But Hazel was still preoccupied with the Seals themselves. She’d always felt a special affinity for Mina I and these Seals were her masterpieces. The scene was an abomination.
“Do you think any of them still work?” she said softly.
Sigga nodded. “If not, there would have been more attacks. We won’t know how many have been drained until we dispose of this creature and find a way to test them. But that doesn’t matter right now.” She stooped to look Hazel in the eye. “You just prevented a war, Your Highness.”
Hazel smiled faintly. “Not yet. A lot depends on Violet.”
An hour passed. Then another. Old Tom’s chiming was faint but audible. Hazel sat on a bench next to Isabel and Pamplemousse, silently marveling how a visit to the master’s office had led them here.
“So, is Montague going to give him a job?” Isabel asked, jolting Hazel from her thoughts.
She nodded toward Hob, who was examining a distant portrait of Mina V. He’d spent the last two hours wandering around the room. Hob was not a guardsman, a member of the Red Branch, or a Faeregine. With so many people about, he couldn’t talk to Hazel, and no one else would deign to speak with an unemployed page. And so, he perused the paintings.
“I don’t know,” said Hazel. “At first, the master thought I was crazy for asking. But once they got talking, I think he started to like Mr. Smythe.”
“He grows on people,” said Isabel. “Not as fast as a dwimorleech, but . . .”
She trailed off. The tromping of many boots sounded from the hallway. The girls rose and bowed low as the Impyrial honor guard marched in bearing the empress on her golden palanquin. The Spider looked very old and small, the hand that clutched her scepter was but a shriveled claw. But those hard black eyes drank in all before her.
The empress did not stay long. Once she’d looked into the vault and understood the grisly scene, she issued a number of commands. The first was that all Impyrial warships were to stand down and return to their bases. The second was that Lord Kraavh should be fetched in the royal coach. Hazel grinned. She really had prevented a war. She had saved lives!
Her smile faded at the empress’s third command, delivered in that horrid croak.
“Arrest every person who inspected or inventoried this vault after it was breached. They shall be set adrift in Lirlander waters to suffer the same fate as those they doomed by failing to detect this parasite. Their families are hereby exiled to the Grislands.”
The Spider said this so casually she might have been ordering soup. She went on to double the reward for catching the perpetrators and demand the Workshop liaison be brought before her. It was their creature that did this. Once she had finished, she beckoned Hazel to her side and held out her hand. Hazel took it with some reluctance.
“You are responsible for this discovery?”
“Yes, Your Radiance.”
An approving nod. “Name your reward, child.”
Hazel hesitated. “I . . . I don’t want anyone executed. I ask that you spare their lives.”
The Spider gave a mirthless laugh. Her fingers closed upon Hazel’s hand with surprising force, the nails digging into flesh.
“That is why you will never be empress.”
CHAPTER 20
THE ROAD TO TALYSIN
Keep your basilisks and harpies, your trolls and goblins.
There is only one true monster and its name is Dragon.
—Vivek the Younger, playwright and orator (486–537 A.C.)
The only summers Hob had known were in Dusk. And while the Sentries did enjoy a summer of sorts, the season was brief and hectic. The ground did not fully thaw until July; by September, blue skies were already turning gray as winter reasserted herself. This left little time for repairs, tending crops, and laying in stores for the brutal months to come. Summer meant work.
This was not the case on the Sacred Isle. Its climate was temperate, its summer a far sweeter season than anything Hob had experienced. There was a languor in the air, a sense that people were more willing to please and to be pleased. In the weeks since war had been avoided, Rowan’s residents seemed almost giddy. Everyone had a bounce to their step, and that included Hob.
He had good reason: Master Montague had offered him a job. The news came three days after they discovered the dwimorleech in the Lirlander Vault. According to the master, Hob’s title would be Junior Research Assistant, which was to say he could look forward to long hours and little pay. Hob didn’t mind—he was excited to have access to the greatest libraries on earth. In Dusk, books were hard to come by.
Since the job would not start until September, Hob had more leisure time than he’d ever known. The academic year had ended, and Her Highness had passed each class with honors. Their tutoring sessions were on hold until school resumed, leaving Hazel free—if free was the word—to spend every minute studying Mystics with Dàme Rascha.
As for Hob, Oliveiro required only that he scrub some pots and pans to earn his temporary keep. Once he started work for Master Montague, Hob would move from the palace to a room on the school grounds. Despite his daily dose of haggish abuse, the arrangement was more than fair and left his afternoons free. Of late, he liked to spend them at the base of a colossal oak in Rowan’s Old College.
He was there now, sitting against its trunk as a ladybug meandered across his forearm. He watched its progress and took another bite of his peach. Peaches were a revelation compared to Dusk’s native cabbage, which kept you alive but made you wish you were dead. The ladybug flew off and Hob returned to Mr. Burke’s latest note.
Do not bring this handbook when you accompany HF on the pilgrimage. You will be searched before you depart and spypaper does not function near the Otherland Gates.
HF may not be the Reaper reborn but she is powerfully magical. Watch her closely, for the dragon may change her. It has happened to Faeregines besides Arianna. With luck, Talysin will exorcise her of the spirit that plagues her. If not, we will address it.
Your new position pleases us. Influencing the royal family and future Rowan graduates will help us achieve the transition I envision. But never forget where your loyalties lie. Do not be taken in by Isaac Montague: mehrùn feed and clothe him. He is their pet and chief apologist.
Enjoy your voyage over peaceful seas. War with the Lirlanders would not have served the Fellowship’s interests. Thank the gods that crisis was averted. Nothing can stop us now . . .
For truth, equality, and a free Impyrium.
Hob scribbled off a brief reply and finished his peach, wrapping the pit in a handkerchief. He understood Mr. Burke’s warnings, but he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t done some thinking since his talk with Master Montague.
During Hob’s Fellowship orientation, Brother Marcos had also shown him a map and discussed how the Cataclysm recast the world. His account agreed with the master’s in almost every way except intent. In the Fellowship version, mehrùn exploited the Cataclysm to rob muir of their history and status. In Master Montague’s version, mehrùn were not self-interested or diabolical—at least not in the beginning. Their intent was to protect those who survived the Cataclysm. If that was true, when had things gone bad? Why was Impyrium so different from what its founders had envisioned?
“Mr. Smythe, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re brown as bark.”
Sigga Fenn stood ten feet away. Hob had no idea how she’d gotten so close without him noticing, but there she was. In the tree shade, her eyes seemed to reflect the sunlight filtering through leaves. The agent could not be human, he decided. Not entirely.
Hob glanced at his tan. “My mother’s son, I guess.”
“When I left the Grislands, I spent every minute I could in the sun. But I’m not blessed with Hauja blood; I just burn. How is your mother by the way? Did she get the potion?”
“I don’t know,” said Hob.
“Didn’t you follow up?”
“I write every week, but I haven’t heard back,” said Hob. “I think she’s s
till upset that I left.”
“That’s probably it,” said Sigga. “Of course, there’s always the chance she never received anything.”
“You think the mails lost that many letters?”
“Unlikely,” she replied. “Perhaps someone intercepted them. A lot of that’s been happening.”
Sigga eased down next to him and stretched out her long legs. It was like having a panther pad up and settle by you, both thrilling and frightening. She looked younger close up, and smelled distinctly feminine. How old was she? Twenty-five? Hob looked at her hands. No hints there—too many scars. He lingered on the Red Branch tattoo on her wrist. How many people have you killed?
“We’re not strangers anymore,” she said. “You can call me Sigga. May I call you Hob?”
He nodded. “What do you mean letters have been intercepted?”
“Last week we caught a man we’ve been hunting. He works for an organization called the Fellowship. Have you ever heard of them?”
Hob’s heart beat faster. He pretended to consider the question. “I think so. Revolutionaries. ‘Down with the Faeregines’ and all that.”
“That’s right,” said Sigga. “There’s lots of similar groups, but the Fellowship’s different.”
“How’s that?”
“They’re smarter,” she said. “Better funded, better organized. We’ve been following one of their people, a man they call Brother Jakob for several weeks.”
She glanced over at Hob. The mention of Brother Jakob’s name stirred something in his subconscious, but it darted for muddier banks. He shrugged.
“What does this have to do with stolen letters?”
“Ah,” she said. “When we caught up with this man, he was with a boy about your age, a smile to melt your heart. Brother Jakob was in the process of selling him to an establishment that entertains wealthy and unscrupulous mehrùn. I assume this boy—his name was Badu—was supposed to gather information that could be used for blackmail.”
Hob tried not to betray his horror.
“I talked with Badu,” said Sigga. “He was cocky at first, all swagger. But beneath it all, he’s really just a scared boy from Castelia. We found nineteen letters he’d written to his family stashed in Brother Jakob’s apartment. His parents have no idea where their son is.”
“What’s going to happen to him?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Unfortunately, he can’t tell us much. But we’ll keep trying. I wish I could work with him, but I’ve got other responsibilities. Anyway, this Badu got me thinking about you.”
The Grislander gazed down at him, her face inches from his own. Hob did not look away.
“Why’s that?”
She shrugged. “Badu’s bright and capable. Comes from nothing. But he wasn’t lucky enough to get a job with House Sylva, much less the royal family. So he fell in with less savory types.”
“Life’s tough.”
“I know. Where I’m from makes Dusk look like this . . .” She gestured at the verdant quad.
“Yeah,” said Hob. “Dusk’s all rainbows and flowers.”
Sigga leaned into him the way an older sister might. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I like you, Hob. And I’m not a magistrate. I don’t care if you broke some rules to get here and better your life. I’d have done the same. I don’t even care if you explored a forbidden dig site. What I do care about is danger. And it didn’t go away when we found that dwimorleech in the vault. You remember what I told you about Whitebarrow?”
Hob nodded.
“It turns out we were on to something,” said Sigga. “Brother Jakob is a necromancer.”
Hob felt like he’d just fallen through the ice at Bear Lake. Fortunately, his shock was a perfectly natural reaction to such news. “How do you know? Did you give him that potion?”
“We did,” she said. “And we learned a valuable piece of information. That particular potion is no longer effective. Its formula is centuries old and apparently necromancers have learned how to offset its effects. It didn’t do anything to Brother Jakob. If we hadn’t caught him robbing a mausoleum, we might not have tried more exotic means of detection.”
She held up another vial containing a silvery liquid.
“I am not drinking that,” said Hob pointedly.
She smiled. “No need. A drop on the skin will do—assuming you have no objections.”
Hob held out his arm. He didn’t care if he burst into flame. He was wholly preoccupied with Sigga’s news. If this Brother Jakob really was a necromancer, were there others in the Fellowship? His mind went back to his first encounter with Mr. Burke in Dusk. The man had been loitering in the temple’s graveyard when he’d stopped Hob and Angus Dane from fighting. Then there was the cellar where they’d met after his trip to Impyria. That cottage was located right by Rose Chapel’s cemetery . . .
Hob blinked as a drop of liquid splashed on his wrist and beaded off onto the grass.
“Congratulations,” said Sigga. “You are not a necromancer.”
Hob tried to make a quip but couldn’t. “So, Whitebarrow wasn’t some kind of hoax?”
“No,” said Sigga. “That offering to the Shibbolth was very real. Brother Jakob isn’t just a necromancer; he’s a member of the original Coven . . .”
From her pocket, the Grislander removed a heavy bronze pendant that hung from a silver chain. The chain looked new but the pendant was smooth and pocked with age. Hob stared at it in horror. Mr. Burke had a similar pendant. Hob had seen him tuck it into his robe aboard the Transcontinental.
“What is that?”
“A reliquary,” replied Sigga. “It contains the ashes of Brother Jakob’s original heart. Necromancers always keep it close.” She pointed to a worn infinity symbol within a nine-pointed star. “And that’s the Coven’s mark. I wish I could say he’s the only one.”
“You’re sure there are more?” said Hob.
“Oh yes,” said Sigga. “We’ve confirmed Brother Jakob was in Impyria when that offering was made at Whitebarrow. He’s not alone. There will be others in the Fellowship.”
Hob thought he might be sick. “Why would necromancers be involved with a group fighting for muir rights?”
“Many reasons,” said Sigga. “Necromancers are parasites. They’re very good at hiding their true selves within various hosts—whether it’s a corpse, a living person, even organizations where you wouldn’t expect to find them. The Fellowship would offer good cover, plentiful resources, and lots of candidates from which to select a potential replacement.”
Hob did not like the sound of this. “Replacement . . . as in protégé?”
The agent chuckled. “That’s probably what they tell their victim, but it’s not innocent. Human bodies don’t last forever. Before a necromancer gets too old and frail, he starts identifying candidates to be his next host. They’re incredibly selective about choosing that person. They only want the best.”
Hob recalled Mr. Burke’s description of his father:
Ulrich was a fundamentally superior person—tougher and smarter than the rest. I used to joke he was some kind of Workshop experiment. Best recruit I ever had. You have some big shoes to fill, young man.
The implications were beyond horrifying. Mr. Burke wasn’t a muir revolutionary, he was a monster who’d been preying upon people for untold centuries, stealing their bodies and using them as hosts. Hob turned to Sigga, prepared to confess everything.
But something peculiar occurred before he could speak. His mind ran into a soft but irresistible wall. Even as the words formed, they trickled away like smoke. Hob’s terror and urgency evaporated. The Grislander’s news was disturbing, but there was no need to be squeamish. And he certainly wasn’t going to betray Mr. Burke or anyone else in the Fellowship. The very idea was unthinkable.
Instead of confessing, he merely rubbed his temples. “Why are you telling me this, Agent Fenn? And don’t tell me it’s out of concern for my mother and sister. I know it’s your job to protect Her High
ness, but these games are wearing me out. I’m here because Dàme Rascha poached me from the Sylvas. I’m not a threat to the princess.”
Sigga glanced curiously at him before picking up his handbook and thumbing idly through it. As she did, Hob eyed a slight crease on the page where he received messages from the Fellowship. To his immense relief, she closed the book and laid it down.
“I’m sorry to tread upon your patience, Mr. Smythe. I thought you were interested in these developments. I’m well aware you’re not a threat to Her Highness. If you were, we would not be having this conversation.”
Hob studied her a moment. And then it hit him.
“That’s why you gave me a gun,” he muttered softly.
The Grislander said nothing. Hob sat up.
“That’s it. You already knew I could shoot. You wanted to see what I’d do if I was armed around the princess.”
Sigga’s face was impassive; no confirmation or denial. Hob was incredulous.
“What if I was an assassin?” he said angrily. “How could you take a risk like that?”
“Her Highness was never in danger.”
Something in her tone made Hob a believer. He had never seen Sigga Fenn do anything distinctly superhuman, but one never lost the sense that they were in the presence of something terribly dangerous.
“I will say this once,” she continued. “If you are involved with the Fellowship, you are in far over your head. People like Brother Jakob could not care less about muir rights. Their only allegiance is to demons that live beyond this world—beings that make Lord Kraavh look like a kitten. So I’d ask you to consider something.”
“What’s that?” said Hob, unable to look at her.
“When the Shibbolth tried to invade, it was the Reaper who stood against them,” said Sigga. “For all her faults, Mina the Fourth was no coward. She and the dragon Valryka charged through the Otherland Gate—into the Void itself—and drove the Shibbolth back. They were victorious, but Valryka perished in the battle and the Reaper never truly recovered. Two years later, assassins finally got to her.”
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