webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/tex/Ch-050.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-33-concord}{%
\section{Chapter 33: Concord}\label{chapter-33-concord}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Ambition without principle is greed, principle without ambition
is mediocrity.''}

-- Clodomir Merovins, ninth First Prince of Procer
\end{quote}

``An empty throne, raised over a land of crossroads,'' the Grey Pilgrim
said, voice wary.

As it should be, I thought. It was not trouble for the faint-hearted
that I was proposing to seek. Larat, now huntsman but once a prince of
the Winter Court, had in those days schemed to slip the leash holding
the fae to Arcadia by binding himself to Creation instead. Seven and
one, a pattern that'd echoed around Calernia long enough for it to have
the proper form of binding, and behind it the weight of earthly crowns
laid at his feet. It'd been a clever enough scheme but also a risky one,
not that he'd had much of a choice. As the King of Winter and the Queen
of Summer wed and their war abruptly ended, with it changed the
landscape of Arcadia: a single court, and with it different stories that
meant Larat was running out of time if he ever wanted to wiggle his way
out. Desperate measures had seen him lead a ramshackle Wild Hunt -- born
of nothing, for Spring and Autumn had not come and might never again --
to swear itself to my service, and so avoid entanglements in Arcadia.
Doubly clever he had been, the once-prince, for it was to a court
contained within my frame he had sworn himself and his fellows. Like
fish in the sea, the fae had been content to keep swimming in that
familiar power until I gathered the crowns I owed and completed Larat's
scheme for him.

Then the Everdark happened and the power running through the veins of
the fae had been ripped out, the reborn Night injected instead, and it
had all begun to go awry.

At the moment, my Wild Hunt was not fundamentally all that different
from Mighty. Oh their tricks and bodies were different -- though I
suspected that with time and the full settling of Winter within the
Night, the Firstborn would begin taking one fae-like traits -- but that
was just the shape of their mould, so to speak. The material in those
moulds was the same for Hunt and Mighty both, namely Night, which meant
that Sve Noc could snuff them out at will. As the Sovereign of Moonless
Night, I'd leaned on the oaths to get obedience from the fae because I
did not have the know-how to use their connection to Winter as a leash.
Given a few decades or a century I might have learned, but Larat would
have been long rid of my service by then and so of this trouble as well.
Sve Noc, though? They had built their apotheosis from scratch, and
though the manner and nature of it had been nothing less than horror
they had built it nonetheless. They could end the Hunt with a thought,
and the fae had suspected that much from the moment they'd felt my
surrender to the Sisters. And so they'd kept their oaths to myself and
my subjects, even though they were no longer bound by them, for if they
became an enemy I might be troubled to look into the practicalities of
ending them. A shame for them, and for Larat, that I'd found out anyway.

``Gates, for the proper toll,'' I agreed. ``Paths through a realm
without the\ldots{} risks of Arcadia, but similar peculiarities. The
armies on this field could turn a march of months into weeks instead,
and intervene north before the fronts collapse.''

``And you would beget this through the murder of one in your service,''
Tariq said, not bothering to hide his distaste. ``Could accord not be
reached instead?''

There was a sound like someone choking down laughter, which served to
inform me Kairos apparently knew a thing or two about the fae.

``That is not in his nature,'' I said. ``And fae do not \emph{change}.
It is inevitable. Larat who was once the Prince of Nightfall will rise
once more, ruler of a court of dusk, and turn on those that raised him.
And when that happens-''

``- inevitability,'' the Grey Pilgrim echoed. ``A band of five, like few
this world had seen, to smother that infant god in the cradle.''

The last words had his face going ashen, for some reason. I supposed the
scope of what I'd suggested was beginning to sink in. In the interests
of diplomacy, I refrained from mentioning I figured if any Choir was
going to be in favour of infant-smothering it'd be Mercy. You didn't get
to make a greater good without laying a foundation of lesser evils, and
the greater the scale of that good so with the evils that were its
bedrock.

``Tariq,'' the Saint hoarsely said. ``You can't seriously be considering
this.''

She looked, I thought, like someone had upended her world.

``It sees to our every need,'' the Peregrine said, and turned rueful eye
on me. ``How neatly you have tied us with the strings of necessity.''

I met his gaze unblinking.

``Should I apologize,'' I said, ``for making this a victory for others
than myself?''

He turned away at that. Both at what I'd said, and at what was implied:
that'd he been so set on being my enemy I'd had to work against him to
help him. Silence stretched for a tense moment.

``Black Queen,'' the Rogue Sorcerer said, politely inclining his head.
``I have questions, if I may?''

Funny how they got all polite when they no longer had the upper hand.
No, that was unfair of me. I was in no position to cast stones on the
subject of civility. Beneath the swaying leather coat and the practical
chain mail beneath, I could not help but notice that the Sorcerer was
rather short. Still taller than me, I was forced to admit, but not by
much. I'd had a glimpse of what he could do with the intricate casting
rod he kept, and it'd been a notch in power and skill above what I'd
seen out of any but the most powerful of Praesi warlocks. Fire-based,
I'd vaguely remembered, but there must have been more to it than that:
his unremarkable brown pupils were discreetly rimmed with colour, one
scarlet red and the other verdant green. Akua had fought him while
wearing me the once, but like me she'd failed to tease much out of him.
Which meant most his tricks were still unknown, and all his aspects.
Both Tariq and Kairos would shoot up as threats the moment they became
members of our band of five instead of my spent opponents, Creation
itself conspiring to make sure they were fit to participate in what
followed, but like the Saint they were mostly known quantities.

I knew nothing of the Rogue Sorcerer, save that he'd repeatedly scrapped
with adversaries seemingly his superior without ever taking a wound or
revealing any of the dangerous tricks mages tended to hoard like
magpies. That alone was enough to make him dangerous.

``Ask,'' I replied.

``You will need seven crowns, as the price,'' the hero said, his Lower
Miezan smooth and accentless. ``This I understand the logistics of.''

The gaze he flicked at the seven Proceran royals and Adjutant visibly
hanging behind us made his point clear.

``It is the one, however that interests me,'' he said. ``Seven for
weight, but the last to shape. It will be, in a sense, the most
important aspect of what you propose.''

``The one we'll bring with us into the deeps,'' I said. ``To be bestowed
only at the heart of it.''

The Rogue Sorcerer's lips thinned, obviously not considering that to be
much of an answer, but in a sense it'd not been him I was speaking to.
Tariq and Kairos both cast glances at me: one wary, the other gleeful.
Yeah, there were three of us who could still qualify for the `one'.
Kairos Theodosian was Tyrant of Helike by Name, but king of the same by
title. Tariq was, in the eyes of many of his countrymen, the rightful
ruler of Levant. And I had more than a few titles to throw around, these
days, but the one that mattered most was Queen of Callow.

``As you say,'' the hero murmured. ``On the subject of roads and
tolls-''

``It won't be like Arcadia,'' I admitted. ``That is beyond my remit.
It'll take more than a powerful caster with the right tools to access
it. We'll have to raise gates in Creation, and bind them to the realm.
After that, though, journey, should be seamless when the tolls are
paid.''

``And the nature of said tolls?'' the Sorcerer pressed.

``Blood,'' the Pilgrim quietly said. ``Isn't it?''

It was Akua's best guess, yes, and the Sisters were being ambiguous in
their answers but implying that might be the case.

``Freely given,'' I clarified. ``One cut to enter, the other to leave. A
sliver of life to sustain the crossroads realm.''

``And anybody could pass the gate,'' the Rogue Sorcerer. ``But very few
would know how to \emph{build} one.''

I smiled, and did not answer. The Sorcerer might be able to figure it
out, I knew, especially if he was at hand when the realm was born. But
aside from him? Maybe five people would have the know-how in all of
Calernia, and most of them answered to me to some degree.

``We should kill her now,'' the Saint of Swords calmly said.

My fingers tightened around my staff, but beyond that I gave no visible
reaction. I glanced at Tariq and raised an eyebrow, silently letting him
know that Laurence of Montfort was his fucking problem at the moment but
that if she became mine he wouldn't like what followed.

``I understand your worries, Saint-'' the Rogue Sorcerer began.

``No, you don't,'' she bluntly said. ``Because you're barely even
thirty, and you still think because she compromises once or twice it
changes what she is. It \emph{doesn't}.''

``I would not swear truce with her beyond the Dead King's end,'' the
Rogue Sorcerer replied, tone touched with strained patience, ``but to
refuse an arrangement right now would be worse than a sin, it would be a
\emph{mistake}.''

``Do you know who the most dangerous villain I've ever faces was, boy?''
Laurence de Montfort casually said. ``There's a few people would
consider the obvious contenders. I fought the first Horned Lord to wake
in five centuries to a draw. I crawled in my own blood after a bout with
the Lady of the Lake and put down the Drake Knight after his mind went.
All of those would have butchered their way through half a legion of
soldiers without batting an eye, all were monsters at the peak of their
mastery. But the most dangerous villain I ever faced was my first: an
alchemist so sickly he could barely hold a sword.''

She was arguing for my death, I was well aware, but this was still
rather interesting so she had my full attention for more than one
reason. The Jacks hadn't put together nearly as much as I would have
liked on the Saint, which only made sense if she'd spent most of her
years wandering around Calernia as a cantankerous armed vagrant.

``I caught him early,'' the Saint idly said. ``People were going
missing, and I looked into it -- bandits and criminals, as it turned
out, but he was still keeping them in cells and using them for bloody
research. Yet it was for antidotes, for ways to end plagues and heal the
worst of injuries. He was just the Salutary Alchemist, I thought, and so
young. Not some hard-eyed vulture, and his Damnation looked like it was
half an accident. Bad methods, but good ends. So I slapped him around
some, made him pass his prisoners to the closest city's gaol and told
him he could use animals but not people. Then I let him off with a
warning.''

Slowly, the Saint of Swords unsheathed her blade. She tapped it against
her shoulder, striding around the Sorcerer but her eyes remaining on the
Pilgrim the whole time.

``Gods, but the boy was brilliant,'' she said. ``Five years later and
keeping to the rules, he distilled an essence of life -- a potion that
kept people alive past their time. When the secant pox hit Valencis he
moved there to cure it, and stayed after. I thought, maybe it didn't
have to be a war all the time. That in some places, sometimes, we could
have peace. Make exceptions.''

``Salutary,'' the Rogue Sorcerer slowly said. ``The word can mean
beneficial, but the older meaning is \emph{health-giving}.''

``Aye,'' Laurence de Montfort grinned, old yellow teeth bared. ``And
give them health he did. Let them live past their time. Except he was
the only one with the recipe. And it only bought them a few months at a
time.''

I almost let out an impressed whistle, seeing where she was headed with
this.

``The prince was old, and so he was owned,'' the Saint derisively said.
``And with every passing year someone else was in his debt that was old
but also rich and powerful. Or sick in a way priests can't see to, or
wanting to look young or a hundred other paltry fucking things that
could be fixed with the right brew. I heard nothing about the people
who'd started to go missing again, in Valencis, until I ran into one
getting grabbed by the fucking \emph{city guard}. And when I asked
questions they all covered for him, all closed ranks, because he'd
gotten his claws in them and what were a few dead nobodies for his
research when that research was so useful?''

In Procer, I remembered, they knew the Saint of Swords as the
\emph{Regicide}. For her very public slaying of the Prince of Valencis,
many years ago.

``He was a helpful lad, the Salutary Alchemist,'' Laurence de Montfort
softly said. ``Helped with his tonics and philters, when the going got
rough for Chosen, never swung at blade at anybody in his life. And if
I'd left him to it another decade, he would have owned half of Procer
without anyone being the wiser.''

The Saint of Swords pointed her blade at me.

``There can be,'' she slowly enunciated, ``no truce with the Enemy. Not
even when they are reasonable, helpful -- especially then, because if
you let the rot take even a moment then you will \emph{always} have to
amputate the limb.''

The Tyrant of Helike, never one to let an occasion to be a shit pass him
by, enthusiastically clapped at the end of her tirade and called for an
encore. I glanced at the other heroes. The Rogue Sorcerer's face had
gone blank, which to me reeked of hesitation. It made sense, didn't it?
Because to me Laurence was a zealous old biddy who regularly tried to
kill me and my friends, but to the heroes she was the prickly,
unpleasant grandmother they didn't want but always stepped in when they
were in trouble. And sure, she thought with her sword, but most of the
time that kind of simplicity paid off for heroes. It lent them strength,
got them through the worst villains brought to bear against them and if
the Light was anything like the Night then conviction had a lot to do
with how well you could use it. The Grey Pilgrim was the one that
mattered, though, because where the Saint was respected the Peregrine
was \emph{trusted}. And even when he wasn't, well, if he made a decision
then the rest of the Grand Alliance couldn't really break it without
breaking itself given his pull in the Dominion. And I wasn't sure
Laurence would give a damn about that, given who she was, but I
suspected the Rogue Sorcerer was a different story entirely.

And the Pilgrim slowly shook his head.

``I will not break the world that is to spare the world that could be,''
the Peregrine said.

``Tariq, how many of these `turnabouts' have you seen over the years?''
the Saint hissed. ``How many Damned made their apologies, swore they'd
never meant to hurt anyone, said that they would help you keep the peace
instead.''

``Dozens,'' the Pilgrim said.

``And how many kept their word?''

``None,'' the old man tiredly said.

``And still you want to make bargain with her? The battle's not done,
Tariq. It'll get ugly, true enough, and thousands will die. Likely one
of us too. But we can still win, and though we'll be a ruin after we'll
be a ruin that can recover,'' the Saint harshly asked. ``But if we
compromise, here and now? There'll never be any recovering from that.
The taint will be in the cause until it runs its course. So
\emph{why}?''

``Because we are not animals,'' Tariq softly replied. ``Because we do
not shy from compromise simply because it has burned us before. Because
if we are willing to break armies for a point of theological purity,
then that it is us that deserves the breaking. But most of all,
Laurence?''

His eyes were bright as he turned to her, but there was no warmth to
them. Only a cold, patient light like the distant radiance of a star.

``Because I will not brook unnecessary suffering,'' the Grey Pilgrim
said.

The two heroes stared each other down, tension mounting with the
silence. The Saint had not sheathed her blade, and though the Peregrine
bore no weapon to unsheathe in turn that hardly meant he was unarmed.

``Boo,'' the Tyrant called out. ``Booo. Just terrible. Bring back the
other act.''

``If we bend, we will break,'' Laurence de Montfort said.

I breathed out slowly, and though I did not begin to call on Night --
that would have drawn attention to me, painted me as the aggressor -- I
shaped the working in my mind. It would have worked better in Arcadia,
but if the Saint turned on me here there'd be no choice but to resort to
it in Creation.

``If you still believe that, by morning light, then we will put it to
judgement,'' Tariq said.

The old woman's jaw tightened in displeasure, but after a moment she
gave a tight nod. She eyed me, spat down in the snow, but then sheathed
her blade.

``Lovely,'' I drawled. ``What a treat you are, Laurence. Shall I take
that as agreement on your end, Pilgrim?''

The Rogue Sorcerer glanced at Tariq, who nodded. The other man sighed
but did not argue.

``Bargain is struck, Black Queen,'' the Grey Pilgrim said.

``Bargain is struck,'' I acknowledged, dipping my head.

``That's nice,'' Kairos said. ``But here's something none of you have
considered.''

The Tyrant of Helike caught the scepter he'd idly been flipping all this
time, and blindly pointed it over his shoulder. Gems incrusted in it
began glowing, and an intense beam of fire shot out -- before I could so
much as move, it burned a hole straight through Rozala Malanza's
forehead.

``Should have sold the villain on the deicide first,'' the Tyrant chided
me.

I didn't reply, simply raising an eyebrow, and only then did Kairos's
red eye narrow and he turned to look back over his throne. Where `Rozala
Malanza' had dissolved into shadows.

``Ah, the drow,'' Kairos mused. ``Is there even a single one of them
left?''

``What kind of a second-rater do you take me for?'' I asked.

Adjutant should be in the my army's camp right about now, safely
escorted there by the Losara Sigil after my Lord of Silent Steps
spirited him away and left behind illusion. As for the royals, though, I
had other intentions.

``I suppose we should discuss terms, then,'' the Tyrant cheerfully said.

``Pilgrim?'' I asked.

``I will listen,'' the old man said, promising nothing.

``Best you're going to get,'' I told the odd-eyed king.

``It's all I need,'' Kairos Theodosian grinned. ``Now, as you all know,
I am an ardent proponent of peace.''

I was reluctantly impressed by how confidently he stated what everyone
else here knew to be an outright lie.

``This entire little tiff has been nothing but a misunderstanding, I'm
certain,'' the Tyrant idly continued. ``As such, a peace conference
would be in all our best interests.''

That part I'd known he wanted for months now. But now he'd lay out what
it was he wanted along with the rest of us at the same table, and that I
remained deeply worried about.

``But,'' the Grey Pilgrim said. ``Speak up, Theodosian.''

``It seems that an agent currently in the employ of the First Prince of
Procer has committed heavy crimes while in the lands of the League of
Free Cities,'' Kairos smiled. ``A complaint was lodged with the
Hierarch, who now requires that criminal to stand trial before peace can
be discussed.''

My eyes narrowed. No mention of whatever it was Cordelia was dredging
out of Lake Artoise? Had that been a red herring, or was this?

``A name,'' the Peregrine said.

``I believe he goes by Hanno of Arwad,'' Kairos said.

``The White Knight,'' the Rogue Sorcerer said in disbelief. ``You want
to put to trial the chosen of the-''

The Grey Pilgrim raised his hand.

``And if this request is granted, the League of Free Cities will observe
a truce until both the trial and the peace conference are at an end?''
he asked.

``Of course,'' Kairos said. ``I am, after all, a man of timid and tender
disposition. If not for our beloved Hierarch's indignation at such
brazen offences, this war would never have-''

``For an objection to be lodged with the Hierarch himself, the ruler or
representative of one of the member-cities of the League has to do it,''
I interrupted. ``In this case, who did it?''

``I believe it might have been the representative from Helike,'' the
Tyrant mused. ``What an unlikely coincidence.''

So, Kairos' play was centered around using the Hierarch against the
White Knight then. That gave me something to work with when it came to
thwarting him, though I couldn't do it from here or tonight.

``I am willing to accept that condition,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, ``on
behalf of the Grand Alliance.''

``Oh?'' the Tyrant said. ``Yet the head of this crusade is Her Most
Serene Highness Cordelia Hasenbach. Can you truly speak on her behalf?''

``In this instance I will,'' Tariq said. ``He would come regardless,
Theodosian.''

``That's reassuring to hear,'' Kairos affably replied. ``Yet it has been
brought to my attention you've this nasty habit of breaking oaths,
Pilgrim. I will require a guarantor. Now, Catherine, I do remember you
promising me in writing that-''

``I lied,'' I told him without missing a beat. ``You know, while
positioning you to overextend in battle and selling you out to the Dead
King.''

``That was most unkind of you,'' he agreed. ``Yet we are, I believe,
allies.''

``Of course,'' I lied.

``Then I will require you to be guarantor of our greying friend's
oath,'' the Tyrant of Helike said, odd-eyed gaze grown cool. ``And to
kill him personally, should he break it.''

``That's all?'' I frowned.

I didn't like making empty promises, but this little bastard had been
puppeteering half the armies of Calernia into killing each other while
the damned Dead King was invading up north for the better part of a
year. When we had shared interests, as in against the Wandering Bard, I
did not mind working together. Otherwise he was at best a potential
threat and more likely an outright enemy. Hells, the Peregrine had tried
to kill me a few time and I still considered him to be more of an ally.

``That oath, and yours as guarantor, will have to be taken before every
one of importance in all three armies on this field,'' the Tyrant
casually added. ``Proper ceremony and all that.''

Ah, and there we were. Like I'd turned the screws on Razin Tanja a while
back, he wanted me to give my word in front of enough people it'd
seriously damage my reputation if I broke it afterwards. Of course,
killing the Grey Pilgrim regardless of circumstances would sunder the
Grand Alliance and most likely sink the Liesse Accords. But if I made
and broke an oath before the same people I'd then need to convince to
sign those same Accords, I was taking a torch to the worth of my word
for those I most needed to believe in it. He truly was a vicious little
prick, wasn't he? I glanced at Tariq, who met my gaze and slowly nodded.
He'd realize the trouble inherent to breaking his own word, I thought,
but would that stop him if he thought it was necessary to do it?
Probably not. \emph{But this needs a foundation of trust to work}, I
thought. And he'd extended it first, even if I had to twist his arm to
get there.

``Agreed,'' I said.

``Then we are all friends once more,'' the Tyrant of Helike said. ``And
I believe there was some talk of crowns. Shall you have them sent for,
Catherine?''

``There's no need,'' I said. ``Ivah?''

The illusory curtain of shadows went down, and seven princes and
princesses of Procer were revealed to be standing wide-eyed a mere
twenty feet to our side. They had, after all, heard the entire
conversation from start to finish.