Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  Some acolytes had already begun snatching up the scrolls. The one-eared boy, whose name was Petrus, got into a brief scuffle with Diamo as they both grabbed the same one. Tric’s scroll was snatched out of his hand by a smiling Ash. Mia pushed through the throng to grab her own. She cracked the wax seal, perused the handwritten list:

  A kitchen knife —1 mark

  A poleaxe from the Hall of Songs —1 mark

  A personal item belonging to a fellow acolyte —2 marks

  Jewelry belonging to a fellow acolyte —3 marks

  A book from the athenaeum (stolen, not borrowed, smartarse) —6 marks

  A mirror from the Hall of Masks —7 marks

  Chronicler Aelius’s spectacles —8 marks

  A face from the weaver’s rooms —9 marks

  Shahiid Spiderkiller’s ceremonial knives —20 marks

  A keepsake from Mother Drusilla’s study —35 marks

  Shahiid Solis’s empty scabbard —50 marks

  And so on. Dozens upon dozens of items listed down the page, each more outlandish than the last. It looked like this “contest” was going to start an all-out thievery war among the acolytes, which was probably what Mouser wanted. They’d be on edge at all times, now. Always looking for an opportunity. Constantly watchful.

  Constantly practicing.

  Clever.

  At the bottom of the list, Mia saw the final item. The most difficult of all.

  The Revered Mother’s obsidian key —100 marks

  Mia recalled the key hanging about the old woman’s neck. How mad would someone have to be try to steal that? She glanced up at Shahiid Mouser, found him watching her with that silverware smile. Clapping his hands, he looked about the room.

  “Now. Practice.”

  The Shahiid’s first lesson was in simple pickpocketry. He took a clinking purse from a table and tied it to his belt. He then schooled the novices on several ways his monies might be filched, each named more fancifully than the last. The Deadlift. The Jackanapes. The Juliette. The Gigolo. With a walking stick in one hand, Mouser picked a random acolyte to try and steal his prize. Carlotta, the slavemarked girl who swayed like a snake, and moved almost as quick. Big Diamo, whose sledgehammer hands proved faster than they looked. Those novices too slow were rewarded with a crack across the knuckles. Too heavy-handed? Crack. Too obvious? Crack. Too clumsy?

  Crack, crack, crack.

  Ashlinn seemed a deft hand at the game, and Jessamine and Hush were her equals. The pale, blue-eyed boy still refused to speak—he used his piece of chalk and charboard to service any question that couldn’t be answered by a nod or shake of the head. But he was quick as maggots on a corpse, and deathly quiet.

  Mouser went through several costume changes, flipping through the racks of clothing and explaining how each might be overcome. He dressed as a marrowborn don, with a well-cut frock coat and a fat purse inside. Then a senator in purple-trimmed robes of office, with a hidden pocket to conceal his coin.1

  “And next,” Mouser announced, rummaging through the clothing racks once again, “a breed that hangs on to their coppers like dogs to their bones.” The Shahiid slipped a heavy white robe over his head, fastened a golden chain at his neck. “Your good old-fashioned, god-fearing priest of Aa.”

  Mouser raised his three fingers in blessing, shifted his voice an octave deeper.

  “May the Everseeing keep you always in the Light, O, my children.”

  He raised his voice over the chuckling. “Now, now, laugh if you will, acolytes. But this is genuine gear. Belonged to a minister in Godsgrave I met briefly in my younger years. Though he enjoyed the meeting less than I.” He scanned the faces of the assembly. “Now, whom shall we put to the…”

  Mouser’s brow creased in a frown.

  “… Acolyte, are you well?”

  All eyes turned to Mia. The girl was standing as if rooted to the spot, gaze locked on the medallion around Mouser’s neck. The suns were wrought of different metals—rose gold for Saan, platinum for Saai, yellow gold for Shiih—and at the sight of them, she felt sick to her stomach. Sweat on her face. The light from the stained-glass windows refracted off those three circles of precious metal. Burning her eyes. Mister Kindly was recoiling in her shadow, panicked, shivering, so filled with fear he was unable to drink her own. But it was more than simple terror that gripped Mia at the sight of the Trinity. It was actual physical pain.

  “I…”

  “Come, child, it’s only a priest’s dress.”

  Mouser stepped forward. Without warning, Mia stumbled back, fell to her knees and spewed her mornmeal all over the floor. The other acolytes recoiled in disgust. The three suns were blinding her, and as Mouser took another step toward her, she actually hissed as if scalded, scrambling away behind one of the tables, one hand up to blot out the blinding light only she seemed to see.

  Tric reached for her, eyes wide with concern. Jessamine was smirking, Ash looking on dumbfounded, confused murmurs rippling among the other novices.

  “Get out, all of you,” Mouser ordered. “Lessons are done for the turn.”

  The group hung uncertain, gawping at the terrified girl.

  “Get out!” Mouser roared. “Now!”

  The mob filed out of the hall, Tric hovering about Mia like a worried nursemaid until Mouser shouted at him to leave. When the hall was cleared, the Shahiid stripped off the vestments and threw them aside. Approaching Mia like a frightened animal, hand outstretched.

  “Are you well, child?”

  With the Trinity out of sight, Mia found it easier to breathe. Heart calming in her chest, the pain and nausea receding. Mister Kindly had collected himself, coiled in her shadow and drinking her fear. But her hands were still shaking, her heart still pounding …

  “I’m … I’m sorry, Shahiid…”

  Mouser knelt beside her. “No, it’s me who owes apology. The Revered Mother told me of the trick you played on Solis in the Hall of Songs. And bravo, by the way…”

  The Shahiid’s smile vanished as Mia failed to share it.

  “… But she told me what you are. I was careless. Forgive me.”

  Mia shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Before I cut his throat, the man who wore that Trinity was a primus of Aa’s ministry. That medallion was sanctified by a grand cardinal. Blessed by the Right Hand of Aa himself.”

  “… Duomo?”

  Mouser shook his head. “His predecessor. But it’s not the man, child. Or his clothes. It’s his faith in the Everseeing. The cardinal who blessed those suns was a believer. A true disciple of the God who banished the very Night from our skies. Aa grants his most devout servants some measure of his strength—the Luminatii and their sunsteel blades are the most obvious of the lot. But the most pious of his priests can instill some measure of that strength in other things they touch. I should’ve guessed such a thing might be a bane to you.”

  “But why?”

  The Shahiid shrugged. “You are touched by the Mother, Acolyte. Marked, for good or ill, I’ve no knowing. But I know the Light hates his bride. And he hates those she loves just as much.”

  Mia blinked, nausea still swimming in her gut. She’d felt it, sure as she could feel the stone beneath her now. Looking into those three burning circles and feeling fury. Flame. Malice. She’d felt the same, once before. Light burning in her eyes. Blood on her hands. Blinding.

  Don’t look …

  Mouser patted her gently on the knee.

  “I’ll keep the Trinity out of sight in future lessons. Apologies once again.”

  The Shahiid helped her to her feet, made sure she could stand. Her legs were wobbling, and she felt a little light-headed. But she nodded, breathing deep.

  “Have you ever seen Lord Cassius react like that to the Trinity?”

  “I’ve not been foolish enough to wear it in his presence,” Mouser smiled.

  “I’d like to speak to him, if I may. I’ve never met an—”

  The shake of Mous
er’s head killed the question on her lips.

  “Lord Cassius is no longer in the Mountain, Acolyte,” the Shahiid said. “He will return for your initiation, but I doubt we’ll be graced by his presence before then. Whatever answers you seek, you will have to find them alone. Would that I could tell you more, but Cassius is the only darkin I have ever known, and the Lord of Blades keeps his counsel to himself.”

  Mia nodded thanks, made her way out of the Hall of Pockets. Her tread was still unsteady. Hands yet shaking. She stopped outside the double doors, eyes closed, listening to that ghostly choir singing in the gloom. The dark behind her eyelids still swum with three burning circles, her mind still swimming with the knowledge that she’d somehow earned the hatred of a god. She had no idea how. Or why. But whatever the reasons, no one in this Church seemed to have any real answers.

  Maybe …

  She headed off into the dark, still queasy, the burning circles in her eyes slowly fading. Thinking perhaps there might be one within these halls who had the answers she needed. But when she arrived at the athenaeum’s towering doors, she found them firmly closed. She knocked, called loudly for the chronicler. Met only with silence.

  Sighing, Mia slumped back against the doors. Fishing a thin silver box out of her sling, she lit a cigarillo. Breathed gray.

  Three suns burning behind her eyes.

  Questions ever burning in her mind.

  But if she were to find the truth of herself, it seemed she’d have to find it alone.

  The shadow stirred at her feet. A soft voice whispered in the dark.

  “… never alone…”

  1. Purple has been the color of prestige in the Republic since the time of the revolution, in which Itreya’s last king, Francisco XV, was overthrown.

  Purple dye is made from the crushed petals of a bloom that grows only on the mountainous border between Itreya and Vaan. Almost impossible to cultivate, the flower was named Liberis—“Freedom” in old Itreyan. The Republicans who murdered Francisco adopted it as the symbol of their cause, pinning a bloom to their breasts at court gatherings to indicate their allegiance to the conspiracy.

  Whether this is simple romantic fancy is up for debate, but the fact remains that only senators are now permitted to don the color in public. Any pleb caught in purple is likely to suffer the same fate as poor Francisco XV—which is to say, find themselves brutally murdered in front of their entire family.

  What actually constitutes the color purple is somewhat open to interpretation, of course. Lilac might be forgivable, for example, if the sitting magistrate was in a generous mood. Periwinkle could be argued to be more blue than purple, and likewise violet, but amethyst would almost certainly be pushing the friendship.

  Mauve, of course, is right out.

  CHAPTER 14

  MASKS

  “Hall of Mirrors, more like it,” Mia muttered.

  A turn had passed since the incident in Mouser’s hall. She’d shushed away Tric and Ashlinn’s concerns with some feeble talk about a bad piece of herring at mornmeal, and after some dubious stares, the pair had let the matter drop. The rest of the flock had another lesson scheduled in the Hall of Songs, but with Mia’s arm still black and blue, she’d instead been escorted by Naev to her first lesson in the infamous Hall of Masks.

  Stairs and halls. Choirs and windows and shadows.

  Now the hall stretched out before her, embroidered with faint perfume. Scarlet on every surface. Long red drapes swayed like dancers in a hidden wind. Stained glass, glittering crimson. Statuary carved of rare red marble was arranged in neat rows; the figures were naked and beautiful, but strangely, each one was missing its head. Stranger still, there wasn’t a single mask in sight. Instead, everywhere Mia looked, she saw mirrors. Glass and polished silver, gilt and wood and crystal frames. A hundred reflections staring back at her. Crooked fringe. Pale skin. Hollows around her eyes.

  Inescapable.

  Naev retreated from the room. The double doors closed silently behind her.

  “You’re early, my love.”

  Mia searched for the voice among the reflections. It was smoke-tinged. Musical. She glimpsed movement; pale curves being covered by a wine-red robe. And emerging from between curtains of sheer scarlet silk, she saw Aalea, Shahiid of Masks.

  Her stomach almost ached to see the woman in full light. To call her pretty was to call the typhoon a summer breeze, or the three suns a candleflame. Aalea was simply beautiful; painfully, stupidly beautiful. Thick curls falling in midnight rivers to her waist. Kohl-smeared eyes brimming with mystery, full lips painted the red of heart’s blood. Hourglass-shaped. She was the kind of woman you read about in old myths—the kind men besieged cities or parted oceans or did other impossibly stupid things to possess. Mia felt an insect high in her presence.

  “Apologies, Shahiid. I can return later if it please you.”

  “My love, no.” Aalea’s smile was like the suns emerging from the clouds. She swept across the room, kissing Mia’s cheeks. “Stay and be welcome.”

  “… My thanks, Shahiid.”

  “Come, sit. Will you drink? I have sugarwater. Or something stronger?”

  “… Whiskey?”

  Aalea’s smile felt like it was made just for Mia. “As it please you.”

  Mia found herself sitting on one of the velvet divans, a tumbler of fine goldwine in her hand. The Shahiid reclined opposite, a thin-stemmed glass of dark liquid held in painted, tapered fingers. She looked like a portrait come to life. A goddess walking the world with earthly feet, somehow seeing fit to spend a few moments with—

  “You are Mia.”

  The girl blinked, feeling a little dizzy in the perfume. “Aye, Shahiid.”

  “Such a beautiful name. Liisian?”

  Mia nodded. Took a gulp from her glass, winced as the liquid burned her throat. Daughters, but she was dying for a smoke …

  “Tell me about him,” Aalea said.

  “… Who?”

  “Your boy. Your first. You’ve only known one, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Mia tried not to let her jaw hang too far open. Aalea smiled again, dazzling and bright, filling the girl’s chest with a warmth that had nothing to do with goldwine. There was something in those dark eyes that spoke of a kinship. Of secrets shared. Like sisters who’d never met. A voice in Mia’s head whispered the Shahiid was working her craft and yet, somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

  That was the trick of it, she supposed.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Mia said.

  “Shall we begin with his name?”

  “I never learned it.”

  Aalea raised one manicured eyebrow, letting silence ask her question for her.

  “He was a sweetboy,” Mia finally said. “I paid him for it.”

  “You paid a boy for your first time?”

  Mia met the woman’s eyes, refusing to look away. “Right before I came here.”

  “May I make a guess as to why?”

  Mia shrugged. “As it please you.”

  Aalea reclined on the divan, stretching like a cat.

  “Your mother,” she said. “She was a beauty?”

  Mia blinked. Said nothing.

  “Do you know you’ve not looked in a mirror once since you sat? Everywhere you turn in this room, you see your reflection. And yet you sit there staring at the drink in your hand, doing everything you can to avoid your own face. Why is that?”

  Mia looked at the Shahiid. She’d always had men fawning over her, most like. Didn’t know what it was to be plain. Small. Ordinary. Anger flashed in Mia’s eyes, her voice becoming flat and hard.

  “Some of us aren’t born as lucky as others.”

  “You are luckier than you know. You were born without that which most people prize their lovers for. That ridiculous prize called beauty. You know what it is to be overlooked. Know it keenly enough that you paid a boy to love you. To taste that sweetness, if only for a heartbeat.”

  “It wasn’t that sweet, be
lieve me.”

  Aalea smiled. “You already understand what it is to want, my love. And soon enough, you’ll understand how much power instilling that want in others can bring.”

  “… What exactly do you teach here?”

  “The soft touch. The lingering stare. Whispered nothings that mean everything. These are the weapons I shall give you.”

  “I prefer steel, if it’s all the same,” Mia frowned. “Quicker and more honest.”

  Aalea laughed. “And what if you need information to fulfill an offering? If your mark is in hiding, their location known only to a trusted servant? Or you need to acquire a password to access a gathering at which your mark will be present? The trust of a woman who can lead you to your kill? How will steel serve you then?”

  “I’m told hot coals work wonders in those situations.”

  “Warm skin serves better still. And leaves fewer scars.”

  The Shahiid stood, drifted to Mia’s divan and sat beside her. Mia could smell the woman’s perfume, heady and dizzying. Staring into the dark pools of her eyes. There was a gravity to her. A magnetism Mia couldn’t help but be dragged into. Perhaps it was some kind of arkemy in the scent she wore?

  “I will teach you how to make others love you,” Aalea purred. “Men. Women. Completely and utterly. If only for a nevernight. If only for a heartbeat.” She reached out with gentle fingers, drew a tingling trail down Mia’s cheek. “I will teach you how to make others want. To feel as you feel now. But first, you must master the face you see in the mirror.”

  Aalea’s spell shattered, the butterflies in Mia’s belly dropped dead one by one. She glanced at the nearest looking glass. The reflection therein. The scrawny, pale girl with her broken nose and hollow cheeks, sitting beside a woman who might have been one of the statues in the room come to life. This was lunacy. No matter how sweet her perfume, how delightful the nothings she might whisper, Mia would never be a beauty. She’d resigned herself to that fact years ago.