Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,208

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