webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-012.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-11-veer}{%
\section{Chapter 11: Veer}\label{chapter-11-veer}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``A dog to the brave, a wolf to the craven.''}

-- Arlesite saying
\end{quote}

I would head for the Arsenal tomorrow, I decided after the White Knight
left.

There were still decisions to be made and responsibilities to discharge,
so I put my back into it instead of leaning backing into my seat and
sleeping for a few months the way I wanted to. It was tempting to simply
say I could take the bundle of reports and letters with me, but if I
wanted to keep a decent pace while on the move I couldn't afford to have
wagons of affairs and a crowd of attendants with me. That meant
answering every bit of correspondence I'd received -- or left to
languish, honesty compelled me to admit -- over an afternoon's span,
Hakram flitting in and out of my tent like some big green bureaucratic
butterfly after I'd told him of my intention. I'd left Baron Henry
Darlington's complaint about the continued Deoraithe presence in the
northern baronies unanswered for two months, considering the shit knew
very well it'd been at Vivienne's order that Duchess Kegan had sent her
soldiers to hold our end of the Passage. He was just trying to extract
concessions for the supply convoys passing through his territory to feed
the host there, the rapacious prick.

I penned an amicable reply inviting him to propose a plan to field a
force apt to replace Kegan's, if his objections to the Deoraithe were so
deeply felt. No doubt he'd enjoy that, it was the kind of thing that
could be used to muster up some support and influence among the few
remaining nobles of Callow. I added that he should forward such a plan
to `Heiress-Designate to the Crown Vivienne Dartwick' as soon as it was
done, which he'd enjoy a great deal less. Did he really think I'd not
noticed he was trying to go over Vivienne's head by calling directly on
me over something she'd already ordered? I might be the Queen of Callow,
but I wasn't fool enough to start undermining my own chosen successor's
authority. The invitation from the Closed Circle of Mercantis to attend
one of their auctions had already expired by the time I got it, in a
practical sense, given that the auction had already been held when I got
the letter. I'd been meant a mark of honour than a real expectation I'd
leave the front, though, so I wrote a polite refusal anyways.

It always paid to be polite to people you owed money to, even if the
`you' here was the Grand Alliance and not me personally.

The offer by the Holy Seljun of Levant, one Wazim Isbili -- who was, to
my understanding, Tariq's grand-nephew -- to formally send an ambassador
to the Callowan court and receive one from us in Levante in turn was
rather more pressing. It was heartening to see that the Dominion was
willing to establish closer ties with my kingdom, and to an extent
rarely sought given the distance between the two realms, but there
were\ldots{} complications. For one, I didn't really have anyone to send
as an ambassador. In the Old Kingdom that'd been a role for the highest
ranks of nobility, which had been quite thoroughly exterminated in the
decades since the Conquest. My father being the viciously meticulous
bastard that he was, he'd also done all he could to stamp out what one
might call diplomatic apprenticeships. Almost like he'd wanted to make
sure Callow was isolated and incapable of properly reaching out. It was
a sad but undeniable fact that most `diplomats' I could send would be
Praesi officers of noble birth from my army, with as other option maybe
Brandon Talbot. Who I needed in command of the Order of Broken Bells
anyway, making him highly unsuitable for the task.

I kicked that decision back to Vivienne, after pondering the matter a
bit, along with a note outlining that she'd be in charge of finding a
suitable ambassador if she decided to accept. I also suggested that a
potential Levantine ambassador should be received by her in Salia rather
than at my `court' in Laure, and lastly stipulated that no ambassador of
ours could be related to Duchess Kegan. There was already enough
discontent at the way the Duchess of Daoine kept naming kin and vassals
to key court and bureaucratic positions, she needed no encouragement.
Especially if a decade from now the Duchy of Daoine was to be
independent, complicating the loyalties of all such appointees by a
great deal. More recently, the Iron Prince had sent a missive describing
the way the dead beyond the defensive lines had massed for assault
before suddenly withdrawing and asking if I had an explanation.

I spent the better part of an hour describing the Dead King's latest
plot to tie us here down south while he went on the offensive again.
Klaus Papenheim had added a note that his envoy had spoken glowingly of
the results of the assault formation on the field -- somewhat to my
surprise, given that she'd not expressed such enthusiasm before me --
and that he would want to pit a formation against a more traditional
mixed force of Bones and Binds before committing to that doctrine but he
was definitely interested. Amusing enough, he also warned me that Otto
Redcrown had extended an offer of settling in Lycaonese land to
Sapper-General Pickler but that no offence should be taken by it. Any
such offers made in the future would pass by me first. It was enough for
me to soften my language when I wrote to the Prince of Bremen over the
matter, mentioning that I was willing to serve as intermediary between
the Lycaonese and the Confederation of the Grey Eyries if they wanted to
extend that offer to the Tribes instead of to troops sworn to my
service.

The rest was minor correspondence, mostly from my commanders on other
fronts, including the usual letter written in Crepuscular from General
Rumena that turned out to bear some insulting nuance to a native speaker
I wouldn't get without asking for help. Hence getting me insulted in
front of an audience every single time. The old bastard never actually
bothered to send me proper reports, given that Sve Noc saw to it we
spoke in `person' regularly. I'd be due that tonight, I thought. Not
necessarily a conversation with Rumena, but communion with my
patronesses. Last time they'd brought me in for a waking dream it'd been
to show me the sigils of the Exodus raising the foundations of a hidden
city in the depths of Serolen, though also to make a point that warfare
around the edges of the Gloom reborn was growing\ldots{} rougher. The
Dead King was getting serious about dislodging them from their
positions, not just trying to erode them one corpse at a time. I set
those drifting thoughts -- a sure sign I'd been going through these
chores for a while -- aside when Hakram flitted back in, wasting no time
to bring another folded parchment to me. I took it with a sigh.

``What am I looking at?'' I asked, eyes begin to scan the cramped lines.

``The proposed numbers and composition of our escort to the Arsenal,''
he said.

I frowned.

``I don't need knights,'' I said. ``They're a lot more useful out
here.''

``You're the Queen of Callow,'' Hakram pointed out. ``Knights are
\emph{expected}. They expect is as well, Catherine.''

``I've no personal guard,'' I said. ``There will be no second
Gallowborne. If the Order of Broken Bells understands this differently,
Talbot is in need of being disciplined.''

These days I was not quite so prone to leaping into the fire, but what
mortal guard could possibly be expected to survive the kind of messes I
got into? No, there would be no revisiting that old blunder under a
different name.

``And cut that number in half,'' I added. ``I want us riding briskly.''

``Wagons don't ride briskly, Catherine,'' Adjutant gravelled.

``Then they can catch up at the Arsenal,'' I said. ``I'll not double the
length of the trip for comfort.''

``Let me requisition packhorses, at least,'' the orc said.

I waved my hand.

``So long as we don't slow,'' I said. ``And send for Akua, will you?''

He nodded.

``You'll also need to personally write to the Rapacious Troubadour, if
you want him to take up Origin Hunting without feeling slighted,'' he
reminded me before leaving.

Ugh, and I'd been just about done too. That letter I took my time in
writing, since he was a prickly thing for a bandier of words and not
half-bad with a knife. Mind you, when he'd admitted he stole songs from
those he killed I probably shouldn't have replied `surely you mean
souls' in a dry tone. He hadn't taken that well. Still, vicious bastard
or not he'd sniff out any Named popping out in this neck of the woods
and ease them into the Truce -- and I'd make it clear that Hanno was in
the area too, which ought to keep him honest when it came to his more
unsavoury tendencies. I was up and limping about looking for my seal
when my right hand and my left arrived. I waved in their direction,
pushing aside sheaths of parchment with a frown.

``It's in your desk,'' Hakram said.

``I looked in my desk, thank you very much,'' I waspishly replied.
``It's not in-''

Having stepped around my desk and opened one of the drawers even as I
spoke, he produced my personal seal -- the Crown and Sword, as it'd come
to be known -- and said nothing. His silence was, admittedly, quite
damning enough on its own.

``Must have been under something,'' I weakly said.

``Walnut shells, mostly,'' the orc reproached.

I winced.

``Look, sometimes it's late and I'm not hungry enough for a meal,'' I
defended.

``And so the Black Queen so spoke to her dark legions,'' Akua intoned.
``Bring me walnuts, my wicked servants. But don't tell Adjutant, for he
gets snippy about the mess.''

I flipped a finger at her and hobbled to the side of the desk, picking
up the bar of grey wax I'd set next to the letter before forming black
flames against the side. Wax dripped and I dismissed the fire, extending
my free hand and receiving my seal from Hakram. With a firm push the
seal was affixed and I set the letter aside.

``Right,'' I said. ``So I considered it, and we'll be scrapping the
wardstone to get the obsidian spike.''

I gave a heartbeat of room for Akua to protest, but of course she'd been
taught better than that.

``I'm not comfortable going on campaign against Keter with a repaired
wardstone anyway,'' I told the shade. ``So we might as well get another
weapon to study out of it.''

``You no longer speak in the theoretical,'' Akua noted.

When it came to a summer campaign? No, no I did not. That little
revelation about the bridge had ensured as much. We couldn't afford to
ignore that.

``Talks with the White Knight were fruitful,'' I grunted. ``I'll need to
speak with the rest of the Grand Alliance leaders, but an offensive
campaign in Hainaut is now a certainty -- the only thing up in the air
is the timing of it.''

``I'll see to extracting the spike immediately, then,'' Akua decisively
said. ``If you'll excuse me?''

I nodded my thanks, she returned them with a smile and just as quick as
she'd come she was gone. The tent flap closed behind her, cutting
through the slice of dusk it'd bared. She must have appreciated the
courtesy of being told in person, I supposed, even if ultimately I'd not
taken her advice.

``Tell me when it's done,'' I said, eyes turning to the tent flap.
``I'll have a look at it myself.''

``And until then?'' Hakram asked, sounding curious.

``It's getting dark out,'' I said. ``Time to speak with the Crows.''

---

At the exact moment night fell, I was seated alone in the dark of my
tent.

The sprite-lanterns had been hooded, the braziers put out, and I'd
dragged my fae seat away from the desk so that there'd be more room
around. I'd long grown familiar with weaving silencing strands of Night
around my tent that would prevent eavesdropping, be it physical or
otherwise, and even my guards had been told to step further away. My
pipe in hand, breathing in the wakeleaf I'd been gifted, I watched the
burning red brand that was the only light inside and spat out a long
stream of acrid smoke. The only sign that Sve Noc had deigned to join me
was a slight breath of breeze, almost like an exhale, and then they were
there. Perched on either side of me, on the back of the seat, great
crows feathered in darkness so deep and even the dark of the tent seemed
bright in comparison. Long, sharp talons dug into the wood of the
armchair with a sound like steel scraping bone.

``First Under the Night,'' Andronike said, voice cool.

Like stone far below where the sun never shone, like a deep lake whose
waters were as a veil.

``Losara Queen,'' Komena said, voice sharp.

Like the ring of steel against steel, like pride and hate and all the
things that made men go mad.

``Sve Noc,'' I replied, dipping my head in respect.

Two years was perhaps not so long a span, as gods would have it, but it
had made a world of difference with these two. They were no longer
taking their first stumbling steps past the threshold of apotheosis:
these were goddesses in all the arrogant vigour of their youth, casting
a covetous eye upon the world. And I was, on most days, the closest
thing they possessed to restraint. I breathed in the smoke, held it in
my throat and blew it back out. I ought, perhaps, to be afraid of those
sharp-clawed patronesses of mine. I'd never quite managed, though. That
might just be the reason they took my advice still.

``General Rumena brings ill tidings back to the Night,'' Komena croaked.

``Do they?'' I mused. ``I've not had the displeasure to hear them.''

``Watch,'' Andronike ordered. ``Listen.''

The darkness within shifted as the Sisters seized the darkness for their
own, made it as a domain forced onto Creation. It was one of their
lesser tricks -- a paltry thing, compared to the waking dreams that saw
me tread grounds halfway across the continent and speak with others as
if I were there -- but it was still a casual display of power. Similar
end could be achieved with sorcery, true. But it would be the work of
years, not \emph{moments}. I saw now, from my seat, two different
fractured memories given unto the Night by willing Firstborn.

--

\emph{A human, a prince, an Alamans. All three and no longer young,
seated with another crowned head: Rozala Malanza, vulgar in form to drow
eye yet respected for its mettle. Not so its companion, this Prince of
Cleves who could not preserve it sigil yet had not seen it stripped from
its grasp.}

\emph{``- this talk of leaving all conquered lands to the dark elves,''
Prince Gaspard of Cleves snorted. ``A kingdom's worth, for a paltry few
thousand raiders? It is madness, Princess Rozala.''}

\emph{``The greater might of the Empire Ever Dark fights in the deep
north,'' Princess Rozala replied.}

\emph{``And let them keep it, by all means,'' Prince Gaspard dismissed.
``But the lands south of Hannoven's height should be brought into the
fold: some of them would make good farmland, after a proper cleansing.
It would be a waste to surrender them to these lesser elven cousins.''}

--

\emph{A human, a killer, the Dawnstride: Mirror Knight, humans called
it. Unsettling, its power like the sting of morning, and harder to kill
than Savanov Hundred-Lives. But like most cattle, its guard lowered when
it was busy mating with another of its kind. The other one in the bed:
human, the daughter of a prince, Langevin. Carine, daughter of the
Gaspard. They spoke after spending themselves.}

\emph{``You really should consider it, Christophe,'' Carine Langevin
said, fingers trailing naked flesh.}

\emph{``The war's not won, Carine,'' the Mirror Knight replied.}

\emph{``But when it is, all those lands will need proper stewardship,''
Carine Langevin insisted. ``And who better than one of the Chosen who
fought to reclaim it?''}

\emph{``I wouldn't know the first thing about ruling,'' the Mirror
Knight said.}

\emph{``It would be my honour to help you, of course,'' Carine Langevin
smiled.}

--

I let out a shallow gasp, closing my eyes. How very Proceran, I thought,
to begin divvying the spoils of victory before the end of a war we were
currently losing. Malanza had seemed lukewarm at the notion, at least,
so I didn't have to revise my opinion of her by too much. That she'd not
stamped out this petty scheming immediately, though, got stuck in my
throat. Hadn't they learned by now that it was exactly this sort of
habitual treachery that'd nearly seen them stand against the Dead King
alone? What exactly did they think was going to happen next time a
calamity like this struck and Procer had a record of backstabbing
\emph{even the people who fought to save it}? I brought the pipe to my
lips and breathed in the wakeleaf, ordering my thoughts as I let the
burn in my throat sharpen my attention, and spat it out.

``That's one prince,'' I finally said. ``It would have been too much to
ask for that \emph{all} of that lot be kept honest by even the looming
prospect of annihilation.''

And if it'd been going to happen anywhere, it was going to be Cleves.
Between the Firstborn forces under Rumena, the veteran Dominion
reinforcements under Lord Yannu Marave and Rozala Malanza's practiced
hand guiding the fight, it was the front that'd arguably least suffered.
While the Dead King's raiding parties frequently slipped the coastal
defences and warfare around the lakeside fortresses was an almost
permanent fixture, it was the most `stable' of the fronts. The city of
Cleves had not suffered a third siege, the supply lines remained wide
open and the Named there were proving capable of dealing with Revenants
-- at least defensively, as the Stormcaller still had the run of all
western Lake Pavin and we had no one that could touch her in the water.
No, if anyone was going to start getting ideas it was the royals in
Cleves. They'd not been afraid for their lives in too long.

``Does it go any further up?'' I asked. ``If they can't even bring
Malanza into the plot, it's dead in the water.''

``If they continued down this path,'' Komena said, ``they will be as
well.''

``More sinister than humorous, but not half bad,'' I absent-mindedly
praised.

Yeah, that the literal goddesses of murder and theft that were my
patronesses would not look kindly upon their so-called allies planning
to turn on them had been a given. I was not unaware, either, that they
were in no way above calling back the forces under Rumena from Cleves
and leaving the Procerans high to dry. It'd be a disaster both
militarily and diplomatically speaking, but the Crows had no interest in
playing nice with people sizing them up for a knife in the back. They'd
cut ties with the Principate without batting an eye, if it came to that.

``The First Prince was told,'' Andronike said.

My fingers clenched around the arms of my chair.

``You're sure?'' I asked.

The shadows shifted once more.

--

\emph{Humans, bearing the emblem of a red lion. Magelings, surrounding
the Princess Malanza. They speak into the scrying bowl, believing
themselves safe behind their wards. They are not, for the Lord of Silent
Steps has brought great knowledge into the Night as to treading through
without tripping.}

\emph{``Gaspard is pushing hard, Your Highness,'' Princess Rozala said.
``But he's toed the line carefully so I've no grounds to come down him.
He's still gathering support but the notion is a popular one.''}

\emph{``It would permanently alienate the Empire Ever Dark,'' the First
Prince of Procer's voice replied. ``And perhaps Callow as well. If the
Black Queen did not slaughter everyone involved first, that is. I do not
suppose he spoke to this?''}

\emph{``There's a lot of heroes who don't believe she'll survive the
war,'' Princess Rozala said. ``And with his daughter in the Mirror
Knight's bed, he gets to hear every rumour going around the Chosen.
Callow under Vivienne Dartwick is a beast with a lot less bite, Gaspard
argues.''}

\emph{A long silence.}

\emph{``I cannot step in,'' the First Prince said. ``Already the
heartlands are chafing under the taxes and levies, there will be
accusations of tyranny if I begin imprisoning princes over mere words.
Let them plot, Princess Rozala. It will be seen to at a time of our
choosing.''}

--

It took a moment to gather my bearings. That turned to anger quickly
enough, that Hasenbach was once more failing as an ally because of the
Principate's fucking internal politics. I mastered myself, though, and
took a calming drag from my pipe. Procer was, undeniably, bearing the
worst of the weight of the fight against the Dead King. It was its lands
being ravaged, its people being conscripted and its traders being taxed
into poverty. It was even its princes falling into debt. Callow and
Levant, meanwhile, had sent north largely professional armies and while
we'd felt the burden of war neither had suffered attacks from Keter.
Procer, I then silently corrected, was bearing the worst of the weight
among \emph{human} nations. The Firstborn had been fighting against
Keter in earnest for two years, and they'd had no reinforcements for any
of it. But they were also fighting very far away, and people were
people.

Sacrifices earned less gratitude when you didn't get to see them
happening.

``The two most prominent women in Procer don't back the plot,'' I said.
``And it's years away, besides. You've reason to be angry, and I'll be
taking up the issue when I next see Hasenbach, but it's hardly a
crisis.''

``An undeniable and weighty precedent for the Firstborn being
reasonable, restrained actors,'' Andronike said, mimicking my voice
perfectly as I repeated words I'd once spoken to the Sisters.

``When we refrained from taking Twilight, you promised us our restraint
would bring forth results,'' Komena croaked.

``I'd have you fight this war in a manner that doesn't guarantee having
to fight another one in twenty years with your current allies,''
Andronike said, eerily imitating my every intonation from back then
without flaw.

``And yet,'' the youngest of the sisters said.

They were questioning the value of playing nice when faced with allies
like these, whose actions might very well lead to that war in a few
decades regardless of what the drow did. It went back to the lessons
they'd been taught while still mortals: that restraint would always be
seen as weakness, that only the strong were bargained with and strength
came without mercy. Of course, they were wrong in this.

``You did get that,'' I pointed out without hesitation. ``Sure, we might
need to arrange an accident for Gaspard of Cleves in a way that can't be
traced back to us a few years from now, but you're missing the point:
the two most powerful people in Procer want to shut him down and will at
the first good opportunity. The Empire Ever Dark is seen as
\emph{valuable}, something not to antagonize without reason. Considering
the general amoral ruthlessness of Proceran diplomacy over the last
centuries, that's basically weaving you a crown of flowers and asking if
you're going to the fair with anyone.''

I'd, uh, maybe gotten a little too enthusiastic with that last metaphor.

``\emph{Were} you going to the fair with anyone?'' Andronike asked, tone
too serene for her not to be fucking with me.

Great, they were still missing the mark half the time with sarcasm but
\emph{naturally} they'd be the finest of students when it came to
learning how to pull my leg.

``I had a shift at the Rat's Nest anyway,'' I said.

I felt Komena's gaze descend on me, somehow coming across as skeptical
even coming from a bird.

``Fine,'' I grumpily admitted, ``Duncan Brech did not, in fact, ask me
to the fair.''

He'd asked Lily from one of the other rooms at the orphanage,
whose\ldots{} charms had developed quicker and more amply than mine.
Mind you if I'd had my pick of the litter I might have chosen Lily as
well, so I could hardly blame him.

``Procer has not asked us to the fair either,'' Andronike comfortingly
said.

See, if it'd been her sister I might have thought that halfway genuine
but coming from her I just knew she was just having me on.

``Very droll,'' I said. ``Thank you for passing this along, then. I'll
be seeking out Hasenbach to bury it for good.''

Preferably without dead bodies being involved, but that depended on how
reasonable Prince Gaspard intended to be. If he was willing to bend his
neck and make reparations for overreaching in this way, I'd leave it at
that. Otherwise I was going to have to take some measures to express my
irritation, less than subtly. If even \emph{that} didn't make the point
sink in, then I'd have to put some thought into how best to have him
disappear without entangling the Mirror Knight into this mess. Tricky
but not impossible, if I leaned on the White Knight to get him moved to
another front and he'd not confused sleeping with the pretty Langevin
girl for true love. Hells, though, why couldn't he just have stayed out
of this mess? The prince would not have been so bold without a Chosen to
back him. Why was it that the only Proceran hero to have any degree of
sense was Roland and he was the one I \emph{couldn't} have on the field?
The Gods were pricks, as usual.

``How's Serolen?'' I asked.

There really wasn't a proper, commonly accepted name for the massive
forest in between Lake Netzach and the Chalice. Most maps ended at the
bottom of the Kingdom of the Dead, and few people had an interest in
what went on north of the human nations of Calernia. I'd seen it called
the -- inventively-named -- Dead Wilds, the Forest of Ghosts and rather
more poetically the Bleak Weald. Mapmakers tended to call it whatever
they felt like, and there was no one to contradict them: it wasn't like
the Dead King's legions had shared their name for it, if they even had
one. Serolen was what the Firstborn had come to name the forest, and in
Crepuscular it more or less meant the Duskwood\emph{.} The Firstborn had
fought nine battles and a hundred skirmishes before claiming the greater
span of the woods, securing them enough that Sve Noc could bring down
the Gloom around the edges and plunge the territory in permanent dusk.

Neshamah was perhaps the greatest sorcerer Calernia had ever known, so
of course he'd found ways to pierce through the Gloom. They weren't
perfect, though, and it'd enabled the Firstborn to secure their
frontline and begin settling in the depths of Serolen. The first drow
city on the surface still shared its name with the Duskwood, for now,
but I expected that would change with time. I'd already filled the ears
of the Crows with rants about why Proceran principalities and capitals
sharing their name was highly inconvenient in half a dozen senses, so
you might even say it'd be a religious obligation. I'd shove that in the
holy book if I had to, they knew damn well.

``See for yourself,'' Komena said, open pride in her voice.

The shadows shifted, but this time it was not a memory that was offered
up for me to tear through. I dragged myself up to my feet, teeth keeping
my pipe in place, and walked over what had been made to seem like the
evening sky. Below me, misty woods shrouded in shadow spread out as far
as the eye could see. The ground fell beneath my feet as we closed in on
the Duskwood, my old calcified fear of heights sending a familiar pang
up my leg. What I found beneath the mists had me smiling, though. The
sigils of the Everdark had come together under the Ten Generals and
their great cabal of the Exodus, whose founders were Sve Noc themselves,
and the results were a wonder. An empire's worth of looted wealth had
been made into a city at the heart of the gloomy woods, temples of stone
and millennia-old steles held up by trees coaxed through Night to serve
as stairs and roads and a hundred other things. Within the bark had been
nestled precious stones and obsidian, while leaves around the sacred
places were painted with colourful prayers and poems.

It was a city like none I'd ever seen, like \emph{no one} had ever seen,
made up from the stolen parts of half a dozen cities who'd once been
among the most glorious of this land. And everywhere among the
labyrinthine lay of its `streets' the Firstborn were living. Sleeping
and haggling and brewing their horrid drinks, making lizardscale clothes
and harvesting the mushrooms from the deeps that'd spread like the
plague. Waters had been diverted from half a dozen streams, and stolen
lakes brought from their ancient homes, making the entire span richly
watered and leading into an artifical lake at the heart of Serolen.
There the great temple that had once been the soul of the Empire Ever
Dark, the seat of the Twilight Sages and where Sve Noc had struck their
ill-fated bargain with Below, stood tall. Entire flocks of crows like
the ones on my shoulders perched there, ever-hungry and ever-watchful
shards of godhood. I let out a low, impressed whistle after taking my
pipe in hand.

``That's new,'' I said, pointing towards the great temple. ``I didn't
know you'd looted that.''

``All of Holy Tvarigu is within us,'' Andronike replied.

``It's coming along nicely,'' I approved. ``Do you intend to keep a
strong presence up here even after the war?''

``There would be advantages,'' Komena said. ``Like the nearness of the
Chain of Hunger.''

Words to make a Lycaonese choke, that, but it made sense. To the drow,
yearly ratling raids would be like a fresh harvest of Night coming over
and asking to be scythed through.

``We've got time yet,'' I said. ``Might be worth speaking with the First
Prince when you decide on where you'll raise your cities. She'll be
better placed than I to point out the northern trade arteries of
Procer.''

I received no acknowledgement of my words save for the two of them
taking flight and landing on my shoulders, sharp talons digging into my
flesh. I put my pipe back into my mouth and took a drag, spewing the
smoke upwards just to spite them. It was time, it seemed.

``All right,'' I said afterward. ``Show me the war.''

I steeled myself and the shadows spun.

Horror swallowed me whole.