garb as the train trundled nearer to the Mountain, hunkering down in their wagons with blades beneath their robes. The train drew closer to a blank cliff face in the Quiet Mountain’s flank, and Naev rose up in the front wagon, arms spread. She spoke ancient words, humming with power.
Mia heard the sound of stone, cracking and rumbling. Felt the greasy tang of arkemical magik in the air. Bladesinger muttered beneath her breath, Jonnen gasping in wonder as a great flat stretch of stone cracked open. A faint rush of wind kissed Mia’s face, a shower of fine dust and pebbles fell from above as the Mountain’s flank gaped wide.
The familiar sight of the Red Church stables awaited them—a broad straw-lined oblong, set on all sides with pens for sleek horses and spitting camels, wagons and farrier’s tools and bales of feed and great stacks of supply crates. The song of a ghostly choir hung in the air like smoke as Ugly, Stupid, Smelly, Cockeye, Dunghead, Tosser, Bucktooth, and Julius pulled the wagon inside. Hands in black robes walked out to guide the beasts farther in. The illumination spilling through the open door was the only sunslight the belly of the Mountain ever saw.
Mia felt her shadow surge toward the dark beyond.
She squeezed Jonnen’s hand, saw the boy felt the same thrill at the dark as she did. Sidonius was tense as steel in the wagon ahead. Bladesinger still as stone. Mia could hear Ashlinn’s quickened breath at her side. And finally, as a cadre of Hands stepped out of the gloom to help unload the wagon’s wares, Mia and her comrades broke into savage motion.
The crisp ring of blades. The glint of arkemical light on polished steel. Mia heard several soft pops as globes of wyrdglass flew from Naev’s fingertips, catching a knot of Hands in a cloud of Swoon and sending them all to the floor, senseless. The Falcons moved swift, lashing out with pommels or the flats of their blades. Hands and stable staff were sent sprawling, bleeding. Mia
Stepped
from the wagon’s belly
to the stairs above,
cutting off a fleeing Hand
and catching him up in his own shadow before knocking him witless. Brief struggles. A splash of bright red. Within moments, the stables were under their control.
All was in readiness. Each of them knew their task. Eyes hard. Blades sharp. Mia nodded to each in turn. Kissed Ashlinn swift on the lips.
“Be careful, love,” she whispered.
“You too,” Ash replied.
She felt a dark stare on her back. Turned and met Tric’s gaze.
“MOTHER GO WITH YOU, MIA,” he said.
“And you,” she replied.
She looked into her brother’s glittering eyes. Saw the pain and uncertainty in him.
“I’ll give our father your regards,” she said.
And with that, Mia was gone.
Spiderkiller stalked into her Hall, wrapped in emerald green. The gold about her throat glittered in the stained-glass light, reflected in the bottles and phials and jars lining the walls. Her eyes were black, lips and fingers blacker still—stained from a lifetime of the poisoncraft she so adored. There were none in all Itreya who could match her in it. She’d forgotten more about the art of Truth than most would ever know.
The Shahiid sat at her oaken desk at the head of the Hall, pestle in hand, grinding a compound of bluespider venom and driftroot into a stone bowl. She’d been concocting a number of new poisons of late, dreaming of her vengeance against Mia Corvere. Solis’s words in the last Ministry meeting had stung her more than she’d admit. It had been her who granted Mia her favor, allowed the girl to become a Blade. Spiderkiller would never forgive her former pupil for that. And though it couldn’t be said the woman had honor to besmirch, she did have patience. And she knew, sooner or later, Mia would give her the chance to …
The Shahiid blinked. There upon the desk, she saw a shadow, leaking across the polished oak, like ink spilled from a bottle. It puddled beneath a ream of parchment, moving like black smoke and forming itself into letters. Two words that sent Spiderkiller’s heart racing.
Behind you.
A gravebone longblade flashed out of the dark at her back. Spiderkiller’s throat opened, ear to ear. Gasping, blood gushing from severed jugular and carotid, the woman pushed back her chair, staggered to her feet. Whirling on the spot, clutching the awful wound, she saw a girl where none had stood a moment before.
“M-muh,” she gargled.
Mia stepped back swiftly as Spiderkiller drew one of the