“I’m the one with the sword, though.” Tarragon glanced at Requiem, then realised, “I’m the one with the sword!”

  Yasmine flitted left, then right. “Being a fairy never stopped you doing whatever you wanted. I daresay it won’t stop you now.”

  “I was a worthless fairy.” Tarragon bit her lip. “I was really bad at it.”

  “And you learned to be really good at other things instead.”

  “Swinging a sword?”

  “That, and making friends of enemies. Finding love in the strangest places. You didn’t fit. So, you made your own way.”

  “Where is she?” Tarragon took two steps toward the door. “That’s all I need to know.”

  “I’m sorry we did this to you. But it was the only way. We knew we had a promise to make.” Yasmine’s voice was a little sad. “Listen and follow the music. Evanne is a bard, after all.”

  Tarragon sprinted across the deck, vaulted the railing, and headed for the water below. It was a long way down, and it gave her time to wonder if falling so far in such a Big body was wise. Then she hit, and the air went right out of her. She kept her hand on the sword though, training making her clench the weapon even as her body struggled for air.

  Requiem burned like a blue-white flare, water boiling off the blade. Tarragon swam up, kicking with those new, strong Big legs. Her head broke the surface, and she sucked air. The Century Charm was an ugly, dirty beast waiting for her.

  She kicked toward it.

  Inside, all was darkness, but she carried a burning brand for a blade. The music called to her, just like the fairy promised. She could hear Evanne’s heart, and the music that came from her, laying a gentle arm around Tarragon. She ran.

  Down a corridor. Left. Dead end. Backtrack, down farther, next left. Then right. A closed and barred door was no match for her. Two strikes to the hinges and a kick, molten metal bleeding from the doorframe as Requiem burned incandescent.

  A short jink right again, and there, an open airlock. Beyond, a hangar containing fallen Artifices, and two people locked together. Dancing Stars fought with the speed and ferocity of her kind, but there was something wrong with it. Tarragon eyed her stance and bearing, and thought, She has lost all hope.

  What she fought was a shadow. A thing of mist and starlight. Evanne. The maybe-Vhemin was cloaked in solid night, form indistinct, but she didn’t fight like the Feybrind. Clumsy swings a child could block. Stance all wrong. Blade held like an ice pick. Total amateur hour.

  But she wasn’t losing.

  She’s not winning either. Where is Hitch?

  Ah. The Feybrind had a damnable jewel that banished the spectre from Evanne’s presence. She held it aloft like some kind of hokey talisman, a damnable half-smile, or maybe a snarl, on those feline lips.

  That’s about enough of that. Tarragon didn’t much like Hitch, but she liked Evanne a great deal, and the ghost made her happy. So, time to fix the problem.

  She charged. Requiem blazed, hungering for the fight. Dancing Stars saw the sword, and the look on the not-fairy-anymore’s face. She kicked out Evanne’s leg, used the maybe-Vhemin’s lost balance as leverage, and swung her about toward Tarragon. Tarragon, who hadn’t learned swordplay from a rube, jumped the fallen Evanne, landing soft and sure on the balls of her feet, blade arcing overhead. It came down on Dancing Star’s upturned blade, and skymetal power clashed against Feybrind smith work. Lightning boiled off Requiem, arcing into an Artifice. The machine surged with a growl of ancient mechanisms innervated once more.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen. Tarragon wasn’t sure if she could beat an Artifice. They were Really Big, and she carried not even the single gold bar of an Adept’s black sash. The machines were able to defeat legions of Bigs, and she had no fairy glitter to blaze a path through armour anymore.

  The Feybrind slid back, blade in high guard. “You fight well.”

  “I’ve got a magic sword. It’s hard to not fight well.” Tarragon circled her. “You’ve no way out of this.”

  “That’s not true, is it?” Dancing Stars nodded over Tarragon’s shoulder, but the not-a-fairy-anymore didn’t take the bait. “You’ll fight the Artifice, and I’ll slip into the shadows.”

  They rejoined, blades sparking light and shadow. The Artifice grumbled upright, a distracting huddle of jerky, rusty motion. It sent vibrations through the deck as old metal cried a new dawn’s song. Dancing Stars tried to stick her knee into Tarragon’s groin while their blades locked. The not-fairy twisted, taking the blow on her thigh, then surged in, dropping her shoulder into the Feybrind’s.

  The cat didn’t fall back like a Big, because they were stronger than they looked. She slipped along Tarragon’s arm, close as lovers, blade whipping a silver smile toward Tarragon’s neck. She took the cut against Requiem’s savage edge and used the distraction to kick Dancing Stars’ shin. The Feybrind took the blow like she meant to step back anyway, form fluid, perfect, better than anything Helio could have done.

  They separated, both panting. I’m not as strong or as fast, but I have a magic sword and the Three’s patterns. That’s got to count for something.

  Right?

  Whatever, she needed an answer, like, now, because the Artifice was well and truly upright now. The targeting systems looked just fine as the arclight cannons hunted for prey. Which made Tarragon think of Evanne and spare a glance sideways for her.

  Not only didn’t she see the maybe-Vhemin, but Dancing Stars leaped forward. A clash of blades, again, this time with Tarragon on the back foot. Breathe. She was panicking, and she knew it. Not because she was fighting a master of the blade, although that was terrifying. But because she didn’t know where Evanne was. Would the maybe-Vhemin be crushed by the Artifice? Had she gotten trapped in debris? Was she unconscious, bleeding out from her wounds?

  If there was one piece of good news, the Feybrind had the common courtesy to slip the jewel away, both hands free for the fight.

  But still no Evanne. She looked the other way but saw no one. Tarragon caught a lick of steel against her cheek for her inattention. Reflexes, not patterns, kept her from losing an eye. She growled, stepping inside Dancing Star’s next thrust, trapping blade and hand with her elbow. They grunted, sharing breath, diamond eyes locked with green.

  The not-fairy-anymore smiled. Then she let the Feybrind go, stepped back, and wiped blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. And smiled wider.

  “What are you grinning like the town fool for?” The Feybrind’s gemstone gaze narrowed, eyes a hunter’s, assessing. At Tarragon’s laugh, her ears went back, every cat’s reaction to being laughed at. “What’s so damnably funny?”

  “This is.” Evanne stood five metres away, hand held aloft. In it, the gem that kept Hitch at bay.

  Dancing Stars looked at the jewel, then dropped hand to belt, fumbling in an empty pouch. “Nimble, clever, naughty fingers. I’ll have to take those from you.”

  Evanne smiled, nice and wide, then tossed the jewel. It flashed as it twinkled overhead, right toward the Artifice. The machine, finally given something useful to do, opened up with twin arclight cannons. The beams of red-white fury slashed the hangar, carving a hole in the wall through which daylight dared peek. The noise was tremendous. Tarragon had forgotten what the Artifice’s war cry sounded like. It was fit to shake the world.

  Motes twinkled like glitterdust in the light from outside. Sparkling remnants of the jewel silted to the deck. Evanne stood, arms akimbo, same smile on her face. She glanced to Tarragon. “Love, can you handle the machine? I would, but…” She shrugged, hand out to Dancing Stars. The cat bared fangs and leaped at Evanne.

  Tarragon whirled as the Artifice’s arclight cannons cycled, whining toward another blast. She held Requiem at cross guard and joined battle with the machine.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Dancing Stars circled Evanne. Her fangs were bared, but Evanne saw the truth of it. The Trick of ferocity that hid fear. Evanne circled right back, making sure her grin was wide and shit-eating. “You seem to have lost your way. Fighting the dead is harder than you thought, isn’t it?”

  The cat’s diamond eyes narrowed. Evanne saw the hot flush of blood beneath it, her Vhemin’s blood heat vision showing truer than a human’s in the flickering disharmony of light cast by the glow stick, Requiem, and that ghastly machine. “You are no more dead than I.”

  “Were it true.” Evanne held the lie close, like a friend. She just needed a little time, because: truth, it had been hard to one-on-one the damn feral before Tarragon arrived. “You want to believe I’m flesh like you, but you feel the lie as well as I.”

  The cat lunged, and Evanne tightened her grip on the cloak of shadows. The child’s toy might not make her invisible, but she felt ghostly, apart. Ignorable. And it was driving the Feybrind wild. The cat swept past, blade slashing air, Evanne’s footsteps lost in the cacophony behind her.

  She spared a glance. Took in Tarragon, strong, tall, not a fucking fairy, magic blade twirling like only the Tresward could, lightning callousing the blade. The Artifice, stamping and striking, beams of hot fire trying to rend the not-fairy aside. But Tarragon, no wings now, still flew. Wheat-pale hair wild, teeth bared, as she fought a machine as old as her.

  “Hey,” Hitch said. “Can anyone join this party?”

  Evanne took three steps back, then beckoned. “Come.”

  “I’m not a dog.” He took a look at Dancing Stars, his arms crossed, feet not quite ending at the ground, and she was reminded of the terrible price he’d paid to save the world. How the armour took the very marrow from his bones so he could propel a Tresward Knight into the final battle.

  “No,” she breathed. “You are a warrior. A memory from beyond time. One who served, and fell, but refused to die.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Dancing Stars’ eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t remember any of that.” Hitch glanced down. “I’m just a guy. I don’t think I was a very good one.”

  “I remember it. I’ll remember it for you.” She held out a hand. “Let’s finish this.”

  He seeped into her, the cold coming with it. Evanne felt her blood turn to ice, her heart shudder, then beat strong. The cool of Hitch’s gaze looking out through hers. The music that was in the background of her soul picked up tempo, found a beat, and surged.

  Dancing Stars closed with her. Blade a silver blur, wielded by an expert. Evanne/Hitch pulled free the cloak of shadows, using it like a matador’s cape. Confounding the Feybrind, a small Trick that drew the eye. Evanne/Hitch stepped close, blade of their foot sliding inside the Feybrind’s instep. A perfect movement, needed because the cat was bear-strong. They unbalanced the Feybrind, and continued the movement by standing in the place where the cat was, elbow rising to crack under their opponent’s jaw.

  The Feybrind stumbled, but recovered, turning the momentum into a pivot that brought blade back around. Perfect. They could feel Evanne’s concern along with Hitch’s satisfaction. Evanne/Hitch’s hands came up, one taking the Feybrind’s wrist, the other on above her elbow. Sink back now, calm as the ocean, implacable as the tide, putting their back to their enemy as they rotated. The arm with sword a lever, their shoulder a fulcrum, the world an anvil as they threw Dancing Stars onto the deck.

  No room for a break fall. Crunch. The cat rolled away, leaving Evanne/Hitch with the sword. The cat, swaying a moment, and this was the time to strike. They lunged, blade sinking home.

  It lodged in bone, the cat’s mouth a silent scream. The weapon tore from their hand as the cat back-pedalled.

  How’s it feel, fucker? from Evanne, and Be still, the work’s not done, from Hitch.

  Dancing Stars pulled the sword free in a sluice of blood. Evanne/Hitch saw the heat of it, cooling as it hit the deck in a spray. The Feybrind turned to the Artifice. “Hey! Here!”

  The machine turned its massive head. Hold, said Hitch, and Fuck what? thought Evanne.

  The Feybrind raised her arms, pulling the machine’s attention. Tarragon’s eyes, wide with fear now, as she struck a machine’s leg. The blade sliced through metal, a burning orange glow both on Evanne’s human and Vhemin sight. The Artifice stumbled, but those twin fangs hunted, glowing with promise.

  Hold, Hitch said again. His grip on their body shook, because Evanne wanted to run. Hold, if you trust me. Hold, if you remember me.

  I remember you. Evanne relaxed. I trust you.

  The Feybrind drew the eye of the machine to them, arms up, blood leaking, sword in hand. Backing toward them, bringing the ancient’s wrath. Evanne held, feeling terror, because there was no walking off whatever that machine would do to her.

  But held anyway.

  The cat whirled. “This is how it ends for you.”

  The machine fired. Tarragon leaped, blade carving those fangs apart in two blows before she landed. But not before they’d spat hot death.

  And turned Dancing Stars into a patch of whisping char.

  Hitch let their body go. She shuddered as he slipped free, then threw up on the decking. “I thought we were going to die.”

  “Artifices were not Itikari,” Hitch said. “I remember that much.”

  “She … drew this on herself?” Evanne wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then gave a pale imitation of a laugh. “You could have said.”

  “My way had more gravitas,” the spectre said.

  “Your way was for fools,” Tarragon screeched. “She could have died!”

  “A, you’re huge,” Hitch said. “B, how can you see me? Most humans can’t see the dead.”

  “I’m not huge,” Tarragon said. “I’m Big.”

  “That’s what I … you know what, never mind,” Hitch said. “Did you know this ship is sinking?”

  Evanne fetched her tattered cloak of shadows, stood, glanced at Tarragon, and held out her hand. “We need to go, love.”

  Tarragon looked at her hand. Then took it, her warm fingers sliding into Evanne’s cooler ones like they’d been made for each other. Evanne felt herself grin like an idiot, grip Tarragon’s hand, and head for the crack in the hull.

  Time to go.

  They made three steps toward the hull breach before the entire ship shuddered. Evanne stumbled, caught herself, or was it Tarragon holding her up? Doesn’t matter. The floor shrieked as it buckled. It felt like the vessel was folding width-ways, and that tiny glimpse of daylight vanished.

  “Ah,” Evanne said. “Not that way.”

  Tarragon’s breathing was loud at her side. Like, human-sized and audible, not fairy-sized and near silent. Evanne took a step, and her foot landed on something hard. She bent, retrieving Dancing Stars’ necklace. It was clear of ash or grime, a hint of ancient mummery that leant it a gleam even though its wearer was charcoal. She pocketed it, thinking of Sight of Day.

  “How did the cat get in here?” Hitch ghosted down the hold as the room shook, the vibrations doing nothing at all to him as he sifted through an Artifice. “There’s a passage this way.”

  Evanne pulled Tarragon after her. “Hold the sword up so you can see.”

  Tarragon raised the blazing brand of Requiem. They hurried toward the exit. Made the corridor, with blackness at one end. Doors were open, fire belching from one. No time to fret, so Evanne didn’t bother. She ran, Tarragon at her back, felt the hot hiss of scorching, then they were through.

  End of the corridor, and they took a left. A door flew open, a pale humanoid figure striding through. Hitch yelled, “Personate!” which Evanne ignored, getting passed by dropping her shoulder into the thing’s midsection. It felt like charging a wall, but she popped out the other side anyway.

  She glanced back and saw it following. And how’s that: the thing now held a sword like Tarragon held Requiem. It hadn’t held a blade moments earlier. No matter, they could deal with it if they made it outside.

  Water lapped Evanne’s boots. She ran, taking a right, then through a cross intersection, and left again. A massive door barred their path. She was going to turn back, but Tarragon pointed to writing above the door. “No. This way. It says ‘airlock’.”

  Evanne had no clue what an airlock was, but fine. They made the door, the Personate shambling in their wake. The handle was a giant wheel, which they both set to. It turned with a groan, and they popped into a smaller room. The Personate was behind them, hand on the sill, so Evanne held her dukes up, ready to give it a thrashing.

  Tarragon’s hand was on her shoulder. “No. You’ll die.”

  “Been there,” Evanne said. The ship shuddered, and the door slammed as the hull buckled. Half the Personate landed in the room with them. Evanne glanced at it. “That’s one problem solved.”

  “We’re sinking,” Hitch said.

  “Let’s get out then, hey?” Evanne put her hand on the outside hatch, and with Tarragon’s help, worked the wheel. Water sprayed from the seams, and a moment later it slammed wide, throwing Evanne against the back wall. She lay, stunned, while water fountained in.

  Outside was black. She took a breath, then another. Held it, as the lake filled the room. Requiem was a silver sun in the gloom. A piece of metal lodged with the water’s fury and barred the door. Tarragon braced, hair billowing in the water, and sliced. Bubbles churned from molten steel as Requiem cut a path.

  Evanne found her feet. Together, she and Tarragon swam outside the Century Charm. All was murk and misery, so she powered up. Lungs burning, she was reminded of how they’d entered the hulk what felt like weeks ago but was mere hours. Up, Requiem fizzing and churning the water, Tarragon’s face by hers. The lake surface above, a panel of silver glass.

  They broke it, gasping. Tarragon floundered, doing her best to tread water and hold the sword aloft.

  They were free.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Heser the Cheg had helped them back on board, big arms hefting them with ease. He’d hugged Evanne fiercely, Tarragon more cautiously, but she’d felt the warmth in his embrace, and realised the man was doing his best to conquer fear.