A swift strike on the back of the man’s head, and he went down atop the dying woman.

  This is bullish creativity but none of us are masters of steel, let alone glass. Amir felt the weight of his borrowed mace. The haft was old wood, cut from a single branch, but the head was a bad forging. The let’s-call-it-left side of the head was a shade heavier than the right. Two men surged toward him, clearly trying to take the easier opponent while trying to avoid the thresher that was Faust.

  Amir thought, I will be a master of glass, and met them on the charge with Buck’s Challenge. The left-heavy mace felt like his own arm as he flicked his wrist, tossing the weapon into the head of the right opponent. It bounced as he expected, and he tickled the haft as it rebounded into the skull of the left man. Amir caught it, tossed it heavy side down into the ground, and was rewarded with a crunch as it bounced upward into the chin of Faust’s opponent.

  Over. It’s over! Amir felt the breath rasp in and out of his chest, turned, and spat blood. “Ho, friends. All’s well?”

  “All’s well,” Faust agreed.

  “Mostly well,” Larochette groused, rotating her shoulder. “The man hit well, and I should’ve seen it.”

  “All fights are lessons,” Amir said. “I’ve learned a thing or two myself this time.”

  “You got clocked good,” Larochette agreed. “How’s the jaw?”

  “Fine.” Amir considered. “I think I’ve a loose tooth. Let’s see what the morrow brings.”

  Faust roamed the dead. “All are gone.” He paused by his last fallen opponent. “Friend Amir, there is hope for you yet.” He shifted the body before him, then pointed to the ground beneath the corpse where Amir had bounced the mace.

  The pavers were cratered rather than merely cracked, sunken as if hit by a great force. Larochette whistled. “The Storm comes.”

  “It is no Storm,” Amir argued. “I felt nothing, heard no bells, and saw no wonders. This is merely bad workmanship, maintenance, or both.”

  “Perhaps.” Faust sounded like he one hundred percent disagreed.

  The door rattled. Amir whirled, realised he had no weapon, and looted the floor where there were plenty. He came up with a short sword with a wide blade, a bloodletter’s weapon for dark deeds. He stalked to the door. Faust took one side, Larochette the other, the pair handling the bar.

  At Amir’s nod, they flipped the bar away. Amir yanked the door wide, blade high, a war cry on his lips. It died there, the tip of a sword right under his chin.

  Vertiline stood there, poise perfect, arch eyebrow raised. “Sloppy.” She looked behind him at the ruins of a troupe of men and women. “But perhaps effective.” She flourished her steel, then slipped it into her scabbard.

  “Knight Champion,” Amir said. “We were, uh.”

  Faust counted on his fingers. “Uncovering a plot to assassinate you. Dealing with poisoners and insurgents. Killed assassins and turncoat Queensguard.” He sighed. “It’s been a busy morning.”

  Vertiline looked up at the big man, then to Larochette, and finally back to Amir. She nodded, nice and slow. “Is this true, Adept?”

  “I am no Adept,” Amir said. “I cannot call the Storm.”

  “Time and practice.” Vertiline sounded distracted as she scanned the dead behind them. “Just you three did all this?”

  “Aye.” Amir met her eye.

  She gave the ghost of a smile. “Do you want a medal? Or a hug? Get yourselves together. We are Tresward.” The Justiciar turned on her heel, and Faust and Larochette hurried to catch up.

  Amir held a moment, considering. Vertiline had said We are Tresward. He heard the words, but beneath them, something deeper. A feeling, almost like hope.

  Vertiline said it as if she were starting to believe it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The countryside was dark, not a human hamlet with cheery hearth for klicks. Hollyhead was murdered by Wandermere, but this countryside had been licked clean by Lord Gyles. Evanne missed her desert home of Imshir, and the people she’d known. I don’t like being alone. Evanne felt the chill of the dusk more than usual. Her half-Vhemin blood let the cold in more than if she were human, but this was deeper. Always she’d had someone with her. Tarragon lately, but before: Hitch. Always Hitch.

  Now there was no one.

  “Hello,” Pakhet said.

  Evanne gave a small scream. The giant cat was perched on a rock, licking a paw. She rallied, clutched her guitar tighter—I will need it before the night’s done—and glared at the tiger. “Where have you been?”

  “Hiding,” she admitted. “Did you know there’s a vampire after you? He is quite old. Probably cunning, more than usual for one of his kind. I expect he wants to siphon you dry.”

  “Not super helpful,” Evanne said. “I know he’s a vampire and wants me dead.”

  “Don’t forget the siphoning part.”

  “Hard to ignore.” Evanne glanced at the keep’s wall behind her. Old stone, easy to climb, but she didn’t want back in. She needed to be a long way away from a creature that could drain her as easily as a man downing a cup of cold water on a hot day. “How long have I got?”

  “The mob will exit the front of the keep in moments.”

  Evanne frowned. “Seems like it’s taking them a long time.”

  “I helped. I’m helpful. This is me helping.” The cat offered Evanne a yawn full of teeth. “There were horses.”

  “What do you mean ‘were’?”

  “They are now panicked horses.” The cat gazed over the darkening hills. Evanne wondered whether she saw with the blood-heat of Vhemin vision, or the false daylight of the Feybrind. “Heser helped. His clever fingers were useful for opening the stalls.”

  “Ah.” Evanne glanced away from the keep and to the west. The keep rested atop a gentle decline. Down the decline was a scraggly forest. I might be able to lose them in there.

  “If you’re thinking about losing them in the forest, I give you excellent odds of deferred success.”

  “Deferred what?”

  “You’re going to fail, because the vampire can smell the blood inside you.”

  “Ah,” Evanne said again. “That might work, actually.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Stick around, cat. We’re going vampire hunting.”

  “We are so, so not.” Pakhet vanished.

  Evanne grinned despite herself. I saw it! I saw the moment the cat went invisible. It wasn’t in a puff of smoke. One moment she was there, the next she wasn’t. No pop, no sparkle, but a kind of absence, like losing your belt—you forgot where you left it, rather than throwing it out.

  Maybe I can work with that, too.

  Evanne hurried through the woods. The trees weren’t very big, which was a blessing from the Three, because otherwise she’d have been slowed. The dusk turned to early evening, and if she’d been on a porch, brazier cheery beside her, and with mulled wine at hand, it’d have been a pleasant evening.

  All things considered, not a bad night to die.

  “Hello?”

  Evanne froze. The voice was uncertain, male, and sounded alone. Frightened. She oriented toward it, wondering why her Vhemin’s eyes hadn’t seen the hot blood inside the man. Ah—there. A piece of ancient masonry nestled between the tangled trunks of old oaks. It didn’t take much imagination to guess how a hunk of the keep above had rolled here to be held in the tree’s embrace. And a good lesson to be more careful, because a wise person could hide their heat behind a rock.

  Hang about. That voice sounds familiar. Her hand went to her knife, but she didn’t release her grip on the guitar. “Quinton?”

  “Evanne?” The man stepped from behind his rock. He tugged at his guardsman’s armour like a noble with a too-tight collar. “I thought I’d dreamed you. I thought⁠—”

  “You thought you’d died. Captured by a creature of the black beyond. Saw sights, aye, and heard sounds of strange things, as if in a dream.” Evanne let go her knife, pulled her guitar close, and plucked the strings. “But then you heard this. Felt it beneath the ocean of sleep. And then⁠—”

  “And then I saw her.” His voice held more awe than fear now. “The Raven Queen.”

  “What?” Evanne did a double-take. “Not the amazing bard and her song?”

  “Sure, the bard.” He waved it away. “But the Raven was everywhere. A presence in my dream, a black-feathered angel of hope. She held me close right as I leaped from the Dancer to my death. Carried me from the world of dreams to this one.” He hugged himself. “I’d rather be asleep.”

  “Night’s not too cold for you?”

  “Night’s too full of vampires.” Quinton relaxed a shade, then drew his sword. It wasn’t an elegant move. He almost overbalanced. “I am here to help.”

  “Great. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Who?”

  Evanne blinked. “The rest of the keep’s guard. The household. The rest of you.”

  “There is no one else. I came alone.”

  Evanne sighed, rubbing her forehead. “She had one job, Quinton. One fucking job!”

  “Who?” The man looked between her and the rock. “Are we expecting someone else?”

  Evanne heard the rustle of leathery wings above. She glanced up but couldn’t see a swarm of bats. Still, it never hurt to be cautious. She lowered her voice. “Do you know where we might find shelter?”

  “Against the rain, or against a vampire?”

  “Vampire.” Evanne showed her teeth in the night. “I’m tough. I don’t mind the rain.”

  “No where is safe against Lord Gyles. He will come for us no matter where we hide.”

  “Thought so.” Evanne nodded. “But you came anyway.”

  He offered her a shy smile. She could see the way his lips moved, the tilt of his head as he looked to the ground. “I came because of how you played. I came because I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.”

  Evanne felt her cheeks warm. “The good news is you’ll hear more before the night’s out. Come on.”

  Quinton hustled well enough for a man wearing armour he woke up in, and holding a sword he didn’t know how to use. He kept up a steady stream of babble, all I am a merchant fisherman this and Wait until you see me sail the seas that. Evanne let it wash over her as they headed downhill.

  The forest gave way to a ruined road, which she ignored, favouring the fields beyond. A lone farmstead beckoned from beyond rich clutches of corn gone to seed. No lights glimmered, very much in keeping with the abandoned vibe she got from the fields.

  Evanne headed between the cornrows, shouldering through with a little Vhemin grit and human grace. Black, cold fingers of corn leaves tried to hold her in passing but she ignored their need. Quinton struggled to keep up. “Hold a moment, bard.”

  She turned. “We don’t have time. The monster will find us soon.” So, why have I stopped?

  The sailor caught up to her. “You are powerful strong. I can barely keep pace and I’m a man grown.”

  “You’re strong enough.” Evanne eyed him up and down. “It’s fair to say the curse of my birth has left me some … advantages.”

  Quinton looked up at that. “Curse? Don’t you mean blessing? You’ve come to save us. A guardian sent by the Three for sure.”

  “Huh.” Evanne glanced at the sky again. Still no giant bat. “You say the nicest things. Doesn’t change the truth though.” There is no Trick in his words. Why do I feel like there should be? “I was born against the Three’s rule. A human mother and a Vhemin father.”

  Quinton tossed her a glance. “What’s your point?”

  Evanne frowned. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  He laughed. “I’ve yet to meet someone young who thought their place in the world was right. It’s a part of being human.” He sighed. “Or, you know. Whatever you are.”

  She wanted to be angry with him, but she laughed instead. “You should never become a bard. You’ve no Trick with words.”

  “Never used words well. I’m better on the unsteady land of the ocean swell.”

  “And yet, poetic.” She jostled further down the cornrows. “Come on. We’ve got to build a defensible position.”

  “Against a vampire lord?”

  “Something like that.” She didn’t know if he could see the glint of her smile in the night. “There are other things that go bump in the night.”

  The barn was a wash, but the homestead had potential. The roof was gone, but the dwelling was a lofty two storeys. It allowed her some protection from attacks from above.

  The fireplace held flame well enough, giving the illusion of warmth and safety. She held her shiver back, because Quinton was having enough trouble with the night as it was. They’d made space before the fire by pushing rickety furniture into the stairwell. Quinton used the little patch of heat and light for pacing. “Okay, here we are. What’s the plan?”

  “The plan has two parts.” Evanne held up her guitar. “This is the second part.”

  “A lute?”

  “Guitar,” she corrected. “It’s an instrument the ancients played.”

  He seemed suspicious. “How is the music of the ancients going to help us when Lord Gyles descends, ready to avenge his lost pride?”

  “Well, that’s where the first part comes in.” Evanne felt nervousness eat at her belly like sickness. “I hoped the Raven Queen would have released the totems on more of the vampire’s followers.”

  There was a tiny knock at the door. They both stiffened, then Evanne moved to open it. Quinton grabbed her arm. “Don’t open it!”

  “The vampire lord will not knock.” Evanne shook him free, unlatched the door, saw no one, looked down, and felt her heart lift. “Tarragon!”

  The fairy glimmered a little brighter. “Found you.”

  Evanne couldn’t help but notice the fairy was alone. “No one else, then?”

  Tarragon flitted in. “The Raven Queen struggles with her own demons.”

  “Good.” Evanne shut the door behind the sprite.

  “What do you mean, ‘good’? This is terrible.” Tarragon gave Quinton a wide stare. “Hey. Isn’t he⁠—”

  “The guardsman, yes.” Evanne retrieved a stool from the stairwell’s barricade, placed it in the middle of the room, and sat. “It’s good because we each need a nudge. The gentlest of pushes to do the thing we’re made to do or be. Do you see?”

  “Not really. The queen pitched a shit fit and looked about to cry.”

  “Even better.” Evanne plucked strings. The guitar wanted to give her a haunting melody, so she let it. The sound washed from her fingers to all corners of the room.

  “Oh, my.” Quinton drew closer. “What tune is that?”

  “It doesn’t have a name. Not yet.” Evanne eyed the door. “Here he is.”

  “Who?” Tarragon turned to the door, just in time for it to be smashed aside, wood turned to fragments.

  Evanne weathered the storm of splinters, fingers still drawing notes from the strings as Lord Gyles, vampire lord, stormed inside. She gave him a welcoming smile. “My lord. You made an impressive enough entrance, but it will avail you not in the slightest.”

  Quinton stood by her left shoulder. “Uh. He’s a vampire lord. Everliving lord to a host of the damned.”

  “And still.” She widened her smile. “All things must die, in the end.”

  “He doesn’t look dead yet.” Tarragon landed on her right shoulder. She was warm and bright.

  Gyles glared hatred. He was gaunt as ever and looked a little sickly now. “I have come to⁠—”

  “Seal my doom?” Evanne gave an encouraging nod. “Rip my life from me? Aye, I know the Trick of it. You hope to remove the ritualist’s friends or use them as leverage. Isolate her, and if you can’t, bind her. Corrupt her purpose, and make it slave to yours, nay?”

  He blinked, his face slackening as he entered uncertain narrative terrain. “That is the plan. You should be terrified. Why aren’t you?”

  Evanne plucked another string, teasing a note free. “There’s one thing you don’t know about the Raven. A thing that all men ignore at their peril. It’s the thing that’s bound her to the purpose of Or’sen and made her travel across the seas to find my parents. Carry me with her, and still be at my side. Do you know what it is?”

  He took a step closer. “Enlighten me.”

  Evanne smiled, a cat with a whole tureen of cream. It’s time to stop playing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The room remained daunting. Full of other people’s lives, the things they’d done, the folk they’d known, the families they’d made. Morgan knew people well enough. She’d ruled the kingdom of Or’sen, seen to their cares, and balanced their needs as she navigated war, destruction, and the return of the Three. This was more personal, though. In this room people weren’t a name on a ledger. People you knew, really knew, had far more weight and substance.

  “I’m afraid,” Morgan admitted.

  “You are nothing of the sort,” Heser the Cheg countered. “You’ve never been afraid of anything.”

  She snorted. “That’s a lie.”

  Her Queensguard offered her a horse’s bridle. “Try this one.”

  She pushed it away. “I don’t think so.”

  He laughed. “I see it now.”

  Morgan brought herself up to her full height, looking down her nose at the man. “See what?”

  He lowered the bridle. “I wonder if Evanne knows it. If she’s planned this down to the moment. It seems impossible, yet…”

  “Out with it, man,” she snapped. “I’ve little patience for⁠—”

  “You don’t like being told what to do.” His voice was low, a smile playing in his eyes. “All of this isn’t about fear or who to help. You are the Raven Queen of Or’sen, and no one tells you what to do. Leastways, not a child gone feral in the forgotten Tebrani lands, daughter to the Tresward Knight Champion Vertiline, who wouldn’t bend the knee. And her daughter hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”