rùn was not so much a sword as a holy object crafted from priceless materials and riddled with ancient enchantments. Setting its inestimable value aside, there remained the pesky fact that Bragha Rùn was the Faeregine House Blade.

  This last point reminded Hazel of something, a tale or poem she’d read. Hurrying to a bookcase, she snatched up a book containing children’s versions of popular Faeregine stories. She rifled through the pages and held it up in triumph.

  “Look!”

  Isabel stared at the colorful illustration, one of their early favorites. It showed an armored man standing over a vanquished foe. “And your point is?”

  “Precedent,” Hazel declared. “Mina the Fifteenth allowed Lord Branwen to fight with Bragha Rùn on her behalf.”

  Isabel whacked Hazel on the head. “She was empress.”

  “She was a Faeregine,” Hazel retorted. “Any Faeregine has a right to Bragha Rùn. And if one Faeregine was able to lend it, then it follows another can too.”

  Isabel groaned. “Branwen was championing the empress! This isn’t anything like that.”

  “Hob protected me in the Direwood,” said Hazel. “When Dante was being Dante, Hob insisted that he call me Your Highness. When they fought, he was defending Faeregine honor.” This last part stretched the truth a twinge (the altercation had more to do with Hob’s honor than the Faeregines’), but Hazel didn’t care. There was nothing wrong with a white lie in a just cause.

  Isabel took the book from her. “This sounds like it has more to do with a boy than family honor. I’m not letting you give our House Blade to a servant, Hazel. The Spider would have us whipped.”

  Hazel lifted her chin. “I’d rather be punished than sit by and do nothing.”

  “Well, aren’t you noble,” said Isabel sarcastically. “Let me ask you another question, O Righteous One. Let’s assume we actually pry Bragha Rùn from its keeper—a detail you seem to have overlooked. But let’s say we’ve got it and hand it over to this page, a boy you admit has probably never held a sword. Are you with me?”

  Hazel nodded.

  “Splendid,” continued Isabel. “So what happens if our brave little page gets slaughtered? Have you considered that? No one wielding Bragha Rùn has ever been defeated, Hazel. That’s its mystique. That’s why no one ever challenges Faeregines to duels. Think of what Violet was saying just now. Our family has enough troubles without newspapers reporting that our invincible House Blade is no longer invincible.”

  “But he won’t lose,” said Hazel. “I’m sure of it. Hob’s tough, Isabel. Really tough. You saw him. He’d have beaten Dante bloody if that guardsman hadn’t grabbed him. He might be inexperienced with a sword, but that’s where Bragha Rùn evens things out. It can parry or cut through anything. They say you even move faster when you’re wielding it!”

  Isabel would not budge.

  “Fine,” said Hazel. “Let me ask you a question for a change.”

  “Dazzle me.”

  “If Hob wins, would you have to marry Dante?”

  Isabel opened her mouth and promptly shut it again. “No,” she conceded. “He’d be dead or disgraced. His father would probably disown him if he lost to a muir page.”

  Hazel curtsied. “I rest my case. Anyway, I’m getting Bragha Rùn. With or without you.”

  Isabel cocked her head. “And how do you intend to get past Omani? You know he won’t let you leave here.”

  Hazel went to get her coat. “If you want to see some magic, here’s your chance.”

  Tom struck one o’clock as the sisters slipped inside Hazel’s bedroom, now bundled up for the rainy trek to Hound’s Trench. Hazel’s pulse was racing. She knew she was doing the right thing, knew it as surely as she’d known anything in her life.

  Oh, but if something went wrong! Even if everything went smoothly, there would be consequences. But the alternatives were worse. She was sneaking out of the palace in the middle of the night to lend a servant the Faeregines’ ancestral blade. She was insane.

  But she was also alive, more vividly and deliciously than she could remember. If she distilled her twelve years into a single moment, it could not possibly rival this giddy, terrified elation. The world seemed new.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, hurry up,” hissed Isabel. “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Okay, okay! Shut the door.”

  When it was closed, Hazel waved a hand at her little fireplace. Golden witchfire roared up within it, projecting their shadows upon the walls. She paced back and forth, thinking through her options. This was not the time for improvisation. Raw sorcery could yield the most powerful results, but it was too unpredictable, especially with Isabel present. Hazel’s Mystics repertoire was limited, but those spells would be more reliable. The incantations and outcomes were well documented. Far less risk.

  But which spell?

  She eliminated any that required rare components—no time to gather those. And it would have to be something that would allow Isabel to join her. . . .

  “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “Take my hand.”

  Isabel did so hesitantly. “What are you going to do?”

  “Stonecrawl,” said Hazel. “I read about it last week. Raszna discovery. Ninth century.”

  “I don’t care who invented it. What does it do?”

  “It makes us semicorporeal in stone. We can sink through the walls down to Founders Hall. Then we can make our way to the throne room. That’s what should happen, anyway.”

  “What do you mean ‘should’? Haven’t you done it?”

  “No.” When Isabel tried to pull her hand away, Hazel held firm. “It will be okay. There’s nothing tricky about the verbalization or gestures. I just need perfect concentration or we’ll be entombed. Instant death.”

  “Perfect concentration?” cried Isabel. “Didn’t Rascha say you were ‘drifty’?”

  “Did she? I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  Hazel squeezed her sister’s hand. “Isabel, relax. This is what I do . . .”

  Casting her gaze at the fire, Hazel let her mind slip into that beautiful, abstracted state where her magic flowed most freely. Coaxing the fire’s heat toward them, she felt its energy loosen their particles, so when the proper words were spoken, their bodies could trickle through stone like flour through a sifter. With her finger Hazel drew the runes of earth and air, of iron so they might sink, of spirit so they might float, of will so they might emerge whole and unscathed. Once this was done, she led Isabel to the wall beside her bed and spoke the incantation. Translated into common Impyrian, it had an almost jaunty sensibility:

  “Through rock and stone

  My flesh and bone

  Shall rise and s
ink with ease,

  So lithe, so light, so merry and bright

  Like a cork upon the seas.”

  With a firm grasp on Isabel, Hazel walked straight into the wall, pulling her sister behind her.

  It was like stepping into sludge. Everything grew hazy, but Hazel found she could breathe, and even see through the surrounding stone as though it were cloudy gelatin. Far below, she could make out dim pinpricks of light in orderly patterns—Old College streetlamps.

  Hazel took two sluggish steps forward and then turned around so they’d have a better view of their destination. And with that, the sisters began to sink.

  And sink.

  And sink . . .

  Progress was agonizingly slow, a foot per second at best. Given the tower’s height, the trip should have taken some eight minutes, but that didn’t account for the snaillike detours around windows and archways. They’d be hard-pressed to retrieve Bragha Rùn and reach Hound’s Trench by two o’clock. Hazel tried not to dwell on this, tried not to picture Hob marching over rainy grounds to his death.

  One thing at a time. Concentrate.

  Some fifty feet below, Hazel saw the massive braziers outside the entrance to Founders Hall. Two guardsmen were posted nearby. The girls couldn’t simply pop out next to them—particularly as one was busy picking his nose. Men were disgusting! Hazel tugged Isabel toward a staircase where they could exit unseen.

  As they inched along, Hazel reflected that “Stonecrawl” should have been called “Stoneooze.” Their destination was tantalizingly close, but she could go no faster. The staircase was empty at present, but what if somebody came along? Just a few more seconds . . .

  Hazel ended the spell the instant they’d stepped entirely out of the wall. Solid once again, the sisters took deep, grateful breaths. Isabel mopped sweat from her forehead.

  “I just discovered I’m claustrophobic,” she gasped.

  “You did great,” Hazel whispered. “We don’t have much time, so we make straight for Bragha Rùn. Agreed? If anyone stops us, you do the talking. You’re bossier.”

  Isabel grinned.

  Smoothing their coats, the two walked briskly down the final stairs and rounded the corner. Instantly, the two guardsmen snapped to attention. The princesses walked right past them, their footsteps echoing in the vast corridor.