Furyborn (The Empirium Trilogy Book 1)
Furyborn: Chapter 20

“Dark-hearted Tameryn had never seen anything good come by daylight. With her daggers, she carved shadows from every corner and hollow. She breathed life into their gasping mouths, twined them around her limbs and neck, tied their newborn fingers into the ends of her hair. There the shadows whispered secrets to her, in gratitude, and so she was never alone and always safe in the shroud of night.”

—The Book of the Saints

Sneaking out of Crown’s Hollow during the perimeter guard’s shift change had been dispiritingly easy.

Even the tense two-mile trek through the wild, thinking that every rustle of leaves was a Red Crown scout—or worse, Simon—had gone more quickly than Eliana had hoped. Remy believed her story. Simon, she’d told him, had gone on a mission for the nearest Empire outpost, to retrieve an important piece of information for Navi. He had left Eliana instructions: If he hadn’t returned within two hours, they were to come to his aid.

“Even me?” Remy had asked.

“Especially you.”

His eyes had narrowed. “Why?”

“Because you’re sweet-looking, and no one will suspect you of lies. You can sneak around in very small spaces. And you’re a storyteller. You can improvise as I need you to.”

“And we can’t tell the others?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Simon said not to. Don’t ask me to explain his choices. I couldn’t possibly begin to.”

Remy didn’t look convinced, but at least he wasn’t arguing. So far, so good.

But getting an audience with Lord Morbrae without being killed for betraying the Empire? That would be a challenge, even for the Dread.

Maybe they don’t really mind that much that I helped the rebellion’s most notorious soldier push one of the Emperor’s personal assassins out of a tower?

It was a nice thought.

Eliana scanned the moonlit forest, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her muscles burned from the sustained crouch, but it was a good burn. It reminded her: no more rebels; no more sad stories or lost princesses.

No more Simon.

“Is that him?” Remy whispered beside her.

They’d been waiting outside the Empire outpost for two hours, watching for the arrival of Lord Morbrae as the trees around them shivered in mist and the night sky inched toward a gray dawn. And now, as Eliana looked back at the outpost through a net of wet branches, she saw what Remy had seen.

A convoy approached the perimeter wall. Ten mounted adatrox. A coach pulled by four horses.

A door in the wall opened, admitting torchlight from within.

So. The Red Crown intelligence had been accurate.

She hoped.

“Looks like a general’s escort to me,” Eliana whispered.

Remy stared up at her from within the hood of his cloak, shivering even with the thick night steaming around them. “Maybe we should go back.”

Eliana turned to him, bracing herself. “Listen carefully. We’re not here to help Simon.”

Remy blinked. “What?”

“I’m going to negotiate with Lord Morbrae for information about Mother and for amnesty for all of us. At least until I can get you to Astavar. Then I don’t care what they do to me.”

“You…what?” Remy’s face clouded over. He stepped back from her. “You lied to me.”

Eliana sighed, glanced quickly at the outpost. “Yes, and you’d think you’d be used to that by now.”

“You’re going to give them information about Crown’s Hollow.”

“Remy—”

She reached for him, and he slapped her hand away.

“What’s wrong with you?” he whispered. “All those people—”

“The refugees? They’d do the same thing in my position. They’d do whatever it took to keep their family alive and safe.”

Remy shook his head, took another two steps away from her. “You’re wrong. Some would. Not all. I wouldn’t.”

A call from the outpost distracted her; she turned, squinting through the shadows.

Then Remy grabbed Arabeth from her belt and ran.

“Remy!” she called after him as loudly as she dared.

Behind her, one of the horses pulling the coach whickered and stamped its foot.

She looked to the outpost, then back out at the swamp. Remy’s small form disappeared into the gloom, running toward Crown’s Hollow. She had to chase him down. None of this was worth it if they were separated.

She stood, heard a twig snap behind her, and froze.

A male voice asked mildly, “What’s this?”

Slowly, Eliana turned. A uniformed man stood a few paces away, silhouetted by the torchlight of the outpost’s perimeter wall. Behind him stood a dozen adatrox, rifles aimed at her heart.

Eliana put her hands in the air.

“My name is Eliana Ferracora,” she called out. “I am the Dread of Orline. I was taken captive by Red Crown soldiers and escaped. I have intelligence you’ll want.”

Silence, then. The tree bugs hovering above her head rattled and droned. Sweat itched along her brow.

“And what,” said the man, “will you want in exchange for this intelligence?”

“Safe passage for myself and my brother back to Orline. A guarantee of amnesty. And the return of my mother as well. She was abducted from her bed two weeks ago. I want her back. Alive and whole.”

The man stood in silence for another moment, then approached her. As he moved closer, the shadows shivered away to reveal a reedy, clean-shaven man, with light-brown skin and short dark hair. Like all the Empire’s generals—like the Emperor himself—his eyes shone as black as a deep hollow in the ground.

Whatever drugs the Emperor fed his dogs to alter their appearance so drastically must have been truly monstrous.

Eliana met his gaze without flinching. “Lord Morbrae.”

He smiled, held out one leather-gloved hand. The gathered adatrox lowered their weapons.

“Welcome home, Dread,” said Lord Morbrae, voice thin and cream-smooth. “Come. Tell me your secrets.”

• • •

He led her through the prison first.

Every Empire outpost had one, and though this one was small and plain compared to the elaborate dungeons below Lord Arkelion’s palace in Orline, it was distinctive in one way. Instead of cells, the long, narrow rooms were lined with small, square cages that required the grown adults within to sit hunched. But not all were adults; some were children. Grotesquely thin, bellies swollen, skin red from scratching, lips crusted with blood and vomit.

They watched Eliana as she passed. The newer ones, not so thin or broken, glared viciously, spat through the mesh of their cages. The ones who had been there for a while—filth-encrusted skin, matted hair, gaunt-faced—said nothing at all, staring blankly.

At a turn in the wall, a small child slammed into the door of her cage and gripped the mesh with bony white fingers. Her eyes were furious, the skin around them red and raw.

“Help us!” she shouted, shaking the door. The metal cut into her hands. “Get me out of here! Get me out!”

“Is there a point to showing me all this?” Eliana asked, sounding bored. But her blood raged hot inside her.

May Tameryn the Cunning grant you a swift and painless death, child, she thought.

“I wanted to show you what will happen to you,” Lord Morbrae replied, “should you decide to cross me during your stay here.”

Then he opened a door into a small, plain room—one chair, one flickering lamp. He held out his hands for her knives. “You may wait inside.”

Eliana peered within, raised an unimpressed eyebrow. But her mind raced with panic. She didn’t have time to wait in a cell. Remy would tell Simon everything, and they would come for her, guns blazing. They’d shoot her immediately. She needed to tell Lord Morbrae, help him prepare his soldiers to counter the rebels’ assault—but not before she had gotten what she wanted from him.

She placed her knives into his waiting hands. “I get an actual room, then? Not a dung-smeared cage?”

Lord Morbrae’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Only the best for the Dread of Orline. I hope you’re hungry.”

When he closed the door, Eliana was left alone and uncertain. She sat on the chair in the middle of the room and waited.

• • •

“So. Eliana Ferracora.” Lord Morbrae reclined in his chair, brought a glass of wine to his lips. Over the rim of his glass, his eyes watched her, black and unblinking. “I’m listening.”

Eliana continued cutting her venison. Blood spilled onto her plate with each press of her knife. They’d kept her in that cell for maybe two hours before calling her into His Lordship’s dining room.

She tried not to think of the cage-filled prison, the screaming little girl with the desperate eyes.

She tried not to think of Remy or of Simon. Was he on his way by now? Or would they assume Lord Morbrae would kill her himself and write her off as dead? What would Remy think? Would he be glad to be rid of her?

And what would happen to her mother?

Eliana imagined scraping clean her circling thoughts with the edge of a blade.

“There is a Red Crown compound,” she began, bored, “two miles southwest of here. They call it Crown’s Hollow.” She brought a bite to her lips, chewed, swallowed. Looked up at Lord Morbrae and smiled. “What a delicious meal you’ve prepared for me. I’m grateful. Rebels don’t have much in the way of fine cuisine.”

Lord Morbrae’s laugh was barely audible. He snapped his fingers. One of the adatrox standing guard around the dining room moved to refill Lord Morbrae’s glass.

Eliana watched in silence as Lord Morbrae drank and drank. He snapped his fingers once more. Another glass refilled. He gulped it down like a desert wanderer, then slammed the glass onto the table, curled his lip. Picked up his fork and knife, violently cut his venison, crammed bite after bite into his mouth without pausing to breathe.

At last he stopped, took another gulp of his wine, and sat staring at his plate in disgust. “More meat,” he told the nearest adatrox. “Not this.” He shoved the platter of venison away. “Something that actually tastes good for once. Can you manage that?”

The adatrox bowed, gave a slight, jerky nod.

Once he’d gone, Lord Morbrae returned his gaze to Eliana, dark eyes heavy and lidded. Red wine stained his lips. “You lie.”

A frisson of fear skipped up Eliana’s throat. She smirked, incredulous. “I don’t. What good would it—”

“If there were a rebel compound two miles from here, we would have destroyed it long ago.”

“It’s underground. And well guarded.”

Lord Morbrae blinked at last.

Ah. Didn’t know that, did you? Eliana continued eating, examined the dining room blithely. “Lovely little space you’ve got here. Nice solid table. Impressive molding work. Did they make it up especially for you?” Fork in hand, she gestured at the nearest wall. “Do they change the art according to each visiting general’s tastes?”

“How many?” Lord Morbrae’s soft voice was an explosion in the silence.

“Three hundred and sixteen refugees.” She took a sip of her own wine. “Fifty-one rebel soldiers. Small bands—anywhere from two to eight rebels—come and go every day. There are ten on patrol in the woods beyond the compound, forming a perimeter. Five roam; five sit in blinds they’ve constructed in the trees.”

“Ammunition and supplies?”

Eliana grabbed a red apple from a gleaming silver bowl on the tabletop, took a bite. “Sorry, my friend. I’m afraid I can’t offer you more information until I’ve a guarantee for our safety. Me, my brother, my mother. Otherwise”—she shrugged—“no deal, I’m afraid.”

Lord Morbrae’s gaze traveled across her mouth as she licked the apple juice from her lips, then to her throat as she swallowed, then down her body. Eliana’s mouth felt suddenly dry. That wasn’t desire on his face, not the kind she was used to seeing.

It was fascination, raw and ravenous, as though the sight of someone eating an apple was a thing he had never before seen.

“I could kill you right now,” he said, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “if I wanted.”

“But you won’t. I know so much more than I’ve told you.” She took another bite, made herself watch him as she chewed, despite the apprehension creeping across her skin. “You won’t risk losing that information, not now that you know a rebel compound has eluded you for so long. I know the Wolf’s plans. A secret mission, beyond the efforts of Red Crown. It could turn the tide of war.” She tossed her half-eaten apple onto her plate. “Let me help you, my lord. What I ask for in return is nothing compared to the information I carry.”

Lord Morbrae rose to his feet. He stretched, rolled his shoulders, worked his jaw as if rolling out a kink.

Eliana watched, her stomach turning. She leaned back in her chair and picked at her fingernails. “Feeling poorly tonight, my lord?”

He moved across the room, sank into a high-backed red chair beside the crackling fire, and watched her. Shadows masked him, drawing dark shapes across his face.

“I’m still hungry.” There was an exhaustion to his voice—and an anger, thin but simmering. “I’m always hungry.”

Eliana glanced at the table, heavy with their supper. “Then—”

“Food won’t help,” he interrupted. “Nothing helps.”

A new silence filled the room. Eliana resisted the urge to move, matching Lord Morbrae’s stillness.

“Come here,” he said at last, holding out his trembling hand.

Eliana forced out a breezy laugh, though her heart pounded with a swift, terrible fear. “My lord, I’m wearing two coats of mud and haven’t had the chance to bathe in—”

“Shut your mouth,” he bit out, “and get over here.”

She waited for as long as she dared, then stood and moved toward him, keeping her gaze on his face. Let him know, with a carefully crafted expression of disdain and boredom, that the thought of what he would do to her in that chair didn’t frighten her.

She was the Dread of Orline wasn’t she?

But she had never touched one of the Emperor’s men.

She settled onto Lord Morbrae’s lap and tried to turn her back on the pain in her heart where Harkan’s memory lived. But suddenly all she could think of was his laugh, his wide smile, the clomp of his boots on the terrace outside her window. How he had touched her, that first time, with shaking hands. How he had always held her afterward like she was something precious to be kept safe and warm.

Harkan, she thought, fear buzzing in her ears as she placed her palms against Lord Morbrae’s chest. Harkan, Harkan. What am I doing here?

He had asked her that same question many times, and her answer had always been the same: surviving.

Lord Morbrae’s legs were long and bony; the buttons of his uniform jacket strained against his protruding belly. How could he possibly still be hungry? He looked to have gained a good ten pounds since they’d sat down.

He shifted in the firelight. Bread crumbs clung to his stained lips.

“I’ve bedded many people,” he said at last, smiling up at her. Bloody scraps of meat were wedged between his teeth; his breath was stale and rancid though they’d only just eaten. “But it never felt good. Not once, Dread. But maybe you…”

He traced his long fingers up and down her arm, found her open collar and toyed with her dirty skin.

“Maybe I what?” Eliana leaned closer, even as her throat clenched with revulsion. She let an inviting smile drift across her face.

“Maybe you can finally do it.”

And I will. Slowly, Eliana slipped off the ridiculous frill-sleeved jacket and let it fall to the ground. Beneath her tunic, the pendant bearing the ruined image of King Audric on his flying steed felt itchy and hot against her breastbone. If this is what it takes—for Remy, for Mother—then this is what it takes.

Lord Morbrae watched her every movement, his gaze distant and his mouth thin with frustration, as if he’d already decided that whatever kind of experience he craved, he wouldn’t replace it here.

His hands, though, were tight on her hips. Insistent.

She leaned over him, heart pounding, and let her eyes fall shut. She instructed her mind to detach from her body and tuck itself safely away. It was an excellent skill, one of the first her mother had taught her, and she wasn’t half bad at it. Lord Morbrae was a mark, just like any other. She’d get through this as she had many times before.

Except this wasn’t like the many times before. And when Lord Morbrae exhaled against her cheek, his breath putrid and strangely cold, Eliana couldn’t help it. She flinched away from him. Her eyes flew open.

Two black eyes met her own.

In that moment, it was as though something leaped out of Lord Morbrae’s mind and into her own. She felt a charge, as of lightning, reach out for her and grab hold.

She jerked in his arms, and he jerked beneath her.

And suddenly Eliana was no longer in the Venteran outpost.

She stood on the veranda of a palace, overlooking a vast land scattered with snow-dusted hills. Her vision was cloudy; shapes shifted before her eyes as if drawn on the surface of swirling water. She concentrated, fighting for balance. The world cleared somewhat: A city, choked and glittering. Distant neighborhoods spilled over one another, crammed between winding roads paved with white stone. Ivory spires soared to the skies. Sunrise poured rose-gold over a gaping, mountain-sized pit in the earth. Strange lights, like trapped miniature storms, flashed throughout the city streets.

All of it was unfamiliar, and yet Eliana felt a tiny urgent tug at her heart.

Was it unfamiliar?

A movement to her left caught her attention. She turned, somehow, though her body felt detached from everything around her. She couldn’t feel the stone of this veranda beneath her feet, yet she could see the world around her plainly, smell a faint scent that reminded her of Orline—river water, city sweat. But the air here was cold, biting.

This place… It wasn’t a dream or some delirious vision. At least she didn’t think it was.

A figure stood at the stone railing, not far from her, beside a statue of a man reaching for the skies with open arms. There were several such statues on the veranda. Protruding from each of their backs were magnificent wings shaped out of paper-thin colored glass and inlaid with fire-colored stones. Not feathered, these wings, but sculpted from flame and shadow.

Eliana recognized the figures from Remy’s tales about the Old World.

Angels?

She must have made a noise. Something changed in the air. The man went horribly still, then whipped his head around to face her.

Shining black hair curled just below his ears. A sleek, dark coat with square shoulders, fastened with brass buttons over his heart, fell cleanly to his feet. His skin was pale, his cheekbones fine, his mouth full. His eyes were blacker even than Lord Morbrae’s.

She would recognize him anywhere. His statues stood on every street corner in Orline. Enormous portraits of him, haughty and impossibly beautiful, hung throughout Lord Arkelion’s palace.

The Emperor of the Undying.

And, somehow, though she knew him to live half a world away in Celdaria, he was staring right back at her.