And without a sound, he vanished.
Mia felt the shadowcat’s absence almost immediately, a slow fear creeping into her belly. Alone with the matron of a flock of murderers. Her mind burning with the memory of Solis’s eyes as he hacked off her arm. Would she regain full use of it? What if the Sp— “You keep interesting company, Acolyte,” Drusilla said.
Mia looked to the door Marielle and Adonai had left by.
“No more than you, Revered Mother.”
“As I say, you have my apologies if the siblings put you ill at ease. Marielle and Adonai have dwelled in the Quiet Mountain for some time. In return for services rendered, we provide sanctuary in a world not entirely hospitable to those who hold the title of sorcerii.”
“I thought the Ashkahi arts died along with their race?”
“The Ashkahi race is dead and gone, true.” Drusilla shrugged. “But death knows not greed. The Mother keeps only what she needs. And the Ashkahi arts live on in those brave enough to embrace the suffering they bring.”
“I saw Naev performing blood sorcery in the desert,” Mia said. “The phial, the writing. That’s how she called for help? Adonai taught her?”
“Adonai teaches nothing. The blood in the phial was his. He manipulates it from afar. His blood, and those whose blood he possesses. Such is the speaker’s gift. And his curse.”
“And his sister?”
“A flesh weaver. She can make a peerless beauty of flesh, or a hideousness that knows no bounds.”
“But if Marielle can shape flesh to her will, why is her own so …”
“Mastery of the Ashkahi arts comes with a price. Weavers use flesh like a potter uses clay. But with each use of their art, their own flesh grows ever more hideous.” Drusilla shook her head. “One must give credit to the Ashkahi. I can think of no finer torture than to have power absolute over all but your own.”
“And Adonai?”
“Blood speakers thirst after that which they hold affinity for. They know no sustenance, save that which can be found in another’s veins.”
Mia blinked. “They drink …”
“They do.”
“But blood’s an emetic,” Mia said. “Drink too much, you’ll spew fountains.”
“Mercurio’s lessons were … eclectic, it seems.”
“You know Mercurio?”
The old woman smiled. “Quite well, child.”
Mia shrugged. “Well, he made me drink horse blood once. In case I was stranded somewhere with no water, I’d know what to expect.”
Drusilla smiled wider at that, shook her head. “’Tis true that tasting more than a mouthful of blood is a sure way to taste it a second time. Speakers are no exception. A life of torture, once more, you see? Drink a little, know constant hunger. Drink too much, know constant sickness.”
“That sounds … awful.”
“All power comes with a tithe. We all pay a price. Speakers, their hunger. Weavers, their impotence. And those who call the Dark …”—Drusilla looked down to Mia’s shadow—“… well, eventually it calls them back.”
Mia’s eyes drifted to the black at her feet. Fear surging. “You know what I am?”
“Mercurio told me of your talents. Solis told me of your little performance in the Hall of Songs. I know you are marked by the Night herself, though I know not why.”
“Marked by the Night,” Mia said. “Mercurio said the same thing.”
“Do not believe for a moment it will earn you favoritism here. Marked by the Mother you may be, but your place is not yet earned. And the next time you squander your gifts on parlor tricks to insult your Shahiid, you may lose more than a limb.”
Mia looked down at her bruised elbow. Her voice, barely a murmur.
“I didn’t mean insult, Revered Mother.”
“An acolyte has not bled Solis in years. I’m surprised he only took your arm.”
Mia frowned. “And you’re at peace with this? Masters maiming novices?”
“You are not maimed, Acolyte. You still have your arm, unless I’m mistaken. This is not a finishing school for young dons and donas. The Shahiid here are artisans of death, charged with making you worthy of service to the goddess. Some of you will never leave these walls.
“Solis looks to make an example of someone in his class early. But beneath the callousness, his task is to teach, and he takes pride in it. If you give him reason to hurt you again, he will do so without compunction. Hurting things is in Solis’s nature, and it is this very nature that suits him so ideally to teaching you to hurt others.”
The enormity of it all began to dawn on Mia. The reality of where she was. What she was doing. This place was a forge where Blades were honed, death sculpted. Even after years at Mercurio’s feet, she had so much to learn, and a misstep could cost her dear. Truth was, she’d been showing off. And while Solis had acted an utter prick, she’d misstepped by trying to best him in front of the entire flock. She resolved not to let pride have its head again in the future. She was here for one reason, and one reason only: Consul Scaeva and Cardinal Duomo and Justicus Remus needed to die. She needed to become skilled enough, sharp enough, hard enough to end each and every one of them, and that wasn’t going to happen if she lost herself in childish games. Time to keep her mouth well on the safe side of shut and play it smart.
“I understand, Revered Mother.”
“You will be unable to study in the Hall of Songs until your hurts are healed,” Drusilla said. “I have spoken to Shahiid Aalea, and she has agreed to begin your tutelage early.”
“Aalea.” Mia swallowed thickly. “Shahiid of Masks.”
The old woman smiled. “There is nothing to fear, child. You will find yourself looking forward to her lessons in time.”
Drusilla stood, tucked her hands into her sleeves.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve other tasks to attend. If you’ve need, or questions answered, seek me out. Like all of us, I am here to serve.”
The woman left without a sound, padding off into the darkness. Mia watched her leave, wondering at her words. What had she said?
“Those who call the Dark … well, eventually it calls them back.”
Mercurio had never seemed entirely at ease around Mister Kindly, though he’d never outright spoken of it. For his own part, the not-cat seemed content enough to ignore her master, and stayed out of sight when Mercurio was around. Growing up, she’d never really had anyone to speak to about her talents. No tome in Mercurio’s store tackled the topic, and folklore about darkin was contradictory at best, superstitious twaddle at worst.1 She’d simply muddled along with her growing gifts as best she was able. When truedark fell the year she turned eleven, she’d noticed her connection to the shadows felt stronger. And the truedark she’d turned fourteen …
No.
Don’t look.
“… she seems … nice …”
Mister Kindly appeared at the foot of the slab, bringing a smile to Mia’s lips.
“‘Nice’ is one word for it.”
“… i have others less flattering, but there has been enough bloodshed for one turn …”
Mia winced as she flexed her arm, pain lancing into her shoulder. Her anxiety was fading with Mister Kindly back by her side, replaced now with anger. She cursed beneath her breath, knowing this wound would take her out of Songs for weeks. Wishing she’d not been so reckless, or that Shahiid Solis hadn’t so dearly deserved a drubbing, she set to tying a sling around her neck.