City of Bastards Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Andrew Shvarts

  Cover illustration © Levente Szabó

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  Designed by Tyler Nevins

  Additional images © pne (eagle),

  Mischoko (crown)/Shutterstock

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN: 978-1-368-00236-3

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  WE FIRST SAW IT WHEN WE WERE MAYBE FIVE DAYS’ RIDE away. Night had fallen on the Heartlands, but a single point of white light remained in the distance, a soft, powerful illumination, like the sun had gotten stuck as it slipped behind the horizon. It left an eerie glow across the sprawling wheat fields we’d been riding through for weeks, those long, thin husks swaying around our carriage as it rumbled down the King’s Road.

  “There it is,” Lyriana muttered, her face pressed against the carriage window like a child’s at a candy shop. “Home.” Her golden eyes sparkled with tears.

  The sun rose, and that white light faded. We kept riding. During the day, I slumped on the carriage’s fancy pillows and drank too much brandywine and lay back in Zell’s arms, which never, ever got old.

  You know what did get old, though?

  Wheat fields. Wheat fields after wheat fields after wheat fields. Like, I get it. People need wheat. People like bread. But did our staple crop have to be something so incredibly boring? Couldn’t we just eat meyberries or ice blossoms or peaches?

  Peaches made me think of Jax. And thinking of Jax made my chest tighten and my eyes burn.

  I drank more wine. I slept. Zell held me without a word, his fingertips running so gently up and down the length of my bare arms.

  The next night, we could make out the light more clearly, and it made even less sense. Closer up, it was a column of light, a tower, like someone had driven a massive glowing nail into the earth.

  “Oh,” I said dumbly, “Lightspire. I get it now.”

  Lyriana snickered.

  I slid over to the side of the carriage and popped open the latticed window, craning my head out for a better view. A warm wind blew into my face, way too warm for this time of year. I tried to force my eyes to understand what they were looking at. In the darkness illuminated below the pillar, I could make out the rough shape of a city: high stone walls, billowing smokestacks, the occasional golden temple spire. The pillar of light pulsed ever so faintly, and at times, if I squinted just right, it looked less like a single glowing column and more like hundreds of small lights, stacked tight like the hexagons in a honeycomb. For a second I felt relieved that I understood it, before realizing, no, that made even less sense.

  “It’s impossible,” Zell said. He’d pushed out of his window too, jet-black hair fluttering in the wind; it had been growing back since he’d shaved it in that grove near the Markson, a lifetime ago.

  “What is?” Ellarion asked. Lyriana’s older cousin, the son of the late Archmagus Rolan, was the fourth member in our fancy little ride. I hadn’t wanted him to come with us because I hadn’t want to look at anyone who wasn’t Zell or the Princess, but he’d insisted he had to, as Lyriana’s bodyguard. Over the last few days, I’d actually grown to appreciate his company; he was funny, in a relaxed, lazy, don’t-give-a-shit sort of way.

  “The light,” Zell replied, staring off into the distance. “It’s like a tower, with hundreds of windows lit up with candles, but…it’s too big. Too bright. No man could’ve built something like that.”

  “Now you’re getting it, friend.” Ellarion grinned. He leaned back against the soft cushions of the carriage bench, his vivid red eyes glowing vibrantly against his black skin. When I’d first met him, they’d reminded me of the roses in Lady Evelyn’s garden, but now I decided that wasn’t right. They were hotter than roses, more dangerous, like the flickering embers lying at the very bottom of a fire pit. Whenever he smiled, the Rings on his hands pulsed crimson.

  As we rode, when I wasn’t sipping (okay, chugging) brandywine and burrowing as deeply as I could into Zell’s chest, I glanced out the window and tried to get a feeling for the Heartlands. The wheat stalks stirred with laborers, shirtless men and boys, sweating in the hot sun and gazing at our carriage in wonder. We passed merchant caravans and marching bands of soldiers and, once, a whole troupe of vagabonds on tour from the Eastern Baronies. Now and again, I spotted animals in the fields, hulking bull-like creatures with thick limbs and tiny shrunken heads barely bigger than my fist. According to Lyriana, they were Pullers, created by the Brotherhood of Lo to serve the farmers. I called them ugly-ass cow monsters.

  On a bridge over a gentle river, we rode by the blackened ruins of a castle, just a few lone pillars of stone standing on a hilltop. “All that’s left of the Kingdom of Jakar,” Ellarion said, with a slightly uncomfortable pride. “My ancestors conquered them six hundred years ago.”

  “Oh. Nice. Good for them?” I replied, and took another sip. For the first sixteen years of my life, I’d dreamed daily of leaving the Western Province and seeing the rest of the world, Lightspire and the Heartlands in particular. But I was here now, and it was just…so weird? It wasn’t that it was different, because I knew it’d be different; I knew the people looked different and dressed different and ate spicy food and took their religion way more seriously. But there were other ways it was different, ways that I couldn’t put my finger on but felt more profound. Everything here felt older, more rigid, like the way of life had been decided centuries ago and no one had questioned it since.

  I thought of towering redwoods and black-sand beaches and wide, muddy rivers and dancing bands of emerald light. My breath choked in my throat, and I felt such intense homesickness that it took every ounce of willpower I had not to burst into tears.

  We rode on.

  For the first half of our journey, Lyriana had seemed the most herself, as if the familiar sights of her home Province were lifting her spirits. She chirped away from her seat, telling us about the history of the region, the different types of crops, and sometimes completely random things like a story about how Ellarion had fallen down a well when he was seven (he swore he’d climbed down there on a dare). But as we drew closer and closer to Lightspire, her good mood seemed to evaporate. She became quieter, more withdrawn, spending most of the day gazing out the window pensively. Was she nervous? Afraid?

  More than once, I caught her idly rubbing at the inside of her wrist, at the scarred patch of burned skin where her tattooed sigil used to be. When she’d last left Lightspire, she’
d been a Sister of Kaia, an order of mages dedicated to helping the people of Noveris. But she’d broken their sacred vow of pacifism and had killed, to protect and to avenge. Now she was coming home an apostate, a mage without an order.

  I figured it would be insensitive to pry, so I decided to keep my questions to myself. I made it about a day.

  “So what exactly is an apostate?” I asked as our carriage bumped along a dusty stretch. “Like, what does that actually mean?”

  Ellarion and Lyriana shared an uneasy glance. “True apostates are rare,” Ellarion explained, “because the penalty for violating your order’s views is often death. For Lyriana, there will be a trial. And then a verdict.”

  “A punishment,” Lyriana said, her voice flat, her face turned away.

  “Don’t worry, cousin,” Ellarion soothed. “The only reason you broke your vows was to save the Kingdom, and you’re the Princess, the future Queen. They’ll let you off with a slap on the wrist.” His eyes flitted down to the scarred patch of flesh. “Okay. I’ll admit, that was a poor choice of words.”

  “I shall ask that they try me as they would any mage who broke their vows, that I get no special consideration from my family name,” Lyriana insisted, because of course, why would she ever take an easy out? “If the crown’s justice isn’t fair to me, then it isn’t fair to anyone.”

  “Classic Lyriana,” Ellarion sighed, as if reading my mind. “Never missing a moment to make life harder for yourself.” He reached over and patted her on the arm. “Fair trial or not, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he said, and was that just the slightest hint of uncertainty in his voice?

  Now I felt nervous.

  We stopped to rest at Penitent Springs, a sleepy town built by a monument of a Titan so worn, the face was a blank slab of crumbling stone. A party of pilgrims, led by a spindly, bearded priest, gathered in its shadow, heads bowed in silent prayer. We all shared a big loft at the inn, because Ellarion insisted it was safer for us all to stay where he could see us. Of course, he wandered off a minute later to get a drink at the tavern, and when I peeked down, he was dazzling the pretty barmaid, holding up his hand to make a spiral of fire circle his fingers like a halo. She stared at him in awe, eyes full of wonder, and yeah, this was gonna be a while.

  Lyriana was asleep, so Zell and I snuck out to a wide grassy meadow. We lay on a soft blanket of grass, my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, his strong, toned arm holding me close. He smelled like the frost, and his touch was warm and comforting. I just wanted to lie there forever, to never have to move again. His deep brown eyes sparkled in the moonlight as he reached up to the sky and pointed out the constellations of the gods the Zitochi worshipped, the Twelve. Those four stars were the Crone’s cowl, and those three were the Bride’s dress, and those, those five made the Grayfather’s shield….

  Honestly? I just saw a bunch of stars. But I let him keep going, because I loved listening to him talk.

  Afterward, we kissed, and he pulled my shirt off over my head, and I practically tore off his. I tasted his breath, felt his heat against mine, ran my fingers along the scars on his bare chest. The first time we’d made love, back in the baths of the Nest, it had been frantic, blurry, a tangle of limbs and lips and passion. This was different: slow, tender, more kisses than bites, more holding and staring into each other’s eyes. For a moment, just one moment, I actually felt happy.

  That night I dreamed of my brother, and I woke up sobbing.

  We rode on.

  The next morning, we were close enough to Lightspire that I could finally, fully, make that pillar out. It was a tower all right, but a tower so tall it made every other tower I’d ever seen look like a crappy chimney. It was as wide as the entire courtyard of Castle Waverly, and it stretched up so far into the sky that the very top vanished into the clouds. It wasn’t straight and rectangular, but spiraled with thick rounded curves, like a serpent wrapped around a staff. There were no hard edges, no loose bricks, no blocky parapets. The whole thing was as smooth and slick as glass. More amazing than anything else, though, were the colors. This wasn’t a tower of cold, gray stone; hell, I don’t think it was made of stone at all. Instead it shimmered and pulsed, dancing green and blue and yellow, like the scales of a fish in the sunlight.

  I’d seen metal like that once before. Years and years ago, when I’d still been the bastard daughter who stared at her father with stars in her eyes, the two of us had visited the castle of Lord Collinwood. In his garish, cluttered chambers, the walls lined with the snarling heads of bears he swore he’d killed, he’d shown us his prize possession. It was a scepter, a staff the length of my arm with a round, spinning ball at the end. It was made of a metal as slick as glass, shimmering green and blue even in the flickering candlelight. “Shimmersteel!” Lord Collinwood had wheezed. “Made by the Titans themselves!”

  That was how the tower stood so impossibly tall, how it sparkled so impossibly bright, because the whole damn thing was made of shimmersteel. No man could’ve built something like that, Zell had said, and he’d been absolutely right. I’d known that Lightspire was built on Titan ruins. I’d known that the Volaris family had discovered the powerful Rings that gave them magic in the crypts of the Titans, that their priests all worshipped those departed gods, that all the power of the King came from the remnants of the ancient race that had once ruled over all men.

  But it was one thing to plunder a ruin. It was another to straight-up live in it.

  “The Godsblade,” Ellarion said, an uncharacteristic sincerity in his voice. “Seat of the Throne. Heart of the Kingdom.”

  “Home,” Lyriana added, and the two of them quickly made a gesture of reverence in unison, tapping themselves with two fingers between the eyes, on the throat, and at the base of the sternum.

  Zell and I shared a skeptical glance.

  As we rode closer, I could see more of the city around the tower, or at the very least the parts of the city that peeked out over the looming stone wall that surrounded it. It was big, so much bigger than I’d ever imagined, sprawling out along the horizon as far as I could see. The biggest village I’d ever been in was Bridgetown, which had seemed enormous at the time, but this made Bridgetown seem like a cluster of thatch-roofed swamp huts. All around the tower were the rooftops of what I guessed were the nice parts of town: high stone parapets, painted steeples, and the occasional golden obelisk or Titan monument. I couldn’t see the smaller buildings below the wall, but I could see dozens of columns of smoke, which meant there were probably hundreds and hundred of houses. In Lyriana’s stories, she’d casually mentioned the city’s neighborhoods: the prosperous Golden Circle, the docks of Moldmarrow, the derelict Ragtown. I’d figured, you know, neighborhoods. But now I was realizing that every one of those was probably a city by itself.

  And that was just the buildings inside the walls. Now that we were within a day’s ride, I could make out a second city outside the city. The great Adelphus River entered the city from the northeast, a constant flow of trade vessels lined up to pass inspection at the gates, but the other borders were covered in a mess of rickety shacks that had grown along the walls like barnacles. This was the Rusted Circle, Lyriana explained. Because getting approval to enter Lightspire could take days, even weeks, a whole second ring of a city had formed around its walls, offering inns and brothels and taverns to occupy weary travelers. “It’s a den of crime and impropriety,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Ellarion added with a grin. “It’s a lot of fun.” He was sprawled back in his seat with a goblet of yarvo, that cinammon-spiced liquor they liked so much here, resting in his hand. His loose silk shirt hung open at the collar, and I could make out a half dozen fresh hickeys on his smooth, hairless chest.

  He caught me staring. The tips of his mouth curled into a smile as he raised his eyebrows suggestively at my neck. I blinked, confused, and then I got it and pulled up my own collar.

  “Soldiers,” Zell said, forehead pressed to the window’s glass. “Coming fast.
”

  I slid over behind him and pressed myself against his back, resting my chin on his shoulder. There, coming up the road, were soldiers all right, dozens and dozens of Lightspire men. They marched in lockstep toward us, spears and banners raised high, their polished silver armor reflecting so much sun that I had to cover my eyes. A sudden dread tightened in my stomach. What was this? Why did they need soldiers?

  Ellarion sensed my worry, because he stifled a laugh. “Relax, rebel. It’s just our escort.”

  “We need an escort?”

  “I’m the Princess. I always need an escort,” Lyriana said, with the tiniest hint of bitterness. She turned around abruptly and leaned over to Ellarion. “Give me that goblet. I need a drink.”

  Ellarion blinked. “But…you don’t drink.”

  Lyriana held up her wrist. “Sisters of Kaia don’t drink. I’m not a Sister anymore, am I? So give me the goblet.”

  “I…I mean…I’m just not sure it…” Ellarion tried, then gave up.

  I kind of wanted to say something, because as fun as Lyriana was tipsy, maybe this wasn’t the best time. Then I saw the determined look in her eyes and knew there’d be no point. She snatched the goblet out of Ellarion’s hands and took a long, deep swig. Then she dropped it and hunched over, coughing and gasping.

  “Yarvo.” Ellarion shrugged. “It’s not for everyone.”

  We rode on.

  The escort met us just as we entered the Rusted Circle. The commander, a tall man in a horned helmet, barked some orders, and then his men flanked out, forming two thick columns that marched on either side of us. As we crossed into the town, I understood why. Huge crowds had formed, lining the road to gawk. The marching soldiers pushed them back, keeping the way clear, but there were still so many of them, jostling and shoving to try to get a good look.

  They stared at us, and I stared back, kind of in awe. There were Heartlanders of course, many, many Heartlanders, but there were also Southlanders with glistening bald heads, and Easterners with thick eyeshadow and brightly dyed hair. And then there were the people who I didn’t recognize: tall men in white cowls with red rings painted around their eyes, children with tattooed faces and hands, women with their faces hidden behind blank white masks. And all of them, all of them, were staring at us.