Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

  The guests were all arrayed in their finery, like songbirds in a jeweled cage. They hid their faces behind a multitude of astonishing masks—dominos of finest porcelain, voltos of black glass, masks made of peacock plumage and carved coral, of glittering crystal and flowing silks, smiling, frowning, laughing. Slave-marked servants wore gladiatii helms and suits of armor decorated with gold filigree—perhaps some nod to Scaeva’s miraculous survival at the Venatus Magni. They carried silver trays set with Dweymeri crystal glasses, overflowing with the finest vintages, the most precious goldwines. Candied treats and spiced fruits. Cigarillos and needles loaded with ink.

  But Mercurio could still smell the fear.

  The doors were sealed and locked behind them, heavy bolts sliding into place. The elite legionaries marched forward, leading their prisoners on, Mercurio, Sidonius, Bladesinger, Adonai stalking last of all, hands manacled behind their backs. The guests parted before them, some watching with curious eyes. But most still looked to the far end of the room, to the dais where the consuls’ chairs had once stood.

  At its heart, the Itreyan Republic had been founded on a single simple principle—all tenure of power was shared, and all tenure of power was short. A senator could sit as consul only once, and even then, that senator shared their role with another. Consuls were supposed to be elected during truedark—during the very Carnivalé going on around them. But instead?

  Since the Kingmaker Rebellion, Julius Scaeva had been twisting that fundamental truth, worming through the Republic’s constitution as if it were rotten fruit. Loudly and publicly refusing the ever-increasing responsibilities he’d orchestrated for himself, accepting them only reluctantly for the “security of our glorious Republic.”

  Before the uprising that ended their monarchy, the kings of Itreya had worn a gravebone crown on their brows. After the insurrection that finished them, that crown was kept in the Senate House, still stained with the blood of the last king who wore it. The plinth it rested upon was engraved with the words Nonquis Itarem.

  “Never again.”

  Julius Scaeva had been ever careful to avoid the perception he was becoming the kind of king the Itreyans had rid themselves of long ago. Ever the circumspect leader, the hesitant figurehead, counseling against his increases in power even as he grasped for more. But now, approaching the dais when the man himself waited, Mercurio saw the imperator was ensconced on what could only be called …

  A throne.

  Austere in design—nothing too garish or flamboyant. But a throne nonetheless. Gold and velvet, fashioned with the motifs of Aa, his Four Daughters, the three circles of the Trinity. Mercurio couldn’t help but note the second consul’s chair was set to one side, sat upon by little Jonnen, the boy watching Mercurio with his dark eyes.

  Scaeva was using the first consul’s chair as a footrest.

  Liviana Scaeva stood beside her husband, clad in a beautiful corseted gown—the purple silk of Itreyan nobility. Her mask was crafted in the likeness of Tsana, Goddess of Flame, a fan of shimmering firebird feathers about her eyes. But no mask could cover the fear in her eyes as she gazed at her husband.

  There was a large bloodstain before the throne. It was smeared across the revolving mosaic floor, halfway up the wall. Mercurio had no idea who’d made it—there were no bodies to be seen. But the multitude of servants floating about the room had obviously been instructed to leave the stain where it was, gleaming and wet on the tiles.

  Julius Scaeva watched Mercurio approach, one foot propped on the old consul’s seat. The imperator of Itreya was dressed in spotless white, hemmed with purple. Mia’s gravebone dagger hung at his waist—Mercurio recognized the crow at the hilt instantly. Scaeva’s mask was a representation of the Light God, Aa. Three faces, three guises: the Seer, the Knower, the Watcher. Glancing at the shadows in the room, the shadows through which Scaeva now apparently saw all, Mercurio alone fancied he got the joke.

  Everseeing.

  The old man could feel the power thrumming beneath Scaeva’s skin. Something akin to what he’d felt inside Mia when he found her after the truedark massacre, bleeding and weeping and alone. But there was a wrongness to the radiance spilling from the imperator’s throne. Something unwholesome that permeated the room, crawled on the skins of the guests, set every trembling note played by the orchestra above just a fraction off-key.

  Perhaps here, too late to do anything about it, Godsgrave’s finest had caught a glimpse of the monster they’d helped create.

  Jonnen sat at his father’s right hand. The boy watched Mercurio approach, face hidden behind a mask fashioned like the Trinity of suns. He was dressed all in white like his father, fear swimming in his dark eyes. Mercurio noted Spiderkiller lurking in the shadows at the back of the hall, close by one of the exits. The Shahiid of Truths was clad in brilliant emerald green, her throat and wrists encircled with gold, lips as black as her fingertips. Her eyes followed Mercurio as he was marched into the hall, but occasionally they drifted toward Scaeva. And in them, the bishop of Godsgrave could see it, sure as he saw it on every face in this room.

  They’re all terrified of him.

  The music seemed to quiet as their little band was marched before the imperator’s throne. Scaeva’s beautiful mask didn’t cover his lips, and he greeted them with a warm and handsome smile.

  “Ah,” he said. “Is there any pleasure so fine as unexpected guests?”

  Sidonius took a breath, readying himself to step in with some smartarsery, but a glare from Bladesinger was enough to explain the rhetorical nature of the question. The gladiatii wisely kept his mouth shut, his muscles tense as iron.

  “Mercurio of Liis,” Scaeva said, dark eyes turning toward him. “Your reputation precedes you, I’m afraid.”

  “Nice to see you again, Julius,” Mercurio nodded.

  “Apologies,” the imperator said, shaking his head. “But we’ve never met.”

  “No, but I’ve seen you. Watched you. It’s what I do.” The old man sniffed, looking the imperator up and down. Scaeva’s skin was filmed with a sheen of sweat. White-knuckle grip on the arms of his throne. Muscles trembling. “You look like shit.”

  “Mmm,” Scaeva smiled. “Now I see where our Mia learned her dazzling wit.”

  “O, no, that’s all hers, I’m afraid.”

  Mercurio nodded to the smear of gore across the floor.

  “Shaving accident?”

  “A disagreement with three of our esteemed senior senators,” the imperator replied. “On matters of constitution and the legality of my claim as imperator.”

  “They do say the only good lawyer is a dead one.”

  The imperator smiled wider. “These ones are quite good indeed.”

  The bishop tilted his head, staring at Scaeva hard. Summing him up in a blinking as he’d always taught Mia to. The man was in pain, that much was obvious. His muscles rigid, his skin gleaming. It seemed Tric had spoken true—taking the godsblood had pushed Scaeva very close to some hidden edge. The tapestry of him unraveling almost before Mercurio’s eyes. The old man wondered how many threads he might pluck loose before he ended as another stain on the floor.

  “Having trouble holding it in, are we?” he asked.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Scaeva replied.

  “There’s a tithe to be paid for power,” Mercurio said. “Sometimes it’s measured in conscience or coin. Sometimes we pay with pieces of our own souls. But whatever we owe, this much is true—sooner or later, the debt always comes due.”

  “You do think an awful lot of your own prose, don’t you?”

  “Do you even know what you’ve got inside you?” Mercurio shook his head, lip curling. “What you’ve become?”

  The shadows in the room seemed to darken at that, to tremble like water with a stone dropped within. A murmur rippled among the guests, and for the first time Mercurio noticed the fathomless black pooled about Scaeva’s feet. A chill spread over the gala, all the life and breath sucked out of the ballroom. The or
chestra fell silent, notes dying as if someone had slowly choked them. The fear on the old man’s shoulders seemed a leaden weight, trying to force him to his knees.

  Scaeva blinked, and Mercurio saw his eyes had become a complete and bottomless black, edge to edge. The veins at the imperator’s throat were corded as he closed his eyes, his jaw clenched tight. Jonnen looked toward his father, lower lip trembling. Liviana Scaeva placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder, fear and concern in her gaze. But finally, the imperator hung his head, breathed deep, summoning some hidden reserve of will. And when he opened his eyes again, they were normal—dark as his daughter’s, aye, but edged once more in white.

  “I know full well what I am,” he said, turning his eyes to the mezzanine above. “And I said keep playing!”

  The musicians picked up their tune again, strained notes ringing in the chill.

  “Enough of this,” Adonai snarled, stepping forward. “Where be my Marielle?”

  Scaeva turned toward the speaker, swallowing hard. His posture straightened, his pain seemed to ease a little. That handsome smile curled his lips once more.

  “Your sister is an honored guest of the Itreyan Republic.”

  “Thou shalt bring her unto me now,” Adonai glowered.

  Scaeva smirked at Adonai with faint amusement. “You break into my house. Murder my men. Attempt to steal my son and assassinate me among my guests. And then you have the temerity to beg favor of me?”

  “I beg nothing,” Adonai spat.

  Scaeva shook his head sadly, glanced to his elite.

  “Your position seems unsuitable for making demands, Speaker.”

  Adonai narrowed crimson eyes, seemingly helpless in his restraints and surrounded as he was by Scaeva’s thugs. But behind his back, Mercurio saw the speaker had reopened the slashes at his wrists by working his flesh against his manacles. His blood was flowing free from the wounds now, thin ribbons working at the bolts that held his bindings closed, the locks that held them tight.

  “I warn thee, Julius…,” he said.

  “You warned me once before, if memory serves.”

  “No third time shall there be.”

  With a tiny click, the manacles at Adonai’s wrists slithered loose. With a fluid, poetic grace, the speaker flung his arms out, blood streaming from his self-inflicted wounds, humming beneath his breath. Long whips of gore flowed from his wrists, glittering sharp. They sliced through half a dozen Luminatii throats in as many seconds, the men clutching at their sundered necks as jets of crimson fountained into the air.

  The crowd screamed, surging back, pressing against the sealed doors. Even Sidonius and ’Singer retreated a few steps, eyes wide in horror. Adonai wove his hands about himself, singing a song of ancient magik beneath his breath. The blood from the murdered legionaries rose up off the floor, scything and arcing through the air in a crimson storm at the speaker’s command.

  Adonai glared at Scaeva, lowering his chin.

  “Thou shalt bring my Marielle unto me,” he spat. “Now.”

  The smile on Scaeva’s face never faltered. He glanced at another of his elite, nodding slightly. A small bell rang somewhere distant, and soon enough, a fresh cohort of Luminatii marched into the ballroom, a sagging figure between them. Mercurio’s jaw tightened at the sight, Adonai’s breath slipping over his lips in a hiss of perfect hatred.

  They’d dressed her in a beautiful ball gown, strapless, backless: the height of daring fashion. But what might have been dazzling when worn by a beautiful young dona seemed only tragic about the body of the weaver. Her puckered and bleeding skin, usually kept hidden beneath her robes, was now exposed. Open sores and pus, cracks running through her flesh like fissures in parched earth. Her lank hair was shrouded about her face, too thin to cover it. The wound where Drusilla had cut off her ear had been opened anew, and her face showed signs of a beating—eyes black, lips split and swollen. Her hands were encased in iron, and she was only half-conscious, groaning as the Luminatii cast her onto the bloody floor before the throne.

  Mercurio’s heart swelled with pity. Adonai’s eyes smoldered with rage.

  “Sister love,” he breathed.

  Marielle whispered through bleeding lips. “B-Brother mine.”

  The speaker turned burning eyes on Scaeva.

  “Vile coward,” he spat. “Bastard whoreson.”

  The imperator’s smile slowly faded as the crowd backed farther away.

  “Still your rage, Adonai,” Scaeva said. “This was but a well-earned reminder to your sister of her place in my order. You and Marielle served me well for many years, and I am not a man who squanders gifts such as yours. There is a place for you at my side. So take your knee. Swear your allegiance. Beg my forgiveness.”

  The shadows at Scaeva’s feet rippled.

  “And I will grant it.”

  Adonai’s eyes flashed, the blood storm about him swirling, seething.

  “Speak ye of gifts?” he spat. “As if I found them in a pretty box on Great Tithe?” Adonai shook his head, long pale hair come loose from its ties and draped about crimson eyes. “Paid for my power be, bastard. With blood and agony. But thou art thief of a power unearned.”

  He narrowed his eyes, pointing at Scaeva.

  “Usurper, I name thee. Wretch and villain. Already I see how thy theft takes its tithe upon thee. But I have not the patience nor desire to await the descent of fate’s cold hand. I promised thee suffering, Julius.”

  Adonai raised his bone-white hands, fingers spread.

  “Now I gift it thee.”

  The blood storm exploded, a hundred blades of glittering crimson streaking outward from Adonai’s hands. A wail of terror rang through the assembled guests, the crowd surged backward again, the doors groaning. The remaining guards were cut down like spring grass, dropping to the tiled floor in sprays of red. Liviana Scaeva shrieked and grabbed her son, tumbling to one side as Adonai’s blades sped toward the imperator’s chest. And in a blinking, Scaeva disappeared.

  The throne was punctured, torn, cut to pieces. Adonai wove his hands like a grim conductor, the blood from the freshly murdered Luminatii rising up off the floor, the storm of crimson about him thickening. Sidonius and Bladesinger backed away, Mercurio between them. Their hands were still bound in iron, but Mercurio had some lockpicks hidden in his bootheel, sinking to his knees and working them free.

  The blood speaker stood in the center of the dance floor, standing protectively over his wounded sister. He reached up and tore his robes away, exposing his smooth, muscled chest, long hair billowing about him, lithe arms open wide. The blood of two dozen murdered men moved about him as if caught in a tempest, swirling, slashing, seething. A red wind roared in the vast hall.

  “Face me, usurper!” he roared.

  The shadows in the room came alive, forming into long, pointed spears. Whipping toward Adonai’s chest, Marielle’s back. With a flick of his hand, the speaker sent his blood crashing upward like a wave on a storm-wracked sea. The wall of gore crashed upon the razored shadows, foiling the thrust, crimson besting the black.

  “Coward!” Adonai roared. “Face me!”

  Again, the shadows struck at the speaker, again the wave of blood defeated the strike. Adonai’s eyes were alight as he turned in a circle, arms spread, his beautiful face twisted with rage. Mercurio felt his manacles click loose, rubbing his wrists and turning to work on ’Singer’s bonds with his lockpicks. Glancing across the hall, he saw the marrowborn guests, all those highborn senators and praetors and generals now battering on the sealed doors in a frenzy. He couldn’t see Spiderkiller anywhere—the Shahiid of Truths had apparently made good her escape already.

  But Adonai seemed in no mood to run.

  “Where art thou, Julius?” he roared. “Thou dost prove thyself the cur I name thee!” He turned in another circle, arms spread. “Hide then, in thy shadows! Thou wouldst strike at my familia? Thine own, then, shall pay thy tithe to me!”

  Adonai turned his bloody eyes to L
iviana Scaeva, cowering with her son beside the shattered throne. Jonnen stood in front of his mother, little fists clenched.

  “Adonai!” Mercurio warned. “Don’t!”

  “No!” Sidonius cried.

  The speaker flung out his arms toward the woman and boy. Ribbons of blood scythed through the air at them both. Sid was dashing forward, bellowing at Adonai to stop. But Mercurio knew he’d be too late.

  Too late …

  With a whispered roar, a shape coalesced between the boy and the incoming blood—a man in a white robe, trimmed in purple. Julius Scaeva held up his hands, cried out as the blood struck him, burst through him. He staggered, gasping, eyes widening. Clutching his chest, the man turned slow, one hand held out to his boy.

  “Father?” Jonnen breathed.

  “M-my son…”

  And with a bubbling sigh, the imperator of Itreya toppled to the floor.

  Silence reigned—the guests’ panic stilled, the storm of blood around the speaker cutting lazy, broad arcs through the air. Taking no chances, Adonai curled his fingers again, lances of gore piercing Scaeva’s body dozens of times. The flat sound of splitting meat rang in the hall. The speaker’s beautiful face was turned hideous by the fury in his eyes.

  Chunk.

  Chunk.

  Chunk.

  Curling his fingers into fists, the blood about Adonai finally stilled. It splashed to the ground, lifeless, spatter-mad patterns coating the dance floor in a gleaming slick.

  Mercurio’s heart was thunder in his chest as he whispered. “’Byss and blood, he fucking did it.”

  Jonnen took one step toward the imperator’s corpse, tears shining in wide eyes.

  “… Father?”

  Adonai spat on the floor. Eyes on Scaeva’s body.

  “Earned my power be.”

  The speaker knelt beside his sister, knees in the blood, wrapping her up in his arms. Marielle slipped her manacled hands over his bare shoulders, seized hold of him tight, eyes closed against her tears.

  “I feared the worst,” she whispered.