Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,66

he’d never outright spoken of it. For his own part, the not-cat seemed content enough to ignore her master, and stayed out of sight when Mercurio was around. Growing up, she’d never really had anyone to speak to about her talents. No tome in Mercurio’s store tackled the topic, and folklore about darkin was contradictory at best, superstitious twaddle at worst.1 She’d simply muddled along with her growing gifts as best she was able. When truedark fell the year she turned eleven, she’d noticed her connection to the shadows felt stronger. And the truedark she’d turned fourteen …

No.

Don’t look.

“… she seems … nice…”

Mister Kindly appeared at the foot of the slab, bringing a smile to Mia’s lips.

“‘Nice’ is one word for it.”

“… i have others less flattering, but there has been enough bloodshed for one turn…”

Mia winced as she flexed her arm, pain lancing into her shoulder. Her anxiety was fading with Mister Kindly back by her side, replaced now with anger. She cursed beneath her breath, knowing this wound would take her out of Songs for weeks. Wishing she’d not been so reckless, or that Shahiid Solis hadn’t so dearly deserved a drubbing, she set about tying a sling about her neck.

“… you should sleep. you may need your strength tomorrow…”

Mia sucked her lip. Nodded. Mister Kindly was right. Mercurio had been close-lipped about what to expect from within the Church. He’d prepared her as best he could, but she got the impression there was only so much he could reveal before he betrayed the congregation’s trust. With the Luminatii vowing to eradicate the Church if it could, secrecy was the watchword beyond these walls. She’d no idea how Church disciples moved from city to city, how the local chapels were run, even what the internal hierarchy was. Solis was Master of Songs, which meant he taught the art of the sword. She supposed the Shahiid of Pockets would teach thievery? Trickstering? But as for the Shahiid of Truths and Masks, Mia had no real idea what to expect from their tutelage.

“I am tired,” she sighed, rubbing her temples.

“… sleep then…”

“Right. You coming?”

“… always…”

The girl slipped her wounded arm into her sling, the not-cat slipped into her shadow, and the pair of them slipped from the room.

Tric was waiting outside her bedchamber when she arrived, crouched with his back to the wall. He rose swiftly when he saw Mia approach, relief in his eyes.

“Thank Our Lady,” he breathed. “You’re all right.”

Mia shifted her arm, wincing. “A little bruised, but in one piece.”

“That bastard Solis,” Tric hissed. “I wanted to gut him for what he did. Gave it a roll, but he knocked me flat on my arse and kicked me senseless.”

Mia looked over the new bruises on Tric’s face, shook her head. “My brave centurion. Riding in on his charger to save his poor damsel? Hold me, brave sir, I fear I shall swoon.”

“Sod off,” Tric scowled. “He hurt you.”

“The Revered Mother said he does it all the time. Sets the tone in his classes on the first smart-arse stupid enough to raise her head.”

“Enter Mia Corvere, stage left,” Tric grinned.

Mia bowed low. “I suppose Solis can afford to be brutal with Weaver Marielle about.”

“She really mended the wound with her bare hands?”

Mia pulled her elbow out of the sling, gingerly lifted her shirtsleeve. Tric slowly turned her arm this way and that, those big, callused hands impossibly gentle. Mia pulled her sleeve down before the goosebumps began to show.

“See? Just a bruise or two to mark the occasion of my first dismemberment.”

Tric scratched at his saltlocks, looking abashed. “I was … worried about you.”

She stared up at the boy, those awful tattoos and hazel eyes. Wondering what was going on behind them.

“I don’t need you worrying about me, Tric. This place has danger enough to kill us both. If you let yourself fret on me, you’ll miss the knife aimed at you.”

“I’m not fretting,” the boy scowled. “I’ve just … got your back, is all.”

She found herself smiling. A grateful warmth inside her belly. What she’d said was true—this mountain wasn’t a sewing circle. The dangers within these halls might end them both. Still, it was comforting to know someone was looking out for her, that she’d something to put her back against. And for the first time in her life, it wasn’t made of shadows.

“Well … my thanks, Don Tric.” She gave a smiling curtsey, the uncomfortable silence banished by the boy’s chuckle.

“You hungry?”

“… Starved,” she realized.

“Perhaps