Inside: two Feybrind, and five Vhemin. The Feybrind were known to her. Sight of Day and Sands Apart were lashed to tables by leather straps. Various tools of torture were set about. Vertiline’s vision went red with rage as she saw Sight of Day’s wound. The grievous gash in his middle bled fiercly. Sands Apart was untouched.

  The Vhemin were surprised, even the one she knew, who looked like he’d been worked over. The others: three strange men, two of whom held the one she knew, the third fingering a nasty-looking awl, and a larger, thuggish woman. She ignored them, looking at the man they held between them. “Husband. What news?”

  “You’ve caught me at a bad time,” Armitage admitted, briefly struggling against his two ox-sized Vhemin captors.

  The thuggish woman looked down at Armitage, then to Vertiline. “You … lay with this one?”

  “She’s tougher than she looks,” Armitage growled. “A bit scrawny, but you get used to it.”

  Thuggish backhanded him with ease born of hours of practice. Armitage rocked with the blow. Vertiline raised her blade, the motion drawing all eyes, even Sight of Day’s hazed, golden glance. “If you move to touch him again, I will end you.”

  “You mean, if I touch him. You said move.” Thuggish frowned, speedy thoughts clearly not why she held her position as chief torturer.

  “If you move to touch him, you’ll die before your hand reaches its mark.”

  “She’s not fooling around,” Armitage said. “She’s being really honest right now.”

  “You’re by the door. I’m here. There’s no way you get to me between when I raise my arm,” Thuggish raised her fist, “and me doing this.”

  Between the words me and doing, golden light flashed, and by the time this made it from her lips, her arm was already following gravity’s insistence to the ground. Vertiline’s sword burned with Light, embedded in the wall behind Thuggish, the stone glowing about the blade. Thuggish howled, clutching her cauterised stump.

  The fool with the blade made an idiot move toward Armitage, clearly meaning to be the second imbecile to try Vertiline’s patience alongside her speed, but she’d been ready for it, shoulder descending as she’d tossed her steel, gathering the door fragment at her feet. It was unwieldy for a kite shield, but her fingers found the willing edges all the same, and she tossed it like a glowing frisbee. It hit the man rushing Armitage, but Vertiline knew her work was sloppy, not having had the weight or balance before grabbing it. Light flickered out, but it was enough to knock the Vhemin back a pace, his knife clattering free.

  Vertiline followed her ‘shield’ throw by drawing the sword from the sheath of the closest man holding Armitage and running through the clown who dropped his knife. She took the head off the closest man, kicked the legs of his body aside, stepped in the gap, and thrust steel through the gut of the remaining Vhemin.

  He wheezed a cry before she took his head, pushed Armitage clear—gods, he’s a unit—and followed up on knife-dropper by splitting his skull. She tossed the borrowed steel aside and liberated her sword from the wall.

  Armitage blinked. “You seem angry.”

  “I’m not angry.” Vertiline’s steel licked the binds holding Sands Apart, then she moved to Sight of Day’s side. Her blade freed him before finding home in its sheath. She held her friend’s hand. “What happened? How did they hurt you?”

  Soft finger-snapping drew her eye. Sands Apart said, {It was the crash. He was thrown clear. These lot didn’t know why Vhemin and Feybrind would be together outside their special club, but that one,} she pointed to knife-dropper, {knew me. They sought information.}

  “Did they get it?” Vertiline placed her other hand over Sight of Day’s, holding him gently.

  “They didn’t get shit.”

  Vertiline gave Armitage a tight nod. “Good. Now, to amends. I’ve taken steps to put Evanne out of harm’s way⁠—”

  “She’s never going to stay out of harm’s way.”

  “Too much of her father in her?”

  {Mother, more like.} Sands Apart lowered her hands, perhaps realising this wasn’t a conversation she should be part of.

  “Be as may.” Vertiline faced Sight of Day. “Friend, I will heal you.”

  Sight of Day’s hands trembled. {The Sway costs each time you use it. This injury is deep. It will remove many years of your life.}

  Vertiline sighed, feeling her face soften. “Years are worthless with no one of quality to spend them with.”

  {That’s funny.} His half-smile was weak. {Not too long ago, I wondered if anyone would miss the People after we’re gone.}

  “This world would be immeasurably diminished without you.” Vertiline stood. “I have never done this for a Feybrind. I wonder why not?”

  {We’re not as clumsy as you.}

  “Or, we have been blind to your hurts.” Vertiline rubbed her throat. This will be painful, but pain is just weakness leaving the body. “I don’t know if this will work.”

  “Stop stalling, wench,” Armitage said. “If the cat dies, it’ll be bad, but we’ve still got all his stuff back home. It won’t be a total waste.”

  Sands Apart’s eyes were wide, trying to check if Armitage were joking.

  Stop stalling, indeed. Vertiline threw her hands wide, eyes up. “Cophine, hear me. Khiton, listen. Ikmae, I beg your ear.” She looked to Sight of Day. Please work. Please work. Please work. //BE HEALED.//

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I never sweated as a fairy. Rivulets of perspiration ran down Tarragon’s scalp, her back, got in her eyes, and fouled her vision. Amir stood with his back to her, eyes front, facing his friends.

  He fights for me.

  Faust was an impressive piece of machinery, all lean muscle, stacked what looked like six metres tall, but Tarragon knew that was the rush, the rage in his face, and the glowing hammer he held. Light, in all its power, wielded by an enemy of the Tresward, against one they used to call brother. Their deepest secrets were held by those against them.

  It was this kind of daydreaming that almost got her killed. Larochette slipped up beside her, and offered her a blade, point first, right at her ribs. Tarragon’s parry was wild, a hack rather than step, Larochette’s Light-rimmed weapon sparking and hissing against Requiem’s actinic brilliance. Both Faust and Larochette have the Storm, now. Weak, more of a squall, but their weapons will bite with more than main strength.

  She saw from her left Amir and Faust clash. The room shook as the hammer hit the sword, Amir underneath the mighty swing, but unbowed. Amir’s form was good. Tarragon could see it was better than Faust’s, but both men were horses, reins held in the savage grip of emotional masters. Amir used speed, Faust brutality, keeping the match even.

  Tarragon stepped away from Larochette. I have my own problems. She took steel on skymetal once, twice, then aimed a savage riposte flurry, finding her own footing on the offensive. There was a hmmmmMMM-crack, and she tossed herself to the right, a beam of fury from Wild Sur’s weapon discharging through where she’d been. It must be faulty after so many years. The auto-targeting should have had me. A weapon like that was sure to hit soon enough if held by Feybrind hands. Only an imbecile brings a knife to a gunfight.

  Larochette’s counterattack was savage, blade coming under and up, another coming over and down. It was a classic teaching of Khiton’s. In mid-battle, use your weapons’ strength where the opponent is weakest. The long blade in Tarragon’s hand could only be in one place at once.

  She felt a wrench of fear. I’m not ready. I’m just a fairy. I’m not a real Big.

  Wild Sur’s weapon fired again, but Amir was there, the fancy man dancing from Faust’s strike to catch the beam on the edge of his sword. Light hissed and roared, the blast ricochetting to the ceiling. Ancient stonework cracked and fell. Rubble and smoke, silt and sand.

  Tarragon rubbed her eyes, sliding right foot back, left to follow, vision clouded, enemy’s location uncertain. She weaved Requiem in a figure eight, the weapon humming as it tasted air.

  A huff from Amir as something meaty smacked home. A clatter of a dropped weapon, then a hiss and curse from Faust as steel tasted flesh. Tarragon’s vision cleared. She overbalanced as Larochette came for her head, then caught her heel on stone. Larochette, hungry for the victory, surged in. I’m not a Big. That’s good. I don’t think like a Big.

  The feint worked, and Tarragon screamed fury as she brought her body around in a perfect pivot, Larochette’s face the picture of what the shit as Requiem took a bite out of one of Larochette’s blades, making it shorter. She straightened, Amir stepping back behind her as Faust swung, and she stepped in the gap, blue-white sword coming to face yellow-bright hammer.

  The room rang like a bell, the impact pushing both back, Faust’s breathing ragged. Tarragon stood, a pool of radiance about her, Amir at her back. “Swordsman. Can you stand?”

  “I feel like this could be going better.” Amir moved to her side, his blade ready. An eye was bloody, nose leaking red, but he seemed calm. “Swap opponents?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” With that, they stepped off, she back to Larochette, him to Faust.

  The giant roared you were supposed to join us and Amir hollered back is that because you thought I was as stupid as you, but Larochette was all silence, a slight mocking smile, one short blade, one shorter, the Adept finding balance as all Tresward did.

  Tarragon held Requiem in mid guard. “You shouldn’t do this. It’s wrong.”

  “Some pretty speech about good and evil, and here’s me on the wrong side?”

  Tarragon shook her head. “It’s not about right and wrong. You use the god’s power against the chosen. The Storm is a gift meant for service, not subjugation.”

  “So sad. Never mind.” Larochette hungered forward, so Tarragon stepped into Khiton’s Perfect Melody, a pattern designed for the uncertain outcome of too-certain foes. The Adept was good. The once-fairy felt her steps too slow, a hint out of alignment, not good enough to call the Storm and its Light, her saving grace a magic sword only hers through chance. The mocking smile widened. “We’re almost at the end now, you and I.”

  A beam from Wild Sur’s weapon went for her, and Amir was there again, the man lightning quick. Faust swung the hammer into Amir’s guard, and Tarragon’s friend skidded back. She stepped into the breach again, not seeing the gap for the trap it was. Faust stepped back, Tarragon overbalancing, a rookie mistake no Adept would make. But of course she wasn’t an Adept. I’ve only watched them.

  She felt Larochette’s sword enter her side, and she screamed, the white-hot pain lancing through her, something liquid freeing inside, and she coughed blood. Amir was there, shouldering Larochette aside, the smaller woman falling to the floor.

  That’s when Amir took a hit from the hammer, full-force, and his body hit the stone like a dropped anvil. Tarragon raised her blade to guard him, but Faust knocked her back contemptuously, raised his hammer in the same motion, and hit Amir, Light blurring the weapon. The strike was true, Tarragon’s scream drowned out by the crack of stone as the floor beneath Amir’s corpse spiderwebbed into fault lines. She wanted to take back time, or raise the dead, but the Storm was only the barest friend to her. The Sway was beyond her reach.

  The Storm is the only friend I’ve got left, because I was too slow.

  Larochette was on her, hungry to stick another blade after the first.

  I need to be Big. Just this once. Strong, like Evanne. Even if it cost pain, because what was pain but life, seen through a different lens?

  Tarragon sagged forward, Larochette’s blade entering her stomach, but Requiem was ready, the skymetal blade sizzling from its useless low guard to high, right through Larochette’s body. The woman’s innards spat, mere roasted meat. Faust turned with a bellow, just in time for high guard to become mid, separating the man from his legs by way of a long cut from shoulder to hip.

  She swayed, blade trembling. No golden Light was to be seen in the blue-white sheen of magic skymetal. Wild Sur’s half-smile was all victory as he raised his weapon.

  The eastern wall exploded in rubble. Not Storm, but something ancient and angry. Wild Sur ducked, his shot going wide.

  Vide spilled into the room by the bushel. Tarragon felt despair but stood by Amir’s body. They will not have him. Not while I live. But that wouldn’t be long. She raised her sword, standing strong despite the blood leaving her body as the end came for her.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Morgan watched Evanne, her shiny armour all sunlight and rainbows, fly—actually fucking fly—to the castle. There seemed low resistance below her. Morgan suspected it was because armies were out of practice dealing with flying infantry. Whenever enemies showed initiative, like firing an arrow at the bard, a flash of silvered bronze would spit from the armour to hit whoever shot at her, and that sorted the problem.

  A small gaggle of people hurried in her wake. That looks like my Lord du Reeves, with the merchants. What an odd retinue. Evanne was going up, ignoring the main entrance. Dancing in the Storm’s approach had slowed, the ancient battle city silent, trailing smoke. It was too high up to see if anyone still lived on its decks. Myryntir soared, a condor against Evanne’s starling, the two combating forces that would try to innervate the keep’s weapons against the sky fortress.

  She wasn’t fussed about the bard, dragon, Holomancer, or the Lord du Reeves’ gaggle of advisers, because she and he had already had this out. He’d started like this:

  You must summon a demon army into this realm to destroy us all.

  And she had said:

  Are you cracked?

  He wasn’t cracked, as it turned out, but he was gambling the world. The convincer had been his final line:

  Geneve hunts them with all her purpose.

  Morgan could get behind that. The Saviour of Ravenswall had good instincts. She strolled across the battlefield, feeling sanguine because the fighting was elsewhere. At one point an enemy soldier, perhaps eighteen by the looks of her, had come over a rise and shouted, “Stop!”

  Morgan sneered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  And that was that. She made it to the castle, the main entranceway unguarded, the general scattering of bodies and their components reminding the queen of the last battle at Ravenswall. She was on the besieger’s side this time, but the effect was the same. Dead, some innocent, but all ended before justice was seen.

  Light flickered from within. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the keep. This is surprising, but somehow not, because the High Justiciar is here. Her statesperson’s eye could see how the enormous room was designed to be a cool welcoming balm from the heat outside. Unfortunately, someone had set to destruction with great excitement inside. The damage looked like what a supervolcano might do, the walls slagged, and the floor wracked by fissures. The very ceiling was charred and blistered. Gaps let the daylight in.

  Morgan took in a battlefield worse than anything outside. Black-armoured troops, all stylish leather—perhaps I should talk to the quartermaster of the opposition, they have a good eye for flair—fought against a warrior bathed in purest Light. Vertiline. The High Justiciar was glimmering with all the power of her tiresome gods, and Morgan saw Armitage by her side, two Feybrind in tow. Sight of Day and the renegade Sands Apart. She wondered if she should keep an eye on the once-enemy cat, then discarded the idea. There was a bigger problem to solve: the gate, and its very closed nature.

  The trick is not to run. Morgan strolled up the long distance of the room, avoiding eye contact as all parties converged on the High Justiciar. An ancient-yet-sprightly Feybrind used some form of ancient crossbow, firing at Vertiline, who seemed not at all concerned. She is beautiful to behold. This is why they say she is the best swordswoman in the world. It makes you wonder what things would be like with the Saviour of Ravenswall by her side.

  She made the gate in good time, surprised by her own success. It was mighty, standing as tall as the room. It made an impression. Morgan put a hand on it, feeling its coolness, but also its deadness. Something was missing inside, a pulse absent from the body all these long years. Do you want to open?

  The runes about the gate glimmered purple in answer.

  She felt a hard object press the back of her skull. Morgan froze, then very slowly turned about. The should-be-decrepit Feybrind was right there, weapon at her head, half-smile on his face. “You’ve arrived just in time.”

  Morgan goggled in surprise at a speaking cat, then iron control asserted itself. “I arrived when I meant to, sirrah.”

  The half-smile didn’t dim. “I need you to open this.”

  “Did they make the People stupider back when you were born? It should be perfectly obvious that is what I’m about to do.”

  “I need you to open it to the platform above.”

  “In this, we are agreed.”

  The half-smile wavered a notch. “We are?”

  I see—his voice comes from that clever collar he wears. “We are. The real question you should answer is whether you think you can access what’s up there without me.”

  “I speak as your kind do.”

  Morgan offered him a withering smile, all the condescension she could stack on it, and she could stack pretty high. “Well, if that’s all it takes, perhaps you should open this gate too. Or did you think my kind were stupid enough to leave pretty baubles about so their slaves could steal the kingdom?” She eyed the melee behind them. The Vide forces were thinning against the implacable force that was Vertiline, but Morgan was sure she’d seen far more enemy troops outside than were accounted for. I wonder where they are?

  The Feybrind’s face showed a shadow of doubt, quickly hidden. “I have read their texts. Deciphered their works. I know how to unlock their power.”