Jay Kristoff - Nevernight

A familiar figure stepped onto the dais around the statue’s base. Handsome face and old eyes – the man who’d met Mia and Tric outside the Mountain. He was robed in grey, his blacksteel sword the only embellishment. He took his place, faced the acolytes, and with a grin that could easily make off with the silverware and the candelabras, too, he spoke.

‘Twenty-six.’

Mia heard more footsteps, and the Hands spoke again.

‘ Spiderkiller, Shahiid of Truths, pray for us. ’

A Dweymeri woman stalked from the gloom, tall and stately, her back as straight as the pillars around them. Long hair in neat, knotted locks, streaming down her back like rope. Her skin was dark like all her people, but she wore no facial tattoos. She seemed a moving statue, carved of mahogany. Clasped hands were stained with what might have been ink. Her lips were painted black. A collection of glass phials hung at her belt beside three curved daggers.

She took her place on the dais, spoke with a strong, proud voice.

‘Twenty-nine.’

Mia watched on in silence, gnawing at her lip. And though Mercurio had schooled Mia well in the subtle art of patience, curiosity finally got the best of her. fn5

‘What are they doing?’ Mia whispered to Naev. ‘What do the numbers mean?’

‘Their tally for the goddess. The number of offerings they have wrought in her name.’

‘ Solis, Shahiid of Songs, pray for us. ’

Mia watched a man stride from the shadows, also clad in grey. He was a huge lump of a thing, biceps big as her thighs. His head was shaved to stubble, so blond it was almost white, scalp lined with scars. His beard was set in four spikes at his chin. He wore a sword belt, but his scabbard was empty. As he took his place, Mia looked into his eyes and realised he was blind.

‘Thirty-six,’ he said.

Thirty-six murders? At the hands of a blind man?

‘ Aalea, Shahiid of Masks, pray for us. ’

Another woman padded into the soft light, swaying as she came, all curves and alabaster skin. Mia found her jaw agape – the newcomer was easily the most beautiful woman she’d laid eyes on. Thick black hair cascading to her waist, dark eyes smeared with kohl, lips painted bloody red. She was unarmed. Apparently.

‘Thirty-nine,’ she said, with a voice like sweet smoke.

‘ Revered Mother Drusilla, pray for us. ’

A woman slipped out of the darkness, soundless as cot death. She was elderly, curling grey hair bound in braids. An obsidian key hung about her throat on a silver chain. She seemed a kindly old thing, eyes twinkling as she looked over the group. Mia would’ve expected to find her in a rocking chair beside a happy hearth, grandchildren on her knee and a cup of tea by her elbow. This couldn’t be the chief minister of the deadliest band of—

‘Eighty-three,’ the old woman said, taking her place on the dais.

Maw take me, eighty-three …

The Revered Mother looked over the group, a gentle smile on her lips.

‘I bid you welcome to the Red Church, children,’ she said. ‘You have travelled miles and years to be here. You have miles and years to go. But at journey’s end, you will be Blades, wielded for the glory of the goddess in the most sacred of sacraments.

‘Those who survive, of course.’

The old woman gestured to the four figures around her.

‘Heed the words of your Shahiid. Know that everything you were prior to this moment is dead. That once you pledge yourself to the Maw, you are hers and hers alone.’ A robed figure with a silver bowl stepped up beside the Revered Mother, and she beckoned Mia. ‘Bring forth your tithe. The remnants of a killer, killed in turn and offered to Our Lady of Blessed Murder in this, the hour of your baptism.’

Mia stepped forward, purse in hand. Her stomach was turning flips, but her hands were steady as stone. She took her place before the old woman and her gentle smile, looked deep into pale blue eyes. Felt herself being weighed. Wondered if she’d been found wanting.

‘My tithe,’ she managed to say. ‘For the Maw.’

‘I accept it in her name with her thanks upon my lips.’

Mia sighed as she heard the response, almost falling to her knees as the Revered Mother embraced her, kissed one cheek after another with ice-cold lips. She squeezed Mia tight as the girl breathed deep, blinking back hot tears. And turning to the silver bowl, the old woman dipped one stick-thin hand inside and drew it back, dripping red.

Blood.

‘Speak your name.’

‘Mia Corvere.’

‘Do you vow to serve the Mother of Night? Will you learn death in all its colours, bring it to the deserving and undeserving in her name? Will you become an Acolyte of Niah, and an earthly instrument of the dark between the stars?’

Mia found herself struggling to inhale.

The deep breath before the plunge.

‘I will.’

The Revered Mother pressed her palm to Mia’s cheek, smearing the blood down her skin. It was still warm, the scent of salt and copper filling the girl’s lungs. The old woman marked one cheek, then the other, finally smudging a long streak down Mia’s lips and chin. The girl felt the gravity of that moment in her bones, dragging her belly to her boots. The Mother nodded and Mia backed away, hugging herself, licking the blood from her lips, near weeping, laughing. One step closer to avenging her familia. One step closer to standing on Scaeva’s tomb.

She was here, she realised.

I’m here.

The ritual was repeated, each acolyte bringing forth their tithes one by one. Some brought teeth, others eyes – the tall boy with the sledgehammer hands brought a rotting heart, wrapped in black velvet. Mia realised there wasn’t a single one of them who wasn’t a murderer. That of all the rooms in the Republic there was probably none more dangerous than the one she stood in, right at that moment. fn6

‘Your studies begin on the morrow,’ the Revered Mother said. ‘Evemeal will be served in the Sky Altar in a half-hour.’ She indicated the row of robed figures. ‘Hands will be available should you need guidance, and I would suggest you avail yourselves until you find your bearings. The Mountain can be difficult to navigate at first, and getting lost within these halls can have … unfortunate consequences.’ Blue eyes glittered in the dark. ‘Walk softly. Learn well. May Our Lady be late when she finds you. And when she does, may she greet you with a kiss.’

The old woman bowed, stepped back into the gloom. The other Ministry members left one by one. Tric wandered over to Mia, greeted her with a smile, his cheeks red with blood. He’d been bathed and scrubbed, and even his saltlocks looked a little less sentient.

‘You shaved,’ she smirked.

‘Don’t get used to it. Happens twice a year.’ He squinted at Naev, recognition slowly widening in his eyes. ‘How in the name of the Lady …’

‘We meet again.’ The thin woman bowed low. ‘Naev gives thanks for his assistance in the deep desert. The debt shall not be forgot.’

‘How are you still walking and breathing?’

‘Secrets within secrets in this place,’ Mia said.

‘Corvere?’ said a soft voice behind her.

Mia turned to the speaker. It was the girl she’d noted; the pretty one with a jagged red bob and green, hunter’s eyes. She was studying Mia intently, head tilted. The tall Itreyan boy with sledgehammer hands loomed beside her like an angry shadow.

‘In the ceremony,’ the girl said. ‘You said your name was Corvere?’

‘Aye,’ Mia said.

‘Are you by chance related to Darius Corvere? The former justicus?’

Mia weighed up the girl in her mind. Fit. Fast. Hard as wood. But whoever she was, Mia was certain Scaeva and his cronies would have no allies within these walls; Remus and his Luminatii had vowed to do away with the Red Church since the Truedark Massacre, after all. Even so, Mercurio had urged Mia to leave her name behind when she crossed this threshold. It was one of the few things they’d argued about. Stupid perhaps. But her father’s death was the whole reason she’d begun walking this road. The name Corvere had been erased from the histories by Scaeva and his lackeys – she’d not leave it behind in the dust, no matter what it cost her.