Furyborn (Empirium 1)

She waited for elaboration, and when none came, she examined the jacket he’d brought her—a moth-eaten, bell-sleeved affair with a dull embroidered collar that had once certainly been gaudy and now looked simply pathetic.

“Decent clothes aren’t something you rebels care much about finding, I suppose?” she muttered, nevertheless shrugging on the jacket.

“If you’re finished.”

She made quick work of her wild hair, braiding it into submission. “Give me my knives, and I’ll refrain from hitting you for at least five minutes.”

“Have you always been this unspeakably irritating?”

“Has your face always looked so temptingly carvable?”

“You wanted to know where we are,” Simon said, gesturing toward the door. She pushed past him into a dim stone hallway. A path of wooden planks lined the earthen floor. Following the distant sound of conversation, she turned a corner, passed two doors set clumsily into the wall, and emerged onto a wooden platform overlooking an underground pit. The walls glistened from the slow drip of water.

The pit’s floor was covered in people: refugees, clothed in rags. Faces dark and pale, grown and young, all marked with dirt, ash, and blood.

And around the perimeter—standing watch on platforms, moving through the gathered refugees with supplies and stretchers—were rebels. Some wore rifles strapped to their backs; others carried daggers at their waists.

Suddenly Eliana felt neither tired nor irritated.

Simon had brought her to a Red Crown encampment.

Immediately, she leaned against the platform’s railing, as if overwhelmed by the sight laid out before her. She let out a sigh of pity just loud enough for Simon to hear.

And she began counting:

Two rebel soldiers patrolling the pit’s floor. Six more distributing supplies. Five platforms around the room, one soldier stationed at each. An open crate of potatoes against a nearby stretch of wall; a dozen more, similarly marked, stacked beneath that.

Simon came to stand beside her. His scarred hands rested on the railing next to her own.

The pit’s size? She measured quickly. Maybe one thousand square feet, and twenty feet deep.

The number of refugees inside it? Three hundred, give or take.

“Speechless, Dread?” said Simon. “Allow me a moment of shock.”

She stepped away from him. “What is this place?”

She let her words carry a small tremor, enough for Simon to maybe wonder: Has the Dread’s heart been touched by the sight of such sprawling misery?

Ah, she thought, but the Dread has no heart.

“Crown’s Hollow.” Simon moved toward a set of stairs at the side of their platform. “Come. I’ll show you.”

She didn’t follow him, let some fear rise into her eyes so he’d think her nervous. “Tell me here.”

“This is not Orline, Dread. Follow me, or Red Crown will make your life as miserable as you’ve made theirs.”

Her laugh was shrill, unconvincing. Underestimate me, Wolf. I dare you to do it. “That would take some doing.”

“You’ve made this war a game for yourself, but here it is not a game, not for these people. And if you flaunt your kills in front of them, I will show you no mercy.”

The ferocity in his voice startled her. For a moment Eliana could find nothing to say.

Then she said scornfully, “You think you know me,” and moved to join him. “But you’re wrong.”

“And you don’t know this war,” Simon countered. “You will, though, and soon. Consider this an introduction.”

He said nothing else, and she was glad, for as they descended into the crowd of people, she could think only of the stench, and the low buzz of too many living, breathing humans crammed into too small a space. Children huddled in makeshift tents. A woman sharpened her knives as a tiny girl at her knee watched, wide-eyed. A young man read to his dozing companion by the light of a dying fire.

The air was a sea of sweat and filthy clothes and sewage. Worse than that, though, was the unifying expression the refugees wore. There was a hollowness to their faces—a hunger, an exhaustion—that pushed at Eliana’s ribs and turned her throat sour.

She couldn’t imagine what they had seen, and she didn’t care to. She had her own past of horrors to contend with, her own sleepless nights.

“How can you live with it?” Harkan had asked her, when they were both twelve years old. He had recently learned what Eliana was training to do and seemed to be struggling with how to talk around her, now that he knew what she could do with a knife.

“With what?” she had asked, concentrating on cleaning the set of blades her mother had purchased for her. First they must be cleaned, Rozen had told her. Take your time. Get to know them. They will need names.

Names? Eliana had asked, giggling.

Yes, Rozen had answered, her gaze the tiniest bit sad. They will be the truest friends you ever have.

“How can you live with knowing that you’ll kill people?” Harkan had nervously watched her work. “Good people.”

“It’s easy,” Eliana had replied. Back then, the gravity of what she was doing had sat heavy in her stomach like a stone in a never-ending sea, but her mother had instructed her that if she didn’t learn to tuck away that sick feeling, it would consume her. So Eliana tried on the face she had been practicing in the mirror every morning—thoughtless, bored, sly—and said to Harkan, “It’s the only way to stay alive.”

Harkan had shaken his head and looked away, as if the sight of her was something he could no longer bear.

“I don’t know what’s happening to you,” he had whispered, but he had stayed nonetheless, helped her clean her blades and name them. “Arabeth,” he’d suggested for the wicked, jagged one, even allowing a ghost of a smile when Eliana approved. Once that was done, he’d crawled into bed and held her until falling asleep.

But Eliana had not slept that night. She’d lain there beside Harkan, her eyes squeezed shut, wishing she would wake up in the morning and all would be as it should. Her father would return home, the Empire would be gone, and King Maximilian would still be alive.

Harkan would look at her like she was his friend again and not something terrible and new.

Saint Katell, Eliana had prayed, hear my prayer. Send us the warmth of your wisdom. Light the dark path before me.

Find the Sun Queen. Tell her we’re waiting. Tell her we need her.

She had turned her face into her pillow, tears coursing silently down her cheeks. Tell her I need her.

In the dim light of Crown’s Hollow, Eliana focused on the back of Simon’s head. aited for elaboration, and when none came, she examined the jacket he’d brought her—a moth-eaten, bell-sleeved affair with a dull embroidered collar that had once certainly been gaudy and now looked simply pathetic.

“Decent clothes aren’t something you rebels care much about finding, I suppose?” she muttered, nevertheless shrugging on the jacket.

“If you’re finished.”

She made quick work of her wild hair, braiding it into submission. “Give me my knives, and I’ll refrain from hitting you for at least five minutes.”

“Have you always been this unspeakably irritating?”

“Has your face always looked so temptingly carvable?”

“You wanted to know where we are,” Simon said, gesturing toward the door. She pushed past him into a dim stone hallway. A path of wooden planks lined the earthen floor. Following the distant sound of conversation, she turned a corner, passed two doors set clumsily into the wall, and emerged onto a wooden platform overlooking an underground pit. The walls glistened from the slow drip of water.

The pit’s floor was covered in people: refugees, clothed in rags. Faces dark and pale, grown and young, all marked with dirt, ash, and blood.

And around the perimeter—standing watch on platforms, moving through the gathered refugees with supplies and stretchers—were rebels. Some wore rifles strapped to their backs; others carried daggers at their waists.

Suddenly Eliana felt neither tired nor irritated.

Simon had brought her to a Red Crown encampment.

Immediately, she leaned against the platform’s railing, as if overwhelmed by the sight laid out before her. She let out a sigh of pity just loud enough for Simon to hear.

And she began counting:

Two rebel soldiers patrolling the pit’s floor. Six more distributing supplies. Five platforms around the room, one soldier stationed at each. An open crate of potatoes against a nearby stretch of wall; a dozen more, similarly marked, stacked beneath that.

Simon came to stand beside her. His scarred hands rested on the railing next to her own.

The pit’s size? She measured quickly. Maybe one thousand square feet, and twenty feet deep.

The number of refugees inside it? Three hundred, give or take.

“Speechless, Dread?” said Simon. “Allow me a moment of shock.”

She stepped away from him. “What is this place?”

She let her words carry a small tremor, enough for Simon to maybe wonder: Has the Dread’s heart been touched by the sight of such sprawling misery?

Ah, she thought, but the Dread has no heart.

“Crown’s Hollow.” Simon moved toward a set of stairs at the side of their platform. “Come. I’ll show you.”

She didn’t follow him, let some fear rise into her eyes so he’d think her nervous. “Tell me here.”

“This is not Orline, Dread. Follow me, or Red Crown will make your life as miserable as you’ve made theirs.”

Her laugh was shrill, unconvincing. Underestimate me, Wolf. I dare you to do it. “That would take some doing.”

“You’ve made this war a game for yourself, but here it is not a game, not for these people. And if you flaunt your kills in front of them, I will show you no mercy.”

The ferocity in his voice startled her. For a moment Eliana could find nothing to say.

Then she said scornfully, “You think you know me,” and moved to join him. “But you’re wrong.”

“And you don’t know this war,” Simon countered. “You will, though, and soon. Consider this an introduction.”

He said nothing else, and she was glad, for as they descended into the crowd of people, she could think only of the stench, and the low buzz of too many living, breathing humans crammed into too small a space. Children huddled in makeshift tents. A woman sharpened her knives as a tiny girl at her knee watched, wide-eyed. A young man read to his dozing companion by the light of a dying fire.

The air was a sea of sweat and filthy clothes and sewage. Worse than that, though, was the unifying expression the refugees wore. There was a hollowness to their faces—a hunger, an exhaustion—that pushed at Eliana’s ribs and turned her throat sour.

She couldn’t imagine what they had seen, and she didn’t care to. She had her own past of horrors to contend with, her own sleepless nights.

“How can you live with it?” Harkan had asked her, when they were both twelve years old. He had recently learned what Eliana was training to do and seemed to be struggling with how to talk around her, now that he knew what she could do with a knife.

“With what?” she had asked, concentrating on cleaning the set of blades her mother had purchased for her. First they must be cleaned, Rozen had told her. Take your time. Get to know them. They will need names.

Names? Eliana had asked, giggling.

Yes, Rozen had answered, her gaze the tiniest bit sad. They will be the truest friends you ever have.

“How can you live with knowing that you’ll kill people?” Harkan had nervously watched her work. “Good people.”

“It’s easy,” Eliana had replied. Back then, the gravity of what she was doing had sat heavy in her stomach like a stone in a never-ending sea, but her mother had instructed her that if she didn’t learn to tuck away that sick feeling, it would consume her. So Eliana tried on the face she had been practicing in the mirror every morning—thoughtless, bored, sly—and said to Harkan, “It’s the only way to stay alive.”

Harkan had shaken his head and looked away, as if the sight of her was something he could no longer bear.

“I don’t know what’s happening to you,” he had whispered, but he had stayed nonetheless, helped her clean her blades and name them. “Arabeth,” he’d suggested for the wicked, jagged one, even allowing a ghost of a smile when Eliana approved. Once that was done, he’d crawled into bed and held her until falling asleep.

But Eliana had not slept that night. She’d lain there beside Harkan, her eyes squeezed shut, wishing she would wake up in the morning and all would be as it should. Her father would return home, the Empire would be gone, and King Maximilian would still be alive.

Harkan would look at her like she was his friend again and not something terrible and new.

Saint Katell, Eliana had prayed, hear my prayer. Send us the warmth of your wisdom. Light the dark path before me.

Find the Sun Queen. Tell her we’re waiting. Tell her we need her.

She had turned her face into her pillow, tears coursing silently down her cheeks. Tell her I need her.

In the dim light of Crown’s Hollow, Eliana focused on the back of Simon’s head.