Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  “Look alive,” Bladesinger muttered. “Soldiers ahead.”

  Sid grit his teeth but didn’t break stride, noting the quartet of legionaries from the Crow’s Rest garrison marching down the other side of the street. He’d no clue if the local soldiery mixed with Leona’s houseguards—men of the sword had a tendency to gather and gripe no matter who they worked for. But at a distance, their disguises should pass, and it was only a few hundred feet to the harbo—

  “I know you,” said a voice.

  Sidonius stopped, looked behind them. A young redheaded girl wearing the feathered cap and pack of a traveling peddler had stopped in the street, pointing at Mia.

  “Four Daughters, I know you,” she repeated. “You’re the Savior of Stormwatch!”

  Mia shot a warning look to the others, gave the girl a small smile. “Aye, Dona.”

  “I saw you slay the retchwyrm!” the girl cried, her blue eyes shining. “Merciful Aa, what a fight! I’ve never seen the like!”

  “My thanks, Mi Dona,” Mia muttered. “But I’ve ma—”

  “Look here!” the peddler cried to the street. “The Savior of Stormwatch!”

  “Here they come,” Wavewaker muttered.

  Sid’s stomach flipped as he realized the legionaries had overheard the peddler, and all four were now crossing the street. Their centurion saw the ornate plume on Sidonius’s helm and called out in greeting.

  “Ho, Gannicus! What brings you lazy bastards down here at this . . .”

  The centurion stopped, squinting at Sidonius’s face through the slits in his helm.

  “ . . . Gannicus?”

  “Go!” Mia cried.

  The gladiatii charged, weapons drawn. The centurion and his men fumbled with their swords, faces bleached with panic. It had been truncheons and fists for Leona’s houseguards, but there was no room for mercy here—these were fully armed and armored Itreyan legionaries, trained to kill. Wavewaker drove his blade through the centurion’s chest, skewering him like a pig at spit. Butcher smashed another’s blade aside, spun, and took his throat clean out, scarlet spraying in the air with the salt. The peddler started screaming, running down the street crying, “Murder! Murder!” as Sidonius finished off another legionary with a flash of his sword. Albanus ended the last of them, cutting the legionary’s legs out from under him before burying his blade in the join between the man’s shoulder and neck.

  “Make for the harbor,” Mia cried. “Go! Go!”

  They broke into a run, all semblance of propriety gone. Sid’s sandals pounding the cobbles, folks turning to stare as they dashed past, the cries of Murder! from up the street growing louder. They reached the docks, barreling past sailors and merchantmen unloading their stock, fishermen on the wharf. Wavewaker was running beside him, Bryn out in front, Mia bringing up the rear, all of them splashed with blood. He could see the Gloryhound at anchor, perhaps a hundred yards out in the bay.

  “There she is,” he gasped.

  Sid dropped over the side of the wharf, into the ’Hound’s longboat. The other gladiatii jumped in beside him, Butcher and Wavewaker taking up the oars and rowing as if their lives depended on it. Sid could hear bells ringing now, the alarm spreading through Crow’s Rest and waking the residents from their sleep, the fearful cry echoing up and down their quiet streets.

  “Rebellion!”

  “The Falcons in revolt!”

  Butcher and Wavewaker leaned hard on the oars, each stroke bringing them closer to the ’Hound. Bladesinger shielded her eyes against the water’s glare, nodding at the empty masts.

  “Sails are stowed.”

  “We can set them swift enough,” Wavewaker grunted.

  “Are you certain?” Butcher gasped.

  “Rest easy, brother,” Wavewaker nodded. “I was learning to sail while you were still suckling at your mother’s teats.”

  “You only learned to sail last year?” Bryn grinned.

  “Let’s leave my mother’s teats out of this, aye?” Butcher growled.

  “Talk softer, row harder,” Sidonius said.

  They reached the ’Hound, scrambling up the rope ladder and onto the deck. The ship rolled and swayed with the sea, sunslight burning in that endless blue sky. A lone watchman came down from the bow, demanding to know what they were about, but a backhand from Wavewaker sent him to the boards, moaning and bloodied. From up on deck, Sid could see movement around the docks; a handful of legionaries, mariners pointing in their direction.

  “We need those sails up now, ’Waker.”

  “Aye,” the man nodded. “They’ll be down in the hold. All of you, with me.”

  Wavewaker threw aside the large oaken hatch that sealed the ’Hound’s hold, climbed swiftly down the ladder into the ship’s belly. Bladesinger hopped down second, Sidonius and the other gladiatii following while Mia and Bryn remained on deck to keep watch. Sunslight filtered through the timber lattice above their heads, illuminating the ship’s belly, and the gladiatii spread out, searching for the great sheets of canvas that would see them under way. Crates and barrels, coils of salt-crusted rope and heavy, iron-bound chests. But . . .

  “I can’t see them,” Bladesinger said.

  “They must be here somewhere,” Wavewaker growled. “Keep looking.”

  “Why the ’byss would they stow the sails anyw—”

  Sid heard a scuffling footsteps, a soft curse above their heads. Squinting up through the lattice, he saw two struggling figures, silhouetted against the light. Bryn was one of them—he could tell from the topknot. But the figure behind her, arm wrapped around her neck looked like . . .

  “Mia?” he whispered.

  He heard a gasp, a wet thud as Bryn toppled into the hold and landed atop a great coil of rope with a groan. And as Sid opened his mouth to shout warning, the trapdoor above them slammed closed, sealing them all in the ’Hound’s hold.

  “What the ’byss?” Wavewaker hissed.

  Sidonius was kneeling beside Bryn, the girl barely conscious, red marks at her throat. He looked up through the latticework hatch, belly churning, his mouth suddenly dry as dust.

  “Crow?” he called. “What are you playing at?”

  “I’m sorry, Sidonius,” he heard the girl reply, voice thick with sorrow. “But I told you once already. The last thing I’m doing here is playing.”

  Butcher climbed the ladder, pounded at the hatch with his sword, trying to break it open. “What the fuck goes on here?”

  The gladiatii met each other’s eyes, confusion and dread in every stare. They were sealed in the ’Hound’s belly like fish in a barrel, no one to fight, no way out.

  “This is how you repay me?” came a voice.

  Sidonius looked up, drawing a shivering breath as he saw Dona Leona walking the deck above his head. Instead of nevernight attire, she was dressed in black, her eyes kohled, hair braided as if for war.

  “After all I have done for you,” Leona said, staring down at the gladiatii trapped in the hold. “Raising you up from the mire. Feeding and sheltering you beneath my roof. Drenching you in glory and the honor of my collegium’s name. This is my thanks?”

  “Crow,” Wavewaker spat, prowling in circles and looking up at the deck. “Crow, what have you done?”

  “She has done what no other among you had the courage to do,” Leona said. “She has remained loyal to her domina.”

  “You bleeding fucking cunt!” Butcher roared, slamming his arm against the hatch. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Leona answered. “You will languish in that hold until I decide your fate. And I fear it shall be an unpleasant one, traitor.”

  “You call us traitors?” Bladesinger shouted. “I brought you honor at Whitekeep. Crow would never have stood victor if not for me! And you give me thanks by selling me to that shitheel Varro Caito before my wounds are even healed?”

  The woman spat onto the wood at her feet.

  “You faithless fucking bitch.”

  Leona sn
eered, shook her head.

  “All I hear are treacherous rats, squeaking in a hole of their own making.”

  Butcher was smashing at the hatch with his sword. Wavewaker pushing at the timbers above their head. A half-dozen houseguards spilled out from the ’Hound’s main cabin to surround the dona—the second shift, all of whom should have been slumbering right now in their bunks. There could be no doubt now that Leona had known this was coming, that all the faith they’d put in the daughter of Darius Corvere . . .

  Sidonius clenched his fists as he looked up through the lattice. Mia met his stare, dark eyes clouded, her expression grim and bloodless. The scar cutting down her cheek lent her a vicious air, a cruelty and callousness he’d never noticed until now. But still, he fancied he could see tears in those dark lashes, her long dark hair caught up in the nevernight winds and playing about her face like some black halo.

  “Crow?”

  “It just meant too much to me, Sid,” she whispered.

  She shook her head, hands fluttering helplessly at her sides.

  “I’m so sorry . . .”

  It had been a lot to risk on a single girl.

  But he’d never thought for a moment they’d actually lose.

  “Aye, little Crow.”

  Sidonius hung his head, pawing at his aching chest.

  “I’m sorry too . . .”

  30: interlude

  Two passengers met in a dirty alley, in a little city by the sea.

  The first was small, thin as whispers, cut in the shape of a cat. It had worn the seeming for over seven years now. It could barely remember the thing it had been before. A fraction of a deeper darkness, with only enough awareness to crawl from the black beneath Godsgrave’s skin and seek another like itself.

  Mia.

  She’d lost her father, the turn they met. Hanged and dancing before the hoi polloi. She’d screamed, and made the shadows tremble, and he’d followed her call until he found her at her mother’s side. The image of her father burned bright in her mind as he reached out and touched her. But she’d lost her kitten, too. Its neck broken in the hands of the justicus who’d stolen her father’s title along with his life. A tinier wound. The kitten seemed a far more sensible shape to steal, in the end. Far better than the father. Far easier to love a simple thing.

  She’d named him Mister Kindly. It fitted well enough. But somewhere deep inside, the cat who was not a cat knew that was not his name.

  The second passenger was larger, had worn its shape for longer. She’d found her Cassius when he was but a boy. Beaten. Starving. Abused beyond reckoning. A child of the Itreyan wilds, dragged to the City of Bridges and Bones in chains, and there, almost drowned in misery. The boy’s folk had hunted wolves—he’d remembered that much, even in his nadir. And the boy remembered wolves were strong and fierce. So she became a wolf for him, and together, they’d hunted all who stood in their way.

  He’d named her Eclipse. It was close to the truth. But somewhere deep inside, the wolf who was not a wolf knew that was not her name either.

  She missed him.

  “ . . . HELLO, MOGGY . . . ,” the not-wolf said, resting on the wall of a lean-to inn.

  “ . . . hello, mongrel . . . ,” the not-cat replied, atop a stack of empty barrels.

  “ . . . IT IS DONE, THEN . . . ?”

  “ . . . it is done . . .”

  The shadowwolf turned her not-eyes to the ocean, nodded once.

  “ . . . I WILL TELL ASHLINN SHE CAN REMOVE THAT RIDICULOUS TINKER’S PACK, THEN . . .”

  “ . . . if you could convince her to drown herself in the ocean at the same time, i would sincerely appreciate it . . .”

  “ . . . YOUR JEALOUSY FASCINATES ME, LITTLE MOGGY . . .”

  “ . . . careful, dear mongrel, i do believe you just used a three-syllable word . . .”

  “ . . . HOW COMES IT THAT ONE WHO FEASTS ON FEAR CAN BE SO AFRAID . . . ?”

  “ . . . i fear nothing . . .”

  “ . . . YOU REEK OF IT . . .”

  “ . . . be a darling and fuck right off, would you . . . ?”

  “ . . . NOTHING WOULD PLEASE ME MORE . . .”

  The wolf who was not a wolf began to fade, like a whisper on the wind. But the not-cat’s plea held it still.

  “ . . . wait . . .”

  “ . . . WHAT . . . ?”

  Mister Kindly hung still for a moment, searching for the words.

  “ . . . are . . . are you not afraid . . . ?” he finally asked.

  “ . . . OF WHAT . . . ?”

  “ . . . not of. for . . .”

  “ . . . YOUR RIDDLES BORE ME, GRIMALKIN . . .”

  “ . . . are you not afraid for her . . . ?”

  The shadowwolf tilted its head.

  “ . . . WHY WOULD I BE . . . ?”

  The not-cat sighed, searching the horizon.

  “ . . . i wonder sometimes, what we are making of her . . .”

  “ . . . WE ARE MAKING HER STRONG. STEEL. RUTHLESS AS THE STORM AND THE SEA . . .”

  “ . . . the thing we take from her . . . i wonder if she does not need it . . .”

  “ . . . YOU SPEAK OF FEAR . . . ?”

  “ . . . no, i speak of fashion sense . . .”

  “ . . . WHAT NEED HAS SHE OF FEAR, MOGGY . . . ?”

  “ . . . those who do not fear the flame are burned. those who do not fear the blade are bled. and those who do not fear the grave . . .”

  “ . . . ARE FREE TO BE AND DO WHATEVER THEY WISH . . .”

  “ . . . she is different than she once was. she was never this cold. this reckless . . .”

  “ . . . AND YOU BLAME ME FOR THAT . . .”

  “ . . . two of us feast where only one once fed. perhaps we take too much. perhaps we make her like this. callous. conniving. cruel . . .”

  “ . . . AND I AM CERTAIN THAT RECENT REVELATIONS ABOUT THE RED CHURCH, HER FAMILIA, HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH HER CHANGE IN DEMEANOR . . .”

  “ . . . three-syllable word again . . .”

  “ . . . ARE WE FINISHED HERE, LITTLE MOGGY . . . ?”

  The not-cat looked to the sky, burning red and brilliant gold and blinding blue.

  “ . . . a reckoning is coming, eclipse. it waits for us in the city of bridges and bones. i can feel it. like that accursed sun on the horizon. drawing closer with every breath . . .”

  “ . . . A GOOD THING, THEN, THAT WE DO NOT BREATHE . . .”

  Mister Kindly sighed.

  “ . . . i hate you . . .”

  Eclipse laughed.

  “ . . . GOOD . . .”

  And without another sound, she was gone.

  A lone passenger sat in a dirty alley, in a little city by the sea.

  It could barely remember the thing it had been before. A fraction of a deeper darkness. A larval consciousness, dreaming of shoulders crowned with translucent wings.

  And she who would gift them.

  Mia.

  31: truelight

  Godsgrave.

  Mia stood on the deck of the Gloryhound, the ocean wind in her hair, staring out at the City of Bridges and Bones. The harbor was full, hundreds of sails scattered across that carpet of rolling blue, folk traveling from all corners to celebrate the greatest of Aa’s feast turns in the glorious capital of the Republic.

  Truelight, at last, was upon them.

  Saai had finally crested the horizon as they sailed from Crow’s Nest, that pale blue globe joining its gold and red siblings in the sky. The heat was blistering, and Mia was sickened by it, Mister Kindly curled up in her shadow, just as miserable as she. She could feel all the Light Father’s fury, beating down upon her like hammers to the anvil. Bowing her head and walking the decks above people who’d once called her friend.

  Sidonius and the others were chained in the hold, manacles about their wrists and ankles. They’d put up a courageous front, vowing to kill any of Leona’s guards who came down into the hold to get them, but after three turns with no water in this awful heat, they were too w
eak to resist. The guards stormed the hold on the fifth turn, shackled them in irons. They’d been fed and watered every turn since then; they needed to be fit enough to wield weapons in their execution bouts, after all.

  Mia had only avoided arrest because she’d aided in the insurgents’ capture, and Furian, only by dint of his sickbed and Leona’s sworn testimony before the administratii. The dona had taken a deposit from Varro Caito for the sale of her crop, but with word spreading through Crow’s Rest about the uprising, she couldn’t actually complete the transaction—no one would be fool enough to buy a pack of gladiatii who’d rebelled against their mistress.

  And so, the dona had simply stolen Caito’s deposit and put out to sea, taking the scenic route to Godsgrave and fixing to worry about the outraged fleshpeddler when she returned from the capital in triumph. With the coin she’d filched, along with the purse from Whitekeep and the small stipend she’d be paid for the execution bout, she had enough to manage the first repayment to her father. But if she didn’t leave Godsgrave with the Venatus Magni won, she’d be utterly ruined.

  Everything rested upon that single match.

  Everything.

  Mia rested her hands against the ’Hound’s railing, the sunslight blazing on the ocean’s face. She tried twisting the shadows at her feet, but it was near impossible; her grip on the darkness was weak, and trying to hold it was like holding smoke. It made sense, she supposed. Her powers had been at their height at truedark, and it was logical they’d be weakest when the Father of Light was strongest in the sky. But that didn’t make her feel any better about her chances in the magni.

  She stared out at the great Itreyan capital, heart in her throat. It had been months since she’d laid eyes upon it. Months of sweat and blood and tears. All the city was laid out before her, the broken archipelago shimmering in the sunslight. Every square foot was encrusted with tenements and shanties and graceful villas, clinging to the shoreline like barnacles on an old galley’s hull. Above the cathedral spires and the looming War Walkers and the Senate House, rose the Ribs—those great, ossified towers stretching high into the sky, their bleached white glare almost blinding.