Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

“Why must he do this? What is it that he wants?”

King Hallvard’s smile widened. He approached Ilmaire slowly, his body hobbling with every step. Ingrid inched closer, her sword a glint in the corner of Rielle’s eye.

But Ilmaire, sad-eyed, square-shouldered, stood his ground.

The king cupped Ilmaire’s face in one cracked, pale hand.

“To watch you burn.” Then he leaned close and rasped four words. “Long live the king.”

A shift in the air. A reshaping of the unseen planes of the world around Rielle’s body. She staggered, unbalanced. She fell hard against Audric, and he against Ludivine, who stood firm, her eyes blazing with fury as King Hallvard’s body dropped, suddenly heavy, as if every drop of his blood had been replaced with stone.

Ilmaire caught him before he could hit the floor. “Father?” He gently touched the king’s cheek, brushing aside matted locks of silver-blond hair. “Father, can you hear me?”

But Hallvard Lysleva did not respond, and in his wide, staring eyes—no longer so clouded, but rather a glassy, brilliant blue—Rielle saw no glimmer of life.

• • •

Two hours later, Rielle paced before the crackling hearth, struggling for patience.

Audric sat on a nearby divan, elbows on his knees, gazing pensively at the fire.

Ludivine huddled on a chair by the windows. She hadn’t spoken since they’d been escorted to their rooms after King Hallvard’s death—not aloud, and not in Rielle’s mind.

But the silence had stretched on long enough, and Rielle had just decided to tell her as much when a knock on the door and an announcement from the stationed guards signified Ilmaire’s arrival.

He entered alone, looking as if the past hours had scraped layers of color from his skin.

“Ilmaire,” Audric began, “I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”

Ilmaire shook his head, silencing him. “Leave us,” he quietly told the guards over his shoulder, and when they were alone—the four of them, Ingrid nowhere to be found—Ilmaire fixed his eyes on Ludivine.

“Did you know the angel Bazrifel?” he asked.

Ludivine shook her head, gracefully unfolding her body from her chair. “Not well. He is unremarkable in everything but his devotion to Corien.”

“And, it would seem, his ability to occupy a human corpse for a considerable amount of time,” Rielle observed.

Ilmaire shot her a glare. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider, Lady Rielle, before speaking in such blunt terms about my dead father?”

Rielle flushed, but lifted her chin to meet his eyes. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Please tell me you didn’t sense Bazrifel was here, Lu,” Audric said.

“No, though I did sense an oddness, a wrongness, when we returned from the Sunderlands, though I couldn’t name it.” Ludivine frowned at the floor, and Rielle at last understood why she had been so silent. She was ashamed; she was frightened. “Bazrifel should not have been able to hide himself from me so successfully.”

“Unless he had help,” Rielle suggested.

Audric stiffened. Ludivine fiddled with the sleeve of her scarred arm, her brow furrowed with worry.

“You mean, from this emperor he spoke of?” Ilmaire asked, looking at them curiously.

“His name is Corien,” Audric replied. “I didn’t know he was calling himself emperor now.”

“Neither did I,” Rielle said quietly. Her gaze met his and held it for a beat of silence. She remembered how he had watched her on the Kaalvitsi in the aftermath of her vision. How patiently he had listened. The warmth on his face, the trust so plain on his features.

Did he believe her, that she hadn’t known?

Or did he wonder what else she might have seen in her vision? Seen, and kept locked away from him.

She dropped her gaze to the floor, focusing instead on her hands clasped in her lap. She was being ridiculous. Audric had given her no reason to doubt his faith in her. The day had shaken her. She was exhausted; she was rattled.

The door opened without warning.

Ilmaire turned, frowning. “Joonas, I ordered no interruptions.”

“Apologies, my prince,” said the woman entering the room, “but this cannot wait.”

The woman looked stalwart, humorless, and wore robes of deep charcoal, hemmed in fiery orange—the colors of the Forge. She was, Rielle assumed, the Grand Magister of the Forge, whom she knew was the senior-most member of the Borsvall Church. They had no Archon; traditionally, it was the Grand Magister of the Forge who held the highest religious authority, in honor of Saint Grimvald.

Six others flanked her, all in magisterial robes—and then there were three more, bringing up the rear. A man and two women, each of them wearing gray robes boasting a symbol Rielle recognized at once: a single, unblinking eye resting atop what she now knew was not simply a tower, but the Gate itself.

The sigil of the Obex.

Rielle’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. She moved toward Audric, Ludivine following close behind.

The magisters moved aside to allow the Obex passage, and the three of them stepped forward as one.

In their outstretched hands lay a familiar object—worn and immense, its shaft engraved with countless minute carvings, its head a chiseled block of metal bearing the sigil of the Forge amid ice dragons in flight.

Ilmaire drew in a sharp breath. A chill moved slowly across Rielle’s skin.

This was Saint Grimvald’s hammer. Not a replica, but the actual casting of the long-dead saint himself.

A heaviness descended upon the room, like the rolling pressure of a black sky ready to break. Every person gathered, every pane of glass, every tile embellishing the floor thrummed, as if responding to the residual power the hammer still contained.

Rielle approached the casting at once, pulled toward it inexorably, following the call of the power that lapped against her like waves.

But then one of the Obex, flanked by her comrades, began to speak, and the words stopped Rielle in her tracks.

“‘The Gate will fall,’” the woman intoned. “‘The angels will return and bring ruin to the world. You will know this time by the rise of two human Queens—one of blood, and one of light. One with the power to save the world. One with the power to destroy it. Two Queens will rise. They will carry the power of the Seven. They will carry your fate in their hands. Two Queens will rise.’”

Rielle waited for the silence to end, apprehension bubbling in her throat. When no one spoke, she forced calm into her voice and arched an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’ve come to recite Aryava’s prophecy for me? Do you doubt that I’m as familiar with it as I am with my own body?” o;Why must he do this? What is it that he wants?”

King Hallvard’s smile widened. He approached Ilmaire slowly, his body hobbling with every step. Ingrid inched closer, her sword a glint in the corner of Rielle’s eye.

But Ilmaire, sad-eyed, square-shouldered, stood his ground.

The king cupped Ilmaire’s face in one cracked, pale hand.

“To watch you burn.” Then he leaned close and rasped four words. “Long live the king.”

A shift in the air. A reshaping of the unseen planes of the world around Rielle’s body. She staggered, unbalanced. She fell hard against Audric, and he against Ludivine, who stood firm, her eyes blazing with fury as King Hallvard’s body dropped, suddenly heavy, as if every drop of his blood had been replaced with stone.

Ilmaire caught him before he could hit the floor. “Father?” He gently touched the king’s cheek, brushing aside matted locks of silver-blond hair. “Father, can you hear me?”

But Hallvard Lysleva did not respond, and in his wide, staring eyes—no longer so clouded, but rather a glassy, brilliant blue—Rielle saw no glimmer of life.

• • •

Two hours later, Rielle paced before the crackling hearth, struggling for patience.

Audric sat on a nearby divan, elbows on his knees, gazing pensively at the fire.

Ludivine huddled on a chair by the windows. She hadn’t spoken since they’d been escorted to their rooms after King Hallvard’s death—not aloud, and not in Rielle’s mind.

But the silence had stretched on long enough, and Rielle had just decided to tell her as much when a knock on the door and an announcement from the stationed guards signified Ilmaire’s arrival.

He entered alone, looking as if the past hours had scraped layers of color from his skin.

“Ilmaire,” Audric began, “I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”

Ilmaire shook his head, silencing him. “Leave us,” he quietly told the guards over his shoulder, and when they were alone—the four of them, Ingrid nowhere to be found—Ilmaire fixed his eyes on Ludivine.

“Did you know the angel Bazrifel?” he asked.

Ludivine shook her head, gracefully unfolding her body from her chair. “Not well. He is unremarkable in everything but his devotion to Corien.”

“And, it would seem, his ability to occupy a human corpse for a considerable amount of time,” Rielle observed.

Ilmaire shot her a glare. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider, Lady Rielle, before speaking in such blunt terms about my dead father?”

Rielle flushed, but lifted her chin to meet his eyes. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Please tell me you didn’t sense Bazrifel was here, Lu,” Audric said.

“No, though I did sense an oddness, a wrongness, when we returned from the Sunderlands, though I couldn’t name it.” Ludivine frowned at the floor, and Rielle at last understood why she had been so silent. She was ashamed; she was frightened. “Bazrifel should not have been able to hide himself from me so successfully.”

“Unless he had help,” Rielle suggested.

Audric stiffened. Ludivine fiddled with the sleeve of her scarred arm, her brow furrowed with worry.

“You mean, from this emperor he spoke of?” Ilmaire asked, looking at them curiously.

“His name is Corien,” Audric replied. “I didn’t know he was calling himself emperor now.”

“Neither did I,” Rielle said quietly. Her gaze met his and held it for a beat of silence. She remembered how he had watched her on the Kaalvitsi in the aftermath of her vision. How patiently he had listened. The warmth on his face, the trust so plain on his features.

Did he believe her, that she hadn’t known?

Or did he wonder what else she might have seen in her vision? Seen, and kept locked away from him.

She dropped her gaze to the floor, focusing instead on her hands clasped in her lap. She was being ridiculous. Audric had given her no reason to doubt his faith in her. The day had shaken her. She was exhausted; she was rattled.

The door opened without warning.

Ilmaire turned, frowning. “Joonas, I ordered no interruptions.”

“Apologies, my prince,” said the woman entering the room, “but this cannot wait.”

The woman looked stalwart, humorless, and wore robes of deep charcoal, hemmed in fiery orange—the colors of the Forge. She was, Rielle assumed, the Grand Magister of the Forge, whom she knew was the senior-most member of the Borsvall Church. They had no Archon; traditionally, it was the Grand Magister of the Forge who held the highest religious authority, in honor of Saint Grimvald.

Six others flanked her, all in magisterial robes—and then there were three more, bringing up the rear. A man and two women, each of them wearing gray robes boasting a symbol Rielle recognized at once: a single, unblinking eye resting atop what she now knew was not simply a tower, but the Gate itself.

The sigil of the Obex.

Rielle’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. She moved toward Audric, Ludivine following close behind.

The magisters moved aside to allow the Obex passage, and the three of them stepped forward as one.

In their outstretched hands lay a familiar object—worn and immense, its shaft engraved with countless minute carvings, its head a chiseled block of metal bearing the sigil of the Forge amid ice dragons in flight.

Ilmaire drew in a sharp breath. A chill moved slowly across Rielle’s skin.

This was Saint Grimvald’s hammer. Not a replica, but the actual casting of the long-dead saint himself.

A heaviness descended upon the room, like the rolling pressure of a black sky ready to break. Every person gathered, every pane of glass, every tile embellishing the floor thrummed, as if responding to the residual power the hammer still contained.

Rielle approached the casting at once, pulled toward it inexorably, following the call of the power that lapped against her like waves.

But then one of the Obex, flanked by her comrades, began to speak, and the words stopped Rielle in her tracks.

“‘The Gate will fall,’” the woman intoned. “‘The angels will return and bring ruin to the world. You will know this time by the rise of two human Queens—one of blood, and one of light. One with the power to save the world. One with the power to destroy it. Two Queens will rise. They will carry the power of the Seven. They will carry your fate in their hands. Two Queens will rise.’”

Rielle waited for the silence to end, apprehension bubbling in her throat. When no one spoke, she forced calm into her voice and arched an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’ve come to recite Aryava’s prophecy for me? Do you doubt that I’m as familiar with it as I am with my own body?”