he meet her now? Gather him to her breast and kiss his brow with black lips?
Had he ever believed? Or had he just enjoyed it too much?
Mother, I …
Solis closed his eyes to sound of the choir.
And then he sank beneath the—”
“Enough,” Scaeva said.
Drusilla looked up from the pages, one eyebrow quirked.
“Is it?” she asked.
The imperator of Itreya scowled slightly, his dark eyes on the Lady of Blades. The dozen personal guardsmen he’d brought with him were arrayed about their master, staring at the book in Drusilla’s hands like it were a viper set to strike. Scaeva himself made a better show of appearing unimpressed, resplendent in his purple toga and wreath of beaten gold. But even he regarded the chronicle she’d been reading aloud from with suspicious wonder. He steepled his fingers at his lips, scowling.
“I believe you have made your point, good lady.”
Flames crackled in the chamber’s hearth, and Mouser shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Spiderkiller’s face was blanched, even Solis looked disconcerted at the foretelling of his own murder at Mia’s hands. Drusilla leaned back in her seat, closed the third Nevernight Chronicle with a gentle thump. Her fingertips traced the cat embossed in the black leather, her voice soft as silk.
“She must be stopped, Imperator,” the Lady of Blades said. “I know she is your daughter. I know she has your son. But if all this tome says is true, once inside the Mountain, Mia Corvere will wield a power none of us can match.”
“Mia is not the only darkin in this tale,” Scaeva replied.
“O, well do I know it,” Drusilla replied, patting the tome. “The results of your clash are quite spectacular, if somewhat overwritten. But they end badly for you, I’m afraid. Would you like me to read it? I have it bookmar—”
“Thank you, no,” the imperator replied, glowering.
“I do not understand,” Mouser said. “The first page of the first chronicle told us she dies.”
“And indeed she does,” Drusilla said, drumming her fingers on the third tome’s cover. “After a long and happy life, in her bed, surrounded by her loved ones.”
“I will be damned,” Solis growled, “before I allow that bitch a happy ending.”
“This chronicle is witchery,” Aalea said, eyes on the book.
“No,” Drusilla said, meeting the eyes of her Ministry. “This chronicle is a future. But it is a future we can change. Already we change it, here and now, by speaking as we do. These pages are not carved in stone. This ink can be washed away. And we have young Mia at disadvantage.”
“O, aye?” Mouser asked.
“Aye,” Drusilla said. “We know exactly how she intends to enter the Mountain. And when. And fool that she is, we know she’s bringing the imperator’s son with her.”
All eyes turned to Scaeva.
“You should depart back for Godsgrave, Imperator,” Drusilla said. “Leave your errant daughter to us. Safer for all concerned.”
“And that concern is touching, Lady,” Scaeva replied. “So I trust you’ll forgive my honesty. But your efforts in subduing my daughter thus far have been less than impressive. And if she is bringing my son to your slaughter, I will remain to ensure that Lucius is not harmed. In any way.”
“You may trust us on that, Imperator. But as for your daughter?”
The Lady of Blades leaned forward in her chair, staring hard.
“I know you wished her captured, Julius. I know you wished to make her your weapon, to set we gold-grubbing whores of the Red Church aside.” Scaeva glanced up at that, and Drusilla met his stare, smiling. “But surely this tome demonstrates Mia is simply too dangerous to be allowed to live. The Red Church will continue to serve your imperium, just as we have always done. We will be paid for our services, just as we have always been. And Mia Corvere will die.”
Scaeva stroked his chin, eyes on the chronicle. The Lady of Blades could see the wheels at work behind his stare. The plans within plans, unraveling and restitching.
But finally, as she knew he would, the imperator nodded.
“Mia Corvere will die.”
* * *
A soft knock disturbed the silence of his bedchamber.
Mercurio’s natural scowl deepened, and he dragged on his cigarillo, looking at the offending door in annoyance. Pulling his wire-rimmed spectacles off his nose, he set his book aside with a curse. He’d have been miffed to be interrupted reading at the best of times, but he was only two chapters from the end of On Bended Knee. The chronicler had been right—the politics were silly, but the smut really