He lingered for a moment in the alley adjacent to the tunnel entrance—at the edge of Sheath, a stone’s throw from the Fades. The sun had set while he had been on his investigation, but the growing dusk still left plenty of light to see by. He had intended just to catch his breath, to rub the dirt and blood from his face. But he went still when he heard a voice.
It was low, sibilant, most likely female. “Well, that was a disaster.”
“It could hardly have been otherwise. The ward was too ancient—we are too far distant from the climate in which it was made. It was never going to hold.” The second voice was rough with age, but not slurred or uncertain in the slightest—the words were perfectly enunciated, every syllable sharp as a knife.
Roger took a deep breath, and craned his head around the corner of the alleyway.
Even before they spoke again, it was easy to see which voice belonged to which figure. Standing straight as a pole in the middle of the street was an old woman, white-haired and lined with countless wrinkles, though she did not look frail. Gran had been keen and capable to the very hour of her death, and he suspected this woman was no different. Her eyes were piercing even at this distance, even though they aimed all their intensity not at Roger but at her companion.
The other woman recalled Gran too, in a strange way—though it was a version of her he had only imagined, never seen. It was Gran as she must have been when she was young, a master thief just coming into her own. This woman had that nimbleness, that agile grace; her movements were sweeping and precise as a dancer’s, while the old crone stayed so still. And the woman’s hair was not just any red; it was the Halfen red, the color such a perfect match that he almost wondered if he knew her, or if she was an offshoot of some family branch even Gran hadn’t known about. She would have been more beautiful if she were not quite so thin: her limbs were long and spindly, her shoulder blades sharply defined. There was an unabashed hunger in her eyes.
She was displeased now, circling the crone restlessly. “It needn’t be so significant. There are other ways—there are countless other ways. It could still turn out as we desire.”
“No,” the crone said calmly, the word as final as a slammed door. “He might find it, still—after much searching. But even if he does, what will he do with it? He cannot see what needs to be seen. How will he know what he needs to know?” She sighed. “I know it is not in your nature to be patient, but if you would try—”
“You would speak to me of patience?” her companion hissed, fingers clawing at the air. “You would speak to me of patience? How long do you think I have been patient? How long have I been thwarted and cast aside, the province only of grasping cowards and two-bit schemers? How long has it been since I beheld a true vision?”
What bloody scheme was this? No common thief would dare to speak so arrogantly in the open street, yet this woman declaimed as if challenging the very air to defy her. Who was she, that he had no prior knowledge of her?
For the first time, he saw a hint of irony creep into the crone’s expression. “Well, Imperator Elgar certainly has a vision, wouldn’t you say?”
“An old vision,” the younger woman spat, eyes flashing. “A vision we are all tired of, I not least of all.” She scoffed. “Elesthene! That puddle of stagnant water! Is that what you want me to look forward to?”
“No one grieved more than I over the destruction wrought by Elesthene,” the crone said, a slight edge to her voice. “I never claimed to be neutral in this matter. I merely wish to suggest that other avenues might prove more successful.”
“Other avenues?” The younger woman’s smirk was sharp and knowing; that reminded him of Gran, too. “Oh, not your pet? The little mage, who scratches at the smallest drop of blood and thinks she has found the vein?”
The crone pursed her lips. “No one is better suited for it.”
“Better suited, perhaps, but there are many who are better situated. How is she to get to Valyanrend? She will come here only if she loses.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Oh, we surely do. What other alternative can you discern, even with those far-seeing eyes of yours?” The younger woman leaped away from her companion, landed on the ball of her foot, and spun around. She extended her bony arm out straight, one long finger pointed into the crone’s face. “Mark my words, Asariel,” she said. “If your favorite should come to Valyanrend, she will die. She will die before she can ever discover its secret, or even begin to learn just how much her kind has forgotten.” She relented slightly, dropping her hand. “It gives me no pleasure to tell you this, you understand. It is only that I above all know what it is to hope so ardently for so long, only to be crushed beneath the heel of circumstance.”
If the crone had been at all affected by that dire pronouncement, she did not show it. “It is reality that crushes you most often, my old friend,” she said. “We must both wait and see what it has in store for us this time.”
As if by some unspoken agreement, they turned to walk down the street, away from Roger. But just before they rounded the corner, the younger woman glanced back over her shoulder, wearing that smirk again. “Evening, Roger,” she said.
Roger jerked his head back into the shadows of the alleyway, his heart pounding absurdly. When had he ever … how had she known…?
He was being ridiculous, he told himself. They were just an old crone and a skinny wisp of a woman, physically unimpressive even by his standards. What did he have to be afraid of?
He raced back into the street, following the route the two women had taken. But when he turned the corner, the road he saw was straight and wide and empty, only moonlight resting on the cobblestones.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ISABELLE STEIGER was born in the city and grew up in the woods. She received her first notebook when she was eight, and she’s been filling them up ever since. She lives in New York, though her erstwhile companion, a very moody gray cat, has since retired and moved to Florida. The Empire’s Ghost is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
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About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE EMPIRE’S GHOST. Copyright © 2017 by Isabelle Steiger. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Map by Karol Sowa
Cover design by Young Jin Lim
Cover illustrations: frame and city © Shutterstock.com; man © Getty Images
Cover photographs: sky, mountains, and snow field © Shutterstock.com
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ISBN 978-1-250-08848-2 (hardcover)
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First Edition: May 2017
The Empire's Ghost Page 60