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\hypertarget{interlude-kaleidoscope-iv}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Kaleidoscope IV}\label{interlude-kaleidoscope-iv}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-kaleidoscope-iv}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Kaleidoscope IV}

\epigraph{``And so Dread Emperor Irritant addressed the heroes thus: Lo and
behold, I fear not your burning Light, for I am already on fire.''}{Extract from Volume IX of the official Imperial Chronicles}



Abigail was beginning to reconsider her position on tanning being an
acceptable vocation. Sure, the smell was horrible and they made you live
outside city walls. Pay wasn't that good, and good luck trying to get
anywhere without joining a guild that'd squeeze you on fees. On the
other hand, she mused, the average tanner did not usually have to deal
with fifteen thousand angry crusaders howling for their blood\emph{. I
probably shouldn't have gotten sauced and insulted the entire family
before leaving}, she decided. \emph{Now even if I come crawling on my
knees they'll make me marry a cousin before taking me back.}

``I just can't do it,'' Tribune Abigail of Summerholm sighed. ``They all
look like ferrets.''

``Ma'am?'' Captain Krolem asked.

``We have to win this one, Captain,'' she told the orc solemnly.
``There's a lot riding on it.''

``For the honour of the Black Queen,'' the orc growled approvingly.

``Yes,'' Abigail lied. ``That is exactly what I meant.''

The queen could stab her way to an honourable reputation on her own, as
far as the woman was concerned, but telling greenskins shit like that
was never good politics. It wasn't quite as bad as someone badmouthing
the Carrion Lord -- or, as this was known within the Army of Callow,
\emph{suicide by stupidity} -- but orcs tended to be touchy about Queen
Catherine's reputation. She'd had drinks with a Taghreb once who'd
explained it to her, and what she'd gotten out of the man was that
greenskins had a great big cultural boner for people that were good at
killing. And Hells, no one ever said the Black Queen didn't have a
talent for that.

``Rotation, Captain Krolem,'' she said, eyes scanning her frontline.
``We're tiring.''

The Hellhound had, in her great wisdom, decided that the four thousand
men under Nauk Princekiller were enough to kick an entire enemy column
in the balls. The tribune wasn't all that fond of the Marshal of Callow,
who was rumoured to eat people who got sloppy with kit maintenance, but
she had to concede this wasn't going as fucking horribly wrong as she'd
expected when the enemy had advanced. For one, compared to Summer fae
and wights the levies were godsdamned pushovers. It was
\emph{incredibly} refreshing to fight people that didn't keep attacking
after you hacked an arm off. Captain Krolem sounded the whistle around
his neck and the twenty soldiers at the front of her cohort withdrew, a
fresh line taking their place. The crusaders didn't have fancy
manoeuvres like that. When they got tired they just died, thank the
Gods. Her eyes flicked to the sides and she grimaced.

The crusaders had wasted the better part of an hour getting in battle
formations before attacking, but what had struck her as unnecessary
wariness was beginning to pay off. Sure, they were failing to breach the
shield wall, but the flank to the west was a problem. General Nauk had
left a full kabili of one thousand floating out there to prevent easy
flanking, but the crusaders had the numbers to keep going around even
after engaging those. The only reason the host hadn't been enveloped yet
was\ldots{} A horn sounded, and Abigail kissed her mailed fist in thanks
to the Gods Above. Retreat to the next line, at last. It was the third
time the general called for one, and they gave more ground every time.
Abigail figured at some point the entire army would just fucking leg it,
and it couldn't come soon enough.

``In good order, soldiers,'' she called out. ``Anyone falls out of line
and I'll drown them in the marsh myself.''

It was going well, she thought. Better than she could have reasonably
hoped for.

``NAMED,'' a legionary called out.

It fucking figured.

---

It was like trying to break a stone with a wooden hammer, Captain Pierre
Dulac thought as he strode over the corpses of his fellow fantassins. It
left a mark, but the hammer tended to break and considering his company
was the hammer of this tortured metaphor this was not a pleasant state
of affairs. The Brabantine had heard stories about the Legions of
Terror, how they'd swept aside the armies of Callow effortlessly, but
he'd always believed them to be exaggerated. They'd had twenty years to
swell, after all, and he was not unacquainted with how evenings at
taverns made yarns grow ever more vivid. After the first time he'd lost
thirty of his finest trying to break through the enemy shield wall,
however, he'd had to swallow his old opinions. The heathens fought as
hard as the devils they bargained with. Horns sounded in the distance
and the Army of Callow moved as a single living creature, retreating at
a measured pace as balls of flame bloomed in the sky and began raining
down on Proceran lines.

Pierre put his shield over his head and knelt, waiting for the rain to
pass. A man to his left was a little too slow to bring up his own shield
and sorcerous flame struck his face, searing flesh and muscle in the
blink of an eye. The fantassin squinted. New recruit, he was pretty
sure, some Segovian second son who'd enrolled to seek his fortune. The
poor fucker should have listened, when his mother told him fortune was a
fickle bitch.

``On your feet, men of Procer,'' a voice rang out.

The captain obeyed before he even realized what he was doing. The man
who'd spoke was tall, and his accent in Chantant was heavy with the
thick syllables of a native Levantine. Armoured in silver, with a shield
polished until it shone like a mirror and a sword that was more radiance
than steel, the Chosen could be \emph{felt} even from ten feet away.
Like a pulse, a whisper of power bestowed by the Godss.

``The enemy retreats,'' the hero said. ``We must pursue. The Heavens
will it.''

``The Heavens will it,'' Pierre replied in a fervent whisper.

He would have formed the wings with his fingers, had he not been holding
sword and shield. With the end of the wave of fire, advance towards the
retreating legionaries was left unbarred. His company formed ranks and
advanced, the Chosen at their head, and they shouted defiance. The
humans and greenskins on the other side watched them in silence from
behind their shield wall, grimly professional. No levies, these. The
difference between soldiers trained and soldiers conscripted had been
written across the field today.

``Do not be afraid,'' the Chosen called out. ``Their dark queen is
wounded and they stand bereft of her protection. This battle will be won
by faith and courage.''

``Company, charge,'' the captain screamed. ``Honour to the Wreath!''

Shouts gave answer, the oaths of half a dozen principalities sounding
where no banners stood.

``Double pay to anyone who stabs the shiny fucker,'' a woman's voice
called out from the other side.

Pierre blinked, but had not time to spare for surprise as a moment later
his shield hit the enemy's. A massive orc, who smashed him back with
brute force. The fantassin had not survive the Great War without picking
up a few tricks, though. He went low and stabbed up, finding flesh, and
the greenskin howled in rage. Squaring up behind his shield the captain
let the creature's violent death throes bounce off wood and iron,
pushing forward before the legionary behind this one could fill the gap.
Along the line his men were like wave hitting a cliff, save for where
the Chosen led. Legionaries were smacked down like insolent children,
and those that tried to force back the hero found a sliver blur carving
through their flesh. The fantassin rocked back as a Callowan went shield
to shield with him but dug his feet. Gritting his teeth, he had to
retreat when the legionary to that one's right stabbed forward with his
sword. Another of his men took his place, and he joined the pressing
throng to look for a better opening.

``Scatter,'' a voice too deep to be human shouted.

Pierre found his gaze moving to the side, attracted by sudden movement
where the Chosen was fighting. The legionaries who'd been surrounding
the man retreated swiftly, and a moment later lightning struck. The
Brabantine's blood quickened and he blinked away the bright light,
relieved when he saw the hero stood unmarried with his shield up.
Lightning scarred the earth around him. A trail of red went up in the
sky above, some sort of munitions, and the captain grimaced. That did
not bode well. A spike of flame formed above the Chosen and hammered
down at him, but the mirror-like shield shone blindingly and the fire
blew back into the sky. The second spike, though, shook the Chosen's
stance. The third drove him back. The fourth nailed him into the ground.
Pierre hurried towards the grounds, not sure what he could do but
knowing he had to try. The fifth spike formed\ldots{} and went out.
Snuffed like a candle. By the Chosen's side a wrinkled old woman stood,
glaring up with a sword in hand. The Regicide, Pierre understood with
trembling hands. The fantassin hurried and helped the other Chosen back
to his feet as the Saint of Swords casually carved through half a dozen
legionaries with a single swing.

``What part of \emph{careful advance} did you not understand, kid?'' the
Regicide said. ``This is a battlefield, not your sister's wedding. Going
in with your dick out won't get you fucked the fun way.''

Pierre would never be so foolish to admit this out loud, but he felt a
little cheated that the first sentence he'd heard the Chosen of the
Heavens speak involved mention of dicks. It was perhaps less radiantly
heroic than he'd expected.

``I apologize for my failure, Honoured Elder,'' the Chosen still leaning
on him gasped.

``Apologize by not forcing me to drag my ass here again,'' the old woman
snorted. ``Steady this flank, sorcerers are focusing on the right.''

The Saint glanced at Pierre, who blanched, and nodded approvingly at him
before moving out in a blur. In the distance, horns sounded again and
the legionaries began to retreat. The hole the Chosen had carved into
the lines had already reformed seamlessly, and the fantassing let the
hero he'd been holding up steady his own footing.

``Again, Captain,'' the man said. ``The Heavens will it.''

``The Heavens will it,'' Captain Pierre Dulac agreed.

---

Well, at least she was still alive. Tribune Abigail rubbed at her left
eye again, pretty sure she was going to have to get that looked at by a
mage. She'd made the mistake of looking at the fucking hero when he made
his pretty little shield shine and she'd had to deal with persistent
black spots ever since. General Nauk had finally sounded what should be
the last retreat before they got the Hells out of here, so her odds of
surviving the day were looking sunny. She'd also gotten through a visit
by the Saint of Swords without losing any limbs, which had her in a good
mood. Named were like lightning: the odds of them striking at the same
place in the battle line twice were pretty low once they left. She'd
lost a quarter of her cohort when the shiny fucker had led a charge, and
not even calling for heavy mage support had gotten rid of the bastard,
but they were approaching the low earth slope the sappers had raised and
that was probably a good sign. She hoped. It wasn't like tribunes were
high up enough the ladder to be in the loop for whatever secret plans
were unfolding. The crusaders were pressing on all sides, but the
measured pace of the retreat had continued to prevent encirclement.

Still, thank the Gods the enemy didn't have cavalry.

Abigail squinted at the enemy, to her dismay finding out that the hero
from earlier was still leading the pursuit. Fuck. She'd really been
hoping that would end up being someone else's problem. Her cohort still
had two tracers to send up to request mage intervention, but for the
heavy stuff the mage lines could only hit one place at a time. If her
signal went into the sky and they were already busy, the enemy Named was
going to fuck them up.

``At least they don't fly,'' Abigail mused out loud. ``So there's
that.''

``Ma'am?'' Captain Krolem asked.

He tended to do that a lot. It was a little unsettling for an orc his
size to turn into an eager page whenever she spoke.

``Keep us at pace, Captain,'' she said. ``I'm just thinking.''

``May I ask about what?'' the greenskin said.

``Comparing this to the Arcadian Campaign,'' she said. ``Didn't fight
much at Five Armies and One, but this is about as bad as Dormer.''

The orc looked at her eagerly.

``Is it true you ripped out a fae's throat with your teeth?'' he said.

Oh Gods, the rumours kept getting worse.

``I stabbed it,'' she denied. ``Blood just sprayed into my mouth.''

Because she'd been screaming at the top of her lungs in terror at the
time, then nearly choked to death as the fae kept trying to knife her.

``Drinking the blood of your enemy is an honourable thing,'' Krolem
assured her.

Burning Hells, she'd never get used to orcs. Sometimes they were almost
like people, then they said shit like that.

``Eyes on the enemy, Captain,'' she said, retreating from the line of
conversation.

Speaking of retreats, her cohort was nearing the position they'd been
ordered to stop at. The beginning of the earthen slope snaking across
the field. Abigail glanced at it and frowned. Wasn't high or angled
starkly enough to serve as proper field fortifications. What had the
sappers been doing? Looking further back, she saw the packs of goblins
standing in companies. No longer digging. Was this the sum of the plan,
raising a second-rate hill? It was impressively long, sure, but all it
meant was that her soldiers were going to be killed with the high
ground. Pressing through the ranks to get to her, one of her lieutenants
was making her way with an urgent look on her face. Tribune Abigail went
to meet her half-way after leaving Krolem in command.

``Ma'am,'' the dark-haired Callowan saluted.

``Report,'' she ordered.

She'd sent the officer to have a look at what the goblins were up to, in
case it ended up blowing up in her face.

``Tunnels, ma'am,'' the lieutenant got out. ``They dug tunnels.''

Abigail frowned.

``To where?''

The lieutenant gestured forward.

``In that direction,'' she said. ``I couldn't tell how far, but at least
beyond our position.''

The tribune wiped sweat off her brow, though she was pretty sure she'd
smudged dirt more than wiped wetness. Tunnels, huh. What for? Her cohort
finished falling back in good order moments later, and she got her
answer. The ground shook with muted explosions, snaking across the field
until a chunk of the battlefield went up in the air. The Callowan almost
fell, but caught herself at the last minute. Dirt began to fall like
rain maybe a third into the Proceran host, and her brows rose. That
would have killed a few hundred, but it wouldn't stop them. It'd dug
some kind of trench in the ground, she saw, pretty deep and wide. Not
exactly a knock out-blow, though. Then the water from the marshlands
began pouring into the trench and Abigail of Summerholm breathed in
sharply. \emph{A river}. The Hellhound had dug a river in the middle of
an active battlefield, too broad and deep for easy crossing. And now a
third of the Proceran host was stuck on the wrong side of it. Horns
sounded, but the call was different this time. It'd been on of the first
she learned, when going through officer training.

\emph{All companies advance.}

---

``Left flank, tracer just went up,'' the human officer said.

General Nauk of the Waxing Moons did not reply, idly chewing on a
finger. He'd had one of his aides drag a corpse out of the swamp.
Bloated corpse wasn't his favourite, but it beat rations and the water
made the flesh easy to tear off the normally tricky finger bones.

``Use the Spikes,'' Legate Jwahir said. ``And keep hammering, the
Marshal handed down orders to try a kill on any hero on our side of the
river.''

Juniper of the Red Shields. The Hellhound. They had been friends once,
he thought. He could remember parts of that. Enmity too, but that only
to be expected. Nauk was certain he had not been a very good orc, even
before Summer burned away most of what he was. Licking the last scrap of
flesh and skin off the tip of the finger bone, the general swallowed.
Eyes on the battlefield before him, he savoured the taste of meat and
blood as he watched Proceran lines waver. The crusader left flank was
attempting to salvage the situation by circling around, but he'd put
most his heavies in the kabili standing in their way. It had meant more
casualties for the regulars under heroic pressure, but that was
necessary. He did not have enough men to be able to afford coddling.

``Jwahir,'' he growled.

``Sir?'' the Taghreb answered, turning to him.

``Burn them,'' he said. ``We're not lingering, not with heroes on the
prowl.''

His legate looked like she wanted to argue, but he stared at her calmly
until she flinched and gave the order. Calm came easily, these days.
Balance for all the things that did not. The old killing urge was muted,
the Red Rage burned away. Instead now he had this vicious spasm of
violence never too far from his hands. That and the hollowness, but he
had grown used to that. There was satisfaction to be found in his work,
as close to pleasure as it got. General Nauk watched as clusters of
green flames exploded in the ranks of the crusaders on the wrong side of
the river, picking at the flesh between his fangs with the finger bone.
The screams were soothing, almost as good as listening to the spasm.
He'd keep his troops in place long enough the Procerans could not
escape, then pull back to the camp as instructed. Heroes could still
bleed them, and if a commander on the other side managed to restore
order long enough to start sending soldiers around the river -- which
only went on for so long, time had forced limits -- defeat could still
happen. The world shivered.

``Sir,'' Jwahir said.

``I see it, Legate,'' he grunted.

A pair of heroes were hacking at the river with great spurts of Light,
trying to collapse a ford. He snorted, dimly amused. Might work, but
it'd take too long. Even if they didn't get exhausted before the end,
the amount of men they'd be able to spare a burning death would be
minimal. Dark eyes, one dead and one living, turned to the crusader camp
even though it was too far to see. Soon that would go up in flames as
well. Special Tribune Robber would be starting fires there, green and
otherwise. Nauk felt like she should dislike the goblin, though he
hardly remembered why. Something about a woman? Felt childish. And now
he was hungry again. His fangs crushed the finger bones and he sucked at
the marrow within, swallowing shards with it before licking his chops
clean and tossing away the remains. A great ripping sound sounded in the
distance, and the orc jolted in surprise. There was a wound in the sky,
a woman running on it. Past the enemy lines, past the goblinfire, past
his own men. Nauk's brow creased.

``Scry our mages,'' he ordered the Callowan officer. ``The rest of you,
go away.''

Legate Jwahir's lips thinned.

``Sir-''she began.

Nauk unsheathed his sword.

``Disobeying a superior officer's order had clear consequences,
Legate,'' he said. ``The army now goes in full retreat. You hold command
until told otherwise.''

The woman paled. The orc did not pay much attention as the mage officer
placed the scrying bowl in front of him on a tripod and the rest cleared
out. His eyes were on the old woman running across the sky. Heading
towards him. She flicked her sword, carving another rippling wound and
sliding down until she landed in front of him.

``You'd be the general, then,'' the Saint of Swords said.

Nauk tapped the flat of his blade against the scrying bowl's edge.

``Spike,'' he ordered.

Flame hammered down a moment later and the world became a sea of fire as
he laughed. Ah, that'd felt good. The impact had knocked him off his
feet, but he rose.

``Again,'' he called out.

The heroine carved apart the flames that bloomed above them both,
glaring at him. Another cluster was born and they both went down. Fire
licked at his hands and the Princekiller hacked out a cough. She
wouldn't die that easily. But neither would he. He'd felt harsher flames
than this. Still did, whenever he closed his eyes. Through the smoke a
shape burst out, but he was quick enough the cut that would have taken
his throat cut through his ruin of a cheek instead. Barely felt it. The
old woman eyed him contemptuously, raised her blade once more and then
hurriedly backpedalled when a long knife scythed through where her
throat had been a heartbeat earlier.

``So,'' Archer said, blades twirling in her hands in a display of
unnecessary dramatics, ``Is it me or you've gotten a little crazier?''

Nauk hacked out a laugh.

``Try to get me a slice, will you?'' he said. ``Never had heroine
before.''

``That wasn't a no,'' the woman drawled amusedly.

``You're one of Ranger's,'' the Saint of Swords interrupted.

``And you're\ldots{}'' Archer began. ``Shit, I could have sworn I knew.
Sorry, I really wasn't paying attention during that briefing. Catherine
was wearing this very flattering tunic and I was hammered like you-''

The heroine struck, but Archer danced around the blow and forced her
back with a slash that would have gone across her eyes.

``Go for a walk, Nauk,'' the brown-skinned woman said, as if she hadn't
been interrupted. ``I don't think she's happy about your setting her
minions on fire. Go figure. Some people just take things too
personally.''

``Flank meat,'' General Nauk suggested. ``Or cheek. Tender pieces.''

``Gross,'' the Named said, wrinkling her nose. ``And I've been stealing
goblin bedding for like a month, so I \emph{know} gross.''

The orc snorted, and fled to the sound of Archer beginning to expound on
the virtue of royal liquor cabinets with breakable locks as the heroine
tried to kill her.

---

Princess Rozala clenched her fingers until the knuckled turned white
around the reins. They had been so very, very close to utter and
complete victory. She'd followed the classics perfectly. A first wave of
levies to tire out the enemy infantry, followed by fantassin companies
across the line while princely retinues struck at weak points. She'd
tied down the enemy cavalry with a portion of her own, the sent the rest
to circle around to hit the back of the Army of Callow while she thinned
she extended the line of her left flank. The enemy mages had been more
than a match for her priests, but the struggle had occupied the both of
them and left her foe with no real check for the Chosen. Who'd torn into
the shield wall with remarkable alacrity, constantly forcing the
opposing commander to reinforce breaches with fresh troops. Within the
first half hour of the battle, victory was in the air. Wherever Named
struck, the Army of Callow bled men like a leaking barrel. Then her
circling cavalry had struck, and found a thin line of scorpions awaiting
them. She'd almost laughed at the sight. The wave of bolts tore bloody
swaths, but it could not stop thousands of horseman on the charge.

Then they'd fired again, barely a heartbeat having passed.

The tip of her cavalry wedges disintegrated. Men and horses died like
flies as the scorpions damnably \emph{kept firing}. The losses promised
to be brutal, but as her horsemen spread out and began to close distance
she bit down on her fury and made her peace with the trade. A higher
cost than she would have wished, but victory was coming nonetheless.
Then the goblins had wheeled out some shoddy-looking slings, and packed
munitions began to blow away whole chunks of cavalry. Her people were
valiant, many of them hardened veterans from the Great War. It took them
sixty heartbeats to break, and what should have been a triumph tipped
towards a draw. The Callowan knights, though outnumbered, broke through
the cavalry she'd sent against them after an hour of hard fighting.
Losses on both sides were\ldots{} steep. One of the few comforts of the
day, that over a third of the enemy's cavalry had died before her own
fled the field. Without the Chosen it might very well have been a
defeat. The enemy commander turned those vicious scorpions against her
fantassins, revealing that in addition to being repeating they could
also be swiftly moved by oxen.

Then the Grey Pilgrim had taken the field and radiant light carved
through the engines like a heavenly stroke. The enemy commander ordered
a retreat soon after and the legionaries withdrew in good orders,
bleeding men to heroes and skirmishers they had no answer to. But the
knights of Callow threatened to charge them, and Princess Rozala had no
choice but to order a temporary withdrawal while she sent some officers
to force back steel in the spine of her horse. After another hour she
was gathered in good order again, and ready to order another assault.
With the scorpions destroyed, her foe would break. The the sky streaked
with sorcery across the march, and she learned that the other column was
in full retreat. But a half hour later, another signal touched the sky.
Her camp had come under attack. Soon after the flames grew tall enough
she could see them even from this far out. Princess Rozala had fought a
battle, today, against twelve thousand men. She'd slain near a third of
that army, at the price of perhaps five thousand dead of her own. Yet if
she pressed the assault now, without the other column, she might very
well be assaulting a fortified position with numerical inferiority.
Gritting her teeth, she ordered a retreat back to camp.

One night. One night of rest in whatever was left of her camp, and then
with dawn she would dispose with all strategic subtlety. She would
muster her entire host, and hammer at the enemy until they broke.

---

Vivienne woke to the sound of someone pouring wine. She had a knife in
hand before her eyes opened, and she was halfway out of her chair when a
chuckle gave her pause. Thief stilled her heartbeat, meeting the former
Prince of Nightfall's lone good eye. The fae had a cup of wine in hand,
sitting at the edge of Catherine's bed. There were four mages in the
tent and over thirty of her Jacks outside, yet not a single one of them
had raised the alarm. The Callowan eyed the mages, who had neither
noticed her waking nor Larat's presence.

``Where have you been?'' she croaked out, voice still-half asleep.

The sound broke whatever glamour had kept the mages from noticing what
was going on. Their eyes widened in alarm, but Vivienne's hand rose and
they shut their mouths.

``Around,'' the fae drawled.

Instinct warred in the woman. Part of her wanted to dismiss the mages,
since this might be a conversation best kept private. Another part of
her was very much aware the nonchalant fae could kill her with a flick
of the hand and Catherine was not awake to hold his leash. The mages
might be her only chance of survival, if the fae felt inclined to
violence.

``Every word spoken in this tent is under seal,'' Thief told the mages,
choosing self-preservation with a bitter taste in the mouth.

``Precious,'' Larat smiled.

``We fought a battle, today,'' Thief sharply told him.

``And won it, I hear,'' the fae replied. ``Or at least avoided loss,
which is victory enough for the likes of you.''

``She'll have your hide, for staying out of it,'' Vivienne said, forcing
calm.

``I take no orders from mortals,'' the fae sneered.

The implication that Catherine was not one of those hung heavy in the
air. Thief's lips thinned. It might even be true, to an extent.

``Then why have you reappeared?'' she asked.

The one-eyed fae idly set down his cup on the bedside table and rose to
his feet.

``Perhaps I've decided to dispose of my shackles,'' he suggested. ``Or
merely to hack away at dead wood.''

The way he smiled at her when speaking the latter sentence sent a shiver
up her spine.

``Doubtful,'' Thief said. ``There's no Hell horrible enough for what
would happen to you if you did, and we're both aware of it. That's not
the game you're playing.''

Larat shrugged languidly, leaning against a dresser.

``Perhaps I am simply waiting,'' he said.

Vivienne frowned.

``For \emph{what}?'' she pressed.

There was a gasp and Thief wheeled about. One of the mages was staring
at the bed, where Catherine was\ldots{} well, her body was no longer
shuffling around. The woman flicked a glance at the fae, who was smiling
thinly. Amused. After a long moment, the Queen of Callow's eyes opened
and she let out a ragged sound. Rising to a sitting position on her bed,
she rubbed the bridge of her nose.

``Well,'' Catherine Foundling rasped. ``That was a thing.''

``Oh thank the Gods,'' Vivienne whispered.

Then Larat plunged his blade into her throat. Thief froze in utter
surprise, but Catherine did not. She slapped the fae across the face,
breaking his chin and teeth, and got on her feet. She took out the sword
and her throat reformed within a heartbeat. Larat began to get up, but
Cat kicked him back down and kept her bare foot on his chest. The fae
began to laugh.

``Already?'' the Queen of Callow said, and glanced at the mages still in
the tent. ``Bind him.''

She reached for the cup of wine on the bedside table, then after a sigh
withdrew the fingers. Thief's fingers clenched.

``\emph{Hold},'' she said.

The mages looked at her in surprise.

``And in wickedness doth Evil sow the seeds of its own defeat,''
Vivienne quoted, meeting Catherine's eyes.

The queen rolled her eyes.

``For barren is the womb, and certain the fall,'' she replied.

Is was, Thief knew, the correct second half of the verse from the Book
of All Things. It was also not the correct answer to this phrase. It
should have been the punchline to a truly filthy joke about sailors and
holes in the hull she'd learned while a waitress in Laure.

``Hello, Akua,'' Vivienne said.

The Queen of Callow's face went blank and immediately a long spear of
ice formed from her extended hand, the point resting on the sleeping
Hierophant's throat.

``None of you,'' Akua Sahelian said through Catherine's lips, ``are to
move or make a sound.''

The mages went still. Larat was still laughing.

``You won't,'' Thief said.

``I assure you,'' Diabolist said, ``the survival of this man is of
middling import to me.''

``You won't,'' Thief repeated, ``for the same reason you didn't drink
from that cup. You're still bound by the oaths her body took.''

Akua's eyes narrowed and her wrist flexed, but did not otherwise move.

``Clever girl,'' Catherine's lips said. ``She took an oath not to harm
any of you.''

``Moonlight,'' Thief said, and the body froze.

Passing a hand through her hair, Vivienne felt her stomach drop. This,
she thought, had just gotten a great deal more complicated.

``Bind her,'' she ordered the mages.

Larat, she noted, was still quietly laughing.