NINE GATES

The peephole on the door to Tisiphone’s cell shuttered closed, and she waited for the uneven footsteps of Sister Janus to fade into the distance before she sat up. She had some time before the old nun would return to ensure she was asleep..

She nursed her bruised hands, holding them close to herself. Without checking she knew the black and blue welts continued up her arms and along her ribs, marring her body with no rhyme or reason, just senseless cruelty. The punishment was frequent, and so over the years she had developed a routine to mitigate pain as much as possible. She slid down to the foot of her cot, to where a thick pipe traveled up from the chipped tile floor to the dingy ceiling, and pressed the backs of her hands against it. She wasn’t sure what pumped through it, but she’d read in a book once that cold was a good remedy for swelling, and it was cold enough year ‘round to serve as a makeshift ice pack.

The flickering candlelight made her injuries look much worse than they were. She remembered her first punishment–when she was much younger, and mistook the bruises for something far worse. The fear that she was going to die kept her up, but she didn’t dare make a sound in the event someone heard. Even as such a young girl she knew that being caught breaking curfew would only make things worse.

The cold soothed the pain, and when she could flex her fingers freely again she slid them between her thin mattress and the cot’s wooden frame. There was a part of her that was afraid to try, a part of her that just wanted to lay her head down against her pillow and accept whatever the next day held in store for her, but she pushed that part of her as deep down as she could. She didn’t have the luxury to hesitate. Hermia was waiting for her, after all.

She did her best to fashion a convincing dummy from her pillows and sheets before proceeding. It wouldn’t do if Sister Janus realized she’d escaped from her room before she’d successfully gotten away.

When she was satisfied with the human-shaped lump under her blankets, she slid a book (The Comprehensive History of God’s Empire, Fifth Edition) off the overhead shelf and flipped through it until she found the compartment carved into the middle hundred pages. In it, she had hidden a single phalanx bone. She was forbidden from bringing bones into her room, probably because they expected she’d do exactly what she intended to do with them.

She approached the door and shut her eyes to listen. The pipes creaked and hissed, and in the distance she thought she could hear Mother and Father speaking. She waited, but they never grew closer nor further away, and so she cautiously slid the peephole open and dropped the phalanx bone through.

Anatomy was one of her worst subjects, much to the disappointment of the Mother and Father Confessors–and to Proctor Aedgar, who likely enjoyed teaching her the arts of life and death as much as she enjoyed being his student. She was aware that the radius and ulna made up the forearm, and from there attached to both the humerus and the many complicated carpal bones, but she struggled to see it in her mind, which made what came next the most difficult part of the plan.

She shut her eyes again, silently cursing the fact that the door lacked a lock to pick, and reached out with her mind. The phalanx bone was there, a sickly green flame in an inky void waiting to be shaped to her desires. For weeks she had painstakingly studied the structure of a human arm, all for this exact moment. She instilled her will into the bone, shaping its makeup like clay to match the form and function she wished it to have.

The deadbolt on the outside of the door slid open, and the door came ajar. In the vaulted hallway outside, the product of her shoddy craftsmanship awaited her. It was a skeletal arm, crooked and malformed and stemming from a disembodied shoulder socket attached to a wide base of bone. It held its pose as still as a statue, its three-fingered hand hanging in a manner most mantis-like. It wouldn’t do to have the tool of her escape so obviously situated in the center of the hall, and so with a glance the arm began to crumble into a pile of bonemeal, which she haphazardly scattered along the hallway.

The stone-hewn hall carried the voices of Mother and Father well–were there any other way to go, it would’ve been difficult to tell where they were. Tisiphone crept down the hall, timing her movements with the creaking and hissing of the pipes in the walls. The closer she got to the grand archway of the study, where the fireplace cast the silhouettes of its inhabitants on the far wall of the corridor, the better she could make out what they were saying.

“She’s practically a woman as it stands, yet she struggles with the tasks of an adept half her age,” the Father Confessor spat.

“You’re much too harsh on her,” the Mother Confessor replied with little fight in her tone. It was a token defense, one she’d quickly abandon the moment she received pushback–just as she always did.

Tisiphone didn’t bother to peek around the corner at them, she could picture the scene perfectly; Mother still in her ceremonial dress adorned with bones, standing sheepishly next to Father’s desk; Father running his hands through his dwindling hair, scowling at the mere thought of his daughter. Tisiphone scanned the hall for a way to pass by undetected, knowing that the longer she spent there the higher the risk she’d bump into Sister Janus on her nightly rounds.

“You know as well as I do what all we did to see that thing into this world. And to what end?” Father’s silhouette gestured emphatically, though it was unclear at what, “She lacks the means to even give a sermon. What will the House of Lament have when you and I are gone?”

As Tisiphone expected, Mother’s answer never came, she simply changed the subject to something less challenging. Tisiphone had no illusions about her parents; their affection was bought with merit and skill she simply didn’t have. She wondered how they’d react when they discovered she was missing. Would they be relieved? Would they be dumbfounded that their useless secondborn managed to escape?

She finally saw Father’s shadow turn towards the fire, and she quickly passed to the other side of the hall to continue on her way. It was trivial to escape out the door into the cloister, where scant moonlight passed through the mouth of the cavern far above to illuminate the space. The halls there were much more rough than the private quarters of the Mother and Father, though adorned with idols of Saints fashioned from the bones of the clergy’s best to make up for it.

In the day the Monastery was just as dark, the only real difference was the hour and the number of people around. For Tisiphone, however, there may as well have been no one at all. The few acolytes her age had always ridiculed and ostracized her, following in the footsteps of the Father and Mother Confessors’ example in a way only children could–not that they ever really grew out of it. Were it not for Hermia, she might have thrown herself off one of the Monastery’s spires by now.

To let herself die here, she realized, was to lose. The Monastery had been her world since the day she was born, but she knew from the sermons of the Mother and Father that outside of that dreary cavern there was a sky and a sun. Lesser confessors came and went as they were needed, conducting their great work out in the lands of the Empire as God’s shadow, but if Mother and Father had their way, her life would be a walking death. She would be locked away in this tomb until the day she finally laid down for good, and even that wasn’t a guarantee of rest-

…The sound of footsteps echoed down the cloister. In the distance, the cave walls were bathed in the light of an approaching lantern. Tisiphone vaulted through a nearby arched window into the garden the cloister surrounded, flattening herself against the grass as closely as she could. She recognized Sister Janus’ uneven gait as it drew nearer, slowing to a stop far too close for comfort. Tisiphone didn’t dare breathe, lest the half-deaf old assassin come to her senses and spy her hiding spot. The number of beatings she’d suffered at the hands of that wrathful nun were far too many to count.

A moment passed. Tisiphone was certain she’d been caught. Why else would the old nun be stopped for so long? Every inch of her body itched to make a break for it, to run and hide before the alarm could be raised, but she held fast against the panic. It wasn’t over until Janus actually saw her.

A second moment passed.

Then another. Tisiphone’s lungs were beginning to feel deprived.

Another still. She contemplated jumping up and killing her–she never would of course, even if she hated that geriatric nightmare more than anything.

The lantern swayed, creaking in Janus’ gnarled hand. She finally turned, hobbling into the High Confessors’ quarters to go check on Tisiphone’s room.

When she was certain the old bat wouldn’t notice, Tisiphone sprang up and sprinted across the garden. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she jumped, catching onto the outer wall of the cloister opposite the way she came. There was actual brickwork here, where the old builders ran out of level stone to carve from the cave walls. The architecture was ornate, with shallow ledges one could grasp and pull themselves up from if they had the grip strength. It was dark, but Tisiphone’s eyes had adjusted just well enough that she could see where she needed to put her hands. She moved carefully, yet quickly; she couldn’t risk anyone catching her in the act.

She passed the windows on the second level, cautious not to put herself out in front of them lest an old priest have a heart attack during his midnight reading, and came upon the roof. It was just shallow enough of an incline that one could stand upon it without the risk of slipping off. She took care to stagger her footsteps to make them as natural as possible as she made her way to the refectory.

It was a large building which branched off from the cloister, too sheer a wall for even her to scale. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. Someone was waiting for her there already.

“You made it,” whispered Hermia, who had been lying in the crook between the cloister’s roof and the wall of the refectory. She rose to her feet and took Tisiphone’s hands.

“Did Sister Janus give you any trouble?”

Tisiphone shook her head, a smile pulling at her lips. She knelt down, lifting a loose shingle to reveal a bag hidden below.

Hermia peered over her shoulder, her long white braid falling down to dangle into Tisiphone’s vision. It had been done up like their mother’s hair for years now, which perplexed Tisiphone to no end. She never thought to ask her sister why. She didn’t really care at the end of the day, so long as Hermia was happy. Ever since they were children, she was the only one there who treated Tisiphone like a person, even when she didn’t need to. Hermia was meant to be the heir, she was the one their parents wanted, but Tisiphone was what they got instead.

“Will that be enough for the trip?” Hermia asked.

Tisiphone shrugged. She’d been squirreling away cans of food stolen from the refectory’s kitchen for months, stealing one each time to ensure no one ever got too suspicious of where it was all going. If it wasn’t enough she’d be surprised. She lugged the bag out of the hole and replaced the shingle, before descending to the edge of the roof.

It was easier to climb down than up, and her boots hit the ground with a soft thud. In the distance, out on a ledge before a deep chasm, was the Monastery’s landing pad. A solitary craft occupied it; a six-legged beast of metal, almost waspish in nature, which sailed on opalescent glass wings. It was split into two distinct sections; the slim front section where the pilot sat, and the large, almost barrel-shaped rear section where cargo was stored. It was a courier shuttle, one which came once a month to deliver and pick up mail. It always arrived on the first Friday, and was gone the morning after. Without knowing the exact time of its departure, it was difficult to plan, but after much insistent probing months prior, Proctor Aedgar finally caved and told Tisiphone it left in the small hours of the morning, just before the sun rose on the surface.

Bless him, Aedgar finally taught her something that stuck.

Close up, the shuttle was easily the size of one of the Monastery’s smaller buildings–large enough that one could comfortably live in it for a few weeks, if they had the supplies and need to. A ramp led up to the open hatch of the cargo section, though for how long it would remain open, Tisiphone didn’t know.

She peaked around the container, where she spied a man in a bulky jumpsuit reading off a clipboard. He seemed too busy to notice her, and so she made her way up the ramp.

It was dark inside besides the dim gloom which spilled in from the entrance, which suited Tisiphone just fine. She quickly found a space behind two large boxes to hide away in, and Hermia soon joined her in her clandestine huddling.

The shuttle shifted, and with a hissing sound the light from outside slowly receded until the cargo bay was plunged into total darkness. The room began to rumble as what must have been the sails wailed to life outside, howling a haunting ethereal song as they cut upon the fabric of reality. Tisiphone felt a sudden weight pressing her downwards, accompanied by an uncomfortable rumbling which made her confidence crumble; she had never been on a skypiercer before, but she was positive the craft was going to fall out of the sky and tumble down the chasm. She looked around in panic, taking shaky breaths as she searched for something to hold onto.

As if answering her need, Hermia placed a hand upon hers. “It’s okay, Tis. Breathe,” she whispered soothingly.

Tisiphone swallowed hard. She didn’t know what she expected from a skypiercer, but it wasn’t this.

“Do you remember when we were kids, when Delvin Kane kept pulling your hair when you were trying to read, and so we put cave centipedes in his bed?” Hermia asked softly, “How he showed up for the sermon the next day covered in little red bumps?”

He never bothered her again after that, and most of the other children learned to leave her alone rather than pick on her. She certainly preferred being a pariah to being an object of ridicule. She nodded softly.

It dawned on her that the shaking subsided. She let out a sigh of relief, and she could sense that Hermia was smiling.

She almost wished there were windows for her to peer out. She’d never seen what her world looked like from the outside.

 

—

 

Tisiphone was jolted awake by a heavy kerthunk as the ship’s landing gear locked into place. Hermia was already up, made a deep blue specter by what little light Tisiphone’s eyes could catch. The rear hatch of the cargo bay folded down into a ramp, and against the light she could see over the stacks, she glimpsed the shadows of workers entering to unload the craft.

Tisiphone held her breath and darted around a stack just in time to see her old cover upended by one of the laborers. Though she expected to be caught, the man in drab blue coveralls didn’t lift his tired eyes from the box.

She was baffled, but a thought occurred to her. She had been trying to step softly around assassins her whole life, those who had been plying the trade of Sacred Murder since they were old enough to hold a knife. Many of them were old and retired, certainly, but that hadn’t dulled their senses much. Was it really any wonder average men and women seemed easy to hide from by comparison?

While the workers’ backs were turned, she slipped out of the ship and into a crowded yard of sorts. Really it was more like a vast concrete wasteland, its grey monotony only broken up by the occasional skypiercer or stack of metal boxes lit in a harsh light by tall lampposts. Stars twinkled in the black sky, streaked with red and green like luminescent paint dissolving in water.

Knowing she couldn’t marvel in the open for long, Tisiphone darted into the shadow of a large metal container and scaled it, flattening herself against it so that no one could see her. Rising above the sea of boxes was a large building which reminded her of the grand cathedral where Mother and Father often gave sermons to their flock, though much larger. Countless pipes threaded into it like vines strangling the life out of a great oak, stemming from the depths of the pit which surrounded it. Amber light spilled from a circular window at the building’s peak like the eye of God, and chimneys stretched up towards the sky, belching smoke and flame into the air.

Hermia climbed up the container and came to lay next to her. “The air here can’t be good for us,” she whispered. Tisiphone noted that her lungs tickled, and the thick air was beginning to make her eyes sting.

She followed Hermia through the narrow passages between the containers, careful to avoid being spotted by any of the laborers with their little fork cars and hardhats. As they drew closer to the Pipe Cathedral, the sounds of the shipyard were overtaken by the familiar hissing and creaking of old gasworks. Upon closer inspection it was less like an oak, more like a sickly patient on life support, its steel veins flowing with steam or fluid towards a machine heart which surely must lie within.

They came to a dead end; the shipyard terminated in a sheer drop into the pit from which the pipes rose. Further up the way, the yard connected to the Pipe Cathedral by a bridge, though foot traffic was far too frequent for them to cross without being spotted. A glance over at Hermia suggested she came to the same conclusion, her brow furrowed in thought.

Tisiphone peered over the railing into the pit below. She couldn’t see the bottom through the smog, which made her a bit nervous, but pipes seemed to thread back and forth across the gap further down.

She pulled a length of rope from her bag and tied it around the railing. Hermia gave her a worried look as she scaled down into the chasm, though soon followed her.

Deeper, the smog had cleared enough that Tisiphone could finally see the bottom. Nestled into the jagged rocks were burst pipes, likely destroyed by a rockslide or something similar. There were bodies down there, broken upon the uneven terrain months or years ago, preserved as desiccated husks by whatever those pipes used to transport. They must have been workers, their shriveled remains swaddled in what was left of blue coveralls stained with large splotches of rust.

Tisiphone turned her attention ahead of her, grasping at a pipe which stretched up towards the cathedral. She pushed what lay below out of her mind and traversed the tangle of metal veins with the ease of a spider climbing a web. The workers shouted to each other over the sound of machinery, and each time Tisiphone feared she was spotted, but under the cover of darkness she was practically invisible. She passed between two pipes, rising ever higher to where the smog thinned and she could finally breathe clean air.

The arched roof was far too steep to walk on, and so she began to search for a means of ingress along the decorated walls. She balanced upon angled pipes, occasionally glancing back to ensure Hermia was following her (she always was), though searching for a window was a more involved process than she expected. Unsurprisingly, whichever Great House owned this building didn’t want people breaking into it via the pipes, and they were spaced far away from any potential entry points. If she wanted to get inside, she’d have to be bold. The walls were adorned with the same sorts of decorative ledges she’d grown familiar with in the Monastery, though the stakes were much higher here than back home. If she was careful, or perhaps lucky, she might be able to close the gap.

She steeled herself. The chasm far below seemed to stretch wider, as if anticipating its next victim, but Tisiphone knew it wouldn’t be her or her sister. She leapt, her heart beating in her ears only accompanied by the roaring of the wind, and her outstretched arms found purchase against angled stone. She drew in a sharp breath and pressed her feet against the floral decoration of the building’s lower tier. Remembering Hermia, she climbed to the side and glanced back at her, though the girl looked uneasy.

“I’ll… Just find another way around. I’m not as sure of myself as you are, Tis,” she laughed sheepishly, casting a nervous glance down the chasm, which from here once more looked bottomless.

Tisiphone stretched a hand out for her insistently, but the girl merely shook her head. “No, Tis. I’ll be okay, I promise,” Hermia replied, already scaling back across the pipe. Tisiphone felt a lump form in her throat, but turned back towards the path ahead.

She hugged the wall closely, unable to shake Hermia from her thoughts as she drew closer to an open window. It was only when she heard the scribble of a quill against parchment that she stopped, too close to the window for comfort.

An ill advised peek inside revealed long strawberry blonde hair, curling into waves towards its end. Tisiphone was staring at the back of someone’s head, though the stranger’s attention seemed consumed with whatever it was she was writing, and so Tisiphone started back the way she came to find another window.

“Those ledges are for routing grime and acid rain, not for nuns,” the stranger called from inside, her youthful voice bearing an almost playful lilt to it. Tisiphone froze, hoping that perhaps it was just a coincidence, and that the girl was speaking to someone else. The stranger sighed, “Yes, I mean you. Come in please? We might get a storm later and I’d rather you didn’t break your neck.”

If that was true, Tisiphone hoped Hermia would find safe shelter before then. She begrudgingly sidled back over to the window, where the woman had swiveled around in her seat to greet her with offputtingly blue eyes.

She couldn’t have been much older than Tisiphone, with a strong, round face and a nose like the beak of a bird of prey. In the place of her arms were prosthetics, though unlike the grafted bone-limbs of the Lament they seemed to be fashioned from brass, elegant in shape and function. It wasn’t unheard of for Confessors of the Lament to be heavyset, especially older servants of the cloth, but the strange girl was soft and elegant in a manner Tisiphone only associated with the painted portraits of Great House ladies she sometimes lecherously gawked at when no one was looking.

The nun slipped through the window, and the stranger leveled the barrel of a dueling pistol at her head. “Doesn’t the Lament know it’s bad form to send assassins after those who feed you and deliver your mail?”

Tisiphone was moments from snatching it from the girl when she cracked a smile and set the pistol on the desk, “I’m only joking, it’s not loaded.” She seemed to find that funny enough to chuckle to herself. “I know you’re not here to kill me, runaway.”

Tisiphone must have made a face, because the stranger clarified, “The Father Confessor sent an emergency transmission about an hour ago to inform us that we may have a stowaway from the Monastery. I must say, I was expecting someone scarier looking. I mean you’re about as ghastly as I expected, sure–but when I read that the Lament sport ‘third eyes’ I assumed they’d be actual eyes, not polished stones in the forehead.”

She paused to let Tisiphone respond, and when that response never came she raised an eyebrow.

“…Oh. Oh, I see. Is that a vow of silence?” Tisiphone shook her head. “Natural then,” the girl stowed away the pistol in a drawer and withdrew a notepad.

“I am Proxima 1-5A, a Myriad of the House of Recall and unfortunately frequent visitor to this facility. The Father was rather cagey about your identity, and so I ask: Who are you?”

Tisiphone snatched up Proxima’s quill and wrote her name on the notepad, though left out her titles or family name. The Myriad looked surprised that she could even write.

“Hmm…” She appraised the name written on the page, underlining it twice, “Tisiphone. That’s cute, though something with an H would suit you better.”

Tisiphone didn’t disagree, though the only other name she’d enjoy was Hermia, and that was already taken.

“That’s a name reserved for nobility. Would you happen to belong to the Caedum line?”

The nun’s back straightened, and she gawked at the half-metal girl without confirming nor denying.

A knock came at the door before Proxima could come to the correct conclusion herself. She hissed out an unladylike curse and rolled back in her chair. “Under my desk,” She whispered, and Tisiphone saw no reason to object. She stowed away in the alcove and curled her knees up to her chest, and Proxima pushed back into place after her, effectively trapping her there. The nun’s eyes wandered up to Proxima’s legs (clad in a soft fabric, which hugged her shape so scandalously that even Sister Janus, who had killed more than a hundred men in her time as a Confessor, would drop dead from shock) and remained there.

“Come in,” called Proxima. The door opened, and a single set of footsteps approached the desk. Their gait was far too quiet and stretched for normal human legs, which conjured images of bipedal wolf-men and other groups which the Empire considered abhuman–the Lament amongst them.

“Are the accommodations to your liking this time? I can see to it that the servants bring you a fan or more pillows,” their voice was ravaged by age, masculine in register.

Proxima leaned back in her seat, folding one leg over the other (Tisiphone almost gasped), “Get to the point, Millennium.”

The Millennium cleared their throat, “Apologies ma’am. The workers out in the yard found a length of rope tied from a railing right above one of the pipes that crosses the ravine.”

“Dangerous,” Proxima commented.

“Very,” the Millennium agreed, “We suspect the stowaway may have climbed the pipes into the facility. As baffling as that may seem, I was always told not to rule out the implausible with the death cultists.”

“Noted. Was there anything else?”

The Millennium clicked their heels together, they sounded metal, “Negative. I only wished to warn you in case the stowaway might find her way into your room. Who knows what a Confessor might do when they’re discovered.”

“Oh no, what will I do if a nun with a sword attacks me,” the drawer opened, and the Millennium took a step back.

“I really wish you wouldn’t point that thing at me, my Myriad,” they sighed.

“Oh chin up. It’s empty.”

“Still. Perhaps I ought to inform your father you need another course on firearm safety.”

The pout was audible in Proxima’s voice, “You have no joy in your heart.”

“Affirmative, but there is blood in it, and I would like to keep it there. So for the last time, please don’t point that at someone unless you intend to kill them.” Footsteps retreated back towards the door. “Have a good evening, my Myriad.”

The door clicked open, then shut again. Proxima rolled her chair back, peering down at the nun hiding at her feet. A smile crossed her features, “I wasn’t aware a face could get that flushed. Did something happen under my desk?”

Tisiphone shook her head a bit too vigorously and scrambled to her feet. Outside, the stars seemed to have disappeared from the night sky, which was a bit alarming.

Proxima put her hands on the desk to either side of Tisiphone, trapping her against it. She leaned in, lowering her voice near to a whisper, “Your full name is Tisiphone Caedum, Mother Confessor-in-Waiting. Am I right?”

Proxima clearly meant to harm her, and so the nun pushed off the desk with a growl. One hand grasped for the Myriad’s throat, and the other gripped her tunic. The Myriad’s eyes widened as she suddenly found herself hanging half way through the window over the gaping pit below.

“You nasty little she-wolf!” she squeaked between gasps of air. Her metal arm coiled around Tisiphone’s back, “I’m not going to sell you out, I was trying to flirt with you for fuck’s sake.”

The nun only sort of knew what that meant. She withdrew the hand around the Myriad’s neck, and she scoffed in response, “You could’ve left that one, you prude.”

Water began to fall from the sky, which Tisiphone suspected was the ‘acid rain’ Proxima warned her about, and so she pulled her back inside and shut the window.

“But was I right though?” Proxima asked whilst straightening the tunic, which had been quite wrinkled in Tisiphone’s attack, “About your name, I mean.”

Hesitantly, the nun nodded, and Proxima’s curiosity was satisfied enough for her to disengage and circle the desk, “That would explain the Father’s unwillingness to share your identity. But why leave? I mean, I know why I’d leave that dank little shithole, but I assume an heir to a shithole may still feel some obligation to it.”

Proxima seemed friendly enough, but Tisiphone hardly trusted her. The bruises beneath her clothes were for her and Hermia to know about, no one else. She assertively shook her head, and Proxima rolled her eyes.

“Fine, keep your secrets. Not like it matters to me,” said the Myriad unconvincingly. She meandered through the room. It was a large, wealthy looking space, though an impersonally furnished one, likely lived in for only a few days at a time before its owner moved on to wherever they meant to sleep next. The side Tisiphone stood on seemed to be dedicated to a study, with an unlit fireplace and walls lined with sparsely labeled books and mechanical trinkets. The side Proxima moved to was more of a general living area, with a bed that looked far comfier than the cot in Tisiphone’s cell, and a small table and chair set she suspected might have been for tea or breakfast. Mounted on the wall was a straight sword just over the length of Tisiphone’s forearm.

“Well, I’ve got bad news,” Proxima kicked off her boots and flopped onto her bed, “Besides the essentials, all shipments to and from the shipyard are to be delayed until you’re either captured or it’s determined that you’re no longer at the facility. Anything that must go out will be under heavy scrutiny. Double, no, triple checking every nook and cranny to ensure you aren’t onboard before they depart. Should they even suspect you’re on a courier vessel, it won’t leave. So basically you’re fucked.”

Tisiphone clenched her fists in frustration. Proxima raised a hand and beckoned her closer, and as the nun approached, the Myriad’s face came into view over her chest. “Despite almost killing me, I find you quite charming. And speaking candidly, I really want to see what happens to the Caedum family when their only heir defects. The resulting succession crisis sounds like a delicious bit of history that I would love to chronicle.”

Tisiphone shook her head and put up two fingers.

“You have a sibling back home?” Proxima asked with a tinge of disappointment in her voice. Another shake of the nun’s head left her puzzled. “So what are you talking about then? I doubt the Father would neglect to mention a second stowaway if it was his other heir.”

The nun fetched the notepad from the desk and scribbled a message on it:

‘SISTER IS HERE TOO. NEED HER BEFORE I LEAVE’

Proxima looked unconvinced, “Well if she gets caught she’ll be easy to find. Your fake sister, who is either a bastard child or not even rela-”

Tisiphone was atop her in an instant. Proxima didn’t fight back when the nun struck her in the face, she just drew in a sharp breath and laughed. It was only when Tisiphone reeled back for a second swing that the Myriad reached up to stop her. “Wait- wait, if you leave me too busted up I’ll never be able to convince the Millennium to let you both tag along when we leave. If you really must, punch me in the gut instead, alright?”

Tisiphone’s lip twisted with the realization that Proxima was resistant to physical violence in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She rolled off of her and sat on the far edge of the bed, hot in the ears and incredibly confused.

“God you’re easy to toy with. Press one button and you’re snarling and rabid, press the other and you’re docile as a chick,” the half-metal girl said as she sat up, rubbing at the blossoming bruise on her jaw, “I’d ask you to kiss it to make it feel better, but you’d probably turn inside out at the thought.”

Tisiphone rolled her eyes and turned away. The bed dipped as Proxima moved further down, and she laid her chin on the nun’s shoulder, “I won’t send you or your sister back to the Monastery, but if you want to be free of that place forever you’ll need to trust me. What do you say?”

Nothing, obviously. She cast Proxima a look through a nearby mirror, and the girl’s eyes swiveled to meet her with a callous expression.

“…I’m being courteous. You either need to trust me or they’re going to throw you back into that profane little hovel for what I imagine will be the rest of your life,” she said plainly, “I’m not blind to the fear in your eyes when I mention your father, and I know you’re enough of a smart little rogue to realize that by yourself, your chances are slim.” Tisiphone looked away, but Proxima leaned against her to make her presence unignorable. “Besides, you already laid hands upon me twice now and I still haven’t thrown you out or called my personal guards. Maybe I got something out of it, but that has to count as a token of trust, doesn’t it? Not many people get to say they straddled a Myriad of the Machine.”

Tisiphone clasped a hand against her face and sighed, but nodded. Proxima rose from the bed and tousled the short white hair which framed the nun’s face.

“I’ll be back,” Proxima said, casting one final glance at the nun before disappearing out the door.

Tisiphone fully expected her to return with a contingent of guards prepared to subdue her, and so she pulled the sword off the nearby wall and clutched it against her chest, still safely nestled in its scabbard. The rain pattered against the window, and her thoughts turned to Hermia once more; the rain meant Tisiphone didn’t have a means to escape if Proxima crossed her, but more importantly it meant that if Hermia hadn’t yet found a safe way inside she was likely to be washed down into the pit. She didn’t like thinking about that, and so she clenched her eyes shut to force the image out.

Two sets of footsteps approached from the east. The door opened, revealing a freakishly tall, stooped figure dressed in something like a cross between a military uniform and a robe adorned with brass decoration. They stood on stilt-like metal legs which bent backwards like an animal, and grasped at the doorframe with powerful yet spindly metal arms. None of their limbs reached the artistry of the Myriad’s own; they were utilitarian prosthetics, strictly built for long-term durability and functionality. The figure, who she was beginning to think was the Millennium that Proxima spoke to earlier, seemed to scan her with unnatural, marble-like eyes.

“Don’t be mad. We’re taking her with us,” Proxima asserted, sliding around the Millennium into the room.

“…My Myriad, you wish to bring the Confessor stowaway with us to Daiannkara?” They asked, a frown firmly plastered across their gray-stubbled face.

“There are actually two of them, Daimon,” Proxima corrected.

The Millennium shut the door without ever taking their eyes off of Tisiphone. “And why do you wish to risk a political incident by aiding two runaway death cultists? What if they’re criminals?”

“This one is actually the heir to the House of Lament.”

“You do realize why that’s worse, yes?”

Daimon locked the door and approached Tisiphone with a certain reverence, clearly keeping her station as heir to a Great House in mind. They folded their arms behind their back, and straightened their posture as much as they could manage with their bent spine. They clad their voice in sympathy like one would don a coat, “Why did you leave the Monastery, young lady?”

“She doesn’t speak,” Proxima chimed in, disinterestedly fiddling with the mechanics of her left hand.

Daimon glanced at her, then to Tisiphone again; it did little to abate their curiosity. They looked at her expectantly, and the girl suddenly felt put on the spot. She didn’t want to share, but it seemed they were at an impasse if she was unable to cooperate.

She plucked her gloves off one finger at a time, until the bruises on her hands were revealed for all to see. Proxima didn’t look surprised. Perhaps Daimon only acted sympathetic to placate her at first, but their brow contorted in concern upon seeing the injuries. That concern only grew as she rolled up her sleeves to make the mottled cuts and welts upon her deathly pale skin more apparent.

Daimon let out a disappointed, parental sigh (Tisiphone had heard a similar one quite a bit), and turned to Proxima.

“You have grown into a very kind-hearted young lady, my Myriad,” they said. Proxima, whose actual motivations were less than kind-hearted, simply smiled. “But that is how the Lament conducts themselves, whether I agree with it or not. The workers here will be thoroughly checking our shuttle for intruders, and the consequences of helping to sabotage a Great House are not insignificant,” Daimon lectured, “Especially the Lament. Should the truth of this get out, nowhere will be safe for you.”

They were right. The House of Lament had been operating unabated for more than a hundred years, using the skills they learned during their House’s civil war to find absolution through Sacred Murder. The other Great Houses–even the House of Laurels, the office of the Emperor–were quick to weaponize this turn of trade against dissidents and criminals. There isn’t a single door in the Empire barred to a Confessor on a mission.

But that was only if they were caught. Proxima’s confidence didn’t waver. “We could always feign a hostage situation. Put stress on the Lament, force them to either come clean about the identity of their stowaways to ensure their protection, or go silent. In either case, we win,” Proxima suggested dryly, casting a glance at the nun, “…And of course, the Millennium and I will ensure you aren’t pursued by the House of Recall.”

“Too public, too much can go wrong,” Daimon replied, “Not everyone in our House would heed you. Chances are they’ll continue to hound her just as the Lament will.”

Proxima scoffed, “Fine. Why not just take them both through the Beating Heart then? You know I can see where it connects to this rock.”

The very idea seemed to offend Daimon. “Absolutely not. She’s an outsider without an invitation, the Librarian would never allow it,” they shook their head, “I can commandeer a uniform from the skypiercer’s supply. The workers here don’t know the soldiers, they won’t think twice about them if she wears a helmet.”

“The men can’t be trusted to keep quiet about this. Surely you aren’t so deluded, are you Daimon?”

“Negative. They’re likely to grow suspicious if they realize there’s two more amongst them than there should be. We’ll have to take the risk,” Daimon knelt down before Tisiphone, their mechanical knees creaking, “Once we reach Daiannkara we can carry you no further. I wish you luck, Lady Confessor…”

Tisiphone mustered a smile.

 

—

 

A day passed before she returned to the shipyard. The industrial lights overlooking the concrete wasteland had been overtaken by a feverish orange light rising over the horizon, illuminating the desolate canyon which surrounded the facility. Sunlight was harsh on the priests and nuns of the Lament, and even within the cover of her disguise, Tisiphone felt it difficult to resist the urge to run for shade.

Then there was the issue of Hermia. The three of them searched for her for some time, but couldn’t find her anywhere. If she was in the pipe cathedral then she was very well hidden, but Proxima suggested that she may have just retreated back to the shipyard. That was the one hope which kept Tisiphone from spiraling, but how would her sister even know to follow them?  She fiddled anxiously with the small leather pouch Proxima had given her, chock full of various bones, for use in an emergency, she’d been told.

“You,” a gruff voice called after her, muffled through a rebreather. She whipped about, coming face to face with a helmeted figure dressed in a uniform just like hers, though with more medals. It was the same pale blue which the Myriad and Millennium wore, double breasted and partially clad in armor which seemed mostly ceremonial. “Why are you just standing there? Report to the Myriad’s shuttle for her arrival at once,” barked the officer, “And for fuck’s sake, when we return to base requisition a smaller uniform. You look ridiculous.”

The uniform was a bit big on her, and the helmet’s lack of a lens for her third eye left her disorientated and nauseous. She saluted in the manner Daimon instructed her to, and made her way to the shuttle, past harried laborers searching containers for stowaways she prayed they’d never find.

The shuttle in question was quite a bit larger than the courier vessel, and looked much more like a large bird than a bug. Soldiers lined either side of a large boarding ramp, and so Tisiphone did as she figured was expected of her and stepped up next to a man on one of the lines, about an arm’s length away. She earned a few wordless glances, and in trying to figure out what she did wrong, quite painfully realized she made the rows uneven.

For a moment she thought to leave or go inside, until Proxima emerged from the rows of cargo boxes with Daimon in tow. The Millennium’s legs were almost the length of Proxima’s whole body, and they had to shorten their gait significantly to keep from overtaking her.

The sound of a dozen swords being drawn startled Tisiphone, and she fumbled for her own. As the men raised brass-adorned sabers to their chests, she’d only just gotten hers out of its scabbard. Daimon looked her way, leaving her with no doubt they knew which one was her.

The Myriad and her bodyguard disappeared into the vessel, and the soldiers began to load in after them. A lump formed in Tisiphone’s throat; this was the last call. If Hermia wasn’t aboard by the time the doors closed, there was a good chance they’d never see each other again. She began to wonder if it was worth it, if she even wanted to be free if it meant she’d lose her sister.

And the answer was no.

She began to walk away from the ramp, back towards the sea of boxes where her sister was likely still searching for a way inside.

A strong hand gripped her shoulder and wrenched her back. She squirmed and fought, but with her third eye fettered, the struggle made her head spin.

“Easy! We’re about to take off. If you forgot something you’ll have to get it shipped back to base,” the officer from before growled. As Tisiphone struggled to center herself, she was practically dragged into the shuttle. “What is wrong with you?”

“Century, sir,” one of the other men called, “I’ve thought of something I think you should hear.”

The officer, evidently a Century, let Tisiphone crumple to the ground. She reached for her helmet, suddenly unable to breathe in it. “What is it?” the Century asked, paying her little mind.

“I’ve been doing a headcount since we boarded. There’s only supposed to be twelve of us, save for the Myriad and Millennium,” the soldier began, “…But now there’s thirteen.”

“Thirteen? What are you trying to-”

Tisiphone’s helmet slammed into the ground. She could breathe again, she could sense the room around her, and she could feel the exact distance between herself and everyone else in it. She barely had time to think before she put her sword to the Century’s neck, the emergency pouch of bones clenched in her fist.

“Don’t kill them. They’re friends,” Hermia said softly. She was on a catwalk overlooking the cargo bay, nestled between two soldiers. With a glance Tisiphone was relieved of all which beared upon her shoulders, but it was a bit too late to try to blend in now.

“The stowaway is holding the Century hostage!” An alarmed soldier shouted, and more began to gather. As if on cue, the boarding ramp began to rise, cutting them off from help.

Tisiphone spilled the pouch like a bag of dice, and the assorted bones clattered to the floor. Anatomy was one of Tisiphone’s worst subjects, that much was true, but it was one of Hermia’s best. To Tisiphone, she was the better sister. The one who could speak and inspire, who could shape fighters from nothing–the one who their parents would’ve been proud of, but they’d never know it. They didn’t deserve to know.
The bones began to tremble, and one of the soldiers began to shout a warning before the cargo bay erupted into chaos. For every bone bloomed a skeleton, and those skeletons outnumbered the soldiers who sought to return Tisiphone and her sister to the Monastery.

Tisiphone shoved the Century forwards, and as he stumbled into his own men she repositioned, climbing atop a crate as the skeletons crashed into the soldiers.

The Century caught himself on the shoulder of one of his men, then drew his saber as he searched for her. “You little good for nothing- Where did you even get that uniform!?” He barked, charging at her with the intent to knock her off the crate. Tisiphone dove over him and tumbled into a roll.

She danced through the skirmish, slipping in and out of conflict to shake the Century off her trail. A soldier took a wide swing at her, fearing for their life. She ducked it, and at her urging, the ribcage of a nearby skeleton unfurled into thin threads of bone which writhed and grasped like the tentacles of a starving sea monster.

The soldier shrieked as the many threads pulled them in. They spread across their uniform like roots, solidifying into a cage anchored to the skeleton like a trapper with a net. Tisiphone ensured each of the living combatants experienced the same, leaving them alive but incapacitated.

The Century, still uncaged, circled the pile of nets cautiously.

“And here I thought the stowaway would be some half-starved anchorite,” he muttered, lunging towards Tisiphone. She brought her borrowed sword up to deflect, their blades clashing together in a shower of sparks. She anticipated a followthrough, and when it came in the form of an easily parried swipe across his body, she capitalized. She grasped and twisted his arm and forced him to the ground, bending the limb towards an uncomfortable angle to ensure he made no attempt to escape.

In the time it took to incapacitate the crew, the workers outside made note of the commotion and were attempting to force one of the side doors open. For the time being Tisiphone was safe, but who knew how long that would last.

Above, the door to the cockpit slid open and Proxima stepped out. “Are you quite finished, Confessor?”

“She’s a demon, Myriad!” A captured soldier shouted.

“Keep your distance, ma’am!” Warned another.

Proxima clicked her tongue. “You all seem to forget that I too am blessed with the Emperor’s Gift,” she scolded, “But I would prefer to handle this peacefully. Come, parley with me.”

Tisiphone tied the Century’s limbs with threads of bone and ascended the metal staircase up to join Proxima in the cockpit. Daimon sat in the pilot’s seat, surrounded on all sides by consoles full of buttons and switches the nun couldn’t even begin to discern the functions of. They looked a bit dour at the way the plan turned out.

When the door shut behind them, Proxima put a hand to Tisiphone’s chin and tipped her head up. The nun froze as the tall girl beamed down at her with near-perfect, if slightly stained teeth. She wiped a padded brass digit under Tisiphone’s nose, and it came away with a smudge of blood.

“Not an unimpressive feat of magic. I see why the House of Lament is so respected despite being a backwater-… Well, in any case,” Proxima rambled, “I’m terribly sorry we couldn’t find your sister, but there’s no room to turn back now.”

It was a habit of the Lament to keep secrets, one Tisiphone didn’t feel the need to break. She decided to keep Hermia’s presence aboard the ship hidden, just in case. She nodded solemnly, which satisfied Proxima enough for her to turn to Daimon.

“From one rock onto another, isn’t that right Millennium?” Proxima clasped her hand against the back of the pilot seat. The bodyguard gave a grunt of acknowledgement before they began flicking switches. The craft came alive with a persistent rumble, and a hum which seemed to raise in volume and octave with every new set of lights which came on. “Daiannkara has always been a mess of a province,” Daimon finally replied, “Though I cannot fathom why a Myriad’s presence there is necessary. It isn’t even our jurisdiction.” Tisiphone felt a lurch in her stomach as they ascended, but told herself it was normal. Through the glass she could see the ground slowly begin to recede.

Proxima rolled her eyes, “The curiosity may be killing you, Daimon, but the edict is mine alone to know.”

The ground faded from view and a shutter closed over the window, plunging the room into darkness. Tisiphone felt Proxima’s hand on her chin again, then soft lips pressed against hers. It took her a moment to realize what was happening, and when she did she brought a hand up to feel… something. It was difficult to tell in the dark. Proxima pulled her lips away with a gasp of surprise; a terminal on the control panel came alive and bathed the room in a dim green light, just in time for her to see Proxima grinning mischievously at her.

The sails outside cut through the fabric of the world with the same ghostly wailing as before. Daimon operated the craft by the readout on the terminal and nothing else, not even turning their head as they spoke, “My Myriad, I have watched over you since you were scarcely able to walk. Please do me the kindness of taking your private business to a private room, because I do not wish to be included.”

Proxima scoffed, “I wasn’t doing anything!”

The trip would be a few hours, and so Tisiphone and Proxima settled in to pass the time with one another, careful not to let the captured soldiers see them being too friendly together.

“What do you suppose we’re traveling through right now, nun?” She asked an hour in, when the two of them had relocated to a compact canteen of some sort. Proxima boredly rested her head upon her hand, sat across from Tisiphone at a table barely large enough for a tray of food. Tisiphone’s unconfident response, that it was a “Void” of some sort, was met with a chuckle.

“A void implies absence, which isn’t entirely correct. What’s out there certainly isn’t empty, though what exactly it is is indeterminable until someone perceives it,” Proxima lectured, “It defines itself by the impression of a living mind. It’s why we shutter the windows during flight; perception introduces uncontrollable variables to the flight path. A mountain or a sheer cliff face appearing directly in our way, a sudden intense storm, etcetera. Even thinking about the Veil in excess can be a bit hazardous, so try not to.”

The concept perplexed Tisiphone, though she tried to distract herself from dwelling on it.

Proxima, happy to hear herself speak, added, “Of course, people do sometimes walk the distance between spheres. It’s much more time consuming and dangerous, I wouldn’t recommend it. More people in a caravan makes for a more stable journey, but there’s always the risk of something dangerous being drawn from someone’s subconscious. Oh right, should I explain the concept of spheres to you? Or did the Monastery at least have-”

Proxima largely lectured to her for the rest of the trip on the conflicting ideas of existence beginning at perception, and perception beginning at existence, which was a shame, because Tisiphone hoped desperately to find out what part of the Myriad’s body she grabbed before.

The sails ceased their howling. Proxima had wandered off to lie to the captured soldiers about the “deal” she and their attacker had struck, and so Tisiphone made her way over to a porthole to catch a glimpse at their destination. Hermia waited for her there, leaning against the wall and idly toying with her braid.

Far below were what looked like rolling hills of lush green, more green than Tisiphone had ever seen in her life. “It’s beautiful,” Hermia marveled, peeking over her sister’s shoulder. “…That’s our freedom,” She said dreamily, as if she could hardly believe it, “What do you want to do with it?”

Tisiphone had been fantasizing about escaping the Monastery for almost eighteen years, ever since she grew old enough to realize how cruel it was, but now that she was finally free of it she drew a blank. There were too many possibilities, too many unknowns for her to settle on something.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to know right now.”

Tisiphone smiled at her sister.

She caught a blur of movement. She looked out the porthole in time to see something fiery and angry hurtling towards them.

In the blink of an eye it collided with the ship, and the resulting lurch knocked her off her feet. She hit the rear wall with a wheeze, black spots bleeding into her vision. Echoing through the corridor she could hear the shouts of the men mingled in with the blaring of an alarm, but she struggled to keep her eyes open.

Her hands moved, but they weren’t hers. They sluggishly fished through her bone pouch until they found a shard of a femur. It flowered and threaded around her like a net, weaving tighter until it became a cocoon, and as the shield of bone began to block out all light, her consciousness finally faded.