Jay Kristoff - Nevernight

Murder gleamed in the Dona’s eyes. She glanced at the loitering servants.

‘Leave us.’

The girls scuttled from the room. Glancing at the Luminatii, Dona Corvere aimed a pointed stare at the consul. It seemed to Mia the man wavered in his certainty, yet finally, he nodded to the wolfish one.

‘Await me outside, Justicus.’

The hulking Luminatii glanced at her mother. Down to the girl. Hands large enough to envelop her entire head twitched. The girl stared back.

Never flinch. Never fear.

‘Luminus Invicta, Consul.’ Remus nodded to his men, and amid the synchronised tromp tromp of heavy boots, the room found itself emptied of all but three people. fn2

The Dona Corvere’s voice was a fresh-sharpened knife into overripe fruit.

‘What do you want, Julius?’

‘You know it full well, Alinne. I want what is mine.’

‘You have what is yours. Your hollow victory. Your precious Republic. I trust it keeps you warm at night.’

Consul Julius looked down at Mia, his smile dark as bruises. ‘Would you like to know what keeps me warm at night, little one?’

‘Do not look at her. Do not speak to—’

His slap whipped her head to one side, dark hair flowing like tattered ribbons. And before Mia could blink, her mother had drawn a long, gravebone blade from her sleeve, its hilt crafted like a crow with red amber eyes. Quick as silver, she pressed it to the consul’s throat, his handprint on her face twisting as she snarled.

‘Touch me again and I’ll cut your fucking throat, whoreson.’

Scaeva didn’t flinch.

‘You can drag the girl from the gutter, but never the gutter from the girl.’ He smiled with perfect teeth, glanced at Mia. ‘But you know the price your loved ones would pay if you pressed that blade any deeper. Your political allies have abandoned you. Romero. Juliannus. Gracius. Even Florenti himself has fled Godsgrave. You are alone, my beauty.’

‘I am not your—’

Scaeva slapped the stiletto away, sent it skittering across the floor to the shadow beneath the curtain. Stepping closer, his eyes narrowed.

‘You should envy your dear Darius, Alinne. I showed him a mercy. There will be no hangman’s gift for you. Just an oubliette in the Philosopher’s Stone, and dark a lifetime long. And as you go blind in the black, sweet Mother Time will lay claim your beauty, and your will, and your thin conviction you were anything more than Liisian shit wrapped in Itreyan silk.’

Their lips were so close they almost touched. Eyes searching hers.

‘But I will spare your family, Alinne. I will spare them if you plead me for it.’

‘She’s ten years old, Julius. You wouldn’t—’

‘Would I not? Know me so well, do you?’

Mia looked up at her mother. Tears welling in her eyes.

‘What is it you told me, Alinne? “Neh diis lus’a, lus diis’a”?’

‘… Mother?’ Mia said.

‘One word and your daughter will be safe. I swear it.’

‘Mother?’

‘Julius …’

‘Yes?’

‘I …’

There is a breed of arachnid in Vaan known as the wellspring spider.

The females are black as truedark, and possessed of the most astonishing maternal instinct in the animal republic. Once impregnated, a female builds a larder, stocks it with corpses, then seals herself inside. If the nest is set ablaze, she’ll burn to death rather than abandon it. If beset by a predator, she’ll die defending her clutch. But so fierce is her refusal to leave her young, once her eggs are laid, she won’t move, even to hunt. And herein lies the wellspring’s claim to the title of fiercest mother in the Republic. For once she’s devoured all the stores within her larder, the female begins devouring herself.

One leg at a time.

Plucking her limbs from her thorax. Eating only enough to sustain her vigil. Ripping and chewing until only one leg remains, clinging to the silken treasure trove swelling beneath her. And when her babies hatch, spilling from the strands she so lovingly wrapped them inside, they partake, there and then, of their very first meal.

The mother who bore them.

I tell you now, gentlefriend, and I vow it true, the fiercest wellspring spider in all the Republic had nothing – I say nothing – on Alinne Corvere.

There in that O, so tiny room, Mia felt her mother’s fists clench.

Pride tightening her jaw.

Agony brightening her eyes.

‘Please,’ the Dona finally hissed, as if the very word burned her. ‘Spare her, Julius.’

A victorious smile, bright as all three suns. The beautiful consul backed away, black eyes never leaving her mother’s. He called as he reached the doorway, robes flowing about him like smoke. And without a word, the Luminatii marched back into the room. The wolfish one tore Mia from her mother’s skirts. Captain Puddles mreowled protest. Mia clutched the tom tightly, tears burning her eyes.

‘Stop it! Don’t touch my mother!’

‘Dona Corvere, I bind you by book and chain for crimes of conspiracy and treason against the Itreyan Republic. You will accompany us to the Philosopher’s Stone.’

Irons were slapped around the dona’s wrists, screwed tight enough to make her wince. The wolfish one turned to the consul, glanced at Mia with a question in his eyes.

‘The children?’

The consul glanced to little Jonnen, still wrapped in his swaddling on the bed.

‘The babe is still at the breast. He can accompany his mother to the Stone.’

‘And the girl?’

‘You promised, Julius!’ Dona Corvere struggled in the Luminatii’s grip. ‘You swore!’

Scaeva acted as if the woman had never spoken. He looked down at Mia, sobbing at the foot of the bed, Captain Puddles clutched to her thin chest.

‘Did your mother ever teach you to swim, little one?’

T relene’s Beau spat Mia onto a miserable pier, jutting from the nethers of a ruined port known as Last Hope. Buildings littered the ocean’s edge like a prizefighter’s teeth, a stone garrison tower and outlying farms completed the oil painting. The populace consisted of fishermen, farmers, a particularly foolish brand of fortune hunter who earned a living raiding old Ashkahi ruins, and a slightly more intelligent variant who made their coin looting the corpses of colleagues.

As she stepped onto the jetty, Mia saw three bent fishermen lurking around a rod and a bottle of green ginger wine. The men looked at her the way maggots eye rotten meat. The girl stared at each in turn, waiting to see if any would offer to dance. fn3

Wolfeater clomped down the gangplank, several crew in tow. The captain noted the hungry stares fixed on the girl – sixteen years old, alone, armed only with a pig-sticker. Propping one boot on a jetty stump, the big Dweymeri lit his pipe, wiped sweat from tattooed cheeks.

‘It’s the smallest spiders that have the darkest poison, lads,’ he warned the fishermen.

Wolfeater’s word seemed to carry some weight among the scoundrels, as they turned back to the water, slurping and bubbling against the jetty’s legs.

Mildly disappointed, the girl offered the captain her hand.

‘My thanks for your hospitality, sir.’

Wolfeater stared at her outstretched fingers, exhaled a lungful of pale grey.

‘Few enough reasons folk come to old Ashkah, lass. Fewer still a girl like you would brave parts this grim. And I’ve no wish to cause offence. But I’ll not touch your hand.’