\hypertarget{epilogue}{%
\chapter*{Epilogue}\label{epilogue}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{epilogue}} \chaptermark{Epilogue}

\epigraph{``By hook and crook we will all hang, High Lords, from a noose
woven of our many loose ends. But cheer up: none are beyond salvation,
not even the likes of us. Let us see, at long last, if we can turn back
the tyranny of the sun.''}{Extract from the coronation speech of Dread Emperor Benevolent the
First}



Anaxares pricked his hand and cursed.

Damn needle. It must have been made in Penthes, as wantonly treacherous
as the rest of those Wicked Foreign Oligarchs. He wiped off the droplet
of blood and got back to the work of sewing back on the bottom of his
shoe. Servants kept offering him increasingly perfidious boots, and he
was certain the pair made of solid gold had been the result of what
passed for the Tyrant's sense of humour, but he'd continued pretending
blindness long enough they'd eventually desisted. He would have
preferred to go without shoes at all, if he could, as he'd not been
granted the right to use the foreign product by a proper committee, but
three days of bleeding feet had eventually dissuaded him. He'd bought an
old pair with the last silvers from his begging bowl, but the march was
using them sorely. Anaxares had grown to hate walking a great deal
lately. He'd never done so much of it during his years as a diplomat,
and never in a locale so insistently hostile. He'd heard a bush had
eaten a soldier, last night, swallowed the man whole when he went to
relieve himself. There was hardly a piece of the Waning Woods that was
not out to kill everything it saw.

The Hierarch of the League of Free Cities finished sowing his shoes back
together at the cost of only minor wounds, which sadly he could not even
consider had been taken in service to the Republic. The People had cut
him off, sent him adrift. Worse yet, their elected representatives
sometimes requested his advice. \emph{His advice}. As if he were not
some wretched despot. He'd immediately reported the people involved to
the nearest kanenas for treason against the Will Of The People, their
horrid attempts to involve a duplicitous Named into the affairs of
Glorious Bellerophon marking a dark day. \emph{Advice}, Gods. A dark day
indeed. He slipped on his shoes and began looking for an acceptable spot
to dig a hole to sleep in. League dignitaries had alleged there was a
tent he was meant to sleep in, but he'd closed his eyes and hummed until
they went away. Sadly straying too far from the camp would see him
encircled by heavily-armed soldiers keeping a vigil, so he'd have to
stay within the bounds even though the very notion made his skin crawl.
There was a patch of tepid, mostly dry earth far enough from a fire he
wouldn't be implicitly agreeing with its existence, and there Anaxares
knelt and drew back his sleeves. He was out of silvers and so could not
trade for a shovel, meaning he'd have to dig by hand.

It shouldn't take more than a few hours, he thought.

``O Mighty Hierarch, Peerless Ruler of all the League and its people-''

``How dare you,'' Anaxares snarled.

The Tyrant of Helike grinned, draped over a Proceran fainting couch held
up by a gaggle of chittering gargoyles.

``I come bearing tribute to your greatness, O Sublime One,'' Kairos
Theodosian said, and ordered one of the gargoyles forward.

It presented Anaxares with a shovel. It was, he could not help but
notice, made entirely of rubies. That monster.

``I will report this flagrant attempt of bribery to the proper
authorities,'' Hierarch said.

``Which are?'' Tyrant said, leaning forward with interest.

``The Tyrant of Helike,'' Anaxares reluctantly admitted.

``I expect he will he chide me most thoroughly,'' the boy mused.
``Rumour is he's a real stickler about these things.''

``Why do you torment me so, Tyrant?'' he sighed.

``Mostly habit, at this point,'' Kairos confessed. ``It's like picking
at a wound, once you start it's nigh impossible to stop.''

``I will rise above this nonsense,'' Hierarch said. ``I must see to my
bedding.''

``Did you notice that half the Bellerophan army is standing guard every
night?'' Tyrant cheerfully asked. ``I think they mistook the Tolesian
term for ten with the one meaning a thousand in their manual and they've
been standing by the mistranslation ever since.''

Anaxares' lips thinned, deeply offended at the insinuation that the
Republic could ever make such a mistake. Even if they had, which they
had not, it would have been a superior interpretation of the original
text and inherently better by virtue of having been voted upon by the
People. Naturally, as with all matters related to military texts,
knowledge of what was voted upon would not have been held by the People
as it was illegal for said knowledge to be held by any not having drawn
the lot of soldiers. This was only right and proper. But he would not
correct the Tyrant's blatantly false assertions, it would only encourage
the boy.

``Huh,'' Kairos said. ``I thought for sure that would do it. I suppose
all that's left is helping you dig your hole.''

Anaxares frowned.

``That would taint the work,'' he gravely said.

Relying upon foreign labour -- which was, by definition, the product of
tyranny -- without official sanction was treason.

``Then I'd pick up the pace then, if I were you,'' the Tyrant grinned.
``We're about to hold a war council and at this point nobody still
believes they'll be able to get you into an actual tent.''

The Gods were fickle, and so when the other dignitaries arrived the hole
was only ankle-deep. Anaxares sat in in regardless, threadbare cloak
pooling around him. The usual despots had crawled out of their ivory
towers, it seemed. A two-striped askretis from Delos' Secretariat, a
preached from Atalante laden with beads, the young Basileus of Nicae and
his former colleague Magister Zoe of Stygia. The two grasping Exarchs of
Penthes -- they had not succeeded at assassinating or disgracing the
other, and so now uneasily shared the mantle of Wanton Tyranny -- and
finally the dignified figure of Bellerophon's senior, and incidentally
only, general. Flanked by kanenas ready to execute him at the first sign
of treasonous ambition, he noted with approval. The Delosi askretis
broke the silence first, sending one of his scribes for ink and
parchment.

``The meaning of your metaphor escapes me, Hierarch,'' he said, eyeing
the barely-visible hole curiously. ``Could I trouble you to clarify it
for the records?''

``It was not as wet as the ground further out,'' Anaxares explained.

``Ah,'' the askretis said, sounding enlightened. ``And what does the
ground stand for? The wetness?''

``Impiety, clearly,'' the Atalantian preacher said, clutching her beads.
``The Hierarch reminds us of the virtue of humility, chiding us for this
vainglorious enterprise.''

``It is a hole,'' Magister Zoe mildly said. ``That he is going to sleep
in. Like he has every other night so far.''

``How like a Stygian to grasp the obvious and only that,'' the Delosi
dignitary scathingly dismissed.

``And so I do declare this session of the war council of the League of
Free Cities to have formally begun,'' the Tyrant cheerfully said.

The crazed boy enjoyed these councils so much, Anaxares thought, largely
because no one else did. He'd insisted they be held regularly with the
full roster of League dignitaries.

``The Glorious Republic of Bellerophon,'' the general started, and
Hierarch murmured `First and Greatest of the Free Cities, May She Reign
Forever' along with him, ``would like to formally protest the opening of
hostilities in the Samite Gulf.''

``The record will show this,'' the askretis promised with religious
fervour.

``I'll start bothering to listen to your people on the subject of fleets
when you actually learn how to swim,'' the Basileus of Nicae retorted.

Anaxares' back straightened with indignation. This was calumny. The
knowledge of how to swim had not been restricted in decades -- has never
been restricted or not, he immediately mentally corrected -- though with
good reason showing too much eagerness in learning the skill was
considered suspicious.

``I've been led to believe this protest comes too late, regardless,''
the Tyrant of Helike said.

The young ruler of Nicae grit his teeth.

``Allies,'' he began, ``do not spy on each other, Tyrant.''

``Spy?'' Kairos said, putting a trembling hand over his heart. ``Gods, I
would \emph{never}. We merely helped your messengers carry their
messages.''

``Like anyone believes that,'' the Basileus sneered.

``Anyhow,'' Tyrant said, ``as I was saying -- my spies in the Nicaean
ranks tell me the Ashuran fleet was taken by surprise while docked in
Arwad and torched before the city itself was sacked.''

The ruler of Nicae scoffed.

``Our ships withdrew afterwards,'' he added. ``And are now blockading
Smyrna. With the loss of their other fleet in the assault on Thalassina,
the Ashurans are now effectively taken out of the war.''

``Would the Republic care to protest the blockade a well?'' the Delosi
dignitary asked.

``Instructions will be sought from the People,'' the Bellerophan general
stoutly replied.

And would be received, Anaxares thought, within the next six months
after vote was held. Perhaps along with a suggested order of battle, if
the message arrived when they'd entered the lands claimed by the
Principate.

``That's all well and good, but the Thalassocracy was never our true
worry,'' Magister Zoe opined. ``Last we heard the armies of Levant were
marching up Procer, in pursuit of the Carrion Lord. They're the ones
we're at risk of encountering.''

``This was a glorious victory,'' the Basileus insisted. ``Simply because
the Magisterium hardly contributed any ships you would-''

``You kicked the Ashurans while they were down, boy,'' one of the
Penthesian Exarchs said, rolling her eyes. ``If the Praesi hadn't
slapped them around first we wouldn't be having this conversation.''

``The foul empress Malicia struck a blow at all children of the Heavens,
that day,'' the Atalantian preacher said. ``Let us not celebrate the
death of those taken while serving holy purpose.''

``Bead-clutcher,'' Magister Zoe mocked. ``Where was this ambivalence
when we planned the invasion of Procer?''

``There is no invasion,'' Hierarch stated.

There was a moment of silence as all their gazes turned to him. Most of
them, he realized, had forgotten he was even there.

``As the Principate of Procer is an assembly of grasping despots having
forcefully seized land and authority from its inhabitants, legally
speaking there can be no such thing as invasion of it,'' he clarified.

``Hear hear,'' the Tyrant grinned. ``We are \emph{liberators}, my
friends. We undertake the gentle -- kindly, even -- business of
liberating all those pretty Proceran cities. Certainly nothing so
uncouth as invasion.''

Even true words sounded incorrect coming from the boy's mouth, Anaxares
thought. After that the council descended into the usual squabbles. The
Penthesians wanted the armies of the League to march swifter through the
Waning Woods, shaving days off the week remaining until they entered
Iserre. Most other commanders disagreed on basis of such haste opening
the soldiers to ambush by the creatures haunting the woods, though
Magister Zoe was in agreement with the Exarchs and offered the slave
phalanxes as vanguard. As usual, it came to nothing and the dignitaries
retreated stewing in the same irritation they had brought with them. The
Tyrant made a production of leaving the ruby shovel behind, but
eventually followed suit. Anaxares remained in his hole, eyes closed.
The visions came to his eyes and ears on the wind, unbidden and
unwanted. He could only \textbf{Receive} them.

A blind boy treading through a dead city, carrying the deaths with him
-- lash and ladder, into ever deeper darkness. Armies gathering under
mountains, a sea of banners snarling like wolves in the wind. The Augur
sitting alone in a frosted garden, spoken whispers still echoing in her
ears like a coiling snake. Death marching under water, darkening the sky
in flocks, spreading like poison in a legion unending. A grinning woman
in the dark smoking a pipe and gathering an army, seen only until pale
blue eyes forced the vision to end. Bands of green things crawling out
of tunnels swords in hands, silent in the night. A one-eyed orc and a
woman dappled with ink, leading an army in flight. But most importantly
of all, on some barren shore, a knight in white stood with his sword
high. A killer who had taken lives, but never at his own behest. Behind
him, looking through a coin, something unfathomable loomed. The
Seraphim, Anaxares thought. The Choir of Judgement. The angels who had
judged and slain people of the League.

The Hierarch smiled.

For that, they would be judged in turn.

---

Amadeus was bemused.

Upon realizing the depth of his mistake he'd expected swift death to
follow, delivered by as many heroes as the opposition could scrape
together for a spot of killing on the lake. Part of that had been
correct. A band of Named had come after him, girded with Light and
wearing the grim rictuses of individuals carrying out a necessary evil
-- always without the capital, of course, and preferably phrased as the
`greater good' instead. To his continued bafflement, however, they had
yet to cut his throat. On one of the rare occasions where he was not put
under enchantment to remain inert, mainly when it was deemed necessary
that he be fed and allowed to relieve himself, he'd politely inquired to
his captors about what kind of second-rate outfit they were running.
Really, keeping him prisoner? It was asking for this story to be turned
on them, considering the amount of loved ones he still had out there.
Unless the Saint of Swords was intent on confessing her deep affections
for him -- unlikely, since she took great relish in punching him
unconscious before enchantments were laid -- it was likely someone in
the opposition had decided to get \emph{clever} about this.

Hearing out whatever funeral pyre of a plan was behind this ought to be
good for a chuckle or two. He was awakened long enough for half-stale
bread to be pressed into his hand, and he was left to eat it with the
Saint of Swords standing behind him sword unsheathed. Though damnably
hungry, Amadeus threw over his shoulder the stickiest crumbs he could
find and smilingly excused it as an ancient Wasteland custom he could
not eat without. Everyone knew Duni were an ignorant and superstitious
lot, after all. Laurence de Montfort replied by clouting him over the
ear, which he took as a moral victory. By the looks of their
surroundings, they were still keeping to the countryside and avoiding
roads and cities. The temperature had significantly cooled, though that
could be the result of the turning season just as northwards travel.

``Drink,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, pressing the gourd to his lips.

Amadeus did. He'd inhabited this body as Named for so long he'd lost the
sense of how long it would take for him to become this thirsty under
more natural circumstances, but he suspected at least six hours. After,
though, he pursued his curiosity.

``You appear to be carrying me north,'' he said. ``And have been
for\ldots{} a fortnight, at least, likely more.''

``That is none of your concern,'' the Pilgrim said, the Levantine roots
subtly affecting his pronunciation of Lower Miezan.

Amadeus raised an eyebrow.

``Are you quite certain,'' he said, ``that you would not prefer to extol
your plan to me in great detail?''

He didn't even hear the blow coming. The Saint, he mused when they woke
him the following day, did not have much of a sense of humour. He told
her as much while picking at his daily bread.

``Think you're funny, do you?'' Laurence de Montfort sneered.

He was not, in fact, certain she was sneering. He was facing the wrong
way and quite tightly bound, save for his forearms. But given the tone,
he would allow himself to presume.

``I have my moments,'' Amadeus mused. ``I did hear this funny jest, from
someone very dear to me. It was about this very arrogant woman who had
her belly opened and crawled away holding in her guts.''

He paused.

``The punchline is that you'll grow old and die, while Hye won't,'' he
helpfully added.

He did not get to finish his bread that evening, by dint of being
knocked unconscious. To his amusement, the following night it was
another hero standing behind him. The Rogue Sorcerer, he thought, if the
old reports of the Eyes had any accuracy to them. Likely the author of
the enchantment that kept him slumbering as the others journeyed.

``I've been instructed to put you under spell of silence if you attempt
to engage me in conversation,'' the hero quietly told him.

``That seems unnecessary,'' Amadeus said. ``I am, after all, entirely at
your power.''

``Pilgrim's orders,'' the Rogue Sorcerer said.

``That is unfortunate,'' the dark-haired man said. ``It is not too late
to save your parents.''

No reply was given. Amadeus frowned, then yelled as loudly as he could.
None of the heroes breaking their fast so much as glanced in his
direction. Ah, already under the spell. He had neither heard nor felt
the man cast. Interesting. He truly \emph{was} bereft of even the
smallest trace of his Name. He flicked a miffed glance at the ground.

``Before my last stand, truly?'' he said. ``I could have slain a few on
my way down, you cheapskates.''

Four more evenings, and not once did the Grey Pilgrim do him the
courtesy of a morality debate by the fireside. He could respect the
professionalism involved, but it was really quite irksome. Three more
after that, and once: the last awakening, to his surprise, was in the
middle of the night. Someone had botched their enchantment, it seemed.
Amadeus found himself quite tightly constrained: manacles on his feet,
ropes on his legs, another set of manacles keeping his hands behind his
back and what looked like an enchanted band of middle around his chest.
Well, they wouldn't take themselves off on their own. He quietly rolled
around until his fingers clasped around a somewhat sharp rock, and he
considered the manner in which this should be approached. He'd need to
dislocate at least one of his arms, and likely a wrist as well. To slip
the manacle he'd need blood to ease the way, and that meant cutting open
a vein -- though he'd need to be careful not to nick an artery, as he
was rather troublingly fragile at the moment. Wound first, he decided.
It'd be harder to be accurate with the stone if his arm was already
dislocated. Shifting his fingers, be began digging the sharp edge into
his skin.

``I'm curious,'' the Wandering Bard said. ``After you slip loose,
assuming you can, then what?''

Amadeus sighed.

``Debate is still taking place,'' he replied, ``as to whether I should
attempt to steal a horse or shove this humble stone through a hero's eye
socket.''

``Pretty sure Laurence can outrun a horse,'' the Bard mused.

``\emph{I} can't,'' he quite reasonably pointed out. ``Small
steps\ldots{} what happens to be your name, at the moment?''

``Marguerite of Baillons,'' the Bard replied.

He snorted.

``Alamans, truly?'' he said. ``Were all the other bodies taken?''

``Hey, if I could pick I'd be a seven foot tall blonde with a miraculous
rack and thighs like trees every single time,'' the Bard said. ``Now
\emph{that} was a spin of the wheel. They don't make them like that in
Levant anymore.''

He moved around, trying to sit, but found himself stuck on the ground.
Most unpleasant. The Wandering Bard lent a helping hand, dragging him
up, and he found himself looking at the abomination's latest form.
Slender and dark-haired, loose and going down her back. Smiling blue
eyes and heart-shaped lips. A convincing facsimile of life, he would
concede. The flask in her hand was already open, and her shoddy lute
laying further down in the grass.

``Drink?'' she offered.

``Most kind of you,'' he agreed.

She poured the liquor down his throat until he raised his hand,
swallowing a cough.

``Gods,'' Amadeus got out. ``Is that the horrid fermented cherry extract
from Atalante?''

``It's just the \emph{foulest} thing, isn't it?'' she grinned. ``It's
like it can't decide whether it wants to be sweets or poison.''

``And to think they call me a monster,'' he muttered. ``I've never fed
such torment to prisoners.''

``Another?'' Marguerite offered.

``Might as well,'' Amadeus said. ``I'm not looking forward to opening
that vein, this ought to take the edge off.''

Another spot of torture later his belly and throat had warmed, at the
mere price of the taste of a violently misused orchard taking over his
palate.

``So, you might be wondering why I'm here,'' the Bard said.

``I'm rather more curious as to why none of your fellows have
awakened,'' he said. ``Their senses should be sharper than that.''

``If they were going to wake, I wouldn't be here,'' Marguerite shrugged.

``Convenient,'' Amadeus said.

``Eh,'' she hedged. ``I don't need to tell you how tetchy providence can
get. Even with loaded dice you have to roll.''

``I take it this a visit in your official capacity, then,'' he said.

``Surprised, are we?'' she grinned, revealing slightly crooked teeth.

``It was my theory that you could only work through Named,'' Amadeus
said. ``I find it rather horrifying that you are evidently not so
restricted.''

While the dark-haired main currently believed himself to be without
power -- and would comport himself as such -- it remained only a theory.
There were likely no greater expert on namelore alive than the Wandering
Bard, insofar as she was that, and so her confirmation or denial would
hold some weight. No overmuch, of course, as she was still a hostile
entity. But it would be a useful entry to this running mental tally.

``Still fishing, huh?'' Marguerite smiled. ``That's not Name so much as
it is nature, I think. Needing a plan, always a plan, even if you're
screaming inside.''

``You praise me overmuch,'' Amadeus said. ``You have, after all,
defeated --''

``Warlock's dead,'' the Wandering Bard said.

He paused. She might be lying. To hurt him, to cloud his\ldots{} Amadeus
breathed in, breathed out. It was set aside.

``Blew up a fleet going out, but that's more than a fair trade,''
Marguerite said. ``Empire's a real mess at the moment, since he
vaporized the better part of Thalassina with his last hurrah. Your
little friend up high's going spare trying to keep it all together.''

``Yet you are here,'' Amadeus said. ``And not there, stoking the
fires.''

``Catherine got herself killed again,'' the Bard casually said. ``And
let me tell you, now \emph{that} was a show. You don't often see that
calibre of foolishness slugging it out no holds barred.''

His fingers tightened. Breathe in, breathe out. Control. The moment he
lost control, the creature would make use of him for whatever purpose
she needed. It might be time to consider smashing his head into the
ground until he fell unconscious.

``It's fascinating, watching you take that paternal feeling by the
throat and just\ldots{}'' Marguerite snapped her fingers, ``There goes
the neck. Back into the box it goes.''

The taunts were immaterial. Useful information could still be had.
Amadeus put a tremor to his voice.

``She wouldn't die that easily,'' he said, making himself look away.

``Glancing away is the part Malicia taught you, isn't it?'' the Bard
mused. ``She's \emph{good}. Must have guessed the eyes would give up the
game, it's always the hardest part to master.''

The frightful depths of that thing's perception were not to be
underestimated, he mentally conceded. She was, after all, entirely
right. Cold green eyes flicked back to study her face.

``You're headed for Salia, in case you were wondering,'' Marguerite
said. ``They're keeping you in the countryside because Hasenbach knows
they have you. She sent half a hundred companies out with orders to take
you into custody.''

``Did she now?'' Amadeus said.

``Second order is to cut off your head the moment they have you,'' the
Bard continued amusedly. ``She's not best pleased you're not already
decorating a pike. Tariq's going to get an earful.''

He'd known there was a reason he liked the woman. She had a good head on
her shoulders, to wish the opposite of him.

``I am to be paraded before the crowds, then,'' he said.

``Nah, they'll get a hero under illusion for that,'' Marguerite said.
``Saint's gonna cut out your soul and have it bound to something, she
insisted. They want bait, not to risk a rescue.''

Implying that, to the best of the Pilgrim's knowledge, there were still
villains in the East he could be considered bait for. He could not know
whether or not Eudokia was still with the legions. If she'd judged it
feasible he could be reacquired she would have left without a second
thought, but in the absence of that Scribe would remain with Grem.
Assassin was still in Ashur, presumably, and impossible to contact. That
much had been necessary to ensure the Augur could not interfere. That
left Catherine -- allegedly dead, though that was admittedly not always
enough to stop her -- and perhaps Masego. \emph{Unless what the Bard has
told me is false}, he thought. \emph{Or what she has shared is true, and
the Pilgrim does not know it.}

Too many unknowns for a solid strategic assessment, and no real way to
acquire the information he needed through reliable sources. If he had
the means, if he could lead a message, \emph{if}. What a bastard word to
be curtailed by. Pushing aside the frustration, Amadeus forced himself
to consider the conversation through broader perspective. It should not
be taking place at all, he thought. He held no Name, commanded no armies
and if she had spoken true the Calamities had largely ended as threat.
Neither Eudokia nor Assassin could be counted on for independent action,
and held highly limited direct martial value besides. His sole remaining
worth was as a hostage, and that was not the Wandering Bard's game.

Why, then, was she here?

``There's one part of you that I actually like, did you know?''
Marguerite said. ``It's also what I hate the most, but it does tend to
be that way with villains.''

``I make a very good lentil soup,'' Amadeus suggested.

Behind the pithy words he observed her carefully. Now they entered the
field of revelations, the most dangerous part of this dangerous
conversation.

``You don't digest defeat,'' the Bard said. ``It doesn't fill your
belly, weigh you down. You dissect it, read the entrails like an augury,
and then ask yourself -- if I could do it again, how would I do it
\emph{better}?''

He watched her in silence.

``Even now,'' she murmured, ``behind the eyes there's a few cogs
turning. What can I do? How should I do it? And they'll only stop when
you die.''

``Which,'' Amadeus said, ``looks to be rather soon.''

``Nah,'' the Wandering Bard. ``You don't get to be a rallying cry. See,
you paid your dues.''

His eyes narrowed.

``You're no favourite son, it's true,'' she mused. ``You never played
the game the way you're meant to. But you did kill the opposition and
tip the scales. They wouldn't cut you loose after that, it's now how
they do things.''

``I am,'' Amadeus said, ``no longer the Black Knight.''

``You don't fit that groove anymore,'' Marguerite said. ``Powerless you
ain't, \emph{Maddie}. You know what you are, deep down, you just think
it's beneath you.''

His fingers tightened under the knuckles were white.

``Claimant,'' the Wandering Bard said. ``You can have your second shot
at it, you're owed that. But if you really want it?''

She drank deep, then wiped her mouth.

``Well, there's always a price isn't there?'' she shrugged. ``So tell
me, Amadeus of the Green Stretch\ldots{}''

She smiled, crooked and wide under moonlight.

``What do you think is right?'' she asked.

She leaned forward.

``How far are you willing to go, to see it done?''

He closed his eyes. She was gone a moment later when he opened them,
without so much as a whisper. He was silent and still, for a very long
time.

\emph{Mistake}, he thought.
