Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

  “… You’re that bastard’s daughter?” Butcher asked, bewildered.

  “Aye,” she spat. “The man I’ve been trying to kill for the past eight years turns out to be the man who gave me life. And if that isn’t enough of a fuck-you from the divinities, I’ve apparently got a fragment of a dead god inside me that I inherited from him, too! O, and incidentally, the last boy I fucked got murdered by the last girl I fucked, then resurrected by the Mother of Night to help me with the aforementioned god problem, and the prick who just cut Bryn and ’Waker’s throat used to be a personal friend of mine! I am fucking poison, do you see that? I am cancer! Whatever comes near me ends up dead. So get the fuck away from me before you get killed, too.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for this, Mia,” Sidonius said.

  “Don’t!” she warned. “Just don’t.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Fuck you, Sid,” she spat, tears welling in her eyes. “Look at them!”

  “Blaming yourself for another’s work is like blaming yourself for the weather,” he said, looking at Wavewaker’s and Bryn’s bodies. “And I’ll mourn them as a brother and sister lost, aye. But taking a beating is part of being alive. And let me tell you something, Mia—the best brawlers I ever met were the ugliest, too. Broken noses and missing teeth and cauliflower ears. Because the best way to learn to win is by losing.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Pretty warriors can’t fight for shit. You can’t know how sweet it is to breathe ’til you’ve had your ribs broken. You can’t appreciate being happy ’til someone has made you cry. And there’s no point blaming yourself for the kickings life gives you. Just think about how much it hurt, and how much you don’t want to feel that way again. And that’ll help you do what you need to do the next time to win.”

  Sid crossed his arms and glowered as the thunder rolled.

  “I give no fucks for whose cock you got spat from. I’m not leaving you.”

  “Nor I,” Bladesinger said.

  “Aye,” Butcher nodded. “Neither me.”

  Mia hung her head, tears burning. She ran her hand across her eyes and drew a deep, shivering breath, thinking of some way she might sway them. But she knew Sid and the others well enough to know they were stubborn as mules, that a declaration like they’d just made was as solid as the stone beneath her feet. She could walk away, but they’d only follow. She could hide herself and Jonnen beneath her cloak and run, but that’d mean leaving Ash and Tric behind …

  She slumped down, close to the firelight, not close enough for it to warm her. And mutely, she shook her head and acquiesced.

  “Right,” Sid nodded. “So, we find this Naev, see what she says.”

  “We still have to cross the Sea of Sorrows,” Ash pointed out.

  “Six hundred miles from Amai to Last Hope,” Bladesinger murmured. “With the Ladies of Oceans and Storms trying to drown us every inch of the way.”

  “Well, let’s burn that bridge when we arrive at it,” Sid sighed, dragging his hand over his scalp. “It looks like we’re going to be waiting here ’til Nalipse gets bored or the suns burn off a few of these clouds.”

  “You should all try and get some sleep,” Mia said softly.

  They all looked at her, suspicious and uncertain.

  “Every Blade I knew in Galante Chapel is dead now,” she said. “So I doubt there’ll be anyone on our trails for a while. But Tric, can you keep watch up top, just in case?”

  The boy nodded, his confession of love hanging like an unanswered question between them.

  “I CAN DO THAT.”

  “What about you?” Ash asked. “You need to sleep, too, Mia.”

  “I will,” she nodded. “I’ll wake Sid in a few hours. Get some rest.”

  “You’re not going to try anything foolish while we sleep, aye?” Sid asked. “Stealing off into the storm like a thief and leaving us behind?”

  “You know where I’m going.” She shook her head. “You’d only follow.”

  “Damn right we would,” Sidonius scowled.

  “So get some sleep, Sid.”

  The group were still a touch groggy from the Swoon, and ultimately it didn’t take much convincing to settle them back down by the flames. Ashlinn snuggled up with her back against Mia, Jonnen was curled close by. Sid stayed awake for an hour or more, pretending to sleep but watching her through his lashes.

  Mia simply watched the fire.

  The wood they’d brought in earlier from the rain had mostly dried, and the blaze was burning fierce, giving out a warmth she was barely able to feel. Tric patrolled the levels above, glancing at her every now and then with those bottomless eyes.

  Mia stared at the flames instead.

  Stoking the fire in her own chest. Feeling it like a living thing. She was worried for her friends. Grateful that they’d chosen to stay with her despite it all. She was tired and sore and afraid. But mostly, she was just sick of this bullshit. Of Scaeva and the Church. Of others being hurt because of her. Of always being outnumbered, of constantly being on the back foot. She was headed into the fire, she knew it. Right into a house of wolves. But truth told, she welcomed the thought. Because along with the fury, she could feel the dark swelling inside her, too. Remember the anger pooled black and deep beneath Godsgrave’s skin, the rage of a god laid low, a rage she’d always carried, her whole bloody life.

  Anais.

  The figure from her dreams, wrought of dark flame, crowned with a silver circle on his brow. Murdered by his father. His mother imprisoned in the Abyss for eternity.

  Mia’s father had tried to murder her, too. Locked her mother in the Philosopher’s Stone to languish and die. She couldn’t help but see the parallels between her and the fallen Moon. Stitched into the tapestry around her. Unfolding like destiny. But the difference was, Mia hadn’t died when her father tried to kill her. Hadn’t fallen to earth and shattered into a thousand pieces. Hadn’t broken. Hadn’t crumbled. Instead, she’d become something harder. Not iron or glass.

  Steel.

  “All you are? All you have become? I gave you. Mine is the seed that planted you. Mine are the hands that forged you. Mine is the blood that flows, cold as ice and black as pitch, in those veins of yours.”

  She could see the truth of it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a truth he’d live to regret. And Mia could see the truth in Sid’s words, too. Taking a beating so she knew how much it hurt, and how much she didn’t want to feel that way again.

  I never want to feel this way again.

  And so she looked into the flames, eyes alight with her prayer.

  Her vow.

  Father

  When the last sun falls

  When daylight dies

  So do you.

  CHAPTER 21

  AMAI

  “What is that smell?” Jonnen asked, screwing up his little face.

  Up at the head of the line, Sidonius pressed a finger to his nose and blew a stream of snot from each nostril.

  “Sewage.”

  “And fish,” Bladesinger nodded.

  “TIMBER,” said Tric. “TAR. LEATHER AND SPICES. SWEAT AND SHIT AND BLOOD.”

  “Quite a nose you’ve got there,” Sidonius smiled.

  Ashlinn met the deadboy’s glance, saying nothing.

  “We’re here.” Butcher stretched in his saddle and yawned. “It’s Amai. You can smell it from miles away. There’s a reason they call this city the Arsehole of Liis.”

  They’d been riding for almost two weeks, miserable and dripping the whole damn way. The Lady of Storms had calmed her temper after a turn or so, softened her howling tempest into a depressing, relentless drizzle that soaked everyone to the skin. It was as if the goddess were saving her strength, coiled and ready like a waiting serpent for the moment Mia took to the ocean again. But it made the ride easier at least.

  They had no more trouble on the road—the citizens they passed stepped well out of the way of Centurion Sidonius and his tiny c
ohort, and the few soldiers they met simply gave bored salutes and marched on. Each nevernight they’d bed down in whatever shelter they could find, or huddle together in the lee of the wagon. Tric would prowl about on guard and Butcher would run Jonnen through his paces with the blade (the boy’s form was actually quite good, and he was a frighteningly swift learner) and Mia would pace back and forth inside her head. Thinking of Bryn and ’Waker, of Mercurio and Adonai and Marielle, of that bitch Drusilla and that bastard Scaeva and all they’d taken away.

  Soon, she promised herself.

  Soon.

  But first, there was an ocean between them to conquer.

  “You said you grew up in Amai?” Mia asked Butcher, shifting her numb arse on the driver’s seat. Jonnen was holding the reins, watching the road studiously.

  “Aye,” the man nodded. “Shipped out when I was fourteen.”

  “Shipped out?” Bladesinger asked. “I thought you hated ships.”

  “I do. But you grow up in a place like this, you’ve not got much choice. Fuck working in some pub or market stall. Right in the earhole.”

  Ashlinn frowned. “Were you a fisherman, or…?”

  “Fisherman?” Butcher scoffed. “I ought to box your bloody ears, girl. Could a fisherman slay Caelinus the Longshanks in single combat in front of twenty thousand people? Or gut Marcinio of the Werewood like a fish?”

  “Aye,” Sid said. “A fisherman could probably gut a man like a fish, Butcher.”

  “I was a pirate, you fucking cunts,” the Liisian blustered.

  “But…” Mia frowned. “You were seasick, Butcher. You spewed your guts out the entire way from Whitekeep to Galante.”

  “Well, I was a shitty pirate, wasn’t I?” the man cried. “How d’you think I ended up a damned slave?”

  “O…,” Mia nodded. “That … makes a surprising amount of sense, actually.”

  “Point is I grew up here,” Butcher scowled. “I know this city like I know women.”

  Ash raised her hand—

  “Don’t,” Mia hissed.

  “Right,” Sid said. “So what can we expect from the Arsehole of Liis? And they should really think of a better name for it, by the by.”

  “It’s about as dangerous a pit of murderers, rapists, and thieves as you’re ever likely to come across,” Butcher said. “If you’re not salted, you’d best watch your damned step. Life is cheaper than a ha’-copper sweetboy here.”

  “Salted?” Ash asked.

  “Aye, crewed,” Butcher nodded. “On a ship, like. If you’re part of a crew, you’re salted. If not, you’re dryland scum. Pirates follow a code, see. The Six Laws of the Salt. First one’s Fraternity. Let’s see…” The man’s munted face creased in thought as he tried to remember. “‘Spite him, curse him, kill him, but know he the taste of salt, your brother shall he be.’ In other words, you might hate another pirate’s guts, but in harbor, you both stand head and shoulders above the freshwater plebs.”

  “What if it’s a woman?”’Singer asked.

  Butcher blinked. “Eh?”

  “If the pirate is a woman. How can a woman be your brother?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” Butcher growled. “I didn’t write the bloody things.”

  “How can they tell who’s salted and who’s not?” Sidonius asked.

  “Some get inked,” Butcher shrugged. “Or scarred. Others will wear a token of their ship while in harbor. The worst are just known by reputation.”

  “All right,” Mia nodded. “What are the other rules?”

  Butcher scratched his small black cockscomb of hair. “Well, there’s one called Dominion. Basically what a captain says on the deck of their own ship is the word of god. And another called Allegiance, which is about chain of command. Crew follow the first mate, mate follows the captain, captain follows the king.” The Liisian pouted in thought. “I always forget the name of the fourth one. Heritage or Heresy somesuch…”

  “Still can’t believe pirates have bloody kings,” Sid muttered.

  “Believe it,” Butcher nodded. “And pray to the Everseeing and his Four fucking Daughters you never meet this bastard. Born of a jackal, they say. Drinks the blood of his enemies from a cup carved from his father’s skull.”

  “Did his father die having sex with the jackal, or afterward?” Mia asked.

  “Must’ve been quite a revel…” Ashlinn smiled.

  “Scoff now, Crow,” the Liisian said. “But the Butcher of Amai fears no man of woman born. And Einar Valdyr makes me want to mess my fucking pantaloons.”

  “Since when did you start referring to yourself in third person?” she asked. “Or wearing pantaloons, for that matter?”

  “O, fuck off.”*

  “Einar Valdyr sank the Dauntless,” Jonnen said softly. “And the Godstruth three months after that. The Daughter’s Fire the following summersdeep.”

  Mia looked at her brother, eyebrow raised.

  “I studied infamous enemies of the Itreyan Republic last year,” he explained. “I’ve a memory—”

  “—sharp as swords,” Mia finished, smiling. “Aye, I know.”

  Bladesinger sighed. “Well, Mother Trelene willing, Corleone is waiting for us at harbor. We just keep our heads down, find this pub of his, and ponder our next move.”

  “With a bellyful of wine,” Sidonius said. “By a roaring fireplace.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Ashlinn nodded.

  “Aye,” Butcher said. “The Mother of Night and all her cursed dead couldn’t hold me back.”

  Mia looked to the silent Dweymeri boy, plodding along beside the road.

  Tric didn’t even flinch.

  * * *

  The smell was breathtaking.

  Mia couldn’t describe it as a stench as such, although a stench was certainly wrapped up in the aroma somewhere. The cityport of Amai was crusted on the shores of the Sea of Sorrows like scabs on a pitfighter’s knuckles. The stink of dead fish, abattoirs, and horseshit hung in the air above it, strung with notes of the ocean beyond.

  But beneath the stench were other aromas. The perfume of a thousand spices: lemonmere and frankincense and black lotus.* The toast-warm scent of fresh tarts and sugardoughs. Sizzling meats, sweet treats frying in olive oil, the tang of fresh fruits and ripe berries. Because crewed by murderous privateers they may’ve been, but each ship in Amai’s harbor had arrived with something to sell. And beyond a haven for bastards and brutes and brigands, Mia realized the city was something else besides.

  A marketplace.

  They’d taken off their soldier’s livery—Butcher advised that entering the city wearing colors of the Itreyan Republic was just asking for trouble. Besides, Sidonius’s suit of gravebone armor was worth a living fortune and would be sure to attract attentions in a city of thieves. They kept on their chain mail and swords and hid the rest in the wagon, though Mia still wore her gravebone longblade sheathed at her waist.

  The city was walled, but the broad, iron-shod gates were flung open and unmanned—it seemed King Valdyr could find few fucks to give for who came and went. Making their way into the city proper, Mia was struck by the crowds. Folk of all colors and shapes and sizes: tall and swarthy Dweymeri; pale, dark-haired Itreyans; blond-haired, blue-eyed Vaanians; and everywhere, everywhere, olive-skinned Liisians with their dark curls and musical voices.

  “This is our mother’s country,” she told Jonnen. “You don’t speak Liisian, do you?”

  “No,” the boy replied, looking around at the swell and the crush.

  “Listen to it,” she smiled, breathing deep. “It’s like poetry.”

  He looked up at her then, his dark eyes clouded.

  “Teach me a word, then.”

  Mia met his stare. “De’lai.”

  “De’lai,” he repeated.

  “That’s it,” Mia nodded. “Very good.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Sister,” she smiled.

  The boy turned his eyes back to the crowded street
s, keeping his thoughts to himself as the wagon rolled on. Tric walked out front, the crowd instinctively parting before him as he cut them a path along the rain-soaked thoroughfare. Mia looked about them, watchful and on edge. She began to notice patterns among the throng, obvious among the colors and threads once you looked for it. Men with white kerchiefs embroidered with death’s heads about their arms. Another group with mermaids inked at their throats, yet another with triangular scars etched into their cheeks. Like heraldry, or a familia’s sigil. The men carried themselves as comrades would, all armed, all looking somewhere on the wrong side of dangerous.

  “Salted,” she murmured.

  “Aye,” Butcher nodded beside her. “Rulers of the roost. The ones in wolfskins are Valdyr’s boys. Wulfguard. He has men all over the city.”

  Mia noted the group Butcher was talking about—a quartet of tall and surly-looking bucks, each with a skinned wolf across his shoulders. But though the privateers in the mobs carried themselves with swagger, there was precious little trouble for a city so allegedly rife with bastardry. A few fistfights. Some vomit and blood on the cobbles. Mia began to wonder if Butcher had overstated the case—she loved the ugly sod, but he wasn’t a man to let the truth get in the way of a good yarn. Aside from having to scare off a pack of grubby urchins loitering around the wagon (Ash flashed a knife and promised to geld the first one to get too close) and a fellow flying out a second-story window as they passed, there was an almost disappointing lack of drama. Mia and her comrades soon found themselves looking down on the glittering jewel that was Amai’s harbor.

  Even though the Lady of Storms had drawn her veil across heaven, it was still a breathtaking sight. Ships of every cut and kind: square-rigged caravels and three-masted carracks, mighty galleys with hundreds of oars at their flanks and deadly balingers that ran under power of both oar and wind. Figureheads carved in the likeness of drakes or lions or maids with fishes’ tails, sails stitched with crossed bones or grinning skulls or hangman’s nooses.

  Mia’s eyes caught on the largest vessel at dock—one of the biggest she’d ever seen, truth told. It was a massive warship, at least a hundred and fifty feet long, with four towering masts reaching into the skies. She was painted the color of truedark, bow to stern, her name daubed down her prow in ornate white script.