Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,54

god-fearing daughter of Aa before all that. But it wasn’t until she looked over that balcony that she embraced the probability of it, or began to truly understand where she was.

She and Tric were led up another of the Church’s (seemingly endless) flights of stairs by Naev and other robed figures. All twenty-eight acolytes had decided to take supper, quiet conversations marking their climb, the mix of accents reminding Mia of the Little Liis market. But all conversation stilled as the group reached the landing. Mia caught her breath, pressed one hand to her chest. Naev whispered in her ear.

“Welcome to the Sky Altar.”

The platform was carved in the Mountain’s side, open to the air above. Tables were laid out in a T, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread kissing the air. And though her stomach growled at the presence of food, Mia’s thoughts were consumed entirely by the sight before her.

The platform protruded from the Mountain’s flank, a thousand-foot drop waiting just beyond the ironwood railing. She could see the Whisperwastes below, tiny and perfect and still. But above, where the sky should have burned with the light of stubborn suns, she could see only darkness, black and whole and perfect.

Filled with tiny stars.

“What in the name of the Light…” she breathed.

“Not the Light,” Naev slurred. “The Dark.”

“How can this be? Truedark won’t fall for at least another year.”

“It is always truedark here.”

“But that’s impossible…”

“Only if here is where she supposes it to be.” The woman shrugged. “It is not.”

The acolytes were shown to their places, gawping at the black above. Though it should have been howling at this altitude, not a breath of wind disturbed the scene. Not a noise, save hushed voices and Mia’s own rushing pulse.

She found herself seated with Tric on her right, the slight boy with the ice-blue eyes on her left. Seated opposite was the pair Mia had guessed were brother and sister. The girl had blond hair plaited in tight warbraids, shaved in an undercut. Her face was pretty and dimpled, smattered with freckles. Her brother possessed the same round face, though he didn’t smile, so no dimples made appearance. His hair was a crop of snarled spikes. Both had eyes blue as empty skies. Their cheeks were still crusted with blood from the baptism ceremony.

Mia had already received one death threat since she arrived. She wondered if every acolyte in this year’s crop would be an opponent or outright enemy.

The blond girl pointed to Mia’s cheeks with her knife. “You’ve got something on your face.”

“You too,” Mia nodded. “Good color on you, though. Brings out your eyes.”

The girl snorted, grinned lopsided.

“Well,” Mia said. “Shall we introduce ourselves, or just glare the whole meal?”

“I’m Ashlinn Järnheim,” the girl replied. “Ash for short. This is my brother, Osrik.”

“Mia Corvere. This is Tric,” Mia said, nodding at her friend.

For his own part, Tric was glaring down the table at the other Dweymeri. The bigger boy had the same square jaw and flat brow as Tric, but he was taller, broader, and where Tric’s tattoos were scrawled and artless, the bigger boy’s face was marked in ink of exquisite craftsmanship. He was watching Tric the way a whitedrake watches a seal pup.

“Hello, Tric,” said Ashlinn, offering her hand.

The boy shook it without looking at her. “Pleasure.”

Ashlinn, Osrik and Mia all looked expectantly at the pale boy on Mia’s left. For his part, the boy was gazing up at the night sky. His lips were pursed, as if he were sucking his teeth. Mia realized he was handsome—well, “beautiful” was probably a better word—with high cheekbones and the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen. But thin. Far too thin.

“I’m Mia,” she said, offering her hand.

The boy blinked, turned his gaze to the girl. Lifting a piece of charboard from his lap, he wrote on it with a stick of chalk and held it up for Mia to see.

HUSH, it said.

Mia blinked. “That’s your name?”

The beautiful boy nodded, turned his stare back to the sky without a sound. He didn’t make a peep throughout the entire meal.

Ashlinn, Osrik and Mia spoke as food was served—chicken broth and mutton in lemon butter, roast vegetables and a delicious Itreyan red. Ashlinn handled most of the conversational duties, while Osrik seemed more intent on watching the room. The siblings were sixteen and seventeen (Osrik the elder) and had arrived five turns prior. Their mentor (and father, it turned out) had been far more forthcoming about finding the