“She has brought you back once before. I can see her doing it again, it’s true.” Vertiline tried for levity but failed. “I miss my sister of the blade. What is she like?”

  “Marvellous.” He shrugged. “You know Geneve.”

  “Sixteen years, though⁠—”

  “If you are wondering if she hates you Tilly, be at peace. She yearns to be here, not only because she misses this world, but the people in it. You did naught amiss. The portal opened, it closed, and that was on me.”

  “On you?” She felt vaguely sick. “I was set to guard it.”

  “By all accounts, guard it you did, but after it closed it was just a rocky floor. The magic … left. We fell a long way. Time and distance are different there.” His fingers clutched the air, struggling to catch an explanation just out of reach. “We couldn’t find our way back. Oh, we looked. We looked a lot. And when you opened this latest portal, we saw it as if it were a beacon just over the horizon. Geneve ran toward it, Ormeon overhead. It wouldn’t have been the first trick the demons tried on us, and she always broke their line while I held the rear. I turned, and she was gone, the portal open, and I, I…” His face had a glassy, fixed stare, a man trying to explain a great sin. “I stepped through.”

  “Because you thought she was here.”

  “Obviously she wasn’t. I should have felt it, Tilly. She is my heart. She is in my blood. And I missed her, let something so precious slip through my fingers.” He straightened. “So, if coaxing willing from a belligerent dragon is what I must do to see her again, it is what I will do.”

  Vertiline chewed on that, the sickness still with her, but fading. “You say you held the rear. You’ve learned some skills since you were here.”

  “Ha! Geneve is a good teacher.”

  “She’s a terrible teacher.” Vertiline held up a hand because it looked like the sinner wanted to start something. “We must all try teaching those who come to Tresward keeps. It is not a task reserved for those who carry the black. Teaching is how we learn best.” She smiled at a memory, bright and clear even after all these years. “There was one time Geneve stood before a class of children, barely more than a child herself. Iz and I, we’d taken her out a few times, me lovestruck and him a liar.”

  “Easy, Tilly.” He wasn’t admonishing her, hand on her arm a gentle touch. “He loved his daughter more than he loved life.”

  “It is in the past.” She straightened. “She showed aptitude with steel, but the Light evaded her. She had perfect form, though. Geneve stood before this class, demonstrating how to hold the blade, how to stand, but also how to be. Geneve was pure, Meri. She brooked no error, because it was against the Three’s purpose. She made a bad teacher because she could see no room for mistakes in serving the Three.”

  “Ha! The good news is, she’s changed.”

  “You what?”

  “I think if she meets the Three, she will have words. About how humans are not pawns, about how being mysterious and godly is a dick move, that kind of thing.”

  She snorted a laugh. “And you?”

  He glanced sideways at her. “I’ve always thought they were dicks.”

  Vertiline’s snort turned into a bray. “I’ve missed you, sinner.”

  Meriwether grabbed her arm, his grip firm, insistent, so unlike him. “You were ever in our hearts, Tilly. You, and the cat, and Armitage.” He let her go. “It looks like the dragon’s broken through. Let’s go see what’s out there.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Evanne scrabbled through the hole Myryntir made. It was big enough for a dragon; thus her size was no problem at all, but the dragon’s claws weren’t shovels. The floor was rough, the craggy visage of an ancient man, each wrinkle threatening to grab her foot and twist an ankle.

  Mama, up until two seconds ago thick as thieves with the lordling, appeared to notice the dragon had finished, and her wayward daughter was once again about to leap into danger. “Evanne! Let me go first.”

  Evanne waited, because while being wilful had its own rewards, her machete wasn’t a match for foes in quite the same way as a Knight with the Storm as her ally. Her mother made it beside her, not having the good grace to breathe hard. “The floor is treacherous.”

  “And the sky is blue.”

  Vertiline gave her a little side eye. “You have the bit between your teeth.”

  Evanne showed her not-quite-shark-teeth in a feral smile. “A bit implies a bridle.”

  Vertiline laughed. “Truth.” She turned her face upward, to where the tunnel broke into another room. Evanne could hear Myryntir’s bellows breath from up ahead. No sound of violence. “Trap?”

  “I don’t think so.” Evanne closed her eyes, listening. “There is something there, though. A lost soul.”

  “You have learned much since we parted.”

  “I don’t know.” Evanne looked at her feet. “I think you taught me a bunch of stuff I ignored, and I had to stop ignoring it.”

  Her mother held silence for a spell. “You have grown into a strong woman, daughter.”

  “But not a warrior?” Evanne heard a slight tone of bitterness in her voice and tried to iron it out. “I am no Tresward. My blood is … dirty.”

  Vertiline looked up the tunnel, then back down. “Armitage!”

  “What?”

  “Hold the troops a moment.”

  Her father looked up the tunnel. “There are no ‘troops’, Tilly. There’s me, the runt, and⁠—”

  “Hold them. Perhaps set the guardsman to keep a rear picket against further incursion. The Raven Queen should not be placed in danger.”

  Papa pursed his lips, looked at Evanne, back to Vertiline, then turned around and bawled, “Take five! You. Yeah, you! Pretty boy.”

  “My name is Amir⁠—”

  “I don’t give a shit. You’re with me. Let’s count our supplies.”

  Evanne watched her father stride out of view, then turned to Mama. “We should⁠—”

  “Your blood is full of starlight, Evanne.” Vertiline cupped her cheek. “All know it. There is naught but the brilliance of the heavens within you.”

  Evanne bit her lip. “But…” She growled. Words are my thing. Why do they vex me now? “I’ve never been able to … be with you at the school. That’s your most important thing. You’ve dedicated your life to it.” Her mother looked to be about to boil over, so she pressed on. “I can’t be Tresward. And I know you hold me far from the front line. You, um. You are a warrior, Mama. And I’m not.”

  The space between them seemed to stretch as Vertiline’s hand fell from Evanne’s face. “You are right. You are no warrior.”

  “I’m … what?” Evanne felt the hot stab of envy, a little anger in there. I fucken knew it.

  “But you are not right about the rest. You are no warrior because I kept you from being one. I carry steel so you don’t have to. It is my wish you are never in harm’s way. I know it’s not possible, so I built a city around you to keep you safe. I trained warriors to guard it, and brokered a deal with the Three to never set foot upon our land while I built their new Tresward. They promised to keep you safe in return. You’ve become what I can’t be, and your father could only dream of. You are a leader true. You command because people love you.”

  “I … command?”

  Vertiline straightened. “A woman with the gift of swords put down her wings to walk in your footsteps. A tiger of impossible strength journeys by your side. A dragon listens when you speak.”

  //ONLY BECAUSE SHE IS SO LOUD.//

  “But I’m … Half-Made.” She scrubbed at the human skin of her forearm. “I’m not human enough to live in their world. I’m not Vhemin enough to be welcome in theirs.”

  “Perhaps you are welcome in none. Perhaps you are welcome in all.” A shrug. “Is the glass half-empty?”

  “You’re saying I should stop moping.”

  “I’m saying we should go up here to see what the dragon’s uncovered. A lost soul, you called it.”

  //IT’S NOT LOST. I FOUND IT.//

  “Come.” Vertiline’s hand fell to the hilt of her sword. “Let me show you why I’m so proud of you.”

  It was a ghoul. Evanne walked a circle around the hunched creature. Human once, no doubt about it. Thick, ropey muscle promised a world of hurt if it ever got over what looked to be just fear of a dragon busting into its home. The room Myryntir furrowed into was smooth-walled, made of a cream-coloured material that offered a pale luminance. It was huge, big enough to hold a handful of dragons and their riders. A giant structure of metal bars rose against one wall, and a single Curator lay there.

  This room is a holding place for the Curators. Where they … sleep? Evanne glanced at a massive door, which looked the obvious exit. She could imagine—once they broke it down—Myryntir would be able to stride through with wings outstretched.

  Hitch pointed at the ghoul. “We’ve seen these things before.”

  “I don’t think so.” Evanne crouched at a safe distance. “The ones at the hospital had their souls taken away and encased in stone. Metal sat in their skulls whispering dreams of death. This one is just … here.”

  Tarragon appeared at the tunnel’s mouth. “You found a ghoul.”

  “I was just saying that.” Evanne frowned. “Why is there just one in here? How long’s it been here?”

  Pakhet popped into visibility beside her. “Perhaps it is a guardian like I was. Left to hold the fort, and no one told it the war was over.”

  “The war isn’t over,” Evanne said. “The war just … slept.”

  “My, you’re cheery today.”

  “She’s right.” Vertiline examined the struts holding the one dead Curator. Evanne saw the Tricks she told herself to be the High Justiciar. How her mother hugged herself, but made the posture look like the crossed arms of defiance. And how her body was deliberately relaxed, despite the razor wire of fear for Papa and her daughter running through her spine. “The war never ended. The only thing that changed was who did the bleeding.” Vertiline dropped her arms, her metal hand flexing, grasping at an old memory.

  “Everyone is cheery.”

  “People die.” Tarragon strode up to the ghoul, halting at a lunge’s distance. “And others live forever with the burden of it.”

  Evanne sidled up to her, reaching a cautious hand toward her arm. She felt the heat there, the very humanness of her, yet still not as warm as when she’d been a fairy. “New people join them, too.”

  “Aye.” The once-fairy nodded. “It is a treasure to travel this road with you.”

  “YoU wIll alL diE.” The ghoul straightened as much as it was able. The words coming from its rotted lips were soft, a verbal slurry mixed into gruel by too little meal and too much time.

  Myryntir turned his long neck, leaning his head toward the creature. //AND YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE US DIE WITH WHICH ARMY, EXACTLY?//

  “iT is wRitTeN.” The ghoul raised a crooked arm to the ceiling. “CaN you NOt seE it In thE StaRS?”

  “I’m going to end this horror’s misery.” Tarragon drew Requiem in a swift motion, blue-white radiance spilling across the floor.

  “Hold.” Evanne’s mouth was—once again—running off ahead of her brain. “Something’s amiss. This man doesn’t bring us a threat, but a warning.”

  The ghoul nodded, pale decayed eyes seeing everything, or perhaps nothing. “We aRe chaInEd.”

  “Curators,” Meri murmured. “Curators of what?”

  “You move really quietly for an old man.” Evanne glared at him. “Where did you come from? And what do you mean?”

  “You put a curator in charge of a library, or⁠—”

  “Sinner, not everyone uses libraries.” Vertiline was still facing the struts. “They must have had hundreds in here.”

  “Fair. You put curators in charge of something needing curation. Right there in the name, see?” The Lord du Reeves circled the ghoul. “You need a curator to look after artefacts and treasures.” The ghoul nodded. “And here we are, right in the nest. I suspect our friend here is giving us a friendly warning.”

  Evanne tapped her fingers on the hilt of her machete, drumming out a little ditty to lift her spirits. The beat circled her feet, walked across to Tarragon, and relaxed her lover. The once-fairy lowered her sword. Evanne let her fingers fall. “That’s not what we need to know.”

  “It’s not?” Meriwether blinked.

  “It’s not,” she agreed. “What we need to know is why he’s here. This ghoul has been in this place for hundreds of years. We’ve seen the Itikari chain souls to their purpose before. At the hospital, the dead were wardens, an undying army to protect those still living. On Dancing in the Storm spirits were chained into furniture to act as tireless guardians. And here,” she gestured at the room, “we have a place full of curious devices and another undying creature.”

  “This is not Itikari.” Tarragon’s voice carried an edge as sharp as Requiem.

  Ah, I see. Evanne touched Tarragon’s arm again, gentle like a sea breeze. “Not all the Itikari made was wrought wrong. No, I can hear the words before you say them. You didn’t pass your exams. You are the only one still living who carries the burden of that. We know Vehement Systems tried to make better Feybrind and turned out the Vhemin. They forged Artifices to fight the dragons. Personates to defeat the Tresward, all in an effort to make a better sword than the other had. Is it so odd to consider here we find a ghoul crimped in the image of Itikari’s guardians by another smith?”

  Tarragon’s shoulders slumped, her voice small. “We were the good ones. The best ones.”

  Evanne wanted to spend more time with her in this moment, but there was an everliving monster prophesying annihilation to her right. She turned. “Creature, what awaits us here?”

  “DoOm—”

  “Yes, of course.” Evanne waved her hand. “Specifics. Try being precise.”

  “Or, they could tell us.” Meri’s tone was artificially bright. Evanne followed his pointed arm toward the big doors. There was a small doorway set into it she’d not spotted earlier, and the nagging concern of where is Sight of Day was answered as the golden-eyed cat came pacing through, followed by Sands Apart.

  Sands Apart slammed the small door shut while Sight of Day sprinted toward them. He appeared to be entirely unfazed, bar the lashing of his tail. {While you were making new friends, we found a silver pool.}

  Evanne narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like pools. The last one I found at the hospital had an ancient scapegrace that tried to eat me. Is this the same?”

  Sight of Day wavered his hand in a maybe so gesture. {Similar. Metal warriors come from the pool. They are agitated.}

  “Time to get to work.” Vertiline broke off her exacting examination of the struts.

  “KiLl me, pLeaSe.” The ghoul reached out with a sloppy gesture.

  “Hmm.” Meri frowned. “He could have useful intelligence. We should⁠—”

  He stopped talking as the ghoul’s head bounced to his feet. All eyes turned to Tarragon, her perfect slice held at neck height a moment longer before she sheathed her blade. “I have lived in service to masters without the ability to say no.”

  Meri looked at the head, then her, seemed about to say something, checked himself, opened his mouth, checked himself again, then said, “You know what? Fair enough.”

  She has done the right thing. The only thing, and yet we feel there must have been another way. Evanne kept her voice low, no Trick in it. “Mercy isn’t always easy.” The undead horror seemed … healthier than what we’ve seen before. More of a person. And perhaps more aware of what his unlife became. “It could be the hardest thing.” She turned to the door. “Let’s see what’s⁠—”

  The small door exploded inward, showering the room with fragments of metal and that strange, alabaster material. Myryntir was between them and the door and took the worst of it. The big lizard was tossed over Evanne’s head like a dog’s chew toy. He rolled, wings tearing rents in the ceiling and floor.

  Dust billowed into the room. Stalking into it were silver figures. They flared, living energy shaped as people. Evanne counted five as she drew her machete. Vertiline ran at them, each perfect step cracking the floor, sending rivulets of golden light across the ground. Tarragon screamed, Requiem high, sprinting past Evanne.

  She looked at her machete and thought, what am I even doing? Everyone was faster than her and had magic swords or godly powers. Then she saw Papa, just a man, but with a big rock in hand, because his family were on the field. He shouldered it, then launched it into the pack of glimmering enemies. The rock was the size of a human head, and when it hit the lead figure, Evanne expected the glimmering form to fall.

  The rock superheated to white and sloughed into spattering, molten material in an eye blink.

  Evanne looked at her machete again. We are so boned.

  Sight of Day tapped her on the shoulder. She would have screamed if she hadn’t been numbed by the explosion, and she briefly wondered how he’d got there. {You should get to cover.}

  “You’re not!”

  {I am getting you, then getting to cover.} He gave a half-smile as Vertiline clashed with the first figure, her golden blade spraying yellow and white as her enemy’s shimmering weapon darted with the speed of dawn. {This is not a fight one can win with simple courage.}

  Evanne sheathed her machete, angry, and if she was honest, frightened. “Get Sands Apart. Keep them,” she stabbed an arm at the startled Amber and Jade newly emerged from the tunnel, “safe.”

  {When you say safe, do you mean⁠—}

  Evanne lost what the cat said as she spun to Myryntir. The dragon lay on his back, dazed, tongue lolling like a giant dog knocked into a coma. She ran to him. Courage might not win the day, but that’s why we brought a dragon. “Myryntir!”

  The dragon said nothing, eyes a glassy blue. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, his body silted in debris. She heard Vertiline’s war-cry, the clash of Light and energy showering the room with flickering illumination that clouded her vision. It was bright, and hot, and both her human and Vhemin eyes could make little sense of it. Tarragon’s yell joined Mama’s and she heard the arcing sizzle of Requiem. The sword brings justice, she realised. But it is but one blade.