Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,81
Last Hope,” she finally said. “I need mornmeal. I’m starving.”
The woman bowed, turned in a rustle of gray robes and strawberry curls. And though she spoke under her breath, Mia still heard the whisper as Naev turned away.
“So is She.”
Mia was the first to arrive at the Sky Altar, sitting at the empty tables and running her fingers over her new face. Her skin felt mildly raw, as if she’d suffered sunsburn. Her chest and belly ached like someone had punched her. Moreover, she felt absolutely famished, wolfing down her oats and cheese without pause and filling a bowl with steaming chicken broth.
Other acolytes filtered in. A dark-haired Liisian girl with pale green eyes, who Mia had learned was named Belle. One-eared Petrus, and the boy with tattooed hands who constantly muttered to himself.1 Mouser gave a nod as he passed by, Aalea a knowing smile. Solis stalked past without a glance. She eyed the empty scabbard at his belt—worn black leather, embossed with a kaleidoscopic pattern of interlocking circles. It was worth fifty marks in Mouser’s contest. Fifty marks closer to finishing top in Pockets. And probably worth a disemboweling if he caught her stealing it.
Maybe I should start on something a little easier …
Ashlinn sat down opposite, mouth already full of food.
“Zo huwuzzit—”
The girl choked, eyes widening as she looked at Mia’s face. She swallowed her half-chewed mouthful with a wince, coughed before she spoke again.
“Shahiid Aalea took you to Marielle already?”
Mia shrugged, lips twisting. It still felt odd when she smiled.
“Maw’s teeth, the weaver’s struck it to the heart. She even straightened out your nose. I’d heard she was good, but ’byss, those lips.” She glanced down. “And those baps…”
“All right,” Mia scowled.
The girl raised her glass. “Night’s truth, Corvere, they’re top shelf. I’m bloody jealous now. You were flat as a twelve-year-old boy befo—”
“All right,” Mia growled.
Ash snickered, bit down on a hunk of bread. Another acolyte cruised past with a bowl of steaming broth. Blue eyes. Dark hair, short sides, fringe cut long to hide the slavemark on her cheek. She hovered, swaying like a snake, raised an eyebrow to Mia.
“Do you mind if I sit, Acolyte?”
The girl’s voice was dull, flat as a flagstone, but her eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence. Mia chewed slowly. Finally shrugged and nodded to a stool beside her. The brunette gave a thin smile, sat down quickly and offered her hand.
“Carlotta,” she said, in that same dead girl’s voice. “Carlotta Valdi.”
“Mia Corvere.”
“Ashlinn Järnheim.”
Carlotta nodded, lowered her voice as other acolytes wandered into the hall.
“Shahiid Aalea took you to see the weaver?”
Mia nodded. Looked the girl up and down. She was lithe, well muscled. Bright eyes, rimmed with thick streaks of kohl. Black paint on thin lips. Though her haircut tried to hide it, three interlocking circles arkemically branded on her cheek marked her as educated slave; perhaps an artisan or scribe.2 From what house she’d fled, Mia couldn’t know. But the fact that she still wore her mark at all proved she was a runaway. The girl had courage, that much was sure. The fate of escaped slaves in the Republic was as brutal as the magistratii could devise. To risk all by fleeing bondage, coming here …
“What was it like?” Carlotta asked. “The weaving?”
Mia watched the girl carefully for a few moments more, weighing her up.
“Hurt like you wouldn’t believe,” she finally replied.
“Worth it, though?”
Mia shrugged. Looked down at her chest and felt a grin creeping onto her face.
“You tell me.”
Ashlinn grinned also, brushing her fingertips against Mia’s own. Carlotta smirked like someone who’d only read about it in books, smoothed her fringe down over her slavemark. Other acolytes filtered into the altar, noting Mia’s new-yet-familiar face with interest. Ash’s brother Osrik. Thin and silent Hush. Even Jessamine found herself staring. Mia was a curiosity for the first time she could remember.
She noticed Jessamine’s sidekick, Diamo, staring at her until the redhead elbowed him in the ribs. Mia spied another acolyte—a handsome Itreyan with dark, pretty eyes named Marcellus—staring too. She reached up to her face. Heard Shahiid Aalea’s words reverberating in her skull. Felt it swelling beneath her skin.
Power, she realized.
I have a kind of power now.
“Gentle ladies,” said a smiling voice. Tric plopped down beside Ashlinn without ceremony, his tray piled with fresh, buttered rye and a bowl of broth. Without looking up, he dunked his bread and hefted a spoonful, ready to wolf it down. But as both mouthfuls neared his lips, the Dweymeri