Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  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.”

  “You speak Dweymeri?” Mia asked.

  “If there’s a language spoken beneath the suns that I’ve not a knowing of, you can pluck out my eyes and use them for marbles, lass.”2

  “Well, as much as the idea of wandering the aisles might appeal to me on any other turn, my lovely fur bed is calling, good chronicler.” Mia took a deep drag. “So if you could give me a meaning along with this fine smoke, I’d be twice in your debt.”

  “Speak the word.”

  “Koffi.”

  “Oof.” The old man winced. “Who called you that?”

  “No one.”

  “A good thing … Wait, you didn’t throw it at someone else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, don’t. It’s about the worst insult you can give a Dweymeri.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Roughly translated? Child of rape.” The old man took a puff. “The worst of the Dweymeri pirates are in the habit of … having their way with folk they capture. A koffi is the product of such devilry. A half-caste. The bastard child of an unwilling mother.”

  “Maw’s teeth,” Mia breathed. “No wonder Tric wanted to kill him…”

  Aelius crushed his smoke out on the wall, tucked the dead butt into his pocket.

  “That’s all you needed? One word?”

  “For now.”

  “Well, I’ll be off then. Too many books. Too few centuries.”

  “My thanks, Chronicler Aelius.”

  “Good luck with singing lessons tomorrow.”

  Mia frowned, watched his bent back as he shuffled away. Crushing out her own cigarillo, she looked to Naev. “Bedtime, if you’d be so kind as to lead the way?”

  “Of course.”

  The woman led Mia back through the winding labyrinth. Patches of arkemical illumination spilled through stained-glass windows. Mia swore they returned a different way than they’d come by—either that or the walls were moving. Her mind was spinning like mekwerk.

  Was it true, what Floodcaller said? Wasn’t it possible Tric’s parents had loved each other, though each had different skin? Mia couldn’t help but remember the murder in Tric’s eyes. Would he have taken such offense if there weren’t truth behind the insult?

  Mia wondered if she should speak to Tric about it. She didn’t want to have to spend her nevernights worrying about the knife waiting for him in the dark, but the boy was as stubborn as a wagonload of mules. It’d be bad enough looking over her shoulder for Jessamine. Tric didn’t have the not-eyes in the back of his head that Mia did, and Floodcaller had already proved he could wipe the floor with him face to face.

  If the boy wasn’t careful, he’d end up buried here.

  You can imagine Mia’s surprise then, when Floodcaller was discovered lying in the shadow of Niah’s statue the next morning. A pool of blood cooling among the names on the carven stone about him.

  Throat cut ear to ear.

  1. As you can imagine, gentlefriend, methods by which the suns can be kept at bay in a land where the bastard things almost never set are considered of no small import. Master bedrooms in the Republic are often built in basements, and guests at more well-to-do taverna will pay extra for rooms without windows. Dreamsickness—a malady acquired from lack of deep sleep—is an increasingly problematic ailment, and although Aa’s ministry burned him as a heretic, in the Visionaries’ Row of the Iron Collegium’s grand foyer, you can still find a statue of Don Augustine D’Antello, inventor of the triple-ply curtain.

  2. In fact, there were three languages spoken beneath the suns that Chronicler Aelius had no knowledge of.

  The first, a tongue spoken by a mountain clan in the Eastern Divide who’d never had contact with outsiders that didn’t end in a spit roast.

  The second, a peculiar dialect of old Liisian, spoken exclusively by an apocalypse cult in Elai known as the Waiting Ones (their congregation numbered exactly six, one of whom was a dog named Rolf but who was referred to by his fellows as “the Yellow Prince”).

  And last, the language of cats. O, yes, cats speak gentlefriend, doubt it not—if you own more than one and can’t see them at this particular moment, chances are they’re off in a corner somewhere lamenting the fact that their owner seems to spend all their time reading silly books rather than paying them the attention they so richly deserve.

  BOOK 2

  IRON OR GLASS

  CHAPTER 10

  SONG

  Twenty-seven acolytes stood in the Hall of Eulogies.

  One less than there had been yesterturn.

  Mia looked among them, wondering. Jessamine with her red hair and hunter’s eyes. A broad, olive-skinned boy with a missing ear and chewed fingernails. A thin girl with cropped black hair and a slavemark branded on her cheek, swaying on her feet like a snake. An ill-favored Vaanian boy with tattooed hands who always seemed to be talking to himself. Mia was still putting faces to names. But though they were still mostly strangers, she knew one thing about every acolyte around her.

  Murderers, all.

  The Mother of Night’s statue loomed above them, staring down with pitiless eyes. Rumor had been rippling among the acolytes as they made their way to the hall befo
re mornmeal. Two Hands were on their knees, scrubbing the stone at the goddess’s feet with horsehair brushes. The water in their bucket was a thin, translucent red.

  Floodcaller’s body was nowhere to be seen.

  Ashlinn sidled up to Mia, spoke softly while staring straight ahead.

  “Hear about the Dweymeri boy?”

  “… A little.”

  “Throat cut clean, they say.”

  “So I heard.”

  Tric, standing to Mia’s right, said not a word. Mia looked at her friend, searching his face for some sign of guilt. Tric was a killer and no mistake—but everyone in this room was. Just because he and Floodcaller had tussled the eve before didn’t mean he’d be top of the suspect list. Revered Mother Drusilla would have to think him some kind of fool to murder Floodcaller with his motive so obvious …

  “Think the Ministry will investigate?” Mia asked.

  “You heard what Mother Drusilla said. ‘You are killers one, killers all. And I expect you all to behave as such.’” Ashlinn glanced at Tric. “Maybe someone just took her literally.”

  “Acolytes.”

  The girls looked up, saw the Revered Mother Drusilla, gray hair unbound, fingers entwined. She’d arrived without a whisper, seeming to melt out of the shadows themselves. The old woman spoke, her voice echoing in the gloom.

  “Before lessons begin, I have an announcement. I am certain all of you have heard about the murder of your fellow acolyte yestereve, here in this very hall.” Drusilla glanced at the wet spot on the stone, still being dutifully scrubbed. “Floodcaller’s ending is deeply regrettable, and the Ministry will be investigating thoroughly. If you have any information, bring it to my chambers by the end of the turn. We stand in the Church of Our Lady of Blessed Murder, and the lives of your fellow acolytes are hers, not yours to take. Should this ending have been committed as an act of revenge, spite, or simple cold-blooded calculation, the perpetrator will be punished accordingly.”

  Mia was certain the old woman’s eyes lingered on Tric as she said “revenge.” She glanced at her friend, but the boy’s face remained stoic.

  “However,” Drusilla continued, “while the investigation is ongoing, all acolytes are forbidden from leaving their rooms after ninth bell has struck. Special dispensation may be granted by your Shahiid for purposes of training and study, but idle wandering through the halls will not be permitted. Those found in breach of this ban will be punished severely.”

  Mother Drusilla allowed her gaze to linger on each acolyte in turn. Mia wondered what constituted “severe punishment” among a flock of murderous fanatics.

  “Now,” Drusilla said. “Proceed to the Hall of Songs and await Shahiid Solis in silence.”

  The woman disappeared into the shadows in a swirl of black robes.

  Murmurs passed up and down the row of acolytes. The girl with the slave brand was gazing at Tric intently. The olive-skinned boy tugging at the nub of flesh where his ear used to be, looking at the Dweymeri with narrowed eyes. Tric ignored their stares, walking behind the Hands who’d appeared to escort them. After a wearying climb into what might have been the Mountain’s peak, Mia and her fellows found themselves in the Hall of Songs.

  She had no idea why the room was called such, though she suspected it had nothing to do with acoustics.1 A circular stained-glass window was set in the ceiling, throwing a bright golden spotlight into the room’s heart. The hall was huge, its edges swallowed by shadows, though Mia caught impressions of those same swirling patterns on the walls. She could smell old blood, sweat, oil and steel. Training dummies and archery targets and fitness apparatus were arranged in neat rows. The floor was black granite, and a circle was carved in the room’s heart, wide enough for forty men to stand abreast. Each acolyte took a place around it and, as instructed, most settled in to await their first lesson in silence.

  Ashlinn took a place at Mia’s left and began whispering within ten seconds.

  “Ninebells curfew. Can you believe it?”

  Mia glanced around the room before replying. “It’s not like there’ll be much to do around here after the light dies anyway.”

  The girl grinned. “O, Corvere. You’ve got no idea.”

  “So why—”

  “You were instructed to wait in silence.”

  A deep voice echoed through the Hall of Songs, bouncing off the unseen walls. Mia heard no footsteps, but Shahiid Solis emerged from the shadows behind her, hands clasped behind him. As he brushed past, Mia realized the man was even more imposing up close, all broad shoulders and ghost-white eyes. He wore soft black robes, that same empty scabbard at his waist. And yet he moved with a silent grace, as if listening to a tune only he could hear.

  “A Blade of the Mother must be silent as starlight on a sleeping babe’s cheek,” he said, stepping into the circle. “I once hid in the Grand Athenaeum of Elai for seven turns waiting for my offering to show herself, and not even the books knew I was there.”2 He turned to Mia and Ashlinn. “And you girls cannot keep quiet for a handful of heartbeats.”

  “Forgiveness, Shahiid,” Ashlinn bowed.

  “Three laps of the stair for you, girl. Down and up. Go.”

  Ashlinn hovered uncertainly. The Shahiid glared, those sightless eyes seeming to bore right through her skull.

  “Six laps, then. The number doubles every time I repeat myself.”

  Ashlinn bowed and with another apology, retreated from the hall. Solis turned to Mia, colorless eyes fixed over her shoulder. She noticed he never blinked.

  “And you, girl? Do you have something to say?”

  Mia remained silent.

  “Well?” The Shahiid stepped closer, looming over her. “Answer me!”

  Mia kept her gaze to the floor, her voice steady. “Forgiveness, Shahiid, but with all due respect, I believe anything I say will simply be taken as a further breach of the silence you demanded, and you will only punish me further.”

  The hulking man’s lips twisted in a small smile. “A clever little slip, neh?”

  “If I were clever, I’d not have been caught talking, Shahiid.”

  “A pity, then. There’s precious little else about you worthy of note.” Solis pointed to the stairs. “Three laps. Down and up. Go.”

  Mia bowed and left the hallway without a word.

  Stretching her legs on the landing, she commenced her run, counting the steps in her head.3 She wondered how Solis knew if she looked notable or not—those eyes of his were as blind as a boy in love, she’d bet her life on it—but he acted as if he were as sighted as she. Halfway through the second lap, all musing on the Shahiid had ceased, her focus consumed by running the stair. Reaching the top, her legs were jelly, and she silently thanked her old master again for all the Godsgrave stairs he’d made her run in punishment. She almost wished she’d misbehaved more.

  Ashlinn (whom Mia had lapped in the last fifty feet) reached the top drenched in sweat, offering a wink as she paused to catch her breath.

  “Sorry, Corvere,” she gasped. “Father warned me about Solis. Should’ve known better.”

  “No harm done,” Mia smiled.

  “Wait and see. I’ve still got three more laps,” Ashlinn grinned. “See you in there.”

  Mia turned back to the hall, hands on hips. She returned in time to see Jessamine’s sidekick—the tall Itreyan acolyte with fists like sledgehammers—step into the circle with Shahiid Solis. She saw six other novices, including Jessamine, the pale boy who’d named himself Hush and the slavemark girl, all slumped in their places at circle, sweating and breathless. All bleeding from tiny scratches on their cheeks.

  Solis stood in the ring’s center. Mia saw he’d removed his dark robe, an outfit of supple golden-brown leather underneath. She saw a series of small scars on one massive forearm, thirty-six in total. He still wore the empty scabbard at his side, but he was now armed with a double-edged gladius—a blade ideal for close-quarter fighting.

  Dozens of racks had been wheeled out from the darkness
, stocked with every kind of weapon Mia could imagine. Swords and knives, hammers and maces, Maw’s teeth—even a rack of bloody poleaxes. All plain and unadorned and perfectly, beautifully lethal.

  Solis’s blind gaze was fixed on the floor. “What is your name, boy?”

  The thuggish Itreyan boy replied with a bow. “Diamo, Shahiid.”

  “And you are versed in the blade’s song, little Diamo?”

  “I know a tune or two.”

  “Sing to me, then.”

  As Mia took her place back in the circle, Diamo perused the weapon racks. He took up a longsword, a good five feet in length, the steel slicing the air audibly as he took an experimental swing. Mia nodded to herself. The boy had chosen a good counter for Solis’s shortblade, so he knew the basics at least. The extra reach would give him some room to play.

  Diamo took up guard position in front of Solis and offered another bow. The Shahiid stood with blade downturned, head tilted, seemingly off-guard.

  “I do not hear singing, boy.”

  Diamo raised his sword and lunged. It was a fine strike, a broad arc that would have taken out the Shahiid’s throat if left unchecked. But before Mia’s astonished eyes, Solis stepped forward and smashed the blow aside. He struck out at Diamo, the boy drew back into guard position, barely fending off a flurry, head, throat, chest, nethers. Steel sang on steel, the hall ringing with the tune, tiny sparks flying as the blades kissed. Solis’s face was serene as a dreaming child’s, sightless eyes fixed on the floor. But his ferocity was terrifying, his speed awe-inspiring. The bout lasted a few moments more, Solis allowing the boy a few more laudable strikes and countering every one. And finally as Mia watched spellbound, Diamo’s sword was struck from his grip, and Solis’s blade placed gently on the boy’s sweat-slick cheek.

  It happened so quickly, Mia barely saw the man move.