webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-069.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-reverberation}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Reverberation}\label{interlude-reverberation}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-reverberation}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Reverberation}

\epigraph{``At which point Lord Bujune and Lady Rania both accused the other
of being the Emperor in disguise, and the meeting devolved into
protracted argument until the final quarter hour had passed.''}{Extract from the minutes of the fourth meeting of the Red Fox
Conspiracy, as taken by the stenographer Shamna Mehere (later revealed
to have been Dread Emperor Traitorous all along}



``She is not permanently dead.''

Hierophant caught the withdrawing hand by the wrist. This was, he knew,
mere symbolic slant: a way for his feeble mortal mind to interpret a
complex interplay of forces it could not truly understand even as it
used them. The Dead King was not truly standing behind him. The
Wandering Bard had not stood in front, either, smiling like a well-fed
cat. And so when he squeezed the wrist of Trismegistus until the bones
\emph{broke}, it was not the strength of his grip that mattered. Only
that of his mind.

``Listen to me,'' the Dead King said. ``The Pilgrim can still resurrect
her. If I do not intervene. Do not make me intervene.''

``Can you?'' Masego asked, cocking his head to the side.

His sorcery, usurpation usurped, rose without his bidding. Like a spear
being formed from a dozen threads of magic. It was not, Hierophant
noted, the formula that would make a Revenant. But it might be that
turning Indrani into such a manner of undead would interfere with
Above's work, so it was not to be tolerated. \emph{If you can't defend},
he remembered Catherine once telling him, \emph{attack so your enemy has
to.} And so Masego did not pit his will against the Hidden Horror's
simply weaving spell with his own hands and striking at the Dead King's
presence.

Power met power, a stalemate of an instant, and then the Hierophant
truly went on the offensive.

---

Three heartbeats had passed.

On the first, young Indrani had died. With cold nonchalance the Dead
King had raised his hand, spoken a word and sent out a flickering spike
of void too swift for even the Pilgrim's eye to follow. It had ripped
through the Archer's forehead, the flesh not wounded or even vaporized
so much as\ldots{} unmade. Gone. The sorcery around the flesh was so
strongly concentrated it obscured even his sight. The warning that began
to be spoken after through the mouth of the imprisoned Hierophant, Tariq
cared little for. He'd heard many of those before and might yet hear
more -- threats presented as a warning, fear spoken calmly as if that
simple veneer changed the nature of what was being said.

On the second heartbeat Laurence, taken aback yet not beyond action, had
darted forward to catch Indrani's corpse by the back of the cloak. To
drag it out of the way of the returning sorcery the Saint had parted
with a blow of her sword, lest the Archer's body be mangled by the wild
and whirling magic. Roland finished the last syllable of the incantation
he'd begun, protective panes of translucent sorcery forming around
Indrani's body. Too late to be of use even presuming they would have
held, which the Pilgrim doubted. Tariq did need to look at the young
man's face to know it had gone ashen, burning guilt flaring at the
thought of having been too slow. A loss tied to deeper fears, fears that
Tariq could do nothing to soothe away. To meddle too much in the
conflict that lay at the heart of Bestowal was a danger to all involved,
he'd learned the hard way.

On the third heartbeat, young Indrani's corpse was unceremoniously
tossed out of the way by Laurence, sliding across the rune-covered tiles
and leaving behind a trail of wet blood. The shield around it winked
out, Roland having dismissed the working with a clenched hand, and the
other two heroes turned to the possessed warlock with hard eyes. Saint
with the intent to cut, either the boy or the infestation. The Sorcerer
with guilt-threaded determination, intent on confiscating the sorcery as
he no doubt told himself he should have done from the start. It was
these implacable twinges of conscience that always reassured Tariq the
young man was in no danger of falling into Below's embrace. Willingly,
anyway.

``- expand beyond the recoverable.''

``Hold,'' the Peregrine said.

He had not raised his voice. It resonated anyway, and the other two
stilled. The Hierophant's body half-rose, sorcery flaring, but then it
fell back down and his power seething uneasily.

``The boy's fighting it,'' Laurence said, tone holding the barest hint
of respect.

It was the closest to praise she'd ever come when mentioning any of the
Woe. Tariq gazed down at the corpse of the vivacious young woman he'd
spoken with, and for an instant wondered at coincidence. That she would
take such a risk unflinching, knowing that the opponent was the Hidden
Horror. That it would be young Indrani he was partnered with heading
into the deeps, as if to make it certain he'd know what was lost should
he stay his hand. \emph{How far ahead did you see, Catherine Foundling?}
How deep did the Black Queen's cunning truly run? It did not matter, the
Pilgrim told himself. Not so long as it was turned against their enemy,
against \emph{the} Enemy.

``There will be an opening,'' Tariq said, tone calm and patient and
unrelenting. ``And when it appears, we will strike at the Dead King with
our wroth entire.''

The Hierophant, empowered by his affections and the death of one
beloved, would throw off the Abomination's yoke for a moment. It would
be enough for the rest of them to\ldots{} A shiver went through the
room, through this warped place, and as if tugged by strings the fabric
of it began to pull inwards. Towards the Hierophant. Like silver mist,
the souls of hundreds of thousands slithered through the open bronze
gates and burrowed into the blind warlock's thin frame. Villain, the
Pilgrim remembered then. The Woe were, for all the kind intentions of
their leader, still \emph{villains}.

And their kind did not get clean victories, even against each other.

---

``You are being made use of by the Intercessor,'' the Dead King said.
``To your own detriment and that of your mistress.''

``I do not have a mistress,'' Masego said. ``In any sense of the term of
which I am aware.''

The bindings he'd wrought while half-mad were, it had to be said, a work
of art. The elegance of their structure was matched only by its
strength, far beyond any working made by his hand he could recall. He
suspected that Trismegistus might have whispered insights, though
considering he was going to end the creature it was unlikely he'd ever
know for certain. The souls poured into him, power accumulated at a
breakneck rate, though never more than he could handle. He'd made
certain of that, taking only the slightest portion before releasing the
dead to the Underworld awaiting them. It made the rate of accumulation
easier to control, and to his understanding remained legal under
Callowan law. It might be necessary, Masego mused, to secure some sort
of permit for such future ventures. He would consult Adjutant on the
subject.

``I know what she plans, Hierophant,'' the Dead King said. ``And it
would destroy all you hold dear.''

Though the warning seemed well-intended, Trismegistus simultaneously
attempted to seize enough sorcery to sever himself from Hierophant in
what was likely an attempt to flee. Masego, without batting an eye,
released all that Trismegistus would wield unshaped. Wild. Dimly, he
noted that it appeared his shoulder now had a smoking hole in it. The
physical one, anyway.

``You are dying,'' the Dead King said.

``That has been true since my birth,'' Masego reasonably pointed out.

``Your attempts to hinder my escape are killing you,'' Trismegistus
said.

``That is true,'' Hierophant agreed. ``Though I expect they'll
annihilate you first, at which point I will cease and survive while you
remain annihilated.''

Ah, Masego thought, slightly worried. Was this a monologue? He'd been
warned against those by several people.

``Given such a premise, what reason do I have not to kill us both?'' the
Dead King said.

``Nothing,'' Hierophant acknowledged. ``You simply lack the ability-''

He paused, looking for something suitably pithy to add. Insults were
pithy, he vaguely remembered quite a few of his friends using them.

``- you \emph{Jaquinite},'' he scathingly added.

---

``Tariq,'' Laurence hissed. ``What the Hells is happening?''

The torrent of souls was streaming around the Grey Pilgrim without ever
touching him, as if the dead were shying away from the Choir ever
holding vigil over the soul of the Peregrine, but the rest of them
didn't have a pack of winged guardians to rely on. She'd put her sword
through the floor and anchored herself to that, but inch by inch she was
being dragged towards the Hierophant by the sheer quantity of dead souls
pushing against her. Through the mess she could see Roland huddling
under roiling tongues of light, pressed against the ground. His
protective spell was being battered down, moment by moment.

``The Hierophant is gathering and then releasing the dead,'' Tariq said,
calm voice carrying perfectly through the whistling sound of flowing
souls. ``Massing strength for a crippling blow at the Hidden Horror.''

``And what happens if we're drawn into that?'' Laurence yelled.

She did not gesture at the maddened sorcerer, as she might very well
fall into the current if she took a hand off her sword. Already her
blade was being pushed back through the stone, her boots slowly sliding
with it.

``Death, presumably,'' the Peregrine said, then paused as if speaking to
the unseen. ``Definitely death, Laurence, I retract the presumption.''

You'd think the fucking Ophanim would bother to serve as more than some
kind of almanac of dire ends, wouldn't you? But Mercy was all about the
soft touch, way she understood it, so unlike one of Judgement's Chosen
her old friend couldn't simply call down attention and have this entire
black mess smote into smoking ruin.

``\emph{Do} something then,'' she screamed.

``That won't be necessary,'' Tariq said. ``It's been long enough. If the
souls are in here, Saint, then out there what is left to fight over?''

Now wasn't the time for bloody riddles, she thought, but then there was
thunderous sound above and the room's ceiling dented. Solid stone. A
heartbeat later the dent became an explosion of shards and shape fell
through. It was a throne, Saint saw, though acid seemed to have eaten
away large chunks of it. The ceiling shook once more, though a stunted
silhouette tumbled through the hole. The Tyrant of Helike, Laurence saw,
was being carried by gargoyles holding his robe and had a visibly
worsening black eye. He looked up, slightly worried, though he rallied
quick.

``It's not what you think, Catherine,'' the Tyrant called out. ``I
swear. I didn't betray you to the Dead King again. Why, I'd
\emph{never}.''

There was a beat.

``I betrayed you to someone else entirely,'' Kairos Theodosian proudly
announced.

The gargoyles had to draw him back when a crumpled sword fell through
where he'd come, and Laurence half-expected the Black Queen to follow
through -- only, instead, tendrils of darkness tore through half the
ceiling and ripped it out like some gargantuan monster. Above them, the
hood of her many-coloured cloak raised and two large crows perched on
her shoulders, Catherine Foundling coldly glared downwards from the edge
of the roof. Gargoyles began raining down, mangled and seemingly
half-devoured.

It'd been a while, Laurence thought, since she'd seen the Black Queen
really lose her temper.

---

``You are not in love with her,'' the Dead King said, sounding
irritated. ``With resurrection assured by the Pilgrim, unrequited
affection should not have been sufficient. Not even with her meddling.''

Hierophant spared an irritated thought for Trismegistus as well, irked
by the presumption of that. As if a cursory reading of his memories
would be enough to understand the sum of him -- one did not master a
grimoire by skimming it. While Papa had not been able to understand, not
truly, for it was against the nature of an incubus to be as he was, his
other father had seen in Masego similarities to what he'd once seen in
his uncle. Enough to suggest a conversation. \emph{Not every kind of
love involves bedplay or poetry}, Uncle Amadeus had told him\emph{. You
can crave closeness with someone without craving them in other ways.
Sometimes it just\ldots{} fits. The intensity of it can be misleading,
but you will learn.} Still, it would not do to monologue again by
informing his enemy of such nuances. Where before the Dead King had
fought him over the gathering power, now instead his opponent was
allowing him to shape it while gathering his own will. They would clash,
Masego thought, over control of that last working. Yet for all that the
other mage was his superior in learning and skill, he had the advantage.
It was to him the bindings had been attached, his hands that had
released them and his will that was giving the power shape. It would be
a struggle, but his victory was likely.

``It seems I will have to surrender to you,'' Trismegistus said.

``I refuse,'' Masego said.

``You refuse the millennia of knowledge I could offer, along with
secrets that would allow the Black Queen to end the Bard's schemes?''

``Yes,'' he said.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

``Catherine is already going to be very angry,'' Masego pragmatically
said. ``And it'll be worse if I dissect your shard after finding a way
to torture you, I think. So I'll wait to take your secrets until we
attack Keter and destroy your heart.''

Another heartbeat passed.

``I think I'll make this painful, though,'' Hierophant pensively
frowned.

His hand still itched, when he thought of the red splattered on the
floor and Indrani's body falling.

``You overestimate yourself,'' the Dead King warned.

``Your secondary runic escapement patterns were subpar,'' Masego
scathingly said.

He was getting rather good at this pithy banter stuff, Hierophant mused.

---

``Now,'' the Tyrant of Helike said, ``there are some among you who might
be considering killing me.''

The boy did not lack courage, Tariq mused, though in truth it might be
more accurate to call it a disregard for consequences. The Black Queen's
entrance had been appropriately eye-catching, a display of the power of
this `Night' she had acquired the right to wield. The two monstrous old
things perched on her shoulders had no qualms in lending their power,
now that the Hidden Horror was busied wrestling wills with the
Hierophant, which meant that Kairos Theodosian had found his every
advantage stripped away in a matter of moments. Artefacts shattered,
gargoyles torn through, and the souls amongst which he might have sought
to hide were either tithed and released by the Hierophant or cowed into
retreat by the hungry gaze of these \emph{Sve Noc}. Now the Tyrant of
Helike was stumbling back as the Black Queen limped towards him, her
staff hitting the carved floor like punctuation. The Grey Pilgrim felt
no inclination to intervene in this, for Kairos Theodosian had been the
architect of a great many unnecessary deaths.

``But before we get to that,'' the Tyrant chuckled. ``I need to expound
on why and to who I betrayed you.''

The Black Queen did not bother to reply, simply raising her sinister
black wooden staff and aiming it at him.

``It was to the Wandering Bard,'' the odd-eyed boy said. ``And I did it
for a pardon!''

``Should have held out for an escape route,'' Catherine Foundling drily
replied, and Night gathered at the tip of her staff.

``Tariq,'' the Tyrant called out. ``You still have the pillow you used
that night. That's what she told me to say as proof.''

The Grey Pilgrim flinched.

``Wait,'' he croaked out.

``Oh, Bard,'' Theodosian murmured with a vicious smile. ``You never
disappoint.''

``Pilgrim?'' the Black Queen said, turning impatient eye to him.

``I've only ever told one person that,'' Tariq admitted.

Not even Laurence knew that the pillow that'd been the death of
Izil\ldots{} He'd needed the reminder, he'd decided that night, so that
never again would her ignore portents until it was too late.

``And why do I care in the slightest if the Bard has promised him
anything?'' Catherine Foundling bluntly asked. ``To be honest I want to
kill him twice as much now.''

``Because she would not make that promise without reason,'' the Pilgrim
said. ``And I trust her discernment in such matters.''

``I don't,'' the Black Queen said. ``I've seen her get up to some pretty
shady shit, Pilgrim. And not all of it serving Above, either.''

``It might have seemed that way,'' Tariq delicately said. ``But I assure
you-''

``When this is over, we're going to talk about the Wandering Bard,'' the
Queen of Callow grunted. ``But fine, Kairos bargained for the lot of you
to spare him. Hold to that. I'll tie up the loose ends for you -- just
close your eyes and count to five.''

``We are not fae, to muddle through on exact wording,'' Tariq sharply
said.

``Tariq, allow me to be perfectly clear,'' the Black Queen said. ``There
is no way in the fucking Hells that I'll consider the word of the
\emph{Wandering Bard} to be binding to me because you and I are on the
same side.''

``She makes a good point, Tariq,'' the Tyrant of Helike solemnly said.
``I hate to say it, but it seems you might be losing this argument.''

The Peregrine grit his teeth.

``I will count it favour,'' he said, ``if you withhold your hand now.''

The Queen of Callow eyed him silently, considering.

``Same terms as our last bargain,'' she said. ``Should the other
condition fail to happen.''

The old man breathed out. She was doing him a kindness, here. The Black
Queen could have demanded much steeper price, or even kept the favour
hanging above his head.

``Then you have my thanks,'' Tariq said, dipping his head. ``For both
this and your restraint.''

``I am deeply pleased to be returning to the fold,'' the Tyrant of
Helike grinned. ``Why, it's almost like I never-''

The sudden pulse of sorcery caught them all by surprise. The Hierophant
rose from his throne, gasping a breath, and the Grey Pilgrim beheld the
rotten orb that was the Dead King's hold being torn out of him. It still
held by threads, and was slowly its way back into the villain's soul,
but if they acted now. Laurence was already moving, the Black Queen
dismissed the power at the end of her staff and began shaping Night
anew. Roland was halfway through a spell, but quickest among them would
be Tariq. Until his eye caught a slender, dark-haired woman leaning
against the wall. In the blind angle of everyone save him. Though she
held her usual silver flask in one hand, she was not drinking. It was
the other hand that drew his attention, wagging a finger disapprovingly.
\emph{One, two, three}, she counted out and only then mouthed
\emph{now}. The Pilgrim struck out with Light, just as Saint began to
carve away at the Dead King's rot, but the Hierophant only screamed.

---

Trismegistus leaned over Masego's shoulder looking into the distance.

``Did I not tell you?'' the Dead King said. ``You overestimate yourself.
To be rid of me there will be a price.''

And though the Hidden Horror's hold was ripped out of him, it did not go
alone. For the all the power and sorcery the Hierophant had been holding
vanished into smoke, and there was not a single piece of it left.

Masego reached for his magic, and found nothing at all.

---

There were exactly two things within It: instructions, and a secret
witnessed through another's eyes. It waited inside the corpse, and only
slithered away under cover of the souls when all Foes were distracted.
It crawled and crawled and crawled, as instructed, until it reached the
edge of a cliff and fell. Far, far below a large creature opened its
mouth. The Skein swallowed whole the animated shard of sorcery, and in
the moment that followed fell apart in a shower of dust.

---

Far away, as the slightest shaving of the shard no doubt destroyed by
now returned to him, the King of Death laughed. Seven hundred and
thirty-three years, crafting the spell he'd used in his mind without a
single word or line of it to be found by the opposition. And the loss of
the shard would lessen him forevermore, impossible to recover -- though
without it, how could his defeat possibly have been believed by the
Intercessor? All of it a contingency, for it had been victory he sought,
but for centuries he had watched his old friend make a friend of plans
he'd thought flawless. Neshamah said nothing at all, for it would be a
warning if he did, but alone in the dark he softly laughed.

This once, it seemed the house had lost.