by Jay Kristoff
“It attacks the lungs, Shahiid,” she replied flatly, her composure returned.
“Bonds to the blood, so that the breath cannot,” Mia finished.
“You two have read Arkemical Truths, I take it?”
“A hundred times,” Carlotta nodded.
“I used to take it to bed with me,” Mia said.
“Surprised you can read…,” someone muttered.
“Beg pardon?” Spiderkiller turned. “I did not hear you, Acolyte Jessamine?”
The redhead, who still seemed out-of-sorts at the Shahiid’s “demonstration,” nevertheless lowered her eyes.
“… I said nothing, Shahiid.”
“O, no. Surely, you were about to explain how the toxin is extracted from the dahlia seed? The lethal dose for a man of two hundred and twenty pounds?”
Jessamine’s cheeks turned red, lips pressed firmly shut.
“Well?” Spiderkiller asked. “I await your answers, Acolyte.”
“Nitric filtration,” Carlotta suggested. “Into a bed of aspirated sugar and tin. Boiled and condensed. The lethal dose for a full-grown man is half a dram.”
Jessamine glared at the girl with undisguised hatred.
“Excellent,” Spiderkiller nodded. “Perhaps, Acolyte Jessamine, you will follow Acolyte Carlotta’s example and know the lesson before next you interrupt it. This knowledge may save your life one turn. I would’ve thought that truth already imparted.”
The girl bowed her head. “… Yes, Shahiid.”
With no further ceremony, Spiderkiller turned to a charboard, began speaking about the basic toxic properties. Delivery. Efficacy. Celerity. Her composure was immaculate, her manner, terse. It was hard to believe she’d almost murdered twenty-seven children a few minutes before. Breathing finally returned to normal, Mia looked to Carlotta and nodded.
“Well done,” she mouthed.
The girl smoothed her hair over her slavemark, nodded back gravely. “You too.”
As Mia turned her attentions to the lesson, she saw Jessamine from the corner of her eye, scribbling on a sheaf of parchment, slipping it to Diamo. The redhead glared at Carlotta with narrowed eyes. Despite the fact that the slavegirl had just saved her life, it looked like Jessamine had two nemeses now. Mia wondered if she’d be willing to throw more than poison looks …
Over the course of the lesson, it became apparent that Mia and Carlotta were head and shoulders above the other acolytes in venomcraft. It made Mia proud. Her beating at the hands of Shahiid Solis had shaken her more than she’d been willing to admit. Her visit with Shahiid Aalea had shown her how little she knew about some facets of this world. But this, she knew. As she and Carlotta answered question after question and she slowly earned a grudging smile of respect from the dour Shahiid of Truths, Mia found that, for the first time since she’d arrived, she was beginning to feel like she belonged. That she actually felt happy.
It didn’t last, of course.
Nothing ever does.
1. Listening in over midmeal a few turns later, Mia would learn the boy called himself “Pip,” and that his muttered conversations were not being conducted with himself, but rather with his knife—a long, cruel dagger that he’d apparently dubbed “the Lovely.”
2. Slavery in Itreya is a highly codified affair, with an entire wing of the Administratii devoted to regulation of the market. Slaves come in three flavors, depending on their skillsets, and, thus, monetary value.
The first are the commonplace sort of chattel—laborers, housebodies, and the like—who are branded arkemically with a single circle on their right cheek. The second are those trained for warfare—gladiatii, houseguards, and slave legions, marked with two circles, intertwined. The third, and most valuable, are those with a degree of education, or some valuable skill. Musicians, scribes, concubines, and so forth, who are branded with three interlocking circles denoting their superior worth.
The removal of these arkemical brands is a painful, expensive, and secretive process, tightly guarded by the Administratii. To earn their freedom, a slave must not only save enough coin to buy themselves from their masters, but also pay for the removal of their brand. It is no surprise, then, that most slaves in the Republic wear the mark to their graves.
3. Also known as “kingslayer,” red dahlia was considered the poison of choice during the tenure of the Itreyan monarchy. Owing to the rarity of the bloom from which it is derived, red dahlia was difficult to acquire, and, thus, more expensive than the average marrowborn wedding feast. Its use was considered both a nod of respect to the victim (its effects are rapid in onset and relatively painless) and a perverse sort of bragging on the part of the murderer (since only the wealthiest of folk could afford to employ it). During the zenith of the Itreyan monarchy, the toxin was used to assassinate no fewer than three Itreyan kings and several highly ranked members of the nobility, including two grand cardinals.
When his father died of red dahlia poisoning, the newly crowned Francisco VII declared the bloom a tool of the Maw, and ordered every plant within the borders of his realm burned. This resulted in skyrocketing inflation, and red dahlia fell quickly out of vogue with anyone who didn’t have the foresight to keep a greenhouse. Sadly, this meant less merciful concoctions like blackmark venom and the corrosive “spite” became en vogue among less well connected assassins.
As Francisco VII lay on his deathbed, screaming as a lethal dose of the latter slowly dissolved his stomach and bowels, one wonders if he had the presence of mind to appreciate the irony.
CHAPTER 16
WALK
Something approaching routine settled inside the Quiet Mountain. Turns passed without Mia noticing, only the bells marking the hours in that perpetual darkness. Though every acolyte had been questioned after Floodcaller’s death and Mother Drusilla’s curfew remained in effect, it seemed the Ministry’s investigations into the boy’s murder had stalled. Though curious about the killer’s identity, Mia told herself she had more pressing matters to concern herself with. Scaeva and Remus and Duomo weren’t going to kill themselves, after all. And so, she focused on her studies. She proved better than average at sleight-of-hand once her arm was well enough to lose her sling, and excelled in poisonwork.1 Under Shahiid Aalea’s gentle tutelage, Mia even managed to understand the basics of manipulation and the art of seduction.
Ashlinn underwent the weaving, then Marcellus, who truth be told had been a picture already. It seemed gifting new faces took a toll on Marielle, or perhaps she was simply capricious. Either way, the weaver worked her way through the acolytes only slowly. At this rate, it’d be months before all of them got to taste the pain of her touch.
Mouser’s challenge to his students began quietly, with very few marks being accrued in those early weeks. The ninebells curfew seemed to keep most acolytes in their rooms, and Ashlinn and Mia made no further after-hours forays. But soon enough, dashes began appearing on the charboard in the Hall of Pockets. Small numbers at first, two or three marks apiece, the easy items on the list being plucked as acolytes gained confidence. Ash took off to an early lead, but Jessamine was running a close second, and, seemingly none the worse for wear after his near-fatal poisoning at Spiderkiller’s hands, Hush was placed third. For her own part, Mia quickly acquired a few of the lighter pieces, but she knew it’d be the more difficult objects that would really swing the contest, and no acolyte was brave enough to go stealing Solis’s scabbard or Spiderkiller’s knives just yet.
The other Shahiid announced their own contests, and again, the acolytes were informed that those who claimed top of each hall would be virtually guaranteed initiation as Blades. In the Hall of Songs, a no-holds-barred, full-contact contest of martial prowess was to be held. The winner would be given Solis’s mark of favor.
In the emerald light of the Hall of Truths, Shahiid Spiderkiller wrote the formula for an impossibly complex arkemical toxin on the charboard, and informed the (still somewhat terrified) acolytes that whoever brought her the correct antidote
would be the victor. There was a caveat, of course; acolytes must be willing to test their antidote by imbibing Spiderkiller’s poison first. If their antidote worked, all well and good. If not …
And Shahiid Aalea’s contest?
That turned out to be the most interesting of the lot.
The female acolytes were roused one eve just before ninebells and escorted to the Hall of Masks. This was unusual; the hour was close to curfew, but more, Shahiid Aalea usually conducted her lessons one on one. Hers was a subtle craft requiring personal attention, and large groups of teenagers in the same room seldom proved conducive to lessons in the finer arts of seduction. But for some reason, every girl had been brought before the Shahiid.
Aalea was clad in a gown of sheer burgundy silk, unadorned by jewelry. She met the acolytes with a tilt of her head and a beautiful, blood-red smile.
“My ladies, don’t we look a portrait this eve.”
She embraced each girl in turn, kissed them warmly. As she was wrapped up in the Shahiid’s arms, Mia was again overcome with the certainty that the Shahiid’s smile was made solely for her. As the woman kissed her cheeks, Mia found them flushed.
“We must work on that, love,” Aalea said, caressing Mia’s skin. “Never let your face tell a secret your lips should not.” She turned to the assembled acolytes, nine in all. “Now, my ladies. I’m told the other Shahiid have announced their boorish little contests. Stealing trinkets and beating each other witless and whatnot. But the Lady of Blessed Murder has use for a multitude of talents. And so, I give you mine.”
The woman looked around the room, smiled at each girl in turn.
“Before the year’s end, each of you must bring me a secret.”
Carlotta raised an eyebrow. Mia found herself studying the slavegirl closely. She never smiled, and her voice was cold as a tomb. But it’d become apparent that Lotti could do wonders with a raised eyebrow. Convey annoyance. Curiosity. What might pass for amusement. The only woman Mia had ever seen do it better was her mother.
“A secret, Shahiid?” the girl asked.
“Aye,” Aalea smiled. “A secret.”
Ashlinn blinked. The weaver had worked a marvel on her face just a few eves prior. Gone was the roundness, the smattering of freckles. She was pretty as a field of sunflowers … if sunflowers knotted their hair in warbraids and stole anything that wasn’t nailed to the floor, that is …
“What kind of secret, Shahiid?”
“The delightful kind. The sordid kind. The dangerous kind. Secrets are like lovers, my dear. It’s only after you’ve acquired a few that you can make accurate comparisons.”
Aalea looked at the assembled girls with a dark smile.
“So. Bring me a secret. Whoever brings me the best shall have my favor and finish top in the Hall of Masks.” Aalea weaved painted fingers in the air. “Child’s play.”
“Shahiid, where will we look?” Jessamine asked. “Within the Mountain?”
“Black Mother, no. I’ve wrung these walls dry of secrets already. I want something new. Something to keep me warm at nights.”
“And where will we find such secrets if not here?” Mia asked.
“The wellspring of all secrets, love. Her rotten heart open wide to the sky…”
Mia’s heart surged in her chest. There was only one place Aalea could mean. The wellspring of all secrets. The font of all intrigue in the Republic. The heart of Consul Scaeva’s power, the seat of Aa’s ministry and Duomo’s cathedral, ever under the watchful eye of Remus and his Luminatii legions.
Godsgrave.
But the City of Bridges and Bones was an ocean away. It’d taken Mia eight weeks on a ship and another week dodging sand kraken to travel here from the ’Grave.
How in the Mother’s name do we get there?
Aalea took the acolytes into the twisting bowels of the Mountain, past Marielle’s room of faces, and into granite corridors Mia had never walked before. The stone was glass-smooth, the temperature warmer than above. The air was heavy, and as they walked deeper, in each breath, Mia was certain she smelled …
Could it be?
The corridor opened into a vast room, lit by arkemical globes. What looked to be a large bath was carved into the floor, thirty feet at a side, triangular in shape. Arcane symbols were etched into the stone at each point. And in the pool itself?
“Blood,” Mia breathed.
How deep it lay, she had no ken, but its surface rolled like the ocean in a storm. Mia looked at the walls around her, saw the granite was etched with maps. Cities. Countries. The entire Republic and all its capitals; Carrion Hall, Elai, Farrow and Godsgrave. Beside them, among them, more sigils that hurt her eyes to look at. The greasy tang of sorcery hung in the air beside the copper-slick stink of the pool.
“Acolytes,” said a soft voice. “I greet thee.”
Mia saw the slender figure of Speaker Adonai stepping into the light. In contrast to his colorless skin, he wore dark leather breeches riding torturously low on his hips. His bare arms and torso were scrawled with bloody pictograms. White hair swept back from a sculpted brow, the pink eyes beneath looking slightly bruised.
That new corpse beauty, shining down here in the gloom.
“Great Speaker.” Aalea kissed his cheeks, heedless of the blood. “All is ready?”
“The City of Bridges and Bones awaits.” Adonai’s eyes roamed the assembled acolytes. “Only thy donas this eve?”
“Dons on the morrow.”
“As it please thee.”
Aalea turned to the girls. “Take off your jewels, my loves. No rings or trinkets. No blades or buckles. Nothing that did not once know the flush of life may walk this path.”
“Be ye abashed of thy flesh laid bare, silk shall avail thee.” The speaker waved vaguely in the direction of a rack of robes against one wall. “Though rest assured, thou art possessed of naught I have not seen before. Thou shalt need to change ’pon the other side, regardless.”
The other side? What is he talking about?
Despite her silent misgivings, Mia took off her boots and belt. Dragged her shirt off over her head, wincing as her arm twinged. But slipping her stiletto from the leather sheath at her wrist, she found herself staring. She’d worked years to earn this back from Mercurio. To just leave it behind …
Adonai caught Mia’s attention, gave her a lazy, pretty smile.
“Thy blade is gravebone, is it not?”2
“Aye.”
“Then it shall make the Walk.” The speaker inclined his head. “It is bone. Life once flowed through it, ages past. Though if ye wish to leave it in my keeping, fear not. No thief alive hath courage enough to plunder this spider’s larder.”
Looking at the scarlet sigils scrawled on Adonai’s face, the pool of blood churning and splashing like an angry red sea, Mia had no difficulty believing him. But still, she kept the blade sheathed at her wrist, stowed the rest of her possessions in granite nooks set aside for the task. Stripping down to the silk slip beneath her leathers, she felt goosebumps rising on her skin.
Adonai knelt at the apex of the triangular pool, palms upturned. Nodded to Aalea. The Shahiid slipped her robe off her shoulders, revealing naked skin beneath. Mia found herself staring, struck by the woman’s complete lack of self-consciousness. Long hair flowed down Aalea’s back, like a river of night against milk-white curves. She stepped bare into the red, out into the center. The pool seemed only a few inches deep at first, but soon she was wading up to her waist, hair trailing through the blood behind.
Adonai spoke beneath his breath, eyes rolling back in his head. The warmth in the room grew deeper, the smell of copper and iron heavier. And as Mia watched, the blood began to swirl. Sloshing around the pool’s edge, it rolled in a clockwise circle; a vortex spinning faster and faster as Adonai’s whispers became a gentle, pleading song. His eyes had turned blood red. His lips were curled in an ecstatic smile. Mia’s own eyes were wide, her tongue tingling with the taste of magik.
Aalea he
ld her hands at her sides, palm up. Eyes closed, face serene. And then, without warning, the Shahiid disappeared; dragged down into the whirlpool without a struggle. Without a sound.
The vortex calmed. The blood grew directionless again, washing in small frothing waves. Silence hung in the room like a traitor’s corpse.
“Next,” Adonai said.
Mia looked at Ashlinn. Carlotta. Jessamine. Belle. Obvious hesitation on their faces. None of them would’ve seen this kind of sorcery before—Daughters, nobody outside these walls would’ve witnessed it for a thousand years. But as ever, there was no fear in Mia’s belly, even when there should’ve been. Her shadow breathed a contented sigh.
She stepped into the pool without a word, the blood thick and warm between her toes. The tile was smooth, and she had to walk slowly lest she slip, out waist-deep into the center of the red. Adonai began whispering again, the flow turning once more, faster and faster, with her at the heart. Mia felt dizzy, eyes closed against the arkemical glow, arms outspread for balance. Blood-stink filled her nostrils. The room about her swaying. And just as she was about to speak, she found she was falling, sucked down, down, down into some colossal undertow.
Red waves crashed over her head, the whole world spinning, turning, churning. No breath in her lungs. Blood in her mouth. Amniotic darkness all about, the thudding pulse of some enormous, distant heart, muted by the bloodwarm black engulfing her. A tiny babe in a lightless womb. Swimming ever upward, toward a light she couldn’t be sure was there. Until at last …
At last …
Surfacing.
Mia burst into the light. Gagging. Gasping. Gentle hands held her, soft voices assured her all was well. Pawing something thick and sticky from her eyes, she found herself standing in a waist-deep pool of gore. Two men with slavemarks stood beside her, holding her up lest she fall. They helped her climb out of the pool, holding her steady as she slipped and swayed. She was covered head to foot in blood, dripping on the tile, hair and slip plastered to her skin. Her eyelashes clung together as she blinked.
