\hypertarget{peregrine-ii}{%
\section{Peregrine II}\label{peregrine-ii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Peace is not a right, it is the privilege of those who have
toiled to break the back of war.''}

-- King Albert Fairfax of Callow, the Thrice-Invaded
\end{quote}

``You were gone for long, this time,'' she said.

A few years ago Tariq's pride might have been mildly stung by the fact
that she could return to casual conversation so swiftly after an hour of
rather delightful exertion in bed, but these days he knew better. His
head fell back against the pillow, though he twisted around after to
better be able to run a hand down the bare flank of his lover. She bit
her lip at the sensation, to his pleasure, to her gazed turned amused
when she caught his eyes lingering on the generous curve of her breasts.

``You will not distract me so easily,'' Sintra Marave warned him. ``I
have learned of your wiles, Tariq of No Import.''

His name she spoke with a teasing lilt, as it had become something of a
jest between them. It had become clear rather early on that his attempts
at hiding his identity had been seen through near immediately: Sintra,
he'd learned, regularly corresponded with his sister. From their first
meeting she had suspected him. There were, he supposed, only so many
haggard young men named Tariq wandering the countryside of Levant.

``I surrender before your keen insight, then,'' Tariq grinned.

He did know better, now. Better than to think this was casual
conversation at all, or that its initiation so soon after their
pleasure-taking was slight to bedplay itself. Sintra would not still
leave her balcony door unlocked whenever he returned to Alava was she
displeased with their time together.

``So keen that I discern you travelled to the Free Cities,'' the heiress
to the Champion's Blood said.

``Stygia,'' he freely admitted. ``Never before had I seen such a
horrifying pit of human misery, and I walked the streets of Levante
during the plague.''

``Famously,'' Sintra drily said. ``What took you to that nest of
slavers?''

She shifted around in their bed -- arrogance on his part, to think of it
as that, and yet he could not help it -- and rested her chin one her
palm. While that did interesting things to the parts of her beneath said
chin, Tariq valiantly maintained his concentration.

``There was a delegation headed to Arwad by ship,'' he said. ``One of
their slaver ships struck it on the way there -- by mistake, I believe,
even Stygians are not usually so bold -- and took captives before
sinking it.''

Sintra's brow rose.

``Junla Osena?'' she said, surprised. ``That was \emph{you}?''

``I followed the trail back to Stygia,'' Tariq said. ``Though I did not
know anything of the ship save that it was Levantine when I came across
it.''

His lover snorted out a laugh, her sweat-soaked and somewhat dishevelled
braids swinging as she did.

``Only you,'' Sintra fondly said, ``would end up rescuing the third in
line for Tartessos by accident. You do know she's publicly broken her
betrothal?''

The healer grimaced, rather embarrassed.

``I had heard,'' he said, chagrined. ``I did not mean to convey interest
where there is none.''

Sintra chuckled, and for a moment he admired the ripple of the muscle in
her arms. No frail poet, his lover. Warrior to the bone, born for the
fight. Unlike the Lady Junla.

``Worried I'll get jealous?'' she teased.

Tariq sighed.

``Could you not be, at least a little?'' he half-complained.

She smiled, but it was brittle.

``You know I cannot wed you,'' Sintra said. ``It would be-''

``- taken as a challenge to Yasa, I know,'' he softly finished.

The heiress to Alava, trading promises with a man who'd once been
proposed heir to the Tattered Throne? Regardless of the truth it would
be seen as a war of succession in the making, the Champion's Blood
attempting to put a puppet of the Pilgrim's Blood in power. The Dominion
would split apart at the seams, lords and ladies taking up steel to
place crown their favourite. Their fingers threaded, without him ever
needing to think of it, and he glanced down at the sheets. Tariq had not
taken another lover since the night she'd first smiled at him and
mentioned her balcony wall could easily be scaled. Love was a word they
had avoided, though it roared loud in their forced silences.

``You could come with me,'' he said, not looking up.

Fingers caressed his cheek, surprisingly gentle for the roughness of the
skin.

``You know I cannot,'' Sintra repeated.

``You would not be the first Marave to prize adventure over the high
seat,'' he pointed out, and immediately felt guilty for it.

It was been ill-said, that. To ask her to leave her life, her rights
behind her simply to be with him. How easy it was to speak of sacrifice,
when you were not the one making it. A comforting hand fell on his
shoulder. It was not Sintra's, or any mortal's. The fingers on his cheek
feel and an apology was halfway out his lips when she tucked up his
chin, dark eyes meeting his.

``If you were just a man, we'd be hunting chimeras in the Brocelian and
sleeping in brambles under moonlight,'' Sintra solemnly said. ``Never
believe otherwise. But you are not that, love. I called your rescue in
Stygia an accident, but we both know it wasn't that.''

Tariq's lips tightened.

``I am a healer,'' he insisted.

``When the levies broke in Malaga, you held back the sea for near an
hour,'' Sintra gently said. ``There are some who still swear you cradled
a star in your hands. A healer, perhaps, but also more than that.''

A Pilgrim, she did not say. The Grey Pilgrim. No matter the colour of
the robes Tariq wore, dust always turned them grey. The whispers had
told him that denial would change nothing. He might have hated them, had
they not always taken him where he could do so much \emph{good}. It was
still bitter brew to swallow that he would have to do it alone. He
dropped back onto the pillow, tired in more than body. They remained
like that for a long time, the sounds of Alava at night sneaking in
through the balcony door they'd been too preoccupied to properly close.
He'd come to think of the city more as a home than Levante ever had
been. Tariq had been a boy, back in the Old City. It was in Alava he had
learned to truly leave that behind. \emph{Let them bury me here, when
Above calls me home}, he thought. \emph{In the shade of the pear trees
beneath the balcony.} A morbid thought, and he chased it away with
softer words shared with Sintra. They half-fell asleep, after, but he
woke before long. The whispers were back. East, he thought. They wanted
him to head east. He clenched his fist and forced his eyes to close,
though sleep did not return.

``They're calling again, aren't they?'' Sintra suddenly whispered.

Her voice was still hoarse with sleep. He turned to kiss her brow.

``They can wait,'' he whispered back.

It had been a long five months without seeing her. The Ophanim could
hold their tongues until dawn, at least. Sintra rose, the sheets falling
off of her torso, and smiled.

``Go,'' she said.

``Sintra-'' he started.

``Go,'' she interrupted. ``Honour your Blood, Tariq.''

He clenched his teeth.

``You will have a bed here, when you return,'' Sintra said, then caught
him by the nape of the neck and brought him into a bruising kiss.

The parted too soon, both panting.

``And you \emph{will} return,'' Sintra ordered. ``That much I claim from
you, by right of conquest. If the Choir of Mercy takes issue, let them
try the might of the Champion's Blood.''

The Ophanim murmured approvingly, to his mild distress.

``Conquest?'' he croaked out.

She grinned.

``Do you truly think \emph{you} were the pursuer in this, Tariq of No
Import?''

---

Tariq was thirty one years old, when his mother died.

It had been thirteen years since he had last set foot in the city of
Levante, and in truth it was unwise for him to return even now. His
sister Yasa would not formally ascend to the Tattered Throne until the
funerary games of the departed Seljun of Levant were ended, and in a way
his presence here could still be taken as a challenge to her rights.
He'd been prepared to linger on the outskirts of the region until the
games had ended, but Yasa had written -- he could almost hear the very
mild tone she'd used when they were children and she thought he was
being a fool -- that she would send the army to drag him into the city
tied like a hog if he did not come by himself. \emph{She robbed year
from us, brother, with her fecklessness. I will not grant her a single
day more.} And so Tariq slipped back into the city where he'd been
raised under cover of night, dark cloak covering the grey robes he had
grown weary of fighting against. The city guards did not look twice, for
the city was swelling fit to burst with those come to pay their last
respects, and after passing the walls he let his feet guide him.

How easy it was to return to the old city, as if more than a decade had
not passed. This was not home, had not been a in a long time, but it
would have been a lie to say there was no fondness to be found. Tariq
came across his first silver breastplate ten blocks away from the
entrance to the palace, and nodded with approval at the vigilance. It
did little to stop him from entering unseen, though. He'd walked paths
more dire than this. Salia, where all of Levant were looked upon with
suspicion, Mercantis as a wanted man and even Thalassina, where the
slightest sign of Bestowal was a mark of death. He brushed his hands
against the old wards the Grim Binder had put into place at the behest
of her comrade the first Grey Pilgrim, feeling them part for him almost
eagerly. There were few places in Levant who were not friend to what
he'd inherited from his distant ancestor. He strode into the depths of
the palace fleetfoot and unseen, letting chance guide him. It tended to
favour him. Surprised flicked across his face when he found himself by
his mother's old bureau, candelight and magefire shining under the door.
Tariq touched his lips, whispered \emph{open} and touched the lock.
Light glimmered over steel, and easy as that it was done.

He entered quietly, finding his only sister sitting at the broad oaken
desk and methodically going through correspondence. Half-moon spectacles
-- of Ashuran make, he noted -- rested loosely against her nose as she
frowned downwards in thought. Tariq leaned against the doorway for a
moment, taking in the sight of Yasa Isbili for the first time in
thirteen years. They had traded letters, whenever they could be snuck
in, but anything more would have been too risky. Her face had grown
thicker, he thought. It suited her well, he thought, made her long braid
seems less like some strange tail sprouting from the back of her head.
There were lines on her face where there had once been none, but she
seemed\ldots{} vibrant. Like she'd finally reached where she had always
been meant to stand. \emph{You have, Yasa}, he thought. \emph{And they
will remember you as the greatest Seljun we've had in centuries.}
Smiling, Tariq cleared his throat. She nearly jumped out of her skin,
but her eyed widened when she took him in.

``Tariq,'' she said, almost awed. ``How did you- no, it doesn't
matter.''

She rose to her feet, pushing back her chair, and their strides met
halfway. The siblings held each other close for a very long time,
content to simply enjoy the luxury so long denied them. Yasa withdrew
first, eyes misty. His were as well, and he clutched her forearm tight.

``Honoured Sister,'' he smiled.

``None of that,'' she replied, shaking her head. ``Not from you, Tariq.
Never from you.''

``I must,'' the healer reminded her. ``And I will kneel as well, come
the games.''

``You're the Grey Pilgrim, you idiot,'' she snorted. ``You don't kneel
to anyone.''

``To you, yes,'' Tariq firmly maintained. ``Until the message sinks
in.''

She brushed back her braid.

``We can argue about that tomorrow,'' she said ruefully. ``I'm too glad
to see you to muster proper indignation.''

``And up late, I see,'' Tariq said. ``Preparing still?''

``\emph{That}, at least, is over with,'' Yasa grimly replied. ``Letters
from abroad are a relief, truth be told. News about so far away are more
diversion than duty.''

The healer nodded knowingly.

``The Praesi civil war?'' he guessed.

``When are they not?'' she shrugged. ``The committees in Ashur are
betting the rebel calling himself Nefarious will win, though it
shouldn't affect trade. They say he has Callowan ambitions.''

``When do they not?'' Tariq shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips.

Gods, it was still so easy to speak with her. As if they had never
parted. The healer had never put as much stock in the Blood as most his
people, but perhaps there was some truth to it. There was something
running through his sister's veins that was kin to him, and it was more
than just red water. They sat, after that, together in that bureau
they'd both been forbidden to enter as children. They traded stories of
his travels for hers of the city and their family, hours passing by
until dawn came. Tariq noted the dark circles around Yasa's eyes with
some guilt.

``May I?'' he said, offering his hand.

``Yes?'' she said, bemused.

The Light wreathed his hand, a small glimmer, and poured into her body.
The rings disappeared, chasing away the tiredness, but Tariq's eyes
opened wide.

``Brother?'' Yasa asked.

A broad grin split his face.

``You're pregnant,'' he said. ``A boy.''

She let out a noise of shock at the sudden announcement, before relief
and delight claimed her face. After all these years of trying, finally
the Heavens had blessed her. Tariq was going to have a nephew and there
was not a single thing in Creation that could spoil this day.

---

On the last day of the funerary games, the Grey Pilgrim knelt before his
sister in front of every lord and lady in the Dominion of Levant.

When whispers began spread, he stared at them cold-eyed until there was
not a damned sound in the room.

---

A fervour swept across the Dominion, after Yasa Isbili sat the Tattered
Throne. For the first time since anyone could remember, there was more
to the Majilis than bickering and backbiting. The Seljun was still
young, the people said, and she had the fire in her belly that had
driven the Pilgrim's Blood to first wrest a nation out of the hands of
the Principate. After every journey Tariq undertook, he passed through
taverns and inns and let the rumours wash over him with a smile.
\emph{The levies at Malaga were raised back properly}, the people said.
\emph{About time, and every great Blood put coin to it.} To the
Brocelian he went, guiding the Lanterns to purge a barrow-curse gone
wild\emph{. The old rebel road is being paved anew, from Levante to
Vaccei}, the people said. \emph{The Majilis said they'll raise
waystations as well.} To Nicae he went, scaring off the Shadow-eater
long enough for the Thieftaker to learn his true face. \emph{They're
founding a school in Levante}, the people said. \emph{Ashuran scholars
will come teach.}

Tariq came and went, and every time he returned his people were thriving
a little more. It was as if the savage need for doing better Yasa had
felt since they were children had trickled down to every last soul in
Levant. Wildlands were being claimed, walls raised around towns and
beasts driven away. Fields were tilled, mines dug and for the first time
since he could remember he could see pride in the back of those calling
themselves Levantines. Not an Ashuran protectorate, not Procer's rebel
principalities -- it was as if the entire Dominion had woken up from a
long slumber, finally remembering the defiant spirit that had seen it
become a nation at all.

``I knew,'' he told Sintra, three years after the coronation. ``I always
knew that she was born for this.''

His lover idly slapped his chest, though from the lack of bite to it she
appeared to be amused.

``Are you really going to boast about Yasa being a fine Seljun even
while we're in bed?'' she complained.

``My apologies, Lady Sintra,'' Tariq grinned.

Her father had passed the high seat onto her last year, after finding
the pain in his joints made it hard to hold his axe. The Ophanim had
been merciful enough no whispers had come when they Lord of Alava had
held his final feast before putting on his finest arms and armour,
mounting his horse and riding into Brocelian Forest to kill the largest
monster in there or die trying. The Lanterns had brought back word
months later that he'd been found in the mouth of a mansion-sized
manticore, having allowed it to bit him so he could drive his spear
through the roof of its mouth. He'd stayed with her through the grief,
though even at the worst she'd been fiercely proud of the last honour he
had brought to their Blood. The Pilgrim had expected they would part for
the last time, after that, but Sintra had instead baldly announced her
younger brother as her heir and that she would only ever wed a man who
brought her the head of every prince and princess in Procer. And so the
balcony door remained unlocked, home remained home.

It was not the life he had seen for himself, as a child, but Tariq found
to his surprise that he was happy. Even the Ophanim, whose presence he
had once found unsettling, had become trusted and cherished friends.
Partners more farsighted than he, helping him see where he needed to go
before he knew he needed to be there. He still passed through Levante
whenever he could, to see his sister and play with his young nephew.
Izil was a riotous little joy, with all his mother's cleverness already
showing signs of sharing his father's tall height and broad built. Seven
years after her ascension to the Tattered Throne, Yasa Isbili took an
arrow through the eye while riding down to harbour to greet Ashuran
envoys. She was dead before she touched the ground. The Grey Pilgrim was
in Helike, helping a young prince flee his murderous uncle.

Tariq never would manage to forgive himself for that.

---

Izil was dry-eyed, when Tariq elbowed aside the guards to enter his
nephew's room. Looking out the window, still as a statue. The long dark
locks his mother had so often combed through affectionately were as
listless as the boy himself, and those dark Isbili eyes had grown almost
dull. The seven year old boy was clutching a toy pilgrim in his hands,
the wooden figure's paint worn thin from use. He did not even turn when
Tariq entered the room. One of the guards followed inside, grimacing as
he spoke.

``Revered Pilgrim, you cannot-''

``Where is his father?'' the Grey Pilgrim calmly asked.

The guard winced.

``As he is under suspicion, Honoured Brother Bakri has order confined
him to his quarters,'' he said.

Tariq closed his eyes. Yasa had never worried of their younger brother,
for all that his martial exploits had earned him repute. He'd never had
a mind for the kind of wrangling the Majilis required, or even the more
practical aspects of rule. This could be, he thought, Bakri simply
making a mistake in his grief. Or it could be something else.
\emph{Honoured Brother} Bakri. As if Yasa's child was not the rightful
successor.

``Bakri Isbili is now confined to his quarters until I order
otherwise,'' the Grey Pilgrim mildly said. ``My sister's husband is to
be freed \emph{immediately}.''

Tariq opened his eyes and saw naked fear on the guard's face. Angry,
roiling Light had shaped in rings around his wrists, he realized.

``I gave you an order, son,'' the Grey Pilgrim said. ``See to it.''

The man slowly bowed.

``Revered Pilgrim,'' he said. ``Your will be done.''

Tariq gave him a nod, then closed the door behind him. The Light winked
out and he knelt by his nephew's side. The boy did not react.

``Izil,'' he softly said, laying a hand on the child's shoulder. ``Can
you hear me?''

His nephew flinched at the contact, but some semblance of awareness
returned to his eyes.

``Uncle?'' the boy whispered.

``It's me,'' Tariq whispered, stroking the boy's hair gently. ``Come
back to us.''

His little mouth trembled.

``Uncle,'' he mumbled. ``Mother's gone. She -- they\ldots{}''

``It's all right, Izil,'' he said, holding him close. ``I'm here now. I
won't let anything happen to you, I swear.''

His nephew wept, and when Tariq found who was responsible for this stars
would rain until nothing was left but ashes.

No whispers came.
