There is always a choice.
When Hazel turned from the gate, she looked straight into the eyes of Talysin and she fell prey to the dragonspell. Paralyzed and helpless, she felt his mind invade her own, shattering all resistance like a battering ram. The pain was unimaginable. Hazel remembered screaming and the Reaper screaming too, their voices intermingling to form a hellish chorus.
And then, all at once, it stopped. When Hazel had regained something resembling consciousness, she no longer sensed the Reaper’s lurking presence. It had vanished entirely, along with Hazel’s magic.
The only voices she heard now were ones she wished to hear. At present, they were muffled, but they were growing clearer by the minute. Hob was talking with Sigga. Hazel wanted to see them; she was tired of lying still and quiet. But she could not yet move her body; the very idea was inconceivable.
However, she was beginning to glimpse her surroundings. They came slowly into focus, the images fuzzy at the edges. She made out figures in the pavilion. Hob was stacking wood upon a pile by the fire. Hazel suddenly realized she was seeing through Merlin.
“Where’s Dàme Rascha?” said Hob, setting a final log on top.
“She left to get some sleep,” said Sigga. The agent looked like she could use some herself.
“And Her Highness? How is she?”
“No change,” said Sigga.
Hob peered at Hazel. “Well, Merlin’s awake.”
He came over, looking anxious and concerned. He stroked Merlin with a fingertip, but his eyes were fixed on Hazel.
“Do you really think Her Highness is going to be okay?”
“Dàme Rascha knows more about these matters than I do.”
“Do you care about her?” said Hob absently.
“Come again?”
“Do you care about Her Highness? I mean, are you allowed to get attached to the people you protect? Or does that interfere with the job?”
“I’m not ordinarily a bodyguard.”
“I know,” said Hob. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
There were several moments of silence. “I think,” said Sigga, “if I were ever to have a daughter, I would be very fortunate if she turned out like Hazel Faeregine.”
Hob grinned the grin that Hazel loved—the one where his seriousness vanished and he was just a beautiful boy. “You’re not so bad, Agent Fenn. I knew there was a heart in there.”
“You’re not so bad either, Mr. Smythe. By the way, you don’t mind if I hold on to your handbook a little longer, do you?”
“I forgot you had it.”
A dry chuckle. “Oh, I doubt that. I’m curious. Did you buy it new or secondhand?”
“They gave it to me at Stock & Trade. Why?”
“Well,” said Sigga, “it’s just that I found an old parchment embedded in the back cover. It’s blank and gives off no aura, but it’s very old. I’ll need to get it checked by specialists in—”
BOOM!
The explosion shook the ground. The fire’s logs shifted, sending sparks swirling up. The tent’s roof brightened, as though a vast fireball was rising into the sky. Sigga rushed outside. Hazel could see her silhouette through the flickering canvas. A startled Dàme Rascha rushed in, belting her robe.
“Is Her Highness all right?” she asked Hob.
He nodded and backed away as the vye bent over Hazel. Outside, people were shouting. There were whistles and horns. Hazel heard Sigga barking orders at the guardsmen. The Grislander poked her head into the tent.
“Stay here,” she said to Rascha and Hob. “The captain’s in charge.”
Sigga dashed off. The guard captain stood in the tent’s entry, his carabine held at the ready. He looked tense but composed.
“Stay calm,” he said. “There was some kind of explosion inland. Don’t worry. We’re going to get everything under—”
Red mist burst from the man’s ear.
He jerked sideways before toppling forward. As Dàme Rascha went to catch him, Hazel saw the silhouettes of guardsmen collapsing outside. She wanted to scream, to warn them to get down, but she couldn’t. She could only watch in paralyzed terror as Rascha held the dead captain in the entryway. There she stood, exposed to whoever was firing upon the tent.
The first bullet spun Rascha about. The second sent her stumbling back into the pavilion where she collapsed atop the dead captain. The vye did not move.
Hazel was too horrified to clearly process what was happening. Merlin stared at the scene, trembling like a leaf. Hob knelt calmly by the fire. Why wasn’t he lying flat? Why wasn’t he scrambling to get the captain’s carabine? Whoever was shooting at them, surely they would come into the tent.
Instead Hob retrieved a piece of firewood and opened it like an oversized scroll tube. Reaching inside, he withdrew something. Merlin’s tiny claws dug into Hazel’s chest.
When she saw Bragha Rùn, Hazel knew she was going to die. She was going to be murdered by one of the few people she trusted. The phantasia flashed in her mind: the scene where the nemones surrounded the Reaper, hiding a blade until one finally plunged it through her heart. Dr. Phoebus really was prescient.
Hazel’s indifference surprised her. While she was afraid of dying, she wasn’t sure she wanted to live. Rascha was gone. And Hob, a boy she cared about far more than she wanted to admit, was now betraying her in the most painful way imaginable. All of his kindness and encouragement had been a lie. Hob was her enemy.
He stood over her now, his face grim and set. This was not the boy she knew. This Hob was a stranger, a Hauja hunter who’d eaten a Cheshirewulf’s heart. He nudged Merlin to the side with Bragha Rùn. The homunculus whimpered and edged away from the blade. Nothing but a thin wall of skin and bone stood between her heart and that razor point.
“I’m sorry,” Hob murmured. “It’s not personal. It’s for Impyrium . . .”
The blade’s point quivered as he raised it high. He was breathing with slow deliberation, as though trying to maintain control. What was wrong with him? Hazel suddenly realized he was struggling against something, straining with every ounce of spirit he possessed. Hob did not want to do this—he was being compelled somehow. He was trying to fight.
And he was losing.
Hazel slowly opened her eyes. She didn’t know how she found the strength, only that she was gazing at Hob through her own rabbity-red eyes instead of Merlin’s. Hob looked away. Tears ran down his dark cheeks. His gaze fell upon her medallion, that silly souvenir from their trip to Impyria.
“Don’t look,” he whispered. “Please. They’ll kill my family. I don’t have a choice . . .”
The veins in his neck stood out like mooring ropes. His entire arm was shaking. Bragha Rùn’s point hovered a foot above her breastbone. Hazel found that she too was crying. She could not speak, but she tried her hardest to communicate, to let him know that she understood. That she wasn’t angry. That she forgave him.
“Do it, lad.”
The man’s voice came from the entryway. Merlin’s vision overlapped with Hazel’s. She beheld a big, slope-shouldered man in dark clothes holding a rifle. He stepped over Rascha and the captain.
“Hurry up,” he muttered. “We need to move.”
When the man came closer, firelight illuminated his face. Hazel recognized him from Private Finch’s photograph. It was that guardsman who’d been killed at the Lirlander Vault. Sergeant Beecher. Somehow he was here, in this tent.
“You can do it,” he said. “Nice and easy. Let the blade do the work.”
Hob brought the sword up, but there it remained. He was sweating profusely, shaking, fighting with everything he was worth.
“I can’t.”
“You will,” the sergeant growled. “We spoke your trigger.”
Hob shook his head. “You’ll have to do it.”
Beecher’s expression darkened. He pointed his rifle at Hob. “Now or never, lad.”
Hob exhaled and slowly lowered his arm. “Never.”
; With a flick of his wrist, he flipped Bragha Rùn straight at Sergeant Beecher. The gladius flashed as it tumbled end over end. Instinctively, the sergeant brought up his rifle to bat the lethal blade aside. The instant he did, Hob launched himself at the man. The gun went off as they crashed over a little table and fell onto the floor, where they fought like wild animals.
Hazel focused on Merlin. The little creature obeyed at once, shooting from the tent like a sparrow. But with Merlin gone, Hazel could no longer view what was happening. Though her eyes were open, her body was still paralyzed. She could only stare at the tent’s roof and listen to the brutal and desperate struggle.
Hob was no longer worried about the gun. The bullet had grazed his ear and it was bleeding, but a rifle was useless at such close quarters. What concerned him was air. Sergeant Beecher’s powerful hand had clamped around his throat, tight as a bear trap. The man would not let go, no matter how furiously Hob punched or scrabbled for his eyes.
Hob had fought for his life on five occasions. Twice against beasts, three times against human beings. The worst was when he’d fled from the Hauja after sitting séyu. His uncles pursued him for three days, hunting him like game. It had been terrifying not merely because his trackers were his relatives but because they combined human cunning with a predator’s savagery. You could not outwit them and they would not abandon the chase. By the time they cornered Hob, they’d broken his spirit and desire to keep running. The only reason he survived—albeit half-scalped—was because he’d made it within sight of Dusk’s lookout. His uncles cared nothing for warning shots, but they cared greatly about their animals. When the sentry fired at their dogs, the two Hauja left Hob in the snow and returned to their sleds. They’d made their point. Combat was not merely physical. Strength and skill mattered, but so did will. Victory often came down to which combatant could endure more pain. And Hob could endure quite a lot.
He reached for one of the burning logs. When he seized it, there was a searing hiss, but Hob overrode the instinct to let go and thrust it at Beecher’s face. The sergeant tried to twist away without easing his grip on Hob’s throat. He couldn’t do both. Burning wood met flesh. The man grunted, and then bellowed like a branded bull. Releasing Hob, he knocked the log away and struck Hob a powerful blow with his fist.
Lights swarmed before Hob’s eyes. An elbow struck him on the crown of his head. Still, he would not let go of the sergeant. But Beecher was considerably bigger and stronger. Seizing Hob’s wrist, he bent it sharply forward. Hob rolled with it to prevent the bones from snapping. It forced him onto his back so that Beecher’s blistered and bleeding face came into view. The man’s eyes were almost inhuman. Howling like an animal, he head butted Hob, cracking his nose. Consciousness hung by a thread.
“What the hell is going on?” hissed a furious voice.
A bleary Hob saw Mr. Burke’s upside-down face thrust through the entry. It took Beecher a moment to catch his breath. His voice was thick with blood and rage.
“Your Jack won’t do as he’s told.”
Mr. Burke stepped into the tent and gazed down at Hob from over Beecher’s shoulder. “Impossible. He’s under psychnosis.”
The sergeant ground his forearm into Hob’s throat. “That’s what I thought, and now my face looks like a chop. I’m gonna gut him.”
“Enough,” said Burke. “We’re wasting time. Where’s the blade?”
Hob coughed as the sergeant released him and went to retrieve Bragha Rùn. The sword was lying near the fire, half-hidden by scattered logs. Hob tried to get up, but Mr. Burke pressed his boot on his chest. Hazel lay helpless, her arms folded as though the pallet were a funeral pyre. Beecher lumbered toward her holding the Faeregine House Blade.
A gust of wind screamed into the tent, so swift and strong it nearly blew out the fire. The wind became a shadow. And the shadow became Sigga Fenn.
The Grislander stood in front of Hazel, a long black dagger in each hand. She took in Beecher at a glance.
“Surrender.”
Her tone was calm, even courteous. But the sergeant ignored it. Cursing her, he made a lunging slash with Bragha Rùn.
Sigga’s counter was a blur. Hob heard only a ringing clash and an abbreviated scream. Sergeant Beecher’s body staggered sideways and toppled. Bragha Rùn lay at the agent’s feet.
Mr. Burke opened fire with the revolver Hob had used at the dig site. Sigga made no attempt to dodge or move. The bullets slammed into an invisible barrier, leaving an incandescent afterglow as they dropped harmlessly to the floor. She pointed one of her daggers at the fire.
It roared up in response, its flames turning pale green as they snaked round Burke’s neck and jerked him off his feet like a noose. He dropped the revolver and clutched at the flames, which held him fast. As Hob watched, Mr. Burke’s handsome features began to smoke and bubble. Flesh melted away like candlewax, revealing patches of skull beneath. But instead of screaming, Mr. Burke offered a deathshead grin.
“Shibboltha nul-savinu, Sigga-fina. Nanska Aionia.”
With that, the man vanished. The captain’s corpse spasmed violently as though it had received an electric shock. And then it, and the tent were still.
Sigga made no effort at pursuit. Instead, she checked on Hazel, looking into her eyes and feeling her pulse. Hob sat up, wiping blood from his ear. The Grislander glanced over.
“Stay there.”
But Hob ignored her. He was half-delirious and had a single objective: catching Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe. If they escaped, his mother and sister were as good as dead. He staggered over to Beecher’s rifle, which lay a few feet from Dàme Rascha.
As he reached for the stock, a bloody hand seized his wrist. Hob found himself staring into Rascha’s eyes. Their icy blue had clouded and the old vye trembled, but her teeth were sharp and bared in a jagged grimace.
“You did this,” she whispered. “You’re one of them!”
She pulled Hob down to her. He tried to squirm free, but an aged vye—even a wounded vye—was far stronger than a human boy. A savage growl rumbled in her throat. Hob was on the verge of losing his face. Sigga hurried over.
“Stop. He’s not one of them.”
“Of course he is,” the vye snarled.
“No,” said Sigga. “Let go of him, Rascha. Her Highness is unharmed. Let me tend to you. You’ve lost too much blood.”
The vye released Hob with a look of savage disdain. As her fury ebbed, so did her energy. Sinking back, she wiped blood from her muzzle. “The empress?” she whispered.
“Secure.”
Beecher had nearly crushed Hob’s windpipe. Every word he spoke felt like he had swallowed a shard of glass. “They’re going to hurt my family.”
Sigga was busy examining a bullet wound in Rascha’s shoulder. “Take the rifle and go.”
“I need your help,” Hob croaked.
The Grislander produced a leather case and selected a small scalpel. “I’m not leaving Her Highness.”
Snatching the rifle, Hob dashed out of the pavilion. He glanced at the bodies of the guardsmen, and down the path at the beach’s bonfires and torches. Witchfire blazed at the prows of Rowana and the warships. He couldn’t go that way, not covered in blood and carrying a gun. Rounding the pavilion, he saw that it was perched on a bluff some thirty feet above a little inlet. Kicking off his shoes, Hob took two running steps and jumped.
There was a surreal moment of weightlessness, and then the fall. Down, down, with the cool night air whipping about him. He held the rifle high and caught a glimpse of stars before he broke the surface. He plunged in a plume of bubbles as weeds tangled his legs. Shells and rocks cut his feet as he struck bottom. Pushing off, he shot to the surface and gasped for air. Paddling furiously for shore, he clambered out and took off running down the beach.
The night was relatively clear, and there was a fat summer moon hanging over the sea. Hob had plenty of light, but lots of ground to make up. He ran swiftly in the direction of the caves Ms. Marlowe had m
entioned. Now and again, he spied a recent footprint the tide had not washed away. When he did, he ran a little faster.
The run became a kind of dream. His own life was finished, but he was desperate to save his mother’s and Anja’s. He ignored the searing in his lungs, the sting of shells beneath his feet. They did not exist. There was only the next step, the next crunch of pebbled sand. Fenmaruq, Vessuk, and Kayüta were with him. Even Morrgu. They would not fail him. Not when a shaman’s daughter was in danger.
He dashed over rocks and sand, little shallows and pools whose edges were crusted with barnacles. A few hundred yards ahead, there was a white monolith that looked like it had been hammered into the sand. Driftwood was piled around it in concentric circles, as though it was a sacred place. Beyond the stone, an inlet fed a series of tidal pools that ran along a limestone cliff pockmarked with caves. Hob saw no people, no fires, no—
There!
His eyes caught a tiny glimmer of blue light upon the ocean—like a lantern whose shutter had been raised for just a moment. There was a sloop moored in the waters off the point ahead. Its dark sails were well disguised among the rocks jutting from the sea. But now that he was looking at it, the details became clearer. The blue light blinked again.
It was a signal.
Hob spied a little rowboat making for it, its oars sending up flecks of white spray. It had nearly reached the ship. Clutching the rifle, Hob raced ahead for a closer shot. He was so focused on the rowboat that he nearly slipped into a tidal pool. Catching himself, he made for some rocks rising from the water. His feet scrambled on the slime coating the lower half, but he wedged the rifle’s stock in a crevice above his head, and pulled himself within reach of a proper handhold.
Once on top, Hob shook several drops of water from the rifle’s barrel and unscrewed its silencer. He didn’t know if such things affected a round’s velocity or flight. This was not the time to tinker with something new, and silence didn’t matter anyway. Accuracy counted for all.
Tossing the cylinder aside, Hob raised the rifle to his shoulder and peered through its sight. The lens was coated with phosphoroil like his goggles back in Dusk. The night became several shades brighter as he brought the rowboat into focus.
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