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\hypertarget{chapter-5-consult}{%
\section{Chapter 5: Consult}\label{chapter-5-consult}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``I inherited not an empire but a house on fire: fall in line,
lest we all burn.''}

-- First Princess Éloïse of Aequitan
\end{quote}

There were few things as frustrating as looking at something you
\emph{knew} how to do, had done, and yet did not understand in the
slightest. The half-page of equations and formulas that I'd gotten Akua
to write down for me was exactly that, when it came down to it. A
practical, measurable representation of what I did when I `threaded the
needle' through Creation when making a gate. It'd been gibberish, the
first time I glanced at it, but at least I'd thought I knew why. To put
it bluntly, I lacked the tools to make the tools that'd give me a
\emph{chance} of making the tools that would allow to comprehend what
was going on. More than nine tenths of mages were incapable of using
High Arcana or even comprehending the principles behind it, after all,
so considering I did not have even the slightest trace of the Gift I'd
never exactly been in the running. These were numbers, though, so there
had to be at least part of them I could grasp. Something that'd allow me
to run on more than instinct and power, because neither of those were
truly mine when it came down to it and I'd not forgotten my old lessons.
Borrowed power always turned on its user.

So I'd buckled down, put away the wine and tried to figure this out from
the bottom. The very basics of Trismegistan sorcery, which Diabolist
assured unlike most theories of magic out there at least had mostly
observable underlying principles. I didn't have a library to ransack,
sure, but I had the most viciously distinguished Sahelian in a few
centuries around to pick the brains of and two literal goddesses on my
shoulders. Both of which had been practitioners of high skill, before
they got desperate enough to call on Below. It\ldots{} wasn't going very
well. Not because my tutors were incompetent, they weren't. Much as it
pained me to admit it, Akua was better at explaining the magical in
mundane terms than Masego had ever been and likely ever would be. As for
the Sisters, they could literally \emph{show} me what they meant. I just
didn't have the knack for this. It didn't come naturally to me the way
the sword and stories had. Even languages, and Gods knew I'd learned
quite a few of those by now, were easier to get a handle on. Not easy at
all, sure, but if I put in the work even without the crutch of the first
aspect I'd ever earned I could make visible progress.

This, though? I'd finally memorized the classical table of elements and
most the relationships involved, but aside from a refresher in all
things arithmetic I'd not gotten much out of these new studies. Being
able to name the limits of sorcery and a handful of fundamental laws
didn't mean I understood them, not truly. I could name past examples of
those limits being hit but it was damnably hard to extrapolate as to how
other practitioners might hit them in the future. Like having a
phrasebook for a foreign tongue, then being asked to write a
philosophical essay in it. So much of sorcery was about context, years
of learning and studies, and I simply didn't have that. I wasn't sure I
ever would, to be blunt, or that trying to obtain it was the best use of
my time. Practically speaking, I got more out of a spar with Archer than
I did of an hour learning about ritual theory. I passed a hand through
my hair -- it was unbound, for once -- and sighed. The unpleasant truth
was that if I'd started these studies years ago, just after becoming the
Squire, I might be getting somewhere useful by now. Instead I was stuck
depending on the advice and understanding of others.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, I thought. Not all the time. But
I'd walked into some nasty messes lately by sheer arrogant ignorance,
and I couldn't count on my friends to pull me out of them every time.
Not with the kind of opposition there was out there. There were some
heroes I'd survive blundering against, but that didn't hold for all of
them. And the heroes were almost a second thought, compared to the
ancient thing that was marching south at the head of undead hordes. I
gathered the handful of parchments splayed across my low table and
slipped them back into my saddlebag, closing the clasp. I'd been
circling the same few paragraphs for the better part of an hour now,
there'd be no progress made today. Besides, I'd begun another project.
The Everdark had been a wake-up call in a lot of ways: about how I'd
been fighting, about who I should be fighting. And there, like in
sorcery, ignorance and recklessness had begun to cost me quite a bit. If
I was to get involved in the wars scouring the Principate -- and I was,
it was the only possible way I could see of getting the Liesse Accords
signed -- then I couldn't just go in like a drunk brawler and swing at
everything in sight.

The Dead King was on the march, and that changed everything.

I couldn't keep dropping geographical features on armies when I'd be
needing those same armies to take the field against Keter before long.
Not only was I weakening the same Grand Alliance I needed to keep from
collapsing, there was a very real risk that everyone I killed down here
would get up and start fighting for the other side at some point.
Burning the dead would greatly limit the spectrum of necromancy that
could be used on them, Diabolist had assured me, but not prevent the
magic entirely from being used. Even a mass grave filled with ashes
could be a threat if the Hidden Horror got his hands on it. Diplomacy
would be the preferable option here, but I'd tried that before and my
knuckles were starting to bleed from the amount of times the door had
been slammed on them. I'd been named Arch-heretic of the East, and while
back in Callow that'd been met with indignant riots the title would
weigh a lot more in the eyes of the western half of Calernia. That I'd
effectively been made the head of the drow religion would only make it
worse, and there would be no keeping that under wraps for long. The only
way I'd get the other nations to sit at the table was if they no longer
believed they could really win against me without losing everything
else.

Which meant I was going to have to kill some very powerful people before
the year was out.

The Grey Pilgrim couldn't be one, because if I killed him then the
Dominion wouldn't stop before either was I buried in pieces or their
country was a heap of cinders. I'd made my peace with that. While not
someone I'd ever trust, he was someone I could work with. The Saint,
though? I'd need her head on a pike before I got anywhere. Considering I
had serious doubts even dropping an entire mountain on that old monster
would kill her, I needed to prepare something that would. The voice in
the back of my head that sounded like my father kept reminding me that
relying on an artefact was the kind of foolishness that got villains
killed, but that wasn't what I was doing. Not exactly. I was crafting a
tool, in the same way a goblin alchemist would craft munitions. My sword
and scabbard had been propped up against my table when I took them off
my belt, and I leaned over to grasp them now. No goblin steel blade,
this, or shard of Winter given shape. I'd made a request of Sve Noc
before we left the Everdark, when my strategy had begun to take shape,
and it had been fulfilled.

The scabbard was carved obsidian, a tale writ in runes of some fool girl
who'd made an accord with sister-goddesses. The characters were twined
around something else, a declaration of intent: \emph{Losara Queen,
First Under the Night}. There was power in putting truth to stone,
especially when you had been part of the story told. The blade within
the sheath had not left it since the first rest, the only visible part
being the long handle of onyx and amethyst. I'd learned the uses of
those stones well, in the last few months. One to ingest power, the
other to facilitate communion and connection to the divine. Closing my
fingers around the handle I closed my eyes as well, breathing in deep.
The Night slithered through my veins, answering the call, and I felt the
weight of the crows on my shoulders. They approved, these quarrelsome
goddesses of mine. That was not nearly as reassuring as they believed it
to be. I focused, clearing my thoughts and-

-and the folds of my tent were unceremoniously pushed open.

``The Queen of Callow alone in her tent, `handling her sword','' Archer
mused. ``There's \emph{definitely} a joke in there.''

I bit back an irritated reply, eyes fluttering open. The Night turned to
smoke, leaving me, but there would be time enough later. Every hour I
could spare, in fact.

``I assume you came in for a reason?'' I said.

``There's word from our scouts on Rochelant, so Rumena wants to see
you,'' she replied.

I grunted in answer, rolling my shoulder questioningly. The pop that
eventually ensued served as a reminder that sitting on the ground for a
few hours had actual physical consequences these days. I put my hand
against the table to push myself up before pausing under Archer's
bemused gaze. I chewed on my lip, then called on the Night again.
Darkness gathered around the sword and scabbard like flies to honey, for
a moment emptying the inside of my tent from every speck of shadow. I
heard Komena laughing in my ear, before she leant her hand to the
shaping: making power stable and solid was always more difficult than
just seizing it. I leaned on the long, crooked staff of ebony now in my
hand to drag myself up to me feet. Indrani's hazelnut eyes were studying
me curiously.

``Gonna tell me what that was about?'' she lightly asked.

``There's no point in having advisors,'' I said, ``if I don't
occasionally take their advice.''

``Ooh, \emph{cryptic},'' she praised.

``Well, I am a priestess,'' I drawled back. ``You may now guide me to my
humble flock, wench.''

She grinned.

``You know, in Alamans romances that have very nice illustrations of
what Wicked Priestesses of Evil should wear,'' Archer informed me.

I rolled my eyes and pulled ahead of her. She was still trying to
convince to wear clothes that in this weather would get me frostbite in
very inconvenient parts when we got to the mouthy old drow's tent, but
that was where the easy mood died. Rumena Tomb-Maker had looked
unflappable even when throwing gauntlets down simultaneously at the feet
of both the Longstride Cabal's most dangerous Mighty and myself at the
peak of my mastery over Winter. That it now looked somewhat disturbed
while looking at the map of Procer we'd taken from our Levantine
prisoners was not a good sign. Akua was already lounging in the back of
the tent, which was deserted save the two of them. Less than surprising,
given that it was still daylight out and most drow hadn't yet emerged
from their dawn-induced slumber. The general barely glanced at the staff
I was leaning on, but I felt Diabolist's gaze linger. I did not meet her
eyes, instead limping to sit across from the old drow who had greeted me
with a mere nod. Archer unceremoniously dropped down at my side, though
given the flask that'd mysteriously appeared in her hand I doubted she'd
be paying much attention to the proceedings.

``Report,'' I simply said.

``Lord Ivah has returned from Rochelant,'' Rumena said. ``The city is
already under occupation.''

My brow rose, and my wariness as well. Humans stepping on other humans
wouldn't wrinkle the Tomb-Maker's brow, which meant there was more to
this.

``By who?'' I asked.

Akua cleared her throat.

``While Lord Ivah was not familiar with the banners being flown, it
offered detailed descriptions,'' the shade said. ``Two emblems are being
flown: that of the Hierarch of the League of Free Cities and the
personal heraldry of the Theodosians of Helike.''

I started in surprise.

``I thought the Hierarch had refused a banner?'' I said.

``He did,'' Akua amusedly replied. ``It is blank cloth, and so even more
easily recognizable than heraldry from a distance.''

I mulled over that. The Hierarch's personal banner would be flown
regardless of his actual presence, given that he was in theory the
supreme commander of the military forces of the League, so that didn't
give us much. Neither did the Tyrant's family colours being up there,
unfortunately. The villain was essentially a sack full of wet and angry
cats made into a person, so schemes were only to be expected. None of
this, though, explained why Rumena was feeling unsettled.

``There's more,'' I stated, and it was not a question.

``As there were no armies encamped outside the walls and no visible
watch in place, Lord Ivah infiltrated the city,'' Rumena said. ``The
humans within appear to have gone mad.''

``Define mad,'' I said.

Akua stepped in.

``There appears to be a revolt taking place,'' she said. ``Citizens are
forming tribunals and killing officials and prominent individuals after
public trials, under the supervision of Helikean soldiers.''

I blinked.

``Supervision,'' I repeated slowly. ``They're not being forced?''

``Lord Ivah reported feeling the urge to join these `trials','' General
Rumena said. ``And that the urge grew stronger the longer it remained
within. This is\ldots{} unusual. Though this took place under the glare
of the sun, such influence over our kind has no precedent to my
knowledge.''

I felt talons digging painfully into my shoulders and winced. The
Sisters weren't pleased that someone might be meddling with minds of one
of their own, even one who'd chosen to swear itself to my service.

``Aspect, you think?'' I asked Akua.

``Hard to tell without taking a closer look,'' she admitted.
``Large-scale manipulation of minds by ritual is not unprecedented --
Dread Emperor Imperious once compelled an entire army to suicide -- but
the Carrion Lord's scuffle with the forces of Helike should have killed
a significant portion of their most skilled practitioners. I am not
certain they could accomplish such a working anymore. Not directly.''

She paused.

``There is, of course, another path possible,'' Diabolist said.
``Binding an entity capable of such influence would require fewer mages,
though it would carry significant risks.''

I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

``Tell me someone didn't summon a fucking demon in the middle of a
continental brawl,'' I asked.

``Someone didn't summon a fucking demon in the middle of a continental
brawl,'' Indrani eagerly replied, the slightest of slurs to her voice.

I ignored that, for all our sakes.

``Akua?'' I pressed.

``In other times I would wager only the full Stygian Magisterium capable
of that tier of diabolism,'' the shade finally said. ``But the Tyrant of
Helike has proved\ldots{} surprisingly well-informed. I would not
dismiss the possibility out of hand.''

I clenched my fingers into a fist until the knuckles paled. Of all the
\emph{violently idiotic} things to do. If a demon got loose with this
many armies in the region, the damage could be\ldots{} Staggering. We
could lose the entire centre of Procer in a month, if it went wrong, and
by the time the dust settled the final contest over who owned Calernia
would between demon-corrupted puppets and the armies of the dead. Where
were the fucking heroes when you actually needed them? A whole warband
was willing to show up for the Battle of the Camps but this somehow did
not require their attention? I forced myself to calm down. Angry
thinking was sloppy thinking. We didn't know for sure it was a demon. It
could be an aspect or a ritual, or half a hundred tricks I'd never heard
about. We'd plan for the worse, but I wouldn't allow myself to get stuck
in the perspective it was necessarily what was taking place.

``All right,'' I said, letting out a long breath. ``Our approach needs
to be adjusted.''

``How so?'' General Rumena asked.

``If this is the Tyrant screwing with Procer with sorcery or his Name,
we let it go,'' I reluctantly said. ``I'm not starting a war with the
League over this, ugly as that reality is.''

``If our assumption is correct and the `legionaries' the League were
seen skirmishing with are truly the Army of Callow, we might already be
at war with them,'' Akua pointed out.

``We don't know for sure,'' I said. ``It fits, and my instinct is that
Juniper's out there, but I'm not going to act based on just that. It
could be deserters from Marshal Grem's army, or a raiding force he sent
out. It could be a scheme, if someone knew we were coming, to bait us
into starting that very war. And even if \emph{was} Juniper, we don't
know the context of those skirmishes -- and note they were that,
skirmishes. Not a field battle.''

``You do not believe that, not truly,'' the shade said.

``My beliefs are irrelevant,'' I sharply replied. ``There's too much at
stake here for hasty decisions, and too much we just \emph{don't know}.
Someone out there set up this game, Diabolist, and until we know who
that is I'm not picking any fights I don't have to.''

Silence reigned after that, and Akua simply inclined her head in
deference.

``And if it isn't?'' Archer nonchalantly asked. ``Magic or an aspect, I
mean.''

I put a hand on the low table, feeling the cool polished surface against
the warmth of my flesh.

``Containment,'' I softly said. ``Observation. Then, if necessary, we
purge everyone inside.''

I would not allow a demon to run rampant this close to so many armies
and Named. I would not allow the \emph{Tyrant} to wield that dangerous a
tool when both those things were so close, as that might even more
dangerous. If the city could not be saved, then I would see it burned to
the ground. It was the closest thing to mercy I could still offer. The
Liesse Accords would ban the summoning of demons any circumstances, I
thought with irritation, not that it meant anything until they were
signed. \emph{Allowable Use of Non-Creational Entities, And
Circumstances Therein}. There was an entire section of the treaty
dedicated to this stuff. Considering what it had to say about angels it
wouldn't be all that popular with some people, but then others would be
less than pleased about the parts pertaining to devils.

I did not mind beginning to enforce the sheerest common sense onto this
continent at swordpoint before signatures had been put to the Accords,
if it proved necessary.

``Then you would have us prepare for battle,'' General Rumena said, tone
neutral.

``You have your orders, Tomb-Maker,'' I said.

There was a whisper of power in the tent, and the phantom weight of the
crows on my shoulders. The old drow took in the sight of the Sisters
manifest and immediately bowed its head.

``By your will, First Under the Night,'' it replied. ``I will begin
preparations immediately.''

The weight was gone, quick as it had come, and I let the general leave
the tent without further comment. My eyes moved to the map on the table,
the small stones that had been placed on it. We were a day's march from
Rochelant and whatever awaited us there, now. There'd be answers soon
enough.

``If it is not a demon,'' Akua suddenly said, breaking through the
silence. ``If the Kingdom of Callow is not at war with the
League\ldots{} Then there might be an opportunity awaiting.''

I picked up the black stone representing our army and spun it idly
between my fingers. My gaze remained on the inked borders and cities of
the Principate of Procer. On the few coloured stones marking the forces
we knew about. The two armies of the Dominion, the rumoured Proceran
relief force coming from Salia. The most likely current operating
theatre of the legions under Marshal Grem. Where we'd believed the
armies of the League to be, though that would need reassessment. And far
to the south, the duped border army of the First Prince desperately
hurrying back towards tactical relevance. The thorough interrogation of
the Levantine outriders had wielded more information than anticipated,
even if a lot of it was rumours.

``You want to make a deal with the Tyrant of Helike,'' Indrani guffawed.
``Because \emph{that's} going to end well.''

``An alignment between Callow and the League alone would force the Grand
Alliance to the peace table,'' the shade pointed out. ``The addition of
the Empire Ever Dark further tips the balance. We would be as much of an
existential threat as the Dead King, in some aspects. The alignment need
not last forever for concessions to be extracted.''

There was a pattern somewhere in there, I thought. Oh, it looked like
sheer bloody chaos at first glance but I'd fought wars before and
something about this was raising my hackles. Someone had helped this
storm to brew, and that meant someone would benefit from it. Malicia had
once told me that when beginning a scheme, one must first consider the
desired outcome. She was a lot better at this game than I'd ever be, but
I could derive some use from that lesson: what did the players in Iserre
want? The Grand Alliance wanted to crush the invasion as swiftly as
possible before sending all its forces north. The Legions of Terror, if
their march upwards was any indication, wanted to use the northern
passage to retreat towards Callow. The League was the entity hardest to
predict. It had two heads, the Hierarch and the Tyrant, and it was
unclear who was really holding the reins of the horse. \emph{If anyone
is at all.} If they'd wanted territorial gains, I thought, they would
not have come this far north so early. It would have been sounder sense
to smash the Proceran border army in Tenerife then quickly move to
occupy a few southern principalities while the Principate was forced to
deal with other threats in the heartlands. Instead they'd joined the
complicated dance taking place in Iserre.

``See, the problem with that is that at some point we're at a table with
the Tyrant,'' Indrani said. ``That's basically throwing jugs of oil at a
bonfire, Akua. He's gonna fuck \emph{someone} before that conference is
done, and it might just be us.''

Remove the League forces from Iserre, and what did you get? Eighteen
thousand veterans under Grem, my own southern expedition of fifty
thousand and possibly a portion of the Army of Callow. All of which
would join up into a single force when faced with external foes. Against
that, a relief army from Salia that should be at least thirty thousand
to be worth throwing into the mess. Eighty thousand split in two from
the Dominion. And maybe, though to be honest the chances weren't great,
that army of twenty thousand from Tenerife would make it in time to
participate. I doubted anyone from the League would have been able to
predict the kind of army I'd come back with, but then they might have
just been betting blind on my coming back with \emph{some} kind of
force. East against West, to paint in broad strokes, the Grand Alliance
had us beat in numbers. We'd have better soldiery, though, and unless
the heroes stepped in we'd have the only Named on the field. If truce
couldn't be reached there would be a clash on a massive scale, and one
of those coalitions would come out of it shattered. Put back the League
onto the field, though, and suddenly the difference was obvious. Like
Indrani had mused days ago, neither coalition could commit to that kind
of a clash because both ran a risk the Tyrant would come swinging at
their back when they were occupied.

This, I decided, couldn't be the Hierarch's game. Unless the man was
hiding deep cunning and political acumen behind the rambling letters and
had been playing some of the finest minds on the continent -- and also
me -- like fiddles then this wasn't his doing. It would be the Tyrant of
Helike, moving through him. \emph{No one can make a deal with the
League, because the madman ruling it will refuse to make one out of
principle}, I thought. And the Tyrant, if the Eyes of the Empire were to
be believed, had been the one to arrange for the Hierarch to be elected
in the first place. That did not feel like a coincidence. I closed my
palm over the stone I'd been twirling, then absent-mindedly knocked it
against the surface of the table.

``But if you're trying to prevent one side from being crippled,'' I
murmured. ``Then why are you stirring the pot?''

If the objective was to keep the East and the West from bloodying each
other to the extent that no one would be able to stand against the Dead
King, it would run against the grain to keep shoving chaos into Iserre.
Which he was absolutely doing, if the situation in Rochelant was what it
sounded like. \emph{Unless you really don't give a shit about the war},
I thought. \emph{Because the war is just a way for you to get at
something so it doesn't matter who wins it, so long as they don't win it
too early.} But if that was really the case\ldots{}

``Catherine?'' Akua said.

My head rose. I hadn't realized until now, but silence had fallen over
the tent.

``Call Rumena back,'' I ordered. ``There won't be a demon in Rochelant.
I'll be heading to the city with a small escort, while the army under it
needs to be moving elsewhere. And \emph{fast}.''

``And what will be doing there?'' Indrani asked.

It had never even occurred to her, I thought affectionately, that she
would not be coming.

``Paying a visit to my eternal friend,'' I said. ``To find out what it
is exactly he needs so badly from Cordelia Hasenbach.''