by Jay Kristoff
“It was so bright,” she whispered. “Too bright.”
“Never fear, little Crow.”
The old man smiled. Patted her hand.
“The brighter the light, the deeper the shadow.”
BOOK 3
BLACK RUNS RED
CHAPTER 28
VENOW
Mia woke in the dark hours later. Phantom pain across her back where the weaver’s blows had fallen. Bones still echoing with the ache. Looking up to where a pair of eyes should have been. Mister Kindly on the bedhead, watching while she slept.
“… are you well…?”
“Well enough.”
“… you asked me to mind the boy. i could not keep the nightmare away…”
“It’s always been there.” She sighed. “Always.”
Mia sat up in bed, hair draped about her face as she bowed her head. Her muscles ached from the weaver’s touch, her mouth dry at the memories she’d kept locked away. Refused to look at. Her mother. The power of the nights, flowing in her veins. It was she who’d destroyed the Philosopher’s Stone. She who’d perpetrated the Truedark Massacre. Killed dozens of men on the steps of the Basilica Grande. Dozens more in the Stone itself. Fathers. Brothers. Sons.
She’d tried to murder Scaeva.
Tried and failed.
So much blood on her hands. So much power at her fingertips.
And she’d not even come close.
“We have work to do.”
So it began.
Time passed under the evernight sky, initiation drawing ever closer. Routine and ritual. Meals and grueling training and sleep.
To have endured fifty lashes at the weaver’s hand was no small feat, and most of her fellow acolytes treated Mia with a newfound respect after the scourging. But Tric had managed to suffer through the entire ordeal without even whimpering, and he was viewed with a kind of awe among the other novices now. Even Shahiid Solis found some praise for his ever-improving form in the Hall of Songs. In the private moments they managed to snatch before ninebells (no acolyte dared set foot outside their room now), Tric whispered to Mia it was ridiculous—that she’d been the brave one, not him. But Mia was content to let him steal the glory. Better to be underestimated.
Easier to hide in the dark than the limelight.
As for Mia, Solis still showed little mercy. She still struck weakly with her swordarm, and her guard broke when hard-pressed. Though he’d caused the injury himself, the Shahiid sent Mia running laps of the stairs for the slightest failing. She endured the abuse silently, and managed to avoid getting her chest perforated when paired with Jessamine or Diamo, which seemed to happen more than the laws of chance would dictate.
She often found herself reporting to the weaver to mend her hurts after Songs was finished. For her part, Marielle said nothing about the blood scourging, and treated Mia no differently. But Mia didn’t forget. Didn’t forgive.1
Adonai showed even less concern for Mia than his sister. Ever aloof, he presided over the regular Blood Walks that sent the acolytes to Godsgrave in search of secrets for Aalea. Mia found herself lurking in tavernas, sweet-talking soldier boys, swimming in rumor. A minor uproar had been caused when Consul Scaeva inducted his seven-year-old son Lucius into the Luminatii legion.2 She heard whispers about Justicus Remus siring a bastard on some senator’s daughter. Talk that Scaeva was quietly agitating to be named imperator—a title that would give him leadership of the Senate until death. All these and more, Mia reported to Shahiid Aalea, hoping to gain her favor. The woman would simply smile, kiss Mia’s cheek, and give no indication of her standing in the contest whatsoever.
It was maddening.
More maddening was Spiderkiller’s quandary. Mia spent every spare moment working on it, the antidote still out of reach. Scribbling and cursing. Watching the arkemical symbols collide in her mind’s eye until she saw them when she slept.
She and Tric orbited each other slowly, drifting closer to another collision. But the agony they’d endured at the weaver’s hands still screamed louder than the ache of not being together. There was no time between lessons, no place after ninebells, no satisfaction in some darkened corner, fucking like thieves. She felt it was worth more than that. And so they waited for the moment the other would break. Dreaming of it alone in her bed, her hands roaming ever lower, silently screaming his name.
And in the quiet minutes, in the shadows, she met with Naev.
Sweating just as much.
Screaming not at all.
“Black Mother, this is going to be the end of me.”
Mia was hunched over her notes at the mornmeal table, watching out of the corner of her eye for flying drinks trays. Osrik and Ashlinn were sat opposite, Tric beside her. Chatter rippled among the acolytes amid the clink and scrape of cutlery, Pip as ever muttering to his knife, pausing between queries as if the blade answered back.3
A fork was tapped against a glass for attention, and all eyes turned to the head table. Revered Mother Drusilla was standing, her customary smile in place. She looked about the assembled faces, nodded to herself as if satisfied.
“Acolytes. This the last turn of official lessons you will attend as novices of the Red Church. From this eve, until initiation two weeks hence, your time is your own to do with as you see fit. Shahiid Mouser and Shahiid Aalea shall accept purloined items and secrets ’til weeksend. Shahiid Spiderkiller will also welcome solutions to her quandary. I should note there have been no entrants to date, and I will stress that no acolyte is under any compunction to solve the Shahiid’s riddle. I would hope Spiderkiller has made the penalty for failure plain enough.”
The dour woman inclined her head, black lips quirked in a small smile.
“Shahiid Solis’s contest in the Hall of Songs begins on the morrow. Preliminary bouts shall be fought in the morn, finals after midmeal. Speaker Adonai and Weaver Marielle will be on hand to attend your hurts.
“Once acolytes are placed at top of hall, the ministry will conduct a series of final trials. Those of the four who perform to satisfaction will be initiated by the Right Hand of Niah, and anointed with the blood of Lord Cassius himself.”
Mia swallowed hard. Everything she’d worked for. Everything she wanted.
“I would suggest you all get a good eve’s rest after lessons,” Drusilla said. “Tomorrow, final trials begin.”
The old woman sat back at table. Chatter picked up among the acolytes slowly, the weight of what was to come hanging over each head. But soon enough, worry was buried under piles of food. The kitchen seemed to be pulling out all the stops in these last few turns, and plates were stacked high with delicious pastries and savories, fresh eggs, sizzling ham.
Mia had no stomach for any of it. Turning back to her notes and scowling. The formulae twisted and turned in front of her eyes, a headache slinking to the base of her skull and squeezing. She swore blue in every language she knew, Ashlinn watching her between mouthfuls and smirking at the more colorful curses.
“Tuhk a brmk mubbuh,” she said.
Mia glanced up from her notebook. “What?”
Ash tried to enunciate more clearly, treating Mia to an eyeful of her mouthful.
“Tuhk. A. Brmk. Mubbuh.”
“Black Mother, don’t talk with your mouth full, Ash,” Osrik muttered.
Ash took a gulp of water, scowled at her brother. “Funny. I told a handsome soldierboy the same thing last time I was in Godsgrave.”
Her brother covered his ears. “Lalalalalaaaaa.”
“Sang like a choirboy, he did. During and after. Luminatii boys get all the juice.”
“I believe I said, ‘La. La. LA,’” Osrik growled.
Ashlinn threw a bread roll at her brother’s head.
Osrik raised a spoonful of porridge. “Now you die…”
Mia intervened before full-scale war broke out.
“What were you saying, Ash?”
The girl lowered her second bread roll, raised a warning finger at her brother.<
br />
“I said you should take a break, maybe. All grind and no grift is no good for you. Stroll around with me next time we go to the ’Grave. I’ll take you to some of the Luminatii pubs. Let your hair down a little.”
“My hair is down.”
“Men in uniform, Corvere.”
“One-track mind, Järnheim.”
“At least they know what a bloody comb looks like.”
Ash smiled sidelong at Tric, waiting for a reaction. To his credit, the Dweymeri kept his face like stone as he reached for a bread roll and bounced it off Ashlinn’s head.
“It’s all fine and well for some,” Mia muttered. “You’re leading Mouser’s contest by near seventy marks. You’ll finish top of Pockets for sure.”
Ash put her hands behind her head, leaned back and sighed. “Can’t help it if I’ve got natural talent. Steal the T-bone out of a watchdog’s teeth, me. Should’ve seen me lift Spiderkiller’s knives. Pure sorcery, it was.”
“I saw her face after she realized you’d swiped them,” Tric said. “You’re a braver sort than me, Ash.”
The girl shrugged. “All’s fair in love and larceny.”
“Two weeks ’til initiation,” Mia muttered. “Solis’s contest in the Hall of Songs begins tomorrow. If I don’t break this thing soon, I never will. No one has any idea who’s winning Aalea’s contest, and I’ve got zero chance of finishing top of any other hall unless I somehow lift the Revered Mother’s key from around her neck.”
“Maw’s teeth, even I’m not brave enough for that,” Ash shuddered, glancing at the old woman. “Hundred marks be damned. She’d kill you twice for even dreaming it.”
“So.” Mia began scribbling her notes again. “Here we are.”
“Aren’t you worried about writing it all down?” Ash raised an eyebrow.
“Why, are you planning on stealing this, too?”
“Damn your beady eyes, woman, I stole one lousy punching dagger from you. And I said sorry afterward. Anyone would think I’d pinched your beau.”
“… My eyes aren’t beady.”
“I’m just saying, be careful where you leave those notes,” the girl warned. “It’s not like business with Red or her boy is finished. Remember what they did to Lotti.”
Mia glanced down the table at Jessamine and Diamo. Though she’d hatched a dozen plans to avenge Carlotta’s murder, Mia knew it’d be pure stupidity to act on them. If something happened to either of the pair, the Ministry would be knocking on Mia’s door ten seconds later.
Diamo was watching her between mouthfuls, Jess whispering into his ear. Mia idly wondered if the pair were fucking. They never showed affection openly, but parading weakness wasn’t Jessamine’s style. And though Lotti’s death lay between them now, though they’d never be friends, Mia found herself thinking about Jessamine’s father. About the Luminatii she’d murdered outside the Basilica Grande. How many more orphans had she created that truedark? How many more Jessamines?
Would the sons and daughters of the men she murdered look at her the same way she looked at Scaeva?
What was she becoming?
Eyes on the prize, Corvere.
Quashing her unpleasant thoughts, Mia turned back to Ash and muttered.
“Well, let’s wait until I discover the solution before we worry too much, neh?”
“How close are you?”
Mia shrugged. “Close. And not close enough.”
Ash nodded down the table at Jessamine. “Well if you do crack it, keep it secret. If that’s your only chance to top a hall, you can be damned sure Red will mark it.”
Mia looked up at Ashlinn.
“… Say that again?”
“Say what again?”
“Red will mark it…”
“… What?”
“Red dahlia,” Mia breathed, eyes growing wide. “Blackmark venom.”
“Eh?”
Mia thumbed through her pages until she found one covered in scrawl, ran her fingers down the notes. Ash opened her mouth to speak but Mia held up a hand to beg for silence. Scribbled a handful of quick formulae. Flipped back and forth between the new and the old. Finally looking up at the girl and grinning to the eyeteeth.
“Ashlinn, I could kiss you…”
“… I thought you’d never ask?”
“You’re a fucking genius!” Mia shouted.
The girl turned to her brother and smirked. “See, I told you…”
Mia stood and grabbed Ash by the ears, hauled her close and planted a loud kiss square on her lips. Tric led a round of impromptu applause, but Mia was already scooping up her notes and dashing from the Sky Altar. Jessamine and Diamo marked her exit, speaking quietly between themselves. Tric and Ashlinn watched Mia disappear down the stairwell, Osrik returning to his meal and shaking his head.
“All over the shop like a madman’s shite, that one.”
“Good kisser, though,” Ash smirked. “I can see why you’re bonce over boots for her, Tricky.”
The Dweymeri boy kept his face like stone.
Calmly reached for another bread roll.
Mia spent the rest of the turn in her room, hunched over parchment with a charcoal stick between her fingers. She spread her notes across her bed, running through the concoction again and again. The evemeal bell rang and she stirred not an inch, smoking a cigarillo to kill her hunger. Mister Kindly’s not-eyes roamed Mia’s solution, page after page of it, purring all the while.
“… ingenious…”
Mia dragged deep on her smoke. “If it works.”
“… and if not…?”
“You might be looking for a new best friend.”
“… i have a best friend now…?”
The girl flicked ash at the not-cat’s face. She heard ninebells ring, the soft footsteps of acolytes returning to their chambers. Shadows passing across the chink of light seeping in from the corridor. And beside them, a folded sheaf of parchment, slipped beneath her door.
Mia rose from her bed, peered out into the hall. No one in sight. She picked up the parchment, unfolded it and read the words scribed thereon.
I want you.
T.
Mia’s heart beat quicker at the words, wretched butterflies rearing their wings in her belly again. She looked up at Mister Kindly, cigarillo hanging from her lips. The not-cat sat on the bed, surrounded by her sea of notes. Saying not a word.
“I’d have to be a complete idiot to sneak out after ninebells again.”
“… especially the very eve before solis’s contest…”
“I should be getting my sleep.”
“… love makes fools of us all…”
“I’m not in love with him, Mister Kindly.”
“… a good thing it appears that way to everyone around you, then…”
Gathering up the loose pages scattered across her bed, Mia tucked them into her notebook and bound it tight, then hid it beneath her desk’s bottom drawer.
“Watch my back?”
“… always…”
Mister Kindly slipped beneath her door, checking the hallway was clear. Mia pulled the shadows to her and faded into the gloom. Stealing out after the not-cat, feeling her way down the long corridor, soft boots making not even a whisper on the stone. The blurred figure of a Hand walked across a passageway ahead and she froze, pressed against the wall. Mia waited until he was well out of sight before moving again, finally stopping outside Tric’s door.
She tried the handle, found it locked. Crouching low, she peered through the keyhole, saw Tric on his bed reading by the light of an arkemical lamp. The globe threw long shadows across the floor, and she reached out toward them. Remembering what it was to be that fourteen-year-old girl again. The power of the night at her fingertips. Not afraid of it anymore. Of who she was. What she was.
And closing her eyes, she
stepped
into the shadow
at her feet
and out of the shadows
inside his room.
/> Tric started as she appeared from the darkness, hair moving as if in some hidden breeze. A knife slipped from up his sleeve, stilling in his hand as he recognized her. The boy glanced toward the locked door with questions swimming in his eyes.
Mia kicked her boots off her feet.
“Mia?”
Dragged her shirt off over her head.
“Shhh,” she whispered.
And the questions in Tric’s eyes died.
1. Mia managed to study the many faces adorning the weaver’s chamber during these ministrations, and she often found herself visiting Marielle with little more than a scratch to be mended, just so she could get another peek at the collection. The masks were wonders, collected from all corners of the Republic.
Mia recognized the voltos and dominos and punchinellos from Itreyan Carnivalé, obviously. The fearsome warmasks from the Isles of Dweym, carved of ironwood into the likenesses of horrors of the deep. The flawless, bone-white visage of a Liisian Leper Priest, and a eunuch’s blinding cowl from the harem of some long-dead Magus King. But the weaver seemed obsessed with faces in all their shapes and sizes, and it seemed she’d collected no end of strangeness to feed that obsession.
Among the weaver’s collection, Mia saw golden wonders fashioned in the likenesses of lions’ heads, similar to the cat-headed statues out in the Ashkahi Whisperwastes, and the figures on Mouser’s blacksteel blade. She spied a rotting hangman’s hood, a blindfold crusted with what looked like dried blood, the death masks of a dozen children, some no more than babes. Faces made of wood and metal. Bone and desiccated skin. Ornate and banal. Beautiful and hideous. The weaver collected them all.
Mia sometimes found herself close to pitying Marielle. It must be an awful thing, she supposed, to have power over the flesh of others and no power over her own. But then she’d remember the horror Marielle had made of Naev’s face. And much as she tried to hold on to it, as important as she knew it to be, her pity would slowly die.
Only ashes in its wake.
2. Eighteen was the minimum age for One Who Shone, a tradition that extended back to the legion’s formation. The Luminatii’s founding doctrine was astonishingly detailed, and its entry requirements exceedingly strict. Interestingly enough, the codices did not prohibit women joining their ranks, though no woman in history had actually done it.
