Read Online Nevernight by Jay Kristoff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jay Kristoff
Tags: Fantasy
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nobility dwell within the graven hollows of the aforementioned Ribs, and conduct their business in the cavernous innards of the Spine—hence the term “marrowborn.” Status is conveyed by one’s proximity to the first Rib, wherein dwell the Itreyan Senate and the consuls elected to lead them. North of the first Rib lies the Forum, constructed in the place the Skull might’ve been.
I say “might,” gentlefriend, because the Skull itself is missing.
2. The motto of the Luminatii Legion, gentlefriend. “Light shall conquer.”
3. “O, you mean the Mawwwwww .”
4. The priests of the Itreyan College of Iron are inducted into their order after their second truedark, and tested for aptitude in the Ars Machina. The boys are never taught to read, nor to write. On the eve of their fifth truedark, those found worthy to serve are taken to a brightly lit room in the heart of the Collegium. Here, amid the scent of burning tar and the breathless beauty of the college choir, they recite their vows, and are then relieved of their tongues via a set of red-hot iron snips. The secrets of constructing and maintaining war walkers are the most tightly guarded in the Republic—taught by doing , not speaking—and the priesthood take their vows of silence rather seriously.
It may give comfort to the gentle-hearted among you that the priesthood don’t take vows of celibacy. They’re free to partake in all pleasures of the flesh, though their lack of tongues can prove a hindrance in their search for wives.
Though it does make them excellent dinner companions.
5. Though sadly lacking in darkness, most citizens of the Republic still require sleep, and regardless of season, the change from waking hours is marked by a turn in Itreya’s weather. As nevernight approaches, winds pick up from the westward oceans and howl across the Republic, bringing a merciful temperature drop in their wake. As it’s easier to sleep in cooler times, this turn is taken by most as the signal to hit the pillow, hay, or flagstones depending on their state of inebriation. The winds die slowly, rising again perhaps twenty-four hours later. It is said they are a gift from Nalipse, the Lady of Storms, who takes mercy upon a land and people scorched by her Father’s almost constant light.
The “turn,” therefore, is the term Itreyans use to mark a cycle of sleep and waking. There are seven turns to a week, three and one half hundred turns in a seasonal year. An oddity of language, to be sure, but a necessary one in a land where actual days last two and a half years at a time, and birthday parties are an indulgence that only the wealthiest might afford.
6. Every now and then, and often to her chagrin, the girl’s lingering marrowborn pride would slip through her carefully cultivated facade of not-give-a-fuckery. You can take the girl from the gutter, but not the gutter from the girl. Sadly, the same can be said of the glitter.
7. O, stop giggling and grow up.
CHAPTER 5
C OMPLIMENTS
The little girl had dashed through narrow streets, over bridge and under stair, red crusting on her hands. The something had followed her, puddled in the dark at her feet as they beat hard on the cracking flagstones. She’d no idea what it might be or want—only that it had helped her, and without that help, she’d be as dead as her father was.
eyes open
legs kicking
guh-guh-guh
Mia willed the tears away, curled her hands into fists, and ran. She could hear the puppy-choker and his friend behind her, shouting, cursing. But she was nimble and quick and desperately afraid, fear giving her wings. Running down dogleg squeezeways and over choked canals until finally, she slithered down an alley wall, clutching the stitch in her side.
Safe. For now.
Slumped with legs folded beneath her, she tried to push the tears down like her mother had taught her. But they were so much bigger than her, shoving back until she could stave them off no more. Hiccupping and shaking, snotty
I say “might,” gentlefriend, because the Skull itself is missing.
2. The motto of the Luminatii Legion, gentlefriend. “Light shall conquer.”
3. “O, you mean the Mawwwwww .”
4. The priests of the Itreyan College of Iron are inducted into their order after their second truedark, and tested for aptitude in the Ars Machina. The boys are never taught to read, nor to write. On the eve of their fifth truedark, those found worthy to serve are taken to a brightly lit room in the heart of the Collegium. Here, amid the scent of burning tar and the breathless beauty of the college choir, they recite their vows, and are then relieved of their tongues via a set of red-hot iron snips. The secrets of constructing and maintaining war walkers are the most tightly guarded in the Republic—taught by doing , not speaking—and the priesthood take their vows of silence rather seriously.
It may give comfort to the gentle-hearted among you that the priesthood don’t take vows of celibacy. They’re free to partake in all pleasures of the flesh, though their lack of tongues can prove a hindrance in their search for wives.
Though it does make them excellent dinner companions.
5. Though sadly lacking in darkness, most citizens of the Republic still require sleep, and regardless of season, the change from waking hours is marked by a turn in Itreya’s weather. As nevernight approaches, winds pick up from the westward oceans and howl across the Republic, bringing a merciful temperature drop in their wake. As it’s easier to sleep in cooler times, this turn is taken by most as the signal to hit the pillow, hay, or flagstones depending on their state of inebriation. The winds die slowly, rising again perhaps twenty-four hours later. It is said they are a gift from Nalipse, the Lady of Storms, who takes mercy upon a land and people scorched by her Father’s almost constant light.
The “turn,” therefore, is the term Itreyans use to mark a cycle of sleep and waking. There are seven turns to a week, three and one half hundred turns in a seasonal year. An oddity of language, to be sure, but a necessary one in a land where actual days last two and a half years at a time, and birthday parties are an indulgence that only the wealthiest might afford.
6. Every now and then, and often to her chagrin, the girl’s lingering marrowborn pride would slip through her carefully cultivated facade of not-give-a-fuckery. You can take the girl from the gutter, but not the gutter from the girl. Sadly, the same can be said of the glitter.
7. O, stop giggling and grow up.
CHAPTER 5
C OMPLIMENTS
The little girl had dashed through narrow streets, over bridge and under stair, red crusting on her hands. The something had followed her, puddled in the dark at her feet as they beat hard on the cracking flagstones. She’d no idea what it might be or want—only that it had helped her, and without that help, she’d be as dead as her father was.
eyes open
legs kicking
guh-guh-guh
Mia willed the tears away, curled her hands into fists, and ran. She could hear the puppy-choker and his friend behind her, shouting, cursing. But she was nimble and quick and desperately afraid, fear giving her wings. Running down dogleg squeezeways and over choked canals until finally, she slithered down an alley wall, clutching the stitch in her side.
Safe. For now.
Slumped with legs folded beneath her, she tried to push the tears down like her mother had taught her. But they were so much bigger than her, shoving back until she could stave them off no more. Hiccupping and shaking, snotty
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