webcrawl/APGTE/Book-4/out/Ch-095.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-apogee}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Apogee}\label{interlude-apogee}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-apogee}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Apogee}

\epigraph{``It is a bitter truth that in trying to escape the flaws of our
parents we inevitably inherit the worst of them.''}{King Pater of Callow, the Unheeding}



After they entered the second month of hard labour and sleepless nights,
Wekesa jested that if he were a god he's snap his fingers and put them
all out of their misery. Neither his husband nor his son graced him with
even a perfunctory chuckle, which he found rather cold-blooded of them.
Warlock had hoped that even disagreements, after being aired, would
lance the wound festering in his family but it had been\ldots{} overly
optimistic of him. Tikoloshe was still furious that Masego had spurned
his good intentions so fully, and their son had made it exceedingly
clear that he'd be leaving Praes the moment the city was safeguarded and
did not intend to return for many years. There'd been no talking him out
of that, or even a way to broach the subject of the Black Queen again.
His boy had learned to keep his own council, and while the way he'd
grown stirred some embers of paternal pride in Wekesa it was also highly
inconvenient. Message came from Ater within the first month, word of the
war in the west.

It was not good news.

``He's not dead,'' Warlock told Alaya's envoy. ``I am certain. Beyond
that I cannot tell. Wherever he is cannot be scried even through his
blood.''

Which meant he was either underground or, more likely, in the presence
of priests or heroes. It had slowed the work in Thalassina by a whole
week to craft a ritual that would scry even through such distance and
natural barriers, setting up relays and contingencies, but there'd been
no question of doing otherwise. The silver of Amadeus' soul in his
possession was still called to the remainder of it somewhere in
Creation, but aside from determining death that measure was essentially
worthless. His old friend's soul might not even still be inside his
body, he knew, though that breed of meddling was rare among heroes. The
Saint of Swords might be capable, though. Hye had told him, years ago,
that Laurence de Montfort had grown skilled enough to rip a soul from
its body with a swing of her sword. Was that what they'd wrought on
Amadeus? Was he now a shivering shade in a bottle sealed by some
priest's power? Tikoloshe chided him for the thought.

``You are casting fear as fact,'' his husband said.

``We're not dealing with shepherd boys and rebels anymore,'' Wekesa
murmured. ``I've heard \emph{things} about the Pilgrim, `Loshe. The
Saint might be the executioner for Above, but he's something rather more
dangerous than that. He\ldots{} smooths away wrinkles. His is a thinking
man's Role.''

``Scribe will find out the truth of it, and the Empress will put her
weight behind the retrieval,'' Tikoloshe said. ``Worrying any further is
without purpose.''

``I could leave,'' Wekesa said. ``Head out right now.''

``And do what?'' his husband gently asked. ``Traipse around the Proceran
countryside with target painted on your back?''

Warlock sighed. Tikoloshe was right, of course. Moving prematurely was
just asking to get into a fight with whatever heroes had not gone north
to prepare against the Dead King.

``Gods, why would he wander around the Principate like that?'' Wekesa
bit out. ``We're not twenty anymore, the wind's no longer at our back.
And there's at least half a dozen Choirs embroiled in this mess, he was
bound to run into someone he couldn't cope with.''

``Making virtues of one's flaws does not mean those flaws are gone,''
his husband delicately replied.

Warlock sighed and left it at that. The two of them had never gotten
along. Amadeus remained, even after over forty years, of the opinion
that Tikoloshe was an unnecessary risk that should have long been
dispensed with permanently. He was polite enough not to mention it
anymore, but the years had not changed his position by an inch. `Loshe
had frankly admitted that the sheer bleak intensity of Amadeus' desires,
coupled with utter disregard for the incubus' existence, made him
uncomfortable just to be in the presence of. Like putting fingers over a
candle: tolerable for a pass, but painful if continued. Masego spent
several hours conferring with his comrades in Laure when he was told the
news, weaving some particularly vicious protections on his scrying
spell. Woe unto whoever tested those, Wekesa had mused. There'd be a few
more dead Eyes in the city by the time that conversation was over. Not
his issue, regardless. While he recognized that Alaya had right to try
eavesdropping on the conversation, his son also had right to privacy.
The victor of that skirmish would be theirs to determine, and he saw no
need to intervene so long as no harsh feelings were incurred on either
side.

They returned to the work with renewed vigor afterwards, but as the
weeks passed tensions never fully put to rest reared their ugly heads
again. It was not unexpected, truthfully. Long hours of mentally
exhausting work with little rest or company save each other -- Masego
had bluntly refused to attend court again -- made small irritations seem
large, and when the bottle was uncorked there was no preventing the
spill. It was darkly amusing, Wekesa thought, that it was an attempted
olive branch from Tikoloshe that'd been the spark to light the fire. His
husband made an offer to discuss his time in the Kingdom of Sephirah,
should Masego promise not to delve in that branch of research
afterwards. Warlock had given it even odds that it would lead to either
the beginning of reconciliation or a blowout, but his predictions proved
inaccurate. In both cases, he'd believed the impetus would come from
their son.

``That won't be necessary,'' Masego simply said.

The three of them had gone to the Maze with dawn, and it was now
midmorning. Both mages hung from their spits of coral by leather
harnesses, their engraving tools made to hover by their side by a quaint
little Taghrebi spell. Tikoloshe was perched atop Wekesa's own coral,
comfortably seated and keeping an eye on their work for mistakes. All of
them were under illusion, naturally. High Lord Idriss might have purged
the city, but Warlock would not rely on the man's work when his family's
safety was at stake. Their modifications to Shatha's Maze would remain
hidden until the very last moment.

``It is not the Book of Darkness,'' Tikoloshe conceded. ``Yet my
remembrance is likely more than you'll ever learn otherwise.''

``I would not be moved even if you offered the Tower's own text,''
Masego replied, placing back his carving knife into the floating set and
picking up a chisel.

``Surely you don't mean to bargain with the Dead King,'' Tikoloshe
frowned.

``Unnecessary,'' their son said. ``I've already harvested sufficient
knowledge from his echoes.''

``Pardon me,'' Wekesa said. ``Did you say his \emph{echoes}?''

``His apotheosis left a reflection in Arcadia, yes,'' Masego replied
absent-mindedly. ``I took from him twice, at a pivot and later from his
final moments as mortal. Vivienne was displeased about the delay on our
trip back, admittedly, but the Hunt would not move without all of us.''

There was a soft sound as he angled the chisel against an accumulation
rune, bringing down his hammer to connect it with the fresh additions.
The only sound for a long moment was the waves around them.

``You stole memories from the Dead King's reflection,'' Tikoloshe
quietly summarized. ``Child, have you gone mad?''

``Debatable,'' Masego mused. ``I am not certain if operating on a
different set of logic should truly be called that.''

``Don't you give me lip like this is some trifle,'' `Loshe snarled.
``Get rid of them this instant. It's an \emph{infection}.''

It went downhill from there. Wekesa could not stay out of it, for he
shared some of his husband's worries in this, but he could not serve as
a mediator if he was also arguing. That proved to be a mistake.
Tikoloshe had become emotional. That never worked well with their son.
It was bad enough they ceased working for the day, walking back to the
shore in fuming silence. Warlock ran into a wall when he tried to tease
out details during the afternoon, Masego stubbornly refusing to speak
more of the matter. Against his better judgement, he offered his son a
concession: he'd get to participate in the ritual from inside the Maze
instead of the city, if the subject was opened again. It worked, or
close enough. Masego remained vague on details, but it was clear his son
could probably transcribe half the Kabbalis Book of Darkness from memory
if he were so inclined -- and that was the least of it. It was not the
diluted knowledge put to ink he'd gotten his hands on but the thoughts
of the Dead King himself. Secrets known only to one, until now.

``Take it out,'' his husband said later that night, when they were alone
in their room. ``By force if need be.''

``I'm not going to fight him, `Loshe,'' Wekesa replied with genuine
surprise. ``Obviously we need to reconsider our approach, but-''

``You don't get it,'' Tikoloshe said quietly. ``It's a trap. I don't
know for sure, but I've seen the lay of it over the years and\ldots{}''

``You've never spoken of this before,'' Warlock softly said.

``I don't know for sure,'' his husband repeated. ``And it was never an
issue, with the mere fragments of his work Praesi possess. But I think
he's been killed before, `Kesa. The Dead King. With that many heroes
having fought him over the years? At least once, one will have slain
him.''

Wekesa was not without cleverness, and he'd been married to the man for
a very long time. The implication was not difficult to divine.

``You think the Book is a lure,'' he said. ``And anyone that follows its
teachings deep enough\ldots{}''

``He can inhabit different bodies, he could even as a mortal,''
Tikoloshe said. ``But how useful would it really be to wear some
farmer's skin? No, he'd need mages. Talented, ambitious, well-trained in
the use of their powers. And to ensure they made their way to him, seeds
were sown.''

``Never the complete book, because then they might realize the purpose
of it,'' Warlock murmured. ``There'd be risks, `Loshe. If Amadeus is
right about the Wandering Bard-''

``Black isn't even a \emph{hundred years old},'' his husband hissed.
``And he thinks he can grasp the nature something like the Bard? Last
time he followed that conceit Sabah was killed. Do we need to lose our
son to his pride as well?''

``Peace,'' Wekesa said. ``You've said it yourself, this is only a
theory.''

``I will not gamble with his safety, Wekesa, hear me well,'' Tikoloshe
said. ``Not when the stakes are this high.''

``If I raise my hand against him, we lose him for good,'' he replied.
``Think about this clearly.''

``We lose him deeper still, if we do nothing,'' his husband said.

Gods, what a mess this had become. Maybe if memories were
modified\ldots{} No, he'd find out eventually. Masego had been taught to
assess the state of his own mind before he'd even reached puberty, he'd
notice sooner or later. It was only pushing the issue back by a few
months or years. Part of him insisted this was only a theory, but he
could not refrain from considering it. `Loshe would not be this incensed
if he did not genuinely believe in what he'd said, and he knew better
than to dismiss the thoughts of his husband out of hand. It would be
easier if he was wrong, but he could not put weight on something simply
because it would be more convenient were it false.

``Tell me everything you know about this,'' Wekesa said. ``Every single
detail, no matter how insignificant.''

Tikoloshe's eyes met his.

``And if you agree I'm right?''

Warlock grimaced, but went on.

``Alaya has made inquiries about putting him under house arrest until
this Callowan mess is over with,'' Wekesa admitted. ``I might have to
take her up on them, until we've found a permanent solution.''

``After the Ashurans are dispersed, then,'' Tikoloshe said.

Warlock reluctantly nodded. He'd need at least that long to prepare, if
it was to be painless.

---

It'd been easier when Catherine had been there to provide ice.
Winter-forged substance had a keen affinity to scrying spells,
especially those involving the Observatory. Less than surprising, given
that she'd provided quite a bit of the power involved in the raising of
it. Without her around, Masego had been forced to rely on the more
traditional methods of a water-filled bowl. The link was rather solid,
given the distances and likely interferences involved, which warmed his
heart. His work in Laure had proved fruitful. The waters shivered and a
pair of silhouettes greeted him, both familiar. They must have been
standing in front of one of the pools, he thought. Hakram looked
exhausted, his face tight and the ridges around his eyes standing out --
the orc equivalent of dark circles in a human. Vivienne, on the other
hand, was flushed with good health. She'd grown out her hair, Masego
noted. It suited her, made her seem almost regal.

``Hierophant,'' Hakram said, showing just enough teeth to be respectful.

There was a pause as Masego's eyes took in all of him.

``You seem to be missing a hand,'' the mage observed.

Vivienne snorted.

``Literally the first thing,'' she said. ``I told you he'd skip right
over greetings.''

``Already was when we last spoke, the bowl simply did not show it. And I
still have the one,'' Hakram told him, ignoring the Callowan. ``It
serves well enough.''

``Two would objectively serve better,'' he pointed out.

``If we're to have this conversation, it will be in person,'' the orc
said. ``And over drinks.''

Ah, one of those complicated matters then. It should prove a learning
experience.

``Youève made contact days before I next expected you,'' Masego said.
``I take it something happened?''

``You could say that,'' Vivienne grimaced. ``The Empress' envoy sung us
a pretty song, and we need to pick your brains over it.''

``I do not know much of singing,'' he admitted.

``I mean-'' she sighed. ``Never mind. Look, we were made privy to the
full content of Malicia's pact with the Dead King.''

``Does it matter?'' Masego asked, mildly surprised. ``I was under the
impression we would oppose both regardless of the technicalities
involved.''

``I believed that as well,'' Hakram gravelled. ``Before he finished
speaking. She effectively sold out most of Calernia.''

``Which seems ill-mannered, considering she does not own it,'' Masego
offered.

``The definition of `most' is what matters, as it happens,'' Vivienne
said. ``There's a clause that exempts Praes and Callow from his
attentions.''

``Which is good,'' he tried.

``Somewhat,'' she said. ``Unfortunately, it only applies so long as
she's alive.''

Huh. Which was not good, because Catherine had admitted some months ago
she would most likely have to kill the Empress before the war was over.

``We've asked some of our mages, but it's not their specialty,'' Hakram
said. ``We need to confirm -- is it theoretically possible for a magical
contract to have a clause like that?''

``It is exceedingly dangerous, but yes,'' Masego replied.

``\emph{Shit},'' Vivienne said, with feeling.

``I do not see the issue,'' he admitted. ``Considering we were planning
war against the Dead King regardless we have lost nothing.''

``She's kept it secret for now, but it's likely she'll make the terms
openly known when she judges the situation ripe for it,'' Hakram said.
``That's going to make a mess.''

Masego's brows rose. Would it? He failed to see how.

``Public opinion, Zeze,'' Vivienne said. ``It'd be bad enough if we came
out on Procer's side after they took a swing at us, but if on top of
that we have a guarantee Callow will stay safe? War will be
\emph{highly} unpopular. Even war against Praes, if the Empress stays
quiet from now on, and she's too clever not to.''

Ah, politics. Hardly his specialty.

``If you could provide me the exact terms, I'll study them for
weaknesses,'' he offered.

``We will,'' Hakram said. ``But there might not be a point. There's no
guarantee she gave us the real phrasing. And if she has, she'll have had
every good diabolist in her employ look it over first.''

``I have time during the evenings,'' Masego shrugged. ``And without my
library and my laboratory, only so much to spend it on.''

``There's nothing to lose in trying, at least,'' Hakram said.

He nodded.

``If I may ask, do you have news of Uncle Amadeus?''

Vivienne wiggled her hand in a manner that presumably had meaning,
though he was not certain what it was.

``Getting word from the Jacks quickly has been harder since the Vales
were shut,'' she said. ``The best I can give you is that Hasenbach's
agents from her internal spy network are out in force in Salia. Turning
over every vaguely suspicious stone. I've had to recall quite a few of
my people.''

She frowned.

``Still, if she's cleaning up the capital that thoroughly it adds weight
to the Empress' take in my eyes,'' she continued. ``They might be
bringing in the Carrion Lord for a good spot of jeering and
rock-throwing. Gods know he's been hated like poison there ever since he
started setting fire to everything.''

It was a relief to hear it, and Masego felt a knot in his shoulders
loosen. He'd lost enough family to wars already. If Uncle Amadeus had
followed Aunt Sabah into the grave so quickly\ldots{} No, it couldn't be
allowed to happen.

``Which is worrying,'' Hakram said. ``They have to know if he's kept
prisoner there will be rescue attempts. If he's not dead it is for a
reason.''

``It does not matter what they want,'' Hierophant calmly said. ``They
will not keep him. Catherine will agree with me on this. So will Father
and the Empress. We will lack no resources for the rescue.''

``My precise worry,'' Hakram replied. ``Procer cannot afford war on two
fronts if one of those fronts is Keter. To execute Lord Black and break
his legions makes sense, but to \emph{capture} him? I can think of only
one reason for that.''

It took a moment, but he came to the conclusion.

``Bait,'' Masego slowly said.

``It neatly takes care of what they fear most about Cat, namely her
ability to gate anywhere with an army,'' Vivienne said.

``More than that,'' Hakram said. ``They'll be dragging the Woe and the
remaining Calamities onto their chosen grounds. The full villainy of the
east where they want it, when they want it. They're clearing house
before turning their full efforts to the north.''

``It has the Peregrine's fingers all over it,'' Vivienne darkly said.
``The man's dangerous enough on the field, but if he has a few months to
prepare? It's going to get ugly, Masego.''

``She'll have a plan,'' he said. ``She always does.''

``Well, we haven't run out of lakes yet,'' Vivienne half-smiled. ``So
there's always that.''

Masego's lips quirked in answer.

``Still no word from her?'' he asked.

``None,'' Hakram said. ``But she'd have returned by now if she wasn't
making gains, it's been near five months.''

\emph{Or she could be dead}, Masego thought but did not say. Precious
little was known of what would await their friend in the Everdark.

``And on your front?'' Vivienne asked. ``No sign of the Ashuran fleet?''

``They've either found countermeasures to scrying or they keep priests
on their ships,'' he said. ``It makes finding their whereabouts
difficult. The raids have not ceased, but Father says they'd have to be
fools to give that obvious a sign they were about to strike. There's no
telling when they'll attack until they're visible from the coast.''

``I'll spare no tears for that lot if you manage to bruise them,'' she
said. ``But be careful, Zeze. Don't risk yourself for a Praesi city.''

He decided, diplomatically, not to mention his agreed-on position when
the Ashurans would come.

``And it's going well with your fathers?'' Hakram asked. ``I know what
you found in Arcadia shook you.''

``It has been\ldots{} difficult,'' Masego admitted. ``There have been
arguments.''

Vivienne's eyes went sharp.

``Do you need a way out?''

He shook his head.

``I suppose you could call it a religious disagreement,'' he said.

``Coming from the average Praesi, that would worry me,'' Hakram mildly
said. ``Coming from you, I will confess to something sharper.''

``It will pass,'' Masego said. ``They simply need to accept I will not
forever live on their terms.''

His friend shared a look, but did not comment. He licked his lips.

``Hakram,'' he said. ``Before Catherine left\ldots{}''

He trailed off.

``Yes?'' the orc encouraged.

The mage folded his arms together.

``No,'' he finally said. ``It doesn't matter.''

Adjutant's keen eyes appraised him.

``Are you certain?''

``Faith,'' Masego mused. ``It is had or it is not. There is no middle
ground.''

``So I've heard,'' Vivienne murmured, eyeing the orc at her side.

``Then let's cut this short before the Empress succeeds at listening
in,'' Hakram said. ``I'll scry you again in an hour with the text we've
received, Masego.''

``I will be here,'' he honestly replied.

A round of farewells, and then he was looking down at simple water. A
strange sadness lingered in the room, and he turned towards Indrani to
comment on it before realizing she was not here. Masego frowned,
brushing back a braid. It was not the first time he'd made the mistake,
and he was growing increasingly uncomfortable over it. The sooner he was
rid of this city and its trouble, the better.

In the end, however, it would be another month before the Ashurans
attacked.