by Jay Kristoff
“All right,” Tric finally said. “An hour every eve after lessons. Meet me in the Hall of Songs on the morrow.”
Mia curtseyed. “My thanks, Don Tric.”
Tric offered his hand and she shook it to seal the pact. They hung there for a moment, hands entwined. Her skin prickled as his thumb gently traced the curve of her wrist. Remembering himself, Tric let her go, mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and made his escape. Mia turned to walk in the opposite direction, hiding the small smile on her lips as her shadow began to speak.
“… though i have no face, believe me when i say i am scowling the pants off you right now…”
Mia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Father.”
“… of course, a state of pantslessness seems to be your goal, so perhaps i should stop…”
“Yes, Fatherrrrr.”
“… do not take that tone of voice with me, young lady…”
Mia grinned, aimed a playful kick that passed right through Mister Kindly’s head. The girl and her shadow wandered off toward the dorms, in search of bed and dreams.
A beautiful boy stepped from the dark, following their path with bright blue eyes.
As always, he breathed not a word.
Long hours later, a loud knock dragged Mia from the arms of her books. She slipped her stiletto from her wrist, threw a robe around her shoulders. Creeping forward to the door, she whispered to whoever waited on the other side.
“Ash?”
“Please open the door, Acolyte.”
Mia gripped her knife tighter, twisted the key and peered out into the darkened hallway. She saw a Hand outside her door, long black robes, hooded features. She thought of Naev, then. Wondered briefly where she was.
“You are summoned by Revered Mother Drusilla,” the Hand said.
“Of course.” Mia bowed. “As she wishes.”
She looked down the hallway, saw other Hands knocking on acolytes’ doors. Ashlinn staggered out into the light, her warbraids fuzzed from the press of the pillow. Beyond the girl, she saw her brother Osrik, his spiked hair jutting off his skull at improbable angles. It looked like everyone was being woken, which meant Mia herself wasn’t specifically in trouble.
Huzzah for small miracles.
“What’s all this about?” Mia whispered as the group plodded after the Hands.
“Your guess is good as mine,” Ash yawned. “Nothing good, I’ll wager.”
“No bet.”
The acolytes traipsed the spiral stairwells, the ghostly choir singing somewhere out in the dark. Arriving in the Hall of Eulogies, Mia nodded her head, touched her brow, eyes and lips before the statue like the others did. She saw the entire Ministry was assembled; Aalea, looking picture perfect in a thin burgundy gown, Spiderkiller appearing more dour than usual, clad in jade green, Mouser and Solis alternately smiling and glowering in their dark leathers. Drusilla stood in Niah’s shadow, mouth thin. And beside her, chained to iron links of the statue itself, Mia saw …
“Hush…”
The boy was stripped to the waist, blindfolded with black cloth, his back to the room. The acolytes gathered in a semicircle around the statue’s base, silent and wary. Ashlinn nodded to herself, whispered to Mia.
“Blood scourging.”
“What?”
“Shhh. Watch.”
“Thank you for attending, Acolytes,” Drusilla said. “There are few true rules that govern the life of a Blade. Should you survive to serve the Mother, you will live outside the boundaries of law, and thus, we give you as much liberty within these walls as we may. But still, the few rules we impart to you cannot be ignored.
“After the murder of Acolyte Floodcaller, each of you were warned not to leave your rooms after ninebells. I promised anyone found guilty of breaching this curfew would be severely punished. And still, one of you has sought to test my resolve.” She indicated Hush with a wave of her hand. “Now witness folly’s price.”
The Revered Mother stepped off the dais, turned to the shadows.
“Speaker? Weaver?”
Mia saw two figures step into the stained-glass light. Speaker Adonai wore leather britches, no boots, a red silken robe thrown carelessly over his bare torso. His sister Marielle was wrapped head to foot in loose-flowing black. The siblings took their places behind the boy. Hush turned his head as Marielle began cracking her knuckles, sickly wet pops echoing in the gloom. Even blindfolded, Hush must have recognized the sound. Mia saw him take a deep breath, then turn back to the stone.
Mother Drusilla spoke with a voice like iron.
“Begin.”
Marielle raised her hand, fingers outstretched. From her vantage, Mia could see the woman’s face, those awful lips split in a bleeding smile. Marielle muttered beneath her breath, narrowed her eyes, and curled her fingers into a fist.
A tearing sound ripped the air, and the flesh of Hush’s back split like rotten fruit. The boy threw back his head as four hideous gashes opened along his skin, as if some invisible scourge had been lashed across his spine. Blood spurted, muscles shredded, Mia wincing as she saw pink, gleaming bone showing through the wounds.
But the boy made not a sound.
Marielle waved her hand again, casually, as if brushing away a troublesome fly. Four more rends opened in Hush’s flesh, shredding his lower back. Every muscle in his body clenched, veins corded in his arms and neck, that beautiful face twisted in agony. Mia was unsure if any other acolyte could see, but from the angle she stood at, she was appalled to note the boy’s lips peeling back in a snarl, exposing pink, empty gums.
Black Mother, he’s got no teeth …
Again Marielle waved her hand. Again the boy’s skin shredded. Long, ragged gashes opened across his legs, his back minced like sausage meat. Blood was pooling on the stone at his feet. Arterial spray spurting, spatter-mad patterns gleaming in the air. And though he must be in agony, still the boy made not a whisper. The acolytes watched in horror as Marielle moved her hands, more and more of Hush’s back peeling away. And all the while, the boy remained as silent as if he were already dead.
Minutes passed. Wet tearing noises. Raindrops. Hush was a bleeding ruin. Head lolling on his shoulders. Blood slicked about his feet in a dark red tide. Surely they couldn’t keep going? Mia turned to Ash, her voice a hiss.
“They’re killing him!”
Ash shook her head. “Watch.”
Marielle continued her grisly work, that bloody grin growing wider. Hush thrashed feebly against his chains, but he was barely conscious now. And when Mia could actually count the ribs beneath his skin, when it seemed even one more invisible blow would end him, the Revered Mother raised her hand.
“Enough.”
Marielle glanced to Drusilla, her grin dying hard. But slowly, the weaver inclined her head, lowered her hand with obvious reluctance.
“Brother love, brother mine,” she lisped.
Adonai stepped forward, pushed his slick white hair from his face. The albino whispered, soft and musical, as if singing beneath his breath. The words echoed through the hall, like a choir’s song in the Basilica Grande. And as Mia watched, fascinated, the blood pooling at Hush’s feet began to move.
Trembling at first, rippling in some hidden vibration. But slowly, sluggishly, the flood of scarlet retreated across the stone at the boy’s feet as he thrashed and shuddered, flowing up his legs and back into the wounds Marielle had torn. Mia looked at the speaker’s face, pale as corpses. Instead of their customary pink, the man’s eyes were blood red. His smile, ecstatic.
Marielle raised her hands beside her brother’s. Wove them in the air like a seamstress at a bloody loom. And as Hush bucked and shook, mouth open, face gleaming with sweat, one by one, the wounds closed. The awful rends and tears. The sodden, minced flesh. All of them rippling shut as Hush silently thrashed, until not a scratch remained on his skin.
The boy sagged in his chains, drool spilling from his lips. He’d remained conscious through all of it. Every moment. The ac
olytes looked at him with a mix of horror and awe.
The Hands unlocked his manacles, threw a robe around his unmarred shoulders.
“Take him to his room,” Drusilla said. “He is excused from the morrow’s lessons.”
The Hands obeyed, hefting Hush between them and dragging him from the hall. The Revered Mother looked among the assembled acolytes, fixed each in her blue stare. The matronly facade was gone, the motherly love momentarily evaporated. This was the killer unveiled. The same woman who had sat idle as Lord Cassius and his men tortured her acolytes inside that dark cell in Godsgrave. The same woman who had sent eight of her students to their deaths with a smile.
“I trust no further demonstrations will be necessary,” she said. “If another acolyte is found outside their bedchamber after ninebells, they shall drink from the same cup. Though next time, I may allow Weaver Marielle to fully have her head.”
The Mother slipped her hands inside her sleeves. Bowed.
“Now. Go to sleep, children.”
Sleep had come slowly, and Mia woke before the rising bells, staring at the walls. Determined to get the strength in her swordarm back, she exercised; push-ups at the foot of her bed, pull-ups on her door. Her elbow was screaming after a few minutes, but she struggled on until tears welled in her eyes. Finally collapsing on the floor, she lay there and caught her breath, cursing Solis for a bastard beneath it.
Slipping from her bedchamber, she headed toward the bathhouse. Passing by one acolyte’s room, she heard a crash, the tinkling of broken glass from inside. She came to a halt outside the door; several more thumps and bangs resounded from within.
“… those who poke their noses into others’ business tend to lose them…”
“Call me curious.”
“… you’ve heard what it did to the cat…”
Mia leaned in closer, put her ear against the wood.
The door swung open, and Mia sprang back, startled. There in the gloom, she saw Hush. Red-eyed. Pale skin. That beautiful face, streaked with tears. He was shirtless, sweating from exertion. The room beyond was in chaos, drawers upended and flung against the wall, bedding in ruin. Mia looked him up and down. Lithe and well muscled. Hairless chest. Other than some bruising at his wrists, his body showed no sign of the torture Marielle and Adonai had inflicted.
The boy stared. Lips thin. Rage in his eyes.
“Apologies, Hush,” Mia said. “I heard noises.”
Hush remained mute. Motionless.
“Are you all right?”
No answer. Just a cold, tear-stained stare. She remembered the image of him yestereve, head thrown back, lips peeling away from toothless gums. Was that why he never spoke? How had he lost every tooth in his head? Could he have ripped them out himself for tithe to gain entry to the Church?
The pair of them hung there, neither willing to move. The silence rang louder than the nevernight bells across Godsgrave.
“I’m sorry,” Mia tried. “About what they did to you. That was cruel.”
The boy inclined his head slightly. The tiniest of shrugs.
“If you ever want to talk about it…”
Hush flashed her a humorless smirk.
“I mean…” Mia flailed slightly. “Write about it. If you wish it. I’m here.”
The boy stared into Mia’s eyes. And stepping back with a flick of his bruised wrist, he slammed the door right in her face. Mia flinched away, narrowly avoiding another broken nose. Hooked her thumbs into her belt and shrugged.
“… well, that went swimmingly…”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said, shuffling down the corridor.
“… is this some stratagem…?”
“What, it’s so outrageous I give a damn?”
“… not outrageous. simply pointless…”
“Look, just because I don’t stand to gain from it, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care. They tortured him, Mister Kindly. Even though he doesn’t have a scar from it, doesn’t mean it didn’t leave a mark. And it’s like Naev said. I should look after the things that are important here.”
“… important? that boy is nothing to you…”
“I know I’m supposed to think of him as competition. I know there aren’t enough places for all of us among the Blades. But this Church is designed to turn me cold. So holding on to the part of me that can feel pity becomes more important every turn.”
“… pity is a weakness to be used against you. scaeva, duomo and remus will not share it…”
“One more reason to hold on to it then, aye?”
“… hmph…”
“Pfft.”
“… grrrr…”
“Shut up.”
“… grow up…”
Laughter rang out and the shadows smiled.
“Never.”
The girl and the not-cat faded into the dark.
1. He muttered to his knife a little less while his jaw was on the mend—Mia was tempted to seek out his torturers and thank them.
CHAPTER 19
MASQUERADE
Weeks flickered by in the darkness, untracked save for the tolling of bells and the serving of meals and hours upon hours of lore.1 Mia and Tric trained every turn after lessons, in either the Hall of Songs or the Hall of Truths. Every session in Songs saw Mia paired up with Jessamine or Diamo, and her blood painting the floor. And though in truth she found herself enjoying Tric’s company more and more, she began to wonder if he was the mentor she needed …
Winter was deepening and Great Tithe approaching, snows beginning to dress Godsgrave in gowns of muddy white. Nevernight after nevernight, pretty shadows Blood Walked from Adonai’s chambers and flitted out into the city in search of secrets, returning to lay them at Aalea’s feet. The Shahiid of Masks gave no indication who might be winning her contest.
The weaver continued her work, altering faces one by one. She wove Jessamine’s feral beauty into full bloom, honed Osrik’s natural good looks to a finer edge; even Petrus had got his missing ear back. The newly woven acolytes began making use of Aalea’s many weapons—minor games of flirt and touch breaking out during lessons or after. At mealtimes, Mia could feel a new current in the air. Furtive glances and secret smiles. For all the sweat and blood the acolytes were putting in, Mia figured they deserved it. Lessons were getting more grueling; almost half their number were already dead. She supposed a little harmless fun never hurt anyone.
And then came the masquerade.
The acolytes were summoned after evemeal, one and all, down into Adonai’s chambers. Without preamble they were ushered through the Blood Walk, one by one. Mia felt hungry eyes on her body as she stripped down to her slip, her eyes on others in turn. Emerging from the blood-red warmth beneath the Porkery, the acolytes were told to bathe thoroughly, dress quickly. The seventeen were then punted—by covered gondola, no less—to Godsgrave’s marrowborn quarter. Mia shipped out with Carlotta, Ashlinn and Osrik, peering out through the canopy as the well-to-do estates of Godsgrave’s richest and most powerful cruised by. The Hands punting them were dressed in servants’ finery—gold-trimmed frock coats and silken hose. Saan’s bloody red glow was reduced to a sullen pout behind a heavy veil of roiling gray, but Mia still found herself squinting, pinching a pair of azurite spectacles to the bridge of the nose.
She looked Carlotta over from behind the tinted glass, admiring the poem Marielle had made of the girl’s face. The weaving had been done only a few turns prior, and it was hard not to notice the difference, or the way the other novices stared now it was done. Carlotta’s lips were fuller, her body more shapely. And where once an arkemical slavemark had marred the girl’s cheek, there was now only smooth, pale skin.
“The weaver knows her work,” Mia smiled.
Carlotta glanced at Mia, back out the window.
“… I suppose.”
“O, come, you look a picture, Lotti,” Ash protested. “Marielle is a master.”
At an elbow from his sister, Osrik piped up. “O, aye.
A picture, no doubt.”
“It’s strange,” Carlotta murmured. “The things we miss.”
The girl touched the cheek where her slavemark used to be. Fingers tracing that now flawless skin. She said no more, and Mia was reluctant to push. But she could see memories swimming in the girl’s eyes as she stared at the passing city. Shadows that stained Carlotta’s irises a deeper blue.
Where had a slavegirl learned venomcraft?
What had driven her to join the Church?
Why was she here?
Mia knew Carlotta was competition for Spiderkiller’s prize above all else. That Mister Kindly had spoken true, and pity would be a weakness to be used against her. That she shouldn’t care.
But still, somehow she did.
Their gondola finally took berth at a small pier at the front of a grand five-story palazzo—the kind of home only the marrowborn might own.
“What the ’byss is all this about?” Mia whispered.
Ashlinn and Osrik both shrugged—seemed their da didn’t tell them everything after all. Mia checked her gravebone blade for the fourth time before stepping onto the jetty. The winds off the canal were icy, the pier slippery beneath her feet.
The acolytes were ushered into the palazzo’s foyer. The walls were red, hung with beautiful portraiture in the lush Liisian style.2 Vases full of flowers strung the air with a soft perfume, and a roaring fire burned at the graven hearth.
At the top of a grand and winding staircase stood Shahiid Aalea. Though she’d fancied it a silly turn of phrase only found in books, the sight of the woman actually took Mia’s breath away. The Shahiid was decked in a long, flowing gown, red as heart’s blood, embroidered with black lace and pearls. A drakebone corset pulled her waistline torturously tight, and an off-the-shoulder cut exposed smooth, cream-white skin. In her hand, she held a domino mask on a slender ivory wand.