Chapter 3

Scholomance spat them all out as if they had turned into the most distasteful of morsels: there was not a single attempt to slay or deceive the students as they slunk out of the grounds.

That eldritch and eerie ceremony had unsettled them all enough that the Orrery lights above felt like a hollow reassurance, and the Thirteenth were far from the only brigade to retreat straight to their lodgings. No, one and all they were eager to put walls between themselves and the gruesome blessing bestowed upon them.

Angharad ended up in one of the armchairs, absent-mindedly picking at the sleeves of her formal uniform as she stared a down at the cup of tea set down before her – eastern blackleaf from the Sanxing republics, with a slightly smoky taste she enjoyed. She had never tried it before Song first served her a cup, yet it had quickly become a favorite. Angharad still preferred coffee, but there was an odd sense of comfort to being served tea that Song Ren had brewed.

It felt like being taken care of, and also a little like being patted on the back – Song would not brew a pot for just anyone, so being served one was a mark of favor. Especially when she broke out her personal stocks, as she had today. Izel and Maryam had been served Kuril greenleaf, a shared preference, while Tristan sipped at what Angharad could only call boiled mint leaves. Blowing off a curl of steam, she sipped at her cup before she set it down on the silver tray.

The small sound felt loud in the silence.

The Thirteenth Brigade was sitting in the cottage’s drawing room, crammed across the armchairs and a settee whose cushions had been restuffed. Orrery light filtered wanly through the windows, and there was a long moment of nothing as they kept sipping at the cups they had been served. It was Izel who ended the quiet, also setting down his cup on the tray before folding his arms.

“So,” Izel Coyac solemnly said. “That was horrifying.”

Despite herself, Angharad huffed out a laugh at the bluntness.

“Agreed,” she said. “The screaming alone…”

She had never heard a spirit make such a noise before. One must not apply the laws of men to their kind, of course, but the sheer agony there had been in its voice… Unsettling. It had smacked of cruelty, and even inflicted on a spirit as deserving of death as Scholomance cruelty was nothing to be proud of. Much less to be promised four more times.

“I could have done without the screaming,” Tristan allowed.

“Trying hearing it twofold,” Maryam sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “It was screaming in the aether as well.”

She had been scowling on the entire way back, in that way she did whenever she had a migraine. Angharad had wisely kept her distance and ensured Tristan always stood between them – Asphodel had changed some of what lay between them, but only a fool wiggled fingers in front of a snapping turtle when it was already in a foul mood.

“Try seeing the god get quartered on that throne,” Song said. “I do not consider myself someone lightly discomforted, but that was thoroughly discomforting.”

Maryam’s sister slipped out of her shadow, taking shape long enough to lean against the side of the settee. Angharad still struggled to fit together the knowledge that Hooks wore a shape of Gloam while looking as solid as any woman and being able to touch physical objects without curdling them. Still, it was not for her to understand. Her eyes saw what they saw.

“So that’s what was happening,” Hooks said. “We couldn’t make it out, it was like trying to see through a rainstorm.”

Angharad had occasionally tried to ascertain when it was that the younger Izvorica dwelled in her sister’s dead eye, granting them both a manner of clairvoyance, but eventually given up. If there were signs to it, they were not physical ones. It was best to simply assume that any time Hooks was not visibly outside Maryam she was dwelling in the eye.

“I felt some concern for your health, considering the nature of this ceremony,” Angharad told her. “I am glad to see this was unfounded, Lady Khaimov.”

Hooks – whose true name they had been told not utter around others – nodded back at her, looking all too pleased. Angharad was not sure why the other woman thought it flattery to call her a lady. She was the daughter of an Izvoric chieftain, as Angharad had it told to her, and not enrolled in the Watch. The title was only her due.

“Speaking of health,” Izel said, “does anyone feel any different?”

The broad-shouldered man clicked his tongue.

“Lord Asher said we would be ‘sharpened’, but though it was an elegant turn of phrase I would have preferred some practical details.”

Spoken like a tinker. Angharad idly pulled at her contract, barely dipping a toe into the glimpse before releasing it. It came as easy as it had earlier, and she rolled her shoulder as she considered her words. It was a vague sense, the boundary of her limits, but it still felt the same now as it had when she tried her contract on the plaza outside Scholomance.

“I suspect I am now capable of using my contract more often,” she volunteered. “Perhaps once or twice more within the same timespan.”

“I’ve seen no difference with my own,” Song shared.

Both their gazes went to Tristan, who was the third contractor of their brigade, but the messy-haired man only shrugged.

“Hard to tell for me,” he said. “I don’t think it’s changed?”

He then glanced to the side, paused as if listening to someone and rolled his eyes. Ah, the striking Lady of Long Odds must be whispering secrets into his ear. Rather enviable.

“No change,” Tristan elaborated. “But the great and powerful Fortuna shares with you a bounty of knowledge-”

“Eating the sliver of god eased metaphysical friction between our bodies and the aether, meaning also between you and the gods you are bound to,” Maryam cut in. “Tristan is already close as can be and Song is constantly using her contract, so the only one it is noticeable on is Angharad.”

A beat passed.

“You have been excommunicated,” Tristan conveyed.

“I will prepare the appropriate bribes to arrange my return to the congregation,” Maryam replied without batting an eye.

Angharad’s lips twitched. Hopefully one of these days the pair would decide whether or not they were flirting, but until then as least they served as decent entertainment.

“I have felt little of this promised vigor, however,” Angharad said.

“You are the most physically fit among us,” Izel told her. “That is hardly a surprise.”

He squeezed a look in the direction of Tristan and Maryam afterwards, which while less than flattering was entirely fair. The latter wrinkled her nose.

“I have a pounding headache, but aside from that I feel no different,” she said.

“It is only our first year,” Song said. “We must not forget that.”

Angharad followed down the path of her captain’s thoughts a moment later.

“You believe the first consumption might be mostly about preparing the ground for the later ones,” she said. “Preparing our bodies to bear further boons.”

Perhaps also more powerful ones. It had not been said that every victory against Scholomance would bear equal reward.

“Why does schooling in Scholomance last five years?” Song asked in reply. “Why not four or six?”

The silver-eyed captain traced a finger around the rim of her cup.

“We’ve been told that after the second-year Mandate will no longer be taught and Saga will become a mere elective. Our time here could be shorter, if classes are the only consideration.”

“So five boons are what the Watch wants from graduates,” Izel said, eyeing the garden through the window. “I wonder what the others would grant us.”

“That would be worth researching,” Song slyly said.

Angharad suppressed her groan. It wasn’t that she disliked reading, she didn’t! Reading was a proper hobby for a well-bred lady, enriching one’s character and conversation. It was just that the kind of books Song assigned them to read tended to be violently tedious. And she knew if you did not read them, too, because she asked questions about them at dinner.

After the brutal example made of Maryam over that history of the kingdom of Sologuer, none of them would be willing to risk such a fate.

“I can’t help but notice none of you are asking the most important question,” Tristan said.

Angharad turned to blink at him and she was not the only one. Tristan Abrascal had a knack for finding angles the rest of them forgot to even think of.

The thief paused a beat.

“We ate god, does that mean we should skip dinner?”

Angharad chortled, as did Izel, but when Maryam tried to smother him with a cushion it was a form of justice. The situation would have devolved into a great deal of bickering had Song not wedged herself in.

“Should any of you feel changes, physical or otherwise, report them immediately,” Song ordered. “While Scholomance’s boons might be useful, it would be rather naïve to assume they are safe.”

She cleared her throat.

“Most of us have a second ceremony to prepare for. Given how long it will take to warm the bathwater, we ought to get started on the process as soon as possible.”

“Someone else can go first,” Izel offered. “I need to shave my head again, it will take some time.”

Angharad eyed said head, which bore what was barely more than stubble. It seemed a great deal of trouble to take a knife to one’s scalp for so little yield, but she could understand wanting to put in an effort for the night.

“Putting your best foot forward for the feast?” she asked.

Izel flashed her a smile.

“I have been looking forward to it.”

She had no trouble believing that. The three societies of the College had come together to throw a massive banquet to celebrate the graduation of all their students. Over the last few days ships had docked bringing int not only entire crates of delicacies but also musicians and dancers. Word in the Malani circles was that there might even be fireworks imported straight from the Republics.

“The gates open at six, but I expect most will begin arriving near seven,” Izel continued. “Song, your dinner is at…

“Seven, but most of us will begin arriving closer to six,” Song drily replied. “We can head out to port together, most of the trip is shared.”

“I must admit I envy you the Academy ceremony,” Angharad said. “A masque ball sounds like a lovely evening.”

A themed dance! She had only attended a few back in Peredur, but they had been fine evenings. Would that the graduation ceremony of the Skiritai bore even a sliver of such elegance.

“It also meant a new dress in Watch black,” Song sighed. “That part I could have done without.”

Angharad winced. She had not considered that.

“At least the seamstresses were taking coin,” she offered.

“There is that,” Song conceded.

As it turned out the brigades that sailed to Asphodel had, entirely by accident, avoided one of the perils the Watch planned for the students. While the prices for goods and sustenance in Port Allazei had been more than affordable at the start of the year, they had slowly but steadily risen until a bag of rice went for half its weight in gold. Which, obviously, was untenable even for the wealthiest of Watch princelings. By the time the Thirteenth docked in Port Allazei, coin had become largely worthless and most everything was done by barter – shopkeepers still accepted labor and goods as payment.

The very week after they docked shops started refusing coin outright and a trap closed on the unwary. Entire cabals had to leave their lodgings in port for some township in the outskirts called ‘Scraptown’ where poor meals and a roof could be provided for a pittance, but doing so added hours of traveling to everything. For Stripe students, it was considered an admittance of failure.

By arriving near the end of the process the Thirteenth avoided emptying its brigade coffers – which had, mind you, already been mostly empty – and instead begun taking contracts early. Some with the garrison and others straight from the Galleries, which uncoincidentally had an entire section of hotly contested bounties that paid in foodstuffs. Yet the strangest part of it all had been when, after a few months, Port Allazei emptied from all the students leaving on their yearly test and left a mere handful of cabals in the ruined city. There had been so few students that all classes and schedules were consolidated.

At least the shops began taking coin again when Port Allazei turned into a ghost town, and at reasonable prices too.

“You know,” Tristan began, “if you helped me…”

“I am not smuggling you into the masque,” Song flatly told him. “I do not care the bounty amount that would get you, I am not losing points just before Colonel Cao puts out the final ratings.”

“Can’t eat points,” Tristan pointed out.

“Coin is not usually served at the table either,” Angharad noted.

He shot her an amused look.

“I’ll be heading out with the two of you, I think,” Maryam mused. “I’m not expected at the Abbey until eight, but I can idle time away in town until then. Maybe grab a plate at the Crocodilian. Angharad?”

“I must be at the Acallar at seven, so sadly I will not be accompanying any of you. Unless…”

She trailed off while looking at Tristan, who shook his head.

“There’s no Krypteia graduation,” he told her, then cleared his throat. “As a rule, I would discourage you from eating or drinking anything a Mask hands you.”

“One should always consider poison when handed a cup,” Izel agreed, as if this were a reasonable thing to say.

Angharad eyed him with dismay. She had heard talk of the Calendar Court’s purported fondness for poisonings, but thought it only idle talk. Surely Izcalli lords could not be allowed to murder each other like this, killing one another in broad daylight. A suspected poisoner would be called into an honor duel and slain, ending their reign of terror!

“We have our duties, then,” Song said. “Izel, my hair will take long to dry so I will take the first bath as you so kindly offered.”

“By all means,” he gallantly said.

They broke up to see to their affairs as soon as all the cups were emptied. It was poor manners, Song had said, to leave such a gathering before all were finished. With the two who had social evenings ahead of them gone to prepare and Maryam disappeared upstairs for a nap, Angharad was left standing by the sink to dry the cups with a cloth when Tristan handed them to her. It was simple, pleasant work that let her mind wander.

Until there was a single cup left and it slipped through Tristan’s stiff fingers to fall back onto the water, the Sacromontan going utterly still.

Angharad softly cursed, passing a hand before his eyes, and he did not react. A trance, then. She began counting down, as he’d asked her. A moment later he let out a ragged breath, closing his eyes as he leaned against the counter. There was a bead of sweat on his brow, and she suspected that if his eyes were open the flecks of gold in them would be like smoldering embers.

“How long?”

“Five seconds,” she quietly said. “It is not improving, Tristan.”

“It isn’t getting worse, either,” he said, but it was half-hearted.

“The sooner the shrine is finished…”

She tried not to sound accusing, but suspected she came short of success.

“Look, it’s not that simple,” Tristan bit out. “You know I tried a house shrine and it didn’t do anything. And when I last tried a public one-”

“You painted the statue in a wishing fountain red, then added some yellow hair,” Angharad said, unimpressed. “Most spirits would have taken offense.”

The Fisher would likely have killed her over such a thing. She was aware that Tristan and his own patron had a rather different rapport, but every spirit had their pride. One should not tread on it needlessly.

“She asked for a statue and I delivered,” he insisted. “Anyway, I need a garrison permit to set up a proper public shrine and they’ve been stringing it out.”

Angharad frowned.

“They want a bribe?”

She had thought better of the Tolomontera garrison. Some of its officers supposedly treated some brigades better than others – the Ninth stood out in this regard – but besides such patronage they were said to be forthright in their dealings.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“I wish,” Tristan sighed. “No, any new shrine needs Obscure Committee permission and I get the impression student requests for those are at the bottom of their paperwork list. With Lord Asher currently in town I’m hoping to make a direct appeal.”

“Wise,” she approved. “You know, it might be equally wise to speak to Maryam about-”

“Maryam has her own troubles,” he sharply interrupted. “And this is a… religious matter, anyway.”

“You know she would be glad to help,” Angharad said. “To take a closer look at your soul.”

His lips thinned.

“I rarely get the episode more than once a day,” Tristan dismissed. “I’ll handle it myself, Angharad.”

She eyed him for a moment. He was not a fool, Tristan Abrascal. She could think of only so many reasons he would refuse to involve the Thirteenth’s sole signifier, given their closeness. In this instance, though, the closeness might be the very reason. Though Tristan would no doubt laugh at her should she say so, Angharad often thought there was a rough sense of honor to how he dealt with others. Like, say, refusing to ask a favor of someone before having decided where the two of them truly stood.

“That is your choice to make,” Angharad acknowledged.

Not the one he should be making, she privately thought, but it was not her place to say so. Only Tristan could decide where his honor lay. They finished the last of the dishes and split up. There would be no banquet waiting for Angharad in the Acallar, but that did not mean she did not need to prepare.

She would oil her sword, for one, and check whether her powder was dry.

—

It was a boon for them all, how it looked so sinister.

If the Acallar were a more welcoming place it would have represented an insidious sort of danger. The Skiritai students headed into the depths week after week but to ever allow themselves to think it routine, to grow comfortable with the grounds, would have been a terrible mistake. The only routine here was that they walked with death and that forgetting this for even a moment would cost them dearly. No, better that the Acallar be dark and foreboding so they might never be fooled to think it anything but a place where men came to die.

And tonight there was an even grimmer cast to the grounds than usual, for of the seventy-five Skiritai initiates who had first come to Port Allazei only fifty-four remained and the graduation made the absences all too noticeable. Thus went their final tally, Angharad thought: one expelled, three lost to the tests, three lost to Scholomance and the rest to the red games of the Acallar.

The students had all come in fighting fit, armed and ready, but were told not to descend into the arena. They were to remain standing on the balcony above, that old watching gallery strewn with the seats of the mighty now nibbled away at by the teeth of time.

They milled around uncertainly, the small talk sporadic enough that Angharad fell into thought. She had wondered, on occasion, what tied together the two guilds of the Guildhouse. Oh, she knew the historical reasons for the union. They had learned in Mandate that the Akelarre and the Skiritai had already existed as orders of their own before joining the Watch so in the early days of the order the two covenants had held special rights and banded together to preserve them.

Yet the vast majority of those rights had disappeared as the Conclave and the Garrison asserted their preeminence, so why had this association continued into modern nights? There were no shared privileges left to defend and Angharad had never thought there to be much in common between the Navigators and the Militants. Certainly not enough to warrant the close alliance that was the administrative union known as the Guildhouse. Tonight, though, she thought she might be catching a glimpse of the reason.

It was a small thing, the differences in how covenants celebrated graduation, but it cast a greater shadow. The others were feasting or hiding, but the Guildhouse? Its two guilds had a different sort of business for the evening.

Maryam had been tight-lipped about what the Akelarre would be up to, but it was open knowledge some sort of ceremony would be taking place in the depths of the Abbey. An initiation into the deeper mysteries of the Navigators, perhaps even formal acceptance into the guild.

Ultimately the details were of little import. What set the Akelarre apart was that their celebration was no such thing – it was a second graduation. They were marking it as one thing to graduate Scholomance, another to rise within the Akelarre Guild. There was a sense of… community, there. A bleak one, given that the signifiers were to gather around a howling void trying to talk them into leaping, but Angharad was in no position to judge.

The Skiritai Guild’s own graduation was, it seemed, equally bleak.

“Fuck me,” Shalini muttered. “They could have served drinks, at least.”

Just as the Akelarre retired to the Abbey, the Skiritai had been called down to the Acallar. The journey down into the depths had been no more cheerful than any before it, but as the Skiritai idled on the upper balcony Angharad mused that what waited them in the arena below was in some way darker than death matches. Seventeen black shrouds were laid there on stone, some draped over a corpse and others over little – or even nothing at all. Not all the Skiritai who died down here had left a body.