Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,57

alley, I will see to it that you remain boys for the rest of your lives. Is that understood?”

Mia watched these two towering lumps shrink, staring at their feet. And when they spoke in unison, like toddlers before a scolding parent, it was all either could do to muster a squeak.

“Yes, Revered Mother,” they said.

“Good.” The motherly smile returned as if it had never left, and Drusilla looked about the acolytes with kindly eyes. “I think supper is done for the evening. Go to your bedchambers, all of you. Lessons begin tomorrow.”

The group broke apart slowly, drifting down the stairs. As Mia went to Tric’s side and peered at the bloody cut above his brow, she caught Jessamine watching her, lips twisted in a smirk. Floodcaller limped away, still glaring daggers. Ashlinn nodded farewell to Mia as she tromped down the stairs. Mia found herself staring one last time at the place Lord Cassius had sat.

Right Hand of the Mother herself …

She kept silent all the way back to the bedchambers, growing angrier and angrier. Why had Tric snapped so easily? Where had the quiet boy who’d endured the taunts of the Old Imperial’s common room disappeared to? He’d lost his temper in front of the lord of the entire congregation. On his first eve here. His outburst could’ve got him killed. This wasn’t a place that forgave mistakes.

She finally lost her temper just outside her door.

“Have you lost your mind?” Mia hissed, loud as she dared. “What was that?”

“How’s the ribs, Tric?” he asked. “I couldn’t help but notice you getting the stuffing kicked out of you. O, I’m fine, Pale Daughter, my thanks for—”

“What did you expect? This is our first turn inside these walls and you’ve already pissed off Shahiid Solis and probably the most feared assassin in the Itreyan Republic. And let’s not forget the fellow acolyte set to murder you.”

“He called me koffi, Mia. He’s lucky I didn’t cave his head in.”

“What’s koffi?”

“Never mind.” He dragged his arm from her grip. “Forget it.”

“Tric—”

“I’m tired. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

The boy stalked off, leaving Mia alone with Naev. The woman watched her with dark, careful eyes, hovering like a moth about a black flame. Mia’s brow was creased, staring at the half-finished puzzle before her.

“… You don’t happen to speak Dweymeri, do you?” she asked.

“No. Although Naev is certain there are tomes of translation in the athenaeum.”

Mia chewed her lip. Pictured her bed, with its mountains of pillows and soft fur.

“Is it open this late?”

“The library is always open here. But to attend without invitation—”

“Could you take me there? Please?”

The woman’s dark eyes gleamed. “As she wishes.”

Stairs and arches. Arches and stairs. Mia and Naev walked for what seemed plodding miles, with naught but dark stone for company. The girl began to regret not heading to bed—the journey from Last Hope was beginning to catch up, and she was fading fast. She lost her bearings several times—the corridors and stairs all looked the same, and she began to feel hopelessly disoriented.

“How do you not get lost in here?” she asked.

The woman traced the spiral patterns carved into the walls. “Naev reads.”

Mia touched the chill stone. “These are words?”

“More. They are a poem. A song.”

“About what?”

“Finding the way in the dark.”

“Finding the library is good enough. My eyeballs are about to go to bed without me.”

“A good thing, then. Here we are.”

A set of double doors loomed at the end of the passageway. The wood was dark, carved with that same scrolling motif marking the walls. Mia noted there were no handles, that the doors must have weighed a ton apiece. And yet, Naev pushed them open with a gentle hand, the hinges making barely a whisper as they opened wide.

Mia stepped inside, and for the third time that turn, felt her lungs bid her breath farewell. She stood on a mezzanine overlooking a dark wood—a forest of ornate shelves, laid out like a garden maze. And on each shelf stood books. Piles of books. Mountains of books. Oceans and oceans of books. Books of stained vellum and fresh parchment. Books bound in leather and wood and leaves, locked books and dusty books, books as thick as her waist and as tiny as her fist. Mia’s eyes were alight, fingernails denting the wooden railing.

“Naev, don’t let me down there,” she breathed.

“Why not?”

“You’ll never see me again…”

“Truer words never spoken,” said a rasping voice. “Depending what aisle you picked.”

Mia turned to the voice’s owner, saw a wizened