She grunted, eyes narrowing, and came at him with quick slashes of her blade. It was a curious weapon, the length more sickle than sword, but it looked as if it would let the blood out all the same. The assassin came in low then high, before passing the blade through where his stomach would have been if he’d not slipped back.

  Then she turned and hungered for Evanne again. The bard had barely managed to get to her feet in the time it took for Amir and the Vide to exchange blows and was ill equipped for the flurry of hate the assassin carried within.

  So, Amir tripped the Vide, slipped his sword inside the sickle curve of her steel, and flicked the weapon into the trees as the woman fell face-first into the dirt. Amir was on her like a cat with a new toy, blade against the back of her neck. “Now, let us talk.”

  “You will die, and all those you love.”

  Evanne tsk’d. “You’re doing it all wrong, Knight.”

  Amir blinked. “What?”

  “You’ve naught to offer her but the edge of a blade. There is a better way.” Evanne walked a wide circle around the pair, putting herself on the other side of the log. “Bind her hands, and let’s talk.”

  “I’ve nothing to say to you,” the assassin spat.

  Amir sighed, freed the woman’s belt, and bound her hands with leather. He hefted her by brute strength and sat her on the log, blade against her neck to encourage a level of thoughtfulness that might not otherwise be present in this moment of excitement. “Then perhaps you will listen.” He nodded to Evanne.

  “Here’s the thing.” The bard sighed. “Your lot keep trying to kill me. I’m not taking it personally, but it’s wearisome. So, I’ve an offer for you.”

  The woman hissed, but Amir nudged her neck with steel. “Be polite, and we’ll all leave here with our heads.”

  “Thanks.” Evanne gave a lazy smile. “Here’s my proposal. Your boss wants me dead, and I want him dead. So, I propose we offer a bounty on Wild Sur’s head.”

  “It will not stop us coming for you.” The assassin sounded pleased about it.

  “Of course not. You’re professionals.” Evanne’s smile widened. “And as professionals, you hunger for the coin you deserve. We can give it to you. Even the odds, as it were.”

  “Wild Sur is a difficult target.”

  “Wild Sur is a man like any other,” Evanne breezed. “All I ask is you take my offer to your boss and come back under a flag of truce to discuss terms. Then we can see who dies first. If Wild Sur dies, you get paid. If I die, you get paid. You win, either way.”

  Amir realised his mouth hung open. The bard was so damned reasonable, he would have signed up then and there. The Vide gave a grudging nod. “You will let me take this message back?”

  “I’m certainly not taking it.” Evanne flicked her fingers in a shoo gesture. “Now, be off with you.”

  Amir moved to stand before the Vide. “You heard her.” The assassin offered her bound hands to be released, and he chuckled. “Don’t get cute.”

  “Worth a shot.” The Vide stood, then hurried off, very audibly crashing through the undergrowth so there could be no mistaking her intent.

  Amir sheathed his sword. “You are insane.”

  Evanne gave a brittle laugh. “That might be the human in me. This will sow confusion among our enemies.”

  “Your mother is going to have kittens.”

  “Ah.” Evanne scrubbed at rust locks. “It’s probably best if she doesn’t find out, no?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Despite the rivers of bullshit, Vertiline was happy. She had a husband, daughter, and sword to protect both. Remnants of her school survived the death of Imshir, so her bargain with the Three held, although but one student earned the gold bar of a Knight. They had a dragon by their side, a giant tiger, and were heading north toward the enemy for a confrontation past due.

  None of that was why she was happy.

  I will see Geneve again. By the Three’s grace, I have a chance to undo my terrible mistake.

  They wound a column toward the north. Last time she’d travelled this way, it was to kill the mad lord who’d sired Meri. The sinner didn’t seem to have that trip on his mind despite the terrible finale of the tale. Father, dead, and by Vertiline’s will it was done. If anything, the new Lord du Reeves was buoyant.

  He is happy he will see his love again, too.

  “I’m worried.” Armitage’s gravel voice came from her right where he strode the road like he owned it. “You’re too damn happy.”

  Vertiline laughed. “Husband, can I not be comfortable on this fine summer’s day?”

  He gave her a snake-eyed glare. “Of course you can. It’s why you’re comfortable that’s like sand in my drawers. We march to certain doom.”

  “I think not.” Her fingers tapped the hilt of her sword. “I have studied much since last we saved the world. I am no longer the second-best swordswoman.”

  “I’m not worried about you.” As her eyes drifted to Evanne, he grunted. “I’m not worried about her, either. I’m … not who I was, Tilly. I’m old. Used up. Dry, a river that no longer runs. The summers sit easy on you, held at bay by the Three’s Light or some shit. They drag my heels. My people were never meant to live long.”

  She glared down at him. “Are we back to the fate of dying for humans?”

  “We’re back to the fate of being fucking old,” he said. “Every morning my damn spine needs to be stretched. It doesn’t … work right. Not since … before.”

  Vertiline felt a stab of guilt, or perhaps a melange made from guilt and regret. “You laid your life down so the dragon could live, and saved us all.”

  “There was plenty of everyone saving everyone else on the day,” he grunted. “I’m not dredging for compliments. I’m just saying if it comes to swinging steel⁠—”

  “You’ll hang back?”

  “Fuck, no.” Armitage ground out a chuckle made of gristle and excitement. “I’ll still swing. But I’ll die, all the same.” He stamped on a few more strides as her horse provided him shade. “And I don’t want to die. Everything I’ve ever wanted is here. Even though I won’t be here, the memory of me will miss you.”

  Vertiline turned away. “I’ll hear no more of dying on this day.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you don’t want to hear it. Still going to happen.” He lapsed into an easy silence, because Armitage wasn’t afraid of their bandied words. He’s fearful of the words unsaid. A poet’s soul in a warrior true. “We did good, Tilly. We did really good. Our little girl, I mean.”

  Vertiline sighed agreement. “She is her father’s daughter.”

  “But with her mother’s troublesome bent.” He dodged her lazy kick. “Best we find somewhere to break for lunch. I could eat a bison.”

  It was deer, not bison, but Vertiline enjoyed Sight of Day’s cooking regardless. The Feybrind worked with the foundling, Sands Apart, both in easy company. They’d set up a field kitchen in the mouth of a cave set into a cliff. The cave went back to a smooth wall, free of surprises lurking in the gloom.

  Sands Apart tended bread baked against their fire while Sight of Day husbanded the coals beneath the remains of the deer. Vertiline noted the woman had secured a blade from somewhere. It was a slip sliver of metal that would bother no one from her school in the least but no doubt gave some comfort. The High Justiciar leaned against a large rock, enjoying its cool companionship as the sun hid behind it.

  Evanne joined her with a hunk of steaming venison in a clump of bread. She had two, of course, and offered the second to Vertiline. “Here, Mama.”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Vertiline laughed and took the offering. It was juicy, a slight saltiness to the meat giving her all the excuse she needed for seconds. “What do you think of this Feybrind?”

  “Sands Apart? Tarragon likes her.” Evanne chewed, then swallowed. “So, I like her.”

  “You trust her?”

  Evanne gave her a glance. “Did you take a blow to the head?”

  “Not recently.” Vertiline leaned against the stone. “I feel your answer is the right one, but…”

  “But she’s likeable.” Evanne squatted, back to the rock. “Doesn’t mean I want her behind me holding steel. Her lot tried to fricassee me. A week’s company with Sight of Day doesn’t rob someone of their cause.”

  “Maybe,” Vertiline said. “Have you considered how she only ever tried to get away, not murder us, once the clouds parted? As if her heart knew.”

  “Pretty hard to murder Tresward. You keep saying so.”

  “Not impossible, though.” Vertiline swallowed, the bread suddenly stale. “There are almost none of us left.”

  Evanne slowed her chewing, and Vertiline was reminded how much she’d grown in the past weeks. Depravation and constant fear of death will do that. She felt a pang, because this wasn’t the life she’d wanted for her daughter. I made a Three-damned deal. The school, and they’d leave her alone, because they couldn’t set foot here. Gods or no, harm had come for her wonderful child, this blessing against everything people said was possible. “Mama, you know we may not make it, right?”

  Vertiline looked away. “You will make it. While I draw breath⁠—”

  “Oh, aye, yes,” Evanne waved her away with the deer sandwich. “While I draw breath, too. I’m not saying it as some noble gesture. I tell tragic stories. I don’t want to be in one. But I’m worried about Papa.”

  “Armitage?” Vertiline glanced around as if her husband were near, but no, he was over by the horses, trying for the thousandth time to get the creatures to settle when he drew near. His heart wants to be gentle, but everyone sees the monster. As I did, before. She tried the lie. “He is unkillable.”

  Her daughter snorted. “He wouldn’t say so. No, don’t get all icy eyed at me. He would say,” her voice dropped into the gravel, “Daughter, I’m but a man, rah, grunt, and then do something wonderful like hug me. And then when the real monsters came, he would stand before them, a lone candle against the hurricane, and he’d fight, and fight, and keep fighting, even though his injury hurt and pulled his arm to the left, and then he’d die. And I know he doesn’t make anything of the scar, just shrugs it off like he’s made of stone and spite, daring anyone to tell him he should take it easy. But I see how it drags his steps.”

  Vertiline wanted to storm off, and she felt her right hand tremble, itching to hold a blade, not against her daughter, or even her words, but the vision she conjured, the hordes behind the tale waiting with sharp steel and hate. She hissed, “I will not allow it.”

  Evanne shrugged. “I know you won’t. But it might happen anyway.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing, Mama. You don’t need words for a shield against the truth.” She finished her sandwich. “I am going to play. I need the practice.” She stood, moving into the camp, wending her way with an easy smile and an offered hand as she worked toward the cooking fire. She is so good with people. How did I never see it?

  “What are you going to do?” Tarragon slipped into the place where Evanne had been moments earlier.

  “You heard?” At the tiniest nod, wheat-pale hair swaying with it, Vertiline sighed. “I must keep them both safe. It is my task.”

  “But not yours alone.” Tarragon leaned in beside her as Evanne sat by the fire, guitar across her legs, and teased early notes from the strings. A ripple spread through their company as people turned to see, to hear, to feel. “There are two here of passable skill with a blade.”

  “A magic sword doesn’t⁠—”

  “I speak of the braggart,” Tarragon said. “An A-word. I’m sure of it.”

  “Amir?”

  “The same.” She huffed. “He walks with two others as all Tresward do, but they are not his equals. Larochette is too busy hiding what she was to become what she needs to be. Faust studies like a man told if he frowns enough at lead it will become gold. But Amir? A poet with steel. Not that you should tell him that.”

  “He does think well of himself, it’s true.” She mulled it over. “He too has a past of smoke and flame.”

  “As do we all.” Tarragon smiled as Evanne hit a sweet melody. “It doesn’t mean we have a future of blood and tears.”

  “Does it not, then? I have known much of blood and a little of tears, too.” Vertiline flexed her metal fingers.

  “And of smiles and music.” Tarragon shifted, making a face as her back scraped rock. “Being Big is hard. It’s hard all the time. Gravity pulls you like an anchor. You’ve no wings to reach the stars. And yet you manage.”

  Vertiline grunted. “You would have me set Amir as guard on Armitage?”

  “Amir is already guarding Armitage.” Tarragon pointed with her chin as the Adept joined Armitage at the pens, hand on a horse’s neck, a soft word calming wide horse eyes. Her husband gave the man a filthy look, but stayed and talked nonetheless. “Amir is like you, because⁠—”

  “I’m a braggart?”

  A small smile, at that. “Truth, few would claim to be the best swordswoman in the world with a straight face. But no, I mean you both found yourself where you were needed, not where you wanted to be. Just let it happen.” Tarragon eased away from the rock. “I’m going to get a drink. Want to come with?”

  “Not yet. You go on.” Vertiline watched Tarragon head toward Evanne, iron to a magnet. She thought, Tarragon asked for no one to watch Evanne.

  Then she smiled despite herself. Because she has taken that job for herself. And she smiled wider, right until the dragon bellowed in rage.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evanne was on her feet and running before her brain caught up. She held the guitar in one hand as she raced toward the dragon’s bellow. Her machete slapped against her leg as she ran, and she thought about tossing it. Don’t be stupid. I’ll need a blade soon enough. Her legs whipped through tall grass, the honey-sweet air urging her on.

  It wasn’t hard to locate Myryntir, because he hadn’t stopped roaring fit to break the heavens. He was around the curve of the mountain they’d camped beside, no doubt chasing butterflies or whatever nonsense dragons did when bored. Lightning lashed the sky, the dragon’s breath discharging again, and again, as he tracked something she couldn’t see because of the damn hill.

  Holy fuck. I’m at the front of a charge toward a dragon in trouble.

  It was true she’d been first on her feet, not weighed down by the burden of Tresward armour, but she was a little surprised she was ahead of Sight of Day. The cats were the fastest thing she knew of, except Pakhet, and Pakhet only ran away from danger.

  She rounded an elbow of rock jutting from a cool green drapery of hanging vines to see exactly what happened when a dragon was pissed off. There: Myryntir, up on his back legs, wings wide for balance, maw wide as he blasted lightning. The lightning: it tracked a curious set of orbs made of metal. Three hovered and darted above the earth. They were ringed about with blue runes. The runes: these blazed with starlight, each reaching out a curling tendril of raw energy to rake the dragon’s hide. The energy: with the dragon’s lightning and the orb’s whatever-the-fuck-it-was, the ground five hundred metres around the dragon was charred, the air heavy with ozone. A trench perhaps two hundred metres wide lay north of the dragon, and it took little imagination to consider it the source of the orbs.

  Evanne let out a battle cry, completely worthless next to the dragon’s roaring, but it made her feel better. Her machete was in hand, and after a moment spent staring at the orbs high above her head, then the weapon, she cocked back her arm and threw it. The weapon spun in a grey-silver whirl, and for once her aim was true. It clocked the side of an orb, which rang like a gong, and then completely ignored her. The machete fell to earth, landing blade-first into the rude and rocky ground.

  And there goes the weapon I needed.

  “Hitch!” The spectre popped out of the rock to her left and snapped to her side. “What are those things?”

  “Curators,” he said. “Odd there are only three.”

  “Are they good or bad?” At his blue-eyed stare, she amended, “I mean, are they going to be a problem for Tresward?” Because her mind was already thinking of what the High Justiciar would do, no doubt but moments away.

  “Just three? Unlikely.” He crossed his arms, then added, “Uh.”

  “What? Oh, fuck.” Out of the trench spewed an excitement of Curators. She stopped counting at ten. “Okay. Come on, we need to get in there.”

  He goggled at her, holding comment for a moment as Myryntir spat blue-white death in a line across the sky. The dragon tracked one of the new Curators, marking a hit against its runed side. The orb wobbled, perhaps now the equivalent of a drunk Curator, then arced a stately fall to crump into the ground five metres from Evanne. The runes in its side flickered, then died. He pointed at it. “There. If the dragon can’t take them out, what do you think we can do?”

  “The dragon took it out just fine!”

  The orb’s runes flickered, blue changing to green. A man’s voice, smooth and round like a river stone, emanated from the fallen device. “REFECTIONE. PATET EXCUBIAS.”

  Hitch said, “Better do what it says.”

  “Which is? I don’t speak Ancient Asshole.”

  “Roughly? ‘Get back, I’m fixing my shit’.” He shuffled away as if making a point.

  Vertiline pounded around the hill’s shoulder, blade clear of its sheath. She didn’t have the good grace to take stock, just sprinted past Evanne, blade in high guard. Evanne heard thunder’s threat. The Curator lifted from the ground as she reached it, blade a yellow-white arc.

  By the Three, but she is amazing. Evanne had seen her mother fight at the school, but never like this. Outnumbered, fifteen or twenty airborne enemies, an enraged dragon, and still her steps were as perfect as a summer sunrise. Energy arced from the orb, and Vertiline wasn’t there, pattern taking her past, blade going from high to low by way of the orb’s hide. It left a glowing vermillion tear in the Curator’s side, the runes flaring red in sympathy. Vertiline stepped backward, blade rising from low to high, in time to catch an arc of energy on the edge of her steel.