Each word was laid like a brick made of doom. Carefully, with a mark of self-loathing beneath. Tarragon hugged herself. “You have saved the villagers of Hollyhead and Wandermere. You have⁠—”

  “I destroyed the village of Hollyhead, more like. Brought an ancient hulk from beneath the lake’s depths and killed their livelihood.”

  Tarragon frowned. “You released those in thrall to a vampire lord. You saved the Raven from a life of servitude. Bent hordes of spectres at an ancient temple into a fighting force. Freed those still in thrall.” She pressed her lips into a line. “You have raised this ship from below. By song and heart, and no other way would do it.” She almost put a hand on Evanne’s shoulder but left it trembling at her side. “I see no wasted life.”

  “I got rinsed by a cat!” Evanne snarled. “I fell and fell again. And fell some more, and at first I wanted it, I wanted you to get free, to run. But then I didn’t want it. I wanted you back, and I wanted to stop hurting, and I couldn’t die, Tarragon. I couldn’t even die.”

  “Ah,” Tarragon said. “I think it’s time for you to meet the oracle.”

  “The what now?”

  Tarragon sighed. “I don’t know if he still lives. Not like before. But if there is someone he’ll speak to, it’s you. Come, love.”

  The oracle’s lounge was much as Tarragon expected. She’d been here before, just once, when trying to discover the truth as to why she couldn’t Build things. Then, it’d had plush chairs for Bigs. The chairs nestled within a wood-panelled room that sported a full bar with expensive liquors and tall, tinted windows that overlooked the clouds and planet below.

  That was more or less what was here now, except with eight hundred years of time added. The chairs were faded, some rotted, and the windows were grimed. Merciful Three, but the bar remained, its host of liquor intact. No surprise to anyone, but that’s where Evanne gravitated to first.

  The oracle wasn’t here. Or, he was always here but not visible yet. Tarragon hadn’t worked out how the oracle-ship combo worked. The ship saw all, but the oracle was something … individual. A thaumaturge had explained to Tarragon, his eyes earnest beneath an unruly carrot top, the oracle was a thing of two worlds. The ship and oracle were constructed of magic and science in a bundle.

  She rubbed her arms. Fairies were made things too, and it wasn’t always good to be a tool of the ancients, no matter how cool it sounded to the young sorcerer.

  He’s dead now, ash and dust like all the rest. Tarragon’s arms had the good grace to show goosebumps at the thought. Evanne rummaged behind the bar, helping herself to spirits of unknown type, the labels long worn with the verdigris of age. She turned striking purple snake eyes on Tarragon. “What’ll it be?”

  “You don’t know what those are!”

  “We’ll muddle through.” Evanne sniffed a bottle, made a face, and recapped it. “Smells like liquorice ass. Where is this oracle, anyway?”

  “He’s here if he’s anywhere.” Tarragon cruised to the opposite side of the bar, and settled herself on a stool that didn’t look like it would give up on the challenge despite the years. Her Big body still felt weird, but she was getting used to it.

  “Do you miss flying?” Evanne splashed something purple into a glass.

  “I miss it,” Tarragon admitted.

  “Me too.” Evanne looked at a bottle filled with red liquid. “I miss how you used to hide in the cowl of my cloak.”

  “I did not hide.”

  “Steal a ride. Whatever.” The concoction before Evanne was turning, as all mixed watercolours tended to, a muddy brown. She sipped. “This isn’t half bad.”

  “But is the other half good?” Tarragon took the offered cup, braced herself, and took a chug. It tasted like dark honey and fire. “Okay, that’s nice. How did you do it?”

  “Dunno.” Evanne started mixing into a second glass, then after a moment added a third beside it. “The ancients made so many things. Fruit that turns into whatever you needed it to be. Meat for cats. Sugar plums for fairies.” She bit her lip. “Anyway, is it so strange to think this bar is filled with whatever you need?”

  Tarragon looked about. Remembered the people here, waiting for their turn at prophecy. Some went away empty-handed, never meeting the oracle. Others were told dire dooms. Still more left hopeful. The fates were not easy masters. “I think that sounds right. It’s what you need, but not always what you want.”

  “Well said.” A slender man in his late fifties settled himself beside Tarragon. She could have sworn there was no stool there moments earlier, but he didn’t seem overly concerned with reality. His hair was close-cut in a Caesar style, and Tarragon could tell that while he was lean, he was also hard. Perhaps good enough to swing a blade in times of strife. “Make mine a double.”

  Evanne’s eyes narrowed. “You the oracle?”

  “You the bartender?” The man’s voice was mostly smooth, just a hint of the gravel age could bring. Cultured, like he spent time reading and wanted to say the words right.

  “No one else was offering.” Evanne pushed a glass toward the man. “Try that.”

  “Oh, great oracle—” Tarragon was cut off as the oracle put a palm out right in her face. He sipped, then nodded. “This is pretty good. I haven’t had a drink in eight hundred years.”

  “Did you lose your manners in that time, asshole?” Evanne bristled, glaring at the oracle’s hand.

  “It’s of no moment,” Tarragon said.

  The oracle ignored her, staring hard at Evanne. “It’s as I thought. You are unruly.”

  “I’m unruly?” Evanne’s snake eyes narrowed. “I’m not the one picking a fight with a fairy.”

  “She’s no fairy.” The oracle frowned, lowered his hand, then gave Tarragon a glance. “Leastways, not all the way, and not anymore.”

  “What do you mean, ‘all the way’?” Tarragon said.

  “This is a waste of time,” Evanne said. “We came here because the world’s ending, and all we’re getting is sass.”

  “Did I say unruly?” The oracle seemed surprised at his own mistake. “I meant you are a moody teen. You don’t understand the structure of the world or how it works.”

  “Oh yeah?” Evanne’s chin jutted. “You’re a jacked up faded memory of times that were lost because no one could admit they had no idea what they were doing.”

  Tarragon’s mouth opened, then closed. The oracle was here, a rare event, and still working unlike so much else on the ship. And there was Evanne, blowing her one chance at understanding the future. “I think she means⁠—”

  “You know, I think I like her.” The oracle tossed back his drink, then stood. “Here’s the deal. Everyone, everywhere, is going to die.”

  “Of course.” Evanne crossed her arms. “That’s a natural state for the living when they reach the end of their allotted span.” She rolled her eyes, letting them come to rest on Tarragon. “I thought you said this was an oracle, not a stater of the obvious.”

  “He is great and wise⁠—”

  “Okay, how’s this for oracle-ness?” The old man leaned forward against the bar; his eyes locked on Evanne. “In orbit is a weapons⁠—”

  “What’s orbit?”

  The oracle blinked. “In outer space, there is⁠—”

  “What’s outer space?” Evanne glared. “Make sense, man. We’ve no time for wise men too clever by half. Speak plain, or not at all.”

  The oracle’s mouth opened, closed, then he tried again. “Where the sky stops, there is a great void where the stars grow. Each star is a sun like ours. This space between stars is like standing atop a giant cliff, where you can look down on all.”

  “Well done.” Evanne offered a small smile. “Was that so hard?”

  The oracle’s jaw clenched. “The people who used to rule this world made platforms that floated in the void so they could see the lands below. And sometimes, throw rocks from there upon their enemies.”

  “Nice,” Evanne admitted. “Where are you going with this?”

  “When you raised Dancing in the Storm from beneath its blanket of water, I could see the sky again. The platforms up there spoke to me.”

  “That’s when you dropped the truth bomb about us losing?” Evanne puffed a rust lock from her face. “Yet we’re still here. And we’ve got a flying city now.”

  “We’re moving really slowly.” Tarragon’s stomach clenched. The Storm had fallen as she rode high in the sky, and now she was a wallowing target. “We don’t have height and must navigate around the smallest hills. And we don’t control where we’re going.”

  “That’s because I’m doing the steering.” The oracle favoured the once-fairy with a beatific smile. “We need to get to a confluence point. Once there, we can open a gate to the platforms and get orbital defences, uh,” he glanced at Evanne, “the big rocks back online.”

  “Wait.” Tarragon stood, bristling. “A gate? To the demon realm?”

  “Not all gates go to bad places.” The oracle’s smile remained in place. “This one is but a hop to orbit, uh,” another glance at Evanne, “the void between stars, where we will get the tools and weapons we need.”

  “Nah.” Evanne started mixing another drink.

  “Excuse me?” The oracle blinked.

  “We’re not going to the space between stars. We’ve got a boatload of refugees. We need a berth for them. Homes and jobs. Then, vengeance.”

  “If we wait, the enemies I see amassing in the north will sweep across the land and kill everyone.” The oracle shrugged.

  “Void it is,” Evanne sighed. “Tell me about the amassing force.”

  “It is a collection of Artifices surrounded by a perplexing mix of Fey Branded, Vehement Systems, and⁠—”

  “Feybrind,” Evanne corrected, as if to a small child. “They aren’t slaves anymore. And we are Vhemin.”

  “You are a little bit Vhemin.” The oracle wobbled his hand so-so. “You are mostly human.”

  “I’m—”

  “Anyway,” the oracle steamed on, “the perplexing thing is, they have all the tools of the old world. They have Artifices docked at a Vehement citadel. All three races performed together to work the magics of ancient time. We might fight Vehement Systems powers but we can’t fight Itikari as well.”

  “Lucky I’m here.” Evanne jerked a thumb to her chest. “I’m a mongrel too.”

  “Quite.” The oracle beamed. “I’m glad that’s settled. Now, let’s talk about the armour you stole.”

  Evanne eyed the oracle through narrowed lids. “Make your own drink.”

  “I can’t.” The oracle frowned. “I’m not really here.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other.” Evanne strode toward the door. “You need people with hands. We’re not your servants. Best not forget it.”

  Chapter Two

  Evanne found Morgan overlooking her people on the foredeck. The Raven Queen wore a pensive mood like a shawl. Men and women bustled about, clearing detritus and doing their best to make the ship habitable. The ship had smelled of drying washing; now it was tasting sunlight, a warm, pleasant smell permeated that was at odds with it mouldering beneath a lake for most of a millennium. The folk on her decks sang to each other, sharing nods and smiles, tossing a little hope between them.

  A dark-skinned man with tremendous biceps worked metal not ten meters off, and if Evanne was any judge, he was making the world’s largest barbecue. If Tarragon could get the fabricators to make anything other than oatmeal, it would be killer. She sidled up to Morgan. “Ho, Auntie.”

  Morgan winced. “That makes me sound a hundred years old.”

  “You’re but sixty summers, and don’t let anyone tell you different.” Evanne offered a grin in return for Morgan’s scowl, then sobered. “We must get the Hollyhead refugees to safety. We go to war.”

  Morgan gave her a sideward glance. “We have ever been at war.”

  “Sure, but this ship,” Evanne stamped the deck, “is going toward the enemy.”

  The wannabe-smith paused his work and stood. He wiped grimy hands on an apron. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  Evanne swivelled to him. “Goodman, uh..?”

  “Turner, if it please.” Turner eyed the deck, then straightened. “The way of the powerful is to make decisions for the little. Often these are good and wise.” A slight glance at the Raven for this. “Sometimes they are not. Perhaps it might be wise to see what we want?” He swept an arm to his half-made barbecue. “I’m setting up shop here. Going to make a life aboard a wonderful ship my ancestors built. We’ll sail the very sky. Can you imagine it?” He beamed. “I aim to fly this ship to the end, if she’ll have me.”

  “More of a he, this ship,” Morgan murmured. “But I understand your point. What would you suggest? The preposterous notion of drawing straws to determine fates?”

  “Now that’s not a bad idea, your ladyship,” Turner said. “I couldn’t have thought of better.”

  Morgan’s eyes bulged, perhaps aware she’d been snookered, before turning to Evanne. “This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  Evanne laughed, then hugged her. “Auntie, no. I want these people safe.” She released the Raven. “But I’ll take the willingly damned instead. Cast your lots, Turner, and we’ll park those who want off at the next hillock.”

  The ship coasted to a halt over the top of a suspiciously flat plane. Tarragon stood at Evanne’s left, Hitch by her right as the three looked over the side railing. The spectre huffed. “It has the look of a jump gate. Bit overgrown, though.”

  “What’s a jump gate?” Evanne frowned.

  Tarragon gripped the railing. “What it sounds like. It allows a person to jump between spaces.”

  “Ah.” Evanne nodded. “Like Mama said the hero Geneve and her companions used to get between Or’sen and Imshir.”

  Hitch turned not-eyes to the sky. “The oracle said this goes up?”

  “The oracle was a snide old man well into his dotage,” Evanne said.

  “Hello.” The oracle coasted to join them at the railing. “I see you have found the gate below.”

  Evanne glanced behind them. “Where did you come from?”

  “I’ve always been here,” he said.

  “Can you leave the ship?”

  “Why would I want to?” The oracle seemed surprised at the notion. “There are dangers out there.”

  “That’s a no, then.” Evanne looked down again. “How does it work?”

  “You go down. I open it. You go through, appear above,” the oracle pointed to the clouds, “grab supplies, and come back. It’ll be a cinch. Then we can repair the Storm, head north, and rain confusion on our enemies.”

  “I’m in.” Evanne rubbed her arms. “Let me get my guitar.”

  Chapter Three

  Sands Apart felt the metal shackles were a bridge too far but understood the intent. The metal about her wrists meant no one had to watch her too closely, and they also meant the other Feybrind with them wouldn’t get jumpy and murder her for sneezing. They’d bound both her hands and feet but left her room to speak. It showed the Feybrind wasn’t a monster. He didn’t want to steal her words from her like so many humans did.

  She wished she could talk to him in private. If she could just explain things, she was sure he’d understand. His name was Sight of Day, and he had the most glorious golden eyes. Gold was a rare colour among Feybrind. Most of the People had eyes the colours of gemstones, but a rare few had orbs coloured like metal burnished by the sun. His coat was the perfect length, just long enough to fuzz your fingers through if that was where the two of you were going.

  Sands Apart knew he was a mastersmith. He carried his sword like he knew how to use it, but also like hew knew how it’d been born. Perhaps his was the hand that stoked the fires of its cradle before it took adult form. He held it like it was a part of him, and she knew how that worked. She’d made things too, before humans had set fire to her home and killed everyone she ever loved.

  They’d stopped to rest in a small clearing. Their band was small; a handful of soldiers playing at learning the patterns, two merchants who looked surprised to be alive, a monster, and the other Feybrind. The sky was clear and bright, and a gentle breeze touched Sands Apart. She felt the world was still kind to her, touching a favoured daughter, even though she’d fallen into captivity through her own carelessness.

  Her reverie broke as one of the humans squatted before her. He was a Knight, this one, and if there was someone more dangerous than Sight of Day, it was this muddy, imperfect creature. That the Three had gifted their kind with the Light was another blemish Wild Sur would erase before they were done. The Knight called himself Amir, which wasn’t a proper name. It didn’t tell her what he did or how he thought about the world. It told her he believed he was important enough to have a made-up sound attached to his person.

  “Hello.” Amir placed a plate between them. It settled easily enough on the ground. Their camp was near a babbling brook in a thicket of hunchbacked little trees. The winds that coursed through this valley had bent them to their will but they made good enough nesting for birds. She’d watched Sight of Day bring down a brace of them before setting off for other prey. The giant, Faust, had packed the birds in clay and roasted them, their eventual fate to be on the plate before her. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  She raised her shackled hands between them. {I’m surprised you can think at all.}

  He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.” Before he could leave, she moved with Feybrind swiftness and rescued the plate. He didn’t react to her speed, no involuntary twitch, widening of the eyes, or scream of surprise. These Knights didn’t react; they were trained in patterns. They felt the world was a thing to bend to their will, an extension of all human hubris. He smiled, stood, doffed an imaginary cap with the unbearable arrogance of his kind, and sauntered off to check the horses.