The ash tasted like a benediction.
Mia stood on the stairs, listening to Drusilla’s fleeing footsteps, the Church bells pealing their alarm. She could smell charred meat, blood and guts and shit, all of it a sweet perfume. Her eyes burned in the rising smoke and her skin was wet and sticky red and Scaeva was already beating feet back into the Mountain. Any normal girl might have been afraid he’d make good his escape in that moment. Any normal girl might have been afraid all she’d worked for might come to nothing. But not this girl.
What is the difference between courage and stupidity?
Who would you be, how would you act, gentlefriend, if you were truly unafraid?
Mia looked to Ashlinn and Tric, dark eyes alight.
“Go help Sid and ’Singer,” she commanded them. “Cleave to the plan. Get to the speaker’s chambers and cut off their escape.”
Ash glanced at Solis. “Mia, are—”
“There’s no time to argue, just go!”
The pair glanced at each other, bitter opposites in all but their shared love for her. Mia could see the fear in their eyes—the fear she simply couldn’t share with Eclipse in her shadow. But finally they obeyed, Ash barreling up the stairwell with Tric close on her heels, following Sid and Bladesinger toward the speaker’s chambers. Naev was extinguishing the fires that had started after the explosion. Butcher was standing guard over her brother.
But Mia had eyes only for the Revered Father.
Her swords were heavy in her hands, red with gore. She took two steps down toward him, his blind eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was charred, his skin pinked by her blast. But his blades were steady in his grip. His muscles gleamed, his shoulders broad as bridges, his biceps as big as her head. His lips curled with disdain as he spoke.
“So you do have the courage to face me. Color me astounded.”
Mia glanced toward her brother, back up the stairs.
“I could kill you where you stand, Solis,” she said simply. “I could bid the shadows rip you limb from limb. I could fix it so our swords never even touched.”
Mia stepped closer and raised one dripping blade.
“But I want them to touch. Because when first we fought, I was only a novice. And when we faced each other in Godsgrave, I wasn’t my best. But now? No shadows. No tricks. Blade to blade. Because you helped murder a man I loved like a father. And I’m going to kill you for that, you sonofabitch.”
Whatever the Shahiid was about to say was cut off as Mia lunged. Her blade was pale quicksilver, her form blinding. The man stepped aside and struck back, blade whistling past Mia’s throat. She twisted, long black hair streaming behind her, stabbing at his belly. Eclipse swirled around them, between them, snarling and growling. And there, on the bloodied steps of the Red Church, their battle joined in truth.
Most fights to the death end within moments, gentlefriends. It’s a little-known fact—particularly among those of you fond of reading about sword duels, rather than actually dueling with swords. But in truth, it only takes a single mistake to spell your end when someone swings a large and sharpened bit of metal at you.
Mia knew Solis had never respected her as an acolyte, as a Blade, as an opponent. With Eclipse beside her, she was fearless. Lithe and muscled, hard as steel, Mia Corvere was every bit the champion who’d won the Venatus Magni. But Solis was taller than her. His reach was longer and his experience deeper, and with his Belt of Eyes, he could see her strikes coming through that swirling rain of embers and smoke. When Mia was still a child, he was murdering hundreds with his bare hands to escape the Philosopher’s Stone. He’d served for years as the greatest swordsman in the Red Church congregation. In every conceivable fashion, he thought himself her better.
“Worthless slip,” he growled, blocking her strike.
He swung hard, almost taking Mia’s head off her shoulders.
“Pathetic child,” he spat, forcing her away.
Mia danced backward, nearly slipping on the bloody floor. She turned aside his blade, lashed out with her own. Dodge. Strike. Parry. Lunge. Her pulse was soon thumping, sweat burning her eyes. Solis’s twin blades cut the air in hypnotic patterns, whistling as they came. A perfect lunge from the Shahiid almost split her rib cage in two. A second strike nearly knocked her longblade from her hand.
“Mia!” Jonnen called from below, stepping forward in fear.
“… BEWARE, MIA…,” Eclipse growled at her feet.
Mia gasped for breath as Solis’s lips curled in a smile.
“You disappoint me, girl,” he said.
As she parried another of his punishing blows, Mia began to realize just how strong her foe truly was. Just how little her rage and her speed counted for in a match like this. The Shahiid’s arms were as thick as her thighs. His hands like dinner plates. The man was made of muscle, half again her height, fully twice her weight; a single blow from him, a single mistake, would be enough to end her.
And so she had to end him first.
Mia slipped aside another of Solis’s strikes, jumped up, and kicked off the stair’s railing. Leaping into the air, she raised her blade in an overhead swing, throwing all her strength and fury behind it. It was an impressive move. A move that might make an audience gasp in wonder. But it was also a novice’s move. A flashy and garish arena move. A move that someone in a hurry might try, in the hopes of ending a bout against a superior opponent. And Solis knew it. Because in the end, his opponent was just a worthless slip. A pathetic child. A girl. And he was simply stronger than her.
Fortunately, the same couldn’t be said of his blades.
Solis’s swords were Liisian steel, you see. The metal had been folded a hundred times, sharpened to an edge keen enough to cut the sunslight. But Mia’s blade had once belonged to Darius Corvere, the man Solis helped kill. Its hilt had been crafted like a crow in flight, the sigil of the familia Solis had helped destroy. And it was made of gravebone, gentlefriend. Sharper than obsidian. Stronger than steel.
And underestimating the blade, and the one wielding it, was Solis’s mistake.
The Shahiid’s lips curled. He raised one sword to ward off Mia’s blow, drew back his second, ready to split her guts. Their weapons met with a shuddering rinnnng. Edge to edge. Razored gravebone against folded Liisian steel. And the gravebone won.
Mia’s sword cleaved through Solis’s, sparks flying as his blade was sheared in two. Her blow found its mark, cutting into the big man’s shoulder, the chest beyond, blood spraying. Solis cried out, his strike gone wide as he staggered.
“Worthless slip,” Mia growled.
Dragging her blade down through his ribs, she tore it free in a slick of bright red gore.
“Pathetic child,” she spat.
Spinning on the spot and opening up his belly.
“Girl,” she smiled.
Solis’s insides spilled out. His blind eyes open wide.
“But I’m still the one who beat you,” Mia said.
She kicked him in the chest, sent him flying backward, skidding through his blood to slam against the wall. Holding in his ruptured guts, Solis tried to rise. He tried to speak. He tried to breathe. But in the end, he failed at all of it. And with a red gurgle, the Revered Father crumpled to the floor.
“Fuck yes!” Butcher bellowed from below, arms in the air. “CROWWW!”
Mia sank down into a crouch on the blood-slicked stone, one hand out to steady herself. She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath as she clawed her hair from her eyes. Looking to the gladiatii, to Naev, she managed a ragged grin.
“Is she well?” Naev called.
“Aye,” Mia managed. “But I’m not half done, yet. Look after him for me, neh?”
Naev looked to Jonnen and nodded. “With our lives.”
“Never fear, little Crow,” Butcher said.
“Eclipse, I want you to stay here, too,” Mia gasped. “Guard my brother.”
“… AS IT PLEASE YOU…,” came a low growl beneath her.
The daemon parted from her shadow, coalescing on the blood-soaked stairs before her eyes. Mia looked her up and down, still struggling for breath.
“… You’re not going to warn me that I’ll need you when I face him?”
The shadowwolf looked at Mia with her not-eyes, ears twitching.
“… YOU WILL NOT NEED ME. YOU HAVE THE HEART OF A LION…”
“I remember you telling me that.” Mia managed a tired grin. “But I have the heart of a crow, Eclipse. Black and shriveled, remember?”
The daemon stepped close, pressed her muzzle to Mia’s cheeks.
“… YOU WILL KNOW THE LIE OF THAT BEFORE THE END…”
The shadowwolf’s fur was a whisper against her skin. Mia could almost feel it, velvet soft and cool as night. Making her shiver, even as she smiled.
“… GO FIND YOUR FATHER, MIA…”
The girl nodded. And with a wince, she dragged herself to her feet.
“Mia?” her brother said, his voice faltering.
But she was already gone.
Drusilla ran.
Aalea hurried along beside her, supporting her lady with one arm. Spiderkiller followed slower, clearly torn between her vengeance against Corvere and saving her own skin. But Drusilla knew Corvere’s companions would be making their way deeper into the Mountain even now, that treacherous bitch Järnheim leading them on—if they reached Adonai before Drusilla did, her only hope of escape would be lost. And so the Lady of Blades found herself running through the winding dark, as best her old legs could carry her.
“Where do we go?” Aalea asked beside her, breathless.
“The speaker,” the lady replied.
“We run?” Spiderkiller demanded.
“We live,” Drusilla spat.
Drusilla could hear the imperator’s guards ahead of them, Scaeva among them, moving swift on the winding stairs. Loyal Hands rushed past the lady and Shahiids, back down toward the stables, armed with bows and blades. Fresh-faced acolytes followed—the Mountain’s latest crop of recruits and second line of defense—yelling at the Lady of Blades to run, run.
The Church choir seemed louder somehow, pressed with a faint urgency. Drusilla was gasping, unused to running, mouth dry as old bones.
How did it come to this?
She’d lost sight of Scaeva ahead of them now, but she knew well enough that the imperator would be headed to Adonai’s chambers, too. Seeking escape through the only means now left to him, and to leave this abattoir behind him.
But none of this makes sense.
Drusilla had read the Nevernight Chronicle end to end. She’d left nothing to chance. Corvere and her comrades should’ve been caught entirely unaware—nowhere did the tome mention the girl carried a barrel load of arkemist’s salt in her wagon, or suspected any kind of trap.
Since Drusilla had discovered their part in the plot, Adonai and Marielle were in no shape to warn Mia. Mercurio and Aelius had no means to even speak to her. How in Mother’s name had Corvere known Drusilla planned to ambush her? If the chronicle were truly the story of her life, if the third book was truly the story of her death …
Drusilla could hear the clash of steel in the distance now—Corvere’s gladiatii locked in a deadly dance with the Mountain’s defenders. She could hear Järnheim yelling. Sidonius barking orders. The old woman’s heart was thumping against her ribs. Her breath burning in her chest. Aalea was supporting her weight, long dark hair stuck to the sweat on her skin. Spiderkiller was falling farther and farther behind. Drusilla had lost sight of Scaeva’s men entirely. Her knees were aching. Her old bones creaking with every step.
She was too old for this, she realized. Too tired. All her years in service to the Mother had only led her here. Leader of a Church that was coming to pieces all about her. Mistress of a Ministry torn asunder. All the plotting, all the killing, all the coin. And this was where it ended? Cut down by a monster of her own making?
They reached the Hall of Eulogies. Niah’s statue towering above them. Dead names carved on the floor beneath them. Unmarked tombs all around. The ring of steel and cries of pain were growing ever closer. Drusilla realized Spiderkiller had abandoned them somewhere back there in the dark. That she and Aalea were now alone.
Almost.
“Thought you might come this way.”
Drusilla dragged Aalea to a breathless halt. Mercurio stood before them in his dark robes, barring their exit from the hall. His blue eyes were soft with pity. In his right hand, he clutched an apothecary’s bonesaw, dipped red with blood.
“You always were a creature of habit, ’Silla.”
“You…,” Drusilla breathed.
“Me,” the old man replied.
“But your heart…”
Mercurio smiled sadly, tapping his bony chest. “I’m a good liar. Not quite as good as you, I’m afraid. But then, I doubt anyone is.”
“You did this,” Drusilla realized.
But Mercurio slowly shook his head.
“I can’t take much credit. It was mostly Aelius, truth told. The third chronicle was his idea. He only told me his intentions after he’d written it.”
Drusilla’s heart sank in her withered breast.
Aelius drew long and deep on his cigarillo, embers sparking in his eyes, his fingers stained with ink.
“Don’t fuck with librarians, young lady. We know the power of words.”
His fingers stained with ink …
“Things don’t get found in this place unless they’re supposed to be.”
O, Goddess …
O, Mother, how could she have been so blind?
It all happened just as it was meant to.
As he meant it to.
That treacherous old son of a whore …
“Let us pass, Mercurio,” the Lady of Blades hissed.
“You know I can’t do that, ’Silla.”
Drusilla drew one of the poisoned blades from her sleeve.
“Then you die where you stand.”
The bishop of Godsgrave held his ground. He stared at Drusilla, that bloody bonesaw in his hand, a strange sadness in his eyes as he glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s not me you need to be worried about.”
The Lady of Blades grit her teeth, heart hammering quick. She thought of her daughter, her son, her grandchildren. Blue eyes wide with fear.
“Please,” she whispered.
Mercurio only shook his head. “I’m sorry, love.”
Behind her, she heard Ashlinn Järnheim and that dead Dweymeri boy step into the hall. Behind them came Corvere’s gladiatii—Sidonius carrying flaming sunsteel, a breathless Bladesinger behind him. The quartet were spattered in crimson, blades dripping with the blood of the Church’s faithful. All of it, finally and completely undone.
The old man glanced up to the Goddess above them and sighed.
“I’m not sure what she’ll do to you, ’Silla,” he said. “I’m not sure she’s got much left in her anymore. But if I were you, I’d be putting down that poisoned pig-sticker and preparing to throw myself on Mia’s mercy right about now.”
Drusilla looked to Aalea. To Järnheim and the other bloodied swords at her back. To the old man before her and the Goddess above her and the Church falling apart all around her. The choir sang its ghostly hymn up in the stained-glass dark.
The old woman heaved a sigh.
“Well played, love,” she said.
And bending slow, she placed her blade upon the floor.
“Don’t be afraid, lad. Old Butcher will protect you.”
Jonnen sat on the stable steps, chin on his knees and ashes on his skin. Butcher stood above him, eyes on the western doorway. Naev stood on the eastern stair, sword in her hands. The steps were smeared with blood and scattered with bodies. Smoke rose from the charred bales of feed, the roasted camel corpses. Save for the ghostly choir, all in the stable was smoke and silence.
The boy could hear the sounds of battle inside the Mountain, but they were fading now. The Church’s defenders had fallen for Mia’s ploy and been routed utterly. He knew somewhere up above, his sister was now stalking the darkness like a bloodhound. Cutting down all in her way in pursuit of their father.
“The battle slows,” Naev called from up the stair. “Victory is at hand.”
“Theirs or ours?” Butcher asked.
Naev considered that for a moment, her head tilted. Her smile was hidden behind her veil, but the boy could still hear it in her voice.
“Ours,” she said.
Eclipse rode once more in Jonnen’s shadow, and thus, the boy couldn’t exactly be afraid. But still, his chest ached at the thought of what might be happening in the Mountain’s belly. In truth, despite all her prowess, he didn’t quite believe Mia would manage it. Their father had overcome every obstacle. Every foe. He stood triumphant in a game where to lose was to die, and all who’d opposed him already lay rotting in their tombs. In Jonnen’s eyes, Julius Scaeva had ever seemed immortal.
He’d been a hard man, no doubt. Never cruel, no. But heavy as iron. Merciless as the sea. Slow with praise, swift with rebuke, fashioning his boy into a man who might one turn rule an empire. Because always, his father had made it plain—despite his parentage, the throne would be something Jonnen must earn.
The boy had studied hard. Seeking ever to impress. His mother’s affections were always unwavering, but it was desire for his father’s praise that drove Jonnen onward. Seeking only to make the man proud. Seeing in Julius Scaeva, People’s Senator, consul, imperator, the man he one turn wished to become.
Until he’d met Mia.
A sister he never knew. Had never even been told about. At first, he’d thought her a liar. A snake and a thief. But Julius Scaeva hadn’t raised a fool, and all the wishful thinking in the world couldn’t hide the truth of what his sister had told him. The dark within them sang to each other. Their bond in the shadows was impossible to deny. They were kin, no doubt. And she, his father’s daughter.
In recent turns, he’d even begun to think of himself not as Lucius, but Jonnen. But he missed his familia. He felt lost and alone. Eclipse made it easier, but it wasn’t easy. He felt very small in a world that had suddenly become very big indeed.
“What was your son’s name, Butcher?” he heard himself ask.
The big man looked down at him, a soft scowl on his battered face. “Eh?”
“You told Mia you had a son once,” Jonnen said. “What was his name?”
The former gladiatii turned his eyes back up the stairwell. Tightening his grip on his sword. Jaw clenched. The boy heard a whisper in his shadow.
“… JONNEN, BUTCHER MAY NOT WISH TO SPEAK OF SUCH THINGS…”
The boy pressed his lips together. The Liisian was a thug, an ill-mannered lout, a pig. But he had a golden heart, and he’d been ever kind. Despite it all, Jonnen realized he didn’t like the thought of hurting the man’s feelings.
“I am sorry, Butcher,” he said softly.
“Iacomo,” the man murmured. “His name was Iacomo. Why do you ask?”
“Did…” Jonnen licked his lips, looking for the words. “Did you ever lie to him?”
“Sometimes,” the man sighed.
“Why would you do that?”
Butcher ran his hand over his black cockscomb of hair. The sounds of battle upstairs were almost silenced now. It took a while for him to reply.
“Being a parent is no easy thing,” he finally said. “We need to teach our children the truths of the world so they can survive it. But some truths change you in a way that can’t be undone. And no parent really wants their child to change.”
“So you lie to us?”
“Sometimes.” Butcher shrugged. “We think if we try hard enough, we can somehow keep you the way you start out. Pure and perfect. Forever.”
“So you lie to yourselves, too.”
The big Liisian smiled, knelt beside the boy. Reaching out with one sword-callused hand, he ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately.
“You remind me of my Iacomo,” he grinned. “You’re a clever little shit.”
“If I were clever, I’d not be in this stew. I feel useless. Helpless.”
Naev watched silently from above as the Liisian drew a dagger from his waist, handed it to the boy hilt-first. Jonnen took it, felt the weight of it, watched the sunslight dance on its edge. Eclipse coalesced beside him, watching with her not-eyes as the boy turned the blade this way and that.
“Feel helpless now?” Butcher asked.
“A little less,” Jonnen replied. “But I’m not strong like you.”
“Don’t be afraid, lad. The blood you have in your veins?”
Butcher chuckled and shook his head.
“You’re strong enough for both of us.”
Mia flitted along darkened halls, shadows at her back.
She’d reached the Hall of Eulogies and found Mercurio standing in the doorway, bloody bonesaw in his grip. Drusilla and Aalea were in hand; the Lady of Blades standing with shoulders slumped, the Shahiid of Masks’ dark eyes wide with fear. ’Singer and Sidonius were watching the pair, one crossed word away from murder. Mia met her mentor’s eyes for the briefest moment, saw him smile. But she had no time for talk.
Instead, she ran on.
She reached the stairs leading down toward Adonai’s chambers and Scaeva’s escape. Tric and Ashlinn were both already dashing downward, Ash a little out in front. But skipping between the shadows, Mia was moving faster still. She could hear her father’s guards ahead now, heavy boots ringing on the stone steps below, panic in their voices as they urged each other on. With a smack to Ash’s leather-clad backside as she passed, Mia Stepped past Tric and her both
down
the winding
stair before them and
deeper into
the dark
shadows at her back
and in her hair
the black giving her wings
flying faster than
Scaeva’s guards could run
reaching the slowest of them and cutting him down in an instant, the dark seizing hold of the one beside him and ripping him asunder. Looking ahead, she caught a glimpse of a purple toga among them, her heart racing quicker. The rest of the guards turned, ten remaining, blades flashing, eyes bright.
She Stepped between them, cutting through them, shadow black and silver quick. But even as she danced, her gravebone blade writing red poems in the air, she realized
She realized …
Something’s wrong.
She couldn’t feel him. The familiar sickness. That ageless hunger. The presence of another darkin crawling on her skin. Her heart sinking, she saw the purple toga she’d glimpsed had simply been slung around one of his guard’s shoulders—another deception from a master of it, easy enough to believe in this gloom. Mia wondered for a moment if Scaeva might be cowering somewhere in the shadows. But even if he were hidden beneath a mantle of darkness nearby, still she’d feel it, sure as she could feel the fear creeping slow into her belly.
Goddess, he’s not HERE.
Desperation budding in her chest, rage that she’d been duped, peeling her lips back from her teeth. She snarled and stabbed, swayed and Stepped, cutting his men into nothing, slicking the floors and walls. Standing at the end, chest heaving, wisps of ink-black hair stuck to her skin, sword dripping in her hand. Searching the dark with narrowed, burning eyes.
She Stepped on, flickering down the twisting hallway in the pulsing warmth until finally she arrived at Adonai’s chambers. Lunging through the doorway, she saw the speaker knelt at the head of his blood pool, thick chains of black iron wrapped about his wrists and ankles. Crimson runes gleamed on the walls, the light was low and bloodstained. Adonai’s eyes were closed and he was breathing slow, but as she entered, he looked up, pink irises on hers.
“Hello, little darkin.”
“Scaeva?” she gasped.
The speaker frowned in confusion. Then slowly shook his head.
Shit.
Could he have been hiding out in the gloom while his guards led her on this merry chase? Could he know some trick of the dark? Could he have already escaped?
Could he have doubled back?
O, Goddess …
Mia looked back down the corridor she’d come by.
Dread certainty turning her belly to ice.
“Jonnen.”
Jonnen’s brow creased as his stomach rolled.
He looked up the stairs. First to the western door, past the looming form of Butcher. Then to the eastern stair, where Naev stood poised by the railing, sword raised in steady hands. Jonnen’s heart was beating quicker. He could suddenly feel it—that strange, never sated hunger. That feeling of a missing piece inside him. Searching for another just like it.
“Mia?” he asked hopefully.
Naev turned at the sound of his voice, eyebrow raised. “She is returned?”
“I don’t—”
The woman lurched sideways on the stair, grunting in surprise as something heavy collided with her. There was no sign of what had struck her, but still she crashed backward into the railing, gasping, arms flailing as she fought for balance. The Something struck her again, hard in the chest, smashing her back against the balustrade. The woman cried out, eyes open wide.
“Naev!” Jonnen cried.
She was struck a third time, a brutal blow right in her face. Nose bloodied, Naev bent backward, fingers clutching at nothing as she lost her balance. And with a wail, the woman fell out into the empty air. Her arms pinwheeled, robes billowing about her, veil whipped back from her terrified face as she plummeted forty feet into the stable below, hitting the stone floor with a gut-churning crunch.
“’Byss and fucking blood,” Butcher breathed.
Eclipse growled beside him, her hackles rising.
“… BUTCHER, BEWARE…!”
The gladiatii had his sword raised, stepping back into a defensive stance.
“What’s th—”
A blade flashed, bright and gleaming in the dwindling light. Butcher’s throat opened wide. The big man staggered, hand at his neck to hold back the flood, squinting at the vague, muddied shape now standing on the steps in front of him. The gladiatii lunged with a bubbling curse, his gladius moving swift. Jonnen heard a ragged cry, saw the shadows shiver, his father appear on the stairs. A bloody gouge was carved through the imperator’s forearm, his purple toga abandoned, blood-red spattering the white robes beneath.
Whisper was coiled about his throat, the shadowviper lashing out at Butcher’s face. The big man struck out on sheer instinct, slicing through the serpent’s neck as he flinched back. But the creature was as insubstantial as smoke, the steel cutting nothing at all. Precious seconds and energy wasted on the strike.
Butcher gargled, hand and throat and chest drenched in blood. He fell to one knee, red teeth bared in a snarl. Jonnen saw his father retreat a few steps up the stairs, bloody dagger poised. The boy’s stomach rolled, his eyes filling with tears as he saw the big gladiatii drag himself back to his feet.
“R-run, boy,” Butcher wheezed.
Eclipse coalesced between the boy and his father, snarling.
“… JONNEN, RUN…”
The boy shuffled back down the stairs. One step. Then two. Butcher took an unsteady step forward, made a clumsy swing at the imperator. But blood was fleeing the big man’s body in floods now, puddling about him, all his strength and skill for naught. His father easily avoided the strike, stepping back again as the Liisian stumbled and fell.
“Butcher!” Jonnen cried, tears in his eyes.
“Iac-como…,” the big man gurgled. “R-R…”
Eclipse glanced over her shoulder, fangs bared in a snarl.
“… RUN…!”
The daemon leapt over Butcher’s fallen body, mouth open wide. Whisper hissed and struck, black fangs sinking into the wolf’s neck. The shadows fell into a tumbling, snarling, hissing brawl, rolling down the stairs. Eclipse growled and snapped, Whisper spat and bit, black spattering on the walls and spraying like blood. Jonnen took another step back, almost slipping in Butcher’s blood. Tears running down his cheeks. Horror turning his insides slick and cold.
“My son.”
The passengers continued to brawl, but the boy simply froze. Looking to his father on the stairs above him. Spattered in crimson. A golden laurel upon his brow. Imperator of the entire Republic. Tall and proud and strong. Ever possessed of the will to do what others would not. Butcher lay dead on the stone before him, Naev splattered on the floor below—just two more bodies added to the pile.
“Father…”
The imperator of Itreya raised one red hand, beckoning.
“Come to me, my son.”
Jonnen looked to their shadows on the wall. His father’s was reaching out to him, both hands open and welcoming. Jonnen saw his own shadow move, reaching toward his father and catching him up in a fierce embrace.
The boy himself yet remained still. The dagger Butcher had gifted him clutched in his hands. But his eyes were drawn back to Eclipse and Whisper, still brawling on the stairs. Black blood spraying, fangs bared, hissing and growling.
“Whisper, stop it!” the boy demanded.
“… JONNEN, RUN…!” Eclipse snarled.
Jonnen saw his father’s eyes narrow. Fear rising in the boy’s belly, running cold in his veins. The imperator lifted his other hand, fingers clenching. The shadows moved, sharpening themselves to points, striking at the wolf and piercing her hide.
“Don’t!” the boy cried.
Eclipse howled in pain, more shadowblood spraying. Scaeva cut the air with his hand, sent the daemon sailing into the wall. Whisper struck, razored teeth sinking again into Eclipse’s throat. Black coils wrapped around the shadowwolf’s body, squeezing, crushing, fangs sinking in again and again.
“… Do you regret your insult now, little dog…?”
“… J-JONNEN…”
“… Do you fear me yet…?”
“Father, make him stop!” the boy cried.
The boy could feel tears burning in his eyes. Watching Eclipse’s struggles weaken. Whisper’s coils squeezing ever tighter, fangs sinking ever deeper. Eclipse whimpered in pain, thrashing and rolling and biting.
“The blood you have in your veins? You’re strong enough for both of us.”
Jonnen raised his hands, fingers curling into claws as he used his gifts, seizing the snake’s neck in an invisible grip. He smashed Whisper against the wall as the serpent flailed and hissed, tail lashing, tongue flickering.
“Lucius!” his father snapped. “Release him!”
The boy held still. Frozen with it. That voice he’d known since before he could talk. The authority he’d obeyed since before he could walk. The father he’d admired, sought to make proud, wished all his life to grow up to be.
His sister had taken him in. Showed him her world. Eclipse had lived in his shadow for months now. Kept his fear at bay. The daemon had loved him, just as fiercely as she’d once loved another boy, just as lost and afraid as he.
“… CASSIUS…,” she whimpered.
But this was the man who’d raised Jonnen. Who’d known him for years, not months. The man he’d feared and loved and emulated. The sun shining in his sky.
“Lucius, I said release him!” came the cry.
And so, though it tore him to his heart, though the tears scalded his cheeks to burning, Jonnen looked at Eclipse. The shadow he knew almost as well as his own. The passenger he’d carried across storm and sea. The wolf who loved him.
“I…,” he sniffled, looking at the knife in his hand. “I don’t…”
“Lucius Atticus Scaeva, I am your father! Obey me!”
And you may hate him for it, gentlefriend. You may think him a weak and callow wretch. But in truth, Jonnen Corvere was just a nine-year-old boy. And Father was just another name for God in his mind.
“I’m … s-sorry,” Jonnen breathed.
And slowly,
ever so slowly,
he lowered his hand.
Free once more, Whisper struck. Eclipse fell, yelping as black fangs sank deep into her hide. Again. Again. Tears burning his eyes, Jonnen heard screaming, just beyond the edge of hearing. That hunger swelling inside him. Whisper twisted and sighed, the serpent’s coils roiling and tightening around the shadowwolf’s body. And as Jonnen watched, horrified, Eclipse began to fade.
Growing weaker.
Paler.
Thinner.
“… J-JONNEN…”
The wolf slowly diminishing.
“… C-CASSIUS…”
Until only the snake remained.
Dark enough for two.
“Lucius.”
Sobs bubbled in the boy’s throat. Horror and grief in his chest, threatening to choke him. All the world was burned and blurred by his tears as he looked up at his father’s outstretched hand. Smeared in blood. Spattered with black.
“It’s time to go home, son.”
His little shoulders sagged. The weight of it all too much. He played at being a man, but in truth, he was still only a child. Lost and tired and, without the wolf in his shadow, now desperately afraid. Whisper slipped across the space between them, into the dark puddled at his feet. Eating the fear, just as he’d eaten the wolf. Soundlessly, Jonnen dropped the dagger Butcher had given him.
“Imperator.”
Jonnen looked up the eastern stairs at the sound of the voice. Through his tears, he saw a tall Dweymeri woman, breathless and filmed with sweat. She was dressed in emerald green, lips and eyes painted black. She wore gold about her wrists and throat, but she was stripping off the adornments, tossing them down to the stables below.
“Shahiid Spiderkiller,” his father said. “You live.”
“You sound surprised, Imperator,” the woman replied, slipping off another bracelet. “If you’ve a will to leave this place, we should travel together.”
“The Red Church has failed me, Spiderkiller,” the imperator replied. “Why in your Black Goddess’s name would I bring you with me?”
“I thought perhaps I’d bring you with me,” she replied with a dark smile. “And I have failed nothing. I swore vengeance against Mia Corvere, and vengeance now I have. So if you’ve a mind to see us safely down to the speaker’s chambers, I’ll tell the tale of how I’ve killed your daughter for you.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. Head tilted. Weighing it all in his head. His flock of assassins was all but destroyed, his daughter’s bloody revenge against the Red Church all but complete. And yet, though the Ministry had failed, the imperator of Itreya wasn’t one to cast aside a perfectly good hammer simply because it had bent a single nail. One killer he might make use of yet remained among Niah’s faithful.
And so, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
The Dweymeri woman descended, shedding the last of her jewelry and taking her place at his father’s side. The shadows about them darkened, his father’s voice darker still.
“Come here, my son.”
The boy met the man’s gaze. Dark and deep as his own.
The sun shining in his sky.
The god in his eyes.
“Yes, Father,” Jonnen said.
And slowly, fearlessly, the boy took his father’s hand.
Adonai waited in silence.
The chains about his waist and ankles made it painful to kneel, so he sat at the head of the blood pool instead. Waiting for the little darkin to return and free him. The speaker could smell fresh blood in the air, feel it flowing unchecked in the levels above—young Mia’s assault was obviously going well. His eyes were closed and he was breathing slow, searching for calm. In the turns since Drusilla had learned of his treachery, he’d found very little, truth told.
When the Lady of Blades had sent emissaries to his chambers and informed him Aelius and Mercurio’s conspiracy had been uncovered, he’d been dismayed. But when he’d been told that his sister had been imprisoned, that she’d be held in captivity to assure his cooperation until after Mia Corvere was dead, Adonai had been consumed with rage.
The emissaries Drusilla had sent had been drowned in his pool. The next two, who bore one of Marielle’s severed ears on a velvet cushion, he’d torn to pieces with vitus spears. It was only after a turn of impotent fury that the speaker realized he had no choice but to obey. Drusilla was holding the one person in the world he truly loved to ransom. She had the one weapon that could truly be used to hurt him.
As long as Marielle was in their keeping, Adonai was in their thrall.
So he’d allowed them to bind him in irons. He’d delivered the imperator to the Mountain as commanded, the Blades that Drusilla had called to Mia Corvere’s kill. He played the meek one, the frightened one. Hoping the Lady of Blades might be foolish enough to deliver herself into his clutches to gloat or goad. But she never did.
And so now, Adonai waited. A picture of perfect calm without. A tightening knot of crimson rage within. Palms pressed to his knees, legs crossed, only the ruby liquid in the pool before him to betray his agitation. Mia had arrived in his chamber, breathless and bloody, only to discover her father had outwitted her and doubled back into the Mountain. She’d fled off into the labyrinthine halls in pursuit, her comrades on her heels, sadly neglecting to take the time to free Adonai from his chains before she departed. Rather unkind, he’d mused, but sooner or later, she must—
“Speaker.”
Adonai opened his eyes. Belly thrilling with fury.
“Imperator,” he hissed.
Scaeva coalesced out of the shadows before him, chest heaving. A serpent made of shadows was coiled about his neck, his wounded arm bound with bloody cloth. A boy stood beside him, bleached with fear—presumably the imperator’s son. Spiderkiller stood there also, the gold that usually glittered at her throat and wrists conspicuously absent. But Adonai was far more concerned with the woman sagging in the Shahiid’s arms.
Sister love, sister mine …
Marielle was drugged senseless, eyelids drooping, hands bound. Spiderkiller held a small golden knife against his sister’s throat.
Adonai narrowed crimson eyes. The blood in the pool churned to life, long whips of it uncoiling from the surface and rising like snakes, pointed like spears, weaving closer to Scaeva and his brat and the Shahiid of Truths. But Spiderkiller tightened her black grip on Marielle, pressed her dagger into his sister’s neck.
“I think not, Speaker,” she said.
“Thy daughter is searching for thee, Julius,” Adonai said, looking at Scaeva. “She was here a moment ago. If thou wouldst take but another moment to catch thy galloping breath, I am certain she’ll be back anon. Unless thou dost plan to spend the rest of the turn playing hide-a-seek with her in this dark?”
“Transit,” the imperator said, ignoring his barb. “Back to Godsgrave. Now.”
“The seed ye planted, come full to flower. Watered with thy hatred and now blossomed fulsome and red.” A pale smile twisted the speaker’s lips. “This is why I sought to make no daughters.”
“Enough,” Spiderkiller snarled. “Send us to Godsgrave.”
Adonai turned his eyes to the woman. “Fool ye must think me, Shahiid, to send my sister love with thee to thy Grave.”
“Refuse us again, and I’ll deliver Marielle to hers.”
“Then shall ye die.”
“And your sister love will join us, Speaker. Right before your eyes.”
Adonai glanced at the dagger pressed to his sister’s neck, his lips curling in derision. “Think ye thy blade sharp enough to draw blood near the likes of me, little spider?”
“The littlest spiders have the darkest bite, Adonai,” the Shahiid replied.
Adonai narrowed his eyes, noting the dagger pricking his sister’s skin was slightly discolored. A small droplet of Marielle’s blood welled on the tip, ruby bright.
“Already my venom worms its way to your sister love’s heart,” Spiderkiller said. “And only I have the knowing of the cure. Kill us, and you kill her besides.”
The Shahiid smiled, lips black and curling. She had him at checkmate, and Adonai and she both knew it. Trapped in the Mountain, Scaeva’s daughter would catch the Shahiid of Truths and the imperator eventually, no matter how many times they switched back and forth under her nose in the gloom. Their painful deaths would soon follow. The truth was, the pair had nothing to lose, and Adonai knew Spiderkiller was ruthless and vindictive enough to kill Marielle before she died just to spite him.
In truth, he’d always liked that about her.
And so, eyes still on his sister’s, the speaker waved to the pool, his voice calm as millpond water.
“Enter and be welcome.”
“… Be careful, Julius…,” the shadowviper hissed.
Scaeva’s stare was fixed firmly on Adonai’s, his voice cold and hard.
“No tricks, Speaker,” he warned. “Or your sister dies, I swear it.”
“I believe thee, Imperator. Else thee and thy get wouldst already be dead.”
“Get in the pool, Lucius.”
The boy glanced into the gore, obviously afraid. And yet he seemed in the end more afeared of his father, crouching beside the pool and slipping down into the red. Scaeva followed slower, gathering his boy to his side. Spiderkiller tossed her poisoned dagger out the door—nothing that hadn’t known the touch of life could travel through his pools, and the damage had already been done. The Shahiid of Truths stepped down into the blood, holding a swooning Marielle in her arms.
“If never I had reason to work toward thy ruin before, I have it now,” Adonai said, glaring at them both. “Sure and true.”
“Enough talk, cretin,” Scaeva said. “Obey.”
Adonai would have dearly loved to drown him then. Sweep him away in a tide of rippling red. But Scaeva’s son stood there in the crimson beside his father, and if Mia could forgive Adonai for denying her revenge against Scaeva by killing him, she’d surely not forgive him for drowning her brother in the process.
Adonai’s gaze drifted to his sister.
“Marielle?” he called.
His sister stirred but made no reply.
“Always shall I come for thee,” he vowed.
Spiderkiller tightened her grip, glowering at Adonai.
“My venom works swift, Speaker,” she warned.
So finally, eyes rolling back in his head, Adonai spoke the words beneath his breath. The room’s warmth grew deeper, the smell of copper and iron churning in the air. He heard the boy gasp as the blood began swirling, sloshing around the pool’s edge, faster and faster as the speaker’s whispers became a gentle, pleading song, his lips curled in an ecstatic smile, his fingertips tingling with magik.
At the last moment, he opened crimson eyes. Stared into Scaeva’s own.
“I shall see thee suffer for this, Julius.”
And with a hollow slurp, they disappeared into the flood.