webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/tex/Ch-073.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-49-cracked}{%
\section{Chapter 49: Cracked}\label{chapter-49-cracked}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``They who first look at the sun will never see aught else.''}

-- Helikean saying
\end{quote}

It was just steel. There must have been thousands of longswords just
like it in Iserre alone, decently crafted but nothing extraordinary. It
was the work of some smith somewhere, not an enchanter or legendary
artisan, so there was nothing to that sword that should allow it to cut
into the likes of Twilight's Crown. Except, of course, that it was Saint
of Swords of wielded it. Tabard trailing behind her, the old heroine
crossed the room in three smooth strides and her sword arced down
beautifully: the strike was like flowing water. And hit something that
shouldn't have been there, a subtle glamour broken when Laurence de
Montfort's blow scythed straight through the gargoyle that'd thrown
itself in the way. The Tyrant of Helike cackled, high-pitched and
delighted, but the Saint's blow carved through the stone construct and
continued through and into the crown. I thought, as I watched the edge
of the steel bite through chalcedony and mother-of-pearl, that if not
for the for the gargoyle it would have gone straight through. Yet the
Tyrant's stage trick had tainted what would have otherwise been a clear
blow, and so instead the Saint's sword cut halfway through the Twilight
Crown before it stopped.

Not even a heartbeat of stillness reigned over the room before a torrent
of power tore out.

Everyone here had been in a scrap or two, so the raging tendrils of
sorcery that went out did not score a kill the way they might have with
less experienced Named. Reflex had me half-stepping to the side, still a
swordswoman picking her distance for all my lack of sword, and dusk-like
power howled through a bare few feet to my side. More importantly,
having been close to the initial burst the Saint had been forced to
retreat or see herself run through by a tendril. More than one, even,
for a handful of howling streaks chased her even as she retreated, never
slowing nor missing a step. Had her attack awoken something in the
crown, some shard of sapience? A flicker of a look to the side instead
showed me a hard-faced Rogue Sorcerer with his hands outstretched and
his long coat fluttering in unnatural breeze, guiding the sorcery with
sharp gestures.

``Treachery,'' the Tyrant of Helike gleefully hooted. ``Treachery most
foul!''

With great flourish he presented his left palm, allowing one of the
chittering gargoyles in attendance to place down a wand of what looked
like pure gold on it.

``Cat?'' Indrani calmly asked, eyes on the Saint of Swords.

She was ducking and weaving, for now, driven back by the Sorcerer's
trick. But it'd be temporary. I wouldn't trust means that feeble to hold
back Archer for long, and Laurence de Montfort was her superior in
several ways.

``Don't kill her,'' I said. ``Unless it puts you at risk not to.''

``Gotcha,'' Indrani nonchalantly said.

In a whisper of boots on stone she slipped into the fray, the maelstrom
of unleashed energies that had yet to ebb in the slightest. I'd expected
the crown to either keep bleeding like a stuck pig or translate the
wound into a single punishing torrent of power, but it wasn't indulging
any of my expectations. It seemed almost like the lashing sorcery
\emph{was} the wound itself, thrashing about the room in some kind of
eldritch pain. A nudge from Andronike had my gaze lingering on the side
of the cut Laurence's sword had made, a sliver of Night sharpening my
sight. Ah. So it \emph{was} eating into the rest of the crow, shaving
through a sliver at a time. It was simply slow and little at a time,
though if we didn't settle this mess for too long we'd still be in
trouble. The Tyrant's wand proved to be an artefact of some power, a
heartbeat later, as he aimed it towards the Saint and spoke an idle
word: streak of brilliant lightning went out, forking around an
approaching Archer and striking at the Saint from both sides. Undaunted,
Laurence de Montfort \emph{parried} one streak and smoothly ducked
beneath the other. Just in time for Indrani's boot to catch her in the
chin, sending her sprawling back. Three streaks of twilight-stuff,
guided by the Sorcerer, snapped out at the falling heroine. One would
have punctured her throat, by my reckoning, but Roland redirected it
towards her shoulder instead at the last moment and that was room enough
for the Saint to manoeuvre: she twisted on herself, allowing one of the
streaks to hit her flank and using the pressure to adjust her fall out
of the way of the other two.

She landed in a crouch, slapped aside Indrani's follow-through strike
with the flat of her blade and brutally backhanded Archer. I sucked in a
breath, but Indrani had scrapped with Laurence before. She slid back,
parried a probing blow by the Saint and adjusted her angle of attack to
make the most of the support the Sorcerer was still providing. She'd
make it through this, I told myself. I couldn't even hold it against
Roland not to have put an end to this fight right out of the gate, not
truly. The Saint had been a respected elder and ally until not so long
ago, and even though she'd done so treacherously she was only going
through with the fate he'd himself advocated for the Twilight Crown. A
glance told me Kairos already had another artefact in hand, some sort of
jeweled silver arrow, and was preparing to throw it like he was playing
darts in a tavern. Yet it was the last of us whose reaction I was most
dreading to look upon, and my eyes finally turned to the Grey Pilgrim. I
hid a grimaced. The Peregrine looked as if he'd aged twenty years in the
last twenty heartbeats, and given his age that led him at least one foot
into the grave. His face had gone ashen, his footing unsure, and if he'd
still had his staff I was certain he'd be leaning on it for support. He
had, I thought, genuinely not seen this coming. Neither had I, though
that'd been more because I'd expected the Pilgrim to seem more worried
if it was a possibility and he hadn't been. I could almost hear my
father chiding me for relying on second-hand knowledge without having
contingencies in place accounting for it being false.

``Pilgrim,'' I said.

He did not reply, eyes clouded as he watched the Saint of Swords
cleverly snap out of Indrani's longknives out of her grasp, catch it
with her free hand and smash the pommel into Archer's cheek. A moment
later the Tyrant's strange arrow struck at her with a keening sound, and
though she flicked her blade back in time to cut through it barely
helped: at the moment of impact, the arrow broke and a dozen sharp darts
of wind exploded out. Maybe half hit the Saint's flank, scoring blood if
no deep wound, though that didn't hurt her half as much as Indrani's
other blade cutting halfway through her thumb and snatching back the
stolen longknife.

``\emph{Pilgrim},'' I said more loudly. ``This is not the time to sink
into yourself, Tariq. Whatever grief you might hold, how many lives is
it worth?''

That shook him out, enough his blue eyes turned to me.

``The crown is wounded,'' he said.

``So I'd gathered,'' I flatly said.

``You do not understand,'' Tariq said. ``The wound is permanent. It is
part of the crown, now. And it will kill whoever bears it.''

\emph{Shit}, I thought.

``This from your Choir?'' I pressed.

``Yes,'' he tightly said.

\emph{Shit}, I thought once more, with feeling. I wasn't going to return
for a sermon at the House of Light anytime soon, but in current
situation I was willing to take the Ophanim to their word. We'd be
killing whoever ended up putting it on, which disqualified Indrani from
his discussion of succession as far as I was concerned. I'd already had
enough close calls with death that I suspected I'd run out of ways to
cheat it, and if I croaked it here too many things fell apart. That left
who, the Sorcerer or the Pilgrim? It'd have to be Roland, I grimly
thought. Much as he'd been growing on me, if the Grey Pilgrim died here
the storm that'd follow would be massive. It was an ugly thought,
turning on someone who'd been becoming a true ally, but what other
choice was there? \emph{Indrani}, the thought came. I felt a sharp well
of disgust at myself, both for her name having come to me at all and
then my refusal to entertain it. Was it not rank hypocrisy, to demand
this sacrifice from strangers while denying even thought of it when it
came to my own? There'd been more than one reason villainy came easier
to me than the other side's works.

``It will have to be me,'' the Grey Pilgrim said.

Night preserve me from godsdamned \emph{heroes}. It wasn't a righteous
sacrifice it you screwed the people you were allegedly doing it for, it
was just vanity.

``No,'' I bluntly said. ``Don't be a fucking fool. Now, would you help
us contain the Saint before someone gets killed?''

The Tyrant had, while we spoke, thrown a javelin of red coral at
Laurence. Poorly, for his arm was trembling and it was dubious he'd ever
trained his body, so it flew errantly and skittered against the ground
-- where it blew up into a storm of fire, a solid ten feet to the side
of anyone else in the room. The Saint leapt through the flames,
apparently deciding to take advantage the opportunity to shake her
pursuit, but Kairos already had tossed out a large opaque orb of glass
and it caught her in the belly as she went through. It broke against her
and smoke poured out as words boomed out in the tradertongue, the smoke
solidifying and trying to bind her limbs.

``Laurence,'' the Grey Pilgrim called out, but his call was drowned out
by the booming tradertongue harangue.

For a moment I wondered if Kairos had planned it that way, before
dismissing the motion. Though it was possible, in truth it hardly
mattered if it was. I reached for the Night, wove a globe of it and sent
it spinning forward. Though it'd do no harm to anyone, it swallowed the
words that'd come from the orb like a pit of darkness swallowing even
the sound of falling. Unfortunately it also took the smoke bindings with
the rest, which I'd not meant for it to do in the slightest. Kairos
protested, though I ignored him.

``\emph{Laurence},'' the Grey Pilgrim repeated. ``Desist now, while you
still can.''

``Better dead than kneeling to the dark,'' the Saint of Swords snarled.
``Do your-``

The cold beam of Light struck her in the chest before she even finished
speaking, and I almost let out a whistle. I'd felt that, the
\emph{rippling} of it in the air. The Peregrine was finally done fucking
around, it seemed. The side of her chest a ruin of burned flesh, the old
heroine swallowed a scream and slid across the stone floor. Already the
Grey Pilgrim was crafting fresh strikes of Light, while Archer ran
towards our opponent with five streaks of twilight-stuff guided by the
Sorcerer following hidden behind her. The Tyrant had a handful of
gargoyles before him presenting artefacts for him to wield like a pack
of chittering wee sommeliers surrounding an Alamans prince with choice
vintages. With the Pilgrim having been moved to act, the balance of this
scrap was sharply on our side. But was it, I suddenly wondered,
\emph{too} sharply on our side? The crown was still falling apart,
sliver by sliver, so we had to end this. Yet if this began a lone
principled heroine standing against a band of five that was mostly
villains\ldots{}

``Give up, Saint,'' the Tyrant of Helike drawled. ``Our victory is
inevitable. You might even say that, in a manner of speaking, we are
invin-''

``\emph{Kairos},'' I screamed. ``Don't you fucking dare-''

``-vincible,'' the Tyrant finished in a cackle. ``Submit to Below and
you may yet be spared, do-gooder.''

It wasn't anything as obvious as Laurence de Montfort suddenly finding
all her wounds had been healed, or a lightshow of power being shoved
into her tired frame. Yet, just like that, as she was dragged by Kairos'
latest bout of treachery onto the path of a story the Saint of Swords
stood a little straighter. Her eyes sharpened, her footing grew more
assured.

``Archer, retreat-'' I yelled.

But it was too late. Indrani's first blade extended as her whole arm
outstretched and she place the point of her longknife at the Saint's
back with blinding quickness. Just not quite quick enough. Laurence took
a half-step to the side, letting her pass, and cut off her arm the
wrist. She would have flicked the blade a second time and taken Archer's
head, if not for the Sorcerer's quick divesting of twilight-streaks
forcing her to withdraw a step back. The Pilgrim's gleaming Light caught
her a moment later, but with hard eyes she carved right through and
leapt up. The Tyrant and I struck at the same time, his green jade baton
sending out a swarm of green insects at the Saint as I wove Night into
dense flecks and sent them out at her. But it was like, I realized,
tossing logs into a fire. The insects -- each one made of jade, I only
then caught -- found a cut in the air that warded their approach save
for those that impacted it and found themselves cut through. I'd formed
four flecks of Night and the Saint almost contemptuously cut through
only one, though at exactly the right time for the detonation that
ensued to catch the other three. Her right boot landed on the Rogue
Sorcerer's face a moment later and he went down like a sack of beets
from the hit. Hells, that'd gone south in a hurry. Unlike the heroes and
possibly even myself, Kairos had to know that the Saint would kill him
in a heartbeat if she could. So why would he throw the fight this way?

I glanced at the Tyrant of Helike and found his gaze, half of it red as
fresh blood, resting on my ebony staff. Kairos grinned when I caught
him, utterly unrepentant. I found myself wishing I'd succeeded at
cutting his throat instead of blackening his eye. The Pilgrim had chosen
to prevent Indrani bleeding out instead of pursuing the offensive, to my
relief, and as she held her severe hand to the stump with gritted teeth
one of the greatest living healers of Calernia began to put it all back
together. Good. Archer might make it back into the fight, I just needed
to use Kairos and my own talents to hold until we could turn this
around. The Saint should be coming for either of us by now. As it
happened, Laurence de Montfort rose from the smooth crouch she'd landed
in after tumbling past the unconscious Sorcerer. She glanced at me,
calmly, and then her gaze swept the rest of the room. It came to rest on
the crown, and without a word she ignored us and went straight for it.
Oh Hells. It might be, I knew, that finishing the cut would only break
this realm and spare us all either death or bargain.

Or it might mean the death of hundreds of thousands.

``Slow her,'' I ordered the Tyrant.

My tone was harsh enough he did not argue. The unpleasant truth was that
I did not have the means to contain someone like Laurence de Montfort.
Every trick left in my arsenal derived from the patronage of Sve Noc,
whose blood-drenched path to apotheosis made the exact kind of power
that someone like the Saint of Swords had been meant to put down. Maybe
if I'd been quick enough to think of it earlier all of us save Archer
could have let ourselves be `beaten' and she could have duelled the
Saint with something close to even footing. But at this point trying to
use numbers to bring her down was effectively using the same tactics
that'd led a horde of devils to swarm this very heroine barely an hour
ago. The result back then had been providing the Saint of Swords with a
lot of bodies to cut, and I had no reason to believe this would go any
differently. I couldn't contain her or defeat her, and maybe if I had
longer I might be able to figure out another way to get this done but I
didn't have the time. So either I bent, and let her toss the dice with
the lives of three great armies and most of Iserre besides.

That, or I killed her.

Breathing out, I began to limp forward even as Kairos tossed priceless
old artefacts in the Saint's way like they were apple cores. My staff I
raised, and abandoned the delusion that it had ever been one. Night
roiled and the ebony fell to ash, leaving behind only a sword in a
scabbard. The latter was an ornate thing, unlike most I'd borne in my
time. Carved obsidian, depicting the tale of the fool girl who'd made
accord with the Night. The blade had not once unsheathed waited within
as my fingers tightened around the scabbard. Its long handle was onyx
and amethyst, stones chosen for one's facility in holding power and the
other's aptitude for bridging the mortal and the divine through
communion. Kairos had, against all odds, succeeding at expending enough
of his inherited trove of treasures to force the Saint to step back. She
still stood by the throne's side, some sort of shining panels of sorcery
standing between her and the crown, but my advance drew her eyes went to
me. My hobbling had taken me ahead of all the others, and at my approach
she smiled a hard smile.

``A duel, is it?'' Laurence de Montfort said.

I lowered the scabbard to my side, right hand gripping the grip.

``Stand down,'' I said, offering once last chance. ``Stand down, and we
can still end this with words instead of blood.''

``Some bargains compromise the very heart of what you are,'' the Saint
replied. ``You'll lose, Foundling. Call your minions back and let me end
it the way it should have been done since the start.''

I breathed out, steadied my stance.

``You're mortal,'' Laurence de Montfort sharply said.

``So are you,'' I replied, and for the first time since I'd left the
Everdark I drew a sword.

I'd gathered Night for months in preparation of this moment, not a
single mote of it anybody's but my own. This was a prayer, after all,
not a ritual. I was making an appeal to Sve Noc, and sacrificing power
so that a miracle might be granted. And so, when my sword cleared the
scabbard, it was revealed to have no blade. Night pulsed all around us,
a living and breathing thing.

\emph{One.}

``What have you done?'' the Saint asked.

\emph{Two.}

``Nothing,'' I honestly replied.

\emph{Three.}

``Do you think I'll not strike you for being unarmed?'' the Saint
snarled.

\emph{Four, five, six,} I counted as she spoke, and she stiffened with
the last. It was close, then. I'd wondered how long she would last. I
touched me too, but Gods forgive me the touch was lighter than I'd
believed it would be. The Dead King, it seemed, might have been
terrifyingly correct. The Saint took a step forward, and I almost spoke
but instead I close my mouth. It would not do to monologue, would it?
Not when the end was close. I watched her skin tighten, grow sallow, I
watched her limbs weaken and finally she fell down. A moment later and
she was dead. Struck down without a trace. It had, from the beginning to
the end, taken eleven heartbeats.

And so in the heart of the prayer I had made, eleven years had passed.

I'd always known that I couldn't beat the Saint of Swords in a fight.
What kind of a fool would fight a heroine forged of war through that
which had forged her? No, I'd heeded the lessons of my years under the
Black Knight and slain her through one of the few things the Heavens did
not protect their chosen from: the passage of time. I let another
heartbeat pass, simply to be sure, and only then did the Night's touch
upon this broken realm withdraw.