Morning Star: Book III of the Red Rising Trilogy Read Free

parts. Light burns my eyes. I clamp them shut as the floor of my cell rises upward till, withaclick,itstopsandIrest,exposed,onaflatstonesurface.Ipushoutmylegsandgasp,nearly fainting from the pain. Joints crack. Knotted tendons unspool. I fight to reopen my eyes against the raginglight.Tearsfillthem.ItissobrightIcanonlycatchbleachedflashesoftheworldaround.
    Fragmentsofalienvoicessurroundme.“Adrius,whatisthis?”
    “…hashebeenintherethiswholetime?”
    “Thestench…”
    Ilieuponstone.Itstretchesaroundmetoeitherside.Black,ripplingwithblueandpurple,likethe shellofaCreonianbeetle.Afloor?No.Iseecups.Saucers.Acartofcoffee.It’satable.Thatwasmy prison.Notsomehideousabyss.Justameter-wide,twelve-meter-longslabofmarblewithahollow
    center. They’ve eaten inches above me every night. Their voices the distant whispers I heard in the darkness.Theclatteroftheirsilverwareandplatesmyonlycompany.
    “Barbaric…”
    I remember now. This is the table the Jackal sat at when I visited him after recovering from the woundsincurredduringtheIronRain.Didheplanmyimprisonmenteventhen?Iworeahoodwhen
    theyputmeinhere.IthoughtIwasinthebowelsofhisfortress.Butno.Thirtycentimetersofstone separatedtheirsuppersfrommyhell.
    I look up from the coffee tray by my head. Someone stares at me. Several someones. Can’t see themthroughthetearsandbloodinmyeyes.Itwistaway,coilinginwardlikeablindmoleunearthed for the very first time. Too overwhelmed and terrified to remember pride or hate. But I know he stares at me. The Jackal. A childish face in a slender body, with sandy hair parted on the side. He clearshisthroat.
    “Myhonoredguests.MayIpresentprisonerL17L6363.”
    Hisfaceisbothheavenandhell.
    Toseeanotherman…
    ToknowIamnotalone…
    Butthentorememberwhathe’sdonetome…itripsmysoulout.
    Other voices slither and boom, deafening in their loudness. And, even curled as I am, I feel something beyond their noise. Something natural and gentle and kind. Something the darkness convincedmeIwouldneverfeelagain.Itdriftssoftlythroughanopenwindow,kissingmyskin.
    A late autumn breeze cuts through the meaty, humid stink of my filth and makes me think that
    somewhere a child is sprinting through snow and trees, running his hands along bark and pine needlesandgettingsapinhishair.It’samemoryIknowI’veneverhad,butfeellikeIshould.That’s thelifeIwouldhavewanted.ThechildIcouldhavehad.
    Iweep.Lessformethanforthatboywhothinkshelivesinakindworld,whereMotherandFather areaslargeandstrongasmountains.IfonlyIcouldbesoinnocentagain.IfonlyIknewthismoment was not a trick. But it is. The Jackal does not give except to take away. Soon the light will be a memoryanddarknesswillreturn.Ikeepmyeyesclenchedtight,listeningtothebloodfrommyface driponthestone,andwaitforthetwist.
    “Goryhell,Augustus.Wasthisreallynecessary?”afelinekillerpurrs.Huskyaccentsmotheredin
    that indolent Luna lilt learned in the courts of the Palatine Hill, where all are less impressed by everythingthananyoneelse.“Hesmellslikedeath.”
    “Fermented sweat and dead skin under the magnetic shackles. See the yellowish crust on his forearms, Aja?” the Jackal notes. “Still, he’s very much healthy and ready for your Carvers. All thingsconsidered.”
    “YouknowthemanbetterthanI,”Ajasaystosomeoneelse.“Makesureitishim.Notanimposter.”
    “Youdoubtmyword?”theJackalasks.“Youwoundme.”
    Iflinch,feelingsomeoneapproach.
    “Please. You’d need a heart for that, ArchGovernor. And you’ve many gifts, but that organ, I’m afraid,isdearlyabsent.”
    “Youcomplimentmetoomuch.”
    Spoonsclatteragainstporcelain.Throatsarecleared.Ilongtocovermyears.Somuchsound.So
    muchinformation.
    “You really can see the Red in him now.” It’s a cold, cultured female voice from northern Mars.
    MorebrusquethantheLunaaccent.
    “Exactly,Antonia!”theJackalreplies.“I’vebeencurioustoseehowheturnedout.Amemberofthe Aureategenuscouldneverbesodebasedasthiscreatureherebeforeus.Youknow,heaskedmefor death before I put him in there.