Furyborn (Empirium 1)
Rielle felt faint with relief. He’d snuck in weapons after all.
Audric’s face was hard with rage. When the assassin’s fiery sword crashed into his sunlit daggers, the blow hurt Rielle’s teeth. Sparks flew. Flames spit near Audric’s face as the firebrand’s sword bore down on him. But he did not waver. He stood strong before Rielle, the daggers throwing sunlight across the ground. He roared and lunged at the assassin, dislodging his sword. Twin orbs of sunlight burst from his crossed daggers and knocked the assassin to the ground. The assassin pushed himself back to his feet, his face and arms burned, and raced at Audric with a desperate, guttural cry.
Rielle’s head rang with each clash of their blades; she clamped her hands around her skull. She had to hold herself together. If she couldn’t stop her fire, the city would burn.
Audric met each of the other man’s strikes with his own. His daggers sang; the air shuddered with heat. He wove back and forth, evading a killing thrust. Spun around, hurled a shield of light from his daggers, ran the blinded man through in the gut. The assassin fell, his sword abruptly snuffed out. Another assassin approached. Audric whirled, caught the second man’s blade between his own. This one was a windsinger, the wind gusting and howling around him. It spiraled off his sword like an army of storms and nearly knocked Audric off his feet.
Their swords flashed, but even Audric had his limits. This second assassin was a boar of a man. If only Audric had Illumenor—
“Run, Rielle!” Audric shouted, curls plastered to his brow. He shoved his attacker, ducked a wild thrust of the man’s sword.
Rielle looked around, saw a glint of metal in the dirt: a fallen dagger, its hilt engraved with the crest of the Borsvall royal family—a dragon flying over a mountain.
Gathering her last strength, Rielle grabbed the dagger and lurched to her feet. Her legs nearly buckled; her vision dimmed. She pushed past the pain careening through her body and leapt, and the blade found its way home in the Borsvall man’s throat.
Rielle watched the man drop, felt his summoned wind disappear as he drew his last breath. The world was a faint buzz around her.
She watched the wildfire race down the slope toward the city, igniting every blade of grass it touched.
Stop, she thought. Please, stop it. Don’t hurt them. She reached for the fire with what remained of her ravaged control, tried to pull the inferno back to her, but darkness flooded her vision.
Maybe she hadn’t caused the fire after all. Maybe this was a terrible dream. She would wake on the morning of the race. Ludivine would help her sneak away from Tal’s office. They had it all planned out.
She would win the race, and Audric would sweep her into his arms, laughing. He would congratulate her, beaming with pride, and then leave her to dine privately with Ludivine, and a part of Rielle would die, as it always did when she was reminded of the simple, terrible truth of their engagement.
Rielle caught a scent on the wind—singed hair, scorched horseflesh.
It had been no dream.
How could she have done this?
How had she done this?
Her father was right. Tal was right. She should spend the rest of her life in a quiet room, dulled with poison. She could not be trusted.
She fell to her knees, her head spinning, and strong arms caught her. She felt a hand in her hair and lips hot against her forehead.
“Rielle,” Audric cried. “Rielle, God, you’re hurt. Stay with me. Look at me, please.”
Before blackness took her, she heard another voice—male and lovely and soft as shadow.
I think it’s time I said hello, said the voice. It felt something like a kiss, and it came from both far away and very near.
Then she knew nothing.
6
Eliana
“The Venteran capital, Orline, is a well-situated port city on the southeastern coast. Despite the sweltering heat and the occasional stench from the swamplands on the western border, I am forced to admit it boasts a certain unique beauty—a luxurious city of stone terraces, hidden courtyards, and hanging moss, hugged by a broad, brown river that begins two thousand miles north in the Venteran highlands.”
—Initial report of Lord Arkelion to His Holy Majesty, the Emperor of the Undying, upon successful seizure of Orline
February 13, Year 1010 of the Third Age
On the first night of the full moon, Eliana did not sleep. She donned her new mask, painted her lips crimson, and flung her favorite cloak about her shoulders—a little theatricality never hurt anyone—and disappeared into the night.
She took to the rooftops, to the hop shops that reeked of lachryma, to the red rooms owned by friendly madams. She spent a night drifting through the Barrens.
She watched, and she listened.
She sought out her usual informants—frightened rebels willing to betray Red Crown or useful opportunists who would play double agent for coin.
She asked questions and demanded answers. She threatened and coaxed.
Mostly, she threatened.
But she found nothing of the Wolf. Not a glimpse, not a whisper.
• • •
On the second night of the full moon, Eliana came home with a fist-size knot in her stomach and a dozen frantic questions in her mind.
Did the Wolf know she was tracking him? Was that why everything had gone quiet?
Was Rahzavel watching her?
Was this some sort of test?
Was she failing?
She sat on the terrace outside her room and watched the sunrise bleed the world red. Part of her longed to cross the gap between rooftops, sneak into Harkan’s room, wake him up with her mouth, and let him love her into oblivion.
But instead she sat still as a gargoyle, hood up and gloves on, and waited—and wondered.
If she didn’t find the Wolf, what would Rahzavel do?
And if she was hunting the Wolf, was he in turn hunting her?
• • •
On the last night of the full moon, Eliana came home with panic humming beneath her skin to find that someone had broken into her house.
When working, Eliana preferred to enter and exit the house via the tiny stone terrace outside her third-floor window. That way, the front entrance on the road remained undisturbed.
Tonight, though, her window was open. A thin strip of wood marked where the paint had been scraped off; someone had forced open the lock. There was a crack in the pane of glass.
As she stood frozen, she caught a scent on the air, just as she had the night of Quill’s capture—that same unbalanced sensation that had left her feeling thrown out of alignment with the world around her. A sour pressure sat heavy against her tongue and shoulders. e felt faint with relief. He’d snuck in weapons after all.
Audric’s face was hard with rage. When the assassin’s fiery sword crashed into his sunlit daggers, the blow hurt Rielle’s teeth. Sparks flew. Flames spit near Audric’s face as the firebrand’s sword bore down on him. But he did not waver. He stood strong before Rielle, the daggers throwing sunlight across the ground. He roared and lunged at the assassin, dislodging his sword. Twin orbs of sunlight burst from his crossed daggers and knocked the assassin to the ground. The assassin pushed himself back to his feet, his face and arms burned, and raced at Audric with a desperate, guttural cry.
Rielle’s head rang with each clash of their blades; she clamped her hands around her skull. She had to hold herself together. If she couldn’t stop her fire, the city would burn.
Audric met each of the other man’s strikes with his own. His daggers sang; the air shuddered with heat. He wove back and forth, evading a killing thrust. Spun around, hurled a shield of light from his daggers, ran the blinded man through in the gut. The assassin fell, his sword abruptly snuffed out. Another assassin approached. Audric whirled, caught the second man’s blade between his own. This one was a windsinger, the wind gusting and howling around him. It spiraled off his sword like an army of storms and nearly knocked Audric off his feet.
Their swords flashed, but even Audric had his limits. This second assassin was a boar of a man. If only Audric had Illumenor—
“Run, Rielle!” Audric shouted, curls plastered to his brow. He shoved his attacker, ducked a wild thrust of the man’s sword.
Rielle looked around, saw a glint of metal in the dirt: a fallen dagger, its hilt engraved with the crest of the Borsvall royal family—a dragon flying over a mountain.
Gathering her last strength, Rielle grabbed the dagger and lurched to her feet. Her legs nearly buckled; her vision dimmed. She pushed past the pain careening through her body and leapt, and the blade found its way home in the Borsvall man’s throat.
Rielle watched the man drop, felt his summoned wind disappear as he drew his last breath. The world was a faint buzz around her.
She watched the wildfire race down the slope toward the city, igniting every blade of grass it touched.
Stop, she thought. Please, stop it. Don’t hurt them. She reached for the fire with what remained of her ravaged control, tried to pull the inferno back to her, but darkness flooded her vision.
Maybe she hadn’t caused the fire after all. Maybe this was a terrible dream. She would wake on the morning of the race. Ludivine would help her sneak away from Tal’s office. They had it all planned out.
She would win the race, and Audric would sweep her into his arms, laughing. He would congratulate her, beaming with pride, and then leave her to dine privately with Ludivine, and a part of Rielle would die, as it always did when she was reminded of the simple, terrible truth of their engagement.
Rielle caught a scent on the wind—singed hair, scorched horseflesh.
It had been no dream.
How could she have done this?
How had she done this?
Her father was right. Tal was right. She should spend the rest of her life in a quiet room, dulled with poison. She could not be trusted.
She fell to her knees, her head spinning, and strong arms caught her. She felt a hand in her hair and lips hot against her forehead.
“Rielle,” Audric cried. “Rielle, God, you’re hurt. Stay with me. Look at me, please.”
Before blackness took her, she heard another voice—male and lovely and soft as shadow.
I think it’s time I said hello, said the voice. It felt something like a kiss, and it came from both far away and very near.
Then she knew nothing.
6
Eliana
“The Venteran capital, Orline, is a well-situated port city on the southeastern coast. Despite the sweltering heat and the occasional stench from the swamplands on the western border, I am forced to admit it boasts a certain unique beauty—a luxurious city of stone terraces, hidden courtyards, and hanging moss, hugged by a broad, brown river that begins two thousand miles north in the Venteran highlands.”
—Initial report of Lord Arkelion to His Holy Majesty, the Emperor of the Undying, upon successful seizure of Orline
February 13, Year 1010 of the Third Age
On the first night of the full moon, Eliana did not sleep. She donned her new mask, painted her lips crimson, and flung her favorite cloak about her shoulders—a little theatricality never hurt anyone—and disappeared into the night.
She took to the rooftops, to the hop shops that reeked of lachryma, to the red rooms owned by friendly madams. She spent a night drifting through the Barrens.
She watched, and she listened.
She sought out her usual informants—frightened rebels willing to betray Red Crown or useful opportunists who would play double agent for coin.
She asked questions and demanded answers. She threatened and coaxed.
Mostly, she threatened.
But she found nothing of the Wolf. Not a glimpse, not a whisper.
• • •
On the second night of the full moon, Eliana came home with a fist-size knot in her stomach and a dozen frantic questions in her mind.
Did the Wolf know she was tracking him? Was that why everything had gone quiet?
Was Rahzavel watching her?
Was this some sort of test?
Was she failing?
She sat on the terrace outside her room and watched the sunrise bleed the world red. Part of her longed to cross the gap between rooftops, sneak into Harkan’s room, wake him up with her mouth, and let him love her into oblivion.
But instead she sat still as a gargoyle, hood up and gloves on, and waited—and wondered.
If she didn’t find the Wolf, what would Rahzavel do?
And if she was hunting the Wolf, was he in turn hunting her?
• • •
On the last night of the full moon, Eliana came home with panic humming beneath her skin to find that someone had broken into her house.
When working, Eliana preferred to enter and exit the house via the tiny stone terrace outside her third-floor window. That way, the front entrance on the road remained undisturbed.
Tonight, though, her window was open. A thin strip of wood marked where the paint had been scraped off; someone had forced open the lock. There was a crack in the pane of glass.
As she stood frozen, she caught a scent on the air, just as she had the night of Quill’s capture—that same unbalanced sensation that had left her feeling thrown out of alignment with the world around her. A sour pressure sat heavy against her tongue and shoulders.