webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/tex/Ch-066.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-repurpose}{%
\section{Interlude: Repurpose}\label{interlude-repurpose}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Mastery is meekness, for it is the observation of what we are
intended to hold. It is the art of the supplicant. Only through
usurpation can understanding be reached, for anything less is
servitude.''}

-- Translation of the Kabbalis Book of Darkness, widely attributed to
the young Dead King
\end{quote}

Firyal had died screaming, boiling heat washing over her. This she still
remembered, sometimes, and in those rare moments of lucidity she knew
terror. For while she had once been a mage some skill, the shackles
around her soul were like nothing she had ever seen. A trained mind had
allowed her to drift out of the dreams, once every few days, long enough
to dread the return to that strange slumber where she only saw the life
she had lived. Again, and again and again, for some obscure purpose.
Perhaps, she had thought, this was one of the Hells. Perhaps she had not
looked closely enough at all the bargains she had made, and some devil
had gotten the best of her. So Firyal wondered, until she was startled
awake by her shackles being ripped away. Freedom tasted sweet, for a
moment, before she saw \emph{them}. Eyes above her, burning and
unblinking. As if the sun had been imprisoned in orbs of glass.
Unkindly, the eyes peered through the span of her life like a bored
scribe skimming a scroll.

``Useless,'' a calm voice noted. ``Pass in peace.''

The sun in the eyes died and then there was only oblivion.

---

``This is an abomination,'' Laurence said. ``You know it, Foundling, and
would still offer salvation to its architect?''

They'd torn through the last defences surrounding the sanctum like they
were parchment, between the Black Queen's knowledge of their lay and
Roland's knack for taking down wards, but what had awaited them beyond
the luxurious quarters and feast halls was an Evil manifest. At
Laurence's feet, like lake water softly lapping at a shore, the
translucent and almost shimmering broth of hundreds of thousands of
souls was spread out. Above them there was only darkness for a ceiling,
whatever foul sorcery was at work here having warped the nature of
within into this\ldots{} sickness. It was silent in here, almost
peaceful, and that made the sight of it twice as ghoulish.

``Yes,'' the Black Queen said.

She had hesitated, the Saint thought, for barely the fraction of a
moment. The loyalty of that was laudable but made a sin against Creation
by who it'd been offered to. To safeguard a poisoner against consequence
was to share in the guilt of the poisonings that would follow.

``Ah, well they were just Praesi,'' the Tyrant of Helike drawled. ``It's
not like the Grand Alliance hasn't been having rousing discussions of
their wholesale slaughter anyway.''

The Saint hadn't known that, not for sure, but then she was not
particularly surprised. Tariq's chomping at the bit for them to head to
Salia as soon as this was settled now made a great deal more sense. The
boy-villain could be lying, of course, but that didn't matter nearly as
much as whether or not Foundling would believe him. Laurence's hand
casually went down to her sword. There was a pause.

``You're not even lying, are you?'' the Black Queen mused, her tone wry.

She often used amusement to cloak her true thoughts, the Saint had
noticed.

``An issue to settle when this is done with,'' Foundling sighed. ``Pity
for Cordelia Hasenbach is not something I particularly enjoy feeling,
Kairos.''

Did anyone? Klaus' niece or not, no one claimed the highest office of
the Principate without climbing a mound of corpses. Some justly made,
but others? Procer had grown into the kind of beast that would devour
the best of intentions and taint them simply by being what it was.

``I cannot assure our safety if we wade into that,'' Roland piped up.

His eyes had never left the lake of souls, fascination and revulsion
warring within them. Wizards, Laurence unkindly thought. Even the finest
of them were only ever one swell of curiosity away from tumbling down a
foul slope.

``I'll be handling that,'' Foundling said. ``Where there is darkness
there is night, and so it stands within my dominion.''

\emph{No, not night}, Laurence thought. It was `Night' she had said,
with a subtle ring of power to the word. Some blasphemous dark mirror to
the Light? The Saint had believed the Black Queen's strange powers to
come from a bargain made with lesser gods in the service of Below, but
the sacrilege might run deeper than that.

``And where will we be headed?'' Saint flatly asked.

``Why, dearest Laurence, that ought to be obvious,'' the Tyrant of
Helike laughed. ``To the throne room, of course.''

No one humoured the madman with further reply. The Black Queen's staff
struck the ground and before it the souls parted. \emph{And so},
Laurence thought, \emph{it begins.}

---

Tariq carried light into the dark, as he had sought to do for most his
life.

The sliver of it was enough to push back the silvery sea of souls around
the two of them, that tragedy happened and happening. The right to
Behold the truth of things, that was the gift that had been bestowed
upon him many years ago when he found his own base discernment too
feeble a thing to rely on, but there were occasions where it was curse
as much as boon. This was one, he thought, for not until the Heavens
called him to his rest would the Grey Pilgrim forget this sight: an
expanse of shivering souls, wounded and crying out from the sudden
brutality of their demise. Shackled to Creation and kept in that torment
of a half-existence, sorcerous bindings keeping imprisoned in restless
slumber. And where someone else might see only the waters, Tariq\ldots{}
Oh, he could see them all. Every weeping child, every terrified innocent
lost to a death they had not even been able to understand. For all that,
the Grey Pilgrim did not look away. Someone had to see them, to refuse
to avert their eyes. And to free them, when the time came, for this
\emph{would not be tolerated}.

``Huh,'' Archer said. ``So that's what it looks like when your blood is
up.''

``This place is a blight onto Creation, child,'' Tariq quietly said.
``You are no priestess, but your senses are keen. You must know it as
well.''

``He wouldn't have let it come to this, if he were in his right mind,''
she replied. ``But that's what you get, when you push monstrously
talented practitioner over the edge. They fall, and either they die or
they make wings of whatever's at hand at the time.''

``The attack on Thalassina is no excuse for this,'' the Pilgrim sharply
said. ``It does not exempt the Hierophant from responsibility for this
abomination.''

``You don't get to make that call,'' Archer calmly said. ``He's not for
you to judge, crusader. You take a swing at a nest of vicious
diabolists, well, you get shit like this. If he crossed a line in
defending his home and family then it's not the enemy that'll discipline
him -- it's Catherine.''

``And if she simply pardons him?'' the Peregrine asked.

Hazelnut eyes met his own.

``If you believe that, then your eyesight's worse than I'd thought.''

The heartbeat of tension that followed was broken by the flapping of
great wings. It startled Tariq into looking up, though he could barely
glimpse the shape of the large crow in the gloom until it landed on
Archer's extended arm. The pulsing thoughts and feelings of the young
woman that'd he'd been able to behold until that moment were suddenly
obscured, as if a shadow was being cast over them. The loss was
discomforting, he'd admit, though that was a paltry thing compared to
the black-winged horror perched on young Indrani's arm. Even a casual
glance into those night-woven feathers was enough for him to hear
distant screams. To smell fresh blood being spilled, as if he was
standing by an altar where a throat was being opened. The Ophanim
breathed into him and the haunting faded, though like a prowling beast
it was not gone -- merely held at bay.

``You sure?'' Archer said, cocking her head to the side.

She winced before she was even finished speaking, and Tariq noted she
never looked directly at the crow.

``I always get stuck with the snippy one,'' the young woman angrily
growled. ``Fine, we'll do it. Away with you, bird.''

The murder made flesh flew above, and Tariq breathed in sharply when he
saw its talons had left bloody marks on Archer's arm. He raised his
hand, silently offering healing, but his companion shook her head.

``The Sisters don't really do nice, but they don't bleed people without
a reason,'' she said. ``The blood was taken for a reason. Also because I
piss them off but Hells at this point it'd a shame to stop.''

She did not lack courage, though the Peregrine found it regrettable she
chose not to exercise it on worthier pursuits than recklessly provoking
lesser deities born of ritual slaughter.

``And what did the Sisters request?'' Tariq asked.

``Masego's nearing the end of whatever the Dead King using him for,''
Archer said. ``We can't afford this slow a pace anymore.''

``We will hurry, then,'' Tariq agreed.

Tired as he was, better exhaustion than inaction.

``Ah, you're not getting my drift,'' the young woman said. ``Walking the
road won't cut it.''

``Your meaning?'' the Grey Pilgrim asked.

``Snuff the light,'' the Archer said, ``and stay close to me. We follow
the crow.''

---

Iblin had been so proud to be called to stand among the ritual even
though he was young and not entirely schooled in the proper ways. Yet he
had power to spare, and that had been needed most of all, and so among
the circles that supported the Lord Warlock he had stood. But then it
had\ldots{} where was he? There'd been a light, a terrible Light, and a
voice had Spoken. This was not Thalassina, Iblin realized, this was not
Thalassina and -- blinding eyes were staring down, releasing a pressure
that had been keeping him constrained, and the relief lived only until
his soul began suffering examination. Like an insect pinned and open so
that the entrails could be looked upon, the last moments of Iblin's life
were studied by that burning glare. He screamed, for it was an intrusion
unlike any he had felt before. The presence had been calm, at the start,
patient. But twice it looked upon the same moment, when the voice had
uttered a word and the circle had lost control of the gathered power,
and tried to look at the Warlock from where Iblin had stood but found
the angle too stilted. The examination grew rougher, forceful, until the
grip suddenly loosed.

``Useless,'' a voice impatiently said. ``Leave.''

Oblivion fell over Iblin like a blanket.

---

Like children wandering into the woods at night they moved in a line,
everyone close enough to the one in front of them to see their back even
in the gloom -- save for the Black Queen herself, who gazed into the
darkness with seeing eyes even where there should be nothing to see.
Under their boots the translucent liquid souls turned into solid ground,
though only as long as they touched and not an instant more. The Saint
had claimed the rearguard, for she would not trust the Tyrant to stand
at her back -- even if he were truly standing instead of letting himself
be carried by his ugly creations. She'd kept an eye on him in case he
warmed to the notion of striking at the Rogue Sorcerer's back, whose
earlier spoken sympathies had apparently convinced the Black Queen to
place behind her. If this was a ploy, Laurence thought, it appeared to
be working.

``Catherine,'' the Tyrant of Helike said, ``I've a query, if you
would.''

``Do you?'' the Black Queen replied. ``Imagine that.''

Laurence noted that their pace quickened at that, limp or not.

``We are being guided by one of your crows, are we not?'' Kairos
Theodosian mused. ``I can almost hear the beat of the wings.''

The Saint could not, though she'd felt there was an air of carrion to
this abominable place from the start. She'd presumed it to be either the
souls of the dead or Foundling's own powers, though, not the presence of
some old monster.

``I don't have crows,'' the Black Queen mildly replied.

She'd not outright denied having a guide, and the Tyrant hacked out a
wet laugh.

``And are you not worried, my dear friend, that so wantonly parading
pieces of a godhead around the Hidden Horror will have\ldots{}
intriguing outcome?''

``If he wants to catch Sve Noc in the dark,'' Foundling said, ``I can
only wish him good luck.''

``I thought you might say that,'' Kairos Theodosian said. ``Which is
why-''

In a single continuous movement, gathering the power of her Choosing to
refine her strength and swiftness, the Saint of Swords unsheathed her
blade and thrust it through the back of the Tyrant's throne at the
height where his heart would be. Always tempting to go for the neck,
with villains, but while clever Damned often had artefacts meant to
protect such a weakness they rarely bothered with more than a single
layer of enchanted armour over their chest. The blow went straight
through the stone and metal, but it was no flesh that was torn through
afterwards. Lips thinning with displeasure, Laurence withdrew her blade
and let whatever illusion had been laid over the gargoyle shatter.

``Betrayal,'' the Tyrant called out through the mouth of another
gargoyle. ``Betrayal most foul!''

The Black Queen turned to gaze upon the mess and Saint took a careful
step back. If the confrontation began here, then-

``I really wish you hadn't done that,'' Catherine Foundling said.

``He was about to turn on us,'' Laurence flatly replied.

``Yes,'' she agreed without missing a beat. ``But now we turned on him
first, and that means-''

Light bloomed in the sky above them, chasing the shadows, and wreathed
in a halo the Tyrant appeared -- carried by a swarm of chittering
gargoyles, seated on what appeared to a measurably gaudier specimen of
the throne he'd previously sat on.

``- so viciously scorned, I am left no repose but to meet you all in
open and honourable battle,'' Kairos Theodosian cheerfully announced.

``Komena,'' the Black Queen murmured in that foreign tongue of hers,
``sate.''

This time Laurence did feel the devil, or rather her absence -- a weight
there had been in the air vanished, even as light spread further around
the Tyrant of Helike and he revealed what appeared to be a\ldots{}
sword? Saint opened her mouth, but Foundling suddenly extended her staff
out in front of her with a glare.

``Do not,'' she hissed, ``accept that beginning.''

``What say you, blackguards -- if you'll forgive my language -- and
reprobates?'' the Tyrant shouted, openly gleeful. ``Will you meet my
challenge?''

The Black Queen rolled her shoulder, as if to limber it, and glanced at
the rest of them.

``Head for the throne room,'' Catherine Foundling said. ``I'm the only
one who can handle what he's about to use, which I suppose is rather the
point.''

``How will we know the way?'' Roland asked.

Foundling pointed at the Tyrant, or rather the light wreathing him.

``You'll be able to see it soon enough,'' she said. ``Get moving. You
don't want to be caught in the middle of that.''

Laurence's lips thinned.

``The sword,'' she said. ``What is it?''

``In a word?'' Catherine Foundling grimaced. ``Hierarchy.''

---

``Well,'' Archer said, ``that's not good.''

Tariq gaze upon the light rising in the distance, chasing away the
shadows, and knew that once upon a time the stuff of it had been Light.
It had been\ldots{} twisted, after, but the nature of it was not hidden
form his eye. The Ophanim murmured in his ear, angry at the perversion
but also \emph{worried}. This was a weapon, and a dire one.

``The Tyrant of Helike has betrayed them,'' Tariq grimly said.

``Cat said he'd planned to steal this entire place,'' the young woman
said. ``I guess he's settled for making a grab at the souls instead.''

``And this does not worry you?'' the Pilgrim asked.

``We're nearly there,'' the Archer shrugged. ``Although we're going to
lose our guide soon, I suppose. Out in the open in Hierophant's seat of
power she'd be meat on the plate.''

``That Kairos Theodosian could claim such a great bounty of souls,''
Tariq clarified.

``Cat's there,'' his companion replied, eyebrow rising.

As if that settled the matter, as if the Black Queen was a talisman of
victory. If it had been blind loyalty or even love, the Grey Pilgrim
would not have found it half as unsettling. But it was trust, simple and
deep. The kind he had never once seen one of Below's champions so easily
extend to another. The Woe defied easy description, in both what had
brought them together and what had since bound them.

``Then let us proceed,'' the Pilgrim said, tucking away his thoughts.

They moved swiftly, pace racing against the distant blooming of the
Tyrant's light. And the found their mark, moments before the first rays
chased away the lesser god that had been their guide and helper both.
The Pilgrim and the Archer stood before a flight of tall stairs, roughly
hewn and leading to gates of bronze slightly cracked open. Sorcery
pulsed like a living thing, hear, a great heartbeat, and the wisps of it
were visible in the air. Upwards they hurried and slipped through the
opening and into the Hierophant's last sanctum.

---

Precision.

It had always been about precision, Hierophant dimly remembered, even
before this had begun. It was the fundamental failure of humankind, the
inexactitude of what it could perceive in a world that was the most
finely tuned construct in existence. And so they all puttered about,
sometimes blindly feeling out a segment of the greater whole and daring
to call it a theory of magic. And Hierophant had been blind as well, was
blind still, but in his restlessness he had found what he craved the
most: sometimes, just sometimes, he could see it all. Witness it in
full. And so the impossible simply became improbable, and now he must
fit all the pieces together. Perfectly, or it would be worse than doing
nothing at all. There had been a need for tools, and so tools he had
gathered.

The souls of Thalassina, the fuel of his work.

Broken Liesse, the foundry from which he would cast salvation.

The Observatory, eyes for where his eyes could not reach.

The secrets of Trismegistus had been of great use in leashing the souls
and keeping them at hand, in shattering what he needed of Arcadia and
making of it what was required. Souls alone were not enough, no, they
were not. And so he had ruined the realm, and from ruin gained mastery
-- aspect pulsing, breathing, pulsing. It was\ldots{} unpleasant. His
body ached, and so he had withdrawn from it. There were simply too many
distractions and the work could not brook those. It needed to be
perfect. But it was not, even through the Observatory. He filled the sky
to see, to find the shards and reflections of deepest Arcadia, but it
was not enough. Muddled, the shards were\emph{, inexact}. Papa could not
be made anew from that. And then it came to him, the understanding. He
had the souls, those who had been there in the last moments of it all.
He could see through their eyes, and where their own were imprecise bits
of flesh his eyes would not fail. Only there were so many, many souls.
And who else could he trust with this? No one.

His mind drifted sometimes, moments were lost, but that was as close as
Hierophant would suffer to sleep.

The souls did not get him what he needed. Glimpses, yes, but incomplete.
Not even his aspect could bridge so broad a gap. But ah, he was not
done. Like jigsaw puzzles, those toys someone he could not recall had
loved, he took the glimpses and put them together. Fit them until it
could all be seen, and then \emph{again}. All eyes that could be found,
for anything less would mean imperfection. Yet distractions came
knocking at his door. Vermin wandering through the ruin, armies and
travellers. Named, even, that resisted the storms he redirected towards
them. Entities, sometimes, and those he spared thought to catching --
there was always a need for fuel, for the foundry was ever hungry -- but
they were slippery things and skilled at hiding in the shadows.
Distractions, distractions he could not afford. The essence he extracted
from the Hells had bleed and using old arrays he bound devils with it to
put in the way of the vermin. No further thought was given than that,
for Liesse was high up and defended. But now, now, there was assault.
Things crawling in the dark, Named everywhere and even
\emph{contamination}.

Someone was trying to take souls, to rule them through law and faith,
and when Hierophant had tried to swat them out of existence he had found
the laws resisted him. They disallowed his interference and sunk further
into the sea of souls, poison in the well. One of the entities was
trying to contain this -- and was this not a familiar presence?

\emph{No.~We cannot afford distractions.}

Hierophant had to hurry, yes. Containment would fail, contamination
would spread, and it would all be made inexact. The pieces were
together, though there would be more. If he kept looking, it would be
perfect. As he needed it to be.

\emph{It is already perfect. We must hurry, they are trying to break
it.}

Vermin, vermin everywhere. Yes, it needed to be now. Before it was
soiled. It all fell together, dozens and dozens of glimpses he had
painstakingly gathered, and when they were all fitted Hierophant
breathed out.

``\textbf{Witness},'' he whispered.

It rang out, went out, and then it was \emph{caught}.

``Yes,'' the Dead King whispered fondly into his ear, ``now show me what
it is that she's planning. Show me what the Intercessor seeks,
Hierophant.''