Welcome to the club.

  Victory celebrations were subdued. Tarragon thought, This isn’t a party, it’s a wake, as she stalked the decks of Dancing in the Storm. She made her way without any particular thought or agenda, finding herself within the conning tower, riding the dais to the control room. I don’t know what is going on, and I was here the whole time.

  Evanne had slipped away, a last lingering touch on Tarragon’s fingers suggesting she didn’t want to go, her eyes saying she needed to. Tarragon wanted to go with her, but the maybe-Vhemin pulled the bedraggled remains of the cloak of shadows close like she was drawing the drapes, and slipped past the not-fairy’s sight.

  Morgan was a right state. Heser had propped her up with a view of the lake, but she looked like she was dying. She’s only human.

  Like me.

  The dais reached the control room’s level, and Tarragon stepped into quiet. No one lived on this vessel beside Evanne, Tarragon, Heser the Cheg, Pakhet, and Morgan. And maybe Yasmine, although of the probably-not-a-fairy there was no sign. Tarragon slipped into the control room, eyes taking it in. She’d been here before, but Big lifetimes ago. Over there had been where her favourite comms officer, Mandalay, worked. That spot was where she’d first seen an ensign walk into a commander because his eyes had been everywhere except where he was going.

  She crouched, hands on a bare piece of decking. This was where the fairy legion stood. A plinth used to be here. Fairy leaders like Helio surveyed the battles to come, and he’d brought Tarragon with him a time or two. She’d never felt welcome, a mascot curiosity for the Bigs to wonder at. No special use for fixing engines or toilets, just a peculiar aptitude for the blade and all its arts.

  Tarragon fingered Requiem’s hilt. The scabbarded blade vibrated in its sheath, spoiling for a fight. I’ve had enough fights for today. Tarragon fetched a chair from the pile of wreckage on one side of the room, sparing only a casual thought as to how they got there. She dragged it to an empty space, and felt it hum as the floor held it close. Minor magic, but it showed some things still worked on Dancing in the Storm.

  For now.

  She ran a hand down the side of the chair, then bent to put fingers on the floor again. “And who’s going to fix you now? There are no Builders. Not anymore.”

  The ship didn’t say anything. Ships didn’t speak.

  “Evanne’s gone to the Skyforge,” Pakhet said. Tarragon screamed, trying to stand, turn, and unsheathe Requiem in one movement. All her remembered patterns failed her, but she managed to hook her toe against her other heel and fall to the deck.

  The grey-black tiger sat on her haunches near the rear of the room, licking a massive paw. Tarragon stood, clenched a furious fist, and said, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

  “They wouldn’t have given me invisibility if they didn’t want me to use it.”

  Tarragon felt her heart settled from its panicked hammering. She swept her hair back, followed suit by straightening her shoulders, and glared. “There’s a time and a place.”

  “The time was now. The place was here.” The tiger showed a toothy smile. At least, I hope that’s a smile. “Aren’t you curious as to what’s in the Skyforge?”

  “I know what’s there. It’s a dragon factory. It will be dead, like everything else.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hmm.” The tiger looked away. “What’s it like being only moderately tiny?”

  “I’m huge,” Tarragon said. “I’m Big and ungainly. I can’t get my balance right. I don’t know what is going on.”

  “You’re not huge. I’m normal-sized, and you’re basically a dwarf rabbit compared to me.” Pakhet ignored Tarragon’s jaw-drop. “What was it like to kiss Cophine?”

  Tarragon’s mind click, click, clicked. “You mean, Yasmine?”

  “Cophine,” Pakhet corrected, but gently.

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” Tarragon said. “I don’t want to talk about it at all.”

  “Fair enough.” The tiger stretched, claws skritting on the decking. “I don’t want to talk about it either. I was just being polite.”

  “I don’t like it,” Tarragon said.

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “I didn’t want,” she gestured to herself, huge, monstrously deformed body and all, “this. I wanted to stop being me so Evanne could win. Everything was always hard. I wasn’t a good fairy. No one wanted me. Only Helio,” her voice hitched for a moment, “but even then it was… shame.”

  “This sounds a lot like talking about it.” Pakhet paused. “And also a pity party.”

  Tarragon stared out the window, waiting for the sick feeling in her stomach to go away, but it wouldn’t. She turned back to Pakhet. “I just wanted everyone to stop having to deal with the mistake I was.”

  “Hmm.” The tiger’s tail swish, swished. “And yet, you managed to destroy an undead army more or less single-handed⁠—”

  “Heser was there.”

  “By wielding a sword of impossible power⁠—”

  “Because Cophine made me Big.”

  “Best an Artifice⁠—”

  “Evanne was there.”

  “For pity’s sake,” Pakhet growled. “When are you going to admit you’re exactly who you need to be? This is the time. This is the place. You were put here to use your gifts. Now get on and use them.”

  Tarragon opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, then closed it. “That’s not fair.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m worthless,” Tarragon whispered.

  “There’s one who doesn’t question your worth. She needs you now. She almost died today. Perhaps she did. Vhemin are fiddly that way. She struggles with impossible power, and she does it alone.”

  “You were there with her in the Skyforge.”

  “I appreciate it may have escaped notice, but I was not built in a comfy, cuddly form.” The tiger lowered her voice. “Go. Perhaps the both of you could use a hug.”

  The Skyforge was how Tarragon remembered it. It didn’t stop her flesh goosebumping, or the hair at her nape reaching for the sky. The room was huge. From outside Dancing in the Storm it looked like a giant cylinder stuck to the deck. Inside, it was a circular chamber with a smaller, but still massive cylinder in the middle.

  The cylinder was dark. It made Tarragon’s heart hurt. This … isn’t right. Last time Tarragon was here, the Skyforge had been alive with golden light as they hammered another dragon out of stardust. Now… nothing.

  The chamber had massive, vaulted doors on each side. These weren’t for the dragon, because when it hatched, it would go out through the roof. The top would open like a giant flower. No, the vaulted doors were for other dragons to watch. Tarragon remembered them clinging to the side of Dancing in the Storm, fire or lightning blasting into the wind as they roared their pleasure at each new birth.

  There are no more dragons. I haven’t seen one for eight hundred years.

  Humming drew her forward. Tarragon realised she’d been gawping like a rube from the sticks. The humming was pure, sweet, and sad. A dirge made pretty by a throat that could speak with the voice of dragons. The not-fairy felt her heart trip a beat. Get a grip. She tugged her jerkin tight, settled Requiem against her hip, and stalked into the chamber.

  As her eyes adjusted, a dim glow caught her notice. The cylinder was dark all right, the mighty SKYFORGE 05 lettering on the side fading into the black above. But within the cylinder and the murk she saw a massive, clawed limb. It was still, of course, because it was dead. Shame. It was a blue. The blues are the fastest.

  The glow turned out to be a lantern held by Evanne. She stood, head bowed and pressed against the cylinder, free hand to the glass, as she hummed a dirge for the dragon. There were no words in the song, but Tarragon still heard the meaning. Fading of the light was in there. Tall as the sky was another. On and on. She felt tears on her cheeks but let them fall. To move was to break the music.

  And at the end, I’m sorry.

  When Evanne stopped humming, Tarragon swayed, caught herself, and put a hand to the Skyforge’s side. It was cold, as if it had lain beneath a lake, lost to sight, for eight hundred years. It remembered the cold of the grave.

  The blues are the smartest, too.

  She bit her lip. “That was beautiful.”

  Evanne turned a weary eye her way, offered a crooked smile, not a lot in it but exhaustion, but Tarragon loved her for making the effort. “I can’t help but think if I’d been here sooner, we might have helped another dragon find wing.”

  Tarragon slid closer. “This dragon died long ago.”

  “And yet.”

  Tarragon nodded and wiped tears from her face. “You would have felt joy at seeing them. They swooped and soared. Humans ruled the world, but the heavens were theirs.”

  Evanne chewed that over before offering, “You look amazing.” Then pressed her lips into a line as if those weren’t the words she expected. “I mean, uh.”

  “I’m the size of a cow,” Tarragon said.

  “No, they’re larger. Only a little, but still.” Evanne’s smile came back, sly this time. “What happened?”

  Tarragon thought, She hates what I look like, but said, “Everyone was about to die, and Cophine said⁠—”

  “As in, the Dawn Goddess?”

  “As in, Yasmine.” Tarragon looked at her feet, and realised they were but an arm’s length from Evanne’s. “It’s complicated. She wanted to know if I could begin again, and I didn’t understand. And I thought if I just stopped, like, being me, all at once, it might make things better. And then you would win, and not have to worry, and I mean I know there would be no more fairies, but the world is not for us, it’s all Big this, and Big that, and it’s scary. And no one has swords for a fairy anymore. And so. Um.” Hic.

  Evanne’s smile faded to black. “You wanted to stop?”

  “Because everything I do is wrong, and I feel wrong doing it, and when I try harder, it’s more wrong. Everyone gets hurt, and even Helio, hic, he died, because I couldn’t stay quiet enough, but you see he came back for me, hic, and then they got us both, and then he died. Hic. He was the best fairy. He was all a fairy could be. Smart, and strong, and could Build things. I didn’t pass my exams, and oh why I am I saying all this?” Tarragon wailed.

  “You thought it would make things better?” The lantern Evanne held flickered, dimming. Gloom gathered.

  Tarragon knew Evanne would understand. She got it. Like, how Tarragon was just messed up and a mistake. “That’s right. Hic. And so I wanted to just set that one thing right, and I couldn’t even do that. Now I’m Big, and the ground feels funny, and it’s a long way away even when my feet are on it. I can’t balance properly, and that seems so easy, right, but all the time I’m swaying like a big giraffe. And now, hic, now I’m ugly, and I’m even less use because I can’t even fly.” Hic.

  The lantern’s glow was gone. There was the small tink as it touched the deck. Evanne’s wonderful, strong hands that could do anything were in hers. The maybe-Vhemin’s breath was against her cheek as Evanne pressed her lips to Tarragon’s ear. The bard’s voice came from right in front of Tarragon, but it seemed to come within her too, like that humming had, a song that was without end. But instead of being sad, it was, what, a little bit angry? And Tarragon thought, Oh no, I couldn’t even die right, and she’s mad at me. “Tarragon Greyflight, you are a wonder and a marvel. Each day I can’t believe the Three blessed me with meeting you. You are the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Hic. Tarragon felt her brain skip a few moments of time. “What?”

  And then Evanne’s lips were on hers, those strong arms around her. Tarragon melted, and wanted to sob, but with release this time, but she was too busy kissing Evanne right back. She found the cinch of Evanne’s shift, and it was the work of a moment to have it free. Evanne’s hands were under Tarragon’s shirt, touching, teasing, tracing a line up her back.

  They broke apart, Tarragon trying to find enough air, her chest heaving. She wanted to say, Are you sure? But Evanne wasn’t talking. She was instead using her lips against Tarragon’s neck, and it tingled right into the soles of her Big feet. She couldn’t see Evanne but didn’t need to. She knew every line of the maybe-Vhemin’s body from that one glimpse at the pool, a map she’d carried with her against sense or reason, in case she needed to find a way home.

  They fell to the floor, a jumble of discarded clothing and limbs and kisses. Hot breath. The cold decking, of course, but Tarragon didn’t mind. She felt Evanne straddle her, kisses fire against her jaw. Requiem fell aside as Evanne unbuckled it. The sword clattered away, lost as Tarragon’s fear. The song she felt from Evanne, the music that she felt inside her at the same time, soared like the manifestation of joy.

  She wanted to sing. Tarragon wanted to cry.

  Instead, she kissed Evanne again, then tumbled her over. Straddled her in turn and pressed her finger against the maybe-Vhemin’s lips. Tarragon didn’t need to see to know exactly where they were. “Love.”

  “Love,” Evanne said, and nibbled her finger.

  Tarragon felt the smile touch her face. And she felt, perhaps for the first time in her life, like she belonged.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  It took time to find new clothes, because Dancing in the Storm was immense. Evanne just followed the music, and it led her to the right place. A whole section of the top deck remained intact behind the Skyforge, and in a corner was the remains of a shop. It carried clothing that seemed made of leather, but no leather lasted under a lake for eight hundred years. She milled about until she found a mannequin at the back of the ruin. It still wore clothes, one hand jauntily on hip, the other holding a guitar. The clothes were black, carrying gold piping and insignia on the shoulder etched in the colour of a burnt sunset. The guitar was still glossy, no dust clinging, and a fretboard with gold banding.

  The jacket was strong and warm. Evanne left her torn rags on the floor, pausing for a moment at the blood soaking most every part. Tarragon hadn’t minded. Thinking about that made her smile like an idiot and feel warm inside.

  Her fingers lingered on the guitar, because Uncle Day’s gift to her was ruined. Would he mind she’d found another? I need an instrument. She helped herself, and let it hang from its sling behind her, fretboard pointing to the deck.

  “I see you’ve taken to looting as well as piracy.” Pakhet waited for her outside the ruins’ door.

  Evanne rubbed the cat’s massive nose. The tiger’s eyes widened for a moment, then closed in delight. She bunted Evanne, which knocked her back a pace, but there was nothing but love in it. Evanne hugged the tiger about the neck, then planted a kiss on that huge nose. “The spoils of war, kitty.”

  “And some war it was. Have you seen the humans? They look wrecked.” The cat sniffed the air. “Something is different.”

  “I had sex.”

  “Not that kind of different.” Pakhet washed behind one ear with a distracted air. “This ship wants something.”

  “An expert on ships, hey?” Evanne scrubbed fingers through rust locks. “Maybe I can get the ship what it wants after it gets me a shower.”

  “This way.” The tiger turned, rubbing against Evanne in passing. She was ready for it this time, grabbed a handful of fur, and hoisted herself atop. No point in walking when I can ride in style.

  The showers were hot. The water came out in a torrent, clean and pure, and it tasted sweet. “This is amazing!” Evanne called. “You should try it!”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” The cat stayed a safe distance outside the stalls. “I didn’t get myself cut to ribbons and bleed on everything.”

  Evanne gave the tiger a little side eye, then grabbed the shower head and swung it at the cat. Pakhet roared, turned tail, and vanished.

  Blessed Three, privacy. Evanne scrubbed and scrubbed until the red-brown water ran to clean, then scrubbed some more. She ran fingers over her body where she’d been stabbed, sliced, and run through. There were no marks on her, not the human skin of her limbs or the Vhemin scaling of her torso.

  Nothing to mark her trial. Nothing to show for almost dying. She turned off the water, watching it swirl down the drain, then sniffed.

  The work’s not done.

  The command centre was how she’d left it. Stuck shutters. Piles of desiccated human remains. Music that wouldn’t stop but seemed to have more notes now.

  “Okay,” she said to the ship. “What’s up?”

  The music shifted, and with it, the ship gently canted to port. It swung as if in a stiff breeze, the prow nosing west. The shutters shuddered, then rolled open. Through the open windows, Evanne saw the township of Hollyhead. It looked like it’d seen better days, no doubt having its fair share of backwash courtesy of the Century Charm bellyflopping into the lake.

  Or, maybe it always looked like shit.

  There were people waiting on the shoreline. This high up it was easy to make out the few narrow streets were empty, all souls gathered to stare at Dancing in the Storm. Evanne mused for a moment. “That’s not what you wanted to show me.”

  The ship stopped its ponderous turn. It might hover, but Evanne doubted it was up to real flight. She glanced to the west, because there was naught else to do, and spied a storm front. Dark and moody, just like the Raven ninety percent of the time. Evanne stood by the window, musing some more. “You want something from the storm?” The music grew louder for a moment. It hummed along the decking, vibrating the guitar slung at Evanne’s back. “You want to go into the storm?”

  The music surged, then subsided.

  “You’re nuts,” Evanne said. “We’re barely aloft. And it’s a long way down.”

  The music played on, unconcerned.