Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,86

in that perpetual darkness. Though every acolyte had been questioned after Floodcaller’s death and Mother Drusilla’s curfew remained in effect, it seemed the Ministry’s investigations into the boy’s murder had stalled. Though curious about the killer’s identity, Mia told herself she had more pressing matters to concern herself with. Scaeva and Remus and Duomo weren’t going to kill themselves, after all. And so, she focused on her studies. She proved better than average at sleight-of-hand once her arm was well enough to lose her sling, and excelled in poisonwork.1 Under Shahiid Aalea’s gentle tutelage, Mia even managed to understand the basics of manipulation and the art of seduction.

Ashlinn underwent the weaving, then Marcellus, who truth be told had been a picture already. It seemed gifting new faces took a toll on Marielle, or perhaps she was simply capricious. Either way, the weaver worked her way through the acolytes only slowly. At this rate, it’d be months before all of them got to taste the pain of her touch.

Mouser’s challenge to his students began quietly, with very few marks being accrued in those early weeks. The ninebells curfew seemed to keep most acolytes in their rooms, and Ashlinn and Mia made no further after-hours forays. But soon enough, dashes began appearing on the charboard in the Hall of Pockets. Small numbers at first, two or three marks apiece, the easy items on the list being plucked as acolytes gained confidence. Ash took off to an early lead, but Jessamine was running a close second, and, seemingly none the worse for wear after his near-fatal poisoning at Spiderkiller’s hands, Hush was placed third. For her own part, Mia quickly acquired a few of the lighter pieces, but she knew it’d be the more difficult objects that would really swing the contest, and no acolyte was brave enough to go stealing Solis’s scabbard or Spiderkiller’s knives just yet.

The other Shahiid announced their own contests, and again, the acolytes were informed that those who claimed top of each hall would be virtually guaranteed initiation as Blades. In the Hall of Songs, a no-holds-barred, full-contact contest of martial prowess was to be held. The winner would be given Solis’s mark of favor.

In the emerald light of the Hall of Truths, Shahiid Spiderkiller wrote the formula for an impossibly complex arkemical toxin on the charboard, and informed the (still somewhat terrified) acolytes that whoever brought her the correct antidote would be the victor. There was a caveat, of course; acolytes must be willing to test their antidote by imbibing Spiderkiller’s poison first. If their antidote worked, all well and good. If not …

And Shahiid Aalea’s contest?

That turned out to be the most interesting of the lot.

The female acolytes were roused one eve just before ninebells and escorted to the Hall of Masks. This was unusual; the hour was close to curfew, but more, Shahiid Aalea usually conducted her lessons one on one. Hers was a subtle craft requiring personal attention, and large groups of teenagers in the same room seldom proved conducive to lessons in the finer arts of seduction. But for some reason, every girl had been brought before the Shahiid.

Aalea was clad in a gown of sheer burgundy silk, unadorned by jewelry. She met the acolytes with a tilt of her head and a beautiful, blood-red smile.

“My ladies, don’t we look a portrait this eve.”

She embraced each girl in turn, kissed them warmly. As she was wrapped up in the Shahiid’s arms, Mia was again overcome with the certainty that the Shahiid’s smile was made solely for her. As the woman kissed her cheeks, Mia found them flushed.

“We must work on that, love,” Aalea said, caressing Mia’s skin. “Never let your face tell a secret your lips should not.” She turned to the assembled acolytes, nine in all. “Now, my ladies. I’m told the other Shahiid have announced their boorish little contests. Stealing trinkets and beating each other witless and whatnot. But the Lady of Blessed Murder has use for a multitude of talents. And so, I give you mine.”

The woman looked around the room, smiled at each girl in turn.

“Before the year’s end, each of you must bring me a secret.”

Carlotta raised an eyebrow. Mia found herself studying the slavegirl closely. She never smiled, and her voice was cold as a tomb. But it’d become apparent that Lotti could do wonders with a raised eyebrow. Convey annoyance. Curiosity. What might pass for amusement. The only woman Mia had ever seen do it better