“… 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.
CHAPTER 29
SEVERANCE
She woke in his arms.
Forgetting for a moment where she was and what lay ahead. Tric was still asleep, chest rising and falling slowly. She watched him for a silent moment, thoughts clouded. And leaning in close, she kissed him as if it were the last time.
She stole from the room, still dressed in the clothes she wore the night before. Flitting from shadow to shadow. Listening to the ghostly choir, the waking sounds of the Church around her. Finding herself at last in the Hall of Eulogies, beneath Niah’s statue. Staring up at the face of the Night herself.
“… the boy …”
Mia glanced to the shadow at her feet. The not-eyes inside it.
“What of him?”
“… it cannot happen again, mia …”
She looked back to the goddess, nodded slow.
“I know.”
“… it has no future …”
“I know.”
Her eyes roamed the nameless tombs in the walls. The unmarked graves of the Church’s fallen. She looked to the stone at her feet. Thousands of the Church’s victims beneath the soles of her boots. She still thought it strange; that Niah’s servants should have no name to mark their passing, but those they took from this world were immortalized in the granite for all eternity. She thought about the Truedark Massacre. The dozens dead by her hands. The blinding light. Remus. Duomo. Scaeva.
Her mother.
Her father.
When all is blood, blood is all.
The mornbells began to ring, and still she lingered.
Minutes slipping by unmarked, and still she stared.
The goddess stared back. Mute as always.
“… is everything well …?”
Mia sighed. Nodded slow.
“Everything is perfect.”
The other acolytes were already assembled in the Hall of Songs, rested and fed. Four black-robed Hands stood in the circle’s center, one holding what appeared to be a human skull with the crown sawn off. Shahiid Solis loomed beside them, blind eyes upturned. Mia was one of the last to arrive, her tardiness bested only by Ashlinn, who dashed into the hall with only moments to spare. The Shahiid of Songs turned his pale stare on the girl, lips curling.
“Lovely of you to join us, Acolyte,” he said.
“Lovely to … be here …,” Ash panted.
“Not much longer, I fear.”
Turning to the other acolytes, Solis spoke.
“The Trial of Songs begins. I will explain the rules once only. Listen well.
“The trial begins with eliminations. Each of you will fight five bouts, against five random opponents. Each bout is fought to submission, or mortal blow. Speaker Adonai and Weaver Marielle have graciously agreed to be on hand for festivities.” Solis motioned to two figures standing by the sword racks. “They will mend any wound that renders you incapacitated as swift as they may. You may request their aid at any time during a bout, however, to do so will result in forfeiture. Loss will also result if you leave—or are forced to leave—the circle during a bout.
“At the end of eliminations, the four acolytes who have accrued the most victories shall graduate to the finals. Any loss in the finals results in elimination. Whoever wins the last bout shall graduate top of this hall.”
Solis’s blank gaze roamed the assembled acolytes.
“Questions?”
“There are thirteen of us, Shahiid,” Marcellus said. “How will you work the odd number?”
“Only twelve of you will compete. Acolyte Diamo has opted out of the trial.”
Mia looked across the circle to Diamo, arms folded and smiling right at her. Ashlinn, who looked like she’d gotten about as much sleep as Mia, whispered to her brother beside her.
“I’m leading Pockets by a clear mile, and I’m still competing in Song. Diamo’s not the blademaster Jessamine is, but any chance is better than none at all, surely?”
Osrik shook his head. “Maybe if you weren’t out in Godsgrave ’til all hours, you’d have a ken about what went on inside these halls.”
“Maw’s teeth, Oz, are you going to spit it out, or make me play guess-a-game?”
“Word has it Diamo solved Spiderkiller’s formula this morn.”
Mia felt her stomach lurch sideways.
“Diamo?” Ash hissed. “He’s as handy at venomcraft as a block of wood …”
Osrik shrugged. “I’m only saying what I’ve heard. He visited Spiderkiller before mornmeal. Book of notes in his hand. The Shahiid sealed the hall, but Diamo walked out a while later, right as rain. Went straight to Solis and bowed out of his contest.”
Ash looked to Mia.
“Could they be Lotti’s notes?”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t think Carlotta ever solved the quandary.”
“So where’d you hide your notes, Corvere?”
Mia swallowed hard. Looked to Tric. Then to Spiderkiller, sitting beside the Revered Mother. The pair were deep in conversation, glancing occasionally to Diamo. And Mia.
“… My room,” she said.
“O. Safe as houses then.”
Tric glanced at Mia. “Unless you left your room last night …”
Ashlinn glanced back and forth between them. “O, tell me you didn’t?”
Mia remained mute, watching Diamo. She saw Jessamine’s fuck you smile from the corner of her eye. The gleam in that adder green. Spiderkiller’s glittering stare.
“Maw’s teeth, Corvere,” Ash breathed. “You left your notes alone to go for a roll? Little Tricky can’t be that good …”
Tric looked wounded, opened his mouth to—
“’Byss and blood, pay attention,” Osrik whispered. “They’re about to start.”
Ash turned to Solis and his assistants, clamped her lips shut. The Hand holding the human skull had proffered it to a second, standing beside her. A smooth, black stone with a name inscribed on it had been drawn from the hollowed crown, held aloft to the assembled acolytes.
“Marcellus Domitian.”
The handsome Itreyan boy looked up at the mention of his name. “Aye.”
“Step forward, Acolyte,” Solis commanded.
Marco nodded, stepped into the circle’s center. The boy tilted his head ’til his neck popped, stretched his arms, and touched his toes. The Hand grasped a stone, drew it forth, and read the name.
“Mia Corvere.”
Mia saw Marcellus smile to himself, Diamo and Jessamine share a smug grin. Marco was a skilled swordsman, and he stood a decent chance of placing top four. The boy had thrashed Mia soundly in every sparring match they’d ever had, and everyone in the room knew it.
Mia hovered on the circle’s edge. Solis’s eyebrow slowly rising.
“Acolyte?”
Mia drew a deep breath and walked out into the circle, soundless as cats. Tread steady. Breath even. She took her place in the circle’s center, Solis between her and her opponent. The acolytes stared each other down, Marco’s lips twisted.