Nevernight (20 page)

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 getting 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.

Mia stepped inside, and for the third time that turn, felt her lungs bid her breath farewell. She stood on a mezzanine overlooking a dark wood—a forest of ornate shelves, laid out like a garden maze. And on each shelf stood books. Piles of books. Mountains of books. Oceans and oceans of books. Books of stained vellum and fresh parchment. Books bound in leather and wood and leaves, locked books and dusty books, books as thick as her waist and as tiny as her fist. Mia’s eyes were alight, fingernails denting the wooden railing.

“Naev, don’t let me down there,” she breathed.

“Why not?”

“You’ll never see me again…”

“Truer words never spoken,” said a rasping voice. “Depending what aisle you picked.”

Mia turned to the voice’s owner, saw a wizened Liisian man leaning against the far railing. He was dressed in britches and a scruffy waistcoat. A pair of improbably thick spectacles was balanced on a hooked nose, two shocks of white hair protruding from a balding head, as if they couldn’t decide on the best escape route. Back bent like a question mark. A cigarillo dangled from his mouth, another behind his ear. He looked about seven thousand four hundred and fifty-two years old.

He stood beside a small wooden trolley stacked with books, marked
RETURNS.

“Is that wise?” Mia said.

“What?” the old man blinked.

“This is a library. You can’t smoke in a bloody library.”

“O, shit…”

The old man plucked his cigarillo, pondered it briefly, popped it back into his mouth.

“What if the books catch fire?” Mia asked.

“O,
shiiiiiiiit
,” the old man said, exhaling a cloud that made Mia’s tongue tingle.

“Well … can I have one, then?”

“One what?”

“A smoke.”

“Are you daft?” The man peered at her through his improbable spectacles. “You can’t smoke in a bloody library. What if the books catch fire?”

Mia hooked her thumbs into her belt, tilted her head. “O, shiiiiit?”

The old man tugged the cigarillo from behind his ear, lit it with his own, and offered it to the girl. Mia grinned and puffed away on the strawberry-tinged smoke, licking her lips and delighting at the sugared paper. Naev gestured to the old man.

“Naev presents Chronicler Aelius, keeper of the athenaeum.”

“All right?” the old man enquired.

“All right,” Mia nodded.

“Splendid.”

Naev coughed in the rising pall. “Chronicler, she seeks to have a Dweymeri word translated. She desires a book on the subject. Does he have one in his keeping?”

“I’ve many, no doubt. But if it’s only one word the acolyte seeks the knowing of, I can probably save myself the look and speak it here.”