Requiem.

  She stalked forward, and sunlight gleamed against golden skin and hair like summer wine. And Evanne, perhaps for the second time in her life, was speechless.

  It’s Tarragon.

  Evanne opened and closed her mouth a few times as Tarragon Greyflight, wingless, taller than Evanne, leaner perhaps, but walking like a storm front, stalked toward them. Requiem was in one hand, green eyes harder than glass. She called across the deck. “Dancing Stars!”

  The Feybrind’s half-smile died like an unready youth in a pitched battle. “It can’t be.”

  Tarragon charged. And Evanne realised the fairy—no, the human—looked at home. Because she finally, finally, had a sword in her hand.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Tarragon felt like a giant. Big legs, Big hands, all of her Big. Big, Big, Big. She’d lost her wings, and now knew what it was to look at a fairy with a human’s eyes. Yasmine seemed so very small, despite the tremendous presence behind her. Cophine. The goddess herself had kissed Tarragon, and then remade her.

  Now the world was different. The doors before her were still massive, but less so. The dais behind her was no longer unclimbable; it was her servant, should she choose. The mimics bowed and backed away. And the sword. Oh my, but it was a sweet length of skymetal. She felt how it loved her hand, the grip fitting her fingers just so, the weight of it leading her, balancing her, showing her the way. Tarragon knew this weapon was a Tresward Knight’s blade, despite it not being glass.

  It is not my sword. It is a sword I’m just … minding for a time.

  The blade glowed brighter for a moment, perhaps aware of her thoughts, or just doing what magic swords did. Her brain felt bigger, more ready for the challenges before her. The challenges were simple enough to see: a field of foes arrayed against Heser the Cheg and the love of Tarragon’s life, Evanne. The Feybrind—must watch that one—holding a withered wand. The walking corpses between Feybrind and friend where five to ten deep. A line it’d be hard to break, even with shocktroops.

  But Tarragon had a sword. She had trained with Helio and knew the steps of all twenty-one hundred patterns. No Smithsteel kept her safe, but Tarragon’s blade was a shaft of righteous fury. It came to her from the demon’s realm, forged by conflict, and delivered to her willing hand. While Tarragon had been tiny, Evanne had kept her safe. Now, magic sword in hand, it was time to return the favour.

  She charged. Wingless, but her Big legs took the battlefield in such wondrous strides. Her body was heavy, and Tarragon wondered if Bigs felt like bison sometimes. But the heft gave strength, and she gripped the bastard sword with both hands. No shield, but no problem. It was time to bust some skulls.

  When she met the undead, she did it with the first tender steps of Cophine’s patterns. Breach the Clouds was comfortable, safe, a soloist’s answered prayer to an army. She led with her left foot forward, blade in high guard, and brought Requiem down through shoulder blade and out hip. The creature before her sagged into separate halves, but the pattern denied her will to dawdle. She turned her right foot behind left, the motion making her turn an arc, Requiem’s blade singing as it parted air.

  Thunder roiled from the south.

  Tarragon smelled fresh-baked cookies, butter and chocolate on the wind. But she wasn’t done. She led the third step of the pattern to her next enemy, dropping her stance, sword coming down through the middle of her enemy, parting it skull to rotted balls. She stood, right foot coming up in shin guard as a mattock went low for her foot, the pattern knowing where she shouldn’t be to avoid damage.

  Fourth step, then, and be quick about it. Tarragon passed Requiem to her left hand, right palm pressing against a skeletal rib cage, right foot crossing before left this time, and around again, sword scribing a perfect line through the neck of her enemy. Its head bouncing, she moved on. Two more steps, sword back to right hand as it passed through a foe. Another down, then Requiem in both hands, striking three times through a giant monster of a man, both arms and one leg now separate from the rest.

  Which brought her to Evanne’s side. The maybe-Vhemin’s eyes were wide in astonishment. She had been cut a thousand times, and Tarragon felt fury, narrowed her eyes, and glared at Dancing Storm. The Feybrind was backing away, which wouldn’t do. A quick glance to Heser the Cheg showed the man was in the same state as Evanne, brain just freewheeling away inside his skull. There was work to be done, but first things first. “Love.”

  “Love,” Evanne agreed. “You were supposed to run.”

  “You were supposed to stay with me.” Tarragon beheaded a corpse that got to close. “Heser. Are you well?”

  “I am well,” the guardsman said. “You?”

  “I wonder if I will pass out from the thinner air at this altitude, but otherwise I’m fine.” Tarragon touched Evanne’s face. “Behind me, now.”

  “You’re a Knight?”

  “There is no Storm. I’m just angry.” Tarragon turned, and levelled Requiem, pointing the blade beyond the undead horde, the tip toward Dancing Stars. “Let’s talk.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  It was ogling Tarragon that got Evanne into trouble.

  In her defence, the not-fairy-anymore was glorious. Tall, and strong, but all the other things she used to be, which is what made Evanne ogle. Angel face, check. Honey-brown skin, double check. Eyes green as the deeps, pure as jade, checkity check. And the long, lustrous, wheat-pale hair. The hair! It begged Evanne’s fingers to run through it.

  In none of the ballads she’d read had Evanne heard of the brave warrior being dumbstruck by his lady love during the heat of clashing blades. It was an important part of research they’d left out, and here she was, surrounded by shambling corpses, battle sound thick about her, and Evanne let her guard lower, goggling.

  Heser shoulder-charged her, knocking her across the deck, where she flopped in a pile of limbs and lamb eyes. He took the pike swing meant for her head on the crossguard of his sword, kicked the legs out from under the corpse that tried to make her join them, and gave her a look rich with repressed condescension. She wanted to say something like, I had that, but he was already moving on.

  It made her feel cold, because she hadn’t had it, and the pike swing would have hit her head, which was the end of the line.

  Evanne lost her sword in the trip from standing to sprawling but had shored up next to her guitar. It lay, glinting, and if it could speak, she imagined it would say, You suck with a sword, but you play fine. Lay some phat chords down.

  She grabbed it, and stood, throwing its sling about her shoulders. The first strings she touched were surprisingly in tune, and she offered silent thanks to whichever ancient luthier put it together. She straightened her shoulders, stuck her hips forward, and brought her hand down on the strings. The note was full of curry, a little evangelism for her team, a wing beat to lift the soul. Heser surged in time with the music, while Tarragon paused, finding her way among the tune before attacking with renewed vigour.

  Heser and Tarragon, warriors so grand,

  With honour and valour, you'll make your stand.

  Let the clash of your swords write your legendary story,

  A testament to skill, courage, and glory.

  Insufficient. I need something better—there are so many dead. She cast about for who they were, the souls that lingered above the remains, hoping for a repeat of the trick she’d used with Gabriel at the ancients’ healing temple. Her music wound about their feet, seeking a home, a heart to call to.

  Nothing. It was like playing to an empty room. No Trick she had found a response, and her music wandered, aimless.

  She tossed a few more chords at the feet of her companions, while backing up a little, buying her some space to think. The undead continued to clamber over the railing, numbers growing even as Tarragon put more down. This would end in the inevitable way. Dancing Stars’ half-smile found Evanne across the battlefield.

  Tarragon stumbled, took a cut to the arm, and cried out as red blood splashed. She seemed surprised, as if still expecting golden gilt to seep from her wounds. Evanne saw the moment her balance faltered, thought about what Mama would have said, all straighten that arm and your head is half a centimetre out of true. Tarragon was wrestling with her body, used to the world in miniature, and she lacked balance.

  I can fix that.

  Evanne leaned over her guitar, closed her eyes, and thought of Tarragon. It wasn’t hard, because she’d thought of the fairy most every moment in the past weeks. It was easy to imagine how she stood, and how she should stand, where those wonderful legs should be (if not entangled with Evanne’s … focus, dammit!), and how the Trick of it should beckon her to her true self.

  I have it. Evanne played, not a heavy riff that demanded rage and power, but the flowing, wondrous walk she knew Tarragon had. The way Mama stood, as if the world were naught but her equal, and how sure she was of her place in it.

  With grace in your step and fire in your eyes,

  Stand as a warrior, ready to rise.

  Hold your blade with purpose, strong and true,

  Your beauty and skill, Tarragon, they both grew.

  Stand tall, like the ancient oaks so grand,

  With roots deep in the earth, take your stand.

  For in your strength, I see your true self shine,

  A wondrous beauty in your battle's line.

  Your skill, a masterpiece, a work of art,

  A sword in your hand, a warrior's heart.

  With every move, your spirit takes flight,

  Embrace your stance and unleash your might.

  Thunder rolled. Evanne opened her eyes and saw Tarragon storming with fairy grace and human power. The magic blade Requiem led where needed, followed where commanded, flashing and burning through steel and corpse flesh alike. Ice rimed the ship’s railing, and the air gathered close as if to listen.

  Three’s Mercy. She is calling the Storm.

  Well, fine. Time to get the dead to back down. Their lack of souls meant difficult times ahead, and Evanne couldn’t call to something without a soul, so…

  Wait a minute.

  The problem wasn’t the dead, but the magic hauling them about. It wasn’t necromancy, not quite, more like … a puppet show. They were easy to cut down, even Evanne could do it. Nothing guided their swings but the crooked wand in Dancing Stars’ hand. If I can get some souls back in those bodies, this musical will end differently.

  Evanne hunkered beside a ruined wall, eyes finding the Feybrind’s. She offered her best platinum solar smile, raised her hand, and struck three chords in quick succession. The music didn’t seep about her feet or find the army before her. It wandered over the railing, down the side of the ship, and across the land below. It called to the souls of the lost. Evanne felt resistance, snarled, and hauled on her guitar strings. They vibrated, wanting to play out of true, and she crooned to the instrument. Just a little more. Her breath frosted before her as she stood half in the land beyond life.

  Evanne sang for the forsaken, and some answered.

  Then she screamed in agony, because Dancing Stars’ throwing knife severed her ring finger where it pressed on the fret board. Strings snapped, and her finger fell to the deck.

  The music stopped, but the soulless dead didn’t.

  Chapter Fifty

  I feel so warm. I feel like Evanne is holding me.

  Tarragon was too new at the whole ‘being Big’ game to know if it was the best decision she’d ever made. When Yasmine asked her if she wanted to give everything up, she’d thought it meant her life. One put on the scales to balance out another. Turned out, Yasmine meant giving up being a fairy. Flight. Glitter. Being a reactor technician⁠—

  I never passed my exams. I was never an engineer.

  —Or being able to walk in a lake of fire without a concern. Now she had Big legs, and Big arms, and a Big head of hair. She hadn’t found a mirror in the distance between the past and now to check herself, but Tarragon wondered if everything was still in proportion.

  I liked my nose. It was a good nose.

  Without wings for balance or the gift of flight, she felt ungainly, but strong, like a mammoth. A horror of shambling rotted meat came at her with insistent mindlessness, so she punched its skull clean off its neck. With a wet pop, the skull broke free, hit the deck, and rolled. She crouched, rose, and sliced Requiem up through the creature, leaving both halves to land in separate harmless piles.

  Evanne made that possible.

  The maybe-Vhemin had wrapped her in song, cloaked her in music, and put those warm, strong hands on Tarragon’s shoulders. The once-fairy felt her footsteps guided just so, her stance held upright, and felt the truth of how a Big should move. The sword sang in her hands, the steel chiming and humming along with Evanne’s tune. It was a wonder not even the ancients could have made.

  The Feybrind still had the damnable wand. Tarragon bulled on, trying to make it to the cat, but Dancing Stars was both agile and nobody’s fool. Tarragon caught the moment where Dancing Stars realised where the lift in Heser the Cheg’s steps came from, and what guided Tarragon’s long-limbed strides. The cat whipped out a dagger and tossed it.

  If there was a saving grace, it was the melee. There were so many undead warriors on the deck a clean shot was impossible. The knife cut Evanne’s finger, not her throat.

  And the music stopped.

  Tarragon stumbled, and for a moment she wondered if she was doomed to always need music to walk right. Evanne stood, right hand over left. It looked like she was holding her severed finger back in place, but also in pain, those delicious-looking teeth clenched, guitar dangling at her side, cut strings waving in the wind. Tarragon took three perfect steps toward her. Thunder roiled behind her, a gentle chiding from the Three, and she stopped.

  I could go to Evanne. I must go to Evanne. But the Feybrind will send more against us.

  Hope arrived, pale as the dawn. Swaying her way along the deck, a rudderless ship with no captain, stumbled the Raven. Her once-porcelain face was ashen, her clothes dark with lifeblood. Her eyes were locked on Heser the Cheg. Tarragon looked to the shadowy depths of the tower. The mimics huddled, fearing the sun. The once-fairy spun twice, her blade taking the heads from five enemies and buying her a little room. “Morgan!”

  “I see beyond the veil.” The queen’s eyes slid sideways to Tarragon. “My love is a reanimated corpse.”

  “Great! But that’s not what’s happened.” Tarragon cut another down. “Can you do something about the mimics? The light hurts them.”

  Morgan drew into herself, hunching. The motion didn’t look natural on one so used to straight backs and imperious glances. Like the thing holding her up broke, and she couldn’t quite glue it back together.

  Evanne still clutched her hands together but was standing taller. The maybe-Vhemin headed for the queen, words cast ahead like a red carpet. “Morgan. You’ve been chained to a throne your whole life without realising you’re a prisoner.” There was music in the words, a resonance in her tone that Tarragon could listen to for hours. “You have a chance to spare others from their eternal fate.” Her throat worked, and Tarragon used the time to kill more monsters. She caught Heser the Cheg’s eye. The man faltered, human at the last, but refused to kneel. She wanted to give him comfort, to hold him, to say it would be all right. The guardsman righted himself as if Tarragon’s glance was all he needed, straight-armed a corpse, and also charted a course toward Morgan.

  “I don’t know if I can.” Morgan looked back at the mimics. “I don’t know how.”

  “It’s easy.” Evanne made it to her side. She touched bloody fingers to the Raven’s chin, tilting it up. //SET THEM FREE.//

  Morgan relaxed, and the wind sighed. Tarragon held the line, her magic sword a brand as a tempest drew a cloak across the sky. Lightning crackled in the heavens, and thunder shook the air. She cut down all those who came against her. The ones that passed her met Heser’s blade. Behind them, the maybe-Vhemin crouched beside Morgan. Lips to the queen’s ear, encouragement or counsel Tarragon couldn’t tell.

  The queen drew a circle about her in bloody ink. Stood, arms high. Screamed, her voice a raven’s caw.

  The battlefield stilled. The Feybrind’s hand on the wand was still firm, but the cat’s diamond eyes narrowed as she watched, concentration lapsing a moment. Behind Morgan, the mimics still clustered, still anxious. Then they stilled. An armoire rocked on wooden feet, then toppled. A suitcase snapped shut, leather buckles still and lifeless. One after the other, life left them.

  Not life. They were never alive. Time borrowed against a debt, repayment well paid.

  Evanne stood, whirled, violet snake eyes alive. She spared a grin for Tarragon, and the once-fairy felt warm all over again. Then Evanne faced Dancing Stars and wiggled her fingers. “That was a neat trick with the knife. You’ve cut my strings, so now I’m free. I can still dance without them.”

  She raised her voice to the wind, singing counterpoint to the thunder. Tarragon took a step toward her. She felt enchanted, her heart beating faster, sword lowered. The maybe-Vhemin’s song made no sense. //MARGARET. TIMOTHY. STANLEY AND BERNARD. IMOGEN. ANDREW. CALYPSO AND CALLIOPE.// And Tarragon realised while it sounded like music, it was a plea.

  The mimics. She’s learned their names.

  The bodies nearest Dancing Stars shuddered, as if two sets of marionette strings pulled in different directions. Ghost-pale shapes Tarragon couldn’t see clearly slipped inside the long-dead husks. They’d animated luggage for hundreds of years. Controlling a body that once was human was a cinch for them.

  The undead legion tottered, then rounded on the Feybrind. The cat’s diamond eyes widened, and she threatened the host with the wand.

  It didn’t have any effect. The cat danced back. “A cunning trick. Time to regroup. There will be another time.”