by Jay Kristoff
The man screamed, clutching his legs as Mia released him, pawing the dust from her eyes. Cassius was still brawling with the Luminatii, their bodies a tangle of white and black, flame and shadow. Remus entering the fray had evened the scales—the Lord of Blades was now on the defensive, his sword a blur, the darkness singing.
Mia looked at the justicus, his face twisted in fury. The man who’d helped murder her familia. Drag her old life into ruin. But then she turned to Ashlinn. The girl who’d taken her new life and ripped it to bleeding pieces. Ashlinn stared back, sword in hand, blue eyes narrowed. Turning her back on the girl didn’t seem the smartest play. So Mia tilted her neck ’til it popped, and took a step toward her.
“Don’t do it, Mia,” Ash warned.
Mia ignored her, raising her hand and wrapping the darkness about the girl’s feet.
“This won’t hurt,” Mia said. “Much.”
Ash took a deep breath. Sighed. And reaching into her britches, she drew out a handful of burning flame, spinning at the end of a golden chain.
The Trinity.
Light flared, brighter than all the three suns. The sight of the medallion was like a club to the back of her head, sending her to her knees. From the corner of her eye she saw Cassius stagger, throwing up his forearm to shield his eyes. Remus was in mid-swing as the Lord of Blades dropped his guard. Desperate to keep his prize alive, the justicus turned his blade, hit Cassius with the burning flat. But the legionary beside him—terrified beyond wits at the murder of his fellows, the fall of his centurion, the deathly silence of this black-clad daemon summoning shadows from the abyss to cut his fellows to pieces—shared no such restraint.
As Remus cried warning, the legionary struck, Cassius already staggered from the Trinity’s light and Remus’s turned blow. A burning sword plunged into the man’s ribs, buried to the hilt. The legionary tore the blade free, the Lord of Blades crying out in pain, clutching his punctured chest. Falling to his knees, he coughed red, rolling into a ball, one arm still up to shield himself from that awful, burning light.
“Damned fool!” Remus roared, turning on the man and landing a crushing hook on his jaw. The legionary’s head whipped to one side, teeth flying as he crumpled like paper. “I wanted him alive!”
Mia was on all fours, head bowed, eyes shut against the blazing hatred of the Everseeing held in Ashlinn’s hand. Ash walked across the dirt toward Mia, Trinity held high. Mia rolled over onto her back, scrambling away, heels kicking at the road. Agony. Terror. Mister Kindly curled up in her shadow and writhing, just as helpless as she.
“I’m sorry, Mia,” Ash sighed.
Remus was glaring at Ashlinn, incredulous. “You had that on you this whole time? You could have ended this whenever you wanted? You treacherous little—”
“O, fuck off, god-botherer,” Ashlinn snarled. “I’m not in this for your glorious Republic and I don’t give a shit about you or your men. If I wanted a trump card up my sleeve, that’s my business. And in case you missed it, it just saved your miserable life. So instead of bleating about it, maybe you should end the girl who just tried to murder you, then go make sure the rest of the Ministry is still under lock and key? Unless you and your merry band of idiots want to accidentally gut them, too?”
Though she stood at least a foot shorter than Remus, Ashlinn stared the justicus down. With a snarl, Remus hefted his blade, stalked toward Mia, flame rippling down its edge.
Mia crawled backward in the dirt. Wracked with pain, unable even to stand. Terror in her veins now, roaring in her temples, anguished that this was how it would end. All the miles and all the years. To see it finish here? Sprawled in the dust of some forgotten shithole, unable at the last even to raise her sword?
This?
Her teeth were gritted. Eyes filled with hateful tears.
Like this?
The light was blinding; no matter where she looked, it was like staring into the suns. She could see only dim silhouettes. Ashlinn standing in front of her, the Light burning bright in her hand. Remus, towering behind her, a lesser light blazing in his fist. Wounded Luminatii, groaning in the dust. Lord Cassius, his terror reaching out to her own.
Never flinch. Never fear.
She shook her head. Staring up at Remus’s silhouette. Determined to look him in the eye. To show no matter how much it hurt, how much her heart named her liar …
“I’m not afraid of you,” she hissed.
She heard a soft chuckle. The lesser light rising high.
“Luminus Invicta, heretic,” Remus said. “I will give your brother your regards.”
The words hit Mia harder than the Trinity’s light. Turned her belly to water. What was he saying? Jonnen was dead. Mia’s mother had said so. That truedark she’d torn the Philosopher’s Stone to pieces, stood on the steps of the Basilica Grande and fallen before this same bastard, this same accursed light. Crying on the battlements afterward, above the place her father died. Mercurio beside her as she whispered.
“It was so bright,” she whispered. “Too bright.”
The old man had smiled. Patted her hand.
“The brighter the light, the deeper the shadow.”
Ashlinn stood in front of her, Trinity blazing in her hand. Remus loomed at her back, sword raised. Behind them both, stretched across the sand and into the justicus’s own, was Mia’s shadow. Black. Writhing. But in the face of that awful light, darker than it had ever been.
She reached out to it. Teeth gritted. Eyes shut. Feeling the darkness without and the darkness within. And clenching her fists, dagger held tight
she stepped down
into her own shadow
and out of the justicus’s shadow behind
His body blocked off the Trinity’s light, the blinding flare rendering him a hulking silhouette. And lashing out with her blade, the blade her mother had held to Scaeva’s throat, the blade Mister Kindly had gifted her in the dark, the blade that had saved her life before, and now again, she buried it to the hilt in Remus’s neck.
The justicus clutched the hole she carved, a fountain of blood spraying between his fingers. Mia staggered away, drenched in red. The light still burning her. Eyes narrowed. Hair draped over her face in tangled drifts as she stumbled and fell.
Remus staggered, sword falling from his grip and quivering in the sand. Both hands to his neck now. Arterial spray hissing through his fingers. Realization dawning in his eyes—she’s killed me, O, God, she’s killed me—turning to fury, and he whirled on the girl, hands outstretched, fingers curled into claws. The blood spurted free, gushing down that barrel chest, those wolfish features draining of all their color. The justicus of the Luminatii Legion took one tottering step, two and three. Sinking to his knees. Stare locked on the girl, doing her best to crawl away along the sand.
Remus gargled, light fleeing his eyes. And with a heavy thud, his corpse toppled face-first into the dirt, the last feeble beats of his heart drenching the road a deeper red. Just as she’d always dreamed it. Just as she’d always wanted.
Dead.
Ashlinn hung still, horror on her face. At Mia’s back, she felt more shadows gathering, clustered about their owners at the garrison tower’s door.
The Revered Mother.
Solis leaning on her shoulder, bleeding and bruised.
Hush, silent as death, a fallen blade in one clenched fist.
Aalea and Spiderkiller behind him, supporting Mouser between them.
Even though they were beaten and bloodied, not one of the assassins was darkin. Not one cowed by the Trinity in Ashlinn’s hand. And faced with five of the most accomplished murderers in the Itreyan Republic, the girl did what anyone would have done in her position—lust for vengeance be damned.
Ashlinn turned and ran.
Hush and the Ministry staggered from the tower, none in a state to give chase. But with the Trinity now disappearing down the street, Mia found the pain fading, rolling over onto her belly and quietly retching. Turning to Cassius, she crawled t
o his side, fingers clawing the dust. The Lord of Blades was curled in a ball, clutching his chest, face twisted. Mia murmured softly, pulled his bloody hands away, paling at the sight of the wound. Eclipse was whining, pacing, ears pressed to her skull. Black teeth bared.
“… FOOL CHILD, HELP HIM…!”
“… I—”
“… HELP HIM…!”
Cassius tried to speak. Unable even to breathe. He coughed, sticky red on his lips, clutching Mia’s hand and holding tight. Drusilla hobbled to his side, the other Ministry members sinking to the dirt around him.
“You can’t die,” Mia pleaded. “You promised me answers!”
Cassius grimaced with the pain of it, every muscle in his body tensing, back arching. He fixed Mia in his stare, and she felt it in her bones. Something primordial; crushing gravity, agonizing chill, a terrible, endless rage. Something beyond the hunger and sickness she felt when he was near. Something closer to longing. Like lovers parted. Like an amputee. Like a puzzle, searching for a missing piece of itself.
She wanted to ask him. Who he was. Who she was. If he knew anything of the darkness outside or the darkness within. She was so close. She’d waited so long. The questions roiled behind her teeth, waiting for her to breathe them, but Mia found the breath caught in her lungs. Cassius reached up with scarlet hands, pressed his palm to Mia’s cheek. Smearing his blood down her skin. It was still warm, the scent of salt and copper filling the girl’s lungs. The man marked one cheek, then the other, finally smudging a long streak down Mia’s lips and chin. Anointing her; just as he might have in the Hall of Eulogies, if this moment, this ending, this tale, had been a different one.
Anointing her as a Blade.
And with one final sigh, silent as he’d been in life, the Black Prince left it.
Taking Mia’s answers with him.
The shadowwolf ceased her pacing. Lifting her head and filling the air with a heart-wrenching howl. Lying down in the dirt beside Cassius, trying to lick his face with a tongue that couldn’t taste. Pawing his hand with claws that couldn’t touch.
Mister Kindly watched it all silently. No eyes to fill with pity.
The storm winds rolled in off the bay, cold and bitter. The tattered killers hung their heads. Mia took Cassius’s hand, the warmth of his skin fading against hers.
And into the wind, she whispered.
“Hear me, Niah. Hear me, Mother. This flesh your feast. This blood your wine. This gift, this life, this end, our offering to you.”
She sighed.
“Hold him close.”
EPILOGUE
Swordbreaker stood in his hall, watching the rain rolling into Farrow Bay.
Nevernight had been struck and his city was mostly silent, his people hunkered down at their hearths while Trelene and Nalipse raged outside. The Ladies of Oceans and Storms had been quarreling long of late. Winter had been bitter, the twins constantly at each other’s throats. Hopefully this would be the last great storm before thirddawn—Swordbreaker could see Shiih’s yellow glow budding on the horizon beyond the clouds, and the third sun’s rise heralded the slow creep back into summer.
He looked forward to it, truth be told. Winters were fiercer here in Dweym than any place in the Republic. The chill was growing harder on his old bones with each passing year. He was getting old. He should have stepped aside as Bara of the Threedrakes already, but his daughters had married a pair of fools, both more brawn than brain. Swordbreaker was loathe to gift the Crown of Corals to either of his troth-sons. If Earthwalker were still here …
But no. Thoughts of his youngest daughter did him no good.
That time was gone, and her along with it.
Swordbreaker turned from the bay, hobbled down the long stone halls of his keep. Servants bowed as he passed, eyes downcast. Thunder rumbled across the rafters above. Arriving in his chamber, he closed the door behind him, looked to his empty bed. Wondering at the cruelty of life; that a husband should outlive a wife, let alone a daughter. He took the Crown of Corals from his brow, placed it aside, lips curling.
“Too heavy of late,” he muttered. “Too heavy by far.”
Lifting a decanter of singing Dweymeri crystal, he filled a tumbler with quavering hands. Put it to his lips with a sigh. Staring out the window as the rains lashed the glass, shuffling to the roaring hearth and sighing as the warmth kissed his bones. His shadow danced behind him, flickering along the flagstones and furs.
He frowned. Lips parting.
His shadow, he realized, was moving. Curling and twisting. Snaking across the stone, drawing back in upon itself and then—great Trelene, he’d swear it blind—stretching out toward the firelight.
“What in the Lady’s name…”
Fear bleached Swordbreaker’s face as his shadow’s hands moved of their own accord. Reaching up to its throat, as if to choke itself. The old bara looked to his own hands, the goldwine in his cup, a chill stealing over him despite the fire’s warmth.
And then the pain began.
A soft burn in his belly at first. A twinge, as if from too much spice at evemeal. But it quickly bloomed, growing brighter, hotter, and the old man winced, one hand to his gut. Waiting for the pain to pass. Waiting for—
“Goddess,” he gasped, stumbling to his knees.
The pain was fire now. Hot and white. He bent double, the crystal cup slipping from his hand and skittering across the stone, the spilled goldwine gleaming in the fire’s glow. His shadow was fitting and shaking now, as if it had a mind of its own. The old man’s face twisted, slow agony clawing his insides. He opened his mouth to call for the servants, for his baramen. Something was wrong.
Something was wrong …
A hand slipped about his lips, muffling his cry. His eyes grew wide as he heard a cool whisper in his ear. Smelled the scent of burned cloves.
“Hello, Swordbreaker.”
The old man’s words were muffled by the hand. His guts ablaze.
“I’ve been waiting for a chance to get you alone,” the voice said. “To talk.”
A woman, he realized. A girl. The old man bucked, trying to break her grip, but she held tight, strong as gravebone. His shadow continued to warp, to bend, as if he were on his back, clawing at the sky. And as the pain doubled in intensity, he found himself doing just that, flopping belly up and staring at the figure above him through the tears of agony in his eyes.
A girl, just as he’d thought. All milk-white skin and slender curves and bow-shaped lips. Out of the darkness at her feet, he saw a shape coalesce. Paper-flat and semitranslucent, black as death. Its tail curled around her ankle, almost possessively. And though it had no eyes, he knew it watched him, enraptured like a child before a puppet show.
“I’m going to take my hand away, now. Unless you plan on screaming?”
The old man groaned as the fire in his belly burned. But he fixed the girl with eyes full of hate. Scream? He was Bara of the Threedrake clan. He’d be damned if he gave this skulking slip the satisfaction …
Swordbreaker shook his head. The girl withdrew her hand. Knelt beside him.
“Wh…” he managed. “Wh…”
“Who?” the girl asked.
The old man nodded, stifling another groan of pain.
“You’ll never know my name, I’m afraid,” she said. “It’s the shadow road for me. I’m a rumor. A whisper. The thought that wakes the bastards of this world sweating in the nevernight. And you are a bastard, Swordbreaker of the Threedrake clan. A bastard I made a promise about to someone I cared for, not so long ago.”
The old man’s face twisted, fingers clawing his belly. His insides were boiling, burning, all acid and broken glass. He shook his head, tried to spit, groaning instead. The girl looked to the spilled glass of goldwine. Fire twinkling in black eyes.
“It’s Spite,” she said, pointing at the glass. “A purified dose. It’s already eaten a hole in your stomach. It’ll chew through your bowels in the next few minutes. And over the next few turns your be
lly will bleed, and bloat, and fester. And in the end, you’ll die, Swordbreaker of the Threedrake clan. Die just like I promised him you would.”
She smiled.
“Die screaming.”
Another shape coalesced beside the girl. Another shadow, staring at Swordbreaker with its not-eyes. A wolf, he realized. Growling with a voice that seemed to come from below ground.
“… SERVANTS COME. WE SHOULD AWAY…”
The girl nodded. Stood. The two shadows watched him. The life in his eyes. All the wrongs and the rights. All the failures and triumphs and in-betweens.
“If you should see him in your wanders by the Hearth, tell Tric hello for me.”
Swordbreaker’s eyes widened.
The girl’s voice was soft as shadows.
“Tell him I miss him.”
The darkness rippled and the old man found himself alone.
Only his screams for company.
The choir was singing again.
The ghostly tune had returned by the time Mia and the Ministry trekked out of the Whisperwastes, Naev and Jessamine and their search party in tow. The insides of the Mountain had run red with blood, dozens of Hands and acolytes laid out in nameless tombs in the Hall of Eulogies, the Lord of Blades beside them. The names of Justicus Remus and Centurion Alberius were carved in the floor among the Church’s other victims, and Mia took no small pleasure in standing upon them during the service. The only graves they would ever know.
