Be Thou My Good: Chapter 12 (Patreon)

See previous chapters HERE 

Edited by: MJGH, GrimeTide, and Death_Of_The_Artist

Chapter 12: The Devil You Don’t

My first meeting with the Black Knight was as efficient as you’d expect from a man of his reputation.

Shorter than me by a head and a half, the man once known as Amadeus of the Green Stretch sat almost placidly across the table from me. I had heard, for I’d still been recovering at the time, that he’d ridden into Marcheford and taken command of the cleanup efforts, and somewhere along the way had given orders for me to be sequestered.

I wondered, idly, if I would be cleaned as well.

The Black Knight continued to stare at me without speaking. I’d caught a brief flash of Catherine, complete with her matching armor like it was ‘bring your daughter to work day’ when he’d entered. Aside from that though, it was just the two of us alone in a bare stone room. He wanted me to break the silence first, but this wasn’t my first interrogation. I was used to the silence now.

It was better than what followed.

For my part, I laid in a cot much like the one I’d been recovering on while waiting for Killian to finish healing my injuries. The normal blasé attitude the red-haired mage showed around her lover and other Named was completely absent in the presence of the Black Knight.

She seemed torn between fear and worship, and I knew with startling certainty that if the man asked, Killian would open my throat without another word.

“That will do.”

Killian pulled back, snapping off a salute. “Sir!”

“Excellent work, legionnaire. Dismissed.” Black’s voice was soft, issuing from bloodless lips. Despite that, he sounded reasonable, genuine.

Killian glowed from that bare scrap of praise.

She left me in the tiny, windowless room with a smile on her face.

I levered myself upright, putting as little weight as possible on my newly-healed arm. The bones still felt soft where I’d fractured them after my fight with the Bard. There was a decent chance I wouldn’t live to see it fully healed.

“You appeared from nowhere.”

I turned to look at Amadeus of the Green Stretch.

His fingers were steepled beneath his chin. “Before the Exiled Prince stumbled across you on the road, you did not exist. Within a fortnight, he was dead.”

Even without my sense of the story, I’d been interrogated before. I could see the tempo of the conversation, and I wasn’t interested.

“Did it bother you, knowing that no matter how fast you arrived here, it would be too late to change anything?” I asked.

The man’s green eyes blinked once, a slow gesture that changed nothing else about his face.

“Bothered is clearly the wrong word.” I let my head loll back so I could stare at the ceiling. “I’d ask if ‘vexed’ was in your vocabulary, but men like you alternate between nothing and rage so intense it puts the stars to shame.”

He leaned forward at the table. “And what do you know about men like me?”

“Little enough. Catherine talks though.” I met his gaze. “Can we skip to the part where you kill me? My bones itch and it’s driving me insane.”

“It would be easier,” he replied, “if you told me where you came from.”

I shrugged, then winced. “I told Apprentice.”

Amadeus said nothing for several heartbeats, before rising. He walked to my bedside, shadows coiling off of him like living things.

“Ah.” I nodded. “You can’t interrogate Masego.”

“Incorrect.” His eyes flashed. “I simply don’t care if you remain intact.”

I realized then, that this man could cut me open and take me apart, bone by bone, without feeling a single thing.

Aloud, I said, “You’re like a dad, vetting his daughter’s friends.”

That was enough to make him blink again.

“No, seriously, don’t you see it?” I waved my arm, ignoring the twinge in my shoulder. “I bet the only reason you’re okay with Hakram and Masego is because you’ve already gone through every aspect of their life up to this point.”

The Black Knight watched me in silence, green eyes peering into mine. “You assume I only care because I cannot do the same with you.”

I met his gaze. “It’s clear you don’t care what I have to say of my own free will. So, are you going to torture me, or did you have something else in mind?”

His eyes narrowed. “Break your arm.”

The words seized me in a vice, squeezing the air from my lungs. My arm was raised halfway over my head before I even realized I was moving.

A Master. The thought filled me with ice. The words blanketed me, pulling at my limbs like a puppet and weighing down my thoughts, just like my fight against the Bard, but trading finesse for pure, raw power.

With a muffled grunt, I threw myself against the bindings. My arm stopped directly above my head, pulse pounding in my ears. The weight of his words grew frayed around me. My eyes flicked back over to the Black Knight; he still hadn’t moved.

For a moment, I considered letting the command take hold once more.

Then I snapped my arm back to my side, collapsing against the thin cot.

“Interesting.” Black leaned against the table.

When I looked at him, I could tell that he’d seen my moment of hesitation. He knew that I’d considered harming myself to maintain an advantage. I let out a breath.

“Squire informed me a hero attacked you prior to the demon attack,” he said.

I upright once more. So, the Black Knight was playing good cop now? Somehow, the role didn’t quite fit.

“Yes.” I shook my head, focusing on the current situation. “The Wandering Bard spirited me out of Marcheford into some other realm. When I escaped, I landed on the wall.”

“We have had encounters with the Bard before.” Black steepled his fingers.

I nodded. “Catherine mentioned that while I was recovering.” His gaze sharpened on me when I used Squire’s name, but I ignored it. “Something about her being a younger hero with the Lone Swordsman.”

“Yet, these do not seem the actions of a novice.”

“She was powerful.” I looked to the side. “Looking back, she was just stringing me along to see what I would do.” I flicked a glance at the green-eyed man.

“Why would a hero who had gone to great lengths to conceal her true abilities pick you out?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Because she didn’t like that I was helping Squire.”

His eyes flickered once. He really was like a dad making sure his favorite daughter didn’t get hurt at school. The thought made me feel both more and less safe.

“Elaborate.”

I rolled the encounter over in my mind. “She implied that my very presence was throwing off the narrative she was constructing. That it was an orchestra, a play, and I was messing up the other actor’s lines.” I sucked on my lip. “She wanted me gone, so the play could go on.”

Black said nothing.

I debated what else to tell him, but in the end, I’d ranted and raved against people not communicatingfor a whole lifetime. I hated when we all worked against each other when we needed to work together. It was what I’d wanted to change.

And well, even if these were the ‘bad guys’, that part wasn’t exactly new to me.

“But in the end, she seemed more bound by the script than I was,” I said. “She was strong, but could only use her strength in line with the narrative. Even there, where reality bled into pure possibility, she needed the story on her side.”

Black leaned forward. “Then you won by taking the story from her?”

I laughed. “Won is a strong word. I escaped; maybe I didn’t even do that.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I looked away, remembering the shape of the story I’d woven to escape. I would get to weave my tapestry—not even the gods could take that from me—but… “Arachne always loses, in the end.”

If the non sequitur didn’t make sense to Black, he didn’t show it.

“Interesting,” he said. “You know, there are many that claim that the enemy of one’s enemy is a friend.”

Back to the meat of the issue, then. “And how do you see them?” I asked.

“As useful tools,” he replied. “Until they are not.” The subtext could not be clearer.

I couldn’t hold back a smile. “How forward. Not even offering me a reward for information on the Bard? A girl might start to feel unappreciated.”

“I’ve been told I am a direct person,” Amadeus of the Green Stretch replied. It felt like any other Villain would have hammered that point home. He simply let it linger in the air, heavier than any words spoken previously.

Part of me wanted to ask why he didn’t just start with that, instead of going through the whole ‘break your arm’ sidebar. The answer was obvious, though; he did it for the same reason the Bard toyed with me in her little drama.

They wanted to see how I’d react.

“God.” I shook my head. “You’re a lot like Bard. You just talk less.”

A single eyebrow rose. “God?”

I sighed. “Didn’t Masego tell you I wasn’t from Creation?”

“The claim was made.” Not believed, he meant. “I’ve never heard that turn of phrase before.” He leaned forward, looking completely at ease. “Tell me more about this one god of yours.”

“He’s not my god, for one.” I never really considered myself an atheist, but I certainly hadn’t grown up religious. And really, endbringer cults co-opting fringe Christianity was a bit of a turn-off. “There were other things we feared, in my home world.”

“Like what?”

I raised my eyebrow this time. “I’ve only been in Creation for a few weeks, but even that was enough to see that your gods interact with this world. The ones my people believed in did not.”

Amadeus of the Green Stretch smirked. “It would be a poor god that needed to speak to be real.”

I rolled my eyes. “You should have been a preacher.”

“I practice my beliefs in other ways.”

I paused at that. Masego and Hakram had mentioned the gods below, and above as well, for the other team. It hadn’t really struck me that each Hero or Villain was already ordained by their gods. They were part of the narrative woven between the two sides. With that in mind, the Wandering Bard started to make more sense.

I could only guess at her motivations, though.

For his part, the Black Knight rose to his feet. “Your information on this Named is appreciated.”

I blinked once, almost surprised that the conversation was over. I considered asking if he was going to kill me, but it felt like a waste of breath. Either he was finished with me for now, or he was finished with me, period. Nothing I said now would change his mind.

Instead, I folded a leg under me, settling myself comfortably on my cot. I’d spent too much of my life in discomfort, pain, and outright agony to bend myself over backwards another time just to keep breathing.

Black watched silently, face betraying nothing. It was only when I met his gaze that the corner of his lip twitched. “You may keep ‘playing’ with my Squire.” He turned, cape flaring out behind him. “But if you value your tongue, I’d advise less lip with Warlock.”

I opened my mouth, but my question died as the door flew open.

The Black Knight nodded to the handsome man who just entered. “We’re on a schedule.”

The man, Warlock, grinned in response. “Then you’d best let me begin, yes?”

Amadeus of the Green Stretch regarded his comrade for a scant handful of seconds before nodding again. With that, he was out the door, and I was left alone with a man known as the Warlock, in a generic fantasy setting.

Perhaps it wasn’t the Black Knight I should have been worried about.

“Leave her intact,” Black said.

Warlock frowned, lines creasing a beautifully sculpted face. “Must I?” The contrast between his appearance and his words sent a chill down my spine. That was another trope, wasn’t it, the flawless villain hiding twisted depravity within?

“Call it a ‘reward’ for bringing a hostile Named to our attention.” The Black Knight caught my eye. “I appreciate usefulness.”

I could do nothing but nod silently at him. The callbacks to my earlier comments neatly closed off our conversation, well played.

Then the Warlock moved closer, blocking the other man from my sight. “If I must.” He made it sound like the greatest imposition in the world. Then strong fingers wrapped around my chin, tilting my head back and forth roughly. “Now. Let us see if what my son has told me is true.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Masego?” Now that he mentioned it, Warlock’s skin was the same rich umber as the Apprentice, and the decoration of his braids showed similar taste.

I remembered Black’s comment about ‘lip’ a moment too late, as the Warlock’s expression shifted into something mildly displeased. Instead of reprimanding me, he waved his hand, weaving a mandala out of the air. It glowed lines and swoops forming a completed self-contained locus of energy. My eyes widened.

“Interesting, you can perceive the high arcana?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “And yet, it is clear you’ve never touched the higher mysteries…”

“Father,” Masego’s voice came from the hall. A moment later, the boy entered the room, flashing me a smile. “You promised not to get started without me.”

“Amadeus said we are short on time, so I thought it best not to waste any.” Despite the words, a fond smile pulled at Warlock’s cheeks as Masego moved to his side.

With a sigh, I resigned myself to yet another interrogation, or worse, at the hands of someone I couldn’t oppose. And people wondered why I turned into a warlord in my last life.

“Isn’t she fascinating?” Masego’s smile widened. “I’ve only gone through a few basic cantrips dissecting her origin, but frisson from Creation’s boundary is almost easy to see!”

“Indeed.” Warlock put a proud hand on his son’s shoulder. “Tell me what you have discovered thus far.”

“When did you even cast spells on me?” I asked.

Warlock flicked an annoyed glance in my direction, but Masego, as always, was far too eager to expand on his research. “Oh, while you were sleeping of course. That way, it would be less unpleasant, and Catherine wouldn’t bother me about casting spells on people without permission.” He rolled his eyes. “As if the arcane needs permission to function properly.”

I found myself growing increasingly concerned. “I don’t think that’s what she—” The Warlock placed a finger against my lips.

“Hush now.” There was a shift, and I felt the weave growing still, the pattern winding to an end. “We don’t want to waste time.”

“Father, her input could be highly valuable.”

Thanks, Masego, for caring about my thoughts as a test subject.

“And should I find it necessary, I will ask.” He pressed a hand against my brow, bangles flashing so bright they nearly blinded me. “I very much doubt that—”

I blinked. Warlock and Apprentice were gone.

“What the fuck.”

“Hey, look who’s back!” I looked over to see Archer sitting on the interrogation table. She grinned at me, twirling an arrow in her left hand, but the thing that immediately jumped out to me was how she’d hidden her other hand behind her back.

I sighed, pushing off the fridge horror of Masego and his father doing god knows what to me while I was unconscious. “You drew something on my face.”

She froze for half a second. “…No?”

“How is it possible that I was just interrogated by the Black Knight, experimented on by the Warlock, and then you’re still the most vexing part of my day?”

She shrugged, grin returning. “Just raw skill.”

I rubbed at my face, smudging whatever ink she’d used, but I was so far beyond caring. “Just give me something wet to clean off.”

Her eyes flashed. Mouth opening.

My hand snapped out, grabbing her chin. “Don’t you dare.”

Archer giggled, pulling out of my grip and rolling backwards off the table in an impossibly smooth motion. When she jumped back to her feet, I saw a brush held casually in her off hand, bristles still wet. “So prim and proper, Tay.”

I sighed, leaning back against my cot. “Are we really going to do this while my face is still covered in paint?” I pointed towards it. “I know this is hilarious to you, but I feel a bit left out of the joke.”

“I brought a mirror?” she offered.

“I swear if you give me a mirror without a damp rag or something, I’ll break it over your head and go back to sleep.”

She reached under her cloak, pulling out both of the requested items and setting them on the table.

I sighed again, but I couldn’t stop it from sounding fond. I decided to lean into it. “You really are the best worst thing that’s ever happened to me. But constantly.”

She looked torn between pleased and offended, so I considered us even.

“Hold the mirror for me?”

“Why? You have two hands.”

“I…” I stopped, glancing to my right. Where before my arm had ended in a charred stump, it now…

Well, it still ended in a charred stump, but from there extended a prosthetic arm. It was made of a pale, smooth material that almost matched my skin. Two loose spirals wound down from my bicep and an artfully crafted elbow before ending in a hand, smooth and doll-like. It felt so natural I hadn’t even noticed it.

My organic hand brushed along the material. It felt polished, but now that I examined it closer, I could see lines of tiny runes carved into the inside. “Warlock must have done this while I was unconscious.”

“Well, old Black did say he wanted you ‘intact’.” She waltzed over, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, if it looked like either of them were about to kill you, I would have claimed you as my servant and whisked you away to Sanctuary!”

“My hero.” I rolled my eyes but leaned into her all the same. The room was cold, and Archer was surprisingly warm beneath her tight-fitting leathers. “What’s it made out of? I can’t tell.”

“Petrified wood.” Archer nodded. “They didn’t mention why, but I bet it has something to do with the weird ‘resonance’ ‘Prentice kept mentioning. Petrified wood retains some of the flexibility of wood, but has an intractability that means you can force some stronger workings onto it with the right touch.

I rolled my new wrist. “Warlock just carries around a big block of petrified wood?”

“Actually, I just nipped out and grabbed some.” She examined her fingernails.

I laughed. “You really are the best worst thing. Thanks, Archer.”

She shifted, so minutely that I barely even felt it with her draped over my shoulders. “It’s not a big deal.”

I rested my new hand on her knee. “Yes, but it is to me.”

“You’re just a sap,” Archer countered.

“Have you considered, instead, that I am a person with my own life and experiences that differ from yours?” I asked. “And to this other person, getting her arm back matters quite a lot.”

“Just like I said, a sap.” She nudged me with her hip. “Besides that, though, aren’t you always talking about story this, story that? Now I’m supposed to treat you like a person?”

“I’d take offense to that,” I replied, “but I’ve seen how you treat people.”

Archer laughed.

“To answer your question…” I thought back to how the bard twisted the story to suit herneeds; how Catherine bullied the narrative into the shape she thought it should be. More than that, I thought about the people on the wall, who raised their voices and their weapons against demons from beyond Creation, the people who won.

“I think the people here are real because of their stories, not the other way around.” I turned to look at Archer, ignoring the ripples of the weave to really, truly look at the young woman who had somehow become my friend. “I think that just because someone isn’t the main character of your story doesn’t mean they’re not the star of their own.”

She frowned, shifting. “Kinda deep, Weaver.”

I took some pride in that she didn’t pull away. “We just killed a demon; I think we’re allowed to move beyond surface-level conversations, don’t you?” I turned away, picking up the rag with one hand and pulling my hair back with the other. “Now, will you hold the mirror up for me?”

“So needy.”

“I’m a recovering invalid.”

With a huff and a hidden smile, Archer held up the small hand mirror and I snorted at the pictures she’d drawn on me.

“Steady hand.” I smirked at her through the mirror. “Excellent detail.”

“See, that’s what I was thinking of, with the veins.”

“Is it supposed to be throbbing?”

“Of course!” She acted offended. “Why wouldn’t it throb?”

I took the rag, wetting it with some liquid from Archer’s waterskin. “I think this might be the most phallic impression of a demon I’ve ever seen.”

“You should see Ygrkknvrmlrr the Myrkwlk’krthious.” Archer nodded sagely. “There’s a collection of scrolls about him back in Sanctuary, and let me tell you. Massive.”

I hummed, cleaning the ink from my face. “What language is that?”

“Something demonic.” She shrugged. “I don’t think it has a name.”

I smiled. “Learned it just so you could say Yerglekakanvirmiller the whateverious.”

“Oh, definitely.” She laughed. “I mean, who else am I gonna speak demonic to? The demons?”

“I bet Masego would have a thing or two to say about the grammar of the hells.”

Archer tapped her chin with the brush. “Y’know, I bet he would.”

I gave my face one last check. “All done.” I looked at Archer and sighed. “You have a spot.”

She blinked, jolting as I cleaned off the little bit of ink she left on her chin.

I met her silent gaze with a raised eyebrow. Surely after all but sitting on top of me, this little bit of casual intimacy wouldn’t throw Archer off.

“I’m leaving soon,” she blurted.

I tossed the rag back on the table. “You mentioned as much.” I met her gaze. “Is Hunter healed enough to go?”

“Who gives a fuck about him?” She shrugged. “I’ll carry him back if I have to.”

I tilted my head. “Is this your very roundabout way of saying goodbye?”

“Already said my goodbyes to Cat and the kittens,” she said.

“Sure that Hakraam will love that.”

She nodded. “Indeed he did.”

I waited for her to say something else, but Archer continued to stare at me in silence.

“So?” I asked.

She pouted. “Are you gonna make me say it?”

“Archer, I don’t know what you’re trying to say.” I shrugged.

She took a step away from me, hands planted on her hips.

I spread my arms in askance as she frowned at me, but at length, she decided that I was genuine.

“Come to Sanctuary with me.”

I opened my mouth and then froze.

I could see the Weave narrowing into two tightly bound threads. Archer liked Catherine and the others, but it was me she’d clicked with. If I said ‘no’ I could already see that she’d take it like a rejection. When she came back from Sanctuary—ifshe came back from Sanctuary—I doubted we’d ever recover this easy rapport.

Or I could go with her. We’d be back; I owed Catherine too much for our paths to diverge completely.

And in the meantime, vanishing to Sanctuary right after the Black Knight tweaked my nose would be a fitting bit of payback. No one told the Lady of the Lake what to do.

“I guess I have a few goodbyes of my own to say.”

Archer smiled back.

Maybe that was the best reason of all.