Furyborn (The Empirium Trilogy Book 1)

“I worry about Rielle. All children have tempers, but hers comes with a certain look I’ve not seen on the faces of others her age, or even much older. Her rage holds a delight, a hunger, that I’ll confess sometimes keeps me awake through the night. I haven’t talked to my husband about it. Sometimes I think I’m jumping at shadows. I should not be writing this. In fact, I think I will burn it.”

—Journal of Marise Dardenne

Confiscated by the Church of Celdaria in the Year 998 of the Second Age

“Again!”

Rielle exhaled sharply, blowing a sweaty dark curl out of her eyes, pushed hard off the ground, and jumped—first over a boulder, then over a pile of wooden rails. Then she scrambled up the rocky slope past the rails and down the steeper other side.

Don’t lose the pole, she told herself. Don’t. Lose. The pole.

She made it to the bottom, dropped to her belly, and slid under the net into the mud pit. If she touched the wide-weave net stretching above her, she’d have to start over at the beginning of the course, and her father would add another stone to her pack.

She’d made it halfway through before her hands slipped and she fell chin-first into the mud. Inhaling a mouthful, she choked and gagged.

“Up!” barked a voice from above.

She bit back a curse. Of course he would choose that moment for a fight. She found an opening in the net and crawled up through it, maneuvering her long wooden pole free just in time for her father’s attack.

His own pole flew fast at her shoulders. She ducked, raised her pole, and swung it around to strike. The poles met with a sharp wooden crash that hurt Rielle’s teeth. She swayed, lost her footing, caught herself on the net.

“Get up!” Her father’s pole swung again, rapped hard against her knuckles.

“Damn it!” She bit back smarting tears of pain and lunged to her feet, swinging wildly. “I was down!” But her feet got caught in the netting, and she tripped and fell hard on her tailbone.

“And you’re down again.” Her father made a soft sound of disgust and flung his pole to the grass outside the pit. “You didn’t even make it to the wall climb that time. Get up, and go back to the beginning.”

Rielle rose to her feet, shaking with exhaustion and rage. She kept her eyes to the ground, ignoring her ever-present guard, which stood silently around the obstacle course her father had engineered. If they thought she looked ridiculous, well, they weren’t wrong.

The course Rielle had described to Audric and Ludivine as her “woodland torture chamber” lay in a secluded area of the foothills of Cibelline, the highest mountain in Celdaria. The saints had constructed Katell’s castle, Baingarde, upon its slopes centuries before. Every day for six days straight, in preparation for the next trial, Rielle had met her father here—to strengthen her body, he’d said, and improve her agility.

So far, all it had done was make her sore. And angry as the darkest corner of the Deep.

“I’m not an athlete,” she spat at her father, picking her way out of the mud pit and tossing her pole away. “Nor am I a warrior.”

He let out a sharp laugh. “Never has anything been so clear as that.”

“And yet you insist on putting me through this for hours!” She marched across the grass, peeling off her mud-soaked gloves, gauntlets, shin guards, and at last the cursed, heavy pack of stones.

“We’ve been out here since dawn,” she muttered. “I should be studying with Tal by now, practicing with Grand Magister Rosier. Water’s always been my weakest element. Or I could be working on my costume with Ludivine.”

“A costume.” Her father scoffed. “Yes, a wise use of your time, that.”

“Ludivine’s idea, and a good one. If I want our people to love me—”

He laughed again, soft and unkind.

“—and show them I’m not afraid—”

“Even you’re not that good a liar.”

“Stop interrupting me!”

He fell silent, glaring at her. She glared right back, heat climbing up the back of her neck, up her arms, coiling in her belly.

Her father glanced at her hands, but she kept them clenched tight. She knew what he was looking for—wild sparks, the birth of a fire that would rage out of control and consume everything in its path.

As she fought back tears, fists clenched at her sides, she wished, not for the first time, that her father had been the parent she had killed—and that her mother had lived.

“If you are to have any chance of surviving these trials,” he said at last, “if you want to have more than raw power and dumb luck on your side, then you will need to become stronger, and quickly.”

“I’ve been studying for years, working on my control with Tal—”

“And that may not be enough!”

Rielle stood her ground even as he advanced upon her. She could feel her braid slipping, sense how sloppy and small and foolish she appeared next to Lord Commander Dardenne. The man somehow looked unruffled even in his muddy training uniform. She bit down hard on her tongue.

“This is no joke, Rielle,” her father continued. He re-knotted the ties holding the thin leather padding in place around her torso, straightened her collar, tucked loose hairs back into her braid so roughly that it hurt her scalp. “The earth trial was nothing compared to what the Magisterial Council will engineer for you next. This is only the beginning of a long, hard path. Your life as you knew it is now over. You understand this.”

Rielle’s cheeks flamed. What must her guard think of him scolding her as he would a small child? “Yes, Father,” she said quietly. “I understand.”

“If you fail, they will kill you. They might kill me and Tal as well.”

Rielle looked at her boots through a film of tears. “I’ve thought of that.”

“Have you? We can’t know the council’s mind, nor the king’s. These are extraordinary circumstances.”

“Yes, Father.”

He removed one of his gloves, used his bare hand to turn up her chin. She stared at him, eyes full, until his mouth twisted and he walked away. He sat on the ground by the mud pit, found his canteen in the grass, and took a swig of water.

“Sit,” he said, handing the canteen to her. “Drink.”

She obeyed, saying nothing. As she drank, she stole glances at her father, noting the gray at his temples and peppering his thick, dark hair, the lines around his stern mouth. She realized, with a swift turn of sorrow, that she couldn’t remember what he used to look like, before her mother’s death had stolen his smile.

“Do you remember,” she asked, “that lullaby Mama sang to me?”

Her father was gazing out at the mud-spattered obstacle course, the unsmiling ring of soldiers around it, the dense pine forest beyond that. Rielle watched him, examining his profile. She ached, suddenly, to hold his hand and ask him if he was as afraid as she was.

She curled her fingers through the grass instead.

“I don’t remember any lullaby,” he answered tonelessly.

Rielle couldn’t be sure if that was a lie or not, but she nodded anyway and looked out into the forest just as he did. She drew in a deep breath and began to sing.

By the moon, by the moon

That’s where you’ll find me

By the moon, by the moon

We’ll hold hands, just you and me

We’ll pray to the stars

And ask them to set us free

By the moon, by the moon

That’s where you’ll find me

When a few moments of unbearable silence had passed, she added, “I can’t always remember things about her. How she smelled. The feel of her hands. But I remember her voice, and I remember that song.”

As soon as the words left her lips, her father rose to his feet, dusted off his trousers, retrieved her pack of stones, and handed it to her. She could read nothing on his face except for the same quiet resolve it always wore—the certainty of Rielle’s wrongness and of his own long suffering at her hands.

“Again,” he said. “Back to the beginning.”

• • •

Rielle didn’t know how many people were outside waiting to watch her battle the ocean, but from the sound of them, it must have been a lot.

She shifted in her new boots and fought the urge to fiddle with the hem of her heavy cloak, the cords of which she had tied around her throat and torso, to keep her costume hidden until the last minute.

The costume had been Ludivine’s idea; keeping it hidden had been Audric’s.

Ludivine had tugged Audric proudly into her rooms late last night once her tailors had completed their final fitting and proclaimed, beaming, “Isn’t she stunning, Audric?”

Rielle had made herself look right at him. Why wouldn’t she? There was nothing strange about showing off her fancy new trial costume to one of her oldest friends. Was there?

But her cheeks had burned, her heart pounding so fast she thought she might choke on it, and then he’d suggested, “I don’t think you should show your costume until the very last moment.”

Surprised, she had managed to ask, “Why?”

He’d smiled softly at her. “Because then they’ll spend the whole trial hoping desperately that you survive, if only so they’ll have the chance to see you again.”

Rielle shivered now to think of his soft words.

Outside, Grand Magister Rosier’s voice boomed over the Forged amplifier:

“My brothers and sisters, citizens of Celdaria, a few words before the trial begins…”

As he described the trial and its rules and reminded everyone that there was no need to worry for their safety—every acolyte from his temple was in attendance, ready to harness the waves should the candidate lose control—Rielle closed her eyes and recited the Water Rite under her breath: “O seas and rivers! O rain and snow! Quench us our thirst, cleanse us our evil—”

The flap of her holding tent opened. “And here I thought you hated praying.”

“Tal!” She turned into his arms without a second thought, blinking back a rush of tears. “I thought you said the Archon wouldn’t let you see me alone.”

“Sloane’s just outside.” He stroked her hair, kissed her brow. “In her endless generosity, she’s allowed us two minutes to talk.”

“I heard that,” came Sloane’s dry voice from outside.

Rielle closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Tal smelled of firebrand smoke and temple incense, a welcome contrast to the briny salt stench of the ocean outside. She could almost pretend they were back in his office, ready for a lesson.

“I do hate praying,” she said, pulling back with a tight smile, “but right now? I’ll try anything.”

Tal carefully searched her face. “You’re frightened.”

“Frightened? Me?” She shrugged, trying not to let her teeth chatter. Why did the ocean make everything feel so damned cold? “It’s just that some stuffy old magister once told me praying helps my concentration.”

Tal smiled sadly, then scrubbed a hand over his stubbled cheeks. “I can’t believe this is happening. I keep waiting to wake up.”

“Don’t start moaning to me. I’m the one about to do this, not you.”

“You’re right.” He folded her hands into his own, bent down to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry, love. I just wish we’d had more time.”

A horn blasted outside, reminding Rielle of the Boon Chase starting line. That day already seemed ages past. The thought that she had been scared of a horse race was enough to make her want to laugh—or maybe cry.

“Lady Rielle?” The head of her personal guard, assigned to her by the king, opened the tent flap. She was a solid, broad-shouldered woman named Evyline, whose pale face wore a permanent stern frown. “They’re ready for you.”

Rielle stole one last glance at Tal. She knew what he was thinking. She was remembering the same thing:

Let’s go over here, Rielle! Here, under the willow tree, where the water is warm and quiet.

Tal’s hands tight around her throat, holding her under.

She shuddered, swallowing hard.

“Don’t hesitate to fight this time,” Tal said softly. His hands flexed at his sides, as if he longed to reach for her. “This is not about proving yourself. This is about staying alive.”

“No one knows that better than I do,” she replied.

“Lady Rielle?”

Without another word, she stepped past Tal and stone-faced Sloane, who surprised her by grabbing her hand and gently pressing her palm.

“Be safe,” Sloane murmured.

Then Rielle emerged into the sun.

Spectators sat in hastily erected wooden stands surrounding the bay, the nearest ones close enough that Rielle could clearly see the curiosity and suspicion on their faces. There must have been hundreds of them, thousands—practically the entire capital and anyone who’d heard about the trials and was able to travel to the coastal city of Luxitaine in time.

They were all watching her in silence.

Her guard following close behind, she walked to the edge of the pier and forced her head high beneath the hood of her cloak. A lonely gull cried out overhead. At the edge of the pier stood two acolytes, their castings in hand—a broadsword and a metal disk engraved with waves.

The horn sounded a second time.

One more and she would begin.

She gazed out over the water—a wide bay encircled by low black cliffs. The water was calm as glass.

But it would not be calm for long.

Well, said Corien, here we are.

She almost jumped out of her skin. Corien! I haven’t heard from you since— She set her jaw against the sudden, wild hope that he could somehow provide her with an exit from this horrible day.

I can’t stop this. You’ve played right into their hands.

I don’t want you to stop this.

He chuckled lightly. You can’t lie to me.

She loosened the ties of her cloak. I’m showing them they have no reason to fear me. They will love me for it.

They will kill you for it.

If all you’re going to do is try to make me afraid, she told him icily, then stay away from me.

I’m trying to help you see the truth.

She stepped forward and let her cloak fall to the ground.

The crowd gasped. Murmurs broke out like waves cresting across the shore.

Rielle couldn’t help a small, genuine smile.

She knew the costume was a good one, a form-fitting suit made from a stylish, brightly colored new fabric Ludivine had ordered from Mazabat. It would keep her warm in the water but was flexible enough for her to swim with ease. Waves embroidered with glittering thread swirled across the fabric in the temple colors of the Baths—slate blue and seafoam—and the fabric itself clung to her curves like a second skin. Mesh boots, light as air and with slightly elongated toes, rose to her knees. The suit’s collar was high in the back and low in the front. Ludivine had dusted her skin with shimmering paint, and with her hair piled on top of her head and held in place by shell combs and pearl-tipped pins, Rielle knew she looked like Saint Nerida herself.

The horn blasted for a third time.

The water began to churn.

Rielle took a deep breath—and dove under.