Ashlinn underwent the weaving, then Marcellus, who truth be told had been a picture already. It seemed gifting new faces took a toll on Marielle, or perhaps she was simply capricious. Either way, the weaver worked her way through the acolytes only slowly. At this rate, it’d be months before all of them got to taste the pain of her touch.
Mouser’s challenge to his students began quietly, with very few marks being accrued in those early weeks. The ninebells curfew seemed to keep most acolytes in their rooms, and Ashlinn and Mia made no further after-hours forays. But soon enough, dashes began appearing on the charboard in the Hall of Pockets. Small numbers at first, two or three marks apiece, the easy items on the list being plucked as acolytes gained confidence. Ash took off to an early lead, but Jessamine was running a close second, and, seemingly none the worse for wear after his near-fatal poisoning at Spiderkiller’s hands, Hush was placed third. For her own part, Mia quickly acquired a few of the lighter pieces, but she knew it’d be the more difficult objects that would really swing the contest, and no acolyte was brave enough to go stealing Solis’s scabbard or Spiderkiller’s knives just yet.
The other Shahiid announced their own contests, and again, the acolytes were informed that those who claimed top of each hall would be virtually guaranteed initiation as Blades. In the Hall of Songs, a no-holds-barred, full-contact contest of martial prowess was to be held. The winner would be given Solis’s mark of favor.
In the emerald light of the Hall of Truths, Shahiid Spiderkiller wrote the formula for an impossibly complex arkemical toxin on the charboard, and informed the (still somewhat terrified) acolytes that whoever brought her the correct antidote would be the victor. There was a caveat, of course; acolytes must be willing to test their antidote by imbibing Spiderkiller’s poison first. If their antidote worked, all well and good. If not …
And Shahiid Aalea’s contest?
That turned out to be the most interesting of the lot.
The female acolytes were roused one eve just before ninebells and escorted to the Hall of Masks. This was unusual; the hour was close to curfew, but more, Shahiid Aalea usually conducted her lessons one-on-one. Hers was a subtle craft requiring personal attention, and large groups of teenagers in the same room seldom proved conducive to lessons in the finer arts of seduction. But for some reason, every girl had been brought before the Shahiid.
Aalea was clad in a gown of sheer burgundy silk, unadorned by jewelry. She met the acolytes with a tilt of her head and a beautiful, blood-red smile.
“My ladies, don’t we look a portrait this eve.”
She embraced each girl in turn, kissed them warmly. As she was wrapped up in the Shahiid’s arms, Mia was again overcome with the certainty that the Shahiid’s smile was made solely for her. As the woman kissed her cheeks, Mia found them flushed.
“We must work on that, love,” Aalea said, caressing Mia’s skin. “Never let your face tell a secret your lips should not.” She turned to the assembled acolytes, nine in all. “Now, my ladies. I’m told the other Shahiid have announced their boorish little contests. Stealing trinkets and beating each other witless and whatnot. But the Lady of Blessed Murder has use for a multitude of talents. And so, I give you mine.”
The woman looked around the room, smiled at each girl in turn.
“Before the year’s end, each of you must bring me a secret.”
Carlotta raised an eyebrow. Mia found herself studying the slavegirl closely. She never smiled, and her voice was cold as a tomb. But it’d become apparent that Lotti could do wonders with a raised eyebrow. Convey annoyance. Curiosity. What might pass for amusement. The only woman Mia had ever seen do it better was her mother.
“A secret, Shahiid?” the girl asked.
“Aye,” Aalea smiled. “A secret.”
Ashlinn blinked. The weaver had worked a marvel on her face just a few eves prior. Gone was the roundness, the smattering of freckles. She was pretty as a field of sunflowers … if sunflowers knotted their hair in warbraids and stole anything that wasn’t nailed to the floor, that is …
“What kind of secret, Shahiid?”
“The delightful kind. The sordid kind. The dangerous kind. Secrets are like lovers, my dear. It’s only after you’ve acquired a few that you can make accurate comparisons.”
Aalea looked at the assembled girls with a dark smile.
“So. Bring me a secret. Whoever brings me the best shall have my favor and finish top in the Hall of Masks.” Aalea weaved painted fingers in the air. “Child’s play.”
“Shahiid, where will we look?” Jessamine asked. “Within the Mountain?”
“Black Mother, no. I’ve wrung these walls dry of secrets already. I want something new. Something to keep me warm at nights.”
“And where will we find such secrets if not here?” Mia asked.
“The wellspring of all secrets, love. Her rotten heart open wide to the sky …”
Mia’s heart surged in her chest. There was only one place Aalea could mean. The wellspring of all secrets. The font of all intrigue in the Republic. The heart of Consul Scaeva’s power, the seat of Aa’s ministry and Duomo’s cathedral, ever under the watchful eye of Remus and his Luminatii legions.
Godsgrave.
But the City of Bridges and Bones was an ocean away. It’d taken Mia eight weeks on a ship and another week dodging sand kraken to travel here from the ’Grave.
How in the Mother’s name do we get there?
Aalea took the acolytes into the twisting bowels of the Mountain, past Marielle’s room of faces, and into granite corridors Mia had never walked before. The stone was glass-smooth, the temperature warmer than above. The air was heavy, and as they walked deeper, in each breath, Mia was certain she smelled …
Could it be?
The corridor opened into a vast room, lit by arkemical globes. What looked to be a large bath was carved into the floor, thirty feet at a side, triangular in shape. Arcane symbols were etched into the stone at each point. And in the pool itself?
“Blood,” Mia breathed.
How deep it lay, she had no ken, but its surface rolled like the ocean in a storm. Mia looked at the walls around her, saw the granite was etched with maps. Cities. Countries. The entire Republic and all its capitals; Carrion Hall, Elai, Farrow, and Godsgrave. Beside them, among them, more sigils that hurt her eyes to look at. The greasy tang of sorcery hung in the air beside the copper-slick stink of the pool.
“Acolytes,” said a soft voice. “I greet thee.”
Mia saw the slender figure of Speaker Adonai stepping into the light. In contrast to his colorless skin, he wore dark leather breeches riding torturously low on his hips. His bare arms and torso were scrawled with bloody pictograms. White hair swept back from a sculpted brow, the pink eyes beneath looking slightly bruised.
That new-corpse beauty, shining down here in the gloom.
“Great Speaker.” Aalea kissed his cheeks, heedless of the blood. “All is ready?”
“The City of Bridges and Bones awaits.” Adonai’s eyes roamed the assembled acolytes. “Only thy donas this eve?”
“Dons on the morrow.”
“As it please thee.”
Aalea turned to the girls. “Take off your jewels, my loves. No rings or trinkets. No blades or buckles. Nothing that did not once know the flush of life may walk this path.”
“Be ye abashed of thy flesh laid bare, silk shall avail thee.” The speaker waved vaguely in the direction of a rack of robes against one wall. “Though rest assured, thou art possessed of naught I have not seen before. Thou shalt need to change ’pon the other side, regardless.”
The other side? What is he talking about?
Despite her silent misgivings, Mia took off her boots and belt. Dragged her shirt off over her head, wincing as her arm twinged. But slipping her stiletto from the leather sheath at her wrist, she found herself staring. She’d worked years to earn this back from Mercurio. To just leave it behind …
Adonai caught Mia’s attention, gave her a lazy, pretty smile.
“Thy blade is gravebone, is it not?”2
“Aye.”