by Pierce Brown
I want to break him. After all that has happened, he expects my cooperation, as though it is something due to him. As though it is his right that I help him. I unclench my fists. What would Dancer have me say?
“You’re fine,” I manage. “I can’t help you on the domestic front, but I won’t tell a soul that the Jackal had help from Daddy.”
His chin rises. “Do not call him that name. The men of House Augustus are lions, not fleabitten carrion eaters.”
“All the same, you should have put your money on Mustang,” I say, intentionally not using her name.
“Don’t tell me about my family, Darrow.” He peers down his nose at me. “Now, the question is how much you want for your silence. I accept no gifts. Owe no man. So you will be taken care of on one condition.”
“I stay away from your daughter?”
“No.” He laughs sharply, surprising me. “The foolish families worry over blood. I care nothing for purity of family or ancestry. That is a vain thing. I care only for strength. What a man can do to other men, women. And that is something you have. Power. Strength.” He leans closer, and in his pupils I see Eo dying. “I have enemies. They are strong. They are many.”
“They are Bellona.”
“And others. But yes, Imperator Tiberius au Bellona has more than fifty nieces and nephews. He has nine children. That Goliath, Karnus, the eldest. Cassius his favorite. His seed is strong. Mine is … less so. I had a son worth all of Tiberius’s put together. But Karnus killed him,” He’s silent for a moment. “Now I have two nieces. A nephew. A son. A daughter. And that is it. So I collect apprentices.
“My condition is this. I will give you what you want for your silence. I will buy you Pinks, Obsidians, Grays, Greens. I will sponsor your application to the Academy, where you will learn to sail the ships that conquered the planets. I will provide you with funds and patronage requirements. I will introduce you to the Sovereign. I will do all these things for your silence if you become one of my lancers, an aide-de-camp, a member of my household.”
He asks me to betray my name. To set aside my family for his. Mine is a false family, Andromedus, a family made for deception, yet some part of me aches.
I saw it coming. But I don’t know what to say. “One of your son’s soldiers might say something about your involvement, my lord.”
He snorts. “I’m more concerned about your lieutenants.”
I laugh. “Few of my army know the truth. And those that do will not say a word.”
“So much trust.”
“I am their ArchPrimus.” I say it simply.
“Are you serious?” he asks in confusion as though I misunderstand something as basic as gravity. “Boy, allegiances crumble as soon as we board that shuttle. Some of your friends will be spirited away to the Moon Lords. Others will go to the Governors of the Gas Giants. Even a few to Luna. They will remember you as a legend of their youth, but that is it. And that legend will brook no loyalty. I’ve stood where you stand. I won my year, but loyalty isn’t found in these halls. It is the way things are.”
“It is the way things were,” I say harshly, suprising him. But I believe what I say. “I am something different. I freed the enslaved and let the broken mend themselves. I gave them something you older generations can’t understand.”
He chuckles, irritating me. “That is the problem with youth, Darrow. You forget that every generation has thought the same.”
“But for my generation it is true.” No matter his confidence, I am right. He is wrong. I am the spark that will set the worlds afire. I am the hammer that cracks the chains.
“This school is not life,” he recites to me. “It is not life. Here you are king. In life, there are no kings. There are many would-be-kings. But we Peerless lay them low. Many before you have won this game. And those many now excel beyond this school. So do not act as though when you graduate, you will be king, you will have loyal subjects—you will not. You will need me. You will need a foundation, a supporter to help you rise. There can be none better for you than I.”
It’s not my family I would betray, it is my people. The school was one thing, but to go beneath the dragon’s wing … to let him hug me close, to sit in luxury while my own sweat and die and starve and burn … it’s enough to rip my heart out.
Both his golden children watch us. So do Cassius and his father after they embrace one another. There are tears for Julian. I wish I were with my family instead of here. I wish I could feel Kieran’s hand on my shoulder, feel Leanna’s hand in mine as we watch Mother set dinner before us. That is a family. Love. These people are all about glory, victory, and family pride, yet they know nothing of love. Nothing of family. These are false families. They are just teams. Teams that play their games of pride. The ArchGovernor has not even said hello to his children. This vile man cares more to speak with me.
“Funny,” I say.
“Funny?” he asks darkly.
I make something up. “Funny how a single word can change everything in your life.”
“It is not funny at all. Steel is power. Money is power. But of all the things in all the worlds, words are power.”
I look at him for a moment. Words are a weapon stronger than he knows. And songs are even greater. The words wake the mind. The melody wakes the heart. I come from a people of song and dance. I don’t need him to tell me the power of words. But I smile nonetheless.
“What is your answer? Yes or no? I will not ask again.”
I glance over at the dozens of Peerless Scarred who wait to have a word with me, no doubt to offer patronage or apprenticeships. Old Lorn au Arcos is there. I recognize him even without his Drafter’s mask. The Rage Knight. The man who sent me my Pegasus and Dancer’s ring. A man of perfect honor and leader of the third most powerful house on Mars. A man I could learn from.
“Will you rise with me?”
I look at the ArchGovernor’s jugular. His heartbeat is strong. I imagine the Fading Dirge when Eo died. But when I hang him, he will not receive our song. His life will not echo. It will simply stop.
“I think, my lord, that it would present some interesting opportunities.” I look up into his eyes, hoping he mistakes the fury there for excitement.
“You know the words?” he asks me.
I nod.
“Then you must say them. Here. Now. So all may witness that I have claimed the best of the school.”
His pride reeks. I grit my teeth and convince myself this is the right path. With him, I will rise. I will attend the Academy. I will learn to lead fleets. I will win. I will sharpen myself into a sword. I will give my soul. I will dive to hell in hopes of one day rising to freedom. I will sacrifice. And I will grow my legend and spread it amongst the peoples of all the worlds until I am fit to lead the armies that will break the chains of bondage, because I am not simply an agent of the Sons of Ares. I am not simply a tactic or a device in Ares’s schemes. I am the hope of my people. Of all people in bondage.
So I kneel before him, as is their way. And as is their way, he sets his hands upon my head. The words creep from my mouth and their echo is like broken glass into my ears.
“I will forsake my father. I will abandon my name. I will be your sword. Nero au Augustus, I will make my purpose your glory.”
Those watching gasp at the sudden proclamation. Others curse at the impropriety, at the gall of Augustus. Does he have no sense of decency? My master kisses the top of my head and whispers their words and I do my best to cage the fury that has made me a thing sharper than Red. Harder than Gold.
“Darrow, Lancer of House Augustus. Rise, there are duties for you to fill. Rise, there are honors for you to take. Rise for glory, for power, for conquest and dominion over lesser men. Rise, my son. Rise.”
To Father, who taught me to walk
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If writing is a work of the head and heart, then thank you to Aaron Phillips, Hannah Bowman, and Mike Braff, who burnish my head with their wisdom and advice.
And to the reader, thank you. I hope you bloodydamn love these books.
PIERCE BROWN spent his childhood building forts and setting traps for cousins in the woods of six states and the deserts of two. Graduating college in 2010, he fancied the idea of continuing his studies at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a magical bone in his body. So while trying to make it as a writer, he worked as a manager of social media at a startup tech company, toiled as a peon on the Disney lot at ABC Studios, did his time as an NBC page, and gave sleep deprivation a new meaning during his stint as an aide on a U.S. Senate campaign. Now he lives in Los Angeles, where he scribbles tales of spaceships, wizards, ghouls, and most things old or bizarre.
www.pierce-brown.com
@pierce_brown
Pierce Brown is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact the Random House Speakers Bureau at 212-572-2013 or [email protected].
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READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT*
from
GOLDEN SON
Book Two of the RED RISING TRILOGY
AVAILABLE 2015
FROM DEL REY BOOKS
*This excerpt has been set for this book only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming novel.
RED
Tonight, I kill two thousand of humanity’s great. Yet I walk with them now, untouched by their decadence and condescension. Pliny’s arrogance raises none of my blood. Victra’s immodest dress does not disconcert me, not even when she slips her arm in mine after Tactus offers her his. She whispers in my ear how silly she is for forgetting her undergarments. I laugh like it’s a merry joke, trying to mask the coldness that’s taken over me.
This is static.
I mind myself and say little as I follow with Victra at the end of the long procession that snakes its way through labyrinthine marble halls from our villa to the Citadel Gardens some five kilometers distant. The Sovereign’s tower juts from the floor of the garden there, a grand, two-kilometer high sword piercing a groomed garden thick with rose trees and streams.
The tower yawns above us. Purple, red, and green moss climb the base of the great structure with vines of a thousand hues, wrapping the glass and stone like the fingers of greedy socialites around the wrist of a rich baron. Six great lifts bear families skyward to the top.
Beautiful Pink servants and Brown footmen service the lift. Gold triangles of the Society decorate their white livery.
The lift is flat, marble with gravthrusters. It sits in the middle of a clearing where green grass flutters in the wind. Several Coppers rush forward to talk with Pliny, who, as Politico, speaks on behalf of the ArchGovernor.
Augustus’s sharp face surveys his aides, as if making an accounting of the razors we carry. Some wear them coiled at their sides. Others wear them around their forearms like I do. Tactus and Victra each use them as sashes. His eyes settle on mine, the only white one.
“I want three lancers attending the ArchGovernor at all times,” Leto says, his voice almost a growl. We nod silently, the pack tightening. “No drinking.”
The gala upon the roof of the Sovereign’s tower is modeled as a winter fairyland. Snow falls from invisible clouds. It dusts the spearlike pines of manmade forests and frosts my short hair with snowflakes that taste like cinnamon and orange. Breath billows in front of me.
Beneath the spire, the citadel sprawls, and beyond those grounds the cities glisten with a million lights. You would never guess that beneath that sea of twinkling jewels lies a second city of filth and poverty. You would never guess the terrorists hidden there could reach this height. There are worlds between.
“Try not to lose your head,” Victra whispers to me, raking a clawed hand through my hair before going to speak with friends of hers from Earth.
I walk toward our table. Great chandeliers hover overhead on small gravthrusters. Light sparkles. Dresses move like liquid around perfect human forms. The Pinks serve delicacies and spirits on plates and in goblets of ice and glass.
Hundreds of long tables spread concentrically around a frozen lake at the center of the winter land. The Pinks wear skates to serve here. Beneath the ice, shapes move. Not sexualized perversities as one would find entertaining Pixies and lowColors. But mystical creatures with long tails and scales that glitter like the stars. The tables are neither named nor numbered. Instead, we find our place as we see a great lion seated upon the center of our table, nearly motionless. Each family’s table is so claimed by their sigil. There are griffins and eagles, ice fists and huge iron swords. The lion purrs contentedly as Tactus prances up to stroke its mane.
I gaze around the gala. Hundreds mill about already. Those from Venus will be late, as is their way. We of Mars pride punctuality. Luneborns are enigmatic socially, and so may be first or last. And the families of the Gas Giants will come whenever they damn well like. How long should I wait? It is difficult to hold on to the rage that made me embrace this decision. They killed my wife, I tell myself. But no matter the anger I summon by remembering, I cannot burn away the fear that I steer the rebellion toward a cliff.
This will not be for Eo’s dream. It will be for the satisfaction of those living. To sate their lust for vengeance rather than honoring those who have already sacrificed everything. And it will be irreversible. But so is the course that has been set. Thousands of Reds wait for my signal to begin the uprising. I cannot abandon them now.
So many doubts. Am I being a coward? Does my mind play tricks to salvage my pride, using logic to pull me away from risk? I chase myself in circles.
I’m thinking too much. That makes a bad soldier. And that is what I am. A soldier for Ares. He gave me this body. I should trust him now. So I take the bomb shaped like my Pegasus pendant and slap it on the underside of Augustus’s table, just near the table’s end.
I wander away, willing more houses to fill the gala so that I may end this soon. A host of praetors, quaestors, judiciars, governors, senators, family heads, house leaders, traders, two Olympian Knights, and a thousand others come to bid my master a good evening. These older men and women talk of Outrider attacks on Uranus and Ariel, rumored Sons of Ares bases on Triton, and a new strain of plague on one of Earth’s dark continents. Light fare.
Many others take my master aside, as though a hundred eyes did not watch their every move, and with voices like syrup, tell him of whispers in the night, of shifting winds and dangerous tides. The metaphors mix. The point is the same. Augustus has fallen out of favor with the Sovereign the same way I have fallen out of favor with him.
The ships flitting above in the night sky are as distant from the conversation as I. My eyes fall upon the Sovereign herself. How strange a thing, to see the woman just there beyond the dance floor, at the raised podium speaking with other house lords and men who rule the lives of billions. So close, so human and frail.
For her part, Octavia au Lune is more h
andsome than beautiful, face impassive as a mountain’s. Her silence is her power. I see her speak little, but she listens; always, she listens to words as the mountain listens to the whispering and screaming of wind through its gulches, around its peaks.
I see a man standing alone near a tree. He’s near as thick around as its trunk. A hand dwarfs his small goblet, and he wears the mark of a sword with wings, a Praetor with a fleet. I approach him. He sees me coming and smiles.
“Darrow au Andromedus,” Karnus growls.
I snap my fingers at a passing Pink. Taking two of the wine goblets from his ice tray, I pass one to Karnus. “I thought that before you come to kill me, we might as well share a drink.”
“There’s a sport.” He downs his own drink and takes the one I offer him. He eyes me over the glass. “You’re not a poisoner, are you?”
“I’m not so subtle.”
“Equal company then. All these snakes about …,” he says, sly as a crocodile. His dark Gold eyes trace the men and women. The wine is gone in a moment.
“I hate this moon.” He takes a delicacy off a passing tray. “Food’s got too much butter. Not enough salt. Though I hear the sixth course will be something to die for.”
Noting his strange tone, I cross my arms and watch the party. It’s a strange comfort being around this hateful man. Neither one of us has to pretend to like the other. No masks here, at least not as much as usual.
“I hate butter,” I say. “Makes me feel like a pig.”
He chuckles deeply. “Julian liked butter. Ate it by the stick as a boy. He was a vile child, all whimpering and simpering.”
I turn to examine the killer. “Cassius only said pretty things about him.”
“Cassius.” He snorts out something like a laugh. “Cassius once wounded a bird with a slingshot. Came to me crying, because he knew he had to kill it to put it out of its misery, but he couldn’t. I dropped a rock on it for him. Just like you did.” He smirks. “I should thank you for sweeping away the genetic chaff.”