A Feast for Dragons

how.
Smooth
and quick, that’s the way, no fumbling
, she told herself, and she
slipped the little blade out of her sleeve, again and again and again. When she
was satisfied that she still remembered how to do it, she sharpened the steel
on a whetstone until its edge glimmered silver-blue in the candlelight. The
other part was trickier, but the waif was there to help her. “I will give the
man the gift on the morrow,” she announced as she was breaking her fast.
    “Him of Many Faces will be pleased.” The kindly man rose.
“Cat of the Canals is known to many. If she is seen to have done this deed, it
might bring down trouble on Brusco and his daughters. It is time you had
another face.”
    The girl did not smile, but inside she was pleased. She had
lost Cat once, and mourned her. She did not want to lose her again. “What will
I look like?”
    “Ugly. Women will look away when they see you. Children will
stare and point. Strong men will pity you, and some may shed a tear. No one who
sees you will soon forget you. Come.”
    The kindly man took the iron lantern off its hook and led
her past the still black pool and the rows of dark and silent gods, to the
steps at the rear of the temple. The waif fell in behind them as they were
making their descent. No one spoke. The soft scuff of slippered feet on the
steps was the only sound. Eighteen steps brought them to the vaults, where five
arched passageways spread out like the fingers of a man’s hand. Down here the
steps grew narrower and steeper, but the girl had run up and down them a
thousand times and they held no terrors for her. Twenty-two more steps and they
were at the subcellar. The tunnels here were cramped and crooked, black
wormholes twisting through the heart of the great rock. One passage was closed
off by a heavy iron door. The priest hung the lantern from a hook, slipped a
hand inside his robe, and produced an ornate key.
    Gooseprickles rose along her arms.
The sanctum
.
They were going lower still, down to the third level, to the secret chambers
where only the priests were permitted.
    The key clicked three times, very softly, as the kindly man turned
it in a lock. The door swung open on oiled iron hinges, making not a sound.
Beyond were still more steps, hewn out of solid rock. The priest took down the
lantern once again and led the way. The girl followed the light, counting the
steps as she went down.
Four five six seven
. She found herself
wishing that she had brought her stick.
Ten eleven twelve
. She
knew how many steps there were between the temple and the cellar, between the
cellar and the subcellar, she had even counted the steps on the cramped winding
stair that spiraled up into the garret and the rungs on the steep wooden ladder
that ascended to the rooftop door and the windy perch outside.
    This stair was unknown to her, however, and that made it
perilous.
One-and-twenty two-and-twenty three-and-twenty
. With
every step the air seemed to grow a little colder. When her count reached
thirty she knew that they were under even the canals. Three-and-thirty
four-and-thirty. How deep were they going to go?
    She had reached fifty-four when the steps finally ended at
another iron door. This one was unlocked. The kindly man pushed it open and
stepped through. She followed, with the waif on her heels. Their footsteps
echoed through the darkness. The kindly man lifted his lantern and flicked its
shutters wide open. Light washed over the walls around them.
    A thousand faces were gazing down on her.
    They hung upon the walls, before her and behind her, high
and low, everywhere she looked, everywhere she turned. She saw old faces and
young faces, pale faces and dark faces, smooth faces and wrinkled faces,
freckled faces and scarred faces, handsome faces and homely faces, men and
women, boys and girls, even babes, smiling faces, frowning faces, faces full of
greed and rage and lust, bald faces and faces bristling with hair.
Masks
,
she told herself,
it’s only masks
, but even as she thought the
thought, she knew it wasn’t so. They were skins.
    “Do they frighten you, child?” asked the kindly man. “It is
not too late for you to leave us. Is this truly what you want?”
    Arya bit her lip. She did not know what she wanted.
If
I leave, where will I go?
She had washed and stripped a hundred
corpses, dead things did not frighten her.
They carry them down here and
slice their faces off, so what?
She was the night wolf, no scraps of
skin could frighten