Cordelia was not certain which part struck her as more absurd: that house-sized herons dwelled in Arcadia or that the Valiant Champion had apparently tamed one.
“Is mine now,” the Champion insisted. “Called Wizard.”
“Having inspected it, I can tell you thatshe is in fact female,” the Forsworn Healer note, his faint Atalante accent thickening the drawl. “Perhaps Witch would be more fitting.”
How? she wondered. Is part of your Name to have magical bird taming powers? Is it an aspect? You cannot have been in the presence of that heron for more than an hour. The same heron that must weigh as much as a company of infantry and was nipping at the Levantine’s shoulder lovingly.
“Wizard is genderless noun,” the Valiant Champion smugly said. “You ignorant.”
Cordelia’s brow slightly creased before she remembered to smooth it away. The heroine put up a good front, but when she’d spoken the words there had been a glint in her eyes. Sadness, Cordelia decided, or perhaps regret. The Lycaonese princess had long wondered how much of that cheerful brutishness was a mask. Rafaella of Alava often acted like a lout, but it had not made Cordelia forget that she was both one of the longest-serving heroes and a survivor of several disastrous engagements. The Healer narrowed his eyes at the Levantine heroine, visibly irritated, and the princess stepped in before bickering could ensue.
“We need to get moving,” Cordelia cut in. “I understand that five is the preferred number for a band of -Named and now we have five heroes gathered here. The tower awaits.”
The Kingfisher Prince, the Valiant Champion, the Forsworn Healer, the Painted Knife and the Mirror Knight. It would have to do. Hopefully Cordelia had changed Chosen for Named quickly enough that no one had noticed the stumbling of her tongue. Though her people’s terms of Chosen and Damned were not wrong, in her opinion, they were used solely by her countrymen. There was no need to remind foreign heroes that she was a ruling princess of Procer, a fact that already did much to damage her standing among them.
“There is no leader to our band,” the Mirror Knight said. “It won’t work.”
She saw him wince a moment later, both at the implied insult to her rank – which she suspected he cared more about than any other Chosen here – and the blunt dismissal of her opinion. He tacked on a mortified ‘Your Highness’ afterwards, trying to make up for it. She smiled gently at him to show no offence had been taken, patiently setting aside her irritation, but the damage had already been done. The door to objections had been opened and half of authority was people not knowing they could disagree.
“Agreed,” the Forsworn Healer said. “We should gather the others, aim for overwhelming might instead. I saw Apprentice land in an orchard to the southwest, I think.”
“I sent Helmgard east to join up with Sidonia and the Astrologer,” the Mirror Knight said. “That’s three of us, so perhaps we should start there.”
“The First Prince is right,” the Painted Knife flatly disagreed. “The tower is what matters. The mightiest army in the world will still lose the battle if it does not show up to fight.”
Frederic glanced at Cordelia sideways, as if hesitating, then joined his voice when her face remained without expression.
“The Warden of the East laid down a gauntlet through her tower,” the Kingfisher Prince agreed. “Refusing to pick it up can only end in our loss.”
She would have to take him aside and remind him not to balk this way again, she thought. In this company he did not owe her the deference the Prince of Brus would owe the First Prince of Procer. They were here as Chosen and claimant. On the contrary, it would be to their common disadvantage should he obey her without reason: it would create the appearance of Cordelia trying to merge together the office of First Prince and the Name of Warden of the West. The fair-haired woman knew well that the backlash to even the semblance of this would be harsh and swift.
“So both of you go with her,” the Healer suggested. “Meanwhile Christophe and I can head east into the hills. The Vagrant Spear and I can use Light to mark our positions.”
The priest from Atalante kept a dark eye on her as he spoke. Watching for her reactions. He has been trained, Cordelia decided. The man was said to have earned his Name by swearing away a great fortune and position in the city-state to become a wandering healer, which would explain it. Was he a foe? It was too early to tell.
“Separating would be a mistake,” Cordelia said.
A few surprised looks went her way. Not, she thought, at her opinion so much as the fact she was voicing one at all. As if she had no right to. Named business, she thought scornfully, and so only Named should decide it. In their eyes her claim mattered less than her title as First Prince. She hid the sharp spike of anger.
“Lord Christophe tells me that the Myrmidon and the Blood Sword fell into a lake,” she continued. “The only one we have seen is far out west, so they are unlikely to join us in time. I have already sent riders with spare horses to make the attempt, but there is little more to do.”
The Painted Knife let out a hum, face considering.
“The Warden could have sent any of us that far out instead,” Kallia of Levante said. “If she chose those two, it was for a reason.”
“Akatha and Gernot strong but no quick,” the Valiant Champion said, petting her giant heron’s head. “Swim slows them. Out of battle, like First Prince said.”
Though what she’d said was true, Cordelia thought, that had not been the Painted Knife’s train of thought. She was asking why Catherine Foundling had chosen these two Named of all those that could be sent furthest. And in her eyes, there was one obvious common thread between the two.
“Both are warriors,” Cordelia pointed out. “She might lack fighters of her own and so seek to limit the length our shield wall.”
“There are plenty of Bestowed in her service than can match us in a brawl,” the Painted Knife skeptically said, then snuck a sideways look at the Mirror Knight. “Most of us anyway.”
Cordelia hid a smile. The heroine had not refused her turn of phrase. ‘Our shield wall’. One stone after another, she would lay her foundation.
“You’ve never had to share a front with them, Kallia, wandering around as you have,” the Forsworn Healer said. “I’d bet the First Prince is right. If the Warden wants to keep this conflict amicable few of them would be fit for it. I cannot imagine the Red Knight or the Headhunter showing restraint in a duel.”
The Painted Knife frowned, then conceded with a sharp nod.
“Her strength must be indirect,” Cordelia said. “Mages and tricksters.”
Which meant a swift, direct assault might just yield success.
“She will have handpicked those with a fight in mind,” Frederic cautioned. “It would be dangerous to assume weakness.”
It would be even more dangerous to linger, in her mind. Christophe de Pavanie turned to her, mien serious.
“He’s right, Your Highness,” the Mirror Knight said. “The tower itself will be hard to breach regardless of defenders. We were baited in last time but now the Warden will truly defend it. I won’t claim we need every Chosen we brought, but we should at least find Adanna.”
The Blessed Artificer’s name, a woman whose mastery of Light would admittedly be a boon when facing Night. It was a fair point.
“Do we know where the Artificer is?” Cordelia asked.
No one had seen her since the drop, but Lady Kallia had a guess.
“One of the mountains beyond the hills collapsed,” the Painted Knife said. “I saw it happen from atop the lighthouse. If it wasn’t the Mirror Knight responsible, it can only be her.”
The man looked embarrassed but did not deny the conclusion.
“Then this will take time,” the Forsworn Healer said. “Perhaps we should split up, at least temporarily. I am told you have a knack for finding those in need of aid, Kingfisher Prince?”
His eye was on her again. A foe, then, Cordelia thought. He was not simply attempting to read her, he had intentions she was being measured for.
“You might say that,” Frederic smiled, brushing back his curls.
The Painted Knife stared at him, manifestly distracted by the sight. Cordelia sympathized. Frederic Goethal had long mastered the art of artless distraction and his disinclination to marry had been the despair of many a highborn lady over the years. Frederic did not elaborate and no one pressed. Cordelia had learned that inquiring in detail about another’s aspects was considered exceedingly rude.
“Then you should ride out to find Adanna,” the Healer suggested. “Kallia is a tracker of great skill, she can follow you into the hills and find the Vagrant Spear while there.”
Cordelia’s eyes imperceptibly narrowed. She knew the look in the man’s eyes, the too-casual tone. She had dealt with the likes of it before. Frederic was a strong supporter and the Painted Knife had agreed with her on every broad stroke so far. She was also respected among Chosen, a captain of their kind. The Forsworn Healer was trying to send away individuals who shared her opinions. This is a trap, the princess considered. The man had offered himself undertaking that same task earlier in a manner that would be quicker. But it would split him from the group, which he would not want.
So unless he was a fool, this was a trap. Cordelia, unfortunately, could not grasp the nature of said snare. She still knew too little of namelore. Then I must flush you out, she thought.
“Your earlier suggestion of using Light as a beacon would be even faster than tracking,” Cordelia idly said.
Triumph, not as well hid as he thought. She had read him correctly.
“I might be needed to heal comrades rejoining us,” the dark-haired hero said. “But you are right that Light might be quicker, Your Highness. Christophe, can you still flare your plate bright enough to be seen from far away?”
“I can,” the Mirror Knight said, almost eager as he looked at her. “It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”
He was after Christophe from the start, Cordelia thought. Aiming to send away to the two Proceran heroes present. It was a crude ploy but not senseless. Yet it was too small a prize for the effort he had put into the intrigue, she decided. What patterns of namelore did she know? Numbers, mostly. He means to send three Chosen in the hills and mountains, where three more await. Therefore not a ‘band of five’, which had been her guess. She was yet missing a detail.Cordeliadid not know enough about the Chosen, what they could or could not do. She’d read reports and even spoken with some, but always as the First Prince of Procer.
She did not know them, had never been one of them. That was Hanno’s strength and her weakness.
“No good to fight tower then,” the Valiant Champion bluntly spoke up. “Archer there. Will fuck us up the bootocks if Mirror Knight not there to take arrows.”
There was a general air at dismay at the prospect of fighting Indrani the Archer, even from the Levantines. Catherine Foundling’s s lieutenant had earned the wary respect of everyone who’d ever seen her fight.
“Perhaps the time would be better spent fetching the Apprentice, then,” the Forsworn Healer mildly said. “Kallia, the First Prince and I could ride out to get her. Perhaps even the Bloody Sword and the Myrmidon, as we ought to be close by then. The five of us can serve as another wedge of attack when they return.”
So that had been the angle, Cordelia thought. The man did not think they would return from the trip in time and that was the entire point. He was trying to keep her out of the fight, away from the tower. He is buying time for the Sword of Judgement. His game was plainly revealed: he was a loyalist, backing his preferred candidate as best he could. The Painted Knife immediately disagreed with the proposal, arguing she was the only here capable of scaling the tower if need be, and when others jumped in every inch of progress that had been made towards a decision since the conversation began soon collapsed. The Healer did not look displeased by the turn, not that Cordelia had expected him to.
The hero believed that Hanno would win, given long enough, and so preventing a decision from being reached here was already a victory. Unfortunately for the Forsworn Healer, however, she was not a wet-behind-the-ear debutante. She would not fall apart after the first setback, and he had handed her the very key to outplaying him.
“Lady Kallia, you mentioned that a mountain collapsed,” Cordelia said, cutting into the chaos. “Is this not true?”
“It is,” the Painted Knife frowned.
“Then the Blessed Artificer might be in danger as we speak,” the blonde princess seriously said. “For all her power, she is hardly immune to falling rocks. She could be in dire need of a healer.”
The Atalantian priest stiffened.
“Is true,” the Valiant Champion frowned. “Douka, you need to help.”
So that was the Forsworn Healer’s name? Interesting. Now for the further nail.
“And therefore is no need to further split our numbers,” Cordelia smiled. “Our friend the Healer can signal the Vagrant Spear and the Astrologer as he sets out for the mountains.”
“Five Bestowed,” the Painted Knife appreciatively said. “A knife held back should we falter. A fine plan.”
Cordelia received a respectful nod, which she returned. The Healer’s calm soured.
“Arcadia can be dangerous,” he said. “Perhaps an escort would be in order when I set out.”
“It will not be more dangerous than trying the Black Queen’s lair,” the Mirror Knight frankly said. “And your going alone weakens us least.”
Christophe stiffened.
“Not that I would call you weak,” the Knight hastily tacked on. “But this way only one of us goes.”
The Champion was still on the fence, Cordelia saw. In need of a nudge to tip her over the edge.
“If you have worries, I can lend you an escort of riders,” she kindly offered. “Twenty should be enough, I would think.”
It was a done thing after that. The Forsworn Healer glared at her darkly, cornered and unable to extricate himself from the snare he’d laid. His opposition to her did not come from malice. Cordelia reminded herself of that, every time she felt her stomach clench in irritation. Yet while power had swelled in the distance, the great tower of darkness pulsing as Named bickered in circles, Cordelia had not been able to help but think that this was everything she despised about heroes. The disorder, the aimlessness, the arrogance. The Forsworn Healer was perfectly willing to risk the darkness to the north getting its way simply because he believed that the Sword of Judgement would win.
Because he would not consider otherwise. Try as she might, Cordelia was seeing no thought given to making a contingency should Hanno of Arwad fail. The priest had simply decided to bet it all on the Sword of Judgement’s success. Showing no hesitation in making alone a decision that might affect the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions.
Catherine Foundling did not play for anything but keeps.
“Let us set out promptly,” Cordelia said. “The tower still awaits.”
The Painted Knife was the first to approach her as they rode. The younger woman was not a comfortable rider, another reminder that though Kallia of Levante was nobility in name in practice she was no such thing. Coming into a Name had raised her to the higher echelons of Levant’s hierarchy, but that ascension was largely decorative. All her power was personal.
“You have heard of the gathering that was to take place in Carrouges,” the Painted Knife said.
It was not a question.
“I have,” Cordelia replied.
She had enough eyes on the heroes and around them that there had been no question of hiding it from her. She did not believe the Sword of Judgement had even tried. Frantically setting aside the research that might yet save Calernia to prepare for such an assembly had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She’d thought to circumvent the matter entirely by going to Catherine directly, but the Warden of the East had proved reluctant. It had been frustrating, but Cordelia understood the reasons for the tacit refusal. Respected them, even.
But it had left her with only desperate measures to take, until Catherine Foundling’s eye-catching entrance had rendered them all unnecessary.
“I was there when the tower parted the sky and the talks ended before they could begin,” Kallia of Levante said. “And I will say this: in that swamp lay a dug-up dwarven gate.”
Cordelia’s breath stilled. Of course, she darkly thought. How had she dared to hope that the soldier would deign to live diplomacy to the trained diplomats? He was Prince White, beloved of people and Chosen, surely that was enough to give him the right to speak for the Grand Alliance and succeed where those who had practised diplomacy their entire lives had been stymied. The Sword of Judgement had not only summoned the heroes to crown himself Warden of the West, he’d been seeking their support to open talks with the Kingdom Under behind the back of the Grand Alliance.
Surprise had turned to cold, deep fury but Cordelia smoothed out her emotions.
“Knowledge most welcome,” the fair-haired princess replied. “Though I wonder as to why you brought it to me.”
The Painted Knife glanced in front of them, where the Valiant Champion rode to the side of the Mirror Knight.
“The Blood takes no side,” Kallia of Levante said. “One of us stands by the Sword of Judgement’s side, so balances must be struck even.”
Hedging their bets, Cordelia thought, as well as keeping to a tortured line of honour. She thanked the other woman with a nod and the heroine peeled away, leaving the princess to her thoughts. Would Hanno of Arwad truly do this, Cordelia wondered? Risk everything and everyone so recklessly? She was not unaware that her growing dislike for the man was tainting her opinion, but even careful consideration led to the same conclusion: he would.
He would do it because it was right, Cordelia thought. Because he was following his principles. Because in the eyes of so many heroes, doing right was enough to give you the right. And that was the conceit that Cordelia could not stomach, because even the highest of Procer did not dare claim so high a perch. She came from a land where even royalty could be put on trial. Not easily and often not as fairly as it should be, but even the mightiest of princes could be put to trial. But who was it that called the Chosen to account, when they abused the powers the Gods had granted them?
Nobody.
When the second Levantine of their party came to ride by her side, Cordelia was not surprised. Rafaella of Alava was very much a partisan of the Sword of Judgement, one of his oldest comrades. It had only been a matter of time until one of those approached her on his behalf. Better her than the Witch of the Woods, whose importance to the defences of Salia made complicated to deal with.
“First Prince.”
“Valiant Champion.”
The heroine’s long braid swung back and forth across her back, freed by the snarling badger helmet she held in her hands.
“I be blunt,” the Champion said. “Will not work. You can-not be Warden of the West.”
“A bold claim to make to a claimant,” Cordelia mildly replied.
“You sneaky,” the Champion said. “And clever, like fox. But you have no steel. So you can-not be Warden of the West.”
“There is more to victory than swords,” she evenly replied.
“Maybe,” the Valiant Champion said, then flicked a look at the tower in the distance. “But Warden of the East is clever and has sword. Against her, you lose.”
“Even if that were true,” Cordelia said, “what makes your man better?”
“Hanno can learn sneaky,” the Champion said. “You cannot learn sword. Not perfect man, but best there is. Peregrine would have been better.”
“I disagree,” Cordelia replied, tone cooling even further.
“Ashen Gods agree, is what matters,” Rafaella shrugged. “Can’t fight the sea, is why we make boats.”
The princess’s eyes narrowed. That was a Levantine proverb paraphrased: ‘if you cannot fight the sea, build a boat’. It meant that one should make accommodations with the inevitable, make the best of what could not be changed.
“You want me to strike a deal with him,” she said. “To exact terms in exchange for withdrawing my claim.”
The other woman sharply nodded.
“No one is happy, everyone gets something,” the Valiant Champion said. “Is politics.”
“And if I were disciplined from striking such a bargain?” Cordelia calmly asked
“Should,” the Champion said. “Mistake not to. Even if you clever way to Warden, won’t work. Some refuse to obey after.”
The dark-haired heroine eyed her frankly.
“I may be one,” Rafaella of Alava told her. “So make your boat, First Prince.”
Neither of them bothered with the pretence of a courteous goodbye. It was as if the world was hammering the nails in one after another, Cordelia thought. First the arrogance, and now the other side of the coin: heroes did not believe in rules. Even villains bent easier to law! After all, for most it had been a given all their lives that should they behave heinously there would be someone punishing them: the heroes. The servants of the Hellgods were often cruel and almost always selfish, but they were also governable. They were used to be governed, however indirectly, used to there being an authority above them – even if that authority was simple force.
Heroes were not. They followed their belief to the end, bolstered by the accolades that were Light and Name. Why should they doubt, when the Gods Above themselves gave them what they saw as a tacit nod of approval?
But you are not better, Cordelia sharply thought. Not really. You make mistakes too. She ought to know, having spent the last few years cleaning them up. It had been when Prince Gaspard’s plot came out that she saw the heart of the trouble. The Prince of Cleves had tried to make the Mirror Knight into his puppet son-in-law, to use the hero’s fame and power as fuel for his ambitions. In the wake of the affair being outed Cordelia had mended the break as best she could, and still the Firstborn had marched out of Cleves. Gaspard was forced to abdicate the moment she had the influence to see it done, but there lay the problem: while she handled the prince, the Mirror Knight was neither taught nor punished.
He was just… left to keep on going as he would.
The White Knight was meant to lead the heroes, had claimed that duty before Gods and men when he became a high officer of the Grand Alliance, but he had never taken them in hand. Cordelia could punish princes who schemed with heroes all she wished, had done so several times, but what was the point when no one punished the heroes who schemed with earthly powers? Again and again, a hundred small justices – proud, personal principles – had eaten away at the laws of the Grand Alliance from the inside as the White Knight simply watched.
The Red Axe had tried to unravel the Truce and Terms, to murder a prince of the blood, and some of the Chosen had actually agreed with her actions. The Mirror Knight had – him again! – mutilated a high officer of the Grand Alliance and was then let off with a slap on the wrist. The Peregrine had murdered an entire village of Procerans in his hunt of the Black Knight, and he had been influential enough that Cordelia had never been able to so much as chide him for it. Hanging the old monster, as he deserved to be, would have started a war. And the Saint of Swords, the first madwoman of the lot, had been the worst of them.
She’d been willing for all of Procer to burn, if the pyre might take the Dead King with it.
Cordelia had bled herself dry trying to keep the wall that stood behind Calernia and annihilation from breaking while the White Knight let his charges rip out stones without saying a word. Heroes hid behind their Light by claiming that holy duty set them apart from mortal laws and then, after rubbing elbows with those same mundane powers to disastrous effect, retreated behind that protection when consequences came knocking. One law for them, one for everyone else. And Hanno of Arwad did not believe that heroes could be called to account by anyone but the Gods, he had proven that much through his actions,
Cordelia had had enough. If no one else discharged the duty properly, then she would. And if the likes of the Forsworn Healer and the Valiant Champion insisted on getting in her way, she would sweep them aside. The was no compromise to be had with duty. Emerging from the boiling thoughts with her mind clear, sharpened, Cordelia’s gaze found the tower had neared. They were close, nearly there.
“And now,” the blue-eyed princess murmured, “violence.”
They slowed when standing in the tower’s shade, below the dark monolith whose darkness stood out even in the dark of night.
Cordelia knew better than to try to direct a fight between Named. Not yet. Instead it was Frederic who took the lead, sending the Painted Knife up the walls and assaulting the bottom of the tower. Even steel-barded wood could not long resist the strength of the Mirror Knight, and so after a shattering blow the three Chosen stepped into the dark. Cordelia would follow but not immediately. In the thick of the fight she would only be a hindrance, a potential hostage. She would be of use when it came to talking, not while the blades were out. Until then she would wait out in the plains, the moon high above and the roiling shadows all around her. It was a beautiful night, she thought, for such a dangerous one.
The noise of combat came from the inside, but curses and shouts and the sound of steel clashing, but as time passed it came from further and further away. The tower swallowed noise just as it swallowed light, Cordelia thought. The very nature of Night was taking, and more of that dark power had been gathered here than the princess had ever seen before. It hinted at the scope of the Warden of the East’s ambitions. It has to be the Book of Some Things, she thought. It was the threat guaranteed to get the two claimants to the wardenship of the West knocking at her door and no small prize should it be taken, devoured? She was not sure of the method that would be employed, but the Black Queen of Callow was infamous for her skill at stealing the power of others and making it her own. Even her fearsome armies had first been taken from the Legions of Terror.
“Yet you do not believe in forcing choices where you can lose,” Cordelia murmured, looking at the tower. “So what is that you gain here, should you not eat the Book?”
She would have a reason for beginning all this. Catherine was reckless, but it was a calculated sort of recklessness: leashed to her purposes, not allowed to run loose. Cordelia had first thought this was an exercise to make herself and the Sword of Judgement allies of fortune, but the longer she stood here the more she doubted it. Something was coming to an end tonight, she could feel it in her bones. Lost in her thoughts as she was, she did not notice it at first. The movement. And even when the tall grass moved, she thought it to be the wind.
It was only when the first rider fell and his horse panicked that Cordelia realized they were under attack. The riders spread out as swords were bared, two of her retinue immediately covering her sides with shields, but there was nothing around for them to fight. Only strands of shadow, of Night, rearing up from the grass to take men by their limbs and tie them to the ground. They could not win.
“Inside,” Cordelia yelled out. “Send word that the Warden is attacking from the back.”
Two riders tried, but the shadows caught them. Tripped the horses and bound the men. One by one her escort was disappearing into the grass, as if swallowed whole by coffins of green.
“Your Highness,” her captain said with forced calm, “we need to leave. Now.”
He was right. Fleeing was better than allowing herself to be taken prisoner. She nodded her agreement and pulled at her reins. East, they must head east. There were allies there. A heartbeat later a tendril of Night covered the captain’s mouth, silencing the scream as he was ripped off his horse. There were so few of them left, Cordelia saw, only a handful.
“Retreat,” the First Prince shouted. “East, get the other Chos-”
Darkness.
