Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  He was about to slip out the cottage’s back door when he realized he’d left the hags’ knife behind. Turning about, he hurried back down to the cellar.

  “Sorry. I forgot—”

  Hob stopped dead on the stairs. The space beneath him was dark and eerily quiet.

  “Hello?”

  He turned slowly about, peering into the blackness. There was no light. No sound. No trace of Mr. Burke.

  CHAPTER 16

  LINGUA MYSTICA

  Mystics play sheet music; sorcerers compose symphonies.

  —David Menlo, archmage (17 P.C.–72 A.C.)

  Hazel awoke with a cry. For a minute, she simply lay still in the darkness while sweat cooled on her skin. Merlin had flown from her pillow to take refuge on her dresser. The homunculus peered at her with concern, his eyes glowing softly in the darkness. Sitting up, Hazel kicked the damp covers off and tried to catch her breath. Outside, a moonless night showed that dawn was far off.

  She’d had the nightmare three times since the Grotesque. In it, Hazel was flying low over an ocean that boiled in her wake. The night was dull red and starless. Crystalline towers rose from the sea like huge antennae. They cracked and shattered at her approach, falling into the sea like ice shearing off a glacier. A headland loomed on the horizon, crowned by a city of black basalt. Banners whipped in the gales, showing a crescent moon entwined by hemlock. Queen Lilith’s standard: the flag of ancient Zenuvia. The city’s massive gates were opening and an army was marching forth, horns blaring. And then Hazel’s shadow fell over them—huge and black and ragged. Ten thousand faces looked up and knew their doom had come.

  Hazel was no longer frightened; she was angry. Scooting off the bed, she stalked to the fireplace and drew a sigil in the air. She’d created a new hiding place for the portrait, a stash that neither her sisters nor Olo would ever discover. Green witchfire roared in the hearth, its garish light filling the bedchamber. Crouching down, Hazel thrust her arm into the fire. The flames pained her, but they would not burn or blister her flesh. Her fingers reached what they sought. Snatching the portrait from the fire’s midst, she practically flung it against a chair. Smoke curled from the canvas and gilded frame. Its young subject gazed placidly at Hazel.

  “Get out,” Hazel growled. “Get out of my mind.”

  It was not a child’s voice that Hazel heard but an aged woman’s. Something had warped her vocal cords, twisted and stretched them until she barely sounded human.

  I’m not in your mind, girl. You’re in mine.

  Hazel balled her small fists. “I’ll tell. I’ll tell Rascha.”

  An almost silent laugh. You’ll tell no one. Least of all her. Poor Rascha. She should have known better than to push you . . .

  “You did that!”

  Are you certain?

  Hazel stood panting. In truth, she was not sure what had happened with Rascha earlier that week. They had been working away in Tùr an Ghrian when the vye wanted to practice telepathy. Twice, she tried and failed to get into her pupil’s mind, but either Hazel or the Reaper would not let her. On the third attempt, the vye suffered a seizure and collapsed. She was recovering, but had not left her bed in days.

  Rascha would want you to practice. Shall we start with Progressions?

  Hazel stood before the painting with her arms crossed. Behind her, the witchfire took whatever shape her mind commanded, one after another. Each one was perfect, its contours as smooth as molten metal.

  Faster, whispered the voice.

  The shapes became a blur, like riffling through a deck of cards. The forms were not just coming more quickly, they were increasingly complex. Geometric shapes, organic shapes, crystalline shapes, monstrous shapes . . .

  Enough. You’re ready.

  The witchfire died slowly away. The room was dark once again.

  “For what?” Hazel whispered.

  Transformation, child. Isn’t that what Rascha would want?

  Hazel nodded dully, ignoring Merlin, who was flapping about in agitation. Closing her eyes, she pictured the piglet she’d tried so many times to become—pale pink with white whiskers and floppy ears. Nimble little trotters and . . .

  That’s it.

  Opening her eyes, Hazel held up her hand. Her small fingers were slowly fusing together, forming a hooflike shape. Her heart raced with joy. Matter was malleable! Hazel didn’t have to become a mere pig. She could become something else . . . anything she wished!

  The piglet Hazel had been envisioning vanished, replaced by something huge and dark, baleful and feathered. Her hand began to tremble uncontrollably. Flesh began to bubble like boiling dough.

  Pain shot through Hazel’s other hand. Glancing down, she saw that Merlin had sunk his needlelike teeth into her palm. She tried to shake him off, but the tenacious little creature would not let go. He clung desperately to her hand, nipping the flesh until she finally flung him straight up. He tumbled head over wing and landed on the chandelier in a jingling of crystal.

  “What are you doing?” Hazel demanded.

  The homunculus was busy scrambling for a better hold. Once he was settled, he gave a soft, inquisitive hoot. Hazel glared at him a moment, furious that he’d broken the spell. She shook her unbitten fist at him.

  “Really, Merlin. I’ve half a mind—”

  She stared in speechless horror at the deformity protruding from her sleeve. Hazel’s hand was no longer human. It resembled a pig’s foot, but one that had been charred and blackened. A gleaming black talon poked through one of the cloves, which had begun to split like an overheated sausage.

  Hazel tore her gaze away to look about the room. Daylight was streaming through her windows. The sky outside was a pale peach. Hazel did not understand how time had passed so quickly. Something was happening outside—a commotion of some sort. Opening her window, she heard a yowling din. Every dog in Old College seemed to be barking and braying.

  Shutting the window, Hazel locked it and grabbed the portrait of Arianna Faeregine from the chair. As always, she vowed this was the last time she would ever look at it. Conjuring the witchfire, she stuffed it back into the hearth. When the flames vanished, so had the painting.

  Turning from the fireplace, Hazel glanced miserably at her hand. Could Rascha set it right? She planned to visit the vye later in the day. With a grimace, she pulled her sleeve over the disgusting sight. What would have happened had Merlin not distracted her? She looked up to see the homunculus peering suspiciously at her from the chandelier.

  “Oh, Merlin,” she cried. “Please come down. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t myself.”

  The creature inched forward, gave another hoot, and fluttered down. He settled on her shoulder and stretched his leathery neck like a preening turtle. Hazel scratched beneath his chin.

  “Well”—she sighed—“sun’s up. We might as well face the day.”

  She emerged from her room fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a fluffy, oversized bathrobe with conveniently long sleeves. Her sisters were already sitting down to breakfast in the common room.

  “Did you feel it too?” said Isabel, sitting by the open window.

  “Feel what?” said Hazel.

  “Earthquake,” said Violet from behind her newspaper. “Why do you think the dogs are all barking? They’re more sensitive to these things.”

  Hazel sat down, careful to keep her hand covered and beneath the table. “I didn’t feel anything. It couldn’t have been very big.”

  “Ha!” said Isabel. “It could have been a catastrophe and you wouldn’t stir. You sleep like the dead.”

  “You mean she looks like the dead,” said Violet, peering over her paper. “Those circles are ghastly, Hazel. Use some lemon juice.”

  Isabel sighed. “There’s nothing better than Saturday mornings at this time of year. No class, no services, warm enough to open a window yet cool enough to enjoy a fire. If it weren’t for you two, I’d be in paradise.” Sipping her juice, she reached for a strip of bacon.

  “By
all means gobble up more bacon, Isabel,” said Violet. “It’s not like we have a ball coming up. Oh wait, we do.”

  Isabel claimed the bacon. “So, we’re supposed to starve ourselves while men can plump into selkies. We get fat; they get ‘substantial.’ You should outlaw corsets when you’re empress, Violet. Or at least make men wear them too.”

  “I second the motion!” called a voice from the breadbasket.

  Violet lowered the newspaper.

  “Don’t be ridic— Ew!”

  She swatted the paper at Pamplemousse, who promptly scrambled out of the pastries. She took aim again, but the homunculus was surprisingly nimble, given the state of his belly. He ducked, causing Violet to nearly strike Merlin, who toppled backward off the table. Without thinking, Hazel reached out to catch him, exposing the hand she’d been keeping hidden. Violet dropped her newspaper.

  “What is that?”

  Hazel tried to make light of it. Setting Merlin on the table, she helped herself to bacon. “It’s my hand,” she said breezily. “I had a little accident.”

  Isabel’s jaw had become unhinged. “What happened?”

  “I was trying to shape change,” said Hazel. “And I . . . well, I didn’t quite manage.”

  “What were you trying to become?” said Isabel.

  Hazel tried to wriggle it. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Violet continued to stare at the blocky wedge of semicloven flesh.

  “Is that a pig hand?”

  “Technically, it’s a pig foot,” said Hazel, strangely pleased that Violet could tell.

  “And you’re eating bacon?” exclaimed Isabel. “You’re a cannibal!”

  Hazel snorted, which only made Isabel laugh harder. Violet was not amused. “Why are you trying things like that when Rascha’s sick?”

  “I wanted to see if I could,” said Hazel defensively.

  Isabel poked it with a chopstick. “It’s so puffy,” she said gleefully. “Can you feel that? Ew! Is that a talon?”

  “Yes,” said Hazel, snatching her hand away.

  Violet smoothed her newspaper. “Turning into pigs, being tutored by pages. You do our family too much honor, Hazel.”

  “Come off it, Vi,” said Isabel. “It’s incredible that Hazel could do that. It’s not perfect, but I can’t transform at all. Can you?”

  “That’s not the point,” said Violet.

  “But that is the point,” said Isabel. “The Spider expects her to qualify as a mystic in six months!” She turned to Hazel. “How’s it going?”

  Hazel glanced at her porky extremity. “Okay, if I was trying to qualify as a First Rank. Third Ranks have to transform into mammals, birds, and reptiles. I’ve got a long way to go. But this is progress, I guess.”

  Violet smirked. “Of course it is.”

  Isabel’s face darkened. “How hard would it be to say ‘congratulations’?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Violet. “I’m somewhat distracted by the fact that four more ships have disappeared and I’m attending a war council this afternoon. But congratulations on becoming a partial pig, Hazel. You’re an inspiration.”

  “Four more ships?” said Hazel. “When did that happen? The last I heard about was Stormprow.” She scanned the headlines. “Why isn’t there anything about it in the papers?”

  “Because we’re paying outrageous bribes to keep it quiet,” said Violet stiffly. “The demonstrations in Impyria are already getting out of hand. If people knew the truth, we’d have daily riots across the empire.”

  “Are we going to war with the Lirlanders?” asked Isabel.

  Violet tossed the paper aside. “I don’t know. The Lirlanders deny they’ve broken any laws. I don’t know how Lord Kraavh can lie so brazenly. It’s obvious the demons are sinking the ships, Seals or no Seals. He’s testing us and Uncle Basil is frothing. He already blamed them for Typhon.”

  “What does the Spider say?” said Isabel.

  Violet almost laughed. “She doesn’t say anything. She just listens to her counselors and glares at everyone with those shark eyes. I think she’s getting senile. Why else would she be so interested in Hazel?”

  “Enough, Violet,” said Isabel. “Do you think she’ll step down?”

  Violet sniffed. “Lady Sylva thinks I could force her to. Impyrium needs strong leadership and Grandmother might be too old to provide it.”

  “You should not be discussing these things with Lady Sylva,” said Isabel heatedly.

  “And who should I talk about them with?” retorted Violet. “My sisters? One’s becoming a pig. The other’s busy flirting with Andros Eluvan.”

  “Lady Sylva’s not your friend,” said Isabel pointedly. “Every time you see her, you start talking about the Workshop. She’s working for them. If you don’t see that, you’re blind.”

  Violet glared at her twin. “It must be nice to think the world’s black-and-white and you’ve got all the answers. Has it occurred to you that we might need the Workshop’s support? That maybe I want to talk about the Workshop? Perhaps they could be useful in a war with the Lirlanders, if it comes to that?”

  “We’ve slapped down the Lirlanders before,” said Isabel.

  “When?” laughed Violet. “Two thousand years ago? Mina the Sixteenth was a confirmed sorceress. She had real power over them. The Spider isn’t even a proper mystic.”

  “Isn’t she a Fifth Rank?” said Isabel.

  Violet rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. She can barely light a candle. In the old days, not one Promethean scholar was less than a Fifth Rank. Do you know many Fifth Ranks we have now?” She held up three fingers. “None are Faeregines, by the way, and one hasn’t been seen in twenty years. And if the best Hazel can do is turn one hand into a taloned pig foot, then, yes, we might need the Workshop.”

  Isabel looked stunned. “I—I didn’t know.”

  Hazel looked down. The Spider’s mandate to her now took on clearer meaning.

  “Now you do,” Violet snapped. “So the next time you want to assume I’m just an idiot, perhaps you’ll stop to consider that I might have information that you don’t. Sometimes, more than I’d like to know . . .” She looked near tears.

  Isabel laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “You’re going to burst if you keep all this bottled up. We can help.”

  Violet did not seem to hear her. She stared at her cold green tea. “The Spider’s dying,” she said quietly. “I’m not inheriting a crown, I’m inheriting a war.” Her eyes fell on Hazel’s misshapen hand. “What are you wearing to the ball?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Hazel. “I’m trying on some dresses after my Muirlands review.”

  The future empress rose from the table. “Pick an outfit with gloves. We can’t afford to look ridiculous.”

  “Well,” said Isabel, “at least her hand shows we can do powerful magic again.”

  Violet paused. “No. It shows we can’t.” Slipping into her bedroom, she closed the door behind her.

  Hazel and Isabel were quiet after their sister had left, each lost in their own thoughts. Even Pamplemousse refrained from comment and inhaled a muffin instead. Suddenly, everything seemed darker, more dangerous. The May Ball was an important event—not only a holy day to celebrate the sun’s return but a commemoration of the date a sorcerer struck the first blow in mankind’s Great War against the demons. Still, given everything that was happening, Hazel wondered if it should be canceled or postponed. There was a knock and Olo entered to clear their breakfast away. Hazel darted her hand back inside her sleeve. Isabel shook her head.

  “If you’re going out, you’d better borrow my mittens.”

  An hour later, Hazel left the triplets’ suite, dressed and mittened for the day. Sigga was waiting outside and the two made their way down the tower’s steps.

  While Hazel had known things with the Lirlanders were tense, she hadn’t really believed that outright war was on the horizon. And yet Violet was attending a council. The Spider could declare war with the Lirlanders t
hat very day. And what would it mean if she did? There had not been a major rebellion during Hazel’s lifetime, much less a war. The only war she’d ever seen was in that terrible dream she kept having. She glanced at her mittened hand.

  Never again, she told herself. You must keep her out or you’ll go mad.

  As she and Sigga reached Rowan’s grounds and climbed the steps to Old Tom, Hazel’s thoughts shifted from a spectral past to an earthier present. Since their visit to Impyria two weeks ago, she had been thinking quite a bit about Hob.

  The day they had spent in the capital was one of the best and worst in her life. She had never even attempted to explain why she had become so upset when they encountered the bank protesters. What was she supposed to say? That she had foreseen the Polestar’s disappearance and witnessed the Lirlanders destroying the ship through the eyes of a doomed cabin boy? Hob would think she was insane. She had not confided anything to anyone—not even Rascha or Isabel.

  But she wanted to tell Hob. There was something about him that made her feel safe in his presence. Not physically safe, but safe from judgment. Secure. Hob was a serious boy and could even be intimidating, but he also exuded decency. His first instincts were to listen and to help, not to judge or laugh or recoil. Hazel wished there was someone like him among the FYGs. Then they could actually speak to each other in public.

  Instead, she found herself taking roundabout routes through the palace in the hope of crossing paths with him on page duty. Sigga—bless her—never said a word when Hazel suggested nonsensical detours or stopped to poke her head into some hall or gallery. Most of the time, she found nothing but dour ministers, but there were occasions when she spied a certain page standing at attention. If he caught sight of her, Hob would offer a tiny nod and a ghost of a smile before his face resumed a detached, stoic expression. Hazel adored these “chance encounters,” but a copy of his schedule would be handy. She was starting to look like a lost dignitary.

  This wasn’t Hazel’s first crush, but it was her first on anyone remotely her own age. When she was six, she’d fallen in love with a guardsman named Captain Hutchens, a man so handsome Hazel told her sisters he was “sparkly.” Isabel still teased her about it.