by Jay Kristoff
“You get Naev,” she decided. “I’ll distract them!”
“… mia…,” said the cat in her shadow. “… this is foolish…”
“We have to save her!”
“… the boy’s stallion will not take him back there…”
“Because he’s afraid! And you can fix that!”
“… if i drink him, i cannot drink you…”
“I’ll deal with my own fear! You just deal with Flowers!”
A hollow sigh.
“… as it please you…”
Red earth, torn and wounded, shaking beneath them. Dust in her eyes. Heart in her throat. She felt Mister Kindly flit across the sand and coil inside Flower’s shadow, feasting on the stallion’s terror. She felt her own rise up in a flood—an ice cold swell in her belly, so long forgotten she was almost overcome. So many years since she’d had to face it. So many years with Mister Kindly beside her, drinking every drop so she could always be brave.
Fear.
Mia jerked on the reins, bringing Bastard to a halt. The stallion snorted but obeyed the steel in his mouth, stamping and snotting. Bringing him about, Mia saw Naev was on her feet, clutching her ribs as she ran across the churning sand.
“Tric, go!” Mia roared. “I’ll meet you at the wagon!”
Tric still looked a touch befuddled from the ink. But he nodded, charging back toward the fallen woman and the approaching kraken. Flowers ran fast as a hurricane toward the monstrosity, completely fearless with the eyeless cat clinging to his shadow.
The first kraken erupted behind Naev, tentacles the size of longboats cutting the air. The thin woman rolled and swayed, slipping between a half-dozen blows. Sadly, it was the seventh that caught her—hooks tearing her chest and gut as the tentacle snatched her up. And even in that awful grip, the woman refused to cry out, drawing her blade and hacking at the limb instead.
Terror filled Mia’s veins, fingertips tingling, eyes wide. The sensation was so unfamiliar, it was all she could to not to sink beneath it. Yet the fear of failing was stronger than the thought of dying in a kraken’s arms, memories of her mother’s words on her father’s hanging turn still carved in her bones. And so she reached inside herself, and did what had to be done.
She wrapped her shadow about herself, fading from view on the stallion’s back. The kraken holding Naev paused, tremors running its length. And with an howl that shivered her bones, the beast dropped its prey onto the sand, and turned toward Mia with its two cousins swimming fast behind.
The girl turned and rode for her life.
Teeth gritted, glancing over her shoulder as massive shapes breached the earth, diving back below like seadrakes on the hunt. Beyond the horrors, she saw Tric at full gallop, snatching Naev up and dragging the wounded woman over his pommel. Naev was drenched in blood, but Mia could see she was still moving. Still alive.
She turned Bastard north, galloping toward the caravan. The churchmen were no fools—their camel train was already tearing away across the dust. The kraken kept pace with Bastard, one slamming into the sand just thirty feet behind, the stallion stumbling as the ground shuddered. Great roars and the hiss of their bodies piercing the earth filled her ears. Wondering how they could sense her, Mia rode toward a stretch of rocky badlands, praying the ground was something approaching solid.
About forty eroded stone spires thrust up through the desert’s face; a small garden of rock in the endless nothing. Throwing aside her shadowcloak, Mia wove between them, heard frustrated roars behind. She gained a short lead, galloping out the other side as the kraken circled around. Slick with sweat. Heart pounding. She was closing on the camel train, inch by inch, foot by foot. Tric had reached it, one of the wagonmen reaching for Naev’s bloody body, another manning a pivot-mounted crossbow loaded with bolts as big as broom handles.
She could hear that same metallic song on the wind—realized some strange contraption was strapped to the rear wagon beside the crossbow. It looked like a large xylophone made from iron pipes. One of the wagonmen was hitting it like it had insulted his mother, filling the air with noise.
Ironsong, she realized.
But beneath the cacophony, she could hear the kraken behind, the earth being torn apart by horrors big as houses. Her thighs ached, muscles groaned, and she rode for all she was worth. The fear was swelling in her—a living, breathing thing, clawing at her insides and clouding thought and sight. Hand shaking, lips quivering, please Mother, take it away …
At last she drew alongside the rearmost wagon, wincing at the racket. Tric was yelling, holding out his hand. Her heart was thundering in her breast. Teeth chattering in her skull. And with Bastard’s reins in her fist, she drew herself up on unsteady legs and leapt toward him.
The boy caught her, pulled her against his chest, hard as mahogany and drenched in blood. Shaking in his arms, she looked up into hazel eyes, noted the way he was staring at her—relief and admiration and something yet besides. Something …
She felt Mister Kindly slink back into her shadow, overwhelmed for a moment by the terror in her veins. And then he drank, and sighed, and nothing of it remained but fading memory. Herself again. Strong again. Needing no one. Needing nothing.
Muttering thanks, she pushed herself from Tric’s grip and stooped to tie Bastard to the wagon’s flank. Tric knelt beside Naev’s bleeding body to check if she still lived. The churchman in the pilot’s chair roared over the xylophone.
“Black Mother, what did you—”
A tentacle burst from the earth in front of them, whistling as it came. It tore through the driver’s midriff, ripping him and one of his fellows clean in half, guts and blood spraying as the wagon roofs were torn away like paper. Mia dove to the deck, hooks sweeping mere inches over her head as the wagon rocked sideways, Tric roaring and Bastard screaming and the newly arrived kraken bellowing in fury. The crossbow and its marksmen were smashed loose from the tray, sailing off into the dust. The camels swerved in a panic, sending the wagon train up on four wheels. Mia lunged for the abandoned reins, bringing the train down with a shuddering jolt. She dragged herself into the pilot’s seat and cursed, glancing over her shoulder at the four beasts now pursuing them, shouting over the bedlam to Mister Kindly.
“Remind me never to call the Dark in this desert again!”
“… have no fear of that…”
The churchman manning the xylophone had been knocked clear when the kraken struck, now wailing as one of the monsters dragged him to his death. Tric snatched up the man’s fallen club and started beating on the contraption as Mia roared at Naev.
“Which way is the Red Church from here?”
The woman moaned in reply, clutching the ragged wounds in her chest and gut. Mia could see entrails glistening in the worst of it, Naev’s clothes soaked with gore.
“Naev, listen to me! Which way do we ride?”
“North,” the woman bubbled. “The mountains.”
“Which mountains? There are dozens!”
“Not the tallest … nor the shortest. Nor the … scowling face or the sad old man or the broken wall.” A ragged, spit-thick sigh. “The simplest mountain of them all.”
The woman groaned, curling in upon herself. The ironsong was near deafening, and Mia’s headache bounced around the inside of her skull with joyful abandon.
“Tric, shut that racket up!” Mia roared.
“It scares off the krakens!” Tric bellowed.
“Scares off the krakens…,” moaned Naev.
“No, it bloody doesn’t!” yelled Mia.
She glanced over her shoulder, just in case the ungodly racket had indeed scared off the monstrosities chasing them, but alas, they were still in close pursuit. Bastard galloped alongside, glaring at Mia, occasionally spitting an accusing whinny in her direction.
“O, shut up!”
“… he really does not like you…”
“You’re not helping!”
“… and what would help…?”
“Explain to m
e how we got into this stew!”
The cat who was shadows tilted his head, as if thinking. He looked at the rolling Whisperwastes, the jagged horizon drawing nearer, his mistress above him. And he spoke with the voice of one unveiling an ugly but necessary truth.
“… it is basically your fault…”
1. Great Tithe marked the (approximate) halfway point between truedarks, and was one of Aa’s holy feasts, traditionally marked by gift-giving among loved ones. The first Great Tithe was said to have been the turn Aa gifted his daughters dominion over the elements. To Tsana, his firstborn, he gave the rule of fire. To Keph, the earth. To Trelene, the oceans. Nalipse, the storm. In return, the daughters gave their father their love and obedience.
It’s said Niah gave her daughters nothing, for the Maw has naught inside to give. But these are falsehoods spat by ministers of Aa’s church.
To Keph, Niah gave dreams, to keep her company in her eternal slumber. To Trelene, she gave enigma, the deep dark of the waters beyond the sunslight. To Nalipse, she gave calm; the peace in the storm’s eye. And to Tsana? Her firstborn who so despised her?
To Tsana, Goddess of Fire, Niah gave hunger.
Hunger unending.
2. It was not mud. Alas.
3. Naturally, the number three holds great significance in Itreya, and worship of the Everseeing is considered the official religion of the Republic. However, it’s interesting to note that even in other regions where worship of Aa was not as prevalent, the number three still holds no end of cultural significance.
Take Liis, for example.
In the turns before the Itreyan Colleges of Iron marched their War Walkers across Liis and conquered it in the name of the Great Unifier, King Francisco I, the Liisians had their own pantheon of worship—a trinity consisting of the Father, the Mother, and the Child. Children born on the third turning of the month were seen as blessed. Thirdborn children of thirdborn children of thirdborn children were inducted into the Liisian clergy without exception. And finally, the Liisian kings were said to have each possessed three testicles—a sign of their divine right to rule.
Though initially disputed by jealous fellow rulers, this claim was ultimately proved by King Francisco I. Upon capturing the last Liisian king, Lucius the Omnipotent, at the Battle of the Scarlet Sands, the Great Unifier removed the monarch’s scrotum with his own dagger and found three aggots staring sadly back at him from within the pouch.
Though grateful credence had been given to the legend, Lucius the Omnipotent was less than pleased with Francisco’s method of verification.
Albeit briefly.
4. A purveyor of top-shelf Itreyan smoke, fine brandy, and the most extensive collection of naughty lithographs in all of Godsgrave.
5. A group had set off into the Whisperwastes some three turns prior, leading a long train of unladen horses. Given the weapons on display, Mia picked them for tomb-raiders, but in fact, they were pilgrims from a fringe-dwelling faction known as Kephians. The group had been convinced by their leader—a man named Emiliano Rostas—that the time of great Keph’s awakening was at hand, that the Earth Goddess would soon rise from her slumber and bring the world to an end. Only those faithful gathered at the Navel of the Goddess (which Emiliano supposed was to be found in the Ashkahi desert) would be saved.
When it was pointed out that the journey might be more hazardous than just sitting around waiting for Keph to show up, Emiliano replied that he and his followers were beloved of the Earth Goddess, and she would allow no harm to befall them.
One can only presume the dust wraiths that devoured their corpses didn’t receive the goddess’s memorandum.
6. The Hearth—a fire, eternally stoked by the goddess Tsana within the belly of the slumbering Earth Goddess, Keph. The blaze attracts the righteous spirits of the dead, and grows brighter and hotter with each soul that enters the afterlife. Itreyans believe the numbers of the dead will one turning be so vast the fire will wake Keph and the world will end.
Wicked souls are denied a place by the Hearth, left to wander in the cold to be consumed by Niah. Sometimes, these wicked souls are sent back to the living world by the goddess to plague the righteous and the just. Called the “Hearthless,” they are common figures in folklore, lurking in abandoned tombs or sites of terrible evil, abducting babies and deflowering virgins and causing unjust and illogical increases to taxation.
7. Distilled from the defense mechanism of deep-sea leviathans, ink is a hallucinogenic sedative. Injection of the drug induces feelings of well-being and loss of muscle control (in the wild, leviathan use their ink to flee predators—a faceful of the stuff usually makes even the hungriest whitedrake cease caring about mornmeal for a time). Long-term users, however, suffer a loss of empathy, and in cases of severe overuse, complete detachment from reality.
Francisco XV, last king of Itreya, was an infamous inkfiend. Under the influence of his addiction even during the uprising that dethroned him, Francisco XV was reportedly thoroughly amused as his personal guard declared him traitor to the people. His queen, Isabella, also an addict, was said to have laughed uproariously as Francisco was hacked to pieces in his own throne room.
Presumably she stopped the gigglefits when the republicans turned their blades on her and her children.
CHAPTER 7
INTRODUCTIONS
Mia pushed open the door to Mercurio’s Curios, a tiny bell above the frame chiming her arrival. The store was dark and dusty, sprawling off in every direction. Shutters were drawn against the sunslight. Mia recalled the sign outside—“Oddities, Rarities & the Fynest Antiquities.” Looking at the shelves, she saw plenty of the former. The latter parts of the equation were up for debate.
Truth be told, the shop looked filled to bursting with junk. Mia could’ve sworn it was also bigger inside than out, though she put that down to her lack of mornmeal. As if to remind her of its neglect, her belly growled a sternly worded complaint.
Mia made her way through the flotsam and jetsam until she arrived at a counter. And there, behind a mahogany desk carved with a twisting spiral pattern that made her eyes hurt to look at, she found the greatest oddity inside Mercurio’s Curios—the proprietor himself.
His face was the kind that seemed born to scowl, set atop with a short shock of light gray hair. Blue eyes were narrowed behind wire-rimmed spectacles that had seen better turns. A statue of an elegant woman with a lion’s head crouched on the desk beside him, an arkemical globe held in its upturned palm. The old man was reading from a book as big as Mia. A cigarillo hung from his mouth, smelling faintly of cloves. It bobbed on his lips when he mumbled.
“Help ya w’somthn?”
“Good turn to you, sir. Almighty Aa bless and keep you—”
The old man tapped the small brass placard on the countertop—a repeat of the warning outside his door. “No time-wasters, rabble or religious sorts welcome.”
“Forgive me, sir. May the Four Daughters—”
The old man tapped the placard more insistently, shifting his scowl to Mia.
The girl fell silent. The old man turned back to his book.
“Help ya w’somthn?” he repeated.
The girl cleared her throat. “I wish to sell you a piece of jewelry, sir.”
“Just wishing about it won’t get it done, girl.”
Mia hovered uncertainly, chewing her lip. The old man began tapping the placard again until she finally got the message, unpinning her brooch and placing it on the wood. The little crow stared back at her with its red amber eyes, as if wounded at the thought she might hock it to such a grumpy old bastard. She shrugged apology.
“Where’d y’steal that?” the old man mumbled.
“I did not steal it, sir.”
Mercurio pulled the cigarillo from his lips, turned his full attention to Mia.
“That’s the sigil of the Familia Corvere.”
“Well spotted, sir.”
“Darius Corvere died a traitor’s death yesterturn by order of the
Itreyan Senate. And rumor has it his entire household have been locked in the Philosopher’s Stone.”1
The little girl had no kerchief, so she wiped her nose on her sleeve and said nothing.
“How old are you, sprat?”
“… Ten, sir.”
“You got a name?”
Mia blinked. Who did this old man think he was? She was Mia Corvere, daughter of the justicus of the Luminatii Legion. Marrowborn of a noble familia, one the great twelve houses of the Republic. She’d not be interrogated by a mere shopkeep. Especially when offering a prize worth more than the rest of the junk in this squalid hole put together.
“My name is none of your business, sir.” Mia folded her arms and tried her best to impersonate her mother when dealing with an unruly servant.
“Noneofyourbusiness?” One gray eyebrow rose. “Strange name for a girl, innit?”
“Do you want the brooch or no?”
The old man put his cigarillo back on his lips and turned back to his book.
“No,” he said.
Mia blinked. “It is finest Itreyan silver. Th—”
“Fuck off,” the man said, without looking up. “And take your trouble with you when you off with the fuck, Miss Noneofyourbusiness.”
Mia’s cheeks burned pink with fury. She snatched the brooch up and pinned it back to her dress, tossed her hair over one shoulder and spun on her heel.
“Word of advice,” said the old man, still not looking up. “Corvere and his cronies got off light with that hanging. Their commonborn troops have been crucified along the banks of the Choir. Rumor is they’re going to pave the Senate House streets with their skulls. A lot of those soldiers had familia ’round here. So, I’d not walk about with a traitor’s mark pinned to my tits were I you.”
The words struck Mia like a rock in the back of her head. She turned back to the old man, teeth bared in a snarl.
“My father was no traitor,” she spat.
As she stormed out the door, her shadow unfurled along the pavement and slammed it behind her. The girl was so angry she didn’t even notice.