Furyborn (Empirium 1)

How can you live with knowing that you’ll kill people?

Good people.

She ignored the murmuring refugees at her feet and told herself, Don’t look at them.

Don’t look.

Don’t.

Instead she listened to the rebels bustling through the crowd. Passing out food, standing bored on the platforms, squeezing through the narrow spaces between the pit walls and high stacks of crated supplies, they began to drop whispered treasures.

“…Lord Morbrae arrives tomorrow…”

“The raid…two miles northeast…”

Lord Morbrae. Eliana knew the name: one of the Empire’s roaming royalty, he moved from village to village, outpost to outpost.

Something brushed Eliana’s wrist. She flinched away and looked down.

A refugee woman with a black scarf tied around her wrinkled, pale head reached for Eliana with a watery smile. Her arm was mottled with burn scars, skin shining taut in the spotty firelight.

Eliana barely resisted the urge to slap her.

Don’t look at them.

Don’t look.

Don’t.

Simon, however, gently grasped the woman’s hand and knelt down to speak to her.

Eliana looked away, arms folded tightly across her chest. A hot wave of anger rose up her throat—that the woman had dared to touch her, that Eliana had wanted to slap her, that Eliana hadn’t slapped her.

That this room was crowded with people too weak to make a life for themselves in the Empire’s world.

And that Simon was forcing her to walk among them.

She stepped away to lean against a column of rock, gazing about the room with practiced disinterest while her mind kept counting: four doors up above, by the platforms, and four more on the floor level. One stood maybe twenty feet away. Where did they lead? Tunnels?

A pair of rebels exited the nearest door, arms packed with folded bandages.

Eliana lowered her head as they approached, hunched her shoulders, closed her eyes. A dozing refugee, tired and alone, that’s all she was.

“…Monday morning,” whispered one of them, hurrying by, “we’ll blow them all to the Deep—”

“Let the angels wrestle with His Lordship for a while.” The second rebel guffawed. Nobody talked about angels without it being a joke. Not unless you were mad or a child who believed the old stories.

Like Remy.

Eliana listened closely as the rebels passed.

“Not sure even the angels deserve Lord Morbrae among them…” said the first, and then they had passed out of hearing range.

So. She would need to give Simon the slip and roam about until she found someone willing to confirm the scattered bits of information, but if it was true, tomorrow morning, Lord Morbrae would arrive at an Empire outpost two miles northeast of Crown’s Hollow.

And the day after, the rebels would raid the facility, taking down one of the Empire’s strongholds.

What to do with that knowledge, if anything, Eliana didn’t know. But she filed it away with a smug twinge of satisfaction.

“Contemplating your vile past?”

Eliana opened her eyes and shot Simon a nasty smile. “Finished chatting with your girlfriend?”

Simon gestured toward the nearby door, which stood slightly ajar. “After you.”

She pushed off the wall. “So where do they come from, these refugees of yours?”

“They come from everywhere. Ventera. Meridian. Even from as far south as the Vespers if they have a strong enough boat.”

“And you feed and house them? Treat their wounds and illnesses?”

At the door, Simon stopped her with a touch on her arm. She turned back to him with a coy grin, but the innuendo on her lips died at the look on his face. He considered her in silence, like he was trying not only to read her face, but to look even past that and find a deeper truth.

Look all you want, she thought savagely. You’ll find nothing good.

“Yes,” he said at last. “We treat their wounds and illnesses.”

Eliana ignored the disquiet in her belly, gave him a slight hard smirk. “There are many such Red Crown camps throughout the country, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Your rebellion might be more successful if you didn’t spend so much time nursing the damned.”

The door before them opened.

“Revolutions mean nothing if their soldiers forget to care for the people they’re fighting to save,” said a new voice. Two men stood there, and a woman. The man who had spoken was short, slight, pale-skinned with wild copper hair, and when Eliana’s gaze dropped to his waist, where a smallsword hung in plain view, the man clucked his tongue.

“Ah-ah,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “There will be no violence tonight.”

“Give me my knives and my brother, or I’m afraid I’ll be forced to disobey.” Eliana clucked her tongue. “And I was so hoping we could be friends.”

The other man, tall and muscular, with dark skin and black hair cropped close to his head, moved his hand to the revolver at his belt.

“Don’t bother,” said the first man, placing a hand on the other’s arm. “She’s afraid and lashing out.”

Eliana burst out laughing. “You think I’m afraid?”

“Everyone’s afraid. You’re just better at hiding it than most.” The man’s eyes flicked to Simon. “So Simon says, at least.”

Eliana’s laughter died, but a deadly smile remained. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Ah! Of course. How rude of me. I am Patrik, and I oversee Crown’s Hollow. This is Hob,” he said, gesturing to the other man. “My lieutenant and also my husband. And I believe you’ve already met Marigold,” he added, gesturing to the woman on his left.

She was older, with weathered brown skin and gray braids, and a malicious gleam in her eye. “I hit you on the head.”

Eliana grinned. “And I’ll soon return the favor.”

Patrik clasped Eliana’s hand, gave it a firm shake. “And of course I know you, Eliana Ferracora. Yes, I know exactly who you are.” When he smiled at her, it was not without kindness, but Eliana knew the glint of a killer when she saw one.

“Cause trouble in my home,” he said cheerfully, “and I will cut you from skull to navel, no matter how much I like your brother. And no matter how much Simon likes you.” an you live with knowing that you’ll kill people?

Good people.

She ignored the murmuring refugees at her feet and told herself, Don’t look at them.

Don’t look.

Don’t.

Instead she listened to the rebels bustling through the crowd. Passing out food, standing bored on the platforms, squeezing through the narrow spaces between the pit walls and high stacks of crated supplies, they began to drop whispered treasures.

“…Lord Morbrae arrives tomorrow…”

“The raid…two miles northeast…”

Lord Morbrae. Eliana knew the name: one of the Empire’s roaming royalty, he moved from village to village, outpost to outpost.

Something brushed Eliana’s wrist. She flinched away and looked down.

A refugee woman with a black scarf tied around her wrinkled, pale head reached for Eliana with a watery smile. Her arm was mottled with burn scars, skin shining taut in the spotty firelight.

Eliana barely resisted the urge to slap her.

Don’t look at them.

Don’t look.

Don’t.

Simon, however, gently grasped the woman’s hand and knelt down to speak to her.

Eliana looked away, arms folded tightly across her chest. A hot wave of anger rose up her throat—that the woman had dared to touch her, that Eliana had wanted to slap her, that Eliana hadn’t slapped her.

That this room was crowded with people too weak to make a life for themselves in the Empire’s world.

And that Simon was forcing her to walk among them.

She stepped away to lean against a column of rock, gazing about the room with practiced disinterest while her mind kept counting: four doors up above, by the platforms, and four more on the floor level. One stood maybe twenty feet away. Where did they lead? Tunnels?

A pair of rebels exited the nearest door, arms packed with folded bandages.

Eliana lowered her head as they approached, hunched her shoulders, closed her eyes. A dozing refugee, tired and alone, that’s all she was.

“…Monday morning,” whispered one of them, hurrying by, “we’ll blow them all to the Deep—”

“Let the angels wrestle with His Lordship for a while.” The second rebel guffawed. Nobody talked about angels without it being a joke. Not unless you were mad or a child who believed the old stories.

Like Remy.

Eliana listened closely as the rebels passed.

“Not sure even the angels deserve Lord Morbrae among them…” said the first, and then they had passed out of hearing range.

So. She would need to give Simon the slip and roam about until she found someone willing to confirm the scattered bits of information, but if it was true, tomorrow morning, Lord Morbrae would arrive at an Empire outpost two miles northeast of Crown’s Hollow.

And the day after, the rebels would raid the facility, taking down one of the Empire’s strongholds.

What to do with that knowledge, if anything, Eliana didn’t know. But she filed it away with a smug twinge of satisfaction.

“Contemplating your vile past?”

Eliana opened her eyes and shot Simon a nasty smile. “Finished chatting with your girlfriend?”

Simon gestured toward the nearby door, which stood slightly ajar. “After you.”

She pushed off the wall. “So where do they come from, these refugees of yours?”

“They come from everywhere. Ventera. Meridian. Even from as far south as the Vespers if they have a strong enough boat.”

“And you feed and house them? Treat their wounds and illnesses?”

At the door, Simon stopped her with a touch on her arm. She turned back to him with a coy grin, but the innuendo on her lips died at the look on his face. He considered her in silence, like he was trying not only to read her face, but to look even past that and find a deeper truth.

Look all you want, she thought savagely. You’ll find nothing good.

“Yes,” he said at last. “We treat their wounds and illnesses.”

Eliana ignored the disquiet in her belly, gave him a slight hard smirk. “There are many such Red Crown camps throughout the country, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Your rebellion might be more successful if you didn’t spend so much time nursing the damned.”

The door before them opened.

“Revolutions mean nothing if their soldiers forget to care for the people they’re fighting to save,” said a new voice. Two men stood there, and a woman. The man who had spoken was short, slight, pale-skinned with wild copper hair, and when Eliana’s gaze dropped to his waist, where a smallsword hung in plain view, the man clucked his tongue.

“Ah-ah,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “There will be no violence tonight.”

“Give me my knives and my brother, or I’m afraid I’ll be forced to disobey.” Eliana clucked her tongue. “And I was so hoping we could be friends.”

The other man, tall and muscular, with dark skin and black hair cropped close to his head, moved his hand to the revolver at his belt.

“Don’t bother,” said the first man, placing a hand on the other’s arm. “She’s afraid and lashing out.”

Eliana burst out laughing. “You think I’m afraid?”

“Everyone’s afraid. You’re just better at hiding it than most.” The man’s eyes flicked to Simon. “So Simon says, at least.”

Eliana’s laughter died, but a deadly smile remained. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Ah! Of course. How rude of me. I am Patrik, and I oversee Crown’s Hollow. This is Hob,” he said, gesturing to the other man. “My lieutenant and also my husband. And I believe you’ve already met Marigold,” he added, gesturing to the woman on his left.

She was older, with weathered brown skin and gray braids, and a malicious gleam in her eye. “I hit you on the head.”

Eliana grinned. “And I’ll soon return the favor.”

Patrik clasped Eliana’s hand, gave it a firm shake. “And of course I know you, Eliana Ferracora. Yes, I know exactly who you are.” When he smiled at her, it was not without kindness, but Eliana knew the glint of a killer when she saw one.

“Cause trouble in my home,” he said cheerfully, “and I will cut you from skull to navel, no matter how much I like your brother. And no matter how much Simon likes you.”