\hypertarget{chapter-67-starlight}{%
\chapter{Starlight}\label{chapter-67-starlight}}



\epigraph{``Without enemy, without backbone.''}{Callowan saying}



I didn't even have to say anything.

Black had been watching me discreetly ever since midnight's threshold,
and a simple nod of acknowledgement did the trick. Unlike me the
green-eyed man had no connection to the wards that surrounded the
tumulus, but by using me as a tripwire he'd effectively learned of the
Peregrine's arrival mere heartbeats after I did. Just because the man
had lost his name hardly meant he'd ceased being perceptive -- or
dangerous. I slowly rose to my feet, hand reach for my yew staff, and
watched from the corner of my eye as the former Black Knight drew away
from the circle that'd gathered to listen to an old campaign story of
Grem One-Eye's. Hakram's eyes found me, silently questioning in the
dark, but I shook my head. The fewer people there for those talks the
better, for though I trusted Adjutant as I would trust my own hand the
Grey Pilgrim had no reason to do the same. I'd not further muddle the
waters of what might already be troublesome talks simply for the base
comfort of having Hakram at my side. I slipped away, not unseen of my
friends but at least unquestioned, and tread between the dark
silhouettes of the stones raised by the ancient Mavii. Far above stars
hung in the night sky, pale constellations set in ink. Leather boots
creaking against the snow I advanced, the edges of the cloak on my back
skimming against smooth stone.

Tariq Fleetfoot stood a few feet further down the slope, upright and
steady for such an old man. Robes of faded grey fell loosely down his
frame, so used as to be halfway to raggedness, and the last wisps of
white hair on his head stood out starkly as he gazed up at the stars. He
did not have a staff, the gnarled old thing he'd snapped over his knee
as the finishing touch to the Twilight Crown. In the days since that he
could have easily found another, I knew, yet he had not. It tasted to me
of a loss, something surrendered that would never be had again. None
who'd given away their crown would ever find a way to fill that void and
the lack of a walking stick was the least of it. Black drifted out of
the stones a heartbeat after I did, tread quietly as the long coat he
wore trailed behind him. Tariq's jaw shifted, as I looked, a tensing so
slight I might have missed it were I not already studying him. Wariness,
I thought. The Pilgrim recognized Black's footsteps, near silent as they
were, and he was \emph{wary} of the man they belonged to. I knew not
what had passed between those two when my teacher was held prisoner,
before his soul was mutilated, but the cold spite in the Carrion Lord's
eyes and the strain in Tariq's shoulders did not speak to anything
pleasant. Still, they were both pragmatic men in their own way. Like it
or not they were in the same boat, and neither would be inclined to
behave in a way that might just tip it over for all of us.

``Your Majesty,'' the Pilgrim calmly said. ``A beautiful night, isn't
it?''

``Iserre has its beauties,'' I acknowledged.

The old hero half-smiled, then turned to dip his head respectfully.

``I invited myself to an evening of comradery, and for that I
apologize,'' Tariq said.

``You should,'' Black noted. ``I brought liquor, at least. Is your
presence meant to be the gift?''

There was a slight pause, then he muttered \emph{heroes} in a scathing
tone. I sent him a warning look, but he was visibly unmoved. A
consequence, I grimly thought, of having me try on those when I'd been a
great deal less dangerous than I now was.

``Apologies twofold then, Black Queen,'' the Pilgrim lightly replied.
``Yet I believed it wiser to have this conversation away from prying
eyes, and before too long had passed.''

An opportunity he'd not have again soon, I understood even if he did not
spell it out. I was not all that surprised that the Peregrine had
somehow slipped past a dozen layers of wards, patrols and watchmen to
arrive unseen in the very heart of my camp. He was, after all the, the
Grey Pilgrim: appearing sudden and unexpected was his wont, as much a
part of his Name as the ashen-coloured robes. But he'd pulled this off
because I was apart from the rest of my army, and my watchful patrons.
If he'd tried to pull this on the tent where I slept, the Sisters might
just have taken offence and good luck trying to keep \emph{that} quiet.

``You were not unforeseen,'' I said. ``I require no apology.''

``Your kindness is appreciated,'' the old man said. ``I received the
papers sent by the Lord Adjutant, Queen Catherine. They were\ldots{} an
interesting read.''

Well, it wasn't like I'd expected the man to gush, slap me on the back
and ask where he had to sign. Had I hoped for that, just a little bit? O
Night, yes. I was in no way above easy victories when I could have them,
which was tragically infrequent. Fingers tight on the dead yew in my
grip, I carefully stepped down the slope until I was standing at the
hero's left. Black, never one to allow subtle theatrics to pass him by
when they cost nothing, nonchalantly cut through behind me and came to
stand at my left. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, knowing it'd only
further entertain him.

``I expect you have questions,'' I said.

Objections, too, but best get the clarifications out of the way first.

``Those were not the full text,'' the Pilgrim said.

``The simplified manuscript,'' I said. ``Though no tricks were plied,
Peregrine. I did not hide anything I thought might be contentious, only
removed the many inkwells' worth of minutiae that the full treaty will
need to properly function.''

``Function,'' Tariq repeated, blue eyes crinkling. ``Yes, that is the
word I was seeking.''

He breathed out, mist rising up easily on such a windless night.

``I have issue, as you must have anticipated, with some of the laws you
would set,'' the old man said. ``Yet that is not so great a thing, for
even if your terms were accepted without amendment I would wager the
Liesse Accords being harbinger of more good than not.''

The Pilgrim's already-crease face, wrinkled by long years of saving
lives and taking them, grew serious.

``And so I must ask, Your Majesty,'' he said, ``what it is you intend as
the function of your Accords? Their purpose, for I have glimpsed the lay
of your work and it is neither salvation nor abolition.''

Oh, that was an ornate way to put it but no less true for that. I'd
known from the very moment the thought of the Accords had begun to haunt
me that there was only so much I could accomplish through them. It'd be
a pretty thing, a treaty that promised a hundred or a thousand years of
peace between all who signed it, but that was a fool's dream. Old
Terribilis the Second, the canniest of the Old Tyrants in so many ways,
had once said that armies were like water: they took the path of least
resistance. The line had stuck with me, even more than the rest of the
Commentaries, and I'd seen since that the wisdom of it ran deeper than
Terribilis had claimed. People, more often than not, took the path of
least resistance. Because it was easier, because it was encouraged,
because no one liked to struggle or get hurt. If I raised a dam in the
way of our own nature -- and, like it or not, people had been waging war
one each other since the First Dawn -- then perhaps it might hold for a
time but it would inevitably break. And perhaps wreak greater
destruction than before for the containment attempted. I could not
change what lay at the heart of mankind, or orcs, or goblins or even the
drow for that matter. I was not even sure the Gods could, and even at my
most arrogant I'd never claimed to reach those heights. What I could do,
though, was create a set of rules. Not \emph{too} limiting, lest they be
bucked, but limiting enough that never again would a city be broken by
the strife of Named.

``I told you the first time we ever spoke,'' I said. ``What I cannot
break-''

``You will regulate,'' Tariq softly finished. ``I remember. You spoke of
your teacher too, that day.''

Black looked mildly curious, eyeing us both.

``He cannot conceive of a word where he does not win, you said,'' the
Peregrine reminded me.

\emph{And this is not a victory}, he left unspoken. I'd known that was
going to be one of the harder parts to navigate, though, for some time.
That the Accords required trust in more than just me on the side of
Below's champions, lest trust in them die when I did. Part of me
wondered if my teacher would take as an insult a remark I'd never
intended to make it to his ears, though I stood by it still, and I
flicked a glance to the side. He did not seem aggrieved, though only a
fool would take what could be seen on Amadeus of the Green Stretch's
face as the sum of his thoughts.

``Yet I have lost,'' Black said. ``Undeniably so.''

I stilled. I'd not expected for him to speak in answer, save perhaps to
send the occasional measured barb towards the Peregrine. Indecision
warred in my mind, for though the Accords were my creation and I was
circumspect of letting my teacher speak to or for them I could not hold
them in my arms like some babe in need of soothing. They would grow
larger than me, I knew, from the moment they were signed. They must, for
if they did not this was no more than some Old Tyrant's madness: though
I would have chosen law and treaties rather than an invisible army or
fortresses aflight, the doom of it would be just as certain. And so,
though if felt like control of this was slipping through my fingers, I
kept my mouth shut.

``Have you?'' Tariq mildly asked. ``You stand free once more, a leader
of armies. Aligned with one of the rising stars of our age, shielded
from judgement and assured seat and voice when the lay of this war and
what will follow is writ. \emph{Have} you lost, Amadeus of the Green
Stretch?''

Part of me was almost offended on my teacher's behalf, for I had seen
victories of his making and they had little in common with the stuff of
these days. Yet there was another quieter voice in the back of my mind
that, while not agreeing with the Pilgrim had said, found it was not
senseless. For someone who'd been a severed soul mere days ago, Black
had returned to a degree of prominence with almost blinding swiftness.
The itch was there to speak up, to intervene, because there was too much
riding on this talk and this night for me to feel content in silence. I
mastered it with some difficulty, knowing stepping in now might end up
disastrous. My teacher had turned to look at the Pilgrim, pale green
eyes considering, until he suddenly let out a biting sting of laughter.

``A \emph{victory}, Peregrine?'' he scorned. ``This night, this moon,
this year? The span of my days I have spent in the service of that
searing, fleeting thing that'd even the scales for the smallest of
instants and you would claim \emph{this} to be it?''

The dark-haired man, though those locks now knew white as well, laughed
once more. It was a sound like a bag being peremptorily emptied, a cup
drunk to the last drop. More will than instinct.

``Those few I love are dropping like flies,'' Amadeus of the Green
Stretch harshly said. ``My kindred atop the Tower spirals ever deeper
into old follies and the order I have worked my hand to the bone raising
has burst like an overripe fruit. The manner of things that have been
lost\ldots{}''

He shook his head, then smiled. Thin and wide and much too sharp, the
blade-smile I'd come to know so well.

``These have been \emph{calamitous} years, Peregrine,'' the Carrion Lord
said. ``What gains were had always came at too high a price, and while I
will not partake of regret neither will I shy from the truth that not a
single of those games proved worth the candle.''

``You bleed,'' Tariq acknowledged. ``You rage, frozen and bitter as that
poison is. But you are not cowed. You have ruled, but what do you know
of rules? Am I to believe you will now put a yoke around your neck out
of sentiment?''

The old hero eyed the aging villain with disdain.

``There is only so much of that in you,'' the Pilgrim said. ``And it
never bore more than a feather's weight on the scales, Lord of Carrion.
I have seen the laws that would be the fabric of the Accords, and I see
good in them for even if the children of Above will find their hands
bound in some ways it is but a \emph{pittance} to what it will cost
Below's favoured monsters. You will be stripped of manners of terror and
brutality in myriad, forced to measure your wickedness and moderate your
cruelties. You will be bound by fetters and told at the edge of the
blade that ambitions cannot be without restraint. I see nothing, have
seen nothing, in you that would take any of this as more than wasted
ink.''

``It must be a pleasant world to live in, where any that stand opposite
of you must be either grasping or grasped,'' Black smiled. ``Either the
creature of the Gods Below or their apostle in wickedness -- either way,
what sin can there be in breaking us?''

He chuckled.

``Well, if I must be wicked to hold regard then wicked I shall be,'' the
Carrion Lord said, eyes coldly glinting. ``I'll speak for the crooked
and cruel, pilgrim of grey, and give you the answer you deman.''

Under starlight the dark-haired man took a dramatic bow, and I could see
in the cast if his face that he was relishing this. The chance to speak
without measuring every word, considering the consequence on the balance
of his Role and Name. To\ldots{} cut loose, after a lifetime of ironclad
control. Praesi, I thought, not entirely without fondness.

``The first conspiracy will bloom,'' the Carrion Lord said, ``before the
ink is dry.''

My fingers tightened. That was not what I had expected of him. Or
wanted. He grinned, a slice of pale bone cutting through the dark.

``We will twist around the spirit of every rule while obeying the
letter,'' the green-eyed man said. ``We will lie and cheat and hide our
sins, while dragging into light those of our foes and rivals. We will
seek to twist the laws as a tool for our ambitions and a sword to slay
our enemies. We will hide behind every protection afforded and make red
art of the details that save or slay. We will defend our advantages and
seek to unmake yours, never once faltering in our callous greed.''

The grin went wider still, a madman's grin. A challenge.

``And yet we will uphold the Liesse Accords, you broken old thing, and
wage war on any that would unmake them,'' the Carrion Lord said.
``Merciless Gods, you think they tip the scale in \emph{your} favour?
Your entire breed are servants of stillness, shaped from the clay of
recoil. You came out victors of the Age of Wonders, but this\ldots{}
\emph{Age of Order} will be ours body and soul.''

``You are mad,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, tone hushed.

``That may well be,'' the Carrion Lord laughed, ``but am I
\emph{lying}?''

Tariq's face tightened.

``Peace will smother your kind out of existence,'' the old hero said.
``This I know and have seen many a time. Under law you will reach too
high and pay the price of vainglory.''

``Why now, Tariq Fleetfoot,'' the Carrion Lord replied with languid
amusement, ``that rather sounds like a wager.''

The Levantine's fingers clenched.

``This could have been a beautiful thing,'' he said. ``The principles of
Good made into law, however slightly. You \emph{soil} this by your very
existence.''

``I have only ever recognized one sin and one grace,'' the green-eyed
villain replied. ``Your whimpering sense of virtue is as dust to me,
Peregrine. Choke on it and perish, as you should have decades ago.''

Well, this was just lovely. Still it rung close enough to an accord from
both sides that I wouldn't be interceding for everybody if I stepped in
now. You know, before two of the most powerful people on the fucking
face of Calernia started pulling each other's pigtails and calling their
Gods a lie. Charming stuff all around, though I'd give it to Black that
while he might have been a vicious shit about this he'd at least more or
less gotten results.

``Glad to see we're all friends now,'' I said, perfectly willing to keep
repeating the sentence louder and louder until objections died out.

Neither of them contradicted me. Well, would you look at that. Maybe
they \emph{were} clever after all.

``I am in agreement with the principle of the Liesse Accords,'' Tariq
tightly said. ``Though when talks are had in Salia, I will argue against
the articles I believe to be unsound.''

``I expected no less,'' I said.

It was an effort to keep my voice steady, to keep the sheer fucking
\emph{triumph} out of it. Because if Tariq was in agreement with even
just the principles of the Accords, then I was pretty sure a majority of
living heroes would fall in line. There were probably heroes out there
more powerful, but there were none more respected or influential.
Getting Below's side of the fence in order would be trickier, but if
Black held the Tower and the Tyrant's head ended up on a spike? It could
be done. The fucking shape was there, now. \emph{It could be done}. My
excitement ebbed, though, when I remembered this conversation was not
yet over. And that what we had to speak about might shake the
foundations of the rest, if it went poorly. I hesitated on how to bring
it up at all, and to hide the indecision reached for my pipe once more.
Black gave me a mildly disapproving look.

``Wakeleaf is an ungainly vice,'' he said. ``One of the few things I
ever agreed with Tikoloshe about.''

``I've tried that wine you keep bottles of,'' I replied, stuffing my
pipe, ``and I'm not getting a lecture on ungainly vices from a man who
regularly drinks something that tastes like rat poison. \emph{Muddy} rat
poison.''

``The mud makes all the difference,'' my teacher pleasantly agreed.

I passed my palm over the pipe, black flame bloom amongst the stuffing,
and breathed in sharply. Well, indirect talk had never been my strong
suit so it was doubtful trying my hand at it now would somehow yield
success with the godsdamned Grey Pilgrim of all people. Direct it was,
then. I breathed out, let the smoke rise up towards the night sky and
took the plunge.

``Pilgrim,'' I said, ``we need to talk about the Wandering Bard.''

Except I didn't.

I was, instead, standing to the side of the three people -- the Grey
Pilgrim, the Black Queen and the Carrion Lord -- standing in the
starlight and snow as they spoke. I could even see the smoke wafting up
from both my mouth and pipe. \emph{Shit}, I thought.

``Catherine, Catherine, \emph{Catherine},'' a woman's voice said,
sounding almost pained. ``You were so close but now you're fucking it
all up.''

I looked at where the voice had come from -- to the side, perched atop
one of the raised stones, the Wandering Bard was seated. Slender and
dark-haired, with blue eyes and a rather attractive face. The accent,
though, I had recognized. Alamans.

``Really,'' I said, ``Alamans? What, where there no other bodies left?''

The Bard cocked her head to the side, looking surprised and more than a
little amused.

``That is \emph{uncanny},'' she muttered.

Raising a silver flask I'd not seen her grab, she shrugged and took a
swallow.

``Right,'' the Intercessor grinned after wiping her mouth. ``So I'd say
it's about time we had a little chat, you and I.''
