They'll break their promise to save us all, in this desperate, fateful stride.

  She felt time slow, the clock of the world creaking. Hitch left her, the bitter cold of his sacrifice all those years ago repaid. The Vide froze, demon eyes unblinking. Morgan, a statue at the other end of the room, hand outstretched to Sight of Day. Evanne’s golden-eyed friend, falling back from a cut of Wild Sur’s short blade. The strike frozen in this bubble of time, Sands Apart mid-air as she dived before the weapon.

  Heser, three men trying to drag him down. Pakhet, a spear in her side. Tarragon, beautiful Tarragon on one knee, the Light about her fading.

  This moment is how the world ends.

  A blue-feathered bird flitted before her, unbowed by the impossible forces slowing time’s march. Evanne watched as it lit on the raised spear of a Vide, and it watched her right back. She sighed. “Hello, Cophine.”

  Cheep.

  “I see you’ve got your hand on the tiller of the universe.” The changing form of Ikmae strode from within a pillar, high on the air. He became she, she became a child, then grew into an ancient man. “Bold.”

  “Needful.” Evanne shook her head. “You must all be here for this to work.”

  “I am here,” Khiton rumbled from above. She turned, catching the god striding down the scree slope, his feet also off the ground like Ikmae’s.

  “You look different, without your ship.” Evanne set her guitar down and took her helmet off, scrubbing rust locks with her fingers.

  “I was never as good a sailor as Cophine.” He shrugged. “She’s better at charting a new heading.”

  Cheep. Cheep cheep.

  “Why did you call us here?” Ikmae settled for a moment into the frame of a bold youth, a little fuzz on his chin. “We can’t win this fight for you. Not in a way that ends it for all time.”

  “You heard me. It’s all there in the song.” Evanne counted on her fingers. “I can do it. I can make this end. Make sense of the middle part. And give us a new beginning. If I don’t, the world’s going to end. Or get so bad as makes no difference.”

  Cheep?

  “You know how.” Evanne sighed, feeling the reality of it, the biting bile in her throat, the sickness in her stomach. “I need to die, though. That’s the ticket. And you made a promise to Mama. You made a promise that you’d give her a child, an impossible child that couldn’t survive. Not with a Vhemin inside it, and a human too. So, you bound your promise up with all the impossible things gods do, and you made it so I couldn’t die. And I really need to die for this to work.”

  “She’s not as stupid as I thought we made her,” Khiton said.

  “You didn’t make me. Mama and Papa did.” Evanne glowered at Khiton, still hovering above the ground. “I was stabbed through my broken heart by a spear and lived. I almost drowned but survived. I fought a vampire lord and walked free. I have led a charmed life, all because you won’t let me die.”

  “What will you do?” Ikmae shifted into a girl’s body. She was no more than eight years old. “How will you do it?”

  “There is a weapon of impossible power above. It cracked our planet and shook it to the core once before. Mireille died shielding us, and even then, it wasn’t enough. Everything broke, all at once. That man,” she pointed at Wild Sur, “carries the keys to that weapon. So, I’m going to walk over there and end his life. The weapon will fall on the world. On him. But he won’t be here. He’ll be with me.”

  “Where will you be?” Khiton looked around as if trying to find the hidden meaning in it all.

  “You know.”

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  Evanne drew a shuddering breath, then pointed at the gate. “In there. I will take the weapon with me. This armour isn’t good enough to kill a demon lord. But it’s good enough to take me to their world, where the weapon will destroy it. There’s no Knight Champion to shield them. Just the dark and fear they make. It’s time to return the favour.”

  Cophine flitted off the spear, then changed form, the blue-feathered bird becoming a young woman, resplendent in her radiant armour of the dawn. She stood on the air beside her siblings. “You ask gods to break their vow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The promise of a god is not easily discarded, let alone Three of them.”

  Evanne rubbed a tear from her cheek. “Your promise is good as done. Mama’s dead. She’s dead, and she’s not coming back.” She pointed at Vertiline, pale, so very pale, her neck a bloody ruin, her body cradled in Armitage’s arms. “You have no one left to worry about.”

  “There will still be a demon lord in your world. Three, as it happens.”

  “The Saviour of Ravenswall is back. I’ll take those odds.” Evanne’s eyes moved to Tarragon’s frozen form. “But if I don’t do this, everyone dies here, and everywhere.”

  Cophine glanced to Ikmae, who shrugged from her now crone-like body. Cophine’s gaze moved to Khiton, who glared back. “Don’t look at me. I can end the promise. Make it stop here. But we need to start something new after.”

  “I can do that,” Cophine said.

  “Then we are agreed?” Ikmae shifted to become a chimney sweep of indeterminate age and gender. “The vow is broken. We remove our protection from Evanne. The world’s clock starts again, for better or worse.”

  Cophine closed her eyes, brow furrowing with concentration. “I can’t see how the sword balances on its point from here.”

  Khiton shook himself, his night-black armour taking over his seafarer’s garb. Raised his pitch sword, its edge the only gleam of brightness. “Then we make a new sword.”

  “And carry it to the end.” Ikmae shifted again, becoming Evanne. “Are you sure?”

  Evanne took a breath, and bit her lip. “I’m sure.”

  Cophine strode over the air to her. Smoothed her rust locks and bent to put a kiss on Evanne’s forehead. She smelled of fresh cut grass and lilies. “Then it is done.” She turned from Evanne. “I promised I would set no foot on earth, and give Vertiline the child she needed, if she brought the world’s shield back.” She very slowly, carefully, stepped down from the air, and put her foot on the ground. It cracked beneath her armoured boot. “I break my promise.”

  “I too promised,” Ikmae said. “I have lived under the world’s mantle for these long years, never to set foot atop, to give Vertiline her child, if she brought the Tresward back.” He, now a boy child of four, skipped to the ground. Despite his tiny frame, his feet cracked the slate beneath him. “I break my promise.”

  Khiton straightened. “We needed the Tresward. But all good things must end. I promised to be apart from the world, sailing the seas, so Vertiline could have her child.” He stamped to the ground, the floor shuddering, cracking, and buckling. “I break my promise.”

  “Time to go,” Evanne said. “Thanks for not being dicks about this.” She stooped, and kissed Mama’s still brow. Touched Armitage’s grief-stricken face, frozen in this amber moment of time. Then gunned the armour, and blasted toward Wild Sur.

  Time shuddered, lurched, champed at the bit, and surged forward.

  Chapter Fifty

  When Tarragon saw the woman come through the gate, she knew she was a goddess. It wasn’t how she’d ridden the lightning and destroyed an elder demon lord in a heartbeat, or how she commanded a dragon. It was how she walked.

  She walks like she’s Bigger than Big.

  She’d pieced together the story of the Saviour of Ravenswall. Vertiline seemed to harbour pain around the topic, but Armitage had been free with the truth, the monster speaking with fondness and respect. The Vhemin respected very little outside blood on the sand.

  Tarragon stood with her borrowed blade. Vertiline lay dead behind her, the High Justiciar felled by the strike of a demon lord, and the goddess had gone in pursuit of that one. The goddess Geneve had given Vertiline a look before she’d gone. It seemed to say I wish I could stay.

  Tarragon wished she’d stayed too, because the room was full of murder and her side was down on numbers. The Storm was with her. She felt it running through her arms, the power of the Three given to mortals. Tarragon moved into Dawn’s Beginning. It was a simple pattern taught to Novices when they were knee high. It had three straight strides toward the foe, which Tarragon took, and ended with the signature overhand strike into a Vide warrior’s shield. Her opponent was driven down like Tarragon wielded Khiton’s own hammer, which in a way she did. It left a pile of broken bones inside a meat suit, and Tarragon moved to the next.

  Why did she wish she could stay?

  It was, of course, because Vertiline and Geneve were friends. Tarragon learned the Saviour’s story from Evanne, how Geneve jumped into a demon gate and was lost to all when it closed. Vertiline started the school on the bones of that fight, Imshir rising into glory again in the lands of the sun. And Geneve was now a goddess, which no one knew about, or perhaps Three goddesses, because Tarragon saw the Light take form at her side. Two golden, angelic warriors wore Geneve’s face.

  Why didn’t she stay?

  Tarragon took the arm from a man who seemed to offer it to her freely, then seemed surprised when he lost it. So much time watching the Tresward and doing their patterns. Sands Apart had told her the secret of holding her Bigness. She did just as the Feybrind said, and the Light flowed. She didn’t need Requiem, which was lucky because the goddess had taken the blade back.

  If she’s a goddess, she can do anything. She can stay.

  But Geneve left, and Vertiline died. Was it revenge for being lost in the demon realm for sixteen years? The lordling hadn’t said anything like that. Meriwether just wanted her here, with him, and Tarragon understood that. She felt her brow furrow with frustration as two men tried to take her on the blade, and her borrowed steel cut theirs in half, then she took their heads. She felt the Light buoy her, carry her feet, and walk the patterns with her.

  So she must have left because she needs to do something out there that’s more important than her dead friend.

  She wasn’t too surprised when Evanne arrived. She’d felt her lover approaching. Tarragon always knew where Evanne was, but she could also feel the Elder demon lord Aterregis approaching almost as fast as Morsorachius and Tenebricor ran away.

  Goddesses can see the future. Did Geneve see something that we didn’t?

  Then, time stopped. Tarragon felt the gearing of the world lock up. She was astonished, because while she couldn’t move, her mind was free. She heard the conversation between the Three and Evanne, cringing a little at how free Evanne was with her words. And she wanted to wail when Evanne said she was going to die, like it was only her choice and nothing to do with a once-fairy who’d lived over eight hundred years only to fall in love for the first time right here.

  Then time … started. Not all at once; it limped a little at first, but got the job done well enough. Tarragon knew where Evanne was going: straight for that dickhead Wild Sur and his smug half-smile. The bard blasted overhead, and Tarragon started running. Pounding the cracked and tortured floor, sword low, head down, legs pumping, lungs dragging in dusty, coked, sooty air.

  I must stop her.

  But Evanne flew, faster than a striking falcon, straight for the gate. Wild Sur saw her coming, bringing his weapon away from Sight of Day and Sands Apart. Sands Apart was bleeding and stooped. Tarragon saw the magnetic arbalest spit metal hail at Wild Sur, the ancient Feybrind’s sword sundering, shattered shards of steel spraying wide.

  Evanne landed before Wild Sur, her lover struggling forward. Tarragon could almost feel the stress loads in her mind, the wheels and cogs of the Builder she was supposed to be seeing the tolerances exceeded, the fulcrum of the armour weighted against what was left of Evanne’s body. How hungrily the armour suckled at the Soulkeeper. Evanne isn’t a warrior. She’s a … she’s wonderful, she’s a bard, she’s a leader, but she’s not made to die for others.

  That’s what I’m for.

  But Evanne was at Wild Sur before Tarragon was half-way across the room. The maybe-Vhemin struck the broken hilt from the Feybrind’s hands. The Feybrind struck her back, still quick despite his years, but Evanne took the hits, stepped in, and grabbed Wild Sur into a bear’s embrace. And she squeezed. Wild Sur thrashed, clawing and biting, raking armour, but Evanne pulled tighter, her shoulders shaking as Tarragon ran closer.

  A jerk, and the Feybrind slumped. Evanne held him away, and Tarragon saw the jewel at his neck bloom incandescent.

  I’m almost there. Faster, Big legs. Just a little faster. Tarragon’s chest was tight with strain, bounding toward Evanne, because she could do this. Tarragon could take the dead Feybrind into the gate, because the once-fairy was old, and had lived, and Evanne was so young. Tarragon reached for her as Evanne took flight, turning her visored face on the once-fairy.

  Sight of Day tackled her. She clattered to the ground, screaming no no you don’t understand she has so much time left, but the golden eyes above her were sad, and implacable. As if the Feybrind could see the future, or perhaps what was on the other side of the gate, and how unlikely a once-fairy was to survive it.

  Evanne said, “I love you,” then turned, and blasted through the gate.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Morgan clambered to Sands Aparts’ side. The woman’s breathing was ragged, her ochre eyes only half-open. Morgan looked up, took in Sight of Day’s struggle with a very angry Tarragon, then bent back to her patient. “Wake up!”

  Sands Apart reached for Morgan’s face. The Feybrind’s coat was badly cut, ugly red weeping weals marring her hide. Morgan felt the soft fingers at her cheek, then her chin, then a single finger against her lips. The hand fell, and Sands Apart stilled, ochre eyes closing. Her chest rose and fell, but so very slowly. She didn’t have much time left.

  This will not do. These people are in my kingdom. They are under my protection. Morgan stood, smoothed her robe, and put a shade of tired command in her tone. “Cease your caterwauling.” Sight of Day and Tarragon stopped struggling, perhaps out of astonishment. Morgan pointed past them at the legion of Vide surging toward them. “Behind you lies the enemy. You must⁠—”

  “Evanne went in there!” Tarragon’s words were hot, molten with fury.

  “Yes, and if you want her to come back, you’ll pull yourself together, woman. Honestly.” Morgan eyed them both. “You do want her to come back, don’t you?”

  Tarragon goggled, but Sight of Day, sensing it was safe for the moment to loose his hold, said, {Did you get hit in the head?}

  “My Lord du Reeves had a plan. Or, the faded shawl of a plan, pulled around the shoulders of desperation.” Morgan sighed. “It is simple. He needed me to open the gate, because he thought it was where the Saviour of Ravenswall would be, but also because it would be a good place to put the people we don’t want here anymore.”

  “But, Evanne!”

  Before Morgan could use smaller words, the entire side of the building caved in. Rocks the size of houses scattered, and she was impressed with herself that she didn’t bow like a craven. Wind surged, dust in the air, and she conceded a squint. Through the wall surged a demon lord. Morgan was having quite the trouble telling them apart, but she thought this one might be Tenebricor, the Infernal Something Or Other.

  Behind him, Myryntir, the blue dragon surging with crackling blue energy. //COME BACK. WE WERE GETTING ALONG SO WELL.//

  Tenebricor lashed out with a fist the size of a barracks, connecting with Myryntir’s skull. The dragon was torn from the air, smashing into what was left of the wall, destroying it utterly. The ceiling groaned, giant rocks falling in, and bringing with them an angry red dragon. Ormeon settled on Tenebricor’s shoulder, white-hot flames blasting like a weapon of the ancients. //PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE.//

  Myryntir struggled up, eyes blazing blue-white. He roared, jaws wide, unfazed by the hit he’d taken. His blue scales were scratched and marred. Not nearly so pretty, Morgan mused, but he’s found his purpose. He is the better for it. Tenebricor reached a paw for Ormeon, and Myryntir rushed forward, grappling the demon lord’s arm. Fire and lightning cascaded against the demon lord, who flailed, blinded, singed, but still in the fight.

  Ormeon clawed the back of the demon lord’s skull, claws rending, tearing bone from skull. Tenebricor shrieked, Morgan falling to her knees with the pain of that sound. Ormeon heaved a breath in, and blasted fire into the gap in the demon lord’s skull. Tenebricor’s shrieking coughed to a stop, the mighty demon lord swaying. Then its eyes melted from its skull, dragonfire blasting through, and it died, laying its form across a swathe of Vide.

  Morgan dusted off her robe—again!—and faced Tarragon. “Wouldn’t you rather be here?”

  The once-fairy’s eyes were wide. “Are you mad? That thing was monstrous!”

  “There are more through there.” Morgan gestured to the gate behind her.

  “What did I miss?” Meriwether stepped in between them like he’d always been there.

  Sight of Day glanced to the horde of Vide, then to Meri. {How did you get here?}

  “I’m a wizard, remember?”

  {You lost your power.}

  “I didn’t ‘lose’ it. I … broke a few rules.”

  “My Lord du Reeves,” Morgan breezed. “If you were of a mind to find your power, now would be an excellent time.”

  “Not yet.”

  Morgan blinked. “Did you see the demon lord?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  “Whatever else could you be waiting for?”

  The sky visible through the broken roof crackled, thunder booming before lightning surged down. It impacted the ground, blasting rock and Vide in equal measure as a second demon lord impacted the old stone. Looks like the mouthy one. Aterregis, wasn’t it? The Wanker King or whatever it called itself clawed feebly toward the gate.

  “That.” Meri beamed. “We need a live one.”

  “What,” Morgan started, then pressed a hand to her temple. “I feel like I’m getting a migraine.”