“How’s Uncle Heser?”

  //UNCLE HESER AND AUNT MORGAN ARE BOTH FINE. AUNT MORGAN IS INTERESTED IN WHAT YOU’RE DOING TO HER KINGDOM.//

  “Aunt Morgan can stop hiding out in the sticks and come see.” Evanne gave an easy smile. “Are you well?”

  //I AM EXCELLENT.//

  Evanne considered that statement, the dragon’s tone, and her posture. “You’re lying.”

  //I AM ACTUALLY EXCELLENT. WHAT YOU MISTAKE FOR FALSEHOOD IS ME DISSEMBLING BECAUSE I WANT SOMETHING.//

  “Don’t dragons just take what they want?” Tarragon walked to Evanne, leaning close. “The rest of us have to work at it.”

  //DRAGONS TAKE WHAT THEY WANT IF IT IS DELICIOUS OR WARM. WE LIKE EATING AND SLEEPING ON HOT STONE. THIS IS A LITTLE MORE NUANCED.//

  Evanne’s smile widened into a genuine grin. “You want me to sing.”

  //WE WANT YOU TO SING, YES.// Ormeon stilled, feeling unaccountably nervous. I’m a dragon, by the Three. Show some courage. //BUT NOT JUST ANY SONG.//

  Evanne sobered. “No, not just any song. This kind of song will take time. It will be wearying. I’m not sure if I can do it anymore.”

  “Don’t be mean,” said Tarragon. The Builder looked up at Ormeon. “She’s been writing it for weeks.”

  //YOU DIDN’T KNOW I WOULD ASK!//

  “She knew,” Tarragon said.

  “I kinda did,” Evanne breezed. “Saw it on the other side of death’s door. Felt the wind beyond the gate. Knew the future, for a moment.”

  Ormeon and Tarragon shared a look. //I CAN’T TELL IF SHE’S TELLING THE TRUTH OR MAKING IT UP.//

  Evanne glanced up at the dragon. “You say that like it’s two different things.”

  //IT IS!//

  Evanne’s smile returned. “You say that like the Manifest has all the answers. It doesn’t. Let me get my coat.”

  //YOU DON’T HAVE TO LEAVE NOW. WE HAVE A WEEK.//

  “If you think for a hot second that I’m fucking walking for a week when I’ve got a perfectly good dragon right here, you’ve another thing coming.” Evanne sauntered back inside.

  //SHE HAS SOMEONE TO MIND THE FARM?//

  “She has someone to mind the farm while she’s here, let alone when she leaves.” Tarragon huffed. “Evanne is wonderful, but she’s not a ruler. She’s a leader.”

  The dragon gave a red stare to the Builder. //WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?//

  “Rulers tell us what to do. Leaders make us want to do it.”

  //THEN SHE IS A VERY GOOD LEADER.//

  The inside of the temple was quiet, warm almost to the point of being hot, but not unclean, and it smelled of nothing but baked stone. Deeper within the ancient structure, a geothermal plant still powered relics of a bygone age. That heat faded to a modest strength out here.

  They were all present. Vertiline and Armitage. Morgan and Heser, and they’d brought Pakhet, who was visible just this one time. Geneve, and Meri, her best human friends of all, companions through all they had struggled with in the demon realm, and before. Sight of Day, and Sands Apart, bringing a new tiny Feybrind into the world soon enough. And Tarragon the Builder, and Evanne the bard.

  They will do so well, Ormeon thought. They will remake the world better than it was.

  The humans were gathered in a rough semicircle before Ormeon. Geneve cleared her throat. “We are here, love.”

  //I AM … NERVOUS.//

  Vertiline offered a chuckle. “You’ve clearly never faced a dragon in combat.”

  Ormeon nodded, serpentine and regal. //I HAVE NOT. WHAT I HAVE DONE, THERE IS NOTHING IN THE MANIFEST FOR.//

  Tarragon huffed. “Ormeon. We all love you. Even Armitage!”

  “I fucken do not.”

  “He’s just saying that. We are here for you. For this moment. Take us in.”

  Ormeon nodded. //AGAIN, I AM HUMBLED.// She backed away and led the group through the cavern. It snaked about, but was still clean, growing warmer as they went, which was comfortable if one was a dragon and wanted to sleep on hot rocks. They rounded the last bend, and there was Myryntir. The blue dragon looked smug, and entirely too pretty. It made Ormeon swoon, and she was not the swooning type.

  Before Myryntir was a clutch of eggs. They were in many colours. Some red, others blue, one or two black, over there a green one, but right at the front? A single golden egg. Each egg was about the size of a human torso, which was an odd way to measure volume, but Ormeon was hungry.

  “They are beautiful,” Evanne breathed.

  “You are so brave. I’m so proud of you, bringing them into the world,” Geneve said. “You have done so well.”

  //I DID SOME OF THE WORK TOO,// Myryntir said.

  //IGNORE HIM. HE’S FAMISHED.// Ormeon looked about. Her friends. Here, after all they’d been through. This is the truest gift. Real companions, no matter whether we are scaled, furred, or have bald skin like baby moles. //THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING.//

  The golden egg wobbled, a small crack forking down its surface. Evanne walked closer and put her hand on it. “He’s going to be a big one, but also strong of heart. Does he have a name?”

  Myryntir’s head came closer on his long neck. //WE THOUGHT HE WOULD BE AMIR. THE WORLD NEEDS MORE AMIR.//

  “The world does,” Tarragon whispered.

  //IT’S TIME,// Ormeon said. //I DON’T KNOW IF I’M READY.//

  “No mother is ready,” Vertiline said.

  Evanne looked up at her, then put her tiny hand on Ormeon’s great foot. Pulled out her guitar and sat cross-legged at the dragon’s feet. “You’re ready. You know how I know? Because Amir is ready.”

  //THEN SING, BARD. GIVE US A SONG FOR THE AGES.//

  “I’ve got just the thing,” Evanne said. She adjusted herself, let her fingers drop to the strings, and there, in the circle of friends and lovers, true family all, with new dragons coming to the world for the first time in eight hundred years, she sang for them a song of the ages. The music wrapped around Ormeon, the power of it astonishing. A benediction, or a blessing perhaps.

  But a gift, from the heart, from one generation and species to another. To share this world with, forever, and to be stronger for it.

  In the darkest hour of night,

  When the world lost its guiding light,

  We rose above the shadows' fall,

  For hope's the strongest of them all.

  In fractured souls and broken dreams,

  A glimmer of a future gleams,

  With every tear, we'll stand up tall,

  For love's the answer to our call.

  Through trials faced and battles won,

  We'll find the strength to carry on,

  With unity, we'll break down walls,

  And rise above when darkness falls.

  In every heart, a flame ignites,

  A beacon in the darkest nights,

  In kindness shown, we'll stand up tall,

  For goodness leads us through it all.

  Oh, let the Redeemer’s song soar,

  A symphony of love we'll pour,

  Through every heart, we'll heed the call,

  To sing the hymn of hope for all.

  As dawn breaks through the endless night,

  All people redeemed by Light,

  Together, we shall rise and soar,

  And sing the hymn of hope for all,

  Yes, sing the hymn of hope for all,

  The hymn of all.

  THE END.

  You’ve finished the Copper Bard trilogy! We saved the world, and brought Geneve, Meri, and Ormeon home. If you’re after some more action with heart, consider my Tyche books. The adventure starts with Tyche’s Flight. An excerpt is included at the end of this book.

  If that’s not for you but you want to hear about what’s next from me, consider getting acquainted with my mailing list. You can get in on that here:

  [https://www.parrydox.com/get-on-the-list/]

  About the Author

  Richard Parry worked as an international consultant in one of the world’s top tech companies. It sounds cool, but it wasn’t all cocaine parties. He lives in Wellington with the love of his life, Rae. They have two cats, Harry and Friday, who chase birds. The birds, who have the power of flight, don’t seem to mind. Richard’s online hood is:

  www.parrydox.com

  WAIT. DON’T GO!

  Thanks for reading my book. If you liked it, would you share your experience with your fellow organics? Reviews are helpful to readers by ducting like-minded people to books they’ll enjoy.

  Review The Hymn of All at your retailer and Goodreads.

  FYI, an angel gets its wings for every five-star review.

  Also by Richard Parry

  THE SPLINTERED LAND

  Tomb of the Six

  Blade of Glass

  The Storm Within

  Requiem’s Justice

  The Copper Bard

  Heartsong

  The Hymn of All

  THE EZEROC WARS

  The Ezeroc Wars universe is big (and growing!). Get the reading guide here: https://www.mondegreen.co/ezeroc-wars-reading-guide/

  Tyche’s Journey

  Tyche’s Flight

  Tyche’s Deceit

  Tyche’s Crown

  Tyche’s Progeny

  Tyche’s Demons

  Tyche’s Ghosts

  Tyche’s Angels

  Tyche’s Fallen

  Tyche Forever

  Tyche’s Lost

  Tyche’s Crusade

  Tyche Origins

  Tyche Origins

  The Empire’s Rogues

  The Empire’s Rogues: Volume 1

  FUTURE FORFEIT

  Not sure where to start? Get the reading guide here: https://www.mondegreen.co/future-forfeit-reading-guide/

  Chromed: Upgrade

  Chromed: Rogue

  Chromed: Restore

  City Stories

  Chromed: Consensus

  Chromed: Delilah

  Chromed: Meltdown

  NIGHT’S CHAMPION

  Night’s Favor

  Night’s Fall

  Night’s End

  Tyche’s Flight

  A SPACE OPERA ADVENTURE EPIC

  An Easy Mark

  Grace had a day to live.

  Oh, sure. She might stretch it to a day and a half. But what’s twelve hours against your lifetime?

  Not a lot. Her room at the hotel was burned. The only thing she had left was her stash with her sword and a few Republic coins for emergencies. She hadn’t expected to be on this particular crust for this long. She hadn’t expected to be here at all. When Grace got caught, she’d die. Simple as that. Not getting caught? Harder by the minute.

  The Republic were getting close to her now. She could almost smell their hounds on her heels.

  Grace could certainly feel them. The excitement/chase/hunger of their pursuit; it was all around her. She stood in the warm air of Enia Alpha, a yellow star overhead, an easy 0.9Gs under her feet, and felt the coarseness of the silk material under her fingers. The holo said Genuine Earth Silk! This, like much of life, was a lie. Grace was used to lying, except she liked to think she was better at it than the merchant. To make a lie believable, there needed to be at least a hint of truth. The silks cost nowhere near enough good Republic coin to be from Earth; the price was low enough it called into question whether it was silk at all. A bigger price and the lie of the silks would, almost naturally, become truth. It didn’t have to be true; it needed to feel true.

  The only good thing about the bad lie in front of her was that it was like a disguise. The Republic guards behind her were hunting an esper, not a shopper of silks. An esper would run, not bargain for material by the meter. The Republic soldiers would have been told about the devils they hunted. Espers, they’ll take your kids in the night. Or, espers, they can make you do things. The first was an exaggeration, because espers only took other espers, but the second? That was truth. And because it sounded horrible, they expected the people doing it to look horrible. With a peg leg, or a scar across the face. They didn’t expect them to look … ordinary.

  The problem with the Republic — one of them anyway, right Grace? — was that they were used to being on top. A good ten years had passed since the Old Empire had fallen. Ten years was a long time for people to forget about the good, holding on to the bad. Folk remembered the Intelligencers as the first of these devils to walk among them. They wanted them to be the last, so — almost naturally, like the changing of seasons — came the witch hunts, where anyone with the smell of the gift was fair game. Cheat at cards? An esper. Lucky break in the markets? Esper. Your kid fall in with a bad crowd? Espers, all of ’em. The reach of the Republic was far, and their boot — made from fear and strength — was heavy. Fear and strength was why she’d chosen the mark she had.

  Her mark knew the feel of that boot on his neck. Nathan Chevell, captain of the free trader Tyche. If captain was even the right word for the owner of an aging rust-bucket. He hadn’t been on the winning side of the war. Not to say he was on the losing, either; her research said he was out the door before the real fighting started. Maybe a coward. Even if he wasn’t, he’d be easy to play; either the hero card or the guilt card would work. The important part was that this Nathan Chevell was good at his job; he ran a free starship outside of Guild constraints. She needed to sign on as crew. Find an empty spot to fill, or make a spot empty if all berths were full. He didn’t have an Assessor, and that was her path in. Assessors lied about little things like they mattered, and Grace had been lying for more than the ten years the Old Empire had been rubble.

  She knew — courtesy of last night’s tryst with a talkative Navy officer, proud of his rank, uniform, and alcohol choices in equal measure — that Nathan Chevell would be sent out to the back of the hard black by the Republic themselves. Because this Nathan Chevell didn’t like the press of the boot on his neck, he would argue about it, so she needed to give him a nudge. Make sure he took the job, and her with it. Then she could enjoy the trip, and the irony of being sent away by the very Republic that hunted her.

  Grace Gushiken let the silks fall. She needed her sword. It was time to get to work.

  Chapter One

  He would always remember the first time she lied to him.

  Nate was sitting in a spacer bar — not that it had signs saying Spacer Bar or Drunk Crew Welcome. It was the way it smelled more than anything, old engine oil overlaid with the unmistakable tang of ozone that came from working heavy machines or plasma cannons. Beer, vat-grown because out here that was the best way to get consistent results. Still, you never knew if some strain of modified soy was being used on-planet for your drink. There was also the smell of sweat, and sometimes, of anger.

  That last was typical. Drunk Crew Welcome wasn’t always a good thing.

  “Captain Chevell,” said the man across from him, Republic uniform starched so crisp you could shave yourself with the collar. It was a dress uniform, lieutenant’s insignia on the shoulders, wings on the breast, a bunch of other medals Nate was too bored to take in. The ID tag said Evans, which might even be his name. Nate didn’t care about that either, because this man was a piece of a great machine, and the machine didn’t care about names, only results. The uniform went nicely with dress hands, folded in front of the lieutenant. Fingers that hadn’t seen a blaster since basic training, not a callus anywhere. This man was content behind a desk, and probably good at it too. The Navy hat was on the table to the man’s right, almost like a barrier. Possibly a necessary barrier — the other man seated across from Nate with Evans wasn’t an officer. Not even close. He had muscles, and was wearing dress fatigues that said I’m always on duty, even in your Spacer Bar. He wouldn’t have finished that with asshole because Republic Marines were always polite, but he would have meant it. So yeah, that hat was a good barrier between the two: on the same side, but different points of view. “Are you the captain of the Tyche?” Evans said it like Teach.

  “Certainly not,” said Nate.

  “You’re … not?”

  “No,” said Nate. “I’m the captain of the starship Tyche.” He pronounced it like Lady Luck intended: Tie-Key. “Say it with me. Tyche.”

  “Tie. Key,” said Evans, face blank.

  “Good work,” said Nate. “You were going somewhere with that, right?”

  “Captain Chevell,” Lieutenant Evans said again, “it would be nice to hear your perspective.”

  “My perspective?” said Nate. “I’m not sure it needs a perspective. You’re talking cash money for a milk run.”

  “Exactly the kind of perspective I was hoping for,” said Evans. He brightened. “Are you willing to take on the job?”

  “Hold up,” said Nate.

  Evans looked a little lost. “You said ‘cash money for a milk run.’ I’m not sure⁠—”

  “Where there is milk, and it’s cash money, there’s always a fly in it,” said Nate. “Always.”

  “A fly?” said Evans. The Marine next to him hadn’t even looked sideways at Nate, not once, eyes straight ahead, jaw clenched. Or, Nate thought, perhaps it wasn’t clenched — the man might have had a jaw made of rocks and rubble. It would be nice if Kohl was here, because Kohl spoke that kind of language. But Kohl was off getting drunk or laid or a hundred other things he wasn’t being paid for, which left Nate here, alone, in a Spacer Bar that smelled of anger and Drunk Crew, ass hanging out, trying to negotiate with the Republic. A Republic who didn’t negotiate, which made it fun, and crazy at the same time, and if Nate was being his honest authentic self, like that holo kept telling him he should be, it was why he was pulling the tiger’s tail.