Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,75

I have ever known, and the Lord of Blades keeps his counsel to himself.”

Mia nodded thanks, made her way out of the Hall of Pockets. Her tread was still unsteady. Hands yet shaking. She stopped outside the double doors, eyes closed, listening to that ghostly choir singing in the gloom. The dark behind her eyelids still swum with three burning circles, her mind still swimming with the knowledge that she’d somehow earned the hatred of a god. She had no idea how. Or why. But whatever the reasons, no one in this Church seemed to have any real answers.

Maybe …

She headed off into the dark, still queasy, the burning circles in her eyes slowly fading. Thinking perhaps there might be one within these halls who had the answers she needed. But when she arrived at the athenaeum’s towering doors, she found them firmly closed. She knocked, called loudly for the chronicler. Met only with silence.

Sighing, Mia slumped back against the doors. Fishing a thin silver box out of her sling, she lit a cigarillo. Breathed gray.

Three suns burning behind her eyes.

Questions ever burning in her mind.

But if she were to find the truth of herself, it seemed she’d have to find it alone.

The shadow stirred at her feet. A soft voice whispered in the dark.

“… never alone…”

1. Purple has been the color of prestige in the Republic since the time of the revolution, in which Itreya’s last king, Francisco XV, was overthrown.

Purple dye is made from the crushed petals of a bloom that grows only on the mountainous border between Itreya and Vaan. Almost impossible to cultivate, the flower was named Liberis—“Freedom” in old Itreyan. The Republicans who murdered Francisco adopted it as the symbol of their cause, pinning a bloom to their breasts at court gatherings to indicate their allegiance to the conspiracy.

Whether this is simple romantic fancy is up for debate, but the fact remains that only senators are now permitted to don the color in public. Any pleb caught in purple is likely to suffer the same fate as poor Francisco XV—which is to say, find themselves brutally murdered in front of their entire family.

What actually constitutes the color purple is somewhat open to interpretation, of course. Lilac might be forgivable, for example, if the sitting magistrate was in a generous mood. Periwinkle could be argued to be more blue than purple, and likewise violet, but amethyst would almost certainly be pushing the friendship.

Mauve, of course, is right out.

CHAPTER 14

MASKS

“Hall of Mirrors, more like it,” Mia muttered.

A turn had passed since the incident in Mouser’s hall. She’d shushed away Tric and Ashlinn’s concerns with some feeble talk about a bad piece of herring at mornmeal, and after some dubious stares, the pair had let the matter drop. The rest of the flock had another lesson scheduled in the Hall of Songs, but with Mia’s arm still black and blue, she’d instead been escorted by Naev to her first lesson in the infamous Hall of Masks.

Stairs and halls. Choirs and windows and shadows.

Now the hall stretched out before her, embroidered with faint perfume. Scarlet on every surface. Long red drapes swayed like dancers in a hidden wind. Stained glass, glittering crimson. Statuary carved of rare red marble was arranged in neat rows; the figures were naked and beautiful, but strangely, each one was missing its head. Stranger still, there wasn’t a single mask in sight. Instead, everywhere Mia looked, she saw mirrors. Glass and polished silver, gilt and wood and crystal frames. A hundred reflections staring back at her. Crooked fringe. Pale skin. Hollows around her eyes.

Inescapable.

Naev retreated from the room. The double doors closed silently behind her.

“You’re early, my love.”

Mia searched for the voice among the reflections. It was smoke-tinged. Musical. She glimpsed movement; pale curves being covered by a wine-red robe. And emerging from between curtains of sheer scarlet silk, she saw Aalea, Shahiid of Masks.

Her stomach almost ached to see the woman in full light. To call her pretty was to call the typhoon a summer breeze, or the three suns a candleflame. Aalea was simply beautiful; painfully, stupidly beautiful. Thick curls falling in midnight rivers to her waist. Kohl-smeared eyes brimming with mystery, full lips painted the red of heart’s blood. Hourglass-shaped. She was the kind of woman you read about in old myths—the kind men besieged cities or parted oceans or did other impossibly stupid things to possess. Mia felt an insect high in her presence.

“Apologies, Shahiid. I can return later if it