The suitcase said nothing but picked up its pace as it headed for the door. A zombie hustled in from left field and was eaten by a secretaire. A group of warriors draped in vines, armour green with verdigris, set upon the secretaire. A wardrobe, of a size fit for the queen’s fashions, lunged, and gobbled three in a single wide sweep of its doors.

  Then they were inside the tower. Tarragon remembered how it used to be. Pillars of light reaching up the elevator shaft. Suspensors lifting with magic and science. People hustling to and fro, fairies on the wing. There was nothing like that now. The lights were all absent. The dais didn’t align with the floor. The only human was Queen Morgan, bleeding to the bitter end. And there was only one fairy.

  “Yasmine!” Tarragon pressed her face to the inert bars. “Have you found me a sword?”

  A rake of arclight fire destroyed the suitcase, gleaming glitterbeams of fire and light tearing it to ash and a couple of stray buckles. A small, fat man’s spectre tried to run from the remains and was caught on wind only he could feel, taken, and gone.

  Tarragon turned and saw Dancing Stars bearing down on them. The Feybrind had an arclight rifle, which explained what was going on. She pointed it at Tarragon and was knocked sideways by Evanne. The maybe-Vhemin stepped from fog that wasn’t there two seconds ago, her own tremulous cloak stuttering and struggling with keeping her hidden.

  But this one time it worked, and Dancing Stars hit the deck hard. Evanne was covered in blood and cuts but didn’t look upset about it. She looked like an avenging goddess. Tarragon bit her lip, not seeing the tattered cloak, the raggedy clothes, the klicks on the trail. She saw someone she very much wanted to know a lot better. Now is not the time. “Can someone get me out of this cage? Anyone?”

  Pakhet bounded inside, armour still lashed to her back, and a scabbarded sword in her mouth. She spat it to the deck, where it clattered. Tarragon recognised the weapon. Requiem. The giant cat turned to the open door and roared. “Evanne!”

  The maybe-Vhemin looked to them, perhaps counting. Hands balled into fists. Saw the queen. The tiger. Mimics, in a huddle. Her eyes met Tarragon’s. Relaxed in relief for a moment. She ran to the door, touched Pakhet’s nose. “Make them safe.”

  Then she stepped back and moved to the side. To the panel that controlled the door and responded only to a human’s touch. Pressed her hand to her heart, blew a kiss from it to Tarragon, then put it against the panel. Behind her, Tarragon saw Dancing Stars stand. The Feybrind gathered the arclight rifle and turned to Evanne. Who stepped out to face the Feybrind.

  The door groaned, then with a scream of metal, eased closed. Tarragon screamed louder, hand out, but it was done. Evanne was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Evanne didn’t feel awesome. She felt like she’d been stabbed thirty times, perhaps an exaggeration, but not by much. She’d fallen down about that many times, either as Dancing Stars pummelled her, stabbed her, or used some of Hitch’s weird tricks to throw her across the deck. It doesn’t matter. What did Hitch say? ‘Fall down seven times, get up eight’? Rookie numbers. I can do this all day.

  Behind Evanne lay the closed door. Safety, because the Feybrind couldn’t open it. Not with her non-human hands. Morgan might be able to open it from the inside, but the Raven was bleeding out, perhaps to her last, and Evanne trusted the tiger’s sense of preservation to stop any such foolishness.

  They’re safe. I will buy as much time as I can. They will run and be free.

  The Feybrind stood before her. Behind the cat stood an array of vicious undead warriors, some bowed with time, others spoiling for more ruckus. Evanne might have stood a chance with Hitch, but she had zero prospects now. There was enough mongrel in her to stand a few more minutes, but that was it.

  Dancing in the Storm swayed, perhaps in response to the gentle wind touching her flank. The ship eased farther out over the lake. The sun peered from behind the enemy’s vessel, touching Evanne’s face. She closed her eyes. Felt the cool of the wind and warmth of the sun, and thought, More than a few minutes would be nice. It’s not such a bad place to die, though.

  The Feybrind considered Evanne down the barrel of that strange ancient rifle. “You’re brave or stupid.”

  “I’m happy to be both.” Evanne glanced to the ship poised above them. “Does she have a name?”

  “They called her the Century Charm. The name is writ large on the hull. I saw it when I came for your fairy friend.”

  Evanne sighed. “A good enough name, although I daresay they should have called it Ship for Brains. Crashing into this marvel was a stupid thing and made the world worse for all.”

  “I don’t know.” Dancing Stars lowered her weapon. “This ship was run by slavers. They thought people were things to be owned, whether furred or scaled. My kind came from here. Dragons and fairies too. They might have looked like marvels, but the trappings of wonder do not make it less horrible.”

  “I’ve no argument with that.” Evanne rubbed her shoulder. The most recent wound there was healing well enough. “You look like you’ve had enough of a rest and are looking forward to another beating. Are we going to do this, or what?”

  The Feybrind half-smiled. “You’ve bought a little time. Time is such an interesting thing. A mayfly might see a day as an age. For the People, a week is as tiny as a second. The blessed weapon will hurry from here, and I will follow. I will get it back, and your efforts will be for naught.”

  Evanne nodded amiably enough. “That may be true. But it will still be a week where you don’t have it. You never know what could happen in a week. A mountain could explode. An ancient flying fortress could rise from a lakebed. Those kinds of things change the world. They upset all the pieces on your board.”

  “Perhaps you should die sooner rather than later. Your voice annoys me.” The Feybrind shouldered her weapon in a smooth motion and pulled the trigger.

  It clicked, hissed, then sighed. Nothing else happened.

  Evanne laughed. “You should have brought a holy weapon. The Tresward’s scatterguns might have been more use.”

  The Feybrind gave a silent snarl, dropped the rifle, drew a sword, and leaped. Evanne dodged the first blow, her enemy’s blade taking a rust lock, the hair wisping on the wind. Cophine’s summer dress, but she’s fast. The second back slice Evanne almost dodged, taking a cut on her arm. And a thought hit her as Dancing Stars half-smiled again. I have seen house cats play with mice, this selfsame look on their faces.

  Because they enjoyed it.

  Well, I enjoy things too. The blade sliced along Evanne’s ribs, and she accepted the pain as price of entry. It brought her once again into the Feybrind’s intimacy, where hot breath mingled, and she could smell the cinnamon scent of her combatant. No matter. Evanne got her hands hooked like claws into the Feybrind’s jacket and brought her in for another head-butt. Crack. Another, for good measure, and Dancing Stars had the good grace to go a little boneless.

  Then the cat brought a knee up into Evanne’s groin. Luck and fortune was with Evanne, as she kept her grip on cloth, the Feybrind coiling like a mad snake. She earned her own head-butt, ducking her head to take it skull on skull, and gave a third back before breaking free.

  They staggered apart, two drunkards on the battlefield. Evanne smeared blood from her lips, flicked her hand, droplets scattering, and gave another almost-shark-toothed smile. “Again?”

  As the Feybrind charged, blade high, Evanne thought, I hope Tarragon is far away.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Tarragon was on the wing, her tiny fists beating on the door leading to the ship’s deck. They did nothing. “Morgan!” The Raven was the only one who could open it. The queen bled quietly to herself, the spreading pool beneath her ochre in the strange, fallen light within the tower.

  The ghost-pale Big stirred. “Get me up. I can open it.”

  Yasmine flitted into Tarragon’s eye line. “You can’t go out there. The whole reason the Half-Made put you here was so you could get away. Run, and be free. Save the legacy of our people.”

  “You’re crazy, lady.” Tarragon ducked around her, darting to Morgan. The Raven Queen curled on her pain, no Vhemin strength in her, nothing but sheer will earned atop a rusty throne keeping her upright. “Get the sword. With the sword you can beat the monster and save the, uh. Save everyone.”

  Morgan nodded, and Tarragon saw despite her lips being blue, her eyes were fire. “A debt is owed. My… liegeman fell. I will bring justice.”

  Yasmine buzzed about Tarragon. “Your one chance to go. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Freedom. No leash. Blazing a path. Beating your own drum. Not living up to our expectations.”

  Tarragon thought about that for less than a second. “I don’t care about your expectations. I must get out there.”

  A helpful shoe box humped close, dragging Requiem’s scabbarded length to Morgan. The queen touched the hilt with weak fingers. Tarragon’s jaundiced eye said No way she could do this without a magic sword. Morgan got the scabbard’s tip on the ground, and using it like a cane, levered herself to her feet.

  It cost her. Tarragon saw how much, the sway the queen had never shown, the half-lidded eyes, the parted lips, the shallow breaths. She flitted closer, wanting to help. If only I was Big! I could help. I could really help. “Are you okay?”

  Morgan nodded and drew Requiem. The sword’s radiance bathed the room. White, clean, the cold of justice on a hanging dawn. She hefted the blade, the length trembling not at all. Little arcs of energy walked the blade’s length. Tarragon marvelled at the weapon. Such a sword had never been made, not by Feybrind, not by fairy. The very best mastersmith in all the world could toil his life away and never make its equal.

  Surely it was enough to best an upstart cat.

  Morgan faced the door. Raised one blood-caked hand, palm out toward the panel that would open it. Then fell, face-first, on the ground.

  Requiem clattered free. The blade’s luminance dimmed but wasn’t gone. Little arcs of electricity walked from the blade, dancing toward the door. Toward their enemy, as if the sword wanted the fight.

  Tarragon wailed. “No. No! We’re so close. You’ve got to get up.” She flew to Morgan, landing beside the queen’s head. The porcelain perfect face was still. Barely any breath at all escaped her mouth. And Tarragon realised, She thought she was going to her death, and she did it anyway.

  Yasmine landed beside Tarragon. The other fairy clicked her fingers in front of Tarragon’s face, snaring her attention. “Hey. Yes, you. Tarragon Greyflight, lost child of a fallen empire, all that. You must run.”

  “Never,” Tarragon snarled. “Evanne’s out there.”

  Yasmine relaxed, and gave a small, knowing smile. “She is your enemy. Her blood is dirty with the taint of the enemy.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Tarragon said. “Our enemy comes from our same house. Itikari made the Feybrind, and they fight us, undermine us, and are trying to destroy what’s left of our world.” She panted, trying to hold her anger in check. Hell with it. “Enemies aren’t made by blood. Lovers are not made by sharing the same skin. We’re all in this together.”

  “What would Helio say?”

  Tarragon checked herself. She knew Helio? “He’d have asked what the mission is.”

  “And what’s the mission?” Yasmine’s face was intent, something else behind the question.

  Who is she, really? Tarragon brushed glitter from her hair. “Save the girl. Save the world.”

  “In that order?”

  “Always.” Tarragon bit her lip. “I know it should be the other way around, but⁠—”

  “The world is made of all of us. We can’t save it without thinking about the people who make it.” Yasmine leaned close, conspiratorial now. “Tarragon, what would you give to save the world?”

  “Anything.” Tarragon looked for another way out. Maybe a hatch she’d missed? As her eyes scanned the room, they passed over something half-hidden, waiting, ready. A giant maiden she glimpsed for but a moment, taller than any person, mightier than an Artifice. A dawn warrior, armoured and ready, spear in hand, leaning forward with Yasmine’s intensity, waiting for the answer.

  Then, gone. Tarragon rubbed her eyes. I’m tired. That’s all it is. I’m just super tired.

  “Tarragon, would you give up your home and power? Would you cast aside the gift of flight, the grace of the wing, your very namesake, that of the Grey Flight, to save the girl?” Yasmine waited.

  Tarragon gave her wings an experimental flutter. Touched her hair again, feeling the warmth of her glimmer. Thought of Evanne, dying so they could get away. “I would give anything.”

  Yasmine smiled. Tarragon felt it, warm like she’d just walked into a sunbeam on a winter’s day. The other fairy leaned in, grabbed her jerkin, and kissed her. It was long, and warm, and very surprising, and quite confusing. Tarragon didn’t know what to do, so she didn’t do anything except feel … good.

  Yasmine pulled away. Tarragon blinked, a lot. “What was that for?”

  “Need doesn’t want for a reason. Also, it’s my last chance.” Yasmine’s smile widened, and Tarragon smelled new cut grass and spring flowers. “Let us begin, again. We’ll change a tiny thing, so we can fix everything.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The dead came for Evanne. The damnable Feybrind waited outside punching range, looking tired and haggard. Evanne felt a slight tinge of satisfaction from that. It didn’t overshadow her feeling of dread, because she was going to die, but at least she’d made the creature work for it. The damned shambled, in no hurry at all now. Lots of them, rotten clumps of ancient warriors with their mindless urge to end her life. She stood tall, the blood of a hundred cuts on her clothes, the weakness inside her making her tremble, here at the end.

  But at least Tarragon is free.

  Movement at the ship’s side drew her eye. More undead horrors, no doubt. She turned back to Dancing Stars, trying to come up with a good last line. “You don’t even have the stomach to do it yourself.”

  “I have plenty of stomach, monster.” The Feybrind’s half-smile didn’t waver. “You’re just not worth my time.”

  “I thought you had so much time it didn’t matter.”

  “I have a river of time and still I don’t want to share a thimbleful with you.” The cat’s tail lash, lashed. She raised the gnarled wand, her jewelled eyes gleaming with delight. “That’s why I have servants.”

  A roar from Evanne’s right, and she thought, Three’s mercy, but what horror has she conjured now? She turned, too damn slow, because she was exhausted, the Vhemin in her finally tired, but the human not ready to kneel. She gaped in surprise, thinking at first it some Trick. A new everliving warrior, a final blow to kill Evanne’s hope, conjuring the recent dead.

  Heser the Cheg, bleeding from every inch of exposed skin. Evanne’s mind, limping in time to the sluggish blood in her veins, finally clicked: he lives. He’s alive!

  And she laughed, because it was Uncle Heser, and he was alive, and he looked so very angry.

  Heser the Cheg waded into the ranks of undead before her. Standing against their wave, an angry rock at high tide, relentless. He ploughed toward Dancing Stars, who leaped at him. Her Feybrind quickness, that beautiful skill with a blade. Evanne reached out, all the strength she had in her, wanting to pull Uncle Heser behind her, because Morgan loved him, and he loved her, and no one should die but the Half-Made mongrel that didn’t fit in this world anyway.

  The Feybrind’s blade cut like liquid light, fast, true, near perfect. And she bounced right off, Heser the Cheg’s war cry a thing of animal fury, his own blade strong and true. She was trained and had lived a handful of human lives, but he was made to protect, forged of an iron that didn’t come from the ground. His sword moved slower, but Evanne saw how he was ready for the way the Feybrind moved. Heser met speed and strength with a thing he’d always had: patience.

  Dancing Stars sprang free of the clash, bleeding from a cut on her arm. Heser the Cheg ignored her, pummelling his way through the undead.

  But there are so many. At least Tarragon and Morgan got free. We both fight for them.

  Evanne retrieved a discarded, rusty blade from the deck, and met Heser on the battlefield. He slipped his back against her, and she felt the same strength as lived in Papa. She caught his smell for a moment, warm, honest, human. It straightened her spine, brought life back to her arms.

  She bared not-quite-shark’s-teeth, a snarl on her lips, and brought blade against blade, as she and Uncle Heser fought for just a few more ticks of the clock. She felt pretty good about death, now. The Trick of it was knowing everyone died alone but being able to lie to yourself that company cared. They battled, Evanne’s arms growing tired, but Heser the Cheg saw it, offering his blade against an enemy so she could catch a ragged breath. She returned the favour, decapitating a long-dead woman that wanted to bury a spear in his spine.

  It was nearly a dance. Nearly fun. Nearly a good way to die.

  Evanne jerked about in horror at a rumbling clank. The tower door behind them gaped wide, an ancient jaw too used to somnolence. No. No! She wanted to scream. Who opened it? Was it the witch, Morgan? She was the only one who could.

  The dead paused a moment, the Feybrind’s glee at toying with more prey clear. “Ah. And all this fuss for naught.”

  Evanne wanted to punch her right in the face, but there were too many living dead. Heser’s face was drawn, but not lost like she felt. He was built from materials stronger than castle walls. He would fight, no matter what. No matter how useless.

  In the shadow of the gaping maw came a blue-white glint. Evanne’s eyes strained. Too far for her Vhemin eyes to see heat, too dark for human eyes to make out detail. A body on the ground? Was that the Raven? Mimics, huddling behind someone else. A woman, tall, a silhouette that showed strength of purpose and arms both. The newcomer held a gleaming blade.