“’Byss and blood,” he breathed.
“GET MIA!” Tric shouted.
“What th—”
“GET MIA!”
Snatching up his walking stick, Mercurio broke into a run, grimacing in pain. Ashlinn groaned, lips and chin smeared with crimson, coughing again and holding her stomach. Tric dashed along another corridor, down another spiraling stair, holding Ashlinn tight to his chest, light as feathers. Finally arriving at a tall set of double doors, he kicked them savagely, bursting into the Hall of Truths.
Spiderkiller’s lair.
Stained windows filtered a dim emerald light into the room, the glassware tinged with every kind of green—lime to dark jade. A great ironwood bench dominated the space, lined with pipes and pipettes, funnels and tubes. Shelves on the walls were filled with thousands of different jars, thousands of ingredients within.
Tric remembered his lessons here. The venomlore taught under the Shahiid’s watchful eye. He wasn’t the master at it that Mia was—that girl was born to poison like a fish was to water. But Tric knew the basics. Evershade was cruel, but ultimately a simple toxin. Its properties could be neutralized by any one of a dozen reagents—milk thistle, alkalese, whiteweed, rosecream, stayleaf, crushed fawn poppy seeds, brightstone mixed with ammonia or a solution of charcoal and powdered blackthorn.
Any of them would do.
Ash coughed up more blood, moaning in agony.
“HOLD ON, ASHLINN, YOU HEAR ME?”
He smashed the glassware implements aside with a sweep of his hand, laid her out gently on the great ironwood bench. Ash grasped his black hand with her red one, squeezing tight, groaning through bloody lips.
“Tr … Tric…”
“I’M GETTING THE ANTIDOTE, HOLD ON.”
“M-Milk th-thistl—”
“I KNOW, I KNOW!”
He turned to the vast shelves, the rows upon rows of ingredients—phials and jars and glasses stoppered with green wax. They were sorted alphabetically, kept in perfect order by the dour Shahiid of Truths. He ran to the M section, reached for the milk thistle with black hands. But the jar was empty.
“SHIT…”
“Tric-c…”
“HOLD ON, ASH!”
Fear was tumbling inside him like a great black waterfall, his pulse thundering in his veins. He ran to the A section, looking for the alkalese. He found three glass vials, all neatly labeled, all of them empty. Cursing, Tric turned next to the tubes full of ammonia. But those …
… those were empty, too.
Dark heart sinking in his chest, the boy ran from shelf to shelf, trying to ignore Ashlinn’s cries. Blackthorn. Brightstone. Charcoal. Fawn poppy. All of them, beakers, tubes, pots, and urns, all of them empty. He was hurling the spotlessly dry flask of rosecream onto the floor, glass shattering, as the doors slammed open. Mia stood on the threshold in a slip of black, eyes bright and wide, hair mussed from sleep.
Ash was curled into a ball, blood on her lips. “M … Mia-a…”
“Ashlinn?”
“SHE’S POISONED!”
“With what?” she demanded, eyes turning to Tric.
“EVERSHADE! MAYBE HALF A DRAM!”
“Well, get the fucking milk thistle!” she shouted, dashing toward the shelves and shouldering him aside.
“IT’S EMPTY, MIA!”
“Fawn poppy, then! Or—”
“EMPTY! ALL OF THEM ARE EMPTY!”
“That’s impossible!” Mia spat, searching the shelves, elbow-deep in glassware. “Spiderkiller kept this place in perfect order, there’s no chance she just…”
“O, GODDESS, MIA…”
Tric was holding up the jar of whiteweed. The last ingredient that could save Ashlinn’s life. Unlike all the others, this jar had something inside it. A dark shape, fat and hairy, peering out at him with empty black eyes. A gloating, vengeful farewell from the Shahiid of Truths.
A spider.
“O, no…,” Mia breathed.
Spiderkiller had poisoned the Albari goldwine in the pantry before she fled. Goddess knew what else. One last bite, one last web, hoping to catch a Crow with her favorite drink. The poison worked slow enough for them to run to her hall, only to suffer one last torture in discovering the Shahiid had taken all the antidotes away.
That evil bitch.
“M-Mia…”
“Ashlinn?”
Mia ran to the girl’s side, lifted her up and cradled her head in her arms. Ash seized hold of Mia’s hand, slick with blood, tears in her eyes.
“It h-hurts.”
“O, no, no…”
Tric backed up against the wall, watching in horror. He could see the anguish on Mia’s face as she searched the shelves around her. Wide, tear-filled eyes, one long strand of black hair caught at the corner of her trembling lips. He could see the wheels at work in her head, see her pondering all the venomlore she’d mastered. She’d proved herself Spiderkiller’s finest pupil before her betrayal. One of the greatest poisoners the Church had ever produced. Surely there was something she could do …
“I can’t…,” she gasped, chest heaving as she looked into Ash’s eyes.
She sobbed, looking once more around the room for any kind of hope.
“There’s n-nothing.”
Ash grimaced in pain, even as she grinned. Teeth slicked with red.
“Bitch g-got me.”
“No,” Mia said. “No, don’t.”
Ash winced, put one bloody hand to Mia’s cheek.
“I … I’d have k-killed the sky for you…”
“No, don’t you dare say your fucking farewells to me!”
Ash squeezed her eyes shut and groaned, curling up tighter. Mia clutched her to her chest as if she were drowning and only Ash could save her, tears smudging the kohl about her eyes, running black down her cheeks. Her face was twisted in agony, in horror, pulling her girl in tight and refusing to let go.
“No,” Mia said, her voice cracking. “No, no, NO!”
The last rose as an agonized wail. The shadows began to writhe, Tric watching as the dark in the room deepened, the jars on the shelves began to tremble. Mercurio finally arrived at the Hall of Truth, gasping and red-faced, Sidonius and Bladesinger in tow. They looked on in horror as Mia held Ashlinn and screamed, screamed, as if all her world was ending.
“Mercurio, help me!”
The old man looked about the room. Saw the empty phials. The spider’s jar.
“Black Mother,” he whispered.
“Someone help me!”
Mia’s chest was heaving, grief shaking her body. She hugged Ash tighter, face twisted with helpless rage, teeth bared, fingers curled into claws. But for all her power, all her gifts, this was a foe she couldn’t best. She held on to Ashlinn for dear life, the girl’s head tucked under her chin, rocking back and forth.
“Forever, remember?” she pleaded. “Forever!”
“I’m … s-sorry.”
“No, don’t go,” Mia begged. “Please, please, I can’t do this without you!”
“Kiss m-me,” Ash managed.
A sob.
“No.”
A sigh.
“Please.”
Mia’s face crumpled, her shoulders wracked and shaking, a hollow keening spilling over her gritted teeth. Ashlinn pressed a trembling hand once more to Mia’s cheek, smudging it with red.
“Please.”
And what could Mia do, in the end?
Have her leave without saying goodbye?
And so, eyes closed, lips parted, agony and grief and endless night above, Mia Corvere kissed her love. Blood on their mouths. Tears in their eyes. A broken promise. A last caress. The shadows rolled, the darkness seethed, every jar and urn and phial on the shelves shattering as their lips met for the final time.
A lifelong heartbeat. An empty eternity.
Together once. And now alone.
Only forever?
Forever and ever.
CHAPTER 36
BAPTISM
It had been a full turn since they’d emerged from the pool in the Red Church chapel beneath Godsgrave’s necropolis, dripping in scarlet. Fifty of the Luminatii awaiting them had given him, his father, the woman called Spiderkiller, and the sorcerii called Marielle a hasty escort through the bustling streets. The other half century had remained behind to ensure none of Mia’s comrades gave pursuit.
Jonnen had wondered whether it would’ve been a good or bad thing. But none of them came after him at all.
Once back in their apartments in the first Rib, the Spiderkiller had taken the sorcerii away, only Aa knew where. His father had gone to bathe. Jonnen had been surrounded by slaves, thoroughly scrubbed, trimmed, and dressed in a white toga hemmed in purple. And finally, with rather more flair than he thought their ignoble retreat from the Mountain had warranted, his father had presented him to his mother.
Or at least, the woman who called herself his mother.
Liviana Scaeva had wept to see him, sweeping him up in an embrace so fierce the boy thought his ribs might have cracked. She’d praised the Everseeing, blessed his father’s name, dragging him close with one hand while the other still gripped her son.
“O, Lucius,” she’d sobbed. “My darling Lucius.”
And though he’d not spoken, the boy still heard the words ringing in his head.
My name is Jonnen.
They’d eaten a surreal sort of dinner together. Just the three of them, like he couldn’t remember them doing for an age. The table was laden with the finest fare the boy had tasted in months. No slop stews or cold porridge or dried beef. No eating in some miserable hutch or lonely ruin. No bawdy tales or cigarillo smoke. Instead, they had mouthwatering finger foods and sizzling roasts cooked to perfection and honeyed sweets that melted in his mouth. Flawless porcelain plates and silver cutlery and singing Dweymeri crystal glasses. Mother even let him have a little wine.
And all Jonnen could taste was the blood.
Poor Butcher.
Poor Eclipse.
He already missed the big Liisian and his crude talk and his wooden swords. He missed the shadowwolf’s company, their games of fetch, the fearlessness he’d felt when she rode his shadow. But he’d made his choice. Loyalty to his father. Fidelity to Itreya. Allegiance to the dynasty and the throne he would one turn ascend.
He’d made his choice.
And now he must live with it.
His mother had tucked him into bed. She’d hugged him for a full five minutes, as if afeared to ever let him go again. He’d spent a sleepless nevernight on spotless sheets, staring at the ceiling and pondering what he’d done. And the next turn, his father had sent for him.
Jonnen was escorted through their apartments with a cadre of a dozen Luminatii. Heavily armed. Heavily armored. Vigilant as bloodhawks and watching every shadow. The fresh tension in the air frightened him, truth told—he’d become so accustomed to Eclipse eating his fear, he’d forgotten how to manage it. As he waited in the corridor outside his father’s study, he found his hands and legs were shaking.
He honestly thought he might cry.
“Take five centuries of your best legionaries,” Jonnen heard his father command. “The blood pool is to be despoiled with oil and set ablaze. Arkemist’s salt set at every pillar and doorway and ignited as soon as your men are clear. I want no bone or stone of the Red Church chapel left intact.”
“Your will, Imperator,” a man replied.
Jonnen heard heavy footsteps, and a trio of Luminatii centurions marched out of his father’s study, resplendent in their gravebone armor and blood-red cloaks. They bowed to him as they passed, hurried off at their imperator’s command. Despite the fumble at the Mountain, it seemed the machinery of the entire Republic was still utterly bent to his father’s will.
Soon enough, Jonnen heard his father’s voice again.
“Come in, my son.”
Jonnen looked to the Luminatii around him, but none of the men moved a muscle. It was clear the boy’s audience with his father was to be a private one. And so, on unsteady legs, Jonnen proceeded inside.
His father was seated on the divan beside his chess set. He was dressed in a long purple toga, freshly shaved and bathed, his appearance, as ever, immaculate. But there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, as if perhaps he’d slept poorly, too.
His gaze was fixed on the only piece atop the board—a single black pawn. Beside it sat a stiletto, crafted of gravebone. Jonnen saw a crow on the hilt with red amber eyes. It seemed a little brother to the longblade Mia carried.
“Father,” the boy said.
“Son,” his father replied, waving to the divan opposite.
The boy trudged across the study floor, the map of the entire Itreyan region laid out at his feet. Itreya and Liis, Vaan and Ashkah—all of them now under his father’s control. No longer a Republic. A kingdom in all but name.
Jonnen sat down before its ruler.
“Where is Spiderkiller?” he asked, looking about. “The sorcerii?”
His father waved the question off, as if brushing away an insect.
“I had a dream last nevernight,” he said.
The boy blinked. Not quite what he was expecting.
“… What did you dream of, Father?”
“My mother,” his father replied.
“O,” the boy said, not knowing how else to respond.
“She was dressed in black,” his father continued, still staring at the chess piece. “As she never dressed in life. Long gloves, all the way to her elbows. And she spoke to me, Lucius. Her voice was faint. As if from very far away.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I should speak with you.”
“About what?” Jonnen replied.
“Mia Corvere.”
Ah.
This he expected.
“You mean my sister,” the boy heard himself say.
His father finally glanced up at that, and Jonnen heard a faint hiss as Whisper unfurled from the imperator’s shadow. The serpent peered at Jonnen with his not-eyes, licking the air with his not-tongue. He seemed more solid than he’d once been: a deeper black, now dark enough for two.
Jonnen could still hear Eclipse whimpering as—
“She told you, then,” his father said.
“Yes,” Jonnen replied, his throat feeling tight and dry.
His father leaned forward, his gaze burning. “What, exactly, did she say?”
The boy swallowed hard. He met his father’s eyes, but looked away just as swiftly. “Mia said she was your daughter. Sired on Alinne Corvere.”
Long silence descended on the study. Jonnen’s palms were damp with sweat.
“And what else?” his father finally said.
“She said…”
The boy’s voice faltered. He shook his head.
“Whisper,” his father said.
“… Be not afraid, little one…”
The shadowviper snaked forward, melting into Jonnen’s shadow. The boy sighed as the daemon swallowed his fear, drinking down mouthful after mouthful. Leaving him bold. Cold as steel. The boy met his father’s gaze again, cool and dark and hard. But this time, he didn’t look away.
“She said I was also sired on the Dona Corvere,” Jonnen said, his voice firm. “She told me that my mother is not my mother.”
His father leaned back on the divan, regarding Jonnen with black, glittering eyes.
“Is it true?” the boy asked.
“It is true,” his father replied.
Jonnen felt his stomach turn. His chest ache. He’d known it. Deep down inside, he knew Mia wouldn’t have told him a lie like that. But to hear it confirmed …
Jonnen’s eyes burned with tears. He blinked them back, wretched and ashamed.
“She is my sister.”
“I would have told you,” his father said. “When you were older. I had no wish to deceive you, my son. But some truths must be earned in time. And
some truths are simply matters of perspective. Though she may not have given birth to you, Liviana loves you as a son. Do not doubt it for a moment, Lucius.”
“That is not the name my mother gave me.”
His father’s voice turned to iron. “It is the name I gave you.”
The boy bowed his head. And slowly, he nodded.
“Yes, Father.”
The imperator of all Itreya picked up the black pawn from the chessboard, though in truth, Jonnen’s eyes lingered on the stiletto. His father twisted the piece in his fingers, this way and that, letting the fading sunslight glint on the polished ebony. Lips pursed. Silence lingering.
“What else did she tell you?” he finally asked. “Your dear sister?”
“Many things,” the boy mumbled.
“Did she happen to speak of what she planned to do if her assault on the Mountain was successful?”
Jonnen shrugged. “Not really. But I can guess.”
“Guess, then.”
“She’ll try to kill you again.”
“And that is all she seeks? My death?”
“She really does not like you, Father.”
His father smiled and shook his head. “What of her companions, then? The Vaanian girl? The arena slaves? The dead one, returned from the grave? What do you know of them? What do they want? Why do they follow her?”
Jonnen shrugged. “Ashlinn seems to love her. I think she follows her heart.”
“And the gladiatii?”
“Mia rescued them from bondage. They follow her out of love and loyalty.”
“And what of the deadboy? The Dweymeri?”
Jonnen mumbled beneath his breath.
“I cannot hear you, my son,” his father said, quiet anger in his tone.
“I said, he does not follow her,” Jonnen replied. “He tries to lead her instead.”
“To what?”
The boy looked at the chess piece in his father’s hand. He felt like that, now. A little piece on a board that was far too big. His time with Mia already seemed like a dream. The way he felt about her was a tangled mess inside his head—admiration, scorn, affection, horror. Perhaps even love. She was bold and brave and twice as big as life, and he knew she was important. That she had a role to play. But he’d known her all of eight weeks. He’d known his father nine years. And some loyalties just don’t die quietly, no matter what the storybooks say.
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