\hypertarget{chapter-50-sunset}{%
\chapter{Sunset}\label{chapter-50-sunset}}



\epigraph{``Blood freely spilled always offers greater power, for it carries
the worth of both the blood and the choice.''}{Extract from ``The Most Noble Art of Magic'', by Dread Emperor
Sorcerous}



``Huh,'' the Tyrant said. ``That is \emph{not} what I believed that
would do.''

I wheeled on him with cold eyes. For all that he'd helped me land the
killing stroke on the Saint, he was also the reason there'd been a need
for one at all. We'd been close to subduing her, before he'd decided to
taunt Fate and loudly dare it to meddle. There would still have been the
issue of the wounded crown, but Gods I would have preferred ending this
without Laurence de Montfort's corpse on the ground. Not because of any
deep affection for the heroine, though I'd had a few perturbing glimpses
on this journey at the woman that lay under the zealotry, but because
the Saint of Sword's death would both have a messy aftermath and rob us
of someone who might have been able to truly hurt the Dead King. I'd
begun this winter itching to put her down, but now\ldots{} A virtue was
no less of one because it belonged to an enemy, and for all her horrid
flaws Laurence de Montfort had hardly been without the opposite. My hand
had been forced, in the end, when the choice had been between a woeful
roll of the dice and slaying her where she stood. But for all that the
choice I'd made would stay with me, I would not for a moment forget
who'd forced me to make it.

``This was,'' I said, ``one betrayal too many, Kairos.''

``There's no such thing, Catherine,'' he confidently told me. ``And if
there was, yet one more betrayal would see to it.''

Shouldn't be too difficult to kill him, I thought. I had no intention of
allowing anywhere near the decision yet to be made over the crown, or of
sparing him after that last knife in the back, so ending this here and
now before the Twilight Crown finished crumbling seemed the way to go
about it. Kairos Theodosian still had a handful of attending gargoyles
and more artefacts than anyone should have at their fingertips, but
aside from that he was spent. He'd burned his strength against the Skein
and then against me, shaken his sleeves enough that all his worst tricks
had already been revealed. And while I was hardly fresh, above us two
crows still slowly circled. Omens of death, and death was what I
intended on delivering: if I need seek the helping hand of my
patronesses for that, so be it. On the other hand, I grimly thought,
there was still one last use left for the Tyrant of Helike tonight.

``There's one path that doesn't lead to me snatching the life out of you
tonight,'' I coldly said. ``And that's you putting on that crown.''

``So it seems I am to die,'' the Tyrant pensively said, ``unless,
instead, I am to die. Truly, my friend, you present me with a dilemma.''

``Burn enough bridges and you'll find there's no pretty path left,'' I
bluntly said. ``You just tried to get half of us killed by flapping your
mouth, Kairos. Fuck the amnesty you bargained for: the last courtesy I
offer you is deciding the shape of your grave.''

The slightest flicker of power, but there were only so many times
someone could use a trick around me before I caught on.

``Riddle me this, Catherine,'' the Tyrant cheerfully said. ``What makes
you think that-''

Night flooded me, bringing strength to my hands, and I crushed the
obsidian scabbard still in my grasp. The powder that fell I blew through
and, shaping the Night I threaded within it, cast it outwards. The
obsidian dust revealed Kairos' glamoured silhouette as he tried to make
for the door and the Night I'd sent out wove itself into a noose that
delicately went around his neck. The end of that rope fell into my palm,
and as the noose tightened my fingers closed around it.

``Well,'' Kairos Theodosian slowly said, glamour dispelling. ``This is
embarrassing.''

``Don't pay attention to him,'' the glamour I'd been conversing with
insisted. ``He's an impostor.''

I wound the Night rope around my fist and spread my stance to steady my
footing.

``How's your dilemma coming along?'' I asked.

``Bracingly,'' the Tyrant replied without missing a beat.

``Enough,'' the Grey Pilgrim tiredly said.

The streak of Light cut halfway through the rope of my own making,
severing it clean. I was, bluntly put, too surprised by the old man's
sudden turn to properly react.

``How many of us do you intend to slay tonight, Queen Catherine?'' the
Peregrine said. ``Enough.''

``If it's not him it'll have to be one of us,'' I pointed out. ``There
is no reason to spare him, Pilgrim. One might well argue he earned that
end.''

``Shall we speak of endings earned then, Black Queen?'' the Grey Pilgrim
replied, tone remote and eyes considering. ``It would be an exchange of
some consequence, I think.''

``You can't be serious,'' I said. ``You struck out too, Pilgrim. To
contain her, as I wanted to. And the damned reason it had to go further
than that was the Bard's fucking amnesty, which \emph{you} insisted
on-''

``I am well aware of what took place here tonight,'' the Peregrine
harshly interrupted. ``Are \emph{you}? I'd just lent my hand to the
killing of a woman I loved like kin and trusted just as deep. Those ties
were already tried and tested when you were yet to be born, Catherine
Foundling. I did this because the bargain you offer may yet save lives
by the millions and lay the foundation of a long-lasting peace. But do
not mistake that, not for a moment, as my having been suborned to your
every whim.''

``None of that means he should be sent home with a slap on the wrist,''
I hissed.

``A trusted and farsighted comrade has asked me to spare the Tyrant's
life,'' he flatly said. ``And so it will be spared, no matter the nasty
tricks he may play.''

``You are the hero of my heart, Grey Pilgrim,'' Kairos Theodosian said,
picking out the Night noose still around his neck and dropping it to the
floor. ``In the spirit of my deep gratitude, I would offer-''

The weight that fell over the room was almost a familiar thing. Above us
Sve Noc spared a glance, and so my knees were not made to buckle, but
the Tyrant of Helike was offered no such protection. The odd-eyed
villain collapsed, first on one knee and then outright to the ground for
that leg's shaking. Twitching on the stone floor, Kairos rasped out a
pained breath as the Grey Pilgrim stared down at him. Sharing that gaze,
the Choir of Mercy looked upon the Tyrant without the slightest speck of
compassion.

``You are not forgiven, Kairos Theodosian,'' the Peregrine said, voice
ringing with power. ``You will yet serve a greater purpose, and for that
you will be allowed to crawl out of this place through filth and dust.
But you are not \emph{forgiven}, you creature of ruin and perfidy.''

The Tyrant twitched on the floor still and I realized with a start it
was as much from his convulsing body as a shivering laughter ripping out
of his throat.

``Coward,'' he gasped. ``Even now Mercy holds your hand.
\emph{Coward}.''

The old man strode forward, dusty grey robes trailing behind him, and he
knelt before the cripple before laying a hand over his lips.

``Through lies and deception you have brought great suffering,'' the
Grey Pilgrim said. ``And so from you I take that poisonous gift: never
again will you speak untruth, lest it be the last words you speak at
all.''

Radiant light blinded my eyes, for a heartbeat, and through the
Pilgrim's touch I felt the Ophanim reach out into Creation. This would
be a curse, if a villain had been the one to place it. I wondered what
it was to be called, when a heroic hand had done the placing. My brow
furrowed. Would lying make Kairos make a mute or kill him? It'd not been
clear, by the phrasing. Looking at the Peregrine's shoulders, I wondered
if that'd been on purpose. The Tyrant's body shuddered one last time,
like someone whose fever was going the way of the grave, and only then
did his twitching end. He exhaled a ragged breath.

``This is not,'' Kairos Theodosian guffawed, ``the last you've seen of
me.''

Mismatched eyes going wide, he looked up and waited. A moment passed and
he did not die.

``Best get crawling then, I suppose,'' the Tyrant of Helike mused.
``Until next time, friends.''

Without a hint of shame he flipped onto his belly and began dragging his
expensive robes through the filth, fleeing the throne room like a snake
slithering on the ground. Three heartbeats later the last remaining
gargoyles ran out after him, as quick as their little legs allowed. I
debated, seriously, reaching for the Night and just vaporizing the back
of his head. The temptation was there, made even heavier by the way the
odds were good I'd manage it. But if I did, it wasn't the story that'd
punish me. I'd be, in essence, breaking off ties with the Grey Pilgrim.
Which I couldn't afford to, if the Accords were to be more than a waste
of ink and parchment.

``That was a mistake,'' I finally said.

``If it was,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, ``then it was mine to make. Not
yours.''

I kept my face calm but winced beneath it. Already the cracks were
beginning to run through what I'd wanted to be the foundations of the
Liesse Accords. And it wasn't fair, I thought, for there was plenty of
fault to spare and divide. But in the end, the Peregrine had stuck to
our arrangement and helped slay the same woman whose life he'd bargained
for. I could not truly ask more of him or begrudge his bitterness over
having been led to this pass.

``If you're quite finished,'' Archer spoke up, ``then I could use a
hand, Pilgrim. I'm usually concerned only with hitting heads, not what
comes after. Does he need healing?''

She'd propped up the Rogue Sorcerer over her knee, supporting the back
of his neck. The Saint had knocked Roland unconscious, but aside from a
red boot mark on his forehead the spellcaster should have no lasting
marks. A concussion seemed likely, though, Named or not. The Pilgrim
hurried to the younger hero's side, wielding Light with a delicate touch
for but a few moments before the Sorcerer woke. The mark, I noted, had
gone from bright red from light pink but it still remained highly
visible.

``She's dead then,'' Roland croaked out, eyes going to the heroine's
corpse. ``Gods, what a waste.''

``So it was,'' I quietly agreed.

His eyes, for once without trace of a coloured ring around the pupil,
met mine.

``Your work?'' he asked.

I nodded. Behind us, as is mocking the quiet of the conversation now
taking place, the crown continued lashing out around itself with
tendrils of sorcery.

``Whoever bears that will die,'' the Rogue Sorcerer frankly said. ``I'd
be like trying to grip a naked blade as tight as you can, only with your
soul instead of your fingers.''

The Saint of Swords' last kill, unerringly made from beyond the grave.
Her aged figure still lay sprawled at the foot of the throne, still and
silent. No one had dared to touch it.

``Look like the choice was made for us,'' Archer said, seemingly amused.
``We're back at making a god and killing it, whether we like it or
not.''

``There is no choice to make,'' Tariq evenly said.

And already I could see the lay of that, how it'd unfold. A band of five
assembled before the eyes of princes and princesses of Procer had gone
into broken Arcadia at the urging of the Black Queen, among them perhaps
the two most famous heroes alive. Neither the Regicide nor the Peregrine
would return from that journey. The treacherous Tyrant of Helike would
escape with but a curse, and from the heroes the only survivor would be
the Rogue Sorcerer -- a hero little known, and a mage to boot. Sorcery
was not well-trusted, in Procer, and seemingly rare in Levant.

We'd be at war again before Morning Bell, bargain or not.

``Agreed,'' I said. ``It'll have to be me.''

Three gazes turned to me, Archer's the least surprised.

``You said it was possible resurrection would work,'' I reminded the
Pilgrim. ``And dawn comes. If it doesn't, well\ldots{} Vivienne's been
designated as heiress to the throne. I wish she'd had longer to prepare,
but we don't always get to choose.''

``No,'' Indrani said.

I blinked at her.

``You've cheated death too many times, Cat,'' she bluntly said. ``You've
always squeaked out of it so far because you had a story at your back,
but this time the wind's going the other way. You've spent your luck
thrice over, this is just going to get you killed.''

``It'll get someone killed regardless,'' I said. ``I don't relish the
thought I might not come back from this, Indrani, but I knew the risk
when I began going down this path.''

``That's nice,'' Archer casually said. ``Very stirring. But if you take
so much as a step in that crown's direction, I'll knock you the fuck
out.''

She was, I realized as I looked at her stony expression, absolutely
serious. It was a strange thing, to both love and be furious with
someone in the same moment for the same reason.

``It cannot be you, Queen Catherine,'' the Grey Pilgrim agreed. ``You
underestimate the depth of the loyalties you have earned, and not only
here. The Army of Callow would carry your corpse to the gates of Salia
to make a funeral pyre of it. And I shudder to think of what the drow
would be, without their designated conscience.''

``It can't be you either,'' I hissed. ``You think it'll go bad if I die?
Hells, Pilgrim, your death alone would have Levant on the warpath but
the Saint \emph{and} you? Even if the First Prince turned up just to
order the Alliance armies down there not to fight we'd still have a
battle on our hands.''

``Then it has to be me,'' the Rogue Sorcerer tightly said. ``Archer has
already been resurrected once, there is not even a chance of her being
spared lasting death.''

He shuddered out a breath.

``It will have to be me,'' Roland repeated. ``It makes sense. I am the
only practitioner among you, who best to shape this realm in what is
needed of it?''

``At a guess? The only person in this room to have ruled over a court of
the fae before,'' I said.

``Cat, you can't be trusted to make a choice like that right now,''
Indrani frankly said. ``Whenever there's a blunder -- and I'm guessing
you count the Saint's death as one -- you always get all\ldots{}
self-flagellating. Like you're just looking for a sword to fall on.
Pilgrim says it's good politics to keep you alive? Even better. I don't
really give a shit, though. I'd rather cut the damn thing than let you
put it on.''

``You can't think like that, Archer,'' I sharply said. ``I'm one life.
That's the weight on the scale. You'd be putting at risk hundreds of
thousands-''

``Then it's a good thing I'm not one of Above's footsoldiers, isn't
it?'' Archer said. ``I get to be selfish if I want to.''

I wasn't going to make headway there, was I? Touched as I was, I was
just as infuriated. Because I couldn't be grateful for this, not when it
might cost the world so much for her to follow through. Who was it, I'd
wondered, who'd taught her to love people on her own terms -- much as I
wanted to blame the Lady of the Lake for it, the dark suspicion lingered
it might just have been me.

``It will not be you,'' the Pilgrim said. ``Nor will it be Roland.''

Though he'd gone pale at the notion of perhaps embracing his own death,
I felt a sliver of admiration for the way the Sorcerer didn't simply
take the first way out he was offered.

``The Black Queen was correct,'' Roland said. ``There may be war, if you
are the one crowned and killed.''

``My death will echo,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, cocking his head to the
side. ``I have been promised this. There will not be war.''

The Ophanim \emph{agreed} with this? Godsdamned angels.

``You're needed to keep the heroes together,'' I said. ``There's no one
else with the pull.''

Maybe, and I would not have put a lot of faith in that prospect, maybe
the Saint could have succeeded at that. She'd had the strength, if not
the charisma.

``The White Knight will return,'' the Pilgrim serenely said. ``He was
already on his way.

``The Tyrant had plans about him,'' I said.

``I expect he does,'' the Peregrine said, undertone amused. ``It will
come to nothing, under the stern glare of the Seraphim.''

``It might be that you could forgive my death,'' the Rogue Sorcerer
hesitantly said. ``None could do the same, for you.''

``Forgiveness was never meant to be a salve for every wound made on
Creation,'' the Pilgrim gently said. ``It was a gift to be handed out in
the face of grave injustice. And there is no injustice, Roland, in an
old man being allowed to rest at last.''

``So you're just going to lie down and die?'' I said.

The was a heartbeat of silence.

``The Saint of Swords is dead,'' I said. ``We all had a hand in that,
mine looming largest by far. But that's it, Pilgrim? Your friend is dead
and you feel tired, so you're choosing death when Calernia is facing its
harshest test since the reign of Triumphant?''

``Queen Catherine,'' the Sorcerer hissed. ``There is no need for-''

``You've done some real nasty things over the years, haven't you
Tariq?'' I said. ``We both know you have.''

The old man's blue eyes, limpid as a cloudless summer sky, met mine.

``You don't get to roll over for death, after crossing those lines,'' I
said. ``After taking on that responsibility.''

``Which of us are you truly haranguing, Black Queen?'' the Grey Pilgrim
chided me, not unkindly.

``I think I'll get away with it,'' I pensively replied. ``I really do.''

Because I'd been here before. Twice. At this crossroads, making this
call. I'd chosen death to rid myself of a pattern of three with the Lone
Swordsman and taken my due resurrection from the Hashmallim after
refusing the crown they offered me. I'd chosen death once more to slip
the bindings the Diabolist had entwined me in, making myself the beastly
keystone to her demise, and refused the crown she offered me. Liesse had
been the crucible of my existence in a way nowhere else in this world
could claim to be. Which of my triumphs and ruins had not been born of
this place, or taken place among it? Here in this city I'd forged my
claim of power over Callow not once but twice -- first through bargain,
and then through simple might. I'd struck a pact here that allowed Akua
Sahelian to govern this place, and when that governance led to folly it
was on these grounds I'd torn through her heart. Indrani said I'd
cheated my demise too often, and perhaps she was right. Twice, here, I
had tricked life out of death. But there'd never been a third, for
before I'd woken in the depths of the Everdark mortal once more I'd
dreamt and within that dream asked Sve Noc a question: \emph{am I dead?}
And the reply had been: \emph{at the threshold}. Not through. Not quite
dead. And so, I thought, Archer might be wrong in this.

Maybe I did still have a story at my back: twice living through death
after twice being offered a crown. There was power in reiteration, in
repetition, and few numbers had heavier hand on a story than three. Or,
I knew, this might be where the pattern came to a close. This once I'd
be reaching for the crown, and so my death would remain. It could go
either way, I felt. Yet even then, I had a better chance of living
through this than any of the other three. Rolling the dice on poor odds
had always been one of my worst habits, I thought, but why stop now? You
only lived once -- give or take a few times.

``Three times I've been offered a crown here, by someone neither fully
friend nor foe,'' I began. ``Three times-``

Archer, sighing, slid behind me and to my indignation she covered my
mouth with her palm and put me in a chokehold. I began struggling, but
she was Named and I was not: the disparity in strength could not be
breached my mundane means.

``Is that\ldots{} necessary?'' the Rogue Sorcerer delicately asked.

``If you feel like you're winning,'' Indrani said, ``the single
stupidest thing you can do is let Catherine Foundling \emph{talk}. Go
on, Tariq. Before she turns it around on us.''

I reached for the Night, preparing to force her back as gently as I
could, but it slipped through my fingers. Fear rose up in me, and I
looked up. The Sisters were perched on the edges of the gutted throne
room, one to the east and one to the west. They watched, silent.

\emph{Are you worthy?} Komena asked, a whisper in my ear.

Patrons, I thought. Not tools or companions but goddesses of which I was
the high priestess. If I set a measure in their name, I would be
measured by it. It was, I admitted, brutally fair of them.

\emph{I have brought us here, through scheme and steel}, I told them.
\emph{I've tricked mortals and Named, set the Dead King aflight and
freed from his grasp the last of the Fairfaxes. I have slain and won
victories, all to bring this journey to an end of my making. Who can be
worthy, if not me?}

Sve Noc watched me, judged me, and in inscrutable silence passed their
judgement.

\emph{All will be Night,} Andronike whispered in my ear, and it tasted
like assent.

Indrani knew me best, and so when the goddess-crows above let out a
cacophonous caw she immediately tried to knock me unconscious.
Unfortunately I knew her as well, and so restored not to struggle but to
the first trick I'd even seen one of the Firstborn use: sinking into a
pool of Night at my feet, I dissolved into a tendril of shadow and
followed forward. Even in that strange, unpleasant state I could feel
the clash of Sve Noc and the Choir of Mercy -- both attempting to hinder
the others' champion and prevent their foe from hindering their own.
They were, at least in that moment, each other's match. I could hardly
see, when shadowed, for unlike drow this state of being did not come
naturally to me. I had to leap back into mortal form to get my bearings,
though fortunately I found myself not far from the throne. From the
corner of my eye I found Indrani, having strung her bow, nocking an
arrow and likely intending to wing me before I could claim the crown.
The Sorcerer's jaw was tightly clenched as he worked some manner of
sorcery, but it'd be too late. Sidestepping the Saint's corpse, I
reached for the crown.

My fingers went through it

The illusion broke, now that I knew it was there, and so did the one the
Rogue Sorcerer had woven around the Peregrine. The Grey Pilgrim took the
wounded crown, set with his own star, and placed it upon his brow.

``No,'' I shouted.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world, the Grey Pilgrim leaned
down and gently pried the Saint of Swords' blade from her cold hands.

And, just as gently, rammed it through his own heart.
