“Please, Amir.”

  He took a step forward. “Your death could pave the way for a cleaner world.”

  She backed up. “Amir, it’s … complicated.”

  He took a final step, their blades almost touching. He could feel the white heat of Requiem on his face. “The thing is, I don’t like clean. I like complicated. And the only person in here not calling me friend is the one who is.” He pivoted, facing Faust, Larochette, and Wild Sur. “I swear, you will not harm this woman. She is good where I am not. If a trade of life is to be made, I will pay it.”

  Tarragon’s voice cracked. “Wild Sur has a⁠—”

  “I see it. Get behind me.”

  Faust rolled his shoulders, then charged.

  Chapter Forty

  That’s a lot of assholes. Evanne was swarmed by a collection of soldiers. They piled on her and down she went. I made a mistake, she realised. The armour is strong. It can fly. But in here, I’m a wasp in a jar. She stood, uppercutting a man to the top of the magical dome, where he bounced right off and smashed into her.

  “Error in judgement,” the armour said, as she went down again.

  Some enterprising fool was beating on Evanne with a mallet as she struggled upright. Clang, clang, each hit against her breastplate, shoulders, helmet, and leg, before she kicked him, lost her balance, and down she went again, just in time for a third fool to take a good run-up and stick her with a glaive.

  “Structural integrity holding.” The armour sounded smug.

  It didn’t pierce her shell, but it annoyed her enough to roar, raging upright, and right then was where it went quite bad indeed. A trio of soldiers rushed her, collecting her in a kind of meat clothesline tackle and tossing her into the barrier.

  Her world went blue-white, the armour ringing like a clock tower bell, and she felt a burning heat run through her, tasted lightning against her teeth, and felt her muscles convulsing. The good news was the armour had nothing smug to say. The bad news was everything went dark, her vision losing those lovely floating symbols the ancients loved so much, her world restricted to a narrow window through her visor.

  The armour’s full weight came down on her, whatever magic assistance that made it strong and light failing. Evanne collapsed with a whuff, going face first into the dirt.

  Clang against her back as someone hit her. “Hitch!”

  “It’ll be right,” the spectre’s voice said from above her. “Give it a moment.”

  Clang, clang, clang…creak. “I’m not sure I’ve got a moment.”

  “Get that armour off her,” a man shouted. She was manhandled, flopping to face the sky. Evanne saw a circle of angry faces, and above them, Dancing in the Storm floating in the clouds.

  “Artifice engine restarting. Starlight drive engaging.” The armour didn’t sound smug any more so much as like the young lad back home with a head injury. What was his name? Claret? Clarion? Something red, to call the warriors to war. Then a horse kicked him. Odd memory to have now, with the creaking from her left side where an enterprising soul wedged a pry bar in. They were trying to shuck her out. “Magnetic arbalest online.”

  A fucking what arbalest? Evanne clawed ineffectually at the pry bar in her side. This armour was so damn heavy it was stupid. “Hitch? What’s a mag… a mag. Um.”

  “Magnetic arbalest,” he said, with that same tone he used when he thought he was being helpful, but almost never was. “An arbalest is a⁠—”

  “I know what an arbalest is!”

  “Right. Well, this one uses magnets.”

  “What are those?”

  “Starlight drive restored.” The little symbols in her visor bloomed, all hurrying into the lower part of her vision like a curious clutch of puppets on a stage show. The armour thrummed, then surged upright, no help from her required at all. It tossed the soldiers off her. It no doubt looked comedic right up until one hit the dome opposite her with a crunch-splat, the back of his head hitting with such force he’d be joining Casper or whatever the kid’s name had been.

  “Get her!” shouted a woman, just as a rattle-clank sounded from around Evanne’s torso. The spheres anchored there spat free, then orbited her waist in a circling ring. They span faster until they were a blur of silver-gold metal. The woman, nobody’s fool, took a step back as her friend, a large man the size of a well-fatted ox, surged forward.

  He was turned into bloody chum by the spheres, the metal passing through his body like a very quick series of axe cuts. His legs slopped against Evanne’s, his torso impacting hers then getting mouli’d rapidly as it slid into the orbiting hail of spheres. Red sprayed against her attackers as centrifugal force flung her foe’s remains at them. The spheres turned red, then buzzed themselves back to a shiny silver-gold halo.

  “Magnetic arbalest fully operational.” The armour was back to being smug.

  “That’s not how an arbalest works,” Evanne said. “It’s like a crossbow.” She pointed, sure the armour would take her meaning. “You aim it, and it shoots an arrow⁠—”

  “Bolt.”

  “It shoots a bolt, and that’s that.”

  “Magnetic operation changes engagement parameters,” the armour assured her.

  “Magnets do stuff,” Hitch supplied, less helpfully than he might have intended.

  “I get you,” Evanne said. “But here we are, in a dome of impermeable force, unless we step very slowly through it, trapped with a dozen maniacs with sharps sticks and an attitude, and⁠—”

  “Remedying,” the armour said, and a sphere shot from the orbit at her waist. It went straight through the head of a man to her right, hit the barrier wall, followed the curve around, and returned to the ring spinning about her.

  Another sphere shot out, another soldier down, and the rest panicked and ran, all impacting the shield dome with the predicted result of it flaring bright, but not letting them through. The armour fired another arbalest shot into the curve of the wall, where it followed the line of the barrier, going through a clutch of soldiers without any sign of slowing down, before rejoining its friends in her defensive halo.

  The armour’s fangs dipped into her arms, feeding, and Evanne whimpered. The pain was bright, but it hadn’t killed her yet, and would be worth it if she could save Mama, and Papa, and even stupid Morgan. Her head bowed, breath hissing through her teeth. Then it let her alone, and when she looked up, the last living soldier had eased through the barrier, hotfooting it into the distance.

  Standing on the other side of the barrier was the lordling, next to the two merchants Amber and Jade. He put a hand against the barrier, then gave a small laugh of delight. “What a marvellous thing.” He slowly stepped through, his hair standing on end as it passed the barrier.

  “Meriwether?” Evanne’s step hitched as the spheres clattered back into place on the bandolier, the spinning circle of death quiet for the moment. “I took care of the guards so you’d run!”

  “Yes, I see that now, but I’m not the kind of monster that leaves a child to face a fortress alone.” He held a hand up as if sensing her fire building about the child comment. “Would your mother kill me, or not?”

  Evanne bridled, but gritted out, “She would probably kill you. If she knew.”

  “She knows. Vertiline knows everything! I tried to shake her back when she captured me, and that woman is tenacious.” He stalked to the device with all the pipes and energy, then walked a circle about it. “Did she ever tell you how we met?”

  “You didn’t come up.”

  “How odd.” He brightened, reached into a tangle of machinery Evanne could make nothing of, yanked, and all the lights died. The guns firing above quietened. He tossed a cube at her, golden filaments streaming as it flew.

  She caught it, turning it about. It was plain metal, no markings bar the holes the filaments emerged from. “How’d you know to yank this piece?”

  “Simple. It was the only piece that looked ordinary.” He dusted his hands against each other. “Now we’ve solved that problem, let’s clear the way for Morgan.”

  “No,” Evanne said. “The evil warlord of this place wants a Ritualist to re-open a demon gate.”

  “Yes.” Meriwether nodded encouragingly.

  “And that would be bad.”

  “No.” He sucked air, shaking his head in disapproval. “It is the only good thing we can do today.”

  “I’m not sure Morgan would agree!”

  “Morgan signed up for it when I told her what the plan was.”

  “The plan?” Evanne’s voice rose an octave. “I’ve been … flying, Meriwether, and this armour’s been drinking my blood, and I came here to save you, and you, you what, you had a plan all along?”

  “Uh.” He took stock of her posture, then offered what was supposed to be a disarming smile but just made Evanne want to punch him. “I had the skeleton of a plan. Look, you get up to that city above. I’ll break into the castle⁠—”

  “Break in?”

  “I used to be a very good thief.”

  “The door is right there.”

  “Yes, but people expect us to use the door. Come now. Time is pressing. Use your wings, or,” he waved a hand in the general direction of her torso, “whatever you’ve got in there. Morgan is out there with Heser the Cheg, and about now she will be breaking the bad news to him.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “My queen, perhaps we should decamp.” Heser’s low voice was calm.

  He is always calm. Morgan surveyed the fortifications leading to the castle, the ground weapons having quietened their heavenly assault, the flying city above having eased up its response. She caught a flash of bright blue scale as Myryntir made a beeline for the castle gates. “No, I think now is a good time for us to rejoin the fight.”

  “Are you cracked?” Pakhet put her head under Morgan’s palm, nosing it up. “Scritches while you think of a good answer.”

  She gave a small smile, feeling the large cat’s flat nose, the coarse fur, and the sensitive spot behind her ears. Morgan slipped her fingers through the tiger’s pelt, the creature almost knocking her over as she leaned into the pat. “The thing is, my Lord du Reeves asked me before we got here how I’d feel about opening a gate … to the demon realm.”

  “Uh.” Heser’s eyes were straight ahead, marking the battlefield, that tiny noise his only show of emotion. “I admit to not being the best general, but opening a doorway for enemy reinforcements when you’re already outnumbered seems unwise.”

  “As he explained it to me, there are two ways opening the portal can go. The first,” and with her free hand she pointed to the sky, “there are supplies and weapons above.”

  “That sounds like something the enemy would find useful. That is their whole purpose.”

  “The other small item of benefit would be pointing the gate into a demon realm.”

  “Still good for the enemy… yes, right there. That’s a good spot.”

  Morgan leaned harder on the scritches. “What they don’t know, none of them, is how to open the gate. Or, what opening a gate to the sky versus the demon realm looks like.”

  “Which is why we don’t want you with them?” Heser’s voice had a questioning tone.

  “Knowing how to open the gate gives me value,” Morgan said. “Knowing where to open it gives the world value. And a queen must always know her worth.”

  “To the enemy? Or the world?” The question didn’t fade from Heser’s tone.

  “The thing to consider is what else comes with the supplies above, or the demons below,” Morgan said. “My Lord du Reeves has put some thought into this.”

  “He has been on the other side of a demon gate for sixteen years.” Heser’s tone was mild. “His judgement may be impaired.”

  “I fear his judgement is sound.” Morgan’s stomach felt unsettled, a fluttering uncertainty there. “His faith in me may be misplaced, however.”

  “My queen⁠—”

  “So, Guardsman.” Morgan straightened, and a shade regretfully stopped patting Pakhet. “I need you to escort the tiger away.”

  “My queen?”

  “This is a battlefield. It is no place for a beast of peace. It is a place for warmongers and their ilk. The wretched and the maligned. It is, in short, a place I will be quite at home.” She stepped off the small hillock, striding toward the castle.

  “My queen!”

  “That is an order, Guardsman.” Don’t look back. Don’t let him see you. You will be undone. This is your last chance to save him, and you will keep your spine straight and your eyes forward.

  Morgan stepped through the battlefield, and if a tear passed down her cheek, no one would think it anything but irritation at the ash on the wind.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  This place is a warren crossed with a maze. Vertiline hunted sinners, but she now knew what the term meant. She was—finally—on the right side of that fight. I put the innocent to the torch, but evil’s timely arrival allows redemption.

  She stalked the pale, cool hallways of the ancient castle. She’d been thrown far by the explosion. Her poise had stood her in good stead, her glimmering gold-lit body ploughing through the wall of the castle, landing her where she stood, surrounded by broken stone and angry stares. Her shield cracked under the force of smashing through castle walls despite the Light infusing it. Perhaps it was as poorly forged as I. Beyond the angry stares was a long, narrow room, lined with benches and wardrobes. A dressing room, perhaps an annex to a barracks that promised reinforcements at the merest cry.

  Her eyes drifted back to the staring people. Eyes visible through slits in black headwear. Leather armour was the clothing du jour of her opponents, stylish and black, and grimly reminiscent of those Evanne described attacking Dancing in the Storm. She offered a thin-lipped smile. “Vide lice. I should have known you were at the heart of this.”

  A man rushed her from the left. He was fast and true, his hook blade seeking the join between cuirass and rerebrace. The tender armpit promised much arterial blood if the edge found a way in. Israel might have said, Look, Tilly. Observe how fast he moves but note the lack of speed.

  Speed and excellence were factors born of repetition, prized much higher than hurried rushing. Form grooving the body into a slick pattern that could ease its way into any of twenty-one hundred patterns at a moment’s notice. Vertiline took as much time as needed, no more, no less, stepping through his strike into Eternal Conflict, a classic opening move she favoured in Cophine’s stanzas. Her sword rose as her body turned, Light licking blade, caressing her gauntlet, and casting long shadows as she stepped in the middle of her opponents.

  The man who’d rushed her fell in two, hooked blade clattering into a corner. Vertiline continued the Conflict, taking a bolt from a hand crossbow on her steel as she hoisted the blade into high guard. She turned the edge behind her, a cavalier strike unless you were in the pattern. She hit the woman trying to knife her in the spine, cutting her arms off and leaving her with the hint of a scream as shock registered and breath drew in.

  When Vertiline was learning, she’d asked Iz why the Tresward put themselves in the middle of their opponents as often as forming a defensive line. He’d offered her a frown as if it was obvious. Adept, it is because it is where there are most enemies.

  The woman’s scream hit as Vertiline struck three broad strikes against new enemies. She went top left to bottom right, bottom right to top right, and top right to bottom left, then took steel to low guard as three Vide fell burning from a touch of the Light. A large man rushed her, but the Eternal Conflict was ready, her shoulder braced, Light flowing from sabaton to pauldron. She shoulder-checked him, the man’s chest caving in with the Three’s power, his lifeless body smashing into the wall behind him.

  “Wait!” said a man frantic with fear, before her steel took his head, surprise in his eyes fading in death as his head bounced along the stone floor.

  A woman took her comrade’s place. “We have⁠—”

  Vertiline sheared her through the middle, forever oblivious as to what they had. Her foe slumped in two places. It is done. There was little to recommend staying in the room with its small collection of smoking bodies. Two doors out, no doubt evil behind each, so she picked the southern exit. It was a barracks, with cots laid out in four rows. It promised a heady number of sinners yet to meet her blade. No one was in residence aside from an old man shuffling about with a broom. She gave him a raised eyebrow, to which he replied, “Even evil overlords need help.”

  “You know your leader is an evil overlord?”

  “Hard to miss, what with the castle, the oppression, and the fanaticism.” He raised his left arm which ended in a stump. “Not a lot of work in these parts. Those that hire pay less than a copper baron a day for most jobs that suit such as me.”

  “He pays more than a baron for cleaning floors?”

  “He does. You’ll be wanting to head that way,” he pointed to the west door, “and count your way past three doors on your right. The fourth will take you to what you seek.”

  Vertiline turned the raised eyebrow into a frown. “Which is?”

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  Vertiline stalked the final paces to door number four. To get from one end of this corridor to here, she’d had to cut her way through another three guards, all of whom seemed fuelled by hope rather than brains. She left a collection of smoking body parts behind her, armoured heels clicking on stone as she paced forward.

  The door was the same as the others barring a bloody handprint. She raised her own hand, sizing up the difference. Larger than mine, but only a shade. A slight man or larger woman. Vertiline kicked the door open, all brute force, and stood in the entranceway as part of it hung off its hinges, a torso-sized fragment clattering to the stone before her.