Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,170

never overextending and leaving himself open to her rapier.

His scimitar whistled in the air, bright notes ringing across the hall as their blows met. Mia locked up his sword, blades intertwined, leaning in close as he pressed down on her with all his strength. Sweating. Red-faced. Grinning.

“You seem angry, Don Tric.”

“Fuck you, Mia.”

“Later, lover.”

The girl lashed out with her knee, several acolytes hooting as it connected with Tric’s groin. The boy doubled up as Mia slipped aside, spinning away and back out into the center of the ring. Tric regained his footing, whirled to face her, saltlocks flying. One hand still pressed to his injured jewels.

“I can kiss those better, if you like?” Mia called.

Tric bellowed in rage, charged across the circle. Pure fury now. The feel of her in his arms forgotten. Mia danced backward, sliced the boy’s forearm. Another strike pierced his tunic, opened up a bleeding gash in his belly. Mia grinned all the while, watching Tric get angrier and angrier. The acolytes around them reveling in the show. Revered Mother Drusilla watching intently, the weaver, even the speaker on the edge of their seats. Solis’s head was tilted as he listened. Jaw set. Fists clenched.

Mia knocked Tric’s scimitar aside with a swift backhand strike, sent it spinning across the floor. She ducked low as Tric lunged with his buckler, stepped aside as he struck again. And dropping down into a split at his feet, Mia buried her rapier in his belly.

The acolytes gasped. Ash cheered in delight.

Mia looked up at Tric’s pain-filled stare.

Eyes locked with his.

Smiling.

“Koffi,” she whispered.

Tric’s face paled. He grit his teeth, narrowed that pretty hazel stare. Reached out to Mia’s hand and seized it tight, crushing her fingers against her rapier hilt. And white-knuckled, face twisted, blood spilling from his mouth, the Dweymeri boy pulled himself further onto her blade. Dragging Mia up off the floor until her sword’s cross guard was pressed against his bleeding gut.

He drew back his buckler. Smashed it into Mia’s face. The girl reeled away, blood spilling from split lips. She caught her footing, lashed out, burying her stiletto in Tric’s chest. But the boy didn’t flinch, pummeling Mia’s face again, stars bursting in her sight as the shield met her cheek, head lolling on her neck as darkness gathered behind her eyes. A blow to her chest sent her to the floor, fingernails clawing the stone as she tried to rise. A boot met her ribs. Another. Another. Looking up through a haze of red as Tric slid her rapier out from his belly, raising the blade in a two-handed grip and preparing to plunge it into her chest.

“Yield,” Mia whispered.

All the world fell still.

“I yield,” she said again, flopping back onto the stone.

Tric’s chest was heaving. Grip quavering. Eyes locked on Mia’s.

The girl smiled with bloody lips.

And she winked.

“Point!” Solis bellowed. “Match to Acolyte Tric!”

The boy hung a moment longer. Rage still burning in that smooth hazel stare. Mia wondered just how much of him wanted her dead at that moment. But finally, he lowered the steel. Tossed it aside and sank to his knees, coughing blood, hand pressed to the new holes she’d gifted him. The acolytes were on their feet, cheering, bloodlust shining in their eyes.

The weaver and speaker strode into the ring, set to healing the hurts Mia and Tric had inflicted on the other with their steel.

But what about their words?

Looking into Tric’s eyes, the girl realized she didn’t know the answer.

The acolytes were given the rest of the turn to themselves. With her wounds mended by the weaver, but her jaw still aching, Mia found herself back in her room, hands on hips.

Diamo and Jessamine had done a good job of covering their tracks; there were only a few signs anyone had been in her chambers. But as she’d suspected, her notes were gone from the hiding spot beneath her desk, no doubt stolen somewhere in the early morn while she’d been in Tric’s bed. Five hours, she’d calculated, give or take, from the time Diamo took Spiderkiller’s poison to the moment of his ending. His sweat had been the real giveaway, but still, her timing had been close to perfect.

“… feeling pleased with yourself…?”

Mister Kindly peered at her from atop the cupboard.

“I am, rather.”

“… jessamine will most definitely try to kill you now…”

“Operative word being ‘try.’”

“… and despite your sky altar theatrics, you still haven’t solved spiderkiller’s quandary…”

“I’m almost there.”

“… diamo stole your notes…”

“I remember most of it. I’m close,