by Jay Kristoff
Look now upon the ruins in her wake. As pale light glitters on the waters that drank a city of bridges and bones, and a Republic’s ashes dance in the dark above your head. Stare mute at the broken sky and taste the iron on your tongue and listen as lonely winds whisper her name as if they knew her, too. I gave you all I promised, gentlefriend. I gave it to you in spades. And if her death didn’t unfold in the way you dreaded, I hope you’ll not name me liar for it. She did die, just as I said she would.
But even the Moon loved our girl too much to let her die for long.
The ink is drying upon the page. The tale is ending before your eyes. And if you feel some sorrow at this, our last farewell, know your narrator feels it, too. We are not made more by the stories we read, but by the stories we share. And in this, in her, I think we’ve shared more than most.
I shall miss it when it’s gone.
But to live in the hearts of those we leave behind is to never die. And to burn in the memories of our friends is to never say goodbye. So let me say this instead.
Goodnight, gentlefriend. Goodnight.
Never flinch.
Never fear.
And never, ever forget.
FIN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks as deep as the Dark to the following:
Amanda, Pete, Jennifer, Paul, Joseph, Hector, Young, Steven, Justin, Rafal, Cheryl, Martin, Bethany, and all at St. Martin’s Press; Natasha, Jack, Katie, Emma, Jaime, Dom, and all at Harper Voyager UK; Rochelle, Alice, Sarah, Andrea, and all at Harper Australia; Mia, Matt, LT, Josh, Tracey, Samantha, Stefanie, Steven, Steve, Jason, Kerby, Megasaurus, Virginia, Vilma, Marc, Molly, Tovo, Orrsome, Tsana, Lewis, Shaheen, Soraya, Amie, Jessie, Cat, all my ladies in the Bitch Posse, Ursula, Andrea, Tori, Caz, Piéra, Nan Fe, Lesya, Iryna, Mona, Niru, TJ, Morgana, Cira, Holly, Rin, Zach, Daphne, Marie, Nael, Marc, Tina, Maxim, Zara, Ben, Clare, Jim, Weez, Sam, Eli, Rafe, AmberLouise, Caro, Melanie, Barbara, Judith, Rose, Tracy, Aline, Louise, Adele, Jordi, Kylie, Joe, Julius, Antony, Antonio, Emily, Robin, Drew, William, China, David, Aaron, Terry (RIP), Douglas (RIP), George, Margaret, Tracy, Ian, Steve, Gary, Mark, Tim, Matt, George, Ludovico, Ronnie, Chris, Antony, Briton, Philip, Randy, Oli, Maynard, Pete (RIP), Marcus, Tom (RIP), Trent, Winston, Tony, Kath, Kylie, Nicole, Kurt, Jack, Max, Poppy, and every reader, blogger, vlogger, bookstagrammer, and bookpimp who helped spread the word about this series. These books are what they are because of you. I love you, stabbykids.
This book was written all over the world, from New York to Zurich, LA to Sydney. But at least half of it was written in the city of Venice. Wandering those windswept streets and walking alongside those winter canals, I discovered the story Darkdawn would become. I’ll owe the people and city of Venezia a debt forever, but special mention must go to Ola, the incredible folks at Sullaluna for their daily hospitality, the wonderful signore del caffè at Caffè del Doge, and the staff at Torrefazione Cannaregio and L’Angolo della Pizza for helping me not starve to death.
Lastly, I have to thank you, my amazing readers. This series, more than any other I’ve worked on, has resonated with people in a way I’m still coming to grips with. It’s humbling and it’s astounding and I’ll be eternally grateful for the way you’ve embraced my murderous little bitch of a daughter. Thank you for your letters. Thank you for your art. Thank you for your tattoos and your stories and your passion. Thank you for letting Mia into your heads and your hearts. I hope, in some small way, she helps.
The dream I live is because of you.
The life I have is because of you.
I’ll never forget it.
JK
ALSO BY JAY KRISTOFF
Nevernight
Godsgrave
Aurora Rising (with Amie Kaufman)
Lifel1k3
Dev1at3
Illuminae (with Amie Kaufman)
Gemina (with Amie Kaufman)
Obsidio (with Amie Kaufman)
Stormdancer
Kinslayer
Endsinger
The Last Stormdancer
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAY KRISTOFF is the New York Times and internationally bestselling author of The Lotus War, The Illuminae Files, the Aurora Rising series and The Nevernight Chronicle. He is the winner of six Aurealis Awards and an ABIA, a nominee for the Locus Award and the David Gemmell Morningstar and Legend Awards, has been named multiple times in the Kirkus and Amazon Best Teen Books lists, and his books have been published in more than thirty-five countries, most of which he has never visited. He is as surprised about all of this as you are. He is six foot seven and has approximately 12,015 days to live. He abides in Melbourne with his secret agent kung-fu assassin wife and the world’s laziest Jack Russell. He does not believe in happy endings. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Maps
Dramatis Personae
Epigraph
Book 1: The Dark Within
Chapter 1. Brother
Chapter 2. Boneyards
Chapter 3. Ember
Chapter 4. Gift
Chapter 5. Epiphanies
Chapter 6. Imperator
Chapter 7. Be
Chapter 8. Scoundrel
Chapter 9. Slumber
Book 2: Dying Light
Chapter 10. Infidelity
Chapter 11. Incendiary
Chapter 12. Veritas
Chapter 13. Conspiracy
Chapter 14. Reunions
Chapter 15. Finesse
Chapter 16. Tempest
Chapter 17. Departures
Chapter 18. Tales
Chapter 19. Quiet
Book 3: A House Of Wolves
Chapter 20. Sunder
Chapter 21. Amai
Chapter 22. Vipers
Chapter 23. War
Chapter 24. Majesty
Chapter 25. Heritance
Chapter 26. Promises
Chapter 27. Feed
Chapter 28. Hatred
Chapter 29. Standing
Book 4: The Ashes of Empires
Chapter 30. Could
Chapter 31. Was
Chapter 32. Is
Chapter 33. Wellspring
Chapter 34. Ribbons
Chapter 35. Ashes
Chapter 36. Baptism
Chapter 37. Away
Chapter 38. Momentum
Chapter 39. Fathomless
Book 5: She Wore The Night
Chapter 40. Fate
Chapter 41. Anything
Chapter 42. Carnivalé
Chapter 43. Crimson
Chapter 44. Daughter
Chapter 45. Lover
Chapter 46. Father
Chapter 47. All
Chapter 48. Tithe
Chapter 49. Silence
Chapter 50. Silver
Dicta Ultima
Acknowledgments
Also by Jay Kristoff
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
DARKDAWN. Copyright © 2019 by Neverafter PTY LTD. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
Maps by Virginia Allyn
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publicati
on Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07304-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8505-9 (ebook)
eISBN 9781466885059
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: September 2019
* Teenage hormones, gentlefriends. Quite something, neh?
* Of the three breeds of drake found in Itreyan waters—White, Saber, and Storm—the stormdrake is by far the stupidest. The beasts eat virtually anything that will fit inside their mouths, including fellow stormdrakes and their own young. A complete list of oddities found in stormdrake bellies is kept in the zoology archives of the Iron Collegium, and includes, in no particular order:
a full suit of plate armor
a leather chaise lounge
a six-foot-long timber saw
an entire family of (presumably enraged) porcupines
This habit of eating anything vaguely interesting has earned them the moniker “sewers of the sea” among Itreyan fishermen, since upon catching one and cutting it open, you’re likely to find all kinds of strange …
Well, yes.
You get the idea.
* Four foot, three inches.
* As you might recall, gentlefriends, even the murderous bastards of the Red Church operate under a code of sorts, known as the Red Promise. Its five tenets are thus:
Inevitability—no offering undertaken in the history of the Church has ever gone unfulfilled.
Sanctity—a current employer of the Church may not be chosen as a target of the Church.
Secrecy—the Church does not discuss the identity of its employers.
Fidelity—a Blade will only serve one employer at a time.
Hierarchy—all offerings must be approved by the Lord/Lady of Blades or Revered Father/Mother.
It should be noted that, since its inception, the Red Promise has never been broken by a Church Blade. The cultists of Our Lady of Blessed Murder consider it Very Serious Business, and will go to extraordinary lengths to see it remain inviolate. One famous tale of dedication speaks of a Blade known only as Forde, employed to murder Agvald III, king of Vaan.
Agvald was far fonder of excess than running his kingdom, and after a lengthy session of passing the hat, his nobles managed to scrape together the coin necessary to have him professionally done in. And so, on the nevernight of the king’s thirtieth birthturn, Forde infiltrated the king’s bedchambers and waited there in the dark for her quarry.
Agvald had decided to celebrate his thirtieth year in style. After an extended session of drinking with his court, the king retired to his boudoir with six concubines and an entire suckling pig. During the debauchery that followed, Agvald attempted to eat a rack of ribs whilst being serviced by three of his favorites simultaneously. Sadly, the feat required rather more coordination than anticipated, and unlike his concubines, the good king inhaled when he should have swallowed.
Agvald toppled to the floor, clutching his throat and slowly turning blue. But as the royal concubines watched in amazement, Forde appeared from the shadows and proceeded to pound upon the king’s back until the offending rib bone was coughed clean across the bedchamber. Forde offered the grateful king a cup of water, soothed his ruffled nerves. And once the sovereign was adequately calmed, the Blade proceeded to stab Agvald six times in the heart and cut his throat from ear to ear.
“Why?” cried one of the horrified concubines. “Why save his life only to kill him?”
The Blade glanced to the pig’s rib and shrugged.
“The promise was mine.”
* You will recall that the servants of Our Lady of Blessed Murder are divided into two main categories—Blades, who serve as her assassins in the Republic, and Hands, who do almost everything else. Though many join the order of the Dark Mother with aspirations to do bloody murder in her name, very few have the unique blend of skill, callousness, and lunacy necessary to become professional killers.
Most folk who join the Church actually end up assisting in logistics and administration, which isn’t very romantic, and hardly the stuff of sweeping epics of high fantasy. But the average life expectancy of a Blade is around twenty-five years, where most Hands live until well past retirement.
Would you rather have books written about you, or live long enough to read books about others, gentlefriends?
We seldom get to do both.
* In Itreyan folklore, the dead were once sent to the keeping of Niah and held forever in her loving embrace. But after the Mother’s fall from grace, it was deemed that Niah’s daughter Keph would take care of the righteous dead instead. Tsana, Goddess of Fire, created a mighty hearth in Keph’s domain to keep the dead warm. And there they dwell in light and happiness, until the ending to the world.
Wicked souls, however, are said to be denied a place by the fire. Known as the Hearthless, they are common figures in Itreyan folklore, blamed for almost everything that goes wrong in ordinary life. Sheep goes missing? Must’ve been the Hearthless. Can’t find your keys? Bloody Hearthless. Last sugarcake got eaten? It wasn’t me, love, it was the Hearthless!
Why people insist on blaming the supernatural instead of owning up to their own bullshit is one of life’s great mysteries.
Still, they make for good spook stories.
* Gravebone is a curious material, found in only one place in all the Republic—the Ribs and Spine at the heart of Godsgrave. It is light as wood, yet harder than steel, and the secrets of working it are lost—or at least tightly guarded by the Iron Collegium. Even if an enterprising thief had the tools to chisel off a chunk, defacing any part of the Ribs or Spine is a crime punishable by crucifixion.
Gravebone weapons and armor are highly prized as a result. But possession of any item made of the wondrous substance is a sign of prestige and wealth, and the Itreyan nobility were infamous hoarders of the stuff. Before the rebellion that killed her husband, Queen Isabella, wife of Francisco XV, was an ardent collector of gravebone curios—it was said she was amassing the baubles in the hopes of opening a museum for “the little people,” as she so fondly termed Godsgrave’s citizens.
Her collection of gravebone trinkets included letter openers, shoehorns, teething rings, a multitude of hairbrushes, combs, and pins, a seventy-four-piece dinner set, and a dozen “marital aids” commissioned by at least seven different Itreyan queens.
And who said money can’t buy happiness.
* It did not. All plans for an illustrated second edition of The Definitive Guide were scrapped after Fiorlini’s wife absconded with the profits from the first edition, along with their Liisian houseboy, Lorenzo, and their dog, Teacakes.
* The harbormaster of Godsgrave is one of the most powerful titles in the entire city. Many years back, the role was appointed by the city’s administratii, but the profits generated by controlling what comes in and out of the ’Grave by sea didn’t escape the notice of the local braavi—the thieves, extortionists, and thugs that constitute Godsgrave’s organized criminal element.
Murder was rife, and harbormasters were dropping faster than a groom’s pantaloons on his wedding eve. It was Julius Scaeva who suggested the gangs themselves be allowed to appoint the role—a stroke of political genius that earned him favor with the city’s merchants (who just wanted their bloody shipments to arrive on time), the braavi (who were getting rather tired of having to neck a new harbormaster every few weeks), and the administratii (who were, by that stage, having trouble finding anyone fucking stupid enough to take the job).
After discussion among the gangs, the new harbormaster was appointed, the murders stopped, and everyone settled back to the business of making barrowloads of money—including Julius Scaeva, who had, in a further stroke of genius, decided the harbormaster’s office should pay a one percent tithe of all profits to the consul’s chair.
* The Sorority of Flame is an offshoot of Aa’s ministry, venerating Tsana, the Lady of Flame. Consisting entirely of women, those of the order take vows of chastity, humility, poverty, and sobriety, and generally spend their lives in chaste contemplation inside walled temples.
It should be noted however, that in addition to being a patron of women, Lady Tsana is also patron to warriors, and that along with arts such as illumination, herbalism, and midwifery, sisters of the sorority are schooled in the arts of bow, shield, and sword.
It’s not only for reasons of chastity that the sisterhood is not to be fucked with, gentlefriends.
* Two copper beggars at an average dockside whorehouse, with an ale thrown in if the publican is feeling generous.
Self-care, gentlefriends. Self-care.
* Chartum liberii are the focus of any slave’s existence in the Republic of Itreya. Also known as “redsheets” for the scarlet parchment they are scribed upon, they signify that the bearer has, through dint of self-purchase, a merciful master, or governmental edict, earned their freedom.
Almost impossible to forge thanks to the arkemical processes of the Iron Collegium, redsheets are an incredibly valuable commodity. A flourishing black market has arisen around their acquisition and resale, and clever purveyors of redsheets can expect to become very rich very quickly. Less clever purveyors can expect to be sold into slavery for life, along with their relatives, friends, colleagues, familia, pets, and people who owe them money. The entire Republic runs on the oil of slavery, after all.
If you fuck with the system, gentlefriends, be prepared for the system to fuck you back.
† Five, it turns out. Six if you count the one riding his back.
* Built by King Francisco III to entertain his many mistresses (and hide his dalliances from his bride, Annalise), the garden mazes of Whitekeep are one of the city’s treasures. The mazes extend for twisting miles, and in the years since the monarchy’s fall, have become a common place for lovers to meet and bang like shithouse doors in the wind.