“Though it is not poor advice that one should imitate excellence, one who follows this advice alone can only ever aspire to be an imitation of excellence.”
– Extract from the treatise “On Rule”, author unknown (widely believed to be Prince Bastien of Arans)
As the radiance in his armour slowly faded, the Mirror Knight turned towards us.
With the echoes of Light that’d shone within his plate dispersing, the aura of power that’d hung around him should have gone the same way – and it did, some. Christophe of Pavanie no longer seemed like an implacable thing fashioned out silver and light: he looked human again, the raised visor of his barbute revealing dark locks pressed by sweat against his brow. Yet I could see the certainty he was moving with now, that certain something that came from being in your element and knowing it, and grew no less wary of the man. The softly whistling sword in his hand he sheathed without a word, sliding it home in a beautiful and heavy piece of iron, but even his putting away the Saint of Sword’s cutting rectitude made blade was not enough to have my shoulders loosen.
Losing the unearthly touch had simply left behind a man, I thought, with dark green eyes and narrow lips. Flawed, yes, but not unpleasantly so. It made him seem more attainable, the stark opposite of the Exiled Prince’s golden perfection back in the day – which had been beautiful but also somehow unnatural to the eye. This one, though, he looked cloaked in might but no less human for it. It was a dangerous thing, that mix of vulnerability and power. I should know, given how often I’d used it to bind people to me. Soldiers were willing to pay dues to a faraway idol, but real loyalty came from sharing in blood and mud. Christophe de Pavanie, to speak the words that had my fingers clenching in dismay, looked like someone people might rally around.
That was dangerous, when the man being rallied to bore both a sword forged for deicide and a child’s understanding of politics.
The Mirror Knight had carved his way through seven demons and half a Court’s worth of fae in a single evening, so there was no arguing that the man had the might to back anything he chose to say. Much as my mind wanted to argue that providence and another lesser hand had provided in this, that the Severance and Light made him uniquely suited to demonslaying, I knew those whispers for what they were – a tinge of fear and dismay. Behind them was the knowledge that, right now, the one trick I had that might still be able to curb him was beyond my reach: now that the emergency wards had come on, I could no longer try to gate the hero to his demise. The Saint could cut gates, I thought. So would it even be enough if I could still use them?
“Black Queen,” Christophe de Pavanie greeted me. “One of them slipped by ua, a dreadfiend. Did your party catch it?”
Only then did his eyes slide away from me and onto the rest of our company, ignoring the legionaries and barely paying attention to the mages before lingering on Masego and at last offering the Blade of Mercy a slight nod. Even that was enough to have the younger man blooming in pleasure, whatever gilding having been knocked off the Mirror Knight today freshly plastered back on by this victory.
“It’s been destroyed,” I replied, voice even. “There were losses.”
His face fell into dismay, the peace on it whisked away in a heartbeat.
“Lady Eliade?” he hoarsely asked.
“And sixteen of my soldiers,” I replied, tone growing sharp.
I grieved Nephele’s death, but power and a story had not somehow made her life worth more than those others.
“I did not mean to dismiss their deaths,” he stiffly said.
I forced myself to breathe out. It’d been an unkind interpretation of his words, and I’d known it even as I spoke the words.
“My temper is not at its best,” I replied, stopping short of an apology.
The Vagrant Spear, who I’d barely been paying attention to, began to pant noticeably as she suddenly went deathly pale. Earlier upright and dealing in Light, she now began to lean heavily against her spear – and even then she looked about to topple over.
“Sidonia,” the Mirror Knight exclaimed, catching her elbow.
I stepped forward, though he had things seemingly in hand so I did not try to offer my own arm.
“Hierophant can provide healing, if you’re willing,” I offered as I kept limping forward.
Now that I was paying closer attention to her, the ironically eye-catching scorched eye was not the worst of what she’d gone through tonight. There were subtle tells of harsher wounds. For one the flush she’d had while fighting had not abated in the slightest since, and she was sweating badly enough it was making her face paint run. Some tells were less subtle, like blade marks including one puncture that would have gone through her lung by the angle. Nasty stuff, lung wounds, even for Named. Some slender blade had done it, but definitely a sword. The marks weren’t bleeding, though, and even looked to be healed some: scabs had formed, though they looked bloody and crusty. The Concocter’s work, no doubt.
“The second of the peddler’s potions has run out,” the Vagrant Spear admitted. “It was champion’s brew, Black Queen, or close enough. There is little that the Hierophant can do. With a few days of rest, I should be on my feet again.”
“Something can be done about the fever at least, surely,” the Mirror Knight insisted.
“He’s right,” I said. “Consider it an order by an officer of the Truce and Terms. I might still have questions for you, so you can’t disappear into sleep and avoid all the unpleasant work that’ll come after this spectacular mess.”
She let out a weak chuckle.
“As relentless a taskmistress as your reputation promised,” the Vagrant Spear told me, though it almost sounded like a compliment.
Masego had come to stand by me, having already wrested away sorcery from a mage, and by the look on his face I suspected he would have healed Sidonia regardless of her answer. Zeze was not a foe to other people’s pride, usually, but he did tend to draw the line at what he perceived to be willful stupidity.
“Close your eyes,” Hierophant ordered, yellow light coming to wreathe his fingers. “And if you feel muscles spasming, tell me immediately.”
I heard him mutter champion’s brew with a pronounced degree of distaste under his breath, then add something about calling poison what it was. I clenched my fingers and unclenched them, considering how I was now to deal with the Mirror Knight. From the corner of my eye I could see that the Blade of Mercy was hesitating to approach, likely afraid of interrupting a conversation between two people that were his social superiors, and in a snap decision I gestured for him to approach. It’d buy me a bit of time to think while they chatted, and I took the opportunity to send some regulars doubling back to get mages and priests here in all haste. I wanted every inch of this bloody place scoured clean until even layers of bedrock had gone.
Hells, if we could figure out a way how I was going to dump this entire section of the Arsenal out of here and then find a way to ensure not even a sliver of any kind of taint was able to crawl out of the destruction visited onto it.
I still had one loose end to clean up before I could pass supervision of this to competent officers and crash into a bed, though, and now I had to decide whether I wanted to take the Mirror Knight along with me when I saw to it. The man had no position under the Terms that’d warrant that, of course, and by treating him like he did I might be lending him that authority in fact. If I acted like he was important, a lot of people would follow suit. That was the argument against it. The opposite side of this was that the Terms were an abstract, an ideal: in practice, power mattered. The Mirror Knight had the Severance, he was nigh-unkillable and was also a rather famous Proceran hero – arguably the most famous of them all. The Kingfisher Prince had spent most the war up in Twilight’s Pass, after all.
It was indisputable that Christophe de Pavanie would end up with clout, after tonight, so shouldn’t I begin to bring him into the… fold, for lack of a better term, as soon as possible? Even if it happened that he was intent on being an enemy, it’d be best to find out early. It felt like a mistake, but then it’d be just as much of one to go the other way wouldn’t it? The Intercessor knew her way around a scheme: her works left me only shades of loss to pick from. From the corner of my eye I noticed the conversation between the two Proceran heroes had come to an end, which meant my delaying must come to an end.
“Mirror Knight,” I called out.
I gestured for him to follow me when he glanced my way, stepping away from the closest soldiers for a degree of privacy. I hid a wince when he came close, as the last glints of Light in his armour unsettled the Night within my body – like wind on the surface of a pond. I could understand now why Firstborn would find him deeply unsettling, being so much more deeply dyed in the Night than I could ever hope to be. But it was the sword that had me wariest of all. Even sheathed, I could feel its hostility. You know who I am, I thought, sneaking a look at it. And there’s just enough of Laurence left in you to hold a grudge, isn’t there?
“Black Queen,” Christophe de Pavanie said. “You wanted to talk?”
His eyes were wary, but he did not strike me as spoiling for a fight. I supposed even his stamina must run out eventually, or at least dip downwards.
“This isn’t over yet,” I said.
He slowly nodded.
“Antoine says you have fingered the culprit behind all this,” he said. “The Wandering Bard, yes? More fearsome an enemy than her Name would have one believe.”
“The Bard can’t act directly,” I bluntly said. “Think of her as a devil or a fae: her weapons are deals and persuasion, not blades. And she had helpers in the Arsenal from the start.”
The Mirror Knight’s face went cold.
“Traitors,” he spat. “That will need seeing to.”
“Most are dead, outed by their actions during the crisis,” I said. “But there is one still unaccounted for – the person who unleashed the Concocter’s creations in the Miscellaneous Stacks, likely the same collaborator who tried to arrange for the Kingfisher Prince to fight guards.”
“Then we are still in danger,” the Mirror Knight said, side of the neck twitching as he forced himself not to look to the side.
Where Masego was seeing to wounded Vagrant Spear. Wasn’t the danger to himself that was worrying him, evidently. I was going to have to look into that relationship, wasn’t I? Gossip about Named tended to be a lot more useful than you’d think in figuring them out, at least when it was halfway credible.
“I don’t believe the individual in question to be a current threat,” I noted. “But neither do I believe in letting loose ends linger.”
Dark green eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been vague on purpose about the traitor,” the Mirror Knight said. “Are you afraid I’ll take justice in my own hands?”
That edged on a challenge, and it had my blood quickening. My instinct was to slap him down, to set a tone for the coming days that established very clearly where we stood in the pecking order, but that was a risk. I’d be antagonizing a useful resource and, to be blunt, if the challenge turned to a fight the consequences of a defeat here would be disastrous. I must walk a fine line, remaining convivial without bending my neck – weakness would invite pursuit, not restraint.
“You barely know the third of what went on in the Arsenal this night,” I flatly replied. “Justice is not something you’re even remotely in a position to provide.”
His lip curled in displeasure, but there was nothing there he could argue with.
“You could, however,” I continued in a calm voice, “assist me in my duties under the Terms as witness for your side. Something I brought you aside to invite you to do.”
“If there is still a traitor, this fight has not ended,” Christophe of Pavanie insisted.
“This is not a battle, it is a disciplinary matter,” I said. “If there are sentences to be doled out, then that will be done by the high officers of the Truce and Terms – and after discussion and trial, not by dragging people to the nearest hanging tree.”
Too confrontational, I chided myself, but then what choice did I have? I could not let him believe, not even for a moment, that he had the right or authority to pass judgement over other Named. That’d be the end of the Truce and Terms, an implicit admission that its rules would always favour the side with the biggest stick. Without the perception of fairness, they were nothing but ink and air.
“I do not speak of summary executions, Black Queen,” the Mirror Knight said, sounding appalled.
“Then we have no issue,” I said. “Will you be accompanying me, or will I be reaching out to another Chosen?”
That particular trick I’d learned Akua. The false dilemma was an older lesson, but the little deceit of refraining from specifying something – which hero I would be reaching out to, in this case – while letting the wording do the thinking for the interlocutor. Chosen, I’d said, and there was only one other Proceran hero. The Mirror Knight’s eyes flicked to the Blade of Mercy. Young, exhausted, more than a little shaken by his brush with a demon. And the older man would see the younger as in his charge, too, not exactly a subordinate but at least a responsibility. The question had decided its own answer.
“I accept your invitation to ser- stand as witness,” the Mirror Knight said, hastily changing the sentence halfway through.
“Good,” I said. “See to your affairs here, then prepare yourself to leave. We’ll be going as soon as enough mages and priests have arrived to contain this properly.”
The man nodded and briskly walked away. Fair enough. I checked in on Masego, to see how the healing was doing, but was shooed away. I did manage to slide in that I wanted him to lead containment and purge protocols here, which he agreed to without missing a beat. Our reinforcements were there before long, first a few careful squads of lightly armoured Dominion warriors sneaking in to have a look and then proper companies. Mages and priests aplenty, led by the Harrowed Witch and an earnest-faced man in armour who introduced himself as the Forlorn Paladin. Right, the hero with amnesia – one of Indrani’s band. Much as their presence was appreciated, it was an old Lycaonese captain I left in charge, with a note that he should follow the recommendation of the specialists regarding containment to the letter.
With that left in good hands and the Mirror Knight having made his goodbyes to the Vagrant Spear and the Blade of Mercy, the two of us left. No escort came with us, though Lieutenant Inger offered, as I did not want to spook our target too soon. The downside of that was that I was left alone with Christophe de Pavanie, who for some godforsaken reason took it upon himself to attempt stilted small talk.
“I heard that you dealt handily with the undead plague in southern Hainaut,” the Mirror Knight said.
I eyed him sideways, and seriously debated simply telling him he didn’t have to do this. Good odds he’d taken as an insult, though, so I supposed we were fated to suffer through this.
“Would that we could have prevented that instead of suppressed it,” I said, then made effort of my own. “I heard through the White Knight that you were part of the band that sunk a turtle-ship near Cleves – a well-done thing.”
I bit my tongue a heartbeat later when I recalled what Hanno had told me of how that’d been achieved: throwing the man to my side through the shell, like some sort of eldritch trebuchet stone. His cheeks reddened and his hand slipped towards the Severance. Not to grasp its handle or threaten to unsheathe it, I thought, but… cautiously. Disbelievingly. As if to reassure himself it was there. Fuck, that might actually be worse. There were ways to handle a swaggering bully with a new toy, but this looked like a deeper thing.
“It was necessary work,” the Mirror Knight said, tone steady. “Perhaps we might discuss where we are headed, and to meet whom?”
Yeah, I wasn’t going to look that particular gift horse in the mouth.
“This is one of the paths to the Workshop,” I said. “And we’re headed towards the persona quarters of the Hunted Magician.”
The dark-haired man jolted in surprise.
“One of the Damned?” he said. “I had thought…”
Wait, this entire time had he thought that I was trying to off one of the heroes and using him as a witness and helper? Had that been why he was so appalled when I mentioned hanging? Neither of those questions were something I could really ask outright, so I swallowed them and pressed on.
“My proof of his dealings with the Wandering Bard is weak,” I said, “but I have enough that I should be able to startle more out of him. Besides, his troubles with Autumn came back to haunt all of us.”
“He has given an oath to the Fair Folk?” the Mirror Knight asked.
“He never paid the debt,” I corrected. “And Autumn came here in part to collect.”
“Then every life taken by the fae is on his head,” Christophe de Pavanie coldly said.
I shook my head.
“He didn’t invite them, and as far as I know his enmity with them is older than his signing onto the Truce and Terms,” I said. “Quite a few Named have old enemies that’d take a swing at them if they could, that’s not a crime.”
“Corpses strewn across the Arsenal speak otherwise,” the Mirror Knight said.
“He was a tool in that, not the culprit,” I flatly said.
That, to my surprise, actually seemed to strike a chord.
“But he is a traitor still,” the Proceran hero said.
“That,” I muttered, “I won’t argue with.”
And I suspected I already knew exactly what the Intercessor had bought his cooperation with, which while understandable did not make me want to burn him at the stake any less. When we actually got to the Workshop I had to ask for directions, since I didn’t know where his quarters were, but the Arsenal was crawling with soldiers now so it was easily done. I shot a look at the Mirror Knight when we got to the door, waiting for his nod, and only then knocked. Before it opened I already knew he’d be behind it: the buzz of sorcery against my fingers, the telltale mark of something being warded up to its neck, assured me as much. He’d clearly made his rooms into a place where it would exceedingly difficult for enemies to find him.
The door was cracked open, the Hunted Magician carefully peering through. His eyes widened when he saw me, but he mastered his surprise and opened the door wide. Only then did he notice Christophe de Pavanie looming tall at my side, and the mask of affability he’d halfway put on lapsed into blankness. Whatever he’d believed me to be here for, the Mirror Knight being along did not fit with that belief. I used my staff to gently but firmly finish pushing open the door.
“Hunted Magician,” I mildly said. “You know the Mirror Knight, I take it?”
“I know of him, Your Majesty,” the Proceran mage said, inclining his head in a silent greeting. “What bring me the pleasure of your companies, if I might ask?”
“Not the sort of conversation to have in a hallway, yes?” I smiled.
“It would only be decent to offer seating and refreshments,” the Mirror Knight pointedly said.
The look of pure genuine dislike they traded after that allowed me to take a look inside while they were both busy. Classic Alamans tastes, all cushions and painted wood with the furniture alone being worth as much as some houses back in Laure. We didn’t pay the man nearly enough for that, but there was no telling what wealth he’d squirrelled away or favours he’d called in since.
“Alas, I only have one set of cups fit to witness royal lips,” the Hunted Magician said. “I’m afraid you will have to some servant set I have lying around, Knight.”
“Your hospitality matches your reputation,” the Mirror Knight replied without missing a beat.
Point went to Christophe for that round, I decided.
“Oh, we won’t be here for long,” I said, still smiling. “I only mean to put some misunderstandings to rest, then we’ll be off.”
The Proceran villain glanced at the hero, brow quirking.
“I can just imagine,” he thinly smiled, “what manner of misunderstanding you mean.”
The Mirror Knight shot me a burning look, but if he hadn’t wanted me to use his being an ass to my purposes then he shouldn’t have been in the first place. We were invited to sit, myself on a seat like the Hunted Magician himself while Christophe was made to stay on a padded red footstool by my side.
“You are aware of the troubles that struck the Arsenal, of course?” I asked.
“Indeed,” the Hunted Magician said. “I fought in defence of the Workshop, but found myself alone and so withdrew in the face of the enemy. I did return to help with healing at the Sinister Physician’s infirmary when the immediate peril had passed, though I returned when I grew tired and my services superfluous.”
He probably had done all those things, I mused. He seemed like the thorough type in some ways, so there’d likely be witnesses and everything. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t digging at the truth – I already had it. What I wanted from him was an admission.
“I did not see you at the Workshop when I fought there,” the Mirror Knight accusingly said.
“There’s more than one room in it, as it happens,” the Hunted Magician drily replied.
“You’re familiar with fae,” I said. “What’s your take on their presence here?”
“I see,” he mused. “As you’ve grown to suspect, Your Majesty, our foe must have used my past dealings with their kind to muster them against the Arsenal – though I was not hunted for long, and so their true reason to have come here must be a deeper game.”
Halfway believable, I thought, but still a little weak. He had to know that, so odds were he was counting on mere suspicion not being enough considering how useful he was to the Grand Alliance as an artificer and enchanter. In most circumstances that would have been a correct read of the situation, to his credit. These were not circumstances, and it was not just anyone he’d bargained with.
“That was also my conclusion,” I mildly said. “And who would you name our foe?”
“It must be the Dead King,” the Hunted Magician gravely assured me.
I drummed my fingers against the side of my staff, thoughtfully.
“Let’s try this again,” I said. “But with you being aware that I slit the Wandering Bard’s throat after extracting every secret I could from her, including her multiple collaborators within these walls.”
The man paled, grey-blue eyes dilating with fear.
“I understand that questions must be asked, Your Majesty, but I have never dealt with a foe of the Grand Alliance,” he assured me, voice impressively calm.
“Liar,” the Mirror Knight coldly said. “You stink of it.”
“Do be silent, péquenaud,” the Hunted Magician snarled. “I must protest at the presence of one of the hounds of the Heavens, Your Majesty, this is most-”
I sighed and slowly I reached for the long dragonbone pipe within my cloak. The eyes of the two of them on me as I slowly opened a packet of wakeleaf – Hanno’s gift, amusingly – and stuffed it before passing my palm over the bowl and letting a flare of back flame light it. I breathed in deep, then leaned back into my seat and crossed one of my legs over the other. I breathed out the smoke slowly, letting it curl up around my face.
“Your Majesty,” the Hunted Magician tried again. “If I may-”
“Who am I, Magician?” I patiently asked him.
“The Black Queen, as all know,” the man replied. “I question not your authority under the Truce and Terms-”
“No,” I said. “You just take me for a fool. Now that with the Bard’s help you were able to have the prince holding your debt killed, you think you can wiggle your way out of this without too much trouble.”
“I have never heard of this woman you accuse me of having made common cause with,” the Hunted Magician said, exasperated.
“It must have seemed like a sweet bargain,” I mused. “Open a few canisters of gas, weave an illusion or two, and just like that the great sword ever hanging over your head would go away forever. Hardly even a breach of the Terms, even if you got caught. There are others under this roof who have done the same or worse.”
I breathed in the smoke. The Mirror Knight was watching me in silence, visibly eager to speak but forcing himself to remain silent anyway.
“I brought worthy concerns to you, Your Majesty,” the man said. “Why would I do such a thing, were I a traitor?”
I breathed out the smoke, then leaned forward.
“Right now,” I said, “the only thing standing between you and a tribunal of heroes, of angry Grand Alliance officers? It’s my word, Magician. So I want you to take a moment to consider, really consider, exactly how much of an imposition on my patience you want to be after the night I’ve had.”
The Hunted Magician fell silent.
“This was a bad bargain,” I told him, tone cool and calculating. “I don’t even need to lift a finger to destroy you, after this: all I need to do is stop extending my protection and they’ll have you gagged and chained before the hour’s out. And even if you escape, where do you go? We’re half the continent, Magician, you’ll be hunted like a criminal everywhere we rule. Even in the League we’re owed favours, and if you somehow make it to Praes the best you can hope for is a gilded cage – though more likely they’ll use you, then murder you so you cannot be used by another. You traded one faraway fairy prince as an enemy for the lasting anger of half fucking Calernia.”
“This is coercion,” the Hunted Magician tightly said. “Is that not an abuse of your authority, Black Queen?”
I spewed out a long stream of smoke.
“Authority,” I repeated, amused. “Are you going to begin listening to me, then? The word goes both ways. You cannot hide under my wing and sink a knife in my flank at the same time – I am not so tolerant a soul as to allow that.”
His appeal to my better nature – which had always been pragmatic enough to know when it was time to go for a walk and let the other one handle things – having failed, he turned to the other way out of this mess.
“What do you want?” the dark-haired mage asked, teeth gritted.
“I want a reason I should go through the effort to keep your head off a pike,” I said. “Because the more you keep wasting my time, Hunted Magician, the more I begin to consider how putting it there instead would solve so very many of my problems.”
The enthusiasm I’d spoken that last sentence with, I thought, was what tipped him over the edge.
“I know you can extract memories with Night,” he suddenly said. “So I can give you the Bard.”
“I have the Bard already,” I said, unimpressed. “Try harder.”
“I know how the Blessed Artificer and the Repentant Magister were tipped off to the existence of Quartered Seasons, and by whom,” the Hunted Magician said.
My pulse slowed. I wanted that. Most the traitors of this night had come from outside the Arsenal, and that meant the Intercessor was likely to still have helpers out there. A way to begin ripping out her influence root and stem was a decent prize to bargain with. Not, though, quite enough to tempt me.
“Better,” I said. “But sweeten the pot a little more.”
First he looked insulted by the cavalier treatment, then hesitant. He licked his lips.
“I know,” the Hunted Magician slowly said, “where to find the ruling crown of Autumn.”
I breathed in smoke so that a triumphant grin would not reveal the truth of my thoughts. And like that, the pieces fell together. If Hierophant could get his hands on it, Quartered Seasons became more than an idle notion.
“That will do,” I said.
The Hunted Magician’s relief was not as well-hidden as he probably believed it to be. I rose to my feet, brushing some ash off my cloak.
“Don’t try to leave the Arsenal,” I said, not bothering to add on a threat. “I’ll send for you when the situation calms, likely with the White Knight and other Alliance representatives sitting in.”
“As you say,” the Hunted Magician said through gritted teeth.
I glanced at the Mirror Knight and saw the face of a man who was moments away from blurting out a great many opinions.
“Escort me back to my rooms, please,” I said.
Christophe de Pavanie stiffly nodded, and even opened the door for me.
I suspected the conversation that was about to follow, though, would be a great deal less civil.
