by Jay Kristoff
“Wonder?”
Moving right. Back and forth with no pattern.
Clever.
“Wonder who it was who stole into Darius Corvere’s encampment?” Solis asked. “Wonder who snatched up him and his lover and handed them over for execution?”
Solis held up his left hand. Running his fingers over the scars notched in his forearm.
“Thirty-six marks,” he said. “Thirty-six bodies. In truth, I’ve ended hundreds. But I only branded myself with those kills I was paid for, in blood and silver. Even the ones where I never actually wielded the blade.”
He ran his finger over a notch near his wrist.
“This one is General Gaius Maxinius Antonius.”
He heard a scuff on the stone as she stopped moving.
“And this is Justicus Darius Corvere.”
Solis turned milk-white eyes toward her soft gasp.
“You…”
And then he lunged.
Mia moved, slipping away quick as shadows. But not quite quick enough. His fingers closed on a lock of her hair and he seized tight, heard her yelp as he wrapped it up in his fist and dragged her in. Fingers closing around her neck. His face was twisted, rage boiling in his chest at the thought this fucking slip had blinded him, mocked him, caught him unawares.
He slammed a fist into her jaw, sent her reeling. Dragging her back in to punch her again. Slamming her like a rag doll into the wall, fingers sinking deep into the flesh of her throat. He’d gotten too soft. Too predictable. When this little bitch was dead he’d—
A blow to his chest.
Another and another.
It felt as though she were punching him, and he sneered at the thought. She was two-thirds his size, half his weight. As if her fists could hurt him …
But then he felt pain. Warm and wet, spilling down his belly. And he realized she wasn’t simply hitting him. Her knife was just too sharp for him to feel.
Both hands were at her throat now. Blind eyes open wide as the agony started creeping in. They stumbled, falling back into the bath. As they crashed into the water, he felt her blade slip into his back half a dozen times, the pair of them sinking below the surface as he strangled for all he was worth. He’d killed a dozen men this way in his time. Close enough to hear the death rattle in their lungs, smell the stink as their bladder loosed when they died.
But the pain …
Rolling and tumbling beneath the water. Hard to keep his grip. Pulse rushing in his ears. Spilling from the dozen wounds in his chest, his back, his side. Arms like iron.
She’s killing me.
The thought made the rage flare bright. Denial and fury. Kicking and stabbing, flailing and cursing. They surfaced, bright light in his blind eyes, gasping. The pair crashed against the edge of the sunken bath, her spine cruelly bent, his face twisted. She was still flailing at him, cursing, spitting. Stabbing his forearms, slicing his cheek, lost in her own frenzy.
He couldn’t feel his hands. Was he still holding her?
It didn’t hurt so much anymore. Dull impacts. Chest. Chest. Neck. Chest.
“Bastard!” she was screaming.
Is
“You!”
this
“Rotten!”
how
“Fucking!”
it
“Bastard!”
ends?
He felt his knees give out. His grip slithered away from her neck. The water was warm, but he was so cold. Hard to breathe. Hard to think. Slipping deeper, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back beneath the surface, allowing himself to float for a handful of minutes.
Would he meet her now? Gather him to her breast and kiss his brow with black lips?
Had he ever believed? Or had he just enjoyed it too much?
Mother, I …
Solis closed his eyes to sound of the choir.
And then he sank beneath the—”
“Enough,” Scaeva said.
Drusilla looked up from the pages, one eyebrow quirked.
“Is it?” she asked.
The imperator of Itreya scowled slightly, his dark eyes on the Lady of Blades. The dozen personal guardsmen he’d brought with him were arrayed about their master, staring at the book in Drusilla’s hands like it were a viper set to strike. Scaeva himself made a better show of appearing unimpressed, resplendent in his purple toga and wreath of beaten gold. But even he regarded the chronicle she’d been reading aloud from with suspicious wonder. He steepled his fingers at his lips, scowling.
“I believe you have made your point, good lady.”
Flames crackled in the chamber’s hearth, and Mouser shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Spiderkiller’s face was blanched, even Solis looked disconcerted at the foretelling of his own murder at Mia’s hands. Drusilla leaned back in her seat, closed the third Nevernight Chronicle with a gentle thump. Her fingertips traced the cat embossed in the black leather, her voice soft as silk.
“She must be stopped, Imperator,” the Lady of Blades said. “I know she is your daughter. I know she has your son. But if all this tome says is true, once inside the Mountain, Mia Corvere will wield a power none of us can match.”
“Mia is not the only darkin in this tale,” Scaeva replied.
“O, well do I know it,” Drusilla replied, patting the tome. “The results of your clash are quite spectacular, if somewhat overwritten. But they end badly for you, I’m afraid. Would you like me to read it? I have it bookmar—”
“Thank you, no,” the imperator replied, glowering.
“I do not understand,” Mouser said. “The first page of the first chronicle told us she dies.”
“And indeed she does,” Drusilla said, drumming her fingers on the third tome’s cover. “After a long and happy life, in her bed, surrounded by her loved ones.”
“I will be damned,” Solis growled, “before I allow that bitch a happy ending.”
“This chronicle is witchery,” Aalea said, eyes on the book.
“No,” Drusilla said, meeting the eyes of her Ministry. “This chronicle is a future. But it is a future we can change. Already we change it, here and now, by speaking as we do. These pages are not carved in stone. This ink can be washed away. And we have young Mia at disadvantage.”
“O, aye?” Mouser asked.
“Aye,” Drusilla said. “We know exactly how she intends to enter the Mountain. And when. And fool that she is, we know she’s bringing the imperator’s son with her.”
All eyes turned to Scaeva.
“You should depart back for Godsgrave, Imperator,” Drusilla said. “Leave your errant daughter to us. Safer for all concerned.”
“And that concern is touching, Lady,” Scaeva replied. “So I trust you’ll forgive my honesty. But your efforts in subduing my daughter thus far have been less than impressive. And if she is bringing my son to your slaughter, I will remain to ensure that Lucius is not harmed. In any way.”
“You may trust us on that, Imperator. But as for your daughter?”
The Lady of Blades leaned forward in her chair, staring hard.
“I know you wished her captured, Julius. I know you wished to make her your weapon, to set we gold-grubbing whores of the Red Church aside.” Scaeva glanced up at that, and Drusilla met his stare, smiling. “But surely this tome demonstrates Mia is simply too dangerous to be allowed to live. The Red Church will continue to serve your imperium, just as we have always done. We will be paid for our services, just as we have always been. And Mia Corvere will die.”
Scaeva stroked his chin, eyes on the chronicle. The Lady of Blades could see the wheels at work behind his stare. The plans within plans, unraveling and restitching.
But finally, as she knew he would, the imperator nodded.
“Mia Corvere will die.”
* * *
A soft knock disturbed the silence of his bedchamber.
Mercurio’s natural scowl deepened, and he dragged on his cigarillo, looking at the offending door in annoyance. Pulling
his wire-rimmed spectacles off his nose, he set his book aside with a curse. He’d have been miffed to be interrupted reading at the best of times, but he was only two chapters from the end of On Bended Knee. The chronicler had been right—the politics were silly, but the smut really was top-shelf—and with only twenty-two pages left, he was surprisingly invested in discovering whether Contessa Sofia’s evil twin really was going to marry Archduke Giorgio and—
Knock, knock.
“Fucksakes, what?” the old man growled.
He heard the key turning in the lock, and the door swung open silently. Mercurio fully expected to see one of his damned Hands poke their heads around the frame. He’d been confined to his bedchamber since the discovery of the third chronicle, and the poor sods watching him were bored shitless now. The Dweymeri lad even asked if Mercurio wanted a cup of tea yesterturn. But instead of a dispirited lackey of the Red Church, the old man found himself looking at the Lady of Blades herself.
“Since when do you knock?” he growled.
“Since I was informed about your current reading material,” the old woman replied. “I’d rather not stumble into a visit from Dona Palmer and her five daughters, if it’s all the same to you.”
“You always were a prude, ’Silla.”
“You always were a wanker, Mercurio.”
The old man smiled despite himself. “Why are you here?”
Drusilla stepped inside, closed the door behind her. He could tell from her expression that despite her opening salvo, she hadn’t come to jest. She sat down on his bed and he turned his chair to face her, elbows on his knees.
“What is it, ’Silla?”
“Mia is dead.”
The old man felt a tightness across his chest, like iron bands constricting. His left arm ached, fingertips tingling as he felt the room begin to spin.
“What?” he managed to sputter.
Drusilla looked at him with clear concern. “… Are you well?”
“Of course I’m not fucking well!” he snapped. “She’s dead?”
“Black Mother, I was speaking figuratively. The deed isn’t done yet.”
“Maw’s fucking teeth.” Mercurio massaged his chest, wincing with pain. Relief flooded over him like spring rain. “You near gave me a fucking heart attack!”
“… Do you wish to see the apothecary?”
“No, I don’t wish to see the fucking apothecary, you crusty bitch!” he snapped. “I want to know what the ’byss you’re babbling about!”
“Scaeva has given approval for Mia’s execution,” Drusilla said. “We know exactly when and how she will enter the Mountain. Her fate is sealed, the matter is certain. I know how much you care for her, and I wished you to hear it from me first.”
“You wished to fucking gloat, is what you mean,” Mercurio snarled.
“If you believe I take pleasure in this—”
“Why the ’byss else would you have come in here?” The old man blinked hard, rubbing at the pain in his arm, his body now in a cold sweat. “Of course you take pleasure in it, ’Silla! You always have! You always will!”
“Know me so well, do you?”
“O, I know you, all right,” Mercurio snarled, wincing as he curled the fingers on his left hand. “Better than any man b-before or since. I saw you at your best and I watched you at your worst. Why the fuck else do you think I ended it between us?”
The old woman scoffed, blue eyes glittering. “I didn’t care forty years ago, Mercurio. I care even less now.”
“Some of us joined this place because we believed. And some of us because it was all we had. But you?” Mercurio winced again, pawing at his shoulder. “You joined because you liked it. You l-like hurting things, ’Silla. You w-were always a heartless…”
Mercurio blinked, rising to his feet.
“… h-heartless…”
The old man gasped, clutching at his chest. He staggered back against the wall, his book tumbling to the floor, a pitcher of wine knocked loose and shattering on the stone. His face twisted, he gasped again, lips moving as if he were unable to speak.
Drusilla rose to standing, eyes widening.
“… Mercurio?”
The old man fell to his knees. A gargle of nonsense spilling over his lips, both hands pressed to his heart and twisting at the fabric of his robes. The Lady of Blades slammed her fist against the door, crying out. The Hands burst into the room as the old man fell facedown on the stone, the stink of wine and piss in his nostrils.
“Get him to the apothecarium!” Drusilla snapped.
Mercurio felt a strong grip upon his waist, the Dweymeri Hand picking him up and slinging him over one broad shoulder. He only groaned in response, eyelids fluttering. He felt the rhythmic tread of hurried footsteps, heard Drusilla barking commands above the endless dirge of the Church choir. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore, thankfully. A long string of drool spilled from his lips and he groaned more nonsense. He was being carried along dark hallways and down spiraling stairs, head thumping against the Hand’s backside. Drusilla was following, shaking her head.
“Stupid old fool.”
The old man groaned in reply as the Lady of Blades sighed.
“This is what having a heart gets you…”
CHAPTER 31
WAS
Drusilla left Mercurio in the apothecarium.
Despite her better judgment, the Lady of Blades always had a soft spot for the bishop of Godsgrave. She might have lingered longer by his bedside if she were able. But sadly, she had a massacre to oversee, and the tides of time wouldn’t be kept waiting by sentimentality. Drusilla had left her old lover sleeping, gray and gaunt, his thin chest rising and falling swift as a wounded bird’s. She’d growled instruction that he was to be given the best of care, waving one of the chief apothecary’s bonesaws in his face to impress upon him the gravity of her request. And with a cold kiss to Mercurio’s damp brow, Drusilla set out to murder the girl he loved like a daughter.
She’d gathered her flock about her, all in black. Gone over proceedings one last time for safe measure. The plan was set, the path was clear. All they needed now was for the guests to arrive, and the red, red gala could get under way.
The murderers waited now in the gloom, wreathed in the stink of hay and camels. The Red Church stables lay below them in all their fetid glory. Aside from the exterior doors leading from the Mountain’s flank out to the Ashkahi wastes, there were two other exits from the chamber—double doors, high up on the east and west walls. These doors led farther into the Mountain and were reached by twin sets of polished steps with heavy granite railings. Winding along the chamber’s outer wall, these stairs eventually met in a single broad descent, leading down to the animal pens and storage rooms below. Drusilla stood swathed in shadow near the upper western doorway. Long knives hidden in her sleeves. Blue eyes gleaming in the dark as she pushed all thought of Mercurio from her mind.
Scaeva lurked behind her, bodyguards arrayed about him, blades drawn and ready. In his typical fashion, the imperator stood close to the exit—ready to flee back into the safety of the Mountain if things somehow went badly, but still close enough to watch the massacre unfold. Scaeva’s shadow serpent was coiled about its master’s shoulders, watching with its not-eyes.
Drusilla idly wondered how deep in his dark gifts the imperator stood. How dangerous he’d truly be in a place like the Mountain, where the sunslight never shone. In all the years she’d had her spies watching him, Scaeva had never once made a display of his shadow power—the lady had no idea what his true capabilities were. If not for his passenger, Drusilla would hardly believe him to be darkin at all. Those unknowns made him dangerous. Almost as dangerous as his daughter had become.
The difference being, of course, Drusilla didn’t get paid by his daughter.
The Lady of Blades disliked the imperator, truth told. She respected his intelligence. Admired his ruthlessness. But the man was too ambitious for his own good. Too power-hungry. Too fond of the
sound of his own voice. Far, far too vain. And of course, Scaeva had power over Drusilla, which made her dislike him all the more.
Coin.
It was astounding, how insidious its silvered grip was. How Drusilla’s love of wealth had started with her love of familia. Whoever said money was the root of all evil had never seen the bliss in her grandsons’ eyes the turn she bought them their first ponies, or heard her daughter weep with joy when Drusilla paid the full sum of her wedding without a thought.
Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness obviously never had any.
She’d amassed a fortune in the years she’d served the Ministry. Most of it from Scaeva’s own coffers. But the real evil of wealth lay in the truth that too much was never really enough. No matter the sum you acquired, it seemed you always needed more. In her mind, Drusilla still needed Scaeva. When her familia’s future was assured, when their wealth was absolutely unassailable, then perhaps she could reassess her relationship with the young imperator. But for now …
“Remember, Drusilla,” Scaeva murmured behind her. “If one hair upon Lucius’s head comes to harm, your grandsons shall pay the forfeit of the cost.”
“We know a thing or two about killing, Julius,” Drusilla replied, keeping the cold ire from her voice. “Never fear.”
The viper at Scaeva’s feet hissed almost too soft to hear.
“… He never does…”
Over on the eastern stairwell, Drusilla could see Mouser, surrounded by two dozen of her most skilled Hands, all armed with heavy crossbows. The Shahiid of Pockets’ old eyes were narrowed as he watched the outer entrance below, his hand on the hilt of his blacksteel sword.
Spiderkiller was poised at the top of the central stairwell, and a half-dozen Church Blades stood at her side. The Corvere girl was simply too dangerous to underestimate anymore, and Drusilla had called in their best, their deadliest, for her ending—Donatella of Liis, Haarold and Brynhildr from the Carrion Hall chapel, even Acteon the Black had been summoned from Godsgrave. Solis waited among their number also, twin swords in hand, blind eyes upturned, head tilted. It was a dangerous gambit, to bring the best of her remaining killers together like this. But after Tenhands’s failure outside Galante, Drusilla could take no more chances. Mia was delivering herself right to the mouth of the wolves’ den, after all.