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.