by Jay Kristoff
“So is She.”
Mia was the first to arrive at the Sky Altar, sitting at the empty tables and running her fingers over her new face. Her skin felt mildly raw, as if she’d suffered sunsburn. Her chest and belly ached like someone had punched her. Moreover, she felt absolutely famished, wolfing down her oats and cheese without pause and filling a bowl with steaming chicken broth.
Other acolytes filtered in. A dark-haired Liisian girl with pale green eyes, who Mia had learned was named Belle. One-eared Petrus, and the boy with tattooed hands who constantly muttered to himself.1 Mouser gave a nod as he passed by, Aalea a knowing smile. Solis stalked past without a glance. She eyed the empty scabbard at his belt—worn black leather, embossed with a kaleidoscopic pattern of interlocking circles. It was worth fifty marks in Mouser’s contest. Fifty marks closer to finishing top in Pockets. And probably worth a disemboweling if he caught her stealing it.
Maybe I should start on something a little easier …
Ashlinn sat down opposite, mouth already full of food.
“Zo huwuzzit—”
The girl choked, eyes widening as she looked at Mia’s face. She swallowed her half-chewed mouthful with a wince, coughed before she spoke again.
“Shahiid Aalea took you to Marielle already?”
Mia shrugged, lips twisting. It still felt odd when she smiled.
“Maw’s teeth, the weaver’s struck it to the heart. She even straightened out your nose. I’d heard she was good, but ’byss, those lips.” She glanced down. “And those baps…”
“All right,” Mia scowled.
The girl raised her glass. “Night’s truth, Corvere, they’re top shelf. I’m bloody jealous now. You were flat as a twelve-year-old boy befo—”
“All right,” Mia growled.
Ash snickered, bit down on a hunk of bread. Another acolyte cruised past with a bowl of steaming broth. Blue eyes. Dark hair, short sides, fringe cut long to hide the slavemark on her cheek. She hovered, swaying like a snake, raised an eyebrow to Mia.
“Do you mind if I sit, Acolyte?”
The girl’s voice was dull, flat as a flagstone, but her eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence. Mia chewed slowly. Finally shrugged and nodded to a stool beside her. The brunette gave a thin smile, sat down quickly and offered her hand.
“Carlotta,” she said, in that same dead girl’s voice. “Carlotta Valdi.”
“Mia Corvere.”
“Ashlinn Järnheim.”
Carlotta nodded, lowered her voice as other acolytes wandered into the hall.
“Shahiid Aalea took you to see the weaver?”
Mia nodded. Looked the girl up and down. She was lithe, well muscled. Bright eyes, rimmed with thick streaks of kohl. Black paint on thin lips. Though her haircut tried to hide it, three interlocking circles arkemically branded on her cheek marked her as educated slave; perhaps an artisan or scribe.2 From what house she’d fled, Mia couldn’t know. But the fact that she still wore her mark at all proved she was a runaway. The girl had courage, that much was sure. The fate of escaped slaves in the Republic was as brutal as the magistratii could devise. To risk all by fleeing bondage, coming here …
“What was it like?” Carlotta asked. “The weaving?”
Mia watched the girl carefully for a few moments more, weighing her up.
“Hurt like you wouldn’t believe,” she finally replied.
“Worth it, though?”
Mia shrugged. Looked down at her chest and felt a grin creeping onto her face.
“You tell me.”
Ashlinn grinned also, brushing her fingertips against Mia’s own. Carlotta smirked like someone who’d only read about it in books, smoothed her fringe down over her slavemark. Other acolytes filtered into the altar, noting Mia’s new-yet-familiar face with interest. Ash’s brother Osrik. Thin and silent Hush. Even Jessamine found herself staring. Mia was a curiosity for the first time she could remember.
She noticed Jessamine’s sidekick, Diamo, staring at her until the redhead elbowed him in the ribs. Mia spied another acolyte—a handsome Itreyan with dark, pretty eyes named Marcellus—staring too. She reached up to her face. Heard Shahiid Aalea’s words reverberating in her skull. Felt it swelling beneath her skin.
Power, she realized.
I have a kind of power now.
“Gentle ladies,” said a smiling voice. Tric plopped down beside Ashlinn without ceremony, his tray piled with fresh, buttered rye and a bowl of broth. Without looking up, he dunked his bread and hefted a spoonful, ready to wolf it down. But as both mouthfuls neared his lips, the Dweymeri boy paused.
Blinked.
Sniffed at his bowl suspiciously.
“… Hmm.”
He frowned at the broth like it had stolen his purse, or perhaps called his mother an unflattering name. Dragging the saltlocks from his eyes, he offered his spoon to Mia.
“Does this smell strange to you? I swe—”
Finally noticing the girl’s new face, Tric’s jaw swung open like a rusty door in the breeze.
“Don’t let the dragonmoths in,” Ashlinn smirked.
Tric’s stare was locked on Mia. “… What happened to you?”
“The Weaver,” Mia shrugged. “Marielle.”
“… She took your face?”
Mia blinked. “She didn’t take it. She just … changed it is all.”
Tric stared hard. Frown growing darker. He looked down at his untouched mornmeal, pushed his broth aside. And without a word, he stood and walked away.
“He seems … upset?” Carlotta ventured.
“Lover’s tiff?” Ashlinn grinned.
Mia raised the knuckles as Ash began cackling.
“O, beloved, come baaaaack,” the girl teased as Mia rose from her stool.
“Fuck off,” Mia growled.
“You’re a soft touch, Corvere. You’re supposed to make them chase you.”
Mia ignored the jests, but Ash grabbed her good arm as she tried to walk away.
“We’ve got Truths this morning. Shahiid Spiderkiller doesn’t like tardy.”
“Aye,” Carlotta nodded. “I heard tell she killed one of her novices for being late. Warned him once. Warned him twice. After that, a blank tomb in the great hall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mia snorted. “Who does that?”
Carlotta glanced at Mia’s elbow. “The same sort of folk who chop your arm off for scratching their cheek.”
“But killing him?”
Ash shrugged. “My da warned me and Osrik before we came here, Corvere. The last Shahiid you want to get offside is the Spiderkiller.”
Mia sighed, sat back down with reluctance. But Ash spoke wisdom, after all. Mia wasn’t here to play the comfort maid; she was here to avenge her familia. Consul Scaeva and his cronies weren’t going to be dispatched by some fool with a bleeding heart. Whatever was eating Tric, it could wait til after lessons. Mia finished her mornmeal in silence (she couldn’t smell anything odd in the broth, despite Tric’s claims), then shuffled off after Ash and Carlotta in search of the Hall of Truths.
Of all the rooms within the Quiet Mountain, Mia was soon to discover it was the easiest to find. As she traipsed down twisting staircases, she found her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“…’Byss and blood, what’s that smell?”
Carlotta’s face was reverent, her eyes lit with a quiet fervor.
“Truth,” she murmured.
The stench grew stronger as they walked through the dark. A perfume of rot and fresh flowers. Dried herbs and acids. Cut grass and rust. The acolytes arrived at a set of great double doors, the smell washing over them in waves as they swung wide.
Mia took a deep breath, and stepped into Shahiid Spiderkiller’s domain.
If red had been the motif of Aalea’s hall, green was the theme here. Stained glass filtered a ruddy emerald light into the room, the glassware tinged with every hue—lime to dark jade. A great ironwood bench dominated the room. Inkwells and parchment were laid o
ut in each place. Shelves on the walls were filled with thousands of different jars, a myriad of substances within. Glassware lined the bench, pipes and pipets, funnels and tubes. A discordant tune of bubbling and hissing rose from the various reactions taking place in flasks and bowls around the room.
Another smaller table stood at the room’s head, an ornate, high-backed chair behind it. Among the other apparatus, a glass terrarium sat atop it, lined with straw. Six rats snuffled about within, fat and black and sleek.
Tric had beaten Mia down here, sitting at the far end of the bench and ignoring her when she entered. Taking a seat beside Ash, Mia found herself studying the apparatus; beakers and phials and boiling jars. All the tools of an arkemist’s workshop. As she began to suspect what kind of “truth” they taught here, a honey-smooth voice interrupted her thoughts.
“I once killed a man seven nevernights before he died.”
Mia turned her eyes front, sat up straighter. A figure emerged from behind the curtains at the head of the hall. Tall and elegant, her back as straight as a sword. Her saltlocks were intricate. Immaculate. Her skin was the dark, polished walnut of the Dweymeri, her face, unadorned by ink. She wore a long flowing robe of deep emerald, gold at her throat. Three curved daggers hung at her waist. Lips painted black.
Shahiid Spiderkiller.
“I killed an Itreyan senator with his wife’s kiss,” she continued. “I ended a Vaanian laird with a glass of his favorite goldwine, though I never touched the bottle. I murdered one of the greatest Luminatii swordsmen who ever lived with a sliver of bone no bigger than my fingernail.” The woman stood before the terrarium, the rats inside watching her with dark eyes. “The nectar of a single flower can rip us from this fragile shell with more violence than any blade. And gentler than any kiss.”
Spiderkiller held up a strip of muslin, half a dozen chunks of cheese therein. Unwrapping the morsels, she dropped them inside the terrarium. Squeaking and squalling, the rats set about each claiming its own meal, devouring it within seconds.
“This is the truth I offer you,” Spiderkiller said, turning to the acolytes. “But poison is a sword with no hilt, children. There is only the blade. Double-edged and ever-sharp. To be handled with utmost care lest it bleed you to your ending.”
As Spiderkiller drummed long fingernails on the terrarium’s walls, Mia realized every single rat inside was dead.
The Shahiid lowered her head, murmured fervently.
“Hear me, Niah. Hear me, Mother. This flesh your feast. This blood your wine. These lives, these ends, my gift to you. Hold them close.”
Spiderkiller opened her eyes and stared at the acolytes. Her voice breaking the deathly hush that had descended on the room.
“Now. Who will hazard a guess at what brought these offerings their endings?”
Silence reigned. The woman looked among the acolytes, lips pursed.
“Speak up. I have even less need of mice here than I do of rats.”
“Widowwalk,” Diamo finally offered.
“Widowwalk induces abdominal cramps and bloody vomiting before terminus is reached, Acolyte. These offerings died without a squeak of protest. Anyone else?”
Mia blinked in the emerald light. Wiping at her eyes. Perhaps it was her imagination. Perhaps the air down here was of poorer quality. But she was finding it hard to breathe …
“Come now,” Spiderkiller said. “The answer may prove of use to you in future.”
“Aspira?” Marcellus asked, covering his mouth to cough.
“No,” Spiderkiller said. “The onset was too swift. Aspira kills in minutes, not seconds.”
“Allbane,” came the calls. “Evershade.” “Blackmark venom.” “Spite.”
“No,” Spiderkiller replied. “No. No. No.”
Mia wiped at her lip, wet with sweat. Blinked hard. She glanced at Ash, realized the girl was having the same trouble breathing. Eyes bloodshot. Chest rising and falling rapidly. Looking around the room, she saw other acolytes now experiencing the same. Jessamine. Hush. Petrus.
Everyone except …
A smile was growing on Spiderkiller’s black lips. “Think quickly now, children.”
Everyone except Tric …
“Shit,” Mia breathed.
Dragging the saltlocks from his eyes, he offered his spoon to Mia.
“Does this smell strange to you . .?”
Tric looked about in confusion as the acolytes around him began hyperventilating. Belle fell to the floor, clutching her chest. Pip’s lips had gone almost purple. Mia lurched to her feet, stool toppling backward with a crash on the stone floor. Spiderkiller looked to her, one immaculately manicured eyebrow rising slightly.
“Is something wrong, Acolyte?”
“Mornmeal…” Mia looked around at her fellow novices, now all sweating and gasping for breath. “Maw’s teeth, she poisoned our mornmeal!”
Eyes growing wide. Curses and whispers. Fear spreading among the acolytes like a wildfire in summerdeep. Spiderkiller folded her arms, leaned against her desk.
“I did say the answer might prove useful in future.”
Mia cast her eyes around the room. Chest constricting. Heart thundering. Thinking back through all her venomlore, the pages of Arkemical Truths she’d read, over and over. Ignoring the rising panic around her. Fearless with Mister Kindly beside her. What did she know?
The poison is ingested. Tasteless. Almost odorless.
Symptoms?
Shortness of breath. Tightness in her chest. Sweats. No pain. No delirium.
Looking about her, she saw Carlotta was on her feet, the slavegirl’s eyes scanning the shelves about them as she muttered to herself. Ashlinn’s lips and fingernails were turning blue.
Hypoxia.
“The lungs,” she whispered. “Airways.”
She looked to Spiderkiller. Mind racing. Black spots swimming in her eyes.
“Red dahlia…,” she breathed.
Mia blinked. Another whisper had echoed her own, spoke the answer at the precise moment she had. She looked to Carlotta, found the slavegirl looking back at her, wide eyes bloodshot. But she knew. She understood.
“You get the bluesalt and calphite,” Mia said. “I’ll boil the peppermilk.”
The girls staggered to the overcrowded shelves, pawing through the ingredients. Ignoring the pain, Mia dragged her arm from its sling, pushed aside a box of palsyroot, knocked a jar of dried proudweed to the ground with a crash. Up on tiptoes and lunging for a jar of peppermilk at the back of the shelf, she glanced at Tric, pointed to one of the oil burners lining the table.
“Tric, get that lit!”
Hush fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Marcellus toppled backward out of his stool, clutching his chest. Not asking questions, Tric lit the burner, quickly stepping aside as a gasping, sweating Mia dumped a glass boiling chamber onto the flame. She poured the peppermilk inside, the grayish liquid bubbling almost immediately. The room was swaying before her eyes. Jessamine was on her hands and knees, Diamo dropped like a rock. Spiderkiller watched the proceedings silently, that same black smile on her lips. Not lifting a finger. Not saying a word.
Carlotta finally found the bluesalt, stumbled and nearly fell on her way to the burner. Pouring the purplish granules into the boiling flask with shaking hands, she dumped in a handful of bright yellow calphite. A series of tiny pops sounded inside the glass and a thick greenish smoke began spilling from the top. The reek was akin to sugar boiling in an overfull privy, but as Mia sucked it down, she found the tightness in her chest fading, the spots in her eyes dimming. Smoke continued to billow forth, heavy and thick, sinking down to the floor.
Carlotta dragged the semiconscious Hush closer, Mia helped Belle and Petrus nearer to a lungful. Ash and Pip were barely moving. Blue lips. Bruised eyes. But within a few minutes in the reeking smoke, all were breathing normally. Trembling hands. Disbelief on every face.
Slow clapping rang out in the room. The shell-shocked acolytes looked wide-eyed to Spiderk
iller, still leaning on her desk and smiling.
“Excellent,” the Shahiid said, looking between Carlotta and Mia. “I’m pleased to see at least two of you have some knowledge of the Truth.”
“And this … is how you test us?” Carlotta gasped.
“You disapprove, Acolyte?” Spiderkiller tilted her head. “You are here to become a mortal instrument of the Lady of Blessed Murder. Do you think life in her service will test you with more kindness?”
Mia was still a little short of breath, but managed to find her voice to speak.
“But Shahiid … what if none of us had known the answer?”
Spiderkiller looked among the acolytes, standing or sitting around the now silent boiling flask. Drummed her fingers again on the terrarium of dead rats.
She looked to Mia. And ever so slowly, she shrugged.
“Resume your seats.”
Still more than a little shaky, the novices slouched to their places. Marcellus patted Mia and Carlotta on the back as he walked past. Hush and Petrus nodded thanks. Belle still looked shaky, sitting with her head between her legs. Ashlinn shot Mia an “I told you so” glance as the girls resumed their seats. The story about Spiderkiller murdering a tardy acolyte didn’t seem so far-fetched now …
“Good show, Corvere,” Ash whispered.
“Show?” Mia hissed. “Maw’s teeth, we could’ve all been fucking killed.”
“All except Tricky, of course.” Ash smiled at the Dweymeri boy. Tric was patting Belle on the back, wide-eyed but none the worse for wear. “Impressive nose he’s got under those tattoos. Remind me to skip the next meal he thinks smells funny, neh?”
Spiderkiller cleared her throat, looking pointedly at Ash. The girl fell silent as the dead.
“So.” The Shahiid clasped her hands behind her back, pacing slowly. “Beyond blades. Beyond bows. Be your victim some legendary warrior in shining mail or a king on a golden throne. A dram of the right toxin can make a garrison a graveyard, and a republic a ruin. This, my children, is the Truth I offer here.”
Shahiid Spiderkiller indicated Mia and Carlotta with a wave of her hand.
“Now, perhaps your saviors will explain how the red dahlia toxin works.”3
Carlotta took a deep breath, glanced to Mia. Shrugged.