“My thanks, love. Your jaw would do nicely.”
Jessamine simply laughed, flipping her daggers back and forth. Knowing better than to look to Solis for intervention, Mia staunched her wounds and went back to sparring. Studying the forms of the others around her as best she could in between dodging Jessamine’s blades. After an hour of knives they swapped to shortswords, and Jessamine was no less merciless. Mia spent the rest of the morning having her arse kicked up and down the hall, and she ended the lesson flat on her back, bleeding and bruised. Jessamine’s blade was pressed to her throat, right on her jugular. And though the redhead held herself in check, Mia could tell she’d give almost anything to flick her wrist and turn the stone red.
Jessamine bowed to Solis, sneered at Mia, and returned her weapons to the rack. Mia climbed to her feet, clutching her aching elbow, frustration boiling inside her. The time she’d lost to her injury had cost her dear, and she’d fallen behind further than she feared. She’d have to work twice as hard to make up the lost ground, and Jessamine might just “accidentally” gut her in the meantime.
The shame of it was, she and Jess were really one and the same. Both orphans of the Kingmaker Rebellion. Both robbed of their familia, driven by the same thirst. If Jess hadn’t been so blinded by her rage, they might have been fast friends. Held together by the kind of bond only hate can forge. And though Julius Scaeva, not Darius Corvere, was to blame for the death of Jessamine’s father, Mia could still understand why the sight of her blood made the other girl smile.
If you can’t hurt the ones who hurt you, sometimes hurting anyone will do.
All this was small comfort after the absolute thrashing she’d received, of course. And if Jess actually decided to act on her bloodlust away from a Shahiid’s gaze? To really try for her life? Mia would likely end up as nothing but a stain on the floor.
No, this won’t do.
Mia shook her head, limped from the hall.
This won’t do at all.
“How do, Don Tric?”
She’d found him in the Hall of Eulogies after lessons, staring up at the statue of Niah. He shot her a dimpled smile as she spoke. Looked her up and down.
“Maw’s teeth, Jessamine gave you a kicking.”
“Better than a stabbing.”
“Looks like you had a few of those, too.”
“I suppose I should go the weaver. Get seen to.”
Tric scowled at the mention of Marielle, turned his eyes back to the statue above. He ran one hand over his face absentmindedly, fingertips tracing those awful tattoos. Not for the first time, Mia found herself studying his profile and chiding herself for a fool almost in the same heartbeat. He’d be a lady-killer without that ink, no mistake. And she was glad he’d made it back from Drusilla’s testing. But still …
Eyes on the prize, Corvere.
“I’ve a notion,” she said.
“O, dear,” Tric mumbled.
Mia raised the knuckles. Marielle’s shadow fell from the boy’s face, and he gifted her a grin. He turned away from Niah’s statue, facing Mia with arms folded.
“Out with it, then.”
“As you were kind enough to notice, I’ve fallen a little behind in Songs.”
“A little?” Tric snorted. “There’s training dummies up there who could mop the floor with you, Pale Daughter.”
“Well, thank you very much,” Mia scowled. “If you’d like to go somewhere and quietly fuck yourself, I’ll be waiting here patiently for your return.”
Tric raised an eyebrow. Mia sighed, told her temper to go sit in the corner.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No need,” he smiled. “I’m not sure polite suits you.”
“I’ve a proposition.”
“Color me flattered.”
“Not that kind of proposition, you nonce.”
She punched the boy’s arm and he grinned. But somewhere in that sparkling hazel, she saw a sliver of disappointment. Something in his stance and the tilt of his head. Something that, after months of Aalea’s tutelage, she was beginning to recognize.
Want.
“I’m getting my arse kicked in Songs,” she said. “And you’re about as much use in Spiderkiller’s class as a eunuch’s codpiece.” Mia charged on over Tric’s mumbled protest. “So, you catch me up on Solis’s sword forms so Jessamine can’t cut my head off, and I’ll make sure you know enough not to poison yourself before initiation. Fair?”
Tric frowned. She could see Want wrestling with Common Sense now.
“There’s not enough places among the Blades for all of us, Mia. Technically we’re in competition with each other. Why would I help you?”
“Because I said please?”
“… You didn’t say please.”
Mia waved her hand. “A mere technicality.”
Tric smiled and Mia grinned back, hand on hip. Aalea had told her that silence could be the best response to a question, if the person asking already knew the answer. So she remained mute, staring up into those big, pretty eyes and letting Want speak instead. A part of her felt bad to be trying Aalea’s craft out on her friend, but as Tric himself pointed out, he was technically competition. And as Aalea was fond of saying, never carry a blade if you’re not willing to get bloody.
“All right,” Tric finally said. “An hour every eve after lessons. Meet me in the Hall of Songs on the morrow.”
Mia curtseyed. “My thanks, Don Tric.”
Tric offered his hand and she shook it to seal the pact. They hung there for a moment, hands entwined. Her skin prickled as his thumb gently traced the curve of her wrist. Remembering himself, Tric let her go, mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and made his escape. Mia turned to walk in the opposite direction, hiding the small smile on her lips as her shadow began to speak.
“… though i have no face, believe me when i say i am scowling the pants off you right now …”
Mia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Father.”
“… of course, a state of pantslessness seems to be your goal, so perhaps i should stop …”
“Yes, Fatherrrrr.”
“… do not take that tone of voice with me, young lady …”
Mia grinned, aimed a playful kick that passed right through Mister Kindly’s head. The girl and her shadow wandered off toward the dorms, in search of bed and dreams.
A beautiful boy stepped from the dark, following their path with bright blue eyes.
As always, he breathed not a word.
Long hours later, a loud knock dragged Mia from the arms of her books. She slipped her stiletto from her wrist, threw a robe around her shoulders. Creeping forward to the door, she whispered to whoever waited on the other side.
“Ash?”
“Please open the door, Acolyte.”
Mia gripped her knife tighter, twisted the key, and peered out into the darkened hallway. She saw a Hand outside her door, long black robes, hooded features. She thought of Naev, then. Wondered briefly where she was.
“You are summoned by Revered Mother Drusilla,” the Hand said.
“Of course.” Mia bowed. “As she wishes.”
She looked down the hallway, saw other Hands knocking on acolytes’ doors. Ashlinn staggered out into the light, her warbraids fuzzed from the press of the pillow. Beyond the girl, she saw her brother Osrik, his spiked hair jutting off his skull at improbable angles. It looked like everyone was being woken, which meant Mia herself wasn’t specifically in trouble.
Huzzah for small miracles.
“What’s all this about?” Mia whispered as the group plodded after the Hands.
“Your guess is good as mine,” Ash yawned. “Nothing good, I’ll wager.”
“No bet.”
The acolytes traipsed the spiral stairwells, the ghostly choir singing somewhere out in the dark. Arriving in the Hall of Eulogies, Mia nodded her head, touched her brow, eyes, and lips before the statue like the others did. She saw the entire Ministry was assembled; Aalea, looking picture-perfect in a thin burgundy gown, Spiderkiller appearing more dour than usual, clad in jade green, Mouser and Solis alternately smiling and glowering in their dark leathers. Drusilla stood in Niah’s shadow, mouth thin. And beside her, chained to the iron links of the statue itself, Mia saw …