Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,49

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.5

“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 gray. 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 realized 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 gray 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 traveled 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 colors, 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