webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/out/Ch-023.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-15-bestowal}{%
\chapter{Bestowal}\label{chapter-15-bestowal}}



\epigraph{``Most live out their days on an isle of vapid ignorance, shying
away from the dark and hungry waters that surround it. To seek power is
to brave the tides, but one who does should not expect to see those
shores again.''}{Translation of the Kabbalis Book of Darkness, widely attributed to
the young Dead King}



I forced myself back to my feet. This was too close to kneeling for my
tastes. The movement came easier than I'd thought, easier than it
\emph{should} have -- whatever he had done with the ice, it had
strengthened me. For however long it would last. Fae gifts were
notoriously fickle things. The King was carving his bauble of ice, ivory
knife shaving off one sliver after another another. The sound was almost
deafening, in the silence that had grasped this world. I made my way to
the edge one step after another, almost slipping as I sat down. My bare
hand held onto the ice and I managed to settle by his side without
tumbling down into the waters, pushing down a groan of pain. The ruler
of Winter casually allowed another sliver of ice to fall down,
indifferent to my struggles. I opened my mouth, then closed it. I'd
stood before entities as powerful as this one before, but for once I was
entirely unsure what to say. Not cowed, perhaps, but so aware of the
current frailty of my existence I might as well be.

``You did well with Auster,'' the King said.

I could still hear echoes to his voice that had me cringing, but it was
not as brutal as it had been easier. I wasn't seeing things instead of
hearing words, at least. Had he restrained himself, or was I getting
used to it? The second thought almost had me shiver. Some changes could
only come at a price.

``First time killing a Duke,'' I croaked. ``Wouldn't recommend it.''

My throat was scraped a little too raw to manage flippancy properly,
sadly. My attempt at humour fell flat -- looking at the King's face for
too long hurt my eyes, but from what I glimpsed there was no trace of
amusement.

``Larat believed you would avoid the tale entirely,'' the King said.
``But he is a creature of war, mine own Hound of Winter. One does not
rely on the Prince of Nightfall to trace the path ahead.''

The lack of depth perception probably didn't help his case, I thought,
and the almost chuckle that escaped me set my lungs aflame. \emph{Gods},
that was not a pleasant feeling. I needed to get run through less often.

``You backed me in a corner,'' I said.

``And this offends you?'' the King of Winter said, sounding amused for
the first time. ``Submission is ever the lot of the weak. If you would
rage at anything, rage at your own impotence.''

I hacked out a mocking laugh along with what might just have been a
chunk of my lung. The bit of flesh stained my lips red as I spat it out,
like rouge paid for in blood.

``I'm not,'' I said. ``Impotent. Wouldn't be here if I was. You need
something from me.''

``Ah, mortals,'' the creature fondly said. ``Always you seek to bargain
until the very last breath. Your kind is a wonder.''

I'd always believed, deep down, that if I ever met a god it would be
about this condescending. I was darkly pleased to be proved right.

``I already took what I need,'' I said.

``You took what I allowed,'' the King replied. ``Do not mistake
allowance for triumph.''

Even with the clarity the ice had forced on me, I was exhausted. It had
taken every scrap of what I had to get me through the fight with the
Duke taking only three lethal wounds -- never before had I ever spent
that much power so quickly. His power had not made me better, not
really: it just felt like I was too tired to sleep. If I'd been having
this conversation with Heiress I would have called what was being said
posturing, but what need did the fucking King of Winter have to posture
with me? He could end me with a thought. He was in a league so far above
my own even trying to grasp the difference between us might kill me.
\emph{And Ranger fights things like this for sport.} Merciless Gods,
what kind of monsters had Black gathered under his banner?

``I'm too close to the grave to play this game properly,'' I said. ``I
lied my way to a claim. Are you going to deny me?''

He laughed. It sounded like wind against dead branches, like blood
freezing inside a still-beating heart. I could feel the bones in my neck
creak, feeling so fragile a single snap would break them.

``This is Winter, Catherine Foundling,'' he said. ``You own what you
kill.''

``Then you'll stop attacking Marchford?'' I asked.

``That purpose has already been served,'' the King said. ``We are now
part of the dream you call Callow.''

And that settled that. I'd achieved what I'd set out to achieve, though
I knew there'd be a price coming. It left an unpleasant taste in my
mouth, the way this had all gone down. I'd been played since the
beginning by something so much more dangerous than me that there was no
retaliation I could deal out. The leverage I'd thought I had was enough
to keep me alive, but nothing more -- and pushing it would likely get me
killed. I sat there next to a god, and prepared to make a mistake. I'd
once thought that Masego's need to always be exact was because he was
the Apprentice, but that wasn't entirely true. He'd had that tendency
before he became the Apprentice, I now believed. Archer had led me to
the greater truth: Named, whatever their Name, were \emph{more}. We were
larger in everything, and when we grew our flaws grew as well. Urges
that had been ignorable when we were mortal no longer were. Black would
always seek victory regardless of the costs, Archer would always indulge
in what appealed to her and me? I'd once thought it was my reckless
streak that had grown into the flaw that would get me killed, but that
wasn't quite right. It was that the part of me that would have been able
to bite its tongue was long buried. My mouth opened, knowing I was about
to commit a blunder. Because this wretch of a god had killed some of my
people, and I could not let that go unanswered.

``You killed my men,'' I said. ``When you sent your fae into my city.''

``Your men would have died,'' he said. ``What does it matter, that it
was my doing or that of time?''

``You robbed them of the life they could have lived,'' I replied through
gritted teeth. ``You \emph{took} from them. A debt is owed.''

``Their existence weighed less than wind,'' the King said. ``Nothing can
be taken from nothing.''

``This is not a bargain, King of Winter, it's an \emph{oath},'' I
hissed. ``One day, we'll meet again. Not tomorrow, not next month, not
for decades. After your game's played out. After I've learned to kill
gods. On that day, I'll come to collect.''

``Will you?'' he wondered.

It did not even take a heartbeat. Instantaneous would have been wrong
still -- it had always been the case that the water in my eyes was
frozen. I felt blood running down the side of my face that should not be
feeling anything at all. My bad leg, the one that still limped when I
tired, twisted and broke with a sound like dead wood snapping. I heard
the whistle of wind, more deafening than a hundred thousand horns, and
after a flare of pain that dragged me to the edge of unconsciousness I
heard nothing at all. I choked on my own tongue as frost spread over my
skin, robbing me of the last of my senses.

``If I were a prince,'' the King told me, ``I would be the Prince of
Bleak Solstice. Some of that remains even under the Deadwood Crown.''

I was a prisoner in my own body, the only sensation left to me the
feeling of his fingers tipping up my chin.

``I could inflict on you every pain you've ever felt and some you cannot
even conceive of,'' he said idly. ``But you are of no use to me broken.
One of those flitting around is quite enough.''

His thumb ran its way up my cheek until it rested under my eye, and his
other hand came to match it on the other side.

``You are in need of a reminder, Catherine Foundling,'' he said, ``of
the difference between bravery and ignorance.''

The King clucked his tongue.

``No, not the eyes,'' he said. ``Yours are too dull to make a fitting
ornament. Something, perhaps, a little more pointed.''

He withdrew from my face and the relief lasted for barely a moment
before I felt his hand tear through my chest. I screamed soundlessly as
his fingers closed around my beating heart, ripping it out like he was
picking lint from cloth. The sorcery that had blanketed my senses lifted
like a veil, leaving me on my feet with the King standing in front of
me. I could see my heart in one hand, frozen black and solid. In the
other was the bauble he'd been making out of ice, now a perfect carving
of the moon. He thrust it where my heart had been, flesh closing around
it as he withdrew and it began beating.

``I recognize you as heiress to the Duke of Violent Squalls,'' he said.
``Made by prophecy, heirloom and the word of a king. Your inheritance,
claimed by rite of blood, is confirmed.''

I gasped for air, feeling the blood in my veins cooling further with
every passing moment.

``Catherine Foundling,'' he said. ``I name you Duchess of Moonless
Nights. I grant you the seat of Marchford, and on these sacred grounds
claim your fealty.''

My surroundings ebbed away, replaced by deep and bottomless darkness. I
stood there unmoving, seeing only the dark-skinned king and the
blood-red sap dripping onto his brow from his wooden crown.

``I demand no fidelity and offer no respite,'' the King of Winter
laughed. ``I demand no faith and offer no protection. I give you slight
and deceit, I receive hatred and betrayal. The Court of Winter receives
you as one of its own, `till your last desperate breath clawing at the
dark.''

Power pulsed in my chest, spreading through my veins. I felt the third
part of my soul, the missing aspect I had yet to forge, fill with
something old and too large to comprehend.

``I stand by my oath, dead thing,'' I rasped. ``Before my days are done
\emph{I will see you unmade}.''

``Then you are a Duchess of Winter in truth,'' the King grinned, teeth
like stolen moonlight. ``I charge you with the defeat of Summer,
Catherine Foundling. I charge you with the making of \emph{peace},
exacted from the battlefield.''

He leaned forward.

``You have six times the coming of your title, or your heart is forever
mine,'' he said.

Hands rose to my face again, to my eyes.

``Now sleep,'' he said, ``and \emph{dream}.''

Fingers pulled down my pupils and darkness took me.

---

Dawn does not exist, then it does.

I see two cities and two lands around them. One is made of plenty,
orchards of fruitful trees and fields of green. Juice runs down the chin
of children as they bite into peaches, playing under the sun by pale
walls. Colours for which there are no names yet fill half the world,
proud lords and ladies clustering at the feet of a crowned and faceless
silhouette. In its gaze is Summer, the heat that burns and hangs in the
air like vapour. The other land is ice and illusion, and there nothing
grows. Wind howls and creatures die under knives of obsidian, the warmth
of their blood staining lips and chasing away, for a single blessed
moment, the cruel bite of the chill. There the games of the children are
vicious, for victory can only come from the defeat of others. At the
heart of a maze, lords and ladies with smiles treacherous cluster at the
feet of a crowned and faceless silhouette. In its gaze is Winter, the
cold that that devours and leaves only absence behind.

War does not exist, then it does.

The hungry reach for the bounty of the full and this brings strife, as
their taking is not gentle and this offence cannot go unanswered.
Clarion calls make the sky shudder, for the host of Summer is a thing of
might. They come in silk and steel, red pennants stirring in the wind
like the promise of blood to come. Where they go noon follows,
relentless and unforgiving as its heralds. Winter is not announced. It
creeps like a snake in the dark, a slithering host of shades and clawed
things that \emph{want}, want until it hollows them out. They wear dead
things and wield sharpness torn from the ground, eyes covetous under the
blanket of night. None are valiant in the dark but all are desperate.
\emph{Justice}, the hooves of white winged horses thunder as they take
flight. \emph{More}, the blue-eyed things on horned horses whisper back,
slender lances glinting. There are cries and screams. The moon falls,
burnt black, and as it breaks the world Summer triumphs.

Noon spreads across two lands. Nothing is left of the hungry but ashes,
trampled contemptuously. Ice melts away, leaving behind bleak black
earth. The world is made a festival and Summer prospers, ripening again
and again. The proud grow ever prouder, until the first fruit spoils.
The sun does not rest and the land buckles under it. Pride turns to
arrogance and under red pennants lords and ladies spill blood, turning
on each other. Only one can have most, and none have ever tasted defeat.
The land is scorched but there is no relief, for Summer advances and
does not know retreat. The red haze hangs in the air like sickness as
stomachs go from full to bursting like the fruits gone overripe, fire
and steel claiming all until only the crowned and faceless silhouette
remains. It remains seated on the throne as yellow leaves and roots
claim the world, facing the sun until only a seared carcass remains.

This is the truth of Summer: everything burns out.

Green sprouts from bleak black earth, and from this harvest a city
grows. Spring has come. In the other land yellow turns to orange and
brown, leaves falling to the ground as the land is finally freed from
agony. Autumn has come. From those remains grows a city, feeding on what
little there is to offer. One land grows to plenty, the other dies a
slow death. The sun rises, ice spreads.

The story comes again.

The hungry reach for the bounty of the full and this brings strife, as
their taking is not gentle and this offence cannot go unanswered.
Clarion calls ring out, but they are silenced. The serpent slithers into
the heart of Summer, offering peace and hidden fangs even as its hunger
sharpens behind honeyed words. Poison spreads in the blood and champions
die, for not even the mighty can overcome the many soft deaths of
Winter. When the host of Summer comes it is gaping and limping, fresh to
a war that came unannounced. \emph{Justice}, the hooves of white winged
horses thunder as they take flight. The shades laugh as they devour
them. \emph{More}, they whisper back to the dead. The mighty die slow
among their red pennants, striking at smoke and mirrors as snow begins
to blanket the world. The sun grows ever paler until it falls from the
sky, shattering as it breaks the world and Winter triumphs.

Night spreads across two lands. Proud corpses are clawed to bloody bone
as the host clad in death and theft spills forth. Juicy peaches are
ripped from trees and bitten into as the trees that bore them wither and
die. Ice snakes across once-green fields made bare by the hungry. Winter
feeds, feeds until it can almost understand fullness. It is not enough.
Pale and gloried walls are torn down, pennants drained of colour until
all is bare and empty and still the host \emph{wants}. There is less and
less while there are still many so vicious games are made ever more
vicious for in the end there will be only one mouthful left, and only
one mouth to devour it. The night deepens and desperation does with it,
as bleak winds and starvation take what murder and betrayal does not.
Not even feeding off each other is enough. Then only the crowned
silhouette on the throne remains, unmoving in the cold as it tries to
feel something, \emph{anything} and dies an empty husk.

This is the truth of Winter: we all die alone.

The cold turns on itself and a remnant of a remnant frees itself from
the ground, green sprouting from the bleak black earth. From this
harvest a city grows, for Spring has come. In the land that was once
Summer, the bare bones of what was once plenty are gnawed on. A city of
the dying forms around the little turning to nothing, for Autumn shapes
itself out of the coming of absence.

The story comes again. In the end, there is no end.

---

I wasn't sure exactly when I crossed the boundary from sleep to
wakefulness. There was no transition, no burst of awareness. I was not
awake, then I was. The thought had me shivering. I was under quilt, in a
bed more rough than soft, and wearing clothes I didn't remember putting
on. I rose to a seat and found myself surrounded by bare stone walls
that were somewhat familiar. There were sounds coming from outside, but
one closer: in a corner of the room, slumped in a chair, Hakram was
snoring. \emph{Marchford}, I realized. \emph{I'm back.}

``Catherine?''

I glanced at the door as Adjutant jerked awake at the noise. Masego was
at the threshold, looking somewhere in the middle of relieved and
worried. I brushed back my hair absently.

``So,'' I said, ``There's now a god on my murder list. Someone be a dear
get me a drink -- it's going to be a rough few months.''