Copyright © 2020 by Emily Colin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Colin, Emily. 1975-.
Sword of the Seven Sins: A Novel / Emily Colin
p.____ cm.____
ISBN 978-1-947834-46-0 (Pbk.) | 978-1-947834-47-7 (Ebook)
1. Science Fiction. 2. Young Adult Fiction. 3. Fantasy Fiction. I. Title.
813’.6 | LOC PCN 2020936255
Published by Blue Crow Books
an imprint of Blue Crow Publishing, LLC
Chapel Hill, NC
bluecrowpublishing.com
Cover Design by Lauren Faulkenberry
using photo by Teo Tarras/Shutterstock
Books by Emily Colin
The Seven Sins Series
Sword of the Seven Sins: A Novel
Sacrifice of the Seven Sins: A Novella
Shadows of the Seven Sins: A Story Collection
Siege of the Seven Sins: A Novel
Young Adult Fiction
Wicked South: Secrets and Lies: Stories for Young Adults
Unbound: Stories of Transformation, Love, and Monsters
Fiction for Adults
The Memory Thief
The Dream Keeper’s Daughter
Nonfiction
The Long Way Around: How 34 Women Found the Lives they Love
The Secret to Our Success: How 33 Women Made their Dreams Come True
The Changing Face of Justice: A Look at the First 100 Women Attorneys in North Carolina
Praise for Emily Colin
Praise for SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SINS
This is easily one of the best books I've ever read. Siege of the Seven Sins has it all—heart-stopping action, breathtaking characters, high stakes, and a thrilling story, all wrapped up in beautiful prose.
Madeline Dyer, SIBA-award-winning author of the Untamed series
* * *
Thrilling, heart-wrenching, and blood-pumping.
Karissa Laurel, author of The Stormbourne Chronicles
* * *
With an intriguing world, an impossible love story, and characters I both loved and loved to hate, the stakes are high. What if love was a death sentence? … A series everyone should know about.
M. Lynn, USA Today bestselling author of the Queens of the Fae series
Praise for SWORD OF THE SEVEN SINS
A hot, fast-paced, beautifully written story you won’t want to miss!
Caitlin Sinead, author of Heartsick
* * *
A romantic dystopian with a fantastic—and unexpected—twist ... Seven Sins is powerful, sexy, hopeful, and unsettling.
Heidi Ayarbe, award-winning author of Freeze Frame
* * *
A rollicking ride through forbidden love and deadly adventure. … I haven’t ached for love like this to conquer all since Tris and Four. Eva and Ari forever.
Leigh Statham, Author of the Daughter Trilogy
* * *
Amazing characters and a fast plot that will keep you on the edge of your seat!
S.E. Anderson, author of The Starstruck Saga
* * *
A beautifully crafted story with so many intense moments I couldn’t stop reading. This is the best book I’ve read in a long time.
Michelle MacQueen, author of We Thought We Were Invincible, for YA Books Central
* * *
Sword of the Seven Sins … offers a new take on the dystopian genre. Colin’s characters push the plot forward, while her writing immerses the reader in a rigid world on the brink of change.
Bookstacked
* * *
An absolutely mind-blowing, spine-tingling, action-packed extravaganza … an electrifying, imaginative, phenomenally well written book. The tension, banter and angst blazes.
Emerald Book Reviews
* * *
Much of the fun here is watching Colin build her world … The chapters move swiftly… The book should prove a hit with fans of The Hunger Games.
Wilmington Star News
* * *
Sizzling hot and exploding with tension.
Lisa Amowitz, author of Breaking Glass
* * *
An absolutely wild ride … I couldn’t stop reading.
The Word Traveler
Praise for The Dream Keeper’s Daughter
A splendid mix of time travel, romantic yearning, and moving on after grief.
Publishers Weekly
* * *
A passionate and sweeping tale of a woman haunted by a loss she can’t explain, and a future she can’t yet choose.
Erika Marks, author of The Last Treasure
* * *
This story immerses you in a time that should not be forgotten and explores the infinite rippling effect of decisions, guilt, accountability, and love.
Samantha Sotto, author of Love and Gravity
Praise for The Memory Thief
This absorbing first effort brings to mind the mountaineers of a Jon Krakauer read, the tenderness of a Nicholas Sparks novel, and the enduring love story of Charles Martin's The Mountain between Us, all sprinkled with a heady dose of passion.
Booklist
* * *
Mesmerizing . . . dazzlingly original and as haunting as a dream.
Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You
* * *
[A] richly emotional tale . . . a writer to watch.
Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty
To my family and friends whose support kept me super-glued together through an incredibly challenging year—you know who you are. And to my indefatigable aunt, Ellen Rappaport, fellow warrior, voracious reader, and creative soul…all the love and light in the cosmos.
Contents
1. Eva
2. Eva
3. Ari
4. Eva
5. Ari
6. Eva
7. Ari
8. Eva
9. Ari
10. Eva
11. Ari
12. Eva
13. Ari
14. Eva
15. Ari
16. Ari
17. Eva
18. Ari
19. Eva
20. Ari
21. Eva
22. Ari
23. Eva
24. Ari
25. Eva
26. Eva
27. Ari
28. Eva
29. Ari
30. Eva
31. Ari
32. Eva
33. Ari
34. Eva
35. Ari
36. Eva
37. Ari
38. Eva
39. Ari
40. Eva
41. Ari
42. Eva
Acknowledgments
Want More Ari and Eva?
Preview: SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SINS
About the Author
1
Eva
The first time I condemned a man to death, I was ten years old.
I was standing with the rest of the Commonwealth of Ashes in Clockverk Square, beneath the giant clockwork tower that stood watch over us all. Lined up at the front of the crowd with the other children from the Nursery, I was there to bear witness, judged by the Commonwealth to be of an age to understand the dire consequences of rebellion and sin. We children stood at the edge of the square, dressed in white, vibrating with excitement. O
ur days had a familiar, soothing pattern—wake, eat breakfast, exercise, have lessons, eat again, complete assigned activities, cleanse, sleep, repeat. Today was different. Today we would see a man die.
The other children were thrilled at the prospect—had been chattering about little else all week—but I felt nothing but creeping dread.
Mother Erikson stood behind me, her grip on my shoulders tight and unforgiving, so I could not look away. She needn’t have. I made it my policy to face as much as I could, so I knew where my weaknesses lay.
At the edge of the square, the condemned man between them, stood two of the Bellators of Light. The Bellatorum Lucis were the Commonwealth’s defenders, mysterious figures who dressed always in black and carried razor-sharp blades in sheaths stretching the length of their spines. They were an elite fighting force, trained to protect the Commonwealth against Outsiders and administer justice when called for. They would put the man to death today.
The bellators brought the man into the square, one gripping each of his arms. It hardly seemed necessary. He wasn’t a large man, and he was blindfolded. Plus, he was unsteady, tripping over the stones, so that the bellator on his right had to yank him upright. He wore the gray clothes of the accused. His skin was pale, his hair dark against the whiteness of his face. He blinked when they removed his blindfold, trying to accustom himself to the light of the rising sun. And then he looked out over the crowd, as if he was searching for someone. Again and again his gaze lit on people’s faces, but they shifted and looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. He had been one of us, and now he was not. We could not afford for his wickedness to contaminate the rest.
In the middle of the square stood the High Priest, a thin man in heavy red robes. He nodded to the bellators, who stepped back, retreating to the edge of the square. In his familiar, sonorous voice, the Priest said the man’s name and listed his crimes. This man, he said, was guilty of the sins of greed and gluttony. He had been responsible for tending the vineyards, making the ceremonial wine the Priests used for blessings and rituals. He had been found to be selling the wine on the black market, hoarding the best vintages for himself. I wondered if that was why the man seemed unsteady, stumbling into the square—if he had lost his footing because his eyes were covered or because he had been consuming too many of his own wares. Later, I wondered if it was because he was summoning the bravery to face his fate.
The Priest faced us, hands high, silhouetted by the dawning sun. Executions were always held at sunrise, a righteous death signaling a new beginning. For this man, he said, it would be a righteous death indeed, a punishment deserved. A chance to go before the Architect with his soul washed clean.
The Priest made it sound as if the man should be grateful to die, and everywhere I looked, I could see people nodding in agreement. Better to die this way, judged and absolved at the hands of the Commonwealth, than fleeing in exile toward the Borderlands.
I knew I should nod like everyone else, knew the Mothers were watching the children from the Nursery to make sure we showed the appropriate response. But within me, from some unknown and dangerous place, came a spark of resistance. I thought of the times I’d sat at the Mothers’ feet, struggling to pay attention as strange, toothed shadow-creatures writhed on the wall. Of the disdainful way Mother Erikson regarded me, as if she knew the face I presented to the world was a mask, concealing the ways I was different from the rest. If I let something slip—if I told her about the shadow-beasts—what would happen to me? Would I wind up like this man, suspected of increasingly unacceptable behavior until one day I wound up exiled or sentenced to death?
Regardless of his sins, I did not believe the man should be grateful to die like this, no better than a slaughtered animal. And even at the age of ten, I couldn’t nod and pretend. I have never been very good at lying.
So I didn’t nod. I didn’t shake my head, either. I didn’t protest, but I didn’t show my agreement, the way I could see the other kids doing. To my left, Rósný was nodding vigorously, her blonde pigtail bouncing. To my right, Jósefína was doing the same, so vehemently I was sure it would make her dizzy. I was a still point between them, a silent place of negation. It wasn’t wise, I knew that. But I couldn’t help myself.
The Priest’s eyes scanned the crowd. They paused on Rósný, and his lips lifted in approbation. Then they passed over me and found Jósefína, who was still nodding like one of those bobbing paper birds the Mother had taught us to fold and perch on the side of cups, pretending to drink water. He smiled even more broadly. And then his gaze drifted back to me, pinioned between them, and I froze. Maybe, I thought, he’ll forgive this. There is a man to kill. Surely that is more important than one small girl’s nod.
I should have known better. The Priests never forgive.
He motioned me forward, to stand with him and the condemned man in the middle of the square. I looked behind me, to my left and right, but that was a formality; I knew the Priest was gesturing to me. Perhaps he had seen into my heart, the way the Mothers were always warning us Priests could do. Perhaps he could tell I was not worthy of a life in the Commonwealth, and would banish me to the Borderlands—in the wreckage of the floods and the Fall, where the savages dwelt, waiting to attack.
For most members of the Commonwealth, exile was the worst thing they could imagine. Certainly, I had never found any reason to feel differently. But as the Mother relinquished her grip on my shoulders and I stepped forward out of the white-clothed line of my fellow students, I was not afraid. If this were my fate, then I would go to meet it, and come out the other side. Fear is the enemy, I told myself, even as I lowered my eyes, because to hold the gaze of a Priest is the highest insult. Fear is the force that can break the strongest of men. But it will not break me.
This was my mantra, found in an old, discarded book in the Commonwealth’s library and repeated silently in the deepest hours of the night, when all the other children were asleep. I had never slept well; I saw creatures sliding in the shadows where there were none, heard voices chattering in the walls and beneath the windows until I had to cover my head with my pillow to silence them. I knew without being told I had to hide this—from the Mothers, certainly, but also from the other children, who would relish the opportunity to pass on such a juicy tidbit. There were Informers amongst my playmates, poised to report the slightest transgression, and I was determined they should have nothing to say about me.
My shoes crunched on the gravel, slid on the rain-slick stones, still wet with the morning’s dew. As I came to the Priest’s outstretched hand, my back ramrod straight and my head lifted high, I could hear the crowd’s collective intake of breath. To be called onto the stones by a Priest was a great honor. Later, in the Nursery, I would hear the Mothers whispering, would know they found it as extraordinary as I did—though for different reasons. But now, I stood still, my body moving with the force of my breath, gaze fixed on the green line of moss that traced the cobblestone at my feet. I breathed, and shut my eyes.
The Priest’s hand came to rest on my head. Even through the thickness of my braid, I could feel the cold, damp pressure of his fingers. “Speak your name, child.”
“Eva Marteinn, Father.” My voice came clear and high. I was pleased it did not shake.
“You’ll not have seen justice enacted before, Eva Marteinn. How do you feel, to witness it here today?”
The question hung in the balance between us, and my life hung with it. Slowly, I lifted my head, looking not at the Priest but beyond him, into the eyes of the man condemned to die. The man met my gaze without flinching, and his mouth lifted in a smile. It wasn’t the unfocused, wild grin of a madman, nor yet the grimace of a man who was resigned to his fate. The condemned man smiled at me with what I could swear was happiness, and in his eyes was that most dangerous of emotions: Pride.
For the life of me I could not figure out what there was for him to be proud of. In any other circumstances I would have dropped my own eyes, lest my expression give him away.
But this man had already been sentenced to die. He could choose to fornicate on the stones, provided he could find a partner willing to sin with him, or drain a dozen bottles of wine to the dregs. Nothing he did now would change his fate, which had been sealed the moment the Priests discovered the truth.
I held the man’s eyes with mine as I answered the Priest’s question. It was all I had to give him, the only way I knew to show courage. Fear is the enemy. Fear is the force that will break the strongest of men. But it had not broken me today, and I could see it had not broken this man either. He would die with his spirit intact, and I found this mattered to me.