\hypertarget{chapter-66-refrain}{%
\chapter{Refrain}\label{chapter-66-refrain}}



\epigraph{``On the third month of the year I found myself on the outskirts
of the city of Okoro, and stumbled upon one of the famous Praesi field
rituals. The throats of ten and three men were slit on dusty ground, and
from the lifeblood spilled the earth turned from yellow to black.
Granted audience with the lord presiding, I asked him the meaning of the
ceremony. `Everywhere men bleed,' he told me. `In Praes we get the full
worth of it.'\,''}{Extract from ``Horrors and Wonders'', famed travelogue of Anabas the
Ashuran}



The Diabolist was lounging on a Callowan throne when I stepped into the
hall, and wasn't that just the image of my people's lot since the
Conquest? The Praesi had crawled into the country in the wake of Black's
victories and claimed every seat and symbol of power, masquerading as
rulers when all they'd been were thieves. Not, I thought damningly, even
particularly skilful ones. I'd once thought that the Imperial governors
with better reputations than Mazus reflected a certain restraint in the
wave of highborn that had been appointed as petty kings over Callow. I
knew better now. It'd been fear that kept them in line, fear of
Malicia's deep schemes and Black's sharp sword. That'd always been the
weakness of their reforms, when it came down to it. The aristocracy of
the Wasteland, the people that really held power in the Empire, had
never bought into the ideologies they peddled. They only saw a knife
taken to old rights and privileges, and no amount of victory would ever
reach them over that. No matter. I'd put fear in them as well, if that
was what it took, and forging that fear would start with Akua Sahelian's
death.

She looked the same as she had in the dream, I noted, save for one
detail. Around her neck hung a necklace, the centrepiece of which was a
small cylinder of obsidian. My eyes lingered on it, my Name sniffing out
the soul that lay within. \emph{Trap}, I decided. She'd been clever
enough so far to keep her soul out of anyone's grasp, she wouldn't risk
it here and now. Likely it was meant to bait out an aspect from me, but
a liar lost power when you knew them as one. The hall was empty and
echoing as I strode forward, the tapestries hanging from the rafters
stirred by some invisible current. The whole room was thick with
sorcery, more than my senses could parse. She had prepared her grounds,
and that was a mark on the right side of my earlier assumption:
Diabolist intended to get her hands dirty. Maybe not with a blade -- I
couldn't see one on her and she wasn't wearing proper armour, but
neither of those things meant much -- but she intended on fighting me
herself. At least in the beginning. I disliked it, that I wasn't able to
tell where she'd pull her monster from. It put an itch between my
shoulder blades.

Against that calibre of opponent, one mistake was all it took.

``You were forewarned,'' Diabolist said.

``Was I?'' I drawled. ``Please, do elaborate.''

I could read it on her face, no matter how blank she kept it. The urge
to tell me what that trap in the stairs had been, to expound on her own
cleverness. I'd been struck with it a few times as well, that need to
tell your opponent exactly how you'd screwed them over, but it was
different in her. More intense, and not just because she ran deeper to
the source of villainy than I did. It occurred to me, in that moment,
how lonely a person Akua must really be. Unable to trust anyone, to do
so much as offer a genuine laugh. It was no way to live. The highborn of
the Wasteland were inhuman as much because of their history as because
they denied themselves the basic trappings of humanity. If all you were
was artifice, what was there left? But I had no pity to spare for the
likes of Diabolist, and the only reason I refrained from further mockery
was that her extolling her own virtues would be useful to me.

``Hypocrite,'' Akua chided me. ``You cast disdain at my feet for the
occasional exegesis, yet how many of your little\ldots{} diatribes have
you indulged in, since you became the Squire?''

``If I cast anything at you, Diabolist, you can rest assured it won't be
the feet. Still, I don't actually know what that word means,'' I
grinned. ``You know, on account of being a mudfoot peasant.''

``Monologue,'' she sighed. ``Your fixation on your origins is unseemly,
Catherine. The promise of the Tower is that anyone can rise, regardless
of birth.''

``See,'' I mused, ``the way you felt the need to add \emph{regardless}
kind of defeats your point.''

``Should I be ashamed of what I am?'' Akua asked, amused.

``I mean, I could give you a list of reasons why but that'd take a
while,'' I said. ``It's a pretty long list. In essence, \emph{Gods
yes}.''

``Barring assassination, I will live at least three decades older than a
baseborn,'' Diabolist said. ``My natural capacity for sorcery is beyond
even that of your Hierophant. I know more, can accomplish more, I am
\emph{objectively} more than others. Why should I apologize for this?''

``Got not issue with the whole Wasteland breeding program,'' I began,
then adjusted. ``No, that's a lie. I think it's disturbing as Hells, but
not all that worse than the usual marriage alliances everybody else
does. I don't take issue with your talents, Akua. Just what you do with
them.''

``It was too much to hope for that the Fourfold Crossing would rid you
of the attitude, I suppose,'' Diabolist said. ``Particularly given that
you cheated your way out of it. I'll admit to some curiosity as to how
you accomplished that.''

``Come closer,'' I smiled. ``I can show you.''

Her nose wrinkled.

``Violence,'' she said. ``The Carrion Lord's doing, then. He does like
to keep you in the dark, doesn't he?''

I raised an eyebrow.

``Yeah, Black helped me out of that trap you laid for me,'' I
deadpanned. ``Treachery. Ach, what betrayal. I will never forgive him.''

``It was more than a trap,'' Akua sharply said. ``It was refinement. The
clearing of impurities. Or it would have been, without his meddling. As
always, he sees defeat in you where he found his own.''

``Was I supposed to derive some kind of lesson from that?'' I snorted.
``'cause I came in ready to stab you in throat. Not much was learned
there.''

The mention of defeat pricked my ears, though. Black had never been shy
about teaching me through examples of when he'd screwed up in the past,
but it was the first time I was hearing about this Fourfold Crossing.
The part I disliked the most about dealing with people like Akua was
that they could read me like a book, unless I made a conscious effort
not to. She found the hint of interest in me, and expanded. I let her.
Usually I'd go in sword swinging to prevent her from making any
preparations, but at the moment I could see both her hands I really
doubted she was going to pull out anything throughout this conversation
she hadn't managed to prepare while I was getting smacked around by her
defences outside.

``Three months, he remained under,'' Diabolist said. ``He might have
stayed forever, had the Apprentice not pulled him out.''

I was the opposite of an expert on magic, but if this wasn't High Arcana
I'd eat my own toes and High Arcana did tend to operate through a kind
of logic I could make sense of. Black had sent me in with a warning I'd
only be able to strike once. That meant there would have been
consequences, if I hadn't gone after Akua in all four lives. That this
was the detail he'd warn me about told me something about how his own go
at it had unfolded -- he didn't tend to warn me about specific things
unless it was something that'd tripped him up in the past, preferring to
offer general knowledge and let me figure out my own way from it. So
he'd fucked up in one of his lives. I wasn't surprised. It was a nasty
kind of trap to spring on anyone, if they didn't go in knowing the key,
and for all his cleverness Black had never learned how to lose. He'd
won, where it mattered, when his story mattered. He would have
stubbornly kept on until he got a victory out of it, even if the game
was rigged and he knew it was. That was, in a way, his defining trait.

``He still alive?'' I casually asked.

``For now,'' Akua said.

I huffed out a laugh.

``Amused, Catherine?'' she probed.

``You're dead,'' I said. ``You already were, but now? It's just a matter
of how it happens.''

``I warred and won against six legions and the muster of Callow,''
Diabolist said. ``Against your collection of woes and the most dangerous
of the Calamities as well, \emph{alone} -- and still you underestimate
me.''

I smiled viciously.

``You think I'm short-changing you,'' I said. ``I'm not, Akua. What
offends you is the lack of respect, but there's nothing about\ldots{}
this I can respect.''

``I-``

``-lose,'' I interrupted. ``You always lose. That's your outcome. You
use methods that lead to defeat, because every time you win you make
another dozen enemies fitted just for you. I just happen to be the one
closest at hand.''

``It only takes once, to change everything,'' Diabolist said.

``The refrain of every Empress before you,'' I said. ``It's time that
was buried. I have axes to grind with the new way, but the old one is in
dire need of a grave. Do resist. I've been looking forward to the
screaming.''

The dark-skinned woman rose to her feet elegantly, brushing her
shoulder.

``Well then,'' Akua Sahelian said, ``shall we begin?''

``That's your first mistake,'' I said. ``Thinking I'm only now
beginning.''

Thing was, she wasn't the only one around here who claimed an
inheritance -- and the way I'd come into mine was a lot more intimate
than hers. Black was known for using his shadow, and while I couldn't
mould mine the way he did I was not without tricks. The balls of blue
flame that lit up the hall had my silhouette splayed against a tapestry
and from there, out of her sight, lines of frost had spread up to the
ceiling. Robber was right, I mused. Humans so rarely looked up, Praesi
least of all -- their Gods dwelled below. I wouldn't call what I'd
crafted an array. I did not have the know-how to make one, and my power
was of a different breed besides. But I'd accumulated power in four dots
on the ceiling above Diabolist as she spoke, and in that moment I let
them loose. Ice shot downwards in four thick pillars, headed straight
for her, and the dance began.

That she would survive the first strike was a given. I'd approached the
formula that was killing her with that in mind. If I couldn't get a kill
-- or even a grave wound -- out of the first attack, what \emph{could} I
get? Tying her down. That was the most that was feasible, and so I
opened the waltz with something she'd need to be stationary to deal
with. That was how mages died, even Named. Lack of mobility. The
whirlwind of flame that formed around her reeked of Summer,
unsurprisingly, but even as it shattered the pillars of ice I kept
pouring power into them. Could I win, if this fight became about
reserves? On open field, I'd say yes. But not in here, not in the seat
of her power. Letting a caster dig in always led to ugliness, and she'd
had months to prepare this room. Sending the Summer Court after her had
been a tactical necessity but a strategic mistake, I decided. Keeping
her busy had been needed. But anything that didn't kill Diabolist would
be ripped apart and repurposed by her, and now she'd shrugged off my
initial blow as a consequence. I doubted it'd be the last time I paid
for that.

I'd passed long evenings with Masego, preparing for this fight.
Discussing not the theory of sorcery but the practicalities of using it,
the limits. The conclusion I'd arrived to was that if I wanted to win, I
had to do so within the first ten exchanges. Any longer than that, and
her bag of devilries would outshine mine. I'd be stuck on the defensive,
and that was the beginning of the crawl to defeat. One exchange had
passed. My cloak fluttered behind me as I ran, ten steps passing before
she recognized the danger of it. The whirlwind of fire thickened then
blew up, forcing back the ice for a precious single heartbeat, and among
the pillar of flame was revealed to be nothing at all. Second exchange:
she was buying distance, with an illusion. A year ago, that would have
been a problem but I had ways to deal with that, now. And the power to
spare to use them. My foot stomped against the ground and ice spread
from the touch, spreading like a tide. I wasn't much, not even enough to
slip on. But it spread quickly and the silhouette of two boots was
revealed.

``There you are,'' I said.

Diabolist dismissed her illusion and reappeared with runes hovering in
the air before her. High Arcana. Third exchange then. Now she would
attempt to hobble me, knowing if she didn't my sword would find her
throat. Lightning spun, first a bolt but then weaving itself into a
cage. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Her lack of
experience fighting against Named was showing -- it would have been good
against a mortal, but not the likes of me. My body convulsed in pain as
I forced my way through the crackling tendrils, but my body was a vessel
to my will. I had will enough that pain was just discomfort, something
that could be set aside as a distraction if necessity called for it. I
was on her within three heartbeats, my own ice no hindrance to me at
all. Her wrist snapped, rings of darkness forming around it as the shape
of a sword was forged in black. The stance she fell into before I struck
was one I recognized. There were half a dozen schools of Soninke
swordsmanship and this one I recognized on sight. \emph{Koanguka Moko},
the Hand-in-Falling. Best used for duelling. I knew how to pick out the
weaknesses of that form, how to bait it into a killing stroke, but that
was playing her game. Giving her the time to cast again\emph{.}

\emph{You were taught this}, I thought. \emph{As a child, when your
mother decided you must have the skill of a duellist to settle the
affairs of the blade between Named.} But this wasn't a duel, and I
wasn't a swordswoman. So when her sword came up perfectly angled to have
mine glance off I didn't fight it -- instead I punched her in the belly,
and the fourth exchange began. I'd struck hard enough to wreck steel, to
powder stone. I would have pulped a legionary with that blow. Akua was
blown off her feet by it, but a subtle ripple shivered across her robes
and there was no gratifying feel of guts and bone giving under my hand.
I let the world slow around me as I sunk into my Name, the sight of
Diabolist flying into one of her banners burning itself into my eyes. If
I made a mistake here, all the momentum I'd accumulated was gone. It
would be hard to recover from that. I needed\ldots{} I needed to
interrupt that rune she was forming and control where she landed, at the
same time. My eyes flecked to the tapestry and my hand followed, dark
ice forming on the contraption of metal keeping it hung from the rafters
and shattering it. When Akua hit the tapestry it folded under her but I
got a glimpse of her face, of the small quirk of the lips that betrayed
triumph. Trade, I decided, gritting my teeth. The Summer flame hit my
shoulder even as I swept the edges of the tapestry, biting down on a
scream as I wrapped Diabolist in a very expensive sack and pivoted to
smash her into the ground.

The fifth exchange began with me trying and failing to put out the fire
burning into my side. I forced Winter into it but Winter always lost,
when fighting Summer. I could, if I took a moment, sharpen my will and
drown it out. But it would take time I did not have, and this wasn't my
sword arm. I'd wait until I was in danger of losing the arm. Diabolist
spoke in the mage tongue, flailing on the ground, and though the words
were alien to me the feel of the spell was not. She'd used something
similar the last time we fought in Liesse. Even as the floor beneath me
roiled with sorcery I leapt, boots landing sideways on a platform of
shade as the ground turned to liquid save for a circle around her. I
leapt off and came upon her just as she forced aside the tapestry over
her, sword point crisp and clear. I rammed it into her chest, an inch
away to the left of her heart. Angle would've been awkward otherwise,
and given her protections I wasn't taking the risk of it glancing off
entirely. Akua's lips thinned with pain and she lay her hand on my good
shoulder even as I twisted the blade to worsen the wound. Too late for
me to the dodge, I assessed.

The force that came from her hand blew me off my feet, but I took it in
stride. I had, after all, won two victories going into the sixth
exchange. The first was that she'd had to dismiss her liquefying spell
to cast this one. The second was that, while she rose to her feet and
healed her wound with a pale face, I rose to mine and finally had the
time to smother the Summer flame without losing the tempo. My shoulder
was a ruin of melted steel and burnt flesh, but the cold ended the
distraction of the pain and I'd fought through worse in the past. I
could almost run my finger along the length of the coming four
exchanges, as if they were written in the air, and what I saw there had
me smiling. She would notice it soon enough. The moment she reached for
one of her arrays and found nothing, she was clever enough she'd put it
together. Why I'd encouraged her to keep talking, why I'd not tried to
take the fight out of a room she'd carefully crafted into her sanctum.
It would have been more madness than gambit, if not for one single
thing: just because I'd never used that trick in a fight didn't mean I
\emph{couldn't}.

The seventh exchange began when I shot forward. She'd learned from our
earlier bout, and this time she didn't go for lightning. Panes of red
light formed behind me, four of them, and when I struck at the one
before me the other span and smacked me to the side. I slid across stone
and found another set before me when I tried to turn. Ah. Problematic.
Unless. I formed a spear of ice and tossed it at the first set, getting
it spinning, and carefully adjusted my angle running into the one before
me. It jostled my bad arm painfully even through the cold when I was
thrown, right into the first set -- and from there straight at
Diabolist, whose face was amusingly flabbergasted.

I crouched low, sword swinging upwards, and that was the eight exchange
opening. The black sword formed again to parry my blade, but she was a
second-rate swordswoman at best: I spun on myself, breaking her footing,
and even as she fell I flipped my sword and the pommel came down on her
pretty white teeth with a deeply satisfying shattering sound. There was
nothing graceful or elegant about this: I rolled over her and sat on her
body, punching hard enough her sorcerous shield shivered once more and
the ground cracked beneath her. She'd had to have felt that, enchantment
or not. Threads of light bloomed behind her, tying around her body and
ripping her out from under me. I got up to my feet before she could,
though the threads hoisted up her a heartbeat later.

The ninth exchange happened when she flicked her wrist at me and nothing
happened at all. Her face went blank. I began gathering power into
myself, shaping it. Behind us, slowly, the bronze gates collapsed. They
were burning green.

``You set fire to your own path of retreat,'' Diabolist said, sorcery
flaring around her as her teeth healed.

``Wrong again,'' I replied. ``I set fire to \emph{everything}.''

In one of those little quirks of Creation, an entire pane of the wall to
our side collapsed the moment I finished speaking. Behind it lay a
hellscape of goblinfire unleashed. Robber hadn't skipped on the stuff, I
noted. I wouldn't be surprised if this entire section of the palace was
melted stone by the time the fire went out.

``Is this the sum of you, Catherine Foundling?'' Akua said. ``Were you
so disbelieving of victory you decided to burn us both?''

``Do you ever get tired?'' I smiled rudely. ``You know, of being wrong
all the time.''

For the tenth exchange, I opened a gate into Arcadia and stepped through
it.
