by Jay Kristoff
Mia danced backward, nearly slipping on the bloody floor. She turned aside his blade, lashed out with her own. Dodge. Strike. Parry. Lunge. Her pulse was soon thumping, sweat burning her eyes. Solis’s twin blades cut the air in hypnotic patterns, whistling as they came. A perfect lunge from the Shahiid almost split her rib cage in two. A second strike nearly knocked her longblade from her hand.
“Mia!” Jonnen called from below, stepping forward in fear.
“… BEWARE, MIA…,” Eclipse growled at her feet.
Mia gasped for breath as Solis’s lips curled in a smile.
“You disappoint me, girl,” he said.
As she parried another of his punishing blows, Mia began to realize just how strong her foe truly was. Just how little her rage and her speed counted for in a match like this. The Shahiid’s arms were as thick as her thighs. His hands like dinner plates. The man was made of muscle, half again her height, fully twice her weight; a single blow from him, a single mistake, would be enough to end her.
And so she had to end him first.
Mia slipped aside another of Solis’s strikes, jumped up, and kicked off the stair’s railing. Leaping into the air, she raised her blade in an overhead swing, throwing all her strength and fury behind it. It was an impressive move. A move that might make an audience gasp in wonder. But it was also a novice’s move. A flashy and garish arena move. A move that someone in a hurry might try, in the hopes of ending a bout against a superior opponent. And Solis knew it. Because in the end, his opponent was just a worthless slip. A pathetic child. A girl. And he was simply stronger than her.
Fortunately, the same couldn’t be said of his blades.
Solis’s swords were Liisian steel, you see. The metal had been folded a hundred times, sharpened to an edge keen enough to cut the sunslight. But Mia’s blade had once belonged to Darius Corvere, the man Solis helped kill. Its hilt had been crafted like a crow in flight, the sigil of the familia Solis had helped destroy. And it was made of gravebone, gentlefriend. Sharper than obsidian. Stronger than steel.
And underestimating the blade, and the one wielding it, was Solis’s mistake.
The Shahiid’s lips curled. He raised one sword to ward off Mia’s blow, drew back his second, ready to split her guts. Their weapons met with a shuddering rinnnng. Edge to edge. Razored gravebone against folded Liisian steel. And the gravebone won.
Mia’s sword cleaved through Solis’s, sparks flying as his blade was sheared in two. Her blow found its mark, cutting into the big man’s shoulder, the chest beyond, blood spraying. Solis cried out, his strike gone wide as he staggered.
“Worthless slip,” Mia growled.
Dragging her blade down through his ribs, she tore it free in a slick of bright red gore.
“Pathetic child,” she spat.
Spinning on the spot and opening up his belly.
“Girl,” she smiled.
Solis’s insides spilled out. His blind eyes open wide.
“But I’m still the one who beat you,” Mia said.
She kicked him in the chest, sent him flying backward, skidding through his blood to slam against the wall. Holding in his ruptured guts, Solis tried to rise. He tried to speak. He tried to breathe. But in the end, he failed at all of it. And with a red gurgle, the Revered Father crumpled to the floor.
“Fuck yes!” Butcher bellowed from below, arms in the air. “CROWWW!”
Mia sank down into a crouch on the blood-slicked stone, one hand out to steady herself. She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath as she clawed her hair from her eyes. Looking to the gladiatii, to Naev, she managed a ragged grin.
“Is she well?” Naev called.
“Aye,” Mia managed. “But I’m not half done, yet. Look after him for me, neh?”
Naev looked to Jonnen and nodded. “With our lives.”
“Never fear, little Crow,” Butcher said.
“Eclipse, I want you to stay here, too,” Mia gasped. “Guard my brother.”
“… AS IT PLEASE YOU…,” came a low growl beneath her.
The daemon parted from her shadow, coalescing on the blood-soaked stairs before her eyes. Mia looked her up and down, still struggling for breath.
“… You’re not going to warn me that I’ll need you when I face him?”
The shadowwolf looked at Mia with her not-eyes, ears twitching.
“… YOU WILL NOT NEED ME. YOU HAVE THE HEART OF A LION…”
“I remember you telling me that.” Mia managed a tired grin. “But I have the heart of a crow, Eclipse. Black and shriveled, remember?”
The daemon stepped close, pressed her muzzle to Mia’s cheeks.
“… YOU WILL KNOW THE LIE OF THAT BEFORE THE END…”
The shadowwolf’s fur was a whisper against her skin. Mia could almost feel it, velvet soft and cool as night. Making her shiver, even as she smiled.
“… GO FIND YOUR FATHER, MIA…”
The girl nodded. And with a wince, she dragged herself to her feet.
“Mia?” her brother said, his voice faltering.
But she was already gone.
* * *
Drusilla ran.
Aalea hurried along beside her, supporting her lady with one arm. Spiderkiller followed slower, clearly torn between her vengeance against Corvere and saving her own skin. But Drusilla knew Corvere’s companions would be making their way deeper into the Mountain even now, that treacherous bitch Järnheim leading them on—if they reached Adonai before Drusilla did, her only hope of escape would be lost. And so the Lady of Blades found herself running through the winding dark, as best her old legs could carry her.
“Where do we go?” Aalea asked beside her, breathless.
“The speaker,” the lady replied.
“We run?” Spiderkiller demanded.
“We live,” Drusilla spat.
Drusilla could hear the imperator’s guards ahead of them, Scaeva among them, moving swift on the winding stairs. Loyal Hands rushed past the lady and Shahiids, back down toward the stables, armed with bows and blades. Fresh-faced acolytes followed—the Mountain’s latest crop of recruits and second line of defense—yelling at the Lady of Blades to run, run.
The Church choir seemed louder somehow, pressed with a faint urgency. Drusilla was gasping, unused to running, mouth dry as old bones.
How did it come to this?
She’d lost sight of Scaeva ahead of them now, but she knew well enough that the imperator would be headed to Adonai’s chambers, too. Seeking escape through the only means now left to him, and to leave this abattoir behind him.
But none of this makes sense.
Drusilla had read the Nevernight Chronicle end to end. She’d left nothing to chance. Corvere and her comrades should’ve been caught entirely unaware—nowhere did the tome mention the girl carried a barrel load of arkemist’s salt in her wagon, or suspected any kind of trap.
Since Drusilla had discovered their part in the plot, Adonai and Marielle were in no shape to warn Mia. Mercurio and Aelius had no means to even speak to her. How in Mother’s name had Corvere known Drusilla planned to ambush her? If the chronicle were truly the story of her life, if the third book was truly the story of her death …
Drusilla could hear the clash of steel in the distance now—Corvere’s gladiatii locked in a deadly dance with the Mountain’s defenders. She could hear Järnheim yelling. Sidonius barking orders. The old woman’s heart was thumping against her ribs. Her breath burning in her chest. Aalea was supporting her weight, long dark hair stuck to the sweat on her skin. Spiderkiller was falling farther and farther behind. Drusilla had lost sight of Scaeva’s men entirely. Her knees were aching. Her old bones creaking with every step.
She was too old for this, she realized. Too tired. All her years in service to the Mother had only led her here. Leader of a Church that was coming to pieces all about her. Mistress of a Ministry torn asunder. All the plotting, all the killing, all the coin. And this was where it ended? Cut down by a monster of her
own making?
They reached the Hall of Eulogies. Niah’s statue towering above them. Dead names carved on the floor beneath them. Unmarked tombs all around. The ring of steel and cries of pain were growing ever closer. Drusilla realized Spiderkiller had abandoned them somewhere back there in the dark. That she and Aalea were now alone.
Almost.
“Thought you might come this way.”
Drusilla dragged Aalea to a breathless halt. Mercurio stood before them in his dark robes, barring their exit from the hall. His blue eyes were soft with pity. In his right hand, he clutched an apothecary’s bonesaw, dipped red with blood.
“You always were a creature of habit, ’Silla.”
“You…,” Drusilla breathed.
“Me,” the old man replied.
“But your heart…”
Mercurio smiled sadly, tapping his bony chest. “I’m a good liar. Not quite as good as you, I’m afraid. But then, I doubt anyone is.”
“You did this,” Drusilla realized.
But Mercurio slowly shook his head.
“I can’t take much credit. It was mostly Aelius, truth told. The third chronicle was his idea. He only told me his intentions after he’d written it.”
Drusilla’s heart sank in her withered breast.
Aelius drew long and deep on his cigarillo, embers sparking in his eyes, his fingers stained with ink.
“Don’t fuck with librarians, young lady. We know the power of words.”
His fingers stained with ink …
“Things don’t get found in this place unless they’re supposed to be.”
O, Goddess …
O, Mother, how could she have been so blind?
It all happened just as it was meant to.
As he meant it to.
That treacherous old son of a whore …
“Let us pass, Mercurio,” the Lady of Blades hissed.
“You know I can’t do that, ’Silla.”
Drusilla drew one of the poisoned blades from her sleeve.
“Then you die where you stand.”
The bishop of Godsgrave held his ground. He stared at Drusilla, that bloody bonesaw in his hand, a strange sadness in his eyes as he glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s not me you need to be worried about.”
The Lady of Blades grit her teeth, heart hammering quick. She thought of her daughter, her son, her grandchildren. Blue eyes wide with fear.
“Please,” she whispered.
Mercurio only shook his head. “I’m sorry, love.”
Behind her, she heard Ashlinn Järnheim and that dead Dweymeri boy step into the hall. Behind them came Corvere’s gladiatii—Sidonius carrying flaming sunsteel, a breathless Bladesinger behind him. The quartet were spattered in crimson, blades dripping with the blood of the Church’s faithful. All of it, finally and completely undone.
The old man glanced up to the Goddess above them and sighed.
“I’m not sure what she’ll do to you, ’Silla,” he said. “I’m not sure she’s got much left in her anymore. But if I were you, I’d be putting down that poisoned pig-sticker and preparing to throw myself on Mia’s mercy right about now.”
Drusilla looked to Aalea. To Järnheim and the other bloodied swords at her back. To the old man before her and the Goddess above her and the Church falling apart all around her. The choir sang its ghostly hymn up in the stained-glass dark.
The old woman heaved a sigh.
“Well played, love,” she said.
And bending slow, she placed her blade upon the floor.
* * *
“Don’t be afraid, lad. Old Butcher will protect you.”
Jonnen sat on the stable steps, chin on his knees and ashes on his skin. Butcher stood above him, eyes on the western doorway. Naev stood on the eastern stair, sword in her hands. The steps were smeared with blood and scattered with bodies. Smoke rose from the charred bales of feed, the roasted camel corpses. Save for the ghostly choir, all in the stable was smoke and silence.
The boy could hear the sounds of battle inside the Mountain, but they were fading now. The Church’s defenders had fallen for Mia’s ploy and been routed utterly. He knew somewhere up above, his sister was now stalking the darkness like a bloodhound. Cutting down all in her way in pursuit of their father.
“The battle slows,” Naev called from up the stair. “Victory is at hand.”
“Theirs or ours?” Butcher asked.
Naev considered that for a moment, her head tilted. Her smile was hidden behind her veil, but the boy could still hear it in her voice.
“Ours,” she said.
Eclipse rode once more in Jonnen’s shadow, and thus, the boy couldn’t exactly be afraid. But still, his chest ached at the thought of what might be happening in the Mountain’s belly. In truth, despite all her prowess, he didn’t quite believe Mia would manage it. Their father had overcome every obstacle. Every foe. He stood triumphant in a game where to lose was to die, and all who’d opposed him already lay rotting in their tombs. In Jonnen’s eyes, Julius Scaeva had ever seemed immortal.
He’d been a hard man, no doubt. Never cruel, no. But heavy as iron. Merciless as the sea. Slow with praise, swift with rebuke, fashioning his boy into a man who might one turn rule an empire. Because always, his father had made it plain—despite his parentage, the throne would be something Jonnen must earn.
The boy had studied hard. Seeking ever to impress. His mother’s affections were always unwavering, but it was desire for his father’s praise that drove Jonnen onward. Seeking only to make the man proud. Seeing in Julius Scaeva, People’s Senator, consul, imperator, the man he one turn wished to become.
Until he’d met Mia.
A sister he never knew. Had never even been told about. At first, he’d thought her a liar. A snake and a thief. But Julius Scaeva hadn’t raised a fool, and all the wishful thinking in the world couldn’t hide the truth of what his sister had told him. The dark within them sang to each other. Their bond in the shadows was impossible to deny. They were kin, no doubt. And she, his father’s daughter.
In recent turns, he’d even begun to think of himself not as Lucius, but Jonnen. But he missed his familia. He felt lost and alone. Eclipse made it easier, but it wasn’t easy. He felt very small in a world that had suddenly become very big indeed.
“What was your son’s name, Butcher?” he heard himself ask.
The big man looked down at him, a soft scowl on his battered face. “Eh?”
“You told Mia you had a son once,” Jonnen said. “What was his name?”
The former gladiatii turned his eyes back up the stairwell. Tightening his grip on his sword. Jaw clenched. The boy heard a whisper in his shadow.
“… JONNEN, BUTCHER MAY NOT WISH TO SPEAK OF SUCH THINGS…”
The boy pressed his lips together. The Liisian was a thug, an ill-mannered lout, a pig. But he had a golden heart, and he’d been ever kind. Despite it all, Jonnen realized he didn’t like the thought of hurting the man’s feelings.
“I am sorry, Butcher,” he said softly.
“Iacomo,” the man murmured. “His name was Iacomo. Why do you ask?”
“Did…” Jonnen licked his lips, looking for the words. “Did you ever lie to him?”
“Sometimes,” the man sighed.
“Why would you do that?”
Butcher ran his hand over his black cockscomb of hair. The sounds of battle upstairs were almost silenced now. It took a while for him to reply.
“Being a parent is no easy thing,” he finally said. “We need to teach our children the truths of the world so they can survive it. But some truths change you in a way that can’t be undone. And no parent really wants their child to change.”
“So you lie to us?”
“Sometimes.” Butcher shrugged. “We think if we try hard enough, we can somehow keep you the way you start out. Pure and perfect. Forever.”
“So you lie to yourselves, too.”
The big Liisian smiled, kne
lt beside the boy. Reaching out with one sword-callused hand, he ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately.
“You remind me of my Iacomo,” he grinned. “You’re a clever little shit.”
“If I were clever, I’d not be in this stew. I feel useless. Helpless.”
Naev watched silently from above as the Liisian drew a dagger from his waist, handed it to the boy hilt-first. Jonnen took it, felt the weight of it, watched the sunslight dance on its edge. Eclipse coalesced beside him, watching with her not-eyes as the boy turned the blade this way and that.
“Feel helpless now?” Butcher asked.
“A little less,” Jonnen replied. “But I’m not strong like you.”
“Don’t be afraid, lad. The blood you have in your veins?”
Butcher chuckled and shook his head.
“You’re strong enough for both of us.”
* * *
Mia flitted along darkened halls, shadows at her back.
She’d reached the Hall of Eulogies and found Mercurio standing in the doorway, bloody bonesaw in his grip. Drusilla and Aalea were in hand; the Lady of Blades standing with shoulders slumped, the Shahiid of Masks’ dark eyes wide with fear. ’Singer and Sidonius were watching the pair, one crossed word away from murder. Mia met her mentor’s eyes for the briefest moment, saw him smile. But she had no time for talk.
Instead, she ran on.
She reached the stairs leading down toward Adonai’s chambers and Scaeva’s escape. Tric and Ashlinn were both already dashing downward, Ash a little out in front. But skipping between the shadows, Mia was moving faster still. She could hear her father’s guards ahead now, heavy boots ringing on the stone steps below, panic in their voices as they urged each other on. With a smack to Ash’s leather-clad backside as she passed, Mia Stepped past Tric and her both
down
the winding