“… What?”
“Red dahlia,” Mia breathed, eyes growing wide. “Blackmark venom.”
“Eh?”
Mia thumbed through her pages until she found one covered in scrawl, ran her fingers down the notes. Ash opened her mouth to speak but Mia held up a hand to beg for silence. Scribbled a handful of quick formulae. Flipped back and forth between the new and the old. Finally looking up at the girl and grinning to the eyeteeth.
“Ashlinn, I could kiss you…”
“… I thought you’d never ask?”
“You’re a fucking
genius
!” Mia shouted.
The girl turned to her brother and smirked. “See, I
told
you…”
Mia stood and grabbed Ash by the ears, hauled her close and planted a loud kiss square on her lips. Tric led a round of impromptu applause, but Mia was already scooping up her notes and dashing from the Sky Altar. Jessamine and Diamo marked her exit, speaking quietly between themselves. Tric and Ashlinn watched Mia disappear down the stairwell, Osrik returning to his meal and shaking his head.
“All over the shop like a madman’s shite, that one.”
“Good kisser, though,” Ash smirked. “I can see why you’re bonce over boots for her, Tricky.”
The Dweymeri boy kept his face like stone.
Calmly reached for another bread roll.
Mia spent the rest of the turn in her room, hunched over parchment with a charcoal stick between her fingers. She spread her notes across her bed, running through the concoction again and again. The evemeal bell rang and she stirred not an inch, smoking a cigarillo to kill her hunger. Mister Kindly’s not-eyes roamed Mia’s solution, page after page of it, purring all the while.
“…
ingenious
…”
Mia dragged deep on her smoke. “If it works.”
“…
and if not
…?”
“You might be looking for a new best friend.”
“…
i have a best friend now
…?”
The girl flicked ash at the not-cat’s face. She heard ninebells ring, the soft footsteps of acolytes returning to their chambers. Shadows passing across the chink of light seeping in from the corridor. And beside them, a folded sheaf of parchment, slipped beneath her door.
Mia rose from her bed, peered out into the hall. No one in sight. She picked up the parchment, unfolded it and read the words scribed thereon.
I want you.
T.
Mia’s heart beat quicker at the words, wretched butterflies rearing their wings in her belly again. She looked up at Mister Kindly, cigarillo hanging from her lips. The not-cat sat on the bed, surrounded by her sea of notes. Saying not a word.
“I’d have to be a complete idiot to sneak out after ninebells again.”
“…
especially the very eve before solis’s contest
…”
“I should be getting my sleep.”
“…
love makes fools of us all
…”
“I’m not in love with him, Mister Kindly.”
“…
a good thing it appears that way to everyone around you, then
…”
Gathering up the loose pages scattered across her bed, Mia tucked them into her notebook and bound it tight, then hid it beneath her desk’s bottom drawer.
“Watch my back?”
“…
always
…”
Mister Kindly slipped beneath her door, checking the hallway was clear. Mia pulled the shadows to her and faded into the gloom. Stealing out after the not-cat, feeling her way down the long corridor, soft boots making not even a whisper on the stone. The blurred figure of a Hand walked across a passageway ahead and she froze, pressed against the wall. Mia waited until he was well out of sight before moving again, finally stopping outside Tric’s door.
She tried the handle, found it locked. Crouching low, she peered through the keyhole, saw Tric on his bed reading by the light of an arkemical lamp. The globe threw long shadows across the floor, and she reached out toward them. Remembering what it was to be that fourteen-year-old girl again. The power of the night at her fingertips. Not afraid of it anymore. Of who she was. What she was.
And closing her eyes, she
stepped
into the shadow
at her feet
and out of the shadows
inside his room.
Tric started as she appeared from the darkness, hair moving as if in some hidden breeze. A knife slipped from up his sleeve, stilling in his hand as he recognized her. The boy glanced toward the locked door with questions swimming in his eyes.
Mia kicked her boots off her feet.
“Mia?”
Dragged her shirt off over her head.
“Shhh,” she whispered.
And the questions in Tric’s eyes died.
1. Mia managed to study the many faces adorning the weaver’s chamber during these ministrations, and she often found herself visiting Marielle with little more than a scratch to be mended, just so she could get another peek at the collection. The masks were wonders, collected from all corners of the Republic.
Mia recognized the
voltos
and
dominos
and
punchinellos
from Itreyan Carnivalé, obviously. The fearsome warmasks from the Isles of Dweym, carved of ironwood into the likenesses of horrors of the deep. The flawless, bone-white visage of a Liisian Leper Priest, and a eunuch’s blinding cowl from the harem of some long-dead Magus King. But the weaver seemed obsessed with faces in all their shapes and sizes, and it seemed she’d collected no end of strangeness to feed that obsession.
Among the weaver’s collection, Mia saw golden wonders fashioned in the likenesses of lions’ heads, similar to the cat-headed statues out in the Ashkahi Whisperwastes, and the figures on Mouser’s blacksteel blade. She spied a rotting hangman’s hood, a blindfold crusted with what looked like dried blood, the death masks of a dozen children, some no more than babes. Faces made of wood and metal. Bone and desiccated skin. Ornate and banal. Beautiful and hideous. The weaver collected them all.
Mia sometimes found herself close to pitying Marielle. It must be an awful thing, she supposed, to have power over the flesh of others and no power over her own. But then she’d remember the horror Marielle had made of Naev’s face. And much as she tried to hold on to it, as important as she knew it to be, her pity would slowly die.
Only ashes in its wake.
2. Eighteen was the minimum age for One Who Shone, a tradition that extended back to the legion’s formation. The Luminatii’s founding doctrine was astonishingly detailed, and its entry requirements exceedingly strict. Interestingly enough, the codices did not prohibit women joining their ranks, though no woman in history had actually done it.
Yet.
3. Mia had heard tell of magikal weapons, of course. Lucius the Omnipotent, last Magus King of Liis, supposedly had a blade that sang as he slew his foes. The legendary hero Maximian wielded a sword known as “Terminus,” which reportedly knew how every man under the suns—including its master—would die. Itreyan legend was replete with tales of blades with minds of their own.
Of course, Mia suspected that Pip’s knife was no more capable of speech than donkeys are of turning cartwheels. But still, whenever she greeted the boy, she made a point of saying hello to “the Lovely” too.
Here is truth, gentlefriends: when in doubt, it’s best to be polite when dealing with lunatics.
CHAPTER 29
S
EVERANCE
She woke in his arms.
Forgetting for a moment where she was and what lay ahead. Tric was still asleep, chest rising and falling slowly. She watched him for a silent moment, thoughts clouded. And leaning in close, she kissed him as if it were the last time.
She stole from the room, still dressed in the clothes she wore the night before. Flitting from shadow to shadow. Listening to the ghostly choir, the waking sounds of the Church around her. Finding herself at last in the Hall of Eulogies, beneath Niah’s statue. Staring up at the face of the Night herself.
“…
the boy
…”
Mia glanced to the shadow at her feet. The not-eyes inside it.
“What of him?”
“…
it cannot happen again, mia
…”
She looked back to the goddess, nodded slow.
“I know.”
“…
it has no future
…”
“I know.”
Her eyes roamed the nameless tombs in the walls. The unmarked graves of the Church’s fallen. She looked to the stone at her feet. Thousands of the Church’s victims beneath the soles of her boots. She still thought it strange; that Niah’s servants should have no name to mark their passing, but those they took from this world were immortalized in the granite for all eternity. She thought about the Truedark Massacre. The dozens dead by her hands. The blinding light. Remus. Duomo. Scaeva.
Her mother.
Her father.
When all is blood, blood is all.
The mornbells bells began to ring, and still she lingered.
Minutes slipping by unmarked, and still she stared.
The goddess stared back. Mute as always.
“…
is everything well
…?”
Mia sighed. Nodded slow.
“Everything is perfect.”
The other acolytes were already assembled in the Hall of Songs, rested and fed. Four black-robed Hands stood in the circle’s center, one holding what appeared to be a human skull with the crown sawn off. Shahiid Solis loomed beside them, blind eyes upturned. Mia was one of the last to arrive, her tardiness bested only by Ashlinn, who dashed into the hall with only moments to spare. The Shahiid of Songs turned his pale stare on the girl, lips curling.
“Lovely of you to join us, Acolyte,” he said.
“Lovely to … be here…” Ash panted.
“Not much longer, I fear.”
Turning to the other acolytes, Solis spoke.
“The Trial of Songs begins. I will explain the rules once only. Listen well.
“The trial begins with eliminations. Each of you will fight five bouts, against five random opponents. Each bout is fought to submission, or mortal blow. Speaker Adonai and Weaver Marielle have graciously agreed to be on hand for festivities.” Solis motioned to two figures standing by the sword racks. “They will mend any wound that renders you incapacitated as swift as they may. You may request their aid at any time during a bout, however, to do so will result in forfeiture. Loss will also result if you leave—or are forced to leave—the circle during a bout.
“At the end of eliminations, the four acolytes who have accrued the most victories shall graduate to the finals. Any loss in the finals results in elimination. Whoever wins the last bout shall graduate top of this hall.”
Solis’s blank gaze roamed the assembled acolytes.
“Questions?”
“There are thirteen of us, Shahiid,” Marcellus said. “How will you work the odd number?”
“Only twelve of you will compete. Acolyte Diamo has opted out of the trial.”
Mia looked across the circle to Diamo, arms folded and smiling right at her. Ashlinn, who looked like she’d gotten about as much sleep as Mia, whispered to her brother beside her.
“I’m leading Pockets by a clear mile, and I’m still competing in Song. Diamo’s not the blademaster Jessamine is, but any chance is better than none at all, surely?”
Osrik shook his head. “Maybe if you weren’t out in Godsgrave ’til all hours, you’d have a ken about what went on inside these halls.”
“Maw’s teeth, Oz, are you going to spit it out, or make me play guess-a-game?”
“Word has it Diamo solved Spiderkiller’s formula this morn.”
Mia felt her stomach lurch sideways.
“Diamo?” Ash hissed. “He’s as handy at venomcraft as a block of wood…”
Osrik shrugged. “I’m only saying what I’ve heard. He visited Spiderkiller before mornmeal. Book of notes in his hand. The Shahiid sealed the hall, but Diamo walked out a while later, right as rain. Went straight to Solis and bowed out of his contest.”
Ash looked to Mia.
“Could they be Lotti’s notes?”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t think Carlotta ever solved the quandary.”
“So where’d you hide
your
notes, Corvere?”
Mia swallowed hard. Looked to Tric. Then to Spiderkiller, sitting beside the Revered Mother. The pair were deep in conversation, glancing occasionally to Diamo. And Mia.
“… My room,” she said.
“O. Safe as houses then.”
Tric glanced at Mia. “Unless you left your room last night…”
Ashlinn glanced back and forth between them. “O, tell me you didn’t?”
Mia remained mute, watching Diamo. She saw Jessamine’s
fuck you
smile from the corner of her eye. The gleam in that adder green. Spiderkiller’s glittering stare.
“Maw’s teeth, Corvere,” Ash breathed. “You left your notes alone to go for a roll? Little Tricky can’t be
that
good…”
Tric looked wounded, opened his mouth to—
“’Byss and blood, pay attention,” Osrik whispered. “They’re about to start.”
Ash turned to Solis and his assistants, clamped her lips shut. The Hand holding the human skull had proffered it to a second, standing beside her. A smooth, black stone with a name inscribed on it had been drawn from the hollowed crown, held aloft to the assembled acolytes.
“Marcellus Domitian.”
The handsome Itreyan boy looked up at the mention of his name. “Aye.”
“Step forward, Acolyte,” Solis commanded.
Marco nodded, stepped into the circle’s center. The boy tilted his head ’til his neck popped, stretched his arms and touched his toes. The Hand grasped a stone, drew it forth and read the name.
“Mia Corvere.”
Mia saw Marcellus smile to himself, Diamo and Jessamine share a smug grin. Marco was a skilled swordsman, and he stood a decent chance of placing top four. The boy had thrashed Mia soundly in every sparring match they’d ever had, and everyone in the room knew it.
Mia hovered on the circle’s edge. Solis’s eyebrow slowly rising.
“Acolyte?”
Mia drew a deep breath and walked out into the circle, soundless as cats. Tread steady. Breath even. She took her place in the circle’s center, Solis between her and her opponent. The acolytes stared each other down, Marco’s lips twisted.