Myryntir fell, energy spent, his armour’s lustre gone. His mighty body fell against the stone floor, his and Evanne’s bodies scudding across the stone floor. They were done.

  But they were home. They could die among friends.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Geneve felt relief so sharp it was a sickness, a punch in the gut and a trembling of her limbs. Years beyond reckoning they’d lived beyond the gate, and now they were back. Meri, Ormeon, and Geneve were here. But the cost? Too high, because Vertiline fell.

  My sister in battle is dead.

  Meri and Geneve had shared quiet words in the other realm when the demons’ press abated. Gathered around what campfire Sway could make in that shattered place, Ormeon’s bellows breathing at their backs. She’d asked him, Will she forgive me, and he’d said, She will wonder the same thing.

  Vertiline was before her, wrapped in Armitage’s forever embrace. Her ghost-pale skin was almost translucent, the gory wound of her neck and red-stained armour showing how the end took her. Armitage’s arm protected her in death as he couldn’t in life.

  Geneve left this world, promising to return. Leaving Vertiline to hold an impossible line while gods and demons battled for the hearts of all. And she knew Vertiline. Understood the guilt and love that wound her around the axle of fate, how the Chevalier⁠—

  She is Chevalier no longer. Her armour carries the black and silver sash of High Justiciar.

  “My sister is dead.” Geneve tested the words, felt the truth of them.

  Meri touched her elbow. Nothing she could feel through her armour but she sensed it all the same. And she knew the look on his face that would be her undoing if she saw it. I have no time for tears. Not yet. “She is.”

  “I can bring her back.”

  “You can’t.” His words were carefully chosen, iron certainty under the pillow of care. “She has been gone too long. Unless.”

  She risked a look at him. “Speak, Holomancer.”

  Meri looked away. “I…” he trailed away as Morgan walked toward them. She’d rested Evanne against Myryntir’s side, the great blue dragon’s sapphire dimmed in death. The Raven Queen carried herself well, the years kinder than those without the Light could hope for. Her Guardsman Heser the Cheg wasn’t far; he tended a fearsome grey and black striped tiger. The beast was grievously wounded from a thousand cuts, but it hadn’t run.

  No, the best never do. They stay, and they fall. She felt her face crinkle but held it firm. “Morgan. What news?”

  The twist of a gallows smile touched the Raven Queen’s lips but couldn’t struggle to her eyes. “We won the day.” She glanced at the heaving form of Aterregis, the demon lord struggling against the Ritual bonds Morgan left him with. The demon lord was weak, the energy inside him stolen from people running low. He’d burned much in his fight against Geneve and had forgotten what the Light’s lash felt like. “So many fell.”

  “One didn’t have to!” Geneve rounded on her. “If you’d let me, this wouldn’t⁠—”

  “Hush,” Meri said. “She doesn’t know.”

  Geneve bit down, her words clipped. “I apologise for my tone. There was a moment before the dragon entered the gate where I could have brought Vertiline back. The Sway could have lifted her back to me. To us. But you wanted to keep the gate open. Too much time has passed. I can’t bring Vertiline back. I am young, but it would take more than my full life’s span to restore her.” Geneve shut her eyes, head down. Israel always counselled truth, especially when it hurt most. “But you were right. If I’d brought her back, her daughter would have been lost to the demon realm. Vertiline would never trade herself for her child.”

  Morgan paled, but her chin lifted a micron. “Matters were pressing.”

  “There’s a way.” Meri’s voice was quiet. “There’s always a way.”

  Geneve scrubbed red hair. “Sorcerer, I have no patience for might-bes and could-be-done. Speak plain.”

  He took no offence. “That thing,” he pointed at Aterregis, “holds a lot of starlight. They get that big by feeding on us. The Tome says it is possible, but the power ratio is … difficult to untangle.”

  Morgan glanced at the demon lord. “You’re going to use the demon lord to power a spell?”

  “Not a spell. There is no spell to bring back those who are lost. Necromancers resurrect shambling corpses, but it is a false life. Only the Sway can do it. The Three gave us the same tool used to make the world, but they have the power of, well, gods. Tresward must give themselves to part the veil. And there’s a lot of themselves… well, ourselves in that.” He pointed at the demon lord again, with more emphasis. “It will take more than a word.”

  Sight of Day slipped beside Geneve as if he’d always been there. Perhaps he had been there for much of the conversation, and she simply hadn’t noticed. {You can’t use Sway like you think you can. No, don’t interrupt. Just because it is written doesn’t make it so.}

  “And you know of magic?” Meri’s eyebrow almost reached his hairline.

  {I am of the People.} His golden eyes were sad. {You will need to use the Sway like an incantation. You will need to think like a god.}

  “I have no skill with words,” Geneve said. “And I believe as time marches, we will need more starlight. I don’t fancy another trek through the gate to get another demon lord.”

  “The gate is broken,” Morgan said. “I broke it.”

  Meri clapped his hands together. “In a way, this is good news! One less bad option on the table.”

  Geneve took in his aged face: the cost he’d paid to take his doom into the other realm. She looked across at the fallen blue dragon, and Ormeon’s head draped across his still flank. At the form of Evanne, armour battered, laying against his hide. Then, to Vertiline and Armitage. Back to the blue dragon, where the Knight Adept Tarragon knelt beside fallen Evanne. Geneve watched as the Adept straightened Vertiline’s daughter’s arms, then removed her helmet. Smoothed her hair and touched her face. She laid a small posy of flowers on what was clearly her lover’s lap.

  Evanne’s face was scarce a year’s difference from Geneve’s own, if that. Geneve considered the fallen warrior. Vhemin scales crept up to a very human-skinned face. Rust locks. Strong shoulders. “They always ask too much of us.”

  “The gods are real dicks that way.” Meri sighed.

  “I need an incantation.”

  “The best person to make songs of words is the bard,” Morgan said. “She’s… was good at it.”

  Geneve broke from their huddle and strode toward Tarragon. “Knight Adept.”

  “It’s just Tarragon.” The woman stood. “High Justiciar, I⁠—”

  “I am no Justiciar,” Geneve said. “I’m not even a very good Knight.”

  “But you⁠—”

  “Can you sing?” Geneve pointed to Evanne. “Like her.”

  “I, um.” Tarragon shook her head. “But I know someone who sees as well as Evanne did. She taught me how to stand right so the Light would come.” Tarragon’s shoulders slumped. “She’s very badly hurt, though.”

  “I can fix hurt. I’m having trouble with dead. Take me to this person.”

  Tarragon led her across the battlefield, masonry from the caved-in ceiling scattered amongst the dead bodies of Vide and village folk. Bits of demon lord still smoked. At the far end of the room, near the gate, lay a Feybrind woman. She was horribly cut, her breathing shallow and ragged. The Knight Adept knelt by her. “This is Sands Apart.”

  The Feybrind’s eyes opened, their ochre beauty taking Geneve’s breath away. I’d forgotten how wonderful the People were. She regarded Geneve but didn’t move. “Friend, I⁠—”

  {I am no friend. I was an enemy. Now, I’m dying. I’ve done what I can to make amends, and I hope it’s enough.} She took a shuddering breath. {Do you think the People are welcomed by the Three when we die, or do our souls vanish like morning mist?}

  Geneve thought about that, then hunkered closer to Sands Apart. “I don’t know. I wish I did. It seems cruel that we would make the world so very hard for you, then rob you at the end. But … the world is cruel.”

  {I like your honesty. Your delivery sucks.}

  “The Knight Adept tells me you are good with seeing into the heart of things.”

  {In all things except myself.} Another rattling sigh. {I couldn’t see the broken part of me that trusted a villain.}

  Geneve thought through what should come next. The Justiciars of old would have said something like, Give me this spell and I will heal you. But that was not what Iz or Tilly would have done. It wasn’t what Meri would have done. So, she leaned back. “I am going to make you whole.”

  {It will not work well. The dawn warrior tried with Sight of Day, but we’re … different.}

  “That is what makes you important.” Geneve stood. “Iz said we need all the difference we can find.” She reached a hand toward Sands Apart and felt for the Sway. //BE HEALED.//

  Gods, but the Sway resisted. Bucking and tugging like an unbroken horse. It wound around her hand, a snake seeking another path, but she held it firm. Gripped her fist, and focused, watching as the wounds on Sands Apart closed, the woman relaxing.

  Geneve sagged, but Tarragon was beside her, holding her up. “You are a goddess.”

  Geneve stood by herself. “I am no goddess. I like to think I’m not as capricious, for a start.”

  Sands Apart eased up. {You have the look of someone who has much ahead of you to be done.}

  “Yes.” Geneve brushed back red hair. “And I need your help.”

  She told the Feybrind what she needed, while the woman nodded along. {You want the People, who have no Storm or Sway, to help you build a spell to resurrect a fallen warrior? And you want to use the lost souls of the damned, held inside the demon lord, to power the spell?}

  “Yes.”

  {Next time, ask for something easier.} The woman considered, then half-smiled. {I think I have just the thing.}

  Geneve stood above Vertiline again. Her dear friend was where she’d left her. It was so unlike Vertiline to lie still, because she was unbowed by anything. Tilly had been more mother to her than her own. She’d saved Geneve so many times. Meri was there, and Morgan. She turned to them. “I’m ready.”

  “Then we begin.” Morgan straightened.

  “There is nothing for you to do, Raven Queen.”

  “Ah, here at last you remember my title. Fancy bending the knee a little? No?” Morgan shook her head. “You need a friend, Geneve. Always you have faced the enemy alone. Always! But this time the world will ask more of you than you can give. Take my hand. I will be here with you.”

  “And I.” Meri took her hand, Morgan on the other side.

  Sight of Day joined hands with Morgan. Sands Apart slipped a velvet hand into Meri’s. Tarragon took Sight of Day’s hand, and Heser the Cheg slipped between Tarragon and Sands apart. They formed a circle above Vertiline.

  “So it will be done,” Geneve breathed. She reached for the Sway again, feeling it circle, shy away, but she’d had a blue roan who was feisty and knew how to handle the wilful. The presence of Aterregis was a necessary burden in her mind, and she coiled the Sway about him. She breathed deep, then spoke the words the Feybrind gifted her.

  //In shadows deep, Aterregis, you I bind,

  As sacrifice, your essence intertwined,

  Grant me power to breach death's icy line.

  From your dark realm, I draw strength to free,

  The souls we mourn from death's decree,

  In our unholy union, reshape destiny.

  By your sacrifice, we break the night,

  Return the lost to the mortal light.

  Aterregis, empower this rite!//

  She felt the Sway surge, the demon lord shrieking. But she felt something else. The cool hand of Morgan, gripping hers. The Ritualist gathering the Sway as it passed through her. Coaxing it, sharing what she saw, and passing it through the hands of the ring about them.

  And then Geneve could consider nothing else because the Sway demanded its price. It hungered and howled, draining Aterregis. The demon lord shrieked and mewled, thrashing, the starlight a torrent from the creature to her. She was burning up. The Light of creation was too much. Geneve felt her skin draw tight, the years pile on her. How did Meri stand this? The gods took all, and then more.

  And more.

  They took it all.

  But Morgan’s hand still held hers. Meri’s, too. And around the ring, other souls, good and kind people, who knew Vertiline, but also knew her daughter, and their fallen dragon friend Myryntir.

  They put their souls on the line too.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Ormeon banked through fluffy clouds. The brief touch of moisture slicked her scales a more lustrous red before speed slicked her dry. Below, the land spread out, a beautiful blue-green blanket. I’ve always liked how it looks from up here. So … peaceful. I can imagine how all is well below. How the world unfolds just-so, my imagination making saints of all.

  A gust of wind tried to buffer her and she grinned red, trailing a little smoke. The house she sought was above the broken citadel where they’d made their stand. A scattering of people waved from the ground, her dragon-perfect eyesight showing her men and women of all kinds—humans, Feybrind, and even Vhemin snacks—fixing walls, tilling earth, building anew.

  The year since they’d defeated Wild Sur had been kind to the land. Dancing in the Storm floated once more. It was said the great sky city was haunted, but the spectre was benign. The tinkle of tiny bells and a hint of sandalwood and cinnamon were found in the depths of the ship’s great engine room. It guided those with a dab hand at the ways of metal, showing them how to stoke the great forges and Build anew.

  Cophine has such a sense of humour.

  Beneath the Storm, the once-blasted battleground was cleared. It grew green, the ancient Vehement Systems citadel’s cannons quiet. It was a place of learning, one of the last ancient libraries left standing, doors open wide to those with wit and desire. Or just desire. The head teacher had found patience with all, except perhaps herself.

  Ormeon descended toward the house, hillside greeting her as she landed with a whump. The cottage’s front door shook at her landing. A line out the back held washing pegged out to dry. Ormeon saw the vegetable patch was coming along nicely. A row of carrots would be ready soon, if you were the kind of person who didn’t eat a steady diet of Vhemin.

  Speaking of. The door banged open, Armitage throwing it wide. “Fuck off!”

  //HELLO AND GOOD TO SEE YOU, TOO.//

  “You’re not due until next week.” The old Vhemin was still strong, despite the terrible scar she’d given him across his chest.

  //I’M DUE WHEN AND WHERE I PLEASE.// Ormeon’s Manifest tapped at her mind, telling her food and kill it and enemy. She made all that nonsense go away. //BUT YOU’RE RIGHT. I SHOULD HAVE CALLED FIRST.//

  Armitage glanced up at her, snake eyes hard. “Did you bring it?”

  //CHECK THE BAG.//

  He strolled to her side. The saddle she wore had panniers, and he rooted through a couple until he fetched out a bottle. It was a new batch, fresh, and would need cellaring like all good wine did. Armitage rustled out another couple bottles. “Hang about. I’ve got something for the runt, too.”

  //IS SHE HERE?//

  “Of course she’s here.” He sauntered inside, and a moment later an older woman came out.

  She was ghost-pale, eyes the colour of the northern ice. Her platinum hair was grey, now, but she wore it well, as far as Ormeon could tell. “Greetings, dragon.”

  //HIGH JUSTICIAR.// Ormeon bowed, her head dipping to the ground. //ARE YOU WELL?//

  “Well enough.” Vertiline walked to her, and placed a hand on Ormeon’s muzzle, then leaned in. Ormeon bunted her right back, although very gently because while Vertiline was the High Justiciar, she was also miniscule. “You’ve come early. Good news?”

  //IT IS.// Ormeon glanced down at the keep, the tiny figures below, and the still-broken wall into the main room. //PROGRESS IS SLOW.//

  “Building with stone makes men and women strong. Knights must be strong to carry the Light.”

  //IT’S NOT JUST LIGHT THEY CARRY.//

  “True enough.” She eased onto the grass beside the dragon, care lines on her face showing time’s indelible mark. “The Three would have us use Storm and Sway to keep the world safe, but there’s another way. Knowledge lies here, and we’ll share it with all.”

  //I’M ON BOARD. SAVE ME THE SALES PITCH.// Ormeon yawned. //BUT THE SAFEST HOUSES ARE THE ONES EVERYONE’S AFRAID TO ATTACK.//

  “That’s why I’m training Knights. Not for them. For us.”

  Ormeon grinned. //THAT’S ALL THEY EVER WANTED.//

  Vertiline glanced up at her. “Riddles are tiresome, wyrm.”

  //FEEL LIKE TELLING ME WHAT BEING DEAD WAS LIKE?//

  “No.”

  //THEN I GUESS WE’RE EVEN.// The dragon considered the sky. //I’D BEST BE OFF. I JUST WANTED YOU TO KNOW.//

  Vertiline creaked upright. She’d paid the same price everyone else had to put things to right, seventy years now showing in her frame. For all that, she was strong, and her mind sharp. Her heart a little softer, though. “I’m so happy for you, Redeemer. When I first heard your name I thought it was all about war. A sword to wield against the darkness. I didn’t think it meant love.”

  //THAT’S OKAY. NEITHER DID I. THE MANIFEST GETS IT WRONG SOMETIMES.//

  Armitage came from the cottage carrying a small rectangle wrapped in oilskins to protect the contents from the elements. Ormeon considered the Vhemin. She’d seen the strength in him, but worried at his age. It won’t be long now, as dragons measure things. “Don’t tell him it’s from me. I don’t want him thinking I’m going soft.”

  //YOU HAVE MY WORD.// She sighed. //YOU CAN COME VISIT.//