Donatella of Liis was as sharp as the swords she carried. Solis waited at the top of the central stairs, swords drawn. Aalea stood beside Drusilla, holding her breath.
Wind was picking up from the valley outside, the Swoon was drifting out the Mountain’s flank. Through the slowly thinning veil, Drusilla watched the assassins descend carefully, down the stairs toward the stable floor. She’d wondered if the dead Dweymeri boy might have proved immune to the Swoon’s effects, and Mouser and his cadre of Hands had raised their crossbows, burning arrows nocked, ready to unload on the Hearthless lad. But through the lightening mist, the Lady of Blades could see the figure in the wagon driver’s seat was slumped and motionless.
“Secure the imperator’s son first!” Drusilla called. “End the rest.”
“Bring me my boy!” Scaeva demanded.
Acteon the Black waved assent, motioning for the other Blades to fan out around the middle wagon. Solis narrowed his blind eyes, the Hands on the upper levels leaned over their crossbows as Donatella of Liis cut the ties securing the canvas to the wagon bed. Drusilla held her breath, watching the Blade take hold of the cover, and with a sharp tug drag it free.
Drusilla blinked. She could see figures in Hands’ robes inside the wagon. But rather than being slumped on the floor, all were still seated. Furthermore, and stranger still, Drusilla could see a large barrel resting in the wagon’s belly. It was thick oak, old and heavy and stained by salt. Bold lettering was burned into the wood.
Haarold dragged the hood off one of the sitting figures, cursing as he revealed innards stuffed with straw.
The Lady of Blades squinted at the words on the wooden barrel.
IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO CLOUD CORLEONE.
IF STOLEN, WELL PLAYED, GENTLEFRIEND.
Drusilla’s belly dropped into her boots.
… Arkemist’s salt.
“Get ba—”
The explosion tore through the stables like a hurricane of crackling blue flame. The roar was deafening, knocking Drusilla back and staggering Scaeva’s guards. The Lady of Blades shielded her eyes against the heat, watching as the wagon, Acteon, Donatella, the finest Blades left in the Red Church, were all incinerated. Solis was thrown against the wall, bleeding and scorched. Spiderkiller fell to her knees with a dark curse. Glowing ashes rose with the smoke, dancing in the air. The boom echoed around the hollow space, leaving the assembled churchmen dazed, blinded, stunned.
“Maw’s fucking teeth!” Mouser coughed.
Drusilla heard Scaeva’s sharp intake of breath behind. Turning to look at the imperator, she saw his eyes were wide. His shadowviper was coiled about his shoulders, licking the choking smoke with its translucent tongue.
“… She is here…,” it said.
Drusilla turned back to the stables in time to see the air shiver, a black flickering un-light. A shadow cut in the shape of a wolf coalesced halfway up the eastern stairs, roaring like the winds of the Abyss. As Drusilla watched, dumbfounded, a dark shape flung itself out of the passenger, landing in a crouch amidst a gaggle of her staggered Hands and right beside the Shahiid of Pockets. The figure rose to her feet in the ember rain and black smoke, bringing a pale longblade around in a whistling arc.
“Mia…”
The girl’s blade connected with Mouser’s neck, the gravebone slicing clean through flesh, sinew, and bone. The Shahiid’s head spun from his shoulders, old eyes open wide in surprise as it tumbled down into the charred stables below. Mia caught up Mouser’s blade of Ashkahi blacksteel as it dropped from nerveless fingers, delivering a savage boot to his corpse’s chest and sending it over the railings in pursuit of his bonnet. And, one blade in each hand, flickering in and out of the shadows like some awful, bloody hummingbird, she began hacking anyone carrying a crossbow to pieces.
“Black Mother…,” Drusilla whispered.
Aalea cursed. A shout came from the Mountain’s entrance, and through the rolling smoke, Drusilla saw a handful of figures charge into the stables from the foothills outside. Sodden rags were tied about their mouths and noses to protect them from the thinning Swoon, naked swords in their hands. She recognized them all from the chronicle—the Itreyan Sidonius and the Dweymeri Bladesinger. Beside them ran the Hearthless boy, Tric, and that traitorous bitch Ashlinn Järnheim. That dullard Butcher and the treacherous Naev were in the rear, Scaeva’s boy between them.
But over on the eastern stairs, Mia was cutting a swath through Drusilla’s Hands. Clearing her comrades a path into the Mountain’s belly. The girl blinked in and out of seeming, like some apparition on