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Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 05:00:07 +0000 UTCMaryam woke up the sound of Song Ren shouting at a bird, which was not an infrequent occurrence.
She cast off the covers and went to wash her face, rubbing her eyes blearily before glancing at her reflection in the bronze looking glass. The war against those black rings around her eyes had hit a stalemate, but at least they were no longer getting larger. There had been victory on other fronts: her skin looked a great deal less sallow than it had when she left Asphodel. If only that had stopped the damn fever fits.
Hooks traced accord, then reproach. Maryam sifted through the nuances effortlessly.
“I know Captain Yue said those will end when I obscure another limb,” Maryam muttered back out loud. “I’m just tired of spending one evening a week sweating in my sheets with a pounding headache.”
Her sister did not quite answer, at least not in a way that could be translated with words. Their efforts in keeping a clear boundary between them had settled on thought-enforcing the concept of a veil – a silken, almost translucent sheet between them – and by tracing their thoughts and feelings against that veil they could share them with the other. A trace of agreement on the veil closed the matter, Hooks no more enjoying the fits than she. Her sister was tethered enough to this body to dislike when it felt ill.
Careful to keep her thoughts off the veil, Maryam chided herself for having been sloppy in her control when she first woke. She still bled through the veil regularly, as she just had when mentally bemoaning the fever fits, which Captain Yue insisted was in part because they had chosen the thought-concept of a veil instead of something heavier like a wall or a gate. Neither sister had cared for that much separation, however, and Maryam’s control was already heaps better than when they had first begun and there was no such thing as privacy even in her own mind.
She picked up her shift from the dresser, pulling it on, and slipped on a robe over it before padding down the stairs towards the enticing smell of eggs and cheese. It smelled delicious enough that Maryam hardly even blinked at the sight of Song brandishing a wooden spoon at a large magpie. Sakkas was a handsome bird, his feathers a lustrous black with the sides and back streaked white, and he waddled on the kitchen counter letting out distressed croaks while Song pointed her spoon as if it were a magic wand fit to banish him.
“Outside, beast,” Song hissed. “You have a bowl of berries already, you are not getting an omelet as well.”
Not even the absurdity of her current situation managed to make Song Ren seem entirely unserious. The Tianxi’s intricately braided black hair and immaculate formal uniform lent her a touch of the severe, only added to by the strangeness of her silver eyes. It was not a color one could be born with, those eyes. Even the heavy apron Song wore somehow felt part of her uniform, despite its mismatched lurid red stripes.
Sakkas warbled sadly while Maryam slid into a seat at the table, finding a steaming mug of black tea waiting for her. Ah, the comforts of the cottage. Unlike some of the others, she disliked spending the night at their room in town – it did not feel like a home, not the way the cottage sometimes did. Sakkas was the size of a large cat, or a small dog, which made his loudly put-on grief while he resisted Song at once tragic and entertaining. One might have thought that pitiful sadness genuine, if not for the clever gleam in his eyes.
Maryam ignored the bird and sipped at her tea with a little sigh of pleasure, knowing better than to try and pet him by now. The Gloam-touched bird had not taken to her, despite several attempts at bribing her way into his affections. She was the only one of the Thirteenth the magpie would not allow to pet him, which was likely because Maryam was signifier. It was not uncommon for animals to dislike signifiers, especially herbivores.
Angharad had been relieved to hear as much, for she had rather amusingly been suspecting their bird of being a bigot.
Within a minute Song managed to chase away the magpie after some aggressive skirmishing, Sakkas letting out a rebellious cackle-call as he fled out the window – which was promptly locked behind him. For all the good that would do, since Tristan constantly let him in through the stargazing tower. Maryam was only a third of the way through her tea when her captain slid a plate with an omelet and a handful of cut figs in front of her.
“Thank you for the help, Khaimovs,” Song said, tone full of reproach.
Amusement was traced on the veil, Hooks sliding out of her shadow a moment later. Her sister had taken to wearing blackcloak’s clothes and this morning was no exception, though as always she added some elaborations- this time elaborate red lace and embroidery in the Izvoric style to the sleeves, as well as a white collar with a heavy pearl necklace. Maryam liked the little touches, though that liking was unfortunately paired with envy at being unable to replicate any of them.
Uniform limitations aside, at the moment her finances were… lacking. She had walked hospitals with less bleeding happening inside them.
“You know Sakkas goes wild when I come out,” Hooks righteously replied. “We held back for the sake of your cooking.”
“You don’t deserve those figs,” Song told her, making as if to take them back.
Hooks’ hand darted out, touching one of the sliced fruits, and there was a whisper of power in the air. Under all their gazes the fig shriveled into a blackened husk in the span of a breath. Maryam’s sister let out a pleased noise while the Izvorica felt a shiver of satiation against the veil, accidental bleed on her sister’s part. Hooks did not actually eat food, having no physical needs, but she did require sustenance of sorts.
What her sister had just done, as far as either of them could tell, was consume an echo of a memory of eating figs. Despite Captain Yue’s best efforts, they weren’t yet sure whether it was Maryam’s memory of eating figs being used or local aether taint.
“Too late,” Hooks smugly said.
Song’s eyes lingered on the husk instead of snipping back. Maryam could guess what she was thinking about. Towards the end of the time in Asphodel and even for some weeks after Song had not needed to purge even once, but that reprieve had ended all too soon. Now they were back to purging every week, and when Song looked at that shriveled fig she must be wondering how easily her own flesh might come to look the same. Hooks’ presence slid against her mind and she traced the thought on the veil, her sister’s mood sobering instantly.
A touch of gloom came upon the three of them, but distraction came in the form of the cottage’s front door being opened. There was the sound of boots being cleaned on the threshold and then Tristan Abrascal cleared his throat.
“All right, who has been bullying Sakkas? He looks fit to weep, the poor thing.”
“The poor thing tried to eat your omelet,” Song called back. “And if you keep letting him into the house, next time I will let him.”
Maryam traded a look with her sister at the obvious lie. Tristan padded in a heartbeat later, looking similarly skeptical.
“If you’d threatened to cease feeding me I might have bought it, but to reward him instead? Try again.”
Tristan had, to Maryam’s mild anguish, left the last of the rawboned skinniness he’d had when they first met behind. He looked hale now, and had even put some muscle on his frame. Yet the marks of the night he had almost turned into a Saint were still there when one cared to look – that golden stripe in his hair that you could swear was metal in a certain light, the slightly ridged nails it had taken him months to grow back. He always wore a hat over the dark curls now, usually his tricorn, and there were faint flecks of gold in his gray eyes.
Like her, he’d come close that night to crossing a line that could not be uncrossed.
“I will hold back on that threat until I have secured the pantry with a lock you cannot pick,” Song said, then hummed. “I have made inquiries on the matter with the Umuthi Society.”
“You can just say Izel,” Hooks opined. “We all know what you mean.”
Joining them in the kitchen in the cheap clothes that had become his gardening set, Tristan spared their captain an insolent grin before sliding into the seat next to them.
“Maryam,” he greeted. “Princess.”
She smiled back through a mouthful of omelet, which as always Song had seasoned just right. Where had she learned such dark magics? Hooks entirely withdrew from the veil when Tristan called her Princess, which had Maryam tracing mockery. Her sister did not reply, as they both knew from experience that while tracing an answer she would likely bleed through the thrill she got every time he called her that.
The nickname he’d immediately picked when Maryam asked the Thirteenth to stop calling Hooks by that name where someone might overhead always got a reaction out of her. Hooks insisted it was an old remnant of Maryam’s causing it, but the odds on that being true were getting lower by the week.
They had, strategically, chosen not to address the matter any further than that.
To avoid glancing at the forearm bared by Tristan’s rolled-up sleeves, Maryam stole a pepper out of the plate Song had slid in front of him and avoided his half-hearted attempt to steal it back. She popped it in her mouth, wincing at the burn. Sacromontans might not take their spices as strong as Tianxi or Someshwari, but they still liked their peppers more than anyone should.
“Justice is served,” Tristan said righteously.
“You can bicker when you’re done,” Song told them. “I told Angharad we would meet them at seven sharp, we’ve only so much time to spare.”
Her gaze lingered on Tristan as she finished. He swallowed a mouthful of omelet, undaunted by the heavy gaze. He could still be prickly with Song, at times, but Maryam sometimes feared that these days those two might be getting along with each other better than they did with her. An ugly thought, all the more so for the way it kept creeping back in the corner of her mind every time she cast it out.
“Yes, I will wash before changing into the formal uniform,” Tristan finally sighed. “Though I don’t know why you make such a fuss about it – it’s only the general graduation ceremony. All the fancy parties will be put on by individual covenants.”
He leaned in.
“Unless, of course, you know something I don’t.”
Song’s brow rose.
“Always,” she said. “But in this case, all I have to go on is an insinuation by Colonel Cao that having that ceremony happen inside Scholomance is not a symbolic gesture.”
Maryam shared rolled eyes with her sister at the way Song spoke Chunhua Cao’s name. The ‘Unluckies’ were in the colonel’s good books, mostly because of what they had done on Asphodel, which unfortunately had Song even keener on her than before. Maryam herself was of the opinion that the teacher for the Stripe students was a petty tyrant with troublesome whims, but that was an opinion best kept to herself around her captain.
She’d learned that the hard way.
“There has to be a practical reason we attend classes inside the school,” Maryam said, slipping back into the conversation. “If this was only about exposing us to an aether well to harden our souls, then being around Port Allazei ought to be enough.”
“Wouldn’t that be a treat,” Tristan darkly said.
It was telling that, by the year’s final count, more students had died at Scholomance than out there in Vesper taking their yearly test - and by a significant margin. Though it was a closer count if you removed the students the Thirteenth had killed, apparently. Song had embarrassedly confessed one night that the Stripes were running a ‘cause of death’ tally and ‘Unluckies’ was the fourth entry on the list.
“I could have a look in the Cauldron for answers,” Hooks idly suggested. “Can’t be the first time something like this happens.”
Or not so idly, Maryam frowned as she realized her sister was still keeping her finger off the veil. Tristan and Song shared a look, the thief shoveling the rest of his omelet into his gullet in a fascinatingly gruesome spectacle while Song suddenly found she had plates to put away in the cupboards. Maryam turned to glare at Hooks, interrupted only by Tristan clapping her shoulder before absconding with the mint brew that Song had put out for him.
“I’ll finish it upstairs,” he said when she glanced at the mug. “I enjoy it best with the view.”
Maryam spared an apologetic half-smile for him before she met her sister’s eyes. Hooks was picking at the red lace of her sleeve, but did not look all that abashed. Song was making just enough noise in the kitchen to give them both the illusion of not being listened to, so Maryam finally spoke.
“Captain Yue told us not to attempt that on our own.”
“Yue doesn’t know everything,” Hooks muttered. “I don’t care what she says, the knowledge is part of me. I just need to-”
“No,” Maryam hissed. “We only just got our footing back. If she’s right and going fishing in the Cauldron destabilizes our Grasp and Command-”
“I held off on asking until we passed the Akelarre examination, didn’t I?” Hooks said. “It’ll be months before classes begin again, it’s not like there’s anything urgent even if something does go wrong.”
“It might stop me undergoing obscuration,” Maryam said. “I want the fevers gone.”
“You haven’t even decided on what you’ll obscure,” Hooks scorned. “Am I just to wait until you-”
“Yes,” she harshly said.
“Nemoj me jebat,” her sister snarled.
“Don’t you fuck with me,” Maryam snarled back.
Hooks slapped her hand on the veil, both of them wincing for it, and disappeared back into Maryam’s shadow. She might as well slam the door while at it, the fucking brat. The signifier looked down at the last of her tea, still warm, and Song continued to pretend she was putting away things for a solid thirty seconds in what Maryam could only call an act of mercy. She drained the last of her cup, setting it down before passing a hand through her hair.
“You have sisters, right?” she asked.
Song sighed, then came to the table as she undid the laces on her apron.
“Two,” she said. “Younger, by three and five years.”
“Did you get along with them?”
Methodically, Song wiped and folded her apron. Twice, for a crease dare appear on the first go of it.
“Sometimes,” Song said, then cleared her throat. “Sometimes less. Aihan used to take my slippers without asking.”
Maryam blinked.
“Your shoes?”
Song snorted.
“Not exactly,” she said. “They’re called xiuhuaxie, cloth slippers with embroidery on. I had this beautiful pair with a peach blossom pattern that our father gave me as congratulations after I got my contract. She kept stealing them out of my room, said they went perfectly with her favorite hanfu and I shouldn’t mind her borrowing them anyway.”
“And you let her?” Maryam asked, fascinated.
It did not sound at all like the Song she knew, to allow something like those – even less more than once.
“Gods, no,” Song laughed. “I threw her all her favorite hairpins in a pond, though Mother made me fish them out afterwards.”
The other woman paused.
“She never stopped, though, no matter what I did,” Song said. “Looking back, I think she just wanted me to pay her attention. Our brothers never did, and she thought of our youngest sister as a baby even though they are closer in age.”
Maryam eyed the empty space where Hooks had just been.
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here,” she muttered.
“Neither do I,” Song replied. “But I must admit that I’ve snarled a few things at my sisters in just the tone she used. It comes with the territory, I think.”
It wasn’t the same, Maryam thought. Song hadn’t shared a body with her sisters or needed them to do the one thing she was supposed to be good at. Hooks might be chafing but so was she. Choices didn’t end when you made them, Maryam was learning. They stayed with you afterwards, waited for you outside the door every morning asking to be made again and again while you slowly grew sick of it. But there was nothing to be gained out of chasing that rabbit into the burrows, so instead Maryam thanked her friend and finished the last of her plate. No point in heading out hungry.
“If you want to thank me,” Song replied, “get that mug back from Tristan. We do not have enough for him to keep hoarding them.”
“We could buy more,” Maryam pointed out.
Song eyed her flatly.
“How much do you owe in debt at the moment?”
“No hoarding, I agree,” she hastily replied, rising to her feet.
Evander Palliades’ princely gift, while worth so much as to be nearly priceless, had brought forth a veritable parade of prices nonetheless. The first had been paying for a pilot and crew to bring it to Port Allazei, since she could not. Watch had been willing to do so, for a fee that while still significant was lowered to something more reasonable by allowing the Umuthi Society to study the skimmer thoroughly.
But then when it had gotten here, Maryam learned that keeping a ship at the port would mean paying weekly docking fees to the Tolomontera garrison and that even a largely brand new ship cost a surprising amount in upkeep. It had to be kept clean, kept working.
So the debts had begun stacking up.
She’d had help. Song paid her a stipend from brigade funds for the right to use the ship as storage, Tristan had loaned to her without interest to keep her head above the water and Izel Coyac had agreed to tinker with the insides of the skimmer for the pure pleasure of it. The latter, in particular, had saved her a fortune since the Tolomontera garrison required a regular inspection of the aether engine by a qualified Umuthi to ensure it wouldn’t suddenly blow up in the middle of the docks.
Which was entirely fair, she must concede, but Maryam had looked into what the fees for such inspections might be and the numbers were… steep. That expertise was always in short thrift and hers was not a strong negotiating position. Every month she did not end up eating table scraps to avoid going to debtor’s prison warmed her a little more to the continued existence of Izel Coyac, so by the end of the decade those feelings might even qualify as lukewarm.
Once back in her room she took the time to dress up properly, eyeing the freshly polished gleam of the buttons on her formal uniform with satisfaction. The cloak she wore over it was the same Tristan had once stolen for her, which she wore so habitually that Song had hinted she would refuse to let her wear it at the ceremony unless it was freshly washed. So it was, and even dried outside so it would not smell faintly of dust as most things dried in the cottage still did.
With even her boots freshly waxed, Maryam fancied she cut a fine figure. She would not mind a lace collar and pearls as her sister had put on, but sadly these were rather out of reach until her finances ceased drowning.
I’ll be cleared to sail it soon, she reminded herself. Professor Sibiya, who as the Seafaring teacher had been charged with judging if Maryam was fit to use a skimmer, had said as much last week. Once Maryam could sail her ship then she could take on supply runs for the garrison, which given her cargo size would be lucrative enough that in a few months she would clear her debt entirely. Well, slightly more than that if she paid her ‘crew’, which she probably ought.
By the time she was done checking her clothes Tristan was down in the hall, hair slightly wet and his otherwise pristine formal uniform inexplicably rumpled. He had his empty mug in hand, all too obviously visible, and not for the first time she wondered how good the acoustics up in his stargazing tower truly were.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
“How are we on time?”
“Only a quarter hour ahead of schedule, so Song will be getting antsy,” he drawled.
“If you are not half an hour early, Tristan, you are running late,” she solemnly chided him.
The traded grins and went for the stairs, finding a deeply unimpressed Song Ren staring at them from the bottom. She had evidently heard all that.
“I apologize for nothing,” Tristan immediately said.
“No matter,” Song Ren pleasantly smiled. “For I assure you that in the end you will be sorry.”
Song’s ability to make her petty revenge serve the interest of the Thirteenth enough that they couldn’t be wiggled out of was sufficiently fearsome that Maryam chose not to react, lest her participation be remembered. Alas, with the way those silver eyes dipped to her she was still on the list. It was only wise to hurry out of the cottage after that, towards distractions that might make their captain forget about that but most definitely wouldn’t.
It was a pleasure to walk the garden, these days.
The once-overgrown grounds had been settled over the months since their return from Asphodel, taking what might well be their final shape. There were only a few flowerbeds and trees left, for much of the land had been turned into neat plots of carrots, cucumbers and tomatoes – all zealously protected from any encroachment by the ever-vigilant Sakkas.
Tristan’s fixation, these, and to Maryam’s disbelief he’d had two harvests of the carrots and cucumbers already. The vegetables tasted a little strange, but they were not poisonous or touched by Gloam. The rest of the grounds had been dedicated to a practice range, the old stretch of death earth put to use shooting at scarecrows or training with blades.
The three of them strode into the depths of the great stacked edifice atop which the cottage was nestled, descending through convoluted passages and narrow stairs. These they had not touched, but the entrance courtyard at the bottom had been worked on some. They’d cleared of the spilled stones the Thirteenth had been forced to use instead of stairs, for one. The slope had been replaced by piled wooden crates weighed down by putting some of those removed stones inside, which while creaky were a lot less likely to get one of them killed after it rained.
Despite Maryam’s best efforts, she had not been able to make a rope-rail work.
Spilling out onto the vine-strewn streets of Port Allazei, they headed east under the green light of the Grand Orrery’s false stars. Maryam reached out with her nav and Hooks mulishly agreed to the use, letting her taste the concept of ‘growth’ tainting the light. It was invigorating to them both, like a spray of cool spring water on the face.
Barely ten minutes passed before they reached Arsay Avenue, the road that cut through most of the city and led straight into the belly of Scholomance, but instead of heading north towards the school they turned south. There waited a fortified house, a ruin since turned into a defensible outpost by a wooden palisade and adeptly placed planks.
The Arsay roadhouse was crowded even at this early hour of the morning, over an hour before graduation ceremony – as a fortified halt before the last third or so of the way to Scholomance, it had become a staple with the students. It had been built by the First Brigade, winning them much praise, though they did not run or maintain it.
Half dozen cabals milled about the street before the roadhouse and likely more inside, but Song strode directly to the headless statue of some ancient king of Sologuer someone had put up by the palisade gate – the designated meeting place, Maryam presumed. And another part of the Thirteenth waited there for them, having evidently gotten an early start – as well she should, having slept in town instead of at the cottage. It was a significant walk.
“Song!” Angharad called out. “Over here.”
While it was still occasionally a surprise for Maryam that she felt anything but mute resentment at the sight of Angharad Tredegar, the faint touch of envy at her looks was nothing new. The Pereduri had grown even taller over the last few months, inching her way closer to six feet, but lost none of her curves or lean muscle in doing so. Her formal uniform looked tailored, because it was, and though she wore no jewelry the fine saber at her side was worth more than most such pieces would. Maryam returned the greeting along with the others, then cleared her throat.
“Where’s Coyac?”
“He went inside to speak with the Thirty-First,” Angharad replied. “I expect he will be-”
She was interrupted by the Izcalli in question walking out of the roadhouse, catching sight of them and making his way with long strides. Izel Coyac was still taller than Angharad, but you would never guess it from looking at him – there was a slouch to him, like he was reluctant to stand straight. The tinker’s hair was shaved down a stubble, and though his brown eyes were set in a face made soft by the pounds he’d accrued he had strong and muscled arms. Maryam would have known that just seeing them even if she had not once seen him cave a lemure’s skull in with a single stroke of his mace.
“A good morning to all,” Izel cheerfully greeted them.
He got back mostly the same courtesy, though Maryam only grunted back. He’d been pleasant company even when planning to sell Tristan like cattle, his gregariousness won him no favor with her.
“I’ve finished my trade with Rong,” the tinker said. “I am read to set out when you are.”
It was interesting, the way Angharad went blank at the mention of the Thirty-First Brigade’s tinker. The Tianxi in question was not the source of the discomfort, she was sure. Ferranda Villazur’s brigade had once been a cabal that Angharad intended to leave the Thirteenth for, but these days she avoided the Thirty-First whenever she could – a tricky affair, considering one of its members was still part of her Skiritai fighting crew.
“Trading parts again?” Maryam asked.
“Selling, this time,” Izel replied. “I am saving up for an undertaking of my own.”
Song leaned in.
“Anything I should be concerned about?”
“I have yet to even finish the model sketches,” he replied. “Concern would be premature.”
“I don’t know about that,” Tristan drawled. “Last time we used a Coyac original, we punched into a prison layer full of evil corpses.”
Maryam would not personally rate the corpses as all that evil, only the god riding them, but it was admittedly catchier when said his way.
“And the punching through worked perfectly,” Izel defensively replied. “I take no responsibility for the corpses!”
That last part came out a little too loudly, earning him wary looks from some of the students around them, and Maryam suppressed a smile. Tristan had been baiting him, which by the irritated look on the large tinker’s face he had just realized.
“Now I’m going to be taken aside by the professors when I next pass by the workshop,” Izel mourned. “What corpses are you avoiding responsibility for, Izel? You know you can tell us anything my boy, we are only worried for you.”
“It is important to take responsibility for one’s corpses,” Angharad gravely said, an amused glint to her eyes. “I too would be concerned, my friend.”
“If you want to make fun of him, you can do it while walking,” their captain cut in. “On the road, you lot.”
They set out, mood rather fine. The morning was quiet and the light of the green star had a refreshing bite to it. It was not a long walk to Scholomance from here if you stayed on Arsay Avenue. When the Thirteenth set out another pair of brigades followed in their wake, as was the informal habit in these parts – there was safety in numbers.
The Watch had done much to cull the lemures along the busiest parts of Port Allazei, but they were still years away from having cleared the entire city. It was a regular occurrence for beasts to attack lone brigades when they traveled down the avenue, especially this stretch of the road. Patrols were less common out here, for almost no one lived so deep in the city.
There was not so much as a shade following them this morning, though. The garrison must have been heavy-handed with patrols last night, possibly because a student dying on the way to their own graduation ceremony would reflect badly on the watchmen running the port.
Scholomance’s looming shape swallowed up ever more of the sky as they approached, the ruins and roads thinning until they were walking across cobblestone-touched grass, and it was barely seven twenty by the time they reached the dead canal that separated the grounds of the school from the rest of the city. The two bridges crossing that span were guarded by a handful of blackcloaks lounging under worn bronze statues who watched them approach with open disinterest, waving them through without a word. They were here to drive off lemures, nothing else.
They took the bridge and as Maryam looked up she found that even after the better part of a year studying within its halls Scholomance still stole her breath away.
It was like nothing else she’d ever seen: not a city or single crafted miracle but almost like a township of wonders. The great entrance hall of pale gray stone with its tile dome and stained glass was but a part of it. To the west – at least today - was a great sphere of glass, while to the east stretched a great roofless spire spearing at the clouds. Half-hidden walkways of wrought iron spread between towers, rivers of scarlet flowers dripped down walls and window-mirrors reflected themselves into secret paths.
It was a living thing, Scholomance – god and building all at once. Always moving and scheming and remaking itself. You could almost feel the breath of the great hulking beast in the aether if you cared to look for it, and Maryam felt for it through her nav without much thought, like someone looking at a dog through a fence, and- and she choked on her breath, almost blown off her feet. Hands held her up, Angharad and Tristan, while she hastily withdrew her nav into herself.
Hooks traced surprise and fear on their veil, having felt the same things she did.
“-yam?” Tristan said. “What happened?”
“Living Gods,” Maryam croaked out. “The aether…”
She struggled for a moment.
“Scholomance is sucking it in,” she said. “Like it’s drinking down the entire aether well. It was like standing at the edge of a whirlpool.”
“Is it acting against us?” Angharad quietly asked.
“It’s…”
“Swelling.”
They all turned to Song, who was staring at the hulking school in horror.
“The god inhabiting Scholomance,” their captain said. “It’s everywhere – not just strands in the walls, it looks as if the entire grounds are covered in vines.”
“And they want us to go inside?” Izel asked, sounding uncertain.
Maryam thanked the two for helping her with a nod, slipping out of their embrace and adjusting her collar.
“No god can continue doing that for long,” Maryam told them. “It would kill itself, like those little gods on Asphodel who rose and faded by overfeeding on aether until they lost cohesion.”
“So it must be waiting for something,” Angharad slowly said.
She grimly nodded.
“I’m starting to think,” Tristan said with forced nonchalance, “that the use of the word ceremony in ‘graduation ceremony’ might not be in the sense I had assumed.”
“Well,” Song calmly said, “we had been wondering about why graduation was to take place on school grounds. Now is as good a time as any to find out.”
Maryam almost spat to the side, into the dead canal.
“Well,” she said, “let me put it this way – considering what Song and I are seeing, do any of us want to risk being late?”
That put an end to any quibbling, and so into the belly of the beast they went.
Comments
Pteromys Momonga
It would be fun if Maryam writes to her mentor, Totec the Feathered, for advice on Hooks and the Cauldron. Apparently he knows more about Izvoric Craft than anyone else in the Guild, and it would fulfill Wen's musings in the epilogue of Book Two if Totec actually showed up.
Jude Davidge
It would be awesome if Tristan started selling/giving lucky fingernails to build a cult for Fortuna
Joseph
I would pay to see Yue and the other Akelarre ’s reaction and initial tests to the Maryam news. I also wanted to see how the others would initially mesh with Izel but they would already have a dynamic by now.
Jecherio
Having recently read the OG scholomance books, i think its going to get pretty interesting.
Brendan Murphy
"Tristan had, to Maryam’s mild anguish, left the last of the rawboned skinniness he’d had when they first met behind. He looked hale now, and had even put some muscle on his frame." Twink death is so sad
Lena
They might also be counting any students who died on Asphodel as the Thirteenth's fault because they heard all the rumors and we know how rumors get warped.
Christopher Rauen
I appreciate the plot moving forward but am a little bit disappointed that we don't get to see everyone's reactions when they first got back to scholomance. I really wanted to see them get back and explain how their test went to someone like Zenzelle: "Pluses, Maryam saved her sister's soul, killed a rampant god, and now owns a skimmer, Song got laid, Tristan dyes his hair now, and Angharad killed her fear. Minuses, Tupoc did not die."
Andrew Duan
Lemures, classes and the school itself I guess
Aguido Horatio Davis
Months, hey. Months since Asphodel. What would the first three causes of death be on the leaderboard?
Runaway_Cactuar
I can totally see Song say, "You dare?!?" to a single crease on a slightly misfolded apron.
ppbrro
Hahaha now im picturing those corny "what happened with them" cards. "Tristan managed to destroy 5 other ancient wonders by the time he graduated"
Joseph
At first I thought that all the years at scholomance were skipped and we were just seeing the end ceremony but the graduation is a yearly thing phew, This chapter is funny to me. It seems s we are returning or ending a season of a teen show with all the usual jokes and they are getting ready to triumphantly face whatever, a far cry from the tension we have been seeing in the heads of the characters for the past weeks.
Mark W
400 or so, they're divided into batches of 100 for mandatory classes. Still, if you put lemurs, the scholomance god, and death by classwork as the top three, the 13th being fourth with six kills to its name fits. There's also a lot of wash outs, crippled, or kicked outs. And if you divide monsters into subtypes, either by method of attack (ambush while outside vs. Picked a fight intentionally that went bad) it's easy to see a single cause of death with 6 kills is pretty impressive. Even before you remember they killed a shitload more non-students.
Jacob Ogundare
That's a funny play on words
Notcreepycreeper
Maaaan. Now i got to wait a week to learn how the Watch feeds the wjole class to the haunted castle??
Notcreepycreeper
I assume Scholomace itself is the first leading cause of death. But probably no other single entity killed more than 4 students
Arlen
how many students were at scholomance in the first place? 100 or so? now imagine the 13 being responsible for 6 dead students. so even if the other 3 places have each just one more, wed be looking at 30% casualty rate. and this does not include people being so injured that they cant work anymore or some such. nor does it include other forms of dead students.
celerity
"the faint touch of envy at her looks was nothing new. The Pereduri had [...] lost none of her curves or lean muscle" Envy is an unremarkable response to looking at a handsome fellow guildswoman. I expect this feeling will fade in time with no further complications.
Joe Rachman
More lore on Signifying incoming it seems. I wonder what Maryam will obscure next?
Emmet Mackle
They might also be counting Tozi and Kiran back on Asphodel
Clément Lanteigne
I don't get how that would be. They only led four students to their death on Tolomontera, Song's ambushers, no? Or did they cull a few more Library-bribed brigades in the months spent off-pages?
Hollow35
The thirteenth being the 4th leading cause of death is hilarious to me
PoiDess
Good to know Tristan has gone full on Rune Factory on us, loving the domesticity. I hope he has a secret herb garden where he grows spices and poisons so he saves costs vs buying poison supplies from Hage
joie01
happy happy chapter 1. nice warm feelings. surely itll be a quiet year for the unluckies :)
Jakob
Thanks for the chapter!
