Hic. “I’m not gentle. I’ve killed, like, lots of people.”

  “Gentle doesn’t mean avoiding the necessary when dawn comes. Kind doesn’t mean laying down when night falls. Neither mean not standing tall in the tricky, messy middle.”

  She surged from the cot, fists clenched. “Who the everliving fuck are you?” Hic.

  “Not very bright, though.” He stood, unfazed by her fists. “Come. I promised breakfast, and I always keep my promises. Even though I’m dead.”

  The eggs were good. Tarragon wouldn’t have known they were powdered. The toast was rich and buttery, with a crunchy crust. I don’t know where Evanne is, but this is good. She stuffed her face.

  They were in a small kitchenette. An ancient glass cooking surface glowered black along one wall, and she knew without feeling it the obsidian surface would be cool to the touch despite having just toasted bread and made eggs. It looked in perfect condition despite the eight hundred years since it was new. She and the dead man were along the opposite wall, facing each other across a faux wooden table.

  He’d led her here through a narrow hallway. A door at the end had led ‘to the shop’ he’d said, and another held ‘where people who sweat go to get clean’, which she figured for being a shower, and she was seriously uncertain whether food or hot water had been more important, but the smell of the eggs had drawn her nose like a hunting dog’s, and here they were. He eyed her, those dead eyes still glinting with gentle humour. “It’s good, then?”

  “Hmmph.” She stuffed another mouthful in atop the one she was still working on.

  “Do you know why we gave you the sword?”

  Tarragon swallowed. “You didn’t give it to me. It came through a demon gate.”

  “Tomato, tomahto.” He waved a hand. “Almost nine hundred years ago, we made a promise to protect this world. But all of us were tricked. Deceived, by the best deceivers in the world. Three of us gave our souls to the world, with a promise to be returned with the power of gods.”

  Tarragon felt the colour drain from her face. “You what?”

  “Demons,” he clarified. “They were here, and we knew it. What we didn’t know is how deeply they dwelled in the hearts of humans. For all our craft, all our vision, all our raw power, the starlight we captured, and the watchers we became, we were trapped in our new bodies. Not the dawn, not the night, and no freedom to become the in-between.”

  “Err,” Tarragon said, realisation dawning perhaps a mite late. The eggs sat in her stomach like lead.

  “We were still strong, though. That part was true. Gods, immortal, all powerful. My sister, the dawn warden, warrior of the first light. My brother, strong as the long dark, as faithful as night. And me. Broken, oddly-formed, little me.”

  “Gah,” she offered. “Uh. Erk.”

  “You’re taking this well.”

  “My lord Ikmae.” She scrambled up, knocked her head on a shelf, staggered back, and knelt on one knee. “Forgive me.”

  “Get up,” he said. “There is nothing to forgive, or if there is, it’s our fault anyway. We touched the butterfly’s wings a thousand years ago, and here is the hurricane we made.”

  She didn’t look up. “I, uh, hic, was angry, uh, at you.”

  “Yes, but that’s to be expected. I get it a lot. Not one thing or the other. My curse, you understand, for wanting to be there for all the people the start and the end forgot or found inconvenient. A prism of people, trapped in one body.” He pursued his lips. “Ask your question. I can see it bubbling away, a cauldron simmering without end.”

  Tarragon risked a glance at him. The dead man sat, eyes still glittering, arms crossed, and he looked nothing like a creature that wanted to eat her face. “How’d you get into a corpse?”

  “The bargain.”

  “You’ll need to try harder.” Tarragon winced. Hic.

  He offered a gentle smile. “At the end of the last, great war, the Three’s Wardens were scattered. A shell of the host they once were. No one wanted to serve, you see. People saw the cost, how it wasn’t just parades and glamour, but toil and death. And how no one thanked you for it. You could march into the breach a thousand times, and if you were really lucky, a single someone might clap you on the back with a ‘nice work’ and that was that.”

  “People are dicks.”

  “People are people.” Ikmae shrugged. “I’ve never asked them to be anything else.”

  “Work with what you’ve got?”

  “Celebrate what you’re given. You should sit. Finish your breakfast.”

  Tarragon got off her knee and shuffled back to her seat. The eggs tasted just the same as before, but this time, her heart wasn’t in it. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “The body?” He seemed surprised, glancing at himself. “When we asked Vertiline to set up a new school, she had a condition. She wanted a child, one precious thing with the man she loved. An impossible creation, like welding copper to water. And we said,” he wobbled his hand in a fifty-fifty gesture, “that was tricky.”

  “Evanne.”

  The corpse ignored her. “We asked if we would get the school if we did this for her and she said, only if we never drew breath atop soil, and protected her child. She made us promise.”

  “You’re standing on the ground right now.”

  “Under,” he corrected, but gently. “I’m under ground.”

  “You, you,” she spluttered, “lawyered your way around it?”

  “We were true to the bargain. When you saw Cophine and her brilliant wings, did she land on the ground? No? Did Khiton leave his ship? No. And did Ikmae, one who is all, face the sun these last, lonely years?”

  “No?” Tarragon hazarded.

  “Correct.” He beamed, a horror grimace with kind eyes. “We gave her a child, a thing that could never be.”

  “She’s not a thing.”

  “I’m talking science, not people.” He shrugged. “And yet she exists. Draws breath. And we got something we never bargained for at all.”

  “Wait.” Tarragon pushed egg about with a fork. “I thought you knew the future?”

  “We know what is possible. How the tap of your tines there,” he pointed at her fork, “will mean a sword misses tomorrow.”

  “Whose sword?”

  “You’re missing the point.” He hunched for a moment, then straightened. “We got a Soulkeeper. Someone who speaks for everyone, although she doesn’t know it.”

  “Evanne?” Tarragon blinked. “She doesn’t speak for people.”

  “Of course not. It’s what lets her do it.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “The people you want in charge are the ones who don’t want the job.” Ikmae stood. “Coffee?”

  “You have coffee?”

  “I have everything.” He sighed. “Except the sun on my face.”

  “Because of your bargain?”

  “No. This body.” He bustled to the ancients’ stove. “They made these as hell warriors to scour the earth, but they had … deployment problems. They get iffy under my sister dawn’s radiance.”

  “Did you think of sunscreen?”

  “Cophine can’t be denied. She doesn’t like them very much.” He tapped grounds into a small device, which he slotted into a larger device, and then pressed a button. After a moment, the rich aroma of roasted arabica filled the small kitchen. “Evanne can speak for everyone, but she can also speak to them. A language of the heart.”

  “Music.”

  “It’s a bit more than that, but you’re on the right track.”

  “And the dead?”

  “She can speak to everyone. That’s the point. The first and last of her kind. An impossibility, because we welded copper and water together.” He poured.

  Tarragon took the offered cup. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “In a few short moments, she will bust through that wall,” he pointed toward the door, but implying something farther afield, “and try to kill me. There will be raised voices. An argument. Terrible portents. The end of the world.”

  “We have a dragon.”

  “Exactly.” He leaned against the stove. “And I would like you to calm her down.”

  Tarragon considered the coffee, which was delicious, but a little hot. “You did something, didn’t you?”

  “Me? No. But a bunch of dead things that looked like me? Sure. And I’d very much like to speak with Evanne before she gets too excited.”

  “And you think I can stop her?”

  “And I know you can stop her.” His mouth quirked into a small smile, and he pointed to her plate. “I saw it in the eggs.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was all coming apart. Evanne rubbed tears from her face. “Mama?”

  Vertiline leaked a horrible amount of blood. Red seemed to be everywhere. Evanne’s stomach churned with the conflict between the delicious copperyness of it against knowing who it came from. Papa cradled her. Amber crouched beside them, pressing a red cloth to her throat. It had been a white scarf but was dark burgundy now.

  Vertiline’s mouth worked, but only blood came forth. She can’t use the Sway. She can’t talk. Can’t bend the world. Evanne glanced at the broken wall. Tarragon had gone that way and not come back. Was the once-fairy dead as well? Evanne felt like she was on cracking ice, the lake beneath her eager for something warm and hot to drown.

  Amir touched her elbow. “Sing.”

  “I… can’t.” Her voice was a croak. “There is no joy.”

  “Then she will die.” His voice was soft but held an urgency that turned her head. “I can’t use the Sway. Not for this. You can bind the world. I have felt it. Your works are not just for inspiration and war. Try now, or all is lost.”

  “I need a guitar.”

  “You need nothing.” He pointed to Vertiline, and all that red. “Nothing but purpose. Find it here.”

  Evanne sank to her knees. “Hitch.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I need you.”

  “I know.” He slipped into her and found his place under her skin. The chill of the grave held them both. “It will be all right.”

  “She’s dying.”

  “Then sing.”

  “I don’t know the words.”

  “Yes, you do.” He gave her a small mental shove, as if he pushed her to a door she couldn’t see. “Over there. Behind your fears. Hidden beneath the anger. Do you see it?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “I said that.”

  “If she dies, I’ll kill them all.”

  “I said that too. What else?”

  “Why are you so wise?”

  “Because I’ve lost everything.” She imagined him right behind her, leaning forward, hand out, but hesitant to touch her. “Remember.”

  And she understood. Closed her eyes. Wet her lips, took a breath. Let it out. Thought about Mama, sun behind her, hair flowing, smile on her face, that one she kept just for Evanne. Mama, at the Imshir docks, scolding a labourer, then showing the other smile when she saw Papa. Armitage, bounding to her.

  Dinner, hearth, the old stone keep the devil used to live in, but home now, the dark pushed back by Vertiline. Dawn, light coming in, Evanne a child and sick with fever, and Mama there, a cool washcloth to her daughter’s brow. The cold of being half-Vhemin, and the warmth of Vertiline’s embrace despite her daughter’s pointed teeth and scaled shoulders.

  The bargain the High Justiciar made, a deal with the gods for more warriors of Light, and Evanne saw the reason now: to build a wall against the dark that would come for her child.

  It is so much. It is too much.

  Hitch, within her, nodded. It is everything. Can you lose it?

  Never.

  He stepped back, leaving her space. Then show her.

  Evanne took another breath, then sang. Her mother, always there, letting go the patterns to pull Evanne to safety. She felt the tears, the hot wet saltiness of them, her mended heart beating within her chest.

  In the silence, where shadows loom,

  I stand in this darkened room.

  Memories flow like a gentle stream,

  Your smile is in my dream.

  Your bargain was a pact with the divine,

  More warriors of Light, a wall to define.

  Against the darkness, a shield so strong,

  For me, beside you, where I belong.

  Too much to bear, a weight so grand,

  Yet within you, a power to withstand.

  I step back, leaving space to show,

  The strength within you for the healing flow.

  I breathe, and my voice takes flight,

  A melody born from the depth of night.

  Your heart, a dance in harmony,

  Against all odds, we’re rewriting destiny.

  Tears fall, hot and salty, yet sweet,

  Heart mended, a rhythm complete.

  Your eyes mirror love and surprise,

  At Papa's embrace, for a love that never dies.

  Evanne felt Vertiline’s heart join hers, synergy and harmony. Blood halting its flow, reversing, the tide pushed back against all odds. Evanne sang, the words falling to the ancient stone floor where monsters made other monsters.

  She ran out of words and opened her eyes. Saw Vertiline, blue eyes soft, and wide with awe. And so alive. Neck no longer slashed, a thin white line across Mama’s throat instead. Papa sobbed and hugged her like a vice. “You’re okay.”

  “Enough, husband.” She pushed him away, mock struggling under the weight of so many eyes. Amber’s astonishment. Amir’s raised eyebrows. Myryntir frozen like ice, mouth slightly agape. Even Pakhet making an appearance, one paw raised in mid clean, tongue out, astonished. Mama rose a little unsteadily, then moved to crouch by Evanne. “I⁠—”

  “Mama, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have⁠—”

  “Hush.” Vertiline pulled her close, stoking the back of her head. “It’s all right.”

  “But it almost wasn’t.”

  She felt Vertiline breathe in, then let it out. The calmness of it steadied Evanne’s breathing. “It almost wasn’t,” she agreed. “I have been in many battles I almost lost. I do not spend time imagining a different future. It is a waste of time.”

  “I shouldn’t have⁠—”

  “A waste of time.”

  “But there was⁠—”

  “Still a waste of time.” Vertiline held Evanne at arm’s length, then stroked a lock of hair from her daughter’s forehead. “There is a lesson here. That is worth spending time on.”

  “I thought you didn’t like being a teacher.”

  “I don’t.” Vertiline stood, then helped Evanne up. “I hate it. But I love being your mother.” She turned away, examining the carnage, suddenly businesslike. “What were those things?”

  “A scourge of the ancients, perhaps.” Amber looked doubtful. “We heard no legends of them. An enemy saved until it was too late?”

  “Nah.” Armitage scratched under his chin. “You don’t save a weapon. You run the other guy through with it.” He nudged an again-corpse with his foot. “I figure this lot weren’t ready. No control, no organisation. They just rushed us.”

  “They almost did us in,” Amir said.

  “You need a hug?”

  “No.”

  “Then deal with it.” Armitage rolled a body over. “If I hadn’t seen these guys up and about, I’d say they’ve been dead a long, long time. They’re … mostly dry. But you know what’s really bothering me?”

  Evanne watched Amir process that, the Knight Adept’s eyes widening a micron in surprise, then his lips pressing into a line as if to say, There’s something bothering you more than unholy risen fiends? “I’ll bite.”

  “Where are the cats?” Armitage arched his back, and Evanne heard a pop. “Sight of Day. About this high,” his hand went out to the Feybrind’s head height, “with a companion, Sandy Vagina.”

  “Sands Apart,” Amir murmured.

  “That one.” Armitage squinted at the dragon. “Did you eat them?”

  //I’M OFFENDED YOU WOULD EVEN SUGGEST SUCH A THING. BESIDES, I PREFER VHEMIN STEAKS.//

  “They went through the hole in the wall. They followed the little one who became big.” Pakhet pointed with her nose. “It smells bad in there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tarragon quested through the shop. The shelves were lined with all manner of marvels. She found freeze-dried food packets of all kinds, like coq au vin, beef stew, and even the marvellous eggs Ikmae made for her. There were everlight lanterns that would never run out of power, rope spun from spiders raised in orbital habitats, a wishing stone with a single charge, and there, beyond all reason, a broom that appeared to do nothing. She hefted it, admired how the wood was unchanged by the charge of eight hundred years, and put it back. “Will we ever make things like these again?”

  “Hmm?” The god looked up from behind the register. It was an antique even by ancient standards, made of brass, with big keys and a mechanical display totalling some long-forgotten purchase of four dollars and thirty cents. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Because there are no more fairies?”

  “There are plenty of fairies if you know where to look.” He ignored the widening of her eyes. “It’s because you’ll make better, different things. All this,” he gestured to the stocked shelves, “came from a time when everyone wanted theirs, and when they got it, they said, ‘Fuck you, now I’ve got mine’.” He rubbed his nose with a long finger, the nail on the end a weapon itself. “You’re different, now. I hope.”

  “I used to be a fairy.”

  “You still are.”

  “How did you get to become the shopkeeper? Did they,” Tarragon wiggled her fingers, “make a special sales assistant from a corpse?”