Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

  It wouldn’t do to have puppies waiting for her.

  Only Aalea seemed to have misgivings. Lingering by Drusilla’s side, the woman’s dark eyes were wide, a dagger gleaming in her hand.

  “Is Mercurio well? Did the apothecary sa—”

  “Gird yourself, Shahiid,” Drusilla whispered. “He is not your concern.”

  Aalea met her stare, her lips pressed thin. “He showed me kindness when I was but an acolyte in Godsgrave, Lady. If I m—”

  “Silence,” Solis hissed. “They come.”

  Drusilla’s belly filled with whispering butterflies. Peering down to the stables, she heard the sound of stone. Felt the greasy tang of arkemical magik in the air. She heard Spiderkiller muttering beneath her breath, Scaeva’s guards exhaling in wonder as the outer wall cracked open. A faint rush of wind kissed Drusilla’s face, a shower of fine dust and pebbles fell from above as the Mountain’s flank slowly split apart. About the stable, on the stairwells, dozens upon dozens of Hands and Blades stood poised, motionless, swathed in darkness. The ghostly choir was momentarily drowned out as the great doors opened wide, mekwerk rumbling and hissing.

  Corvere’s wagon train stood outside. The familiar sight of the Red Church stables awaited them—a broad straw-lined oblong, set on all sides with pens for sleek horses and spitting camels, wagons and carpenter’s tools and bales of feed and great stacks of supply crates. But on the stairwells above, crouched in the shadows around the room, death hovered with bated breath.

  It was all happening just as it was meant to.

  Drusilla squinted through the garish sunslight. The camels leading Corvere’s wagons snorted and spat, trudging inside and dragging their load behind them. She saw a figure in Hand’s robes in the driver’s seat—that half-dead Dweymeri boy, broad shouldered, head lowered. She could see more figures beneath the train’s canvas coverings. Drusilla knew from reading the Nevernight Chronicle that Corvere was riding in the middle wagon with Järnheim, Scaeva’s brat alongside them. If not for the presence of the boy, this would have been a far simpler affair.

  Still, this wasn’t exactly the Lady of Blades’ first murder …

  Drusilla looked to Spiderkiller, eyebrow raised in question. The Shahiid of Truths nodded in reply, cool and assured.

  The camels leading the wagon came to a slow halt.

  And at a whispered command, the assembled Blades let loose.

  White globes. Small and spherical. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, like a snowstorm shimmering in the sunslight as they were flung into the stables below. They popped—shoof! shoof! shoof!—into great clouds of roiling white. In a heartbeat, a dense fog of Swoon had filled the lower levels, dragging anyone who breathed it down into slumber. Drusilla heard strangled groans from below, the deep thumps of stricken camels hitting the stone. The soft whisper of the cloud as it settled, heavy and thick.

  And then she heard nothing at all.

  The assembled Blades and Shahiids looked to her. The old woman waited a long and silent moment. Peering down into the pale miasma, she saw no sign of movement, no hint of danger. And finally, the Lady of Blades gave a swift nod.

  The Red Church’s finest assassins donned leather masks, fixing them tight behind their heads, Spiderkiller assisting with the buckles. The contraptions were designed by the Shahiid of Truths herself; the wearer’s eyes were covered by glass panes, and brass nozzles filtered the air they breathed. With their masks in place, the Church Blades stole down into the poison fog. Acteon the Black was as soundless as smoke. Donatella of Liis was as sharp as the swords she carried. Solis waited at the top of the central stairs, swords drawn. Aalea stood beside Drusilla, holding her breath.

  Wind was picking up from the valley outside, the Swoon was drifting out the Mountain’s flank. Through the slowly thinning veil, Drusilla watched the assassins descend carefully, down the stairs toward the stable floor. She’d wondered if the dead Dweymeri boy might have proved immune to the Swoon’s effects, and Mouser and his cadre of Hands had raised their crossbows, burning arrows nocked, ready to unload on the Hearthless lad. But through the lightening mist, the Lady of Blades could see the figure in the wagon driver’s seat was slumped and motionless.

  “Secure the imperator’s son first!” Drusilla called. “End the rest.”

  “Bring me my boy!” Scaeva demanded.

  Acteon the Black waved assent, motioning for the other Blades to fan out around the middle wagon. Solis narrowed his blind eyes, the Hands on the upper levels leaned over their crossbows as Donatella of Liis cut the ties securing the canvas to the wagon bed. Drusilla held her breath, watching the Blade take hold of the cover, and with a sharp tug drag it free.

  Drusilla blinked. She could see figures in Hands’ robes inside the wagon. But rather than being slumped on the floor, all were still seated. Furthermore, and stranger still, Drusilla could see a large barrel resting in the wagon’s belly. It was thick oak, old and heavy and stained by salt. Bold lettering was burned into the wood.

  Haarold dragged the hood off one of the sitting figures, cursing as he revealed innards stuffed with straw.

  The Lady of Blades squinted at the words on the wooden barrel.

  IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO CLOUD CORLEONE.

  IF STOLEN, WELL PLAYED, GENTLEFRIEND.

  Drusilla’s belly dropped into her boots.

  … Arkemist’s salt.

  “Get ba—”

  The explosion tore through the stables like a hurricane of crackling blue flame. The roar was deafening, knocking Drusilla back and staggering Scaeva’s guards. The Lady of Blades shielded her eyes against the heat, watching as the wagon, Acteon, Donatella, the finest Blades left in the Red Church, were all incinerated. Solis was thrown against the wall, bleeding and scorched. Spiderkiller fell to her knees with a dark curse. Glowing ashes rose with the smoke, dancing in the air. The boom echoed around the hollow space, leaving the assembled churchmen dazed, blinded, stunned.

  “Maw’s fucking teeth!” Mouser coughed.

  Drusilla heard Scaeva’s sharp intake of breath behind. Turning to look at the imperator, she saw his eyes were wide. His shadowviper was coiled about his shoulders, licking the choking smoke with its translucent tongue.

  “… She is here…,” it said.

  Drusilla turned back to the stables in time to see the air shiver, a black flickering un-light. A shadow cut in the shape of a wolf coalesced halfway up the eastern stairs, roaring like the winds of the Abyss. As Drusilla watched, dumbfounded, a dark shape flung itself out of the passenger, landing in a crouch amidst a gaggle of her staggered Hands and right beside the Shahiid of Pockets. The figure rose to her feet in the ember rain and black smoke, bringing a pale longblade around in a whistling arc.

  “Mia…”

  The girl’s blade connected with Mouser’s neck, the gravebone slicing clean through flesh, sinew, and bone. The Shahiid’s head spun from his shoulders, old eyes open wide in surprise as it tumbled down into the charred stables below. Mia caught up Mouser’s blade of Ashkahi blacksteel as it dropped from nerveless fingers, delivering a savage boot to his corpse’s chest and sending it over the railings in pursuit of his bonnet. And, one blade in each hand, flickering in and out of the shadows like some awful, bloody hummingbird, she began hacking anyone carrying a crossbow to pieces.

  “Black Mother…,” Drusilla whispered.

  Aalea cursed. A shout came from the Mountain’s entrance, and through the rolling smoke, Drusilla saw a handful of figures charge into the stables from the foothills outside. Sodden rags were tied about their mouths and noses to protect them from the thinning Swoon, naked swords in their hands. She recognized them all from the chronicle—the Itreyan Sidonius and the Dweymeri Bladesinger. Beside them ran the Hearthless boy, Tric, and that traitorous bitch Ashlinn Järnheim. That dullard Butcher and the treacherous Naev were in the rear, Scaeva’s boy between them.

  But over on the eastern stairs, Mia was cutting a swath through Drusilla’s Hands. Clearing her comrades
a path into the Mountain’s belly. The girl blinked in and out of seeming, like some apparition on a summersdeep eve. A poisoned knife was hurled at her chest and she simply disappeared, the blade plunging into another Hand’s belly and sending him tumbling. Mia Stepped between the shadows, reappearing behind the knife thrower and cutting him down. She sliced another’s legs out from under him, sending him to the stone in a spray of red, flickering aside as a blade cut the air where she’d stood and taking the swordsman’s arms off at the elbows. And all the while she was looking toward Drusilla. Toward the imperator behind her. Her face was spattered with crimson. Her eyes cold and empty. As if all this blood, all this carnage, all this death, were a simple prelude to the murder to come.

  Looking into Mia’s eyes, Drusilla knew full well who that murder belonged to.

  The eastern stairs were now empty of all but corpses, and in a flickering step, the girl was suddenly standing on the steps below Drusilla. Her comrades were rushing up the stairs behind her toward the still-stunned Solis, Sidonius and Bladesinger dashing past him and through the eastern doorway. Mia leveled her blade toward Scaeva’s face, gore dripping from its razored edge.

  “Father!” she roared.

  Looking over her shoulder, Drusilla saw the imperator blanch. His eyes flickered from his dark daughter to his only son, silhouetted against the Mountain’s entrance. Mia buried her longblade in another Hand’s belly, sent the woman tumbling over the railing in a tangle of entrails. She started stalking up the stairs, flickering aside and cutting down another Hand with barely a glance. Lips pressed thin. Eyes fixed only on Scaeva.

  “Corvere!”

  The bellow rang through the stables. Down the stairs behind her, the Revered Father picked himself up from where the explosion had felled him. His leathers were smoldering, the wisps of beard that had survived Järnheim’s tombstone bomb in Godsgrave had been burned away completely. His blind eyes were alight with rage as he leveled his swords at the deadboy and Järnheim to keep them at bay.

  “Corvere!” he roared again. “Face me!”

  The girl didn’t even deign to glance back. Content to let her comrades cut Solis down, she kept walking up the western stair, black gaze locked with her father’s. Her gladiatii were already inside the Mountain, the deadboy and Järnheim fanning out about the Revered Father, readying to cut him down and charge up the eastern stairs after Sidonius and Bladesinger. From there, they could spill out into the Mountain’s labyrinthine heart, reach the speaker’s chambers by any one of a dozen paths, and cut off their escape at Adonai’s door.

  The shadows hung about Mia’s shoulders like dark wings as she drew closer. Her shadowwolf stalked before her, black fangs bared. Only Drusilla, Aalea, and Spiderkiller stood between the girl and her father now. The Shahiid of Truths drew two curved and poisoned knives from her golden belt. The Lady of Blades reached for the daggers in her sleeves, old fingers closing about the hilts. But Aalea spoke softly, her tongue sharper than any weapon in their arsenal.

  “Solis killed Darius, Mia.”

  The girl’s black eyes flickered from her father to the Shahiid of Masks. Her steps faltered, her jaw tensed. Drusilla’s belly thrilled as she saw Aalea’s words cut into Corvere’s heart. The girl finally glanced back toward Solis, outnumbered by her fellows on the stair behind.

  “He was the one who captured the Kingmaker and Antonius in their encampment,” Aalea whispered. “He was the one who handed them over to dance on the hangman’s rope for the mob’s amusement. It was Solis, Mia.”

  Mia’s eyes narrowed. Solis lashed out at Tric and Ashlinn, keeping the pair at bay. Scaeva was slowly retreating up the stairs, surrounded by his men. The imperator was almost close enough for Corvere to touch. Only a few dozen men stood between her and her prize. But there was a reason Aalea had been named Shahiid of Masks in the Red Church, and it hadn’t been her skill in the boudoir. Even here, with Corvere’s prey in sight, Aalea knew the precise words to manipulate her, beguile her, make her falter. If only for a moment.

  If only for a breath.

  “Face me, you cowardly little bitch!” Solis roared.

  “He killed the man you called Father, Mia,” Aalea whispered.

  The girl’s grip tightened on her blade. Her quarry was only a heartbeat away. But still, Drusilla could see that infamous temper, the rage that had sustained this girl beyond all limits of endurance, beyond all who stood in her way. Watching as that spark burst into ravenous flame inside her chest.

  With Cassius’s wolf riding her shadow, she had no fear of failure, after all.

  She had no fear at all.

  What matter, a few moments more?

  Mia glanced to Drusilla, an unspoken promise in her eyes. And with a snarl, she turned toward the waiting Revered Father.

  “Whoreson,” she spat.

  “Mia, don’t…” Järnheim raised her blade in Solis’s face. “Let me.”

  “LET ME,” Tric said.

  “No.” Corvere descended, eyes on the Shahiid. “This bastard’s mine.”

  Drusilla took one step backward. Then another. She knew Solis might cut the girl down. He was a grandmaster, after all. The Lady of Blades could hear the Church bells ringing—an alarm calling all their remaining Hands and acolytes down to battle. But Mouser was already dead, along with the best of the Mountain’s remaining assassins. Corvere had just slaughtered a few dozen of the faithful without a scratch. And truth told, though Drusilla was the most accomplished killer in the Red Church, her best turns of murder were behind her.

  She heard retreating footsteps. Turning, she saw Scaeva’s guard fleeing through the doorway and into the Mountain—true to form, the imperator had abandoned his only son as soon as his own skin was at risk. And here where the suns never shone, the Lady of Blades was damned if she’d be left behind to face his murderous daughter alone.

  And so, just like Scaeva, Drusilla turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 32

  IS

  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 coul
d 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.