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Journal of Early History
Why do we pray to Lyctors? The role of Necrosaints in devotional practice, between mythology and collective belief
The word “saint” is intrinsically embedded in the language of the Houses. In common parlance, one might say that someone “has shown the courage of a saint” or that one’s parent was a saint. These and similar figures of speech convey the two incarnations of sainthood: both a righteous defender and a holy paragon of virtue. (Tome, 2:5) These ideals are embodied in the figures of the Emperor’s own necrosaints—His fingers and gestures, the Lyctors of the Great Resurrection!—and so fundamentally that one would be hard-pressed to determine which came first: the ascension of the Lyctors, or the introduction of the term saint to the language of the Houses. (Quinzio, 9782) (In point of fact, this specific question has been at the heart of many debates among philologists, and remains a subject of intense speculation to this day.)
What is certain is that, by the year 574 — approximately three centuries post-Lyctorhood, (Hex and Stygma, 8994) — the title of Saint was commonly understood to refer to the Emperor’s Hands, even then primarily known by their holy attributes. (Tisrha, 574) (Hex, 9003) It is less clear whether those attributes were conferred by the King Undying or chosen by the Lyctors themselves, or whether they may have come about some other way. The current consensus among scholars is that there may have been links between the first miracles performed by the Lord’s disciples in the pre-Cohort era and their eventual saintly epithets.1
The Lyctors’ patronages, by contrast, developed more organically from the connection between each…
1 The Lyctors’ epithets are well known, but nevertheless are reported here for the sake of completeness: Duty, Glory, Joy, Love, Patience, Temperance, Virtue (note that the order in which the Lyctors ascended or received their names remains unknown.) It is famously said that the Saints are named “for the virtues” (Tome, 2:1) a comment attributed to the Emperor which has been the foundation of much scholarship in the fields of ethics and theology. For example, it is commonly understood that the attribute “Glory” refers to the theological virtue of Humility, defined as “the triumph born of collaborating for the shared good” (Tome, 2:14) — although it seems ironic that this epithet should refer to the Lyctor best-known for founding a House of academics. For further information on the subject, see Alexander Isoscele, Biographies of Saints (Ida: Trinex Press, 9945).↑
“What do you have there, girls?”
It was the Saint of Patience, strolling across the floor with the usual studied laziness you were coming to expect from him. You sat at the kitchen table distressingly close to Ianthe, whose ill-fitting peach dress brought out the bruises under her eyes after a night spent tossing and turning, and whose snort had attracted some attention.
“Flimsy, elder brother.” Your tone was perfectly apt for stating the obvious. He rolled his eyes.
“Ianthe?”
Ianthe’s hair looked charmingly like bleached straw today; she showed about the same amount of spine every time the Saint of Patience was in the room. “Abigail Pent’s notes from Canaan House,” she offered, far too promptly. “She was a very famous historian—even the Ninth heard of her, you know—and she knew more about early Imperial History than anyone else in the Houses. Tragically, it was very little,” she concluded. “And most of it was wrong.”
“A historian, how charming.” Augustine rubbed his palms together with what could have passed for genuine excitement. “Hit me with it.”
You found yourself listening, despite your best intentions. Most of Augustine’s stories—the few you’d bothered with—were about mundane details of his long history and tedious facts that had no bearing on your Lyctoral education, but this promised to actually be interesting. You craved information about your predecessors, but you never would’ve dared to ask God.
So you listened as Ianthe asked, “Cassiopeia the First was Saint of Glory? What about the others?”
“Well, you know about me and Ortus,” Augustine said. “Joy was John’s little joke. Although I suppose, Cristabel was very joyful… she barely had the brains to feel anything else. Temperance—that was Valancy to Cyrus, believe me, he was even worse without her around. Virtue was Ulysses—lovely girl, Titania.”
His pale eyes lingered on your face. “Poor Cyth was our Saint of Love, of course. I always thought it suited her perfectly… the only good thing Loveday ever did for her.”
You were saved, unexpectedly, by Ianthe—who slammed her stack on flimsy on the table loudly enough to make Augustine wince.
“Apologies, elder brother, my shoulder cramped up.” She rolled her right shoulder exaggeratedly. “It is the arm. Growing pains.”
Journal of Early History
The Lyctors’ patronages, by contrast, developed more organically as a consequence of the bond between each of the Saints2 and the House of their birth.3 This connection was at the core of what is commonly known today as “doctrine of advocacy.” (Hex and Stygma, 8994) In the pre-Cohort era, public perception regarded the Emperor’s Chosen as vehicles for the miraculous, owing to their superior knowledge of necromantic theory and unparalleled displays of power. After God and His Saints left the system, popular devotion shifted to viewing the Lyctors as intercessors—or “champions”—of those groups of people, places, and causes they had shown particular attention to.
One early recorded occurrence took place in the fifth century AR, when the Saint of Joy personally intervened after a catastrophe struck the Eight and the Third, likely caused by a meteor shower that hit both installations. (Tisrha, 574) The event may have been what consolidated one of the first instances of patronage ascribed to a Lyctor; to this day, the Saint of Joy is well known as the patron of asteroidal miners, trauma surgeons, and births. (Tome, 13:1)
2 Anastasia of Dearburh, who never ascended to Lyctorhood never received a saintly epithet. Her legacy as the first Tomb-keeper of the Ninth House has passed into legend and given rise to what has often been regarded as cult worship; (Ottax, 9867) however, she was never called to serve on the Mithraeum nor did she receive any devotional patronages outside of the Ninth House, and is therefore outside the scope of this work. ↑
3 Note that the theories espoused by the Cradle School, which suggest that some (or all) of the Lyctors may have lived before the Resurrection, are not supported by any conclusive evidence. Consequently, this paper rests on the commonly accepted assumption that all of the Lyctors were born in the post-Resurrection, pre-Cohort era, and were selected for necromantic excellency in the early years of the Empire.
Relatedly, the author would like to note that speculations about the early lives of the Saints, however unfounded, do not constitute heresy — regardless of what some Eight House scholars may believe.↑
Ianthe’s face had taken on an interesting quality as she read. Frankly, you suspected the same must be true of yours.
“The Saint of Joy has shown particular attention to newborns?” Your voice, tinged with unbecoming scepticism, rose in pitch at the end of the sentence. Ianthe was openly sniggering.
“To be honest, I don’t remember any of this happening. Sixth century? I wasn’t paying any mind to Joy’s coming and goings. No idea how the baby thing started, but yes. It stuck.” Augustine shrugged and said, “Could be worse. Poor Ulysses got stuck with funerals and, believe me, he was the last person who’d ever appreciate a solemn send-off. When he died, he let instructions that we should…”
He trailed off, coughing delicately into his hand.
“Yes?”
Augustine looked from Ianthe, all wide-eyed eagerness, to your undoubtedly repulsed visage.
“Never mind, you doves,” he said swiftly. “Suffice it to say that it was sad—of course it was sad, it was a fucking funeral—but we got all so drunk it didn’t matter. Anyway, Ulysses never chose to patronise funerals, but someone had to do it, I suppose.”
The concept of Lyctoral sainthood was foreign to you, who had been born and raised the Reverend Daughter of forgotten Drearburh, in the shadow of the Tomb. You provincial bone witch, you’d known no Saints but the ghost of Anastasia, you had prayed for the stillness of the holy corpse so fiercely and for so long that the Death of God had come to shine higher in your regard than God Himself.
But you were now of the First, a Lyctor of the Great Resurrection with a saintly title to match, but no saintly attribute yet, and you had no idea what any of that entailed. You arched your brows under the paint and asked, “You suppose someone had to?”
“We certainly weren’t around at the time,” he said, impatient. “We were setting up the Mithraeum, setting obelisks in deep space—missing friends, carrying bones across the River, hooking up the plumbing inside and adjusting the course of the asteroid field out there—and got back in touch with the Houses to find that some Eight House theologians had drawn up lists upon lists of everything that could possibly be blessed, and only bothered to send it in via stele once it was said and done… you really knew nothing about this? Lord, has it really been that long?”
Delicately, Ianthe said, “I knew some of this.”
You accurately understood some to mean very little. So did the Saint of Patience, who quirked a brow and held out his hand for the stack of flimsy. “Give me that.” He began flipping the pages.
Journal of Early History
With time, the concept of Lyctors as patrons evolved from a mundane notion of advocacy to a more spiritual doctrine, centred on religious invocation. The shift took place in the early Cohort era, recasting the Emperor’s Saints from champions of causes, whose role within the Houses had been mostly political, to semi-divine guardians to be called upon for all sorts of occasions — which was now done by means of prayers. (Quinzio, 9782)
This development, which by all accounts occurred quite spontaneously, had spread to all of the Houses by the end of the first millennium (with the exception of the Ninth.) The custom has become so thoroughly embedded in everyday worship that many contemporaries would be surprised to learn that, at the time, it represented a sharp break from the existing norms. (Tome, 6:14) Indeed, at least three different Masters Templar between the seventh and eighth centuries AR severely condemned the practice of praying to Lyctors, calling it “heretical.” (Octa et al., 9345) It should be remarked that neither the Emperor nor His Lyctors have ever commented on the topic7 and certainly did not institute, or demand, such practices.
At this point, it is opportune to introduce a brief aside on the nature of Lyctorhood, and on the Saints themselves. By all accounts, all of the Lyctors were once born human necromancers. Arguably, they remain human, albeit invested with enormous reserves of power. Still, power is not omnipotence, and the great constants of the universe—gravity, thanergy dispersion, time within a system, and so many others—apply even to Saints. Likewise, their wealth of knowledge is immense, but not absolute or universal.8 (Pent, 9993)
7 This is to say: no comments have been made which may be taken as historical record. Any statements made by any of the Lyctors in the course of their duties, such as comments made in passing conversation with members of the Cohort, and other similar instances, remain unfortunately anecdotal. The same, of course, applies to the King Undying.↑
8 It would be remiss not to disclaim that the matter of Lyctoral origins is highly debated even today, and the assumption that the Lyctors were once “everyday necromancers” remains contested by some. However, most of the records in our possession support this theory, and even those that do not can fit within the framework with some adjustments for context. For further information see Abigail Pent, When Lyctors Were Human: A Compilation of Historical Records from the Pre-Lyctorhood Era (Koniortos: Pamc Press, 9993). ↑
“Oh, this is charming,” Augustine said. “A book? I should track it down. It will be so fascinatingly wrong… perhaps we should make a drinking game of it.”
“Surely you must have come across a book about yourself before?” you asked, dubious. Even on the Ninth, the Dearburh library held at least three.
And Augustine the First, First Saint to serve the King Undying, looked at you with his dead cavalier’s eyes and said, “Oh, you bet, sis. Especially the dirty mags.”
Some air went down the wrong way, then. Ianthe, charitably, patted you on the shoulder.
“Dirty magazines? Now, this is fascinating,” she drawled.
“Not especially,” said the Saint of Patience, who was apparently—and inexplicably—the subject of underground pornography. “It’s the Cohort, it’s hardly refined reading—but they are our brave troops, fighting for the Empire, and they can get their kicks however they wish. And then there are the chaplains, and their reading material is delightfully inventive, believe me. But history? No, I don’t seek out history books about people I knew. Let alone myself.”
He perused the flimsies, a frown etched on his brow. “Well, this isn’t completely wrong. The heresy claims, that’s always fun—John would never come out and say anything about whatever they’re squabbling over, so there’s always some Eighth or Fifth or Seventh arguing about what truly happens in the River.” The idea of people debating questions that he could have settled with a word seemed amusing to him.
He caught your expression and added, “Believe me, chick, it’s better this way. We’ve tried the other way and it was a pain—and John never liked playing arbiter anyway. Now, this is true.”
He pointed at the flimsy; your eyes followed. “Obviously, should someone be praying to me, back home in the Houses, where I shall never return—at least not anytime soon—well, clearly, I can’t hear any of it. I can’t hear my name called any further than the length of a room, let alone across the universe. I’ll even bet someone is praying right now. Last I checked, the Seventh always invoked me before duels, for whatever reason.”
“But of course,” he said, “they’re only talking to themselves.”
Journal of Early History
In its infancy, the doctrine of advocacy was fairly self-explanatory. If properly petitioned, a Lyctor may intercede for the benefit of a cause or group of people they hold in some regard, as happened quite regularly in the early Cohort era. The same Lyctor would be far less likely to help you find your discarded keys; partly because, quite sensibly, the Emperor’s Fist and Gestures have little reason to care about a set of keys even if their loss would certainly constitute an emergency for their owner. More importantly: the Lyctors, though enormously powerful, will not hear you. They cannot. (Pent, 9993)
Why, then, do we pray to Lyctors — as though they might listen?
There are a multitude of reasons, which all amount to the same thing: because it helps us. One should not underestimate the strength of collective belief for the common good.9 The practice of shared worship is one of the main forces for unity within the Empire, which has held strong over our myriadic shared history, despite the sometimes-fraught relations between the Houses themselves. (Segundi, 9987) For this reason, it remains extremely important—
9 Or, at least, for the accomplishment of common goals; a definition much more straightforward than that of an abstract “moral good,” which nevertheless we ought to aspire to.↑
“And two more pages about the unparalleled value of collective belief as an instrument of unity, social and political. Very sensible, splendidly cynical. She would have made a half-decent Lyctor.” And here Augustine the First cast you a look that very much implied that he would’ve rather have Abigail Pent on the Mithraeum than yourself, with your fragile body that did not heal and a fragile mind to go with it.
“Say, my girl, do you have more of these? They’d make for riveting bedtime reading.”
He’d been asking Ianthe—of course he would ask Ianthe; he often behaved as though you had disappeared from the room the moment he’d stopped giving you attention—but the Princess of Ida sighed dramatically and said, “I’m afraid I’ve promised them to Harrow already. It’s nothing you’d like, believe me.”
This much was true. When you had found out Ianthe had taken Abigail’s notes from Canaan House, you’d immediately gone to her and asked for a look at her necromantic research. Your spirit magic was pitiful, and Ianthe had Augustine as a teacher and she certainly wouldn’t need them. The personal notes of a powerful spirit adept were no substitute for the Saint of Patience, but they were better than nothing, and they were yours; you had no intention of relinquishing them.
Augustine seemed to read as much from on face. He shrugged, buoyant, and fanned himself with the flimsies still in his hand.
“I’ll be keeping these, then.” Then, with half-curious nonchalance, “Harrowhark, humour me. What does Anastasia’s flock make of all of this?” And there he gestured widely, to the three of you and beyond, to God and the Saints of Duty and Joy and the Mithraeum around you. “Is Anastasia the one you worship, on the Ninth? Can’t imagine her going for that. Or do you pray to that thing in the Tomb?”
There was a curious note as he said that—not quite distaste, but something nearly like it, one of the first genuine emotions you had encountered from the Saint of Patience. The silence stretched, expectant; you found him looking at you. For the first time in your acquaintance, he seemed to care what you had to say.
But you didn’t know what he wanted to hear. “We pray to the Tomb,” you said eventually, awkwardly. For the first time in your life, you lacked the words to illustrate the pure depths of your immortal devotion. “We pray that is never opened.” Your eyes shifted from Augustine’s face, carved in stone, to the beautiful porcelain of the Body behind him.
His lip twitched; he muttered something to himself—might have been for fuck’s sake—and then he laid down the flimsies on the table and said, “Well, then. I’d come in here to make myself a cup of tea, but I think I’ll just go for coffee now. Any takers?”
Naturally, you said no; naturally, Ianthe said yes. Naturally, the Body said nothing, but she remained beside you as the kitchen filled with heat and the too-strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and at one point Augustine froze in his chair—cigarette halfway to his lips, eyes wide—and you thought he might have seen her, too.
But then the moment passed. The Saint of Patience went back to his coffee and his half-ashed cigarette, and the Body wrung together her moss-stained fingers and said, “They weren’t ready, beloved, you see? They were children. They thought they could do so many things, but all they brought about was death.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what for. The Body didn’t reply.
Strangely, Augustine’s mouth softened; he must have heard and thought it a kindness. For the first time, he looked at you with not a speck of artifice in his eyes.
“Oh, don't worry about it, Harrowhark. It’s not all bad, this Saint thing.” He flicked his cigarette, shaking off an ashen cascade—specks fell to the floor, to the table, over the first page of the flimsies. Augustine blew it away. “Hang on in there, my girl.”