there in the dark. That she and Aalea were now alone.
Almost.
“Thought you might come this way.”
Drusilla dragged Aalea to a breathless halt. Mercurio stood before them in his dark robes, barring their exit from the hall. His blue eyes were soft with pity. In his right hand, he clutched an apothecary’s bonesaw, dipped red with blood.
“You always were a creature of habit, ’Silla.”
“You…,” Drusilla breathed.
“Me,” the old man replied.
“But your heart…”
Mercurio smiled sadly, tapping his bony chest. “I’m a good liar. Not quite as good as you, I’m afraid. But then, I doubt anyone is.”
“You did this,” Drusilla realized.
But Mercurio slowly shook his head.
“I can’t take much credit. It was mostly Aelius, truth told. The third chronicle was his idea. He only told me his intentions after he’d written it.”
Drusilla’s heart sank in her withered breast.
Aelius drew long and deep on his cigarillo, embers sparking in his eyes, his fingers stained with ink.
“Don’t fuck with librarians, young lady. We know the power of words.”
His fingers stained with ink …
“Things don’t get found in this place unless they’re supposed to be.”
O, Goddess …
O, Mother, how could she have been so blind?
It all happened just as it was meant to.
As he meant it to.
That treacherous old son of a whore …
“Let us pass, Mercurio,” the Lady of Blades hissed.
“You know I can’t do that, ’Silla.”
Drusilla drew one of the poisoned blades from her sleeve.
“Then you die where you stand.”
The bishop of Godsgrave held his ground. He stared at Drusilla, that bloody bonesaw in his hand, a strange sadness in his eyes as he glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s not me you need to be worried about.”
The Lady of Blades grit her teeth, heart hammering quick. She thought of her daughter, her son, her grandchildren. Blue eyes wide with fear.
“Please,” she whispered.
Mercurio only shook his head. “I’m sorry, love.”
Behind her, she heard Ashlinn Järnheim and that dead Dweymeri boy step into the hall. Behind them came Corvere’s gladiatii—Sidonius carrying flaming sunsteel, a breathless Bladesinger behind him. The quartet were spattered in crimson, blades dripping with the blood of the Church’s faithful. All of it, finally and completely undone.
The old man glanced up to the Goddess above them and sighed.
“I’m not sure what she’ll do to you, ’Silla,” he said. “I’m not sure she’s got much left in her anymore. But if I were you, I’d be putting down that poisoned pig-sticker and preparing to throw myself on Mia’s mercy right about now.”
Drusilla looked to Aalea. To Järnheim and the other bloodied swords at her back. To the old man before her and the Goddess above her and the Church falling apart all around her. The choir sang its ghostly hymn up in the stained-glass dark.
The old woman heaved a sigh.
“Well played, love,” she said.
And bending slow, she placed her blade upon the floor.
* * *
“Don’t be afraid, lad. Old Butcher will protect you.”
Jonnen sat on the stable steps, chin on his knees and ashes on his skin. Butcher stood above him, eyes on the western doorway. Naev stood on the eastern stair, sword in her hands. The steps were smeared with blood and scattered with bodies. Smoke rose from the charred bales of feed, the roasted camel corpses. Save for the ghostly choir, all in the stable was smoke and silence.
The boy could hear the sounds of battle inside the Mountain, but they were fading now. The Church’s defenders had fallen for Mia’s ploy and been routed utterly. He knew somewhere up above, his sister was now stalking the darkness like a bloodhound. Cutting down all in her way in pursuit of their father.
“The battle slows,” Naev called from up the stair. “Victory is at hand.”
“Theirs or ours?” Butcher asked.
Naev considered that for a moment, her head tilted. Her smile was hidden behind her veil, but the boy could still hear it in her voice.
“Ours,” she said.
Eclipse rode once more in Jonnen’s shadow, and thus, the boy couldn’t exactly be afraid. But still, his chest ached at the thought of what might be happening in the Mountain’s belly. In truth, despite all her prowess, he didn’t quite believe Mia would manage it. Their father had overcome every obstacle. Every foe. He stood triumphant in a game where to lose was to die, and all who’d opposed him already lay rotting in their tombs. In Jonnen’s eyes, Julius Scaeva had ever seemed immortal.
He’d been a hard man, no doubt. Never cruel, no. But heavy as iron. Merciless as the sea. Slow with praise, swift with