by Jay Kristoff
Yet.
3. Mia had heard tell of magikal weapons, of course. Lucius the Omnipotent, last Magus King of Liis, supposedly had a blade that sang as he slew his foes. The legendary hero Maximian wielded a sword known as “Terminus,” which reportedly knew how every man under the suns—including its master—would die. Itreyan legend was replete with tales of blades with minds of their own.
Of course, Mia suspected that Pip’s knife was no more capable of speech than donkeys are of turning cartwheels. But still, whenever she greeted the boy, she made a point of saying hello to “the Lovely” too.
Here is truth, gentlefriends: when in doubt, it’s best to be polite when dealing with lunatics.
CHAPTER 29
SEVERANCE
She woke in his arms.
Forgetting for a moment where she was and what lay ahead. Tric was still asleep, chest rising and falling slowly. She watched him for a silent moment, thoughts clouded. And leaning in close, she kissed him as if it were the last time.
She stole from the room, still dressed in the clothes she wore the night before. Flitting from shadow to shadow. Listening to the ghostly choir, the waking sounds of the Church around her. Finding herself at last in the Hall of Eulogies, beneath Niah’s statue. Staring up at the face of the Night herself.
“… the boy…”
Mia glanced to the shadow at her feet. The not-eyes inside it.
“What of him?”
“… it cannot happen again, mia…”
She looked back to the goddess, nodded slow.
“I know.”
“… it has no future…”
“I know.”
Her eyes roamed the nameless tombs in the walls. The unmarked graves of the Church’s fallen. She looked to the stone at her feet. Thousands of the Church’s victims beneath the soles of her boots. She still thought it strange; that Niah’s servants should have no name to mark their passing, but those they took from this world were immortalized in the granite for all eternity. She thought about the Truedark Massacre. The dozens dead by her hands. The blinding light. Remus. Duomo. Scaeva.
Her mother.
Her father.
When all is blood, blood is all.
The mornbells bells began to ring, and still she lingered.
Minutes slipping by unmarked, and still she stared.
The goddess stared back. Mute as always.
“… is everything well…?”
Mia sighed. Nodded slow.
“Everything is perfect.”
The other acolytes were already assembled in the Hall of Songs, rested and fed. Four black-robed Hands stood in the circle’s center, one holding what appeared to be a human skull with the crown sawn off. Shahiid Solis loomed beside them, blind eyes upturned. Mia was one of the last to arrive, her tardiness bested only by Ashlinn, who dashed into the hall with only moments to spare. The Shahiid of Songs turned his pale stare on the girl, lips curling.
“Lovely of you to join us, Acolyte,” he said.
“Lovely to … be here…” Ash panted.
“Not much longer, I fear.”
Turning to the other acolytes, Solis spoke.
“The Trial of Songs begins. I will explain the rules once only. Listen well.
“The trial begins with eliminations. Each of you will fight five bouts, against five random opponents. Each bout is fought to submission, or mortal blow. Speaker Adonai and Weaver Marielle have graciously agreed to be on hand for festivities.” Solis motioned to two figures standing by the sword racks. “They will mend any wound that renders you incapacitated as swift as they may. You may request their aid at any time during a bout, however, to do so will result in forfeiture. Loss will also result if you leave—or are forced to leave—the circle during a bout.
“At the end of eliminations, the four acolytes who have accrued the most victories shall graduate to the finals. Any loss in the finals results in elimination. Whoever wins the last bout shall graduate top of this hall.”
Solis’s blank gaze roamed the assembled acolytes.
“Questions?”
“There are thirteen of us, Shahiid,” Marcellus said. “How will you work the odd number?”
“Only twelve of you will compete. Acolyte Diamo has opted out of the trial.”
Mia looked across the circle to Diamo, arms folded and smiling right at her. Ashlinn, who looked like she’d gotten about as much sleep as Mia, whispered to her brother beside her.
“I’m leading Pockets by a clear mile, and I’m still competing in Song. Diamo’s not the blademaster Jessamine is, but any chance is better than none at all, surely?”
Osrik shook his head. “Maybe if you weren’t out in Godsgrave ’til all hours, you’d have a ken about what went on inside these halls.”
“Maw’s teeth, Oz, are you going to spit it out, or make me play guess-a-game?”
“Word has it Diamo solved Spiderkiller’s formula this morn.”
Mia felt her stomach lurch sideways.
“Diamo?” Ash hissed. “He’s as handy at venomcraft as a block of wood…”
Osrik shrugged. “I’m only saying what I’ve heard. He visited Spiderkiller before mornmeal. Book of notes in his hand. The Shahiid sealed the hall, but Diamo walked out a while later, right as rain. Went straight to Solis and bowed out of his contest.”
Ash looked to Mia.
“Could they be Lotti’s notes?”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t think Carlotta ever solved the quandary.”
“So where’d you hide your notes, Corvere?”
Mia swallowed hard. Looked to Tric. Then to Spiderkiller, sitting beside the Revered Mother. The pair were deep in conversation, glancing occasionally to Diamo. And Mia.
“… My room,” she said.
“O. Safe as houses then.”
Tric glanced at Mia. “Unless you left your room last night…”
Ashlinn glanced back and forth between them. “O, tell me you didn’t?”
Mia remained mute, watching Diamo. She saw Jessamine’s fuck you smile from the corner of her eye. The gleam in that adder green. Spiderkiller’s glittering stare.
“Maw’s teeth, Corvere,” Ash breathed. “You left your notes alone to go for a roll? Little Tricky can’t be that good…”
Tric looked wounded, opened his mouth to—
“’Byss and blood, pay attention,” Osrik whispered. “They’re about to start.”
Ash turned to Solis and his assistants, clamped her lips shut. The Hand holding the human skull had proffered it to a second, standing beside her. A smooth, black stone with a name inscribed on it had been drawn from the hollowed crown, held aloft to the assembled acolytes.
“Marcellus Domitian.”
The handsome Itreyan boy looked up at the mention of his name. “Aye.”
“Step forward, Acolyte,” Solis commanded.
Marco nodded, stepped into the circle’s center. The boy tilted his head ’til his neck popped, stretched his arms and touched his toes. The Hand grasped a stone, drew it forth and read the name.
“Mia Corvere.”
Mia saw Marcellus smile to himself, Diamo and Jessamine share a smug grin. Marco was a skilled swordsman, and he stood a decent chance of placing top four. The boy had thrashed Mia soundly in every sparring match they’d ever had, and everyone in the room knew it.
Mia hovered on the circle’s edge. Solis’s eyebrow slowly rising.
“Acolyte?”
Mia drew a deep breath and walked out into the circle, soundless as cats. Tread steady. Breath even. She took her place in the circle’s center, Solis between her and her opponent. The acolytes stared each other down, Marco’s lips twisted.
“Fear not, Mi Dona,” he said. “I’ll be gentle with you.”
Mia spared him a withering glance. Marco grinned. One of the Hands held out a silver priest on an open palm, showed both sides of the coin to ensure no larceny was afoot. On one face, the trinity of three suns, intertwined. On the other, an
embossed image of the Senate House in Godsgrave, the Ribs rising into sky behind it.
“Acolyte Mia, call the toss.”
“Trinity.”
The acolyte flipped the coin. Quicker than flies, Solis’s hand snaked out, snatched it from the air. The Shahiid’s worm-blind stare bored into Mia’s own.
“I’m certain you’ve not forgotten your first lesson at my hands, Acolyte,” he said. “But I will remind you once more that this is the Hall of Songs, not shadows. If I suspect you of fighting with anything other than blades during these bouts, it will not just be your swordarm I remove from your body. Is that understood?”
Mia looked up into those empty eyes. Her voice a whisper.
“Understood, Shahiid.”
The big man let the coin drop from his hand. It sparkled in the stained-glass light as it fell, chimed as it struck the stone.
“Senate side up,” reported the Hand.
“Choose your weapons, Acolyte Mia,” Solis said.
Mia stepped to the weapon racks, walked along rows and rows of sharpened steel. Glancing at Jessamine, she drew a rapier and stiletto. The redhead scoffed. Tric looked decidedly concerned as a curious murmur ran around the circle. Mia had never proved much worth with the traditional dual-handed styles of Caravaggio or Delphini. In Solis’s lessons, she’d been constantly berated that her arm was too weak, and she’d not fared much better when Tric tried to teach her the finer points. She could practically see the question in the boy’s eyes.
What are you playing at?
Still, for all his doubts, Tric made a fist, gave her a confidence-boosting nod. But beyond him, lurking in the shadows at the Hall’s edge among the other Hands, Mia saw Naev. The Hand was shrouded in her cloak, strawberry blond curls framing her veiled face. And it was to the woman, not the boy, that she nodded back.
Marcellus chose a heavy longsword and buckler to counter Mia’s choices, relying on his superior strength to win the bout quickly. Mia watched the boy through her fringe as they took up their stances. All trace of a smile on Marco’s pretty face was gone. Everyone knew what was at stake here. Top of hall. One step closer to becoming a full-fledged Blade. Marcellus nodded to Mia, cool and confident. Like everyone else in the room, he knew this would be a thrashing.
A gong rang in the dark. Marco stepped forward, hewing at the air in brutal, broad strokes, expecting Mia to fall back and dodge. He’d no idea the girl had other plans. Plans formulated with Naev in the hours before every mornmeal. Their blades whistling in the dark as they sparred, back and forth. The aches and pains. The weeks and months of feigning weakness in Solis’s classes, letting herself get cut, stabbed, constantly thrashed by Jessamine, Diamo, Pip, Petrus, all of them. All to build up the illusion of weakness. A viper playing possum. A scabdog, bleeding in the dust.
It was just as Mercurio had said.
Sometimes weakness is a weapon.
If you’re smart enough to use it.
Mia met Marco’s third thrust with her stiletto, twisting it aside and throwing the bigger boy off balance. Marcellus raised his buckler to guard, ready to fend off Mia’s weak riposte as he’d done a hundred times in previous bouts. But with a speed built up in those countless hours with Naev, with a strength she’d kept hidden during those countless beatings under Solis’s pitiless eyes, she whipped her rapier through the air, scoring a deep gash on Marco’s shoulder.
The boy staggered, confused and off-balance. Mia backed away, bouncing on her toes and cutting the air with her bloodied blade.
“Still going to be gentle with me, Marco?” she smiled.
The boy scowled and launched a second attack, blows scything past Mia’s head as she skipped beneath them. The girl faded, twisted, moving like a dancer, and the clash ended with another deep cut, this time on Marco’s swordarm. Blood spattered on the stone. And as Marcellus finally began to realize the depth of the water in the which he swam, Mia lunged forward, strike, strike, feint, strike, dashing his longsword from his grip, and laying her blade to rest above Marco’s thundering heart.
“Yield,” she demanded.
The boy looked at her face. Down to her blade. Chest heaving. Skin drenched.
“… Yield,” he finally spat.
“Point!” cried Solis, as someone cracked the gong.
Mia dropped into a skirtless curtsey, and returned to her place at circle.
The other acolytes murmured among themselves, astonished.
Naev’s veil hid her smile.
Jessamine smiled not at all.
The bouts ran all morning, sweat and blood glistening on the stone. Though Pip found himself near-gutted by Osrik, and Jessamine cut Marco’s throat ear to ear with a lightning-swift strike, Speaker Adonai and Weaver Marielle stepped in quickly to mend any serious injury. No acolyte lost more than a few droplets of their best in the circle.
In defiance of expectations, and beneath Solis’s undisguised scowl, Mia won three of her four remaining bouts. Truth was, thanks to Mercurio, she’d never been a slouch with a blade, but Naev’s secret tutelage had honed her to a finer edge, and the idea that everyone in the room expected her to fail simply drove her harder to rub their collective faces in the dirt. She thrashed Ashlinn in their match-up (with her lead in Mouser’s contest, Ash didn’t seem overly worried, though she did flip the knuckles afterward) and soundly beat Petrus, disarming him with a perfect riposte and burying her stiletto in the bigger boy’s chest.
With preliminary bouts done, the top four acolytes remained on the circle’s edge, while all others retired to the benches around. Both Jessamine and Osrik stood undefeated, placed first and second, respectively. Tric had placed third, losing only to Jess. And in fourth place, despite the stormclouds almost visibly gathering over the Shahiid of Songs’ head, sat our own Mia Corvere.
“Final eliminations will now be fought,” Solis announced. “Choose the matches.”
The Hands at Solis’s side bowed. One proffered the human skull, the second reaching inside to pluck one of the four naming stones therein. Mia watched carefully, eyes narrowed. She felt the shadows nestled inside that hollowed crown. The smooth black rock carved with each contender’s name. Her fingers twitching behind her back.
“Acolyte Osrik…”—a second stone—“… faces Acolyte Tric.”
Mia looked across the circle, met by Jessamine’s cold smile.
“Acolyte Mia faces Acolyte Jessamine.”
Solis nodded, turned to the two boys.
“Acolytes, take your places.”
Mia glanced at Tric, flashed him a smile. The undefeated Osrik prowled into the ring, muscular arms gleaming with sweat. The boys faced each other across the circle, Tric re-tying his saltlocks as Oz called the toss and won.
Tric chose his favored scimitar and buckler, Osrik twin shortswords. The gong rang in the dark, and their steel joined, the pair crashing together like waves and rocks on a storm-washed beach. Mia watched on in silence, chewing her lip. Praying.
The goddess, it seemed, was listening.
After a long and bloody struggle, Mia and the other acolytes looking on in awe, Tric managed the impossible. Osrik put up a valiant fight, his form close to perfect, but perhaps at the heart of it, Tric simply had more to win, and much more lose. The match ended with Osrik’s belly opened from groin to ribs, and the stench of bowel and blood hanging thick in the air amid Adonai’s song. Solis cried “Point!” to the applause of the other Shahiid and acolytes, Mia clapping loudest of all.
Adonai and Marielle set to work mending Osrik’s wounds. Tric retired to the benches, drenched and panting. But as he met Mia’s eyes, he smiled.
“Acolyte Mia,” Solis called. “Acolyte Jessamine. Take your places.”
Mia glanced around the room. She spotted Diamo seated at the benches with the other acolytes. He was smiling at her too, lopsided and smug.
“I’m hungry, Shahiid,” Mia said. “What time is it?”
“Almost midbells,” Solis replied. “But we will eat only
after preliminaries are concluded. Take your place at circle.”
Mia stood slowly, stretched her arms, touched her toes. Her muscles were sore, and despite all the exercise she’d done to strengthen it, her swordarm was aching. She ran her fingers through her hair, fixed her braid while Jessamine prowled back and forth at her mark. Green eyes locked on her opponent. Hunter’s cunning and animal rage.
“Maw’s teeth, hurry the fuck up, Corvere.”
Mia looked to Tric. The boy nodded encouragement, gave her a quick wink. And finally, the shadows shivering about her, Mia stepped up to her mark.
Solis glowered, turned to the Hand beside him.
“Acolyte Jessamine, call the toss.”
“Trinity.”
The coin flashed in the air. Tumbled end over end.
“Senate side up,” the Hand declared.
“Acolyte Jessamine,” Solis said. “Choose your weapons.”
The redhead strode to the racks. Glanced over her shoulder at Mia, customary smirk in place. She wandered up and down the blades as if uncertain, finger to lips like a maid at market looking for a new dress. But eventually, she settled where Mia always knew she would—the rapier and stiletto combination favored by all Caravaggio fighters. The weapons were needle sharp, and whistled a bright tune as Jessamine sent them twirling in the air. The girl stepped back into the circle, inclined her head to Mia.
“Pity there’s no crossbows on the racks, neh? You might have a chance with forty yards and a stout quarrel between us, little girl.”
Mia ignored the maddening smirk, strode to the weapons. She drew twin gladii from the racks, cut the air with a few experimental swings. A gladius was shorter but heavier than a rapier. Almost as fast and built to take more punishment. A stout blow could shatter a rapier easily, and Naev had shown Mia that a pair of them wielded with skill could build a wall of blades a Caravaggio fighter would be hard-pressed to break. Question was if Mia would have any chance of hitting Jessamine back …