Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,60

ban will be punished severely.”

Mother Drusilla allowed her gaze to linger on each acolyte in turn. Mia wondered what constituted “severe punishment” among a flock of murderous fanatics.

“Now,” Drusilla said. “Proceed to the Hall of Songs and await Shahiid Solis in silence.”

The woman disappeared into the shadows in a swirl of black robes.

Murmurs passed up and down the row of acolytes. The girl with the slave brand was gazing at Tric intently. The olive-skinned boy tugging at the nub of flesh where his ear used to be, looking at the Dweymeri with narrowed eyes. Tric ignored their stares, walking behind the Hands who’d appeared to escort them. After a wearying climb into what might have been the Mountain’s peak, Mia and her fellows found themselves in the Hall of Songs.

She had no idea why the room was called such, though she suspected it had nothing to do with acoustics.1 A circular stained-glass window was set in the ceiling, throwing a bright golden spotlight into the room’s heart. The hall was huge, its edges swallowed by shadows, though Mia caught impressions of those same swirling patterns on the walls. She could smell old blood, sweat, oil and steel. Training dummies and archery targets and fitness apparatus were arranged in neat rows. The floor was black granite, and a circle was carved in the room’s heart, wide enough for forty men to stand abreast. Each acolyte took a place around it and, as instructed, most settled in to await their first lesson in silence.

Ashlinn took a place at Mia’s left and began whispering within ten seconds.

“Ninebells curfew. Can you believe it?”

Mia glanced around the room before replying. “It’s not like there’ll be much to do around here after the light dies anyway.”

The girl grinned. “O, Corvere. You’ve got no idea.”

“So why—”

“You were instructed to wait in silence.”

A deep voice echoed through the Hall of Songs, bouncing off the unseen walls. Mia heard no footsteps, but Shahiid Solis emerged from the shadows behind her, hands clasped behind him. As he brushed past, Mia realized the man was even more imposing up close, all broad shoulders and ghost-white eyes. He wore soft black robes, that same empty scabbard at his waist. And yet he moved with a silent grace, as if listening to a tune only he could hear.

“A Blade of the Mother must be silent as starlight on a sleeping babe’s cheek,” he said, stepping into the circle. “I once hid in the Grand Athenaeum of Elai for seven turns waiting for my offering to show herself, and not even the books knew I was there.”2 He turned to Mia and Ashlinn. “And you girls cannot keep quiet for a handful of heartbeats.”

“Forgiveness, Shahiid,” Ashlinn bowed.

“Three laps of the stair for you, girl. Down and up. Go.”

Ashlinn hovered uncertainly. The Shahiid glared, those sightless eyes seeming to bore right through her skull.

“Six laps, then. The number doubles every time I repeat myself.”

Ashlinn bowed and with another apology, retreated from the hall. Solis turned to Mia, colorless eyes fixed over her shoulder. She noticed he never blinked.

“And you, girl? Do you have something to say?”

Mia remained silent.

“Well?” The Shahiid stepped closer, looming over her. “Answer me!”

Mia kept her gaze to the floor, her voice steady. “Forgiveness, Shahiid, but with all due respect, I believe anything I say will simply be taken as a further breach of the silence you demanded, and you will only punish me further.”

The hulking man’s lips twisted in a small smile. “A clever little slip, neh?”

“If I were clever, I’d not have been caught talking, Shahiid.”

“A pity, then. There’s precious little else about you worthy of note.” Solis pointed to the stairs. “Three laps. Down and up. Go.”

Mia bowed and left the hallway without a word.

Stretching her legs on the landing, she commenced her run, counting the steps in her head.3 She wondered how Solis knew if she looked notable or not—those eyes of his were as blind as a boy in love, she’d bet her life on it—but he acted as if he were as sighted as she. Halfway through the second lap, all musing on the Shahiid had ceased, her focus consumed by running the stair. Reaching the top, her legs were jelly, and she silently thanked her old master again for all the Godsgrave stairs he’d made her run in punishment. She almost wished she’d misbehaved more.

Ashlinn (whom Mia had lapped in the last fifty feet) reached the top drenched in sweat, offering a wink as she