Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,114

stone.

An empty tomb.

Mia never heard his name mentioned again.

As the choir sang and the Revered Mother spoke words of supplication to the stone goddess overhead, Mia tried to find it in herself to feel bad. To wonder who this boy was, and why this was where he died. But looking among the other acolytes, cold eyes and thin lips, she knew what each of them was thinking.

Better him than me.

Weeks wore on, Great Tithe unmarked, no more thanks given. The masquerade seemed to have beaten the last breath of levity from within the walls. The weaver continued her work, sculpting the others into works of art, but gone were the smiles and winks, the flirting and touches. If never before, they all knew this was no longer a game.

The turn after Diamo had undergone his weaving, Mia noticed Tric had missed Pockets. After a painstaking lesson from Mouser on the art of powdertraps and the avoidance thereof, she’d climbed a twisting stair and found the Dweymeri boy in the Hall of Songs. Shirt off. Gleaming with sweat. A pair of wooden swords in hand, pounding a training dummy so hard the varnish was practically screaming.

“Tric. You missed Mouser’s lesson.”

The boy ignored her. Great sweeping strikes smashing against the wooden figure, the crack, crack, crack echoing in the empty hall. His naked torso gleamed, his saltlocks hung damp about his face. Half a dozen broken training swords lay on the ground beside him. He must have been up here all turn …

“Tric?”

Mia touched his arm, pulled him to a halt. He rounded on her, almost snarling, tore his arm from her grip. “Don’t touch me.”

The girl blinked, taken aback by the rage in his eyes. Remembering those same eyes watching her as they danced, his fingers entwined with hers …

“Are you all right?”

“… Aye.” Tric wiped his eyes, breathed deep. “Sorry. Let’s be about it.”

The pair formed up in the sparring circle beneath the hall’s golden light. Wooden swords in hand, they began by working on Mia’s Caravaggio.1 But after only a handful of minutes, it became apparent Tric was in no mood for teaching. He growled like a hungover wolf when Mia made a mistake, shouted when she misstepped, and ended up cracking his sword across her forearm so hard he split the skin.

“Black Mother!” Mia clutched her wrist. “That bloody hurt!”

“It’s not supposed to tickle,” Tric replied. “You drop your guard like that against Jessamine, she’ll take your throat out.”

“Look, if you want to spill whatever you’re pissed about, I’ll listen. But if you’re looking for something to take it out on, I’ll leave you with the training dummies.”

“I’m not pissed about anything, Mia.”

“O, really.” She held up her bloody wrist.

“You asked me to teach you, I’m teaching you.”

Mia sighed. “This stoic facade bullshit is getting burdensome, Don Tric.”

“Fuck you, Mia!” he bellowed, hurling his swords. “I said nothing’s the matter!”

Mia stopped short as the blades clattered across the training circle. Searching Tric’s eyes. The dreadful ink scrawled over his skin. The scars beneath. She realized he was the only acolyte who’d yet to undergo the weaver’s touch.

“Listen,” she sighed. “I might not be the sharpest when it comes to cutting through other folks’ problems. And I don’t want to pry. But if you want to spill your guts about it, here I am.”

Tric scowled, staring into space. Mia played the waiting gambit again, letting the silence do the asking for her. After an age of sullen quiet, Tric finally spoke.

“They’re going to take it away,” he said.

“… I don’t understand.”

“Nor do you need to.”

“I might not need to.” Mia set aside her sword. “But still, I’d like to.”

Tric sighed. Mia sat down cross-legged, patted the stone beside her. Sullen and damn near pouting, the boy knelt where he was, planted himself on the floor. Mia shuffled closer, just near enough for him to know she was there. Long minutes passed, the pair of them sitting mute. Utterly silent in the hall named for its song.

It struck her as stupid. Here, more than anywhere. This was a school for fledgling killers. Acolytes were dropping like flies. Tric might be dead by the morrow. And here she was, trying to get him to open up about his feelings …

Black Mother, it’s worse than stupid. It’s ridiculous.

But maybe that was the point? Maybe it was like Naev had said. In the face of all this callousness, maybe she needed to hold on to the things that mattered? And looking at this