Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

  But still, it seemed sheer madness—this talk of fragmented gods and shattered souls, of restoring the balance between light and dark.

  “YOU MUST MAKE WHOLE WHAT WAS BROKEN, MIA. YOU MUST RETURN MAGIK TO THE WORLD. RESTORE THE BALANCE BETWEEN NIGHT AND DAY, LIKE IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING. LIKE IT WAS ALWAYS MEANT TO BE. ONE SUN. ONE NIGHT. ONE MOON.”

  She motioned to the blackened pool. “If it’s pieces of him I’m supposed to seek, that seems a good place to start.”

  “NO,” Tric said. “THIS IS ANAIS’S FURY. THIS IS HIS RAGE. THE PART OF HIM THAT HAS LAIN IN THE DARK AND FESTERED, THAT WANTS ONLY TO DESTROY. YOU MUST REMAKE THE WORLD, MIA. NOT UNDO IT. THIS IS YOUR PURPOSE.”

  Mia’s eyes narrowed. “My purpose was avenging my familia. It was killing Remus, Duomo, and Scaeva. And I’ve done that, after living neck-deep in blood and shit for eight fucking years. No thanks to your precious Mother.”

  “Mia…,” Ashlinn murmured.

  “The Red Church captured Mercurio, Tric. Maw knows what they want with him, but he’s in their hands. They probably know he helped me murder Scaeva. I have to—”

  “Mia,” Ashlinn said.

  She turned to her lover, saw fear swimming in that beautiful blue.

  “What is it?” Mia asked.

  “I have to tell you something,” Ash said. “About Scaeva.”

  “So tell me?”

  “… You should sit down.”

  “Are you jesting?” Mia scoffed. “Spit it out, Ashlinn.”

  The Vaanian girl chewed her lip. Drew a deep and shivering breath.

  “He lives.”

  Jonnen’s eyes grew wide, his little mouth hanging open. Mia felt her heart skip a beat, an awful dread turning her gut colder than the deadboy behind her.

  “What are you talking about?” Mia hissed. “I put a gravebone blade right through his ribs. I cut his fucking heart in two!”

  Ash shook her head. “He was a double, Mia. An actor, fleshcrafted by Weaver Marielle to look like Scaeva. The consul was in league with the Red Church, and they knew our plan to win the magni all along. They wanted you to kill Duomo. Scaeva’s going to use the cardinal’s public murder as an excuse to exercise permanent emergency powers, claim the title of imperator, become king of Itreya in all but name.”

  Mia’s head was swimming. Heart racing. Skin filmed with icy sweat.

  Could it be true?

  Could he have seen her coming?

  Could she have been so blind?

  Her legs felt weak. Dizzy from exhaustion, loss of blood, Solis’s toxin still lingering in her veins. She glanced to Jonnen, saw the boy looking at her with triumph in his black eyes. She’d been so careful. So certain. She could remember the elation as her blade parted Scaeva’s chest, the maddening joy as his blood splashed across her chin and lips, warm and thick and lovely red.

  “O, Goddess…”

  She blinked at Ashlinn, searching desperately for the lie, the ruse.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Scaeva told me. When they ambushed me in the chapel. And Mia … he told me something else besides.” Ash swallowed thickly, her voice shaking. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to give it voice, knowing what it will do to you.”

  “I thought it was finished…” Mia could feel bitter tears brimming in her eyes. Too tired and hurt to push them back anymore. “Eight f-fucking years, and I … I actually let myself believe it was done.”

  She sank to her knees on a sea of screaming faces, tempted to just start screaming along with them.

  “What could be worse than that?”

  “O, Goddess, forgive me…”

  Ashlinn sank down on the stone beside her. Taking Mia’s hands in her own, she took a deep, trembling breath.

  “Mia…”

  Ash shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “Mia … he’s your father.”

  CHAPTER 6

  IMPERATOR

  Mia sat on a black shoreline, a war of three colors in her head.

  The first was the red of blood. The red of rage. She felt it curl her hands to fists. Fill her to brimming, toe to crown. Spitting curses and fire and stomping about on those anguished stone faces. It was bliss to give in to it for a while, embracing the temper she was so notorious for. At least she knew where it came from now. Swimming in the air about her, the city above her, changing the architecture beneath her skin.

  All her life.

  The rage of a god laid low.

  The second was cool steel gray. Suspicion, slipping into her belly like a knife, cold and hard. There was a moment where she prayed it was all a trick—manipulation from a man who’d always proved himself three steps ahead. But in her darkest depths, it all rang true. The way Scaeva had looked at her that turn in her mother’s apartments. That turn he’d stretched out his hand and taken her whole world away. The gleam in his eyes as he’d looked down at her and smiled, dark as bruises.

  “Would you like to know what keeps me warm at night, little one?”

  And so fury killed suspicion. Drowned it beneath a scarlet flood.

  But after suspicion’s cool gray had come sorrow. Black as storm clouds. Turning her curses to sobs and her fury to tears. She’d slumped down on that voiceless, howling shore and cried. Like a child. Like a fucking babe. Letting her grief, her horror, her anguish spill up out of her lips and down her cheeks until her eyes were red as blood and her throat aching and raw.

  Darius Corvere. Justicus of the Luminatii. Leader of the Kingmaker Rebellion. The man who’d given her puzzles for Great Tithe gifts, who’d read her tales before bedtime, whose stubble had tickled her cheeks when he kissed her goodnight. The man who’d propped her little feet upon his own and whisked her about that shining ballroom.

  “I love you, Mia.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Promise you’ll remember. No matter what comes.”

  The man she’d adored, the man she’d grieved, the man she’d devoted the last eight years of her life to avenging. The man she’d called Father.

  Nothing close.

  Ashlinn sat behind her as she wept, gentle arms about her waist, forehead pressed cool and smooth against her back. Mister Kindly and Eclipse sat close by, watching silently. Jonnen looked at her with a newfound confusion glittering in those bottomless eyes. Black as crow’s feathers. Black as truedark.

  Just like Scaeva’s.

  Just like mine.

  “His wife can’t have children,” Ashlinn murmured, her voice thick with grief. “Scaeva, I mean. I suppose that’s why he took Jonnen … afterward…”

  “All good kings need sons,” Mia whispered. “Daughters, not so much.”

  “I’m sorry, love.” Ash took her hand, pressed Mia’s scabbed and bleeding knuckles to her lips. “Black Mother, I’m so sorry.”

  Eclipse drifted closer, wrapping her translucent body around Mia’s waist and resting her head in the girl’s lap. Mister Kindly lay across her shoulders, entwined in her hair, tail curled protectively across her chest. Mia drew comfort from their smoky chill, the whisper-light feel of their bodies against hers, Ash’s arms around her. But her eyes were soon drawn back to that black pool before them, the copper stink of blood hanging heavy in the air. She looked down at her empty hands again, the passengers beside her, the shadow beneath her, darker than it had ever been.

  The many were one.

  And will be again?

  She looked to the silent Hearthless boy standing before her. His black eyes were fixed on Ashlinn. On their fingers entwined. She remembered those eyes had been hazel once. That those fingers had touched her in places no one ever had.

  His revelation still rang in her ears. The weight of the truth she’d sought all these years, now ill-fitting and crooked upon her shoulders. Part of her still found it impossible to believe—even with the memory of the truedark massacre singing in her head, the power and fury she’d wielded so effortlessly, shadows cutting like swords in her
outstretched hands. She’d killed so many men, giving in to the rage that had sustained her through all the years and all the miles and all the sleepless nevernights.

  It was creeping back into her now, slipping out toward her from that pool. Toxic. Narcotic. Smothering sorrow’s black beneath waves of familiar, comforting red.

  If she was angry, she didn’t need to think.

  If she was angry, she could simply act.

  Hunt.

  Stab.

  Kill.

  That bastard. The spider at the center of this whole rotten fucking web. The man who’d sentenced her mother to die in the Philosopher’s Stone, who’d ordered her drowned, who’d used her to rid himself of his rivals, and at last, put himself within arm’s reach of his bloody throne. The man who’d manipulated her from afar all these years, pushing her, twisting her, turning her into …

  She looked down at her trembling, open hands.

  Into this.

  So she gave in to the rage. Let it choke the grief inside her. And into the dark, she whispered, “If a killer is what he wants, a killer is what he’ll get.”

  Ash blinked. “What?”

  Mia stood with a wince. Stretched out her hand.

  “Give me the sword, Ash.”

  Ashlinn looked down at the longblade at her waist. She’d recovered it from Mia’s chambers in the Godsgrave chapel. It was gravebone, sharp as sunslight, its hilt carved like a crow in flight. The sword had once belonged to Darius Corvere, taken from his study in Crow’s Nest by Marcus Remus. Mia had killed Remus in turn—cut his throat in a dusty shithole on the coast of Ashkah, and claimed the blade as her own.

  Avenging her father, or so she thought.

  “I love you, Mia.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Give it to me,” Mia said.

  “Why?” Ash asked.

  “Because it’s mine.”

  “Mia…” Ashlinn rose to her feet, caution and care turning her voice to velvet. “Mia, whatever you’re thinking … you’re exhausted. You’re wounded. What Tric just told us … it can’t be easy to—”

  “Give me the fucking sword, Ashlinn!” Mia shouted.

  The shadows flared, the darkness ringing in her voice and turning it to hollow iron. The darkness twisted about her feet, mad patterns and shapes, strobing black. The red-amber eyes of the crow on the hilt twinkled in the ghostly light. The pool behind her rippled, as if kissed by the smallest stone.

  Ashlinn went pale beneath her freckles. Mia saw she was actually trembling. But she still stood her ground. Gritted her teeth and curled her hands into fists to stop the shakes. Standing up to Mia like nobody else ever dared.

  “No,” she replied.

  Mia growled. “Ash, I’m warning you…”

  “Warn me all you like,” Ash said, taking a deep breath. “I know you’re angry. I know you’re hurt. But you need to think.” She waved at the dark behind and below Mia. “Away from this cursed pool. With the blood washed off your skin and a cigarillo in your hand and a nevernight’s sleep between you and all this shit.”

  Mia scowled, but the iron in her stare wavered.

  “Give me my sword, Ashlinn.”

  The girl reached out and ran one gentle hand down the cruel scar on Mia’s cheek. Along the bow of her lips. The look in her eyes melted Mia’s heart.

  “I love you, Mia,” Ash said. “Even the part of you that frightens me. But you’ve been hurt enough for one turn. I’ll not see you hurt again.”

  Tears welled in Mia’s eyes. Black rising from beneath the red. The walls loomed about her, ready to come crashing down. Her hands fluttered at her sides as if she were desperate for an embrace, but too torn to beg for one. With a murmur of pity, a glance to the Hearthless boy watching them, Ashlinn stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Mia. She kissed her brow, pulled her in tight, Mia sinking into her arms.

  “I love you,” Ash whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” Mia breathed into Ashlinn’s hair, hands roaming her back.

  “It’s all right.”

  “No.” Mia’s hands moved down over Ashlinn’s hips, her fingers brushing the longsword’s hilt. And with a flourish, Mia drew the blade from the scabbard and stepped back out of Ash’s reach. “It isn’t.”

  “You…” Ashlinn’s eyes were wide, mouth open. “You … fucking…”

  “Bitch?”

  Mia flipped the sword in her hand, wiping her tears away on her grubby sleeve.

  “Aye,” she nodded. “But I’m a clever fucking bitch.”

  Mia turned to Tric, sniffed hard, and spat.

  “How do I get out of here?”

  “YOU MUST LISTEN—”

  “I must nothing,” Mia snapped. “Julius Scaeva is in Godsgrave, do you understand that? The real Julius Scaeva. A hundred thousand people saw him cut down by an assassin’s blade. He needs to show himself in front of the mob to assure them all is well before the city goes up in flames. And his doppelgänger is dead. So are you going to show me the way out of this fucking hole, or leave me to wander in the dark playing guess-a-game? Because one way or another, I’m going back up to the ’Grave.”

  “I remember the path we walked here on,” came a small voice.

  Mia looked to her brother, standing on the black shoreline in his grubby purple robes. The boy was watching her with his big dark eyes, obviously not quite sure what to make of her anymore. He’d not wanted to believe they were siblings, that was plain enough. But if what Ash said about his father still being alive was true, then it all might be true. And when Mia had been the one who killed his da, it was simple—she was an enemy, hated and feared. But now Jonnen knew his father still lived, how did he feel about the sister he’d never known?

  “You do?” Mia asked.

  The boy nodded. “I’ve a memory sharp as swords. All my tutors say.”

  Mia held out her hand to her brother. “Come, then.”

  The boy looked up at her, suspicion and hunger swimming in his eyes. But ever so slowly, he took her hand. Mister Kindly sat on Mia’s shoulders, purring softly as Eclipse prowled about her ankles. She lifted the gravebone lantern and took a step into the darkness, but Tric moved to stand in front of her. Looming over her like some beautiful bloodless wraith from a fireside tale.

  She could feel the chill radiating off his body, where once she’d felt a warmth that made her ache. Her eyes trailed up the alabaster line of his throat, the cut of his jaw, the soft crease of the dimple at his cheek. Pale as milk. Pale as death.

  “You said the Mother sent you to be my guide,” Mia said. “Show me the way.”

  “THIS ISN’T YOUR PATH, MIA.” Tric spoke softly. “ASHLINN SPEAKS TRUTH. YOU’RE WOUNDED. ANGRY. YOU NEED SLEEP AND A DECENT MEAL AND A MOMENT TO BREATHE.”

  “Tric,” Mia said. “Do you remember that time we were acolytes and you talked me out of doing something I desperately wanted by appealing to my sensible side?”

  The boy tilted his head.

  “… NO.”

  “Me either,” Mia replied. “Now show me the way. Or get the fuck out of it.”

  The boy glanced at Ashlinn. The dark around them rang with the song of murder. The pool rippling in quiet fury. Tric looked down into Mia’s eyes. Bottomless black. Utterly unreadable. But finally, he heaved a frosty sigh.

  “FOLLOW ME.”

  * * *

  “To the forum!”

  The criers were on every bridge, the bellboys on every cobbled street. The shout rang up and down the thoroughfares and through the taverna, over the canals from the Nethers to the Arms and back again. All of Godsgrave ringing.

  “The forum!”

  Chaos had tried to take root in their time beneath the city, and Mia could smell blood and smoke in the air. But as they surfaced from the tunnels beneath Godsgrave’s necropolis, she could see all-out anarchy hadn’t broken loose quite yet. Luminatii and soldiers patrolled the streets, shoving folks with shield and truncheon. Gatherings of more than a dozen were swiftl
y broken up, along with the noses of anyone who protested too vigorously. The legion seemed to have been briefed of trouble ahead of time—almost as if the consul had anticipated chaos after the end of the games.

  Always a step ahead, bastard …

  And now the announcement was rippling through the streets. Floating up over the balconies and terra-cotta roofs and ringing across the canals. Shushing rumor and quieting unrest and promising the answers all in the city sought.

  Was the cardinal really slain? The consul, too?

  The savior of the Republic, laid low by the blade of a mere slave?

  Mia had stolen a cloak from some washwoman’s line, another strip of cloth to wrap around the scar and slave brand on her face. They made their way through the Sword Arm and down toward the Heart, Ashlinn to her left, Tric to her right, Jonnen in her arms. The boy’s weight made her muscles ache, her spine groan in protest. But even if she was no longer the assassin who killed his father, she was still the abductor claiming to be his long-lost sister, and Mia didn’t trust him not to make a break for it if given half the chance. Even if she didn’t fear the clever little shit doing a runner, she was still loathe to let him go. She couldn’t lose him now.

  Not after all this.

  With both Eclipse and Mister Kindly riding in his shadow, the boy seemed a little more sedate. Watching her with clouded eyes as they slipped through the Godsgrave streets, over the wending cobbles and through the grand piazzas of the marrowborn district, closer, ever closer to the forum. The crowd around them was alight with fear, curiosity, violence waiting in the wings. Mia saw the flash of hidden blades. The glint of bared teeth. The potential for ruin, just a breath and a wrong word away.

  Every grudge. Every slave, every unhappy pleb, every malcontent with a bone to pick. She saw how fragile it all was—this so-called “civilization.” The rage boiling at the heart of this place. Godsgrave felt like a barrel full of wyrdglass, wrapped in oil-soaked rags. Waiting for the spark that would send it all up in flames.

  In the forum, a few hundred feet from the first Rib, they found the streets were simply too crowded to get any closer. The thoroughfares and bridges were packed with folk of every kind, young and old, rich and poor, Itreyan, Liisian, Vaanian, Dweymeri. Instead of trying to push on, Mia and her comrades forced their way to the base of the mighty statue of the Everseeing in the forum’s heart.