webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-058.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-40-entreaty}{%
\chapter{Entreaty}\label{chapter-40-entreaty}}



\epigraph{``The priests lie, my friend. A bargain with a devil does not
pervert your meanings, or seek to twist your nature. Why would it need
to, when the honest desires of men are already so wicked?''}{Kayode Owusu, Warlock under Dread Emperors Vindictive I and Nihilis}



When I'd told Tariq that if he wanted to talk about the Saint we'd have
to do it while walking, I'd meant it as a way to put him off.
Considering we were in a broken ruin of a realm infested with devils,
undead and whatever else had might have been summoned and bound, it
seemed foolish to have such a conversation when we should be keeping our
eyes out on our surroundings instead. How silly of me not to realize
that I was dealing with the Grey Pilgrim: he was more than willing to
take my words at face value if it got him his way, and I couldn't even
recant. Not without seeming like I was the one out to get the heroine,
anyway, which would win me no favours with the heroic three fifths of
our party as well as quite possibly turn into a liability down the line.
It was one thing if I killed the Saint of Sword in my own defence or
that of Masego's, another if just like when I'd snatched back Black's
body I was baiting her to better take a swing. One would be a tragedy
that could be mended, in time, but the other would eat away at the
foundation of the alliances I wanted to make. So, when after a few
traded whispers with the Peregrine the Saint went on ahead to scout the
way through, I sighed but did not object when he fell in at my side.
Quite a pair we made, the winded old man and the dusty cripple.

``I had a conversation with your teacher, before his soul was cut out
and sealed,'' Tariq Fleet-foot suddenly said.

He'd meant to catch me by surprise, which made the way I was just a
little too slow in keeping that surprise off my face all the more
irritating. My limp faltered, and the way I turned it into a painful
longer stride wouldn't have fooled me -- much less an old hand like the
Pilgrim.

``Did you?'' I blandly replied. ``Interesting.''

Like a horse about to bold, there was now no telling where this was
headed. If he'd wanted my undivided attention, well, he godsdamned had
it.

``He is,'' the Pilgrim agreed. ``The qualities that steer him could be
considered virtues, in a certain light. Had he chosen to serve the cause
of Above instead of Below he would have made a great champion.''

My lips quirked, though it was mockery and not amusement that moved
them. All I could think of was green eyes burning with something mad, in
a little room in Marchford, and that implacable anger that was at the
heart of him. Amadeus of the Green Stretch, carrying the banner of the
Heavens? No, it would go against every grain of who he was -- he was
capable of doing great good, he truly was, in that Tariq had grasped him
exact. But his disdain for Good was set in the marrow of his bones, and
there would be no changing that without changing every other part of
him.

``I expect if you told him as much it was not well-received,'' I said.

``I believe he made his finest effort to wound me with words alone,''
the old man said, sounding unmoved.

I threw an assessing glance at the Grey Pilgrim, finding his tone just a
little too blithe. His face was the same, so tranquil I could not help
but wonder if it was forced. I'd known Black to twist or break people
with but a few calculated sentences, and though the Peregrine would be
made of sterner stuff than these he would also have a graveyard's worth
of skeletons in his closet. On the other hand, Black had cultivated his
reputation -- his legends -- into as much of a weapon as the rest of
him. It was always hard to discern what he could and could not do, which
had always been the way the man liked it.

``Yet his insights, though harshly delivered, have allowed me to shed
different light on things I once believed myself to fully understand,''
the Pilgrim continued. ``In the east, I believe a distinction is drawn
between \emph{Name} and \emph{Role}.''

``The Book of All Things does to begin with, if you read into certain
parts,'' I pointed out.

For a beat I sought the exact passage, one of the few I'd actually
learned by rote.

``To every soul, great and small, purpose will be tendered,'' I quoted.
``Through crucible of choice are lives shaped, and one's mark on
Creation defined.''

The passage went on to say some pointed things about villainy being a
twisting of that tendered purpose, and so Evil as well as evil, but I'd
always taken the Book with a grain of salt. It was a beloved and
well-worn story in Callow that some ancient Count of Denier had used
that very passage to argue that it was in fact impious not pay taxes
promptly and in full. Once words were put to ink, anybody could put them
to use and those particular words were so old none could say who'd first
written them -- more than simply the purposes, I suspected that the
words themselves had shifted over the centuries. They couldn't
\emph{not} have, after all, considering no one in those days had spoken
Lower Miezan before said empire came to Calernia and the Callowan
manuscripts of the Book were in that language. No translation could be
perfect, my expanding repertoire of spoke and written languages had made
painfully clear. The Grey Pilgrim's glance at me was openly amused,
which was when I was forced to acknowledge I'd just quoted scripture at
a man who rubbed elbows with angels. Ah. Awkward.

``As you say, Queen Catherine,'' he said. ``I must commend whoever it
was that saw to your religious education.''

I wondered how he'd take if I told him I'd drifted through most sermons
at the House and only begun studying the Book with any seriousness at
the prompting of the wicked servant of the Hellgods better known as the
Black Knight. Or, for all that matter, that the only person I'd
comprehensively discussed theology with in the last few years was
Masego, a man whose main interest in the matter was the practicalities
of deicide. \emph{In all fairness}, I thought\emph{, that's turned out
surprisingly pertinent to our lives.}

``In Levant, we speak of it simply as Bestowal,'' Tariq said. ``A gift
from Above or a curse from Below. What is done with these is our choice,
and the strength of the mark left on Creation is but the illustration of
the character of they who were bestowed. One who cultivated customs
leading to greatness will leave great legacy behind, deeds worthy of
recording. One who allowed mortal failings to remain paramount will be
but a line in the ledgers of the Blood, soon forgot.''

``I'd noticed,'' I slowly said, ``that your nobles -- your Blood -- seem
particularly set in their ways.''

``We seek to emulate admirable people, Queen Catherine, but those people
are long gone,'' the Pilgrim sadly said. ``And their wars, their foes,
their disasters are no longer our own. In being inflexible of virtue we
have made virtue of inflexibility, often to our detriment. It is a way
of thinking, you see, that exalts great deeds done in the name of the
Heavens without giving though to their aftermath. Their consequences. At
our finest -- and make no mistake, for all its flaws the Dominion has
rendered great and righteous service for no rewards at all -- my people
are an assembly of heroes, Bestowed or not. At our worst, we seek glory
heedlessly and recklessly kill over matters of honour.''

Which, while a fascinating look into the Dominion from a man who knew it
like few others could and likely ever would, had little bearing on the
Saint of Swords or even Black that I could see.

``I had thought myself, through the nature events that shaped me, freed
of these fetters so common to my people,'' the Grey Pilgrim quietly
said. ``I was, it has become clear, terribly wrong in this.''

After the first surprise he'd sprung on me I'd grown careful to mask my
thoughts, but hearing the old man that was arguably the most accomplish
hero of our age -- and likely a century or two before that -- bluntly
admit he'd made a grave mistake almost put another stutter to my steps.
There was regret in the way the Peregrine had spoken, but mostly it was
an honest admission of error. And that was, I thought, why even when he
sought to end me it was difficult to hate the man. Because even when he
dipped into hypocrisy, even when he dug in his heels long past the point
he should, the Grey Pilgrim was trying to do good. And when he failed in
that, he looked the truth of it in the eye and owned it.

``I do not regret for a moment my service of the Heavens, Black Queen,''
the old man honestly said, ``but my blindness to the consequences of it
is on my head. In doing merciful work I have sown the seeds of reprisal
far and wide and though \emph{never once} will I bend my head to Evil
for fear of contest, more should have been done to prepare Calernia for
the storm.''

It sounded, I thought, like he was blaming himself for the Dead King's
stirring. Which seemed backward to me, considering I was fairly sure it
was Malicia who'd first opened the gates for his intervention in
Creation. Oh, I'd sought to make a bargain as well after receiving envoy
from Neshamah but she'd been wearing a body in Keter long before I
arrived. If my suspicions were correct and the Dead King avoided
intervention save at the invitation of another Evil -- to place, in a
way, the burden of opposition to Good on another -- then it was the
Tower's hand and not any hero's that was at work. \emph{On the other
hand, would he have moved if he'd not seen opportunity?} I wondered. I
doubted an invitation was all it took to secure the aid of the Dead
King. Perhaps the Grey Pilgrim was right, and in some eldritch way his
works had paved the grounds for the King of Death's coming. But even so,
fuck the idea that the old man was \emph{responsible} for the slaughter
that ensued. I'd stood on the opposite end of the field from the Pilgrim
more than once, but I could only praise the vast majority of what he'd
done over his many decades of holding a Name.

``You've been a helping hand,'' I replied. ``Sometimes I question the
soundness of the causes you've helped, but not your intent.''

``That is kind of you,'' Tariq said, bowing his head. ``And you are not
wrong to say I was hand, and mayhaps on occasion a finger on the scale.
I was offered chances, you see, to intervene when there was still
contest to be had. When the balance had yet to swing.''

He paused.

``Laurence de Montfort was sent forth, for near as many years as I, when
there was absolutely nothing left to save,'' he gravely said.

And there we were at last, I thought. The song and dance to convince me
to stay my hand if a moment came where she turned on me. That the
Pilgrim had pressed so hard for this conversation to happen in the first
place told me everything I needed to know about the odds of it
happening.

``So she's seen the deep end,'' I said, unimpressed.

``No, Queen Catherine, she has \emph{swum} in it,'' the old man sadly
said. ``When we first spoke in Callow, years ago, you told me you were
tired of killing children because they were on the wrong side. Asked me
if I was. And I am, Black Queen, Heavens forgive me but I am. Yet mine
was still the lighter of the burdens, for even Laurence's victories have
only ever come in the wake of disaster.''

My brows furrowed. If I was following his meaning correctly, he was
implying that while his role had been snuffing out disasters before they
could fully form while the Saint of Swords had been\ldots{} well,
cutting of limbs when the rot took.

``You see her now, after a life of holding back the darkness, and find
only bitterness and distrust,'' Tariq said. ``I do not expect these to
endear her to you, Your Majesty, or even for cordiality to be attained.
But I ask that you see her bared fangs for what they are: the scars left
behind by a lifetime spent facing down the horrors of Calernia so no one
else would have to.''

His voice wasn't pleading, not exactly, though knowing what I knew about
the Peregrine if he thought that tossing aside his pride would save the
Saint's life he would discard it without a second thought. In that sense
he was remarkably similar to my own teacher, seeing little worth in
personal dignity when it stood in the way of results. But though shy of
a plea, there was no denying that a suit was being made.

``I know better than most what it costs someone to tread through ruin,''
I acknowledged. ``And many of mine were of my own making. But that must
be owned, Pilgrim. It does not abnegate responsibility --
\emph{especially} not in the powerful.''

``Those ties got both ways,'' the old man said. ``There is not a soul on
Calernia, Black Queen, that has not benefitted from the toil that
clouded Laurence de Montfort. Sword in hand, she has danced with death
for the sake of others a hundred times. From the windswept plains of the
Chain of Hunger to the silent deeps of the Brocelian Forest: she has
drowned plagues that would have killed dozens of thousands in the blood
of hundreds, slain beloved heroes who sunk into madness and slaughter,
sent scuttling back into the dark all manners of old gods whose hungers
grew wicked -- though not before they had their taste.''

His blue eyes grew hard as steel, when he met mine.

``All this she has endured, and endured for so long that Creation itself
tempered her into something beyond breaking,'' the old man said. ``I
have known souls sworn to Endurance that would weep at having lived half
her life -- and for this she has asked no reward, no riches nor titles
nor honours. Not a single thing, for above all things Laurence de
Montfort believes that strength must be put to righteous purpose.''

The Grey Pilgrim let out a long breath.

``She is not kind,'' he admitted, ``for Creation has burned kindness out
of her. She is not forgiving, for there are graves sown across many
lands that taught her to cast forgiveness aside. She is not witty or
brilliant or fascinating, those traits that so often make the worst of
us seem forgivable. She is rough and brusque, mistrusting, and there
will never be a day where she does not see you as a seed of the Enemy.''

The Peregrine, old and bent as he was, held himself with the presence of
ruler when he so wished. This was not one of those times, for he did not
try to tower over me or browbeat into acquiescence. He was asking, as an
equal or something close to it.

``And still,'' he said, voice growing rough with feeling, ``I ask you to
see you for what she is: a woman who saw evil preying on the world and
took up the sword in its defence. Selflessly, without once grudging what
such service would wreak upon her soul.''

And I could see, through the grief in his voice, that there truly was a
tragedy there. Because he might be a decent actor, I thought, and
perhaps a liar of some skill if there was cause for it, but he had not
taken to it the way some of the people I knew had. The tremor in his
voice was genuine, coming from someone who'd never learned to fake it so
perfectly they'd blurred even to themselves the difference between truth
and lies.

``It may be,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, ``that for the harrowing life she
has led Laurence will be given place of honour at the feet of the Gods
when death finally takes her. That for greater service greater accolade
will be rendered unto her. But that is the debt of the Gods Above, Black
Queen, and that realm known only to the just is beyond our mortal
understanding.''

His fingers twisted into a symbol I did not recognize, though he did not
even seem to notice their movement.

``Those are not the Gods to which you keep, regardless, and so I do not
ask you to keep to their ways or their dues,'' Tariq said. ``I speak to
you instead as one of the living. We who still tread Creation, who have
benefited from her shattering labours. We who owe better than a shallow
grave to this woman. Not for what she might still do, though few are
better suited for war on the Hidden Horror, or for the expedience of
earthly alliances. We owe it for what she has \emph{already done}.''

It was, I thought, a touching speech. Well spoken and from the heart. It
might just be, too, that every word he had spoken was true. That for all
that I'd thrown my castigations in the face of these heroes when the
Tenth Crusade came baying at my door for their temerity in coming to
offer their \emph{salvation} more than two decades too late, I'd still
lived in the shadow of their protection. That these two old killers had
borne the weight of half this continent on their back and these days had
nothing but scars and bared swords to show for it. It would have felt
right, to follow the course of that thread to the conclusion that what
had shaped Laurence de Montfort excused who she'd become. \emph{And
yet.}

``You ask me, in essence,'' I said, ``to extend the courtesy of a stayed
hand because what has sharpened her to a fault was beyond her control.''

``No,'' the Pilgrim said, ``you mistake me. She made the choice to-``

``I understand you perfectly,'' I said. ``Just the same as your Blood,
her character has led her to this place and this strife. That character
is good, and so you ask me to excuse her.''

``How carelessly you reduce a life of doing good to a single sentence,''
he said.

``It does weigh on the scales, what you say she did,'' I admitted. ``But
I have to ask, Pilgrim: this courtesy you ask of me, will you extend it
in turn?''

The old man blinked in surprise.

``I too have my bevy of broken souls,'' I said. ``And oh, they're a
vicious lot. No denying that. Savage from their days in the wild, but
they're learning. One step at a time.''

I thought of the Doom, of the same woman who'd let her madness drench
the world in blood whispering of the sacrifice she'd made and the woman
it'd made her into.

``Some are beyond redemption,'' I admitted. ``Others\ldots{}''

\emph{Half the world, turned into a prop for the glory of the other
half}, spoken in a burning whisper. A sardonic smile beneath pale green
eyes. And a knife into his ribs, after the Folly, that I could not
regret.

``Have declared their own war on despair, and mutilated themselves in
pursuit of victory,'' I continued. ``I've gathered them to me, by fate
or happenstance, and they're my responsibility. Even the one high up in
the palace, whose grief has sent into a dark not even his eyes can see
through. So I ask you again: when the time comes, and they are to be
judged, will you return the courtesy you ask of me?''

Blue eyes in a tanned face assessed me, wondering. He did not reply.

``I thought so,'' I replied. ``Then were are allies in convenience,
Pilgrim, and you earn no courtesy from me. If she bares her blade at
Hierophant or myself, I will snuff her out.''

``I had thought,'' the old man said, ``that agreement could be
reached.''

``You didn't offer an agreement,'' I calmly replied. ``You asked for a
concession.''

``Then a barter,'' Tariq said, ``though we are both lessened for it.''

And it shamed me just a little when he said. That it'd come to this, but
also the entire span -- every intrigue I'd woven through and around the
Tyrant, every trick I had yet to ply. And this man, I reminded myself,
had mere hours been trying to leash me with the threat of death through
a pattern of three. Not even a day had passed since we'd been at war,
and still the disappointment in his gaze stung just a bit. \emph{I've
disappointed people I love}, I thought, meeting his gaze. \emph{And that
did not stay my hand. Neither will this.}

``You are in need of an eight crown,'' the Pilgrim said. ``To cast down
yours now would endanger your efforts, for war is ill-time for
succession. Kairos Theodosian will fight you over his to his dying
breath, for there is nothing he loves half as much in this world as the
legacy he embodies and stripping him of right to rule would rob him of
this.''

I inclined my head to the side in silent concession.

``I was once Tariq Isbili, of the Grey Pilgrim's Blood, Honoured Son
under the Seljun of Levant,'' the old man said, and his voice rang with
quiet authority. ``Though stricken from the ledgers I have raised rulers
of Levant and I have cast them down. My word has been taken for law, and
my honour for the honour of the Dominion. If I took the Tattered Throne,
the bloodlines would rally to my banner and acclaim me Seljun by right.
That crown I promise you, for the life of Laurence de Montfort.''

My fingers clenched, then unclenched.

``If she kills Masego, I will murder her without hesitation,'' I told
him, meaning every word.

He grimaced, but he must have understood that there was no concession in
his power that would possibly make me effectively concede the right to
the Saint to kill one of my dearest friends without consequence.

``If she does not kill the Hierophant,'' he said.

``Then we have a bargain,'' I said.

We shook on it, amongst the ruins of what had once been a great city. It
was not long after that the Saint returned, the Rogue Sorcerer looking
harried and bloody as he leant against her. The Tyrant of Helike, he
announced, had betrayed us.

\emph{Finally}, I thought.