\hypertarget{chapter-53-avowed}{%
\chapter{Avowed}\label{chapter-53-avowed}}



\epigraph{``Count them all, in the snow

Red and gold and black as night

Count them all, high and low

Seven crowns broken by rite

Brought they forth, in accord

Peace, oaths and a sword.''}{Iserran children's rhyme}



If felt like the fact that my hands were currently filled with a pipe
and liquor might be detracting some from the solemnity of this occasion,
but maybe it was just me. Gods, I wished I'd gotten ten hours of sleep
in me before having to parse this. On the surface this seemed like a
coup, but not looking further than the surface was how you lost feathers
at this game. Levant was backing my bid for being a member of the Grand
Alliance, and Ashur had been struck down into irrelevance by the Battle
of Thalassina and then being knifed in the back by the League. I forced
my tired mind to keep slogging on, but as far as I could see the heart
of what this meant was that if I made a bargain with Cordelia Hasenbach
-- which, given the amount of things I had to trade, I should be able to
-- then Callow would be brought into the fold. Was this a case of
putting a leash on the beast you couldn't defeat, an attempt by the
Pilgrim to bind me to his causes? It hardly mattered, though, in the
end. I'd been trying to get a foothold in those treaties for years now,
and if they were seeking a peace because they thought they could win
that where war had failed them then I could live with that. Because I,
too, sought more than my signature on declarations of alliance from
this. I would get the Liesse Accords signed, and whatever else could be
said of tonight it was also was a step towards that end.

Discretely as I could in this situation, which wasn't all that much, I
pressed back the flask into Hakram's hand and hide the pipe behind my
arm to empty it into the snow. Already I was half-wishing I'd drunk the
whole thing, as much for the wine's touch of warmth in the face of the
cold morning air as the tonic that'd shaken off some the lethargy
clawing at my thoughts. Leaning against the dead yew offering I'd found
in the depths of Twilight, where lied the grave of king the world had
decreed to be good, I shivered but matched their expectant gazes.

``I have one foe,'' I said, ``and he dwells north, behind the walls of
Keter, where his tyranny lies serene. Everything else is chaff.''

Would that I had my cloak, as much for warmth as for the presence it
lent.

``You have bled my people,'' I said. ``And we have done the same to you,
every one of us dancing on damned strings. Let that end with this dawn,
for we share one war still and it will not be found on this field.''

``War on Keter,'' Aquiline Osena called out, voice loud and clear.
``Honour in victory, and should doom find us then honour in defiance
\emph{unbent}.''

The last word clapped out like a challenge, proud and finding reflection
in those that heard it.

``War to the north,'' Razin Tanja agreed, his words ringing out. ``As
oath was sworn in Blood and smoke. The shames we will redeem, the graces
we will earn.''

``To the Crown of the Dead we bring steel,'' Itima Ifriqui smiled,
hard-toothed and starved. ``Through wasteland and snow, until tall walls
come to echo our scorn.''

``Oath was given. War to the knife,'' Yannu Marava said, eyes cold and
limpid, ``to ruin and carrion things and silent dusk. Let Creation know
that the Dominion of Levant marches to war, and the sword will not
return to the sheath until the Enemy has broken or we are dust.''

Would my countrymen have shivered this way, I wondered as I watched the
fire light in the eyes of the warriors around us, if a king of the Old
Kingdom had called on their oaths? I remembered still the sight of
Edward Fairfax standing bedecked in bells and spite, the words that
heady call that'd sounded beyond the veil of death -- \emph{rise,
Callowans, rise once more for we have debts yet unsettled} -- and called
the sum of my failures to war. It was a bastard throne I had made, and
bastard was the claim I had on those who had chosen to follow me into
strife. This, though? It was older, purer. The stuff fables were made
of. I watched it ripple through the hundreds of armsmen around us, that
intangible weight that betrayed history's gears turning. Sometimes, I
thought, it didn't have to be a scheme. Sometimes the stars were aligned
and Creation let fate flow like water down the river. A hundred thousand
touches too light and too small to have been seen, conspiring to shape
something grim or beautiful or both. The Levantines sounded swords and
axes on shield, though this was no acclamation: the rhythm sounded like
a strange dirge, like grief and doom and wonder.

``The Anthem of Smoke,'' Princess Rozala Malanza murmured under her
breath.

It was, I remembered, one of the great story-songs of their people. Not
unlike \emph{Here They Come Again} for mine, or perhaps \emph{Red The
Flowers}. There was an anger to the tune, I thought, and why would there
not be? Levant had been born of bloody, merciless rebellion. Their Named
were not the white-clad knights of the Old Kingdom, the tricksters and
preachers of the League or even the blinkered, colourful exemplars of
Procer. No, that lot had tasted the blood in the mouth from the start,
hadn't they? Slayer, red-handed killers one and all. Binder, shackling
doom to ride it to war. Brigand -- that incongruous Chantant word in
Levantine hands, the scornful dismissal of \emph{bandit} instead turned
into declaration of war. Even the Champion had stood for a people who'd
preferred burning their own homes to surrendering it. And at the heart
of them all a Pilgrim in grey, and how did the famous line go again?
\emph{His stride rebellion and stirring ember.} Oh, theirs were not the
finest armies I had seen. They lacked discipline, lacked training,
lacked equipment. But they were brave, I thought, and the manner of
savagery I saw in their bearing I thought might be kin to the sort I'd
glimpsed in another hard people. One I'd come to trust, and in many ways
they was still the backbone of my armies.

One served as my right hand, too, and another as the marshal of my
hosts.

Savages as they might be, I thought, striking each other at every turn
and writing honour's couplets in blood, but when the dark pivots came
they wouldn't break easy. It was slight, and fading, but there remained
something in them of the people who'd humbled the Principate when it
stood at the height of its power. \emph{May the Hidden Horror yet choke
on it}. I stood in silence until the hammering of steel on steel ended,
trailing off into the clearing sky.

``So be it,'' the Grey Pilgrim said.

And oh, he sounded exhausted but there was a brightness to his voice as
well I'd rarely heard there before. Pride, I thought, if not without
sadness. I could not blame him, for Levant had sworn anew to do the
right thing and that never, ever came without a price.

``I stand witness to oaths sworn again, and let none break them while
claiming honour,'' he said. ``Let it be remembered that when the Enemy
came for the world, Levant did not shirk its duty.''

The sound of steel sliding out of its sheath drew all gazes to my side,
where Rozala Malanza had drawn the slender blade at her side. In the
morning's cast the princess was a sight, long dark curls loose behind
her and matched in shine only by the gleam in those equally dark eyes.
Tall and curved but hard-handed, as much general as she was princess,
the Princess of Aequitan breathed out mist. In war too, had that one
been forged. Her mother's war, the one whose defeat had haunted her
life, but other since. The Battle of the Camps, where ambitions were
ruined and I first tasted the fear that would lead me down the road to
Keter. This one as well, though, had left a mark. \emph{A princes'
graveyard}, Leonor of Valencis had called it, one from which only one
crown emerged untouched. Her own, for having judged it less than the
lives of the people it ruled over. I'd admired the gesture then, and
still did now. Of all the princes and princesses of Procer I had beheld,
none save the First Prince herself could be said to have character
worthier of respect.

``I am not the First Prince,'' she said. ``Yet I stand the sole of my
title in Iserre, and the south entire. I speak only to that, which is
right enough to my eye.''

I studied her in silence, not alone in this: so did the four of the
Blood, and the Pilgrim as well. The Peregrine had been at her side
before, I remembered, when he'd led the heroes of the northern crusade.

``We have been foe before,'' Rozala said, princess still but in that
moment Arlesite even more, ``on Levant we warred, unjustly, for many
years. And to the east, across the mountains\ldots{}''

She looked at me then, and I did not soften gaze or offer sympathy. I
still remembered the bloody gaps left in the ranks of my army after I'd
awoke from Winter's grasp, on the last day of the Camps, and though war
was war even if I did not count it grudge neither would I simply
\emph{forge}t it.

``We spoke righteous words, and schemed that which was not,'' the
Princess of Aequitan said. ``A fresh entry to a tally long kept of
contempts offered unprovoked. I say this not to apologize, for I bear
not so great a crown it can change the lay of the past, but to\ldots{}''

She hesitated, struggling for the word.

``Acknowledge,'' Rozala Malanza said. ``That even though treaties were
signed, that alliances were made and bargains stuck, we did not
\emph{earn} this. That in the face of the darkness what we have sown
might have seen us stand alone, if you all had not chosen to heed
beliefs of a higher order.''

She let out what might have been a laugh had it not been utterly without
mirth.

``To acknowledge that there were choices to be made and you chose to act
in honour,'' she said. ``Knowing that like the viper of old lore we have
sunk our fangs in the flesh of our benefactors before, still you chose.
And I cannot -- I cannot offer anything for it that would not be
insult.''

She'd stumbled, in the last sentence, like it'd been disgraceful to
speak it.

``There are no honours I could grant that would be higher than those you
claimed simply by making this decision,'' Princess Rozala said, raising
her chin. ``I will not pretend that wealth or promises would be worth
the blood you have and will shed, though should you wish them of me you
have all I own. Yet I can, Merciful Gods, at least I can say that this
was \emph{heard}. That it will be remembered, that it will not slip
quiet into obscurity once the menace has passed.''

She breathed out shallowly.

``Shame on us,'' Rozala Malanza softly said, ``if we ever forget it.''

Her sword she thrust into the ground, through snow and ice and earth,
and it bit deep.

``And if ever comes to that,'' she said. ``On that day I, or one of my
line, will come for that sword again. To take it up and wield it until
the shame has been cleansed.''

My fingers clenched. That had not been small oath, I thought, or a
feeble one. The Princess of Aequitan had sworn, in her own way, that
should Procer turn against those who were coming to its help in its hour
of need she would rise in rebellion. No, more than just her. She had
sworn as a Malanza and bound her entire line to the oath.

``Rozala Malanza,'' the Grey Pilgrim called out, voice clear and bright,
``hail.''

Like a snake uncoiling the call spread through the Levantines, Blood and
not, until the \emph{hail} rang out like thunder. Softly I struck the
butt of my staff against the ground, looking at the sword and wondering
what manner of curse would take anyone trying to take it up save in
fulfillment of the oath. There'd been a weight to the princess' words,
Named or not, and such a thing was rarely without consequence. No,
they'd remember Rozala's Oath for many years to come. After the last
hail died, like the wind had gone out of all of us we began to disperse.
The force that had held us all spellbound had ebbed, used to nothingness
or passed afar.

And so the great battle on the plains of Iserre ended with three things:
peace, oaths, and a sword in the ground.

---

I could feel the vigor leeching out of me as we began walking downhill,
the half-scattered Levantines parting respectfully for us. Princess
Rozala had made her own way down, apart from Hakram and I and directly
headed towards the horse and foot she'd brought. I'd traded a meaningful
look with Tariq before we parted ways, both of us aware that there would
be need for talks of all sorts in the days to come. Gripping as the
exchanges on the hill had been in their own way, they would amount to
little and less if the diplomatic legwork did not follow behind the
grand gestures. Verbal agreements at sunrise made between recent enemies
were not actual treaties, though my life would be a great deal simpler
of they were. Still, I'd be useless before I got some sleep in me and
Tariq was in even worse state: freshly-resurrected, robbed of an aspect
and with no finger on the pulse of where his people had been headed
before we returned. I, at least, could rest certain that Vivienne and
Juniper would keep things running as they should in my absence. With
Hakram to watch over them, these days I did not need to keep nearly as
close an eye on the Army of Callow's workings as I had in the early
days.

It was for the best, in my opinion. I still believed myself a fair hand
as a general and an occasionally inspired tactician, but the army could
not come to rely on me. Black, when he'd first forged the modern Legions
of Terror, had been very careful to ensure that his presence and Name
would be supplement but never \emph{required}. The Legions, and now the
Army, must be perfectly capable of functioning without my being
involved. It freed my hand to address other perils, true, but there was
also an issue of legacy -- I would build no host that would be crippled
by my death or abdication, whichever came first. I'd been taught better
than that. Two cohorts and a pale-faced General Abigail were awaiting us
when we reached the bottom of the hill, which had me casting a mildly
reproachful look at Adjutant. She was far too high-placed an officer to
be in command here if someone higher up the ladder had not requested it.
The culprit seemed obvious, and after the general hurriedly distanced
herself from us under pretence of leading the cohorts back to camp from
the front, turned out to be unabashed.

``Wanted to see how she holds up under pressure,'' he quietly told me in
Kharsum.

``She's held command in battles without folding in the slightest,'' I
pointed out in the same. ``She's a twitchy thing, mind you, I won't deny
that. But she thinks fast on her feet and she's got the right
instincts.''

``Reminds you of anyone?'' Adjutant mildly said.

I rolled my eyes.

``I was never all that shy when it came to getting into scraps,'' I
replied. ``Not every canny Callowan girl is my kin in spirit.''

``If you say so,'' he teased.

``I do,'' I said. ``And you're being cagey. Haven't told you anything
you didn't already know, so what's your actual reason for bringing her
along?''

``There's more than one kind of pressure,'' Hakram said. ``Many moving
parts, tonight, and many ways it could have spun out of control.''

I grunted, conceding the point. Keeping the lid on the pot was different
than keeping your head screwed on straight when the blades were already
out.

``So?'' I asked.

``She kept her head,'' he said, almost approvingly. ``General staff
material, that one. She'd also thank you for sending her far from the
frontlines.''

``She needs accolades first,'' I murmured. ``A few feats under her belt.
Otherwise the nobles will squeeze her too easily.''

The bastard system of fresh Callowan rule I would be passing on to my
successor had governors holding many of the great territories that'd
once belonged to the aristocracy, but the nobles hadn't been stamped
out. Yet there were still baronies up north, Duchess Kegan in Daoine and
even highborn stripped of their lands still held a lot of influence.
Though the unspoken threat of my disapproval -- paired with the open
secret I was less than fond of aristocrats -- had kept a true noble
faction from forming since the effective dissolution of the Regals,
there was no guarantee such a state of affairs would be maintained under
whoever followed after me. Rebellions or even just unrest, would be a
nasty turn after the way Callow had exhausted and would further exhaust
itself prosecuting war against the Dead King. Best to nip that in the
bud with a large standing army whose head would be both popular with the
people and not bound to any of the great nobles and dignitaries of
Callow. Whether Abigail of Summerholm could be that woman still remained
to be seen, but for now she was at least the foremost candidate. I was
shaken out of the reverie I'd slipped into when thinking when I caught
sight of a familiar silhouette approaching. Ivah, by now well-known in
the Army of Callow's circles, found the shield wall opening for it
without a comment.

General Abigail glanced askance at me, silently asking whether her
presence would be required for the conversation that'd follow, but I
shook my head. And tried not to be too visibly amused at her
poorly-hidden relief.

``Ivah,'' I greeted the drow. ``Still up, I see.''

``My tasks have yet to end, Losara Queen,'' it replied. ``I bring forth
message from your shade, as well as your mantle.''

It did, in fact, have my cloak with it. It spread it out, though not
before handing me a small stripe of parchment, and I turned to the side
to cast better light on it. \emph{He is one again}, Akua had written me.
\emph{Losses were slight. Exhaustion will keep him slumbering for a
time.} A tired smile stretched out my lips. It'd been a damned ride of a
night, but there'd been more victories than defeats. Foremost among them
was that my father's soul had been reattached to his body and he'd wake
before too long, whole and not greatly lessened by the experience. Akua
had come through for me once more, as she was in the habit of doing
these days. Good news. I thought I'd heard a scuffle behind, but when I
glanced there was nothing out of the ordinary. Hakram laid the Mantle of
Woe on my shoulders and I breathed out in comfort. It was not so warm as
that, but I'd grown used to it more than I'd ever believed I would.

``Masego is stable?'' I asked.

``He is,'' Hakram gravelled. ``And still asleep. We have him watched.''

I snorted.

``Archer let you post guards?'' I asked. ``Which brings to mind, did
Roland return to the Proceran camp in the end?''

``The Rogue Sorcerer,'' Adjutant frowned. ``Archer was not sent out on a
task?''

My stomach dropped.

``No, she wasn't,'' I said. ``You haven't seen her or the Sorcerer, I
take it.''

``They did not come to our camp,'' he said. ``And neither were mentioned
to me otherwise.''

``Shit,'' I muttered. ``Did anyone recently move their -- no, you don't
even need to answer that.''

I sighed.

``Still got that flask, Hakram?'' I asked.

He nodded, though his eyes were curious.

``Hand it to me,'' I grunted. ``I'll need the tonic if I'm to have talks
with Kairos.''
