Harrow the Ninth

“She was Harrowhark alone in front of the mirror again: a nonsense, a monster, an alien geometry. A loathsome squawk of a person. She was nine, and she’d made a mistake. She was seventeen, and she’d made a mistake. Time had repeated itself. Harrow would be tripping over herself for her whole existence, a frictionless hoop of totally fucking up.”

Harrow often displays both a loathing for and detachment from her own body. “Monster,” “chimera,” “alien,” and “failure” are words she uses to self-describe. Harrow’s self-perception, coupled with her birth circumstances, is suggestive of an allegory for body dysphoria. Harrow’s frequent use of language that connotes something foreign, dangerous, and abortive shapes both her self-perception and commitment to honing her mental capacities.

“[I]f you find yourselves on the battlefield, remember that I will make even the dying echo of your heartbeat a sword. I will make the stilled sound on your tongue a roar. I will recall you when you are a ghost in the water, and by that recollection you will be divine. On your death, I will make the very blood in your body arrows and spears.”

John’s anaphoric use of war-centered metaphors is the last speech he gives to regular people before departing for the Mithraeum. His speech suggests a public-facing persona that is regal, commanding, and self-assured of his divinity. This contrasts heavily against John’s private persona of a shabby and awkward father figure who cannot stop his children from fighting.

“The original body of the building—a place steeped in the death of ages—the quietude of the last sacrifice… that is where Lyctorhood was begun, and that is where Lyctorhood was finished. You will see it. You will see where they threw down their tools and left the building, like a palimpsest, unknowing, for you […]. This place was meant to be a palace, and they have left it as a road in the wilderness.”

The use of palimpsest, a piece of writing that has effaced older, earlier writing, foreshadows the truth about the “perfected Lyctoral process.” The heavy use of similes creates an atmosphere of degradation, abandonment, and a loss of original purpose in the facility below the First House.

“A heavy weight pressed on your hips and legs. You strained to see, chin tucked hard against the top of your chest, and beheld with relief your double-handed sword. Your relationship with it was becoming increasingly complex; you hated its presence, but the world without it would be unimaginable.”

Harrow’s feelings toward the sword echo some of her last words to Gideon in Gideon. The sword acts as a synecdoche for Gideon and a focus for all of Harrow’s feelings toward Gideon, which are a complex tangle of love, hate, and codependence. Harrow’s attachment to the two-hander ties to the theme Coping With Grief, while the sword itself becomes a significant plot device later in the book.

“I never saw [Cytherea] cry except once. […] The day after. When we put together the research. When she became a Lyctor. I said, There was no alternative. She said […] We had the choice to stop.”

Mercy’s words at the eulogy reveal a deep ideological divide in the Lyctors even from the beginning. John believes that there was no choice but for him to destroy the world and remake it: Cytherea, and the others who would hatch the Dios Apate, Major conspiracy, believed that they voluntarily chose to commit atrocities. The alternative, stopping and dying, is the antithesis of the immortality conferred by Lyctorhood. Mercy repeating these words foreshadows her inevitable betrayal of John.

“As God said, you might be the ninth saint, but you could never be Ninth again—except when you closed Ianthe’s door.”

Harrow and Ianthe using old House titles and names for one another is a significant part of their bonding. The ability to share a sense of home builds an intimacy that they cannot have with the other Lyctors. At the end of Gideon, Harrow acknowledged that she would not be able to return to the Ninth; John’s words echo that sentiment. The parallel suggests an irrevocability to the sins that the Lyctors have committed in consuming another person’s soul; this “indelible sin,” as John calls it, banishes them from home. The “indelible sin” echoes the sin of Cain in the Old Testament, who was the first murderer and was forced to leave home and never return.

“I only got a glance before the lid closed and the plex fogged up again. But there’s something else in the coffin. The Sleeper’s lying on it. […] I don’t know if this matters. But it looked like a standard-issue infantry sword. […] A two-hander.”

Dyas’s reveal at the end of Chapter 18 builds suspension around the mysterious sword that Harrow carries with her. Through dramatic irony, readers understand that the sword belongs to Gideon while Harrow knows nothing about it. The dramatic irony is heightened as Dyas reveals a connection between Gideon and the Sleeper that Harrow cannot begin to guess.

“For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams / Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

John names “A.L.,” the first person he Resurrected, from the Edgar Allan Poe poem of the same title. In the poem, Annabel Lee dies and is buried in a sepulcher. The speaker’s love persists even through her death and the speaker is haunted forever by dreams of Annabel Lee and regrets. The intimate bond between the speaker and Annabel Lee foreshadows the relationship between John and “A.L.” revealed in Nona the Ninth. The poetical allusion suggests that John feels inseparable from “A.L.,” despite her being entombed for nearly 10,000 years.

“Harrowhark suddenly felt something, in her core, though she did not know precisely what it was. Somehow in Canaan House her ability to feel had been blunted, leaving only a sense of dislocated longing, a bizarre yearning as though flipping through the pages of a book for a proverb she remembered but could not find.”

Muir uses simile to suggest that Harrow is vaguely aware that something is wrong. The action of rifling through a book looking for a passage is a meta-reflection of Muir’s own narrative craft as she creates an intentionally dense and obtuse chain of events that leave readers unaware of what is really happening until the final act. The use of “proverb” also crafts the image of Harrow searching for answers in a religious text.

“If Ianthe Tridentarius knelt beside you then, no matter with what sugary contempt or filigreed Third condescension, you would press your diminished bloody terror into her; you would creep naked into her lap, shamelessly, and weep. You would crawl like a worm to whatever clinging scrap of solace she would give you. […] You would have whored yourself to her as necrosis to a wound.”

Gideon uses a long series of similes to communicate Harrow’s deep, painful loneliness. These similes use repulsive and suggestive imagery like “worm,” “necrosis,” and “slithering, degraded desperation” to describe Harrow’s growing intimate bond with Ianthe and Gideon’s mounting jealousy. Gideon’s front-row seat to Harrow and Ianthe’s relationship leads to explosive jealousy when Gideon finally confronts Ianthe in the flesh in Act 5. Gideon’s diction, syntax, and feelings are often prevalent in the narration when Harrow’s actions or feelings rub close against Gideon’s own concerns.

“Her body was not her body—it was strange to you how you could see no trace of idle Ianthe in the parry and the thrust. Instead you saw a cavalier who had known from the cradle what life intended for him, and had a rapier placed in his hands not long after.”

Pronouns and gender shift and flow within the Locked Tomb series based on who is in control of what body. Muir calls this “genderfuckery” (Zutter, Natalie. “Tamsyn Muir on Lyctorhood as Genderfuckery and Greasy Bible Study in Nona the Ninth.” Tor.Com. 13 Sept. 2022). Ianthe’s shifting pronouns reinforce the allegory of gender dysphoria inherent in her conflict with her arm.

“It destroyed some cavern of your reverence to watch Augustine punch the Prince Undying on the arm, and to watch the Prince Undying gamely cuff him back. Part of your brain temporarily calcified into atheism. You had not thought it would be like this. From the day the letter arrived in Drearburh, you’d thought that your Lyctoral days would be spent in prayer, training, and the beauty of necromantic mysteries. You did not think any part of it would be spent honestly quite drunk, wearing a piece of material no larger than a towel, and with Ianthe Tridentarius’s fingers idly caressing the hair at the nape of your neck.”

In Gideon, Harrow came off as brilliant, self-assured, and many steps ahead of others; in Harrow, she is constantly questioned, challenged, or confused. Harrow’s ideas about lofty religiosity and sanctity are dashed when she is reminded that God is just a man and, as such, behaves like any other human. Harrow does not know how to navigate such a profane and banal setting and must re-make her idea of religion and devotion from the ground up when she encounters John the man. The shattering of Harrow’s religious ideas ties directly to Harrow’s sense of identity, as she was raised from birth to be the Reverend Daughter and has carried herself with this self-perception her entire life.

“How God takes—and takes—and takes.”

Palamedes says this when he and Harrow reunite in the pocket dimension that houses his spirit, right after Harrow declares that she consumed her cavalier’s soul for Lyctorhood. Repetition reinforces the grim nature of the Locked Tomb universe: So much is asked of the Lyctors and necromancers and little is given in return. Calling John “God” in this instance and not “John” or “the Emperor” underscores the sacrifice demanded of the Lyctors with religiosity. Religious devotion is what upholds their ability to continuously sacrifice. Palamedes’s tone is somber, showing his care for Harrow and his personal disapproval of what the Lyctoral process demands of her.

“You were not a central lever within a mystery, but a bystander watching a charlatan display a trick. Your eyes had followed a bright light or colour, and you realised with a start that you ought to have been watching the other hand. […] But you were always too quick to mourn your own ignorance. You never could have guessed that he had seen me.”

Gideon’s narration echoes her feelings toward Harrow in Gideon: Harrow’s devotion to her own intellect and cunning often stops her from seeing what is right in front of her. Despite acknowledging Palamedes’s brilliance, Harrow continuously fails to think of him as someone holding more pieces of a puzzle than herself. Additionally, due to her self-performed brain surgery, Harrow has no idea that Gideon exists in her mind and thus has no way of realizing what Palamedes now realizes. Gideon is able to understand Harrow’s place as a small and insignificant pawn in the events of the series’ central conflicts, giving her the unique advantage of understanding how futile and self-centered many of Harrow’s actions are.

“Oh, God, John, sometimes I wish I were capable of dying—I saw [the Resurrection Beast]! I saw it, and it is blue like Loveday’s eyes! It knows what you did to its kin, and it sees my cavalier’s mortal soul burning in my chest!”

The Resurrection Beasts act as the Mark of Cain, which reveals those who committed or are in league with the “indelible sin” of the Resurrection. The Resurrection Beasts’ knowing, and punishment, carry the weight of a biblical angel dealing out justice for sins. This builds the theme Religion and Cycles of Violence, as the Lyctors have been fighting Resurrection Beasts—and paying the price for their actions—for thousands of years.

“I think you [Harrow] are one of the only Lyctors who can really and truly understand apocalypse […]. It is not a death of fire. It’s not showy. You and I would almost prefer the end, if it came as a supernova. It is the inexorable setting of the sun, without another hope of morning.”

John uses metaphor to convey the anticlimactic, subtle nature of apocalypse. The inexorable nature of the Resurrection Beasts and their endless hunt implies that they are the “setting of the sun” and represent an apocalypse for humanity. Painting the end of humanity as a dark, cold, and quiet process lends an air of hopelessness to it, which contrasts with the explosive, violent chaos that occurs toward the end of Harrow.

“As with many mysteries, this one had turned out to be sad and dull: the Emperor of the Nine Houses had someone, and then, like all his Lyctors, the Emperor of the Nine Houses had lost someone. […] It was Cytherea’s story, and that of all the Lyctors who had died over that long dark sheaf of years.”

Though loss of a loved one is tragic, it is such a common occurrence among Lyctors that hearing of it has little emotional impact regardless of who is involved. The story of the “indelible sin” of the Lyctors is banal; it is a story of loss, grief, and dysfunctional ways of Coping With Grief. Harrow is taking a journey that all of the other inhabitants of the Mithraeum have taken before. The Dios Apate, Major conspiracy reveals that the grief of the other Lyctors never really healed, despite having 10,000 years to do so. Muir suggests that Harrow’s grief will follow the same trajectory if left unattended.

“I am not a person, I am a chimaera.”

The mass genocide committed by Harrow’s parents to make the perfect necromancer heir deeply affects her sense of self. A chimera is a kind of monster made from the disparate parts of different creatures; they are traditionally considered deeply unnatural and unsettling due to their stitched-together appearance. Harrow does not view herself as a person, but rather an amalgamation of the children who were sacrificed to create her. Harrow’s discomfort with her origins and physical appearance continues an allegory of dysphoria that is common for characters in the Locked Tomb who house more than one soul in a body.

“If I forget you, let my right hand be forgotten, […] Add more also, if aught but death part me and thee.”

Harrow echoes Gideon’s final vow to her in the climactic action of Gideon the Ninth. This vow is a combination of two verses in the Bible: Psalm 137:5 and Ruth 1:17. This vow accompanies Harrow’s first utterance of Gideon’s name in the form of the diminutive nickname “Griddle.” The weighty, biblical reference of the vows reveals the depth of Harrow’s connection to Gideon and her grief; forgetting Gideon is tantamount to losing her own limbs.

“This isn’t a picture you’re drawing, Harrow. […] It’s a play you’re directing. You set up a stage in the River, you pulled in ghosts as your actors, and you enforced certain rules to keep your cast on-script.”

Harrow the Ninth is full of references to classical Greek theater and literature: From the Dramatis Personae to the Parados, to Abigail’s offering of blood and food for the Sleeper as Odysseus does in the Odyssey, to the Noniad’s reflection of the Iliad. Harrow’s false-memory theater is a meta-reflection of the craft of writing itself and the presentation of the novel as actors playing their prescribed parts within a play.

“You sawed open your skull rather than be beholden to someone. You turned your brain into soup to escape anything less than 100 percent freedom. You put me in a box and buried me rather than give up your own goddamned agenda.”

Both Gideon and Harrow are bitter toward the other for a perceived robbing of their autonomy at the end of Gideon the Ninth. The two are literally incapable of discussing their feelings due to the relationship between their souls and Harrow’s body. The feelings fester and turn bitter for both, further complicating their relationship. The themes of Coping With Grief and Lost Childhood are reflected in the lack of autonomy they feel about actions the other took, even though said actions were meant to be a show of love and devotion.

“Your face was a mess. It was such a weird goddamn mélange of us: your pointy-ass chin, your stubborn-featured, dark-browed face, less battered than the last time I’d seen it, but—wearier than I’d ever known it to be. Your eyes had little smudgy lines next to them, and they were there at the corners of your mouth, marks of this huge, exhausted sadness.”

Harrow’s physiognomy reflects the conflicted, limbo state of her soul ever since she stopped the Lyctoral process and kept herself and Gideon suspended halfway to Lyctorhood. Harrow’s “huge, exhausted sadness” parallels the sadness that Ortus carries around in Harrow’s pocket dimension, suggesting that Harrow and Ortus are more alike than Harrow believes. This moment is also eye-opening for Gideon, who is seeing Harrow for the first time since her own death and is being confronted with physical evidence of Harrow’s grief over her.

“She should have loathed what [Ortus] was saying to the very depths of her soul. She was Harrowhark Nonagesimus. She was the Reverend Daughter. She was beyond pity, beyond the tenderness of a member of her congregation rendering her down into a neglected child. […] But there was a part of her soul that wanted to hear it—wanted to hear it from Ortus’s lips more, even, than from the lips of God. He had been there. He had witnessed.”

Harrow’s reconciliation with Ortus is a dramatic turning point in her characterization. Harrow’s usual proud obstinance contrasts against the intense vulnerability she shows with Ortus as he openly acknowledges her Lost Childhood. The language of “witness” gives religious, revelatory overtones to the reconciliation. The fact that Ortus was present throughout Harrow’s childhood gives him more authority than even God to absolve and comfort Harrow.