“And dragons are benevolent?”

  //DRAGONS ARE DRAGONS.// Myryntir rolled an eye in her direction. //MUCH LIKE YOU FRAIL THINGS, WE CAN BE GOOD AND BAD. I THINK WE’RE MADE WANTING TO BE GOOD, AND THE WORLD MAKES THAT HARD. I DIED BEFORE I WAS BORN. I WAS SAVED BY THE SOULKEEPER. THESE ARE FACTS, NOT MORAL OUTCOMES. WHAT I DID WITH THEM BECAME A CHOICE THAT CHANGED THE WORLD.// The dragon looked away for a moment. //THAT SOUNDED CONCEITED. I DON’T MEAN I AM MAGNIFICENT BECAUSE I CHANGED THE WORLD. I MEAN THE SAVIOUR CHOSE TO SAVE ME, AND I EXIST. I AM MAGNIFICENT FOR OTHER REASONS.//

  Vertiline dropped a hand to her sword. It made her feel centred to have the blade so close at hand. There are not many problems that can’t be solved with steel or glass. “You are but a stone cast into the lake of the universe?”

  //LET’S NOT BE DICKS ABOUT THIS. I’M BETTER THAN A STONE.// The dragon gave a toothy smile. //BUT NOT EVEN DRAGONS CAN DO ALL THE MAGNIFICENCE. THERE IS MUCH POTENTIAL SPARKLE TO GO AROUND.//

  “Do you mean fighting?” Vertiline clenched her sword’s pommel. “I can do that.”

  //YOU DON’T GET TO CHOOSE YOUR FIGHTS. THEY CHOOSE YOU.//

  Vertiline glared at Ikmae. “Did you coach him on being obtuse?”

  “He means there will be fighting, but there will also be dying. I will, of course, be elsewhere.” Pakhet stretched, forepaws trembling, yawned, then rolled over onto her feet. “You know this. You are stalling.”

  “And you?” The High Justiciar glared at the cat. “You’re always running away. What will happen if Evanne needs you?”

  “Evanne would not need a frightened, mewling creature like me.” Vertiline detected a tone of self-loathing in the cat’s voice. “I am a stone skipped across the lake of creation, but I’m not smooth. I won’t fly true. I’ll splash and be lost forever. They made me wrong.”

  //IT’S OKAY. THEY MADE ALL OF US WRONG. IT DOESN’T MEAN WE CAN’T TOUCH THE SUN.//

  “You’ve got wings.”

  Vertiline snorted, then at Pakhet’s glare, sobered. “Sorry. It’s just … you’re a giant tiger. You frighten everyone by walking into the room, and you’re … scared?”

  “You have changed the shape of the universe. Stars moved aside to let you be born. You command Light and Sway. And you constantly doubt yourself. Why am I not permitted the same courtesy?” Pakhet leaped from the dragon’s back, graceful, so full of muscle and power, and bunted Vertiline to show she meant no spite.

  Vertiline took a stumbling step back at the cat’s strength, then leaned into her, hugging the creature about the neck. “Stay with me, cat. I will keep you safe.”

  “I know you will try. But all I want is a lap by the fire.” She gave Vertiline a final bunt, then headed through the breached wall, perhaps in search of a lap, a fire, or a cauldron of cream.

  //DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MUST DO?//

  “The universe waits,” Ikmae added.

  “I must be the shield,” Vertiline said. “It’s what the Tresward do.”

  “The Tresward do nothing, by themselves.” Ikmae frowned. “I’m surprised you don’t understand this. The people who want to carry the weight of all those gold bars? They are called. They can’t not answer.”

  //TO BE FAIR, WE DON’T NEED A SHIELD. JUST A BIG STICK.//

  Vertiline smiled, straightened her shoulders, and adjusted her scabbard. “Don’t worry, dragon. I’ll keep you safe, too.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Morgan stared into the fire. Of course, it wasn’t a fire, any more than the food she ate was food. The ‘fire’ was an ancient simulacrum, a glowing orange plate with flames that danced within its surface. It radiated heat but consumed no wood or coal. The food was meat skewers. Heser the Cheg had found them in a slim box that seemed made from card stock. It was no larger than something that would hold a fine quill. When he added water, moments later a savoury aroma arrived as the sticks puffed and grew, meat arriving as if by magic.

  The meal was hot, too. No cooking was needed. Just water. Powerful magic indeed, and the ancients carried stock of this on shelves next to commonplace items like axes and brooms.

  “Why do you brood?” Heser’s voice drew her away from her half-eaten meal, and the flames that weren’t fire.

  “They left us behind.”

  “They did that because you are the queen. After all was safe, they retrieved us.” He nibbled at some meat. “Tell me of your real fear.”

  “Nothing is real.”

  “Here?” He sucked in air, his big chest inflating. There was true power there despite his advancing years, and she wanted to be near him, somewhere quiet, where they would not be disturbed. They’d had quiet at the cave-in, but it hadn’t seemed the right time. Or place, perhaps. Morgan would like to be with Heser above ground, in a field, with wine. Which was, of course, madness.

  “Maybe anywhere, Guardsman. It could be reality is just what one is used to. And I am unused to this.” She held up a skewer of eight-hundred-year-old meat.

  He seemed to chew that over at the same time as stealing another of her meat skewers and removing a portion with his teeth. “You are real. I am real.”

  “But are we real?”

  “We may need to get used to … being we.” He looked away.

  “Will there be time enough for the world to grow accustomed to the idea?” She wanted to turn the conversation aside because the idea remained preposterous. “Anyway, I wasn’t brooding. I was contemplating with intent.”

  “Sounds like brooding,” the sorcerer said from the doorway. “You have brooding to a fine art.”

  Heser winced, no doubt at her expression, and Morgan turned to face Meriwether. “May we not have a private moment?”

  “Down here? Unlikely.” He invited himself into the room Morgan had claimed. It wasn’t fancy, but also wasn’t close to anyone else’s. She’d picked it for those reasons, hoping to get some time with Heser, before there was no time left. “We’re about to go to war against a large force with great power, and you’re our ace card.”

  “You are mistaken.” Morgan gazed at him, hoping she had the angle right to be aloof despite being seated.

  He glanced behind him, as if checking if there was someone else to whom she spoke, then did a double-take. “Mistaken? I don’t think so. There’s a god free ranging these corridors, dragging Tilly along for the ride. The dragon seems more cocky than capable. I can’t help because my doom waits for just that kind of fuck-up. There are a lot of people on the field against us. Whether this Wild Sur has an army or just the Vide makes no difference. We are out manned.”

  “You are mistaken,” Morgan rose to her feet, “in saying we are about to go to war. We have been at war for years. The war took the life of my father and bent yours to corruption and misery.”

  He pursed his lips, then gave a tight nod. “Although I’d say dear old dad was pretty far bent already.”

  “You are also mistaken in that I am the ace card. I am the least useful person here. Queen of no kingdom. I command no one.”

  “You command me, my queen,” rumbled Heser.

  She closed her eyes, immediately sorry at her clumsy use of words, then turned to him. Morgan took his hand in hers. “You are the person I least want to command in all the world. But I acknowledge your gift. I am grateful.”

  “You are,” Meriwether injected himself into the moment once again, “a Ritualist. Your magic isn’t fire and lightning. It isn’t the Sway or the Storm. It is careful. Calculated. Rich, and ripe with promise if nursed in the sun of planning.”

  She let Heser’s hand go and regarded the sorcerer. “Are you saying I’m slow?”

  He laughed. “Morgan, you are the least slow person I know. You have the wit of a master statesperson. The calculated genius of a general. But also the confidence of the small child her father didn’t believe in.”

  “Sirrah, mind your⁠—”

  “Hold up,” Meri said. “I know you want to yell at me, and I’m fine with that, but let me say my piece so you can yell at me for the whole lot at once.” He waited for her nod, which she gave with great effort, before continuing. “The thing is, there are plenty of people here, now, who believe in the Raven Queen. The woman who sat on her throne, facing the miserable lot against her. Heser, a finer man I’m unlikely to meet. Tilly, who gives you stick when you need it, but also the carrot, because you deserve it. Evanne, who argues with everyone. It’s nothing personal, but what’s unique with you is … she trusts what you do. And then there’s me. A sometime sorcerer, who sees your great purpose.” He shrugged. “We are all here, together, in this moment. And we need you.”

  She pressed her lips together for a long time, then bowed her head. A weaker person would shout at him. A stronger would wonder what must be done. “You have a point in all this?”

  “I don’t have a point. I need you to do something. The one thing you can do, which might save us all.”

  “Back when I served under a hard but fair man, he told me that pressure could unnerve any soldier.” Heser put his cleaned skewer aside, a kind of magic in itself as Morgan had not seen him eat the rest of it. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

  “It is,” Meri agreed. “But no more than she wants. Because, right at the heart of it, Morgan was born to rule. She’s better at it than anyone else. And a ruler knows one thing.”

  Morgan eyed him. “Strength.”

  “Sure, but also service.” The sorcerer crossed his arms. “You’ve not gathered riches or flags to your standard, my queen. You have served your people. And now I need you to serve just a little more.”

  She breathed, wondering, What does he want? “What if I can’t do it?”

  “Then we’ll find another way.” She heard the lie in his voice. “But I think you can.”

  “What must I do?”

  “It’s simple.” He smiled. “You must summon a demon army into this realm to destroy us all.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tarragon thought Evanne looked amazing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the maybe-Vhemin. Strong, her shoulders back. Violet eyes, a hint of a snake’s focus in them. Rust-coloured hair, tarnished and glorious. And the armour fit. Oh yes. It definitely fits.

  They were in a train. It was a novelty creation, the type that tourists or executives might use when on a tour of a facility. It had folksy old-style maglev locomotion, still smooth after eight hundred years. And it smelled clean! Not like dust or mould. The once-fairy wondered if anything would ever smell good again since getting above ground. Other than Evanne, of course. She always smelled good.

  Tarragon looked toward the back of the car. The merchants fussed with supplies. Nearby, Amir, watchful. Beside him, Sands Apart, never far from Sight of Day, who looked out the train’s window at the passing tunnel’s darkness. Perhaps his Feybrind eyes can see something out there. Next was Armitage, the giant Vhemin brooding, perhaps about the day ahead, but in Tarragon’s experience, Vhemin didn’t worry overmuch about slaughter.

  Then there was Tarragon herself, trying not to simper over Evanne, who stood in the ancient armour, right beside her mother. Somewhere in the car, and really, who knew where, was Pakhet, but the tiger was invisible. Near the front of the car stood Ikmae, the dead man’s body they inhabited restful and ready. The sorcerer stood near the god, head bent in quiet conversation, and Tarragon caught but will you tear me from this world, to which the god merely shrugged. Beside them, Morgan and Heser, watching, listening. He planned, perhaps, to do important Holomancer things. They were all concerned he was still bound by his doom.

  The dragon was on the caboose. They’d torn the roof and sides off so the beast could hunker down. She could see his blue-white eyes as excited as the lightning as the train raced along at close to three hundred klicks per. Tarragon wasn’t sure if she could take that speed even when she was a fairy, but Myryntir seemed to be having the time of his life, gripping the flatbed of his rail car, grinning like a dingo.

  “Hey.” Evanne’s voice, husky as evening, brought her back to here and now. “You okay?”

  “I’m terrified,” Tarragon admitted. “Ikmae said at the end of the line there is a fortress filled with spears of light, machines of war, and an army. We are few, and they are many.” She wrinkled her nose. “In the old world, we’d say we’re hopelessly outgunned.”

  “Cheery.”

  Tarragon forced a spark of levity. “We’d also say it’s better to think about it as having a wider selection of targets.”

  That got a laugh. Evanne sobered. “How do I look?”

  “Glorious. Um.” Tarragon bit her lip. “Um.”

  “I mean, does the armour fit?”

  “The armour is the least of your problems.” Hitch stepped through the wall of the train. “The god did not lie. We are outmanned and outgunned. And this,” he flicked a not-hand toward Evanne’s armour, “hasn’t been field-tested for eight hundred years. The welds might not hold. The capacitance might not be at tolerance. So many things.”

  “Spectre.” Tarragon turned to the ghost. “Hear me. You carried the purpose of this weapon for eight hundred years, preparing it for the one person who could finally use it. You taught us how to fix it. Your work is good. Be at peace.”

  Hitch gazed at her for a moment. “Was that a compliment?”

  “Don’t ruin the moment.” Tarragon turned back to Evanne, fussing with the bandoleer running across the armour’s breastplate. The metal orbs Hitch described as weapon and shield both were held to it as if by magnetism, but they weren’t made of a ferrous metal. More ancient technology, or perhaps plain old sorcery. “Are you ready?”

  “Sure.” Tarragon could tell Evanne lied. “How long until we fire this up?”

  “Not in here,” Hitch warned. “Not a good idea. And you don’t know how to fly yet.”

  “How hard can it be?” Evanne raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s pretty hard,” Tarragon said. “You’re not a fairy, born knowing wing and gust.”

  “Eh.” Evanne waved it off. “Ikmae! Attend.”

  The god raised an eyebrow in return, facing her. “Did you just command me?”

  “Yes. Now, listen. Are you sure you must keep your promise?”

  Vertiline eyed her daughter, then the god. “What does Evanne know of the promise?”

  The god frowned. “Soon we will exit this tunnel. I’ll be above ground, and will have broken my word. There would be … complications if that happened.”

  “I understand.” Evanne eased a finger under her gorget. “How must it be done?”

  “Kill this body,” Ikmae said. “I could walk out that door and suicide against the tunnel wall, but the vacuum effect of our speed would no doubt suck a few of you out along with it. Best done quickly, and with a blade.”

  Vertiline pursed her lips. “You want us to cut off your head to end this body’s life?”

  Ikmae frowned. “I wouldn’t go straight to the nuclear option, but⁠—”

  Whatever Ikmae was about to say ended as Vertiline’s sword whipped from sheath, a flash of golden light living on the edge of the steel, and severed the god’s head. There was little blood, perhaps on account of the body being already dead, and the corpse toppled to the floor, the head bouncing right beside. The High Justiciar looked on the body, then sheathed her blade. “One less annoyance for the end of the road.”

  “Mama!”

  “Hah. I didn’t see that coming.” Meriwether didn’t look too surprised. He has known the Justiciar for half a lifetime. “And not a moment too soon. We are here.”

  The tunnel’s walls lightened, then they burst from the darkness into the outside. Rolling, barren plains beckoned them. Tarragon craned to look out the forward window. There, the seat of Wild Sur’s power. A castle fit for the clouds but mortared to the earth. The old stone facade showed few marks of time, still gleaming a coconut white. It was massive, the maglev line leading right to the door.

  Between the train and the castle was an army. Men and women, both human and Vhemin, stood cheek by jowl in a rolling cascade of field fortifications and entrenchments. There were hundreds of thousands of them. Tarragon counted twenty Artifices striding along the plains, their weapons of light and heat ready. She breathed. “Oh.”

  An Artifice took flight from the castle, a blaze of flame behind it as it made toward them with all speed. The train rocked as Myryntir nosed into the slipstream, air resistance fighting dragony strength. The beast roared, then leaped to the sky, lightning crackling a challenge.

  “It’s go time,” Evanne said. “How do I turn this on?”

  Hitch leaned forward. “Like this⁠—”

  “No, I’ve got it. Wait. I don’t have it. Here it is, I think.” Evanne slapped her helmet on, the visor dead and lifeless. “Shit. It’s broken.”

  The visor burst into luminance. There was a stuttering, clanking sound as if a mighty chain was dragged through gears of rusted steel, then a flat, male voice said, “Vehement Systems detected.” A pause. “Human detected.” Another pause. “Vehement Systems detected.”

  “Just fucking work,” Evanne said, her voice louder as the armour amplified it for them.

  “Human approach acknowledged.” The armour trembled, then blasted through the roof of the train, debris shredding in their wake. Tarragon watched as Evanne flared into the sky, an arrow of starfire, her scream of panic reedy with distance almost immediately.

  Vertiline watched through the hole, a smile of satisfaction on her face. “One other problem solved.”

  “What do you mean?” Tarragon felt panic inside her. Evanne is on the wind.

  “My daughter is now out of the fight. She is safest away up there,” the Justiciar waved her hand behind and above them, “rather than here.”

  “What about them?” Tarragon pointed to the quickly approaching army. The train was not fucking around as it whisked them toward conflict.

  Vertiline readied steel, and favoured Tarragon with a lopsided smile. “I’m not worried about them. They are just flesh and metal.”