Furyborn (Empirium 1)

“Not even a little bit,” she lied. “So what shall I call you instead?”

He inclined his head. “You can call me Simon.”

“Fine. Simon. And one more thing: my friend, Harkan, will come with us as well.”

Behind Simon, Harkan raised his dagger to strike.

Eliana flexed her fingers.

Simon’s mouth thinned, the only warning. A turn, a shove, and then Harkan was flat on his back on the floor, Simon’s boot pressing into his throat, his weapon in Simon’s hand.

“Him?” Simon pointed at Harkan with the dagger. The look he threw Eliana was one of profound disgust. “Your lover?”

Eliana shot Simon a rakish smile. “Jealous already? Let him go.”

“El,” rasped Harkan, struggling to breathe, “we can’t trust him.”

“No,” she agreed. “But he can’t trust us either.” She held out her hand for Tuora. “Release him, or no deal.”

Simon paused, then returned Tuora to her and stepped away.

Eliana slipped the dagger into the holster at her belt, knelt at Harkan’s side, and helped him sit up. “Tell me more about this mission of yours, Wolf.”

“Information only as you need to know it, little Dread,” Simon said. “Until then, do as I tell you, and I’ll help you find your mother. You have my word.”

“The word of a rebel doesn’t count for much.”

“And what about the word of a fellow killer?” He took off his glove and held out his hand. “Have we a bargain?”

Eliana hesitated. If she accepted his offer, her life here would be forfeit. Lord Arkelion did not deal with defectors lightly, and Rahzavel would not allow her to disappear into the night. By doing this she would be endangering not only herself, but Remy and Harkan as well.

But if anyone could help her find her mother, and get all of them to Astavar and to safety, it would be the Wolf, with all of Red Crown—the very people she had spent so long hunting—at his disposal.

If she played this right, she could keep Harkan and Remy out of the Empire’s grasp for a few more years. She could elude Invictus, stay with her loved ones, find her mother, and keep them all safe.

She searched Simon’s eyes for lies and found only cold steel.

“Eliana, don’t agree to this,” Harkan rasped, glaring up at Simon. “We’ll find Rozen another way.”

But there was no other way. Eliana stood and clasped Simon’s hand.

“We have a bargain,” she said and tried to ignore the way her skin shivered at Simon’s touch—like the sensation of being watched from the shadows or the simmering charge of a storm she could not outrun.

9

Rielle

“The seven saints combined their powers and opened a doorway into the Deep with wind and water, with metal and fire, with shadow and earth. And when Saint Katell, last of all, let fly her blazing, sunlit sword, the angels fell screaming into eternal darkness.”

—The Book of the Saints

The Hall of Saints was the largest, most sacred room in Baingarde.

White stone pillars supported soaring vaulted ceilings ribboned with elaborate carvings of suns and moons, trees and flames. The ceilings themselves boasted a map of the world of Avitas: Celdaria and the other four nations of the sprawling eastern continent. North of Celdaria lay the Sunderlands and the Gate. And across the Great Ocean were the western kingdoms of Ventera, Astavar, and Meridian.

On a tall, white marble dais at the front of the room sat the High Court’s bench; grand, high-backed chairs for the king and queen; an ornate, wide-seated chair for the Archon, the head of the Church; and a multilevel gallery large enough to seat the members of every temple and royal council.

Above the dais towered Saint Katell, the patron saint of Celdaria and all sunspinners in the world. Her right arm held up her sword—her casting—which was now hidden somewhere in Celdaria.

Katell’s other hand clutched a fistful of ragged stone feathers. Angels, miniature and pathetic, their faces contorted in agony, crawled up the legs of her white mare, pleading to no avail.

Around her head shone a halo of light, plated in gold, kept burnished and flawless.

Saint Katell the Magnificent—a sunspinner and, after the Angelic Wars, a queen. The unifier of Celdaria. Loved by an angel but strong enough to resist the temptation of the enemy.

And, in the thousand years since, the children of her line had sat on the throne.

The other six saints lined the vast hall, three on each side. Gigantic and solemn, stone and bronze, they each carried their own casting and were framed by an element: Saint Nerida, waterworker and the patron saint of Meridian, brandishing her trident as waves crested at her back, her kraken coiled at her bare feet. Saint Grimvald, metalmaster and the patron saint of Borsvall, striking his way on dragonback through a storm of iron shards, his hammer in hand.

And Saint Katell, riding her shining white mare.

Twenty armored guards stood at the foot of the dais, facing Rielle. They were her father’s men and women, people she knew by name. She felt their eyes on her—concerned, curious. Afraid.

They are right to be afraid, came the voice, without warning. But not you.

Rielle stiffened. In this environment, it was impossible to hear the voice without remembering the truth: mind-speaking was something the angels once did.

Her skin crawled at the thought. So many people were staring at her that she could hardly remain still. Her father stood surrounded by a contingent of armed guards. Queen Genoveve, King Bastien, Ludivine. The Archon, serene in his robes. The councils—with the obvious, alarming exception of Tal.

And Audric.

He sat beside his parents, on the edge of his seat as if prepared to launch himself off the dais in case of disaster. When Rielle’s eyes met his, he sent her a small smile, thin with worry.

Rielle relaxed slightly.

Audric is here, she told herself. He won’t let them hurt me.

She found the king, above. The expression on his face made him look more troubled than she had ever seen him. King Bastien was a man of good humor. Rielle had grown up to the sound of his laughter booming through the halls of Baingarde, had screamed gleefully while he chased her, Audric, and Ludivine through their childhood playroom in countless games of go-find-the-mouse.

There was no trace of that man today.

Rielle resisted the urge to wipe away the sweat gathering at her hairline. She curtsied low, her skirts pooling on the spotless floor. “Your Majesty.”

“Lady Rielle Dardenne,” King Bastien began, “you have been brought here today to answer inquiries about the incident that occurred during the Boon Chase two days past. I will ask you a series of questions, and you will answer them truthfully in the eyes of the saints.” o;Not even a little bit,” she lied. “So what shall I call you instead?”

He inclined his head. “You can call me Simon.”

“Fine. Simon. And one more thing: my friend, Harkan, will come with us as well.”

Behind Simon, Harkan raised his dagger to strike.

Eliana flexed her fingers.

Simon’s mouth thinned, the only warning. A turn, a shove, and then Harkan was flat on his back on the floor, Simon’s boot pressing into his throat, his weapon in Simon’s hand.

“Him?” Simon pointed at Harkan with the dagger. The look he threw Eliana was one of profound disgust. “Your lover?”

Eliana shot Simon a rakish smile. “Jealous already? Let him go.”

“El,” rasped Harkan, struggling to breathe, “we can’t trust him.”

“No,” she agreed. “But he can’t trust us either.” She held out her hand for Tuora. “Release him, or no deal.”

Simon paused, then returned Tuora to her and stepped away.

Eliana slipped the dagger into the holster at her belt, knelt at Harkan’s side, and helped him sit up. “Tell me more about this mission of yours, Wolf.”

“Information only as you need to know it, little Dread,” Simon said. “Until then, do as I tell you, and I’ll help you find your mother. You have my word.”

“The word of a rebel doesn’t count for much.”

“And what about the word of a fellow killer?” He took off his glove and held out his hand. “Have we a bargain?”

Eliana hesitated. If she accepted his offer, her life here would be forfeit. Lord Arkelion did not deal with defectors lightly, and Rahzavel would not allow her to disappear into the night. By doing this she would be endangering not only herself, but Remy and Harkan as well.

But if anyone could help her find her mother, and get all of them to Astavar and to safety, it would be the Wolf, with all of Red Crown—the very people she had spent so long hunting—at his disposal.

If she played this right, she could keep Harkan and Remy out of the Empire’s grasp for a few more years. She could elude Invictus, stay with her loved ones, find her mother, and keep them all safe.

She searched Simon’s eyes for lies and found only cold steel.

“Eliana, don’t agree to this,” Harkan rasped, glaring up at Simon. “We’ll find Rozen another way.”

But there was no other way. Eliana stood and clasped Simon’s hand.

“We have a bargain,” she said and tried to ignore the way her skin shivered at Simon’s touch—like the sensation of being watched from the shadows or the simmering charge of a storm she could not outrun.

9

Rielle

“The seven saints combined their powers and opened a doorway into the Deep with wind and water, with metal and fire, with shadow and earth. And when Saint Katell, last of all, let fly her blazing, sunlit sword, the angels fell screaming into eternal darkness.”

—The Book of the Saints

The Hall of Saints was the largest, most sacred room in Baingarde.

White stone pillars supported soaring vaulted ceilings ribboned with elaborate carvings of suns and moons, trees and flames. The ceilings themselves boasted a map of the world of Avitas: Celdaria and the other four nations of the sprawling eastern continent. North of Celdaria lay the Sunderlands and the Gate. And across the Great Ocean were the western kingdoms of Ventera, Astavar, and Meridian.

On a tall, white marble dais at the front of the room sat the High Court’s bench; grand, high-backed chairs for the king and queen; an ornate, wide-seated chair for the Archon, the head of the Church; and a multilevel gallery large enough to seat the members of every temple and royal council.

Above the dais towered Saint Katell, the patron saint of Celdaria and all sunspinners in the world. Her right arm held up her sword—her casting—which was now hidden somewhere in Celdaria.

Katell’s other hand clutched a fistful of ragged stone feathers. Angels, miniature and pathetic, their faces contorted in agony, crawled up the legs of her white mare, pleading to no avail.

Around her head shone a halo of light, plated in gold, kept burnished and flawless.

Saint Katell the Magnificent—a sunspinner and, after the Angelic Wars, a queen. The unifier of Celdaria. Loved by an angel but strong enough to resist the temptation of the enemy.

And, in the thousand years since, the children of her line had sat on the throne.

The other six saints lined the vast hall, three on each side. Gigantic and solemn, stone and bronze, they each carried their own casting and were framed by an element: Saint Nerida, waterworker and the patron saint of Meridian, brandishing her trident as waves crested at her back, her kraken coiled at her bare feet. Saint Grimvald, metalmaster and the patron saint of Borsvall, striking his way on dragonback through a storm of iron shards, his hammer in hand.

And Saint Katell, riding her shining white mare.

Twenty armored guards stood at the foot of the dais, facing Rielle. They were her father’s men and women, people she knew by name. She felt their eyes on her—concerned, curious. Afraid.

They are right to be afraid, came the voice, without warning. But not you.

Rielle stiffened. In this environment, it was impossible to hear the voice without remembering the truth: mind-speaking was something the angels once did.

Her skin crawled at the thought. So many people were staring at her that she could hardly remain still. Her father stood surrounded by a contingent of armed guards. Queen Genoveve, King Bastien, Ludivine. The Archon, serene in his robes. The councils—with the obvious, alarming exception of Tal.

And Audric.

He sat beside his parents, on the edge of his seat as if prepared to launch himself off the dais in case of disaster. When Rielle’s eyes met his, he sent her a small smile, thin with worry.

Rielle relaxed slightly.

Audric is here, she told herself. He won’t let them hurt me.

She found the king, above. The expression on his face made him look more troubled than she had ever seen him. King Bastien was a man of good humor. Rielle had grown up to the sound of his laughter booming through the halls of Baingarde, had screamed gleefully while he chased her, Audric, and Ludivine through their childhood playroom in countless games of go-find-the-mouse.

There was no trace of that man today.

Rielle resisted the urge to wipe away the sweat gathering at her hairline. She curtsied low, her skirts pooling on the spotless floor. “Your Majesty.”

“Lady Rielle Dardenne,” King Bastien began, “you have been brought here today to answer inquiries about the incident that occurred during the Boon Chase two days past. I will ask you a series of questions, and you will answer them truthfully in the eyes of the saints.”