Nevernight (23 page)

“…
you need not fear me
…”

Drusilla laughed softly. “One does not dwell in shadows all her life without learning a thing or two about those that share them. You have no power over me here.”

“It’s all right, Mister Kindly,” Mia said. “Don’t stray far. If I have need, I’ll call.”

The cat made of shadows stared for a long, mute moment. The old woman glared back at him. But finally, Mia felt him look to her, bob his head.

“…
as it please you
…”

And without a sound, he vanished.

Mia felt the shadowcat’s absence almost immediately, a slow fear creeping into her belly. Alone with the matron of a flock of murderers. Her mind burning with the memory of Solis’s eyes as he hacked off her arm. Would she regain full use of it? What if the Sp—

“You keep interesting company, Acolyte,” Drusilla said.

Mia looked to the door Marielle and Adonai had left by.

“No more than you, Revered Mother.”

“As I say, you have my apologies if the siblings put you ill at ease. Marielle and Adonai have dwelled in the Quiet Mountain for some time. In return for services rendered, we provide sanctuary in a world not entirely hospitable to those who hold the title of sorcerii.”

“I though the Ashkahi arts died along with their race?”

“The Ashkahi race is dead and gone, true.” Drusilla shrugged. “But death knows not greed. The Mother keeps only what she needs. And the Ashkahi arts live on in those brave enough to embrace the suffering they bring.”

“I saw Naev performing blood sorcery in the desert,” Mia said. “The phial, the writing. That’s how she called for help? Adonai taught her?”

“Adonai teaches nothing. The blood in the phial was his. He manipulates it from afar. His blood, and those whose blood he possesses. Such is the speaker’s gift. And his curse.”

“And his sister?”

“A flesh weaver. She can make a peerless beauty of flesh, or a hideousness that knows no bounds.”

“But if Marielle can shape flesh to her will, why is her own so…”

“Mastery of the Ashkahi arts comes with a price. Weavers use flesh like a potter uses clay. But with each use of their art, their own flesh grows ever more hideous.” Drusilla shook her head. “One must give credit to the Ashkahi. I can think of no finer torture than to have power absolute over all but your own.”

“And Adonai?”

“Blood speakers thirst after that which they hold affinity for. They know no sustenance, save that which can be found in another’s veins.”

Mia blinked. “They drink…”

“They do.”

“But blood’s an emetic,” Mia said. “Drink too much, you’ll spew fountains.”

“Mercurio’s lessons were … eclectic, it seems.”

“You know Mercurio?”

The old woman smiled. “Quite well, child.”

Mia shrugged. “Well, he made me drink horse blood once. In case I was stranded somewhere with no water, I’d know what to expect.”

Drusilla smiled wider at that, shook her head. “’Tis true that tasting more than a mouthful of blood is a sure way to taste it a second time. Speakers are no exception. A life of torture, once more, you see? Drink a little, know constant hunger. Drink too much, know constant sickness.”

“That sounds … awful.”

“All power comes with a tithe. We all pay a price. Speakers, their hunger. Weavers, their impotence. And those who call the Dark…”—Drusilla looked down to Mia’s shadow—“… well, eventually it calls them back.”

Mia’s eyes drifted to the black at her feet. Fear surging. “You know what I am?”

“Mercurio told me of your talents. Solis told me of your little performance in the Hall of Songs. I know you are marked by the Night herself, though I know not why.”

“Marked by the Night,” Mia said. “Mercurio said the same thing.”

“Do not believe for a moment it will earn you favoritism here. Marked by the Mother you may be, but your place is not yet earned. And the next time you squander your gifts on parlor tricks to insult your Shahiid, you may lose more than a limb.”

Mia looked down at her bruised elbow. Her voice, barely a murmur.

“I didn’t mean insult, Revered Mother.”

“An acolyte has not bled Solis in years. I’m surprised he only took your arm.”

Mia frowned. “And you’re at peace with this? Masters maiming novices?”

“You are not maimed, Acolyte. You still have your arm, unless I’m mistaken. This not a finishing school for young dons and donas. The Shahiid here are artisans of death, charged with making you worthy of service to the goddess. Some of you will never leave these walls.

“Solis looks to make an example of someone in his class early. But beneath the callousness, his task is to teach, and he takes pride in it. If you give him reason to hurt you again, he will do so without compunction. Hurting things is in Solis’s nature, and it is
this very nature
that suits him so ideally to teaching you to hurt others.”

The enormity of it all began to dawn on Mia. The reality of where she was. What she was doing. This place was a forge where Blades were honed, death sculpted. Even after years at Mercurio’s feet, she had
so
much to learn, and a misstep could cost her dear. Truth was, she’d been showing off. And while Solis had acted an utter prick, she’d misstepped by trying to best him in front the entire flock. She resolved not to let pride have its head again in future. She was here for one reason, and one reason only: Consul Scaeva and Cardinal Duomo and Justicus Remus needed to die. She needed to become skilled enough, sharp enough, hard enough to end each and every one of them, and that wasn’t going to happen if she lost herself in childish games. Time to keep her mouth well on the safe side of shut and play it smart.

“I understand, Revered Mother.”

“You will be unable to study in the Hall of Songs until your hurts are healed,” Drusilla said. “I have spoken to Shahiid Aalea, and she has agreed to begin your tutelage early.”

“Aalea.” Mia swallowed thickly. “Shahiid of Masks.”

The old woman smiled. “There is nothing to fear, child. You will find yourself looking forward to her lessons in time.”

Drusilla stood, tucked her hands into her sleeves.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve other tasks to attend. If you’ve need, or questions answered, seek me out. Like all of us, I am here to serve.”

The woman left without a sound, padding off into the darkness. Mia watched her leave, wondering at her words. What had she said?

“
Those who call the Dark … well, eventually it calls them back.
”

Mercurio had never seemed entirely at ease around Mister Kindly, though he’d never outright spoken of it. For his own part, the not-cat seemed content enough to ignore her master, and stayed out of sight when Mercurio was around. Growing up, she’d never really had anyone to speak to about her talents. No tome in Mercurio’s store tackled the topic, and folklore about darkin was contradictory at best, superstitious twaddle at worst.
1
She’d simply muddled along with her growing gifts as best she was able. When truedark fell the year she turned eleven, she’d noticed her connection to the shadows felt stronger. And the truedark she’d turned fourteen …

No.

Don’t look.

“…
she seems … nice
…”

Mister Kindly appeared at the foot of the slab, bringing a smile to Mia’s lips.

“‘Nice’ is one word for it.”

“…
i have others less flattering, but there has been enough bloodshed for one turn
…”

Mia winced as she flexed her arm, pain lancing into her shoulder. Her anxiety was fading with Mister Kindly back by her side, replaced now with anger. She cursed beneath her breath, knowing this wound would take her out of Songs for weeks. Wishing she’d not been so reckless, or that Shahiid Solis hadn’t so dearly deserved a drubbing, she set about tying a sling about her neck.

“…
you should sleep. you may need your strength tomorrow
…”

Mia sucked her lip. Nodded. Mister Kindly was right. Mercurio had been close-lipped about what to expect from within the Church. He’d prepared her as best he could, but she got the impression there was only so much he could reveal before he betrayed the congregation’s trust. With the Luminatii vowing to eradicate the Church if it could, secrecy was the watchword beyond these walls. She’d no idea how Church disciples moved from city to city, how the local chapels were run, even what the internal hierarchy was. Solis was Master of Songs, which meant he taught the art of the sword. She supposed the Shahiid of Pockets would teach thievery? Trickstering? But as for the Shahiid of Truths and Masks, Mia had no real idea what to expect from their tutelage.

“I
am
tired,” she sighed, rubbing her temples.

“…
sleep then
…”

“Right. You coming?”

“…
always
…”

The girl slipped her wounded arm into her sling, the not-cat slipped into her shadow, and the pair of them slipped from the room.

Tric was waiting outside her bedchamber when she arrived, crouched with his back to the wall. He rose swiftly when he saw Mia approach, relief in his eyes.

“Thank Our Lady,” he breathed. “You’re all right.”

Mia shifted her arm, wincing. “A little bruised, but in one piece.”

“That bastard Solis,” Tric hissed. “I wanted to gut him for what he did. Gave it a roll, but he knocked me flat on my arse and kicked me senseless.”

Mia looked over the new bruises on Tric’s face, shook her head. “My brave centurion. Riding in on his charger to save his poor damsel? Hold me, brave sir, I fear I shall swoon.”

“Sod off,” Tric scowled. “He hurt you.”

“The Revered Mother said he does it all the time. Sets the tone in his classes on the first smart-arse stupid enough to raise her head.”

“Enter Mia Corvere, stage left,” Tric grinned.

Mia bowed low. “I suppose Solis can afford to be brutal with Weaver Marielle about.”

“She really mended the wound with her bare hands?”

Mia pulled her elbow out of the sling, gingerly lifted her shirtsleeve. Tric slowly turned her arm this way and that, those big, callused hands impossibly gentle. Mia pulled her sleeve down before the goosebumps began to show.

“See? Just a bruise or two to mark the occasion of my first dismemberment.”

Tric scratched at his saltlocks, looking abashed. “I was … worried about you.”

She stared up at the boy, those awful tattoos and hazel eyes. Wondering what was going on behind them.

“I don’t need you worrying about me, Tric. This place has danger enough to kill us both. If you let yourself fret on me, you’ll miss the knife aimed at
you
.”

“I’m not fretting,” the boy scowled. “I’ve just … got your back, is all.”

She found herself smiling. A grateful warmth inside her belly. What she’d said was true—this mountain wasn’t a sewing circle. The dangers within these halls might end them both. Still, it was comforting to know someone was looking out for her, that she’d something to put her back against. And for the first time in her life, it wasn’t made of shadows.

“Well … my thanks, Don Tric.” She gave a smiling curtsey, the uncomfortable silence banished by the boy’s chuckle.

“You hungry?”

“… Starved,” she realized.

“Perhaps the Pale Daughter would accompany me to the kitchens?”

Tric crooked his elbow, offered his arm. Mia punched it, hard enough to make him yelp. And smiling, the pair sauntered off down the corridor in search of food.

1. One famous tale centers around the town of Blackbridge in the east of Itreya. Ernesto Giancarli, confessor of Aa’s church, was sent by the grand cardinal to investigate claims that several daughters of the town’s more well-to-do gentry had been seduced by a darkin. Each of these unions had resulted in a child—black of hair and eye, the same pale skin as their father supposedly had. Each of the ladies in question was resolute in her tale—wandering in the woods, they had come across a handsome stranger, and, innocent as babes, had fallen to his dark charms. Though Giancarli investigated extensively, no trace of this darkin could be found, and though they almost certainly shared a common father by their look, the children themselves seemed perfectly normal. The confessor comforted the fathers of the girls by assuring them it was entirely possible a darkin was responsible, and returned to Godsgrave to report an inconclusive finding to his cardinal.

Giancarli
did
note in his report that Blackbridge’s young constable—a pale, dark-haired fellow by the name of Delfini, appointed to the role some twelve months previous—had been most helpful throughout his investigation.

CHAPTER 12

Q
UESTIONS

“…
someone comes
…”

Mia awoke in the dark, blinking hard. Rising up on her elbow, she hissed, pain lancing through her left arm. Her bruises were practically glowing in the dark.

Someone was picking the lock on her bedroom door. It couldn’t be Naev; she’d just knock. Who then? Another acolyte? The one who’d killed Floodcaller? Mia drew her stiletto and rolled out of bed, creeping across the flagstones into a darkened corner. She raised her knife with her off-hand as the door opened and a freckled face framed by blond braids peeked through.

“Corvere,” a voice hissed. “You there?”

“… Ashlinn?” Mia rose from her hiding place, hid the gravebone blade back at her wrist. “Maw’s teeth, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Told you. My friends call me Ash.” The blonde slipped into the room with a freckled grin, took a moment to spot Mia in the dark. “And if I was
sneaking
, you’d not have heard me ’til my blade was on your throat, Corvere.”

“O, really?” Mia raised an eyebrow, smiling too.

“Bet your life on it. How’s the wing?” Ashlinn gave Mia a friendly slap on the arm, and the girl hissed a flaming curse, clutching her elbow.

“Shit, sorry,” Ashlinn whispered. “Forgot you were left-handed.”

“It’s all right.” Mia winced, rubbing her elbow. “Not like I don’t have a spare. What are you doing picking my lock, anyway? Can’t practice on your own?”