“I am the lucky one.” Heser stood straight, a pillar of stone and duty. “Many men would serve unkind masters. Many men would serve at the foot of those unworthy.”

  “And I am worthy?” Morgan laughed, short and hard. “I think I am not. But I am learning.” She turned away from the pursuing dead. “Is that water I smell?”

  “I have no idea what you smell. Your kind are as close to insensate as makes no difference. But there is a mighty lake ahead.”

  “Then we run. Let us see if the dead can swim.” Morgan turned and put a little curry in her stride. Breath still burned her throat. A stitch knitted her side. But she would show none of that. Because Heser the Cheg was with her, and while he was there, she had no fears.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The lightning curled down the shield, a vivid rivulet of godly power. It bled into the spire itself. Ancient machinery fought a moment against the Three’s Storm. Energy, denied its route to the ground through Amir’s shield, then rebuffed by the spire, blasted sideways. It tore the ground apart like paper, tossing molten sand, rock, and metal across near half the world. Amir lost his sight for a moment at the brilliant torrent of power but held his footing.

  Because the Storm was with him.

  The shield above held true, a dome of crystal gold a membrane about them. The destruction was a blast rather than flood, over in a moment, but sand and rock fell as Amir’s heart beat on. Faust, closest to him, alive, but hunched, as if expecting death. Larochette, unbowed, swords crossed in guard, hoping to stave off death with a prayer. Amber, curled over his sister, who sobbed.

  The golden glow about them faded. Amir lowered the shield, the wood held true by the Three’s power. He staggered toward the spire, now silent, pausing at the edge of the murder pit. Below, he saw the spire, at the base of it a charred corpse, and naught else. The gloom took all. The rim of the pit had sagged, superheated rock leaning against the spire. He turned. “A rope and lantern.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d spent his last moments screaming.

  Perhaps I did. The pattern wouldn’t care.

  Faust recovered first, the giant trotting to the remains of their gear. Amir saw dead horses, handlers torn apart, and much grief waiting if he spared it a thought. Larochette joined the giant in his search. No dog-spiders came for them. There may be no dog-spiders left in all the world after that. The High Justiciar, he figured, but he’d never heard of a pattern that did what she’d done. Sway bound to Storm, perhaps, but the cost against her years left would be harsh.

  Larochette bumped his elbow, and he realised he’d glazed over for a moment. She held a rope, hook, and lantern. “Here.”

  “My thanks.” He took the lantern, which she’d conveniently lit for him, and affixed it to his belt. The hook and rope he slung, fetching it against the spire. The hook rang a clean hit. He tugged the rope to be sure, then backed over the pit, line coiling away into darkness.

  “Hold, brother.” Larochette tossed her hair. Behind her, Faust crouched beside Amber and Jade, offering them water, and perhaps comfort. Amir’s eyes found Larochette’s. “You have called the Storm twice.”

  “A moment’s indiscretion.” The joke died on his lips.

  “You are an Adept now.”

  “My trials still await.”

  “They’re just below.” She pointed with her chin into the gloom. “I think you’ll find all you need to emerge a Knight.”

  Ah. That is why she doesn’t help. She sees my leg but wants me to win the trial without aid. Amir understood, but said only, “My thanks.” And slipped into the gloom. He slid down the rope carefully, moving hand over hand. It wasn’t just because he didn’t fancy burns on his hands. If the High Justiciar was below, startling her wouldn’t be wise. He arrived at the bottom of the pit next to the charred remains at the spire’s base. Human, but who was a mystery.

  He held the lantern higher. It cast a tenuous but warm light in a pool about him. Smoke curled in almost sensual trails. Somewhere, the tink-tink-tink of cooling metal. He pressed into the gloom. The first he found was Sight of Day. The cat was on his back, golden eyes sightless. Amir bent, pressing his fingers to the Feybrind’s throat. There was a pulse, strong and steady, so he pulled his hand back and slapped the man across the face.

  The cat started upright, all bared fangs and spite. Amir waited him out, watching the tail lash, lash, then said, “No time for sleeping on the job. Be about it.”

  Golden eyes narrowed, then softened. {Says the one who missed all the fun.}

  Amir snorted. “Come. I don’t know if we killed the nest or if they’re just as sleepy as you were.”

  {I was,} and here, a harsh slash of the hand, {stunned.}

  Amir grinned, then turned to the dark. The cat loped past him, because the Feybrind of course had better night sight than a human. Amir caught up with him a moment later. He was crouched beside the High Justiciar, who in turn was hunched over Armitage. Amir cleared his throat. “Quite something, hey?”

  She turned, platinum hair streaked with soot, eyes hard as agates. “You would joke at a time like this? My husband is…” her face fought to crumple, and she fought right back.

  “Perhaps. He is Vhemin, though.” Amir walked closer, being mindful of Vertiline, because people in shock were like as not to be unpredictable, Justiciars or no. Armitage was supine, glassy eyes staring upward. He bent, checking for a pulse.

  Sight of Day touched Amir’s arm. {Are you going to slap him too?}

  “Only a fool would do that.”

  The cat half-smiled. {Then allow me. There is a modest debt owed.} Before Amir could get clear, he smacked Armitage in the face.

  The monster roared upright, then spun, panting great hulking gasps. He rounded on Amir. “Did you hit me?”

  “Do I look suicidal?”

  Armitage rounded on the cat. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  {At least the crick in your back is fixed.} The Feybrind gave a small bow. {You’re welcome.}

  All eyes turned to Vertiline, who’s mouth hung open. “Husband?”

  “Wife.”

  “You live?”

  “It hurts too much for me to be dead.” The monster rubbed his chest. “Whatever you did seemed to have killed the vermin.”

  “And you!”

  “Go for the head,” he said absently. “Rookie mistake.”

  “You were dead!”

  “I’ve been dead before,” he admitted. “Amir, was it?”

  “Sir.” Amir waited, his lantern still held high.

  “Get that fucken light out of my eyes. You got a way out?”

  “Rope.” Amir swivelled, gesturing with the lantern. “We’ll wait to you’ve got your strength back, or we can winch you out.”

  Armitage pushed past him. “Already got my strength back. Race you to the top?”

  Vertiline ran past, standing in front of Armitage, and put her hand to his chest. “You died.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I killed you.”

  Silence spread from them like a worn blanket, two souls familiar enough with each other to let the moment settle. Then Armitage touched her chin, tilting her face toward his. “I’m fine, Tilly. I’m always fine when I’m with you.”

  “But what about next time? Or the time after that? What if…” She clutched her metal hand to her chest. “What if I’m like this with her? I can’t be trusted! She was right to leave. She should stay away.”

  The Feybrind padded toward the rope. {She’s a hazard, but she’s our hazard.} He glanced up. {Your daughter didn’t leave, friend of my heart. She was taken by the evil and the wicked. Her heart yearns for yours.} He made a great show of examining Amir’s rope, still tethered above. {I’ll get another rope. We’ve got one more to bring up.} And then almost too fast to follow, he was gone, a rat up a drainpipe.

  Amir approached, cleared his throat, and when Armitage glared, he offered, “We’ve not much light left. We must make camp within the ancient’s temple.”

  “How many?” she whispered.

  “Enough.” Amir shrugged. “You have three students and two sand merchants. It is sufficient to find one wayward Justiciar’s daughter.”

  “Five.” Vertiline’s voice was flat.

  Sight of Day landed cat-silent behind them. He held the tail of another rope, the other end lashed above. {For the prisoner.}

  Amir blinked. “You’ve been busy. You found time to upset a nest of horrors and captured someone? A big day, even for the High Justiciar.”

  Armitage offered him a shark-toothed grin in exchange for his joke. “Come on. I’ll show you. Be careful. She bites.”

  Chapter Forty

  The ghosts hadn’t vanished, which was a sure sign there was still shit to do. Evanne glared at them, then the rod, and finally to Hitch.

  He held up not-hands. “Don’t look at me that way! I didn’t bestow a horrible curse on you. It was those assholes.” He jerked his arm to the others, and Evanne imagined if he still had thumbs, one would be pointing in their direction.

  “I don’t feel any different,” Evanne said. “No curious doom behind me, nothing breathing down my neck.” She patted her nape. “No, definitely no eldritch horror there.”

  The floor vibrated. Not a huge amount, not like an earthquake, or the destruction that shook Imshir when the ancient’s mountain erupted with its death weapon. But nothing here had moved the entire time she’d been down here, and probably not for the eight hundred years prior.

  “What was that?” Hitch said.

  “Probably nothing.” Evanne frowned. “Probably.”

  The floor vibrated a little longer, a little harder, then subsided. Evanne breathed out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, tied on a bright smile, and rounded on the ghosts, golden rod in hand. “Which one of you knows what to do with this?” They stared at her with the lifeless insistence of the dead, not a one moving. “I swear to the Three if you don’t show me, I will shove this thing up your a⁠—”

  The floor shook, hard. Violent, forceful enough to knock her to one knee. One corpse that had spent the last eight hundred years slumped over a desk finally slumped a little further, skull rolling free of vertebrae, turning like a child’s ball to crunch onto the metal floor, where it shattered. The body slid under the desk, a loose pile of dust in shiny coveralls. A chair broke free of the stiction holding it in place, rolling a handspan sideways before turning about slowly. A shutter on the wall overlooking the prow of the mighty Dancing in the Storm snapped open, unstuck from ancient grime to show more of the outside.

  Evanne really wished it hadn’t. The gloom outside was lightening as more of the curious lamps on the decking came to light, showing the underside of the ship that had crashed into Dancing in the Storm. She could see where it stuck down like a dagger into the hull of the fairy fortress, a spear breaking through from above. And where it met rock above, water spewed in. The whole lake above, litres and litres of water beyond reckoning, was seeking a way in.

  “Fuuuuuck,” she breathed. “So, this is what a curse feels like.”

  The roar of water reached her over the rumble of tumultuous rock. She could imagine the cold spray on her face and rounded on Hitch. “How do we get out of here?”

  He glanced at her, then to the ghosts, then outside. “Same way we came in.”

  “There must be some kind of ship’s boat. A dingy, perhaps.”

  He turned incredulous not-eyes on her. “This ship sailed the sky, Evanne. They didn’t have a wee put-out to bob about in. They flew dragons.”

  “Dragons, right. So, where do we find one of those?” Hitch looked to be no use at all in this conversation, so Evanne turned back to the ghosts. They still clustered about the pillar, not doing anything useful.

  Except.

  Ghosts lingered where they were anchored. Where their presence was most urgent, to them anyway. She looked to the rod in her hand, then to the pillar. She made it, double time, scrabbling across the metal floor as it canted further. Desks remain bolted in place, as did their chairs, but bodies fell to the ground, sliding across the floor. She got a mouthful of ancient hair, spat, rolled sideways to avoid another skull, and made the pillar.

  It was about half her height. She fumbled about without much luck, trying to find a door, a hatch, anything that would give her a clue as to why the ghosts were here. Hitch hollered behind her, things like Evanne, Run! as if there were anywhere to go and Three’s mercy, but get off the floor, because that wasn’t half obvious. She ignored him, punched the pillar in frustration, yelped in pain, wound up, and hit it with the rod. Clang! The rod vibrated in her hand, not in a pleasant way, but as if the golden metal was angry.

  You’re angry? Try being cursed for a lifetime! She swung again, lost her balance on the tipping floor, banged her face into the pillar, roared in pain, got a hand atop it, stood, face clenched in rage, and really let it have it. She was down here with armoires, sewing boxes, and four worthless ghosts, rather than being up top with Tarragon. Fuck alllll that. The rod clang, clanged as she beat the pillar. Hitch was in her face, trying to tell her to Three’s mercy stop but Evanne wanted none of it.

  She didn’t feel like drowning today.

  She hit the pillar one more time and the front popped free, sliding across the decking to be lost with the pile of remains against the far wall. Revealed within were two circlets of metal, conveniently about the size to hold the rod between them. Running out of options fast, because Dancing in the Storm was in fact sinking in a new lakebed with another ship forcing her into a deeper grave, she slotted the golden rod in the circlets. It fit, snug as a bug.

  Nothing happened.

  Evanne peered at it, then wrapped her hand around it, giving it a wiggle. I could really use Tarragon. “Damn ancients couldn’t build for shit. I don’t know what the hell⁠—”

  The pillar and rod lit with brilliant gold-white energy. Evanne felt the jolt hit her, the back of her throat alive with the taste of a thunderstorm, her teeth bright and hot, her hair alive with power. She was flung across the room, slamming against the back wall. She lay, dazed, too dumb-struck to be angry anymore.

  She could see outside, those tall floor-to-ceiling louvres open and showing her what was going on. Buildings that stood for an eon shook to rubble. Water came from above, an endless torrent that would drown all the sins of the past. But the lights… they caught her eye. What previously bloomed to life decayed, faded, as if the water were bringing hopelessness instead of boring moisture. As the lights on the Dancing in the Storm’s deck shuttered one by one, the pillar of gold before Evanne brightened. It wasn’t just light to her human eyes, but blood heat against her Vhemin ones. She could see a furnace wash blooming around the pillar, spreading like a fire, heating the metal floor, bringing to life what was dead.

  And she heard it. The ship sang, a music outside hearing, something that made her want to play along. It was beautiful, soundless, her heart tripping in her chest like the crippled thing it used to be. Because the song was wrong, missing so many parts of the orchestra it couldn’t keep the rhythm.

  Hitch stood before her. “Get up. We’ve got to go.”

  She turned bleary eyes to him. “Can’t you hear it, Hitch? The music’s so loud.”

  He gave her a look that said, You are completely cracked, but his tone was even and calm. Just like Erik Hitcherson. Not Hitch, but what he was. “Soldier, you’ve got to come with me. To stay is to die.”

  He doesn’t understand. Still, she clawed her way up, using the wall as support, the deck keening beneath her, the sound everywhere. “Where is my guitar?”

  “Your what? For pity’s sake. There’s no time⁠—”

  “There’s no time left if we leave, Hitch. Don’t you see? The water will fill this cavern. We can’t get along the deck and up to the light. I can’t hold my breath that long. There’s only one way out, and that’s flying.” Evanne pushed off from the sturdy safety of the wall, careening across the floor in pursuit of her guitar. She spied it amid a pile of old teeth, hair, and skulls. She hit a desk on her way there, tripped over a chair, knocked her forehead on the edge of another desk, swore, and then had the instrument in hand. Wood under her palm, strings under her fingers.

  Now, play.

  But I don’t know a Trick for this. I’ve crooned to a traitorous lover under a blood moon and made those who love me follow when they shouldn’t. “Hitch, I don’t know the words.”

  He was there. Of course he was there. He was always there. She imagined his hand on her arm, his breath in her ear. “We can do this together.”

  “Not this time.” She brushed a tear from her eye, unsure of how it got there, uncertain if she was angry or sad. Just like the ship, because it remembered who stood on its deck as it sailed the stars. It knew Erik Hitcherson. It knew Tarragon Greyflight. But it didn’t know Evanne the Half-Made. “I need to make it right.”

  “Then tell it a story. Tell it about the world.”

  Evanne widened her stance, set her feet, and held her right hand high, poised to strike the strings. She thought of the Feybrind above, not just the one that threw her here, but all the others it represented. The fairies, all but gone. The dragons, truly gone. And the sewing boxes and sea chests that waited below for deliverance. Her hand fell like a striking hawk. She teased a chord from the discordant. A melody in between disharmony. Filled the gaps where the orchestra forgot how to play, left their music sheets at home, tried to play with a reedless woodwind. Her guitar, just a few strands of string against the sorrow of Dancing in the Storm.

  “Hush,” she said. “I won’t say it’s okay. But it might be, if we can make it right.” The deck groaned, a mighty cry of warped metal as the blade of the enemy craft twisted in its heart. Evanne wanted to sob, because she knew what the ancients did. They made this ship alive. They put a soul in it, then rode it to death.

  Water sloshed over the deck, burying detritus, washing the grime away. Cleaning the ship, while it sank its head and tried to drown. Evanne thought about the sewing box, felt the strings bite her fingers, felt how slick with blood they’d become. She bowed her head. “If that’s how you want it. But I won’t leave you. I can’t leave you.”