Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  Heavy boots. The front door bursting open. Mia cursed, grabbed Tric’s hand and dashed for the back door, crashing out into a thin alleyway that ran the rear of the building. They heard shouts behind, the ring of steel. Whistles blowing in the waterway beyond, calls for more troops, tromping feet. Tric kicked through the kitchen entrance of another palazzo, servants shrieking as he and Mia barged past, out into the foyer, shouldering through the front door and onto a cobbled thoroughfare.

  Mia’s arm was gushing blood. Tric was gasping, clutching his side. Mia saw a scorch mark on his jacket, smelled burned flesh. He’d tasted sunsteel somewhere in the struggle at the fence, his waistcoat soaked with blood.

  “Are you all right?” she gasped.

  “Keep running!”

  “Fuck running,” she snapped. “I’m in a bloody corset!”

  The girl swung herself up onto the step of a passing carriage, plopped onto the seat beside an astonished-looking driver wearing the livery of some minor house.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hel—”

  Her elbow caught the man in the belly, her hook toppled him out of his seat and onto the cobbles below. She pulled the horses to a whinnying halt, tore her volto loose and turned to look at Tric with eyebrow raised.

  “Your carriage awaits, Mi Don.”

  Tric leaped onto the rear step and Mia snapped the reins against the horses’ backs as a quartet of breathless Luminatii barreled onto the street behind them. The carriage tore down the street, bouncing and juddering over bridges and flagstones, Mia cursing as she almost flew from her seat. The marrowborn legate to whom the carriage belonged stuck his head out the window to see what all the fuss was, found a girl in a shredded evening gown where his driver should’ve been. As he opened his mouth to protest, she turned and looked at him, bloodstained skin and narrowed eyes, a cat made of what might have been shadows perched on her shoulder.

  The man pulled his head back into the carriage without a word.

  “… well this is bracing, isn’t it . .?”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “… you seem to have lost half your dress…”

  “Kind of you to notice.”

  “… though given the way you danced with that boy, i imagine losing only half is a disappointment…”

  Mia rolled her eyes, whipped the horses harder.

  They abandoned the carriage south of the Hips, Mia hopping down onto the cobbles and tipping her tricorn at the bemused owner. Up on the driver’s seat, the wind had been bitterly cold, and Mia’s lips were turning blue. She was on the verge of lamenting her choice of attire again when Tric pulled off his frock coat and, without a word, slipped it around her shoulders. Still warm from the press of his skin.

  They dashed through back alleys and over little bridges, wending their way south toward the Bay of Butchers. Arriving at the Porkery, they stole inside, creeping up the stairs to the mezzanine above the now-silent killing floor.

  Mia was dizzy from blood loss, her arm dripping, the sleeve of Tric’s coat soaked through. Tric’s waistcoat and britches were drenched too, his hand pressed to an awful gash in his side. Their faces pale and pained, the memories of the music, the dance, the whiskey and the smiles already a tattered memory. They’d barely made it out with their lives. Creeping down the twisted stairwell, the stench of copper and salt rising in their nostrils, down, down into the blood-drenched chamber below.

  Shahiid Aalea was waiting for them.

  Gone was the elegant gown, the drakebone corset, the pretty domino. She was dressed in black, rivers of raven hair framing that pale, heart-shaped face. The only color was her smile. Red as the blood dripping down Mia’s arm.

  “Did you have fun playing at being people, my loves?” she asked.

  “You…” Tric winced, still breathless. “You…”

  The Shahiid walked across the tile toward them. Lifted Tric’s hand away from his wound and tutted. Kissed Mia’s bloody fingertips.

  “Our gift to you,” she said. “A reminder. Walk among them. Play among them. Live and laugh and love among them. But never forget, not for one moment, what you are.”

  Aalea released Mia’s hand.

  “And never forget what it is to serve.”

  The Shahiid waved to the pool beyond.

  “Happy Great Tithe, children.”

  1. The wounds from Lord Cassius’s test of loyalty were all but mended among the flock by now, and to Mia’s dismay, Pip’s mutterings to his knife resumed with a vengeance.

  2. Liisian portraiture is widely considered the finest in the Republic, and the best artistes can charge small fortunes for commissions. Vaiello, a famous artiste who lived at the court of Francisco XIV, achieved such frightening wealth that it was said he could buy the kingdom twice over. Sadly, after an incident involving one too many bottles of wine, Francisco’s second son, Donatello, a four-poster bed, and a riding crop, Vaiello found himself tried for treason and sentenced to death.

  Predictably, Vaiello’s execution led to a profound escalation in the value of his paintings, and the marrowborn who owned them made small fortunes. Unexpectedly, however, it also led to a sudden rash of murders among famed Liisian artists, as certain wily nobles sought to increase the value of their own collections by killing off the poor bastards who’d painted them. Painters began dropping like flies, and in the few months following Vaiello’s death, “portrait artist” became the most dangerous occupation in the kingdom.

  This spate of paintercide led to a frightening spike in the price of new work, as fewer masters were now available to paint commissions. Realizing their increased worth, these masters also began training fewer apprentices, leading to yet higher prices. During the height of the crisis, the going rate for a standard sitting was said to be two medium-sized estates in upper Valentia and a firstborn daughter. The debacle was put to an end only when King Francisco stepped in, simultaneously commissioning two colleges for the training of Liisian artists (one in Godsgrave and a second, more renowned one in Elai) and declaring the murder of a Liisian artist a crime punishable by crucifixion.

  This incident, by the way, is still held up at the Grand Collegium in Godsgrave as a perfect illustration of the laws of supply and demand. In Vaiello’s honor, it is dubbed “the Riding Crop Principle.”

  CHAPTER 20

  FACES

  Only one of them never made it back alive from Godsgrave. A boy with dark hair and a dimpled smile named Tovo. A quiet mass was held for him in the Hall of Eulogies.

  An unmarked stone.

  An empty tomb.

  Mia never heard his name mentioned again.

  As the choir sang and the Revered Mother spoke words of supplication to the stone goddess overhead, Mia tried to find it in herself to feel bad. To wonder who this boy was, and why this was where he died. But looking among the other acolytes, cold eyes and thin lips, she knew what each of them was thinking.

  Better him than me.

  Weeks wore on, Great Tithe unmarked, no more thanks given. The masquerade seemed to have beaten the last breath of levity from within the walls. The weaver continued her work, sculpting the others into works of art, but gone were the smiles and winks, the flirting and touches. If never before, they all knew this was no longer a game.

  The turn after Diamo had undergone his weaving, Mia noticed Tric had missed Pockets. After a painstaking lesson from Mouser on the art of powdertraps and the avoidance thereof, she’d climbed a twisting stair and found the Dweymeri boy in the Hall of Songs. Shirt off. Gleaming with sweat. A pair of wooden swords in hand, pounding a training dummy so hard the varnish was practically screaming.

  “Tric. You missed Mouser’s lesson.”

  The boy ignored her. Great sweeping strikes smashing against the wooden figure, the crack, crack, crack echoing in the empty hall. His naked torso gleamed, his saltlocks hung damp about his face. Half a dozen broken training swords lay on the ground beside him. He must have been up here all turn …


  “Tric?”

  Mia touched his arm, pulled him to a halt. He rounded on her, almost snarling, tore his arm from her grip. “Don’t touch me.”

  The girl blinked, taken aback by the rage in his eyes. Remembering those same eyes watching her as they danced, his fingers entwined with hers …

  “Are you all right?”

  “… Aye.” Tric wiped his eyes, breathed deep. “Sorry. Let’s be about it.”

  The pair formed up in the sparring circle beneath the hall’s golden light. Wooden swords in hand, they began by working on Mia’s Caravaggio.1 But after only a handful of minutes, it became apparent Tric was in no mood for teaching. He growled like a hungover wolf when Mia made a mistake, shouted when she misstepped, and ended up cracking his sword across her forearm so hard he split the skin.

  “Black Mother!” Mia clutched her wrist. “That bloody hurt!”

  “It’s not supposed to tickle,” Tric replied. “You drop your guard like that against Jessamine, she’ll take your throat out.”

  “Look, if you want to spill whatever you’re pissed about, I’ll listen. But if you’re looking for something to take it out on, I’ll leave you with the training dummies.”

  “I’m not pissed about anything, Mia.”

  “O, really.” She held up her bloody wrist.

  “You asked me to teach you, I’m teaching you.”

  Mia sighed. “This stoic facade bullshit is getting burdensome, Don Tric.”

  “Fuck you, Mia!” he bellowed, hurling his swords. “I said nothing’s the matter!”

  Mia stopped short as the blades clattered across the training circle. Searching Tric’s eyes. The dreadful ink scrawled over his skin. The scars beneath. She realized he was the only acolyte who’d yet to undergo the weaver’s touch.

  “Listen,” she sighed. “I might not be the sharpest when it comes to cutting through other folks’ problems. And I don’t want to pry. But if you want to spill your guts about it, here I am.”

  Tric scowled, staring into space. Mia played the waiting gambit again, letting the silence do the asking for her. After an age of sullen quiet, Tric finally spoke.

  “They’re going to take it away,” he said.

  “… I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do you need to.”

  “I might not need to.” Mia set aside her sword. “But still, I’d like to.”

  Tric sighed. Mia sat down cross-legged, patted the stone beside her. Sullen and damn near pouting, the boy knelt where he was, planted himself on the floor. Mia shuffled closer, just near enough for him to know she was there. Long minutes passed, the pair of them sitting mute. Utterly silent in the hall named for its song.

  It struck her as stupid. Here, more than anywhere. This was a school for fledgling killers. Acolytes were dropping like flies. Tric might be dead by the morrow. And here she was, trying to get him to open up about his feelings …

  Black Mother, it’s worse than stupid. It’s ridiculous.

  But maybe that was the point? Maybe it was like Naev had said. In the face of all this callousness, maybe she needed to hold on to the things that mattered? And looking at this strange boy, matted hair strung over haunted eyes, Mia realized he did matter.

  He mattered to her.

  “I didn’t kill Floodcaller,” Tric finally said.

  Mia blinked. Truth be told, in all the death since, she’d almost forgotten about the Dweymeri boy’s murder the eve they first arrived here.

  “… I believe you.”

  “I wanted to. Someone just beat me to it.” He glanced at her sidelong. Voice thick with rage. “He called me koffi, Mia. You know what that means?”

  For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice. “Child of…”

  “Rape,” Tric spat. “Child of rape.”

  She sighed inside.

  It’s true, then.

  “You father was a Dweymeri pirate? Your mother—”

  “My mother was the daughter of a bara.”

  “… What?”

  “A princess, if you’ll believe it.” Tric chuckled. “Part royalty, me.”

  “A bara?” Mia frowned. “Your mother was Dweymeri?”

  Mia didn’t understand. From all she’d read, it was the Dweymeri pirate lords and their crews who did the raping and pillaging. But if Tric’s mother was from Dweym …

  “Her name was Earthwalker. Thirdborn of our bara, Swordbreaker.” Tric spat the name, as if it tasted rancid. “She wasn’t much older than you are now. Traveling to Farrow for the yearly Festival of Skies. There was a storm. She wound up wrecked on some rock with a handmaid and a bosun’s mate. Three alive out of a hundred.

  “An Itreyan trawler found her. The captain brought them aboard. Fed the boy to the seadrakes. Raped my mother and her maid. And when they found out who she was, they sent word to my grandfather he could have her back for her weight in gold.”

  “Maw’s teeth.” Mia squeezed Tric’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Tric.”

  Tric smiled bitterly. “I’ll say one thing about Grandfather. He loved his daughters.”

  “He paid?”

  Tric shook his head. “He found out where they were holed up, burned the settlement to the ground. Murdered every man, woman and child. But he got his daughter back. Nine months later, he got a grandson. And every time he looked at my face, he saw my father.”

  Mia stared at the boy’s eyes, her chest aching.

  Hazel, not brown.

  “That’s not who you are, Tric.”

  The boy stared back at her, tale dying on his lips. Something in the air shifted, something in his gaze lighting a flame in her belly. Those bottomless eyes. That scrawl of hatred on his skin. Her heart was pounding. Palms sweating in his. Trembling.

  “… mia…”

  Trembling just like the shadow at her feet.

  “… mia, beware…”

  “Well, well.”

  Mia blinked as the spell of silence shattered. Jessamine stood at the top of the stairs, Diamo alongside. The redhead was dressed for sparring practice; black leathers and a sleeveless tunic. The girl’s hulking sidekick loomed next to her, something ugly lingering in his stare.2

  Jessamine hooked her thumbs into her belt, strolled into the hall.

  “I wondered how you were spending your nevernights, Corvere.”

  Mia rose to her feet, staring the girl down. “I didn’t know you cared, Jess.”

  The redhead looked about; the broken swords and training dummies.

  “Practicing?” she sneered. “You’d be better off praying.”

  “Apologies,” Mia frowned, searching the floor as if looking for something. “I appear to have misplaced the fucks I give for what you think…”

  Jessamine clutched her ribs and laughed uproariously for half a second. Then her smile dropped from her face and shattered like glass on the stone.

  “You think you’re funny, bitch?” Diamo asked.

  “O, bitch,” Mia nodded. “Very creative. What’s next? Slut? No, whore, am I right?”

  Diamo blinked. Mia could practically see him striking the words off his mental insult list and coming up empty. Tric was on his feet beside her, squaring up to the big Itreyan, but Mia placed a hand on his arm. Jessamine wasn’t likely to make a play here, and Mia was happy to fence wits all turn. She’d send the pair home limping.

  “What do you want, Red?”

  “Your skull on the Senate House steps beside my father’s,” Jess replied.

  Mia sighed. “Julius Scaeva executed my da just like he did yours. That makes us allies, not enemies. We both hate the sa—”

  “Don’t talk to me about hate,” the girl snarled. “You’ve never tasted it, Corvere. My whole familia is dead because of your fucking traitor father.”

  “You call my father a traitor one more time,” Mia growled, “you’re going to see your familia again a little sooner than you’d like.”

  “You know, it’s funny,” Jessamine smiled. “Your little friend Ashlinn is winni
ng by a clear mile in Mouser’s thievery contest. She obviously has the sneak to break into any room in this mountain. I’d have thought you’d have asked her to take care of business for you. But I stole into Mouser’s hall a week ago, and damned if it wasn’t still there…”

  Mia rolled her eyes. “Four Daughters, what are you babbling about?”

  Jessamine’s grin was sharp as new steel. She reached into the collar of her sleeveless tunic. Drew out something that spun and glittered in the dim light.

  “O, nothing important.”

  Mia felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. A spasm of pain. A blinding flare. And as she staggered back, one hand up to shield her eyes, she made out the shape of three circles, rose gold, platinum and yellow gold, glittering on the end of a thin chain.

  O, Goddess …

  Mouser’s Trinity. The holy medallion, blessed by Aa’s Right Hand.

  Mia staggered away as Jessamine stepped forward, smile widening. Terror washed over her in cold waves, Mister Kindly flinching in her shadow. And though the suns only gleamed a little in the light from the stained glass above, to Mia that light seemed blinding. Burning. Blistering. As Jessamine continued advancing, Mia stumbled to her knees, mouth filling with bile. Tric snatched up his training sword and snarled.

  “Put that bloody thing away, Jess.”

  The girl pouted. “We’re just having some fun, Tricky.”

  “I said put it away!”

  The girl took another step toward Mia, the suns gleaming. Tric raised his training sword and Diamo stepped to meet him, sledgehammer hands twitching. The boys fell to it, Tric swinging the wooden blade with a sharp crack into Diamo’s forearm, the Itreyan grunting with pain and lashing out with a fist. The pair fell into a scuffle, knuckles and elbows and curses. But all the while, Jessamine was advancing, Mia scrabbling back across the stone now, puke bubbling in her throat.