Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) Read Free Page A

followed her from the chamber. Together they walked along in awkward silence until they reached the junction where the Twelfth Realm joined the Thirteenth, and Elda turned to go. She paused, and then touched Syl’s arm briefly.
    “Take care,” she said, looking at Syl directly for the first time since she’d arrived at the Marque all those months before. “These old halls are treacherous. My friend Kosia was killed by a falling wall . . .”
    She trailed off, looking uncertain, as though considering saying more, yet fearful of the consequences if she did.
    “Your friend Kosia?” said Syl. Instantly she regretted the disbelief that seemed to slip unbidden into her voice as she repeated the words your friend , as though friendship were somehow beyond Elda.
    Elda stepped away and looked down, her shoulders slumping even farther.
    “Yes,” she said, “my friend. We joined together.”
    “I’m sorry,” Syl started to say, but Elda was already scurrying away into the Thirteenth with not a glance behind her.
    Syl couldn’t decide if she wanted to shake the Novice, or hug her. Elda was so uninvolved, so passive. She faded into the background, limp and washed out, doing everything she could not to draw attention to herself, so anxious to avoid any unnecessary contact with others that the sleeves of her robes were grimy from pressing against the walls of the Marque. And yet clearly she felt sadness at the death of her friend, this Kosia, of whom Syl had never heard before. She washurting, but who would ever know it to look at her? Who would ever look at Elda anyway, when she hardly seemed to be there at all?
    •  •  •
    Still shaken, Syl headed back to her quarters. Despite what Cale had said, her duties for the day were done. She had spent much of the afternoon in the Scriptorium adjoining the main library in their Realm, together with her best friend, Ani, translating a series of abstract poems from English to Illyri, before Ani rushed off to her special classes, the lessons she attended with the other “Gifted” Novices.
    Syl had continued translating, but her mind had been anywhere but here, everywhere but now, and eventually the Sister in charge of the exercise sent her off early, tutting at her incompetence. Syl was relieved, for it was slow, painstaking work, and she couldn’t see why they bothered anyway. What use did the Sisterhood have for the musings of long-dead poets from a distant world? But then her tutors argued that the poems represented knowledge, however ancient and alien, and knowledge was the lifeblood of the Sisterhood. No knowledge could really be described as useless; there was simply knowledge that could be applied, and knowledge that had not yet found its application.
    And, of course, it was part of their training as Novices. Translating, transcribing, reading, writing—that was how the majority of Novices spent most of their first three years. In between these tasks, they studied Illyri history, universal geography, mathematics, the sciences, and much more. Syl and Ani excelled in only one subject: existential biology, which explored the zoology and botany of conquered worlds, most specifically Earth.
    The subject Syl disliked most was applied diplomacy. It was a mix of Illyri etiquette, social studies, psychology, and politics, with rather too much practicing of polite conversation, folding of hands neatly on laps, and discreet dabbing at one’s mouth to surreptitiously remove hypothetical crumbs for Syl’s liking. The subject’s purpose, as far as she could tell, was to train Nairene Sisters to enter the larger Illyri world and charm—or manipulate—everyone they met to furtherthe Sisterhood’s own ends. For Syl, it was only useful in teaching her how the Sisterhood operated, and how it viewed the world outside the Marque. Know your enemy: that was what her father had taught her.
    Her father, Lord Andrus . . .
    She swallowed hard at the memory of him, and her eyes