The girl looked to the wet stone at her feet. Knowing exactly what had been washed away in the moments before she entered the room. Knowing Tric hadn’t quavered. Hadn’t shattered.
“We are killers one,” Mia whispered. “Killers all.”
This was it. All the years. All the miles. All the sleepless nevernights and endless turns. This was the path she’d set her feet on. They’d hung her father. Tore her from her mother’s arms, killed her baby brother. Her house, her familia, her world destroyed.
But was it reason enough? To murder this nameless boy?
In ending him, she ensured her place here. She’d become the Blade to pierce Duomo’s heart, slip into Remus’s guts, slit Scaeva’s throat ear to ear. They deserved to die, Daughters knew. Die a thousand times over. Screaming. Begging. Weeping.
But the boy was weeping too. Ropes of snot streaking his lip. Mia looked down at him and he moaned behind the gag. Shaking his head. She could see the words in his eyes.
Please.
Please, no.
She glanced at Mother Drusilla. Gentle smile. Soft eyes. Wet stone at her feet. And she searched herself for a reason to kill this boy. Someone’s brother. Someone’s son. Barely older than she. Digging deep, through the muck and the blood. The tatters of the morality she’d cast aside when she set her feet upon this road, paved with the best of intentions. Diamo’s screams as he died, echoing inside her head. The countless men and women she’d slaughtered inside the Philosopher’s Stone. The Luminatii she’d butchered on the steps of the Basilica Grande.
I am steel
, she told herself.
All this had a taken a second. A moment beneath the Revered Mother’s cool gaze. And in the next moment, Mia was kneeling before the boy. Placing the blade at his throat. Heart drumming against her ribs. Speaking the words a believer might.
I am steel.
“
Hear me, Niah
,” she whispered. “
Hear me, Mother. This flesh your feast. This blood your wine. This life, this end, my gift to you. Hold him close.
”
The old woman smiled.
The boy whimpered.
Mia took a deep, shuddering breath. Naev’s warning echoing in her head. And to her horror, she finally understood. Finally heard it. Just as she’d heard it above the forum on the battlements where her father hung.
Music.
The dirge of the ghostly choir. The thunder of her own pulse. The gentle sobbing of this poor boy cut through with the memory of applause from a holy brigand and a beautiful consul and the world gone wrong and rotten. And she knew, then. As she’d always known. For all the miles, all the years, all the dusty tomes and bleeding hands and noxious gloom. Iron or glass or steel, what she was made of now made no difference at all. It was what she would
become
when she killed this boy that would truly matter.
Scaeva deserved to die. Duomo. Remus. Diamo. Those Luminatii at the Basilica Grande were tools of the Senate’s war machine. Even the men and women in the Stone were hardened criminals. In the dark of her bedchamber, she might convince herself their deaths were justified if she tried hard enough. Might find herself believing that everyone she’d killed to this point, the countless endings she’d gifted, the orchestra of screams, and she, the scarlet maestro … all of them deserved it.
But this boy?
This nameless, blameless child?
If she killed him, truth was she deserved it too. And for all the miles and all the years, vengeance wasn’t a good enough reason to become the monster she hunted.
Mia withdrew the knife from the boy’s throat.
Slowly climbed off her knees.
“Not for this,” she said.
Drusilla searched her face, gaze becoming iron-hard.
“We warned you, Mia Corvere. Marked by the Mother, or no. If you fail in this, you fail utterly. All Mercurio’s work, all the turns you have studied at his feet, within these walls. The blood, the death,
all of it
will be for nothing.”
She looked down into the boy’s eyes. Someone’s brother. Someone’s son.
Her hands were shaking. Tears in her eyes. Ashes on her tongue.
But still …
“Not for nothing,” she said.
And she handed back the blade.
She lay on her bed in the dark. A shadow beside her, not saying a word.
The last of her cigarillos in her hand. A long, broken finger of ash hanging from the smoldering tip. Fringe in her eyes. Black in her head.
What would they do with her? Relegate her to the role of a Hand?
Scourge her?
Kill her?
It didn’t matter, either way. She’d never become a Blade now. Never learn the deeper mysteries of the Church, or the mysteries of who and what she was. Never become as sharp as she’d need to be to stand a chance of ending Scaeva. He was untouchable to her now, just as Mercurio had—
Mercurio …
What would he do?
What would he say?
Keys at her door. She couldn’t even be bothered reaching for her stiletto. Whoever it was, she didn’t care. Placing the cigarillo at her lips, she stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows writhe.
Soft footsteps. The
click-clack
of a walking stick on cold stone.
A bent and tired figure standing at the foot of her bed.
“Let’s go home, little Crow.”
She looked at the old man. Tears in her eyes.
O, Daughters, how she hated herself, then …
“Yes, Shahiid,” she said.
A handful of possessions was all she left with. Her gravebone dagger. The ironwood brooch she’d worked so hard for. A tightly bound oilskin containing her books, Lotti’s bloodstained notes. Nothing else would make the Blood Walk. Nothing else she could carry.
Naev walked with them, Mia and the old man, down the spiral path to the speaker’s chambers. But the woman refused to step inside Adonai’s domain.
“Think on it for a turn or two,” Naev said from the threshold. “Hurts mend in time. Naev will be glad to see her back here. Naev can speak to Mother Drusilla on her behalf while she is gone. She can accompany Naev on the Last Hope runs. It is good country. A good life. Perhaps not what she wanted”—she looked to the chamber and the speaker beyond—“… but life is seldom that.”
Mia nodded. Squeezed the woman’s hand. “Thank you, Naev.”
They stepped into Adonai’s chambers. The smell of blood thick in the air. The speaker knelt at the pool’s apex, smeared in gore. He actually bowed to Mercurio, eyes to the floor.
The old man looked more tired than Mia had ever seen him. The walk down the stairs had been slow and torturous, his cane beating hard with each step. He’d never have imagined making this walk again, she supposed. Never thought he’d be coming back here to fetch her—his finest, his failure—dragging her back to Godsgrave in disgrace. But the Revered Mother had apparently advised Mercurio it would be best if Mia were not present for initiation. Spiderkiller was furious that her favor had been squandered. Lord Cassius had no time for weakness, or weaklings, and he’d be arriving in the Mountain soon to anoint the others with his blood. Mia was to return to the ’Grave with her Shahiid, think long and hard about her future. She could come back to the Mountain and serve out her life as a Hand. Or she could decide that living in failure was unacceptable, and deal with the matter herself.
Drusilla had made it plain which option she preferred Mia take.
And she’d never had a chance to say goodbye to Tric …
“Come on, little Crow,” Mercurio sighed. “Never could stand these fucking pools. Sooner we get in, the sooner we get out.”
“Wait!” came a call.
Mia turned, heart surging, think perhaps he’d come to see her off. But instead, she saw Ashlinn running down the corridor toward her. Disappointment and joy all mixed together in Mia’s chest, Ash throwing her arms around Mia’s shoulders and squeezing tight, Mia hugging back for all she was worth.
“You were going to leave without a goodbye?” Ash demanded.
“I’ll be back,” Mia said. “A few turns or so.”
Ash took a knowing glance at Mia’s pack, the belongings inside. Saying nothing.
“You’ve the look of someone familiar,” Mercurio said. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Ashlinn,” the girl replied. “Ashlinn Järnheim.”
“You’re Torvar’s girl? How is the old bastard?”
“Same as he’s been for years. Half-blind. Crippled. Mutilated.”
“You did him proud, Ash.” Mia said. “You passed where others failed.”
“You didn’t fail, Corvere,” Ash replied. “Don’t ever think that.”
Mia smiled sadly. “I’m sure.”
“I mean it.” Ash squeezed her hand. “You never belonged here, Mia. You deserve better than this.”
Mia’s smile died. Confusion in her eyes. Mercurio growled with impatience.
“Come on, enough of the hugging shite. Let’s be off.”
Ash scowled at the old man. Looked to Mia, uncertain. She took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into dark water. And then she leaned in slow, cupped Mia’s face, and kissed her gently on the lips.
It lasted a moment too long. Perhaps not long enough? Warm and soft and honeysweet. Before Mia could decide, it was already over. Ash broke the kiss, squeezing Mia’s hand. A million unsaid words shining in her eyes. A million more on Mia’s tongue.
“… Say goodbye to Tric for me?” she finally asked.
Ash’s face dropped. She sighed. Nodded slow.
“I will. I promise.”
Mia let go of her friend’s hand. Looked around the walls. The glyphs and the blood. Wondering if this would be the last time she saw any of it. Glancing at Adonai, Mercurio, Ash. And with a deep breath, she stepped into the pool.
The red surged around her.
Mia closed her eyes.
And she fell.
Ashlinn stood for an age, there in the dark. She ran her fingertips across her lips, wondering about all that might have been. Watching Adonai watching the blood. That suicide beauty, coiled down here in the gloom. A spider in the center of his scarlet web, feeling for the faintest vibrations along its strands.
“When does the Lord of Blades arrive, great Speaker?” Ashlinn asked.
Adonai blinked. Looked up from the red as if surprised she was still there.
“When he arrives, little Acolyte,” he replied.
Ash smiled, gave a grand, sweeping bow and turned from the chamber. She trudged up the spiral stairs, thumbs in her belt, chewing at the end of one of her warbraids. The bells struck two and she cursed, quickened her pace. Climbing swift through the Mountain’s heart, up to the massive deck of the Sky Altar.
The room had been cleaned, the places set for the initiation feast. The kitchens were jammed and noisy, but the altar itself was deserted. All save for a solitary figure, off in the shadow, leaning against the railing and staring out into the dark.
“How goes, Tricky?”
The boy glanced up, nodded greeting. Turned his eyes back to the rolling wastes below. The endless, beautiful night.
“I never get tired of seeing this,” he said.
“It’s a sight,” Ash agreed, leaning on the rail beside him.
“Oz said you wanted to speak to me,” he murmured. “About Mia.”
“She’s gone back to Godsgrave for a turn or two. Get her head straight.”
“I still can’t fathom it,” Tric sighed. “Of any of us, she had the best reason for being here.”
“Almost.”
“Never thought she’d stumble at the final hurdle.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a stumble,” Ash shrugged. “Maybe she just chose not to jump. I’m glad she’s not going to be here for initiation. Deciding not to murder an innocent makes her better than this place.”
Tric looked at her sideways. “You passed the trial.
You
murdered an innocent.”
“Because I have a better reason for being here than Mia did, Tricky.”
“And what’s that?”
“Familia,” she said.
“Mia was here for her familia too.”
“Aye,” Ash nodded. “Difference is,
my
da is still alive. You’d be surprised how motivating a grumpy ex-murderer with no testicles can be.”
Tric smirked, turned his eyes to the dark again. Ash spoke softly.
“Mia said to tell you goodbye.”
“She’ll be back,” Tric said. “I’ll see her again.”
“… I’m not so sure.”
“Hand’s robes might suit her. And what’s she going to do, fold up? Her? No way.”
“O, she might decide to join the Hands. But still, I don’t think you’ll see her again.”
“Why’s that?”
Ash sighed from the depths of her toes. “Like I said before, it’s quite a nose you’ve got there, Tricky. And I can’t have you sniffing around the entrée this eve.”
“What do y—
hrrk
.”
Tric blinked at the dagger in Ash’s hand. The blade gleaming red and dripping. He looked down at the stain spreading across his shirt as she buried the knife in his chest again. And again. And again. He gasped, reached out toward her throat, eyes wide. But quick as lies, she shoved him hard and sent him backward over the railing. Tumbling down, down into the everblack wastes below.
Without a sound.
Without a whimper.
Gone.
Ash looked down into the darkness. Whispered soft.
“Sorry, Tricky.”
The girl knelt with a kerchief, soaked up the blood that had fallen on the stone. Cleaning her blade and slipping it back into her sleeve. Checking over her shoulder. The altar was still deserted, Hands bustling about the kitchen in preparation for the coming feast. Nine places set at table. One for each of the three acolytes who would be initiated at feast’s end. Five for the Ministry; Drusilla, Mouser, Solis, Aalea and Spiderkiller. And the last, at the table’s head, for the Lord of Blades. The Black Prince. The head of the Red Church congregation himself.
“Cassius,” she whispered.
“It’s done?”
Ashlinn turned and saw a figure in stolen Hands’ robes.
“It’s done.” Ash straightened, looked out over the wastes. “Little Tricky won’t be around to smell a thing. Presuming there’s something to smell, of course.”
“I’ll carry my end,” her brother replied.
“Don’t fuck it up, Oz,” Ash warned. “You set our last chance on fire. We could’ve had Cassius in a bag months ago. He was just sitting here in the open.”