“Your funeral,” Evanne muttered.

  “Power,” Tarragon said.

  Evanne almost screamed, but kept a lid on it, tugging an old Trick close, her heart spasming even as she kept her face calm. “What kept you?”

  “Shower,” Tarragon said. “I haven’t had a shower like that in eight hundred years.” The fairy—no, not a fairy, more like a goddess—had found new threads also. She wore canvas-like clothing underneath gladiator armour, her left side plated in metal, the right free of steel.

  Evanne felt drawn like iron to a magnet and didn’t fight. She hustled over, grabbed Tarragon, and pulled her into a kiss. “You look amazing.”

  “You look like a rock star,” Tarragon offered.

  “A what?”

  “It’s a good thing,” Tarragon hurried. “A person who played music everyone loved, making them dance and sing. Thousands of people at once, all across the world at the same time.”

  Evanne looked down at her black not-really-leather. “It seemed right.”

  “It’s very right.” Tarragon slipped free, drifting to the window. “The ship needs power. The storm will have it.”

  “Why does the ship need power?” Evanne frowned. “We’re flying already.”

  Tarragon hesitated. “You know how when you’ve run a long way and you’re really tired? And if you have a small rest, you can run some more?”

  “I’m not really into running.” Evanne slicked back rust locks. “But I get you.”

  “The storm is like a rest. The ship will run some more after that.”

  “And what happens to us in the storm?”

  “Might die.” Tarragon shrugged. “Probably won’t. Depends if the arc conduits are anchored to the energy crucibles correctly. The lightfront catheter is probably fine because we’re flying, but it’s hard to know. And there’s the wavefront driver to think about too.”

  Evanne thought that through. “Those sounded like words, and each by itself carries perverse clarity, but you put them together in a weird way.”

  “We should find the Raven,” Tarragon said. “This isn’t a job for sword or string.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The Raven Queen was sick of this bullshit. Everything hurt, and if she moved the wrong way her stomach bled. She couldn’t sit, stand, or use the privy without help or cursing, so she spent a lot of time swearing.

  The deck of Dancing in the Storm was clear of bodies. Heser the Cheg had thrown the remains overboard, leaving a confused legacy on the lakebed below. The deck was left as a jumble of shanties and bedraggled tenements. She haunted them, looking for someone to argue with.

  There were no takers.

  Morgan managed to find new, warm clothes in her trips belowdecks. The ship was a marvel, but it wasn’t her marvel, which made her suspicious. The collection of slope-chinned fools lining up at the docks to the north set her teeth on edge. There were more than she’d thought lived in Hollyhead, which probably meant the imbeciles from Wandermere had joined them. They were probably her subjects, but she was in no mood to rule the resistant today. Because, ref: point one, everything hurt.

  “I should just leave,” she said to no one. The wind whistled in response, tugging her raven locks. She brushed them from her face, glanced to the storm brooding on the western horizon, and gave the clouds a half-hearted salute. I get you.

  She’d done everything they needed her for. Set the cursed souls in rickety furniture free. Became a target for damage. Fell in love.

  Morgan ground her teeth. That was not supposed to happen, and she would set it to rights as soon as she saw Heser the Cheg again. The man deserved better than a waspish queen who couldn’t show her true feelings in a court of sycophants. He deserved to grow old and fat with happy children at his ankles for all his long years of service.

  She rounded the corner of a burned-out structure, arriving in a small square. What looked like the remains of a fountain remembered better days, its small huddle of broken masonry a call to what once was. The shops about were mostly intact, except for one where the front had been caved in as if by a massive fist. A table and benches near the fountain gave an approximation of standing.

  Evanne was sitting at at a table. The saviour of the world, because she’d definitely been that while Morgan bled out all over the deck, was wearing new clothes. They looked good, which set a seething resentment right to Morgan’s core. I never look that good. Still, the youth had, well, youth on their side. Evanne had a clear bottle and two glasses before her. Glancing at Morgan, she winced. “Moping about anything in particular?”

  Morgan’s anger, which had been like backing vocals to this point, boiled over. Ice water lay behind her words. “I do not mope. I am a queen. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Evanne’s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. “Like that, is it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Come have a drink.” Evanne poured clear liquid into the glasses, which meant whatever was in that bottle was a bad idea.

  Morgan sat, but with caution. The bench opposite Evanne creaked but did not give way. Her stomach wound creaked in a similar manner, but also held firm. She grabbed the closest glass and tossed the contents back. The liquid burned like a summer forest fire. She bared her teeth. “That’s brisk. What is it?”

  “It’s an angel pissing on my tonsils.” Evanne finished her glass, then refilled both. “So, how is Uncle Heser?”

  “This isn’t about the guardsman. This is about the kingdom. About the people.” Morgan gripped her glass.

  “And so you’re going to leave Uncle Heser to return to Ravenswall.” Evanne snorted. “You dumb cow. He’ll follow you, because the chains that bind you have nothing to do with what you want.”

  “What did you call me?” Morgan blinked, because no one had dared, ever.

  “Dumb.” Evanne leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Cow.”

  Morgan rose, then stopped, because her stomach—literally—wasn’t up to a fight. She sagged. “This is not about Heser the Cheg.”

  “You know, right, that you helped save the world?” Evanne swirled her drink, then took another hit. “That you freed a cursed army of forever damned warriors from endless thrall? You had our backs, when there was naught to gain. You saved your people. They line up there,” Evanne waved her glass toward the north, and by implication the inbreds on the shoreline, “because they know a marvel has come in their time. You helped free this ship from endless torment at the bottom of the lakebed.”

  “This is just a ship. It feels no torment.”

  “It is not an ordinary ship.” Evanne shook her head. “It is alive. It thinks and feels. Eight hundred years ago it was stabbed in the heart and now it lives again.” She glanced toward Morgan’s gut. “Perhaps you know what it feels like to bleed but yearn all the more despite it.”

  “I said, this is not about Heser the Cheg!”

  “Which is a lie we can both acknowledge.” Evanne scratched rust locks, which seemed to have unnecessary levels of bounce and shine. “Or, perhaps it’s a half-truth. I don’t want to speak about Uncle Heser. I want you to stop being a dumb cow and own your victory. I want you to be the ruler of Or’sen.”

  “I am the ruler of Or’sen.”

  “Lies, and more lies.” Evanne shook her head. “You’ve been fighting with the fear of ruling since I first met you. I see it in how you carry yourself. In how you treat others. I’m fine with it, by the way. I think you’re a cool aunt. You’re one of the few I can be myself with. No Tricks.” Evanne glanced away, leaving Morgan nonplussed. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t like me. You have stood by me when no one else did, and I will be your loyal subject until the end of time. And I’ll be your niece. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let me be your ally. So we can save the world, and all the kingdoms in it. Like Or’sen.”

  “I, uh,” Morgan offered.

  “Sure, whatever,” Evanne breezed. “If you want to go, no one will stop you. But I could use your help. And I think you could use mine.”

  “For what?” Morgan felt like the world shifted, and someone was changing all the rules on her. This child was counselling her! It was ridiculous.

  It was necessary.

  Evanne leaned back, glass in hand, and considered Morgan over the rim. “Well, I need your help to save the ship.” She patted the table, which rattled alarmingly. “You need my help to call you on your bullshit, sure, but also to show you what being a ruler is all about. I know people, my queen. I know the inside of them, all the Tricks that make them work, and what powers their very souls.”

  Morgan was about to say, I know that already, and maybe it was the liquor, but she held her tongue. She thought about how easily her brother had seized the throne. How quickly people deserted her, despite the fairness of her reign. How the only people she’d been able to call on as her kingdom crumbled was a borrowed family half a world away. “Why do people not see what I’m trying to do?”

  “Because you’re too busy being a queen.” Evanne frowned. “I know it’s not fair. People are idiots. They have short memories. But I think if you slowed down a little, and threw a few more parties, things would go okay.” She put down her glass and reached for Morgan’s hand. Gave it a squeeze. “Auntie? You’re not alone, no matter how hard you try to be so. We’re all here.”

  Morgan didn’t pull her hand away. Her voice felt small when she said, “Why is the ship dying?”

  “Dunno.” Evanne let Morgan go and refilled their glasses. “I think it’s very old. Tarragon said words that made no sense, but the gist of it is lightning. She needs to bathe in a storm. Then the ship might fall to the earth, killing us all, or soar to the heavens.”

  Morgan braced herself, then levered herself upright. The pain in her stomach wasn’t so bad, thanks to the liquor. “Then we shall fly or fall together.”

  They were all here, even Pakhet. The cat stood apart in the manner of cats, licking a paw in an earnest attempt to appear like she was bored. Heser the Cheg angsted a short distance away, shifting his weight from foot to foot while trying to look stern. It almost—almost!—made Morgan laugh. But to laugh would be to disrespect this wonderful man who had thrown his life at her feet. She saw it like a tapestry before her. Difficult to know if that was the ritual magic or dawning realisation.

  Evanne had perhaps been slightly correct in calling her a dumb cow. But only slightly.

  Speaking of the waif and stray, she stood in severe black, instrument hanging down her back, and since their drinking but an hour past, had reclaimed her scattergun. The weapon bounced at Evanne’s hip, looking strangely out of place. When Morgan had asked what the scattergun was for during the ritual, the bard had murmured, crowd control.

  Beside the young woman was one who looked just as youthful but Morgan could see the long years hung about her shoulders like a cloak. Tarragon, reforged, sword at waist, green eyes cautious and curious in equal measure. Half armour for a fight, hovering protectively about Evanne as Heser did for the Raven Queen. Perhaps, like Morgan, learning to see the world anew.

  Tarragon’s gaze moved to Evanne, a hint of worry shifting green eyes to the blue-green of tourmaline. Morgan wondered why, because Evanne had all the answers, and knew how people worked. Was brutish in a fight for all her untutored flair. Called the dead friend and led the damned to salvation.

  Morgan felt the ritual shift about them and saw for just a moment the fear behind Evanne’s mask. Ah. She’d said no Tricks, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t lying to herself. Morgan remembered what it was like. Telling yourself it was fine. That you’d be okay. Wearing the mantle of strength to hide crushing uncertainty.

  The queen eyed the grey clouds Dancing in the Storm drifted toward. They had time. Morgan walked to Evanne, who watched her approach with a guarded gauge. “Sup?”

  Morgan reached out a hand, stroking Evanne’s cheek. “You said I didn’t have to do this alone. The same is true for you.”

  “I’m good,” Evanne said, and crossed her arms in a way that said, I am not good.

  “An hour ago, I thought the people on that shore,” Morgan pointed in the rough direction of Hollyhead, “needy. While we gathered materials,” she pointed at the jar of ink-black oil Tarragon found, and the rag Heser gathered and tied to a pole for a giant brush, “I thought about many things.”

  “Good talk?” Evanne’s eyes shifted left, perhaps looking for the exit.

  “About what it would be like for giant forces to destroy your livelihood, because that’s what happened here. Hollyhead was a fishing village, and now,” she chuckled ruefully, “there is no lake to cast a net into. They need help.” She paused, wondering if it was better to be subtle, then remembered the dumb cow line and went right between the eyes. “You lost everything. And you need help, too.”

  “I don’t⁠—”

  “Because by my count you should have fallen to the sword. Faced death, with an eye to embracing it.” Morgan looked Evanne right in the eye. “You tried to do it all alone.”

  “I—”

  “It’s okay,” Morgan trampled on. “We all make mistakes. I can’t rule alone, and you can’t sing for an empty crowd.” She looked down at her arms. Best put them to use. Looked at Evanne, and then, surprising them both, hugged her. Put lips to Evanne’s ear, and whispered, “It’s okay.”

  The girl froze, rigid. “I don’t⁠—”

  “It’s okay,” Morgan said again. “We’re here.”

  “But I don’t⁠—”

  “It’s okay.” Tarragon stood to Morgan’s right, then draped herself into the embrace. “Hush, love.”

  “But—”

  “It isn’t okay.” Heser the Cheg was at Morgan’s left. “But we will make it so.” He put a cautious hand on Evanne’s shoulder, perhaps not wanting to amplify the awkwardness of a three-person embrace by adding a fourth.

  Morgan pressed her cheek to Evanne’s as she imagined Vertiline might, if she was still alive. Tightened her grip. Held the teenager close, and gently, softly, rocked her. Evanne gave a small, strangled sob, the barest hint of noise before she buttoned it back up. “It’s just so hard.”

  Morgan nodded, pulled back, smoothed Evanne’s hair, and let her go. The adult facade was back in place on Evanne’s face, but her violet eyes were soft. Morgan said, as gently as she knew how, “I am not your mother or father. But I’m here, and you are not alone.”

  Evanne looked away. “I’m not ready to talk about it. I need to fix everything first.” She held up a hand. “I know. I’m not alone.” She turned back to Morgan. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  Morgan stepped back. “The best way for one soldier to live is for those to the left and right of them to do their part.”

  Evanne looked at her feet, then her shoulders squared, back straightening as she said, “Get on with the damn ritual already.”

  Well enough. They’d gathered for this ritual at a part of the deck Tarragon assured them was over the beating heart of the ship. It was toward the rear of the vessel, behind the massive Skyforge. All they needed was the storm’s power to go to this one spot.

  Which meant: first, the circle. Morgan couldn’t have told anyone how she knew it was needed. They called her a ritualist, whatever that meant. A vampire lord had wanted her power. Ritualism faded around cities and people but was strongest in the wilds. With strength came knowledge. The world spoke to her: a circle to hold the volume of the heavens.

  She retrieved the oversize brush, dipped it in the makeshift ink, and scribed a circle. Morgan took her time, ensuring there were no gaps. The ‘ink’ wasn’t amazing, but she felt it would hold for as long as it was needed.

  Thunder rolled, and Morgan smiled, despite the cold and her ink-blackened hands. We’re going to tie the lightning.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Evanne hugged herself. A passer-by, if any were idiot enough to be on this ancient ship in a thunderstorm, would have said it was the cold. The Trick played well enough to any crowd, but Evanne knew she was just uncertain. Uncertain of whether they should be doing this, or if she should be doing it with these dear souls. Not like it’s my choice. The ship needs this. And … it’ll be nice to make something rather than break everything.

  So, she huddled, glared, and waited for the lightning to hit.

  Morgan’s ritual circle was fifty metres in diameter, and they were safely outside it. Evanne eyed the heavens, saw the churning grey, and said, “How sure are we this is a lightning storm?”

  Tarragon pointed to the deck. “The ship knows.”

  “The ship is broken. It’s almost a thousand years old. It⁠—”

  Lightning hammered the deck right in the middle of Morgan’s circle. The pillar writhed like a giant snake, arcing from above to bury itself in the metal of Dancing in the Storm. The sound was tremendous, deafening Evanne. The lightning coursed on and on, a full ten seconds of power riveting the deck. She had the sense to shut her eyes, but the brilliance was clear through her lids. The air smelled of ozone and burnt metal. With some surprise, Evanne realised she’d fallen back and landed on her butt.

  Morgan capered like a village fool, clearly delighted with the success of her circle. Evanne was pleased too, because the circle was the only reason they weren’t charred corpses. She got to her feet, still unable to hear. {I stand corrected. The ship was right.}

  Tarragon’s hands found their own rhythm. {A few more of those and the ship will be right as rain.}

  The heavens rumbled, the clouds above churning as if stirred by a giant ladle. Another pillar of power struck, the deck thrumming with it. Another ten seconds and the shaft left. This time the decking glowed a gentle amber. Evanne pointed. {Will it melt?}

  Tarragon shook her head. {The ship can withstand dragon fire. Not that any dragonkin would strike this ship. This is like tickling her.}

  Weird, but fine. Evanne felt like things were going along just fine until a small splash of moisture hit her cheek. She touched it, fingers coming away clear and wet. She looked up, those heavens still churning away, then squinted as the squall hit. She stared at the deck, eyes widening. Morgan’s circle wasn’t even dry, and here was a deluge. Evanne spun to Uncle Heser. {Get clear.} She pointed to the deck. {It’s going to get super hot.}