by Cass Morris
Also by Cass Morris
The Aven Cycle
FROM UNSEEN FIRE
GIVE WAY TO NIGHT
Copyright © 2020 by Callie R. Morris.
All Rights Reserved.
Jacket art by Micah Epstein.
Jacket design by Katie Anderson.
Map by Phoebe West.
Book designed by Fine Design.
Edited by Betsy Wollheim.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1868.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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Ebook ISBN: 9780756412289
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To My Parents,
Bruce and Mary,
with Love From Your Little Bird.
Contents
Cover
Also by Cass Morris
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Dramatis Personae
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
Ver
Splinter the First
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Splinter the Second
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Aestas
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Splinter the Third
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Splinter the Fourth
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Autumnus
Splinter the Fifth
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dramatis Personae
In Aven and Stabiae
Aulus Vitellius, a Popularist Senator
Aula Vitellia, his oldest daughter, a widow
Vitellia Secunda, called Latona, his second daughter, a mage of Spirit and Fire
Vitellia Tertia, called Alhena, his third daughter, a mage of Time
Numerius Herennius, Latona’s husband
Lucia, Aula’s daughter
Helva, a freedwoman, mage of Time, and Aula’s personal attendant
Merula, a Phrygian slave, Latona’s personal attendant
Mus, a Cantabrian slave, Alhena’s personal attendant
Vibia Sempronia, a mage of Fracture, sister to Sempronius Tarren
Taius Mella, her husband
Galerius Orator, consul of Aven
Marcia Tullia, his wife, a mage of Air
Aufidius Strato, Galerius’s co-consul
Marcus Autronius, a Popularist Senator and a mage of Earth
Gnaeus Autronius, his father
Ama Rubellia, High Priestess of Venus, friend to Latona
Quintus Terentius, a Popularist Senator
Quinta Terentia, his daughter, a Vestal Virgin and a mage of Light
Terentilla, called Tilla, her sister, a mage of Earth
Maia Domitia, of a Popularist family, friend to Aula and Latona
Vatinius Obir, client to Sempronius Tarren, head of the Esquiline Collegium
Ebredus, a member of the Esquiline Collegium
Eneas, a freedman sailor
Moira, a priestess at the Temple of Proserpina in Stabiae
Arrius Buteo, an Optimate Senator
Decius Gratianus, an Optimate Senator
Memmia, his wife
Gratiana, his sister
Glaucanis, wife to Lucretius Rabirus
Licinius Cornicen, an Optimate Senator
Pinarius Scaeva, a Priest of Janus and mage of Fracture
Salonius Decur and Durmius Argus, members of the Augian Commission
Aemilia Fullia, High Priestess of Juno
In Iberia
Vibius Sempronius Tarren, Praetor of Cantabria, a Popularist Senator and a mage of Shadow and Water
Calpurnius and Onidius, generals commanding legions
Autronius Felix, a military tribune, brother to Marcus Autronius
Corvinus, a freedman, mage of Water, and Sempronius’s steward
Eustix, a mage of Air
Gaius Vitellius, a military tribune, son to Aulus Vitellius and brother to Aula, Latona, and Alhena
Titus Mennenius, a military tribune
Calix, a centurion
Bartasco, chieftain of the Arevaci, allied to Aven
Hanath, his wife, a Numidian warrior
Ekialde, chieftain of the Lusetani
Neitin, his wife
Reilin, Ditalce, and Irrin, her sisters
Bailar, a magic-man, Ekialde’s uncle
Otiger, a magic-man, Neitin’s uncle
Sakarbik, a magic-woman of the Cossetans
Lucretius Rabirus, Praetor of Baelonia, an Optimate Senator
Cominius Pavo, a military tribune
Fimbrianus, former Praetor of Baelonia
“Longa mora est, quantum noxae sit ubique repertum, enumerare: minor fuit ipsa infamia vero. Maenala transieram latebris horrenda ferarum et cum Cyllene gelidi pineta Lycaei: Arcadis hinc sedes et inhospita tecta tyranni ingredior, traherent cum sera crepuscula noctem.”
“It would take too long to tell what wickedness I found everywhere, for rumors were less than truth. I had crossed Maenala, those mountains bristling with wild beasts’ lairs, steep Cyllene, and the pinewoods of icy Lycaeus. Then, as the last shadows gave way to night, I entered the inhospitable house of the Arcadian king.”
—Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I
Prologue
690 ab urbe condita
Februarius
Central Iberia
In the deep of winter, hundreds of
miles from her own village, from the broad flat river and gently sloping hills of her home, Neitin of the Lusetani clung to the arms of the birthing stool, trying to bring forth life in cold and desperation. When the pangs faded, Neitin hung her head, sobbing helplessly, her sweat-soaked chestnut curls hanging like curtains on either side of her face.
“Good, good!” The midwife rubbed between her shoulders. “Not far to go, I think.”
Neitin wanted to protest that she couldn’t possibly do this, not a moment longer, that if this child didn’t get out of her right now she would walk into the dark shadows of the underworld gladly, but she held her tongue. Another woman might make those protestations. Neitin was the wife of the erregerra, the Lusetani war-king, and she could not admit to such weakness. Choking her sobs back into her throat, she scraped her feet against the deerskins that covered the ground inside her tent, trying to get them solidly underneath her. “I want to walk.”
The midwife helped her to stand properly, nodding. “That will be good for you. Walk until the next pains hit.”
One hand rubbing at the back of her neck, Neitin paced the length of the tent, from her bed to the flaming brazier, stoked hot to chase out the hard winter chill. Small comfort, to catch her breath, when she knew the agony would return.
Before it could strike again, however, the thick woolen tent door jerked open. Neitin looked up sharply; everyone she wished to see was already inside the tent, with the exception of her husband Ekialde, who would not be allowed in until after his child was born. When she saw the dark-headed man who had entered, her lips pulled back from her teeth in an instinctive snarl.
Bailar, uncle to her husband and leader of their magic-men, sidled in, letting the tent flap snap in the wind behind him. Reilin, first of Neitin’s younger sisters, rushed to hold it closed, but as she skirted around Bailar, she bowed her head in respect.
Neitin had no intention of showing such deference. “This is no place for you. Why have you come?”
Bailar’s shoulders hung low, giving him a demure appearance that ill-suited his true nature. “I knew your husband had sent for a woman from a nearby village,” Bailar scarcely gave the midwife a glance, “but I feared the assistance might be . . . insufficient.”
The midwife gave no indication that she took umbrage, but Neitin took plenty on her behalf. “This honored lady has been dedicated to divine Nabia’s heart and magic for thirty years,” she said. “I assure you, she has things well in hand.”
Bailar’s mild expression did not change. “We heard a great deal of screaming.”
“And have you never heard women in childbirth before?” Neitin growled. “No doubt your own mother shrieked fit to split the heavens, bringing forth one such as you.” She had long since outgrown civility with this man, the fiend she blamed for their current predicament, out in the wilds of the central forests, so far from home. He had led her husband in this madness, he had lured Ekialde with promises of grand victories in the name of the war-god, he had convinced Ekialde that dark magics, so long disused by civilized magic-men, were appropriate. Neitin pleaded for Ekialde to set this man aside, or at least to take equal counsel from others, to no avail.
She might not be able to pry him away from her husband, but she could damn well forbid him her own company.
“There is nothing here for you.” She staggered toward him, nostrils flared. “I stand at the threshold of Nabia’s realm. It is nothing to do with you.”
Bailar regarded her coolly, impassive in the face of her panting breath and flushed, sweaty face. “You are in a great deal of pain, Lady. I take no offense, of course.”
She spat at his feet.
This, too, Bailar ignored. “You may yet have need of aid. Endovelicos sees all things, as the sun and the moon do. We are never out of his realm.”
“If I need Endovelicos’s assistance,” she said, swiping at the damp locks of hair falling in her face, “I will send for my uncle. Not for you. I would never—” She grimaced, silenced for a moment as her whole world narrowed to the agony overtaking her body. The wracking cramps could not fully divert her fury away from Bailar, though, and when the pain ebbed, she found her tongue again. “I would never invite your darkness so near this sacred moment. You pollute everything you touch, but you will never touch this babe. You understand me? Never. Not at the moment of its birth and at no time in its life.”
“Your husband may—”
“My husband may respect you in matters of war, but this is hearth and home!” Neitin’s words stampeded over his. “I will not be gainsaid in this, and he will neither persuade nor overrule me.” She could hardly stand unaided, but she made no move to lean on either her sisters or the midwife. She was determined to face Bailar with her spine as straight as she could manage and the earth solidly beneath her bare feet. “So get out.” When he did not move, she screamed, “Get. Out! Or I swear, I will devote the rest of my waking days to seeing you brought as low as you deserve to lie!”
Bailar gave her a mocking little bow. “Women in childbirth are often frantic. I understand.”
He left then. Neitin wanted to throw something at his departing back. That he should have the nerve to treat her with such condescension, such smugness—but the thoughts would hardly string together. Her knees buckled, and the midwife’s arms were swiftly around her, keeping her from falling. For a moment, the pain obliterated all other thoughts in her mind, and another ragged scream tore from her throat.
Only when the anguish receded could she regain herself to speak. “You keep that man out of here,” Neitin snarled at her sisters, her dark eyes wild with rage. Her face contorted as another spasm wracked her, but as she huffed through the pain, she pointed at the door of the tent. “You keep him out, and you keep him away.”
“Sister—” the youngest began.
“You have heard me! Do you think I speak in jest?”
Her sisters exchanged worried glances, no doubt debating who they should be most afraid of: the magic-man whose powers grew by the day or their beloved sister in the throes of childbirth. Their tribe held that this was a time of great power, wrapped in Nabia’s arms. A mother could tell no lies in these hours, with her soul in full flood, and her wishes were to be heeded as though they came from Nabia herself.
In the end, religious conviction outstripped the mingled fear and respect they had for Bailar. The youngest sister went to tie the tent flaps shut, but Reilin, only a year younger than Neitin, halted her. “Stay here with her. Ditalce and I will stand guard outside, that neither Bailar nor any of his men approach the tent.” She walked over, with her long warrior’s stride, and kissed Neitin’s dewy forehead. “These hours are yours, sister, and they are blessed. Nabia’s grace will see you through them.”
Neitin felt little grace in the next hour, but as dawn approached, so too did her babe. Outside the tent, the blackness of night gave way to the eerie cobalt-blue that raced ahead of the sun. All at once, the buffeting winds calmed, just in time for another scream to join Neitin’s: tiny lungs, shrieking their indignation at so rude an introduction to the world.
A moment later, Neitin’s youngest sister raced out of the tent. “A boy! A son!” She did not pause as she shouted this to her sisters, but rather raced across the camp toward the tent where her brother-in-law and his war-band had kept vigil. “The erregerra has a son!”
As a cheer went up throughout the camp, inside the tent, Neitin half-swooned on the birthing stool, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as the midwife cut the cord of life and swaddled the babe. Somehow, she found the strength to grab the woman’s arm. “The afterbirth—”
“It’ll be along in a moment, my dear, never fear. I looked to the stars last night; they said you are in no danger, so it should come away clean. No risk of fever.”
“No, that’s not what—” Neitin blew out her breath. Tears had rushed to her eyes; she felt exhausted and elated at the s
ame time. “Wretched Bailar will want it for some foul purpose, I have no doubt. He must not have it. You, you must keep it safe, and cast it in the river for Nabia.”
The midwife stared at her a moment, eyes wide. “Of course,” she said. “That is what is right and proper—”
“Right and proper have little meaning in this camp, honored lady,” Neitin said, hoping the earnestness in her voice and eyes would be convincing.
This mattered, more than she could express. She belonged to Nabia, mother-goddess, not to Bandue, the war-god, and so would her son. Whatever hell Bailar led them into, Neitin could at least keep her son’s soul safe from his perfidies.
“He may order, or he may resort to subterfuge, even threats of violence. Whatever happens, he must not have it.”
The midwife nodded. “I understand, little mother.”
VER
Splinter the First
The world was full of broken things.
Promises. Dreams. Plans. The stones of the road leading south from Aven. The wings of the bird in Corinna’s hands, snapping under the pressure of her thumbs.
It struggled in agony, pecking and slashing, but Corinna’s grip remained firm, despite the scrabbling feet scratching her wrists, the sharp beak assaulting her fingers. She held the bird as long as she could stand it, drawing in the power of its shattered pieces, its pain.
These were the constants of the universe. Anything that was built would be broken. Anything born would suffer and die.
These were a Fracture mage’s strength, her succor.
‘Through this,’ Corinna thought, as the pigeon’s fear and fury crackled through her own bones, ‘I can reshape the world.’ In a swift twist, she snapped the bird’s neck. ‘Through this, I can find grace.’
I
Nedhena, Province of Maritima
With slender green stalks of unbloomed lavender on one side and the murky blue of a flat river on the other, the General of Aven’s Legio X Equestris rode toward his camp.
As praetor of Cantabria, the northern of Aven’s two provinces in the vast expanse of Iberia, Sempronius Tarren had not technically arrived in his appointed domain yet. He wanted to gather his full forces before proceeding south into Iberia. Opportunities would not be lost in waiting, however. The centurions were drilling the troops, preparing for whatever they might face in the Iberian wilds. The quartermasters, under the supervision of Sempronius’s tribunes, were restocking and setting up the supply chains that would support the legions going forward. Sempronius took it upon himself to speak to the locals, to find out what challenges they faced that Aven might help them rise to meet. Maritima was, technically, no business of his, but it was against his nature not to take an interest.
