One less than there had been yesterturn.
Mia looked among them, wondering. Jessamine with her red hair and hunter’s eyes. A broad, olive-skinned boy with a missing ear and chewed fingernails. A thin girl with cropped black hair and a slavemark branded on her cheek, swaying on her feet like a snake. An ill-favored Vaanian boy with tattooed hands who always seemed to be talking to himself. Mia was still putting faces to names. But though they were still mostly strangers, she knew one thing about every acolyte around her.
Murderers, all.
The Mother of Night’s statue loomed above them, staring down with pitiless eyes. Rumor had been rippling among the acolytes as they made their way to the hall before mornmeal. Two Hands were on their knees, scrubbing the stone at the goddess’s feet with horsehair brushes. The water in their bucket was a thin, translucent red.
Floodcaller’s body was nowhere to be seen.
Ashlinn sidled up to Mia, spoke softly while staring straight ahead.
“Hear about the Dweymeri boy?”
“… A little.”
“Throat cut clean, they say.”
“So I heard.”
Tric, standing to Mia’s right, said not a word. Mia looked at her friend, searching his face for some sign of guilt. Tric was a killer and no mistake—but everyone in this room was. Just because he and Floodcaller had tussled the eve before didn’t mean he’d be top of the suspect list. Revered Mother Drusilla would have to think him some kind of fool to murder Floodcaller with his motive so obvious …
“Think the Ministry will investigate?” Mia asked.
“You heard what Mother Drusilla said. ‘You are killers one, killers all. And I expect you all to behave as such.’” Ashlinn glanced at Tric. “Maybe someone just took her literally.”
“Acolytes.”
The girls looked up, saw the Revered Mother Drusilla, gray hair unbound, fingers entwined. She’d arrived without a whisper, seeming to melt out of the shadows themselves. The old woman spoke, her voice echoing in the gloom.
“Before lessons begin, I have an announcement. I am certain all of you have heard about the murder of your fellow acolyte yestereve, here in this very hall.” Drusilla glanced at the wet spot on the stone, still being dutifully scrubbed. “Floodcaller’s ending is deeply regrettable, and the Ministry will be investigating thoroughly. If you have any information, bring it to my chambers by the end of the turn. We stand in the Church of Our Lady of Blessed Murder, and the lives of your fellow acolytes are hers, not yours to take. Should this ending have been committed as an act of revenge, spite, or simple cold-blooded calculation, the perpetrator will be punished accordingly.”
Mia was certain the old woman’s eyes lingered on Tric as she said “revenge.” She glanced at her friend, but the boy’s face remained stoic.
“However,” Drusilla continued, “while the investigation is ongoing, all acolytes are forbidden from leaving their rooms after ninth bell has struck. Special dispensation may be granted by your Shahiid for purposes of training and study, but idle wandering through the halls will not be permitted. Those found in breach of this ban will be punished severely.”
Mother Drusilla allowed her gaze to linger on each acolyte in turn. Mia wondered what constituted “severe punishment” among a flock of murderous fanatics.
“Now,” Drusilla said. “Proceed to the Hall of Songs and await Shahiid Solis in silence.”
The woman disappeared into the shadows in a swirl of black robes.
Murmurs passed up and down the row of acolytes. The girl with the slave brand was gazing at Tric intently. The olive-skinned boy tugging at the nub of flesh where his ear used to be, looked at the Dweymeri with narrowed eyes. Tric ignored their stares, walking behind the Hands who’d appeared to escort them. After a wearying climb into what might have been the Mountain’s peak, Mia and her fellows found themselves in the Hall of Songs.
She had no idea why the room was called such, though she suspected it had nothing to do with acoustics.1 A circular stained-glass window was set in the ceiling, throwing a bright golden spotlight into the room’s heart. The hall was huge, its edges swallowed by shadows, though Mia caught impressions of those same swirling patterns on the walls. She could smell old blood, sweat, oil, and steel. Training dummies and archery targets and fitness apparatus were arranged in neat rows. The floor was black granite, and a circle was carved in the room’s heart, wide enough for forty men to stand abreast. Each acolyte took a place around it and, as instructed, most settled in to await their first lesson in silence.
Ashlinn took a place at Mia’s left and began whispering within ten seconds.
“Ninebells curfew. Can you believe it?”
Mia glanced around the room before replying. “It’s not like there’ll be much to do around here after the light dies anyway.”
The girl grinned. “O, Corvere. You’ve got no idea.”
“So why—”
“You were instructed to wait in silence.”
A deep voice echoed through the Hall of Songs, bouncing off the unseen walls. Mia heard no footsteps, but Shahiid Solis emerged from the shadows behind her, hands clasped behind him. As he brushed past, Mia realized the man was even more imposing up close, all broad shoulders and ghost-white eyes. He wore soft black robes, that same empty scabbard at his waist. And yet he moved with a silent grace, as if listening to a tune only he could hear.
“A Blade of the Mother must be silent as starlight on a sleeping babe’s cheek,” he said, stepping into the circle. “I once hid in the Grand Athenaeum of Elai for seven turns waiting for my offering to show herself, and not even the books knew I was there.”2 He turned to Mia and Ashlinn. “And you girls cannot keep quiet for a handful of heartbeats.”
“Forgiveness, Shahiid,” Ashlinn bowed.
“Three laps of the stair for you, girl. Down and up. Go.”
Ashlinn hovered uncertainly. The Shahiid glared, those sightless eyes seeming to bore right through her skull.
“Six laps, then. The number doubles every time I repeat myself.”
Ashlinn bowed, and with another apology, retreated from the hall. Solis turned to Mia, colorless eyes fixed over her shoulder. She noticed he never blinked.
“And you, girl? Do you have something to say?”
Mia remained silent.
“Well?” The Shahiid stepped closer, looming over her. “Answer me!”
Mia kept her gaze to the floor, her voice steady. “Forgiveness, Shahiid, but with all due respect, I believe anything I say will simply be taken as a further breach of the silence you demanded, and you will only punish me further.”
The hulking man’s lips twisted in a small smile. “A clever little slip, neh?”
“If I were clever, I’d not have been caught talking, Shahiid.”
“A pity, then. There’s precious little else about you worthy of note.” Solis pointed to the stairs. “Three laps. Down and up. Go.”
Mia bowed and left the hall without a word.
Stretching her legs on the landing, she commenced her run, counting the steps in her head.3 She wondered how Solis knew if she looked notable or not—those eyes of his were as blind as a boy in love, she’d bet her life on it—but he acted as if he were as sighted as she. Halfway through the second lap, all musing on the Shahiid had ceased, her focus consumed by running the stair. Reaching the top, her legs were jelly, and she silently thanked her old master again for all the Godsgrave stairs he’d made her run in punishment. She almost wished she’d misbehaved more.
Ashlinn (whom Mia had lapped in the last fifty feet) reached the top drenched in sweat, offering a wink as she paused to catch her breath.
“Sorry, Corvere,” she gasped. “Father warned me about Solis. Should’ve known better.”
“No harm done,” Mia smiled.