Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  “Bravo,” he said. “I’ve not seen anyone resist the Discord so well since Lord Cassius.”

  As the man stepped forward, the others about him broke as if on cue. They began unloading the caravan, unhitching the exhausted camels. Four of them lifted Naev into a sling, carrying her toward the cliff. Mia could see no rope. Could see no—

  “What is your name?”

  “Mia, master. Mia Corvere.”

  “And who is your Shahiid?”

  “Mercurio of Godsgrave.”

  “Ah, Mercurio at last musters the courage to send another lamb to the Church of Slaughter?” The man held out his hand. “Interesting.”

  She took the offered hand, and he pulled her up from the dust. Her mouth was dry, heart thudding. Echoes of murder and desire thrumming in her veins.

  “You are Tric.” The man turned to the boy with a smile. “Who carries the blood and not the name of the Threedrake clan. Adiira’s student.”

  Tric nodded slow, dragged his locks from his eyes. “Aye.”

  “My name is Mouser, servant of Our Lady of Blessed Murder and Shahiid of Pockets in her Red Church.” A small bow. “I believe you have something for us.”

  The question hung like a sword above Mia’s head. A thousand turns. Sleepless nevernights and bloody fingers and poison dripping from her hands. Broken bones and burning tears and lies upon lies. Everything she’d done, everything she’d lost—all of it came to this.

  Mia reached for the pouch of teeth at her belt.

  Her belly turned to ice.

  “… No,” she breathed.

  Feeling about her waist, her tunic, eyes widening in a panic as she realized—

  “My tithe! It’s gone!”

  “O, dear,” said Mouser.

  “But I just had it!”

  Mia searched the sands about her, fearing she’d lost it in the struggle with Tric. Scrabbling in the dust, tears in her eyes. Mister Kindly swelled and rolled inside her shadow’s dark, but even he couldn’t keep her terror completely at bay—the thought that everything had been for nothing … Crawling in the dirt, hair tangled across her eyes, chewing her lip and—

  Clink, clink.

  She looked up. Saw a familiar sheepskin purse held in supple fingers.

  Mouser’s smile.

  “You should be more careful, little lamb. Shahiid of Pockets, as I said.”

  Mia stood and snatched the purse with a snarl. Opening the bag, she counted the teeth therein, clutched it in a bloodless fist. She looked the man over, rage engulfing her terror for a moment. She had to resist the urge to add his teeth to her collection.

  “That was heartless,” she said.

  The man smiled wider, sadness lingering at the corners of those old eyes.

  “Welcome to the Red Church,” he said.

  1. The “Philosopher’s Stone,” as it was colloquially known, was a thin spear of rock off the coast of Godsgrave, surrounded by unforgiving reefs and drake-infested deeps. Atop the stone sat an abyssal keep, carved from the rock, it was said, by Niah herself. Into this pit, Godsgrave poured any criminal not deserving of outright execution. The prison overflowed with brigands and thieves, and the underpaid Administratii seemed almost entirely unconcerned with provisioning, medical care, or ensuring convicts were released in a timely fashion.

  A one-year term could easily stretch into three or five before the prison’s clerks would get around to processing the required paperwork. As such, most prisoners spent much of their time thinking deep thoughts about injustice, the nature of criminality, and how that pair of boots they stole wasn’t really worth the five years of life they paid for it. Hence the nickname “Philosopher’s Stone.”

  Owing to the overcrowding, the Itreyan Senate had devised an ingenious and entertaining method of population control known as “the Descent,” held during truedark Carnivalé every three years. However, an unexplained “incident” during the most recent Descent—also the night of the Truedark Massacre—saw large portions of the Philosopher’s Stone destroyed, and the spire itself partially collapsed. It has been abandoned ever since; a hollow, lean-to shell, supposedly haunted by the ghosts of the hundreds murdered within, the horrors of their deaths embedded in the stone for all eternity.

  Boo!

  2. Blacksteel, also known as “ironfoe,” was a wondrous metal created by the Ashkahi sorcerii before the fall of the empire. Black as truedark, the metal never grew dull or rusted, and was capable of being sharpened to an impossible edge. Ashkahi smiths were said to slice their anvils in half with a completed blacksteel blade to prove it worthy—a practice heartily endorsed by the Ashkahi Anvilmaker’s Guild.

  One famous tale speaks of a thief named Tariq who stole a blacksteel blade belonging to an Ashkahi prince. In his haste to flee the scene of his crime, the thief dropped the blade, which cut through the floor and down into the earth. The flood of fire released from the worldwound burned down the entire city. Death by immolation became the punishment for thievery in Ashkah thereafter—no matter the offense, be it the smallest loaf or the crown jewels themselves, any thief caught in Ashkah would be tied to a stone pillar and set ablaze.

  Some people just ruin it for everybody, don’t they?

  CHAPTER 8

  SALVATION

  “Two irons and twelve coppers,” the boy crowed. “Tonight we eat like kings. Or queens. As the case may be.”

  “What,” scoffed the grubby girl beside him. “You mean crucified in Tyrant’s Row? I’d rather eat like a consul if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Girls can’t be consuls, sis.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t eat like one.”

  Three urchins were crouched in an alley not too far off the market’s crush, a basket of stale pastries beside them. The first, the quick-fingered lad who’d bumped into Mia in the marketplace. The second, a girl with grubby blond hair and bare feet. The third was a slightly older boy, gutter-thin and mean. They were dressed in threadbare clothes, though the bigger boy wore a fine belt of knives at his waist. The proceeds of their morning’s work were laid before them; a handful of coins and a silver crow with amber eyes.

  “That’s mine,” Mia said from behind them.

  The trio stood quickly, turned to face their accuser. Mia stood at the alley mouth, fists on hips. The bigger boy pulled a knife from his belt.

  “You give that back right now,” said Mia.

  “Or what?” the boy said, raising his blade.

  “Or I yell for the Luminatii. They’ll cut off your hands and dump you in the Choir if you’re lucky. Throw you in the Philosopher’s Stone if not.”

  The trio gifted her a round of mocking laughter.

  The black at Mia’s feet rippled. The fear inside her became nothing at all. And folding her arms, she puffed out her chest, narrowed her eyes, and spoke with a voice she didn’t quite recognize as her own.

  “Give. It. Back.”

  “Fuck off, you little whore,” the big one said.

  A scowl darkened Mia’s brow. “… Whore?”

  “Cut her, Shivs,” the younger boy said. “Cut her a new hole.”

  Cheeks reddening, Mia peered at the first boy.

  “Your name is Shivs? O, because you carry knives, aye?” She glanced at the younger boy. “You’d be Fleas then?” To the girl. “Let me guess, Worms?”1

  “Clever,” said the blonde. And stepping lightly to Mia’s side, she drew back a fist and buried it in Mia’s stomach.

  The breath left her lungs with a wet cough as she fell to her knees. Blinking and blinded, Mia clutched her belly, trying not to retch. Astonishment inside her. Astonishment and rage.

  Nobody had hit her before.

  Nobody had dared.

  She’d seen her mother fence wits countless times in the Spine. She’d seen men reduced to stuttering lumps by the Dona Corvere, women driven to tears. And Mia had studied well. But the rules said the aggrieved was supposed to riposte with some barb of their own, not haul off and punch her like s
ome lowborn thug in an alley scra—

  “O…,” Mia wheezed. “Right.”

  Shivs strode across the alley and slammed a boot into her ribs. The blonde (who in Mia’s mind would ever after be thought of as Worms) smiled cheerfully as Mia vomited on an empty stomach. Turning to the younger boy, Shivs pointed at their loot.

  “Pick that up and let’s be off. I’ve got—”

  Shivs felt something sharp and deathly cold dig into his britches. He glanced down to the stiletto poking his privates, the little fist clutching it tight. Mia had wrapped herself around his waist, pressing her mother’s dagger into the boy’s crotch, the crow on the pommel glaring at Shiv’s with two amber eyes. Her whisper was soft and deadly.

  “Whore, am I?”

  Now, if this were a storybook tale, gentlefriend, and Mia the hero within it, Shivs would’ve seen some shadow of the killer she’d become and backed away all a-tremble. But the truth is, the boy stood two feet taller than Mia, and outweighed her by eighty pounds. And looking down at the girl around his waist, he didn’t see the most feared assassin in all the Republic—just a sprat with no real idea how to hold a knife, her face so close to his elbow one good twitch would send her sprawling.

  So Shivs twitched. And Mia wasn’t sent sprawling so much as flying.

  She fell into the mud, clutching a broken nose, blinded by agonized tears. The younger boy (ever after thought of as Fleas) picked up Dona Corvere’s fallen dagger, eyes wide.

  “Daughters, lookit this!”

  “Toss it here.”

  The boy flipped it hilt first. Shivs snatched the knife from the air, admired the craftsmanship with greedy eyes.

  “Aa’s cock, this is real gravebone…”

  Fleas kicked Mia hard in the ribs. “Where did a trollop like you get—”

  A wrinkled hand landed on the lad’s shoulder, slamming him against the wall. A knee said hello to his groin, a gnarled walking stick invited his jaw to dance.2 A double-handed strike to the back of his head left him bleeding in the dirt.

  Old Mercurio stood above him, clad in a long greatcoat of beaten leather, a walking stick in one bony hand. His ice-blue eyes were narrowed, taking in the scene, the girl sprawled bloody on the floor. He looked at Shivs, lips peeled back in a sneer.

  “That’s your game is it? Kickball?” He aimed a savage boot into the ribs of young Fleas, rewarded with a sickening crack. “Mind if I join?”

  Shivs glared at the old man, down at his bleeding comrade. And with a black curse, he hefted the Dona Corvere’s stiletto and hurled it at Mercurio’s head.

  It was a fine throw. Right between the eyes. But instead of dying, the old man snatched the blade from midair, quick as the stink on the banks of the Rose.3 Tucking the stiletto inside his greatcoat, Mercurio took hold of his walking stick, and with a crisp ring, drew a long, gravebone blade hidden within the shaft. He advanced on Shivs and Worms, brandishing the sword.

  “O, Liisian rules, aye? Old school? Fair enough, then.”

  Shivs and Worms glanced at each other, panic in their eyes. And without a word, the pair turned and bolted down the alley, leaving poor Fleas unconscious in the muck.

  Mia was on her hands and knees. Cheeks stained with tears and blood. Her nose felt raw and swollen, throbbing red. She couldn’t see properly. Couldn’t think.

  “Told you that brooch wouldn’t be naught but trouble,” Mercurio growled. “You’d have done better listening, girl.”

  Mia felt a heat in her chest. Stinging at her eyes. Another child might have bawled for her mother, then. Cried the world wasn’t fair. But instead, all the rage, all the indignity, the memory of her father’s death, her mother’s arrest, the brutality and attempted murder, stacked afresh now with robbery and an alley scrap she’d been on the wrong side of winning—all of it piled up inside her like tinder on a bonfire and bursting into bright, furious flame.

  “Don’t call me ‘girl,’” Mia spat, pawing the tears from her eyes. She pulled herself halfway up the wall, slumped back down again. “I am the daughter of a justicus. Firstchild of one of the twelve noble houses. I’m Mia Corvere, damn you!”

  “O, I know who you are,” said the old man. “Question is, who else does?”

  “… What?”

  “Who else knows you’re the Kingmaker’s sprog, missy?”

  “No one,” she snarled. “I’ve told no one. And don’t call me ‘missy,’ either.”

  A sniff. “Not as stupid as I thought, then.”

  The old man looked down the alley. Back at the marketplace. Finally, to the bleeding girl at his feet. And with something close to a sigh, he offered his hand.

  “Come on, little Crow. Let’s get your beak straightened out.”

  Mia wiped her fist across her lips, brought it away bloody.

  “I know you not at all, sir,” she said. “And I trust you even less.”

  “Well, those’re the first sensible words I’ve heard you hatch. But if I wanted you dead, I’d just leave you to it. Because alone out here, you’ll be dead by nevernight.”

  Mia stayed where she was, distrust plain in her eyes.

  “I’ve got tea,” Mercurio sighed. “And cake.”

  The girl covered her growling belly with both palms.

  “… What kind of cake?”

  “The free kind.”

  Mia pouted. Licked her lips and tasted blood.

  “My favorite.”

  And she took the old man’s hand.

  “And I said I’m not wearing that!” Tric bellowed.

  “Apologies,” said Mouser. “Did I give the impression I was asking?”

  At the simplest mountain’s foot, Mia was doing her best to keep a level head. The churchmen were gathered by the cliff face, each with an armload of gear or a weary camel in tow. Mouser was holding out blindfolds, which he’d insisted Mia and Tric wear. For some inexplicable reason, Tric had grown furious at the suggestion. Mia could practically see the hackles rising down the Dweymeri boy’s back.

  Though she felt no remnants of the strange cocktail of rage and lust that had filled her earlier, Mia thought perhaps her friend might still be under the influence. She turned to Mouser.

  “Shahiid, our minds weren’t our own when we arrived…”

  “The Discord. A werking placed on the Quiet Mountain in ages past.”

  “It’s still affecting him.”

  “No. It discourages those who arrive at the Church without … invitation. You are now welcome here. If you wear blindfolds.”

  “We saved her life.” Tric gestured to Naev. “And you still don’t trust us?”

  Mouser tucked his thumbs into his belt and smiled his silverware smile. His voice was as rich as Twelve Cask goldwine.4

  “You still live, don’t you?”

  “Tric, what difference does it make?” Mia asked. “Just put it on.”

  “I’m not wearing any blindfold.”

  “But we’ve come so far…”

  “And you will go no further,” Mouser added. “Not with eyes to see.”

  Tric folded his arms and glowered. “No.”

  Mia sighed, dragged her hand through her fringe. “Shahiid Mouser. I’d like a moment to confer with my learned colleague?”

  “Be swift,” the Shahiid said. “If Naev dies on the very doorstep, Speaker Adonai will be none pleased. On your heads be it should Our Lady take her.”

  Mia wondered what the Shahiid meant—the kraken wounds were fatal, and Naev was already a dead woman. But still, she took Tric’s hand, dragged him across the crumbling foothills. Out of earshot, she turned on the boy, infamous temper slowly rising.

  “Maw’s teeth, what’s wrong with you?”

  “I won’t do it. I’d rather cut my own throat.”

  “They’ll do that for you if you keep this up!”

  “Let them try.”

  “This the way they do things, so this is the way it’s done! Do you understand what we add up to, here? We’re acolytes! Bottom of the pile! We
do it, or they do us.”

  “I’m not wearing a blindfold.”

  “Then you won’t get inside the Church.”

  “Maw take the Church!”

  Mia rocked back on her heels, frown darkening her brow.

  “… he fears…,” whispered Mister Kindly from her shadow.

  “Shut up, you blackhearted little shit,” Tric snapped.

  “Tric, what are you afraid of?”

  Mister Kindly sniffed with his not-nose, blinked with his not-eyes.

  “… the dark…”

  “Shut up!” Tric roared.

  Mia blinked, incredulity slapped all over her face. “You can’t be serious…”

  “… apologies, i was uninformed i’d been relegated to the role of comic relief…”

  Mia tried to catch Tric’s stare, but the boy was frowning at his feet.

  “Tric, are you honestly telling me you’ve come to train among the most feared assassins in the Republic and you’re afraid of the bloody dark?”

  Tric was set to yell again, but the words died on his tongue. Gritted teeth, hands curling into fists, those artless tattoos twisting as he grimaced.

  “… It’s not the damned dark.” A quiet sigh. “Just … not being able to see. I…”

  He slumped down on his backside, kicked a toeful of shale down the slope.

  “O, sod it…”

  Guilt welled up in Mia’s chest, drowning the anger beneath. She knelt beside the Dweymeri with a sigh, put a comforting hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Tric. What happened?”

  “Bad things.” Tric pawed at his eyes. “Just … bad things.”

  She took his hand and squeezed, acutely aware of how much she was growing to like this strange boy. To see him like this, shivering like a child …

  “I can take it away,” she offered.

  “… Take what away?”

  “Your fear. Well, Mister Kindly can, anyway. For a little while. He drinks it. Breathes it. It’s what keeps him here. Makes him grow.”

  Tric frowned at the shadow-creature, revulsion in his eyes.