by Jay Kristoff
Mia reached for her knife. Mercurio snatched it away, silver-quick, held it up between them. Tiny amber eyes twinkled at her in the gloom.
“Not until you earn it,” he said.
“But it’s mine,” Mia protested.
“Forget the girl who had everything. She died when her father did.”
“But I—”
“Nothing is where you start. Own nothing. Know nothing. Be nothing.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
The old man crushed out his cigarillo on the boards between them.
His smile made her smile in return.
“Because then you can do anything.”
In years to come, Mia would look back on the moment she first saw the Sky Altar and realize it was the moment she started believing in the divinities. O, Mercurio had indoctrinated her into the religion of the Mother. Death as an offering. Life as a vocation. And she’d been raised a good god-fearing daughter of Aa before all that. But it wasn’t until she looked over that balcony that she embraced the probability of it, or began to truly understand where she was.
She and Tric were led up another of the Church’s (seemingly endless) flights of stairs by Naev and other robed figures. All twenty-eight acolytes had decided to take supper, quiet conversations marking their climb, the mix of accents reminding Mia of the Little Liis market. But all conversation stilled as the group reached the landing. Mia caught her breath, pressed one hand to her chest. Naev whispered in her ear.
“Welcome to the Sky Altar.”
The platform was carved in the Mountain’s side, open to the air above. Tables were laid out in a T, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread kissing the air. And though her stomach growled at the presence of food, Mia’s thoughts were consumed entirely by the sight before her.
The platform protruded from the Mountain’s flank, a thousand-foot drop waiting just beyond the ironwood railing. She could see the Whisperwastes below, tiny and perfect and still. But above, where the sky should have burned with the light of stubborn suns, she could see only darkness, black and whole and perfect.
Filled with tiny stars.
“What in the name of the Light…” she breathed.
“Not the Light,” Naev slurred. “The Dark.”
“How can this be? Truedark won’t fall for at least another year.”
“It is always truedark here.”
“But that’s impossible…”
“Only if here is where she supposes it to be.” The woman shrugged. “It is not.”
The acolytes were shown to their places, gawping at the black above. Though it should have been howling at this altitude, not a breath of wind disturbed the scene. Not a noise, save hushed voices and Mia’s own rushing pulse.
She found herself seated with Tric on her right, the slight boy with the ice-blue eyes on her left. Seated opposite was the pair Mia had guessed were brother and sister. The girl had blond hair plaited in tight warbraids, shaved in an undercut. Her face was pretty and dimpled, smattered with freckles. Her brother possessed the same round face, though he didn’t smile, so no dimples made appearance. His hair was a crop of snarled spikes. Both had eyes blue as empty skies. Their cheeks were still crusted with blood from the baptism ceremony.
Mia had already received one death threat since she arrived. She wondered if every acolyte in this year’s crop would be an opponent or outright enemy.
The blond girl pointed to Mia’s cheeks with her knife. “You’ve got something on your face.”
“You too,” Mia nodded. “Good color on you, though. Brings out your eyes.”
The girl snorted, grinned lopsided.
“Well,” Mia said. “Shall we introduce ourselves, or just glare the whole meal?”
“I’m Ashlinn Järnheim,” the girl replied. “Ash for short. This is my brother, Osrik.”
“Mia Corvere. This is Tric,” Mia said, nodding at her friend.
For his own part, Tric was glaring down the table at the other Dweymeri. The bigger boy had the same square jaw and flat brow as Tric, but he was taller, broader, and where Tric’s tattoos were scrawled and artless, the bigger boy’s face was marked in ink of exquisite craftsmanship. He was watching Tric the way a whitedrake watches a seal pup.
“Hello, Tric,” said Ashlinn, offering her hand.
The boy shook it without looking at her. “Pleasure.”
Ashlinn, Osrik and Mia all looked expectantly at the pale boy on Mia’s left. For his part, the boy was gazing up at the night sky. His lips were pursed, as if he were sucking his teeth. Mia realized he was handsome—well, “beautiful” was probably a better word—with high cheekbones and the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen. But thin. Far too thin.
“I’m Mia,” she said, offering her hand.
The boy blinked, turned his gaze to the girl. Lifting a piece of charboard from his lap, he wrote on it with a stick of chalk and held it up for Mia to see.
HUSH, it said.
Mia blinked. “That’s your name?”
The beautiful boy nodded, turned his stare back to the sky without a sound. He didn’t make a peep throughout the entire meal.
Ashlinn, Osrik and Mia spoke as food was served—chicken broth and mutton in lemon butter, roast vegetables and a delicious Itreyan red. Ashlinn handled most of the conversational duties, while Osrik seemed more intent on watching the room. The siblings were sixteen and seventeen (Osrik the elder) and had arrived five turns prior. Their mentor (and father, it turned out) had been far more forthcoming about finding the Church than Old Mercurio, and the siblings had avoided any monstrosities on their way to the Quiet Mountain. Ashlinn seemed impressed by Mia’s story of the sand kraken. Osrik seemed more impressed with Jessamine. The redhead and her cunning wolf eyes was seated three stools down, and Osrik couldn’t seem to tear his stare away. For her part, the girl seemed more intent on the thuggish Itreyan boy seated beside her, whispering to him and occasionally staring daggers at Mia.
Mia could feel other furtive glances and lingering stares—though some were better at hiding it than others, almost every acolyte was studying their fellows. Hush simply stared at the sky and sipped his broth like it was a chore, not touching any other food.
Mia watched the Ministry between courses, noting the way they interacted. Solis, the blind Shahiid of Songs, seemed to dominate conversation, though from the occasional bursts of laughter he elicited, Mouser, the Shahiid of Pockets seemed possessed of the keenest wit. Spiderkiller and Aalea, Shahiid of Truths and Masks, sat so close they touched. All paid the utmost respect to Revered Mother Drusilla, conversation stilling when the old woman spoke.
It was halfway through the main that Mia felt a queasy feeling creep into her gut. She looked about the room, felt Mister Kindly curling up in her shadow. The Revered Mother stood suddenly, the Ministry members about her swiftly following suit, gazes downturned.
Mother Drusilla spoke, eyes on the acolytes.
“All of you, please rise.”
Mia climbed to her feet, frowning softly. Ashlinn turned to her brother, whispering with something close to fervor.
“Black Mother, he’s here.”
Mia realized a dark-haired man was standing at the Sky Altar’s balcony, overlooking the shifting wastes below—though for the life of her, she’d not seen him actually enter the room. She felt her shadow trembling, shrinking, Mister Kindly curling up at her feet.
“Lord Cassius,” Drusilla said, bowing. “You honor us.”
The man turned to the Revered Mother with a thin smile. He was tall, muscular, clad in soft dark leather. Long black hair framed piercing eyes and a jaw you could break your fist on. He wore a heavy black cloak and twin blades at his waist. Perfectly plain. Perfectly deadly. He spoke with a voice that made Mia tingle in all the wrong places.
“Be at peace, Revered Mother.” Dark eyes roamed the new acolytes, still standing as if to attention. “I simply wished to admire the view. May I join you?”
“Of course,
Lord.”
The Revered Mother vacated her seat at the head of the Ministry’s table, the other Shahiid shuffling about to accommodate the newcomer. Still smiling, the man stepped to the Mother’s seat, soundless as the sunsset. His movements were smooth, flowing like water, sweeping aside his cloak as he sat in the Revered Mother’s chair. The sickness in Mia’s belly surged as the strange man glanced directly at her. But as he took a seat and lifted a cup of wine, the spell of utter stillness he’d seemed to have cast over the room softly broke. Hands scuttled to set a new place at table, the Ministry sank slowly into their seats, acolytes following. Conversation began again, cautious at first, relaxing by inches until it filled the room.
Mia found herself staring at the mysterious newcomer throughout the meal, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, his throat. She was sure it was a trick of the light, but his long raven hair seemed as if it were almost moving, his eyes glittering with some inner light.
Mia looked for Naev, but the woman was seated with other Hands, too far away.
“Ashlinn,” she finally whispered. “Who is that?”
The girl blinked at Mia. Her brother Osrik raised an eyebrow.
“Maw’s teeth, Corvere, that’s Cassius. The Black Prince. Lord of Blades. Leader of the entire congregation. More bodies on him than a Liisian necropolis.”
“What’s he doing here? Is he a teacher?”
“No.” Osrik shook his head. “We’d no idea he’d be here this eve.”
“Da always told us Cassius stayed away from here,” Ashlinn said. “Keeps his comings and goings well secret. No disciple of the Church knows where he’ll be until he gets there. Only attends the Mountain for initiation ceremonies, they say.”
Osrik nodded, glanced to the students around them. “Some acolytes only lay eyes on him once in their life. The night he declares them full-fledged Blades. If you’re chosen, he’ll anoint you just as the Revered Mother did tonight at the baptism.” The boy pointed to the dried gore on Mia’s cheeks. “Only it’ll be with his own blood. The blood of the Lord of Blades. Right Hand of the Mother herself.”
Mia found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the man.
Ashlinn flashed her a dimpled smile.
“For the leader of a cult of mass murderers, he’s not hard on the eyes, neh?”
Mia dragged her fringe from her lashes, heart in her throat. Ashlinn wasn’t—
“Keep staring at me, koffi,” said a deep voice, “and I’ll cut out those pretty eyes.”
Mia blinked in the sudden still, turned back to her table. She realized the big Dweymeri boy was speaking to Tric, contempt in his gaze.
Tric rose, roastknife clutched in his hand.
“What did you call me, bastard?”
“You name me bastard?” The big Dweymeri laughed. “My name is Floodcaller, thirdson of Rainrunner of the Seaspear clan. What is your clan, koffi? Did your father even give your mother his name when he was done wiping her stink off his cock?”
Tric’s face paled, his jaw clenched.
“You’re a fucking dead man,” he hissed.
Mia put a restraining hand on his arm, but Tric was off, diving toward Floodcaller’s throat. The bigger boy was on his feet, leaping across the table and knocking plates, glasses and both Mia and Hush aside in his haste to get to Tric. Mia fell with a curse and a smash of crockery, her shoulder knocking the pale boy’s breath loose in a spray of spit.
Floodcaller caught Tric in a bearhug as they crashed to the floor, pottery and glassware shattering. He outweighed Tric by a hundred pounds—he was easily the strongest person in the room. Bigger even than the Shahiid of Songs, who turned blind eyes to the melee and roared, “YOU BOYS, ENOUGH!”
The boys were having none of it, flailing and punching and spitting. Tric landed a good blow to Floodcaller’s face, mashing lips into teeth. But Mia was astonished at how easily the big Dweymeri dominated Tric, flipping him over and landing blow after blow into the smaller boy’s ribs, more against his jaw. The acolytes gathered around the brawl, none moving to help. Mia pulled herself off Hush and was set to step in when she saw Shahiid Solis kick back his chair and march toward the melee.
Though the man appeared utterly blind, he moved quick and sure. Clapping one hand on Floodcaller’s shoulder, he dropped a hook like an anvil on the boy’s jaw, sent him sprawling. Tric tried scrambling to his feet, but Solis buried his boot in the boy’s gut, knocking the wind and fight out of him with one blow. Turning on Floodcaller, the Shahiid stomped on his bollocks hard, curled the Dweymeri boy up in a squealing ball.
It’d taken only a handful of heartbeats, but the Shahiid had whipped both boys like disobedient puppies, pale, sightless eyes turned to the sky all the while.
“Disgraceful,” he growled, seizing both groaning boys by their scruffs. “If you must fight like dogs, you can eat outside with the rest of them.”
The Shahiid of Songs dragged Tric and Floodcaller to the balcony. Gripping each by the throat, the big man pushed them against the railing, the thousand-foot drop yawning behind them. Both boys were choking, clawing at the Shahiid’s grip. The man’s blind eyes showed no pity, the boys just a heartbeat away from death on the rocks below. Mia’s hand was on her dagger when the Revered Mother spoke.
“Enough, Solis.”
The man titled his head, turned milk-white eyes toward the sound of her voice.
“Revered Mother,” he said.
Floodcaller and Tric both collapsed to the deck, gasping for air. Mia could scarcely breathe herself. She looked for Lord Cassius and found he was simply gone, an empty chair marking the place where the Lord of Blades had sat moments before. Again, she swore she’d never even seen him move. Mother Drusilla stepped out from behind her table, drifted to where the boys lay coughing and sputtering.
“O, I remember what it was to be young. Ever something to prove. And boys will be boys, they say.” She knelt, touched Tric’s bloody cheek. Smoothed Floodcaller’s saltlocks. “But you are boys no longer. You are servants of the Mother, tithed to her Church. You are killers one, killers all. And I expect you all to behave as such.” She glanced up at the assembled acolytes. “A poor example has been set tonight indeed.”
Mother Drusilla helped the bleeding Dweymeri to their feet, her matronly facade momentarily evaporating, every one of her eighty-three murders dripping in her voice.
“So. The next time the pair of you fall to scrapping like boys in a back alley, I will see to it that you remain boys for the rest of your lives. Is that understood?”
Mia watched these two towering lumps shrink, staring at their feet. And when they spoke in unison, like toddlers before a scolding parent, it was all either could do to muster a squeak.
“Yes, Revered Mother,” they said.
“Good.” The motherly smile returned as if it had never left, and Drusilla looked about the acolytes with kindly eyes. “I think supper is done for the evening. Go to your bedchambers, all of you. Lessons begin tomorrow.”
The group broke apart slowly, drifting down the stairs. As Mia went to Tric’s side and peered at the bloody cut above his brow, she caught Jessamine watching her, lips twisted in a smirk. Floodcaller limped away, still glaring daggers. Ashlinn nodded farewell to Mia as she tromped down the stairs. Mia found herself staring one last time at the place Lord Cassius had sat.
Right Hand of the Mother herself …
She kept silent all the way back to the bedchambers, growing angrier and angrier. Why had Tric snapped so easily? Where had the quiet boy who’d endured the taunts of the Old Imperial’s common room disappeared to? He’d lost his temper in front of the lord of the entire congregation. On his first eve here. His outburst could’ve got him killed. This wasn’t a place that forgave mistakes.
She finally lost her temper just outside her door.
“Have you lost your mind?” Mia hissed, loud as she dared. “What was that?”
“How’s the ribs, Tric?” he asked. “I couldn’t help but notice you ge
tting the stuffing kicked out of you. O, I’m fine, Pale Daughter, my thanks for—”
“What did you expect? This is our first turn inside these walls and you’ve already pissed off Shahiid Solis and probably the most feared assassin in the Itreyan Republic. And let’s not forget the fellow acolyte set to murder you.”
“He called me koffi, Mia. He’s lucky I didn’t cave his head in.”
“What’s koffi?”
“Never mind.” He dragged his arm from her grip. “Forget it.”
“Tric—”
“I’m tired. I’ll see you on the morrow.”
The boy stalked off, leaving Mia alone with Naev. The woman watched her with dark, careful eyes, hovering like a moth about a black flame. Mia’s brow was creased, staring at the half-finished puzzle before her.
“… You don’t happen to speak Dweymeri, do you?” she asked.
“No. Although Naev is certain there are tomes of translation in the athenaeum.”
Mia chewed her lip. Pictured her bed, with its mountains of pillows and soft fur.
“Is it open this late?”
“The library is always open here. But to attend without invitation—”
“Could you take me there? Please?”
The woman’s dark eyes gleamed. “As she wishes.”
Stairs and arches. Arches and stairs. Mia and Naev walked for what seemed plodding miles, with naught but dark stone for company. The girl began to regret not heading to bed—the journey from Last Hope was beginning to catch up, and she was fading fast. She lost her bearings several times—the corridors and stairs all looked the same, and she began to feel hopelessly disoriented.
“How do you not get lost in here?” she asked.
The woman traced the spiral patterns carved into the walls. “Naev reads.”
Mia touched the chill stone. “These are words?”
“More. They are a poem. A song.”
“About what?”
“Finding the way in the dark.”
“Finding the library is good enough. My eyeballs are about to go to bed without me.”
“A good thing, then. Here we are.”
A set of double doors loomed at the end of the passageway. The wood was dark, carved with that same scrolling motif marking the walls. Mia noted there were no handles, that the doors must have weighed a ton apiece. And yet, Naev pushed them open with a gentle hand, the hinges making barely a whisper as they opened wide.