Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,82
boy paused.
Blinked.
Sniffed at his bowl suspiciously.
“… Hmm.”
He frowned at the broth like it had stolen his purse, or perhaps called his mother an unflattering name. Dragging the saltlocks from his eyes, he offered his spoon to Mia.
“Does this smell strange to you? I swe—”
Finally noticing the girl’s new face, Tric’s jaw swung open like a rusty door in the breeze.
“Don’t let the dragonmoths in,” Ashlinn smirked.
Tric’s stare was locked on Mia. “… What happened to you?”
“The Weaver,” Mia shrugged. “Marielle.”
“… She took your face?”
Mia blinked. “She didn’t take it. She just … changed it is all.”
Tric stared hard. Frown growing darker. He looked down at his untouched mornmeal, pushed his broth aside. And without a word, he stood and walked away.
“He seems … upset?” Carlotta ventured.
“Lover’s tiff?” Ashlinn grinned.
Mia raised the knuckles as Ash began cackling.
“O, beloved, come baaaaack,” the girl teased as Mia rose from her stool.
“Fuck off,” Mia growled.
“You’re a soft touch, Corvere. You’re supposed to make them chase you.”
Mia ignored the jests, but Ash grabbed her good arm as she tried to walk away.
“We’ve got Truths this morning. Shahiid Spiderkiller doesn’t like tardy.”
“Aye,” Carlotta nodded. “I heard tell she killed one of her novices for being late. Warned him once. Warned him twice. After that, a blank tomb in the great hall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mia snorted. “Who does that?”
Carlotta glanced at Mia’s elbow. “The same sort of folk who chop your arm off for scratching their cheek.”
“But killing him?”
Ash shrugged. “My da warned me and Osrik before we came here, Corvere. The last Shahiid you want to get offside is the Spiderkiller.”
Mia sighed, sat back down with reluctance. But Ash spoke wisdom, after all. Mia wasn’t here to play the comfort maid; she was here to avenge her familia. Consul Scaeva and his cronies weren’t going to be dispatched by some fool with a bleeding heart. Whatever was eating Tric, it could wait til after lessons. Mia finished her mornmeal in silence (she couldn’t smell anything odd in the broth, despite Tric’s claims), then shuffled off after Ash and Carlotta in search of the Hall of Truths.
Of all the rooms within the Quiet Mountain, Mia was soon to discover it was the easiest to find. As she traipsed down twisting staircases, she found her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“…’Byss and blood, what’s that smell?”
Carlotta’s face was reverent, her eyes lit with a quiet fervor.
“Truth,” she murmured.
The stench grew stronger as they walked through the dark. A perfume of rot and fresh flowers. Dried herbs and acids. Cut grass and rust. The acolytes arrived at a set of great double doors, the smell washing over them in waves as they swung wide.
Mia took a deep breath, and stepped into Shahiid Spiderkiller’s domain.
If red had been the motif of Aalea’s hall, green was the theme here. Stained glass filtered a ruddy emerald light into the room, the glassware tinged with every hue—lime to dark jade. A great ironwood bench dominated the room. Inkwells and parchment were laid out in each place. Shelves on the walls were filled with thousands of different jars, a myriad of substances within. Glassware lined the bench, pipes and pipets, funnels and tubes. A discordant tune of bubbling and hissing rose from the various reactions taking place in flasks and bowls around the room.
Another smaller table stood at the room’s head, an ornate, high-backed chair behind it. Among the other apparatus, a glass terrarium sat atop it, lined with straw. Six rats snuffled about within, fat and black and sleek.
Tric had beaten Mia down here, sitting at the far end of the bench and ignoring her when she entered. Taking a seat beside Ash, Mia found herself studying the apparatus; beakers and phials and boiling jars. All the tools of an arkemist’s workshop. As she began to suspect what kind of “truth” they taught here, a honey-smooth voice interrupted her thoughts.
“I once killed a man seven nevernights before he died.”
Mia turned her eyes front, sat up straighter. A figure emerged from behind the curtains at the head of the hall. Tall and elegant, her back as straight as a sword. Her saltlocks were intricate. Immaculate. Her skin was the dark, polished walnut of the Dweymeri, her face, unadorned by ink. She wore a long flowing robe of deep emerald, gold at her throat. Three curved daggers hung at her waist. Lips painted black.
Shahiid Spiderkiller.
“I killed an Itreyan senator with his wife’s kiss,” she continued. “I ended a Vaanian laird with a glass of his favorite goldwine, though