She got a shoulder under his arm and staggered toward the castle. Toward the guns, and the violence, and away from the grass. Sight of Day looked back to Armitage. The monster held an armoured soldier above his head and was bringing the unlucky fellow down on another over and over. The Vhemin’s rage was frightening, and Sight of Day wondered who he was angry for. His daughter was safe in the skies and his wife was safer than houses in any weather.

  He let his gaze slide to the grass one last time. They were far enough away the green stem would have been hard to place for human eyes. But the fallen Itikari had made the People with their gemstone eyes. The People were able to see almost anything, at great distance, in almost any light. All the better to watch the hurts of the world, and weep.

  And he wondered, if this was the battle where the People finally fell from their narrow path: Will there be anyone left to miss us?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Evanne’s head shook like Papa had grabbed her by the ears and was wrangling her about. Not that Papa would ever do that, but he had the same strength of the skies. There was a subtle roaring that went along with the shaking. It came from somewhere below.

  I’m flying. I’m fucking flying.

  She looked down and the shaking of her head got worse but she still managed to catch a glimpse of the ground. Soldiers, lots of them. There to the north, the castle-slash-keep thing, lots of Artifices walking about like they owned the place. They probably do. We’re so boned.

  Below her ascent was a pillar of fire. It was a long, curved tongue that reached through her wake, tapering to nothingness. Her instincts said that was the source of the roar, but it didn’t explain the buffeting her head was getting.

  “Please state clearance codes or be ejected.” The voice was calm, from everywhere at once, just the kind of soothing motherfucker who could deliver bad news regularly without people wanting to throw him out a window.

  “Who’s that?” She flailed with her arms, which was harder than she expected, and upset her trajectory. Instead of going straight up, she started going south, which was all wrong, because it was away from the castle, Tarragon, Mama, Papa, Sight of Day, and everyone else.

  “This construct has no name. Please state clearance⁠—”

  “I get you,” Evanne said. “Hitch?”

  “That’s not a clearance code.”

  “Hitch! Where are you?”

  “Please repeat clearance code.”

  The blue spectre appeared before her. As per usual he seemed at ease with an uncomfortable situation. He stood on the open air as if there was a moving piece of ground following her up. “Hello? What have you done this time?”

  “Hitch, I’m in your stupid armour, and this idiotic thing wants a clearance code or it’ll do something to me.”

  “Eject,” the voice supplied helpfully. “I will eject you.”

  “That would be bad,” Hitch said. “You shouldn’t have taken off without a code.”

  “Not as helpful as you might think,” Evanne said. “How did you do it?”

  “I can’t remem⁠—”

  “If you say you can’t remember, by the Three I will punch you the fuck back into the grave.” Evanne hit a cloud bank, the shaking increasing. “Why am I being rattled around?”

  “Air,” Hitch said. “You are moving at close to Mach one.”

  “Mach?” Evanne frowned. “You what?”

  “You’re going really fast,” he said. “Super fast. The air at this speed is like…” He pursed his not-lips.

  “Like a hurricane?”

  “Not even close. A hurricane is strong but relatively slow. A super big one’s air moves at about two hundred and fifty klicks an hour. You’re moving at…” He frowned. “What’s the number in the lower left say?”

  Evanne looked down. There was a set of green letters glowing in her vision down there, some kind of arcane bullshit sorcery she didn’t have time for. “It says twelve hundred.”

  “There we go. Not even close.”

  “Hitch!” she screamed. “What the fuck is the fucking motherfucking code?”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “I keep forgetting you’re not dead.” He paced through the air, a feat of engineering she could only marvel at because she was now flying horizontally, and he was therefore walking with his torso parallel to the ground, defying gravity and physics on a truly epic scale. “Try whiskey tango foxtrot.”

  “Whiskey tango foxtrot?” Evanne said. “What the hell?”

  “What the fuck, actually,” Hitch said. “It sounds like something I’d have used.”

  “Clearance code accepted,” the voice said. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks,” Evanne said. “How do I stop flying?”

  “Beginning tutorial sequence,” the voice said. “Fuel reserves are low. Are you sure you want to continue?”

  “Hitch? What does it mean?”

  “Ah.” Hitch looked down to his not-hands. “It … feeds. On the pilot, or those around.”

  “It’s going to feed on me, or other people?”

  “Synergy buffer missing,” the voice said.

  “Then it’s all on you,” Hitch said. “It needs a lot of power. My cancer … helped. You’re a bit Vhemin⁠—”

  “A bit?”

  “Half,” he corrected. “By volume. I think I died because it ate too much of me, and there was no one else around to power the shields, and then the demon did the rest.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Bits and pieces.” He looked away, his blue-white not-eyes scanning the ground.

  There was a shuddering of the armour, a real jolt, then smoothness. “What was that?”

  “Sound barrier,” the spectre said. “You’re now moving faster than sound.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s fast,” he said. “It’s good in a way because you’re going away from the danger.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” Evanne said. “Everyone is back there, trying not to die, and I’ve got the super weapon.”

  “Which you don’t know how to use.”

  “Which I don’t know how to use,” she agreed. “How do I use it?”

  “Training commencing,” the voice said. Evanne felt pain lance into her forearms and calves. She screamed, flailing, and the armour pinwheeled briefly before going into a spin. Her shoulder wrenched but the pain was trifling compared to the burning, hungry feeling in her limbs.

  “What are you doing?” She bit her lips, feeling sick, as the sky churned and turned around her.

  “Training,” the voice soothed. “This is your first lesson.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Morgan stood, a fell wind trying to wrestle with her hair. Raven locks withstood the onslaught as she surveyed the battlefield. “This looks bad.”

  “My queen.” Heser the Cheg stood slightly below her. They were both on a half-mud, half-rock mound that allowed some vantage of the battlefield. It was a distance from the melee, nestled under the shade of a stubborn oak that somehow kept root amid the turmoil.

  It would be nice to stay here and not go where all the swords are for a change. “We should help them.”

  “My queen,” Heser said again, but as if he meant to say something else.

  “Out with it.”

  “Here is relatively safe.” His hands didn’t move from their position, leaving thumbs hooked into his sword belt. “Over there is not.”

  “We do not win by staying safe.”

  “Delegation,” he suggested.

  “To whom?”

  “I will⁠—”

  “Three’s mercy.” Morgan glared while Heser bided his silence. She softened. “Who will protect me if you leave?”

  He glared at the ground. “If I had but another Queensguard… but no. You have the right of it.” He gazed at the keep. “Where is it?”

  “There.” She stretched a slender arm toward a central hump warting the castle’s top amid other crenellations. “That dome.”

  “I expected it to be bigger. Perhaps that one.” Heser gestured toward a slender needle stretching to the heavens.

  “That does look impressive, but no.” Morgan shivered, rubbing her arms. “I can … hear it, Heser. It calls to me.”

  “What does it say?”

  She closed her eyes, listening for a moment. Heard the sound of guns in the distance, and the clamour of battle. Closer, a starling daring song, before startling to silence. Beneath it all, a hum, almost a call. Morgan, she heard, come to me. It had her father’s voice, something of command about it. The Raven Queen shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and glared at the dome in the distance. “Nothing important.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why would he give this task to me?” Morgan bit down on an unqueenly wail. “Why, of all our troupe, does it fall on my shoulders?”

  “You have the skills.”

  “Vertiline could open the gate with a word. She holds Sway over all.”

  “I don’t think so.” Heser looked at her for a moment, head tilted, considering. “I think the High Justiciar has many abilities, but if opening demon gates was a thing in the Tresward’s power, they’d have done it before and taken the war into their enemy’s kingdom.”

  “Is it what you would do?”

  “Beyond doubt.” He heaved a breath in and out. “But the point is moot. They cannot, and you can. The task is yours.”

  “You’re saying the Holomancer wants me to break open the seal between worlds because I can?”

  “The Lord du Reeves is no fool. He might play the part, but … no.” Heser shook his head. “Put him in motley and he would still be wise. He has asked you to open the gate for three reasons. The first is that the task must be done.”

  “But it will break open⁠—”

  “And yet still must be done. The second is because you can do it, and no one else.”

  “Because I’m a Ritualist. A faded charlatan in a tattered gown, holding a tarnished crown.”

  He looked away for a moment, but not in chagrin, his face relaxed, the set of his shoulders easy. “The gown is not tattered. The crown gleams on your brow like no other’s.”

  She grunted, acknowledging the point. “I do wear a good crown. And self pity is not becoming.”

  “Quite.”

  “The third reason?”

  “Hold a moment.” Heser held up a hand as a man jogged past their position. He was an enemy grunt, a farmer play acting at war, narrow shoulders scarce up to the task of supporting his chainmail. The soldier slowed to a halt, then took a few steps back, before turning to look at them. Heser the Cheg offered a nod. “Fine morning to you.”

  “You are not of our army.” The soldier looked about, saw no friends, gathered his courage, and drew a rusty sword. “Come with me. The captain will want to speak with you.”

  “Best be on your way, lad.” Heser the Cheg’s tone was calm. I’m not sure the farmer is a ‘lad;’ he wears at least thirty summers. “There’s nothing good that will come of your captain and I having words.”

  “Be as that may, I⁠—”

  “I’m not used to repeating myself,” Heser rumbled. “Be back about your business, and we’ll be about ours. We’re scarce a harm to you, naught but two travellers on the road, caught unawares by the battle. Screams drew our attention, and we thought to help, but see the problem is of a scale two pairs of hands can do little for.”

  “Are you a healer?” This directed to Morgan, who stood beneath the oak, trying to be invisible.

  “I have little to offer in the way of healing arts. My talents … maintain a different course.”

  The farmer clearly heard little and failed to parse it as none. He gripped his blade all the harder. “You’ll come with me. Now.”

  “I think it unlikely anyone will win if that happens.” Pakhet materialised behind the farmer, who turned, saw the giant tiger, screamed like a child, turned around, and ran.

  The hapless fellow’s charge took him directly toward Heser, and by association, Morgan. His eyes were locked on the grey and black striped tiger, not on the captain of Morgan’s Queensguard, and so he didn’t see Heser move from we’re having a conversation to we’re having a different conversation.

  The captain stepped aside smartly, stuck out his arm, and straight-armed the farmer. The luckless soldier rotated about Heser’s arm like a fence plank tugged by a gale, landing with his full length stretched upon the ground, all air leaving him in a rush.

  Heser followed him down with a fist, connecting with the man’s face, bouncing skull against the ground, and ending the conversation. The captain stood, examined his knuckles, then sighed. “Best we be off.”

  “The hill’s not safe at all, is it?” Morgan eyed the keep. We must be about our task, then.

  “Nowhere is safe. But here is marginally safer than anywhere else.”

  “Come, cat.” Heser strode toward the tiger. We’ll need your strength before the day is done.”

  The tiger looked over her shoulder, then back at Heser. “You know I’m terrible in a fight, right?”

  “It often comes down to the size of the dog in the fight, no matter what anyone tells you.” Heser turned. “My queen?”

  She straightened and stepped gingerly around the fallen farmer. “A moment, Captain. What was the third thing?”

  “Third… Oh.” Heser absently rubbed the side of Pakhet’s neck, the tiger leaning into his strong fingers. “My Lord du Reeves gave this task to you because you are the only one who will not break under the load.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The first piece of good news was spotting Faust. The second was seeing Larochette beside him. The giant waited for them, hands resting atop the head of a giant hammer that came up to his chest. Larochette leaned against a broken fortification looking like it was a chair for ladies who lunch. Amir raised his sword in greeting. “Faust. What news?”

  “Blood and fire,” the giant said. “There are plenty of things going wrong today.”

  “And precious few right,” Larochette said.

  “But I’m here,” Amir said. “That counts for something.”

  Larochette’s eyes slid sideways to Amir’s companions. The High Justiciar, who stood like an angry storm to his left, and the once-fairy to his right. “There are things that count higher.”

  “Adepts.” Vertiline sheathed her sword. “Status?”

  “There are guns,” Faust offered. “Many soldiers guard them.”

  Vertiline looked back the way they’d come. “I’ve seen naught but enemy troops.”

  Larochette glanced at the sky. “There seems to be a war going on.”

  A grim smile from the Justiciar. “I’d like to know where this Wild Sur got the soldiers.”

  “The dispossessed,” Faust said. “The world has been shaken. The oil and water do not mix.” He glanced back the same way Vertiline had. “Where is the queen?”

  “We have not seen the Raven,” Vertiline said. “Others are missing.”

  “Your daughter?” Larochette straightened.

  “Accounted for,” Amir said. “It’s been an odd day.”

  “Hmm.” Faust leaned his hammer away from his body, like a boy might when playing with a stick. “We must save the kingdom.”

  The High Justiciar gave him a narrow look. “And what do you think we’re doing, Adept?” She leaned on the last word perhaps overmuch.

  “Talking,” Larochette said. “Standing around.”

  “And look at you doing it so well.” Amir kept a frown from his face, voice light. Something isn’t right here. Perhaps it’s the war. “Do you have a plan of attack for the guns?”

  “We were … waiting,” Faust said. “There is a bigger prize.”

  Vertiline straightened. “What do you mean?”

  “The guns fire at the clouds. Perhaps they bother the dragon, but I don’t think so. They have fired a long time and have yet to hit anything. If anything, the dragon distracts the enemy’s mind. If we attack the cannons, we will be similarly distracted. We must go inside, to fight the battle that must be won.” Faust looked down, and Amir wondered if his friend had simply run out of words.

  “What he said.” Larochette glanced over her shoulder at the castle. “There will be fighting aplenty inside and out. Outside, the fighting saps our forces, but inside, it serves a purpose.”

  “Well said, Adept.” Vertiline glanced at Amir. “Your thoughts?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to admonish me for not thinking of it first?”

  “You are already doing that for me. Consider admonishment delegated.”

  “It seems right.” Amir looked at the sky. “I wish I knew what they were firing at. It seems a lot of fuss for one little dragon.”

  “Come.” Vertiline faced the castle. “Let’s go knock.”

  The gates of the castle were monstrously tall. Twin doors rose skyward, twenty storeys if not further, each side wide enough to sail a ship through. Amir huddled with his companions behind a ruined wagon, the charred wreckage on its side. It gave them an opportunistic vantage a mere three hundred metres from the doors. Smoke curled through broken wagon wheels. I will smell of coal until the day I die. Vertiline was at his elbow, peering at the defences. Tarragon squatted a few paces back, eyes on the sky, her face a picture of thoughtful mien.

  Faust and Larochette stood at the opposite end of the ruined wagon, Faust surveying the defences, and Larochette watching Tarragon. Amir wondered what the almost-Knight thought of the once-fairy. She wonders if she can rely on her skill. If the sword she carries is magical or cursed. Whether Larochette will have to carry Tarragon in the battle ahead or learn from her example. They were thoughts Amir had too, although his heart told him Tarragon was capable. As unbreakable as any Knight Chevalier, despite completing no Trial to earn an Adept’s black.