She pulled open the ties at her throat, looked down to the place her breasts hadn’t been.
“Daughters,” she muttered. “Those are new…”
“…
i trust you’ve noticed i have politely refrained from comment
…”
Mia glanced at the not-cat on the mirror’s frame above her. “Your restraint is admirable.”
“…
i actually just can’t think of anything witty to say
…”
“Thank the Maw for small mercies, then.”
“…
or noticeably larger ones. as the case may be
…”
Mia rolled her eyes.
“…
we both knew it was too good to last
…”
The girl turned back to her reflection. Staring at the new face staring back. Truth was, she thought she’d feel strange. Robbed of something—identity, self, individuality. Violated, even? But this was still her face. Her flesh. Her body. And as Mia shrugged at the girl in the looking glass, the girl shrugged right back. Same as she always had. Same as she always would.
She had to admit it.
The weaver knew her work.
CHAPTER 15
T
RUTH
Naev was waiting outside her door when Mia rose in the morning. As she saw Mia’s new face, the woman’s eyes widened behind her veil. Mia heard a soft hiss through ruined lips, hovering uncertainly, not quite sure what to say. She finally settled on “Good turn to you, Naev.”
“… Naev comes to tell her. Naev is leaving.”
Mia blinked. “Leaving? For where?”
“Last Hope. Then to the city of Kassina on the south coast. Naev will be gone a time. She must watch her step until Naev returns. Hold true. Be strong. And be careful.”
Mia nodded. “I will. My thanks.”
“Come. Naev will escort her to mornmeal.”
As the pair walked down the twisting hallways toward the Sky Altar, it occurred to Mia she knew next to nothing about the woman beside her. Naev seemed sincere in her blood vow, but Mia wasn’t exactly sure how far trust should carry her. Though the woman hadn’t breathed a word of it, the specter of Mia’s new face hung between them like a pall. A question rattled behind the girl’s teeth, demanding to be spoken. As they reached the great statue of the goddess in the Hall of Eulogies, looming above them with sword and scale in hand, she finally let it slip.
“How can you stand it, Naev?” she asked.
Naev stopped short. Staring at Mia with cold, black eyes. “Stand what?”
“I figured out what you meant in the desert. When I asked what did that to your face. ‘
Love
,’ you told me. ‘
Only love
.’” Mia looked into Naev’s eyes. “You loved Adonai.”
“Not loved,” Naev replied. “
Love
.”
“And Adonai loves you?”
“… Perhaps once.”
“So Marielle maimed your face because she was jealous you loved her brother?” Mia was incredulous. “What did the Revered Mother say?”
“Nothing.” Naev shrugged, continued walking. “Hands, she has in abundance. Sorcerii, not so many.”
“So she just let it go?” Mia fell into step alongside. “It’s not right, Naev.”
“She will learn right and wrong have little meaning here.”
“I don’t understand this place. An acolyte was murdered right under this very statue, and the Ministry doesn’t seem to care about finding out who did it.”
“Callousness breeds callousness. Soon, she will care as little as they.”
Now it was Mia’s turn to stop short. “What do you mean?”
The woman regarded Mia with those bottomless black eyes. Glanced to the statue above them. “Naev likes her new face. The weaver knows her work, aye?”
Mia raised a hand to her cheek reflexively. “… She does.”
“Does she miss her old seeming? Does she feel the change in her bones yet?”
“They only changed what I look like. I’m still the person I was yesterturn. Inside.”
“That is how it begins. The weaving is only the first of it. The butterfly remembers being the caterpillar. But do you think it feels anything but pity for that thing crawling in the muck? Once it has spread those beautiful wings and learned to fly?”
“I’m no butterfly, Naev.”
The woman placed a hand on Mia’s arm.
“This place gives much. But it takes much more. They may make her beautiful on the outside, but inside, they aim to shape a horror. So if there is some part of herself that
truly
matters, hold it close, Mia Corvere. Hold it tight. She should ask herself what she will give to get the things she wants. And what she will keep. For when we feed another to the Maw, we feed it a part of ourselves, also. And soon enough, there is nothing left.”
“I know who I am. What I am. I’ll never forget.
Never
.”
Naev pointed to the stone statue above them. The pitiless black eyes. The robes made of night. The sword clutched in a pale right hand.
“She is a goddess, Mia. Between and beyond anything else, you are
Hers
, now.”
Mia stared at Naev. Glanced to the statue above. The black walls, the endless stairs, the choirsong that seemed to come from nowhere at all. Truth was, some part of her still doubted. Gods and goddesses. The war between light and dark. She might be able to play a few parlor tricks with shadows, but the idea she’d been chosen by Niah seemed more than a little far-fetched. Even in a place like this. And divinities aside, looking at Naev’s veiled face, she knew that people were capable of more brutality than the Lady of Blessed Murder could ever conceive. She had proof of that firsthand. What had happened to her father? Her familia? That wasn’t the work of immortals. That was the work of men. Of consuls and cardinals and their lapdogs. Their smiles burned behind her eyes. Their names burned into her bones.
Scaeva.
Duomo.
Remus.
No matter how much this place changed her, she’d never forgive. Never forget.
Never.
“Good luck in Last Hope,” she finally said. “I need mornmeal. I’m starving.”
The woman bowed, turned in a rustle of gray robes and strawberry curls. And though she spoke under her breath, Mia still heard the whisper as Naev turned away.
“So is She.”
Mia was the first to arrive at the Sky Altar, sitting at the empty tables and running her fingers over her new face. Her skin felt mildly raw, as if she’d suffered sunsburn. Her chest and belly ached like someone had punched her. Moreover, she felt absolutely famished, wolfing down her oats and cheese without pause and filling a bowl with steaming chicken broth.
Other acolytes filtered in. A dark-haired Liisian girl with pale green eyes, who Mia had learned was named Belle. One-eared Petrus, and the boy with tattooed hands who constantly muttered to himself.
1
Mouser gave a nod as he passed by, Aalea a knowing smile. Solis stalked past without a glance. She eyed the empty scabbard at his belt—worn black leather, embossed with a kaleidoscopic pattern of interlocking circles. It was worth fifty marks in Mouser’s contest. Fifty marks closer to finishing top in Pockets. And probably worth a disemboweling if he caught her stealing it.
Maybe I should start on something a little easier …
Ashlinn sat down opposite, mouth already full of food.
“Zo huwuzzit—”
The girl choked, eyes widening as she looked at Mia’s face. She swallowed her half-chewed mouthful with a wince, coughed before she spoke again.
“Shahiid Aalea took you to Marielle already?”
Mia shrugged, lips twisting. It still felt odd when she smiled.
“Maw’s teeth, the weaver’s struck it to the heart. She even straightened out your nose. I’d heard she was good, but ’byss, those lips.” She glanced down. “And those baps…”
“All right,” Mia scowled.
The girl raised her glass. “Night’s truth, Corvere, they’re top shelf. I’m bloody jealous now. You were flat as a twelve-year-old boy befo—”
“All
right
,” Mia growled.
Ash snickered, bit down on a hunk of bread. Another acolyte cruised past with a bowl of steaming broth. Blue eyes. Dark hair, short sides, fringe cut long to hide the slavemark on her cheek. She hovered, swaying like a snake, raised an eyebrow to Mia.
“Do you mind if I sit, Acolyte?”
The girl’s voice was dull, flat as a flagstone, but her eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence. Mia chewed slowly. Finally shrugged and nodded to a stool beside her. The brunette gave a thin smile, sat down quickly and offered her hand.
“Carlotta,” she said, in that same dead girl’s voice. “Carlotta Valdi.”
“Mia Corvere.”
“Ashlinn Järnheim.”
Carlotta nodded, lowered her voice as other acolytes wandered into the hall.
“Shahiid Aalea took you to see the weaver?”
Mia nodded. Looked the girl up and down. She was lithe, well muscled. Bright eyes, rimmed with thick streaks of kohl. Black paint on thin lips. Though her haircut tried to hide it, three interlocking circles arkemically branded on her cheek marked her as educated slave; perhaps an artisan or scribe.
2
From what house she’d fled, Mia couldn’t know. But the fact that she still wore her mark at all proved she was a runaway. The girl had courage, that much was sure. The fate of escaped slaves in the Republic was as brutal as the magistratii could devise. To risk all by fleeing bondage, coming here …
“What was it like?” Carlotta asked. “The weaving?”
Mia watched the girl carefully for a few moments more, weighing her up.
“Hurt like you wouldn’t believe,” she finally replied.
“Worth it, though?”
Mia shrugged. Looked down at her chest and felt a grin creeping onto her face.
“You tell me.”
Ashlinn grinned also, brushing her fingertips against Mia’s own. Carlotta smirked like someone who’d only read about it in books, smoothed her fringe down over her slavemark. Other acolytes filtered into the altar, noting Mia’s new-yet-familiar face with interest. Ash’s brother Osrik. Thin and silent Hush. Even Jessamine found herself staring. Mia was a curiosity for the first time she could remember.
She noticed Jessamine’s sidekick, Diamo, staring at her until the redhead elbowed him in the ribs. Mia spied another acolyte—a handsome Itreyan with dark, pretty eyes named Marcellus—staring too. She reached up to her face. Heard Shahiid Aalea’s words reverberating in her skull. Felt it swelling beneath her skin.
Power
, she realized.
I have a kind of power now.
“Gentle ladies,” said a smiling voice. Tric plopped down beside Ashlinn without ceremony, his tray piled with fresh, buttered rye and a bowl of broth. Without looking up, he dunked his bread and hefted a spoonful, ready to wolf it down. But as both mouthfuls neared his lips, the Dweymeri boy paused.
Blinked.
Sniffed at his bowl suspiciously.
“… Hmm.”
He frowned at the broth like it had stolen his purse, or perhaps called his mother an unflattering name. Dragging the saltlocks from his eyes, he offered his spoon to Mia.
“Does this smell strange to you? I swe—”
Finally noticing the girl’s new face, Tric’s jaw swung open like a rusty door in the breeze.
“Don’t let the dragonmoths in,” Ashlinn smirked.
Tric’s stare was locked on Mia. “… What happened to you?”
“The Weaver,” Mia shrugged. “Marielle.”
“… She took your face?”
Mia blinked. “She didn’t
take
it. She just … changed it is all.”
Tric stared hard. Frown growing darker. He looked down at his untouched mornmeal, pushed his broth aside. And without a word, he stood and walked away.
“He seems … upset?” Carlotta ventured.
“Lover’s tiff?” Ashlinn grinned.
Mia raised the knuckles as Ash began cackling.
“O, beloved, come
baaaaack
,” the girl teased as Mia rose from her stool.
“Fuck off,” Mia growled.
“You’re a soft touch, Corvere. You’re supposed to make
them
chase
you
.”
Mia ignored the jests, but Ash grabbed her good arm as she tried to walk away.
“We’ve got Truths this morning. Shahiid Spiderkiller doesn’t like tardy.”
“Aye,” Carlotta nodded. “I heard tell she killed one of her novices for being late. Warned him once. Warned him twice. After that, a blank tomb in the great hall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mia snorted. “Who does that?”
Carlotta glanced at Mia’s elbow. “The same sort of folk who chop your arm off for scratching their cheek.”
“But
killing
him?”
Ash shrugged. “My da warned me and Osrik before we came here, Corvere. The last Shahiid you want to get offside is the Spiderkiller.”
Mia sighed, sat back down with reluctance. But Ash spoke wisdom, after all. Mia wasn’t here to play the comfort maid; she was here to avenge her familia. Consul Scaeva and his cronies weren’t going to be dispatched by some fool with a bleeding heart. Whatever was eating Tric, it could wait til after lessons. Mia finished her mornmeal in silence (she couldn’t smell anything odd in the broth, despite Tric’s claims), then shuffled off after Ash and Carlotta in search of the Hall of Truths.
Of all the rooms within the Quiet Mountain, Mia was soon to discover it was the easiest to find. As she traipsed down twisting staircases, she found her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“…’Byss and blood, what’s that smell?”
Carlotta’s face was reverent, her eyes lit with a quiet fervor.
“Truth,” she murmured.
The stench grew stronger as they walked through the dark. A perfume of rot and fresh flowers. Dried herbs and acids. Cut grass and rust. The acolytes arrived at a set of great double doors, the smell washing over them in waves as they swung wide.
Mia took a deep breath, and stepped into Shahiid Spiderkiller’s domain.
If red had been the motif of Aalea’s hall, green was the theme here. Stained glass filtered a ruddy emerald light into the room, the glassware tinged with every hue—lime to dark jade. A great ironwood bench dominated the room. Inkwells and parchment were laid out in each place. Shelves on the walls were filled with thousands of different jars, a myriad of substances within. Glassware lined the bench, pipes and pipets, funnels and tubes. A discordant tune of bubbling and hissing rose from the various reactions taking place in flasks and bowls around the room.