A skidding, clattering sound followed her. A glance showed Evanne the monster followed with enthusiasm, a tongue lolling in a gross parody of a dog’s. She pumped harder, her renewed heart up for the challenge, turned toward the barricade, and thought, What would be great is if I could make that in a single jump.

  She leaped, but her foot caught on a piece of junk, and she crashed into the barricade. Her great fear of earlier, that she would die mired in other people’s trash, seemed more real. Evanne thrashed, found an arm tangled worse, yelled, and whirled. The monster was right there, but it wasn’t eating her face. The ghostly girl was soundlessly shouting at it, and the box tilted slightly as it watched the spectre. The creature must be magical if it can see spirits. Evanne tried to free her arm, then saw another sea chest ambling from an alley further down the promenade.

  It was a little larger, the lid open but too far away to see if it had more teeth. Evanne snarled, pulled her arm out, and stumbled free of the barricade. Her foot was stuck between a stool’s legs, and she shook it off with a clatter. At the noise, the chest closest to her faced her, slavered, and lunged.

  Pure instinct took over, and Evanne swung her guitar. It spronged, bouncing off the wood, and she fell backward into the barricade. Again. She flailed as an armoire fell on her leg. She hissed in pain, but it blocked off the luggage, which was good as it was about to chew on her. It chewed on the armoire instead, wood crunching under powerful jaws. Evanne kicked the armoire away, getting herself further from the monster but more entangled in the barricade.

  The ghost seemed to be everywhere at once. She was on the barricade, gesturing wildly, then away toward the other creature, then back. The luggage closest to Evanne growled as it chewed ancient wood, then rounded on the spectre, lurched, and swallowed her whole.

  What the fuck? Evanne stopped moving for a moment, because at no time ever had she seen a ghost impacted by the material world. There were plenty of times she’d wanted to punch Hitch but she may as well try hurting the wind. It’s not fair. Not that Evanne couldn’t hurt ghosts, but that a little girl who’d died already was being eaten by this thing. She lurched upright, not sure what the best course of action was, and the girl popped free through the side of the box. The spectre flickered blue, staggered away, the box in pursuit. The other chest hurried, clearly wanting some ghost pie.

  Evanne yelled, “Stop!”

  No one listened to her. Not the ghost, which ran around in circles, nor the two chests. The girl ran through a wall, the bigger chest on her heels. Unlike her, it couldn’t seep through walls, so it made do with brute strength, punching a hole through ancient wood and plaster. The smaller chest followed. A handful of moments later the girl popped through an upstairs wall, the chest still following. The girl ran out onto nothing but air, a feat the chest couldn’t compete with. It plummeted to the street, saw her—how, Evanne didn’t know, because it didn’t have eyes—and slavered toward her.

  The ghost zipped in front of it, distracting it, and headed toward the other side of the street. Evanne yelled, “Stop!” again, gripping the neck of her guitar, then, “Stop!”

  No one stopped.

  I will make them hear me. She almost strangled the guitar with one hand, raised her other, and brought her fingers down on the strings. There was no music there, all discordant noise as she screamed, //STOP!//

  The guitar vibrated beneath her fingers. She felt it, a hot rush, a heat too impossible to hold, as the guitar’s voice joined hers. She glanced to the guitar, expecting fire, but there was no flame. Her Vhemin’s sight saw no heat, just an ether-blue smoking from the strings. The two chests were frozen, as was the girl. Evanne touched the strings beneath her fingers, thinking, then said, //COME HERE.//

  She squatted as the chests and dead girl drew around her. Her throat felt raw, sanded, but her blood felt alive. She breathed, just breathed, then said, “You know how we know we’re the good guys? Because we use our words to communicate.”

  The larger chest nipped at her, and she slapped it away. Another stroke of the strings, this time something melancholy in the note, and she said, //ENOUGH OF THAT.// Then, “What are you?”

  She felt watched by it, considered, then it spoke like the creaking of a secretaire’s lid. “We are the traps left behind. We are the winter wardens. We are the lost of the fallen.”

  “Huh.” Evanne frowned. “That’s a long name.”

  “Call us mimics.” The smaller chest sidled closer. “You are like the enemy, but not. You are,” it sniffed the air, scenting, “Vehement.”

  “I’m the Half-Made.” Evanne stroked a little music from the strings, feeling the weave of it now, and how the mimics settled. “I’m nobody’s enemy. Leastwise, not yours. I’m friend to fairy and Feybrind. I call the Vhemin of the plaguelands my brothers. And if you’ll let me sing for you a spell, perhaps we can find a way to share a story or two as well.”

  The larger box looked to the smaller, then sank to the floor, legs withdrawing. “I would hear music again, Half-Made. For eight hundred years our ship has been without the voice of dragons. You speak with their will. We will listen.”

  Evanne allowed herself a small smile. Voice of dragons had a nice ring. Then she blinked. “Wait, what?” She looked above, then very slowly, to the floor beneath her feet. “What ship?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The cage wasn’t badly made, which sucked. Tarragon was hoping a spot weld would be roughshod, or perhaps someone had used a simple pinion hinge she could tap out, but no, whoever made it knew Builders and didn’t spare expense.

  “I don’t know why you’re wasting time with that,” Yasmine said. “I already told you the cages are impenetrable.”

  “I’m looking because I haven’t given up.” Tarragon glared, aware she was angry because she worried about Evanne. I’m also worried for myself. That’s a thing, too. “How long have you been here?”

  “It’s hard to measure time here.” The other fairy shrugged. “It could be months, but I think it’s more likely years. When I spoke to her mother, well, that was only five summers before I ended up here.”

  You what now? Tarragon stopped worrying the bars. “Whose mother?”

  “Right intent, wrong question.” Yasmine sparkled, glitterdust silting through the cages beneath her. “You need to work out where you are first.”

  “I’m in the fairy citadel, buried beneath the timeless lake of Hollyhead. I’ve come home to rescue the world.” Tarragon thought that sounded a little pretentious, so she hedged with, “Well, Evanne and I came. And maybe we’ll just rescue a bit of it first.”

  “Anything strike you as odd about the fairy kingdom?” Yasmine swept her arm about in a see? motion. “Notice anything different?”

  “Everything’s different,” Tarragon said. “I don’t recognise this at all. This whole place is different, but I was captured. I guess,” she realised she was wringing her hands together and smoothed them against her legs, “I hoped I’d work it out as we went along.”

  “That doesn’t sound very Builder of you.”

  “I failed my exams, okay?” Tarragon bit down on hot words. “I’m not a very good Builder.”

  “More of a spy?”

  “How did you know?”

  “A guess.” Yasmine had the airy nature of someone who lied and didn’t care if you knew. “You don’t recognise anything because this isn’t the city you left.”

  Tarragon squinted at her. “You’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “There is a horrible truth at the heart of what you’re feeling,” Yasmin promised.

  “I know,” Tarragon said. “I’ve forgotten so much. I’m not much use to her like this.”

  The other fairy sat cross-legged, then tapped the side of her head. “You might have failed your exams, but we made you a Builder. You don’t have the knowledge. Helio did. But you still have the mind of an engineer.”

  Tarragon grabbed the bars, pulling herself close. “How do you know about Helio?”

  “We made a lot of gambles toward the end,” Yasmine admitted. “Helio, you, your whole clutch… you were a part of it. A long throw of the spear, Tarragon. Do you know why we called you Greyflight?”

  “Who are you?” Tarragon whispered.

  “You can work that out yourself.” Yasmine tapped the side of her head again, but harder, slower this time. “Think.”

  Tarragon bit her lip. I’m in a cage meant to hold fairies. I’m in a city that feels foreign, for all it was my home before capture. This fairy is stuck here too, and while I might be worthless, it makes no sense they could capture two of us. She glanced at the rows of cages, and the tiny bodies within. They caught a lot more than just us two. This woman says she knows someone’s mother. She knew Helio. And she knows I am a Greyflight. She gritted her teeth. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Good,” Yasmin said. “That’s the best place to start.”

  “What?”

  “When you think you know what’s going on, you make assumptions. A good Builder never assumes. Surely you remember that.”

  “The world tells its own truth.” The axiom came to Tarragon’s lips, so deeply embedded it couldn’t be lost.

  “Hmm.” Yasmine glittered again. “And?”

  “We…” Tarragon frowned. “We tell the world a new truth.”

  “We Build,” Yasmine agreed. “What truth would you tell?”

  “Who are you?”

  The door slammed open, and the nasty cat Dancing Stars stalked in. Her Cloak of Many Colours was open, her diamond eyes hard. Tarragon hadn’t known many Feybrind who had such clear gemstone eyes. It was always ruby or gold, not the clear ice of hate. The black collar about her throat, the thing that let her speak when all her kind were mute, gleamed. “Now we’ll talk about how we get this ship flying again.”

  “No,” Yasmine spoke before Tarragon could. “I will not tell you how to get an ark risen.”

  “There’s another Builder here.”

  “I’m not a very good Builder,” Tarragon offered. “Better with a sword.”

  The Feybrind seethed, which was also unusual for their kind. They were always reserved, and almost always kind. Tarragon remembered Feybrind as calm in the face of other people’s storms, but Dancing Stars was all jankiness held on the vibrating leash of rage. “You will bring this wonder back to life. This ship yearns for the skies. Think of how we’d change the world.”

  “The world was already changed when last it flew,” Yasmine said. “When this ship held sway, black against the stars, it shaped things in a way no Builder could.”

  Tarragon looked to Dancing Stars, then back to Yasmine. “Our city wasn’t black. It was gold. It was bright in the night. It flew above the world and promised help to any below.”

  “That’s right.” Yasmine nodded encouragingly.

  “So,” Tarragon started, then stalled out.

  “So?” Dancing Stars came to the side of Tarragon’s cage, putting a furred hand against the metal. “I can make you hurt until you wish you’d never been born.”

  Tarragon thought about that. “But why, though?”

  Diamond eyes blinked. “What?”

  “Why would you do that?” Tarragon hunched away from her. “All the People are makers, like we are.” She touched above her heart. “We Build castles in the clouds. You make clothes so fine you can see no seam. Swords of steel with no welds. Everything the Feybrind touches becomes better. I know I’m not a very good Builder, but you’re a terrible Feybrind.”

  Dancing Stars lurched back as if she’d been slapped. “I’m the best one there’s ever been.” She touched her face, then the black necklace at her throat. “The best ever.” Then she whirled and stormed through the door.

  “That was foolish,” Yasmine said.

  “It felt good, though.” Tarragon sat, because her knees shook like a reed in the wind. “I want to throw up.”

  “Maybe later.” Tarragon heard the smile in Yasmine’s voice. “You were telling me about how our city wasn’t dark against the clouds. Tell me more.”

  Tarragon didn’t want to talk about the everbright city. She didn’t remember it well, because she’d last seen it eight hundred years ago, and she’d also been alive almost no time at all before she’d been captured. It didn’t anchor in her memory like Evanne’s face, or the way the maybe-Vhemin moved.

  “I don’t want to talk about our city,” she said. “What’s there to talk about anyway? It died, like everyone and everything else. There’s nothing left.”

  “You’re missing the point.” Yasmine sounded disappointed, but Tarragon refused to look at her. “For goodness sake. We didn’t Build things to break. So, what happened here?”

  Tarragon gave her a grudging glare. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “It’s better if you see it for yourself.” Yasmine still crouched in her cage, but leaned forward, almost eager. “And you might see something I’ve missed.”

  “One Builder to another? Even if I’m not a very good Builder?”

  “Even then,” Yasmine agreed.

  Tarragon thought back. It was a long time ago, and she’d been in a Vhemin prison for eight hundred intervening years. But before, she remembered Helio and her going on a mission.

  It was dark, because that was the best time for dirty deeds. Tarragon stood at the hangar door, looking over the edge and down on the world below. The hangar door was made for Bigs and their machines, but it served a fairy well enough too.

  She wore her combat harness. It fit her like a glove, black tension fabric woven to catch her glimmer and amplify it through her sword. It wouldn’t do to be a fairy on recon duty at night if you glowed, so the combat harness stopped all that. It caught light and heat, so even Vehement Systems’ abominations couldn’t see them.

  The monsters were winning, though. They bred like rabbits, were merciless, and walked off mortal wounds. Their masters gave them weapons of heat and light, fury only the righteous Three’s Wardens were supposed to hold, and azure armour that turned blade and beam alike.

  The dragons helped. But they were too few, and too late. It might be the end of the war, and Tarragon was on the losing side.

  Helio touched her arm, startling her. “Don’t think that.”

  “Hah. You don’t know what I was thinking.” Tarragon hugged herself despite keeping her words bright.

  “I think I do.” Helio touched his head. “You’re wondering how we can win.” His fingers touched the black suit over his heart. “You’re feeling we’ve already lost. Hush, now. I feel it too.”

  Tarragon glanced away. “Are we doing this?”

  “We are, but… Where’s Mynned?” Helio sighed. “Damn dragons.”

  Lightning blasted across the sky as Mynned soared past the hangar door. //FRET NOT, TINY FRIENDS. MYNNED COMES.//

  Tarragon squinted against the massive buffeting winds from his wings. “Does Mynned always talk about himself in the third person?”

  //MYNNED DOES WHATEVER HE WANTS.// She caught a toothy dragon grin, lined with blue embers. Mynned was a black dragon, scales of night, and he breathed lightning. She marked where his scales were melted, because he’d been out last night too. He limped home, complaining of nothing because ‘dragons don’t complain’, but she could see the hurt in him.

  He arced across the sky, a long, lazy swoop she could make out mostly because of how he blotted out the skies. She shivered. “He should stay.”

  “Why?” Helio took a step toward the empty air. “He is a dragon. Do you want to tell him to mind his knitting?” Then he jumped, gossamer wings carrying him away.

  “He doesn’t knit,” she called after Helio. Then, to herself, “I want him to, though. That way he won’t die. There are too few of them left. The world didn’t know the wonder of dragons before, and they will forget soon.”

  There were plenty of fairies, though. She leaped after Helio, turning as she flew to mark the great city behind her. It glowed like a solar furnace. There, at the rear: the Skyforges. At the bow, the actinic lances that could raze cities and challenge the sun itself. Midships was where people lived, or tried to, while the war burned below. Artists, magicians, and Three’s Wardens. Bright lights against the horrors the demons brought. Brittle spears against the monsters wrought by Vehement Systems.

  They were going to lose.

  On the wing, helmet visor down, Tarragon sped after Helio. Mynned soared farther north. His job was as distraction only. Draw the enemy’s focus, bend it from where it should be, so two very small people could do a thing even a dragon could not.

  “I can hear you thinking.” Helio’s voice was calm over the comm.

  “You cannot,” Tarragon said. “You think you hear me thinking, but really you’re just thinking what I’m thinking.”

  A pause. “What?”

  “Focus, Wing Master.” Tarragon put on a burst of speed to fly beside him. The world rolled beneath them, Cophine’s face lighting the way. Whole swaths of the countryside were ruinous, charred earth bare, a bleeding heart of the world. The great Corgur had fallen two weeks past, and his mighty body still burned where the dragonscale failed. He’d taken legions with him, but the monsters had legions aplenty. “We must be swift and silent.”

  “No, I must be swift and silent. You must be Tarragon.” Helio glanced her way, and she refused to comment on the grin he wore like a second skin.

  “So I failed my exams. Do you have to bring it up all the time?”

  His grin faded. “If you knew… No. It is better not.” He kept his silence for a few moments before the grin came back. “At least you’re my equal with a blade.”

  “Equal? EQUAL?” Tarragon wanted to shriek. Yes, yes, Helio had taken her under his wing, teaching her the patterns, how the edge cut and parried, how the point sought the killing blow, and how the arm behind both could change the world. Without all that peskersome Building knowledge in her head, she was able to really focus.