Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  Lotti’s eyes were wide, misgivings about her face momentarily forgotten.

  “I would kill my own mother to get into a dress like that…”

  “I would kill you and your mother to get into a dress like that,” Ash whispered.

  “You want to dance, Järnheim?” Lotti deadpanned. “Liisian silk brocade with a melphi-cut corset and matching gloves? I will bury you.”

  Mia and Ash’s laughter was cut short as Aalea spoke, her voice soft as smoke.

  “Acolytes,” she smiled. “Welcome, and thank you for coming. Three months have passed since your induction into the Red Church. We understand that lessons grow long and the hours weigh heavy, and so every once in a while, I convince the Ministry to allow you to … let your hair down, as it were.”

  Aalea smiled at the novices the way the suns smiled at the sky.

  “Great Tithe approaches, and as such, it is customary to give gifts to loved ones. Across the canal is the palazzo of Praetor Giuseppe Marconi, a wealthy young marrowborn don who throws some of the most delightful parties I’ve ever attended. This eve, the praetor hosts his traditional Great Tithe gala; a ball to which only the cream of Godsgrave society is invited. And invitations have been arranged … for you.”

  Aalea produced a handful of parchment slips seemingly from midair, slowly fanned her neck.

  “Of course, you’ll each have to concoct a convincing subterfuge as to why you’ve been invited to such an exclusive soiree. But I’m certain I’ve versed you well enough for that. The ball is a masquerade, after all, so the face you wear can be any you choose.”

  The Shahiid indicated a set of double doors with a wave of her hand.

  “You will find suitable clothing within. Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Laugh. Love. Remember what it is to live, and forget, if only for a moment, what it is to serve.”

  Aalea handed out the gilded invitations, and ushered the acolytes through the double doors. Within, Mia found row upon row of the most beautiful gowns and coats she’d ever seen. The finest cut. The richest cloth. Ashlinn practically dove at a rack of silken corsetry; even Jessamine lost her customary scowl.

  Mia wandered wide-eyed through a forest of fur and velvet, damask and lace. It’d been years since she’d seen clothing like this up close. Longer since she’d worn anything like it. As a little girl, she’d attended the grandest balls and galas, worn the finest dresses. She remembered dancing with her father in the ballroom of some senator or another, balancing her feet atop his as they swirled around the room. For a moment, she was overcome. Memories of the life she’d lost. Thoughts of the person she might have been but never was.

  She ran her fingertips over the row of masques Aalea had prepared for them. Each was a volto—full-faced and oval shaped. Pearl-white ceramic, trimmed in gold, each with three blood-red tears beneath the right eye. They were exquisitely crafted, velvet soft to the touch.

  “This is all a bit much, aye?”

  Mia turned to find Tric beside her, scowling at the other acolytes. Osrik and Marcellus were trying on various waistcoats and cravats, bowing to each other “After you, sir,” “No, no, after you, sir.” Carlotta had wriggled into a gown made of some astonishing fabric that shifted hues as she twirled on the spot. Hush had clad himself head to foot in pristine white; his doublet embroidered with gleaming silver.

  “A bit much?” Mia repeated.

  “We’re supposed to be disciples of the Mother. They’re acting like children.”

  Mia found herself on edge too, truth be told. The first time Aalea had sent them to Godsgrave, she’d been locked in a cell and beaten half to death at the command of the Lord of Blades. They’d all traveled dozens of times to the City of Bridges and Bones since then, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this “gift” was too good to be true. Yet finally, she shrugged.

  “It can’t hurt to have fun once in a while. Give it a try. You might enjoy it.”

  “Bollocks,” he growled. “I’m not here to enjoy myself.”

  “Rest easy, my dour centurion.” Mia plucked up one of the voltos, pushed it against Tric’s face. “If you do crack a smile, it’s not like anyone will see it.”

  Tric sighed, looked up and down the racks of gents’ attire. Jackets and doublets, boots with gleaming buckles and waistcoats with glittering buttons.

  “I’m not too polished at this sort of business,” he confessed. “Aalea has been trying, but in truth I’m not sure where to start.”

  Mia found herself smiling. Offered her arm.

  “Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me, Don Tric.”

  He scrubbed up well, in the end. Though it was a challenge to find anything that sat comfortably on shoulders broad as his, Mia eventually found Tric a long frock coat in coal gray (dark colors, it seemed, were en vogue for gentry this season) gilded with gold. As he’d sat and squirmed, she plaited his saltlocks into something resembling order, and tied a white silk cravat around his throat. Inspecting her handiwork in the mirror, the boy gave a grudging nod. Ashlinn whistled loudly from a corner.

  Mia herself chose a daring gown of crushed velvet in a deep wine-red, propping a tricorn of the same fabric atop her head. Kohl for her eyes. Burgundy paint for her lips. Aalea favored reds, and Mia was of a similar complexion, so she thought it might be worth a gamble. Pulling on a pair of long gloves and a wolf-fur stole, she peered into the looking glass and smiled.

  Ash whistled again from her corner.

  The acolytes drifted back into the garish sunslight, ferried across the canal. Stepping onto a broad pier and through the gates of Palazzo Marconi, Mia saw guests arriving by gondola, others by carriage, horses snorting and stamping in the chill. A bitter wind was blowing in off the water and her breath hung in the air. She pulled the wolf fur tighter, squinting at the pale red sun behind its veil of clouds and wishing she’d not worn an off-the-shoulder cut. Tric, walking arm in arm with Ashlinn, noticed Mia’s shivers, and slipped his free arm about her for warmth.

  Mia regretted her choice of dress a little less.

  The acolytes were all wearing their voltos, faces hidden behind smooth ceramic. As they milled about the entrance, Mia saw the other guests were similarly attired, her eyes growing wide at some of the masques on display. One gent wore a death’s head carved of black ivory, arkemical globes burning in its eye sockets. She saw a woman with a domino made of firebird feathers, which seemed to ripple with flame when the sunslight hit it right. The most stunning belonged to a lass barely in her teens, whose masque was a long sheaf of black silk, form fitted to her face. The silk billowed like a loose sail in the wind, yet once they’d stepped inside, the silk continued to ripple, even without the breeze to move it.

  Servants with slavemarks on their cheeks and clothes that must have cost more than the average citizen earned in a year greeted them, inspecting their invitations before ushering them into a grand entrance hall. Praetor Marconi’s palazzo dripped with wealth; marble on the walls and gold on the handles. Singing chandeliers of Dweymeri crystal spun overhead, soft music filled the air, the chatter of hundreds of voices, laughter, whispers, song.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” Tric said.

  “I could stand to stay here a spell,” Ash replied. “These used to be your sort of folk, aye, Corvere? Is it always this flashy?”

  Mia gazed at the opulence about them. The world to which she’d once belonged.

  “I remember everyone being much taller,” she said.

  Servants appeared with golden trays. Dweymeri crystal glasses filled with wine, with slender straws to allow guests to sip without removing their masks. Sugared treats and candied fruits. Cigarillos and pipes already packed with slumberweed, needles loaded with ink. Glass in hand, Mia wandered through the foyer, overcome with the sights, the sounds, the smells, forgetting Aalea, her suspicions, her worry. Arriving with Tric at a grand set of double doors leading to the ballroom, a servant in a masque fashioned like a jester’s head bowed before them.

&
nbsp; “Mi Don. Mi Dona. Might I have your names?”

  Tric whipped out his invitation like his pocket was on fire.

  “Yes, very good,” the servant said. “But I need your name, Mi Don.”

  “… What for?”

  Mia stepped into the uncomfortable silence, smooth as caramel.

  “This is Cuddlegiver, Bara of the Seaspear clan of Farrow Isle.”

  Tric threw Mia a look of alarm. The servant bowed.

  “My thanks, Mi Dona. And you?”

  “His … companion.”

  “Very good.” The servant stepped to the top of the ballroom stairs and announced in a loud voice, “Bara Cuddlegiver of the Seaspear clan, and companion.”

  A few of the three-hundred-odd guests glanced in the pair’s direction, but most of the throng continued with their conversations. Mia took Tric’s arm and led him down the stairs, nodding at the folk who’d looked their way. She waved down a passing servant, who lit a black cigarillo in a slender ivory holder and handed it over dutifully. Mia slipped the smoke through her masque’s lips and breathed a contented, gray sigh.

  “Cuddlegiver?” Tric hissed.

  “Better than Pigfiddler.”

  “’Byss and blood, Mia…”

  “What?” she smirked. “I’m sure you give lovely cuddles.”

  “Black Mother help me,” Tric sighed. “I need a fucking drink…”

  Fourteen servants materialized beside the boy, bearing trays with almost every beverage under the suns. Tric looked taken aback, finally shrugged and took two goldwines.

  “Very thoughtful of you,” Mia said, reaching for a glass.

  “Sod off, these are mine. You get your own.”

  Mia looked about the sea of masques, silk, skin. A string quartet played on a mezzanine above, a perfume of beautiful notes hanging in the air. Couples danced in the room’s heart, clusters of well-heeled men and well-frocked women chatting and laughing and flirting. The music of golden rings against crystal glasses rang amid the hidden faces. Aalea was right; it was easy to forget who she was among all this.

  Mia sighed. Shook her head.

  “It’s a sight,” Tric agreed.

  “This used to be my world,” she said softly. “Never thought I’d miss it.”

  The sharp chime of metal on crystal caught her attention, and Mia turned to the mezzanine above. The music stopped as all eyes looked up to a smiling gent, half his face hidden by a domino of beaten gold. His coat was silk, embroidered with golden thread, the cravat at his throat studded with gems, rings on every finger.

  Our host, Praetor Marconi, no doubt.

  “Ladies and gentlefriends,” the man spoke, his voice rich and deep. “I welcome you to my humble home, one and all. I’m not one to speak overlong and part you from your revels, but it is the season of Great Tithe, and I would be remiss if I did not give my thanks to each of you, and most of all, to our glorious consul, Julius Scaeva.”

  Mia found her jaw clenching. Eyes scanning the crowd.

  “Alas, our noble consul could not attend our gala, but still, I’d have each of you charge a glass and raise it in his honor. Six years have passed since the Kingmakers sought to slave us once more beneath monarchy’s yoke. Six years since Consul Scaeva saved the Republic, and ushered in a golden age of peace and prosperity. Without him, none of this would be possible.”

  The young praetor raised a glass. Everyone in the room raised theirs, save Mia. Tric looked at her, eyes widening. To not toast the consul would invite scandal. Teeth grinding so hard she feared they might break, Mia plucked a glass off a nearby tray and raised it like the rest of the sheep.

  “Consul Julius Scaeva!” Marconi cried. “May the Everseeing bless him!”

  “Consul Scaeva!” came the crowd’s cry.

  Glasses were clinked, drinks quaffed, polite applause filling the room. Praetor Marconi stepped down with a bow and the music picked up again. Mia was scowling behind her masque. Suddenly missing this world, this life, far less than she had a moment ag—

  “Do you dance?” Tric asked.

  Mia blinked. Looked up at Tric’s masque and the hazel eyes beyond.

  “What?”

  “Do. You. Dance?” he repeated.

  Mia laughed in spite of herself. “Why? Do you?”

  “Shahiid Aalea has been teaching me. In case I found myself having to romance some marrowborn daughter or dona of quality.”

  “Donas of quality tend to have rather high standards, Bara Cuddlegiver.”

  “She says I’m excellent, I’ll have you know.”

  The boy offered his elbow. Mia glanced around the room. Empty, smiling faces, hiding the real faces within. These marrowborn bastards dipped in gold and lies. Had she really ever felt like she belonged here? Had this ever been her world?

  She lifted her masque and quaffed her glass of goldwine with one swallow. Grabbed another from a passing tray and finished it just as quick.

  “Fuck it, then.”

  Dunking her burning cigarillo in a passing glass of wine, she took Tric’s arm.

  As they stepped onto the dance floor, Tric took her by the hand, his big, sword-callused fingers entwined with her own. Butterflies took wing in her belly as he placed his free hand at the small of her back. Mia swore the music got louder, the conversations around them seeming to dim. And there in the midst of that sea of empty, smiling faces, they began to dance.

  It was odd, but with the boy’s face covered, Mia could see only his eyes. Staring up into those big pools of sparkling hazel and realizing they were fixated entirely on her. All the pearls and jewels, the silk and glitter, the opulence on display. These pretty dons and donas all dipped in gold. And still, he only looked at her.

  She’d known he was graceful from watching him in the Hall of Songs, but Daughters, for all his other failings in Aalea’s lessons, the boy could dance. For a moment, Mia found herself swept up, cradled in his arms, spun and dipped and swayed as the music seemed to grow louder still and all the world beyond became nothing. For a moment, she wasn’t Mia Corvere, daughter of a murdered house, parched with the thirst for revenge. Not a fledgling assassin or a servant of a goddess. Just a girl. And he a boy. Their eyes blind to all but each other. Aalea’s voice echoing in her ears.

  “Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Laugh. Love. Remember what it is to live, and forget, if only for a moment, what it is to serve.”

  “Invitations, please.”

  Mia realized the music had stopped. The room was silent. She turned, found herself looking at three Luminatii legionaries, bedecked in polished gravebone breastplates. The leader was built like a brick wall. Cold blue eyes looking right at Tric.

  “Invitations,” he repeated.

  Tric glanced to Mia. Reached into his coat pocket.

  “Of course…”

  The centurion snapped his fingers, pointed at Ashlinn and Osrik loitering on the edge of the crowd. “Them, too. Anyone with the blood tears.” Soldiers were fanning out among the astonished guests now, singling out the acolytes wearing Aalea’s masques. Hush. Pip. Jessamine. Petrus. Carlotta …

  Tric was fumbling in his pocket, brought out only flakes of dust.

  “I’m sure I had it a moment ago…”

  Mia reached to the hidden pocket inside her corset. But where her invite had been safely stowed, again there was only a handful of dust. As if …

  As if …

  “As I thought,” the centurion declared. “Come with us, Bara Cuddlegiver.”

  Hands clamped down on Tric’s elbow. Mia’s wrist. She glanced to Osrik as Ashlinn was seized by the shoulder. Mia caught a glimpse of manacles, the gleam of steel. The guests around them were appalled that their gathering had been interrupted, Praetor Marconi demanding to know who would dare disturb the peace of his house. But in a blinking, the illusion of that peace all came undone.

  Tric grabbed the hand that had seized him, bent back the owner’s arm and snapped it at the elbow. Mia tore a stiletto from her corset, stabbed the L
uminatii holding her in the wrist. She heard a crash, a strangled scream as Jessamine put her wineglass into a legionary’s face. Osrik roaring over the top.

  “Go! Go!”

  Mia lashed out with the stiletto, bloodying another centurion reaching for her. Tric was already off, bolting across the room and smashing men and women aside as he barreled through the mob. Catching a flying drinks tray as he passed, he hurled it at a window, the panes exploding with a crash as he dove through afterward. Mia was right behind him, hissing in pain as her arm was sliced open by the jagged frame, tumbling onto the thin strip of grass running the palazzo’s flank. She landed atop Tric, knocking the breath from his chest with a whufff.

  “Halt!” came the roar. “Halt in the name of the Light!”

  Mia hauled Tric to his feet, wincing with pain, arm drenched in blood. The pair dashed down the alleyway, crashing glass behind them, cries of alarm. Mia heard an upper window explode, saw Hush leap across to the palazzo opposite and scramble onto the roof, white coat now splashed with red. Heavy boots behind them. Bitter winds on her skin. The pair arrived at the tall, wrought-iron fence surrounding the palazzo grounds, Tric throwing himself over in one smooth motion.

  “Come on!” he hissed.

  Mia looked over her shoulder, saw four Luminatii dashing toward her, sunsteel blades drawn and blazing. But evening gowns, it seemed, weren’t the best attire for a desperate foot chase, let alone vaulting ten-foot-high wrought-iron fences. Mia slashed at the gown with her stiletto, tearing it loose at the thigh. She flung herself at the fence, scrambling over just as a burning longsword whistled through the air, slicing wrought iron into molten globules. Tric’s arm flashed through the gaps, his blade gleaming red. She heard the boy cry out in pain. Dropping to the cobbles beside him, they were off, bolting into the freezing wind.

  “Where to?” Tric panted.

  “Aalea,” she gasped.

  Tric nodded and dashed down the pier, kicking some poor servant into the drink as he requisitioned his gondola. Mia dropped in beside him as he punted out into the canal, smashing at the water furiously as half a dozen Luminatii jumped into watercraft behind them and gave chase. Tric steered their gondola toward the palazzo where they’d met the Shahiid. There were no Hands out front, no lights in the windows. Barreling through the front doors, they found the entry hall and room they’d dressed in empty. The air dusty. Cold. As if no one had set foot in the house for years.