Iron Gold - 50 Page Friday
Iron Gold - 50 Page Friday
Iron Gold - 50 Page Friday
BESTSELLING AUTHOR
A
RED RISING
NOVEL
THE FALL OF MERCURY
T HE F U RY
S ilent, she waits for the sky to fall, standing upon an island
of volcanic rock amidst a black sea. The long moonless night
yawns before her. The only sounds, a flapping banner of war held in
her lover’s hand and the warm waves that kiss her steel boots. Her
heart is heavy. Her spirit wild. Peerless knights tower behind her. Salt
spray beads on their family crests—emerald centaurs, screaming ea-
gles, gold sphinxes, and the crowned skull of her father’s grim house.
Her Golden eyes look to the heavens. Waiting. The water heaves in.
Out. The heartbeat of her silence.
T HE C I T Y
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T H E BOM BS
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T HE R E A PER
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xviii | T H E FA L L O F M E R C U R Y
W IND
There is a poor, blind Samson in this land,
Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel,
Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand,
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal,
Till the vast Temple of our liberties
A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.
DARROW
Hero of the Republic
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4 | P ierce B rown
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6 | P ierce B rown
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8 | P ierce B rown
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DARROW
Father
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“He’s not generally such a snot,” Niobe says later as we stand to the
side after the children are dismissed from the day’s practice. Pax leaves
quickly and in a mood. Baldur rushes to keep up.
“Take the angst as a compliment, Darrow,” Thraxa mumbles. “He
just misses his father. I felt the same way anytime the old man was
away on one of Augustus’s errands.” She pulls a slim burner from her
pocket and lights it in the coals of one of the copper braziers that line
the crumbling walls of the grotto. Niobe plucks it from her fingers
and puts it out on her daughter’s metal arm.
“Was Daxo ever like that?” I ask.
“Daxo?” Niobe laughs. “Daxo was born stoic as a stone.”
“Plotting in the womb from conception,” Thraxa mutters, and sips
her beer. “We used to make owl hoots at him. Always watching the
rest of us out the window. Big brother never wanted to play our
games. Only his own.”
“And you were such a paragon?” Niobe asks. “You used to eat cow
pies.”
Thraxa shrugs. “Better than your cooking.” She steps out of range
I seek my mother out in the garden that runs along the side of one of
the stone storage sheds. She’s hunched in the black dirt with two
other Red servant women and a Red man, her bare feet sticking out
behind her as she plants bulbs in the ground in tidy rows. I pause a
moment at the edge of the garden to watch her, just as I used to
watch from the stairwell in our little home in Lykos as she made her
night tea. I was afraid of her after Father died. She was always quick
with a swat or a barbed word. I thought I deserved the treatment.
How much easier the love between us would have been if I’d known
as a child that her anger and my fear came from a pain neither one of
us deserved. The love in me wells up for her as I remember what she’s
endured, and for a brief flicker, I ache to see my father again. For him
to see my mother free.
“Are you just going to watch like a wastrel or are you going to help
us plant?” she asks without looking up.
“I’m not sure I’d be a good farmer,” I say.
She stands with the help of one of her companions, dusts the dirt
from her pants, and takes her time setting her tools away before com-
ing to say hello. She’s only eighteen years older than I am, but she
wears the years hard. Still, she is stronger by leagues than when she
lived below. Her joints are worn from years in the mines. But her
cheeks are ruddy with life now. Our physicians have helped relieve
most of the symptoms of the stroke and heart condition that ravaged
her. I know she feels guilty for this life. This luxury, when my father
and so many others wait for us in the Vale. Her work in the garden
and on the grounds is a penance for surviving.
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18 | P i e r c e B r o w n
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DARROW
The Fantasy
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LYRIA
Welcome to the Worlds
S ky.
That’s what my da would call the roof of stone and metal that
stretched over our home in the mine of Lagalos. It’s what we all used
to call it, going back generations of our clan to the first Pioneers. The
sky be crumbling. The sky needs reinforcing.
It stretched over us like a great shield, keeping us safe from the
fabled Martian storms raging outside. There were dances for the sky,
songs wishing it luck and blessings. I even knew two lasses named
for it.
But the sky wasn’t a shield. It was a lid. A cage.
I was sixteen years of knobby knees and freckles when I first saw
the true sky. Took six years from the death of the Sovereign on Luna
for the Rising to push the last of the Golds off our continent of Cim-
meria. Two more years for them to finally free our mine from the
Gray warlord who set up his own little kingdom in their absence.
Then the Rising came to Lagalos.
Our saviors looked more like manic Laureltide jesters than soldiers
draped with trophies of gray and blond hair and iron pyramid badges.
SlingBlades and spiked red helmets were painted on their chests. And
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LYRIA
Camp 121
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I wake in the night to a distant roar. The room is still. Sweat slicks my
legs. I sit up in bed, listening. There’s a clamor in the distance. The
snoring of far-off engines. Mosquitoes buzz outside the netting that’s
wrapped around our bunks. “Aunt Lyria,” Conn whispers from be-
side me. “What’s that noise?”
“Quiet, love.” I strain to hear. The engines fade. I push my legs off
the edge of my bunk. Father’s soft breathing comes from below. He’s
still asleep. My sister’s bunk is empty. So is Tiran’s sleeping pallet on
the ground.
I slip past the mosquito netting and out of my bed in shorts and a
cotton shirt soggy from the humidity. “Where are you going?” Conn
asks. “Aunt Lyria . . .” I seal the netting behind me with the adhesive
strip.
“Just going to take a peek, love,” I say. “Go back to sleep.” I slip on
my sandals and leave the room. My sister is already awake, standing
near the door and watching nervously as Tiran puts on his boots.
“What’s what?” I ask quietly. “Thought I heard a ship.”
“Probably just some idiot SR airhead buzzing the camp,” Tiran
says.
“Not bloody likely,” I snap. “We ain’t had a supply ship land in a
month.”
“Lower your voice,” he hisses. “The little ones’ll hear.”
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EPHRAIM
Eternal City
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