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Harrow Nova was no fool. She knew exactly how the Ninth House felt about her. Words that were said in disgust and resentment were usually the most common things spoken to Harrow. Tormented from the day she was born, the Ninth was thick with hate. However, it was the unspoken words that affected her the most. The plain exhaustion on everyone’s prim and solemn fucking faces spoke volumes to her. Palpable tension whenever she walked into a room; the hush that fell over the crowd was more education than even her formal training could provide. And there wasn’t much of that to begin with. Harrow spent her days locked in a cell, by her own hand. She worked through countless hours alone, training with her sword. It was the one thing the Ninth could not take from her. It had earned her the title of Cavalier Secondary; second only to Ortus because of his familial ties and the fact that he was twice her age.
Harrow would use the negativity as fuel. There was a way off this prison planet. Once she found it, secured her ride, Harrow would leave it all behind. At 19 years old, she was tired of being shoved down into a hole that she didn’t ask to be put in. Her heart was so black and cold, dead to her entire family simply because they forced her to believe she was a monster. Her mother hated her for what she was. And her father hated her for what she was not. Somewhere in between, the golden eyed witch had stolen Harrow’s birthright...and gotten away with it.
Being the Reverend Daughter was never in the cards for Harrow, even if she wanted the position. Her conception had cost the lives of Drearburh’s youngest 200. The price her parents paid was far too high for them to afford; and the damned process didn’t even work. Harrow would laugh until the end of her days at her mother’s continued failures. Harrow Nova wasn’t born with a lick of necromantic ability. That was the plan her parents formulated so many years ago. They needed a true necro heir to the Tomb, and would never get it. Harrow was the Ninth’s greatest disappointment. But something had happened during that fateful night when all the children died. Well, all but one. A screaming, raving lunatic red-head had come up from the gas completely unscathed, if not a little pissed off at the world. At one year old, Gideon had shown more necromantic aptitude than all of the house’s children combined. Of course Priamhark jumped on an opportunity. The man was resourceful to a fault.
The lie they told was simple. They acted as if they’d known the whole time that Gideon was the target. Only the great aunts knew the truth. The Sewn Tongue had served Pelleamena well in those early years. No one spoke the truth for nearly two decades. It could not have been more obvious to Harrow. How could her parents, both raven haired and black of eye, give birth to the child with the fiery crown? And those eyes. The catlike golden eyes that mocked Harrow at every glance. Gideon was no member of the Ninth House no matter how much sacramental paint she wore or how deep she hid inside her robes.
But the Reverend Mother and Father adopted her anyway, simply due to the fact that Gideon had shown potential toward house magic. The bone rattle in her crib was proof. The night 200 children died, Gideon’s rattle turned from a tiny, delicate child’s toy into a sharp and deadly dagger of bone. She’d even cut her hands to shreds shaking it that morning. And had subsequently healed right up. It wasn’t the answer the parents had hoped for, but Gideon Nonagesimus was the cheat they’d use to win the game.
Nova was understandably pissed off about the entire arrangement. Her position was usurped by an outsider, and Harrow was powerless. She was literally powerless. Not that her parents didn’t try like hellfire to bring out her latent gifts. Priamhark Noniusvianus used every tool at his disposal; including a rusty pair of pliers he used to rip out one of Harrow’s teeth to see if it would regrow. He told her repeatedly that he would grip her soul and squeeze out even the tiniest bit of necromancy if it was there. His disappointment was monumental.
Harrow’s pain became like a sister to her. Her pain had a face and a voice. Her pain had a name that only she spoke when no one was listening. Her psyche cracked in those early years, and the only magic she could conjure was the space within her where none could ever hurt her again. In her cell, Harrow stopped crying. She locked those emotions down and rolled a rock against them inside of her. Her soul was a mirror of the Locked Tomb. No one would ever get into it; Harrow Nova would kill anyone who tried.
The day she swiped Samael’s chain out of the catacombs, Harrow knew from the word go that it would spell trouble for her. Getting her rapier was nearly impossible, and had cost her a series of beatings at the hands of her father. His violence toward her knew no bounds. Secretly, she wished him dead; and given the opportunity, Harrow would ferry him into the afterlife herself.
Harrow climbed up on top of the altar and took the chain. Her offhand weapons had never felt right. She had trained with a dagger, a second rapier; and had once even tried wielding a two-handed infantry sword, which she found entirely cumbersome and distasteful. She wasn’t built to hold it. Harrow had given a bolo a try, but her aim was found wanting. The object she coveted belonged to a great Ninth cavalier named Samael Novenary. His offhand weapon was that chain. When she peeled it away from his bones, the once great cavalier had been reduced to dust. The chain was heavy, each steel link winked at her in the electric lights from the top of the Anastasian monument. The chain called to her. The second she retrieved it, the cold Ninth metal slipped into her hand like the love of her imagined sister. It was perfect. She could never imagine a more perfect weapon. Her rapier was an extension of her arm. Her form was perfect. Harrow could actually fight without an offhand weapon, she was so good with that rapier. The only reason she even bothered with it at all was simply that it was customary to carry one as a cavalier. Harrow was nothing if not a little nostalgic. Some of the greatest Cohort warriors carried Ninth House steel. Legends were made by way of the blade.
Novenary’s chain completed her. From the second she slung it over her shoulder and the metal pelvis came to rest against hers, Harrow knew she’d found perfection. Its weight was comfortable. She felt secure with it laced around her forearms and across her thin shoulders. When she would swing it by her side, it whistled a haunting tune that only Harrow understood. The air pushed through each link like breath through metal lips. She only cracked herself in the skull one time with it and never did it again.
Samael Novenary’s chain came at a price. Harrow knew it would. Good things always cost more than they were worth; so she made sure her choices were worth it. When Priamhark found out what she had done, he raised skeletons to scour Drearburh and haul her to the monument. He had raised 10 hulking constructs. Only 3 returned, with Harrow, bloody and bested, in tow. One of them carried the chain wrapped round its cervical vertebrae. She’d lashed out so hard, the construct’s head had been dislodged from its shoulders. She would remember it as one of her better shots.
Priamhark berated her for an hour, telling her everything she already knew. She could recite it by heart with him like the prayer of the Locked Tomb. He was becoming seriously predictable in his old age. Harrow was unsure if it was because she mocked him, word for word, or if it was really because she had disturbed the resting place of the cavalier. It was probably both.
She stilled herself and waited for the punishment that was certain to follow his rant. Priamhark was oddly long winded for a servant of the Ninth. He enjoyed his sermons and reading out loud to his family. Harrow would never understand how anyone with so much of nothing to say could continue to run his mouth. She held true the vow that one day she would shut it for him.
Stripped to the skin, Harrow stood in front of the Anastasian monument. The great pillars of black stone were as blind as the eyes of justice that day. It felt to her like everything in that great room was turning away from what was about to happen. For the first time in her life, Harrow Nova felt truly abandoned. All of her fury and all of her anger were shunted to her core, where they rolled like a liquid metal sphere. She shivered from the cold, which was in abundance and always extreme. Drearburh was the coldest planet in the nine house system. The furthest removed from the light of Dominicus, Drearburh kept the darkest secrets deep in its bowels. In that shivering, terrifying darkness, the Reverend Father began Harrow’s punishment.
Two lashes for blasphemy.
Two lashes for theft.
Two lashes for nudity.
Two lashes for manslaughter.
Harrow knew the rules. She hadn’t killed anyone on purpose. It wasn’t her fault the children died, but she would carry the blame just the same.
Two lashes for good measure.
Two lashes for disrespect.
It was the second to last lash. Harrow bit a hole through her lip, tasting blood and spit. She drooled and had no ability to stop. Bent across the alter, she stared at the chain in front of her. Every mark across her back was worth just holding it for a few minutes. She trembled. Her knees were about to give out. Harrow had not uttered a sound during the beating. She learned early that crying was cause for more lashes. Something about weakness. She took it like a champ. Her body was releasing endorphins and adrenaline. She wouldn’t say she was immune to Priamhark’s lessons; but Harrow knew it would end soon enough and she could crawl back to her cell, unnoticed and unnecessary.
The whispers from behind her stalled the beating. Harrow dared not look back. Her ears were ringing like the Secondarius bell. She wouldn’t have heard much anyway. It was the terse consonants spit through teeth that caught her attention. A two sided conversation just out of earshot. Followed by “very well.” Priamhark’s deep and threatening tone punctuated the quiet. Harrow heard his heavy steps recede from the room.
She thought she was alone. Harrow turned her head, knowing if he was still there, he’d remove it from her shoulders. It was just a quick glance behind her, and the shadows of black robes exiting the room were all that she saw. Harrow sobbed suddenly as the pain began to not just radiate, but explode throughout her body. The initial endorphins had worn off. Had she one scrap of necromantic ability, none of this would have hurt so much. Her back felt like giant strips of skin had been ripped off and naked meat was exposed to the cold air. She was wet from her own blood. Harrow bent as best she could without causing herself more pain. She bundled her robes in her skinny arms, pressing them against her naked front. If ever there was a time to run for her life, this was it. She stepped away from the alter and stopped short. Harrow swallowed hard, tasting blood on her tongue. She slowly turned her head back to the Anastasian and exhaled loudly. Her breath reverberated off the ancient columns. She reached to the side and picked up the chain of Samael Novenary. It was hers now. She had earned it.
Harrow could barely walk. She was freezing and bleeding. The chain was so heavy and cold against her skin, but she refused to leave it. The price was too great, paid for explicitly with her flesh. She stopped in the dark corridor and leaned heavily against the wall. Her head was swimming. The chain clinked quietly against her naked thigh. Two more levels up, and Harrow would be in her room. She just had to keep going.
Gently, a hand came to rest under her arm. Gloved fingers wrapped around her small bicep, urging her to stand. Harrow turned to see the hooded figure of the Reverend Daughter.
“Fuck no. Fuck you!” Harrow seethed through bloody teeth. She’d bitten another hole in her bottom lip as she launched herself against the wall in an effort to stay upright.
“Come on, Harrow.” Gideon’s voice was softer than usual. Harrow felt no argument in the girl today, which was uncommon. Their interactions were legendary. Fighting, cursing, slinging insults until the sun went out. Gideon simply pulled on Harrow’s arm, and the cavalier secondary had no fight left in her to oppose.
They walked silently up the next two levels. Gideon had only stopped her to try and get Harrow’s robes over her shoulders. The younger girl could not manage it. Her skin was ripped into jagged, oozing edges, and she would not let Gideon touch her otherwise. She held her robes and the chain as if her life depended on them. The Reverend Daughter did not disagree and settled for guiding Harrow back to her cell.
The door slid open silently. Doors in Drearburh were notoriously creaky. It was every bit a haunted house, from phantoms and bones, right down to the rusty door hinges. Harrow kept her hinges well-oiled with oil from her bedside lamp. She liked being able to come and go in silence. It afforded her a great deal of privacy and comfort knowing she hadn’t been followed because of her stupid creaky door. Gideon pushed the girl into the room, careful not to breech the threshold. She’d never been invited inside, not that she needed to be asked. It was her house. Gideon could go wherever she liked whenever she liked. But this was not the time for her to brandish that weapon against Harrow.
Harrow dropped her robes and the chain in a heap on the floor. She pulled her shivering body up onto her cot and carefully laid herself down to face the wall. She had hoped Gideon would just go away and shut the door without further insult.
The Reverend Daughter considered the cavalier in that moment. The girl was so young and looked so frail. She watched as Harrow pulled the ratty linen blanket up across her hips and up no further. The sheets would be glued to her skin by morning. Gideon’s father had a penchant for administering painful punishments. His strikes with that lash were artwork tattooed across the rejected daughter’s back. She watched the girl’s shoulders shake against the silent weeping Gideon knew must have been happening. Sorrow plucked at Gideon’s heart like a thick fingernail striking a piano wire. The feeling of it was like feeling the whole floor move beneath her feet. Gideon felt compelled to step into the room.
She had been taught many forms of magic used by the other houses. In this instance, bone magic would not be much use, unless she wanted to raise a construct to bring Harrow some food. Gideon had studied briefly with a necromancer of the Third House a few years prior. She had learned a thing or two about reconstructing skin and meat. It was not an altogether unpleasant thing to know. She had reworked her own hand once when the elevator shaft had crashed. It had taken her days to get it right with full reconstruction of her own bones. In the end, no one knew the difference. There was barely any scarring.
Gideon could see the lines across Harrow’s back that needed repaired. This was something she was good at. Better even than calling up the bones of long dead house members. If she had any sense in her head, she’d leave Harrow where she lay. The cavalier had stolen the chain of the famed Novenary. It was sacrilegious. She’d have given Harrow two lashes just for that. Something about the girl’s imminent vulnerability struck Gideon deep in her heart. This was not some confused longing of a teenager bent on finding out who she really was. What Gideon was feeling was akin to pain. It galled her to see Harrow this beat up. Gideon felt some distant failing on her part, though she had no reason to feel anything but self righteousness.
Carefully, Gideon gathered her robes and shifted them forward to sit on the cot next to Harrow. The cavalier flinched and tried to sit up, failing miserably. Harrow had no strength left in her to do anything other than cough wetly. Gideon offered no hand of reassurance, no words of kindness. She was overcome by a need to help, even if it made no sense. Gideon pulled at each finger of her glove until it was off. In the darkness of the room, lit only by distant hallway lights, Gideon looked at her hand. She couldn’t even see the repair scars from the elevator accident. Her hand had been crushed and nearly ripped off her arm. She marveled at her own work in that sad lighting scheme. Harrow turned her head and began to whisper something probably savage and mean. Gideon put her naked hand on Harrow’s forehead and pushed it back against the pillow. Wordlessly, the Reverend Daughter traced the outline of every deep gash in Harrow’s back. The cavalier groaned softly, wincing against each touch. Blood began to crust up and flake off Harrow’s skin. The open wounds began to slowly stitch themselves back together as Gideon bade them to close.
There was not much else Gideon could do for Harrow, unless the mean-spirited cavalier wanted soup. Gideon was sorry for their father’s ability to be a complete and total bastard. She knew how he was, strict and ruthless, damning everything that was not rightfully his. Gideon knew that he cursed her in the privacy of his chambers. She had listened outside the bedroom doors of the Reverend Father and Mother more times than she was willing to admit; and heard them carelessly blaming her for the Tomb’s broken lineage. The blood line was impure now, but they had no choice. Gideon felt like she was something they just endured as a means to an end. She believed Harrow was not alone in that respect. The cavalier acted as if she had the monopoly on suffering; but that was only because she was the loudest.
Gideon stood up quickly. The act of necromancy would spare Harrow Nova from a severe infection and would take weeks off of healing time. Gideon felt the blood sweat rolling from her temples. Her robes fell down to her feet, the cloth making its telltale sound in the otherwise silent room. Gideon could not even hear Harrow breathing. She thought the girl had passed out, which was in its own way, a mercy. She turned for the door, and a small, warm hand grasped hers.
Gideon turned to look back at Harrow laying there, arm outstretched, clutching Gideon’s hand. Harrow had not even turned her eyes back to look upon the Reverend Daughter. Gideon did not need her to look. She understood this moment. This was the beginning of a much longer road ahead for both of them. Nothing between them was fixed, and certainly nothing was made better. This time tomorrow, they’d be at each other’s throats again. It was just who they were to each other. Gideon delicately squeezed the wounded cavalier’s fingertips and whispered words Harrow had either hoped to never hear or always wanted to hear.
“One flesh, one end.”