Nevernight (60 page)

“You know, folk around here have got you figured for a ruthless bitch after that stunt with Diamo. But I know better. Someone hurts those you love, you’ll not forgive it. But underneath it all, you’re a good sort, Corvere.”

Mia kissed Ash’s cheek, smiling. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

“I mean it. Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing in a place like this, Mia.”

“… Since when do you call me Mia?”

“I’m serious,” Ash said. “You should be sure.”

“… Of what?”

Ash searched her eyes. All trace of her smile gone.

“If you really want to be here tomorrow eve.”

“Where else would I be?”

Ash seemed set to say more, but her stare hardened, and she caught herself before she spoke. She hung a moment longer, arms still around Mia’s waist. Lips parted. Pupils wide. And then Ash let go, slipped out through the door and disappeared down the hallway in search of the speaker. Mia closed the door behind her, slunk back to her bed. Watching the cigarillo burning down in her hand.

What was Ash on about? This was everything she’d worked for. Everything she wanted. All the years, the miles, the struggle. The things she’d done to get here, the lives she’d taken on this bloody road. Hands dipped in red. But now she was just one step away from initiation.

One step closer to Remus’s throat.

Duomo’s heart.

Scaeva’s head.

Then it would all be worth it, wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t it?

A black shape coalesced at her feet. Whispering like wind through winter trees.

“…
tomorrow
…,” it said.

Mia nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

1. His last pair. The good chronicler had broken his spare set during a wrestling match with a copy of
At His Majesty’s Service
, the autobiography of Angelica Trobbiani, courtesan during the reign of Francisco VI. All copies of this “treasonous smut” were hunted down and burned under order of Francisco’s Queen, Aria, after her husband’s death. The copy in the Red Church athenaeum is the last one in existence.

The book, having inherited some of its author’s infamous temperament, is understandably upset about this fact.

2. What became of the boy’s beloved knife was anyone’s guess.

3. The third branch of the Republic’s bureaucracy, the first and second being the Luminatii and Administratii. Far smaller than their sibling organizations, the Obfuscatii are the Senate’s information-brokers and rumor-mongers. Concerned largely with internal threats to Itreya’s security, the organization is as old as the Republic itself. Its founder, Tiberius the Elder, was known to have stood among the insurgents who overthrew Itreya’s last king, Francisco XV.

Some rumor even places Tiberius’s hand on the blade that killed poor Franco himself.

CHAPTER 31

B
ECOMING

Mia slept like the righteous dead that eve. A soft knocking woke her sometime before midmeal, and she heard the low voice of a Hand on the other side of her door.

“Be in the Hall of Eulogies in one hour, Acolyte.”

Mia dressed slowly, made her way to the Sky Altar. The benches and chairs were deserted, the Quiet Mountain quieter than she ever remembered it. The thought of initiation filled her mind. She’d finished top of Truths, but the Revered Mother had hinted more trials awaited. She’d no clue what she might face in the Hall of Eulogies, or the final hurdles she’d need to overcome.

She stopped by the athenaeum on her way to the hall. Chronicler Aelius was loitering on the threshold as always, sorting through the
RETURNS
trolley. Wordlessly, he pulled his ever-present spare cigarillo from behind his ear and handed it to Mia. The pair leaned against the wall, staring out over the sea of shelves below. How many lifetimes could she spend down there if she let herself? How much easier would it be to get lost in those endless pages, and leave this road of shadows and blood behind?

“Initiation soon, eh?” Aelius asked.

Mia nodded, blew a perfect smoke ring in strawberry-scented gray.

“Well,” Aelius shrugged. “All good things…”

Mia licked the sugar from her lips. “You never found the book I was asking for?”

The chronicler shook his head. “I discovered a whole new wing out there yesterturn, though. Thousands of books. Millions of words. Maybe something about darkin in there.”

She looked out over the words below. Sighed.

“It’s a beautiful place, this. Part of me wishes I could stay here forever.”

“Careful what you wish for, lass.”

“I know,” Mia nodded. “The grass is always greener. Still, I envy you, Aelius.”

“The living don’t envy the dead.”

Mia looked at the old man. A slow frown forming on her brow. She realized she’d never seen him leave the athenaeum. Never seen him eat a meal in the Sky Altar or cross this threshold out into the Church proper even once. The girl stared at her cigarillo. The maker’s mark she’d never seen before.

“They don’t make them like this anymore.”

The library of Our Lady of Blessed Murder.

A library of the dead.

“You…”

“The Mother keeps only what she needs,” the old man said.

Mia simply stared, a chill in her belly. Horror and sorrow in her heart.

“You remember what I said that turn you met the bookworm?” Aelius asked.

“You said maybe here’s not where I’m supposed to be.”

Aelius drew hard on his cigarillo. Blew a series of smoke rings that chased each other through the quiet dark. “I’ll take a look in that new wing. If I find anything of the darkin, I’ll have someone leave it in your chambers. Or somewhere else. If that’s where you want to be.”

Mia frowned through a cloud of shifting gray.

“Good luck in the Hall of Eulogies, lass,” Aelius said. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“… My thanks, Chronicler.”

Aelius stubbed out his smoke against the wall and put the remains in his pocket.

“I’d best be off. Too many books.”

“Too few centuries.”

He looked at her then. Something empty and awful in that milky-blue stare. But with a shrug, he limped off down the stairs, out into the endless shelves.

The darkness swallowed him whole.

Three acolytes stood in a goddess’s shadow.

The Mother of Night loomed above them, staring down with stone eyes.

Tric and Hush had been waiting when Mia arrived, several Hands hovering on the edge of the stained-glass light. As the ghostly choir sung out in the dark, a robed figure escorted Mia to the dais. Glancing sideways, she glimpsed strawberry curls.

“Friend Naev,” Mia whispered.

The woman squeezed her hand. “Good fortune. Hold fast.”

Mia took her place beside Tric. Noted the boy was studiously ignoring her. Hearing the voice of a shadow echoing in her head.

“…
it is for the best, mia
…”

Three acolytes assembled. The victors in Truths, Songs, and Pockets. Mia wondered who had finally won in Aalea’s hall, what kind of secret they must have stolen to gain the Shahiid’s favor. She heard soft footsteps behind her. Found herself praying that she’d not turn and see Jessamine. Taking a deep breath, Mia glanced over her shoulder. And there, standing on the edge of the light, she saw Ashlinn. Hair in fresh warbraids, eyes twinkling in the dark. A small ironwood brooch was pinned to her shirt. A smiling harlequin’s masque.

“Sorry I’m late,” the girl smirked.

Winking to Mia, Ash stepped up to the dais, taking her place at Hush’s side. Mia was amazed. What kind of secret had the girl dredged up? What must it—

“Acolytes.”

Mia straightened, eyes front. The double doors leading into the antechamber had swung silently open. A Hand shrouded in long black robes was waiting on the threshold, a scroll unfurled before her. Beside her stood Revered Mother Drusilla.

“My congratulations to you all,” the old woman said. “Each of you have demonstrated a mastery in one of the four halls of this Church, and considerable proficiency in other areas of study. Of every acolyte in this year’s flock, you stand closest to initiation as Blades. But before Lord Cassius inducts you fully into the secrets of this circle, one final trial remains.”

The old woman turned, disappeared through the double doors in a swirl of black cloth. The Hand carrying the scroll stepped forward, consulted the parchment.

“Acolyte Tric?”

Tric took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Aye.”

“Walk with me.”

Mia watched the boy march forward, Naev beside him. She wondered what awaited him. Tried to put the memory of their last parting aside. The guilt that she’d hurt him, the anger in his eyes … If death lay beyond that door, she wanted to make it right between them. But he was already gone, crossing the threshold without a backward glance, the doors closing soundlessly behind him. Mia could feel Mister Kindly in her shadow, gravitating toward the growing fear around her. She glanced at Hush. Ashlinn. Wondered if the girl’s father had told her what to expect beyond.

The trio waited silently in the statue’s shadow. Minutes past. Long as years. That perpetual, ghostly choir the only sound. Finally, the doors swung open and Tric emerged. Jaw clenched. Slightly pale. Apparently unharmed. He found Mia’s eyes, and she saw a haunted look cross his face. For a moment, she thought he might speak. But without a word to the others, Tric was escorted up the spiral stairwell and out of sight.

Ash was looking straight ahead. Speaking in a whisper, her lips almost motionless.

“Be sure, Corvere.”

“Acolyte Mia.”

The Hand at the double doors was looking at her expectantly. Mister Kindly purred in her shadow. Mia stepped forward, hands in fists.

“Aye.”

“Walk with me.”

Mia stepped off the dais. Naev was beside again, escorting her as she’d done with Tric. As they reached the threshold, the woman touched her hand. Nodded.

“Hold it close, Mia Corvere. Hold it tight.”

Mia met the woman’s eyes, but there was no chance to ask what she meant. The girl turned, followed the Hand through a long passage of dark stone. The only sound was their soft footsteps, the choir muted as the double doors closed behind them. A large domed room waited beyond, set on all sides by vast arched windows of beautiful stained glass. Abstract patterns were wrought in the panes, blood-red spirals, twisting and turning, twelve fingers of light overlapping on the floor.

Standing in the light’s center, Mia saw the Revered Mother Drusilla. Her hands were folded in her robe, and she wore that patient, motherly smile. The obsidian key around her neck glittered with the slow rise and fall of her breast. Mia approached cautiously, searching the shadows, glad for the not-eyes in the back of her head.

She couldn’t help but notice the floor in front of Drusilla was wet.

Freshly scrubbed.

“Greetings, Acolyte.”

Mia swallowed. “Revered Mother.”

“This is your final trial before initiation. Are you prepared?”

“I suppose that depends what it is.”

“A simple thing. A moment and it is done. We have honed you to an edge so fine you could cut the sunslight in six. But before we induct you into the deeper mysteries, first we must see what beats at the heart of you.”

Mia thought back to that torture cell in Godsgrave. The “confessors” who’d beaten her, burned her, near drowned her in Lord Cassius’s test of loyalty. She’d not shattered then. She’d not shatter now.

“Iron or glass,” Mia said.

“Precisely.”

“Haven’t we already answered that question?”

“You have proven your loyalty, true. But you will face death in all her colors if you serve as the Mother’s Blade. Your own death is only one. This is another.”

Mia heard scuffing footsteps in the shadows. She saw two Hands swathed in black, dragging a struggling figure between them. A boy. Barely in his teens. Wide eyes. Cheeks stained with tears. Bound and gagged. The Hands dragged him to the center of the light, forced him to his knees in front of Mia.

The girl looked at the Revered Mother. That sweet matronly smile. Those old, gentle eyes, creased at the edges.

“Kill this boy,” the old woman said.

Three words. One ton apiece.

All the world fell still. The dark pressing in around her. The weight settling on her shoulders and pushing her down. Hard to breathe. Hard to see.

“What?” she managed.

“The time may come when you are asked to end an innocent in service to this congregation,” Drusilla said. “A child. A wife. A man who has lived both good and well. Not for you to question why. Or who. Or what. Yours is only to serve.”

Mia looked into the boy’s eyes. Wide with terror.

“Each death we bring is a prayer,” Drusilla said. “Each kill, an offering to She Who Is All and Nothing. Our Lady of Blessed Murder. Mother, Maid and Matriarch. She has placed Her mark on you, Mia Corvere. You are Her servant. Her disciple. Perhaps, even, Her chosen.”

The old woman held out a dagger in her open palm. Searched Mia’s eyes.

“And if you cut this boy’s throat, you will be her Blade.”

It lasted forever. It lasted a moment. The girl stood there in that stained, blood-red light. Mind racing. Heart pounding. Questions swirling in her mind, never spoken.

She already knew the answers.

“Who is he?”

“No one.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.”

“Why should I kill him?”

“Because we tell you to.”

“But—”

“Iron or glass, Mia Corvere?”

She took the dagger from Drusilla’s hand. Tested the edge. Thinking perhaps it might be spring-loaded, that this was just another deception, that all she need do was show the
will
, and all would be well. But the dagger was sharp enough to draw blood on her fingertip. The blade solid as any she’d held.

If she put it in this boy’s chest, sure and certain, she was putting him in his grave.

“The wolf does not pity the lamb,” Drusilla said. “The storm begs no forgiveness of the drowned.”