Impyrium

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Impyrium Page 35

by Henry H. Neff


  But Hob was different. Hazel actually knew him, had spent many hours in his company. She felt like they understood each other ever since they’d exchanged glances at Lady Sylva’s dinner party. If it was not for him, she would not have explored Impyria’s chaotic splendor, laughed at lutin tricksters, or marveled at Euclidean soccer. And she never would have beheld Scrag’s End; understood those four-pointed stars; or felt the raw, simmering anger of those protesters. Hob was her bridge to the wide world beyond the Sacred Isle, a landscape teeming with beauty, joy, and tragedy. Hazel ached to see more of that world someday. And what’s more, she knew who she’d choose to come with her—a tattooed page from the Sentries. Life was odd.

  Hob was already waiting in Rattlerafters, his uniform pressed to perfection.

  He bowed. “Good morning, Your Highness. Hello, Agent Fenn.”

  “What tortures have you devised?” asked Hazel, removing her coat and laying it over a chair. From what she could see, each table had an unlabeled map of a Muirlands region.

  “Nothing too bad,” he assured her. “I thought we’d start with geography. You said the master’s a stickler.”

  This was true. Hazel’s exam was less than two weeks away, and she’d heard horror stories about Montague’s finals. Apparently he gave his students nothing but blank maps on which to label regions, duchies, cities, major industries, and all kinds of insidious details. Hazel would need to ace the final to pass with honors and satisfy the Spider.

  “You’ll need to use a pen, Your Highness,” said Hob. “You might want to take those off.”

  He gestured to her mittens.

  “Oh,” said Hazel. “These. I’ve been freezing all morning. I’ll just keep them on.”

  Sigga took a chair in the back as Hob quizzed Hazel on the Caspian Steppes. Clutching a pen in her mitten, Hazel tried to label its major duchies, but managed only half.

  “Remember,” said Hob. “Never Look Under the Bed Past Midnight . . .”

  The mnemonic device helped Hazel recall “Unterlyn” but that was it. She abandoned the map and looked at the accompanying note cards. Hob took the first and flipped it over.

  “What is the region’s primary crop?”

  “Rice,” said Hazel.

  Hob shook his head. “Think about where it is on the map. The steppes are too arid and too far north. Try again.”

  “Corn?” she said hopefully.

  Hob put the note card down. “Wheat. Let’s try another. What’s the largest nonhuman presence in the region?”

  “Goblins,” said Hazel confidently.

  “What tribe?”

  “I remember that,” said Hazel, recalling a woodcut from her book. “The Black Jodhpuri. They ride red mules and wear those cute little pants. They’re the region’s biggest traders.”

  “Good,” said Hob. “Tell me who rules Midvolgha and why that person’s important.”

  Hazel searched her memory. She thought she was prepared, but now everything she’d studied seemed jumbled. “I don’t remember.” She sighed.

  “It’s okay,” said Hob. “Lord Tristrym is the Duke of Midvolgha, which is the ancestral seat of power in the steppes. He enforces the law and collects Impyrial taxes. He’s responsible for the population, which is . . . ?”

  Hazel scrunched up her face. “Thirty thousand?”

  “Four million.”

  Hob abandoned the remaining note cards and had Hazel move to another table. He gestured at its map. “The Rowana subcontinent. You should ace this.”

  But Hazel did not ace it. Other than Impyria, the map’s duchies and other cities had become indistinguishable blobs. She stared at them, intensely aware of her audience and the seconds ticking past. Inside her mittens, her hands were sweating profusely.

  “I’m drawing a blank,” she said softly.

  “Start with something you know,” said Hob.

  Clutching the pen in her mitten, Hazel scrawled “Impyria” along the coast.

  “And what’s the big city to the north?” Hob coaxed.

  Hazel closed her eyes. She knew it, she really did. Big port and fishery. Lots of shale rendering. Periodic trouble with centaurs—some treaty was signed in 2819.

  She sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong. I guess I’ve forgotten all this stuff. Maybe we should try another time.”

  “No,” said Hob firmly. “You haven’t forgotten. And we’re not postponing. What’s wrong?”

  Hazel could only shrug. She felt ridiculous and confused. Tears were threatening, and that only made her feel even more foolish. Hob sat in the chair across from her.

  Closing her eyes, Hazel exhaled. “I don’t know. I’m tired. I’m worried about Rascha. She’s never been sick like this. Not ever.”

  “She’ll get better,” said Hob.

  Hazel nodded, but the truth was she wasn’t certain. Dàme Rascha had served the Faeregines for many decades, had even tutored Hazel’s mother when she was a girl. The vye was very old. One day, her Rascha would die.

  “I can’t do it,” she muttered. “You should just give up on me.”

  Hob shook his head. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for all the gold in Impyrium.”

  Hazel gazed at the boy across from her. His jaw was set, his arms folded, his gray-green eyes level with her own. He looked utterly immovable. She loved and hated him for it.

  “You’re very stubborn, Mr. Smythe. It’s annoying.”

  He grinned. “I’ve been told. But I have an idea, Your Highness. Care to hear it?”

  “Very well,” said Hazel.

  “Let’s switch things up. I’ve spent three months talking about my world. Why don’t you tell me about yours for a change?”

  “My world?” said Hazel. “But you live here. You see it every day.”

  Hob considered a moment. “True,” he said. “But I’m not mehrùn. I’ve always been curious what it would be like to be able to do magic. Is it as fun as I think it would be?”

  Hazel sighed. “It used to be. Magic used to be my favorite thing in the world. It wasn’t just ‘fun.’ It was beautiful.”

  “So, what changed?”

  Hazel swiveled to look about the library, at its dusty books and shuttered windows. Everywhere but Hob. She wasn’t supposed to discuss magic. “This is pointless. We’re supposed to be reviewing the Muirlands.”

  “We are,” said Hob. “We’re just coming at them from a different direction. Sometimes a person needs to stop chopping wood and sharpen their ax.”

  Hazel groaned. “Is that some sort of Hauja proverb?”

  “No,” he said. “But that would probably sound better. I actually heard it from Mother Howell back in Dusk. She had a lot of common sense. A lot of wood too.”

  Hazel laughed in spite of herself. “All right, Mr. Smythe. We will ‘sharpen my ax,’ whatever that means. Lead on.”

  “You were saying magic is beautiful,” said Hob. “What did you mean? Were you talking about its effects or something else?” Hob rested his elbows on the table and looked at her attentively.

  “It’s not the effects,” Hazel answered slowly. “It’s more like a beautiful puzzle. For thousands of years, people have been trying to find its pieces and see how they all go together. That’s what Lingua Mystica is: the latest version of a never-ending puzzle. I wish I could explain it better.”

  Hazel rose and started pacing. Hob was right. It was good to abandon the Muirlands for a few minutes, to engage in something that stirred her deeper passions. She closed her eyes.

  “Picture an invisible harp,” she said. “It’s huge, big as the world. Muir can’t see it, but mehrùn can sense its presence and play some of its strings. What you call a spell is really a song, a sequence of notes played on this mystical harp. The more gifted the mystic, the more beautifully they play.”

  “Makes sense,” said Hob. “So, what makes it a puzzle?”

  “A person doesn’t play this harp with her fingers,” said Hazel. “She plays
it with language and intent. All words have power, but some have more than others. Lingua Mystica has over two thousand different words just for fire—words from any language you can imagine. Each has its own applications. For one spell, Aramaic might suit. Latin or Dryad might be better for another. Changing a single word in an incantation might mean you should change the others. Not all combinations are effective. It’s like chess or arcadia—there are theoretically millions of available moves, but only a few you’d actually make.”

  “People must write down combinations that work,” said Hob.

  “Of course,” said Hazel. “Mystics have been doing that forever. That’s what spells are. What’s exciting is that better versions exist—they just haven’t been discovered yet.”

  “So, how do discoveries get made?” said Hob.

  Hazel warmed to the conversation. She knew Rascha wouldn’t approve, but it felt good to talk about a topic she knew so much about. It reminded her that she really was an expert in something.

  “Three ways,” she explained. “The most common is when mystics improve known spells by tweaking little things like syntax, reagents, and hand gestures. Sorcerers try to break new ground, but with only one or two of them in a generation, success is rare. And every thousand years or so, a virtuoso comes along who not only plays something new but reaches strings no one knew existed. They’re the explorers, the ones that really expand our understanding. Those are people like Mina the First. The only being to approach metamagia—theoretically perfect magic—was Astaroth, and that led to the Cataclysm. But he wasn’t using his own magic. He was cheating.”

  “What do you mean?” said Hob.

  “He had an artifact,” said Hazel. “The Book of Thoth, which contained every truename. They’re the sacred words of creation, and allowed Astaroth to reshape the world however he wished. Thankfully, it’s gone now—Impyrium’s first archmage used the book’s magic to place it beyond reach. It’s too dangerous to have such knowledge concentrated in one place.”

  “So even I have a truename?” said Hob.

  “Of course,” said Hazel. “Everyone does. Everything. Without a truename, there’s nothing to anchor you in the world. You would have no essence, no spirit or soul.”

  “The Hauja believe something like that,” said Hob. “The shamans say even rivers and rocks have a spirit. Is that the same as their truename?”

  Hazel nodded.

  “What if you speak something’s truename?” said Hob. “Does that call it?”

  “It can,” said Hazel. “But there’s more to a truename than simply its letters and the sounds they make. The power is only unleashed when the name is used by someone who has the strength and will to master what the name belongs to. That’s why magical beings, like the Lirlanders, keep their truenames so secret—they fear another will use it against them.”

  “If they’re so secret, how can mystics ever learn what they are?” said Hob.

  Hazel laughed. “Truenames aren’t random. The type of being, their birthplace, their lineage, all sorts of things can play a role in what their truename might be. Mystics and scholars do endless research trying to gather all this information. The thing that makes sorcerers so powerful isn’t how much magic they have—it’s their instincts. A really gifted sorcerer might be able to guess your truename just by looking at you long enough.”

  Hob raised his eyebrows. “Could you guess my truename?”

  “I never said I was a sorceress,” said Hazel. “Even if I was, I would never do such a thing. It’s not a game, Mr. Smythe. Your truename is your truest, most personal, and vulnerable essence. With it, I could bend you, break you, change you, bind you . . . anything I wished.”

  “But those are all bad things,” said Hob. “Can’t you do good with truenames?”

  “That’s a controversial topic,” said Hazel. “There are some who think we should use truenames to change and improve the world. Others insist they are a sacred gift from our creator, that they are precisely as they should be. By meddling, we corrupt their intended purpose.”

  “What do you think?” said Hob.

  “I think they were wise to hide the Book of Thoth,” said Hazel. “Dàme Rascha says it takes many to build a temple, but only one to destroy it.”

  “Now, that could be a Hauja saying,” said Hob. “It’s funny, when I came to the Sacred Isle, I thought magic would be everywhere. But other than the maze and the Direwood, I feel like I haven’t seen very much.”

  Hazel couldn’t believe how insensitive muir were.

  “But magic’s all around you,” she explained. “There are spells thousands of years old woven throughout the Sacred Isle, particularly here on the school grounds. Enchantments of protection and warding, spells that amplify the magic that’s performed here. But it’s Old Magic, stronger but more subtle than fairy lights and fireworks. Part of the reason Astaroth brought about the Cataclysm’s earthquakes was to destroy Rowan. Everything else fell into the sea, but the school is still here. Old Magic protects it.”

  Hob looked amazed. “And you can sense this magic?”

  “Of course,” said Hazel. “Sometimes, I can even sense who made it. I can always tell Mina the First’s work. Her signature’s unmistakable.”

  “Really?” said Hob. “Like a pissing post?”

  “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds revolting.”

  “Bad example,” said Hob quickly. “There are lots of dogs in Dusk and they’re always interested in who’s been where.”

  “Hmm,” said Hazel. “I’d say it’s more like one artist recognizing another’s work. There’s an elegance to Mina the First’s magic that’s absent from Mina the Second’s. Mina the Third’s is a mumble, but Mina the Fourth’s is like a scream. She used fewer words but in stranger combinations than anyone else. Her spells are like a poem you don’t fully understand but somehow changes the way you see the world.”

  “If you know what their spells say, can’t you re-create them?” said Hob.

  Hazel smiled. “Every day you walk past hundreds of paintings in the palace. How many could you replicate?”

  “Not a one.”

  “It’s the same with magic,” said Hazel. “Mystics can admire another caster’s technique, but it doesn’t mean they can do it themselves. If it did, there’d be lots of Tenth Ranks instead of just one in all of history. More goes into a spell than just the words. There’s the caster and components—even context. A spell cast on Midwinter might be more potent than if cast at another time. There are countless factors. That’s why people spend their entire lives studying it. That’s the beauty I was talking about.”

  Hob had an inward, almost wistful expression. “It’s amazing,” he said simply. “Could you show me something?”

  Sigga spoke up from the corner. “Your Highness, I don’t think Dàme Rascha would approve.”

  Hazel glanced apologetically at Hob. “She’s probably right.”

  “Fair enough,” said Hob. “I was just curious. Even a glimpse of fairy lights.”

  Hazel hesitated. Explaining magic’s principles to someone reminded her how much she loved it. She wanted to show Hob a little of what she could do, but the idea also made her feel anxious. Glancing at him, she felt her heart do a cartwheel. Surely, a little spell couldn’t hurt—something she could do in her sleep.

  “You must never tell anyone,” said Hazel. “Promise me.”

  Hob raised his eyebrows at her sudden intensity, but nodded. “I promise, Your Highness.”

  “Very well,” said Hazel. “Anyway, you don’t even need to be First Rank to do this one and it can’t hurt to practice the basics. This spell’s called bibliosk. It’s popular with librarians.”

  Raising her mittens, Hazel spoke the incantation, substituting the Akkadian word for “name” instead of the conventional Greek. Instantly, the books in Rattlerafters shot from their shelves. Hob took cover as leather tomes and paper pamphlets zoomed about, rearranging themselves in reverse alphabetical order.
Within ten seconds, the last book had squeezed into place and scooted its spine flush with its neighbors.

  Hob coughed and waved at the air, which was thick with swirling dust. His face broadened into a grin, and then into outright laughter. Hazel found herself laughing too.

  “Incredible!” he crowed.

  Hazel tried to look modest. “Like I said, it’s an easy one. I’m sure every mehrùn on the Sacred Isle can do it.”

  “By the gods,” said Hob, gazing about, delighted. “You practically just snapped your fingers. If I were you, I’d be doing magic all the time.”

  “It’s tempting,” said Hazel. “But that’s why there are schools like Rowan. Using magic unnecessarily—‘rogue magic’ as some masters call it—is considered vulgar and even dangerous. Magic always has a cost. And it carries risks.”

  With a deep breath, Hazel removed her mitten and held up her disfigured hand. She’d felt vulnerable many times in her life, but this moment was different. She could not say why, but she wanted Hob to see it.

  Sigga hurried over. “When did this happen, Your Highness?”

  Hazel plucked a bit of mitten lining from the talon. “Early this morning,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Rascha can put it right.” She shot Hob an anxious glance. How would he react to something like this?

  His smile had faded, but he did not recoil or look repulsed. His expression was one of concern. “How does something like that happen?”

  “I was trying to change shape,” said Hazel. “When I’m tested, I have to demonstrate that I can become all kinds of animals. And I was trying . . . well, I was trying to become a pig.”

  He gave the talon a puzzled look. “Is that much harder than performing the bibliosk?”

  Hazel laughed weakly. “Rascha would say no. She would say there’s no fundamental difference. That’s why she gets frustrated with me.”

  “But if you think there’s a difference, then there is one,” said Hob. “Even if it’s just in your head. What makes bibliosk so easy for you?”

 

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