webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/tex/Ch-049.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-31-high-noon}{%
\section{Chapter 31: High Noon}\label{chapter-31-high-noon}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``My dear friends, I have a confession to make. Some creative
reframing of the truth may have taken place during the planning of this
coup.''}

-- Dread Emperor Traitorous, addressing the Order of the Unholy Obsidian
upon successfully usurping the throne from himself
\end{quote}

Now, in my experience planning the ending of a lesser god required three
necessary steps. The first of them was, naturally, lies. Though this
once I had found no make-believe prophecy to ensure this fight did not
begin and end with my being incinerated, I \emph{had} prepared a few
nasty surprises. The Summer Court didn't really bother to talk with
mortals except to give them orders, as far as I knew, and that was going
to come back to haunt them. The second step was a certain proficiency
for violence, which between four battle-hardened Named we should have
covered. There would be no talk of my taking on the Princess of High
Noon by myself. That would return us to the whole incineration outcome,
which I would confess I was less than fond of. Archer would have less of
an impact using longknives instead of a bow, true, but with her and
Adjutant at my side we might be able to keep the princess distracted
long enough Apprentice could hit her with the good stuff. Well, Evil
stuff. The labyrinthine mess that was adjusting my terminology now that
I was consorting with the damned could wait to be sorted until there was
less of a war going on.

With a little luck, at some point in the next decade I'd have a day
where no one was actively trying to invade Callow. That was the dream,
really.

The third step was having a \emph{right} to that victory. It was
different than the false prophecy I'd used to kill the Duke of Violent
Squalls. One was, as I liked to think of it, plausible deniability. It
gave me an excuse to win, if I could manage it. After all, I'd still had
to stab the bastard to get his stuff. Having a right was more like
fixing the scales, the way Fate did for heroes. It was still short of
providence, the golden luck that dropped the laurels in the lap of the
Heavens' favourites, but it was close. When I'd fought Heiress and the
Lone Swordsman in Liesse, I'd walked over two Named that were each a
match for me on their own on my way to take the sword in the stone and
my resurrection with it. The weights of the scale had been in my favour,
then. It didn't guarantee victory, but it made it easier for me to win
and harder for my opponents. The signet ring had done the same thing for
the Duke of Violent Squalls. I'd `always had it', which at least in
Arcadia had given me claim to the fae's power before it was physically
on my finger.

Finding an equivalent for the Princess of High Noon had been the hardest
part of this. I couldn't just rely on the fact that she had invaded
Callow: I was, however unwillingly, doing the same to Summer. That
scratched off the mark on both sides of the slate, I was betting. There
were dozens of stories about hard-headed young girls facing down gods
for some cause or another, but all of them about heroes. I'd wiggled my
way into that sort of role before, but only when standing for a greater
cause than myself. I fell short of that here. They keystone would have
to be found in the way that even with my Named companions I still stood
hilariously outclassed. It was an old shape, that, the underdog
triumphing over the unbeatable opponent. I'd chewed on that for days,
pruning story after story until I returned to one of the oldest ones I
knew. From before the House of Light, when Calernians had prayed to the
Gods Above and Below but also made sure to give offerings to the ancient
things that strode the world. Dread Emperor Sorcerous had once famously
called usurpation the essence of sorcery. There was a deeper grain of
truth in that, one broader in meaning. Transgression was the essence of
what it meant to be Named. Breaking the rules for your own sake or that
of others. And one of the most ancient of those transgressions was the
blade meant to break the Princess of High Noon. \emph{The theft of
fire.}

Would it be enough? I could not know. Never did, until the blades were
out and chaos reigned. But I'd gotten this far by doubling down whenever
the stakes were raised, and I would not flinch today.

The four of us had flown east, to where the fae clashed. Winter was not
getting the better of it. The centre, where the Sword of Waning Day
fought, had managed to gain ground. But the flanks were collapsing. The
Riders of the Host had managed a harsh draw with the winged knights of
Summer, but come out more bloodied and forced to retreat. To the sides
the Summer regulars were driving back the Winter fae one step at a time,
defeat already writ large. It would end with the deadwood soldiers an
island in a Summer sea, collapsing when the winged knights returned to
shatter their lines. While the lesser fae died in droves, the royalty
that led them had fought just the same. There again, Winter was losing.
The Prince of Nightfall now stood alone against the Princess of High
Noon and the Prince of Deep Drought, the princess who'd been with him
nowhere in sight. They were on the ground now, the armies giving all
three of them a wide berth. I did not like the one-eyed prince. He'd
been party to his king's playing of me, and been free with threats
besides.

Watching him battle two other royals, though, I felt a reluctant sliver
of admiration. I'd not been wrong, in thinking him made for strife more
than any other fae of Winter. The Princess of High Noon was more
powerful., blatantly so. She moved like a storm unrelenting, howling
winds stirring in the wake of every strike as she crushed everything in
her way. The Prince of Deep Drought had been wounded, one of his arms
held to his body only be strings of red, but he wove sorcery like an
artist. Flame and light and dust, moving with Princess Sulia as if it
knew her movements intimately. And facing that fury was a one-eyed man,
clad in a long tunic of shade with a slender blade in hand. Trying to
strike him was like trying to grasp a shadow, and though he was
outmatched in every way he did not retreat a single step. None of the
three paid us any mind when we took the winged horses down, dismounting
more swiftly than gracefully. Hakram had been pale as sheet the whole
ride, and was now visibly glad of being on solid ground. I glanced at my
companions, then cleared my throat. I supposed I would have to say
something before leading them into the storm.

``So we're going to stab a god,'' I said. ``I mean, we've done it
before. But this one is a few places higher in the pecking order of
things not to trifle with.''

Archer snorted.

``But we'll win because we stand for something greater than ourselves?''
I gallantly attempted.

``We do?'' Apprentice asked, surprise. ``What?''

``Violence,'' Archer suggested.

``Peace, order and the Imperial way,'' Hakram offered, the filthy
traitor.

``We lie a lot,'' Masego mused. ``It could be lies.''

``Lies and violence,'' Archer proudly called out, raising a fist.

Apprentice did the same, apparently under the impression this qualified
as a battle cry. I refused to grace the mutiny with a response.

``Just don't get yourselves killed,'' I sighed. ``I don't want to have
to train up replacements.''

The fae royalty took notice when we joined their little tiff, the Summer
fae breaking off and angling so we wouldn't be able to flank them. The
Winter prince offered us a mocking salute with his sword.

``I'm guessing the Princess of Silent Depths is dead,'' I said, not
bothering with greetings.

``That is mostly accurate,'' the Prince of Nightfall replied, because
why would fae ever be anything but vague?

``Can you handle the sorcerer?'' I asked, eyeing the Prince of Deep
Drought.

``He cannot,'' the Summer prince sneered.

``Yes,'' the one-eyed fae replied with a nasty smile. ``You'll be
dancing with Sulia?''

``That's the idea,'' I agreed. ``I put together a crew of miscreants and
everything.''

The red-haired princess eyed me like I'd tracked mud onto her priceless
carpet, or maybe like I \emph{was} the mud.

``They have made an abomination of you,'' she said. ``More than mortal,
less than fae. Destroying you will be a mercy.''

``I get that a lot,'' I replied honestly.

At least in Procer, the House of Light had apparently declared me
anathema to the Heavens. I knew because Black had the report framed and
sent to Marchford. It hung on the wall of my bedroom across from the
bed.

``Shall we begin, Granian?'' the Prince of Nightfall taunted his Summer
mirror. ``I've been meaning to see how many limbs you can lose before
dying.''

The Winter fae's translucent wings burst into existence and he shot off
into the sky. The Prince of Deep Drought looked at Sulia and she nodded.
He followed, leaving the four of us facing the heaviest hitter the
Summer Court had to offer short of its queen. Why had this seemed like a
good idea again?

``I played your role, for an evening,'' I told the princess. ``Was a bit
of a bore. Had to liven it up myself.''

``I was not made for intrigue,'' the Princess of High Noon said. ``This,
however? I was born for it. From it. This was a blunder, Duchess. You
are attempting a story, but that is worthless if you do not have the
power to carry it out.''

``You think you're my opponent,'' I smiled coldly. ``An interesting
thought. Let's see where it gets you.''

Three things happened in the heartbeat that followed. Princess Sulia's
wings sprang to life. Adjutant and Archer charged forward. And I spoke
one word.

``\textbf{Take},'' I said.

Two columns of fire erupted from my back, not concerned by the plate in
the slightest. I screamed hoarsely, but this was a necessary sacrifice.
If she went up, we were done. She could just stay up there and bombard
us until there was nothing left but ashes, and trying to match her up
there with the horses was a good way to get ourselves killed. If felt
the Winter power in my veins reacting violently, even worse than when
I'd stolen sorcery from the Duchess of Restless Zephyr. These were only
wings, even if made of sorcery, but the power was so much \emph{purer}
it felt a dozen times worse. I hastily discarded the power, heralding
the first bet of this fight. What happened when I took something was
still unclear in a lot of ways. Would she get the wings back even if I
released them? I was hoping not, that my aspect severed the connection
by appropriating what I took. If that wasn't the case, I was going to
have to pull out an upset that I \emph{really} needed to come later. The
flames gutted out and I let out a hiss of triumph when they didn't
reappear on the princess' back. This might not be a permanent state of
affair, but for now it was putting our foot in the door.

Apprentice was incanting, the light of runes glinting off his
spectacles. We needed to keep him uninterrupted long enough to make a
difference. I'd never fought at Archer's side before, not with her using
blades, but Hakram had felt like an additional limb ever since he became
the Adjutant and he was used to her from all their sparring. Four blades
struck as one and it felt \emph{right}. Like coming home. The fae's
sword clattered against mine, beginning to carve through until ice grew
to stop it. The princess ducked under the swing of Adjutant's axe,
pushing me back effortlessly and smashing Archer in the belly with her
fist. The other Named was thrown off, but she landed on her feet and she
was back into the fray within moments. Heat pulsed off the princess and
cold came from me too met it. Her power dwarfed mine, but she would not
win this uncontested. The three of us pressed the offensive. Without
even a word needing to be said, we fell into a rhythm. I forced a parry,
setting the fae up for Adjutant's strike as Archer used the opening it
made to attempt to draw blood.

She was beating us anyway. Flame blew Hakram off his feet, charring his
face, and without him to distract Archer was caught by the throat. I
desperately wove ice and shadow around the princess' wrist, and the
heartbeat it took for her to disperse it earned my companion just long
enough to wriggle out of the grasp. Her breath was laboured, but at
least her neck hadn't been snapped.

``\textbf{Rampage},'' Adjutant growled.

The orc charged back into the fight, his charred skin healing. Every
strike was stronger and faster than the last, until even the Princess of
High Noon had to take care.

``\textbf{Flow},'' Archer managed to croak.

It was almost hypnotic to watch her longknives move. There was no single
blow, every attack coming from the last in an uninterrupted stream. She
moves as she had when firing arrows, but that was comparing a candle to
a bonfire. Between the three of us, we almost stood a chance. I turned a
probe into a lunge that would have taken the princess in the neck, but
she contemptuously moved an inch to the side and ignored it. I saw her
sword rise to carve through Hakram's wrist and snapped my own, my last
knife landing in my palm. I threw it at her head and the blade spun
gracefully before being sliced cleanly through. The axe took her in the
chest, breaking coloured mail but no skin. A boot to the stomach pushed
the orc back, but he was still growing stronger. It did not slow him for
long, and in the moment where the princess stood on only one leg
Archer's longkives struck. The two blades came form opposite directions,
one for the knee and the other for the neck. Without missing a beat
Princess Sulia jumped and lay herself flat, strikes passing above and
beneath her. She twisted sharply and a boot to the face shattered
Archer's chin as she was sent sprawling to the floor.

Breath caught in my throat, I adjusted my wrist and pumped the entire
arm full of my Name. I hit her at rib-height, the strength of the blow
sending mail rings flying, and she smashed into the ground hard enough
the earth dented. Her eyes turned gold-red, the heat grew, and
Apprentice finally finished casting. Twenty-three sigils of blue light
came into being above the princess with a loud hum, though not loud
enough to drown out her pained groan. Heat shimmered around her and one
of the sigils popped. I glanced at Adjutant, panting. The skin that had
healed was beginning to flake off, the burns returning if not as grave
as before. Whatever power had possessed him was gone, though. Archer was
back on her feet, but her lower face was one large and bloody bruise.
Another three sigils popped. We didn't have much longer left.

``Oh, \emph{oh},'' Apprentice said, watching the struggling fae with
wide eyes. ``I was wrong, fundamentally wrong.''

Shit. That did not look good at all. The bespectacled mage laughed,
looking utterly crazed.

``It cannot be quantified,'' he muttered. ``The method was erroneous
from the onset. It is all made of the same building blocs, and those
blocs are a \emph{figment}. Mysteries, miracles of smoke and mirrors.
The godhead is not behind boundaries, it is a \emph{trick of
perspective}.''

Power rippled across his frame, his eyes glinting with a light that had
a shiver going up my spine. One of the sigils formed again, though it
popped moments later.

``Apprentice,'' I said carefully, and he interrupted.

``No no no,'' he laughed. ``Not that. Not anymore. Hierophant. Usher of
mysteries. Vivisector of miracles.''

Was that what this was? A transition in the making?

``You are a god, yes?'' he smiled at the Princess of High Noon, pushing
up his glasses. ``\emph{Show me a miracle, then.''}

He waved his arm carelessly and Archer's jaw set itself back together
with a loud crack. Fingers clutching something only he could see, the
Hierophant brought his hands down. The sigils glowed so bright I had to
shut my eyes in pain. \emph{Like a star being born.} For all that, the
words that drifted to my ears were calm.

``Everything burns,'' the Princess of High Noon whispered.

Arcadia broke. The brightness passed, and I opened my eyes to a world of
endless ashes. I'd called on something of the same breed, when defeating
the Count of Olden Oak, but it had been nothing but a drop to this
ocean. Princess Sulia stood with restored wings, hair of flame and eyes
that burned with something \emph{more}. Above her raised hands hovered
the sun. I could feel myself buckle from the pressure alone, my hair
smouldering against my sweat-soaked scalp. Masego's spectacles shattered
in his eyes and he screamed. Hakram wavered, then fell to his knees. The
burns from earlier were spreading across his face. Archer's hands shook
like leaves until she stabbed a longknife into her leg, the pain
allowing her to not be swept away by the weight bearing down on all of
us.

``You may feel honoured,'' Princess Sulia said. ``I have ever only
called on this to bring an end to Winter. The four of you will be the
first ashes on this field formed of Creation.''

``You're wrong,'' I croaked.

``Will you try to take the sun from me, Duchess?'' she said, amused.
``You will burn, one way or another.''

She was right, of course. If I tried using Take I'd die before I
finished speaking the word. I was the Squire, after all. No role stood
behind me in this. But I'd meant it, when I'd told her I wasn't her
opponent.

``Not that,'' I grinned, all teeth and malice. ``There's not four of
us.''

Behind the Princess of High Noon a woman appeared, short-haired with
blue-grey eyes. She wore loose leathers and her face was red with sweat.

``Yoink,'' the Thief said, and stole the sun.