\hypertarget{chapter-64-solo}{%
\chapter{Solo}\label{chapter-64-solo}}



\epigraph{``Food riots, is it? Well, I do enjoy when a problem is its own
solution.''}{Dread Empress Sanguinia I, the Gourmet}



It was a funny thing, hate. Before a sword through the chest set me on
the path to becoming the Squire, I'd thought I was beyond it. That
learning to see beyond the grudges and the anger was what set me apart
from the heroes that died like flies as I grew up. I'd thought that by
setting aside the hate I would be able to act with my hands unfettered,
to bring lasting change instead of raging against the Tower for half a
year and getting my throat slit in my sleep. It'd been a peculiar kind
of arrogance, but arrogance nonetheless. None of us could ever be clear
as spring water, not even Black. His brand of vainglory was just
shrewder than most -- because could you really call one man setting
himself against the entire Heavens anything but arrogance? People could
step on ants without even noticing it, no matter how clever the ant. Oh,
when Named spoke to each other we didn't call it arrogance. It was will,
or madness, or half a dozen other little euphemisms that allowed us to
feel slightly better about what we were doing. But that the end of the
day, one truth always came out: to be Named was to believe, bone deep,
that Creation should be a certain way. Beyond that it was just quibbling
about the means you used to make sure it did.

It was conceit to believe I could be more than I was, some pure
instrumentality of outcome or ideal. When I'd fought the greatest
monsters of Arcadia, we'd called them gods. Lesser gods, of course --
even in hushed whispers, deference must be afforded to the prickly
holders of the penultimate thrones -- but gods nonetheless. I should
have understood it properly then, because what were even the most
powerful of the fae but Named with the weight of millennia behind them?
It was why they'd lost. Because when they'd come down to Creation, to
this messy battlefield of ours, they'd been forced to fashion themselves
into people. In Arcadia, they were perfect: not in the sense of
flawlessness, no, but in the way that a cog in a machine fit exactly the
form and purpose it was meant for. A god made to masquerade as a mortal
had the fatal flaw of perfection removed from the perfect. But us Named?
Oh, we were different breed. Mortals made gods, or at least clawing at
the foot of that golden pedestal. Born of a fractured thing we took up
those sharp edges and wielded them like blades to cut at each other. An
aspect was not a reward in some arcane lottery arranged by the Gods, it
was a wound. A hurt, a disappointment, a rage made into knife.

And in matters of self-mutilation I had few rivals.

So I seized my hatreds and accepted them for what they were: the
foundations of my power. I'd been told once that a Name could not spring
from void, but that'd been untrue. It was Roles that were shaped by the
currents of Creation, left glittering and polished stones at the bottom
of the riverbed. Names were something more\ldots{} intimate. A
collection of sharp moments before and ahead of you. Huddling hungry
under covers, after the price of bread had risen. Blood in my mouth as I
fought a man too large and strong to beat, defeat crawling ever closer.
It was a lesson on the nature of stories, learned by burned shores. It
was a faceless tribunal whose verdict I had refused. I'd tried for so
long to make something of all this, to weave together a tale that did
not have bile rising in my throat. But there was nothing sacred about
baring your blade, nothing laudable about telling the world it must bend
or break. If I disdained the lay of Creation as ordained by the Gods,
the banners of black and white, then I must either make my own or find
myself nothing but a butcher among butchers. And so I took those vivid
moments and made them a blade, and that blade I bared once more. It
could begin here, under cover of moonless night.

It would.

The darkness did not spread, it fell. There was a sky above but not one
that could be touched. It was not a boundary, a ceiling. It was a pit
above, a biting void of nothingness that could not be filled. In front
of me the hand of the wight froze with a snapping sound and my boot came
down, shattering flesh and bone. I leapt down onto the street and found
myself among a host of silent statues. Stillness alone reigned as I
tread forward, leather creaking softly against the frosted ground. The
Diabolist had set an army before me, one a Squire could not hope to
scatter. But it had been some time since I was only that, and where
Catherine Foundling would have been checked the Duchess of Moonless
Nights strode unimpeded. I was not truly doing any of this, I thought as
I walked through the ranks and passed a wight that simply\ldots{} fell
apart when my cloak brushed its frame. This was not a spell, sorcery as
I understood it. It was, as Masego had said, a domain. The old and
merciless cold of this place was as much a part of it as the unbroken
black of the sky. My own kingdom of winter and night, and in this place
all but me were guests. I wondered what it said of me, that this was the
shape my own soul made realm had come to take.

Nothing pleasant, I suspected.

The silhouettes and edifices were juxtaposed, I instinctively knew, not
fully drawn into the domain. They had existence both inside and outside
of it, and so did I. \emph{A domain, not merely a weapon}, I mused.
There was more to this than an eldritch killing blow. The gate to the
Ducal Palace was closed and had once been warded. But this was Winter,
the land of soft silent deaths and unending hunger. The cold devoured it
all, stripping it bare until a flick of my fingers had the gates falling
from the hinges and even the last wisps of sorcery died. Beyond the gate
awaited men and devils, and these were not so empty as the wights. There
were still specks of warmth at the heart of them, like trembling
candles. An indifferent glance was enough to smother them, like pinching
the wick with a thumb and a finger. I climbed the steps that paved the
way to the hall even in this silent world of mine, watching wards and
wights flicker out around me. There was something ahead, I could feel
it. A boundary to this place that should have none. I went through
stairs and galleries, treading the graveyard of my own making until
ahead of me hateful warmth gleamed before my eyes. Light red and yellow,
a circle slowly turning with images I could not truly see inscribed
inside.

A ward, one meant to check fae. \emph{Thresholds must already be growing
difficult, yes?} Warlock's voice whispered in my ear. I let out a breath
cold as the air around me and rolled my shoulder to limber it, then
struck at the ward as hard as I could. Something shattered, but it was
not Akua's magic. Like a broken mirror the world around me cracked and
crumbled, colour and heat rushing back around me. I stood in the same
hallway than before, every surface covered in ice and steaming. All
things came to an end, it seemed. Not merely the good. I was tempted to
unsheath my blade and try to force my way through the ward again, now
looking like an innocuous door of oak, but I was not a rat running
through Akua's maze. I would not spend my strength against walls she had
tailored to hold me back. Instead I closed my eyes and sharpened my
senses, sinking deeper into my Name. I'd slaughtered my way into here,
but I'd not been that thorough in the killing. There would be remains to
find. After ten long breaths I finally heard heartbeats and footsteps,
but not to the sides. There was only the silence of the grave there.
Above. Threading my will into the ice covering the ceiling I thickened
it, sunk its claws into the stone until it cracked. Then, without
further ceremony, I crouched and leapt upwards.

Stone shattered around me and I emerged in a rain of shards, landing on
a gutted carpet. There were three men in the room, and a crawling shape
that was not anything of the sort. They screamed, unsurprisingly, and I
noted with distant amusement that the walls and only door of the room
had been covered in wards akin to the one Akua had set below.

``An amateur mistake,'' I told them. ``Not covering every surface.''

The creature of pink and bloated flesh on the ground opened a maw that
was like a lizard's, if the scales had been ripped away, and a long
black tongue extended. On it a triad of red eyes were set, and as they
glared at me I felt lethargy seep into my frame. I let Winter flood my
veins and the assault dissipated like morning mist. My sword left the
scabbard and in one smooth movement spun around my hand so I could nail
the devil's head to the floor. The men, Soninke all three of them, were
mages. Panic remained but bled into sorcery, hasty incantations barked.
A spear of purple flame sizzled to my side as I stepped around the
spell, pivoting fluidly to avoid the stream of dark tar-like fluid shot
by another mage. The third, to my amusement, did not even attempt a
blow. He disappeared into thin air, veiled behind an illusion. I moved
forward, sword carving through the fire-wielders' chest then taking him
by the shoulder and spinning the dying man around so he could shield me
from the shower of white sparks the other one cast. Flesh melted under
them, eaten away cleanly, but that did not prevent the mage from being
bowled over by his comrade's corpse when I tossed it at him. Sharpening
my ears I waited for the sound of footsteps and found the last one
attempting to flee by the door.

``Predictable,'' I chided.

I flicked my wrist and a spear of shadow tore through the illusion,
going straight through the man's stomach but splashing harmlessly
against the warded wall. I did not spare another glance for the corpse,
instead turning to the only survivor. He managed to push the corpse I'd
thrown at him to the side, only to find the tip of my sword resting on
his throat. He swallowed, the lump in his throat moving as he did.

``Mercy, High One,'' he croaked. ``I surrender.''

``I thought about it,'' I said. ``Having one of you still breathing
guide me through the mess. But there's always the risk you'll lie, you
see.''

``I would never,'' he swore.

``You won't,'' I agreed, and the sword point flicked down to plunge into
his heart.

He twitched, gurgled and even as life began to leave him I poured Winter
inside his frame. When I tore out my sword, his eyes were already blue.

``Get up,'' I told my newest helper. ``I haven't damaged your throat, so
you should be able to talk.''

He rose, but said nothing. I sighed. Undead.

``Say something,'' I ordered.

``Something,'' the corpse said.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I, it had to be said, had literally
asked for that.

``Tell me everything you know about the defences the Diabolist built in
the palace,'' I ordered. ``We can begin with that ward down below, and
how I can get past it.''

Dead men, as it turned out, did tell tales.

---

To absolutely no one's surprise, Diabolist redefined the meanings of
`overly complicated' and `cripplingly paranoid'. The Ducal Palace was
essentially a labyrinth of wards and traps that no one but her knew the
full lay of. Akua was rumoured -- but not confirmed -- to have a
metaphorical skeleton key that would let her pass through everything
unharmed but her many minions had to make do with being keyed in on at
most a handful of wards. My talkative corpse couldn't even get me
through the one I'd failed to quite literally punch through earlier. He
did know how to get past the equivalent on the second floor, but not how
to go any further than that. Neither he nor his buddies had been high
enough the pecking order for that. This was something of a problem,
especially after I confirmed that the first contingency following the
palace being attacked was every soldier within ten blocks rushing to
secure it. I was going to be up in my neck in enemies if I didn't hurry,
and this entire place was designed to make hurrying more or less
impossible. I'd freely admit that puzzles weren't something I
particularly enjoyed, so the notion of spending a few hours being
swarmed by wights while trying to figure out how Diabolist's mind worked
was not high on my list of priorities.

So I'd taken another angle.

The newly-renamed First Volunteer, after being squeezed for every drop
of information he knew on the palace defences, was told to guide me to
the next knot of mages that were holed up. Diabolist had crafted this
ridiculously complicated maze for me to run through? Fine. I could deal
with that. I just needed to kill and raise mages until I had enough
around to figure out the way through to her. It still took me the better
part of an hour before I saw real progress. With seven dead mages
trailing behind me I finally go to a window on the edge of the west wing
overlooking the central courtyard. Behind it I could see the centre of
the palace, where they all agreed the throne room would be. I turned
towards my panoply of undead and cleared my throat.

``Should Have Ducked,'' I said. ``That section of the palace, does it
have more of the threshold wards?''

A man with most his cheek missing watched me with blue eyes.

``It does not,'' he replied.

I glanced at my most recent acquisitions, A Dress Is Not Armour and
Surprisingly A Bleeder, who were standing impossibly still.

``Either of you ever been in there?'' I probed.

I got twins shake of the head in reply. Diabolist had restricted access
to that part of her lair to her inner circle, apparently, none of which
I'd managed to get my hands on. I wasn't eager to enter there blind, but
I'd already had to abandon one way through because the wights had caught
up and it was only a matter of time before they got to here as well.
Breaking the window and making my way on foot was, according to these
fellows, enough for me to enter. That reeked of trap, but not one I
could afford to avoidk. If Diabolist really did have Black, leaving her
the time to cook up a ritual was the worst thing I could do. I'd had my
Named ripped out in this very city once, and though I wasn't sure
whether the alignment that had allowed that to happen still existed it
was not a risk I wanted to take. I was not unaware I might not be the
target this time, if she pulled that ritual again. For a moment I
considered taking the dead mages with me, but just as quickly I
dismissed the notion. Taking corpses in a fight with a Praesi sorcerer
was just asking to get fucked with.

``You are to destroy each other with fire,'' I ordered. ``The last
remaining mage is to destroy themselves using the same.''

They bowed and I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't ordered that. The longer I
kept them around, the smarter they were getting. I was breaking the
glass with the pommel of my sword when the first flash of fire erupted
behind me, but I didn't look back. I landed in the courtyard in a crouch
and wasted no time out in the open. A good thing, too. Streaks of flame
immediately began to bloom above, lashing down in my direction. Stone
blew up behind me as I ran and more streaks formed ahead. Best not to
get hit by that, I mused. I'd probably walk away still alive, but not
without some damage I could ill afford. There was servant's entrance up
ahead but also two other flame arrays lighting up so I swerved to the
side and went straight for the wall instead. There was sorcery in it,
but it did not feel like the wards that'd blocked me. My perception
wasn't sharp enough to get more than that. Name flaring, I rolled out of
the way of fire that left smoking trails in the stone where I'd been a
heartbeat ago and came out standing right in front of the wall. Sending
the power to my fist, I swung against the stone. Triumphantly I felt the
stone give, but what followed was less pleasant.

The closest description I could put into words was that it was like
swinging at a spinning wheel. The stone gave for a moment, but then
force came back at me and blew me off my feet. Flame came down from the
side and I formed a pane of ice at the last moment but the fire
evaporated it and thundered trough. I angled myself so that my cloak
would catch the worst of it and still half my pauldron was torn off,
leaving behind a smoking mess. \emph{Fuck,} I eloquently thought as I
legged it before I could be turned into a smoking crater by the next
volley. I did not fancy my chances with the servant entrance, either.
Even if I made it there unharmed I could not seriously believe Diabolist
wouldn't cover the obvious way in. She lived in there, so there had to
be a convenient path inside for her inevitable servants and attendants,
but that didn't mean she had to \emph{leave} it there when fighting an
invasion. That left\ldots{} I glanced to the side. A long way around,
into what looked like a ripped up garden. Mostly open ground. I leapt
away from another strike and slid across the stone, noticing as I did
that the first hit was followed by another two immediately. Were the
arrays focusing? Shit. Yeah, garden was out. I looked at the wall I'd
failed to break and bit my lip. \emph{All right, Catherine, what do we
do when we can't go through?} I cocked my head to the side, then
frowned. Well, it could hardly be worse than the garden path. Probably.

I ran back for the wall, ducking another volley by the skin of my teeth.
Diabolist's ward had punched back, but only when I'd tried to go
\emph{through}. So there was a chance this would work. Also that I would
die, but that came around as a possible outcome with depressing
regularity. A twist of will had a handhold of ice forming on the
surface. I'd seen the Watch do something similar once -- wait, no, I was
going about this wrong. I threw myself off the wall as fire struck the
surface and, damnably, was almost immediately spat out mere inches away
from where I was. No matter. I landed on a platform of shadow and began
working my way up. \emph{Much} easier. Going upwards instead of sideways
was trickier, but as it turned out a much shorter path. Four passes had
me leaping through a window that had felt absent of wards and I rolled
through the wood and glass shards to rise smoothly to my feet. The
window had felt like an oversight. It had not been, I learned almost
immediately. All the surrounding surfaces were warded, more discreetly,
and behind me I heard the sound of flame lashing out through the
opening.

``I can't believe I fell for that,'' I admitted.

Definitely should have kept going up all the way to the roof, I mused. I
managed to throw myself out of the way before the array torched me, at
which point the situation cheerfully continued proceeding downhill. I
really should have known: Praesi never turned down the opportunity to
fuck you over twice when it was on the table. Around me were the same
spinning wards as outside: when the streaks of fire hit the wall, they
started to ricochet wildly in every direction. Too quickly for me to
avoid. I hid under my cape but the impact was still enough to smash me
into the wall, which fucking smashed me back because of course it would.
Then another array shot fire into the room, and at that point there was
more flame than empty space in this place. I was about to reluctantly
try to use an aspect to force my way out when there was another
explosion. The door flew off the hinges, smacking me in the side. I took
it in stride, flipping the wooden surface to reflect another streak of
fire, and then from the corner of my eye I saw a green, ugly mug pop out
of the door frame.

``So,'' Robber grinned, ``about that promotion.''
