“At the end, there will be more than the Gods.
With the Last Dusk will come the passing of Creation, discording turning to concord as the wager of Fate is resolved. Yet it shall not be the end of everything, for though all came of the emptiness of Void to create is to make something from nothing. That is our gift, and so the sum of the choices we have made will echo beyond the bounds of time.
In the end, we are told, they will all have mattered.”
– Last page of the Book of All Things
The Knightsgrave valley, as Catherine was informed, presented a picturesque scene. Verdant tall grass swayed around a gently flowing mountain spring, its banks adorned with vibrant red flowers. While such floral displays were common in the Red Flower Vales, or Vermillion Valleys as the local Procerans called them, the mage tower accompanied by a cluster of cottages was an unusual sight. This secluded haven in the mountains housed a small wizardry school, home to a handful of wizard families and twice as many eager students. The presence of a temple among the cottages indicated the House of Light’s oversight, with both the resident brother and the magistrate of nearby Beaumarais aware and approving of the school’s existence.
Neither the brother nor the magistrate recognized the Warden and the White Knight upon their arrival, only realizing their esteemed visitors’ identities when informed. They readily agreed to maintain silence regarding the visit. Borders were still fluid, and Beaumarais itself might soon fall under Cardinal’s jurisdiction before the year concluded.
The burial of Roland de Beaumarais, the Rogue Sorcerer, attracted a modest gathering. Magistrate Alisanne initially managed the arrangements but subsequently entrusted the solemn affair to Brother Albert. Catherine Foundling, having witnessed countless shades of sorrow throughout her life, refrained from questioning why the striking grey-eyed woman couldn’t bear to look upon the coffin. Roland had mentioned a woman in Beaumarais, and it was clear who she was.
The service was simple yet deeply sincere. Brother Albert kept his words brief, yielding the floor to Roland’s father – his last living parent, following his mother’s death from green fever two years prior. The father spoke of the inherent goodness in his son since childhood, expressing his pride in Roland’s quest to find his brother Olivier’s murderer. Roland de Beaumarais, it appeared, was a local figure of admiration. As a teenager, he had reportedly fought off an evil wizard, rumored to be a Praesi warlock, and later established the small wizard school.
Magistrate Alisanne maintained a steely gaze throughout the service, her eyes flinty. Several expectant glances turned her way, but she remained silent.
Hanno spoke instead, recounting the good deeds he had witnessed Roland perform and the enduring affection others held for him. The young wizards present were visibly moved, hearing tales of a man who had once been one of them rising to such esteemed company, of the people he had aided, and the evils he had vanquished. When Catherine Foundling’s turn came, she offered only two quiet sentences.
“He took an arrow meant for me,” she stated softly. “The debt I owe him is greater than words can express.”
Roland was laid to rest by the spring’s edge, amidst a bed of red flowers. A stone stele marked his grave, inscribed simply: Roland de Beaumarais, the Rogue Sorcerer. A life spent for another is never wasted. As dusk settled, the mourners dispersed, heading back to town for the funeral banquet. The White Knight cast a final glance at the magistrate and the former queen standing among the red blooms before departing with them, leaving them to their private grief.
“None of the people who came truly knew him,” Magistrate Alisanne murmured quietly. “Most arrived in Beaumarais after he had left, drawn by whispers of the school.”
“Not even his father?” the Warden inquired.
A wry smile was her answer.
“Especially not him,” the magistrate replied, her voice tinged with bitterness.
Catherine Foundling, a guardian of numerous secrets, refrained from asking why the other woman had insisted on a closed casket, given the body’s preservation, and disallowed any viewing. Roland had been a friend, a truly exceptional one. She would not intrude on his secrets at his graveside.
“I meant what I said about the debt,” the Warden reiterated, “He spoke of you as he was dying.”
The grey-eyed woman’s face momentarily contorted with sorrow before she regained composure. Only then did she acknowledge the unspoken offer.
“Rumors suggest Cardinal expands daily,” she observed.
“We are still laying foundations,” the Warden admitted. “Though housing has been erected for workers and officials.”
A year and a half had passed since Keter’s fall, yet construction had only commenced six months prior. The Principate was slow to recognize the borders, despite Cordelia’s efforts, though she assured Catherine it was not due to malice. Part of the land belonged to Orne, which had effectively declared independence during the Principate’s collapse and had only recently been brought back into the fold, albeit loosely. First Princess Rozala could have pressed harder, but her attention was divided between campaigns to reclaim the north and negotiations with secessionists in the south. Cardinal, posing no immediate threat, was low on the list of priorities.
“Perhaps I should head north then,” Magistrate Alisanne mused. “Our prince has called for officials to aid in Brabant’s resettlement now that the verdant companies have driven out the dead.”
“If that is your choice, I can put in a word for you,” the Warden offered. “Princess Beatrice is an old acquaintance; she would grant me a small favor without hesitation.”
Princess Beatrice Volignac, who had formally relinquished her claim to Hainaut and pledged her army to the reconquest in exchange for the Highest Assembly granting her the principality of Brabant, was in dire need of capable officials. Brabant’s ruling line and capital had been decimated, leaving the land in such disarray that commoners were imploring the orc mercenaries who had repelled the dead to remain and settle in deserted villages. Some were accepting, according to the Silver Letters’ latest report to Cardinal, and Beatrice’s court was even considering inviting a goblin tribe to alleviate reconstruction costs. The resounding success of such a gamble in Brus under the Kingfisher Princes was proving to be an attractive model.
“And Iserre?” the magistrate inquired casually, her tone now teasing.
“Rozala Malanza is less inclined to freely grant me favors,” the Warden replied drily, “but I could arrange something there too. I wouldn’t recommend heading there unless you seek conflict, though.”
The grey-eyed woman’s brow arched in surprise.
“Would war truly erupt so soon after the last?”
“Salamans is backing their own Milenan to challenge Malanza and they are not yielding,” Catherine Foundling explained. “They wish to avoid open war with the Highest Assembly, but they aim to use a civil war in Iserre to curb its southern ambitions.”
Much of the south still refused to recognize Rozala Malanza as the legitimate First Princess, ironically claiming she had usurped the rightful ruler of Procer – First Prince Cordelia Hasenbach. Using this pretext, they resisted reintegration into the Principate, though the real reasons were more pragmatic. The First Princess had vowed to unseat every royal who had not sent armies to Keter, and the Arlesite principalities had suffered the least in the war and were poised for the quickest recovery. They were unenthusiastic about heavy taxation to fund the recovery of Procer’s heartlands, especially by the Alamans princes who had been their rivals for power in Salia for centuries.
Only the shift in public opinion favoring the First Princess after the victory in Keter had prevented war, but that equilibrium was fragile. Rozala Malanza, though more beloved by the Proceran people, lacked her predecessor’s diplomatic finesse.
“I’ve never had a taste for war,” Magistrate Alisanne finally admitted. “And that was before I lost him to it.”
The grey-eyed woman shook her head, a soft smile gracing her lips as she gazed at the grave.
“I should see, I think, what dream it is that he gave his life for,” she concluded. “Let it be Cardinal.”
The inauguration of Cardinal College drew luminaries from across Calernia.
Even after four years and vast expenditures, Cardinal still appeared unfinished, yet what had been accomplished was breathtaking. The site, a narrow pass between Procer and Callow, had once been home to the fortress known as the Bloody Twins. However, the Tenth Crusade’s battles – particularly the clash between the Sovereign of Red Skies and Antigone Drakonslayer – had shattered it, scattering stone from a Hellish realm. Utilizing the old fortress as a foundation and the fallen stone as materials, stonemasons from the Liesse Accords signatories had begun to build the city.
Now, two imposing square towers of grey stone ascended, as tall as the mountain they were carved into. A grand plaza stretched between them, connected by the massive arched Concord Bridge, soaring half a league above the ground. From afar, the College resembled a colossal arch reaching for the heavens, with the city’s nascent districts radiating outwards, consuming the northern and southern valleys. Tunnels were being excavated through the mountains to unify the mountain-city. Large areas remained empty, but a bustling trading town had already sprung up on the Callowan side, fueled by heavy grain imports. Districts around the College were rapidly filling.
The rest resembled villages scattered within a vast, empty city. Workers from abroad and migrants drawn by work rumors settled in clusters. In time, the city was expected to fill itself. It might never rival Salia or Ater in size, constrained by the mountains, but it had the potential to become one of Calernia’s great cities nonetheless. Completion would take decades, but Cardinal was already partially self-sustaining, collecting taxes in coin and food from its territories on both sides of the Whitecaps. It was still reliant on foreign funds for continued growth, but those were secured for the foreseeable future.
Chancellor Alaya and Empress Basilia had proven willing to invest significantly more gold than mandated by the Accords. Concessions were expected, of course, but negotiations with the city’s seneschal had not yielded as much as they had hoped. Lady Cordelia remained one of the continent’s most astute diplomats.
Guests had begun arriving a month before the ceremony, but the most prominent figures arrived in the week leading up to it. The influx of crowned heads excited even the notoriously nonchalant Cardinalians, who had witnessed so many magical feats repurposed for mundane construction that little could still shock them. Formal reception commenced only when the last delegations arrived, in the grand plaza between the College’s two towers. It was a lengthy, ceremonial affair, with delegations marching up the avenue to be welcomed. The rich attire of the delegations made the event somewhat less tedious for the assembled crowds.
The Warden, head of Cardinal’s still largely vacant ruling council, extended welcomes alongside the other three sitting members. Lady Cordelia Hasenbach, the city’s seneschal, had also taken on diplomatic and judicial duties that would eventually surpass the office’s remit as they became distinct from administrative functions. Lady Pickler, the intendant of works, had developed a habit of attending only meetings involving fund allocation. Lastly, General Grem One-Eye, the renowned Praesi general who had quietly retired after the War on Keter, had accepted the offer to command Cardinal’s fledgling army.
The Lord Hierophant had adamantly declined the Rector of Cardinal College office, preferring to remain a permanent Senior Lecturer, thus avoiding attendance at the reception. First Princess Rozala and her consort Louis Rohanon were welcomed first, followed by a retinue of princes.
“They say she might be pregnant with a second,” the Warden muttered.
“It was only a matter of time,” Lady Cordelia murmured back. “She’s been trying since last year.”
Catherine Foundling let out a low whistle.
“During that Salamans mess?” she said. “Bold.”
It had been a tense period. Without their intervention, the situation could have escalated into open war between the League and the Principate. Following the First Princess’s decisive victories in Iserre, Salamans had descended into civil war, only for its southern region to be invaded by the Prince of Tenerife in a swift campaign. He had then formally requested to join the League of Free Cities, adding fuel to the fire. Valencis immediately withdrew from negotiations with the Highest Assembly, forming a marriage alliance with Tenerife instead. When the First Princess intervened directly in Salamans, she encountered Tenerifan forces in the south refusing to yield ground. An accidental skirmish escalated into battle, drawing Empress Basilia into the conflict. Though Tenerife could not be admitted into the League in the Hierarch’s absence, its applicant status granted it the right to seek the Protector of the League’s aid.
With League armies positioned just ten miles from the Principate’s in southern Salamans, war felt imminent.
The Warden’s arbitration and extensive behind-the-scenes negotiations helped ease tensions, but the miracle that truly defused the situation was the emergence of Anaxares the Hierarch. Appearing from the Hells in Orense, which remained defiant even after being returned to Proceran control, he lifted the siege and led the citizenry in declaring the independent Republic of Orense before the White Knight drove him away. With another crisis in her own territory as the insurrection spread across the principality, the First Princess agreed to partition Salamans, ceding the northern half that the Principate held between Iserre and her own Aequitan.
In return, she received an explicit guarantee that Valencis would never receive aid from Tenerife or be allowed to join the League, a diplomatic coup that forced Valencis’s rulers back to the negotiating table with weakened leverage and a tarnished reputation.
“If her south didn’t keep catching fire, she’d have most of the north back by now,” General Grem grumbled.
Brabant and southern Lyonis had been reclaimed, but little else. Prince Otto Redcrown had led the Lycaonese exodus’s return, aiding in Brus’s reconquest, but beyond Neustria and Rhenia, the rest remained in the hands of the undead. A push had secured the Morgentor and closed Twilight’s Pass, but otherwise, the great prince of the north seemed content to slowly reclaim old Lycaonese lands, pushing a little further each summer. He had done so with minimal southern assistance, except from the Kingfisher Prince, who had essentially occupied southern Lyonis to prevent the undead from spilling back into Brus after royal forces withdrew.
Marriage talks with Sophie Louvroy, the abdicated princess of Lyonis and last of the main House of Louvroy branch, were underway to formalize the arrangement.
After the Procerans, the Levant rulers arrived, accompanied by their Blood lords. King Razin and Queen Aquiline processed under the star-studded Thuraya banner, the name adopted upon their coronation by the Majilis. The young queen’s evident pregnancy drew even more attention than Lord Ishaq Rabia, first of the Barrow’s Blood, whose town on Brocelian’s southern edge was reportedly growing rapidly.
“That succession will be a headache even if they have a child,” the Warden grunted. “Mark my words.”
“The Circle of Thorns believes they want three children,” Lady Cordelia noted. “One to inherit Levante and the crown, the other two for Malaga and Tartessos.”
“The Majilis isn’t powerless enough to allow that,” Catherine Foundling countered. “They surrendered veto power, but they’re not pushovers.”
“Vaccei and Alava will threaten revolt, I agree,” Lady Cordelia mused. “They’ll have to dilute their ambition, perhaps pass the cities to kinsmen. It might be beneficial in the long run.”
“Three royal branches, each with their own cities?” Lady Pickler scoffed. “Because that’s not a recipe for civil war in thirty years. I thought you said they were smart kids, Cat.”
“They’re still Blood,” the Warden sighed, “it comes with inherent blind spots. They’ve otherwise done well.”
Following the Levantines, the Callowan royal procession approached. Queen Vivienne of Callow led it, her recent husband, prince-consort Cathal Iarsmai, close behind. Despite rumors that marrying Grand Duchess Kegan’s eldest grandson was her price for keeping Daoine within Callow, the couple seemed content. Cathal was only a few years younger than the queen and handsome in the Deoraithe style.
“How much younger is he?” Lady Pickler asked.
“Just turned twenty,” the Warden replied.
“And divorced last year,” Lady Cordelia added, sounding amused by the scandal. “A stroke of luck for Kegan, the second closest grandson is still twelve.”
“If she’d settled for a nephew, it could have happened years ago,” the Warden noted, “but she wanted her own blood in the royal line.”
House Foundling would inherit as any other, except that if it proved unworthy, countless orphans would be ready to restore dignity to the crown. The decision had been controversial initially, but Queen Vivienne’s peaceful and prosperous reign had silenced doubts. Prosperity has a way of quelling dissent, and the kingdom’s burgeoning trade guilds, coupled with Liesse’s resettlement, occupied energies that might otherwise have turned to unrest.
After Callow came the League of Free Cities, with Empress Basilia and her vassal rulers of Nicae and Stygia arriving first. Formal diplomats from other cities followed. Though Anaxares the Hierarch had retained his Name, he had declined invitations to rejoin the League when invited during his reappearance in Orense. This was considered a title abdication, even by Bellerophon, allowing League cities to resume foreign affairs and vote on joining the Liesse Accords.
“They’ll have another Hierarch within a decade,” the Warden predicted. “Basilia’s becoming too powerful; they’ll want something to balance her influence.”
Should she refuse, civil war within the League was possible, something she could ill afford while trying to incorporate Tenerife as a member-state.
“She’ll diminish the office’s powers and trade that for Tenerife’s inclusion,” Lady Cordelia predicted.
“Don’t say that in front of Ikaroi,” General Grem chuckled. “He’ll relay it home.”
Nestor Ikaroi, Cardinal College’s head archivist, was no longer officially with the Secretariat but still openly spied for Delos, a fact they all tolerated due to his usefulness. The humor faded as the next delegation arrived.
Chancellor Alaya did not attend personally, reinforcing rumors of her imminent resignation – and the Warden’s supposed willingness to kill her if they met. However, High Marshal Nim and a Lord Councillor had been sent, a strong showing, especially considering Lord Councillor Sargon Sahelian’s increasing foreign diplomacy role, speculated to signal the chancellor’s intention for him to succeed her.
“Queen Vivienne will be miffed,” Cordelia predicted. “She’d prefer High Lady Abreha in his place.”
“Of course, she would,” Catherine Foundling scoffed, “the old fox promised to sell Callow the Blessed Isle if elected chancellor.”
The border between Praes and Callow had been debated since the War on Keter’s end. The Blessed Isle remained Praesi, the Fields of Streges Callowan, but no formal cession or war declaration had occurred since Callow’s secession. Chancellor Alaya had traded the Isle’s disarmament for a lasting treaty guaranteeing the Confederation a fixed annual grain quantity at a fixed price, strengthening her position and securing Ater’s food supply, but borders remained undefined.
“Sargon Sahelian’s trade policies are sounder,” Cordelia stated firmly. “And his support for Cardinal College is significantly stronger.”
“You just want to entirely edge Mercantis out of the spice trade, you cutthroat bitch,” the Warden said affectionately. “At least admit it.”
“Their perennial middleman role is detrimental to all Calernia,” Lady Cordelia retorted righteously, though her lips twitched.
The northern realms followed swiftly. First, the Herald of the Deeps, formally recognized as Kishar’s king upon signing the Accords two years prior, arrived with a small retinue, their splendid armor outshone by the colorful fire spirits flocking to him.
“Good call renaming Keter something starting with a K,” Lady Pickler remarked. “It’ll stick faster.”
“I’m sure that was the sole reason for the name choice,” Lady Cordelia drawled. “Well observed, my lady.”
“I’m not taking lip from someone who giggles at ‘Cordy’ when drunk,” the goblin retorted.
After the dwarves, representatives from burgeoning Zemebreg, the Firstborn colony in former Cleves, arrived. Mighty Rumena herself led the delegation, accompanied by riddle-priests endemic to her city, now famous in the Principate. Envoys from Serolen, the eldest and largest drow city, followed, led by prominent figures: Mighty Radegast, renowned for his mercenary army in Nesutria and Rhenia, and Ivah of the Losara, First Under the Night and Lord of Silent Steps, perhaps the most well-known Firstborn, having spent years in the Principate after the War on Keter. His mercenary sigil bargains with the First Princess had been crucial in reclaiming the western coast, allowing Segovian shipping to resume to Prince Otto’s realm.
“I’m glad Malanza didn’t bring any Most Holy or we’d have a brawl,” the Warden said, half-joking.
Worship of Sve Noc had many names now: Tenets of Night, Faith of Crows, House of Night. In Callow, it spread through the Army, seen as a soldier’s cult. In Procer and the Grey Eyries, it took a different turn. The Matrons’ initial ban backfired, spreading the word before Chancellor Alaya overturned it. Now, unrest was brewing.
In Procer, Night’s allure was potent, a power against banditry and undead. The House of Light’s campaign against the heresy had taken root in the south but resonated less in the heartlands and north where drow sigils and riddle-priests had saved lives. Though still frowned upon, the Faith of Crows spread, protected by the Liesse Accords. Hostility between the Proceran House and the Losara – considered a priest-caste in the Principate – had reached dangerous levels.
“Be glad we didn’t invite Tenerife,” Lady Cordelia replied grimly. “They reinstated their House’s right to raise troops.”
The final, deliberately last delegation was from the Thalassocracy of Ashur, the last Calernian realm not to have signed the Liesse Accords, their envoys the reason so many dignitaries had come to Cardinal College’s opening. Their joining the Accords added immense weight to the occasion. Seven years after Keter’s fall, the Ashuran civil war had ended unexpectedly. Instead of the Hadast claimant backed by Arwad or Smyrna’s insistence on a Tyrian, Baltsar Aderbal, a fourth-tier Smyrnan citizen, had seized control.
A middle-aged man with few allies when he declared the Committee of Government, backed by lower-tier citizens tired of war, Baltsar’s rise was due to the two figures behind him: the Blessed Artificer and the Archmage. Sapan the Apprentice had become Sapan the Mage, reportedly losing her temper upon returning to Ashur. After crushing the Blue Mage and practitioners who backed the Hadast claimant and attempted to assassinate Baltsar Aderbal, she transitioned into the Archmage, ending the civil war through fear.
She had, after all, destroyed much of a mountain.
“Baltsar isn’t the real power there,” Lady Pickler said. “Those women could take his place instantly.”
“Not Lady Adanna,” Cordelia said. “She’s Soninke. Smyrnan elites revolted over backing a Hadast relative married to a Levantine; they’d be furious over her.”
“Sapan’s like Masego in some ways,” the Warden said. “More focused on studies than politics. Though slightly more involved than Zeze.”
“Severing ties with the Baalite Hegemony is entirely her decision,” Cordelia agreed. “As is reaching out to Praes in friendship to balance a resurgent League.”
“Malicia’s old dream realized,” Catherine Foundling smiled, a touch too tightly.
“Boring,” Pickler said frankly. “I should be anywhere but here. Hanno should be here, not me. He’s Ashuran.”
“Hanno’s northern investigation is more critical,” the Warden said. “If Hakram’s report is accurate, we should be worried.”
“There are records of ancient elves acting outside the Bloom,” Cordelia said. “But the ratling talk worries me. They couldn’t have reached the steppes without the Forever King’s tacit consent.”
The Warlord, alerted by disappearing clans, had informed Cardinal while heading north to investigate. The White Knight had gone alone, as the Warden’s finest sword. General Grem cleared his throat.
“The Ashurans are approaching,” he said. “They’ll hear.”
Silence fell as the Warden’s gaze settled on the last delegation. Ashur, the last major surface realm to sign the Liesse Accords, had come to Cardinal’s opening day. The sky was a clear blue, framed by Cardinal College’s towers. The Warden felt the sun’s warmth seep into her bones.
It was a good day, she thought, with better days ahead.
The lecture hall, a spacious stone room with comfortable desks, could hold a hundred students and was packed. Cardinal College allowed electives from the second year, and now that the first cohort had reached that point, nearly every mage signed up for General Theory of Magic, taught by the age’s most famous mage. The Lord Hierophant burst into the hall, and silence fell, broken only by the tinkling trinkets in his hair. He looked, many noted, in a foul mood.
With a flick of his wrist, chalk rose to write General Theory of Magic on the slate, the odd-eyed man facing the silent class.
“Before the month ends,” he declared, “half of you will be gone.”
Several students swallowed nervously.
“No deaths,” the Hierophant clarified. “College rules.”
His words were not as reassuring as intended.
“Notes and independent study are expected,” he continued, “I won’t slow down. Struggle? Senior Lecturer Beaumont’s lectures, also in Lower Miezan, are available.”
A pause, awaiting volunteers. None emerged.
“Then we proceed,” the Hierophant said. “Before starting, questions are permitted. Raise your hand to be called upon.”
A dark-skinned woman in red and black robes raised her hand first.
“You,” the Hierophant said.
“My lord,” she began, “why teach an introductory lecture instead of something befitting your talents?”
The Hierophant’s flesh eye narrowed.
“Sahelian, are you?” he asked.
She nodded proudly.
“I am-”
“Not interested,” the Hierophant interrupted. “I knew Akua Sahelian, still consider her a friend. Lesser variants are uninteresting. As for your question, Deicide and Applied Blasphemy’s contents are vault-locked after consuming the soul of the warlock who tried to steal them.”
Gasps filled the hall. Second thoughts arose.
“Hasenbach insists I must teach something for experiment funding,” he continued. “Ridiculous, given the obvious benefits.”
Though it had taken Masego two years to accept Cordelia’s first-name invitation, monthly funding debates inevitably reverted her to ‘Hasenbach’ for days. A blond, blue-eyed Callowan boy in front raised his hand.
“What’s your experiment?” he asked eagerly.
“Technicalities beyond you,” the Hierophant said, “but the submission scroll summarizes it as ‘forcing apotheosis onto a pig’.”
Half the students paled, a dozen leaned forward, another boy, Ashuran, raised his hand.
“Is it true you taught the Archmage?” he asked excitedly.
“Sapan learned from me,” the Hierophant noted, “but I cannot claim to have taught her.”
A pause.
“If you think my lectures will make you her, abandon that,” he warned. “She’s a once-in-a-generation talent, and I doubt any of you are.”
Winces, but few arguments. Even at the College, with two Named present, few dared compare themselves to Ashur’s Archmage. Next, a dark-haired Arlesite girl, her accent thick.
“Why your lectures over others?” she asked. “What do they offer?”
The Hierophant beamed.
“First good question today,” he praised.
The girl looked surprised, expecting impatience. He glanced at her again, noting her youth, eight or nine at most, vaguely reminiscent of someone he should remember, an unfortunately broad category.
“Other Senior Lecturers,” he told the class, “will teach general theory emphasizing their own magic. I will not.”
Beneath the eye cloth, a glass orb shone with miracles crafted and stolen.
“I’ll teach you the rules,” the Hierophant smiled, “to best explain how to break them.”
Half the class was gone by the moon’s turn, as predicted. The rest signed up for every Lord Hierophant lecture at Cardinal College.
Ater had recovered from the Battle of Spiders.
Nine years had passed, and the newly formed Praes Confederation thrived. With Callow as a willing, if wary, trade partner, Chancellor Alaya gathered a council and reformed. Territory taxation was centralized in Ater, cutting out High Seat collectors, tripling revenue in a year while appeasing the elite with tailored exemptions. With High Lady of Kahtan’s support, a young reformist saved by the White Knight in Keter, the Taghreb aristocracy of Hungering Sands, goblin-ruled Foramen districts were reorganized like old Callowan governorships.
High Lady Rana Muraqib’s rumored marriage proposal to the White Knight fueled gossip for years.
Carefully negotiated treaties with the Warlord solidified Clan vassal status and greenskin rights, including ceding Chagoro fortress and territories. Hakram Deadhand established his court there, deepening trade ties as orc mercenary companies – verdant companies – fought for Procer, channeling raiding urges. Northern clans focused on the ratling infestation in the Lesser Steppes. War and meat were plentiful outside Praes.
Inside, order reigned. Permanent Legions of Terror fortresses ensured stability post-army disbandment. Green Stretch rebels were assigned an Ater-appointed governor but gained an electoral vote.
Peace faltered only in the Grey Eyries. Tribes fought over Night worship. A panicked ban backfired, leading to priesthood attempts that Sve Noc rejected. Tribes dissolved into infighting, males and lesser females using Night to usurp power. Wiser Matrons elevated Night-users, even males, averting civil war, but their authority waned as more migrated to Foramen, Callow, and Procer. Their authority might eventually collapse entirely.
As years passed, peace held, and Praes prospered, Catherine Foundling counted days. Until one pre-dawn night, the Warden slipped into an Ater palace. Not Tower, not mountain of horror, but opulent, nestled around a starlit garden. At this hour, it was deserted, save for Alaya of Satus and the Warden.
The chancellor sat alone in a copper chair, leaning back, gazing at stars, sipping wine. An empty bottle of cheap wine sat on the table. The dark-skinned beauty was pleasantly drunk, but showed no surprise as the Warden emerged from shadow. Alaya smiled, inviting Catherine to sit.
“Warden,” she greeted.
“Chancellor,” Catherine replied.
“Congratulations are in order,” Alaya said. “The ealamal was successfully used.”
“Adanna does good work,” the Warden agreed. “Poison clouds are dispersing, blight reversal in the Kingdom of the Dead will be complete in thirteen months, Kishar reports.”
“The Herald will be pleased,” the chancellor mused. “He’s been eager to expand on the surface as he has below.”
The Kingdom Under’s collapse into squabbling fiefdoms continued, allowing the Herald of the Deeps to seize lands beneath the former Kingdom of the Dead, mostly fortresses and forges, farmland being a boon for his expanding realm.
“The Archmage’s theorem was impressive,” Catherine Foundling said. “Even Masego was impressed.”
“A rising Name,” Alaya commented. “Her Baalite mage proposal for Hungering Sands irrigation canals is Praes gossip. My successor will likely accept.”
“And you know who that will be?” the Warden asked idly.
The chancellor smiled.
“Sargon Sahelian, unless I’m mistaken,” she said. “I’ve allowed his influence to grow unchecked, surpassing Abreha’s gains.”
“Hakram says he’s popular with the Clans,” Catherine agreed. “His Chagoro – Hagaz – help went over well with chiefs.”
“He can be charming,” Alaya said, “and his disinterest in expansion is needed. He’d rather rebuild Praes than seek foreign adventures.”
The Warden nodded slowly.
“You’ll leave a Confederation on the rise,” she acknowledged. “Ater rebuilt, Callow trade at its peak, Praes recovering from the Uncivil Wars.”
She paused.
“I walked the city before coming here,” the Warden said. “They love you again, the people in the streets.”
“Mobs have short memories,” the chancellor sighed.
“Maybe,” Catherine Foundling said. “But they’re not wrong. I gave you eight years, and you ruled ably and justly.”
The dark-skinned beauty smiled.
“Sentiment, Catherine?” she drawled. “So late in the game?”
“I’ve been known to indulge,” the Warden shrugged.
She was past offense.
“Is that why you’ve been sending casual letters to Marshal Juniper and her wife?” Alaya smiled.
“Aisha’s Governess-General, as high as Marshal,” Catherine chided. “And it’s practical. Grem might retire, move to the Steppes. I’ll need someone to command Cardinal’s forces.”
Queen Vivienne would object to losing Aisha, and Juniper might not want to leave the Callowan Army, but the Warden suspected the prospect of living in the same city would sway them after Grem retired.
“A large army for a young city-state,” the chancellor noted. “However important it’s become.”
“If we were just defending territory, suppressing bandits, it would be too large,” the Warden conceded. “But the Black Legion is for Named running wild, Accords threats.”
Silence fell.
“He would have liked the name,” Alaya quietly said. “He was vainer than he let on.”
“I figured,” Catherine replied quietly. “Besides, we’re teaching his tactics.”
Their gazes drifted to the night sky.
“How was it?”
“Eight years of ash and dust,” Alaya said honestly. “But it’s done, Catherine. I laid our sins to rest. I made Praes what we wanted.”
Catherine considered this.
“I’m glad,” she said, meaning it.
Silence stretched between them. As dawn approached, Catherine Foundling rose.
“It won’t be painful,” the Warden said.
Pain was never the point. The chancellor drained her cup, setting it down, smiling like a woman always ahead of everyone.
“It wasn’t,” Alaya of Satus agreed softly, “when I drank the poison an hour ago.”
She died as she lived, in control of her fate. Dawn found her body cold, alone in her garden, staring at the sky through dead eyes.
So passed Alaya of Satus, once Dread Empress Malicia, last of her line.
Ten years after Keter’s fall, a debt was due.
Hye Su waited in the clearing where Refuge had stood, greenery reclaiming the grounds. She sat on a stone, honing her blades. When the Warden arrived at dusk, she showed no surprise.
“So, you came alone,” Hye Su said, faint praise in her tone. “Thought you’d bring one of your leagues.”
The Guild and Society were recent, but Hye Su kept informed. Their founding caused much talk. Companies of Named were unusual. Differences were minor, Guild for Below, Society for Above. Essentially, both enabled Named to make enforced bargains, with kingdoms or vagrants, backed by Cardinal, for simple conduct rules.
Named flocked to Cardinal.
“Not what they’re for,” the Warden shrugged.
Hye Su laughed.
“I suppose not,” she conceded. “They’re to corral the herd you unleashed.”
The Warden tilted her head.
“So, you noticed,” she said. “Wondered how obvious it was to those without our resources.”
“Names are sprouting like weeds,” Hye Su said. “No spies needed. Used to be one every few years, Foundling, but now?”
She snorted.
“Hear there’s three Apprentices running around, and your Knight Errant already has a Squire,” she said. “Ten years since Keter, and you’ve replaced every Name you lost and changed.”
“Too many people know stories, know how Names work,” the Warden said. “Never so many Named in one place as Arsenal, Keter, or Cardinal. We made it easier for them to emerge.”
“Made them weaker, too,” Hye Su scoffed. “Spread power is diluted.”
“It makes for a better world, I think,” the Warden said.
“You would say that,” Hye Su replied, “having made it.”
She rose, blades in hand. Though one of the deadliest women alive, Catherine Foundling was not worried. She had learned tricks, but her certainty came from elsewhere. She had shaped today’s world, her enemy admitted, and Hye Su had been left behind. The world had passed her by.
This could only end one way.
Four students were in the circular hall, deep beneath the College, heavily warded. Torchlight didn’t reach every shadow, but the ritual circle glowed red, tinging the dark. Many would balk, but these nine wore silver stripes, final-year students distinguished enough for restricted classes.
“Welcome,” the Lord Hierophant said, “to Nature of Divinity and Practical Applications.”
A snort from a dark-skinned girl. Taiwo Sahelian raised an eyebrow.
“Sir, you know everyone still calls it Deicide and Applied Blasphemy, right?” she said.
“As they should,” Hierophant muttered, “it’s a much better name.”
“Seneschal Hasenbach threatening to cut the lunacy fund again?” fair-haired Anthony Fletcher grinned.
“Catherine this time,” Hierophant sighed. “Says feeding the Swine King to fae wasn’t enough to make the House of Light drop it, ‘tread carefully’ now.”
“It wasn’t even a real god,” Isabel Malanza complained. “We only got halfway there.”
First Princess Rozala’s eldest daughter sometimes showed her twelve years. None underestimated her since she made the Apprentice float atop Concord Bridge for half a day after the Taghreb condescended about Olowe’s Theorem. Rumor had it the Warden ordered him left there as a lesson.
“The village did it, I think,” Hiram of Arwad said mildly. “Upright pigs tilling land, building houses, a bit disturbing, admittedly.”
Hiram, not the most talented, but his common sense and language skills had already secured a Junior Lecturer position post-graduation.
“No matter,” Hierophant dismissed. “You all read Dumisai’s Theorem last week?”
Agreements echoed.
“Good,” Masego grinned. “Now, interesting part. If fae are Arcadia’s stuff given form, what happens if that stuff is used to make a devil?”
The circle glowed ominously as the four students leaned in eagerly.
Fifteen years after Keter’s fall, the first true Liesse Accords challenge arose.
“You know,” the Warden said, “I thought ratlings would trigger the other shoe dropping.”
“It’s only time before elves find a Horned Lord,” the White Knight said. “You know my thoughts on that.”
“And you mine,” the Warden replied. “Golden Bloom’s not an Accords signatory, no one wants to invade that wasp nest when elves aren’t directly acting.”
It was unproven that the Forever King used Twilight Ways shards to ferry the Chain of Hunger east, but Calernian mages agreed it was likely. Suspicions grew about Brocelian and Waning Woods, elves seeking to fracture human realms, prelude to expansion. The Spring Crown ritual ignited a millennia-dormant thirst for intervention beyond their borders.
“Passivity now will cost us later,” Hanno said.
“I don’t disagree,” Catherine grunted. “Just don’t see a solution. Besides, let’s deal with the immediate fire.”
Atalante was ablaze. The Preacher’s coup wasn’t an Accords breach, despite his rhetoric. But as Philosopher King, he abandoned pretense of respecting rules. Night worship proscription, Below sympathizer executions were just the start. His angelic influence to raise fanatic armies guaranteed war.
Empress Basilia’s armies faced the Host of Light further south, but Atalante riots allowed the Black Legion a decapitating strike on the tyrant. The Archmage breached gates, and black-armored soldiers quelled the Philosopher King’s fanatics. He was now holed up in the Temple of Manifold Truths, calling on a Choir once more, judging by the distant glow.
“End this before more die needlessly,” the White Knight agreed.
They tore through the Philosopher King’s guard like a storm. Numbers meant little to them, at their peak power. They entered the chamber where the Philosopher King awaited, ragged, wild-eyed, pale-robed, clutching prayer beads, chanting.
“You’re too late,” the Philosopher King laughed, “Contrition comes and-”
“Silence,” the Warden commanded.
Catherine Foundling, it was said, had defied angels and won more often than not. The story held true. Contrition’s light winked out.
“Cassander of Atalante,” the White Knight declared. “For Liesse Accords breach: unfair proscription, malicious non-creational influence use, mass murder by Name, judgment by the Warden.”
“Never,” the Philosopher King hissed. “Don’t you see, Knight, Below is winning? Spreading, villains growing like weeds? They must be stopped, purged now-”
“Cassander of Atalante,” the Warden said, “I Sentence you to die.”
Though angels screamed, Light flared, and the Philosopher King unleashed his power, the White Knight’s sword found his neck, as if destined. They stood over the cooling corpse, weary.
“He’s just the first,” the White Knight said. “Others will follow.”
“Below will unleash the next,” the Warden softly agreed. “It’ll get uglier before it gets better.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” the White Knight smiled.
Rarely did they take the field together, but when they did, youthful complicity returned.
“I’ll leave the corpse,” the White Knight said. “General Grem might need city security aid.”
She nodded. He was wounded, an arrow in the belly. Not life-threatening, but likely to hasten his retirement. Aisha had hinted in letters about memoirs, suggesting she might leave the Callowan Army now that Juniper was satisfied with General Abigail as successor. Lady Abigail Tanner had retired thrice, but her first mansion flooding and twice bankruptcies always brought her back. Callowan lore held she couldn’t be out of the army for three months without calamity striking.
The Gods wanted Abigail Tanner Marshal of Callow.
The Warden felt the presence before hearing it, Creation shivering as someone unbidden came to be. Turning, she gasped, seeing Akua Sahelian, lovely in red, golden eyes smiling, touching a copper wrist bracelet. Heart-patterned lace adorned her dress cuffs. Red and a heart, her marks. Calamity always bore red, always a hidden heart. Time had barely touched her, the Warden saw.
Time held little sway over either. Sister’s gift and bound eternity kept age at bay.
“Catherine,” Akua smiled.
“Akua,” Catherine replied softly.
Keter wounds were gone, as were Providence’s, whose flask, lute, and arm had returned. Yara of Nowhere and Akua Sahelian also remained unchanged.
“Thought you might appear,” the Warden said. “Your stars are out tonight.”
Two bright shards in darkness. Fortune and Misfortune, some called them. Providence and Calamity, others said.
“We bargained,” Akua said. “She gets Levant tonight, but I have my freedom.”
“And what,” Catherine croaked, “will you do with it?”
Akua Sahelian hesitated, stepping forward. Fifteen years since they last met. Perhaps longer before they met again. Yet she reached out, fingers brushing Catherine’s, a question asked. Neither knew who reached first, until they were kissing ardently, stumbling from the throne and corpse.
They had until dawn, time to make the most of it.
Cordelia Hasenbach was drinking.
Not unusual, but past the first wine bottle was. She was maudlin, making no effort to hide it. Catherine found her in a private salon atop the Warden’s Tower, the northern of Cardinal College’s towers, the city’s ruling seat.
“Heard, I see,” the Warden said.
“I have,” Cordelia said, pouring Catherine a drink without asking.
Catherine raised a brow but sat, accepting the invitation and cup.
“Much of it stays,” the Warden said. “Most trade clauses, part of the alliance.”
“The Grand Alliance ended,” Cordelia said calmly. “No need to coddle me.”
Procer and Callow maintained a defensive alliance, but Levant had ended theirs due to Orense border tensions. Maintaining the treaties was increasingly unpopular, many seeing them as war-provoking, not preventing.
“It was meant to foster peace,” Catherine said. “And it worked, Cordelia.”
No major strife since the Philosopher’s War, Calernia’s balance holding, though border skirmishes were common.
“I achieved my goal,” Cordelia Hasenbach agreed. “But my life’s great work is over. Sentiment is allowed. And a drink.”
The Warden drank.
“Can’t argue with that,” she said.
Cordelia smirked.
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” she said, “given last time I opened a second bottle.”
Prince Otto’s wedding to a Neustrian noblewoman years prior had triggered nostalgia in her, not regret, but wonder at a life she might have lived. Otto Reitzenberg, third son of a friendly royal line, had once been considered for Prince Cordelia of Rhenia’s consort. Catherine Foundling coughed, cheeks flushing, still amusing Cordelia after two decades.
“Thought we didn’t discuss that,” Catherine said carefully.
“Seemed an unnecessary complication then,” Cordelia said. “Besides, you’re something of a cad.”
“Hey now,” Catherine protested weakly.
The former princess traced her cup rim.
“Not only Indrani lover when she visits,” Cordelia said, “but others taken to bed.”
“When the mood struck,” Catherine replied. “Not many.”
True. The Ranger, returning yearly, adventures across Calernia legendary, accounted for most dalliances. Cordelia felt no jealousy, Indrani still obviously loved Masego, who reciprocated in his way. Besides, the Ranger’s visits were brief, departing with Named students for ‘field classes’, highly useful for silver stripes.
“That’s true,” Cordelia conceded.
“Then what?” Catherine frowned.
The former princess chose honesty.
“Didn’t want to be involved with someone still in love with another,” Cordelia admitted. “Akua Sahelian’s shadow still colors your affections, I think.”
The Warden drank deeply, setting down her cup.
“I’ll always be a little in love with her,” Catherine Foundling admitted. “Don’t want to lose that part. It shaped me.”
Cordelia waited. The unspoken but resonated.
“It’s not day-to-day,” Catherine said. “Don’t sleep thinking of what might have been. It’s just part of me, like hair color, face lines.”
Fewer lines than Cordelia had. The Warden still looked late twenties, likely for centuries.
“Sometimes you’re romantic,” Cordelia mused, “though mostly accidental.”
“I am who I am,” Catherine Foundling half-smiled. “No pretense.”
Cordelia admitted, to herself, it was true. In these matters, Catherine was an open book. Though still feeling encroached upon, too much shared, looking at that book, she liked what she saw.
“Mhm,” Cordelia said. “You do have luck with wine, my dear.”
Catherine’s eye sharpened.
“Do I?” she said, leaning back. “Wonder what that means.”
The fair-haired woman drained her cup, rising.
“It means,” Cordelia Hasenbach smiled gracefully, “we’ll see how long you hold my interest, Catherine.”
No argument came. None expected.
Common Thaumaturgic Theory had existed in research scrolls, private correspondences for a decade, but its formal unveiling was a ceremony.
Lord Hierophant’s involvement attracted rulers, but it was scholarship, so only Chancellor Sargon attended – his Cardinal College, magic wing support was well-known. Even growing commercial rivalry between the city and Confederation over artifacts hadn’t cooled relations.
Diplomats politely listened to the Senior Lecturer’s impatient explanation, some disappointed by the plain speech. Last year’s love cult scandal raised hopes for something scandalous. Scholars accompanying diplomats were riveted. After the speech, Lecturer Hiram explained the implications to both learned and uninitiated.
“Though abstract, universal common basic denominator proof has practical applications,” he explained. “Think of it as the basic building block of all magic discovered.”
He paused for effect.
“To achieve this, measurement was needed,” Lecturer Hiram continued. “We created measuring artifacts, necessitating a new unit: the ‘thaum’.”
Clever diplomats grasped the implications, but the young man spelled it out for others.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lecturer Hiram said, “we’ve made magic quantifiable across all sorcery branches. Enchantment, artifact crafting now no harder than smithing or weaving. A new sorcery age has dawned.”
Cordelia Hasenbach, at the back, smiled, considering measuring artifact sales – sure to continue until national mages reproduced them – another revenue stream for Cardinal. Common Thaumaturgic Theory would remain the formal name, but a shorter name stuck, as always.
The Masegan theory of magic.
Twenty-four years after Keter’s fall, Lady Intendant Pickler died.
Not young by goblin standards, but not as old as some Matron lines. Hard living, wounds took their toll, hastening her demise. Her funeral drew dignitaries, not diplomatically, but out of genuine affection. That evening, twin stars shone, and the Warden stood alone on Concord Bridge, overlooking the city below.
Providence and Calamity arrived, as expected.
“Thought you two only came at turning points,” the Warden said idly, leaning against the balustrade.
Enchantments blocked wind, leaving only the view.
“We do,” Yara of Nowhere shrugged. “But you’re thinking of retiring, right?”
The Warden didn’t deny it. No successor was a drawback, but Cardinal and the Accords could function without a Warden. The ruling council existed for this, as the Name’s continuity wasn’t guaranteed.
“It’s too early,” Akua Sahelian said. “None of your potential successors are ready.”
“Not sure that’s an argument against it,” the Warden admitted.
“Accords must stand without her hand-holding,” Providence agreed. “Otherwise, they’re not rules, just her authority.”
“Accords aren’t deep-rooted enough,” Calamity disagreed. “A generation knows them, but they’re still fresh in Calernia’s memory. She must stay until they’re bedrock.”
The Warden almost laughed.
“Angel and devil on my shoulder,” she said. “Except you’re neither, and a bit of both.”
She chose, looking at the city she’d seen grow from nothing. A little longer, she thought. Too soon to rest. Turning, they were still there. Her eyes found Yara of Nowhere.
“You seem better,” the Warden said.
“It’s been more interesting than expected,” Yara of Nowhere admitted. “Someone else changes things.”
“But you don’t think it’ll last,” Catherine Foundling said.
“It will,” Providence said. “Decades, centuries, millennia. But it won’t last, Catherine. Nothing is forever.”
“Take heart, Yara,” the Warden said. “You are not nothing.”
Providence’s smile was mocking, a buried hatchet. When she vanished, Akua remained. Impossible without agreement, given the Fetters.
“Seven years,” Akua Sahelian said.
“Felt longer,” Catherine admitted.
“I understand,” the golden-eyed woman said, “you’ve taken a lover.”
“Rumor-mongering?” the Warden half-smiled.
She didn’t deny it. Neither did Akua.
“I still have evenings with Indrani sometimes, when she visits,” Catherine said. “Less often, but still. We have an understanding.”
Lycaonese mores were inflexible, but Cordelia had spent years among Alamans, and privately, their ways were more open. Her lover had permission, rarely used. The lack of jealousy was refreshing.
“And if I said I bargained for a night?” Akua said slowly.
“I’d say I bargained for one too,” Catherine smiled.
Tension thickened, though neither moved.
“It might be our last meeting,” Akua said. “Opportunities are… rare.”
“I figured,” Catherine replied softly. “Let me say goodbye properly.”
It was a long night, still too short.
Thirty years after Keter’s fall, Hakram Deadhand came to Cardinal.
No longer half-finished, Cardinal was a rising city-state, its crossroads location drawing hopefuls. Nearly twenty thousand lived there, growing still. He had changed too, Hakram now, not Warlord, having passed the mantle to Anker Bluemane, Troke’s daughter, a good Warlord successor, having turned her clan around, strengthened Red Shields, Howling Wolves alliances.
Though thousands of miles from the Steppes, Cardinal felt like home. The people waited there: Aisha and Juniper, settled a decade prior with adopted Taghreb, orc boys; Masego, perennial Senior Lecturer, scandalously scandalous with the Ranger; and Catherine Foundling, welcoming him warmly.
“Finally retiring?” she teased.
“Could use something to occupy my hands,” Hakram admitted.
“Cordelia will find something,” the Warden replied amusedly. “She has a way.”
“I’m sure,” he gravelled, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
Warden and seneschal’s relationship speculation had been ongoing for years, from affectionate friends to secretly wed. Lady Cordelia seemed to enjoy fueling rumors.
“Don’t say that,” she snorted. “How many kids now?”
“Seventeen,” Hakram shrugged.
Few raised by him personally, alliance-born, not affection-born. Three by his only enduring lover were his closest.
“My youngest by Sigvin’s a College student,” he said. “Meaning to check on him.”
“You’ll have time,” his friend smiled.
“Nothing but, Catherine,” Hakram Deadhand smiled back.
Forty-three years after Keter’s fall, Hanno of Arwad died.
The Eater rose, ancient Horned Lord leading the Chain of Hunger through Twilight shards, ravaging Free Cities as Anaxares the Hierarch appeared in Nok, stirring rebellion against its High Lord. Ratling hordes overran Delos’s walls, but the White Knight defended the city again. He died slaying the Horned Lord, saving a hundred thousand from death.
Hanno of Arwad died smiling, regretting little.
His passing was mourned by countless souls.
Forty-eight years after Keter’s fall, Queen Vivienne Foundling’s funeral was held.
All agreed, era’s end. Calernia’s greats gathered in Laure, even old Chancellor Sargon, finishing his second mandate. Vivienne the Wise, last Woe survivor, most agreed, though some claimed Lady Indrani, no new Ranger risen, was still out there. Queen’s passing felt like the revered Keter War generation’s end. Callow’s crown prince, Edmund Foundling, insisted on full honors for his mother before coronation, remaining prince as he welcomed dignitaries.
It didn’t weaken his authority, to the northern barons’ displeasure. Marshal Abigail, back from her ninth retirement after vineyard lightning-strike, stood firmly behind him, and the Callowan Army behind her. No question of disloyalty from Callowan orders, not when the prince had served in the Broken Bells under Grandmaster Talbot. And if that wasn’t enough, or House Foundling’s kingdom-wide popularity, the Knight Errant’s presence as his former page would deter ambition.
Arthur Foundling, perhaps most famous knight since Hanno, rarely returned home, but deeds trickled back. Order Errant’s orc acceptance after Half-Horn Lord campaigns enraged some, but who could argue with knights who slew Hainaut’s Necromancer Princes, crushed Brocelian Fae Chevalier riders?
The procession carrying the queen’s bier passed through Laure, crowds bidding farewell to their only remembered ruler. Only Foundlings, royals and orphans, held the bier, save one exception: the Warden herself, Sapan the Archmage. The queen was said to have liked Catherine Foundling’s successor in their shared years as rulers. Prince Edmund’s eulogy reached half the city, royal mages spreading his voice.
“My mother,” Edmund Foundling said, “casts a long shadow.”
He laughed sadly.
“The Woe all did, but it is my mother’s all of Callow will live in for centuries.”
He was skilled, Edmund, but sincerity reached people.
“Few remember pre-Black Queen days, Praes rule – now our closest ally, despite trade squabbles.”
Laughter, jostling, none denying what would have been madness half a century ago.
“More remember post-Black Queen, kingdom built from scratch amidst enemies.”
Old soldiers nodded grimly, elders of legendary wars. How quickly the world moved on.
“But the days after wars shaped us. Peace, the struggle to be more than army and cause. Rebuilding burned villages, upholding fair laws, punishing injustice. Prosperity for all, not just nobles.”
The prince’s voice softened.
“Those peace days defined Calernia’s place, and my mother was queen of peace.”
He shook himself, gathering strength.
“Today, we bury Vivienne Foundling, but she rests knowing our place was found. We stand proudly in peace as in war, Callow envies none.”
Edmund Foundling swallowed.
“Much I could say of my mother, but that’s a son’s grief, a prince speaks now. So, I bury a great queen, hoping she hears me when I say-”
The prince smiled.
“It is our turn to carry your torch,” he said. “And I promise it will burn brighter when we pass it to our children.”
Laure filled with cheers, weeping, Callow marking a queen’s death, a king’s rise. As noise crested, in a dingy Dockside tavern, a barkeep, tavern closed, whistled softly.
“He’s a pretty good speaker, your boy,” Catherine Foundling admired.
“Audrey’s better, but too clever,” Vivienne Foundling replied. “Glad he was born first.”
Her back ached. Even with Hierophant’s corpse arrangement, sneaking out was hard. She was old now, older than Catherine bloody Foundling, who barely looked forty, even that because she’d shared her gift.
“Fill my tankard, wench,” the former Queen of Callow ordered. “Beer’s terrible, but what else to expect from a dive?”
“Eh, get it yourself,” the other former Queen of Callow replied. “Respectable establishment, imported drinks.”
“From where, a mud pit?” Vivienne replied skeptically.
“Green Stretch, not far off,” Catherine admitted.
Saved from further flaying by others’ arrival. Indrani barely changed, face, figure maturing only. Masego unchanged since Keter. Hakram stood out, aged after shedding Warlord Name, old as her until ‘death,’ now looking prime again.
“Are we drinking?” Indrani grinned.
“We are Dockside,” Masego said flatly. “I refuse to sit.”
“Beer’s so bad, surprised she sells this place,” Hakram gravelled.
Familiarity made her tear up, silly old woman. Catherine gently took her hand.
“It’ll be alright, Viv,” she said. “If you’re not ready to go…”
“I am,” Vivienne said. “Not that. Children grown, husband dead. Edmund doesn’t need me watching over him as king. It just…”
“Feels like coming home,” Hakram said softly.
Even after years, their understanding surprised her.
“That’s because you are,” Catherine Foundling smiled, and Night roiled.
Goddesses had gifted Catherine a Mighty’s lifespan, centuries ahead. After years studying Night, she learned to share it. Night flowed into Vivienne, cool, pleasant, change felt. Years returned, time reversed, back to her prime, as Hakram had been when Catherine shared a third of her gift.
“There,” her friend smiled, like nothing.
Like she hadn’t just given back youth, thrown away a third of her lifespan for Vivienne. Tears came again, she didn’t fight them. None mocked her, arms went around her, the Woe reunited at last.
Good to be home.
They bought a boat in Arwad, boarded it at dawn, naturally when chaos began. Typical, years had proved.
“It’s a ship,” Masego objected heatedly. “A ship, not a boat.”
Shipwright papers, legal ownership, Heady Wind renamed Inevitable Doom waved in faces, sudden blindness preventing acknowledgement.
“It floats,” Indrani insisted. “It’s a boat.”
“Words do rhyme,” Vivienne noted. “Checks out.”
Motherhood hadn’t softened Vivienne Dartwick, if anything, added spikes.
“Feel like I should’ve asked before boarding,” Hakram gravelled, “but someone knows how to sail this boat, right?”
“I know you did that on purpose, Hakram,” Masego bit out.
He gestured sharply at the sky, wind dying, stranding them yards from Arwad docks. None noticed increasingly angry dockside people gesturing.
“Cat could offer wise ruling,” Indrani slyly suggested, tugging her collar, winking exaggeratedly. Five decades occasionally sleeping with Catherine had made Indrani terrible seductress to proficiently terrible seductress, enjoyable only to those with appalling taste. Catherine Foundling was such a creature, sadly, but her friend’s shoddy wiles were useless.
“I don’t do rulings anymore,” Catherine informed them. “Retired, let go of reins, etc.”
Four skeptical gazes turned on her.
“Is that so?” Vivienne said doubtfully.
“Don’t give me that tone,” Catherine said, wagging a finger. “You know what? Wherever we go, I don’t even want to be in charge. Someone else’s turn.”
Others conferred.
“She’ll crack before day’s out,” Indrani said. “Coin on it.”
“The day?” Vivienne snorted. “Won’t last out of harbor. Ten ducals on that.”
“I’ll take that,” Hakram mused. “Pride will make her stick it out that long.”
“I can hear you,” Catherine peevishly said.
“Five denarii she becomes captain before nightfall,” Indrani offered.
“I’ll take that bet,” Masego proudly said. “It’s my name on papers, you’ve been had.”
“Mutiny dooms boats, Zeze,” Hakram told him.
Masego’s flesh eye narrowed.
“Forgotten I can make your hand hit you?” he said.
“Used to call it tyranny when I said that,” Vivienne said, happily. “Now I get to threaten people again. Been looking forward to it.”
“Come on,” Catherine loudly complained. “You’re all sure I’ll go mad with power, but she says that, and no one bats an eye?”
On docks behind them, armed guards arrived, escorting a bearded mage. Ashuran gestured at boat, but spell set his beard on fire. Masego turned, fixed him with a look. He backed away slowly.
“Catherine’s insatiable power hunger aside,” Hakram said idly, “I ask again, worried by lack of answer. Someone does know how to sail, right?”
His bone hand slapped his head, yelping, wrestling it down.
“As captain,” Masego proudly said, “I order you to stations.”
Indrani raised her hand.
“Question,” she said.
“Yes,” Masego allowed.
“Assigned bunks?” Indrani asked.
“Yes,” he happily told them. “Designated meal seats too. Assigned readings brought. Things you should know but inexplicably ignorant about, but understanding isn’t always enough.”
He gave them a confident look, General Theory of Magic students feared, Deicide & Applied Blasphemy students looked forward to. ‘Lord Hierophant Trying To Help’.
“Recreational books obtained,” Masego said. “Reports expected.”
Pause.
“Some,” he confided, “nautical themed. Thought it thematic.”
Another pause. Distantly, blue-robed mages formed on docks. Archers lined up behind, guard officer shouted at boat, no difference to those on it.
“I’m sorry, Masego,” Catherine sighed. “I’ll usurp captaincy.”
“Yes,” Vivienne cheered. “Ten ducals for me.”
Masego pouted.
“Should’ve known your insatiable power hunger would get you,” he said sadly.
Tone less effective, given decades using it when denied funding or permission to bend Creation.
“We can still do readings,” she told him, he perked up.
“Really?”
“Vivienne can,” Catherine specified. “Because she crossed me.”
“Hey,” Vivienne protested. “Think I’ll just-”
“Indrani,” Catherine called, “bully Vivienne into obeying me, five ducals to you.”
She intended to recoup ten bet against her. Cordelia Hasenbach’s long acquaintance had added biting irony to Callowan spite.
“I’ve done worse for less,” Indrani cheerfully agreed.
“-agree you should be in charge?” Vivienne adjusted, unfazed. “Because I do. Good to have you back, Catherine.”
Only Hakram left. Still struggling with his head slapping, Masego forgot to end the spell. Catherine gently touched his arm.
“I’ll stop it,” she said.
“Please do,” he grunted, wrestling his wrist.
“I’ll stop it,” she continued, “if you stop pretending you don’t know how to sail.”
Pause.
“I was pulling Indrani’s chain,” Hakram said. “She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to learn or not because she spilled beer on her letter.”
“Hakram, you gossipy bitch,” Indrani protested. “Told you in confidence.”
“You’d think they’d have learned by now,” he mused.
Catherine, magnanimous in victory, got Masego to end the spell, Hakram to steer. Wind returned, Indrani climbed rigging to crow’s nest, inevitable countdown before she got bored, shot a seagull under pretense of fresh meat. Vivienne disappeared below deck to hide readings. Masego chased blue-robed mages away, bespelling them to kick each other when using magic. Indrani’s decades-long influence had eroded his humor into something strange and violent.
Hakram and Catherine moved to quarterdeck’s back. Hakram steered, she stood back, finding wakeleaf for her pipe. Moments later, puffing, acrid smoke curling upwards.
“We’re late for tide,” Hakram noted. “Might not make harbor before it turns.”
“Oh,” Catherine Foundling smiled, looking at the sky, unseen star, “luck might be on our side.”
Many years since Akua Sahelian, but never forgotten.
“Suppose we’re due some,” Hakram chuckled.
Wind picked up, warm breeze, salty sea taste. Tasted like a promise long overdue.
“So, where to?” Hakram asked, hand on wheel.
Catherine considered. They’d cross the Tyrian Sea, agreed on that. But no rush, earned some time before sailing into the unknown. Leaning back against the ship’s side, Catherine Foundling smiled at her oldest friend.
“Surprise me,” she asked, and into the rising sun, they sailed.
Image depicting Roland de Beaumarais’s simple stone stele grave marker amidst a bed of red flowers by a mountain spring in the Knightsgrave valley, emphasizing the peaceful final resting place of the Rogue Sorcerer.
