“Fear not, Mi Dona,” he said. “I’ll be gentle with you.”
Mia spared him a withering glance. Marco grinned. One of the Hands held out a silver priest on an open palm, showed both sides of the coin to ensure no larceny was afoot. On one face, the trinity of three suns, intertwined. On the other, an embossed image of the Senate House in Godsgrave, the Ribs rising into sky behind it.
“Acolyte Mia, call the toss.”
“Trinity.”
The acolyte flipped the coin. Quicker than flies, Solis’s hand snaked out, snatched it from the air. The Shahiid’s worm-blind stare bored into Mia’s own.
“I’m certain you’ve not forgotten your first lesson at my hands, Acolyte,” he said. “But I will remind you once more that this is the Hall of Songs, not shadows. If I suspect you of fighting with anything other than blades during these bouts, it will not just be your swordarm I remove from your body. Is that understood?”
Mia looked up into those empty eyes. Her voice a whisper.
“Understood, Shahiid.”
The big man let the coin drop from his hand. It sparkled in the stained-glass light as it fell, chimed as it struck the stone.
“Senate side up,” reported the Hand.
“Choose your weapons, Acolyte Mia,” Solis said.
Mia stepped to the weapon racks, walked along rows and rows of sharpened steel. Glancing at Jessamine, she drew a rapier and stiletto. The redhead scoffed. Tric looked decidedly concerned as a curious murmur ran around the circle. Mia had never proved much worth with the traditional dual-handed styles of Caravaggio or Delphini. In Solis’s lessons, she’d been constantly berated that her arm was too weak, and she’d not fared much better when Tric tried to teach her the finer points. She could practically see the question in the boy’s eyes.
What are you playing at?
Still, for all his doubts, Tric made a fist, gave her a confidence-boosting nod. But beyond him, lurking in the shadows at the Hall’s edge among the other Hands, Mia saw Naev. The Hand was shrouded in her cloak, strawberry blond curls framing her veiled face. And it was to the woman, not the boy, that she nodded back.
Marcellus chose a heavy longsword and buckler to counter Mia’s choices, relying on his superior strength to win the bout quickly. Mia watched the boy through her fringe as they took up their stances. All trace of a smile on Marco’s pretty face was gone. Everyone knew what was at stake here. Top of hall. One step closer to becoming a full-fledged Blade. Marcellus nodded to Mia, cool and confident. Like everyone else in the room, he knew this would be a thrashing.
A gong rang in the dark. Marco stepped forward, hewing at the air in brutal, broad strokes, expecting Mia to fall back and dodge. He’d no idea the girl had other plans. Plans formulated with Naev in the hours before every mornmeal. Their blades whistling in the dark as they sparred, back and forth. The aches and pains. The weeks and months of feigning weakness in Solis’s classes, letting herself get cut, stabbed, constantly thrashed by Jessamine, Diamo, Pip, Petrus, all of them. All to build up the illusion of weakness. A viper playing possum. A scabdog, bleeding in the dust.
It was just as Mercurio had said.
Sometimes weakness is a weapon.
If you’re smart enough to use it.
Mia met Marco’s third thrust with her stiletto, twisting it aside and throwing the bigger boy off balance. Marcellus raised his buckler to guard, ready to fend off Mia’s weak riposte as he’d done a hundred times in previous bouts. But with a speed built up in those countless hours with Naev, with a strength she’d kept hidden during those countless beatings under Solis’s pitiless eyes, she whipped her rapier through the air, scoring a deep gash on Marco’s shoulder.
The boy staggered, confused and off-balance. Mia backed away, bouncing on her toes and cutting the air with her bloodied blade.
“Still going to be gentle with me, Marco?” she smiled.
The boy scowled and launched a second attack, blows scything past Mia’s head as she skipped beneath them. The girl faded, twisted, moving like a dancer, and the clash ended with another deep cut, this time on Marco’s swordarm. Blood spattered on the stone. And as Marcellus finally began to realize the depth of the water in the which he swam, Mia lunged forward, strike, strike, feint, strike, dashing his longsword from his grip, and laying her blade to rest above Marco’s thundering heart.
“Yield,” she demanded.
The boy looked at her face. Down to her blade. Chest heaving. Skin drenched.
“… Yield,” he finally spat.
“Point!” cried Solis, as someone cracked the gong.
Mia dropped into a skirtless curtsey, and returned to her place at circle.
The other acolytes murmured among themselves, astonished.
Naev’s veil hid her smile.
Jessamine smiled not at all.
The bouts ran all morning, sweat and blood glistening on the stone. Though Pip found himself near-gutted by Osrik, and Jessamine cut Marco’s throat ear to ear with a lightning-swift strike, Speaker Adonai and Weaver Marielle stepped in quickly to mend any serious injury. No acolyte lost more than a few droplets of their best in the circle.
In defiance of expectations, and beneath Solis’s undisguised scowl, Mia won three of her four remaining bouts. Truth was, thanks to Mercurio, she’d never been a slouch with a blade, but Naev’s secret tutelage had honed her to a finer edge, and the idea that everyone in the room expected her to fail simply drove her harder to rub their collective faces in the dirt. She thrashed Ashlinn in their match-up (with her lead in Mouser’s contest, Ash didn’t seem overly worried, though she did flip the knuckles afterward) and soundly beat Petrus, disarming him with a perfect riposte and burying her stiletto in the bigger boy’s chest.
With preliminary bouts done, the top four acolytes remained on the circle’s edge, while all others retired to the benches around. Both Jessamine and Osrik stood undefeated, placed first and second, respectively. Tric had placed third, losing only to Jess. And in fourth place, despite the stormclouds almost visibly gathering over the Shahiid of Songs’ head, sat our own Mia Corvere.
“Final eliminations will now be fought,” Solis announced. “Choose the matches.”
The Hands at Solis’s side bowed. One proffered the human skull, the second reaching inside to pluck one of the four naming stones therein. Mia watched carefully, eyes narrowed. She felt the shadows nestled inside that hollowed crown. The smooth black rock carved with each contender’s name. Her fingers twitching behind her back.
“Acolyte Osrik…”—a second stone—“… faces Acolyte Tric.”
Mia looked across the circle, met by Jessamine’s cold smile.
“Acolyte Mia faces Acolyte Jessamine.”
Solis nodded, turned to the two boys.
“Acolytes, take your places.”
Mia glanced at Tric, flashed him a smile. The undefeated Osrik prowled into the ring, muscular arms gleaming with sweat. The boys faced each other across the circle, Tric re-tying his saltlocks as Oz called the toss and won.
Tric chose his favored scimitar and buckler, Osrik twin shortswords. The gong rang in the dark, and their steel joined, the pair crashing together like waves and rocks on a storm-washed beach. Mia watched on in silence, chewing her lip. Praying.
The goddess, it seemed, was listening.
After a long and bloody struggle, Mia and the other acolytes looking on in awe, Tric managed the impossible. Osrik put up a valiant fight, his form close to perfect, but perhaps at the heart of it, Tric simply had more to win, and much more lose. The match ended with Osrik’s belly opened from groin to ribs, and the stench of bowel and blood hanging thick in the air amid Adonai’s song. Solis cried “Point!” to the applause of the other Shahiid and acolytes, Mia clapping loudest of all.
Adonai and Marielle set to work mending Osrik’s wounds. Tric retired to the benches, drenched and panting. But as he met Mia’s eyes, he smiled.
“Acolyte Mia,” Solis called. “Acolyte Jessamine. Take your places.”
Mia glanced around the room. She spotted Diamo seated at the benches with the other acolytes. He was smiling at her too, lopsided and smug.
“I’m hungry, Shahiid,” Mia said. “What time is it?”
“Almost midbells,” Solis replied. “But we will eat only after preliminaries are concluded. Take your place at circle.”
Mia stood slowly, stretched her arms, touched her toes. Her muscles were sore, and despite all the exercise she’d done to strengthen it, her swordarm was aching. She ran her fingers through her hair, fixed her braid while Jessamine prowled back and forth at her mark. Green eyes locked on her opponent. Hunter’s cunning and animal rage.
“Maw’s teeth, hurry the fuck up, Corvere.”
Mia looked to Tric. The boy nodded encouragement, gave her a quick wink. And finally, the shadows shivering about her, Mia stepped up to her mark.
Solis glowered, turned to the Hand beside him.
“Acolyte Jessamine, call the toss.”
“Trinity.”
The coin flashed in the air. Tumbled end over end.
“Senate side up,” the Hand declared.
“Acolyte Jessamine,” Solis said. “Choose your weapons.”
The redhead strode to the racks. Glanced over her shoulder at Mia, customary smirk in place. She wandered up and down the blades as if uncertain, finger to lips like a maid at market looking for a new dress. But eventually, she settled where Mia always knew she would—the rapier and stiletto combination favored by all Caravaggio fighters. The weapons were needle sharp, and whistled a bright tune as Jessamine sent them twirling in the air. The girl stepped back into the circle, inclined her head to Mia.
“Pity there’s no crossbows on the racks, neh? You might have a chance with forty yards and a stout quarrel between us, little girl.”
Mia ignored the maddening smirk, strode to the weapons. She drew twin gladii from the racks, cut the air with a few experimental swings. A gladius was shorter but heavier than a rapier. Almost as fast and built to take more punishment. A stout blow could shatter a rapier easily, and Naev had shown Mia that a pair of them wielded with skill could build a wall of blades a Caravaggio fighter would be hard-pressed to break. Question was if Mia would have any chance of hitting Jessamine back …
Jessamine glanced to Diamo on the benches. He was watching her closely, still smiling, his eyes bright and wide. He wiped at his upper lip, damp with sweat.
Then he blew Mia a kiss.
“Stop stalling, Corvere,” Jessamine sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Aye,” Mia nodded. “It seems about time.”
Shahiid Solis and his assistants retreated from the ring, leaving the girls alone. Sourceless light gleamed from above, picking out the circle in dull luminance. Mia looked to Weaver Marielle, the smile on those hideous lips. Speaker Adonai leaned against the wall beside her, studying his fingernails. She noticed the Revered Mother, Aalea, Mouser and Spiderkiller had all gathered to watch the final bouts, sitting together on stone benches among the acolytes. Arkemical current seemed to dance in the air. Mia’s skin prickled as her shadow whispered.
“…
no fear
…”
Ashlinn cupped her hands, hooted from the bench. “Kick her skinny arse, Corvere!”
“Enough!” Solis bellowed.
Mia drew a breath.
Jessamine took up her stance.
A gong rang in the dark.
The redhead lunged, stepping quick across the stone, aiming for Mia’s throat. Mia stepped back, battering aside the rapid flurry with her off-hand, riposte whistling past Jessamine’s jaw. Blades sang, pale light gleaming on polished steel. Both competitors were cautious at first; Mia in deference to Jessamine’s skill, and Jessamine out of respect for the steel in Mia’s hand. But soon enough, the redhead gained her confidence, forcing Mia back to the circle’s edge with impressive footwork, her strikes falling like hail.
Strike, feint, lunge went the verse. Parry, riposte came the chorus. The girls danced about the ring to the song, sweat burning in narrowed eyes. Mia was almost entirely on the defensive, dodging back and forth at the ring’s edge. But after three or four minutes, her gladii were growing heavy. Though she launched a few laudable strikes, Mia was already gasping. Her lack of sleep was beginning to show. No mornmeal in her belly didn’t help matters any. She knew it as well as anyone in the room; Jessamine’s constant barrage with her lighter, quicker weapons would spell her end on a long enough timeline.
Mia was too slow to guard, and Jessamine drew blood once, then twice. A thin line of red opened across Mia’s left forearm, a deep gouge peeled back her shoulder. Mia’s breath came quicker, spit on her lips. The blood made her grip treacherous. Her lungs burned. Jessamine simply smiled, maintaining her tempo of feint strike, strike feint. Keeping Mia busy now. Running down the hourglass a little. No sense risking a solid hit from those gladii when blood loss and fatigue could do the work for her.
“You frightened of me, Jess?” Mia lunged forward to try and lock her up.
“Terrified,” the redhead said, slipping away and slicing another gouge in Mia’s arm. “Can’t you see me trembling?”
The pair circled each other, weapons raised. Damp fringe hanging in Mia’s eyes.
Fingers sticky on her hilt.
Gasping.
“So Diamo cracked the antidote, neh?”
Jessamine smiled, red and poisonous. “So I hear.”
“That idiot wouldn’t know venomcraft if it danced on his bollocks in Liisian heels.”
“Shahiid Spiderkiller doesn’t seem to agree.”
Feint, parry, lunge.
Mia wiped the sweat from her brow on her sleeve. “And I suppose when I go back to my room this eve, everything’s going to be exactly where I left it?”
“You’re presuming you’re going to make it back to your room at all, little girl.”
Jessamine stepped forward, striking at face, chest, belly. Mia staggered, threw a reckless riposte to force the redhead away. Jessamine backed off, blades twirling, moving swift and sure. Still smiling.
“Those big old meat cleavers getting heavy yet?” she asked.
“Think time’s on your side, neh?”
Jessamine simply grinned in response. But Mia grinned wider as the midmeal bells began tolling, a song of brass and echoes filling the hall.