\hypertarget{interlude-rogue}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Rogue}\label{interlude-rogue}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-rogue}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Rogue}

\epigraph{``It takes two hands to clasp in peace, only one fist to strike in
war.''}{Taghreb saying}



Roland had not been forced to dig so deep into his reserves for years
and had not missed the sensation it brought in the slightest: like
sandpaper against his insides, his very soul rubbed raw and bloody by
sore \textbf{Use}.

The Rogue Sorcerer pointed the dragon oak wand at the latest fae to land
on the railing, the artefact grown sluggish from being fired repeatedly,
and swallowed a curse. Another piece of his collection, going up in
smoke. The red-veined wand trembled, the last of the dragon blood the
tree's roots had once drunk unleashing its nature in the form of a
narrow, powerful ray of flame. The Lord of Plentiful Harvest, childlike
face serene, winked mischievously at him right before the sorcerous
flame tore right through yet another damned fake made of straw. The bait
was gone in a wisp of fire a moment later, as Roland dropped the wand
before the angry embers it burst into could savage his hand.

If that one had been a fake, then the real Lord must be the tone trying
to break through -- before the dark-haired man could finish his thought,
another shape bearing the Lord's appearance unleashed a torrent of
golden power against the web of crackling Light that Adanna had
unleashed around the spire, preventing the fae from ignoring them and
simply flying up. The fae's blow stretched the web back, but as Roland
mustered a hard smile he already saw how it would end: the web stretched
but held, and as if made of rubber it shot back the golden power at the
flabbergasted fae that'd struck with it. The Blessed Artificer it had to
be said, was abrupt at the best of time and often judgemental.

She was also \emph{ridiculously brilliant}.

``It is too soon to smile, mortal.''

Roland did not bother to look behind him, where the voice of the
Baroness of Red Hunt was coming from, instead immediately vaulting over
the footbridge's railing. \emph{Beloved Gods}, he prayed even as a burst
of some sort of power passed just above him and set every hair on his
body affright, \emph{for the curse of brag you laid on these creatures,
I give many thanks.} Hands already digging in his pocket, the
dark-haired man fished out a small engraved copper ring and shoved it
onto his finger. The old Arlesite artefact woke eagerly, itching to be
used even after centuries, and Roland clenched his belly in
anticipation. Though Pelagian artefacts tended to be remarkably
long-lasting works, since they'd been made from an understanding of
sorcery derived from the Gigantes they tended to also\ldots{}

Stomach lurching as his momentum was forcefully reversed and instead of
dropping down to the bottom of the Belfry, where going by the sound of
it Catherine was having a merry old time slaughtering eldritch creatures
older than the written word, he instead shot upwards. Roland swallowed a
scream and an emerald-studded bronze bracelet on his left wrist, shaped
like a snake -- which many in the Free Cities considered a symbol of
healing and protection -- broke like a cheap bauble. Better the Stygian
artefact than his spine and most his bones, as would have been the case
without the harm-gathering bracelet's effect. Gigantes sorceries were
effective but unfortunately they were also made for, well, Gigantes.
Living titans who'd barely notice the kind of forces that would snap
poor old Roland of Beaumarais like a twig. Ligurian sorcery, and its
Pelagian offspring, as a rule did not usually bother with the protective
measures for the caster common to any other family of the Talent.

There was a reason the Jaquinites now held in sway in most of Procer.

Sadly, though he was going up instead of down the Rogue Sorcerer was not
unaware that he was still, to used the academic parlance, damned screwed
if he did not act. There was only death to be found in the air, when
fighting the Fair Folk. Reluctant as he was to call on such a precious
resource, Roland reached for the small orb within himself that was the
sorcery that'd once belonged to the Hateful Druidess. A mere sliver was
unleashed, in the shape of a burst of wind erupting from his back with
precise aim that allowed him to stumblingly land back on the footbridge
between the sides of the Belfry and its central crystal spire. The
Baroness of Red Hunt, though, had been quicker on the move than he.
Already she was there, spear of bone raised and the stripes of red going
down her face grown vivid. That could prove tricky, Roland noted.

``Crouch,'' Adanna of Smyrna yelled.

He did, without hesitation, but alas so did the Baroness. Yet the fine
line of Light that shot over his head did not simply pass beyond the
fae, instead stutteringly halting over the Baroness and then shooting
abruptly down onto the fairy's back. Another penitence box, Roland
realized even as from the point of impact a hundred small lines of Light
spread out and covered every inch of the Baroness of Red Hunt in a
shining webbing before locking down. How many of those had the Artificer
actually brought? She had to be running out by now. Still, this would by
him at least thirty heartbeats -- though the Light cut both ways,
protecting as well as imprisoning -- before the penitence box broke and
the Baroness was freed.

Adanna herself was in a spot of trouble, Roland saw as he turned. The
Blessed Artificer used Light much as an enchanter would used sorcery, at
first glance, but the Rogue Sorcerer knew better. One of the weaknesses
to the blessings of priests -- and Chosen -- was that they lacked
staying power. An object could be made to lastingly have the properties
of Light, like holy water or the famous armour of Callowan knights, but
Light simply could not be used the way sorcery could be through wards
and enchantments. Which meant that while Adanna, like him, relied
heavily on artefacts the abilities of those artefacts were nearly always
temporary in nature. When the Light ran out, so would they. No trouble,
when comparing a wand using magic and one using Light.

A great deal of trouble, however, when comparing the twenty three
continuous layers of magical defence Roland currently had on his body
compared to the single fading globe of Light that'd been all that
separated the Blessed Artificer from the vicious blades and tricks of
the Fair Folk. The shell vanished, and in the fading glow three
silhouettes were revealed.

Adanna of Smyrna, tall and proud in her loose white button-up shirt and
black vest covered by a long apron in striped shades of grey, golden
eyes cold behind her spectacles. In her right hand she held a dull sword
of iron, roiling with Light, and in her left a phial of coloured glass
glowing like a torch. To one side the Lord of Plentiful Harvest was
perched on the railing, looking small and childlike in his sweeping
cloak of straw but with golden power already gathering above him in the
form of a blade. The other fae perched on the other side was an
unpleasant surprise, however, for it meant a third lord of the Fair Folk
had joined their struggle. Wearing green vines as cloth and quiver, the
green-winged fae looked eerily calm as he shaped a long spear out of
what looked like young green wood. For a heartbeat, stillness held
between the three of them.

Roland's hand went for the doubling of his enchanted coat, fingers
closing around a small steel knife heavily inscribed with Mavii runes. A
flick of the wrist spun it into the proper grip even as he went for one
of his pockets and pressed his thumb on the correct rune for the pocket
dimension to present him the handle of his second finest casting rod.
The three-foot long rod felt warm against his palm, and even as he swung
it forward in an arc began gathering blue flames.

``Mabethe,'' the Rogue Sorcerer roared in the tongue of the Taghreb.

\emph{Scatter}, it meant. An imperious incantation for an imperious
people. Streaks of blue flame thundered down along the arc he'd traced,
shaped like five great furrows, and the dance began anew. The
green-winged fae struck with the swiftness of a viper, green spear
darting forward, but the Blessed Artificer grit her teeth and shattered
the vial of coloured glass in her grip.

``Flee from the Light,'' she snarled.

Bloody shards dripped down, but they revealed a blooming sun of many
colours -- Roland was forced to close his eyes, lest he go blind, and
even so the glare was burned into his pupils. The fae screamed, and when
he found he was able to see again the Lord of Plentiful Harvest was
seared and howling. The other, though, had merely retreated into the air
past the railing. And was nocking an arrow, aiming at a still-blinking
and seemingly unaware Adanna. Had she blinded herself with her own work?
The Rogue Sorcerer broke into a run. His flames had been blown away by
the great burst if many-coloured Light, but the ornate casting rod was
still in his hand. Pulling at one of the dozens of spheres within him
that had belonged to mages from the Army of Callow, the Rogue fed the
sorcery through the casting rod and let the artefact shape it.

Still at a run, he slashed the length of lapis-lazuli and gold at the
winged bowman. A notch of blue flame was spat out, sizzling in the air
as it flew towards the fae. The creature disdainfully flew back with a
beat of wings, adjusting his aim with the bow as he did, but was visibly
taken aback when the blue flames \emph{followed}. Adanna traced a streak
of blood along the length of the dull iron sword she held, speaking soft
words, and in the beat that followed Light bloomed once more: a great
construct of it, shaped like a massive sword around the small one she
held. The shine reflected against her spectacles, but the Blessed
Artificer's hard grin was not to be mistaken for anything but feral as
she turned towards the recovering Lord of Plentiful Harvest.

Even as Roland closed the distance between himself and Adanna, the
green-winged fae shot a greenwood arrow into the seeking blue flames
with open irritation. There was a strange growth of the wood within the
blaze, which to the Rogue's disappointment was enough for both fire and
arrow to peter out. As it was one of his better bread-and-butter spells,
it was disheartening to see it fail so easily. Still, he'd gotten there
in time. Adanna carved through a fake fae made of straw, the railing
beneath it and even a chunk of the footbridge while she was at it, but
the sword of Light would not dissipate on a single blow. It would last
for a few more moments, at least, which left the Rogue Sorcerer free
too\ldots{} The arrow streaked forward, but fresh blue flames devoured
it even as Roland leapt and his foot landed on the railing.

The green-winged fae was just out of reach and retreating quicker than
he could catch up, damnation. He'd been just a little too slow to leap,
and now-

``Sweet the sorrow, the heady rue

That has my hand aching of you.''

The Exalted Poet's voice sounded like the plucking of a harp, its
sorcery filling the air. It sunk into the fae effortlessly, seizing him
whole.

``\emph{Thank you},'' the Rogue Sorcerer hollered without turning.

The bowman fae had frozen in apparently transfixing sadness for just a
few heartbeats, but it was enough for the Rogue Sorcerer to tackle him
in the air. The fae's garments of green vines boiled angrily as the two
of them dipped in the air and Roland pressed the casting rod against the
side of the fairy's neck before pushing through blue flames.

``Unwise,'' the fae calmly said.

Well, that'd be nothing new. Even as vines grew wildly and tore the rod
out of his grasp, putting themselves between the fire and fae, Roland
smiled for he'd not been holding on to the casting tool. His hand on the
fairy's shoulder, ignoring the pain of biting vines that broke through
the Praesi shielding tool he'd obtained at great cost, the Rogue
Sorcerer rammed his steel knife into his enemy's back. A beat passed.

``Mine,'' Roland confessed, ``is a most greedy Name.''

His lot was take and keep and use, though he would never become what he
had risen to correct. The Rogue Sorcerer would take only from those
deserving: those who misused their talents, the gifts the Gods had given
them. And there was another word, for such a thing, one that had become
part of who Roland of Beaumarais was: \textbf{Confiscate}, his soul
whispered, and Creation whispered with it. Like a hungry leech, his
aspect sunk its hooks into the power at the heart of the fae. Ah, a
Count of Autumn were we? The Count Green Apples, for that was his name,
struggled and trashed impotently as his very nature was exsanguinated.
The Rogue Sorcerer might die or go mad, if he took too much of the power
within him -- especially a power so utterly alien as that of the fae --
but then that was why he'd brought the knife.

The runes shone, and blood both human and fae mingled as a the greater
part of the power of the Count of Green Apples passed into the steel
knife.

``What are you?'' the Count gasped.

The wings faded, swallowed whole. The pair began to fall, still
intertwined.

``The sole charlatan among a parade of demigods,'' Roland told the
noble. ``Smoke and mirrors, my good count. Or rather smoke, mirrors and
a \emph{knife}.''

Ripping the runic blade free, the Rogue Sorcerer kicked off from the fae
and then kicked him again in the face so the creature would drop his
leg. He still had a hand free, and a small window as they both fell, but
there was no artefact that would \emph{quite} do the trick. Gritting his
teeth, Roland shaved another sliver off the Hateful Druidess' power and
wove a quick wind that tossed the powerless Count of Green Apples into
the first story of the Belfry over the railing, to impact with great
fracas against a writing desk. The ground was swiftly hurrying towards
Roland, and there seemed to be an unfortunate amount of fire down there,
so he promptly began to \textbf{Use} the knife that'd drank so deep of
the fae noble. His coat and clothes suddenly shivered, and the hand
holding the knife was seized by massive pressure as he tried to coax out
power from within.

A set of three enchanted black pearls on a string of dried seaweed, an
Ashuran acquisition, immediately blew up as the power that tried to
force metamorphosis onto his hand was kept from succeeding -- the
dark-haired man still cursed profusely as the many tiny shards drove
through the skin of his ankle. The Rogue Sorcerer succeeded at making
green wings bloom from his back, focusing through the pain, and
immediately stopped drawing from the contents of the knife. The pressure
faded. The knife he kept in hand, as a tool for control, flying
crookedly back up to the footbridge on fae wings. For lack of knowing
how to land, Roland instead positioned himself above the bridge and
ceased using the knife. The wings shattered and he dropped, landing on
his feet. Yet it felt like he'd forgotten something, the Rogue Sorcerer
mused as he rose to his full height. It came to him a heartbeat later.

``\emph{Mautedit},'' Roland swore. ``My casting rod.''

It would have dropped all the way down and the odds it'd broken in the
fall weren't low. Still, even if it'd shattered into a few pieces it
could likely be repaired by Hierophant or the Blind Maker.

A heartbeat later Night billowed out at the bottom of the Belfry like a
massive sea of power unleashed, lapping at the walls and the base of the
spire. Roland let out a whimper. How was it that every time he fought at
Catherine's side, he ended up losing a priceless and irreplaceable
artefact? That casting rod had been crafted in Thalassina, which didn't
even \emph{exist} anymore. Gods, if she'd burned down a slice of the
Belfry's library while she tangled with the fae they were going to need
to have words. Cross words, even. It would have to wait, however, as now
it seemed like the tide might be turning against the fae. The Baroness
of Red Hunt had been freed of her prison of Light and come to reinforce
the Lord of Plentiful Harvest -- who was now missing an arm, and
sporting a furious sneer -- but now that the Exalted Poet had come, the
Chosen finally had numbers on their side.

Odd, Roland thought, that Catherine would have sent up one of the Named
with her but not the other. The Fallen Monk would no more be able to
withstand existing in the general vicinity of the Black Queen taking a
fight seriously than the Exalted Poet would have, which was why he'd
assumed reinforcements had been sent at all. Both fae turned, watching
him like hawks as the last wisps of his stolen wings dissipated. Yet
they were not striking, and neither was the pair of Chosen facing them.

``Unmake your web, witch,'' the Baroness of Red Hunt said.

Adanna, in her own way a delight, took a moment to realize she was the
one being addressed and not the Exalted Poet.

``I think not,'' the Blessed Artificer stiffly said. ``I offer you this
instead: surrender now and your deaths will be swift.''

Roland would need to have a conversation with her about how the Grand
Alliance did not, in fact, endorse the execution captives but he was
willing to chalk that one up to a lack of practice in heroic banter. The
Artificer was not young to her Name -- she'd had it for a few years --
but she had been\ldots{} sheltered. Treasured for her intellect and
miraculous abilities by the Thalassocracy, she'd been privileged and
protected to the extent that she had faced neither a villain nor a
disaster before coming to join the Tenth Crusade. No wonder her first
taste of war at the Red Flower Vales had seen her shy from the
frontlines and embrace the concept of the Arsenal wholeheartedly.

``You need not bleed for this,'' the Lord of Plentiful Harvest told
them, voice warm and reassuring. ``We seek no death, only to prevent a
great danger that threatens us all.''

The hateful sneer from earlier was gone from the childlike face, but
some ugly glint of it still lingered in the fairy's eyes. Roland trusted
not these creatures, and his fingers began inching towards another
artefact from his trove. The polished orb of quartz he'd picked up in
Dormer, imbued with three Callowan war-spells, was slippery against his
sweaty palm but Roland cupped it against the side of his pocket and
managed to seize it without giving away the game.

``Your fellows downstairs were not so eager to treat with us,'' the
Exalted Poet said. ``This is petty trickery: Splendid are the eldest
children of deception.''

``Your lives were not bargained for,'' the Baroness of Red Hunt said.
``They will only be lost if you persist in this fool's errand. \emph{Let
us through}, lest we all pay for the madness of a single man.''

``Whether or not your intentions are laudable no longer matters,'' the
Rogue Sorcerer said, fingers tightening around the orb. ``You have
attacked the Arsenal, and in so doing become a tool of Keter and Gods
knows who else. For that, there is only one end awaiting you.''

``The thief speaks at last,'' the Lord of Plentiful Harvest jeered.
``You'll have no more of us, usurper. Your words are wind, and in the
end what you stole will take from you.''

``What splendid diplomats you make,'' the Rogue Sorcerer drily replied,
fully intending the second meaning. ``Begone, creatures.''

Will taking hold of one of the sorceries within the orb, Roland let it
loose with a thought. He cut the side of his hand at the antlered
baroness, a long streak of chittering lightning lashing out forward.
Wessen's Fork, as it was called, had been the invention of an ancient
Wizard of the West of that name. It was a clever piece of work, a bolt
of lightning that -- ah, and there it was. The Baroness of Red Hunt
threw her spear of bone at the sorcery, but instead of being shattered
by the greater power the spell split into two streaks of lightning both
still headed towards the fae. A heartbeat later Adanna tossed up a disk
of clay covered in High Tyrian writing, which began to spin and shot out
a long blade of Light. The two fairies elected to retreat, pushing off
the railings and dropping below.

The spear of bone fell into dust and vanished, but Roland wouldn't fall
for that trick twice: the Baroness would have the thing in hand when she
next reappeared.

``They are not attacking anew,'' the Blessed Artificer noted. ``Perhaps
they are retreating.''

``That would be a stroke of luck,'' Roland said, implicitly disagreeing.
``Poet, how fares the fight below?''

``The Black Queen triumphs,'' the other man shrugged. ``And requires not
the assistance of my verses in her struggles.''

``But the Fallen Monk's fists suit her better?'' Adanna said. ``One
cannot account for taste, I suppose.''

Roland kept his eyes on the Poet as the Artificer talked, looking for a
reaction. He found only indifference there, as if the matter did not
truly concern him. Roland knew little of the Monk, save what Archer had
mentioned in passing. The man had talents useful against those who used
Light, and a knack for stepping lightly. As befitting, the Rogue
Sorcerer supposed, of a villain who'd been able to very publicly murder
several of the Holies and then escape Laurence de Montfort's pursuit.
The dark-haired man went through his pocket, finding a slender wand of
ebony. It was petty work but its sole enchantment, one that spewed out a
fist-sized blow of kinetic force, tended to be useful in all sorts of
situations. Roland twirled it absently around his fingers, feeling the
sorcery within lapping eagerly at his skin.

``Your aid here is welcome,'' Roland agreeably said. ``For when they
will return.''

``If they return,'' the Blessed Artificer insisted.

``I expect they will, my lady,'' the Exalted Poet said. ``Yet I have
something of my own prepared that might wound them, a fresh work
inspired by what I glimpsed below.''

The Rogue Sorcerer joined up with the other two, shoulder brushing past
the Poet's as he kept half an eye on the empty space around them. But
only half, for he had not forgotten this band's true purpose.

``I look forward to witnessing it,'' the Blessed Artificer said.

``I will endeavour not to disappoint,'' the Poet laughed. ``Yet it might
be a verse of some potency. Do either of you have any defences I should
beware of hurting?''

``Yes,'' the Blessed Artificer noted. ``My web is maintained by a-''

``\emph{Stop},'' Roland ordered, eyes on the Poet. ``Leave it at that,
Adanna.''

There lay hidden beautiful diamond spinning top that formed the web of
Light blocking the fae from going upwards would keep feeding it so long
as the top kept spinning and there was Light within it. It'd been
covered by illusion of his own -- more accurately, of a travelling
illusionist with some truly unpleasant habits Roland had briefly
encountered -- and had been stashed away in a nook within the spire to
their side, where it should be beyond harm for now.

``If he does not know, he cannot avoid disrupting it,'' the Blessed
Artificer lectured him.

``I do not know what I have done to earn your mistrust, Lord Sorcerer,
but I can only apologize for it,'' the Exalted Poet told him, though he
sounded at tad aggrieved.

``Why aren't the fae attacking, Poet?'' Roland asked.

``Who can know the minds of the Splendid?'' the Poet replied. ``Perhaps
they are waiting for us to be distracted, or even striking at the Black
Queen's back.''

\emph{Then why can't I hear any noise coming from downstairs?} the Rogue
Sorcerer thought. Not a single noise at all, not since there'd been that
massive wave of Night.

``What did Queen Catherine say when she sent you up and not the Monk?''
Roland asked.

``She simply ordered us so, and we obeyed,'' the man laughed. ``Who
dares argue with a such a woman?''

That laugh had come just a little too quickly, the Rogue Sorcerer
decided. And Catherine was commanding, true, but in no way above
explaining her reasonings when asked. If anything Roland had noticed she
tended to think better of the people who \emph{did} ask, if the
situation allowed for it and the tone was not confrontational.

``Of course,'' Roland said, smile tugging at his lips. ``I would have
done the same.''

His fingers tightened against the ebony wand. He could not prove it, but
his instincts were screaming. Theirs was a band of possible traitors,
Catherine had made clear to him, and Roland fancied he'd just sniffed
one of them out. It was the silence below that worried him. The Black
Queen at war was many things, but \emph{quiet} was not usually one of
them.

``It has been a long day,'' the Rogue Sorcerer apologized. ``The web is
maintained by an artefact I hid under illusion, Poet, I'll allow you to
glimpse through it.''

He gestured, calling on one of the spheres within him, and crafted an
illusion of a little box of glittering gold in the middle of the
footbridge. One only the Levantine should be able to see. The Exalted
Poet's eyes flicked to it, which was when Roland casually pressed the
tip of his wand against the man's throat.

``Don't move,'' the Rogue Sorcerer mildly said.

``This is becoming absurd, Lord Sorcerer,'' the Poet protested.

``Roland, put that wand down,'' the Blessed Artificer ordered. ``Your
suspicions are getting out of hand.''

``I do not understand what is moving you to violence,'' the Exalted Poet
told him. ``And the fae could return at any moment.''

``The Count of Green Apples that nearly killed the Artificer,'' the
dark-haired man said, ``did you get sent before or after he flew up?''

Roland was not unfamiliar with clever sorts, women with glib tongues or
witty men with laughing eyes. Liars of one shade or another, especially
Named, were used to being able to talk themselves out of anything. That
could be used. And in this particular case, the burly Levantine might
have the frame of a warrior but as far as the Rogue Sorcerer knew he
only had sparse fighting experience under his belt. That was a weakness
in knowledge, paired with a proficiency and tendency at lying.

``After, naturally,'' the Exalted Poet said. ``I assumed I was sent as
reinforcements.''

Except that Catherine would have known that the Count would get here
long before anybody sent up by the stairs, considering the wings, so
that decision made no tactical sense. It would have been better for her
to drag back down the Count of Green Apples with Night while her two
helpers kept the other fae at bay long enough for her to pull it off.

Without hesitation, Roland fired the wand right into the man's throat.

The Exalted Poet blew over the railing, toppling down with a surprised
scream.

``\emph{Roland},'' the Blessed Artificer screamed.

He turned to find she had pointed a short stave of charred wood at him,
eyes gone grave behind her spectacles.

``Two out of three are traitors,'' the Rogue Sorcerer noted, for the
Poet had covered for the Monk with his words and the conclusion to be
had was obvious. ``I wonder, will it be three?''

``You're the one who just threw an ally to his death, you madman,''
Adanna retorted. ``Put down the wand, Roland.''

``If you are, your game is deep enough I can hardly glimpse it,'' Roland
admitted. ``But I will not surrender my wand, Artificer.''

He would not disarm himself when the enemy was not about to return.
She'd understand soon enough, anyway.

``You leave me no choice, then,'' she grimly replied.

A heartbeat later a spear of bone pierced up from under the footbridge,
tearing through where Roland had woven the illusion of a golden box. The
bait had been taken. The Baroness of Red Hunt burst through in a storm
of rubble, red wings bright as Adanna's face fell.

``You laid a trap,'' the Blessed Artificer said, catching his eyes.

``Nothing,'' the fae shouted. ``It was \emph{nothing}, you useless
worm.''

``That would have been it for the web,'' Roland replied, ignoring the
creature.

The end of the footbridge opposite the spire shivered as a glamour went
down, revealing the Exalted Poet -- throat visibly bruised -- and the
Lord of Plentiful Harvest at his side.

``It does not have to be this way,'' the Poet rasped. ``They are right,
Artificer, you already know it. You were shown the truth, weren't you?
They play with powers beyond their understanding, and they will doom all
the world.''

``Traitor,'' the Blessed Artificer replied in an indignant hiss. ``I
stand with Above, now and always.''

A moment of tense silence passed.

``Her wonders will break if she dies, most likely,'' the Exalted Poet
said, tone reluctant.

The fae looked unamused, both of them.

``A pinnacle of uselessness,'' the Lord of Plentiful Harvest sighed,
face displaying a childish moue. ``We knew this already.''

``Wrong,'' the Blessed Artificer said. ``You know nothing and less.''

``I know this, child: the Black Queen is dead,'' the Baroness told them.
``Take down your web now, if you do not wish to follow her in this.''

Roland's fists clenched. They could not lie \emph{knowingly}, he
reminded himself. Which still meant there would be no reinforcements. It
would be a hard fight, even with the fae lord crippled and the Poet's
throat hurt.

``I'll take the Lord of Plentiful Harvest and another,'' the Rogue
Sorcerer mused. ``Do you want the Poet or the Baroness?''

A wreath of blinding Light came to life around the charred stave in the
Blessed Artificer's hand, crackling like lightning and growing into a
great spear.

``I'll take both,'' Adanna of Smyrna snarled.

Well, who was he to argue with a lady?
