\hypertarget{chapter-63-draft}{%
\chapter{Draft}\label{chapter-63-draft}}



\epigraph{``Rebel prisoners, Black Knight? Ah, you must mean the fresh orc
rations.''}{Dread Emperor Foul I, the Frugal}



Under moonlight Ivah of the Losara sat at my side, wielding ink and
parchment, and made record of oaths.

We begun with the Zoitsa, for they were the reason of my coming as well
as the first attempt to make old stones into a fledgling temple. I had
given this crucible of acclamation the shape of their singing-rites, and
that aspect they embraced with relish. It was not merely oaths that were
offered to the many waiting ears of the Zoitsa Sigil but verses crafted
with deft hands and heady cadence. The first pledges were mundane,
enemies that would be defeated and protections that would be ensured.
One ispe then hazarded the pledge of sharing the sigil's Night with all
Zoitsa, and though the oath was met with shocked and disapproving
silence, the words had broken the levee. It was not merely prudent, if
well-spoken, promises that were made but instead ambitions unveiled. A
jawor spoke of raising a city where no pale light would ever reach for
the Zoitsa to live in, another of arming even every dzulu with coats of
steel and shining blades. The rylleh, older hand and the subtler games
of sigils, let others come forward to gauge the sigil's wants before
speaking their own oaths.

The same drow that'd not presumed to speak to me before now swore to
swell the ranks of the Zoitsa so it would become one of the great
sigils, while the ambitious one who'd invited me to pass judgement
instead swore that the Night of every Zoitsa to die in the wars would be
passed to a dzulu proving themselves worthy. I felt through the Night
the last oath earned the most approval, at least until the fourth
rylleh, the one who had not even stood forward to lay claim to the sigil
until now, spoke its own pledge-

\emph{``host of empire will we be,}

\emph{servants first to right}

\emph{if Zoitsa bend the knee}

\emph{let it be only to Night''}

The Night thrummed with approval, and not only from those drow who bore
the colours of the Zoitsa. Morovoy was the name of the rylleh that had
made the oath, and it had been clever in its shaping. The verses of it
made it clear that for its span of nine years it would have the sigil
suborn its own ambitions to the needs of the reborn Empire Ever Dark,
serving as army and obeying the orders of leaders appointed by the
Night. The other Firstborn had sought to earn acclaim through pretty
ambitions and heady boasts, but Morovoy's pledge instead harkened back
to the old dream: a nation of drow, proud and mighty under darkened sky.
It was opening the door to any who wanted to bare blade for that
purpose, at least for a span of nine years, and in offering such
selfless oath was making all the pledges of those that'd spoken before
it seem\ldots{} base. Almost petty. When tokens were set down to match
oaths, Morovoy earned more than half those cast and more than double of
its closest rival. I sent Ivah to bestow the Night I had shaped into a
sigil, after that chosen oath was written down, and so the first
crucible of the nigh was passed.

The hurdle, after that, was that those already holding sigils need take
oaths of their own. It'd taken hours to gather fifty thousand drown and
even longer to clear room for them all to stand, so I'd had time to do
more than ponder the shape of the reformation I wanted to offer. I'd
made arrangements as well, quietly reaching out to those in the Southern
Expedition that were most beholden to me. It was why the Losara had not
stirred, when I set them apart from the rest of the kind and charged
them to never rise too high nor fall too low. It was why though many of
the sigil-holders were taken by surprise by the changing tides, not all
were. In the silence that followed the ascension of Morovoy, Mighty
Jindrich strode forward. The same hard-headed, choleric warrior that
Rumena and I had taken to using as a battering ram whenever we needed
something dead or broken. It was feckless and brutal, though prone to
forgiving those that amused it. Yet its faith in Sve Noc was deep and
militant, and it thought nothing of making oath if it was the will of
the Night. And so Mighty Jindrich stood before tens of thousands of its
kind, white-toothed and red-handed, and it sang a pledge-

\emph{``to be the point of the spear}

\emph{ever furthest from the rear;}

\emph{to battle under veil of night}

\emph{and the glare of palest light;}

\emph{hear me: nine years' spread}

\emph{a hundred victories tread!''}

I'd expected the Jindrich Sigil to flinch at the pledge, of fighting as
the vanguard wherever fight was to be found and to forge a hundred
victories in nine years, but that was not what I felt from them. Oh, far
form it. They were burning with the kind of hard pride that would have
any people but the Firstborn howling. In the Jindrich, their faces
painted azure and white with the jagged fang-like wings of their
sigil-symbol, I found boiling blood and a thirst for blood. The took
after their sigil-holder, and other drow listened to such an oath with
envy -- oh, some would leave the sigil, but there would be twice as many
petitioning for entry. One after another, the sigil-holders who had once
been of my Peerage followed suit. Mighty Soln's pledge to found a cabal
with any other sigil willing to help raise another Tvarigu in the heart
of the Burning Lands had the crowd rippling in approval and a few feet
stomping down, but when after it finished speaking Rumena stepped up
fifty thousand drow went still as statues. The old drow laughed, softly,
and offered the trace of a bow at the crows on my shoulder. It spoke
simply, cadenced but with an implacability that was beyond boast-

``\emph{before nine years have passed,}

\emph{Keter's gates will lie broken}

\emph{as trembles Death's holdfast.}''

I breathed out sharply at the oath the general had just made. A
heartbeat passed and the sheer wave of fervour that raged through the
Night had me leaning against my staff for support. Drow raised their
voices in an ululating cry, honouring the old monster who'd promised it
would lead any following it to smash down the gates of the Crown of the
Dead. The ancient creature closed its eyes, breathed the cool air of
Procer's winter night, and smiled the smile of one who would cast their
wroth against even gods. And still Ivah wrote, ink on parchment, for the
Losara would keep records so long as there were records to be kept. I
only left the Firstborn two hours before dawn, having granted delay to
those few sigil-holders who had no oath yet to pledge, but that number
was few. Before dawn my Lord of Silent Steps would have begun
transcribing its records to a book whose pages would be the one of the
greatest things I had ever made.

Whether it would be a great triumph or disaster, only time would tell.

---

Hakram and I found our way back through the dark, passing legionaries on
watch and the odd still-lit tent, but it was a surprise to find that my
own was lit up with sprites and magelights. My feet slowed as I heard
laughter from inside, glimpsing two silhouettes -- one on a bed, the
other seated by its side. A man and woman, I thought, and though the
words were indistinct Indrani's voice was a familiar drawl.

``I can hear what they're saying,'' Adjutant murmured, the offer
implicit.

I'd be able to as well, if I drew on the Night. Instead I breathed out
slowly and shook my head.

``Leave them to it,'' I said.

The orc's eyes moved to me, unreadable.

``They have their own matters to settle,'' I said. ``And if I'm
there\ldots{}''

``The war follows you,'' Hakram completed, clicking his fangs.

I shrugged, affecting nonchalance, though I held out little hope so
shallow a deception would not be seen through by my Adjutant.

``Hells, Hakram,'' I said, ``I might as well \emph{be} the war, to those
two. No, let them have a night without red on the horizon and talk of
plans.''

``It doesn't have to be that way,'' he gently told me.

I thought of Vivienne, scared she would be cast out and left out in the
wilds, and the way I'd used that fear to bring her a little closer to
the woman I needed her to be. Not lightly, not without qualms, not for
selfish reasons. But I'd still done it.

``It does,'' I disagreed.

There might come a day where that was no longer the case, but until the
continent no longer teetered on the brink then the queen's needs were
more important than the woman's wants. I clapped Hakram's shoulder, and
together we went to find somewhere else for me to sleep.

---

I woke up with Morning Bell, still tired but knowing there was too much
on my plate to be able to justify sleeping any longer. Adjutant, already
awake, passed along that both Masego and Indrani were still sleeping in
so instead I broke fast with Juniper and Vivienne. The Hellhound had
always been -- rather despicably so, in my opinion -- a morning person
so while cheer was no more in the cards than usual she was still
noticeably more animated than either myself or Vivienne. Who, I'd noted
over the years, had never really gotten used to staying awake most of
the day. Neither thieving nor heroics were always work to be done under
the sun, at least not in an occupied Callow. So while Vivienne and I
blearily drank our morning brews and poked at porridge, Juniper
sprinkled bits of jerky into hers and dug in with relish as she began
expounding on this Proceran book she'd found. Some history of the First
League War penned by a prince of Lyonis she'd found a Lower Miezan
translation of. The title -- one of those long, elaborate ones highborn
Proceran scholars were so fond of -- she spoke scathingly of, but
apparently it was a fascinating look at the events and much less drily
written than most histories. Vivienne leaned towards me as the Hellhound
told us all about how Helikean \emph{kataphraktoi} had actually begun as
a tradition before Theodosius, contrary to popular belief.

``This is torture,'' the heiress-designate to Callow murmured.

``Just don't mention the Commentaries,'' I whispered back. ``It'd be
like tossing meat at a wolf.''

Usually it only got this way when we drank, though, so I was somewhat
surprised. By now Aisha should have\ldots{} \emph{Ah}, I thought,
looking at the empty seat where Staff Tribune Aisha Bishara would
usually be seated. \emph{There's your trouble.} The living and breathing
person that served as the better part of Juniper's social graces was
missing, and so we were being subjected to the full Hellhound treatment.

``Fascinating,'' I lied, just after a sentence. ``Where's Aisha, by the
way?''

``Liaising with the Legions-in-Exile,'' Juniper growled. ``We're taking
full stock of the armies down to company size so we can adjust the
doctrine for whatever battles are ahead.''

Ah, and there was no one else in the Hellhound's general staff that'd
get that done nearly as quickly or neatly as Aisha so there she went.
She'd probably been absent form general staff meetings too, which would
only make the Hellhound grumpier.

``I'm sure it'll be done soon,'' I said.

``It'd help if you could tell us where winter quarters will be,'' the
orc bluntly said.

``I'll see if I can get that settled today,'' I sighed, then sipped at
my tea.

The warmth of it seeped into me, and I glanced at the other Callowan at
the table. As much out of need as out of mercy, I threw Vivienne a bone.

``I'll need you to send a messenger to Arnaud Brogloise,'' I said.
``Today will be convenient for the audience he requested. I'll be
expecting you at that table, Lady Dartwick.''

She nodded.

``And the Dominion?'' she asked.

I glanced at Juniper.

``We're overdue a fireside evening, the lot of us,'' I said. ``I expect
at some point during that evening the Pilgrim will swing by for a chat,
if he's ready to talk.''

``Tonight?'' the Hellhound asked. ``We've all got-''

``Competent subordinates,'' I interrupted. ``We can afford a few hours
by a fire, Juniper. If you believe your staff so incompetent that if you
have a drink they'll be lost-''

``I never said that,'' the Hellhound bristled.

``Good,'' I smiled, ``then you can bring the aragh.''

I hadn't had a taste of that since becoming mortal again and I was
curious if my recollections from the old days were still accurate.

``You baited me,'' Juniper growled.

``Can't win them all, Marshal,'' I grinned, and toasted her with my
steaming mug.

Vivienne shot me an amused look before making her retreat, and a wise
woman she was. This time, when Juniper began to talk about the logistics
of the Army of Callow, the glint in her eye made it very clear the
torture was entirely on purpose.

---

It was not until Noon Bell that I met with Arnaud Brogloise,
plenipotentiary envoy for the First Prince of Procer. I'd been ready for
talks earlier, but the other side had not. Apparently the Grand
Alliance's camp was like an anthill that'd been just gotten a good kick
now that scrying was restored to Iserre and Hasenbach's Order of the Red
Lion could arrange talks with Salia. Not just Salia, though, likely most
of the Alliance's signatories. No doubt the Blood wanted to speak with
Levante and their Holy Seljun, if only to gain a veneer of lawfulness
for whatever they'd get up to regardless of what their figurehead ruler
wanted. Given the number of highborn of all stripes who'd want access to
scrying and what must be a highly limited amount of mages that could use
such sorcery -- as well as spell formulas a generation behind the
Empire's, which meant the further two-way scrying went the more relays
would be required and the more prone to failure the magic would be -- I
wouldn't be surprised if they were working their practitioners to the
edge of burning out. Still, at least the development meant I could rely
on the former Prince of Cantal having freshly spoken with Hasenbach.

This was the closest I'd get to speaking directly with the First Prince
before getting to Salia, I suspected.

This was not a formal negotiation, only a private audience, so I'd seen
no need to overburden this with ceremony and entourages. On the side of
the oaken table I'd claimed Hakram sat at my right and Vivienne at my
left, while Arnaud Brogloise had brought with him only a pale redheaded
scribe whose accessories seemed to indicate was meant to serve as both
note-keeper and scholarly expert. The ink and quill made the first
plain, while the veritable pile of tomes and scrolls he'd brought in
with a legionary's help implied the second. I knew from experience that
someone well-learned in where the writing you were looking for tended to
shave hours off of discussions such as these, so I rather appreciated
the expertise the Alamans had brought with him.

``Your Majesty,'' Arnaud Brogloise greeted me. ``Lady Dartwick, Lord
Adjutant.''

I craned my neck back.

``I'm unfamiliar with the proper address for a plenipotentiary envoy,''
I admitted.

``It is `lord envoy', though it is only a courtesy title,'' the
middle-aged replied, smiling amicably. ``Yet if I may be bold?''

My brow rose and I nodded permission.

``It is my understanding that you are not partial to formalities,''
Brogloise said. ``We could dispense with them, if you would allow it,
and you could simply call me Arnaud.''

I smiled back.

``Did you know that I could hear heartbeats, back when I was Sovereign
of Moonless Nights?'' I mildly said. ``If I pricked my ear, I could ever
hear blood flowing in someone's veins. Smell their fear and anger.''

His face expressed only confusion. He really was, I thought, one of the
finest actors I'd ever seen. The Alamans might even be better at it than
Akua, which was impressive in all the worst ways.

``I'm aware I'll find about as much genuine emotion at the heart of you
than I would in door hinge, my lord envoy,'' I said. ``So spare us both
the affability.''

The ruddy face slackened, moving towards blankness though not quite
reaching it. To be entirely vacant would have been an effort as well,
while this was simply the release of a pretence.

``If you'd prefer, Your Majesty,'' he calmly said. ``Shall we attend the
matters at hand?''

``If you would,'' I agreed.

``Her Most Serene Highness has, after consideration, decided to honour
the Grey Pilgrim's non-binding promise of a peace conference,''
Brogloise stated.

\emph{How magnanimous of her}, I drily thought. I'd grown more
diplomatic in my old age, so I refrained from rolling my eyes. Hasenbach
might not be happy about Tariq agreeing in her name to anything, but she
needed the truce and conference badly. Refusing to honour the Pilgrim's
agreement with the Tyrant would have been cutting off her nose to spite
her face, considering it'd set the League back on the warpath and
mortally offend the Dominion.

``And the guarantee of truce until the conference has ended?'' Vivienne
asked.

``Will be honoured in full,'' the Alamans agreed.

``Including the Legions-in-Exile?'' Hakram asked.

``So long as the Queen of Callow formally agrees to take responsibility
for their actions while they remain on Proceran soil,'' Brogloise said.

Mhm. So, Cordelia had recognized that at this point she didn't have the
strength or influence to push the issue when it came to the Exile
Legions. Making them my problem was a way to deal with it, since she
knew by now I needed the goodwill of the Grand Alliance for the Accords
and letting the Praesi loose anywhere in Procer was a good way to throw
away every inch of progress I'd made there. Still, I'd take it.

``Agreed,'' I said.

The redhead scribe's quill scratched against parchment.

``However,'' the former prince said, ``the Highest Assembly formally
requests that the escaped prisoner of war Amadeus of the Green Stretch
be turned over for trial.''

``The Highest Assembly has been heard,'' I mildly said. ``Though I will
caution that considering he never surrendered to the Principate and was
tortured while in custody, by Callowan law you have no grounds for such
a request.''

``Indeed, this has been acknowledged,'' Arnaud Brogloise said, to my
surprise.

That, I thought, had been much too easy considering how despised Black
was in these parts. Was Cordelia sparing him as a favour to me so she
could call that favour in elsewhere? Shit, if it came to that I might
actually have to agree.

``However, as a Named military commander who carried out plans of mass
murder of civilians he would be considered in \emph{egregious} breach of
the Liesse Accords,'' the former prince said.

Ah, I thought. And there it was.

``Procer has not signed the Liesse Accords,'' I said.

``It will, if you agree to apply them to the Black Knight,'' Arnaud
Brogloise plainly said.

The bluntness of it jolted me. He was actually serious, I realized, and
he wasn't just speaking hot air: the powers Cordelia had invested in him
meant he could sign agreements in her name in a legally binding manner.

``It would be selective application of the articles, unless you also
intend to pursue the trial of the Grey Pilgrim for the massacre of a
port town and an entire half-legion of Praesi legionaries,'' Vivienne
noted. ``Or of the Queen of Callow for the particulars of the Battle of
the Camps.''

``Guarantees can be made that this will not be the case,'' the envoy
said.

``You're missing the point,'' I flatly said. ``If the Accords are used
from the very moment they're signed as a tool to pursue enmities,
they'll not last the decade.''

Hakram, at my right, was looking intently at our Alamans friend. He'd
noticed something, then.

``A matter to be discussed in more detail at a later date, then,''
Brogloise said. ``The First Prince is offering to host the conference in
Salia, Your Majesty, and seeks your opinion on the matter.''

Adjutant moved a fraction, and so I stilled my tongue. I inclined my
head towards him without looking.

``In the eventuality this is agreed on, where does the First Prince
suggest the Army of Callow and the Legions-in-Exile march on?'' Hakram
asked.

``Escort would be allowed up to four thousand for every ruler attending
the conference,'' the envoy replied. ``Four hundred into the city
itself.''

``And the armies themselves?'' I asked.

Arnaud Brogloise glanced at his scribe, who bowed at him then myself
before rising to snatch a half-dozen scrolls from the pile. Maps, I
realized, reading the letters on the seals.

``In this matter,'' the former Prince of Cantal said, ``Her Most Serene
Highness is willing to entertain your proposals.''

I grinned. I'd been a while since I last had a good haggle, I mused, so
this ought to get interesting.
