Deep Magic. Fourth Collection

6,800 Words

LINA HAD LEFT the war long behind her. That’s what she told herself, anyway. Especially on nights like this when dusk fell through the open doors of the smithy and the fire blazed in the forge and in her blood. But the crash of her hammer against the metal was too like the clamor of battle, and the memories kept flooding back.

The pulse of the fight, the tang of blood in the air. Friends bleeding and dying, both fae and human, their lifeless bodies strewn across the field. Such pointless, wretched loss. She swung the hammer again, hoping to drive out the pain and forget herself in the work. To forget their naivety— her naivety—in believing that peace could come so easily. The oathbinding magic was certainly rare and powerful. But no promise made to one foolish half-blood fairy could end the simmering tension between the two countries as quickly as it ended the actual battles. If only she’d—

“Lina-smith,” a bright voice called from the doorway.

Lina shook herself from the memories and turned around, a practiced smile covering her thoughts. “Seelah,” she greeted with false cheer. “How are you this evening? How’s the newest grandchild?”

“Delightful, of course,” Seelah said, beaming as she bustled in. She dropped her basket on a table and eased herself onto a stool. “Oh, but don’t let me stop you”—she gestured for Lina to keep working—“I’m just here to have a little rest.”

Lina chuckled to herself and stoked the fire again, enjoying the distraction; a “little rest” meant Seelah had gossip to share.

“You’ll never guess what I heard today,” Seelah began, pausing to speak between the clangs of Lina’s hammer. “Jinnel was arguing with her husband—well, you know that’s nothing new—but she brought up her great-aunt, and she threatened to head off there and stay with her for good. And then he . . .”

Lina let the stream of words wash over her, Seelah’s voice a soothing reminder of the peace that Lina had fought and killed and sacrificed to protect.

“. . . So I thought I would drop by some soup tomorrow and just check in on her. Would you care to join me?”

Lina snapped out of her thoughts again. “Oh, um, yes. Always glad to lend a hand,” she replied. “Come by tomorrow at dusk?”

Seelah agreed but lingered, waiting.

In answer to the unspoken question, Lina smiled wanly. “I’d invite you over tonight for tea, but I’m exhausted. It’s straight to bed for me.” She looked toward the open doors. “Must be the cold weather coming, always makes me sleepy.”

Seelah picked up her basket to go. “Another time, then. I do enjoy our chats by the fire.”

“I do too,” Lina said, and she meant it.

Maybe it was time to move on, though. She’d been living in Solime for years, getting too comfortable in her role, playing the friendly grandmother maybe a little too well. She was bound to accidentally reveal something true about herself, make a mistake she couldn’t afford.

Or maybe she was just getting old; her hair was more gray than black now, and though smithing had kept her strong, it was getting harder to creak out of bed in the mornings. Maybe it was just natural that she was restless and thought more about the war these days, as she was drawing near to leaving everything behind for good. She’d played her part for as long as she could, but she couldn’t avoid the end forever.

Lina stepped back from the forge and surveyed her smithy—a few small worktables, stacks and buckets of scrap metal, projects and tools hanging from the ceiling and lining the walls. A good place. A place to forget and be forgotten.

She stripped the heavy leather gloves from her fingers and stretched her hands, easing their tired muscles and massaging the scars that crossed her palms. She’d amassed more burns and cuts than she could count. She rolled her shoulders to release the strain of hours bent over her work. A cold breeze blew in through the doors, and she welcomed the chill. She was right—the weather was cooling. There would be snow soon.

She raked the coals from the fire, set them to cooling, and made sure her tools were put away for the night. With everything in its place, Lina closed the shutters over her window and took one of her smaller hammers down from the wall; being a blacksmith meant that no one thought it odd for her to walk around with weaponry. She latched the door shut, dropping a small nail in the dirt so it leaned carelessly against the door. The actions had become automatic, almost meaningless, but there was comfort in the familiar.

The path home was short, her little cottage nestled in the space just behind the smithy. As she approached, she slowed and eyed her surroundings. Nothing disturbed. A particular pebble lying on her porch was in the same spot as usual. She stepped over it, slipped inside, and set her hammer by the front door.

She twitched her rug to the side, checking that the entrance to her hidden room was undisturbed, and glanced toward the brick in the hearth that covered a store of coins. Everything was in its place. She could rest, banish the clash of weapons still echoing in her mind. For now at least. She closed her eyes and listened to the stillness with a smile. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d think about moving on.

Lina startled awake, her eyes wide and staring, her heart pounding. She’d been dreaming, of course—of Mollen. Her dearest friend, her brother-in-arms, her once-upon-a-time hope for the future. In her dream, she watched him fight, just as she had so many times in life. He was grace and beauty, the swing of the sword, all dance and brilliance. Watching him, it was easy to forget, for the moment, the devastation of war.

Then the sunlight had flashed against the torque around his neck, and the dream became a nightmare, a memory.

But that wasn’t what woke her now, in the gray hours before dawn. There had been a noise. She listened, her body tense.

Then she heard it again. Outside and very near. A grunt of pain. A sound almost as familiar as ringing iron.

She pulled on her overdress, picked up her hammer, and crept out to investigate, every sense alive to danger. Though dawn was near, the space behind her smithy was swallowed in darkness. Lina listened again, raising the hammer, as her eyes darted from shadow to shadow.

In one of the deeper shadows, Lina saw it. Something, anyway. A huddled form, large enough to be a grown adult, curled up against the wall where the heat from the forge warmed the bricks. It didn’t move. It didn’t belong.

Maybe this would be the moment when danger finally caught up with her. Maybe she would find out if she could still fight. Her blood pumped with vigor, her heart answering the possibility for battle. She stole forward.

A whimper and a few muttered words emerged from under what she could now see was a torn, stained cloak. “Hurts . . . stop . . . can’t . . .” The voice was deep enough to be male, though human or fae she didn’t know.

Lina breathed deeply once for calm. “Hello?”

He writhed and moaned but didn’t respond. Lina peered more closely, almost feeling the waves of panic rolling off him. She adjusted her grip on the hammer’s wooden handle. His face was hidden, and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself under the cloak. She studied him, warrior and grandmother battling inside her. She could help him. It could be a trick. She should protect him. She should watch her back.

After a moment of indecision, the grandmother took over. She crouched and set her hammer beside her. If anything was amiss, there was always the dagger concealed in her skirts.

“I’m going to help you,” she whispered soothingly, the way she would talk to a terrified child. She got a hand under his arm, pulling him to his feet. He was frail, lighter than she’d expected, even as he leaned heavily on her, one hand now reaching up to rub against his neck. She shuffled him forward, bearing most of his weight and still scanning for danger, until they reached her cottage.

With a bit of maneuvering—and a brief, regretful glance at her clean blanket—Lina settled the man in a heap on her bed. She locked the door and checked that her window shutters were tightly closed, then started a hearth fire going. She kept one eye on the stranger.

Now that he was stretched out in the glow of her fire, she had her first clear view of his clothing and cloak, both of fine wool but ragged beyond hope of repair. His hair, a dirty brown, hung lank and tangled, and he had maybe a week’s growth of beard. Whatever he was running from, he’d been running awhile.

He started to mumble again, tears slowly streaking his face. “Need help . . . Can’t think . . . Hide.” He reached his arms toward her, then yanked them back and tugged his tattered cloak more tightly around his neck. “No.” He convulsed. “Yes.” He shook his head.

The pain tugged at her, and she forced herself to ignore the tightness in her throat at his suffering. Focus on what you can do, focus on solvable problems, she thought. So she fetched a cup of water and dipped a cool cloth into it. She brushed the cloth across his forehead and his bright red cheeks as she looked him over. No obvious external wounds, but by the way he alternately rubbed at his neck, then tugged his cloak more tightly around him, something must be wrong with his neck. He groaned when she moved his head and batted at her hands when she reached for the clasp of his cloak. She stifled a sigh at his resistance, then pushed his hands away and yanked at the two sides of the cloak.

It tore apart, revealing the man’s neck. And around the man’s neck, a familiar metal torque—an echo of her nightmares—caught the glow of the firelight.

She leaped to her feet and drew her hidden dagger, her joints protesting at the speed of her movement.

The war had come back to her, in a way she’d tried to never think of again.

Her muscles tensed, and her heart raced as she crouched in a fighting stance, waiting for him to pounce. He didn’t look like a warrior—in fact, he looked more than half dead. But she had no idea the extent of the torque’s powers. For all she knew, it could make even the half dead fight like dragons.

“Please,” he muttered. “Help me.” He opened glassy eyes and looked up at her, pleading, clawing at his neck like an animal caught in a trap. “Don’t”—he shook his head slowly—“don’t let them have me.”

“Who? Why are you here?” A thought suddenly struck her with a wave of horror. “Do you know who I am? Were you here for me?”

But he had lapsed into unconsciousness, and no matter how she nudged at him—dagger at the ready—he only tossed feverishly.

She fetched some cord from a cupboard and bound him quickly to the bed, then backed away to a safer distance, where she could observe the man and think. She had to think, ignore emotion, ignore the queasy wash of sadness and anger and fear that lapped through her.

If someone was making these torques, something dangerous was on the horizon. Of course, it couldn’t be war again, not with the oathbound pact still in place. The rulers of both lands had sworn in carefully worded oaths that there would be no war between their countries, and that pact would have to be honored as long as the oathbinder lived. But even without causing outright war, the torque could make plenty of mischief.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with the tension between the two lands, but whatever it was, it had to be stopped.

As she settled onto the edge of her kitchen chair, her eyes were drawn to the torque again. It caught the firelight and flickered almost like a living thing. Where an opening should be, allowing the wearer to remove the torque from around the neck, there was only smooth metal. She couldn’t look away, and she couldn’t stop the memories that she’d tried to hide from for so many years.

The only other time she’d seen an object like this had been during the war, when Mollen had disappeared for two weeks, then suddenly come back, changed. They’d thought he was captured by the enemy while on a secret mission, so when he returned, she’d rejoiced and rushed to greet him. He didn’t even glance her way. She’d taken him to report to the commanding officers, hiding her pain at his treatment. Other soldiers had gathered to hear where he’d been. He’d stood in front of them all, and then, without any warning beyond one short cry of pain, he’d thrust his sword through the commander and started cutting down his fellow soldiers. His movements were jerky, not his usual perfect grace—almost like a separate battle raged within him. A strange metal torque around his neck shone in the sunlight as he moved.

The torque the stranger wore was the same. She examined it carefully. The skin around his neck was red and raw, and when she touched it, he moaned. She swallowed and closed her eyes against the man’s suffering, but that only took her back to Mollen. She had watched in shock for a moment; then she and several other soldiers had flown into action, striking at him with shocked rage. A part of her detached itself then, unwilling to feel the agony of that battle. Within minutes, he was dead, and Lina was numbly thankful that someone else had struck the fatal blow. She didn’t know if she could have survived killing him.

After Mollen’s death, several fae spellworkers—only the fae had magic, of course, and only a few truly understood how it worked—had studied the torque. It had been imbued with mindturning, a magic forbidden, and largely forgotten, for centuries. Mollen’s treachery was not his fault. Someone had broken his will, turned his mind, and sent him back as an assassin.

Now someone was using this magic again. The knowledge seared through her. Mollen. She’d tried so hard to forget him and the pain of his death. She’d turned that pain to good, to helping stop the war once and for all. Or at least for a long while, hopefully long enough for real peace to settle in. She’d sought—and found—her own measure of that peace.

But seeing that torque again . . . Rage burned within her, brilliant yellow and malleable like iron in the forge, waiting to be shaped to her purpose. Someone had dared to experiment with such brutal magic again, and it could not be tolerated. She could not tolerate it.

Lina crept back to the smithy to gather her tools and returned to her still-unconscious visitor.

She examined his neck and the torque again, then placed clamps on its edges and began to tighten them. Tricky work to remove the cursed item without killing the man beneath; she might have given up if she hadn’t known what it was. She gritted her teeth and continued applying pressure.

Finally, with a satisfying snap, the torque broke and fell to the dirt floor. The man breathed in sharply, then rolled to his side. He opened his eyes, glassy and unfocused. “Thank you,” he whispered, then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Who did this?” Lina asked, desperate now for answers. He didn’t respond. She nudged him, gently at first, but with increasing strength. “Where are they?” she asked, shaking him now.

Still no response. It was as if removing the torque had released him from life and pain. She watched helplessly as his breathing slowed, becoming gentler, softer, until it dwindled to nothing.

She leaned back, sighing. The yellow burning inside her dulled under the weight of death, and she swiped at her eyes.

She straightened his hands to his sides, swallowing to relax the shaking of her own hands. “From dust to dust,” she murmured over the body, speaking the human last rites. “From breath to tears.” She’d said these words over so many others, she hardly had to think about it. She paused, then added the fae blessing for good measure—more words she knew by heart. “Full circle, like the moon. Full season, like the earth. Rest now, beneath them both.” He didn’t look fae, but she knew very well there were plenty of mixed-bloods who could pass for human. The burning of iron on fae skin was the only foolproof way to tell, and since she hadn’t tried it on the poor tormented man, she’d never know if he was mixed-blood. The iron test didn’t work on the dead.

She closed her eyes for a moment of stillness. Fae or human, she wished him peace.

But the moment couldn’t last. What if he had been there for her? Did they know where and who she was?

Probably not. Solime was a busy town despite its size, with people coming through all the time. It was likely just the wildest of luck that he had happened upon Lina.

Still, she’d be careful. It was definitely time to leave, one way or another. Just as soon as she’d dealt with things here.

She couldn’t ask anyone to come to her aid. The local watch weren’t equipped to deal with powerful magic, and the only other help was too far away. When the war had finally ended with the oathbound pact, Lina had disappeared. All but one of her old contacts thought her dead, and she meant to keep it that way. As soon as she could, though, she’d write to that one contact, her “sister” in Hillfar. Her sister would inform those who still watched for such dangers, they would hunt down whoever had created this torque . . . and Lina would disappear again.

But that was a job for later in the day. No one would arrive in time to help her with her more immediate problems: a body in her house, the torque on her hands, and no idea who was coming or how long it would take them to get here.

She peeked out her shutters. Muddy light was brightening by the minute, and soon the whole town would wake. She picked up the torque and stared at it with loathing. It was beautiful, if you didn’t know what it was for. The carvings were delicate, in an old fae script. Lina knew little of the metal used to make it—she’d not been a smith that first time long ago, and the gleaming silvery material was far too rich, too rare, too difficult to work for a lowly blacksmith. The magic too.

Who had made this new torque? None of the fae she’d known during the war could have done it, and anyone who’d been able to had been executed.

She’d thought.

She wrapped the torque in a tea towel and placed it in the pocket of her dress. All her thoughts turned to one purpose: to destroy it. Heat it to the upper limits of her forge’s ability so it would melt down to liquid, then mix the metal with so much iron and impurity that it would be unrecognizable. Cool it back into a lump of scrap and bury it where it would never be found.

She left her house, noting the pebble’s location with more care than usual, and scurried to her smithy, formulating a plan. She’d destroy the torque as quickly as possible, and if they came looking before she had a chance to disappear, she’d play the innocent, ever-so-helpful grandmother. She smiled grimly as she lit and stoked the fire, imagining her part.

She drew the torque from her pocket and stared at it again, revulsion and fascination intertwined. Some people said that mindturning was a bit like oathbinding. Both were magical interference with a person’s will, after all. With a simple promise, a person was absolutely bound to carry out their words. With a powerful and careful enough promise, like the pact that ended the war, the course of history could change. Two sovereigns of two lands had sworn to cease fighting and do all they could to ensure peace—and for years they had. Some believed a mindturn could do just as much good.

She shuddered as she thought of Mollen. Those people were wrong. Some oathbinding, it was true, involved a bit of trickery, but it could never take from someone more than they were willing to speak. The monarchs who had promised to stop fighting had done so of their own accord. Their people were tired and hurting. They hadn’t been forced into magical enslavement. An object of mindturning destroyed a person’s will and deserved, in turn, to be destroyed.

The fire was almost hot enough now—a little longer and then she could do it.

A knock at the door interrupted her. Startled, she shoved the wrapped torque into a bucket of scrap iron beside her and kicked the bucket to the side as Seelah pushed her way into the room.

“Good morning, Lina!” she cried, dropping that ever-present basket on Lina’s counter as usual and launching into a story about a neighbor down the road who had lost a goat and wasn’t that a shame and what could have happened to it and that reminded her of the new strangers in town who had arrived just recently and how they looked rich and—

Lina often thought that as a source of information, Seelah would have been infinitely useful in the war. As a keeper of secrets, though, she would have ruined everything.

Suddenly one detail of Seelah’s words stood out. “Did you say strangers?” Lina interrupted.

“Oh yes. I mean, of course there are always strangers, but these men seemed . . . you know . . . somehow different.” She leaned forward. “Powerful. Rich.” She smiled. “Maybe they’ll need a new sword, or one of their horses will throw a shoe. You might get some business.”

But Lina wasn’t listening—now was not the time to start a long round of gossip. She picked up Seelah’s basket, pushed it into her arms, and started nudging her toward the door.

Just as three men stepped into the doorway.

The first was richly dressed and short—she’d imagined whoever came would be tall—and had the fine features that often betrayed a bit of fae blood. Interesting. The others followed behind him like servants as he strode casually into the room. Lina wasn’t fooled. They strolled, but their muscles were tense. The one to the right kept his hand near his sword, and the short one prowled like a cat preparing to pounce. There would be no new sword or thrown shoe to deal with, just the torque and the dead man.

Lina kept her eyes from wandering to where she’d hidden the torque, but her mind began to spin. This was going to make things much more difficult. She cursed herself for her stupidity. She’d been so slow, too slow.

“Greetings,” she said, her voice friendly. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” For now she just needed to get Seelah out of danger. She continued to push her friend toward the door. “Thank you so much for stopping by,” she said. “It was nice to see you, and I’ll come visit you later, just like we planned.” She wanted to establish, in front of these men, that she’d be missed if she disappeared.

Seelah gave her a hard look, glancing quickly between Lina and the men. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, just like we planned. I’ll expect to see you in . . . an hour or two.”

Lina nodded. “Have a lovely day!” she chirped, pushing Seelah out the door and shutting it behind her.

She’d known Seelah would remember their plan to meet and deliver soup today, but that was later in the evening. Why did Seelah say they’d meet so soon? Whatever the reason, Lina shrugged and set it aside. It worked better this way—now the men knew that if she disappeared, she’d be missed very, very soon.

She turned back to face them. “Good day to you.”

The short one nodded in return. “And to you.” He’d been looking around the smithy, and while his glance suggested a casual appraisal, the sharpness of his eyes missed little.

“What may I do for you this fine day?” she asked.

He moved away from the wall of tools he’d been scrutinizing, his appraising stare on her now.

She continued to smile. How could she salvage her plan? In her imagination, the torque was safely destroyed before they came for it, not sitting in a bucket of scrap metal a few feet away.

“My name is Tyblith,” the man said. “I’m looking for a friend. I’ve been taking care of him, but he ran away. He’s terribly sick, you see. He gets confused. Ends up thinking I’m his enemy and runs off.” He shook his head, all sorrow and worry and honest innocence, but he watched her closely. “Have you seen him?”

Lina’s thoughts flitted. Part of her said to trust him, he was so honest and thoughtful and—she mentally shook herself. What was she thinking?

No, she couldn’t trust him, and she had to come up with a plan. Now. “Oh! I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been wondering what to do. He’s sleeping in my house, but he was afraid to let anyone know where he was. He’s been so very distraught and feverish—well, you know that, of course. I just didn’t know what to do! But now that you’re here, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see a friend.” She finished and drew a breath, ready to start babbling again if necessary.

“You found him, then?” the man asked sharply.

“He’s in my home, just behind the smithy. You can all go see him and—”

“Maresk, Toren, look for him. I’ll stay here and talk with this”—he turned a charming smile on Lina, his voice softening—“this lovely lady here.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if you all go check on him. He’s probably resting anyway.”

“No, my men will be able to take care of him. I’d much rather you tell me how he appeared at your home.”

Tyblith nodded at the other men, and they swiftly left.

Blood of the nix, he was staying with her. She’d hoped they might all go together so she could still throw the torque on the fire in the minutes they were gone. Time for a different plan. Again.

“Oh, the poor man! He just showed up last night and collapsed!” She clutched at her chest. “I took him in, of course. Nothing else I could do, poor creature. He reminded me of my dear aunt Milla, when she came down with the—”

Tyblith interrupted, already bored by her narrative. “Did he . . . say anything?”

“Well, not—”

The other men burst back into the shop. “It wasn’t there,” one of them said abruptly. “And he’s dead.”

“Dead?” She gasped. “No, he couldn’t be! I just left him less than an hour ago, and he was only sleeping.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, so cruel. Fever sickness is terrible.”

Tyblith glared at Lina. “Did he say anything to you? Give you anything? Tell me!”

She cringed, looking back and forth between the three men. She reached over and took a large iron chisel down from her wall, holding it out in front of her awkwardly, as if she hoped to use it to protect herself but had no idea how. Hopefully, it made her look afraid and also reminded them that she couldn’t be fae. “I don’t know what you mean . . . I was just trying to help him. Don’t hurt me.” She made her voice tremble in fear, even as her blood pumped with anticipation.

He sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead, his whole demeanor softening back into his original charm. “I’m sorry,” he said, the note in his voice turning pleading. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m just so stricken by his death. He was my good friend, you know.”

The shift in his emotion was so abrupt, Lina almost swayed toward him, longing to comfort him in his grief. So he was a charmspeaker, then. Her earlier desire to trust him made sense now.

“Yes, I can see that,” she replied, and she, too, softened her voice. She lowered the chisel. “I’m so sorry for your loss. You must have been close.”

He frowned. “Yes. I’ll miss him. And he was in my care, so I feel responsible for him. His mother will be devastated.”

Lina nodded. “Poor woman.”

“He had a gift from her. He wore it all the time, even though it chafed awfully.” He stared at her as he spoke his next words. “It was a torque.”

Lina widened her eyes. “A gift from his mother, you say? Someone he loved?”

Maresk and Toren seemed to shift uneasily, but Tyblith only hesitated for a moment. “Yes.” She could almost see his thoughts flying. “But . . . they’d been fighting. Yes, they’d been fighting, and he was very angry at her. So you can see even more why she’ll be so upset. I was just hoping to comfort her, let her know he had it with him to the end.”

Lina visibly relaxed the tension from her shoulders—they noticed it, of course—and smiled. “Oh, that explains it!” She tittered. “He was babbling on and on about how I needed to destroy it right then and not let anyone have it or do anything bad with it.” She shook her head. “He was probably just being spiteful, hmmm? Didn’t want her to know that he’d forgiven her and was still wearing it. People do silly things when they’re fighting, don’t they?” She tsked, shaking her head.

“So you have it, then?” he asked, leaning toward her in his eagerness.

“Of course I have it. Honestly, I’m a little relieved to give it to someone else to take care of.” She paused—this was the most dangerous moment—and looked into Tyblith’s eyes. “Can I trust you?”

He exuded honesty, almost like a scent. “Of course you can.”

Lina leaned in and whispered, “Look, I just don’t know what to do. This poor sick young man showed up at my home, and of course I took him in. But then he started ranting and wailing, and he made me swear I would help him and that I had to keep the torque away from the wrong people. Now, I’m not the kind of person who breaks promises.” She paused, looking at him with concern.

“No, of course you wouldn’t do that,” he said, but his eyes darted around the room, looking hungrily for where the torque might be.

She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t.” Her voice took on a desperate edge. “You’re telling me it was a gift from his mother, but how can I know? I promised him the torque wouldn’t be used for ill. That’s all he seemed to care about.” She forced a quiver into her lip, then bit it to stop the tremble. “And now he’s dead, and that makes it his dying wish, and of course I have to do what I can to help him, and here I am just a tired old woman.” She tugged his sleeve with the hand not holding the chisel. “You understand, don’t you? Why I don’t know what to do with it or who to trust?”

He patted her hand and spoke soothingly. “Of course I understand. Such things are so difficult. But I can assure you I was his friend.” He looked into her eyes, sincerity in his every feature. “You can give me the torque,” he said. “You don’t have to worry anymore.” She felt his charm fall over her like a warm blanket, soothing, telling her to believe.

She blinked, breathing deeply. Focus on your purpose, she thought. Focus on Mollen and the torque. Her mind stayed clear. “But are you the right person? He was so worried something bad would be done with it.” Come, she thought, say what I need you to say.

“If you give it to me, nothing bad will be done with it.” His voice was so smooth, his charmspeaking so very easy to believe.

She blinked again, straining against the magic. “You promise?” she wheedled. “No one will use this torque for anything bad?” She nearly held her breath.

He opened his mouth to speak, then paused.

Maybe she’d gone too far.

His eyes flicked to the chisel and her bare hand wrapped around it. She could almost see his thoughts. This old woman is a simple blacksmith. A promise to her is meaningless. “Of course I promise,” he assured her, all friendliness and honesty.

Lina blew out a breath and smiled her first real smile since they’d come. “Oh, I feel so much better. I know it’s crazy, but thank you for humoring a poor old woman.”

He shrugged. “Of course, dear lady. Nothing to it. The only thing that torque is good for is comforting another woman like yourself, after all.” He held out his hand.

She stepped to the bucket and fished out the torque. “I’m just glad to be rid of it.”

He snatched the metal from her and examined it.

“I’m sorry it’s broken.” Then, as if she’d just thought of it: “I could fix it for you if you’d like!” It might give her a chance to come up with a better plan than this; she still hated seeing that object in his hands.

He shook his head, not looking up from the metal. “No matter, I have a friend who can fix it.”

She nodded. This would have to be good enough, then.

They should be going now, but Tyblith didn’t move. He just placed the torque in a pouch at his side and turned his eyes on Lina. Maresk and Toren glanced at him, waiting, muscles tensing beneath their tunics. A nearly imperceptible difference in the air had Lina tensing too. Moments passed, and she shifted her weight to prepare for an attack. Part of her hoped they would try something, despite how foolhardy it would be to attack the town blacksmith in her shop in daylight. The idea of letting them leave with that torque—no matter what she’d done to keep them from using it—stoked the anger again. Maybe it was good she still held the chisel.

Tyblith turned to the side, gesturing to his men. Lina took a steadying breath.

“Lina!” a familiar voice cried as the smithy doors swung open. All four bodies swiveled toward the noise. Seelah burst through the doors, an even larger basket in her arms this time. That woman had so many baskets. She looked back and forth between the men and Lina. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. I forgot you were in the middle of something. I’m just so overcome!” She blinked rapidly. “I’ve just received a messenger from Innalue in Hillfar. You know, the one who’s friends with your sister. There’s been a terrible accident, and she’s asked for us at once.”

Lina could only blink and stare, yanked out of her preparation for battle. She didn’t have a sister in Hillfar—how could this Innalue woman be friends with her? What, by the nix, was Seelah doing?

Seelah leaned toward the men, explaining in an undertone, “I’m her best friend, and I must have Lina’s help, so you see we simply must go. Immediately.” She paused and looked piercingly at Lina. “You’re needed there, Lina. Everyone will be expecting you.”

Lina blinked again, then shook herself from her stupor. She had no idea what Seelah was playing at, but she would go along with it. “Well, good sirs, I’m so sorry, but it looks like I’m needed at once. I’m sorry about your friend too. Do give my best to his mother for me.”

A moment passed, then the men sprang back to life. “Yes, thank you, Lina-smith; we will,” Tyblith said. “May we retrieve his body from your home?”

“Of course. I’ll come with you.” After they left, she could get to her hidden bags and leave Solime. Seelah had given her the perfect excuse.

The men left the smithy ahead of her, and when Seelah stepped out, Lina dropped the chisel into her pocket with a quiet hiss. She’d have to examine the damage to her palm later, when she was alone. For now, she curled her fingers softly around the bright, angry burn marks.

The entire group headed to Lina’s house, and the men quickly picked up the body and hauled it out to the cart they’d left in front of her smithy. Tyblith turned back once to stare at Lina standing in her doorway for a moment—then at Seelah—before nodding and disappearing down the road.

Would she ever hear of them again or know what became of the torque? She hoped not. Better that they, and their plans, fade quietly into obscurity.

When the sound of horse hooves had faded, Lina breathed a sigh of relief and focused her gaze on Seelah.

“Do be quick with your bags,” Seelah chided. “I’d rather be gone from here in case they decide to come back.” She shivered. “I’ll get the one in the hearth, but you’d better get that one.” She pointed toward the underground room. “I don’t think I can get up and down any ladder you’ve got down there.”

Lina’s mind reeled. “How did you—?”

“Come now, I’ve known about your hidey holes for ages. You really need to stop glancing at them during tea.” She shook her head in mock reproach.

Lina’s mouth dropped open for an instant, then she began to laugh. “All these years—I’ve underestimated you, Seelah.”

Seelah shrugged. “Just because I like the town gossip doesn’t mean I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”

Lina shook her head in wonder. Apparently, Lina was not the only woman in town who was not what she seemed.

The two of them worked swiftly to gather what little Lina wanted to take with her—and of course her hidden stores. They put most in her pack and the rest in Seelah’s basket.

“Now, I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but I’m going with you to Hillfar, or at least far enough to be sure you’re safe. You can tell me all about it, or not, as you please.”

Lina nodded. It would be good to have someone else with her in case Tyblith and his men decided to follow her. Or in case they found a way around the hurried oathbinding she’d set him to. If they were smart, they might realize that the irresistible desire to be done with that torque had come directly after Lina had convinced Tyblith to make that promise.

And if they realized she was responsible for that, they might wonder if Lina was the one who’d bound the pact to end the war. And then she’d be running, hard and fast. There were people who would like to exact revenge on the one who’d helped create the peace. A few, most of all, who would like to kill the oathbinder to release the magic of the pact.

She glanced down at her hand again, at the red blisters seared across older, faded lines. All the times she’d held iron and pretended that it didn’t burn. All the ways she’d hidden in plain sight—who would suspect a blacksmith of having fae blood? She looked at Seelah. She’d done it alone for so long, but she really was getting older. It might be good to have a friend who knew the truth, who could help her if the war followed her again.

As it always did. It was always in her heart, burning in her blood like iron. But she would create all the peace she could, as long as she lived.

She turned to Seelah as they left the house. “What do you know about the end of the war?” she asked. She didn’t reset the pebble.

Jeanna Mason Stay

Jeanna Mason Stay loves a good fantasy yarn, particularly if it comes with a happy ending. She especially loves fairy tales—the romantic, the gruesome, the utterly bizarre—and many of her stories echo the magic of these old tales. Her favorite fairy tale of all, though, is a bit more modern: it’s the one she lives with her handsome husband and their four charming children. They are currently adventuring, battling thorny devils, and happily-ever-aftering in Alice Springs, Australia.

Jeanna also loves fireflies, serial commas, birds of paradise, and the latest addition to her bird craze: the loud-yet-lovely galah. She dreams of one day sculpting a clay Medusa head and owning a herd of Chia sheep.

When it comes to social media, Jeanna pretty much lives in a cave, but when she does occasionally emerge, you can find her at calloohcallaycallay.blogspot.com, at www.facebook.com/JeannaMasonStay/, and on Twitter @JeannaMStay.

Website: calloohcallaycallay.blogspot.com/

Facebook: JeannaMasonStay

Twitter: @JeannaMStay

Email: jeanna.mason.stay@gmail.com

26,000 Words

THEY ARRIVE. PREPARE yourself, Adeline.

I waved damp fingers at the unspoken words as if I could brush aside the hags who whispered them. I swore I would stop scrying altogether if they didn’t knock it off. Usually they could only speak to me in dreams, but apparently scrying came close enough.

“Keep your trichotomous britches on,” I huffed, the fingers of my other hand still in the silver scrying bowl, drawing in the magic. “Y’all know I’m staring at them right now.” That was part of the deal. Give the hags enough access to hear my words and see through my eyes so they could be sure I was doing their bidding. It made my skin crawl, but I’d managed to keep them out of my thoughts except for when I was dreaming. And scrying.

Problem was, even a simple scrying spell got tricky when the golden chains around my wrists burned with the hags’ malevolent magic. Magic that seeped into my skin like a cold sweat going the wrong way.

Beware, Adeline Riverdeep— the coven intoned in dissonant unison, all three witches’ voices speaking as one.

“For you are three, and I am one. Yeah, yeah. I know.” Technically I wasn’t “one.” I had Bob, my broom. That said, I did respect the hags. Especially the leader of the coven, Silver Maude. Who wouldn’t respect a five-thousand-year-old woman who’d wear your skin as a skirt as soon as speak to you?

But I’d grown up a halfling and cute as a blond bug on a blossom, which had endowed me with a certain knee-jerk reaction to being patronized, because I was constantly being patronized. Or matronized, as was the case with the coven. Besides, I wasn’t exactly good, so I got a kick out of irritating people sometimes.

Four travelers and a trinket. That is the deal. Remember it, or you will never unlock the power arcane.

“Thank you for reminding me,” I said in my sweetest voice. “Again. And ladies . . . bless your hearts.”

The hags hissed. One of them shrieked. But a second later, the fine golden chains looped around my wrists—the chains that bound me to the coven—cooled. I let go a relieved sigh and rolled my head, loosening my tense shoulders. I couldn’t wait for this to be over. If everything went to plan, there would be a week of group travel ahead, and I very much preferred to work alone.

I renewed my focus on the scrying spell drawn on the floor of my tiny room in the Wandering Hermit Inn. Gold-flecked chalk glimmered in the precise lines and curves of arcane geometry, taking up the few square feet of floor not already taken by the bed. White candles burned in puddles of their own sweet-smelling beeswax where each perfect line intersected, and a shallow silver bowl filled with water sat in the construct’s center, where I gripped the bowl so my thumbs dipped just below the edges of the water. This way, instead of reflecting the warm light of the candles, the water showed a wintry city street framed by dark buildings on either side. Crowds hurried through gray, ankle-deep slush, hoods pulled low. In the darkening evening, a smattering of snowflakes glinted between them like far-flung stars.

I leaned forward as the spell tracked along the street, following four figures—three bigfolk and one about my size. Excitement warmed my bones as I watched them move toward a well-lit inn with a sign over the door featuring a scrawny old man clad in nothing but a knee-length white beard.

This well-lit inn.

Making sure not to remove my fingers from the power collected at the spell’s center, I gave the silver bowl a decisive quarter turn and touched the water with three fingers. Few people knew you could manipulate a scrying spell this way, but I’d discovered it in my first year at the Regia Arcanum.

In the bowl, my point of view skipped forward a few paces and jerked sharply left. Where a second ago I had been looking at their cloaked backs, I now tracked my targets in profile against a backdrop of stone buildings. Two days straight of scrying, and I already felt I’d known these people far too long.

First through the door of the Wandering Hermit was a tall, slender elven man with fine features, white hair, and silver-gray skin. I scanned him for any sign he was carrying a powerful magical artifact—a magical artifact both the coven and I had a keen interest in acquiring.

The dark elf was easy to discern among any crowd, not for being the only dark elf in the group, but for his black coat, curled lip, and the disdain in his amethyst eyes. Beautiful, but sometimes that expression came dangerously close to making him ugly.

Talsar—no last name—didn’t have any visible sign of arcane thingamajigs, but I hadn’t really been expecting it. The hags swore up and down these people were carrying the last piece of the magical construct that would unlock the greatest power in the universe—the power arcane. But so far, I’d seen no sign on any of them.

As Talsar entered, he turned and said something to the figure behind him. Ivy Galanon was a slight female forest elf with bronze skin and auburn hair. Her blue cloak might have been nice once, but it was threadbare now. She smiled when she responded to Talsar, words muted as my spell didn’t pick up sound. The movement pulled the thin scar that marred her cheek from just below one eye to the corner of her lips. That smile plus the awful vulnerable way she looked at him made her feelings painfully obvious.

“Oh, Ivy,” I muttered, vicariously embarrassed since she was apparently too oblivious to be embarrassed for herself. “He is just not that into you.”

Whatever she said, it made the third of the bigfolk, a gargoyle woman named Firenza Gioia, throw back her head and belly laugh. With skin purple as dusk, curling black ram’s horns, and thick black hair that hung in a braid over her shoulder and halfway to her waist, she dwarfed the elves. Not because gargoyles were a particularly large people but because she was large, and because she had the kind of personality that took up space, sucking in everyone around her whether she was gleefully laughing, gleefully drinking, or gleefully killing things.

The only smallfolk in the party brought up the rear—the goblin, Ezo Twistkettle. I’ll admit I sat a little straighter because I didn’t know what to make of Ezo as much as I did the others. His smallness was relative, because the boy beneath the brown hood still had half a head on me, which put him on the tall side by my standards. Rash and impulsive and, much like the forest elf, head over tail in love. But instead of one person, Ezo was in love with every pretty girl who caught his eye. Romantic shenanigans aside, he was always fiddling with gears and wires and gunpowder. Personally, I found clockworks and guns loud, greasy, and distasteful. Machinery was for people too inelegant to work magic.

I leaned back from the silver bowl and smudged the chalk lines. No sign of the artifact on any of the travelers, which meant I couldn’t just steal it. Not that stealing it would fulfill my deal—the hags wanted the magic item and the people who carried it. But they knew what they were doing, not telling me exactly what it was. If I could have stolen it and the power arcane without their help, I would have, and they knew it.

I sighed and pinched out the candles one by one, then wrapped them in cloth and stowed them neatly in their designated compartment in my leather bag.

Looked like there would be days of group travel after all.

On my way out, I picked up my broom from where it leaned beside the doorframe. Its twiggy ends were a bit raggedy, and the polished handle had been broken off halfway up, but I didn’t mind, even though I was generally a neat person—that made it just my size.

“Come on, Bob,” I whispered. “Let’s get this over with.”

It rustled its bristles in response. I didn’t need to take it to the common room; I wasn’t going anywhere. But I could use the moral support.

After all, it wasn’t every day I lured a group of strangers to their untimely deaths. But the power to bend reality came with a price, and I was prepared to pay it.

For all it was winter outside, the common room of the Hermit was subtropical. Near a hundred hot bodies were packed into the low-ceilinged space. Damp clothes steamed from the heat of the fire in the hearth that took up half the south wall, and the whole place smelled of wet sheep and cheap beer. The orange flicker from the fire was steadied somewhat by the golden glow of lamps hung from iron hooks at intervals on the plaster walls. But that only made it easier to see the menagerie of mediocrity that patronized a midlevel tavern on a midweek night.

“You want another half-pint of fizz water, sweetie?”

I clutched Bob’s worn handle where it lay across my lap. A barmaid stepped up to my little corner, blocking my view of my targets, who’d taken up a table in the center of the room. She held a tray in one hand, and the scent of bread and beef temporarily covered the smell of wet wool. My mouth watered, but my mood soured. I might have the miniature stature and cherub face of the sweetest blond-haired, blue-eyed human child you ever did see, but I had done things, gone places. Hells, I was a graduate of the most rigorous course of study at a place most of these workaday people only spoke of in whispers.

Still, more flies with honey and all. I gave her my best butter-won’t-melt smile. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

I tilted my head to the side, trying to see around her without being obvious. It looked like they were content to sit and drink for the moment, which suited me just fine. Now that the moment had arrived, I needed to gather myself, so I walked through my plans. My goal was to get them to the hags. As I was one person, and they were four, the only way to do that would be to get them to come voluntarily. I had a story I thought would work, but I wanted to make sure their first impression of me was one of pathetic helplessness. A damsel in distress. When people thought you were pathetic and helpless, they were easy to manipulate.

Case in point, this barmaid.

“What was that?” she asked, apparently unable to hear me over the dull roar of the dinner crowd.

I pitched my voice louder. “No, thank you.” Sighing deeply, I fiddled with my empty cup in one hand. “I only had enough for one drink. I should get out of your way.” I glanced at the floor with sad eyes and pressed a hand to my stomach. I mean, I was hungry, and I only had so many coins. It was a good thing Bob didn’t have to eat.

She glanced around. “Are you here with anyone?”

“No, ma’am.”

Her brow furrowed. She was older, comfortable-sized, with gray hair and laugh lines. Probably presided over a passel of children and grandbabies. She glanced over her shoulder. “Well. A pretty little halfling from the provinces shouldn’t be wandering this big city with no one to look out for you. Here.”

She set a small loaf of bread in front of me. Victory.

I beamed at her. “Oh, thank you! But I shouldn’t.”

“No, I insist.” She paused, then took another small loaf off the tray and set it on the table next to the first. “We all need help sometimes.”

I gave her a tepid smile. “Bless your heart.”

The chains around my wrists—safely covered by the sleeves of my dress—pulsed with dark magic again. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say the hags were laughing.

She turned and danced her way through the chaos of raucous patrons. Following her movements, my eyes were drawn to a deeply drunk wolfkin woman at the table next to my motley crew of adventurers.

In fact, all the eyes in the tavern were drawn to the wolfkin, a woman with fair skin and a mass of tawny curls that ran into the light brown fur that covered most of her body. She rose from her chair, shrieking at a cowering lizard-like creature who’d apparently trodden on her foot. Well, paw. Wolfkin were half human, half wolf, and the wolf part was on the bottom. After a minute, her friends pulled her back into her chair. But she’d definitely caught the attention of my adventurers, who watched her warily.

I smiled. “Bob, I think I’ve found some distress.”

Its handle shook.

“Don’t be a chicken. This is going to work.”

I jumped from the bigfolk-sized chair to the sticky floor and slung Bob in its holster on my back, its twiggy ends poking up over my head. The room was so crowded, it wasn’t easy to pick my way between tables and weaving, drunken patrons. By the time I finally reached the hot-tempered wolfkin, I’d been stepped on and near tripped over half a dozen times. It irritated me, as I could clear a path with the flick of my wrist if I wanted, but the additional dishevelment wouldn’t hurt my distraught-damsel first impression.

Passing too close to the wolfkin, I pretended to catch my boot on the floor and trip. My shoulder slammed into her arm, and her drink slopped over the rim of her mug, splashing onto a lute she cradled in her lap like a favorite child.

“Oh my word, I am so sorry!” I snatched a cloth napkin from the table as if I meant to help. Except it was halfway underneath her bowl of stew, so when I pulled, the whole mess upended onto her shirt and over the lute. Chunks of meat fell through the strings, hitting the inside of the instrument with several muffled splats.

The woman jumped up, fair complexion going a mottled red beneath her wild tawny hair. “You little burrow rat, do you know how much this cost?”

As I’d hoped, she attacked. I just wasn’t counting on the speed and ferocity with which said attack would happen. She swung her ruined lute directly at my face. I ducked, but physicality had never been my gift. The edge of the instrument caught the side of my head, and the world exploded in pain like stars. Without much ado, I hit the ground. Hard, the broom in its holster going askew.

Palms stinging and ears ringing, I bit down on a curse that would have made my momma—at least, my best memory of my momma—throw up her hands in despair.

Forget the mission. I was going to commit murder right now.

My fingers traced an arcane symbol in a shimmering golden light that would be visible only to me. But before I could send the wolfkin and all her friends smashing into the walls, a pair of booted feet planted themselves between us, and a voice both rough and pleasant lifted above the shouts.

“Whoa, hey, I think we can all calm down.”

I looked up, head still ringing, to see the goblin boy peering over his shoulder at me. “You all right?”

“Fine.” I pushed hair from my eyes, making sure he caught a glimpse of how big and tear-filled they were. My fingers wandered over to the side of my head, and I winced when they reached a tender spot, no theatrics required. At least she hadn’t broken the skin. She would have if she’d hit me with her claws instead of the instrument.

The inn had quieted, so it was easy to hear the wolfkin when she raised the ruined lute like a club and growled. “She owes me a lute. I’m going to beat the gold out of her.”

“I don’t think there’s a need for that.” This voice was smooth and feminine, and I caught the scent of flowers and leather as Ivy, the forest elf, bent over me.

She offered her hand. I took it, and she lifted me to my feet like I weighed no more than a paper doll. She reached over my shoulder to straighten Bob with gentle hands, then turned to stand hip-to-shoulder with Ezo and rested her hands casually on the hilts of her swords.

“Ezo,” Ivy said, “we need to end this before—”

“WAIT. IS THERE A FIGHT? I’VE BEEN WANTING TO FIGHT ALL DAY!”

I near jumped out of my skin at the bellow. On the other side of the table, Firenza, the purple gargoyle woman, scraped back her chair and loosened the great axe at her side.

Talsar, the only one still seated, shook his head and dropped his face into his hands.

Ivy turned to face Firenza, smiling and lifting hands that held a surprising number of scars. “No. No, no. We’re good. You should order more ale.”

Firenza frowned. Her face was broad and attractive, and just as scarred as Ivy’s hands. She narrowed her eyes at the wolfkin. “I don’t like it when people mess with my friends.”

The wolfkin woman paled and stepped back, but pointed one black-clawed finger at me. “She destroyed my lute! I make my livelihood with this thing.”

With a sigh, Ezo reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of gold pieces, which he offered to the wolfkin. “For your trouble, and maybe a song? Uh. Acapella, I guess.”

She snatched the coins and shot a dirty look first at me, then at Firenza. “Keep her away from me, and I’ll sing whatever you want.”

“Great.” Ezo glanced around at the frozen common room. A man in a worn apron I recognized as the Hermit’s owner stood off to the side, wringing his hands.

“Maybe something to get the party started again?” Ezo asked.

Behind him, Ivy had managed to cajole Firenza back to the table, pointing at some recently arrived mugs of ale.

“Sure. Whatever.” The wolfkin started counting the money. I didn’t think Ezo was going to get his song.

With a sigh, he turned to me. He blinked, and his expression turned cow-eyed. “Uh. Hi.” His voice was every bit as dreamy as his brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

I would have laughed—I nearly did. Then I remembered I was supposed to be crying.

“Adeline Riverdeep.” I sniffed. “I’m sorry. I’m so clumsy. I’ll t-try to pay you back.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” the goblin waved away my words.

“Ezo,” Talsar said sharply. The goblin ignored him. Thank goodness for stupid boys.

I let my lower lip wobble. “But, you see, I was coming to talk to you anyway. Y-y’all . . . I mean, I might be wrong, but are you the Ezo Twistkettle? Are y’all that group of adventurers who killed Archmage Oakenlock?”

“ Ezo,” Talsar hissed.

Ezo puffed out his chest. He had the warm green skin of most goblins, as well as the big eyes and bold bone structure. A shock of black hair ran in a straight line down the center of his head, the sides shaved close to his scalp. He was pretty handsome actually. And near enough my age that I might have flirted with him, had circumstances allowed.

“I am,” he said. “We are.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” I exploded into sobs and threw myself into his arms. “Please, Ezo, you have to help me! The hags have my sister!”

I did not have a sister.

“Absolutely not.” Talsar’s pretty-boy face was set, his jaw a hard line. “Have you lost your minds? We don’t know her. We are not following her anywhere.”

He was not even going to pretend he liked or trusted me. It might have been offensive, but he was the type who looked sideways at everyone, and I couldn’t fault him for that. Heck, I agreed with the guy. By and large, people were sneaky and stupid.

The damsel routine had done only half the work I’d hoped. By the time we reached the private dining room that Talsar had insisted on—something about “not screeching our plans in public like a bunch of drunken banshees”—both Ivy and Ezo were as sweet on me as honey on a biscuit. But Firenza kept shooting me suspicious looks, and Talsar was having none of it.

“We haven’t even heard her story,” Ivy threw her hands in the air, her fine brow pinched in consternation. In the light from the small fire in the hearth, her auburn hair turned orange and gold. “All you have to do is listen.”

The dining room was cozier than the common room, with only the small hearth and two lamps. The table was empty except for Firenza, who sat on the far side staring at me inscrutably over a chipped vase of winter flowers. Ezo hovered by the door, shooting me glances and blushing every time we made eye contact.

I’d taken a small stool close to the window and propped Bob between my knees. We were on the second story, and the dining room had a much better view of the city than I had from my closet-sized room on the first floor.

Between the glow of the streetlamps and the moon reflecting off the snow, Aster, the Climbing City, was lit near bright as day. It had been built up either side of a pass through the Throne Mountains, its roads switchbacking steeply all the way from the Isceald River to the mansions and palaces high above. Bridges arched across the chasm between, heavy and utilitarian at the bottom where warehouses collected goods shipped up the river, but more delicate as they ascended toward the city’s heights. Some of them were even mechanical, and could retract at the touch of a lever to allow space for passing dragons or the occasional airship.

“Talsar, listen,” Ivy pleaded.

“Why should I listen when you’re just going to repeat yourself for the third time?”

“Maybe if you would listen, she wouldn’t have to repeat herself,” Ezo replied acidly.

“As if I’m more likely to listen to the idiot who set a house with children in it on fire,” Talsar shot back.

Ezo scuffed the floor with one worn boot and grumbled, “Because your morals are so flawless.”

Firenza slammed her tankard onto the table, which startled me so badly I clutched Bob to my chest.

“TALSAR! Stop living in the past! He thought he was setting ADULTS on fire! And as far as we know, all those children survived!”

“I don’t know if three months ago counts as the past—” Ivy began softly.

“Ivy, for the love of all the gods, stop. All of you, stop!” Talsar shoved his fingers into his white hair, and for a second I was afraid he was fixing to pull it clean out. Then he whirled on me. “Tell the whole story, beginning to end. That way, when I still insist on leaving you here, I won’t have to listen to this.” He gestured to everyone else in the room.

This right here was why I always traveled alone. If they hated each other so much—which, from their rigid postures and angry faces, they did—then why in all the hundred hells did they stay together?

“Well?” Talsar growled.

I took a breath, running my fingers over and over the runes in Bob’s handle. “Y’all have gathered from my accent that I’m from the provinces?”

They all nodded except Talsar, who just kept staring at me like he could burn holes in my head with his eyes.

“And I assume, since you’re breathing and haven’t just emerged from beneath a rock, you know what happened there during the War of Six Kings?”

Raids. Massacres. So much death.

No, I would suppress the memories. That time was over. Once I had the power arcane, I would never be helpless again.

Their expressions changed, even Talsar’s. “We know it.”

“So then it probably won’t surprise you to learn that during the war, my sister and I were shipped to Middleport with dozens of other provincial children. A big city in the interior of the empire with high walls to keep us safe. Our parents stayed to work the land and make sure the armies had crops to eat.”

I couldn’t help a humorless laugh. Children without parents are never safe, not anywhere. “The war ended, and most of the kids went home, but my parents never showed up. Come to find later that they’d disappeared sometime in the weeks before the war ended, when the fighting was worst. I—we—never heard from them again. We stayed in Middleport, in one of the homes that popped up to house children like us. Children with no parents and no homes to go back to . . .”

Ivy made a sad noise, only to be shushed immediately by Talsar, and I was grateful to the dark elf. The problem with a good lie is that it’s mostly truth. I felt like I’d ripped open my chest to show these strangers my beating heart, but I didn’t want their pity. I was not pitiful. I was strong.

No, I reminded myself, I did want their pity. Pity made people do stupid things.

I continued. “After a few years, the people in charge of the orphanage noticed I had talents. When I was thirteen, I became a student at the Regia Arcanum.”

Ezo let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty young.”

I shot him a look, because nothing in my observations had given me cause to believe he’d know a thing about magic and higher learning.

“If you graduated from some fancy mage school, why do you need us at all?” Talsar asked. “You must be”—he waved his hand up and down in my direction—“capable.”

I shook my head, wringing my hands for good measure. “Even a graduate of the Regia can’t take on a coven of hags alone. My sister is the one in danger, and I’ll use my magic however I can to save her, but I’m no warrior. I need y’all.”

At least, the hags did, and I aimed to deliver.

When no one interrupted after a few seconds, I continued again. “Three years ago, in my fifth and final year at the Regia, I was apprenticed to one of the more . . . eccentric professors, Doctor Arifiz. He was one stone short of a watchtower, but I liked him, and his area of expertise was fascinating.

“See, we mortals can only learn so much in our lifetimes, but there are creatures out there with lives so long they come to know magic in ways we never can. Doctor Arifiz figured if we could just convince the right creatures, they would teach us the secrets of their power.”

A loud scraping filled the room as Ezo dragged a chair across the floor to sit in front of me. He pulled himself up into the bigfolk-sized seat and perched on the edge, leaning toward me. Ivy also looked engaged, propped on the edge of the table with her hands braced on her knees, leaning forward. Firenza was still glaring and drinking. Talsar looked bored. Goddess of knowledge, was this going to work?

“What sort of creatures?” Ezo asked.

I startled a bit. “Dragons. Unicorns. Sphinxes. Unnamed creatures of the depths and heights.”

“Hags?” Talsar drawled.

I dropped my eyes to my lap and counted two heartbeats. “Yes.”

Then I gave them my eyes again, widening them and lifting my palms. “Try to understand, my whole life I’ve had to take care of my sister. All I’ve ever done, I’ve done with an eye toward easing our struggles.”

Ha. My whole life I’d barely been able to take care of myself. If my fictional sister had been real, she would’ve starved. Once I had been accepted to the school, the orphanage kicked me out—too many bodies, too few beds. The Regia Arcanum provided no housing, and my studies had left no time for work. For five years, I’d lived by my wits and the skin of my teeth, sometimes on the street, sometimes not. The two years since graduating hadn’t been much easier. More than anything, my time at the Regia taught me how much there still was to know, and how much power was out there in the hands of kings and tyrant mages. After graduating, I was ready to take some of it for myself. I thought Professor Arafiz would help, but it turned out he wasn’t willing to take the risks necessary to get the kind of power I needed. In the end, I’d gone looking for knowledge on my own, and I’d found the hags.

I shook myself from the memories. “The long and short of it is a couple of months ago I learned that there are hags in Torwich Wood and started making preparations to go speak with them. They don’t have the worst reputation—they even help folks sometimes. I wanted to see if they would teach me some of that arcane knowledge my professor was always going on about. I tried to convince my sister to stay here, but she insisted on going with—”

I let my lip tremble and drew an unsteady breath. “They . . . were not in a charitable mood, and they took her.” Pressing my face into my hands, I let tears flow once more. The clockwork tower outside chimed the hour into the silence that followed. It was growing late.

A gentle hand touched my back, and I looked up into Ivy’s oversized eyes, her irises so dark green they were nearly black. “It’s going to be all right.”

I shook my head, hoping I wasn’t laying it on too thick. “Hags are notorious for keeping people alive. Torturing them. Experimenting on them. I knew I couldn’t get her out by myself. Rumors about y’all have been going around the city since you killed Oakenlock. When I escaped Torwich Wood without my sister—about a month ago now, maybe five weeks—I knew I had to find you. I heard you might come back to Aster to resupply and that you’d stayed at this inn before. So I took a chance and waited, and here you are.”

“How did you hear we resupply here, and who told you we stay at this inn?” Talsar asked, not one whit less suspicious than he had been before. Darn him. He was a tough nut. Fortunately, I had one more ace up my sleeve.

I shrugged. “Y’all are famous. And I swear, I don’t expect help for free. I can’t pay you much now, but Silver Maude, the hag in charge of the coven, she’s got heaps of treasure. I’ve seen it.”

Finally, finally, Talsar’s expression shifted from suspicion to interest.

“How much treasure?”

“Rooms full. Their lair is in the ruin of an ancient walled village, and at least two of the old houses are filled with gold.”

Talsar rose and looked at Ivy. “We need to talk.”

I had them. I had them, and none of them had even bothered to ask how powerful the hags were. In all likelihood, they’d faced hags before. They weren’t terribly hard to defeat for a person with as much experience as these people had.

But none of those hags, not even whole covens of normal hags, came close to the power of Silver Maude and her daughters.

Ivy followed Talsar to the corner while Firenza continued to watch me through narrowed eyes, apparently lost in thought. Ezo jumped down from the chair and came to my side. He smiled sheepishly and held out a white flower with five pointed petals. It was a little sad and wilted, and when I took it, the stem was damp. I noticed the flower arrangement on the table looked a little picked through.

“Thank you.” I gave Ezo a faux watery smile and patted his cheek. “Aren’t you just sweet as a peach?”

He stilled under my touch, staring at me with eyes as round and brown as walnuts. “I—I—uh . . . You’re welcome. Um. Have this too!” He shoved a handkerchief in my face.

The threadbare cloth was a dingy gray and covered in grease. I made myself take it anyway and dabbed at the corners of my eyes, sniffling delicately.

Ivy startled us both by clapping and throwing her arms around Talsar’s neck. He stood there for a long moment with his hands up, like he’d been trying to ward her off. Finally, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, disengaged, and turned to me.

“We’ll go with you—” he began.

“WAIT!” Firenza stood so fast her chair toppled over backward. She clambered over the upended legs. Arms folded across her chest, she loomed like doom with wings. “If we’re going with you, I need to know one thing.”

I waited. She stood there, eyeing me for so long my heartbeat quickened, and I was sure she was about to unveil me as a fraud. When I met Ezo’s stare, he mouthed something that looked weirdly like “griffons.”

“How do you feel about . . . griffons?” Firenza intoned.

I blinked at Ezo. He widened his eyes and nodded vigorously.

“Um. They’re . . . very majestic?” I said.

“YES THEY ARE!” Firenza boomed. Grinning, she thrust her fist into the air. “LET’S GO KILL SOME HAGS!”

Talsar pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had the most terrible headache.

I pressed a hand to my chest as if the gesture could slow my racing heart. I had them. This was going to work.

“She comes,” several disembodied voices whispered in my dreams that night. “She comes. She comes.”

I knew the dream was hag-touched because my own never started out this pleasant—they tended to center around people screaming, a child crying beneath a winter sky, and a wrenching, inescapable, soul-deep sadness. But tonight there was none of that in the gray dream space, only me and a curtain of beads. Beads that were not beads, but strings of yellowed finger bones.

Hag aesthetics. How quaint.

I parted the curtain, passing into darkness. I knew from experience that if I reached behind me, I wouldn’t find escape. I wouldn’t even find a curtain of bones. Instead, there would be a rotting wooden wall. So I held still and tried to breathe through my mouth, avoiding the scent of mold and decomposing meat.

“She comes. She comes she comes shecomesshecomesssss . . .”

“She’s arrived.” My knees were knocking, but they wouldn’t hear it in my voice. This will all be worth it. It will all be worth it soon. “What is it you want?”

A metallic scraping sounded to one side. I turned my head, and a dim, cold light that came from nowhere illuminated a rotund woman who looked somewhere around sixty scraping a spoon as tall as I was against the inside of a boiling cauldron. The woman wasn’t human, nor was she elven or any of the other bigfolk races, but somehow all of them and in between. When she giggled, it was the giggle of a young girl.

“Stupid, stupid Adeline. Pretty face, deficient mind.”

This was the younger of Granny Maude’s daughters, the least powerful member of the coven. And still, she could level a village. “Auntie Posey. What do you have in your pot today?”

“Awful offal. Awful offal.” The witch put her fingers girlishly over her mouth and tittered. “Cook them in their juices; brew them with their bones.”

She snapped her head in my direction, and suddenly she was a solid, jolly human woman with raven braids and pink cheeks, stirring a pot of golden cider that smelled like crisp autumn apples. “Come, have a taste.”

My stomach lurched. “Thank you, Auntie, but I am terribly full.”

A quiet, insectile clicking pulled my attention to the right. Another sourceless light, another woman, older than the first, white as paper and just as thin, silver hair wound around and around and around her head in a crown. She swayed in a rocking chair, black knitting needles clicking back and forth, back and forth, like busy, shiny beetle legs. The fibers wound around the needles were not wool, but greasy sinew all twisted in long strands.

“We only want to make sure you’re all right, Adeline,” said Auntie Pearl, the elder of the two daughters. Her voice was soft and singsong. Suddenly, she was not a spider-thin hag knitting meat, but a pale blond grandmother of about eighty working on a cozy blanket. “Are you cold, dear?”

“No, Auntie Pearl, but thank you.”

A hollow clacking pulled my attention away from Auntie Pearl, and before my eyes fell on the third hag, I sank into a deep curtsy. Sass was all well and good from a hundred miles away, but in dreams, I was at their mercy. “Good evening, Granny Maude.”

Silver Maude bent her bald head over her lap. Her scalp was covered in age spots, and a few wisps of white hair fell forward to cover the million, million wrinkles in her skull-like face. The large, wickedly curved sewing needle in her hand flashed as she stitched together a series of bones. When she looked up, her eyes were milky white, but her voice was melodic and young. “What? No blessing for my heart?”

I rolled my lips between my teeth and bit down.

Granny Maude bent to her work again. “Tell me, Adeline. How do you find your new companions?”

I grimaced. “Argumentative and dull.”

“Do you not think it will be nice to have company? Not to be alone?”

I regarded her, some unnameable foreboding stirring in my heart. I couldn’t think of not being alone. Not when the power I needed was so close at hand. They were nothing. Nothing but payment. “No, Granny.”

Granny Maude nodded, as if this were just so. “Will their arguing slow our plans?”

“No, Granny. As much as they disagree, they act quickly when things are decided.”

“Indeed.” She didn’t have to say more. She would have seen through me how quickly the adventurers packed and sent the inn’s errand runners out shopping for provisions. We would depart the Wandering Hermit and the city of Aster at first light.

Granny Maude picked up a bone from a pile near her chair and began to fasten it to the skeleton in her lap with flashes of needle and whips of thick, black thread. It wasn’t a skeleton in a way that made sense, but a grotesque hodgepodge. “We will expect you on time, then, Adeline. Seven days.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Seven days. Five from Aster to the small town of Cottleden on the edge of Torwich Wood, then two pushing through the wood itself to the crumbling ruin of a walled village where the hags had made their lair. Such a long time to put up with arguing, to stop when other people wanted to stop, to have to compromise and cajole instead of simply being able to act. It would be torture.

Do you think it will be nice to have company? Not to be alone?

No. It would be nice to have so much power no one could ever threaten me again.

When Granny Maude rose from her chair, she was not the most ancient being I’d ever seen, but a beautiful, dignified elven matron with silver eyes and silver hair that flowed to her ankles.

She leaned forward and touched my forehead. Though I didn’t see her too-long broken and ragged nails through the beautiful illusion, I could feel them pressed hard against my skin. “Good girl. Sleep. Your journey has only begun.”

The adventurers retrieved their horses from the Wandering Hermit’s stables the next morning, and there was a bit of confusion over what to do with me. I had planned on riding Bob, because why on earth would anyone trust a horse? The things are massive as a house and dumb enough to eat grass for crying out loud. Unfortunately, my cantankerous broom had other plans. When I threw it down in the cobblestone courtyard of the Hermit and commanded, “Up!” it just lay there like a stick.

“Darn it, Bob!”

“Uh.” Ezo paused at the inn’s door where he was organizing the contents of his bag and glanced between me and the broom. “Are you having problems?”

Bob rustled its twigs in something that sounded like displeasure. Ezo stared at it with wide eyes. “Is that a magic broom?”

“That is a dead tree having a diva moment.” I nudged the broom with the toe of my black boot. “We don’t have time for tantrums, twiggy.”

More rustling. Bob had been argumentative since I struck my deal with the hags. Didn’t matter that I promised to fix it once I had the power arcane so it could actually fly instead of maxing out its altitude at two feet off the ground; my broom was stubbornly moral.

So ten minutes later I found myself riding behind Ivy on a twitchy equine with Bob slung in its holster on my back. Stupid Bob. Slight Ivy didn’t look like she could do more than hang on if the mountain we were riding got it in its head to gallop off. I would have chosen to ride with Firenza, who was near as big as her massive black destrier and probably stronger, but Ezo already rode with her on a curious little seat they had attached to the back of her saddle. So I settled in, bowlegged and uncomfortable behind Ivy on her bay mare. At least Ivy was tiny enough—as far as bigfolk went—that there was plenty of room for us both.

Aster and its bridges grew smaller as the road wound down through the snowy foothills of the Throne Mountains and into the winter-dry grasslands that spread like a great inland sea across the valley. The day was clear, and from the city gates I could see twenty miles. To the north, the road rose and disappeared through the narrow pass where the Throne range nearly touched the Lessor Mountains. Through that gap was an even larger valley where we would eventually find Torwich Wood.

Conversation was stilted all through that first day of travel. Despite the promise of treasure, Talsar was unhappy, and his foul mood kept everyone else on edge. The cold of the gray mountain winter didn’t help. Nor did the storm that rolled in sometime after lunch, which spat sleet at us until the sky darkened with night.

When it was almost too dark to see, Firenza dismounted and handed her reins to Ezo, who, apparently practiced at this, clambered out of his small seat and onto the main saddle to guide the horse. With a flourish, she took off her cloak and threw it over her horse—and over Ezo, who had to dig his way out from beneath it—and unfurled her wings.

They were bat-like and as deep purple as a midnight sky. From tip to tip, they had to measure over twenty feet. With a laugh, Firenza ran and leaped into the air, sweeping them down and up, pushing herself into the sky.

Well, at least someone was in a good mood.

Twenty minutes later, she came back and reported that she’d found a suitable cave out of the elements. I was grateful. I didn’t want to reveal the extent of my “fancy mage school” education, but I was not going to sleep in the mud. Though, when we finally found the cave, it was so cold and my thighs were so saddle-sore I gave in to the temptation to light the stack of damp wood we found inside with a pinch of sulfur and twitch of my fingers. Thanks to the magic, it didn’t smoke, so we could have it nice and deep in the cave where it could actually keep the air warm.

“Thanks!” Ezo said. “That would have taken me a while to get burning.”

Preoccupied by my sore behind and ignoring the strange embarrassment that threatened to heat my cheeks, I winked at him. “I’ll light your fire anytime, sugar.”

Whoops. That hadn’t matched my sad-girl persona. Ezo didn’t seem to notice. He just flushed, mumbled something unintelligible, then stumbled away to take care of the horses at the back of the cave with Firenza.

To my surprise, Talsar was the one who got down to the business of tending the fire once it was lit. Half an hour later, when Ivy appeared like a shadow out of the freezing rain, he was also the one to skin and clean the brace of rabbits she’d caught.

“Get in here and sit down,” he growled. “Your hands are red. They’re probably numb. You’re lucky you didn’t shoot yourself in the foot. Why didn’t you hunt on the road?”

She rolled her eyes, but pressed her lips together to conceal what I suspected was a pleased smile at his concern. She also sat on the rock he’d indicated. “I had a passenger on the road.”

Talsar shot me a glare. I pointed an accusatory finger at Bob.

I thought I might have seen a flash of a reluctant smile before he pressed his lips flat and turned his attention back to Ivy. “Next time hand me your reins so you can hunt before the sun goes down.”

“As you command, your majesty.” She swept out her arm and bowed without standing.

Talsar grunted. “Yeah. I’m the majesty here,” then went back to cleaning the rabbits.

I felt a little bad that Ivy’s generosity toward me meant she’d had to go out in the cold and the dark, but then Talsar turned his back, and she started smiling softly at him like some kind of fool. Why? He was bossy and arrogant and rude.

When Ivy noticed me watching, she winked and shared her smile. It was a secret, friendly smile, like we were the kind of people who had private jokes about the ornery dark elf. Like we might be acquaintances on the way to becoming friends.

I pretended I didn’t see and rummaged in my bag like I needed something. I thought the vicarious embarrassment of watching her go doe-eyed over Talsar would be the most uncomfortable thing I’d have to endure on this trip. But for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, having her smile at me like that was worse.

The second day passed much like the first, except the valley we’d entered was larger, the Lessor Mountains sweeping so far west they became misty hills on the horizon. And now, instead of empty, snow-patched grassland as far as the eye could see, we traveled a sparsely wooded ribbon of land, perhaps two miles wide, between the base of the Throne Mountains and the eastern shore of the Skaldsmere—a lake so vast I could easily convince myself it must be the sea.

Along with the change in scenery came a change in the weather. Thanks to the lake, the sleet we’d been battling turned to snow, bright white and drifting down from a lightening sky. Ivy laughed and threw back her hood, turning her face up to the sky. White crystals sticking in her shoulder-length red-brown hair sparkled like diamonds. I caught Talsar glaring at her more than once, but he didn’t bark at her to put on her hood like I’d expected.

Despite the snow, the day was relatively warm, and the snow melted as soon as it touched the road. Moods were lighter, and talk flowed more easily than the day before. I brought up my “sister” a few times to keep that little fantasy alive, shedding tears as necessary.

After seeing me hobble around camp, Ezo had loaned me extra blankets on which to sit, so the ride wasn’t so unbearable. The easier mood carried through that night and into the third day, which passed much the same as the second.

While it wasn’t the most convenient thing, traveling with others, I found that listening to their talk did make the time go faster. And maybe horses weren’t so bad, once my legs and backside got used to riding. At least horses generally went where they were told to go, unlike certain magic brooms.

“—and that’s when I found out I wasn’t the chosen one.” Firenza finished her story, face pinched. “It was a joke by my stupid brother! But it was too late—I’d already spent the whole night in the mud.”

Everyone laughed, including me, but I immediately pressed a hand over my mouth, stifling it.

“What about you, Adeline?” Ivy asked.

I started. “Beg pardon?”

“Your turn.” Ezo had turned backward in his little seat, long legs and booted feet dangling over the horse’s black rump. With him and Firenza riding just to the side and ahead of Ivy’s bay, we were in easy talking distance. “Tell us your best story from before your adventuring days.”

“Oh. I’m not an adventurer.”

“Because setting out to steal magic from hags isn’t something an adventurer does.”

I twisted to look at Talsar, riding several feet behind on a quiet gray gelding. Was he . . . smiling? His mouth was still a flat line, but something about his eyes seemed . . . amused. Odd. I’d thought the only emotion he was capable of feeling was annoyance.

“I was not stealing. I was . . . seeking.” I adjusted my skirts primly.

“Right.”

Maybe I would have considered myself an adventurer, except that adventurers all went on their little expeditions with friends, and I hadn’t exactly attracted many of those. On purpose, of course.

I tilted my head to the side. “Okay, here’s a story. Once Professor Arifiz, remember, my mentor at the Regia Arcanum? He got it in his head that we needed to study swamp hydra. So we squelch our way out there, and he gets lost. We must’ve wandered for three days. At night he would cast this little portal that led to a dry spot in a sort of between space, and on the third night, we found this island that was kind of firmer and higher than the land around it, even though it stank to high heaven. We thought it was just the swamp, right? Swamps stink. But when we woke up and walked out the door in the light of day—well, apparently hydra do their business all in one place to keep the rest of their territory clean. The professor had put the door to his little in between space right on top of an island of hydra dung.”

They burst out laughing. All of them, even Talsar.

Ezo grinned at me. “I mean, at least you didn’t sleep in the dung.”

“Adeline wins!” Firenza declared. She reached into a pocket and flipped something coin-sized through the air toward me—which I had no chance in the hells of catching. Thankfully, Ivy snagged it and handed it over her shoulder.

“What’s this?”

“The last sweet. Best story wins,” Ivy said.

I held it out in front of me like she’d handed me a bug. They weren’t supposed to like me or be funny or sweet. They were supposed to be obnoxious, or businesslike and bland so I didn’t have to care when the hags took them and did whatever hags do. I tried to hand the sweet back to Ivy. “Almost sleeping in dung is not better than finding out you aren’t the chosen one. I wouldn’t want to take something I haven’t earned.”

“Well it isn’t the last sweet,” Ezo said. “I mean, we were just in Aster. They have confectioners.”

“You got more?” Firenza demanded. “How could you get more and not tell us? I’ve been rationing!”

“Sorry.” Ezo did not sound sorry, but he did hand Firenza a white twist of waxed paper from one of the many pouches hung at his waist. “There. Two first-place winners.”

I unrolled the sweet. In the setting sun, it glittered red as a ruby. I licked my lips, then rolled it up again.

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” Ivy asked. I didn’t know how she could tell what I was doing, as I was sitting directly behind her.

“Not yet.” I hesitated, then stuck the sweet in my pocket, where it seemed to weigh as much as a stone. It wasn’t as if I’d never had sugar candy before, but something about this one felt different. Something about winning it, about the laughter, about the curious warm feeling in my chest . . . I wanted to savor it, because I knew it wouldn’t last long.

That night, we set up camp near an abandoned, run-down cottage set back in a copse of trees. Copses were becoming more numerous the closer we got to Torwich Wood.

Everyone dismounted and went about duties that were becoming familiar to me. Ivy hunted, Firenza took care of the horses, Ezo gathered firewood, and Talsar—after asking me almost politely if I’d start the fire—went to fetch a couple of buckets of water from a partially frozen stream not too far away.

For a few minutes, I circled the single room within the walls only half-covered by the remains of a roof. Aside from lighting the fire, no one had asked me to help. But after days of having everything provided for me, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to pull my weight. Besides, much like physicality, roughing it was not one of my talents.

My fingers danced in an intricate pattern, painting golden runes on the air. I cast a quick spell to blow leaves and debris out of the way, then another to set up a weak perimeter of arcane energy to keep out snow and insects. That done, I used a small pile of kindling to light a fire far larger than the meager fuel should have allowed.

Only then—and this is a testament to how tired sleeping rough must have made me—did I realize I’d been left alone with everyone’s bags. We were two days from Cottleden, the village that marked the edge of the wood, and I still hadn’t seen any sign of the magical artifact the hags were after. More and more, I wondered who had it. If I could find it, perhaps I could take the power arcane by myself. I could save these people from the hags and never be helpless again.

I peeked out one of the broken windows facing the trees, but didn’t see anyone. If I hesitated, it was only for an instant. I went to Ezo’s bag first, checking for traps or wards. There weren’t any, so I undid the drawstring and peered inside.

It was refreshingly organized. There were a few tightly rolled pieces of clothing, a few wrapped rations, the little pouch of candies, and two boxes inside. I pulled out the first box and discovered a set of tools. I’d seen similar things when I would peer through clockwork-makers’ windows as a street child in Middleport. They were metal and oddly shaped, and what they were used for I couldn’t begin to imagine.

The second box was padded with old cloth and filled with random clockwork parts. I shook it, counting the gears, because at least I knew what those were. A handful of brass, several iron, one gold, a couple of silver. Did he use the tools from the first box to create things out of the parts in this one? Could the missing piece of the hags’ magical construct be cleverly hidden among the mundane rubble? I cast another spell to reveal anything arcane inside the box but got nothing. No magic here.

I sighed and put everything back as I’d found it. I’d come to appreciate that Ezo was cleverer than I might have given him credit for at first, but still, ugh, machines. So inelegant.

The next pack, substantially larger, belonged to Firenza. It was neither neat nor orderly, but a jumble of whetstones, polishing cloths, oils, extra clothing, food, and—another surprise—a box of expensive paints and a few carefully folded scraps of fine painter’s canvas. Another spell to sense the arcane turned up nothing. Firenza might be a painter and a nearly Chosen One, but she was not the bearer of my magical artifact.

Ivy’s bags were as expected, mostly practical and boring, except for some very pretty, very expensive clothes stuffed down at the bottom and a few sealed letters addressed simply, “Uncle.” How interesting. Even Ivy, it seemed, had secrets. I stroked the gorgeous night-blue silk of one of the dresses and debated reading her letters, but time was growing short, and there was one bag left.

Talsar’s black leather pack sat in the corner, slightly away from the others. I flipped up the flap and peered inside. Daggers that needed sharpening. Black clothing. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a bottle filled with roiling liquid labeled “Angst: Take 1 heaping dose daily.” But when I cast my detection spell, something sewn into the lining gave me such a shock I snatched my fingers back.

Yes! This was it. This had to be it! I dug deeper, trembling with excitement. Twigs rustled, and I glanced over my shoulder at Bob, leaning against the wall.

I shot him a narrow-eyed glare. “Shut up, Bob. As if I need my morals criticized by a brittle mop.” A little more feeling around, and I found the hole in the seam that gave me access to the hidden pocket.

But when I pulled the item out, all I could do was stare, confused.

The object had the weight and cool, hard surface of a rounded stone, but the thing on my palm wasn’t truly matter. No, it was pure energy in the thinnest of shells. To the untrained eye, it would look unremarkable. Brown and wrinkled, it might even be mistaken for a walnut. But to me, it lit up like an earthbound star.

Talsar had a vital spark.

I was excited a second ago, but now my heart hammered in my chest, part from thrill, part from guilt at finding something so intimate. While it was magic, it definitely wasn’t the mystery object I was looking for. But the value, the rarity . . . That I was holding one in my hand took my breath away. With this, the life of someone just beyond the veil of death could be restored, but the cost of creating one was—

“Explain to me what you’re doing.”

I whirled. Talsar leaned against the remains of the doorway, flipping a dagger and catching it by the tip, then the hilt, then the tip again. Two full buckets of water sat just beyond him, and he scowled like I hadn’t seen since the day we met.

“Explain,” he repeated when I gawped at him like a fish trying to breathe air. “That way when they come back and you’re dead, I know what to say.”

“Who died for this?” I thrust the spark toward him. I mean, he might try to kill me, and that was a concern, but there was knowledge to be had here. I had so many questions. And besides, while he kept his eyes on the spark, I had the time to ease a packet of poppy dust from the pocket of my skirt.

“Put that away.”

“You couldn’t have stolen it . . .” They had to be given. Given, or made just for you. And no one ever gives away a vital spark. They cost too much.

I wondered how quickly the others would rob him blind if they knew he had it. An extra chance at life was the most precious thing any adventurer could carry.

His eyes flared. Before I could so much as lift my hands, his dagger whistled past my ear and thunked into the stone wall. A few strands of my hair fell to the ground, shining gold against the earth.

Whoops. I’d gotten distracted.

Another dagger flew by. This one nicked my ear, and warm blood immediately flowed from the spot. I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth at the sting and considered it a victory that I hadn’t flinched or screamed. He was so silent, so quick. Alone with his friends, he hadn’t bothered, so I hadn’t realized the extent of his abilities. But I understood him a little better now. Someone had sacrificed their life so he could have that spark. A parent. Maybe a sibling. The price of a vital spark wasn’t money, but suffering.

No wonder he was such a mirthless wet blanket.

“Away,” he growled. “As you’ve said, it can’t be stolen. So put it back.”

“All right, don’t get your black leather panties in a twist.” He was right, I couldn’t steal it. Any attempt would’ve seen the vital spark reappearing on his person before I could get a mile from him, and even if I could take it, I couldn’t use it. For anyone but Talsar, the vital spark might as well be a walnut. But if I could have stolen it, I definitely would have.

Instead, I knelt and slid the spark back into its hidden pocket, then rose, hands up. I touched my bleeding ear.

“Last words?” he asked.

Oh, I had many words. But knowing he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer my questions, I asked something else that had been bothering me. “Talsar, you’re a tough guy, right? Why travel with these people if you don’t even like them? It isn’t for safety.”

He flipped the dagger, hilt to tip, tip to hilt, sizing me up, taking aim. “I’m flattered.”

I gave him an innocent smile. “If I’m going to die, you might as well tell me.”

He considered me for a long moment. “The money.”

Irritated, I shook my head. “If you just wanted money, you’d get it. You don’t need them.”

He looked at me as if I were the dumbest slug ever to crawl beneath his descending boot. “What’s the point of having everything if you look up from all those baubles one day and find yourself alone?”

Bemused, I wrinkled my brow.

He shrugged. “I guess you’ll go to your grave not knowing. Goodbye, Adeline.” He threw the final dagger, and it sailed straight for my neck.

I swiped my hand across the air. A solid bubble of energy flashed around me, sending the dagger spinning to the ground. Simultaneously, I tore open the packet of poppy dust and blew it in his face. “Aw, sweet pea. I’m sorry to ruin your plans, but I am a touch difficult to kill.”

He jerked back too late; I had already traced the necessary symbols double time in the air, my fingers leaving behind those lovely trails of gold.

The spell took hold, and Talsar’s expression went blank. I paused to listen for anyone coming. Hearing no one, I paced around him, deciding the best way to reorder his memories. “You just arrived with the water to find me lighting the fire, like you asked.”

A nod from the expressionless elf.

“You expected to find me doing something sinister, like going through your bags. You are chagrined to find your suspicions unfounded. You will behave more gentlemanly in the future.”

He nodded again.

“Very good.” I sauntered over and dipped my handkerchief in one of the buckets, then dabbed at my bloodied ear. “Now, pumpkin, pick your knife up off the floor, grab your buckets, and come in again.”

He did as instructed, returning the dagger, whose blade was engraved with ravens, to some hidden place in his coat and then striding from the ruined cottage. I turned to the fire. A few seconds later, Talsar half dropped, half set the buckets of water down inches from me.

“Lands alive!” I jumped and pressed a hand to my chest. “You scared me half to death!”

The sound of footsteps cut off anything Talsar might have said, and Ezo and Ivy entered with firewood and a few fat birds, respectively. It looked like we’d wrapped up our little drama just in time.

“Oh, hey!” Ezo glanced around. “You cleaned up, Adeline. And started the fire. Nice.” He dropped the load of firewood off to the side and slipped something into my hand. “Don’t tell Firenza.”

I looked down at my palm to find another wax paper–wrapped sweet. Through the wrapper, I could tell it would be blue as a sapphire. Color drained from my face.

“Uh, are you okay?”

I blinked at the sweet. “S-sorry? Um. Yes.”

I tried to recover. Here I was, having a life-and-death duel with one member of this group, and not a minute later another one was handing me candy. I forced myself to smile, then leaned forward to kiss Ezo on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

The green of his face went bright. “Uh. Thank you. Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” He turned away. Before he could go anywhere, he stopped short. “Talsar, why are two of your knives stuck in the wall?”

My blood ran cold. I’d told him to pick up the dagger on the floor, but I’d forgotten the ones stuck between the stones.

The dark elf raised startled eyes to the place Ezo indicated, then strode over and retrieved the raven blades, looking each one over. Slowly, very slowly, he looked at me, brow furrowed in confusion. But when he spoke, it was with as much dry confidence as ever. “Practice.”

My heart skipped. But he didn’t remember, despite the look. Because if he did, I would already be dead.

“Well, practice outside. You’re making safety hazards,” the goblin grumbled.

Firenza tromped through the door, wings draped around her like a cloak and snow caught in her black hair. “I’M STARVING. TALSAR! WHAT’S FOR DINNER?”

Talsar said nothing, just took the birds Ivy brought and went back to cooking. Every once in a while, when he thought I wasn’t looking, he would stare at me through narrowed violet eyes.

After dinner, I stepped outside, where I watched Firenza croon wordlessly to the horses. Running my fingers over the lumps those sweets made in my skirt, I looked up to the stars. If Talsar ever remembered and told the others, they would kill me. I’d seen it in his eyes. If they escaped the hags, and I didn’t have the power arcane, they would hunt me down.

It looked like they really did have to die.

The hags came for me in my dreams, and I eagerly pushed through the finger-bone curtain. Again, I stood in the dark, waiting for them to reveal themselves. Unlike the last time, I could not stop tension from seeping into my voice, making it too sharp. “I greet the coven of Torwich Wood.”

The sourceless lights appeared, revealing all three at once: Auntie Posey at her pot, Auntie Pearl with her knitting, and Silver Maude rocking in her chair, back and forth, back and forth, needle flashing as she fastened bones together.

“You play a dangerous game, Adeline,” Granny Maude said without lifting her milky eyes. “The dark elf is suspicious.”

“Talsar is always suspicious, Granny. It is his nature.”

“Oooh, Talsar,” Auntie Posey sang. “Talsar, Talsar. First names. She comes to know them, Mother. Beware. She will fall in love and discover the truth of the power arcane.”

Her words raised the hairs on the back of my neck. “The truth? What truth?”

“Ignore her,” said Auntie Pearl in her sweet, soft voice, insectile needles clicking away. “You know how she is. She speaks nonsense and riddles.”

I relaxed, but only enough to reorganize my thoughts. “Tell me what it is I seek. Tell me what ‘trinket’ they have that will restore the construct that will give us access to the power arcane. I have searched them and their bags. I found no magic.”

All movement stopped. All was silence. My stomach roiled, rabbit stew on the rise.

When Silver Maude spoke, her voice was soft. A warning. “We told you not to seek the artifact. You are only to deliver the adventurers to us. You grow too ambitious, Adeline.”

I bared my teeth. “Perhaps I won’t bring them at all.”

“Ah. Will you not?”

“No. Not unless you tell me about the artifact.”

The granny hag set down her bones and rose from her chair, and even though I’d turned to run, there was nowhere to go. It was already too late.

A golden cage appeared around me. When I clutched the bars, they turned to vipers thick as ropes that sank their fangs into my hands. I cried out and threw myself back. The hags cackled and shrieked. I landed on my backside, and the vipers became golden chains around my wrists. Except these chains had thorns. A hundred half-inch thorns sharp as needles that sank into my skin.

“My dear,” Silver Maude whispered, gliding forward without moving. Or I was gliding, or the room. Everything shifted, and she stood before me, over me, but looked and spoke over my head. “The deal is struck.”

“We did not forge these chains,” Auntie Pearl hissed, soft voice gone bone-dry. “You did. You made them of Greed. Of Hunger. Of Thirst. Of Craving.”

“Stupid, stupid Adeline,” Auntie Posey sing-songed. “Pretty face, deficient mind. The deal is struck, the deal is struck, the deal is struck.”

Silver Maude pressed a wickedly pointed finger to my forehead. “Behold, and remember.”

Alone, muddy, soaked from driving rain. Wind whipped the wood, making the trees dance. They tore at ragged clothes. I was too half-frozen, lips bluish, eyes wild and wide. I came to the entrance of the ancient walled city. A city where mortals dared not go. But I dared. I was Adeline Riverdeep, and I dared, because I was desperate.

“What do you wish?” the silver woman asked.

“I wish never to be helpless again.”

“And what will you pay?”

“Anything.”

The silver woman smiled. “Anything?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Show me your hands.”

I lifted my arms, palms facing the hag. As I watched, two twisting golden chains appeared around my wrists. Chains that burned. Chains of hatred and desperate need, and I understood. The chains did not come from the hags, but grew from my soul. Silver Maude reached out. Though the chains still bound me, she took a link from each, and as I watched, she swallowed them.

“The deal is struck. Four lives and a trinket. That is the price. Four lives and a trinket, and you will wield the power arcane.”

“Behold, and know,” Silver Maude said.

A magical construct of breathtaking workmanship stood in the center of a ruined village. It was an orrery, a model of the planets and stars held together by thin golden rods and powered by arcane energy. Orbs carved of precious stone in every blazing color from the size of my pinky nail to the size of a wagon wheel whirled and spun around the golden sun at their center. Other spheres representing moons zoomed around the planets, and every instant it seemed as if there would be a dozen collisions, but there were none. The dance of the cosmos was perfection.

Then the golden arms disappeared, and so did the village. Planets, moons, and stars whirled in space, spinning faster and growing larger against a profound blackness. It was not a flat, distant thing, the blackness. It was everywhere. Three-dimensional, close and distant, unreachable, and all-encompassing.

“We offer you All. You must only prove that you are worthy.”

The wonders of the universe expanded and unfolded around me. A thousand thousand mysteries brushed by, so close I grasped at them, only to feel the knowledge slide through my mind and out again like a whisper half-dreamed, half-heard.

“This is power,” another voice whispered, a voice I knew well, because it was my own. “This is All. What are the lives of four strangers weighed against that?”

I started awake in the frozen darkness some unknown time before dawn. Snow fell through the broken roof, lit bright by the moon. My protection spell had worn off in the night, perhaps dispelled during my dream. My chest rose and fell, my breath fogging the silent air. My head spun with the visions I had seen. The power I had felt at my fingertips. Close, so close.

An orrery—that was the magical construct the hags wanted to fix. The key to the power arcane. There had been a few small orreries under glass domes at the Regia Arcanum, but never one like this, so finely wrought and large enough to take up a village square. They must have had the pieces and put it together after I left, because it hadn’t been there before. But they were missing some piece. Some magical component that would complete it. And once I found that component, I would become one of the most powerful beings in the cosmos. Not a refugee child. Not a war orphan. Not a desperate student who near starved just so she could learn.

What were the lives of four strangers weighed against that?

Nothing.

That morning I moved slow as a bird with two broken wings. I didn’t want to talk or eat; I wanted to figure out which part of the orrery the group might have that I had missed. Maybe a magic-infused precious stone that was a moon or a planet? Maybe some kind of power source? Not the vital spark; those couldn’t be used like that. But I hadn’t found anything else.

By the time Ivy boosted me onto her horse, the sun was well over the horizon, and I was ready to crawl back into bed. The rest of the morning didn’t go any easier, not when we got on the road, not when the sun crawled to its weak winter height, and not during lunch or after. I spent those hours shivering and mostly silent, promising everyone else I was fine, just tired. When Ezo offered me another candy, this one green as an emerald, I refused.

“We need to make a plan,” Ivy said sometime in the late afternoon. “For the hags. We need to decide how we’re going to take them out without giving them a chance to hurt Adeline’s sister.”

Ha. I’d almost forgotten about my “sister.”

“What was her name again?” Talsar asked. The road was wide here, and he rode to my and Ivy’s right while Ezo and Firenza rode on our left.

I eyed him dully. Sometimes erasing the memory didn’t quite get rid of the emotion that went with it. He might not remember why, but the dark elf had definitely retreated back into sullen hostility since our confrontation yesterday evening.

“Maralyn Riverdeep.” As if I was stupid enough to make up a lie about a sister and then not come up with a name. Nice try, Mr. McBroodypants.

“What is there to plan?” Firenza pulled her axe from its holster and waved it around. “We run in, then we HIT THEM UNTIL THEY DIE!”

“Any insight, Adi?” Ezo ducked the axe.

I grunted a negative. The day was gray as steel. At first, I’d been happy to ride next to the lake if it meant the sleet became snow, but my fingers and toes were just as numb as they had been the previous days, and after a while I was just as wet. I was ready for an inn and a dry bed, and woe to anyone who spoke to me before I got one.

“Maybe just the layout of their lair, then?” Ivy partially twisted around, trying to see me. I hunched lower, but she persisted. Her horse slowed, and we fell a few steps behind the others. “It’s in a ruined village you said? On top of a hill? Two days into the forest. I think we can work with a ruined village.” She laughed a little. “It will be like a children’s game for Talsar.”

“Can you stop?” I whispered, so low only she could hear.

Ivy’s finely arched brows drew together. “Sorry?”

I glanced ahead, but the others didn’t seem to have heard. “Listen, Ivy, sweetie. You are embarrassing yourself. We can all see how you feel about him, including him, and it’s sad.”

Her face reddened, and I knew she’d heard me, knew I’d hurt her. My hand clenched, and I discovered I’d wrapped my fingers around the candies in my pocket. “I hate to tell you this—” I didn’t. I needed to tell her, needed her to hate me, to stop being nice. “But he is not into—”

“INCOMING!”

Firenza’s shout jolted me from my malicious haze. Ahead of us, her great midnight wings sprang open, and in a moment, she clambered up on her saddle and leaped from her horse directly into the sky. Ezo jumped from his little seat and stood balanced on the saddle, crossbow in hand and pointed ahead. Beyond the road, the long, dead grass poking out through the snow was moving. Shivering and bucking in great waves.

“What is that?” Panic constricted my chest. Whatever it was, it did not look friendly.

“Gythan.” Ivy freed her longbow. She wouldn’t look at me. “They’re everywhere up here.”

Behind us, Talsar’s horse stood alone on the road—the dark elf had vanished.

“Gythan?” My throat squeezed, panic turning to paralyzing terror.

Ivy did look at me then. Her hurt expression fell away, and she put a hand on my shoulder. “Just sit tight, Adeline. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I stared at her as she bent and strung her bow, then moved next to Ezo, the two of them between me and the moving grass. Oh goddess of knowledge, I was going to die. I didn’t for one second believe she’d stick her neck out for me. Not after what I’d said.

Bad timing, Adeline.

And then a wave of muscular gray-brown bodies burst from the grass and onto the road. I froze, fingers gripping the edges of the saddle, lost in memories of a place this cold, fifteen years ago. Of huddling with the other children, praying the monsters wouldn’t take us. Praying they wouldn’t take our parents.

But they had taken mine.

Ivy let her arrow fly and nocked another. I could only watch, shrouded in surreal numbness. Gythan were the nightmare children of apes and mastiffs created during the War of Six, vicious, rabid monsters that were much of the reason the children from the provinces had been sent to the interior. Most hunched over, galloping on both knuckles and feet, but others had pushed themselves to their hind legs, hefting rocks to fling at us. Their heads were bulbous, with small eyes and heavy, slavering jaws.

They were miles from being thinking creatures, but they were far cleverer than normal beasts. Some king had his archmage develop them during the war. Now, a decade and a half later, gythan ran wild. Usually they confined themselves to the far grasslands, where they hunted anything large enough to catch their interest. But if there was a lean year, they would get just hungry enough to wander toward civilization and attack an armed party of travelers.

From the size of the pack careening toward us, it had been a very lean year.

Firenza roared and dived from the sky, slashing at the growing mob with a great sword she must have concealed beneath her wings. A slew of them fell before her, but for every one she cut down, five more emerged from the grass.

Numb shock gave way to panic. A scream rose in my throat, and my whole attention was occupied keeping it in. Noise would attract their attention.

You have to be quiet when you’re with the other children, Adeline. So quiet, sweet pea. You keep yourself safe. Oh gods, Mama? I hadn’t heard her voice, not even in memory, for so many years. I didn’t want to hear it now.

They closed in on us. Ezo kept firing from the back of Firenza’s horse, but Ivy ditched her bow and drew her swords. There were so many. One got past her and clamped its horrifying teeth onto the leg of her horse—which also happened to be my horse. It reared, and the next thing I knew, the sky was sailing by beneath my feet. Bob’s handle smashed into my spine like an iron bar as my back hit the ground, wind knocked clean out of me. For a long moment, I lay there, unable to breathe. The horse’s hooves were too close, big as my head, thundering as it danced. Finally, air rushed back into my lungs. With a force of will I didn’t know I had, I rolled away and regained my feet, Bob tangling in my legs as I lurched away, its handle vibrating with fear.

All around was chaos—the screams of horses and gythan, the twang and whistle of Ezo’s crossbow, the flashing whirl of Ivy’s blades. I hunched next to a tree and reached a shaking hand over my shoulder to grip my broom’s handle. “It’s going to be okay, Bob.”

But I didn’t know that, not at all. I was a thinker, not a fighter. Not brave, not strong, except for in magic. I pressed against the tree, fumbling in the pouch at my belt, and cast the first spell I could force my trembling fingers to sketch upon the air—the flying spell. Just as one of the monsters lunged for me, I launched myself up. The ground fell away, but not fast enough. The gythan’s jaws snapped around my heel, and pain ripped up my leg.

I did scream then. Focus broken, the flying spell dissipated, and I fell on top of the monster who’d dragged me down. It wriggled beneath me, jaws snapping, catching the attention of another gythan, who let out a hooting bark and headed our way.

They say life flashes before your eyes, but there was nothing in my mind at that moment except the knowledge that I needed to brace myself for the pain of being ripped apart.

But pain—at least, more pain—never came. A solid thud reverberated through the gythan, and it went still. I rolled off, catching sight of a crossbow bolt in its neck. The other one still came for me, but before it could attack, a raven-covered dagger zoomed seemingly from nowhere and embedded in its eye. It stood for a moment, as if it hadn’t realized it was dead, then keeled forward. I scrambled out of the way.

“Come on!” Ezo was there, covered in blood and dirt, bruises darkening on the side of his face. He pulled me toward Ivy, who’d taken up a defensive stance in front of a high boulder. With their help, I scrambled up the rock. Ezo climbed after me, perching behind and loading another bolt into his crossbow. The height didn’t offer much protection, but it was better than nothing. In the sky, Firenza dived, rose, wheeled, and dived again. Half the time she took out multiple gythan, half the time they dodged, and her great sword sent dirt and rocks and bits of grass flying.

“Talsar?” Ivy asked.

“He’s somewhere,” I wheezed. “Unless someone else throws raven daggers.”

On cue, another dagger appeared in another gythan’s eye, and the creature fell.

Ivy slashed and stabbed, her breathing ragged. “He must be in the trees.”

“That’s not going to save him.” Ezo’s voice sank into a gravelly growl. “These things can definitely climb.”

“He’s got his talents; we’ve got ours. Speaking of which, Ezo, now would be a good time.” Ivy lunged, stabbing a screaming gythan through the ribs. For a moment it looked like she might not be able to withdraw the sword. Another gythan attacked her from the side, and she fought it off one-handed before she finally jerked her first sword free and used it to lop off the beast’s head.

“Right.” Ezo pulled something out of an inner pocket in his vest. He bit part off with his teeth, then said, “Adi, close your eyes, and cover your ears!” He heaved, and the object flew into the mass of gythan.

His words didn’t fully penetrate the fear clouding my brain, but when I saw Ezo duck and cover, so did I. Even so, a flash of light burned my closed eyelids, and a sound like I was perched in the middle of a thunderstorm blew through me, shaking my whole body. The gythan screeched and bellowed, and when I raised my head, several of them had their faces pressed to the ground or were rolling around covering the little triangular ears that poked out the sides of their heads.

“What in the hundred hells was that?” I shouted, my own ears ringing.

Ezo already had his crossbow in hand again and was shooting bolts into the stunned gythan with startling accuracy. He paused just long enough to grin at me over his shoulder. “That’s a different kind of magic.”

Maybe I had been too hasty with my disgust for machinery.

Ivy cried out. I turned to see the surging gythan knock her off her feet and cover her in a roiling pile. Firenza was on the ground too. Still standing, but with gythan all around her, one of her wings held awkwardly to one side, shredded and bleeding. “IVY IS DOWN!” she bellowed.

Like a shadow, Talsar darted from the trees, striking out with his daggers, eyes hard, teeth bared. He fought his way toward us, but he wouldn’t get there in time.

“I can’t get a shot without hitting her!” Ezo yelled.

Ivy’s cries reached me, tortured and muffled.

I’d thought these people could handle anything, but they might actually die. Right here, right now. We might die. And we weren’t even to the hags yet. How were they going to fight the hags if they couldn’t defeat gythan?

Then I remembered—they weren’t supposed to fight the hags, and they definitely weren’t supposed to defeat them.

I didn’t have to stay and watch this. I could run. I could forget it all and just run away. Maybe when they were dead, I could search their bodies for whatever trinket the hags wanted. Maybe they would still teach me the power arcane, even if I didn’t have their four travelers. But for some reason—a reason that had nothing to do with the hags or power—I could not let them die.

I retrieved the small, ancient book from where it was hidden in a secret pocket in my skirt. There were spells, and there were spells.

With shaking fingers, I flipped open the peeling leather cover and slid my fingers between the delicate, yellowed pages, finding exactly the one I wanted. Laying the book open on my left hand, I raised my right to the sky, then pressed my palm down onto the arcane geometry inscribed there. It was a risk, doing magic this strong alone. If I tried to conduct too much energy through myself, I would lose control of the spell, and dire things would happen. Normally it took at least two people to channel the power for a spell like this.

But I wasn’t any old person, I was Adeline Riverdeep. I would make the magic answer to me.

Tingling heat flowed up from the drawing and into my palm. The ground around the boulder sizzled to life with a glowing purple-and-gold replica of the symbol, ten feet wide, with me at its center. It spun, burning away the grass, vibrating the earth as it moved. Ancient words spilled from my lips, heavy with the weight of ages. The power peaked; I ripped my palm from the page and thrust it toward the sky.

A sphere of gold-and-violet energy exploded from me, expanding faster than thought. I rode with the power, guiding it around my allies so it broke across the droves of gythan, against them, through them, pummeling and pulverizing them until they were nothing but a screaming, steaming mass heaped upon the ground. Power flowed from me like water from a punctured waterskin, but I pressed on until I reached the utmost of my body’s capacity. Until, alone, I could do no more.

I collapsed backward, panting. Not onto the cold, hard surface of the boulder, but into Ezo’s waiting arms.

I might have blacked out for a second, but only a second. Ezo was still holding me when I woke. I sat up, away from the goblin boy and his warmth, and surveyed the field, silent but for Firenza’s panting.

The gythan were dead. I had killed them all.

Ezo released me and jumped from the boulder, heading for Talsar and the pile of gythan where Ivy had disappeared. “Do you see her?”

“No.” Talsar’s leonine movements were uncoordinated and panicked as he yanked and tugged at the bodies. His voice cracked. “Firenza, help me!”

The gargoyle waded over and began tossing corpses over her shoulder as if they weighed no more than fallen leaves. “Ivy!”

At last, the forest elf appeared, still and gray and looking so strangely delicate in death. Her face was scratched and torn, and large parts of her exposed skin were—

My gorge rose, and I had to look away. There was so much blood.

Talsar fell to his knees beside her, regardless of the gore. “No. No. Not like this. Not in some gods-forsaken field on the road to nowhere. Not for nothing.” He pulled her into his arms.

My heart turned over at the terrible memory of the things I’d said to her. So awful, and for what purpose? So I wouldn’t like her? It was too late for that; I already did.

“YOU!” Firenza leveled a finger at me. “DO SOMETHING!”

My mouth worked for a second. She thought I was some kind of healer. But magic was a vast and diverse thing, and I was no healer. “I can’t. I don’t know those spells.” My eyes swung to meet Ezo’s just in time to see his hope die. “I’m sorry.”

I was. I could not fathom the depth of the grief that reached up to strangle me from the inside. Ivy was gone, and I had hardly even known her. But I knew she was sweet. Knew she was kind, and generous, and even awkwardly funny sometimes.

And she’d been on this road because of me. I was the reason she was dead.

Ezo stood next to Talsar, one hand on his shoulder. Firenza knelt opposite them across Ivy’s body and smoothed the hair from her friend’s bloody face. She was crying too.

I would be the reason all of them died.

For a long moment, they all sat there in silence.

Then Talsar laid Ivy on the ground and whispered, dark and determined, “Not like this.”

Eyes widening, I watched as he reached inside his coat and pulled out something that looked like a walnut. He slid his hands under Ivy again, holding her limp body not just gently but tenderly. The other two didn’t seem confused or surprised. He met their eyes in turn, and they both nodded.

They’d known. They’d known what he carried.

No one gives away a vital spark. They cost too much. He wouldn’t do what it looked like he was about to do. There was no way.

Then Talsar opened his palm and pressed the most powerful magical object I had ever beheld—an object someone he loved had given their life for—into Ivy’s chest.

Ivy jerked, her lungs expanded, and she cried out, head thrown back, boots kicking the ground. Wounds all over her body shrank and began to close. She let out a sound of agony, and Talsar pulled her into his chest, holding her tight against the spasms that racked her until, at last, she stilled.

Ivy pulled away from him and looked around in confusion. She took in the corpses, touched her torso where her wounds had been. “Talsar, was that—?”

“Shh.” He ran a trembling hand over her cheek, smoothing away blood-stuck strands of auburn hair.

Her lips parted, her expression one of profound sadness. “No. It was yours! Your mother—”

“Ivy, for the love of all the gods, stop.” Then, with a look in his eyes that filled me with dawning horror, he kissed her full on the lips.

Goddess of knowledge. I had been wrong. About so many things.

Very, very wrong.

Realizing you’re the villain and actually having the guts to change your path are two very different things. I was good at realizations, but bad at letting go of my fears. I could stop my quest for power, but if I did, I might become that helpless little girl again. That future was a boogeyman in my head, one I caught glimpses of out of the corner of my mind’s eye while I stared straight ahead and pretended everything was okay.

Talsar cradled Ivy in front of him on his horse while I sat alone on hers, which had been tied behind Firenza’s huge black warhorse. Even with Ivy weak and recovering, we made quick time to Cottleden.

The small town sat at the edge of Torwich Wood on top of a broad, shallow swamp. In the summer, everything in this region was alive with wildflowers, giving the stooped buildings with their grass roofs a quaint, whimsical feel. In winter, however, the houses looked dank, the swamp’s small mud islands were a uniform gray, and a dark crust of ice covered the water.

The inn—only slightly larger than the homes—wasn’t nearly as nice as the place in Aster, but it did have dry beds. I didn’t want to sleep. I knew what my dreams would hold. But I could not stop it, and again, I pushed through the finger-bone curtain.

“I won’t bring them to you,” I told the hags. “They don’t have your artifact. You’ve sent me after the wrong people. Leave them be.”

Silver Maude didn’t even look up from her clacking bones. “The deal is made.”

“We did not forge the chains,” Auntie Pearl added. “You did.”

“Well I’ll unforge them, then! You don’t get your four lives and a trinket, and I don’t get the power arcane. No one wins; we walk away.”

I reached for my wrists to rip off the golden bracelets, but when I touched them, the chains thickened, twisting tighter and tighter until my hands turned blue. “Stop!” I cried. Without my hands, there were almost no spells I could work. Magic would be stripped from me utterly. I would lose everything.

The chains tightened further, until my skin bled and the bones of my wrists ground together. “No!”

“The deal is made,” Maude repeated.

I tried to draw a spell in the air, but the chains held me tight. They started to glow a hot, wicked red, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. I cried out and fell to my knees.

“The deal is made,” Maude said a third time. “Bring us the adventurers and the artifact, or your magic is forfeit. Then you will truly see what it means to be helpless.”

“Adi?”

I shot awake, fingers already moving, and loosed a bolt of fire. Ezo and Talsar dodged, but the spell winged Firenza’s shoulder.

“OW!” she bellowed, taking one step back into the hall.

“Shh!” Talsar hissed. “Ivy just fell asleep.”

“Ow,” Firenza whispered.

I stared at her, heart still racing a mile a minute. That spell could knock down most grown men, and she took one step back and acted like it was a mosquito bite.

“What are y’all doing in my room?” I crumpled the blanket in my hands. My wrists were sore, and beneath my sleeves, I knew I would find bruises that matched the links in the golden chains.

“It’s just us.” Ezo entered and leaped lightly onto my cot, where he put a hand on my knee. It had been a while since he looked at me like a puppy dog, and I found I liked the straightforward warmth of his brown eyes better. “We were still up next door. You screamed.”

Every time I blinked, I saw Granny Maude’s face. I pressed a hand to my forehead, then slapped it back into my lap before the loose sleeve of my nightdress could fall. “Oh.” I laughed lightly, trying to regain my composure. “I’m sorry. It was just . . . just a nightmare.”

Talsar stalked in and started examining the perimeter like there might be hobgoblins hiding in the corners. “Hags can get into dreams. Do they suspect we’re coming?”

“No!” The word was too loud, its edges too sharp. I softened it. “No.”

Firenza stayed at the door, arms folded across her chest. She frowned down the hall at some unseen person. “Go away! Our friend is fine!”

Whoever it was, they must have scurried, because her face relaxed and she resumed her stance.

Our friend is fine. Friend.

I swallowed.

Ezo patted my hand, forcing me to look at him again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He was so sweet, so sincere. I did want to talk about it. I wanted to tell them everything.

The chains, I realized, were just barely too tight. I flexed my fingers to keep the blood moving and gave Ezo my best smile. “That is so kind of you, honey, but I’m all right.”

“Was it about your sister?”

Everyone turned to the door, where Firenza had made space for Ivy to lean against the frame.

“You should be in bed,” Talsar snapped.

“I probably should,” said Ivy.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t do that.”

Ivy was all wide-eyed innocence. “What? Agree with you?”

His look was heated. “Agree with me and then do whatever you want.”

They stared at each other in stubborn silence.

“For the love of the entire pantheon, we’re at an inn. Get a room!” Ezo barked.

The tips of Ivy’s pointed ears turned pink, and Talsar leveled Ezo with a glare so malevolent I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had keeled over dead.

But when Talsar marched over to Ivy and took her by the shoulders, even I could see how gentle he was. “You have to sleep,” he said gruffly.

She protested, but her words were quiet and didn’t sound at all convincing as he marched her away.

I twisted the blanket between my fingers. “You know, when I first met y’all, I thought those two couldn’t stand each other. Well. I thought he couldn’t stand her.”

Firenza burst into laughter and actually slapped her knee. “He can’t! But he also loves her.” She knuckled tears of laughter from her eyes. “It’s been great to watch. She’s the reason he’s stuck around so long.”

“Oh, I think we’re growing on him,” Ezo muttered.

Firenza looked thoughtful. “That might be true! You haven’t tried to sell any of his body parts in at least a year.”

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the feeling of comfort the now familiar banter raised inside me. “Thanks for your concern, but would you mind? I’d really like to go back to sleep.”

“Sure.” Ezo paused, then patted my hand again. “Tomorrow we need to talk about a plan of attack. But for tonight, you just let us know if you need us. Sugar pie.” He winked.

I laughed, an unexpected burst that ripped itself from my chest. But the amusement was immediately followed, even more strongly, by the desire to cry. I turned away from him, pressing my face into my pillow. “Night, y’all.”

They said good night and closed the door, leaving me alone with a heart that had been pierced by something sharp. Or several somethings sharp. These people, they were good. I wanted to save them—I really did.

But I would watch the whole world burn before I gave away even one ounce of my magic.

“Come on, y’all. You can make it,” I called over my shoulder.

“Easy for you to say,” Firenza muttered darkly, slapping a branch out of her way. “You are too short for the trees to grab. And you have that broom.”

We’d left the horses behind in Cottleden two days ago, as Torwich Wood grew too thick for horses and there were no roads where we were going. Here, finally, Bob proved its worth. I drifted along, balancing side saddle, boots clean of the occasional wintery muck that clung to the others. Ezo trotted, sometimes at my side, sometimes behind me. Aside from Ivy, who was in her element, it wasn’t an easy trek for the bigfolk.

I patted Bob’s bristly twigs, happy to be traveling on my own terms again. At least there was one thing I could be happy about right now, because everything else was garbage.

“Let’s rest here,” Ivy said when we came to a clearing. “Adi, how far are we, do you think?”

I glanced around. Ivy and Ezo’s use of a nickname over the last few days was not lost on me. I wasn’t sure how to take it, since I would have liked it if I weren’t trying so hard to divorce my emotions from them. Also because Ivy had to remember the nasty things I’d said to her right before she’d literally died defending me, but so far she’d been too nice to bring all that up, so I was not about to ask her to stop.

Torwich Wood blanketed the far northern end of the valley we’d been traveling for days. This deep in, the land began to rise again as the Throne and Lessor Mountains came back together to form the towering Horizon range. Once, Torwich had been a great kingdom with several walled cities and villages. But that was hundreds of years ago. Now, all those places had fallen into ruin or disrepair, their walls dismantled to make pasture fences or to pave the Northern Road.

I might’ve had no idea where we were, except that we’d passed an overgrown statue of some long-dead warrior about an hour back. I remembered that statue from my first visit to the hags, as it had offered me a bit of precious shelter from the freezing rain. “I’d say we’re about an hour from the base of the hill. From there, it won’t take more than a few minutes to climb to the old walls of the village.”

“Describe the layout again,” Ezo said.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fighting a stupid urge to tell them to turn back, to refuse to move forward, to cry. All we’d done since entering the wood was plan and plan some more, and I was so tired of talking. But since this could very well be considered Ezo’s last request, I repeated it once more.

“The coven makes their lair in an ancient walled village on a hill, mostly overgrown by woods. At the bottom of the hill, the woods are normal. Green. Healthy and vital. The higher we go, the darker it will get, even if it’s midday. The trees will start to look twisted, overburdened by moss and choked with vines, so there will be plenty of places to hide. At the top of the hill, the walls will be well guarded by ogres and trolls, but they aren’t very bright. Once we get inside—which shouldn’t be too difficult, as we can just go through the way I did last time—we’ll have to navigate the village. Again, not too difficult. Even before the hags it housed only a handful of families. Everything is in ruin except one large house near the center. That’s where they live. They store the treasures they’ve gathered in the two houses on either side.”

“And where will your sister be?”

I gnawed at my bottom lip. The fiction of a sister felt thinner every time it was mentioned; soon it would be nothing but holes. “The old jail is right next to the house they’ve taken for themselves. Any living prisoners they’ve got will be in there.”

“And you’re sure the hags will be occupied?” Talsar asked.

“I’m sure. They keep busy with that . . . uh . . . domestic work I mentioned.”

Everyone was quiet at that. I’d spared no detail of the hags’ grotesque hobbies. The group might be going into this to die, but I could at least prepare them for what they were getting themselves into as far as circumstances would allow.

I rubbed my wrists, which were still sore from two nights before. I’d pulled Ezo aside, deciding to take a risk, just so he’d know that these weren’t normal hags. I wasn’t too stupid to recognize an option C, after all: if my adventurers killed the hags, I would be free. But they weren’t infallible warriors—Ivy had nearly died just days ago. If I threw my lot in with them, we might be able to do it. We’d have to play to our strengths, be extra smart. There were no three-hundred-year-old plain Agneses or Maggies in the Torwich Wood coven. No, this was a coven comprised of a granny and two aunties, and even a dragon or an undead archmage would think hard before trying to take them down.

But as soon as I’d said, “Ezo, I’ve been wanting to warn you—” my chains cinched tight. So tight I let out a little yelp and then had to make up some lie about a centipede crawling over my boot. When he got back to what I wanted to warn him about, I’d lied again and told him that the hags had a special dislike for goblins and asked him to be careful. The shy smile and reassurance he’d given me hurt right down to my heart.

I brought my thoughts back to the description of the hags’ lair just as the pause went on long enough to be awkward. “Uh, sorry. Lost in my thoughts. The road in front of the house is grotesque, but the house will look pleasant from the outside. You might even smell something nice, like turkey roasting. But it’s an illusion. They live in filth, so once we’re inside it’s going to stink. I think y’all will be fine”—I couldn’t meet any of their eyes, as none of them would be fine—“but just try not to let it get to you.”

I fought the convulsive urge to swallow. I couldn’t let my lies fail me, not now.

Ivy put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You’ve been so brave, Adeline. Don’t worry; it will all be over soon.”

I nodded numbly. “Come on, y’all. Keep following this path. We’re nearly there.”

We reached the bottom of the hill around sunset. I took the gold-flecked chalk, candles, and silver bowl out of my pack. It was difficult to draw symbols in dirt, but I managed, and placed the silver bowl in the center where it could collect the magic the arcane geometry funneled to it.

Mind braced for the semidream state, I dipped my fingers into the water and accessed the spell’s power.

The base of the hill was devoid of anything except the normal plant and animal life, but when I tried to see farther up, toward the hags’ lair, all I got was fog. Fog, and the threefold voice of the coven in my mind.

Welcome back, Adeline.

I thought I’d been ready to hear them, but I wasn’t. I jumped to my feet and kicked the bowl over, spilled water darkening the soil. Everyone stared. I tried to laugh it off, but the sound was forced and awkward. “Sorry, y’all. Just fog.”

Talsar removed his black leather pack and set it on the ground. “I’ll go. Wait here.”

I wanted to protest. Talsar, putting his life at risk for me—for my fake sister—when he’d be more than content to murder me if I hadn’t altered his memories. Watching him walk away gave me an itch between my shoulder blades. But the chains tightened ominously, and I said nothing.

My brain turned over and over as we waited, searching for another way. I couldn’t live without magic, but could I live with the knowledge that I’d led four people to their deaths so I could keep it? Was I ready to step onto a path that would, in the end, make me no better than the hags? Was I so hungry for power, so afraid of being at someone else’s mercy, I would kill?

The questions were a joke, and not a funny one. I had taken a running leap onto this path the second I’d sought knowledge from hags, thinking I could outsmart them. If it turned out my descent was a steep downhill slide, I had no one to blame but myself. Maybe once I had the power arcane, I would kill the hags myself and take up residence in their disgusting lair. Maybe five hundred years from now, I would be the evil archmage some group of adventurers murdered for glory.

I closed my eyes and remembered the power of the orrery and the feeling of the universe unfolding at my whim. It had been so vast, so . . . ineffable. No life meant anything compared to that. If I had starved and gone homeless for the party tricks they taught at the Regia Arcanum, was it such a stretch that I’d pay for the cosmic magic of the power arcane with a few random lives? Not so much. Would it be any consolation to them if I swore to avenge them as soon as I got what I sought? Probably not.

If only I’d been able to find the artifact, or even ask about it without the hags torturing me from a distance. Or ask about it without my companions immediately realizing I had knowledge I shouldn’t, which would most likely lead to Talsar or Firenza to murdering me. There was just no way out of this. I’d heard that hags took joy in corrupting people, especially people who prided themselves on their morals or wits. Having few morals, I thought I was beyond corruption already.

I had been wrong. They could corrupt me—and they had. They had won.

There was a slight rustle—something Talsar did on purpose when he reentered camp so he didn’t scare the living daylights out of the rest of us. Half a second later, he stepped into the little clearing like he’d materialized out of leaf and shadow.

“The top of the hill and the village are about a fifteen-minute climb from here. There are two ogres and four trolls patrolling this side, but they haven’t cleared the trees around the wall at all, so there’s plenty of cover. Our best chance is a crack large enough to slip through about a quarter of the way around hidden by some close-growing trees. That’s where you got in, Adeline?”

I nodded.

He met each of our gazes in turn. “All right. Let’s do this.” He lingered on Firenza. “Just remember, be quiet.”

Firenza grimaced.

We stuffed our packs in a hollow log, each person taking only the essentials, which meant weapons for most, my spell components and book for me, and the little bag full of gears and tools Ezo was never without. I wondered briefly if the artifact the hags wanted so badly had been left behind, but I didn’t think so. I didn’t know if they’d ever had what the hags wanted at all. Maybe, after the hags killed all of them and turned on me, they would reveal that it had been a sick joke designed to teach me, too late, the extent of my own hubris.

Single file, we followed Talsar up the hill, trying to step where he stepped. None of us were silent, but we managed well enough. The forest was so overgrown that I didn’t realize we were near the wall until Talsar stopped.

“The opening is behind that stunted willow.” He pointed, and the misty middle distance between a few trees, maybe thirty feet away, resolved into the inorganic straight lines of stone stacked upon stone, which rose about twenty feet into the air. The willow was a dark, drooping shape next to it, but I remembered.

Rain dampened the sound of my labored breathing as I edged along the wall. I hid from the guards in the willow and nearly cried when I discovered a crack concealed there plenty large enough for a halfling girl to slip through. My fingers scrabbled at freezing, wet stone as I tried to climb high enough—

“The guards patrol between here and there,” Talsar’s voice cut through the memory. “We wait for the next one to pass, then go quiet and quick. Adeline, are there wards?”

I closed my eyes and shot off a spell to reveal magic. There was none. Either the hags hadn’t bothered to redo the wards I’d undone on my first desperate journey, or they were making this easy on purpose. For theater’s sake, I nodded, reached into my pouch, and made a show of casting something that was definitely not a spell.

“That should take care of it,” I said.

“Thanks, Adi,” Firenza whispered. She thumped me on the back, and only Ezo’s steadying hand kept me from falling over. The rest of them nodded, looking impressed. Like I was a member of the group. Like this was my part, and I’d played it.

Oh gods. I was going to vomit. Think of your hands. Think of keeping your magic. It’s all that keeps you safe.

The guard passed, clattering and clanking so loudly I don’t think he’d have heard us if we’d decided to form a choir right then and there. As soon as he was out of sight among the trees, Talsar motioned us forward one at a time. I slung Bob on my back and scurried to the hunched willow second-to-last, pushing through the clinging branches. Ivy was there waiting for me. Instead of having to scramble on the slick rock, as I had the first time, she boosted me up and through the fissure in the wall.

I found my feet and turned, catching her hand. Even this high up, I was only about a foot above her eye level. “Ivy,” I whispered. “Those things I said the other day. All of this . . . please know that I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

She smiled and shook her head. “We all say things we regret when we’re under pressure. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, worrying about your sister. Don’t even think of it.”

I wanted to tell her I would think of it. I also wanted to tell her I was a terrible person who didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but she’d started to climb, so all I could do was back out of her way. I scooted on through and came out the other side, where Firenza helped me down onto swampy earth.

The name of this village had been lost to time long ago. Tiny as it was, perhaps it had never had a name at all. There was one overgrown and crumbling cobbled road running through the middle, lined with fewer than a dozen houses, each in various states of ruin. At the very center, the road circled around a village green. Behind the houses and enclosed by the wall were gardens. Or what had been gardens, now reclaimed by the forest, so that there was nearly no difference between inside the wall and without.

Ezo huddled near a low line of stone that might once have been a garden wall, peering toward the remains of the houses nearest us.

“Nothing’s moving,” he whispered.

Nothing would. The hags didn’t allow the trolls and ogres inside, leaving their minions to the elements and whatever bits of shelter some of the old guard towers provided as they tumbled down. Nothing lived inside except the hags.

Heart heavy, I jerked my head toward the line of fallen stone that blocked our view of the village green. “It’s that way.”

“We stay together,” Ivy whispered. Metal sang quietly as she drew her swords from their sheaths. “Firenza and I will take the front. Talsar and Ezo in back. Adeline, you stay in the middle. You’ll be safest there.”

I swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter. As if swords and daggers and whatever exploding things Ezo kept in his pockets could keep us safe. Could they not sense it, riding on the air? A magic that crawled up my skin and wiggled down into my lungs. A sick, maggoty magic, clammy and moist and tasting of hag.

This is what you’re giving their lives for. This is the magic you came to learn.

My breath hitched. For an instant, I was going to lose my lunch. My hand went convulsively to the chains and my wrist, clawed like I would tear them off, and never mind if doing so also tore off my skin.

The chains blazed to life, sizzling white hot. I gasped and hunched over, balled fists pressed against my stomach.

Ezo was at my side in an instant. “Adi? What is it?”

The pain faded as quickly as it had come, and I sucked in a frigid breath, shaking icy tears from my eyes. “Just this place. The magic is . . . unpleasant.”

“She needs to wait here,” Talsar said. “If the magic makes her sick, she’ll give us away.”

I could. I could let them walk into the darkness themselves. If they would do it without me, why put myself through the pain of witnessing it?

“No.” I straightened, flipping hair from my eyes. “I just needed to adjust. I’m right as rain. Let’s go.”

Talsar regarded me suspiciously for another second, then inclined his head toward Ivy. “Ladies?”

“Ha! ‘Ladies.’ You’re a lady.” Firenza chuckled at her own joke and vaulted over the garden wall. We fell into the formation Ivy had suggested, with her and Firenza in the front, me in the middle, and the boys watching our backs. Crouching low—at least, the bigfolk were crouching low—we moved through the overgrown gardens and a narrow alley between the old houses. Among the buildings, the scent of plant decay and earth was replaced by the scent of baking. Yeasty bread, spiced fruit, warm sugar. It wafted delicately around us, and Ezo breathed deep. I did not.

We reached the end of the alley that let out onto the main road. Ivy peered around, then pulled back, face pale. “Oh gods. I . . .” She shook her head. “Oh gods. Why does that smell like pie?”

With a curious eyebrow raise at Ivy, Firenza leaned over to look, then withdrew nearly as quickly. “Oh gods,” she confirmed. “That’s . . . unsettling, and indeed it should not smell like pie.”

“What?” Talsar snapped.

“Just what Adeline told us. The hags’ taste in decoration seems to run largely to . . .”

“Death,” Firenza finished for her. “It’s bones. A lot of bones. And flesh.”

Talsar pressed his lips into a thin line, and Ezo swallowed audibly.

“There’s a house toward the middle that’s still standing. It looks cozy. There are candles in some of the windows,” Ivy said. “And there’s some kind of machine on the village green right in front of it.”

Machine? The hags dealt in magic, not machines. I wrinkled my brow, but then it dawned on me. “It’s not machine, it’s an orrery.”

Ezo’s mouth made an O of realization, but the others just looked confused.

“It’s a model of the planets and stars,” he explained, much more expediently than I would have been able to. “It moves in the way the heavens move. But . . . it is definitely a machine.”

He was wrong; the hags would never stoop to something so common. But I didn’t want to waste time arguing. I wanted to see the orrery. Maybe if I could get a better look, I would know what kind of magic it needed. Maybe I had something, some component, or some entry in the ancient book that held my strongest spells.

I moved in front of Ivy. The sweet scent of baking paired with the gruesome sight of the village proper made me gag, even though I was expecting it. Any walls left standing had Granny Maude’s strung-together skeletons fastened to them with wire or pegged in place with rusting iron spikes. Made from human, elf, and halfling bones, they had been reconnected in strange and disturbing ways—bent over like quadrupeds with four legs instead of arms, with three sets of arms sprouting from their backs like spiders, or with feet connected directly to hip joints and three skulls attached to the shoulders. Patchwork banners of dried skin were gathered and hung with ribbons that were not ribbons and festooned with dead and rotting flowers—the contributions of Auntie Pearl and Auntie Posey.

Standing tall as a house in the village green was the orrery, with all its pretty planets and sparkling orbs. Unlike in the vision, it was unmoving. A rainbow of stars splattered across a velvety black field spun before my eyes. Desire clenched my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. It was there, right there. What was it missing?

Ezo had come to stand beside me. He gaped and shuddered at the skeletons, but then, as mine had, his eyes fell on the orrery. They widened, narrowed, and his head tilted to one side. “That’s strange . . .”

“What’s strange?” I asked.

“Those little runes all around the platform at the bottom. They’re the same as the ones inscribed all around a gear I have in my box. I found it when we were going through the castle of that archmage, Oakenlock.”

All the air went out of my lungs. The world tilted. “Those runes match a gear?” I choked out. “A gear you found fighting an archmage?”

The gears. The box of gears. A few brass, several iron, one gold. One gold. I had touched it. But how could it be what the hags needed? It had no magic.

Oh gods. I had been blind, foolish, and wrong. The hags had known I would be. They’d expected my arrogance, my narrow-minded foolishness, and my utter conviction that the only useful things in the world had to be things of magic.

But the orrery was a machine. And that meant I couldn’t repair it and use it myself. I would have no idea what to do with one single, tiny gear in a mechanical nightmare twenty feet tall and thirty feet from a planet on the tip of one golden arm to a planet on the tip of another.

All of my sacrifice, all of my learning, all of my seeking, everything was in vain. I had come so far, and in the end, I couldn’t do it. They did have the artifact. I knew where it was, and the hags had still won. I could turn over my friends—because they were my friends, I thought—or lose my hands and my magic completely.

Firenza grabbed my arm. “We’re moving out. You go in the middle!” she whisper-shouted. I tried to pull away, but Firenza might as well have been made of marble for all the effect I had. I was like to tear my arm off before breaking free of her grasp if she didn’t want me going anywhere.

Am I doing this? Am I really doing this? But despite my own inability to believe it, it seemed like I was. If the hags had threatened anything else, any part of me, none of us would be here. But my magic was all I had. All that kept me safe. I was alone.

Firenza gave me a little push back into the alley. “There you go,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep you safe.”

Her words echoed my thoughts so perfectly, yet so much in contrast, that I had a moment of cognitive dissonance.

I was not alone.

“Wait,” I whispered, trying to do it too quietly for my own ears—the ears of the coven—to hear. Which meant no one else heard either. “Wait!” I repeated louder.

The chains tightened threateningly. Something caught the corner of my eye. A figure in one of the empty windows. A woman’s silhouette, barely more than bone. A quiet cackle clattered along the breeze. But we were on the main road now. Sneaking along its edges toward the center of town. Talsar forcing us to go painstakingly slow. I wanted to scream at him that it didn’t matter. The hags were expecting us. I had gotten them there, to this village green, right on time.

The deal is struck. Four lives and a trinket, and you will wield the power arcane.

No. Even if it meant losing my hands, losing my magic, the coven would not have these four lives.

We made it to the green. If I was going to do this, it would probably be best to do it before the hags turned up. Which, I imagined, would happen any second.

“Adi, what’s wrong?” Ezo asked. We’d left our bags at the bottom of the hill, but he still had his small pack. The one with the tools and the box. The box with the golden gear. The hags didn’t just want the gear, they wanted him. All this for a bit of unmagical metal and one little goblin who had a gift with machines. If I weren’t about to cry, I would have laughed, hysterical and long.

Mind racing, I reached into my pouch and pulled out my packet of dandelion fluff. My eyes burned because I knew this was the last spell I would ever cast. Still not watching my own hands, I mouthed the words, allowing barely a breath to escape my lips, and pressed my hand to my chest. I lingered there for a second, internalizing the soft texture of the fabric.

I met each of their eyes in turn, muscles tensed for what I was about to do. “I don’t have a sister. I never did. Run.”

Before any of them could react, I wrapped my arms around Ezo and dragged us both into the air. Even as I leaped, Talsar threw himself forward. His fingers scraped my boots as I shot for the wall surrounding the village, body parallel to the ground, with Ezo in my arms.

“What are you doing?” Ezo shouted in my ear above the noise of the wind. By some miracle, he didn’t fight me. But I couldn’t stop, couldn’t spare the thought to explain. The chains tightened further, and if I stopped, if I let the pain distract me from the spell, we would hit the ground. We had to get outside the walls. I had to get him away, then I could come back and help the others. The icy cobbles whistled by, the wall grew nearer.

Something in my right wrist gave.

I screamed. The spell sputtered out. We slammed into the ground, rolling over and over each other because I refused to let go of Ezo. Only when the cold stone of one of the crumbling buildings smashed into my back did I lose my breath and release him, and he rolled away from me.

“I warned you about your ambitions, Adeline.”

A clawed hand swooped out of nowhere, nails raking the flesh of my cheek, knocking me off my feet. Silver Maude hovered over me, smiling. She wore the glamour of a beautiful silvery elven maiden. But as I watched, the glamour flickered in and out, revealing milky eyes, snow-white skin stretched like dried leather over sharp bone, and a bald head with stringy bits of gray hair clinging to it like leeches.

“I had wondered what you would choose.” She tilted her beautiful head and smiled benevolently. The scent of flowers drifted around her, but the smells of baking had gone, so the air now tasted of lavender and decay. “Your hands and your magic, or the power arcane? What an interesting and entertaining little minion you have been.”

My face burned where she had clawed me, except where wet blood trickled down my ear and turned cold. My hands were a mass of agony. I finally found air and sucked in a great heaving gulp.

Silver Maude leaned down close, so close. “You will not die today. No, you will live on for years. Years and years to remember your friends. Am I not generous, Adeline?”

“Yes, Granny,” I forced out, my jaw locked with the pain. Beyond her, a figure straightened, nocked, drew. “Thank you so much. And you know what else? Bless your heart.”

Silver Maude let out an unearthly sound and pulled back her arm to strike me again.

Thunk.

An arrow buried itself in the hag’s shoulder. She whirled to face her attacker.

Ivy stood alone in the middle of the street, another arrow already nocked on her longbow. She released, and it flew true, thudding into the hag’s torso just above her hip. A dagger whistled from the dark space between two of the buildings, striking Granny Maude in her emaciated stomach. Then, like some god’s vengeance, Firenza roared down out of the sky, great axe raised, aiming for Granny Maude’s throat.

A normal hag might have fallen under this attack. But, as I’d had no time to tell them, they did not face a normal hag, but one of the most powerful magical beings in the known world.

Silver Maude caught Firenza’s wrist with one hand, stopping the axe and Firenza as if she’d struck a wall. Firenza grunted. The hag bent her arm back, twisting and pressing down until the gargoyle hit her knees in the snow. Her eyes went wide, the perfect circles of her copper irises showing all the way around.

With her free hand, Silver Maude plucked the arrows and dagger from her flesh, throwing them toward Ivy. Ivy dived and rolled, but the dagger caught her with a deep cut across the arm as it sailed by, blood welling scarlet and dripping onto the packed snow.

And then, like ghosts appearing from the ether, two more hags appeared on either side of Granny Maude. One tall and spider thin, one round as a shriveled pumpkin. Auntie Pearl and Auntie Posey.

“She comes,” Auntie Posey sing-songed. “She comes, she comes. Four travelers and a trinket, and we shall have the power arcane.”

With a flick of her spidery wrist, Auntie Pearl released a crackle of energy that sent Ivy’s bow flying. It clattered along the stone street and landed in a pile of bones. Another flick, and she lifted Ivy off the ground and pulled her inexorably forward. “How kind of you to bring your friends, Adeline.”

Auntie Posey cocked her head and grinned, staring right through the wall of the closest building. “I see you, my pointy-eared cockroach,” she sang in her horrible, rasping voice. She threw her hand forward, and the wall exploded.

“Talsar!” Ivy shouted, twisting and kicking. But there was nothing for her to fight.

My heart thudded. This was it. This was the part where we lost. Then a hand closed around my arm, just above my injured wrist. I looked up and found Ezo, big brown eyes more serious than I had ever seen. Serious, and disappointed. “Come on, Adi.” He hauled me to my feet.

“C-come on?”

Movement caught my eye. Firenza’s wide-eyed wonder at Granny Maude’s strength had become a grimace. She bared her teeth, and to my shock, she began to rise. On her feet once more, she glared at me over her shoulder. “It would have been nice for you to tell us the real plan before.”

“Really. Please, just hurry up and do whatever it is you have to do!” Ivy, who had just arrived nose-to-nose with Auntie Pearl, yanked her swords from their sheaths and drove both of them into the hag’s chest. Auntie Pearl screamed. The force holding Ivy released, and she dropped, landing on her feet.

Ezo tugged me forward. I stumbled after him, every movement sending shocks of agony through my hands. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

“Stupid girl couldn’t see what was in front of her nose,” Auntie Posey cackled. She wasn’t three feet away, lifting one of her claws to strike. I fell again and lifted my arms, jerking free of Ezo. My wrists were fire and pain.

A dagger blossomed from her raised hand. Talsar strode from the dust of the fallen wall, coughing, arm cocked back to let another dagger fly. This one took Auntie Posey right below her collarbone. His face radiated rage, and his glare directed it all at me. “Get up and finish this, or I will kill you before they do.”

I scrambled to my feet, refusing to look at my hands, partially afraid the chains had cut through my wrists and they were no longer there. Again, Ezo took my arm and pulled me forward. This time, we ran.

“I hope you had a really good reason for this.” His voice was so flat. No pity, no mercy, no affection. It hurt more than losing my hands. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but that would be a waste of time and air. We skidded down the icy road with our friends fighting the hags behind us, our boots slapping stone, then thudding across dead grass until finally we reached the broad, round base of the orrery. It was solid gold and two feet tall. A thick central column supported the arms that held the planets and moons. At the top of the column was a golden orb as tall as me that represented the sun. Ezo climbed the slippery platform in a few graceful movements. Any of the three bigfolk could have just stepped right onto it.

It wouldn’t be so easy for me. “Ezo, can you help me?”

He looked down to where I held my arms gingerly in front of me, and his eyes widened for the briefest moment before his gaze jumped back to my face. He reached down, taking me by the elbow, but the angle was odd, and he couldn’t get enough leverage to pull me up without jarring my hands. I tried not to cry out, but I did, tears leaking down my face.

Then with a little rustle, Bob started to shake. It shivered until it had worked its way out of the sling on my back, falling to the ground. Then it rolled, knocking against my boots.

Understanding, I swallowed and used my feet to get it in position right at the base of the orrery. “Thank you, Bob.”

I stepped on its handle, and it lifted me while Ezo held on for balance. When Bob had gone to its full two-foot height, Ezo pulled me onto the platform. We overbalanced, and I landed next to him, pain shrieking up my arms. Shaking and nauseous with it, I used my elbows to leverage myself to my feet.

“You’re going to have to tell me this whole story someday,” Ezo said.

Ha. Someday. We would have to survive this, and I very much doubted we would, or that he’d be speaking to me once all was said and done. “Where’s the—”

Behind us, there was a grunt of pain, a yelp, and then a hag’s screech. A half second passed, and then the mist echoed with a hollow thud that sounded sickeningly like a body hitting a wall at speed.

“Firenza!” Ivy shouted.

I tried to inhale, but couldn’t. A thick fog was swirling up from the ground. It swallowed Talsar, who was dodging a crackling ray of energy flung by Auntie Posey. It swallowed Ivy, who danced and jabbed at Auntie Pearl. It roiled at the feet of Granny Maude who stood, all alone, eyes fixed on me. Then, without moving her feet, she began to glide forward. Staring over my head, she said, “Adeline, it’s time to give you what you most desire.”

The world turned inside out.

I stood in a field of white, all alone. Perfect silence wrapped around me. Something was missing, though. Something urgent that still left red trails across my mind.

Pain. I felt no pain. When I looked down, both my hands were there, perfect and whole.

A wisp of mist rose, curling and coalescing into a beautiful silver woman.

“Behold, and learn,” she said in a melodic voice, gesturing around her. “Perfect solitude. No one needs you, you need no one.” She waved, and a shelf of books rose as she had risen, solidifying before my eyes. “Here is all I have learned about magic. Do you know how long I have been alive?”

“Five thousand years, Granny.”

“Five thousand years,” repeated Granny Maude. She smiled, and her teeth were sharp and silver as knives. “It will take you that long to learn it. But you can. I can keep you alive, suspended here while you read. When you emerge, you will have power beyond your dreams. Powers you do not even know to covet, my ambitious girl, because you do not even know they exist. All will be yours.”

Something warm wrapped around each of my biceps, like hands that weren’t there. A voice came from the distance, rough and smooth as water over river stones. “Adi!”

“Ezo?”

The silver woman flashed her teeth. “If you want to know all, you must let them go. They are nothing. A dream of the past. Of the time before your power. We will strike a new deal. Here, you will have magic. Not the power arcane, but great power, nonetheless. You will never be helpless again.”

Memories flashed before my eyes. Things I had not allowed myself to see for fifteen years. My mother’s face. My father’s. The screams, and the smell of blood and burning. Gythan growls. Running, children running so far, so long, in such profound cold. Running and crying until my eyes were dry as my aching lungs.

“Adi!” Ezo again. “What do I do?”

This was a dream, but I wasn’t asleep. It was like the way they spoke to me while I scried. And just as I could when I scried, there had to be a way to push her out. Except . . . I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. I looked longingly at those shelves, those books. All she was offering me.

Magic is the only thing that keeps me safe, my own voice whispered.

Sit tight. Ivy’s voice. I won’t let anything happen to you.

Don’t worry, said Firenza. We’ll keep you safe.

“Tell him to put the gear into the orrery,” Granny Maude said. “There is a small door beneath your feet.”

Why did she not just take it from him?

“If it does not go there,” she continued, “he may look elsewhere.”

I stepped away from her. The ghost of pain whispered through my ruined wrists. The chains had to still be there in the real world, even if my hands weren’t, keeping me from bleeding so much I died from it. “You never needed all of them. You only needed Ezo. Ezo and the gear. Why did you make me bring them all?”

Silver Maude shrugged, but the softness in her voice turned brittle. “Mortals are hard to tell apart. Besides, he would not be separated from them. I have watched the world long enough to recognize that.”

She had watched the world. It seemed like most powerful creatures merely watched. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be in the world. Be part of it.

My wrists twinged again. The pain was like a thread connecting me to reality. I grasped it. Slowly, so slowly, I began to follow it back.

Perhaps noticing, Silver Maude waved once more. Arcane symbols flashed into the air. Spells and formulas that spoke of eternal mysteries. I could understand them, if only I had time and someone to guide me. I would never understand this without the hag’s help. “I will teach you,” she said.

I stopped following the thread, simply holding on. I licked my lips and said, “I want you to let them go. Let them go alive, unharmed, and unchanged. Ezo will tell me what to do, and you’ll know how to fix your machine.”

I made certain to be specific. I could ask her to let them go, and she might toss their bodies over her wall, or imprison them for fifty years, or turn them into houseflies and let them fly away.

Outside of this dream, my friends were dying. Because of me.

Silver Maude smiled. “Even if I could allow them to live, by the time you emerge from this place, they will be five thousand years dead.”

Talsar’s voice, What’s the point in having everything if you look up from all those baubles one day and find yourself alone?

Like opening my eyes to the light for the first time, I realized that I didn’t want to be alone.

I jerked on that thread of pain with all my willpower, bringing the agony sharp and hard into focus.

“No!” Granny Maude shrieked. Like a dog on a lead yanked backward, she disappeared from the dream. The world inverted again, and I staggered forward and hit my knees hard against the platform, retching whatever was in my stomach. Granny Maude had fallen into the snow in front of the orrery, blinking at the sky in a daze.

“Adeline!” Ezo pulled me to my feet.

“It’s you, Ezo.” I gasped. “You’re the one she wants. That golden gear, it will complete the machine. They know you’ll know how to fix it.”

Ezo’s eyes went wide, and his lips parted. “I wouldn’t—”

“He will.” Granny Maude pulled herself onto the platform. “He will, because you brought them all, Adeline. Every person in the world he loves is there.” She pointed into the mist, where the muffled sounds of struggle echoed off the village’s unseen broken walls.

“He will help us, and we will consume the sun, or they will die.”

Only then did the truth of the hags’ malice hit me. Only then did the depth of the part I’d played become clear, and it wrenched my heart in two.

I looked down then, and saw my hands. The chains had sprouted a dozen smaller ones that had wrapped up and around my palms and fingers, crushing the delicate bones. Blackened and bloody and grotesque, they would never be supple enough to cast a spell again.

I would have sacrificed them a hundred times again not to have done what I had done.

“Ezo,” I whispered, tears in my eyes, “I’m sorry.”

“Consume the sun, huh?” He looked at me, like there was some meaning in that I was supposed to grasp. Then he looked to the sky above Granny Maude. “Well, I’ll do my best, but you might be busy for the next few minutes.”

A violet missile streaked through the mist and slammed into Granny Maude. Firenza let out a berserk war cry as they went tumbling wings over silver hair from the platform and onto the ground.

Ezo bent and ripped open the trap door, revealing an intricate web of gears and springs and other things I could not name. One moved toward the bottom, spinning in a lazy circle. “Aha. Yup. I see what the problem is.”

He pulled the box of gears out of the small bag over his shoulder and found the one made of gold. Then he was on his stomach, arm extended down into the machine. When he caught sight of me still standing there, he frowned. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well she said something about the consuming the sun, so you’d better use your big Regia Arcanum–educated brain to figure that out before those hags kill the others.”

I stared at him. “Even after all this, you trust me to take control of the power? You know what it is, right? Plane-shattering, planet-ending power. And you want that in the hands of the halfling girl who tried to lead y’all to your deaths?”

He looked at me like I was insane, arm still moving around deep in the machine. “This is how it works, Adi. We do our jobs; you do yours. So get moving!”

He withdrew his hand and pushed to his feet. The gear was gone. He’d fixed the orrery.

There was a creak, a groan, a screech of metal against metal. Above us, planets turned and began to revolve on their golden arms. Moons spun around them. I ducked as one golden arm came toward my head. In front of me, gold slats slid out of the column that held the sun as it, too, began to rotate. The slats clicked into place one at a time, rising like a spiral staircase.

Consume the sun. I looked up to the big golden ball overhead. My inclination was to overcomplicate things, but . . . could it really be so simple? If the orrery was a construct, like my scrying spell, then the power would gather at its center. Like my scrying spell, all I should have to do was reach out and stick my fingers in. Useless as they were, they could do that much.

With one last look at Ezo, both warmed and confused by his trust in me, I climbed. Around once, twice. Somewhere in the fog, Silver Maude and her daughters were screeching. Around again, until I reached the orb that towered over the center of the orrery. Wavering rays made of beaten gold radiated from it in a line around the center.

Without Ezo’s words, I might have stopped. For all I never wanted to be helpless, it finally occurred to me that power like this required some kind of worthiness. Worthiness of which I would always fall far short. But I had Ezo’s trust, and even if I couldn’t keep this power, I could use it to save my friends.

I lifted my ruined, blackened hand and pressed it, unfeeling, to the sun. Though the orb looked like solid metal, my hand sank beneath its surface.

So . . .

Much . . .

Power.

As if I had cast a hundred million million scrying spells at once, the magic lit me up, zapped through me, filled my body with a heat that should have incinerated my bones. The hags’ chains on my wrists flared, then sublimated into nothingness.

Too much. There was too much. As the chains and pain disappeared, I could feel myself doing the same, all the little bits that made me vibrating away into nothing. The magic needed somewhere to go. If I died, the hags would get it, and I had no doubt they would be able to take it in. But there were others with me. I could sense them, connected to me. But I couldn’t force the magic into them. They had to take it voluntarily.

Help me, I whispered into their minds.

Ezo answered first. I remembered the dead look on his face after I’d betrayed him. But still, he reached out. He had forgiven.

Ivy answered next, body battered, life leeching from her with every heartbeat. She did not hesitate. She trusted.

Still, it was not enough.

Firenza burst into the connection like a boulder breaking the surface of a still lake. She cackled in delight as she let power flow through her body, spreading her wings to their fullest.

Still, it was not enough.

Talsar hung back. He could not forgive. He did not trust. He did not delight. But he loved. He loved his companions with a protective fierceness that burned like the sun. Finally, for them and only for them, he joined the connection.

The brightness flared, crescendoed. Stars danced, and planets spun. Seasons turned one into another and then back again. I looked down from the wheeling heavens and saw the hags. They crouched together, blinded by the radiance burning from the bodies of myself and my friends.

“You are ended,” I said.

And they fell into dust. Granny Maude, Auntie Pearl, Auntie Posey. Ten thousand years of living between them, so much magic, gone with a thought.

I looked to the heavens again. They whispered mysteries to me, arcane secrets that tickled my mind. In time, I could explore them. I could understand. There was power here to rival the gods’. I saw how to stabilize the flow, and I did, gifting my body the capacity to hold it.

Then I released my friends one by one. Until finally it was only me and the arcane secrets of the universe.

I looked down from the heavens and saw the orrery. I saw everything I had ever wanted. Except I wanted to live in the world, not watch it. I didn’t want to be alone. And no one, not one single being in all the cosmos, was worthy to hold power like this.

So I did one more thing. No, two more things. And then I said to the orrery, “You are ended.”

It, too, fell to dust.

“I don’t trust her.”

Talsar didn’t bother keeping his voice down. We all knew how he felt. It probably hadn’t helped that I undid the memory spell, and he very much remembered catching me going through his things.

Ivy sighed. “Talsar, listen—”

“Why should I listen when you’re just going to repeat yourself for the third time?”

I leaned my forehead against Ivy’s back. Beneath us, her horse swayed, hooves thudding lightly against the packed dirt road. The treasure-laden saddlebags jingled in time with the hoofbeats of Firenza’s great destrier in front of us and Talsar’s quiet gray mare behind. Firenza was somewhere scouting for a campsite, so Ezo sat in her ridiculously oversized saddle, guiding her horse.

Bob rustled in its sling. Whole, now. I’d kept its handle the length it was because it was just the right size. But instead of ending in a jagged break, the top of its handle was shiny and complete. It could fly anywhere I needed it to, just as fast or as slow as we pleased. But for now, I didn’t mind riding behind Ivy.

Firenza swooped out of nowhere, startling every horse except hers. “I FOUND A GOOD PLACE!”

“Really, Firenza. Just a little quieter,” Talsar pleaded.

We followed Firenza off the road and into the clearing she’d selected for that night’s camp. Personally, I couldn’t wait to get to an inn. I wanted a bed. Roughing it was not one of my talents.

Ivy slid from the saddle. I jumped down, slowing my descent with magic. Normal magic from my perfectly functional hands.

Yes, some people might decide that almost killing their only friends deserved some sort of self-flagellatory gesture, like not restoring their own magical abilities plus some, but I was not a good person.

“He’ll come around,” Ivy muttered when she bent to undo her saddle’s girth.

“I won’t,” Talsar growled. He came over and leveled a finger down at me, leaning into Ivy’s face. “She nearly got us killed. I can still feel that magic. What kind of long-term effect is that going to have? Give me one reason—”

Ivy grabbed his black coat by its lapels and backed him toward a tree, kissing him all the way. Talsar stumbled, but managed to wrap his arms around her and right himself without breaking the kiss.

I sighed and turned away. They’d had the same fight every night for the last five nights since we’d left the hags’ lair, and it always ended the same.

“He’ll come around,” Ezo echoed Ivy’s words, sliding down from Firenza’s horse and landing lightly next to me. “It took him six months to warm up to me.”

“I have not warmed up to you,” Talsar rumbled from the tree before Ivy recommandeered his face.

“Yes he has,” said Ezo good-naturedly. “He was just mad that I tried to sell his eyeballs to an alchemist when we first met.”

I stared at him. “You did what?”

Ezo shrugged. “I support the sciences. Besides, it was a lot of money.”

Firenza dismounted, shaking her head. “Ezo, I can’t believe you. Talsar needs his eyes.”

“Uh huh,” Ezo said flatly. “And when we met Firenza, she jumped out of closet in a bandits’ hideout and tried to beat us all to death with a severed arm.”

“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE FRIENDLY!”

I took one of Ezo’s candies out of my pocket, popping the ruby-red sphere of sweetness into my mouth. It was nice, actually, not having to travel alone. At least there was conversation.

“What about those two?” I indicated the elves with a jerk of my head. “I assume they’ve got some kind of story.”

“Yeah. Story.” Ezo snorted.

Firenza shuddered. “It has been a long and terrible road.” She eyed them. “But I think this is worse than the fighting. HEY! STOP BEING GROSS!”

I looked over my shoulder in time to see Talsar make a rude gesture behind Ivy’s back. Firenza growled.

“Forget the secrets of the cosmos,” I said. “I’ll settle for figuring out how y’all manage not to kill or maim each other on a daily basis.”

But when I watched them over the next little while, Ivy going off to hunt, Talsar fetching water, Ezo collecting firewood, and Firenza taking care of the horses, I sort of thought I knew. So I dusted off my skirts and reached into my pouch for my spell materials, because Talsar had made one thing clear—whether he trusted me or not, it was my job to start the fire.

Caitlyn McFarland

Originally from the Midwest, Caitlyn McFarland currently lives in Utah with her husband and three daughters. She has a BA in linguistics from BYU, is the author of the Dragonsworn trilogy (Carina Press 2015), and is represented by literary agent Marlene Stringer. When not writing or running around after her daughters, Caitlyn can be found hunched over a sewing machine making dice bags for her Etsy shop.

Website: www.caitlynmcfarland.com

Facebook: caitlynhmcfarland

Twitter: @CHMcFarland

Instagram: @wordsandgeekery

Email: caitlyn.h.mcfarland@gmail.com

35,000 Words

1. Exiles

THE SKULL STARED up at him with just one empty eye socket, the other having been shattered, along with much of the surrounding bone, the natural consequence of colliding with bare rock after a prolonged fall. Angling his head, Shamil couldn’t escape the sense that it was grinning at him, the oddly perfect half set of teeth gleaming as it caught the midday sun. He wondered if this unfortunate had actually laughed as they plummeted to their death, reflecting on the grim notion that, should the same fate befall him, he may also find some humour in it, or possibly just relief.

“I thought it might be a myth.”

Shamil tensed at the sound of an unexpected voice, one hand instinctively reaching for his quiver whilst the other unslung the strongbow from his shoulder. The man who had spoken was perched on a flat-topped boulder a dozen yards away, wrapped in a plain grey cloak that matched the surrounding rock. Shamil blamed this for his failure to spot him sooner, and the fact that the wind was at his back, sweeping away any betraying scent of sweat. Such excuses, he knew, would have availed him little in the Doctrinate, and this particular failure likely would have earned him at best a hard cuff to the head or at worst a full beating. But the Doctrinate was far away, and the fact that he was no longer bound by its strictures one of the few crumbs of comfort Shamil could cling to during his recent sojourn.

“The leap, I mean,” the man in grey said, gesturing to the half-shattered skeleton as he climbed down from his perch. He took a long gulp from a leather flask as he approached, his gait and posture lacking a threat. As he neared, Shamil saw that he was perhaps twice his own age, stocky of frame, and sparse of hair, his broad features showing several days’ worth of stubble. He bore no weapon, and his accoutrements consisted of just a leather satchel bulging with unseen contents and a small emerald pendant that hung around his neck on a copper chain.

The gem was small, but the slight glimmer of light within it provoked Shamil to step back and lower his bow, eyes averted in respect, something this unshaven grey-cloak seemed to find amusing.

“Your people still cling to the old servile ways, I see,” he said, voice rich with mirth. He took another drink from his flask, and Shamil’s nostrils caught the sting of strong liquor. The man’s eyes tracked over Shamil, taking in his hardy leather boots, the long-bladed dagger in his belt alongside his raptorile-tail whip, and the strongbow fashioned from ram’s horn and ash. “What are you? Strivante? No, skin’s too dark for that. Oskilna maybe?”

“Vilantre,” Shamil said, still not daring to look at the stranger’s face. “I bid you greeting, Master Mage . . .”

“Oh, don’t.” The mirth in the stocky man’s voice slipped into weary disdain as he waved his flask dismissively. “Just . . . don’t. Please.” He waited for Shamil to raise his gaze before extending his hand. “Rignar Banlufsson, late of . . . well, too many places to mention but most recently the Crucible Kingdom. Yourself?”

“Shamil L’Estalt.” He hesitated before grasping the proffered hand, finding it strong and the palm unexpectedly callused. This mage, it seemed, had not spent his days locked away in a tower poring over ancient texts. “Late of Anverest.”

“The desert city?” Rignar’s brow creased in surprise. “You’ve come a very long way, young man.” His gaze grew sombre as it slipped from Shamil to the skull at his feet. “For an uncertain outcome, it must be said. Makes you wonder how far this one had to travel just to jump off a mountain.”

“If he fell, it’s because he was unworthy,” Shamil stated, adding a note of forceful certainty to his voice. Like him, this man might be just another exile come in search of restored honour, but he thought it best to leave no doubt about his commitment to this course.

“She,” Rignar corrected, taking another drink from his flask before nodding to the bones. “You can tell from the brows and the breadth of the pelvis. Clothes and hair’ve all gone, so she’s been here a good long while, whoever she was, she and all the others. There’s a pile of bones on the other side of that ridge if you’d care to see.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“As you wish.” The mage shrugged and turned back to his boulder. “Come, you can sort out this fire. You strike me as a lad with experience of the wilds, and although I’ve travelled far in my time, I’ve never really managed to learn the trick of starting a fire.”

“You are newly arrived, then?” Shamil ventured, following the mage to a small pile of sticks within a circle of gathered stones.

“Barely an hour before you did.” Rignar sighed as he resumed his seat on the boulder. “I had hoped some fellow exile would get here first, perhaps have even prepared a meal.”

Shamil crouched at the fire’s edge, keeping the surprise and suspicion from his face as he rearranged the twigs, his mind filled with dark conjecture on the magnitude of any crime that would see a mage forced to seek redemption as a sentinel.

“There’s not enough kindling to catch a spark,” he said. “And we’ll need more wood if it’s to burn for any length of time.” He shifted, casting an uncertain glance at the crystal pendant around Rignar’s neck. “Can’t you . . . ?

“Certainly not,” the mage sniffed, raising his nose in indignation that Shamil took a second to recognise as pretence, but not before he had begun to babble out an apology. “Best to conserve what power I still hold, lad,” Rignar added with a faint grin, raising a pointed glance to the mountain looming above. “After all, who knows what awaits us tomorrow, eh?”

Shamil followed his gaze, eyes tracking over the slopes and cliffs forming the peak that had dominated his sight and his thoughts since it first came into view a week ago. It rose from the eastern extremity of the crescent-shaped mountain range known to those who dwelt in these lands as the Harstfelts, but to every other denizen of the Treaty Realms as Sharrow-Met’s Shield.

The mountain they stood beneath was by far the tallest in the range, and considerably narrower. From a distance, it resembled a misshapen spearpoint fashioned by one of the more primitive desert tribes. Although born to a desert city, Shamil was no stranger to mountains. The Doctrinate would compel its students to endure months of hard living in the crags that formed the southern border with the raptorile dominion. Treacherous as those were, he had never scaled a peak so tall with flanks so sheer as those looming above.

“She named it well,” he murmured, peering into the clouds misting the mountain’s summit. “The Eyrie, for who but an eagle could call it home?”

“She didn’t name it.” Rignar’s voice abruptly took on a dull, almost resentful note. Turning, Shamil found him staring at nothing, gaze unfocused as he drank from his flask with habitual automation. “Sharrow-Met,” he added after a momentary silence. “She never named anything; that was all done by those who followed her after she . . .”

His voice dwindled, and he spent a few more seconds staring before raising his flask to his lips, then grimacing upon finding it empty. “Oh well,” he sighed, tossing the flask away with an air of finality. “The last wine to ever pass my lips. Wish I’d chosen a better vintage. They don’t allow it up there, apparently.” He clasped his hands together and got to his feet. “We should get to gathering wood. It would be best to greet our fellow despised with a warm camp, don’t you think?”

The fire had grown to a tall cone of bright flame, and the sky shifted to a darker hue by the time the next exiles arrived—a young woman about Shamil’s own age and a tall, well-built man several years older. Although they shared the pale skin of the central and northern Treaty Realms, the mismatched attire and accents bespoke markedly different origins.

The young man wore his blond hair in thick braids, an iron band engraved with runes on his brow and a straight sword at his belt. A leather jerkin studded with flattened copper discs covered his torso, and he wore a bearskin cloak about his broad shoulders. As he introduced himself, he revealed a set of even white teeth in a smile, voice rich in both surety and humour. “Tolveg Clearwater of Wodewehl, good sirs. Well met we are, and friends we’ll stay, I’m sure.”

As he bowed, Shamil noted the scars on his neck. They were an extensive, overlapping matrix of injury that evidently proceeded down his back, also not long healed judging by their colour. Tolveg, however, didn’t appear to feel any pain as he straightened, nodding in appreciation as Shamil and Rignar offered their own names in greeting.

The woman was a stark contrast to her companion, saying nothing and moving to crouch and extend her hands to the fire. Her hair was jet black, catching a silklike shine from the fire, and her skin even more pale than Tolveg’s. It possessed a near alabaster whiteness that recalled the ancient marble statues of long-forgotten gods Shamil had seen during his journey north. Her cloak was of finely woven wool, and her soft leather trews and jerkin betrayed the hand of a skilled and no doubt expensive tailor. Her weapons consisted of two daggers, one on her belt and another smaller blade tucked into her boot. As she shuffled closer to the warmth, Shamil saw she also had a leather sling and pouch attached to the left side of her belt.

“This is Lyvia,” Tolveg said, taking a seat beside Shamil on the fallen tree limb he and Rignar had harvested from the wooded slope below the ridge. “We met on the trail a few days ago.” He raised an eyebrow at Shamil, his hearty tones subsiding into a sigh. “She doesn’t say much.”

Lyvia’s eyes, as dark as her hair, flicked up at Tolveg, a small crease of irritation marring her smooth brow before she returned her full attention to the fire.

“You’re from the Crucible Kingdom,” Rignar said. His tone was that of a statement rather than a question, and Shamil saw a new depth of interest in the mage’s face. He stared at the woman crouching by the fire with a strange, intense scrutiny that spoke of hard, perhaps unwelcome recognition.

“I am,” she replied, voice quiet and flat in a clear signal that further conversation was not welcome.

“Ah, a Mira-Vielle accent—noble too,” Rignar observed, undaunted. “Which house?” His voice held a depth of interest that failed to stir a response from Lyvia. Her lips remained firmly closed, and she kept her hands outstretched, refusing to turn.

“Gondarik, I’d say,” Rignar said, a note of satisfaction colouring his tone. “So there’s royal blood in your veins.” He angled his head and leaned close. Shamil saw the woman tense, hands withdrawing to her belt. “Her blood. Not that I need a name to tell me that.” His voice grew softer, eyes unblinking as he shifted to gain a better view of her face. “Just an inch or so taller and it would be as if she’s risen to walk amongst us . . .”

“Put your eyes elsewhere, old man!”

Hearing her give full throat to her voice, Shamil found she possessed the oddest accent he had heard in all his travels. The words were spoken with a careful precision despite the rapidity with which she uttered them, the vowels soft and the consonants clearly enunciated. This, he realised, was the voice of ancient nobility. Royal blood indeed.

She rose to face Rignar, her face somehow managing to convey both a snarl and imperious disdain at the same time. “I’ll not be gawped at! Mage or no. And my blood is not your concern.”

Rignar reclined in the face of her anger, a half smile playing over his lips as he raised his hands. “Spoken like a true queen,” he said, which did little to calm Lyvia’s ire.

“Well, I’m not a queen.” She turned away from him, stalking to the opposite side of the fire to sit down, arms crossed and her back to them all. “I’m just a dishonoured, disgraced outcast, like each of you.”

Silence reigned as her voice faded, although Tolveg apparently found such a thing intolerable. “I prefer ‘honour-seeker’, myself,” he said. “For that is why we came here, is it not? And this is not my first journey to far-off lands, let me tell you. Once, I stood at my uncle’s side when he captained a ship all the way through the ice shards to the lands of ash smoke where the gryphons still soar . . .”

Shamil listened politely as the warrior continued his tale, finding much of it hard to credit, even though it was spoken with an earnest sincerity. The northman’s tale wore on as Rignar unfurled a blanket to settle down to sleep, whilst Lyvia, plainly having already had her fill of Tolveg’s voice, rose and walked off to seek shelter amongst the surrounding rocks. Eventually, once it became apparent this story was unlikely to have an end, Shamil abandoned courtesy and slumped down at the edge of the fire’s glow. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he soon drifted into sleep to the sound of the northman’s unending recitation, seemingly indifferent to the absence of an audience.

2. The Climb

“. . . And, though she implored me to stay at her side, I steeled my heart and returned to my uncle’s ship, for bound by duty was I, and even the promise of a queen’s love was insufficient to sway me . . .”

“Does he ever stop?” Shamil muttered to Lyvia as they clambered to the top of a craggy rock face, one of several they had traversed that morning, each time to the accompaniment of Tolveg’s endless epic.

“When he finally gets to the part where he returns home,” she replied with a wince. “And then he just starts over, and the story changes with every telling. His lovelorn queen was merely a countess last time.”

Shamil had woken that morning to the stomach-teasing scent of meat on the spit, finding Lyvia roasting a fresh-caught rabbit over the fire. Noble origins or not, she was no stranger to the wilds or the hunt. Her stern silence from the previous night abated somewhat once they had shared a meal and commenced the long climb to the Eyrie’s summit, although they were obliged to converse during the all-too-brief respites from Tolveg’s story.

“So you think it’s all lies?” he asked her. They paused on a ledge, waiting for the others to catch up. He and Lyvia had quickly proven themselves as the most agile climbers, and it would have been easy to leave the two older men behind. This climb, however, was bound by an ancient custom that dictated they all arrive at the summit together.

“Possibly.” Lyvia shrugged. “Though that sword certainly isn’t just for show. I’ve seen enough warriors to know the face of one who’s actually tasted battle.” She frowned, lowering her face a little. “Unlike me.”

“And me,” Shamil admitted.

“Truly?” Her frown became puzzled as she nodded to the raptorile-tail whip on his belt. “I thought that must be a trophy. Your people war endlessly with the lizardfolk, do they not?”

Shamil’s hand went to the whip, unwelcome memories rising as his fingers traced over the azure- and emerald-hued scales that formed its base. The eyes . . . There was a soul behind its eyes . . .

“Just a gift,” he said, swallowing a cough. Eager for a distraction he leant forward to offer a hand as Rignar clambered the final few feet to the ledge.

By Shamil’s reckoning they had scaled near a third of the mountain by midday, their progress partially assisted by the pathway cut into the stone, presumably by the previous generations of sentinels. It wasn’t much of a track, however, being frequently too narrow for easy navigation and often disappearing altogether at the base of yet another cliff face they needed to scale to progress. The surrounding stone was often marked with various inscriptions, most of them carved in letters or glyphs beyond Shamil’s comprehension, though both Lyvia and Rignar had little difficulty in providing a translation.

“‘Loelle Estarik of Mira-Vielle,’” the mage read, his blunt fingers tracing over one inscription that appeared less weathered than the others. “‘Second Wing of the Sentinel Eyrie. To my mother’s shade I offer the most earnest contrition for my sin.’” He raised an eyebrow at Lyvia. “A country woman of yours, it seems.”

“It’s a famous scandal,” she said, a shadow passing over her face as she surveyed the carved symbols. “She fell in love with a lord from a rival house and, at his urging, disclosed her family’s treacherous scheming to win the throne. The entire family went to the gallows, save Loelle, who was allowed the mercy of exile and service in the Sentinels.”

“Then perhaps she awaits us above,” Shamil said, eyeing the winding and irksomely narrow trail ahead.

“I doubt it.” Lyvia started forward with a faintly mocking grin. “Unless she’s found a means of extending her life by two centuries. Plays have been written about her, none of them particularly good, it must be said.”

Mention of theatre, unfortunately, provided yet another opening for Tolveg to regale them with more of his adventures, on the pretext that such high drama would surely one day attract the attention of a playwright.

“For it was with my words, not my sword, that I laid low the three-eyed reptile of the Black Fjord, famed for taking the form of a comely maiden in order to lure besotted sailors into her deadly embrace . . .”

The tale wore on for the remaining hours of daylight and much of the night that followed as they huddled in their cloaks and tried to sleep on a ledge no more than three feet wide. Once again Shamil drifted into a fitful slumber to the sound of Tolveg’s voice only to awaken come the dawn to find he had begun the story all over again, only, this time the shapeshifting three-eyed reptile had become a water nymph of astonishing beauty.

“In the name of the four winds . . .” Shamil began through clenched teeth only for the words “shut up!” to die on his lips when Rignar clamped a firm hand to his shoulder. Meeting the mage’s eyes, Shamil found an implacable command to silence and, as they flicked towards Tolveg, a measure of pity.

Shamil noticed it then: the small quiver to Tolveg’s voice as he spoke, the way his hands would sometimes stray to the scars on his neck, trembling for a second before he snatched them away. This was a man filled with fear, a fear that could only be assuaged by the constant recitation of his own story, real or imagined as it may be.

So they shared a sparse meal of salted meat and resumed their climb without a word of protest as Tolveg’s saga continued. He filled the next few hours with such contradictory constancy that, when he finally fell silent, Shamil found himself halting in surprise at the sudden absence of his voice.

They had scaled a steep, winding path to the mountain’s eastward flank, finding a stiff, chill wind to greet them that held the sting of more than just the cold. Shamil’s nostrils flared at the acrid, sulphurous taint to the air, eyes tracking to its obvious source half-a-dozen miles distant. The cloud rose in ugly billows of yellow and grey, shrouding much of the craggy ridgeline below, thinning periodically to reveal the gaping, circular fissure from which it poured.

“The Maw,” Shamil murmured. Gazing upon something of such legendary status aroused a curious mix of emotions, from simple awe to a shameful sense of pride. With his own eyes he had beheld something few born to his homeland would ever see, but he had bought the experience at the cost of his honour. Throughout his trek north his mind had churned through various imaginings of what the Maw would actually look like, from a vast, bottomless pit to a jagged, flame-belching crack in the earth. Seeing the reality of it, he felt no sense of anticlimax, even though it amounted to just a very large hole spewing a good deal of foul smoke into the air. It was the reality of it that awed him, the inescapable fact that the entrance to the last refuge of the malign Voice actually existed. Furthermore, all other aspects of the legend were fully present.

The jagged teeth of the Smeldthorn Mountains lay beyond the smoke, their black slopes laced in veins of glowing red lava birthed by the many volcanoes in their midst. The veins came together to form a sluggish river of molten rock that flowed down the ridge before angling south, creating a steaming, pulsing barrier between the smoking rent of the Maw and the greener lands that formed the eastern frontier of the Treaty Realms. Despite the ugly spectacle of the scene, most of Shamil’s attention was not captured by the Maw or the molten river but by the vast statue that rose from its eastern bank.

He put its height at close to five hundred feet, the granite from which it had been fashioned rendered black by centuries of smoke from the Maw. Shamil supposed this was fitting since the woman it depicted was said to have worn dark armour throughout her many battles. Sharrow-Met, the Great Redeemed Wraith Queen, Founder and Saviour of the Treaty Realms, stood side-on to the Maw, both arms resting on the pommel of her mighty scimitar so that the giant edifice of woman and blade created a huge arch of sorts. Her features, stern with either resolve or perhaps disdain, had somehow escaped the blackening smoke and so shone pale in comparison to the rest of her massive body. Also, as Shamil’s gaze tracked over the fine cheekbones and aquiline nose, he noted they were disconcertingly familiar.

“Don’t,” Lyvia said as he turned towards her. Unlike the statue, her features were weary rather than stern, mouth twisted in an annoyed grimace. “I’ve been hearing it all my life. So, please don’t.”

The expression she cast at the statue was reflective rather than awed, proving a stark contrast to Rignar. The mage stared at Sharrow-Met’s stone effigy with unblinking eyes and face slack, a sign that the sight of her had been sufficient to banish all other thought from his head. Watching tears well in Rignar’s eyes, Shamil was reminded of something he had witnessed in boyhood, his aunt’s face the day his uncle returned from the last war against the raptorile. It had been a long war, and his uncle was no warrior, merely a potter called to serve his city at a time of direst need. Seeing her face that day when the kitchen door opened to reveal a smiling man in besmirched, dented armour, Shamil understood that she had never truly expected him to return. It was the face of a soul looking upon another that it loved absolutely.

Shamil found Tolveg’s reaction to the sight of the statue the most curious. He stood with his face turned away and arms crossed, silent for once but in a way that brought no sense of relief. For when Shamil caught sight of his features, he saw only the terror the northman had been striving to contain throughout their journey.

“They say her battle mages built it in just three days,” Lyvia said, drawing Shamil’s attention back to the statue. “In their grief they joined their powers to raise up the stone and from it crafted a monument greater than all others, just to mark the place of her passing.”

“Nonsense,” Rignar muttered, blinking as he wiped at his eyes. “Building the statue required mage power, it’s true, but it was still the work of years, not days. And she didn’t die at the cusp of the Maw.”

This differed from every tale Shamil had ever read or heard regarding Sharrow-Met’s demise, placing Rignar at odds with a considerable body of scholarship and lore. However, the surety of his voice left little doubt that, at least in his own mind, he spoke the truth.

“Then where did she die?” Lyvia asked, her voice coloured by a caustic skepticism.

“No one knows.” Rignar displayed no overt offence as, with obvious effort, he tore his gaze from the statue to resume the trek. “She suffered wounds in the last charge that drove the Voice’s vile horde into the Maw, wounds that would surely have killed a lesser soul. All we know for sure is that, when the last arrow had fallen and the dust and smoke settled, she was gone.”

“Set to wander the earth until our hour of direst need?” Lyvia asked, her tone taking on a taunting quality. “Are you a Revenantist, then? Is that why you’re here?”

Rignar paused in the act of hauling himself up to the next ledge, his own tone one of sadness rather than resentment. “Revenantists are fanatics lost in a welter of delusion. I am not so fortunate, my lady.” He inclined his head at the path awaiting them, a series of ever more narrow pathways that resembled a zigzag pattern of scars slashed into the mountain’s side. “Shall we?”

Tolveg said nothing for the rest of the day, something for which Shamil should have been grateful. Instead, the warrior’s silence soon began to stir an oppressive concern. He plodded at the rear of their party, his face set in a rigid mask, red-rimmed eyes distant, and offering only grunts to Shamil’s forced attempts at conversation. He took comfort from the fact that they had surely scaled two thirds of the mountain’s height by now and the Eyrie’s summit lay only one more day’s climb away. He knew enough not to expect complete safety upon reaching the Sentinels’ holdfast, but the challenges that awaited them there at least offered the prospect of restitution, something they had all travelled a great distance to claim. When they saw the first great wing, however, any hope Shamil harboured that the prospect of reaching their destination would restore Tolveg’s spirits dwindled and fluttered away on the mountain wind.

It swept out of a nearby cloud bank without warning, its shadow passing over them before their ears detected its passage through the air. Shamil was obliged to squint into the sun’s glare to catch his first glimpse of the bird, watching the wings give a single mighty beat that sent it soaring high. Seeing it silhouetted against the cool blue of the mountain sky, Shamil felt a lurch in his heart at the sheer majesty of the beast, wings at least thirty paces from tip to tip, sunlight glittering through the feathers of its fanned tail, body the size of a warhorse.

As the bird angled its wings to sweep back towards them, Shamil was able to discern the bright colouring of its feathers, a mix of red and gold that gave the impression of flame as they caught the sun. Shortening its wings, the bird came straight towards them at a shallow angle, allowing Shamil to make out the smaller bulk of the sentinel perched on its back. His initial glance made him wonder if it might be another bizarre creation of nature, its head seemingly deformed into something that resembled a teardrop with two black eyes peering down at them in blank indifference as the eagle streaked overhead. A helm, Shamil realised, noting the bronze sheen of the teardrop and the straps holding it in place before the eagle banked away and disappeared into the cloud below.

The four of them stood in silent regard of the clouds until Lyvia coughed and said in a small voice, “Bigger than I thought it would be.”

“Much,” Shamil agreed, his head filled with visions of what it might be like to ride such a creature and finding to his surprise that they stirred more anticipation than dread.

“The fire wing is second only to the black wing in size,” Rignar said. “And there are said to be hardly any of those left.”

Tolveg said nothing, moving to the ledge to peer down at the drifting clouds. They had reached a comparatively broad stretch of track, even featuring a few steps cut into the stone but no wall that might prevent a climber from coming perilously close to a sheer drop.

“Tolveg,” Shamil cautioned, seeing the tip of the northman’s boot protrude over the edge, scattering gravel into the void.

“That’s not my name,” the blond warrior said in a soft voice. He raised his head as Shamil took a step towards him. He was gratified to see the man’s terror had disappeared, his face now wearing a serene smile as his long locks trailed in the wind. “They took it from me, you see, the day they scourged me.” His hand half rose towards his neck in an echo of his habitual gesture, then paused and fell to his side. “It’s the law, the deserved fate of one who murders a kinsman. Tolveg Clearwater died, and in his place was Blood-Mad, murderer of uncles, worthy of only spit and curses.”

Seeing Tolveg’s other boot scrape towards the edge, Shamil took another tentative step forward. “I doubt names matter much in the Eyrie,” he said, extending a hand.

“They seemed to think I wanted to do it,” Tolveg went on, voice sombre with puzzled recollection. “That I somehow lusted for my uncle’s death, out of . . . envy, perhaps? But why? Why would they think that?”

“When we become sentinels, you’ll prove them wrong.” Shamil took another step, gauging the distance between them at little over three yards, too far to leap and catch him in time.

“But I had to.” Tolveg’s gaze froze Shamil in midstep, the serenity abruptly replaced by a desperate need for understanding. “I begged him to stop. I begged him to turn the ship back. ‘Have we not witnessed wonders enough, Uncle? Is our hold not crammed with treasure? But now it is always dark and the seas we sail bare of all save ice. Truly we have reached the limit of the world.’ But turn back he wouldn’t. He was well into his madness by then, star-cursed my people call it, a soul lost to the lure of endless discovery. We sailed further north than any ship in all the sagas, and it still wasn’t enough.”

He sighed, and the desperation in his face faded into sorrowful acceptance. “He gave me this the day we set off.” Tolveg’s hands moved to the buckle of his sword belt, unclasping it from his hips. “Alken-Haft, a blade fit for only the hand of a hero, or so he said.” Tolveg smiled as he hefted the sword and looked into Shamil’s eyes. “And I can see that this is no place for cowards.”

He threw the sword at Shamil, hard enough to force him to retreat a step so he could catch it, stopping the rune-etched pommel an inch from his nose. When Shamil lowered it, Tolveg was gone.

3. The Eyrie

“You could have saved him.”

Rignar glanced briefly at Shamil’s stern, accusing visage before turning away, huddling into his cloak. “Leave it be, lad,” he muttered.

The three of them had spent the hours until nightfall climbing in silence, eventually finding a resting place at the foot of a stone ladder cut into a sheer cliff some fifty feet high, too high and too narrow to scale in darkness. Throughout the climb Shamil had kept to the rear, hoping the mage could feel his eyes boring into the back of his skull. Shamil had seen death before, including the deaths of friends, for the Doctrinate’s lessons held many dangers, but never had he witnessed a man casting his own life away, especially when such a waste could have been prevented.

“The pendant you carry has power,” Shamil persisted. “You have power. You could have stopped his fall . . .”

“Some men are fated to die young,” Rignar cut in, voice dull with fatigue. “Saving him wouldn’t have changed that. Fear followed him like the stink that follows a drunkard, the fear that had cracked his mind when he murdered his uncle, the kind of fear that never fades. Better he spare others the cowardice that would surely have claimed him in battle.”

“What do you know of battle?”

“More than you, my young friend. Since I’ve actually seen a few.” Rignar shifted, letting out an irritated groan. “Best get some sleep. I’ve a sense tomorrow will be a hard trial for all of us.”

But Shamil’s mind was too full of Tolveg’s serene smile to allow the comfort of sleep. He sat with his back against the first step, the northman’s sword propped between his knees. He turned it continually, watching the light of the quarter moon play on the runes engraved on the pommel. There were more on the blade itself, a remarkable thing of beauty that demanded admiration, bright and keen, the edge possessing the slight irregularity that came from the grind of a whetstone over many years. It bore only a few scratches, leaving the symbols that marked it intact, not that he could read them.

“It’ll be a battle ode to one of their many spirit gods.”

Lyvia gathered her cloak about her as she sat up, the keenness of her eyes indicating a similar inability to sleep.

“Can you read it?” he asked, holding out the sword.

She shook her head, making no move to take the weapon. “No, but I know a little of the northmen’s customs, one of which holds that touching another warrior’s sword invites a dire curse.”

“It’s not mine.”

“It is now. Tolveg’s last act was to gift it to you, and I’m sure he had good reason, however cracked his mind might have been.”

They both started as Rignar let out a sharp exhalation and shuddered in his sleep. Checking his face, Shamil saw that Rignar’s eyes remained closed, but his features were drawn into a mask of deep distress. Shamil decided that the mage’s dreams must be terrible indeed to visit him with so much pain and terror. Rignar’s lips moved in a tremulous whisper, the words mostly gibberish but for a few sentences rendered near meaningless by archaic phrasing.

“. . . I beg of thee . . .” the mage whimpered, face bunching in fresh alarm. “. . . Hearken to thine heart . . . thou hast suffered enough . . .”

Gradually, the words faded away, and Rignar calmed, his features slackening until snores replaced fearful whispers.

“He’s been like this every night,” Lyvia said. “Once Tolveg finally stopped talking and fell to slumber. You slept through it all.”

“But you didn’t.”

She shrugged, looking away, her face becoming guarded. “I sleep little.”

“You called him a Revenantist.” Shamil looked again at Rignar’s snoring features, thinking how unremarkable a figure he would have been but for the pendant he wore. “What is that?”

“A cult, popular in my city until recently.” She angled her head, studying Rignar. “I doubt he’s truly one of them, though. No fanatic was ever so cynical.”

“This cult worshipped Sharrow-Met?”

“In a way. Their founder claimed to have received a vision of the redeemed Wraith Queen wandering the earth in revenant form, neither dead nor alive, in perpetual expectation of the day she’ll be needed. ‘When the Voice is once again heard in the Treaty Realms, the Wraith Queen will forsake her endless wandering and rise to be our salvation once more.’

“This self-proclaimed visionary made himself quite powerful for a time, rich too, until one of his more zealous adherents decided he was in fact a fraud and put a hefty dose of poison in his wine. The cult splintered in the aftermath, lingering on in factions that seem more interested in fighting each other than proclaiming Sharrow-Met’s imminent return.”

“Imminent return?”

“The heartlands of the Treaty Realms are troubled, at least more troubled than the normal course of history would dictate. Once-loyal kinsmen vie for power, harvests are poor, reports of plague and famine are rife. It’s all fertile ground for any would-be prophet offering hope in the form of a long-dead legend. If she did ever deign to return, now would seem a very good time.” Her voice slipped into a whisper, face clouding as she added, “The beggared and the dispossessed will unite to follow another queen . . .”

She blinked and stiffened, turning away to lie down, pulling her cloak over her head. “You really should keep the sword, Shamil,” she told him in a sigh. “I think Tolveg hoped you could use it to win the honour he could never regain.”

The woman waiting to greet them at the top of the steps stood at least six feet tall, with copper-coloured hair bound in tight braids. She wore a fur cloak against the wind, which parted with the frequent gusts to reveal a leather harness covering a frame of lean muscle and, Shamil noted as he tried vainly not to let his eyes linger, more than a few scars. She gave no response to Rignar’s panted greeting as they hauled themselves up the final step, arms crossed in silent scrutiny. Her angular visage surveyed them each in turn, lingering briefly on Shamil, longer on Rignar, and longest of all on Lyvia. Her eyes narrowed in recognition as they roved the younger woman’s face, a faintly puzzled line bisecting the scar on her brow.

“The resemblance has been remarked upon many times . . .” Lyvia began in a tired voice, only for the woman to bark out a harsh command.

“Shut your mouth, fledgling!” She glared at Lyvia for a moment longer, as if daring her to speak again, then grunted and turned to Rignar. “There were four of you yesterday,” she stated.

“Our companion . . . fell,” Rignar replied.

The woman’s head tilted in slight acknowledgment before shifting to regard the steps they had climbed. “Do any others follow?”

“No.” Rignar gave an apologetic smile. “It’s just us.”

Shamil saw the woman grimace before she turned away, staring up a path of wind-worn flagstones leading to a gateway in a wall a dozen feet high. “My name is Tihla Javahn, Second Wing of the Sentinel Eyrie,” the woman said. She moved with a rapid stride their recent exertions made it hard to match, and her words held the dry and passionless tones of an oft-recited speech. “As fledgling sentinels, your training is in my hands. You will follow my instructions without question. If your disobedience doesn’t result in your death, you will depart this place and never come back. There is no negotiation here. There is no bargaining here. I care nothing for your excuses, explanations, or entreaties. Nor do I care about whatever disgrace brought you to this pass. Understand this and accept it, or leave now.”

She came to a halt beneath the gate, turning to regard them with hard intent, her hand emerging from her cloak to hold up a brass disc. It was a thin, roughly worked thing, embossed with a crude silhouette of an eagle in flight. In material terms it possessed little value, but to Shamil it was worth all the wealth he would ever own.

“This is what you came for,” Tihla Javahn told them. “The token that symbolises restored honour through service to the Sentinel Eyrie. It may take years to earn it, it may take months. Most likely you will die in pursuit of it. Stepping through this gate signifies your submission to the Eyrie, its customs, its rules, and the sacrifice required of its mission. Do not enter lightly.”

She moved aside, inclining her head at what lay beyond the gate. Shamil stepped forward without hesitation, drawing up short at the sight of the Eyrie in its entirety. It was composed of stepped tiers carved from the summit of the mountain, creating a series of rises and dips. Wooden platforms had been constructed atop each rise, linked by a complex, overlapping maze of walkways. A dozen or more canvas-sailed windmills turned continuously in the stiff wind, and other sentinels moved about carrying various burdens. Most paused to regard the newcomers for a short examination, but none felt inclined to wave or call out a greeting.

Rising above the windmills were a number of thick poles, each as tall as an aged pine, featuring broad crossbeams. Their purpose soon became obvious when a huge shape swept out of the sky and flared its wings, talons the length of sabres reaching out to grasp the perch. Shamil had thought the bird they had seen before Tolveg’s fall to be the biggest he would ever see, but this creature was at least a third again as large. Its great beak parted to emit a piercing cry as it folded its wings, the feathers betraying a flame-like shimmer. The sentinel on its back unhooked his harness from the straps about the fire wing’s neck before leaping nimbly to catch hold of one of the ropes dangling from the crossbeam. A large man, his fur cloak parted to reveal a torso of thick muscle as he descended to the ground, his fall made gentle by a counterweight that swept up as he swept down.

He released the rope a few feet shy of the ground, landing on a slanted walkway and sliding to the nearest platform. He made his way towards the gate in a series of leaps and swings, pausing briefly to exchange greetings with other sentinels, all of whom smiled or nodded with notable deference. Upon landing he strode towards the newcomers, tugging thick leather gauntlets from his hands before unfastening the teardrop-shaped bronze helm from his head.

After Tihla’s severity, Shamil was surprised to see a smiling visage as the helm came away. Based on his frame, Shamil would have guessed this man’s age at somewhere in his thirties, but the face he revealed bore the creases and weathering of a much older man. As he halted, his lips parted to reveal a wall of white, apart from a single gold tooth gleaming bright in the sun.

“Fledgling sentinels,” he said, bowing and speaking in a voice that was low but strong. “I bid you welcome to the Eyrie.” His smile dimmed a fraction as he looked at the empty ground beyond the gate. “This is all?” he enquired of Tihla.

“There were four.” She shrugged. “One fell.”

“Ah.” His face gave a short flicker of dismay before the smile returned in full measure. “No matter. All who brave the climb are welcome.” He bowed again. “Morgath Durnholm, First Wing of the Sentinel Eyrie, thanks you for your selflessness in coming here.”

Lyvia gave a visible start at the mention of the man’s name and failed to match the bow Shamil offered the leader of the Sentinels. It was awkward and clumsy, as the custom was unknown in his homeland. Rignar also offered no bow, but did step forward to clasp the first wing’s hand.

“Rignar Banlufsson,” he said. “I present my companions Shamil L’Estalt of Anverest and Lady Lyvia Gondarik of Mira-Vielle.”

“No noble titles here,” Tihla said, adding in a low mutter, “certainly no ladies.”

Morgath Durnholm spared his second-in-command a small reproachful arch of his eyebrow before turning back to Rignar. Shamil noted how his gaze barely lingered on Lyvia, as if forcing himself not to stare. “You’re the crystal mage we’ve been expecting for so long,” he said, pointing to the pendant about Rignar’s neck. “Shelka, our last practitioner of the art, went to join with the spirits of her forebears last winter. She was very old and, despite having won her disc years ago, decided to live out her days amongst those she had come to see as family. For that is what we are.” He smiled again, moving to rest a hand on each of their shoulders, his affability faltering somewhat when Lyvia took a pointed backward step, her face lowered and expression rigidly inexpressive.

Shamil found his shoulder sagging a little under the weight of the first wing’s hand, the fellow looming above him by several inches. However, any suspicion that his gesture might be an attempt to demonstrate superior strength was dispelled by the genuine warmth that glimmered in Morgath’s eyes. Shamil had been trained to spot signs of deceit or hidden malice and saw none here.

“We have a good deal for you to do, Master Mage,” the first wing said, turning back to Rignar. “The Eyrie has a decent stock of crystals, but that will soon change in the event of another incursion.”

“Is such a thing expected?” Rignar asked.

“The Maw is sparing in the signs and portents it provides. It could belch flame for a day, and yet the skies remain clear of its foul denizens, only for dozens to spew forth a fortnight later. I’ve often thought we could do with a seer in the Eyrie, but as yet none has felt sufficiently disgraced to join our family.”

“They tend to be a solitary lot,” Rignar agreed. “Disgrace is reserved for those of us who actually engage with the world.”

“Ah yes, the world.” Morgath’s brows rose in faint interest. “How fares it?”

Rignar’s face formed a humourless grimace. “Poorly. Not so many of the Treaty Realms still hold to ancient obligations, hence our number.”

“Numbers aren’t everything. I’d rather three stout hearts come in search of restored honour than a hundred souls forced to our door by mere obligation.”

He smiled again, less broadly, before turning to Tihla, voice lowered. “I’ll need to take Fleyrak for another patrol before nightfall. Saw an odd shadow in the smoke.”

The second wing’s scarred brow creased in concern. “Something new?”

“Or just a trick of the light. My eyes aren’t what they were.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You have more pressing duties.” He cast a meaningful glance at Shamil and the others. “I’ll take Shirmar. He’s fully healed now and keen to get back into the sky.”

“Take Lamira too,” she told him, her tone hard with insistence, before adding with a bland smile, “Her eyes are younger.”

Morgath gave a brief laugh, then turned to bow to the three new arrivals a final time. “Tihla will see to your training. Throughout the days ahead it would be best to remind yourselves that what she does, she does out of love for family.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Tihla to regard them with a baleful eye. “Understand this,” she said in very precise tones, “I do not love you. Mage.” She beckoned Rignar forward, pointing to the western edge of the Eyrie where the carved tiers abruptly ended in a stretch of vertical rock. It was covered from base to crest in wooden scaffolding, the rock face featuring numerous circular, cave-like openings too regular of appearance to have been naturally formed. “Best if you take Shelka’s old chamber. It’s on the lowest tier, second from the left. She left behind a pile of books and trinkets you may find a use for. Get settled, and join us to eat after dark. You’ll go to the nest tomorrow. Better hope one likes you, or you’ve had a wasted journey.”

Rignar hesitated, turning to regard Shamil and Lyvia. “I assumed I would be training with my friends . . .”

“Mages don’t train,” Tihla interrupted. “Can’t risk losing your talents. Apart from the leap, of course. No sentinel can avoid that.”

Rignar gave a reluctant nod, forcing a smile at his younger companions. “Until tomorrow, then.”

After he started for his new home, Tihla stood in silent regard of her two charges, gaze roaming over their various weapons. “Know how to use that, do you?” she asked, gesturing to the strongbow slung across Shamil’s shoulders.

“I do,” he replied.

She blinked before her eyes slid to Lyvia, narrowing with a resentment Shamil assumed resulted from the disrespect the noblewoman had shown to the first wing. “And you?” Tihla flicked a finger at the sling dangling from Lyvia’s belt.

“All women of my house are trained in combat from a young age,” Lyvia replied promptly. “Proficiency in weapons is considered as important as comportment and etiquette.”

The edges of Tihla’s mouth curved very slightly. “We’ll see. For now”—she nodded to a stack of broad-bladed shovels resting near the gate—“you have a far more important task to perform.”

4. Fledglings

“Morgath Durnholm was the worst pirate in the entire history of the Treaty Realms.”

Lyvia’s words were muffled somewhat by the scarf she had fastened over her nose and mouth in an effort to assuage the stink, but Shamil detected the heat in her words, nonetheless.

“He didn’t seem . . . piratical.”

“What?”

Like her, he had covered his mouth so was obliged to pull down the black silk kerchief in order to repeat himself. “He didn’t seem . . .” Shamil choked off as the miasma that filled the roofless channel immediately assailed his nostrils and throat. He coughed, fixing his kerchief back in place and shaking his head.

“They say he took over a hundred ships,” she went on, grunting as she forced her shovel through a particularly stubborn mound. Once dislodged from the stone, it came apart to unleash a stench so thick they were forced to the tunnel mouth, where they spent several minutes retching and heaving clean air into their lungs. This end of the tunnel led to the south-facing flank of the mountain, ending abruptly in a sheer drop of dizzying depth, the stone below streaked with white and yellow from years of discarded effluent. They had learned over the course of the previous two days that seeking relief at the tunnel’s other opening would earn only a rebuke from Tihla and a curt instruction to get back to work.

“He wasn’t kind to the crews either,” Lyvia continued in a gasp, slumping against the tunnel wall. “Dozens of sailors thrown to the tiger fish for his sadistic amusement. When the king’s fleet finally caught him, it’s said he spat in the admiral’s face and demanded immediate execution.”

“And yet here he is,” Shamil pointed out. “Pirate no longer.”

“It was the admiral that brought him here, in chains. The admiral’s name was Argath Durnholm, you see.” She gave an exasperated sigh at Shamil’s puzzled expression. “His father. Morgath was . . . is a renegade son to one of the great houses of Mira-Vielle. A man of even slightly less noble blood would have been subjected to the eighty cuts, and that’s not a pleasant fate, let me tell you.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, before I was born, twenty-something years ago or thereabouts. I really didn’t expect to find him still alive, let alone first wing of this place.”

“And I didn’t expect to spend my time shovelling this.” Shamil cast a scrap of ordure through the opening with his shovel blade. “How many tons will it take to gain a disc, I wonder?”

Her response was drowned out by a piercing shriek that echoed through the tunnel with sufficient force to pain the ears. It was a regular occurrence, but Shamil doubted he would ever accustom himself to the calls of the mighty birds roosting in the great cavern above. So far, the only evidence they had seen of the creatures consisted of a few overlarge feathers and the steady but unpredictable arrival of the substance they had the dubious honour of clearing away. Worse than the effluent, however, were the bones. Most were the cracked or severed remnants of goats or sheep, but now and again they would unearth a skull of unfamiliar appearance. Most were too badly damaged to make out much of their features, but Shamil eventually found one that was mostly intact.

“Any notion of what this might be?” he asked Lyvia. They had paused to enjoy the benefit of a gust of wind from the southern end of the tunnel, an infrequent event that would banish the stink for a blessed moment or two.

He crouched to retrieve the skull from a dried mound of droppings, the yellow ash falling away to reveal what at first glance he might have taken for the skull of a child. The rounded crown of the head was roughly human in shape, but the resemblance disappeared when he turned it to examine the face. Two overlarge eye sockets regarded him above narrow nostrils and a set of misaligned, jagged teeth. Each tooth was the length of a coffin nail and still sharp, as he discovered to his cost upon touching a finger to the tip of the most prominent one. It was a small tap, but blood swelled immediately from the pinprick wound, soon followed by a sharp pain more acute than seemed natural.

“Something from the Maw, I expect,” Lyvia said. She eyed the skull with a dark wariness and, unlike Shamil, showed no inclination to touch it.

“It’s a flenser.”

They both turned to find Tihla standing in the tunnel, surveying the results of their work with a critical eye.

“Body like a monkey with wings like a bat. The teeth, though.” She shook her head with a humourless laugh, eyes still roving the newly scraped tunnel. “One bite is usually enough to kill, and if it doesn’t, their drool is so loaded with foulness the wound will fester so fast you’ll be dead in a day. One of the Maw’s less dangerous children.”

She sniffed, head tilting in faint satisfaction. “Stink’s not so bad now. Should hold us for another few weeks. Stow your shovels by the gate, and fetch your weapons. Time to find out if you two were bragging.”

Shamil’s feet skidded a few inches along the pillar’s summit as he landed, arms windmilling briefly to regain his balance. Once steadied, he unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, raising the weapon to loose at the target suspended from a rope a dozen feet above his head. He watched the shaft slam into the centre of the wooden circle, then turned, smoothly nocking another arrow to the string, then loosing at the target to his right, scoring another perfect hit. Crouching, he fixed his gaze on the neighbouring pillar, forcing himself not to dwell on the thicket of thorn bushes below. It was a ten-foot drop, but Shamil feared the thorns more.

He leapt, this time achieving a less solid landing. One foot slipped as it connected with the pillar’s marble top, flailing in the air for the brief second or two it took Shamil to find his balance once more. Fortunately his next pair of arrows were just as well aimed as the first, the wooden targets swaying as the shafts found their centres. His accuracy, however, failed to stir any appreciation from Tihla when he hopped from the sixth and final pillar to land at her side.

“Too slow,” she said. “Next time don’t stop to admire your handiwork.” She jerked her head at Lyvia. “Get to it, fledgling.”

After they had retrieved their weapons from their shared chamber, the second wing led them to the northern flank of the Eyrie where a semicircle of marble pillars rose from a thick mass of thorn bushes surrounding the base of a tall mound of tiered rock. Above the pillars wooden targets dangled from a web of ropes.

“Every battle fought by a sentinel takes place in the air,” Tihla told them. “The fear of falling is ingrained in every one of us, as well it should be, but to fight from a great wing’s back requires that you master that fear. Your path lies before you.” She gestured to the pillars. “Built here and abandoned centuries ago by hands unknown. The thorn bushes we planted ourselves, a reminder to fledglings that falling has consequences.” As evidence she raised her forearm to display a pale, jagged scar tracing from her wrist to her elbow. “My first and last fall. The thorn cut so deep Shelka had to use her crystals to seal it else I’d’ve bled to death.” She fixed them with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Is your mage friend so skilled at healing, I wonder?”

When Lyvia’s turn came, she proved to be swifter than Shamil, leaping on nimble feet to linger on the first pillar just long enough to whirl her sling and cast a stone at the nearest target. Her aim wasn’t as true as his, however, the stone smacking into the target’s edge and sending it spinning. Unlike Shamil, Lyvia took Tihla’s words to heart and didn’t linger to watch. Slipping another stone into her sling, she whirled it and leapt again, unleashing the projectile in midair before twisting to land on the next pillar.

Shamil’s admiration turned to alarm when he saw her lead foot connect with the edge of the pillar’s crown rather than the flat surface. Lyvia twisted again as her foot skidded along the edge, trying to latch a hand onto the pillar before gravity did its work. She was only partially successful, managing to clamp one hand to the marble with enough of a grip to arrest her fall. Seeing the way her straining fingers inched closer to the edge as she dangled, feet kicking in an ineffectual attempt to gain leverage on the pillar’s upper stones, Shamil knew she had only seconds before plummeting into the possibly lethal embrace of the thorns.

He acted without thinking, casting his bow aside and leaping onto the first pillar, snatching the raptorile-tail whip from his belt. As he flicked his arm, it made a familiar, ear-straining crack, louder, it was said, than any other whip in all the Treaty Realms. The whip uncoiled like a deceptively lazy snake to wrap itself around Lyvia’s waist just as her fingers lost their grip.

Although she wasn’t a person of any particular bulk, the suddenness of her fall made it impossible for him to haul her back up. Instead he swung her, grunting with the effort of heaving the whip and its burden, Lyvia missing the thorns by bare inches. He let go at the midpoint of the swing, Lyvia landing hard on the bare stone a few yards from the thicket. She tumbled a short distance before coming to a halt, winded and groaning. As she looked up at Shamil, he was surprised to find a face that was pale with the shock of recent danger but also drawn in gratitude rather than injured pride.

Tihla’s reaction was similarly unexpected, pursing her lips in approval rather than anger as she watched Lyvia untangle herself from Shamil’s whip. Instead of voicing an acerbic injunction against saving fledglings from their deserved injuries, she nodded to Lyvia untangling herself from the whip. “An impressive instrument,” the second wing observed. “I assume it can kill as well as save?”

“I have a steel barb for the tip,” Shamil confirmed. “If need arises.”

“Need will surely arise, so be sure to keep it sharp.” She cupped her hands around her mouth to call down to Lyvia. “Stop lazing about and get back up here, fledgling! Try again, and ponder the folly of overconfidence whilst you’re at it.”

The next two weeks followed a daily routine of enlivening training and soul-taxing drudgery. Mornings were spent at the pillars, Tihla hectoring them to ever increasing speed. Shamil came close to falling only once more whilst Lyvia’s initial mishap seemed to have birthed a near manic concentration that ensured an uncanny sure-footedness. Within a few days she could hop from one pillar to another without the slightest pause, sling whirling all the while as stones thunked against the targets in a rapid drumbeat. Shamil quickly resigned himself to an inability to match her speed, although Tihla seemed satisfied with his progress and reserved the bulk of her criticism for the less dangerous but more arduous aspects of their training.

“Duck, you cack-brain!” she snarled, swinging the spear again, this time at his chest instead of his head. The weapon was called a claw spear and was at least twice the length of any pole-arm Shamil had encountered before. The haft was fashioned from ash, which allowed it to flex as Tihla wielded it, aiming the curved point at the upper parts of his body. The spearhead consisted of a black claw fixed to the haft by an iron bracket. This particular claw had a leather sheath to prevent its serrated edge from tearing his flesh, but the sting of its impact was a thing to be feared, and he bore several long, crescent-shaped bruises on his back from his first abortive practice.

The spearpoint whooshed within an inch of his head as he sprawled flat, then sprang to his feet and dodged back to avoid the next swing. Tihla was far from done, however, grunting as she brought the spear around then up, bringing it down in a hammer blow that would surely have cracked his skull had he not dived clear in time.

The spear haft broke as the point connected with the ground, the leather sheath coming away due to the force of the impact. The revealed claw was black as obsidian, catching a narrow gleam along its curve and glimmers on the jagged serrations.

“It’s from a scyther,” Tihla explained. “It’s a despoiled breed of condor, twice the size, with plenty of vicious cunning. Luckily, we only see a few each year, and they tend to fly alone.” She cast an annoyed eye at the broken spear haft before tossing it to Shamil. “Enough for today. Take this to Ehlias to get fixed, then do five circuits around the rises. I’ll be watching, so no slacking.”

Shamil assumed that Ehlias Kehn Arndstvel, metal smith to the Eyrie, must have once possessed hair much the same as Tolveg’s, given that they hailed from the same realm. If so, there was no evidence of long golden locks on the pink-and-purple globe of his head, nor even the smallest hair as far as Shamil could tell. There seemed to be scarcely an inch of his broad, muscle-thick frame that hadn’t received either a scorch or a burn severe enough to discolour or pucker the skin. His face was further testament to a life rich in injury, one milky white eye stared out from a socket crisscrossed by deep rents in the surrounding flesh. Despite it all, Shamil found him the most cheerful soul in the Eyrie, his voice raised in unending song as he worked, often providing a counterpoint to the ringing toll of his hammer on the anvil.

His songs were all voiced in the language of his homeland, making them meaningless to Shamil’s ear. Even so, he was able to discern the underlying theme from the smith’s tone, for his voice was a fine and pure thing, capable of conveying great sorrow as well as joy. Today the tune was sombre, mournful notes accompanying the rasp of his file on a newly crafted knife. Shamil found himself pausing at the circular doorway to the smith’s chamber, captured by the smith’s melody as it summoned Tolveg’s face to mind, the serene, acceptance just before he jumped.

“Broken another one, has she?”

Ehlias set his tools aside to come forward and relieve him of the spear. “A hefty blow,” Shamil said, handing the weapon over. “I was fortunate to avoid it.”

“She’s always had a strong arm, that one.” Ehlias’s good eye surveyed the broken haft and spearpoint in careful appraisal before adding both to a stack of weapons and gear in the corner of his workshop. “Tell her it’ll take me a day or two. Got a whole bundle of arrows to prepare for the new mage’s crystals.”

“I will.” Shamil turned to go but found himself dithering in the doorway, one hand fidgeting on the sword at his belt.

“Something else?” the smith asked.

“Yes a . . . personal matter.” Shamil unbuckled his sword belt and extended the sheathed weapon to Ehlias. “There are runes on the blade. I was wondering if you could tell me what they mean.”

The smith’s usually affable visage slipped into something far more stern, but also riven with a reluctant curiosity that deepened as he came closer to peer at the sword’s hilt and pommel. “Show me,” he said, making no move to take the sword.

Shamil drew the blade from the sheath, placing it on a nearby bench. Ehlias surveyed the runes in narrow-eyed silence for some time before telling Shamil to turn it over. “Where’d you get this, lad?” he asked after a similarly prolonged scrutiny of the reversed blade.

“It was given to me by a fellow exile during the climb. He . . . fell.”

“No he didn’t. Not if he gave this willingly into another’s hand. Do you have any notion of what this is?”

“I thought it just a sword, better crafted than most and pleasing to the eye, to be sure. But still, just a sword.”

Ehlias let out a soft sigh as his finger, still not touching the steel, traced the runes on one half of the blade. “These are signs of the stars my people look to for guidance on the seas, and in life. These”—his finger shifted to the markings on the opposite side—“are the names of the smiths who crafted this sword, and no ordinary smiths were they. Truth be told, I never thought to see one of these in my time upon this earth.” He stepped back from the bench, shaking his head before fixing Shamil with a serious, intent gaze. “It’s a skeln-blad. A fated blade, forged by steel-mages and given only to those destined to perform great deeds.”

“Its owner did murder and went mad,” Shamil replied in bafflement. “It’s why he was exiled. Although, he did tell a great many stories of impressive deeds. But how many were true . . .”

“If any of these deeds fulfilled the purpose this blade was crafted for, he’d have held fast to it when he threw himself from the mountain. No warrior of the Wodewehl would forsake the chance to carry such a potent weapon into the eternal battles of the Hidden Realms. Instead, he gave it to you. You’re its owner now, lad. Seems a great deal is expected of you.”

Shamil began to object further, but stilled his tongue in the face of the smith’s steady-eyed certainty. “Do the runes say what it is?” he asked, nodding to the blade. “This great purpose?”

Ehlias smoothed a hand over his motley scalp, disfigured brows bunching into a web as he pondered for a moment. “Those who crafted it named it Alken-Haft,” he said. “Which means ‘ice cutter.’ So . . .” He gave a forced, apologetic smile. “If I were you, I’d have a care when winter comes, for it falls hard in these mountains.”

Spear practice was followed by an hour spent traversing the network of walkways and ropes that covered the Eyrie. Most of the sentinels flew away on their birds to patrol the afternoon skies until dusk, creating an empty playground through which Shamil and Lyvia would sprint and leap, always trying to complete a circuit faster than the previous attempt. The wisdom of this particular lesson was twofold and obvious; they quickly gained an intimate understanding of their new home whilst also developing muscle and stamina.

Shamil found it a pleasing contrast to the Doctrinate, where the lessons could often be tedious, if not pointless. Whilst he learned a great deal about combat in his years within its walls, the Doctrinate was as much a temple as a school, and students would spend days memorising ancient lore in dead languages only to be punished for minor grammatical mistakes when called upon to recite it. The Eyrie was not bound by such meaningless custom. Here all lessons were pared down to the necessary skills of a sentinel, although Tihla had yet to even make mention of the one he ached most to learn.

“They don’t speak to them,” he observed to Lyvia one evening. It had become their habit to spend the brief respite after traversing the Eyrie atop one of the taller platforms, where they could watch the sentinels returning from their patrols. “The riders don’t talk to the birds,” he elaborated in response to Lyvia’s frown. “So how do they control them?”

He pointed to where Shirmar, a veteran of brawny build whose skin bore almost as many scars as Ehlias’s, guided his fire wing to a perch. The bird shortened its wings as it glided through the forest of poles to alight on the one closest to Shirmar’s chamber, all done without a shout from the rider on its back.

“One of Sharrow-Met’s final acts was to bind all the great-wing breeds to the Sentinels,” Lyvia replied. “Or so it’s said. When one dies, another arrives within days, be it an owl, a blue falcon or a fire wing. Somehow they know to send one of their number in accordance with the Wraith Queen’s wishes. As for their riders, I’m not sure who controls whom. Supposedly the bond between bird and sentinel allows for a depth of understanding beyond the ken of mage or scholar.”

“If they choose you,” Shamil pointed out in a low murmur. “And don’t decide to let you fall.”

His eyes slipped to the nest, the tallest rise in the Eyrie, a narrow spike of rock beneath which they had laboured to clear the ordure of the creatures that nested in its upper reaches. Within waited birds who had yet to accept a rider, one of which he hoped would choose him before the day of the leap finally dawned.

“I saw Rignar this morning,” Lyvia said, her tone deliberately bright, he assumed in an effort to alleviate his doubts. “Seems he’s already bonded with his bird, an owl he calls Kritzlasch. Mages are always bonded to owls, apparently.”

Shamil gave a vague nod in response, gaze still locked on the nest. “It would seem appropriate.”

“Some legends have it that the birds see into your soul. If they find courage, they choose you.” She nudged him with a hard shove of her boot. “In which case, I think you worry over nothing.”

Shamil glanced at her half-smiling, half-annoyed face before looking away, as unwanted memories rose for the first time since his arrival at the Eyrie.

The raptorile blinked its eyes, and he saw the soul behind them, saw its pain and fear, saw that it felt and thought as he did . . . saw enough to suffer the weakness that disgraced him.

“Yes,” he muttered back, getting to his feet. “I heard the same thing. Come, Tihla will be expecting us at the spit.”

5. Stielbek

Come evening, the sentinels would gather in the bowl-shaped nexus of channels between the tiered rises. When the sky began to darken, it fell to the fledglings to roast either a goat or a boar over the glowing coals piled into a circular pit, a chore that required regular and attentive turning of the spit. They were also required to boil and stir the vegetable broth in large iron bowls, which served as an accompaniment to the feast of meat. Shamil found this the most onerous of their chores, requiring over three hours of labour amidst air steamed to an oppressive, sweat-inducing thickness. Tihla had issued stern instructions that they remain silent throughout these nightly gatherings, and they were permitted to eat only after the sentinels had had their fill.

At first, Shamil had expected some measure of taunting and ridicule from these veterans, such things being a salient and required feature of life in the Doctrinate; his back still bore the marks of stones and various projectiles hurled at him by the older students along with a torrent of verbal abuse. But no bullying was forthcoming, instead the two fledglings were either ignored or spared a rare glance of sympathy or grim encouragement.

The assembly numbered about a hundred in all, and Shamil saw no unscarred faces amongst them, several sporting eye patches, whilst a few wore wrought-iron hooks in place of lost hands or wooden pegs instead of vanished legs. He therefore found the good humour that pervaded the gathering distinctly odd, even jarring. Men and women with injuries that would have seen them beggared in most realms exchanged affectionate jibes and roared with laughter at ribald jokes. Tales of near death and calamity abounded but were never spoken in dire or foreboding tones. He might have ascribed it to the forced bravado found amongst many a warrior band, but the absence of fear in this place was as potent as the sense of warm companionship. Morgath Durnholm had spoken true, this really was a family.

The first wing spoke often throughout the evening, but Shamil noticed he never shared any stories of his own, instead commenting on the various tales with observations that were either gently chiding or concealed a compliment within apparent scorn. Durnholm was also, Shamil saw with growing admiration, highly skilled at quelling the rare disagreements or burgeoning arguments that rose amongst his subordinates. Sometimes two sentinels would carry mismatched memories of an event, which could lead to conflict for it was clear that a correct accounting of shared history was highly important in the Eyrie.

“No,” one stated, interrupting a lurid recounting of the death of a comrade some years before. She was a slender woman of similar complexion to Shamil but spoke with an unfamiliar accent, coloured now by an emphatic note as she rose, shaking her head at the stocky storyteller opposite. “It wasn’t just flensers that day. There was a whole company of vehlgard archers at the lip of the Maw too. That’s why Hawber took his bird so high. That flenser pack would never have got him otherwise.”

“He soared high because he was too fond of flying, Ashinta,” the stocky man returned, not without good humour, but also with a steely defiance in his eye. “Sky mad. Something we should all guard against.”

“He was no more sky mad than I,” Ashinta insisted, voice growing heated enough to draw a glower from the storyteller. His face darkened as his lips began to form a response, the retort lost when Morgath’s voice rang out, loud and cheery.

“We’re all sky mad!” he laughed, rising to clap a hand to Ashinta’s shoulder. “At least a little. Else, why would be here?”

This drew a laugh from the other sentinels, and just like that the rising tension was gone. Morgath Durnholm, it seemed, knew how to wield his words as well as Tihla could wield a spear. Ashinta gave a slightly sheepish grin as the first wing jostled her, resuming her seat whilst he raised his voice once more.

“I think, brothers and sisters, our fledglings have endured our tales long enough.” He turned, extending a hand to Shamil and Lyvia. They were busily scouring the slops of broth from the pots and took a moment to realise all eyes were now turned in their direction.

“Fourteen evenings filled with stories of enough horror to send any sane soul scrambling down this mountain,” Morgath went on, eyes warm as he regarded them, “and yet they stayed. Despite every indignity, chore, and injury our excellent second wing heaped upon them, they stayed. She has pronounced them ready for the choosing, and I agree. Do I hear a dissenting voice?”

There was a long moment of silence, Shamil’s gaze tracking over the tiers of serious faces arrayed on all sides, finding shrewd appraisal on some but acceptance on most. The silence stretched until Morgath gave a satisfied nod, only for a single voice to speak up.

“The girl,” Ashinta said, dark eyes fixed on Lyvia. “She looks too much like the Wraith Queen’s statue. It’s . . . unnerving. An ill omen, some might think.”

“Are you a seer now?” another sentinel asked, sending a ripple of amusement through the crowd.

“Course I’m cacking not!” The woman’s snarl faded into a grimace as she continued to stare at Lyvia. “Just worried how the birds will take to her is all. Mine gets twitchy at the mere sight of her.”

“The great wings will decide,” Morgath told her, his voice for once devoid of humour and possessing a note of authority that caused Ashinta to meet his eyes. “The Eyrie belongs to them as much as us. She’ll be chosen, or she won’t. Besides, none of us can help how we look.” He held her gaze until she nodded and looked away.

“Then it’s decided.” The first wing moved to wrap a broad arm around Shamil and Lyvia, pulling them close. Shamil noted that this time his fellow fledgling didn’t shrink from the first wing’s touch. “Tomorrow, our young friends will meet the great wings, and let’s hope they emerge with all their fingers intact!”

He laughed, long and loud, and the collective amusement of the sentinels filled the bowl and cast their mirth into the night sky like a roar. As it faded, Shamil saw a blossom of red above the Eyrie’s eastern flank, brief and gone in an instant, but very bright, nonetheless. No one else, however, seemed to notice.

The odour emanating from the conical peak of the nest was not so unpleasant as the stench of the tunnel beneath, but still brought a wrinkle to Shamil’s nose. It was rich in raw meat, as he would have expected, but also bore the taint of breath exhaled by inhuman lungs.

“Right,” Tihla said, dumping the sack containing a recently butchered goat at the entrance. Getting there had required a confusing climb of a dozen crisscrossed ladders made arduous by the burden of meat they had to carry. “Best if you spend no more than an hour feeding them at first; they’ll get scratchy otherwise. When you’re done, report to Ehlias. Time you two got fitted for your helmets.” With that Tihla started back down the ladder.

“We don’t need to be . . .” Lyvia began uncertainly, “. . . introduced?”

This provoked a short laugh from the second wing as she continued her descent. “Rest assured, they’ll introduce themselves,” she said before her head disappeared from view, “if they like you.”

“And if they don’t?” Lyvia called after her, receiving no reply apart from the sound of Tihla leaping to grasp a nearby rope swing.

Shamil and Lyvia exchanged an uneasy glance before turning to the dark oval of the entrance. As yet, none of the birds within had felt the need to call out, but the two could hear the rustle of feathers and the scrape of talons on stone or wood.

“I shan’t take offence if you wish to precede me through this doorway,” Lyvia murmured. “Terrible breach of etiquette though it would be.”

Shamil grunted a resigned laugh and bent to retrieve the sack Tihla had dumped, hefting it alongside the one already on his shoulder before taking a breath and stepping into the gloom. At first he could see only an overlapping matrix of slanted sunlight streaming through the numerous openings in the nest’s flanks. Motes and fragments of feathers drifted from dark to light, swirling when one of the unseen birds twitched its wings. Shamil progressed along a wooden walkway for a dozen paces before it opened into a wide circular platform. A loud fluttering of wings and swirl of displaced air told of birds alighting onto perches in the surrounding gloom. Still, it took the space of several laboured heartbeats before he caught his first close-up glimpse of a great wing.

Two points of light glittered in the gloom to the side of the platform, joined by the thin curve of a gleaming beak as the bird bobbed its head. Shamil made out the red-gold sheen of its crest before it slipped back into the gloom, beak snapping in what he read as an impatient gesture.

Unslinging the sacks, he set one close to the platform’s edge, drawing back the canvas to reveal the meat within. The bird’s head flashed out of the gloom, snapping up a large chunk of goat haunch before fading back into the shadows. Soon there came the sound of tearing flesh and the dull wet grunt of food being gobbled down an eager throat. The only expression of gratitude or appreciation came in the form of a high-pitched screech and a gust of wind as the bird took flight. Shamil looked up in time to see the broad shadow flicker through the cat’s cradle of light before it flashed through an opening and into the sky beyond.

Hearing a chorus of snapping beaks on all sides, Shamil set down his other sack and began to empty out the contents of both, distributing the hefty morsels of flesh evenly around the edge of the platform as Lyvia did the same. Sharp beaks darted from the darkness in a flurry, and Shamil counted perhaps two dozen, seeing mostly the shimmer of red-and-gold plumage but also the occasional flash of blue or brown. Most seemed intent only on feeding, taking to wing when they had gobbled their fill, but a few would pause to cast an eye at the two human newcomers. None, however, seemed inclined to linger for more than a second or two of scrutiny, and Shamil was forced to ponder just how he would ever form a bond with any of these creatures.

“Oh, hello.”

Turning, he saw Lyvia face-to-face with a bird that had hopped onto the platform’s thick oakwood railing, head tilted at an inquisitive angle. Although smaller than the fire wings, with plumage of blue flecked with emerald green, it still stood three times the size of the woman who raised a tentative hand to touch its beak. Shamil began to shout a warning but stopped when he saw the bird still its head, shuddering a little at Lyvia’s touch but not drawing back. From the faint click of contentment that emerged from the blue falcon’s throat, it was abundantly clear that Ashinta’s worries were unfounded. This great wing at least saw nothing to fear in one who so closely resembled the long-vanished Wraith Queen.

“Aren’t you beautiful,” Lyvia told the falcon, smoothing her hand along its beak, receiving another appreciative click in response. “What’s your name, I wonder?”

The bird lowered its head, allowing Lyvia to play a hand through the short feathers of its crest, letting out a small contented chirp that abruptly turned to a squawk of alarm as a very large shadow covered the platform from end to end. The blue falcon immediately hopped about and launched itself into the shadows, a massed drumbeat of wings and subsequent whirlwind of colliding air indicating the other birds had followed suit. Shamil’s gaze snapped up to see a broad black silhouette, growing swiftly to obscure the slatted sunlight. The platform shuddered as the shape completed its descent, the impact sufficient to send Shamil and Lyvia staggering against the rails.

Shamil’s gaze fixed on the bird’s talons first, sabre-like lengths of jet that had stabbed all the way through the platform’s timbers. His gaze tracked upwards over the grey flesh of its legs to the feathers covering its chest, all as black as the talons, before settling on the bird’s face. But for the gleam on its eyes and beak, it would have been indistinguishable from the shadows, forcing an inevitable conclusion.

“A black wing,” Shamil breathed, taking a tentative step closer.

“I thought they were all gone,” Lyvia breathed back. “Not seen in the Treaty Realms since the Wraith Queen’s time. Shamil,” she added, voice hard with warning as he continued to approach the huge bird.

“It’s all right,” he said, taking another step, finding himself captured by the sheer majesty of this beast. It towered over him, larger even than the mighty fire wing that carried Morgath Durnholm. The bird displayed no trepidation at his approach, merely tilting its head, eyes blinking white then black as a membrane slid over the shiny half spheres. As he neared, Shamil saw numerous scratches in the black wing’s beak, though its point and edges shone sharp in the meagre illumination. He also saw furrows in the plumage around the bird’s mouth and eyes, glimpsing the pale, puckered flesh of long-healed scars beneath. This, he knew, was an old creature and no stranger to battle.

He came to a halt when the black wing abruptly bent its legs, lowering its body to peer directly at Shamil’s face. It shifted from side to side with a slow, even grace he might have termed gentle but for the hard inquisition he saw in its gaze, the calculation behind the eyes born of something far from human. The rush of recognition brought a gasp to his lips, making him stiffen as the memory flashed bright and ugly in his mind.

The raptorile tried to raise itself from the sand, a hiss of pain escaping the long row of clenched, pointed teeth that lined its jaws. The wounds Shamil had inflicted upon it were too severe, however, and it collapsed, raising a pall of dust that soon cleared to reveal a defeated foe. Its eye rolled up to regard Shamil as he stepped closer, daggers raised for the killing strokes to the throat, the final act of this drama that would herald his graduation from the Doctrinate. Today, he became an anointed warrior of Anverest. All the years of pain and degradation, every blow suffered and hard lesson beaten into his soul led to this. He raised his daggers, looked into the defeated raptorile’s eye, and stopped . . .

The memory shattered, and breath exploded from Shamil’s mouth, feet dragging on the timbers for several yards before he found himself on his back, gasping for air. A hard, concentrated pain throbbed in the centre of his chest, reminiscent of the ache left by a punch but magnified tenfold.

“Stop!” Lyvia shouted. Shamil craned his neck to see her rush to stand between him and the black wing, arms raised in warning. From the way it ignored her, Shamil deduced the bird saw no more threat in Lyvia than it would in a mouse, instead shifting to stare at his prostrate form with the same depth of scrutiny.

Groaning, Shamil rolled onto his side, dragged air into his lungs, and pushed himself to his feet. “Quite an introduction,” he said through gritted teeth, stumbling towards the bird. “My name is Shamil L’Estalt.” He performed a stiff parody of Morgath’s bow, wincing and fighting the urge to cough up his breakfast. “Pleased to meet you.”

The black wing angled his head to peer at Shamil with one eye, blinked, then launched itself into the air, the beat of its sail-like wings sending them both to their knees. Silence reigned for several seconds until the clack of beaks and rustling of feathers told of a semblance of calm returning to the nest. The black wing had departed this place, and none of the other great wings were sorry for his parting.

“I think . . .” Shamil grunted after trying and failing to stand back up, “. . . he liked me.”

“So, you met Stielbek.”

Tihla squinted at the livid vertical bruise on Shamil’s bared chest, lips pursed in consideration as she poked a finger to the purple flesh, provoking a shudder of suppressed pain. “Little bit harder and he’d have shattered your sternum. Must’ve caught him in a good mood.”

“If you don’t mind,” Rignar said with polite but firm insistence, causing the second wing to move aside. “This won’t hurt,” the mage told Shamil, holding a stone close to his bruise. The stone was smooth and deep red in colour, its hue starting to shift as Rignar channelled its power, flecks of blue light flaring to life in its facets. “Carnelian always works best for bruises.”

Shamil’s pain faded with sufficient suddenness to bring a surprised gasp to his lips, the bruise quickly losing its dark lividity to subside into a pinkish brown. Lyvia had helped him navigate the first few ladders as they climbed down from the nest, their progress slow and painful until Ashinta, freshly returned from patrol, noticed their plight. Her bird, a fire wing with more gold than red to its crest, swooped down to pluck him from the scaffolding, carrying him the short distance to Rignar’s dwelling, where he was deposited at the door with unexpected gentleness.

Before flying off to her perch, the sentinel paused to look down at him, face hidden by her helm but the pity in her voice still audible as she said, “Don’t take the leap, boy. If the birds don’t take to you, there’s nothing you can do. Best climb down and seek your honour elsewhere.”

“I thought they were extinct,” Shamil said, forcing his gaze from the fast disappearing bruise. “The black wings.”

“Could be he’s the only one left,” Tihla replied. “No sentinel’s seen another for many a year. He turns up every time new fledglings climb the mountain, never chooses any, and flies off again. It’s been going on since long before I got here, and that was fifteen summers ago.”

“The black wings were known to nest far to the east,” Rignar said, brow furrowed in concentration as he continued to hold the stone to Shamil’s injury. “Appearing over the lands that became the Treaty Realms only rarely, and spreading terror when they did. Sharrow-Met formed an alliance with them with the aid of the Voice’s dark magics, though many legends would have it that they followed her out of love rather than enchanted enslavement.”

“Or love of slaughter,” Tihla said. “Stielbek’s a vicious swine. Damn near took my head off when I first ventured into the nest.”

“That should do it.” Rignar said. The red stone’s shimmer faded as the mage stood back from Shamil’s chest, the bruise’s colour now almost completely vanished, along with the pain.

“What about the others?” Tihla asked.

“We fed them.” He shrugged and pulled on his shirt. “They ate the meat happily enough. A blue falcon seemed to take a liking to Lyvia.”

“And you.” Tihla’s face took an a serious cast. “Did any take a liking to you?”

“Time was short before the black wing arrived.”

She gave a short nod. “Go back tomorrow. Spend more time in their company. I doubt Stielbek will show up again now he’s done his mischief for the year.”

She turned to Rignar with a forced smile. “The first wing would like news of your progress, Master Mage.” She pointedly shifted her gaze to the baskets full of crystals lining one wall of his chamber. Shamil was no expert in such things, but he knew enough to recognise most as quartz with an occasional yellow gleam that told of topaz.

“It’s coming,” Rignar replied, and Shamil detected an undercurrent of irritation beneath his affable tone. “Better quality stone would make it go faster.”

“This is what we have. It is a requirement of a sentinel’s lot to make the best of the meagre resources the Treaty Realms choose to provide.” Tihla’s false smile broadened a fraction before disappearing completely. “Please, work faster.” She moved to the doorway, glancing back at Shamil. “You don’t need to cook tonight. Get some rest, and be sure to return to the nest at first light.”

After she departed, Rignar raised a caustic eyebrow at Shamil but made no other comment, moving to one of the baskets to grasp a handful of stones. “Once,” he said with a wistful sigh, “I worked with only the highest-quality gems. Now”—his tone soured as he let the pale fragments of quartz fall back onto the pile—“I have these.”

“Don’t they work?” Shamil asked. “With your”—he waved a vague hand at Rignar, —“magical gifts.”

“Magical gifts, eh?” Rignar repeated, lips quirking in amusement. “Tell me, my young friend, what do you know of crystalmancy?”

“Next to nothing,” Shamil admitted, inclining his head as he rubbed a hand to his chest. “But I do appreciate it nonetheless.”

“I think”—Rignar paused to reach for his cloak—“it’s time you had a proper education in the subject. Besides”—he took a hammer and chisel from the row of tools above his workbench, placing them in a satchel, which he handed to Shamil—“there’s a small task you can help me with, if you don’t mind a little hard work.”

6. The Black Onyx

“Long have mages pondered the enigma at the heart of crystalmancy,” Rignar said in a tone that reminded Shamil of Lore Mistress Ishala, without doubt his favourite tutor at the Doctrinate by virtue of her enthusiasm for her subject. “Why should it be that such varied and potent energies arise from mere inanimate stone?”

Despite his interest in what the mage had to say, Shamil found himself continually distracted by the perilousness of their course, straining to listen whilst simultaneously inching his way along a ledge perhaps eight inches wide at its broadest point. “I don’t see any steps or handholds around,” he said, quelling a surge of panic when his foot dislodged a stone from the ledge, sending it tumbling into the misty void below. “The sentinels don’t come here often, I assume.”

“Even today,” Rignar continued, ignoring the comment and making his own cautious but steady progress towards a flat outcrop of rock ahead, “no one is entirely sure of the fundamentals of the art. One thing is clear, however, facets are the key.”

“Facets?” Shamil flattened himself against the cliff face as another sideways step sent a scattering of pebbles cascading into the clouds. “How so?”

“Complexity. The inner composition of every crystal is a matrix of flaws and channels far beyond the ability of any mortal mind to comprehend in full. I believe it is this complexity that lies at the heart of crystalmancy. Somehow”—Rignar grunted as he hauled himself from the ledge to the outcrop, turning to offer Shamil a hand—“those of us who possess this particular form of mage gift can channel it through these endlessly complex but tiny labyrinths to produce the desired effects.”

“So”—Shamil took a firm grip, wrist to wrist, before levering himself to Rignar’s side—“the magic doesn’t reside in the stones? They are a conduit rather than a source?”

“That, my friend, brings us to a philosophical debate that has raged amongst mages for centuries. And to illustrate, I have a present for you.”

Rignar fished in his satchel to retrieve what at first appeared to be a trinket fashioned from one of the many fragments of white quartz in his chamber. As Rignar placed it in his hand, Shamil saw that the stone had been chiselled into a rough cylinder and fixed to an iron cap with copper wire. Looking closer, he also saw faint tendrils of light within the stone, much like in the carnelian the mage had used to heal him.

“I currently spend perhaps six hours a day making these, along with various other deadly instruments,” Rignar said. “I think you can spare an arrow for a demonstration, don’t you?”

Shamil nodded as understanding dawned, unslinging his bow and taking an arrow from his quiver. He used his dagger to snip off the arrowhead and fitted the quartz fragment in its place, twisting the copper wire to tie it to the shaft. “I’ll need a target,” he told Rignar, nocking the arrow to his bowstring.

“Oh, that’ll do, I think.” The mage pointed to a jut of rock some thirty yards away, from which a small tree sprouted. Shamil drew the strongbow’s string to his lips, sighting on the tree, then pulled back the final few inches until the heel of his palm brushed his ear before letting fly. The arrow’s flight was straight and fast, Shamil reflexively raising his arm to cover his face when a bright, violent explosion obscured the tree and the rock it stood on. Scant smoke accompanied the blast, just a white circle of expanding light that blinked out of existence almost as soon as it appeared, leaving a cascade of shattered rock and a blackened, leafless tree in its wake.

“Power enough to kill three men contained within a crystal no bigger than my thumb,” Rignar commented. “The power to destroy and the power to heal. The essential contradiction at the heart of crystalmancy.”

Lowering his bow, Shamil experienced a pang of regret at visiting destruction on something that had contrived to flourish despite the unfriendly climate found at such a height.

“Trees are hardy,” Rignar said, reading the thoughts on Shamil’s face. “Don’t worry; he’ll grow back, probably stronger than before. Here”—his hand disappeared into the satchel again, coming out with a larger trinket, this one fashioned from a triangular piece of yellow topaz set into a silver clasp—“another gift, for your whip.”

“Doesn’t explode, does it?” Shamil asked, regarding the item with a dubious eye as Rignar handed it over.

“No. But it would be best to exercise due care when using it.”

Shamil unfurled his whip, fixing the device to the tip with the clasp. As he swirled the handle in preparation for an experimental strike, he noticed Rignar take a long backward step, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Grinding his jaw in mixed trepidation and irresistible curiosity, Shamil drew the whip back, then up and round, causing it to lash with cobra-like speed. The topaz tip flared as the whip reached its maximum length, birthing a ball of shimmering light that resembled a cage fashioned from lightning bolts. It faded along with the echo of the whip’s crack, leaving an unfamiliar taint to the air that for some reason put Shamil in mind of the sea.

“When propelled to sufficient velocity,” Rignar explained, “magically infused topaz releases a particular form of energy potent enough to burn the very air and separate it into its constituent gases.”

“Potent enough to kill?” Shamil enquired, coiling up the whip and peering at the crystal tip. The topaz seemed to have suffered no injury, although there were a few black smears on the silver clasp.

“A man, certainly. As for the fearful creations spewed forth by the Maw . . .” Rignar trialed off, glancing over his shoulder at the smoking spectacle of the great orifice beyond Sharrow-Met’s statue. “Well, if they’re fashioned from flesh, then it will surely do them injury, or at least cause some severe annoyance.”

“My thanks,” Shamil told him in sincere appreciation, returning the whip to his belt, “for an excellent and powerful gift, one I doubt I’ll ever be able to return in kind. But I confess I fail to see how exploding arrowheads and energetic topaz relate to your philosophical quandary.”

“Because they inevitably lead to a singular and important question: Did I unlock such power from within the crystals or place it there? I suspect the latter, but many of my fellow mages insist on the former, quite passionately too. Crystalmancy, they argue, requires no inherent knowledge on the part of the wielder. You can be as ignorant as a stump and still craft a stone capable of blowing your head off if you’re not careful; therefore, the magic must lie in stone not body or soul.”

He fell silent, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the sheer face of the cliff above. “Ah,” he said, pointing. “There it is. I knew it couldn’t be far away.” He moved to the cliff face and began to climb, rapidly scaling several feet and moving with a fluent surety that told of a familiarity with this corner of the mountain.

“You’ve been exploring, I see,” Shamil observed as he found a handhold and began to follow the mage’s course.

“No,” Rignar replied. “Never been here before. It’s the mountain, lad. It speaks to me.” He paused to smooth a hand over the granite, and Shamil saw the glitter of tiny crystals in the stone. “Clear as any map.”

“Wouldn’t that contradict your argument? If the stone possesses the power to guide you, doesn’t that mean the magic resides within it rather than you?”

“A fair point. I can see you’re education included logic as well as archery. But, it stems from an unproven assertion that the stones possess some form of agency, some desire to guide me to my goal. Whereas I, as a being possessed of reason, may be utilising my gift to call upon knowledge contained within the crystals in this mountain. Knowledge and power may equate as a metaphor, but not in the literal sense.”

Shamil came to a halt, feeling a brain-stretching ache behind his eyes that begged for a change of subject. “Speaking of goals,” he said, resuming the climb, “what exactly are we looking for?”

Rignar didn’t answer immediately, speaking only when he had climbed to the lip of a horizontal crack in the cliff face. “Something I was told to find,” he muttered. “Though a part of me hopes we never do.”

With that he climbed into the crack and disappeared from view. Shamil followed to discover that what had appeared to be a narrow crack in the mountainside was in fact a cave mouth. Venturing inside, Shamil found himself in a cramped and dark hollow dribbled by rivulets of water from some hidden spring. He could see little until a blue glow flared into life, illuminating the sight of Rignar with a shimmering crystal in his hand. The mage muttered to himself as he moved about the cave, eyes scouring every inch of rock.

“I could help,” Shamil said, “if I had some notion of what to look for.”

Rignar barely seemed to hear, replying with a vague shake of his head. “Smooth as sun-kissed ice, black as a raven’s eye . . .” he murmured, continuing his survey without pause, the shining crystal he held painting the uneven stone in a shifting collage of bizarre shadows.

“Is this why you chose to become a sentinel?” Shamil persisted. “Just to find this thing, whatever it is?”

“Choose?” Rignar said, coming to a halt, voice riven with amused bitterness. “All my choices were made for me long ago, lad . . .” His voice died as his eyes alighted on something in the cave’s floor. Crouching, he lowered his crystal to allow the light to play on something that contrasted with the surrounding rock in the clean, narrow gleam it caught from the glowing stone.

“Onyx.” Rignar’s voice was soft as he traced a finger over the smooth surface of his discovery. “Black onyx to be precise. But bigger than I’ve ever seen before.” His gaze snapped to Shamil, a thin but triumphant smile on his lips. “Time to pay me back for those gifts, my young friend, with sweat.”

Chipping away enough stone to free the onyx from its granite prison would have required many hours, perhaps days of labour if Shamil’s efforts with hammer and chisel hadn’t been augmented by Rignar’s magics. Taking an apple-sized piece of dark grey rock from his satchel, he played it over the stone surrounding the onyx. It emitted no light, but Shamil heard a dull thrum followed by a harsh, grinding hiss and multiple dust plumes as a web of cracks appeared in the granite.

“Lodestone,” Rignar explained, returning it to his satchel. “I once brought down a castle wall with one of these. Have at it, if you please.”

A quarter hour of chipping and scraping away displaced rock was all that was needed to free the onyx, revealed as an irregular sphere about the size of a man’s head. Its smooth, unscarred surface was veined with silvery white swirls that glowed as Rignar extended a hand to it, a hand that trembled before the mage clamped it into a fist and drew it back.

“What is this?” Shamil asked him, disturbed by the fear he saw on Rignar’s face. Suddenly, the mage appeared far older than his years, his bearded features sagging and a deep, sorrowful weight dulling his eyes.

“Something I was told to find, as I said,” he replied in a preoccupied mutter.

“Told by who?”

Rignar’s eyes flicked up at Shamil before shifting to focus on something beyond his shoulder. “I think you know.”

Turning to regard the great statue rising above the wreaths of smoke, Shamil let out a sigh of realisation. “Sharrow-Met.” He recalled the mage’s fascination with Lyvia at their first meeting, the sense of a man looking upon a ghost. Then there were the fitful nightmares on the mountain when he would speak in archaic riddles. “You believe she speaks to you. In your dreams.”

“Believe?” Rignar voiced a short, caustic laugh. “You think me deranged, don’t you? Beset by delusions that have led me all the way to the Eyrie on a madman’s quest. No, Shamil, I don’t believe it. I know it. And they aren’t dreams. I’d call them nightmares, except they’re real. I don’t just witness them, I live them, as she did. I wasn’t much older than you the first time it happened, young, cocksure, arrogant in my power and greedy with it. It wasn’t a pleasant combination. I had a valuable gift, one I barely understood but fully intended to sell only to those who could pay, and pay well.”

He lowered his gaze to the onyx, extending a finger to hover within an inch of the surface, the silver veins pulsing white in response. “I was quick to forsake the chilly, feud-riven land of my birth when the mage gift rose in me, journeying south and finding a lucrative niche for myself in the port cities to the west. Opal, like lodestone, amethyst, and onyx, is an element stone, one that can exert power over water, enough to quell fractious waves and see ships safely to harbour, along with their very valuable cargoes. I only had to sell a dozen stones before merchants were beating down my door with fat purses in hand. It didn’t take long before I became rather wealthy. A mansion in every port, all the fine wine and food I could eat. Years of indulgence made me rather fat, it must be said, but since I had fine carriages to take me wherever I wished, it didn’t matter. But a rich man can swiftly become poor when fate comes knocking.”

His face clouded as he continued to stare at the stone, shadows rising and falling on the creases of his face as the glowing veins pulsed. Shamil watched Rignar’s hand grasp the emerald pendant dangling from his neck, holding it up with a rueful arch of his brows.

“Ignorant as a stump,” he said. “That was me in my greedy youth. I bought this from a travelling dealer in gems, as I was always keen to add to my collection. I knew emerald was linked to the mind somehow but didn’t fully comprehend just how. It’s a singularly alarming thing to go sink yourself into a large and very soft bed only to wake up and find yourself in the midst of one of the bloodiest battles in all history. Memory, you see? That’s what emerald holds, and this one had sat around the neck of a long-dead fellow who had the misfortune to witness Sharrow-Met’s final victory over the Voice, fought only a few miles from this very mountain.

“I saw it all, Shamil. The combined armies of the Treaty Realms surging like a mighty wave against the Voice’s malign horde. Suffice to say, it didn’t look like any of the paintings, tapestries, or murals would have you believe. War is all ugliness, and glory is a lie we tell ourselves in order to keep coming back for more. I heard the screams of thousands, smelt the blood and the filth that rises from sundered flesh, saw as much terror and grief as I did fury and courage. It would have been enough to drive me mad, had I not also seen her.”

Rignar paused, the spectre of a smile passing over his face. “She, at least, the paintings tend to get right, in the sheer majesty of her if not the details. Even then, I’ve never seen one that really does her justice. In all respects she was worthy of her legend, sweeping low over the ranks of the horde on the back of her black wing, the great bird’s talons reaping as terrible a harvest as her famed black scimitar. Despite the slaughter, I thought her the most beautiful sight I ever beheld. And she saw me. Impossible as it seems, as her black wing swept up and turned, she looked down from its back and looked directly into my eyes . . .”

He trailed off into a grimace. “I woke screaming that night, casting the emerald away, determined never to wear it again. I locked it away in a chest and spent many months travelling, buying opals, imbuing them with power, and selling them to eager customers. So industrious was I, it’s said my efforts alone were responsible for making the western ports the richest cities in the known world. But it was all a vain effort to smother the vision, quell the ever growing temptation to unlock the chest and don the pendant once more, see her once more. And, of course, like any true addict, eventually I did.

“The next time was different. No battle, no slaughter, just a barren, flat plain scoured by a hard wind. She was shorn of her armour and clad in furs, though she still wore the scimitar on her back. She was alone but for the unseen man whose mind I had momentarily stolen, but a screech from above and a passing shadow on the earth told me her black wing hadn’t forsaken her. She smiled as she looked into my eyes and said, ‘So, thou hast returned. We should talk, I and thee.’”

He fell to silence, setting his satchel down and carefully reaching to gather up the onyx, the veins flaring brighter still at his touch.

“And what did you talk of?” Shamil prompted.

“Oh, many things over the years.” Rignar placed the onyx in his satchel before rising, hefting the strap across his shoulders. “Things that made me abandon my life of greed and embark upon a very long road that eventually brought me here, to find this.” He patted the satchel, then moved to the cave mouth, crouching to begin the climb down. “Time we got back, I think.”

“But why?” Shamil persisted, hurrying to follow. “What for?”

“The same thing that brought you here: a desire for restored honour.” Rignar began his descent with much the same fluency as his ascent, swiftly disappearing from sight and forcing Shamil to scramble in pursuit.

“How does seeing Sharrow-Met in your dreams dishonour you?” he pressed. “I would have thought the opposite would be true.”

“The things she told me led me to many places and many acts. All of them necessary but not all of them admirable. I have stolen, lied, cheated . . .” Rignar fell silent, and Shamil glanced down to see him paused in midclimb, his balding head lowered. “And killed, all in service to words told to me by a woman who lived four centuries ago. Perhaps”—he let out a humourless laugh as he resumed his descent—“you’re right, and I am mad after all.”

“But her words were true.” Shamil leapt clear of the cliff as they neared the base, landing on the outcrop at Rignar’s side. “They led you to the onyx. There must be a reason.”

The mage regarded him in silence, his expression a mix of subdued amusement and apologetic regret. “Of course,” he replied eventually, shrugging. “But telling you won’t change what will happen here. Nor make it any easier.” He stepped towards the ledge, then stopped as Shamil moved into his path, arms crossed and face stern with insistent resolve.

“Make what easier?” he demanded. “What is going to happen here?”

Rignar’s sigh was that of a weary but indulgent parent who couldn’t be bothered to spank a defiant child. “The legends are at least partly true regarding the Sentinels. At least in the manner of their founding. Sharrow-Met did create them and call upon the great wings to provide them with allies in the centuries to come. Their purpose has always been to contain the vile issue of the Maw, but their very existence conceals a darker truth: Sharrow-Met failed. She defeated the Voice’s malign horde and drove it into the bowels of the earth, but the Voice persisted. She told me she wasn’t even certain it could be destroyed, and so created the Sentinels to contain it whilst she began a quest to discover the means of ensuring its ultimate defeat. A quest, it transpires, that proved either fruitless or endless.”

“So it’s true? She still walks the earth?”

Rignar shook his head, lips forming a sad smile. “I don’t know. Our conversations take place on that empty plain and nowhere else. It took her months to traverse it, even with her black wing’s help, and every night she would camp and talk to me via the mind of the man who travelled with her. For years the visions have only repeated what she has told me before, revealing nothing of her fate, what she found beyond that plain. I know she went in search of the remnants of the immortals, the undying beings said to have once held dominion over the earth entire. ‘From their seed did the Voice first rise,’ she said. But traces of the immortals are rare, their stories too ancient and wreathed in myth to even be called history. Perhaps she really will return one day, but I find it . . . unlikely. She isn’t coming to save us. I think she suspected that would be the case and so in me found a means to contest the Voice when it finally rose again.”

“The Voice will rise again? She was sure of this?”

Rignar glanced over his shoulder at the smoke-shrouded statue and endless plume of yellow-grey foulness leaking from the Maw. “‘As long as there be malice in the world, so will the Voice contrive to persist.’ Those were the last words she said to me at the end of her trek across the plain. If she spoke true, I think we’ve both seen enough of this world to know that the Voice may have grown stronger than ever.”

7. The Leap

The helms Ehlias issued to Shamil and Lyvia were a testament to the smith’s skills in that each was a perfect fit despite being constructed purely by eye. They weighed less than Shamil had expected but still possessed a decent heft, the weight distributed evenly between the elongated blade that extended two feet from the rear of the helm and the brass-and-copper mask that comprised the visor. This protruded several inches in front of the wearer’s face to accommodate three sets of lenses.

“First is just plain glass,” the smith explained. “Half an inch thick so it’ll guard your eyes from any claws that come stabbing. Flick the lever on the side to switch to the next.”

Shamil duly pressed a finger to the curved piece of iron on the side of the helmet and found himself confronted by the irregular and colourful mass of an old burn mark on Ehlias’s forehead.

“Fine-ground curved glass,” he said. “Gives you about three times the sight you’d normally have. Can’t match the birds, of course, but it might let you see a Maw beast before it gets close enough to sink its teeth into your throat. Good for spotting vehlgard on the ground too.”

The third set of lenses rendered the smith’s workshop a shadowy alcove of deep shadows, transforming the glimmer of his oil lamp into a faint pinprick of light. “Powdered obsidian mixed into standard glass when it’s melted,” Ehlias said. “Protects the eyes from blinding light, and it can get awful bright when the crystal-heads start flying.”

They had only an hour to accustom themselves to the helms before Tihla came to ask them a question that had become a daily ritual after their fourth visit to the nest. Shamil had expected some measure of satisfaction, perhaps even a small glimmer of pride, when he gave his answer only to receive a frown of deep skepticism in response.

“You ready?” the second wing asked. “There’s no doubt?”

Shamil didn’t allow his gaze to linger on Tihla’s frown, replying with a firm nod and as much certainty as he could muster. “Kaitlahr now accepts food from my hand and has allowed me to touch him. I feel the bond.”

“Enough to name him, apparently.”

“Yes. It means ‘golden storm’ in the ancient tongue of my homeland . . .”

“I don’t care what it means, fledgling. Neither does your bird. Naming them is our custom, one we adopted long ago, but only when we’re sure they’ve accepted us as riders.” She stepped closer, brow creasing further. “There’s no shame in waiting,” she told him, voice pitched far below her usual stridency. “Build the bond over weeks, months if that’s what it takes, if it’s truly there. The leap is not to be taken lightly. If you fall, you fall, and you’ve seen the bones of those that judged this wrong.”

Shamil’s hesitation was brief, but he knew she saw it. The bird he had named Kaitlahr was the same huge but youthful fire wing that had consented to accept his offered meat during his first foray into the nest. In truth, it was the only bird that continued to do so, and despite his claims, Shamil felt no real connection to the creature. He saw occasional glimmers of scrutiny in Kaitlahr’s eyes, and he hadn’t lied when he said the bird had allowed him a touch, but only once and for no more than a second before flaring its wings and launching itself into the gloomy recesses of the nest. Nevertheless, he clung to the notion that the fire wing had accepted him and would do what was required when he leapt. Rignar’s words had left little doubt in his mind that his chance to win his disc would shortly arrive, and the prospect of failing to grasp it held more terrors even than the leap.

“He accepts me,” Shamil insisted. “It’s time.”

He felt Lyvia shift at his side, a brief fidget of discomfort he assumed came from biting down contradictory words. She had been with him during every visit to the nest, the blue falcon she had befriended perched close to the entrance in eager anticipation of her arrival, whilst Shamil considered himself fortunate if Kaitlahr deigned to snatch meat from his hand.

“And you?” Tihla turned to Lyvia. “Named your falcon yet?”

“Vintress,” Lyvia replied promptly. “‘North wind’ in the elder script.” She paused to shoot an uncertain glance at Shamil, which he consciously ignored. “We are also ready,” Lyvia said, straightening.

“All right, then. I’ll tell the mage and the first wing.” Tihla swept a hand through her tight braids, a rare expression of uncertainty that did much to stir the roiling in Shamil’s stomach.

“Be there at noon.” Both he and Lyvia were unable to contain a flinch of surprise as the second wing forced a smiled onto her lips. “Give you time to settle anything that needs settling.”

She turned and strode off without another word, leaving a thick silence in her wake, which Lyvia eventually broke in a careful, hesitant tone.

“Shamil . . .”

“No!” he said, voice flat and hard as he walked away. “I’m ready. It’s time.”

The beam they would leap from was twelve feet long and aligned so that it pointed directly at Sharrow-Met’s statue. Shamil found himself grateful for this as it gave his eyes something to fix on instead of straying continually to the ground far below. It was a clear day, and the space between summit and earth was for once free of clouds, allowing an uninterrupted view of what awaited him. He had heard that it was common for those who found themselves falling from great heights to expire out of fright before ever hitting the bottom and harboured a fervent if doubtful hope that it might be true.

Before addressing the gathered sentinels, Morgath Durnholm walked to the end of the beam with as confident a stride as if he were mere inches from the ground. When he spoke, it was in a booming voice full of grave authority, the kind of voice Shamil knew had once commanded ships to terrible deeds in distant seas.

“Four centuries ago,” the first wing called out, “this band was founded by the redeemed Wraith Queen herself. Here she ordained a place of service where even the most wretched and disgraced could come to regain their honour. And what honour we have won, my friends. What battles we have fought. None of us came here with clean hands, certainly not I, but never did I witness the face of true evil until I came to the Eyrie. For there,” his finger lanced out to stab at the Maw, “lurks the purest malice, the greatest threat to all that is good in this world. Our duty is a sacred one that requires the utmost commitment, for we do not serve here alone. Our service requires alliance with the great wings, for without them our sacred duty cannot be fulfilled. Their trust was won long ago and must be maintained by every soul who seeks restored honour in our ranks. Today, three new fledglings come to win that trust, and I, as first wing of the Sentinel Eyrie, profess myself humbled by their act.”

He fell silent to an appreciative murmur from the other sentinels. Shamil had noted during the nightly gatherings that they were not a group given to overt displays of emotion or acclaim, but still, he took comfort from the many encouraging and approving glances turned his way.

“Tihla,” Morgath said, extending a hand to the second wing. “Sound the horn!”

Tihla duly raised a large curved horn derived from some huge beast beyond Shamil’s experience. Putting it to her lips, she blew a long, grinding note that echoed around the Eyrie until an answering chorus came from the nest. The great wings emerged from the many portals in a rush, screeching out their response to the summons as they swooped down. Shamil felt a fresh lurch in his gut at seeing Kaitlahr amongst them, flying alongside Vintress.

The birds angled their wings to form a circling flock a dozen yards above the beam, their cries dying away to herald the descent of a palpable hush. Shamil saw the encouragement fade from the faces of the sentinels as the silence persisted, replaced by the closed tension of those who had seen death many times and expected to see it again shortly.

“Rignar Banlufsson!” Morgath called out, striding from the beam to the cliff top. “Come forward!”

Rignar stirred at Shamil’s side, pausing to grasp his shoulder, a frown of resigned determination on his brow, before making his way to the beam. Morgath held up a hand when Rignar placed his foot on the timber, speaking in a quieter but no less purposeful tone.

“Know that even now you may choose to step away. Your service will still be welcome here, bird or no.”

Rignar nodded with a grimace of thanks, then buckled on his helm and took a deliberate step onto the beam. His progress along its length was far less confident than Morgath’s, moving with his arms outstretched to maintain his balance and eyes locked firmly ahead. Reaching the end, the mage straightened, raising his face to the sky, chest swelling as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he leapt.

The owl that caught him moved so fast Rignar’s salvation had been secured before he fell more than a few feet. The bird he had named Kritzlasch folded its wings to plummet down, voicing a screech as its talons enfolded the mage. It bore him up with a few beats of its wings, depositing him none too gently on one of the tiered rises before coming to rest on the tall perch sprouting from its summit. Rignar got unsteadily to his feet, raising a hand in a tremulous wave that drew a short-lived laugh from the sentinels.

“We welcome Rignar Banlufsson, Master Mage, to the ranks of the Sentinel Eyrie!” Morgath called out before turning to the two younger fledglings. “Lyvia Gondarik, come forward!”

Lyvia hesitated before walking to the beam, but Shamil saw no fear in her, only concern. “Please,” she whispered, leaning close to him. “Don’t do this.”

Turning away she strode to the beam and nodded her way impatiently through Morgath’s final warning before making smooth, unfaltering progress from the cliff to the beam’s tip. Her face was a picture of serenity as she donned her helm, spread her arms, and toppled into the void.

Vintress shot from the circle of birds in a blur of blue, catching Lyvia just as her feet slipped from the beam. The falcon twisted, depositing Lyvia onto her back and letting out a cry that pained the ears in its joyful triumph. Instead of bearing Lyvia to one of the perches, Vintress swept back up to rejoin the whirling spiral of great wings.

“We welcome Lyvia Gondarik to the ranks of the Sentinel Eyrie!” Morgath proclaimed, voice fading and gaze taking on a severe cast as he turned it on the last remaining fledgling. “Shamil L’Estalt, come forward!”

Shamil had thought this moment would be shorn of terror, his fears quelled by the depth of his determination. However, it was on weak legs and with a thumping heart that he approached the beam. He listened to Morgath’s final warning with sweat beading his brow and soaking his back, the first wing’s words seemingly spoken from a very great distance; a vague, meaningless echo.

“Not all are destined to rediscover their honour amongst our ranks . . . There are many troubled corners of the world where so stout and skilled a warrior could redeem himself . . .”

Shamil stood as still as his traitorous legs would allow, waiting for Morgath to fall silent, his gaze tracking from the beam to the far-off statue and back again.

“Young man.” Morgath’s grip bit hard into his shoulder, commanding his attention. “This is not a game . . .”

“I know!” Shamil cut in. He spoke in a harsh, defiant growl, anger burning its way through his terror. Anger at Morgath for the effortless authority he commanded, at Tihla for the harsh indifference of her tutelage, at Rignar for his riddles, and shamefully, at Lyvia for the ease with which she had won her bird’s trust. Ever since his disgrace at the Doctrinate, it seemed the world contrived to deny him everything, and now this pirate turned peerless leader would deny him even the chance of a decent end.

“A death suffered in search of honour is itself honourable,” Shamil added, turning away. They were words spoken by Lore Mistress Ishala, a small, stooped old woman with eyes misted into blindness by age. Behind them lay a memory crammed with all the history her long life had allowed her to accrue. It was from her that he had learned of the Eyrie, and it had been her who pointed him on this sojourn. Disgrace such as yours is the worst kind, she had told him, lips formed into a kind but sad smile, for it comes from within, not without, and I know of only one place in this world where such a curse can be lifted . . .

“If I can’t be redeemed in battle,” he said, straightening his back, “I’ll be redeemed in death.”

“No.” Morgath’s features took on a sorrowful cast, as he stepped back and his hand slipped from Shamil’s shoulder. “Death is just death, son. It’s what you leave behind that matters.”

Despite his evident reluctance, the first wing made no effort to stop Shamil as he walked to the end of the beam and raised his eyes to the swirl of birds above. He found Kaitlahr easily, the fire wing’s silhouette was the largest amongst the throng and, Shamil saw in a welter of hope, flying below the others. Many thoughts flickered through his mind as he lowered his gaze to the great statue rising from the smoke in the distance: the faces of the aunt and uncle who had raised him, the stone monuments to the parents slain in the raptor-wars when he was barely out of the cradle, the many hardships and occasional triumphs of life in the Doctrinate, but most of all . . .

. . . it’s eyes stared up at him as he raised his blades, eyes full of knowledge that shouldn’t be there, eyes that dimmed as he brought the daggers down, striking true, striking deep . . .

Shamil leapt, not the arms-wide fall of Rignar or Lyvia, but a true leap. His legs propelled him from the beam, and he turned in the air, gazing up at the circling birds, a circle that shrank far more quickly than he had thought possible, the great wings continuing to whirl in serene disregard of the human plummeting below. Before the circle became just a vague smudge against the pale blue of the sky, he fancied he saw Kaitlahr swoop lower, but it may have been just a final imagined flare of hope from a mind only seconds from death.

All the air rushed from Shamil’s lungs in an instant as something slammed into his side. The world disappeared into a sudden reddish haze as he attempted to breathe, finding his chest too tightly gripped to allow it. He had time to reflect on the oddness of the ground impacting his side rather than his back before full blackness descended.

8. The Voice Awakened

He woke gasping. Sweet, chilly air flooded his throat and lungs, birthing a peculiar kind of ecstasy unique to survival. Tears rendered his vision a liquid blur of blue and black that cleared as he wept, shame and relief rising in equal measure. When the last tear fell, he found himself staring at the pale oval of Lyvia’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to.”

She sat close to him on a ledge he recognised from their ascent to the Eyrie, Shamil guessing they were about halfway to the bottom. Vintress was perched on an outcrop some yards away, beak and talons busily rending a goat carcass to pieces. Lyvia coughed when he gave no response, forcing a weak smile as she turned to her bird. “She’s so fast. Hard to believe a living creature could move so swiftly . . .”

“You should have let me fall.” He spoke in a flat tone, lacking accusation or force, but still, he saw how deep the words stung her.

“I couldn’t . . .” She shivered, hugging herself tight, keeping her gaze averted. “I’ve seen too many friends die, Shamil. Stood and watched and did nothing as they were led to the gallows, one by one. All my friends. Girls I laughed with when we played as children, gossiped with as we grew older. Boys I bickered with constantly and, as childhood faded, would sometimes kiss, only to bicker even more.”

A smile of fond recollection passed over her face, but it faded quickly. “They all died,” she went on. “And I watched, standing at my family’s side on the balcony overlooking the great square in Mira-Vielle, even though I was just as guilty as they. I watched them all die the traitor’s death. I told you some of it before, but not all.

“The Revenantist cult rose and fell, as I said, but its fall birthed an idea amongst the nobility’s youth. We were a commendably earnest lot in some respects, filled with righteous anger at our families and their endless hoarding of power and wealth. Of course, some amongst us revelled in their privilege, whilst others hearkened to our expensive lessons and the many books we read. There was a boy . . .” She lowered her face, her expression alternating between the sadness and remembered joy Shamil knew came only from recalling a lost love. “A young man, Crucio. My young man, in fact. He was the only person I met who had read more books than I, and the only one who looked upon this face and saw more than just the image of a vanished legend. He burned with a need for change, a desire to sweep away the corruption and inequality that surrounded us. We would feed the poor, give succour to the sick and the helpless, but to do that we would need to learn from the success and failures of the Revenantists. They had promised salvation in Sharrow-Met’s return, but that had never come. But we, the heralds of a new age, could make it happen, in me.”

Shamil righted himself, feeling the many aches that resulted from having been snatched out of the air by a blue falcon. Groaning, he shifted closer to Lyvia, peering intently at her face and seeing it anew. Suddenly, the reasons for her sharp aversion to comparisons with her forebear became plain.

“You were going to pretend to be her,” he said. “Sharrow-Met reborn.”

“It was Crucio’s idea, of course. I would be the vessel for her returned soul, for who would doubt it when a woman wearing this face spoke her words? We would proclaim the Wraith Queen’s return and raise the people to tear down the decadent shell that Mira-Vielle had become. But first, some hard measures had to be taken. My face and Sharrow-Met’s ancient words would not be enough. The noble houses would not simply stand aside for the new generation, and no coup is ever bloodless.”

Her hand moved to the sling on her belt, both fists grasping the narrow leather strap, pulling it taut. “My mother taught me the sling,” Lyvia said. “As her mother taught her. The lessons began the day I took my first step and never ended. I barely recall a day I wasn’t in my mother’s company. I had nurses, tutors, and maids, but Mother was always there, and I never doubted her love. Crucio told me to poison her at dinner the night before our great rebellion. And my father, and my aunt and uncle who were visiting that week. And our chief retainer, for senior servants of the decadent regime could never be trusted. We had a very long list, you see?”

Her hands bunched together, tight enough for the knuckles to turn bone white. “It was the list that stopped me. There were so many names. So many people I knew and loved. I just . . . couldn’t.” Her hands relaxed as she let out a long, weary sigh. “So, I took my copy of the list to my mother, who took it to my father. By morning they were building the gallows in the great square.

“Many of my fellow conspirators met their ends with stout hearts and defiant words, but Crucio wasn’t brave. All his fine rhetoric, all his apparent wisdom became just sobs and begging as they dragged him to the noose. He was the last to die, and by the time his legs had stopped kicking, I realised I was no longer in love with him, if I ever truly had been. I knew full well the consequences of my act. I knew my own family would condemn me and so was surprised when my turn at the gallows never came. The blood that flows in my veins, Sharrow-Met’s blood, was considered too precious to spill, and so I was permitted exile and a chance at redemption.”

She turned to Shamil, leaning closer, voice earnest now. “But the notion that redemption can be won here is a lie. Haven’t you noticed how many sentinels have their discs, yet they never leave? Because they know this is the only place in all the world they can find a welcome. Because this is where they belong, where I belong. Our sins are too great, our disgrace too deep. But you, Shamil, do not belong here. Whatever you did, or think you did, it should never have brought you to the Eyrie. The great wings see it, even if you don’t.”

She put a hand on his neck, drawing him close until their foreheads touched. Shamil was seized by the urge to pull away, spit harsh words at her, but the tremble he felt as their skin met stopped him. “You can climb down from here,” she said in a choked whisper before drawing away.

Shamil watched her move stiffly towards Vintress. The bird gulped down a morsel of goat flesh, talons clutching what remained of the carcass as Lyvia climbed onto her back. She afforded Shamil a final glance, mouth opening to voice her farewell, but the words would never be heard.

A sudden thunderous roar from the east drowned all sound, Shamil’s gaze snapping to the Maw to see a massive plume of smoke erupting from its depths, driven by a gout of flame. Throughout their time at the Eyrie, the Maw would occasionally belch more smoke than usual, letting out a rumbling groan in the process, but this dwarfed all previous disturbances.

The smoke rose to mountainous heights, roiling black and grey, lightning flashing in its depths as it swirled around Sharrow-Met’s statue. Somehow the monument failed to be swallowed by the roiling clouds, rendered instead a pale silhouette. Shamil saw more flashes in the smoke, not lightning this time, brief spherical blossoms of light he was quick to recognise as exploding crystals. The flashes continued for some time until a dark speck appeared, growing into the shape of a fire wing, flying alone and driving hard towards the Eyrie.

“Ashinta and Hareld left on patrol this morning,” Lyvia said, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with Shamil.

The fire wing swept overhead as a fresh gout of smoke and flame issued from the Maw, and Shamil heard something in the accompanying roar, something that mixed animalistic rage with deep, ravening hunger. The sense of witnessing a dire awakening was inescapable, Rignar’s words sounding loud in Shamil’s mind: As long as there is malice in the world, so will the Voice contrive to persist.

“Take me with you!” he said, rushing towards Lyvia as Vintress flared her wings. Seeing the indecision on her face, he clasped Lyvia’s arm, words flowing from his mouth in a rapid torrent. “You’re wrong. I do belong here. I killed a captive. A raptorile snared during a raid into the desert and pushed into the Anverest arena to be slaughtered. It was to be my graduation from the Doctrinate, my confirmation as a warrior in the city guard. And I did it. I fought it, and I killed it. But before the final blow, I looked into its eyes and knew it to be no different from me. It felt. It feared. It thought. ”

His grip tightened on her arm, and Vintress let out a warning hiss as he pressed closer looking for understanding in Lyvia’s startled gaze. “They told us they were animals. Beasts who merely mimicked the language and custom they saw in humans. Vermin deserving of only death. It was all a lie. A putrid web of deceit spun so our people could keep raiding their lands and calling ourselves heroes as we plundered and killed. That was my disgrace, Lyvia. My weakness. I saw the lie, and still I killed for it.”

He sighed and released her arm, stepping back, forcing himself to meet her eye despite his shame. “I belong here as much as you do,” he told her, making no effort to conceal the desperate plea in his voice. “Please. Take me with you.”

The Eyrie was all bustle and preparation when Vintress landed on one of the outer rises, releasing Shamil from the ungentle cage of her talons to suffer a hard landing on the tiered steps. Lyvia climbed down from the falcon’s back, and they both went in search of Tihla, dodging around sentinels laden with bundled arrows and sundry weapons. Their questions were swallowed by the plethora of orders echoing about the place, Morgath’s voice loudest among them, itself occasionally drowned out by the squawks and screeches of the many great wings alighting on the tall perches. Despite the general din, Shamil caught a few of Morgath’s commands, “. . . form two companies . . . falcons go high, fire wings go low, owls will guard the rear and the flanks . . .”

Shamil managed to snare Ehlias’s arm as he made for the central rise with a brace of claw spears, the smith pointing him towards Rignar’s chamber in response to his shouted question.

“What’s happening?” Shamil pressed.

Ehlias spared only a grim-eyed glance and a grunted reply before hurrying on his way. “Battle, lad. What else?”

They found Tihla watching Rignar tend to a trio of deep cuts in Ashinta’s shoulder. The mage held a piece of carnelian in one hand and jasper in the other, both stones glowing bright as he held them close to the wounds. The cuts were closing, albeit slowly, the healing causing Ashinta a considerable amount of pain judging by the answers she hissed through clenched teeth in response to Tihla’s barrage of questions.

“Told you . . .” She gave a hard grunt, eyes closing tight for a moment as Rignar completed sealing one of her scars. “Never seen one like that before. Thought it might be some kind of bat at first . . .” She broke off, biting down a yell before mastering herself. “But its wings sprouted from its back. Had a body like a man, covered in fur and shorter overall but longer of limb.” She let out a grating laugh, casting a rueful glance at her partly healed shoulder. “With sharp claws, but still, mostly manlike. And its eyes . . .” She shuddered, this time not due to the pain of her injuries. “Big as apples and black like jet. Saw the hate in them plain enough, though.”

Ashinta hissed and shot Rignar a reproachful look as the second scar sealed shut before switching her gaze back to Tihla. “And they’re fast, falcon speed. They were on me and Hareld before we knew it, streaking out of the smoke from all directions. Him and his bird were already falling by the time I knew what was happening.”

“So,” Rignar said, raising his brows, though his eyes remained focused on his work. “The Maw has coughed out some new horrors, it seems.”

“It’s not just the man-bats, mage. Like I told the first wing, there were plenty of flensers and scythers about too, not to mention what was happening on the ground. Couldn’t see much with all the smoke, but there were vehlgard marching out of the Maw in columns, several thousand of the cack eaters. Looked like they were taking a westward course.”

“That would lead them straight into the lava flow,” Tihla said. Shamil saw the tension in her bearing, well controlled though it was, betrayed most clearly in the single vein pulsing in her temple.

“Just saying what I saw.” Ashinta’s face bunched, nostrils flaring and skin reddening as Rignar closed the last cut.

“Your bird?” Tihla asked her.

“Few tail feathers lost is all.” Ashinta reached for her helm and hopped down from Rignar’s bench. “We can still fly.”

“Good. Load up on arrows and make ready. You’ll wing with me when we launch.” Tihla’s gaze shifted to Lyvia, as if noting her presence for the first time. “You too. Fill your pouches with crystal and get aloft. Lamira has charge of the falcon wing. Stay close and follow her lead. I’ve no time for any more lessons, and we need every bird in the air.”

Lyvia shared a brief but bright glance with Shamil, lips wavering as she sought words that wouldn’t come until he gave her a tight smile and nodded. Scooping a handful of quartz into a leather pouch, she rushed off into the shouts and squawks outside.

“I’ve a notion we’ll soon have need of more stones,” Tihla said to Rignar, who was already setting out a row of crystals on his bench.

“I’ll see to it,” he said, looking up at Shamil. “I’d work faster knowing there was someone here to watch my back.”

Tihla’s gaze slid to Shamil, evident reluctance in her eyes. “We’ve no true picture of what we face today. The Eyrie may be swarmed by all manner of Maw-born foulness before this is over, and you have no obligation here now . . .”

“Yes,” he cut in. “I do.”

The second wing sighed and inclined her head in acquiescence. “As you wish. Fetch your weapons and guard the mage. If none of us return by sunset, climb down and get as far west as you can, spread the word that the Voice has woken.”

She went to a corner where a claw spear had been propped, augmented by several fragments of topaz set into the sickle-shaped blade. “Thanks for this,” she told Rignar over her shoulder. “Let’s hope it works.”

He watched Vintress carry Lyvia aloft to join the circling flock of falcons. Tihla took off soon after on Rhienvelk, a veteran fire wing with a cracked beak and plumage a dark shade of crimson. The sentinels formed into three spirals in accordance with the first wing’s orders, the fire wings being the largest and spread out over a half mile or more of sky.

Morgath Durnholm was the last to fly off, climbing onto Fleyrak’s back to pause for a momentary survey of the mostly empty Eyrie. His face was hidden by his helm, but Shamil had the sense of a man saying farewell to a much-loved home. The blank glass eyes of Morgath’s visor settled on Shamil, lowered once in a bow of grave respect, then jerked upwards as the first wing gave a voiceless command that had Fleyrak leaping from the perch. The bird’s wings sent twin whirlwinds spinning across the Eyrie as he climbed into the sky, immediately striking out towards the Maw.

As the first wing passed below, the three circles broke apart to follow, the falcons staying high, whilst the fire wings fell in behind Morgath, spreading out into a formation that resembled a broad arrowhead. The owls were the smallest contingent and flew a good distance behind the fire wings, their formation more varied in height so that, as they drew away, they resembled a giant shield.

Shamil paced continuously as he watched the winged host fade towards the ever more mountainous smoke. He had primed his bow with a quartz-head arrow and half drawn the string, mainly to occupy his hands as seething frustration rose to an ever greater pitch.

Besides him and Rignar, the only other occupants of the Eyrie were Kritzlasch, circling above, and Ehlias. The smith sat outside the door to his workshop cradling a windlass crossbow, his song a murmured dirge now, full of dire intonations. The crossbow was loaded with a bolt armed with a chunk of white quartz the size of a fist. Four other identical devices, all drawn and loaded, were propped against the wall within easy reach.

Ehlias let his song fall silent as Shamil paced closer, his restive gaze roaming the arrayed weapons. “Too heavy to aim from a bird’s back,” the smith explained, patting the crossbow’s stock. “Made ’em when I first came here and didn’t know any better. Kept them out of sentiment, I s’pose.” He gave a wry, strained chuckle. “Never thought I’d have occasion to use ’em, to be honest. Still, reckon I’ll get at least a hundred or so beasties before they gobble me up.”

His words were drowned by a loud rumble of thunder from the Maw. Shamil’s head snapped round to see the last dark specks of the sentinel host disappearing into the smoke. The flash and glimmer of exploding crystals began almost immediately, made even more disconcerting because the sounds of battle took several seconds to reach the Eyrie.

“I’d give just about anything to be there out with them,” Ehlias said. “Guess you would too. Not an easy thing to be a sentinel without a bird. I had one, y’know. Rhottblane, means ‘red snow’ in my birth tongue. He was an owl, pure white all over but for his eyes, red like rubies. It was age rather than battle that got him in the end. Couldn’t hunt, couldn’t see much of anything, shedding feathers that wouldn’t grow back. One day, he just flew off, never saw him again. I tried to bond with another, but no bird would do more than snatch meat from me. Even thought about trying my luck with him once.” Ehlias jerked his head at the summit of the nest. “Turned out, I was too much of a coward when the time came.”

Following his gaze, Shamil saw a very large winged shape circling the nest, black but for the speckle of sunlight on its feathers. “Stielbek,” he murmured. He found his gaze captured by the black wing’s slowly turning silhouette, a singular irresistible notion building in his mind that caused him to return the arrow to his quiver and hook his bow over his chest.

“Yes,” Ehlias mused, puzzlement colouring his tone. “Odd he should turn up again now. Usually only appears when there’s a new brace of fledglings . . .”

Ehlias’s voice faltered as Shamil started off at a run, buckling his helm in place, which had the fortuitous effect of muffling the baffled words the smith cast in his wake. “What’re you about, lad?”

Shamil sprinted through the Eyrie, skirting the rises and making for the cliff where the beam pointed towards the smoke now lit by so much unleashed sorcery its upper reaches had taken on a persistent shimmer. Shamil didn’t pause upon reaching the beam, didn’t even look up before he came to the end and leapt. As his feet left the timber, part of him knew this to be madness, that when he fell this time, there would be no one to save him. He was just a lost youth with a broken mind hurtling towards his own death because he feared the guilt and self-detestation that was his due. Still he refused to surrender to despair, letting the hope blossom like a fire as he reached the apex of his leap, allowing only one clear thought to rise to the forefront of his churning mind: He was waiting for me . . . for me to be ready. He was waiting for me . . .

Stielbek caught him before he had even begun to fall.

9. The Maw

Stielbek’s talons clasped him only for a second before tossing him into the air. The momentary terror gave rise to a notion that the bird had allowed him to experience the joy of salvation only to let him fall, a cruel amusement born of his avian mind. However, a gust of wind and a brush of feathers saw him land on the black wing’s back. His legs quickly found purchase on the hard, surging muscle beneath the plumage at the nape of Stielbek’s neck. Shamil secured himself in place by clutching fistfuls of feathers for want of a harness. Stielbek angled his huge head to regard him with a gleaming yellow eye, and it was then that Shamil felt the bond for the first time.

He found the sensation resembled the satisfaction that came from sinking an arrow into the centre of a target, or the turn of a key in a lock, but greatly magnified. It was a feeling of completion, of two matched components fitting together. Suddenly, Shamil understood the nature of the bond between sentinel and bird. It was not a sharing of minds, but a sharing of purpose. Staring into the depths of Stielbek’s eye, Shamil felt himself dwarfed by the intense commitment he saw there, the absolute conviction in the soul behind those eyes. He found himself lost in the utter blackness of the pupil, experiencing a sense of being drawn into depthless shadows where there lurked many ugly things. Bonding with this mighty and ancient soul was like being scraped by a gnarled tree, one that cared little for what such scraping might do to its rider.

Apparently satisfied, Stielbek’s eye flashed white as he blinked before turning his head towards the Maw, sail-sized wings rising and falling in mighty sweeps that took them high into the sky. The black wing levelled out at a height that put them several hundred feet above the Maw, and Shamil’s nostrils suffered a sulphurous sting as they drew ever nearer. The struggle within the vast column of smoke seemed to be continuing with unabated fury, but now he caught glimpses of the combatants.

Birds wheeled and dove, fleeting spectres against the pulsing glow of detonating crystals. Smaller shadows flickered amongst them, dark irregular shapes that swarmed and broke apart amidst blossoms of white light. As Stielbek flew closer, the glare of magical luminescence became so bright Shamil was forced to snick the lever on the side of his helm, slotting the dark glass in place. The view immediately shifted from occluded confusion to chaotic and terrible clarity, the impenetrable smoke rendered a vague greyish mist.

He saw a bird mobbed by winged creatures the size of cats, presumably the flensers that featured in so many of the sentinels’ lurid tales. The dense mass of them heaved like bees around a hive as they overwhelmed the bird, and Shamil found it impossible to discern the identity of the rider amongst the flurry of leathery wings and gnashing teeth. The great wing thrashed and twisted, shedding feathers and slain enemies, but it was clear this contest would only end one way.

The uneven struggle continued as Stielbek swept closer. Shamil unslung his bow and reached for an arrow, but before he could take aim, the struggling bird and its assailants disappeared in a blossom of fire as the unseen rider found a way to detonate one of their crystals. The debris slipped away beneath them, Stielbek broadening his wings to glide through a dwindling cloud of feathers. A few flensers, having survived the blast, sought to bar their path, and Shamil heard their hungry, yipping shrieks even above the rushing wind.

Drawing his bow, he let fly at the lead creature, the crystal-head striking it in the chest and blowing it apart along with two of its companions. Only one remained, streaking towards them undaunted, its cries rising to deafening volume as it closed. Seeing its face clearly, Shamil found himself confronted by a ravening mask of teeth, its snapping jaws adding a ululation to its unending scream. But it was the hate in its eyes that snared Shamil’s attention, causing him to freeze in the act of reaching for another arrow. Black orbs shot through with veins of red that coalesced to form a blazing pupil, they glowed with vicious, insatiable hunger beyond even the most starved lion or desert wolf. As it loomed before him, jaws snapping so fast its teeth blurred, Shamil had no doubt this was a creature bred purely for the purpose of wreaking the ugliest death on any human unfortunate enough to encounter it.

Stielbek raised his head in an almost casual gesture, beak opening and closing with a hard snap. The flenser vanished, the only trace of its passing a vaporous spatter on Shamil’s visor. The increased sting to his nostrils and ashen catch in his throat made it clear that they were now in the heart of the smokestack, the air rent by repeated percussive blasts and screams he hoped came only from the throats of the Maw’s creations.

Stielbek turned as Shamil caught sight of another bird below, an owl, the sentinel on its back turning loose arrows at the flensers swarming in pursuit. Shamil put a pair of his own crystal-heads into their midst and was rewarded with the sight of two satisfyingly large explosions before Stielbek folded his wings, sending them into a near vertical dive straight into the heart of the swarm.

For an instant the world became a fury of choked-off screams and the crack of sundered bones and skulls, and Shamil felt an increasing wetness where his skin was exposed to the air. He could only hold on as the black wing twisted and spun, thighs clamped hard to the heaving muscle and one hand gripping feathers with white knuckles as the other strove to keep hold of his bow.

Then they were through, Stielbek assuming a level course that enabled Shamil to wipe the red slick from his visor. Looking around he saw they were alone once again, surrounded only by drifting vapour through which occasional patches of clear sky gleamed harsh through his darkened lenses.

A laugh came unbidden from Shamil’s throat, driven not by joy but an uncomfortable concordance of relief and exhilaration. As Stielbek banked and took them lower, Shamil recalled his first glimpse of a great wing during the climb to the Eyrie, his hunger to know what it might feel like to traverse the skies with such a beast. The reality, it transpired, was everything he had hoped for, despite the horrors witnessed and the certainty of more to come, and so he laughed, long and loud.

The attack came without warning, a hard stunning impact to the top of his helm that would surely have shattered his skull but for its protection. He reeled, legs slackening and losing purchase on Stielbek’s neck. He would have fallen if the black wing hadn’t abruptly angled his body, jolting Shamil back to awareness. Blinking, he shook away the haze that marred his vision, wincing at the sharp pain in his head and flexing his left hand in angry realisation that he had lost his bow.

A loud, guttural cry from behind caused Shamil to turn, seeing a broad-winged shape labouring in the disturbed air left in Stielbek’s wake. It was two-thirds the size of a blue falcon, but any similarity ended there. This bird was dark grey in colour, its featherless neck long and coiling like a snake, emitting the same throaty call all the while. It had a wickedly sharp beak shaped like a butcher’s hook, but Shamil saw more danger in its talons, far larger in proportion to the bird’s body than could be natural, each one a long black sickle.

“Scyther,” Shamil grunted. The reason for the beast’s repeated calls became clear when three more swept out of the mist to fly alongside it. He began to reach for his whip but was forced to grab a fistful of feathers when Stielbek went into a sudden dive, and Shamil glimpsed the sight of another, far larger, bird just ahead. Something flicked the air just above his helm, and the now familiar blast of exploding quartz sounded to the rear.

Recognition dawned as the approaching bird swept overhead, and Shamil noted how the dark glass of his visor rendered Vintress’s feathers a verdant shade of green rather than blue. He saw Lyvia whirl her sling and cast another missile at a scyther as it banked towards her, transforming it into a ball of grey mist in a flash of combusting crystal. Stielbek shortened his wings and pivoted, raising his talons to rend the two surviving Maw beasts apart as they closed. The grisly task complete, he spread his wings into a broad arc, catching an updraft that enabled him to hover.

Vintress circled them in a tight arc, and Shamil noted the blackened and scorched feathers on the falcon’s breast, though he heaved a relieved sigh at seeing her rider uninjured. He stared hard at the blank eyes of Lyvia’s visor, hoping there was a welcoming smile behind it. She stared back for a second, then pointed, her finger stabbing downwards towards the orange-red snake of the lava flow. Black shapes flicked and spiralled across it, sentinels and swarms of Maw beasts engaged in a deadly dance. Through the chaos of battle his gaze caught something more, a flurry of pale white specks at the flow’s edge that put him in mind of a snowstorm, surely something that couldn’t be possible.

Sensing his curiosity, Stielbek drew his wings back to send them into a dive with Vintress following close on their tail. They streaked down through a dozen swirling duels, Shamil blinking his eyes against the repeated flare of discharged sorcery whilst the hellish cacophony of rage and pain penetrated his helm with irksome ease. He could feel the heat of the lava now, building in intensity as they swept lower and beading his skin with sweat. A small, somewhat bedraggled swarm of flensers tried to bar their path, many leaking blood from recent wounds, their wings pierced or torn in places, causing Shamil to wonder how they still managed to fly. He sensed Stielbek’s disdain as he continued to dive, not troubling himself to change course and cutting his way through the beasts with a few well-placed snaps of his beak before levelling out some three hundred feet from the surface of the molten river.

The sounds of conflict faded as they glided across the steaming, bubbling surface, and Shamil’s nose and mouth flooded in response to the foul gasses. He could see the far bank of the flow through the shimmering curtain of heated air. Blinking tears to clear his vision, Shamil was shocked to find himself confronted by an army, tall spears rising like a vast forest from dark ranks. The distance was still too great to make out their features, but he knew these must be the dreaded vehlgard, the two-legged fodder of the Voice’s malign horde said to be the obscene result of some unnatural fusion of man and beast. They were arrayed in neat, unmoving columns from the lip of the Maw to the edge of the glowing river, a thick black line thousands strong broken in the centre by the blaze of white Shamil had seen from above.

As Stielbek took him closer, he saw to his amazement that his first thought had been correct; this was a snowstorm. Or rather, he realised as the near overpowering heat gave way to a sudden chill and a lacelike veil began to cover his visor, an ice storm. As frost clustered on his brow, Stielbek let out a brief, throaty cry of protest and beat his wings to take them higher. Shamil leaned forward to stare down into the heart of the raging storm below, seeing great plumes of rising steam as lava met ice and turned instantly to rock. Upon nearing the slope leading to the lip of the Maw, the wall of white suddenly diminished, revealing the eastern bank in full.

Although the air remained thick with mingled steam and smoke, Shamil managed to make out a dozen dark figures below. They stood in a line close to the storm, each one holding aloft a staff, tips blazing with the unmistakable glow unique to crystalmancy. Streams of pale blue energy emerged continually from the twelve staffs, curving in chaotic spirals before merging with the raging chaos of the ice storm.

“Mages,” Shamil realised in a whisper. “The Voice has mages of its own.”

As if hearing his words, all dozen figures instantly turned their eyes skyward. Their faces were indistinct, but he saw that they were all clad in mismatched clothing, long trailing silks contrasting with archaic armour or cloaks of fur. However, their disparity in appearance was dispelled by the uniform glow of the eyes they focused on Shamil as he flew overhead, as fiery red and full of hateful hunger as the flenser Stielbek had dispatched only moments before.

It was then that Stielbek gave full vent to his cry. Shamil had heard little of his voice so far and found the volume of it enough to shake his very bones. It bore little relation to the high-pitched screech of a fire wing or falcon, pitched lower even than an owl’s hoots. It was more of a roar, full of rage and a depth of enmity Shamil could feel through the bond, along with a deeper understanding: Stielbek knew these mages of old and wanted very badly to kill them.

The mages lowered their staffs as Stielbek’s cry faded, the arcing streams of energy blinking out as they raised their red eyes to regard the black wing. It may have been something conjured by his overburdened mind, but Shamil was sure their eyes all blazed brighter in that moment, though he saw no change in their stance or expression. However, the sense of hatred being returned in full measure was palpable.

One of the mages in particular caught his eye, a tall, bare-chested man of impressive stature. Shamil quickly flipped the lever on his helm, switching to the magnifying lenses to gain a better view, finding himself confronted with an angular, hollow-cheeked face, the man’s well-muscled frame and bald head covered all over in a dense matrix of tattoos. Shamil once again wondered if his sight were playing him true, for the tattoos seemed to be moving, coiling and overlapping like snakes trapped within his skin. As if in response to the scrutiny, the tattooed man blinked his red eyes and angled his head. Shamil caught the unmistakable curve of a smile to his lips before Stielbek abruptly turned away and the view was lost.

Facing to the front, Shamil switched his visor back to the standard lenses in time to see an inverted rain of fire filling the sky directly ahead. Stielbek swept his wings down then up in rapid beats that sent them higher. Shamil ducked as something fast and flaming streaked within a foot of his helm, half-a-dozen more trailing smoke as they whooshed past. Glancing up at the sound of a pealing cry, he saw Vintress rapidly disappearing into the pall above, rider and bird swallowed by the smoke before any fire arrows could claim them.

Hearing a hiss loud hiss of annoyance, Shamil looked down to find an arrow had left a patch of burning embers on Stielbek’s wingtip. He watched with relief as it dwindled to a blackened stain before it could birth a blaze. The origin of this fiery barrage became obvious when Stielbek went into a steep bank. Fire arrows blazed along the leading edges of the vehlgard columns as archers raised their bows and loosed concentrated volleys. Luckily, they were now too high for the arrows to reach them, though Shamil saw one sentinel who wasn’t so lucky.

The fire wing swerved through the air in an effort to dodge the blizzard of fiery shafts, but the smoke trailing from twin blazes in each wing told of a grim and inevitable fate. In addition to the countless arrows seeking to bring it down, it was being pursued by three Maw beasts Shamil hadn’t yet encountered but was quick to identify.

“Man-bats!” he hissed, matching Ashinta’s description to the human-sized creatures with huge black eyes and leathery wings that sprouted from their backs. Two were armed with what appeared to be ten-foot-long tridents, but the one in the lead carried some form of overlarge crossbow.

Shamil watched in growing dismay as the man-bat raised the weapon and triggered the lock. The melon-sized projectile ignited soon after being launched, bursting into a sparking ball of blazing light. It described an elegant arc through the air to impact on the fire wing’s tail, bursting apart with a flurry of shimmering particles that Shamil might have found pretty at another time. His dismay turned to outright horror as the fire wing transformed into an ugly ball of broken wings and trailing feathers, and the identity of its rider became clear.

Morgath Durnholm held on to his bird’s harness for only a few seconds before his muscular form was cast away, bird and rider tumbling towards the army below with the man-bats screaming triumph and diving in pursuit. Shamil’s alarm was enough to send Stielbek into a steep descent, the black wing beating his wings to produce a daunting turn of speed. One man-bat noticed their approach and immediately abandoned its dive to place itself in their path, swinging its long trident around in a slash at Stielbek’s head as they closed. Shamil flicked his wrist, and the raptorile-tail whip uncoiled with blurring speed, the topaz tip entwining the three spikes of the man-bat’s trident before discharging its sorcerous energy. Lightning danced along the spear’s length then up the arms of its wielder, transforming both into a blackened and twisted mess that tumbled away as Shamil jerked the whip free.

Stielbek streaked between the two remaining man-bats, killing one with his beak and the other, his claws. Spreading his wings wide and rearing back, the black wing extended his talons to enfold the tumbling form of Morgath Durnholm. They were barely fifty feet from the ground now, the air a maelstrom of fire arrows that would surely see them ablaze within seconds.

A chorus of bird cries drew Shamil’s gaze upwards in time to see what appeared to be the entire Sentinel host streaking out of the sky. Tihla flew at their head with Lyvia close behind, sling whirling. Crystal-headed arrows fell in a thick hail, the neat ranks of the vehlgard column below blasted apart by a welter of explosions.

Stielbek was forced to swoop low before soaring high, and Shamil found himself staring down into the face of a vehlgard barely a spear’s length beneath. Having expected to be confronted with some form of bestial, snarling mask, he was surprised to see a face that was recognisably human in both expression and form. The features were certainly broader than could be called natural, with a blocklike jaw and wide lips, the pale, hairless skin scarred in many places and rich in tattoos of garish design. But still he saw humanity in the way he glared at Shamil, lips drawn back from wedge-like teeth in a snarl of anger. This was not the unreasoning, animalistic hunger of the Maw beasts. These were the eyes of a thinking being like the raptorile he had murdered. But unlike the raptorile, the soul behind these eyes badly wanted him dead.

The vehlgard lunged at him just as Stielbek beat his wings to begin his ascent, and Shamil heard a shout of frustrated rage as the long spear flailed at the black wing’s tail feathers. A deep, growling voice chased them with curses in a grating language alien to Shamil’s ear, fading quickly.

The sentinels closed in around Stielbek as he climbed into the upper reaches of the still roiling smokestack, climbing out of arrow range but soon finding themselves attacked by a fresh swarm of flensers. Tihla was quick to hurl her fire wing into the heart of the swarm, the crystals set into her claw spear shining bright as she whirled it. Sparks erupted whenever it met the flesh of a Maw beast, sending a dozen blackened corpses towards the ground. Shamil lashed his whip constantly as Stielbek took them through the fray, the swarm soon blasted apart as the sentinels exhausted their remaining crystals, and they finally flew clear of the smoke.

Tihla’s bird laboured to the front of the formation, the second wing waving her spear in a slow circle before pointing it at the Eyrie. They were being ordered home. Looking around the surviving host, Shamil saw the reason in stark clarity. Less than half were left, and many of those were either injured or close to exhaustion. Riders sagged on the backs of their birds, several clutching wounds. Many of the great wings were also in poor shape, leaving a trail of black specks in their wake as they shed feathers, some bearing blackened patches on their plumage, others leaking crimson droplets as they struggled towards the Eyrie on tired wings. The Sentinels had suffered a defeat this day, and the unmoving form of the man lying limp in Stielbek’s claws made it clear they might be about to suffer their most grievous loss yet.

10. The Mage’s Gambit

Rignar laboured through the night, with Tihla lingering outside his chamber as the glimmer of powerful sorcery flickered in the edges of the closed door. An occasional shout would accompany the shifting lights, weak at first but growing in volume as the hours wore on. Shamil wasn’t sure whether this was a good sign or not.

By unanimous agreement, the other sentinels had all refused to accept crystal healing to allow Rignar to concentrate his entire energies on the first wing. Consequently, Shamil had spent much of the night employing the medical skills he had learned in the Doctrinate. It amounted mostly to setting broken bones and stitching cuts, some small, others deep. However, much of the burden of caring for the wounded fell on Ehlias. The smith possessed many years of hard-won experience in tending injury, although his remedies ranged from the basic to the gruesome, the latter involving some judicious use of red-hot irons or the sharper knives from his workshop. Liberal quantities of pain-muting herbs were also doled out, resulting in a curiously lighthearted atmosphere amongst the wounded. Songs and jokes filled the air, although Shamil noted that the laughter had a near hysterical quality, often subsiding to tears in quieter moments as confusion was replaced by the hard realisation of grief.

The great wings settled on their perches or returned to the nest, some keening laments for lost riders, others nuzzling beaks at wounded comrades. Shamil noted that Stielbek kept apart from them, perching on a rise close to the eastern cliff from where he maintained an unwavering vigil of the Maw. Its roar was louder now, hunger and rage more discernible than ever, leaving Shamil in no doubt that he was hearing the Voice itself. The legends had always depicted this eternal adversary as more a malign seducer than a monster, whispering temptation into the ears of weak or greedy souls. The sound that now emerged from the Maw spoke of something different, a being perhaps transformed by its centuries of confinement. This altered Voice, Shamil knew, had no interest in the subtleties of seduction or carefully woven schemes; it hungered only for the destruction of those that had chained it.

After he had stitched his last cut and wiped his last fevered brow, Shamil climbed the rise to stand at Stielbek’s side. Even without the insight offered by their bond, he could sense the black wing’s roiling fury, the deep desire for a return to battle in the eyes he focused on the shifting glow of the Maw.

“The mage with the tattoos,” Shamil said. “An old friend, perhaps?”

Stielbek cocked his head slightly, beak snapping once in confirmation. “Who is he, I wonder?” Shamil peered at the ugly spectacle of the Maw at night. Sharrow-Met’s statue stood silhouetted against the constant smoke lit in various hues by the glow of lava and the mage’s magics, which had continued unabated since the sentinels’ retreat.

The ice storm they crafted was invisible in the dark, but its effects were now increasingly evident. A black line had appeared in the slow current of the molten river, a line pointing west that hadn’t been there the night before. It seemed barely more than a hair’s width at this distance, but Shamil calculated it must be at least fifty feet across.

“So,” he murmured. “That’s what they’re about.”

Stielbek’s beak snapped again, louder this time. His desire for resumed battle was clear, but the bond enabled Shamil to sense something beneath it, a raw impatience to finish this task so that they might begin another.

“Soon.” Shamil ran a hand through the feathers on Stielbek’s neck before turning to descend the rise, making quickly for Rignar’s chamber.

“They’re crafting a bridge.”

Morgath spared Shamil a brief glance, grunting as he swung his leg off Rignar’s bed. The mage had sealed the first wing’s every wound, but his broad back was now an epic of overlapping scars, and crystalmancy could do nothing to restore the eye he had lost. In its place he wore a smooth blue stone, veined in gold, a strangely beautiful island of colour in a sea of scarred flesh. More concerning than the disfigurement was the absence of any vestige of a smile on his lips. Shamil had thought this man capable of finding humour in any circumstance, and discovering his error made for a harsh realisation: he thinks we’ve already lost.

“He’s right,” Tihla put in. “Took a look for myself. That ice storm they’ve conjured can turn twenty yards of lava to rock in the space of an hour. By noon tomorrow they’ll have a causeway for that army to cross.”

“Only if they have mages to keep the storm churning,” Shamil said. “We need to kill them.”

“Mind your place.” Tihla’s voice was curt, though less so than he might have expected. “What you did today was impressive, and we’re all rightly grateful for it, but the first wing decides our battle plans, not you. Today we lost half our number and barely got within sight of those mages. And even if we did get close enough for an arrow, I doubt they’ll just stand there and obligingly await death.” She took a breath heavy with reluctance. “It might be wiser to conserve our strength, wait for them to cross before launching successive attacks, buy time for the Treaty Realms to gather their forces.”

She fell silent, eyes lingering expectantly on Morgath’s slumped head, her features bunching in suppressed consternation when no response was immediately forthcoming.

“Shamil is right.”

Shamil and Tihla turned to regard Rignar as he hefted his satchel onto his bench. “It will take weeks for Mira-Vielle and the Crucible Kingdom to muster an army,” he went on. “Months for the Treaty Realms entire to gather a force capable of defeating the malign horde, if such a force can even be gathered. We have to stop this before it begins.”

“You want me to watch the rest of them die?”

Morgath’s voice was a raw scraping echo of its previous vitality. Looking into his partly ruined face with its gleaming blue eye, Shamil knew his wounds went deeper than mere skin and muscle. The first wing of the Sentinel Eyrie might not yet be broken, but he was at least buckled.

“This family we’ve built?” Morgath continued, his gaze shifting from Rignar to Tihla. “I did that once before. All my fine lads and lasses, thieves and cutthroats they may have been, but they were family to me. I knew more loyalty and kindness living amongst pirates than I ever knew throughout the long, wretched years beneath my father’s roof. And I watched him hang them all, one by one. He had me chained in such a way that I couldn’t turn my head from the sight, and I was flogged if I dared to close my eyes. When I was dragged to these mountains and dumped at the base of the Eyrie, the last words I ever heard from my father were, ‘Die quickly.’ But I wouldn’t, my last act of defiance. In surviving here, I won the trust of my brothers and sisters, once again becoming a captain of sorts. In the years since, the love I have for this place and these people has washed away all the anger and hatred that once claimed my soul. Don’t ask me to destroy what’s left, Tihla.” His head slumped once more, ragged voice descending into a groan. “I can’t.”

“You won’t have to,” Rignar said. He paused to undo the satchel’s buckles, revealing the glassy orb of the black onyx. “If I might be so bold as to propose a stratagem.”

“It doesn’t seem like nearly enough.”

Morgath’s one good eye tracked over the three birds perched on the east-facing rise. Kritzlasch and Vintress exchanged a few beak snaps and hisses as they waited, both resting on a branch lower than Stielbek and conscientious in avoiding his eye. For his part, the black wing seemed content to ignore them both, his gaze still entirely locked on the Maw and its vomitous smoke. The rising sun painted the occluded horizon a faint shade of pink. Deep shadows still concealed much of the army waiting on the far bank of the lava flow, but the ice storm was visible now, a blaze of white that seemed to be growing by the second.

“Speed is more important than numbers,” Rignar replied, glancing up from the black onyx. He had kept hold of the crystal since Morgath’s eventual and grudging agreement to this plan, constantly playing his fingers over the surface. The stone’s response to his touch had grown ever brighter in the intervening hours, producing a sustained shimmer in its core. Judging by Rignar’s increasingly grey and hollow-cheeked countenance, Shamil concluded that whatever sorcery he had crafted within its facets had cost him dear.

“Besides”—Rignar forced a smile before favouring Lyvia and Shamil with a fond glance—“I’d rather fly with my young friends at my side than any other.”

Morgath gave a sombre nod before settling his gaze first on Shamil then Lyvia. “I won’t command you to this,” he told them, the diminished rasp of his voice battling with the stiff morning wind. “No disgrace will result if you choose not to . . .”

“We’re wasting time,” Lyvia cut in, before adding with a tight smile, “But your consideration is appreciated, First Wing.”

Morgath’s livid scars twisted as a very faint grin ghosted across his face, but only briefly before he turned and strode away. He climbed the perch of the tallest rise where Kaitlahr waited. The youthful fire wing had taken up station at the beam before sunrise, crouching low to allow the first wing to climb onto his back with no need to leap. Other great wings had issued forth from the nest to accept sentinels whose birds had succumbed to their wounds. Even so, the host mustered that morning was a much denuded and less impressive gathering than had flown to confront the resurgent Voice the day before.

Before the sentinels buckled on their helms, Shamil saw a mostly uniform expression of fatalistic determination with no sign of the usual grim humour. He watched Morgath share a long look with Tihla before they both donned their helms, a look that surely spoke of many things left unsaid throughout the years of their service.

They took off in one great flock, the well-ordered grouping of yesterday replaced by a dense arrowhead formation aimed directly at the Maw. The air thrummed as the birds beat their wings with furious energy, closing the distance to their foes with a speed that commanded notice.

Rignar waited until the sentinels closed to within a few hundred yards of the Maw before donning his helm. “It’s time,” he said, raising his gaze to Kritzlasch, who immediately hopped down from the perch, crouching low so the mage could climb onto his back.

“Before we set off,” he said, settling himself into place, one hand clutching the owl’s harness and the other pressing the onyx hard against his chest. “It would be remiss of me not to offer my regrets to Lady Lyvia.”

“Regrets?” she asked, voice given a metallic tinge by her own helm as she climbed onto Vintress’s back.

“For the desecration we are about to inflict upon your ancestor.” Rignar nodded to Sharrow-Met’s statue, still contriving to shrug off the concealing cloak of the Maw’s discharge.

Lyvia replied with a short, tinny laugh. “Desecrate away, good sir. It’ll be a relief not to have to look at that thing every day.”

Stielbek shuddered with anticipation when Shamil mounted him, spreading his wings and launching them into the air without pause. He climbed into the air to catch an updraft and began to circle higher, letting out an impatient caw that had Vintress and Kritzlasch quickly following suit.

The three birds levelled out at least two hundred feet higher than the sentinel host before striking for the Maw. Shamil could see the close-packed formation of great wings closing on the smokestack now and the flecks of black within the haze that told of a great many Maw beasts rising to meet their onslaught. Flares of light erupted at the edge of the smoke as the leading sentinels let loose with their first volley of crystal-head arrows before they disappeared into the grey-black fog.

For a few seconds, unleashed energy roiled like a compressed lightning storm, a testament to the ferocity of the hidden struggle, flashing so bright Shamil was forced to switch to his darkened lenses. He fought down a panicked suspicion that the sentinels had met with disaster, and a relieved sigh hissed through his teeth when he saw the leading birds sweep clear of the smoke, followed by what appeared to be most of the host. The sentinels banked upon reaching clear sky, turning in a wide arc to attack once again, loosing a flurry of arrows as they did so. The host became a great wheeling circle at the edge of the towering pall, which darkened in its upper reaches as ever more Maw beasts were drawn towards the fray.

“It’s working,” Shamil muttered, feeling a thrum of satisfaction from Stielbek. He took them higher still, hopefully beyond the notice of any enemies, although Shamil wasn’t so naive as to think this mission would end without combat. Soon, the now familiar sting of airborne ash reached his nose, and he looked down to see the great monument passing almost directly below. Looking to his left and right he saw Vintress and Kritzlasch flying alongside and raised his hand, forming a fist in a prearranged signal, which they both answered in kind. In accordance with the plan, Lyvia would dive first in the hope that her swift-moving falcon would draw away any Maw beasts lingering in the cloud below. Shamil would follow with Rignar close behind, Stielbek carving a path through any opposition to reach their target.

Shamil shifted his hand to grip the whip’s handle. He had secured himself a bow and quiver full of crystal-heads from Ehlias’s stores but knew trying to aim and loose during a dive so steep and fast would be next to impossible. The black wing’s beak and talons would be their principal weapons today.

Vintress gave a loud screech as she folded her wings and plummeted into the drifted grey-black haze, with Lyvia’s sling trailing from her hand as they disappeared from sight. Shamil forced himself to wait the agreed-upon count of five very long seconds before sinking lower, Stielbek’s neck feathers fluttering against his visor as he drew in his wings, turned onto his side, and hurtled into the smoke, his course as straight and vertical as any plumb line.

As they fell into the shifting, acrid gloom, Shamil glanced back to confirm Kritzlasch was only a few yards behind before turning to peer into the onrushing sleet of embers and soot. His hand ached as he gripped the whip, and he expected some screaming, hellish visage to loom out of the chaos at any second, but their dive proved uninterrupted. Within the space of no more than five heartbeats, the smoke dissipated to reveal Sharrow-Met’s vast, stone features, still somehow beautiful despite their monolithic proportions.

Stielbek voiced a loud screech upon seeing the Wraith Queen’s face, and Shamil could hear the clear note of plaintive longing it held. The bird flared his wings as they drew level with the statue’s head, banking hard to circle the monument in a downward spiral. Shamil risked another backward glance, finding Rignar had raised himself up on the owl’s back, the shining orb of the onyx clutched against his chest. Shamil knew that for this to work, the mage’s throw would need to be strong and true, and for all his virtues, the man was no warrior. However, he had insisted that only he could cast the onyx and gave cheery assurances that he hadn’t yet failed to place a crystal where it needed to be and wasn’t about to start.

The lightning bolt lanced upwards just as Shamil began to turn away, striking Kritzlasch full in the chest and birthing an instant flower of black and red. The bird’s wings flailed as he tumbled end over end, casting Rignar from his back before colliding with the huge barrier of Sharrow-Met’s arm. There was no time to watch the owl’s corpse complete its fall. Stielbek retracted his wings and twisted before going into another dive, streaking down to lash out and snare Rignar’s falling body with his talons.

A sound that mixed thunder with the scream of a thousand demons caused Shamil to flatten himself against Steilbek’s back, feeling a blast of heat and an intense prickling to the skin. Stielbek banked steeply to the left as another ugly thunderclap sounded, a portion of Sharrow-Met’s granite shoulder exploding in a flash Shamil was sure would have blinded him but for his helm’s lenses.

Warrior instincts seized him then, all the hard lessons of the Doctrinate and recent experience of battle combining to have him unfurl the whip and deliver a swift backward strike. He saw the topaz tip flare bright as it struck something dark, a silhouette so unexpected in form he barely managed to comprehend the reality of it before it spun away, limbs flailing. He thought it might be one of the man-bats, but as the shape tumbled in Stielbek’s wake, then incredibly, steadied itself and flew in pursuit, Shamil saw no sign of wings. They were being pursued across the sky by a man, a man bearing a staff, the tips blazing white as they poured forth a crackling energy.

The impossibility of the sight caused Shamil to hesitate before lashing out with the whip once more, his confused amazement worsened by the fact that the man was assailing them with words as well as lightning. “Traitor!” he called out as he flew, voice impossibly loud and filled with a depthless rage. “You’ll share her fate this day!”

Something in that voice caused Stielbek to rear, spinning about as his wings beat to a blur. Shamil could sense the black wing’s fury, a roiling, bitter fire just as deep as that of the flying man. He soared closer as they hovered, staff blazing bright enough to reveal him as the bald-headed mage Shamil recalled so vividly from the day before.

“You think she still lives, traitor?” the Voice-mage asked in a frothing scream, and Shamil saw how his red-glowing eyes were fixed not on him but on Stielbek. “You’re a fool! A wretched remnant of her treachery!”

He spun the staff, the tips creating a blazing white wheel Shamil knew instinctively would soon give birth to another lightning bolt.

“She isn’t coming to save you!” The bald man’s face was every inch as bestial as any Maw beast as he shrieked out his final curse. “Die as she di—”

His words choked off as his rage-filled face formed into a blank, wide-eyed mask of utter astonishment, gaze locked on something in the sky beyond Shamil. Turning, he saw Vintress streaking out of the smoke, Lyvia raised high on her back as she whirled her sling. She had removed her helm, her face revealed in full by the glow of the mage’s staff, the face of a woman he insisted was long dead.

He managed to recover his wits just as Lyvia loosed the crystal from her sling, raising his staff to deflect the projectile. It somehow managed to survive the resultant explosion, as did the mage, but the force of it sent him into a chaotic spin. Lightning coiled and struck in all directions, Shamil’s heart lurching as he saw a blazing tendril catch Vintress before she could veer away.

The falcon screeched and spasmed across the sky, disappearing into the shadow cast by the vast statue. Rage burned in Shamil as Stielbek beat his wings and surged forward, closing the distance to the Voice-mage in an instant. He had almost steadied himself now, but not enough to avoid Shamil’s whip. It snaked out to coil itself around his staff, the tip blazing out its sorcerous energy as soon as it touched the intricately carved dark wood. Clearly it had already suffered great damage thanks to Lyvia’s crystal, for its blazing tips guttered out a final burst of energy before fading. The staff thrummed then shattered, leaving its wielder scrabbling in the air, a wordless scream forming on his lips that choked to a gurgle as the black wing’s beak bit deep into his chest.

Stielbek cast the limp doll of the mage’s body aside and soared higher as Shamil looked about desperately for Vintress but could see no sign. His whip trailed in the wind, and seeing the crystal tip destroyed and half of its length burned away, he opened his hand to let it slip away. A glimmer of light from beneath Stielbek’s bulk caused him to lean forward, where he saw Rignar still clutched in the bird’s talons. The mage had lost his helm, his gaunt, bleached face staring up at Shamil with imploring eyes. His mouth formed words that were lost to the wind, but the meaning was clear enough as he weakly raised the onyx in his hands.

“Here!” Shamil shouted, crouching and extending his hand to the crystal. “I’ll throw it.”

Rignar shook his head, the onyx glowing in response as he flattened his hand against its surface. Once again Shamil had no difficulty in reading his unheard words. “I need to be touching it.”

“You never intended to throw it!” Shamil shouted back. “Did you?”

Rignar’s lips formed a smile as he shook his head.

“Back to the Eyrie!” Shamil shouted at Stielbek. “We’ll find another way.”

Stielbek angled his wings, but instead of steering for the mountains, he turned back to the statue. “Stop!” Shamil ordered, receiving only an angry shudder in response. “Don’t do this!” he cried out to Rignar.

The mage’s eyes were sad now, but also shining with a deep contentment, his face that of a man about to fulfil a lifelong task. He removed one hand from the onyx and reached for the chain about his neck, dragging air into his lungs to call out a few words. “The Voice lied, Shamil! She never died!” Rignar snapped the chain and threw it at Shamil. He caught it by pure reflex, finding the emerald pendant dangling in his grip. “She went to find its birthplace!” the mage shouted. “Look for the immortals!”

He stared hard into Shamil’s eyes, holding his gaze until the moment Stielbek opened his claws to let him fall free.

Rignar Banlufsson tumbled through the air at a steep angle, the crystal in his hands glowing so bright he resembled a falling star. He collided with the huge narrow column of granite that formed Sharrow-Met’s legendary scimitar barely fifty feet from the point where it met the ground. Crystal and mage disappeared in an explosion powerful enough to banish the smoke for a distance of several hundred yards. Shamil struggled to keep his seat as Stielbek bucked and reared in the turbulent air. Looking down he saw the column of vehlgard closest to the scimitar’s base had been blasted into chaotic disorder. The statue, however, remained stubbornly upright.

“It didn’t work,” he groaned in despair. He scanned the scimitar, finding none of the expectant destruction that would set the great monument toppling. Instead he saw a curiously smooth and intact surface very different from the weathered granite that had formed it only seconds before. It caught a bright gleam from the sun streaming through the partly dissolved smoke, shining bright, shining like . . . ice.

“Down!” Shamil ordered, but Stielbek was already folding his wings. A barrage of fire arrows floated up from the ranks of the vehlgard to greet them as they dove, turning to a blizzard as they neared the ground. Shamil waited until Stielbek levelled out barely fifty feet from the ground before reaching for the sword once carried by Tolveg Clearwater of Wodewehl, a man who had travelled a great distance to place it in more worthy hands, a sword named Ice Cutter in the ancient tongue of his people. A fated blade.

A fire arrow streaked within an inch of Shamil’s visor as they swept closer to the scimitar. He hardly noticed, his entire attention focused on the glassy surface, searching. He found the crack near the scimitar’s edge, just a small fissure no bigger than a hand’s breadth, but big enough for a sword blade. Leaning out, he gripped the sword’s handle with both hands, stabbing it into the crack with every ounce of strength he could summon. The skeln-blad met scant resistance as it penetrated the ice, sinking so deep it was torn from Shamil’s hands as Stielbek beat his wings and bore them higher.

Shamil twisted to watch the scimitar shrink beneath them, his heart leaping in exultant satisfaction at the sight of a web of cracks spreading over its surface. Within seconds the interlocking matrix of fissures had spread from the scimitar’s base to its hilt, snaking over it to crumble Sharrow-Met’s huge fist.

The statue let out a strange groan as the scimitar fell apart, Sharrow-Met’s arm falling to pieces soon after. The great stone queen swayed, rearing back a little and causing Shamil to ponder the horrible irony that she might topple in the wrong direction. But then something cracked deep within her, and she swayed forward, the roar of a huge stone assemblage subsiding into chaos, swallowing the great murmur of surprise and fear rising from the vehlgard army below.

Shamil saw the ice storm fade away then; the Voice-mages rendered scurrying ants at this height as they ran back towards the Maw, but they could never have run fast enough. The statue crushed them beneath its fracturing legs as it collapsed, some of the rubble it shed plummeting down to shatter the columns of vehlgard, but most of its bulk fell where Rignar predicted it would.

The newly wrought bridge of cooled lava disappeared beneath Sharrow-Met’s partly destroyed mass. The rubble settled onto the glowing channel in an ugly dark sprawl that soon began to fade, swallowed by the inexorable tide of molten rock.

Shamil watched the great army of vehlgard convulse as a fresh gout of smoke erupted from the Maw, accompanied by a vast shriek, full of rage and frustration. The vehlgard seemed to be milling in confusion, some rolling about with their hands clamped to their ears, whilst others thrashed at each other in maddened delirium. Shamil even saw a few march into the lava flow, bursting into flames as the flow claimed them but still continuing to wade into the fiery current.

The Voice’s scream persisted as Stielbek flew away, the widening distance rendering it a smaller thing, vaguely reminiscent of a spoilt but forlorn child weeping over a broken toy.

11. The Black-Wing’s Quest

He found Vintress struggling back to the Eyrie on tired and faltering wings, Lyvia clinging on as the falcon bobbed in the air. Dark stripes discoloured the verdant blue of the bird’s plumage where the Voice-mage’s lightning had touched her. Still she possessed the strength to keep flying, although Shamil wasn’t sure for how much longer. Steering Stielbek alongside, he gestured to Lyvia, pointing to the black wing’s claws in an invitation to jump. Lyvia, however, replied with a stern shake of her head and stayed with her bird.

A dark, fast-moving cloud soon appeared above them, which had Shamil reaching for his bow and quiver when he realised it was in fact a dense swarm of flensers and scythers with a few larger silhouettes that told of man-bats amongst the ugly throng. He put an arrow to the string of his bow and guided Stielbek higher to place them between the swarm and Vintress. However, the expected attack never came; the Maw beasts streamed overhead without altering course. Like the vehlgard, they appeared greatly distressed, voicing a cacophony of discordant screams and lashing out at their fellow beasts as they beat their wings towards the Maw. The swarm soon disappeared into the smoke, which now covered the far bank of the lava flow in a thick blanket of soot and ash. The Voice continued to howl its anguish, but the sound had diminished to a plaintive echo by the time Shamil and Lyvia reached the Eyrie.

The sentinels awaited them on the eastward cliff edge, Morgath enclosing Shamil in a tight embrace as soon as he climbed down from Stielbek. He was aware of cheers filling the air and many hands jostling him in appreciation as Morgath guided him through the throng, but it all seemed far away. Exhaustion had risen in him with irresistible force as soon as his boots touched the ground, only fading when he found himself face-to-face with Lyvia.

“Rignar?” she asked, water welling in her eyes when he shook his head.

“He knew,” Shamil said, pulling her close to let her sob against him, slender form heaving with a mingling of grief, guilt, and fatigue that mirrored his own. “From the moment we met him, he knew his fate . . .” He let his voice fade rather than complete the thought aloud, knowing this was not the right time. As I now know mine.

“You would think,” Lyvia said, turning the brass disc over to let the moonlight play over the details embossed into its surface, “Ehlias would fashion something more . . . fine.”

“You disapprove?” Shamil asked. The disc he held was mostly identical to hers, though he noted the smith had taken the time to engrave it with the same runes that had adorned his lost sword.

“No.” Lyvia shrugged. “It’s just that an object of such importance could benefit from a little more . . . artistry.”

“Weapons are his art. And I don’t think he makes too many of these, especially all at once.”

They sat together on the walkway outside the nest. Vintress had secluded herself inside its gloomy confines to nurse her wounds, and Lyvia didn’t want to stray too far from her side. Below, the sentinels’ celebration continued despite the lateness of the hour. Wine was usually forbidden in the Eyrie, but Morgath had made an exception this night, ordering barrels of impressive vintage be unearthed from the stores and the contents distributed without ration. The result was a raucous few hours of merriment and a surprising amount of brawling as spirits lubricated tongues sufficiently to voice long-nursed grievances. These scuffles were brief if bruising affairs, quickly quelled and soon transformed into weeping expressions of mutual regard. Tihla had taken on the role of policing the gathering, moving amongst the crowd to calm tempers or commiserate over lost comrades. Morgath, by contrast, sat above it all on the highest rise, cup in hand and a bottle at his side. His once ever-cheerful countenance was now a shadowed, brooding mask concealing thoughts Shamil knew must be grim indeed.

“He asked me to return to Mira-Vielle,” Lyvia said, noting how Shamil’s gaze lingered on the first wing. “To speak to the council on behalf of the Eyrie, beg for more recruits and a new mage. And to warn them that the Voice has returned. We may have contained it, for now, but only a fool would think it won’t try to free itself again.”

Hearing the sour weariness in her tone, Shamil said, “You don’t want to go.”

“Indeed I don’t.” She brightened a little, twirling the disc in her hand. “And now I have this, I can go where I choose. The north perhaps? See the river of emerald light in the sky Tolveg was always talking about. Or to the south, where a friend of mine tells me the raptorile still roam. Perhaps he would care to guide me?”

Shamil turned away, lowering his head, and the humour had faded from Lyvia’s voice when she spoke on. “Except he won’t, for I sense he has determined upon another course. No matter.” She gave a soft sigh, consigning the disc to her pocket. “I’ll do as the first wing has requested, for I am a sentinel, and when I’m done suffering the company of my noble peers, I shall return here, for this is my home.” She glanced back at the opening to the nest. “Besides, Vintress would never leave, and I find I can’t be parted from her. As you can’t be parted from him.”

Shamil saw Stielbek shift a little on his perch at the end of the walkway as if hearing the discomfort in Lyvia’s tone. As before, he still kept vigil on the Maw but with a restless, constant fidgeting that bespoke a desire to be about more pressing business. His impatience was continually emphasised in the baleful glares he shot Shamil’s way throughout the night.

“Rignar said she wasn’t dead,” he told Lyvia. “Sharrow-Met went to find the Voice’s birthplace, presumably to discover a means of destroying it for good. Which begs the question of why she never returned.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s your responsibility to find her.”

“No, it’s his.” He nodded at Stielbek. “That’s what he was waiting for all these years, for the Voice to reemerge. He must be far older than anyone here suspected, for this was a task he was set long ago, I suspect by the Wraith Queen herself. The legends say black wings once carried her into battle. It seems she left one behind when she embarked upon her quest.”

Stielbek turned a glaring eye upon him then, beak parting to emit a low but commanding hiss. “It appears,” Shamil said, stooping to gather up his pack before hefting his bow, “it’s time we were on our way.”

Lyvia followed him and watched as he climbed onto Stielbek’s back, arms crossed as she hugged herself tight. “Where will you look?” she asked.

“Rignar’s visions ended when she reached the limit of the eastern desert. As good a place as any to start.” Shamil settled his bow on his back before fishing inside his shirt to extract the emerald pendant. It was no bigger than a teardrop and weighed almost nothing, but still he found it sat heavy around his neck. “And I have means of finding more clues if any are needed.”

“You will come back.” She spoke in soft but emphatic tones that held a demand but no question.

“I will,” he promised, putting the pendant away. “And when I do, I expect I’ll find you’ve risen at least to second wing.”

“That may require me to kill Tihla, and I find I’ve grown quite fond of her.” The laugh rose and died on her lips before she lowered her gaze. “If you do find the Wraith Queen,” she said. “Tell her she set an impossible example for her descendants to follow.”

“I’ll tell her.” Shamil glanced at the Eyrie below. The celebration had begun to ebb, the sentinels staggering off to their chambers, whilst a few lingered to stare in morose contemplation of their fires, some huddling together in shared grief.

“Tell the people of your city the truth,” he told Lyvia, turning to the distant glow of the Maw. The Voice’s anguished cries had finally subsided along with much of the hateful smoke, only a faint, angry groan issuing from within its depths. Despite this, the absence of Sharrow-Met’s statue made the sight of it more foreboding than ever, a signal that their defences had been sorely tested and forever changed.

“Make them hear you.” He turned back to Lyvia, staring into her eyes with hard insistence. “You may see the face you wear as a curse, but it needn’t be. Bring the Wraith Queen’s crusade back to life, for I’ve a sense it’ll be needed again soon.”

He may have said more, and so might she, but Stielbek launched himself into the air before any other word could be spoken. He kept his wings folded at first, plummeting down to below the edge of the eastward cliff so no eyes except Lyvia’s witnessed their departure. Blinking in the rushing air as Stielbek arced out of the dive, Shamil quickly buckled on his helm. The great bird swept his wings up then down with a slow regular cadence, flying steadily towards the east. Shamil fought down the urge to look back at the Eyrie in the hope of glimpsing Lyvia’s slender form one last time. Instead, he set his gaze on the distant horizon and wondered what he would see when the sun rose to reveal a new landscape come the dawn.

Anthony Ryan

Anthony Ryan is the New York Times best-selling author of the Raven's Shadow epic fantasy novels, The Draconis Memoria trilogy and the Slab City Blues science fiction series. He was born in Scotland in 1970 but spent much of his adult life living and working in London. After a long career in the British Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song, Book One of the Raven's Shadow trilogy. He has a degree in history, and his interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale.

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5,200 Words

THERE ARE TWO jobs available to history majors: teaching, and time-travel tourism.

And Winston Clare really didn’t like kids.

The morning tours had gone off without a hitch at All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company. From his desk beside a cardboard cutout of a jovial T. rex, All the Time in the World’s cartoon mascot, Winston monitored the solo tours with one eye and browsed his worn paperback copy of Herodotus’s Histories. The entire third book on Zoroastrian heritage had fallen out after years of reading, but Winston didn’t have the heart to buy a new copy. Behind his desk, Winston heard a sizzle and electric pop as his manager, Reina, returned with the latest tour group, all of them atwitter at witnessing an important historical event.

“T-shirts are available for purchase in the lobby,” Winston heard Reina shout in her sing-song tour guide voice. “And on behalf of All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company, have a great eon!”

Winston barely looked up as the tourists shuffled past him, their eyes bright and jaws slack from their experience. He’d been similarly stunned after his first jaunt back in time. It was only a school trip to a Greek agora of 381 BCE, but he had never been so amazed in his entire life. History was literally alive, and it had stolen his heart and soul in that instant. Maybe if there had been a math video game or an immersive law simulator, he would have fallen in love with a more lucrative subject. But it was history that he chose and history that kept his student loans high and his job prospects limited.

“A woman puked during the Renaissance Rendezvous,” Reina said after cheerfully waving the last of her tour group out the door and into the rain.

“Can’t you get it this time?” Winston asked from behind his book. “I’m on solo monitoring.”

Reina leaned over the desk, caramel ponytail whisking across the surface. She pointed at his computer screen, which was, unfortunately for Winston, empty.

“Looks like you’re free,” she said, sliding back to her feet. “Besides, I’m off this afternoon. Corinne and I are visiting her new baby nephew.”

“I’m all by myself?”

“You can handle it,” Reina said.

“But what if people want to come in for a tour?” Winston asked. “I’m only certified for the solos.” Not for lack of trying, though. Tour guides needed specialization in five separate areas of history, and Winston’s mind was a sieve with anything outside ancient Mediterranean escapades. He had decent proficiency in American history and could name a dinosaur or two, but that wasn’t enough to pass All the Time in the World’s guide tests.

“Give them a coupon, and tell them to come back on my next shift,” Reina said, pulling on her raincoat. “All right, I’m off. If no one comes in by four, feel free to lock up early.”

“Thanks,” Winston grumbled as Reina left, disappearing into the downpour outside.

Snapping his book shut, Winston fetched a bucket, mop, and cleaner from the closet and headed back to where the larger tours docked. Nestled in a shallow pool of water sat the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María, though they looked more like pontoon boats than their namesake ships. Short rails, wide benches, and a cushy captain’s station with ridiculous lights and switches in the back were all there were to the devices. It wasn’t until a destination was logged in that a clear sphere appeared around the boats, allowing them to hover above the water. Then a hum of the engines charging, an electric zap, and off another tour went to someplace in the past. It was a marvel to experience, though not everyone enjoyed it. Thus the puddle of partially digested breakfast on the floor of the Santa María.

Winston cleaned it up, holding back his own gags, and wiped down the other two boats for good measure. Then he polished the solo rigs, with their molded chairs in bubbles of steel and glass. And finally, he gave his keyboard a good scrubbing. All the while, no customers arrived.

As the time inched closer to 3:45, and Winston began contemplating what takeout he’d be ordering for an early dinner, a chime rang out from the intercom, and Winston bolted up in his desk chair to see three sodden figures entering the office. The tallest shook itself like a dog, peeling off a poncho to reveal a balding man in plaid and suspenders.

“See, Anne? They’re open,” the man boomed, puddles of rainwater pooling around him.

The second-tallest figure pulled back a hood, and a woman of similar age, sporting horn-rimmed glasses, patted her hair smooth.

“I see that, Harold. I see that.” She was the first to notice Winston and smiled. “Hello! We’re the Mackenzies, and we’d like a tour!”

Winston sighed inwardly, delaying his daydream of tikka masala and sweatpants, and offered an equally wide grin.

“Welcome to All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company,” he said, waving a hand woodenly at the white-and-chrome room around him. “My name is Winston, and I’ll be assisting you on your time adventure!”

The smallest figure snorted beneath its hood, and Winston fought the urge to glare.

“Well, we’re certainly ready for adventure!” Harold Mackenzie said, clapping a hand on the smallest person’s shoulder. “Came all the way out from Millerston, just for this little lady here.”

The man’s jostling knocked the smaller figure’s hood back, and a plume of curly black hair blossomed. A girl scowled up at him with a derision natural only to preteens.

“I wanted to go to Janus Tours,” she said.

“Those were too expensive, sweetie,” Anne said cooingly.

“They’re expensive because they’re better,” the girl said. “This place is for tourists.”

Winston flinched a bit. The expeditions at Janus Tours were better. They focused on major moments in history, not just the popular ones, and employed professors from the local university for in-depth seminars while events unfolded. He’d applied for a job there and been rejected. Three times. Most recently last Tuesday.

“I’m sure there’s something just as good here, Jayla,” Anne said. She looked to Winston beseechingly. “Right?”

“We have a variety of amazing tours available . . .” Winston said.

“Excellent!” Harold roared.

“But right now, I can only offer solo tours. Today’s guide is out for the afternoon. Also”—Winston eyed the girl—“you have to be fourteen to ride.”

“Our Jayla is twelve, that’s close enough, right?” Anne asked.

Winston frowned. “Well . . .”

“What are these solo tours you’re offering?” Harold was already moving toward the bubbles, bumping the cardboard dinosaur out of his way.

“Currently, our solo tours are Jurassic Journey, Great Wall Getaway, and Declaration of Fun-dependence,” Winston said.

“Those sound neat,” Anne said.

“For babies,” Jayla muttered.

“How do these work?” Harold asked, rapping his knuckles against the glass.

“Our solo tours are up-close, immersive experiences,” Winston said, going full sales mode. He stood beside Harold, motioning at the plush interior of the bubbles. “Enjoy maximum comfort as history unfolds before you, complete with narration and sound.”

“So you don’t get a real person?” Jayla asked.

“No,” Winston said, his jaw beginning to clench, “but Morgan Freeman does narrate the Declaration of Fun-dependence.”

“Oooh, I like him,” Anne chirped.

“But this isn’t what I wanted,” Jayla whined, turning to Harold this time. “I’ve been waiting for the other tours for weeks! I even read extra books from the library. It’s not fair!”

“I’m sorry, but Mister Winston said he can only do solo tours right now, and these are their tours,” Harold said solemnly. He glanced at Winston. “And there’s nothing else?”

Don’t do it, Winston told himself. Don’t give them an inch . . .

“What were you excited to see?” Winston asked Jayla, who pinned him with a withering stare. During university, Winston had guest lectured at local schools and faced down dozens of similar looks. Though none had ever been as venomous as Jayla’s currently was. “Maybe something with princesses? Or . . . ponies?”

“The assassination of Julius Caesar and the ascension of Emperor Augustus in the Roman Empire,” Jayla said. She smiled wickedly. “But if there’s also a pony, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Jesus,” Winston breathed. “Seriously?”

“Jayla’s a very good student,” Anne said, giving the girl a side hug.

“All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company restricts all visits to a minimal hundred-meter lethal radius, and no criminal activity,” Winston said to Harold. He shot Jayla an accusing look. “And since Julius Caesar died—”

“Can we please just go back to Janus Tours?” Jayla wheedled. “I wanted to actually learn something, not be babysat by some loser behind a desk.”

“Jayla!” Anne chided.

Something in the back of Winston’s brain snapped. Maybe it was the denial of an early closing, or the fresh sting of Janus Tours’ third rejection, but Winston wasn’t about to let this kid win. He offered the girl a cold, wide grin.

“So you wanted to see something in ancient Rome?” he asked evenly.

“Or Greece. Or Egypt,” Jayla said. “But since you don’t have anything—”

“Oh, we’ve got something.”

Winston settled himself behind the front desk’s computer screen. He closed out the solo tours—the girl was right, those were for babies—and accessed the All the Time in the World tour library. Hundreds of preplanned excursions, ready to be loaded with captain’s notes and background music. Most were basic tourist fodder: coronations, the premiere of Romeo and Juliet, and general day-in-the-life experiences that were carefully selected for minimal brutality and stink. But if you went back far enough in the catalog, there were some very interesting programs. Excursions that hadn’t been run since time-travel tourism companies realized most of history didn’t make for family fun.

“We don’t want to be any trouble . . .” Anne said.

“No trouble at all,” Winston said, clicking through the drop-down menus. Ancients, Select. Rome, Select. Battles, sea, Select. Searching, searching . . .

A program popped up, and Winston smirked. It was perfect, and it hadn’t been accessed in years. Probably because it was too niche for the common tourist, but if this kid was half as smart as she claimed . . . Winston selected the program, and crossed his fingers as the data loaded.

“We really don’t . . .” Harold said, but bit back his comment as Winston popped from his seat with a triumphant “Yes!” and a boat in the back began to hum loudly.

“How’s your Roman history?” Winston asked Jayla, meeting the girl’s glare with his own.

“Pretty good,” she said. “How’s yours?”

“About a master’s degree, and then some,” he countered.

Winston thought he saw her mouth tick up a little at the corners, but he wasn’t sure.

“So there’s a tour?” Anne asked.

“Yes, ma’am, and you’re in luck,” Winston said, motioning her toward the back. “I found an archived tour that should be very interesting. And you have it all to yourselves!”

The Niña was vibrating in its docking pool, ripples dancing up the boat’s low sides as the engine warmed. Winston unlatched the low door, the swinging metal barely missing Jayla as she leaped on board. Harold and Anne were slower, more cautious, but they, too, eventually settled on a bench in the middle row, each with an arm around the excited girl.

Winston locked the door and settled himself in the captain’s station, his program already locked in. Reina had left the boat’s starter key in the ignition. Winston twisted it as he’d seen Reina do a hundred times, and the entire vessel jerked. Anne shrieked, but transitioned to a nervous giggle as the Niña lifted into the air, a shimmering soap bubble appearing around the boat. Jayla flung herself against the rail to stare down at their hovering, and it took both Harold and Anne’s pleading to bring her back to her seat.

“Welcome aboard the Niña, All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company’s premiere vessel,” Winston said, the words washing over him from the thousands of times he’d heard Reina and other guides recite their mantras. “My name is Winston, and I’ll be your Sherpa through the sands of time! Please keep all arms, legs, and heads inside the boat. Please do not touch the security sphere, as this keeps us safe in our journeys. No smoking, no vaping, no hallucinogens, no flash photography, no attempting to change the past in any way. Any attempts to meet an ancient will earn an immediate termination of the tour and be cause for a lifelong ban. But if you want to know if you saw any family on this excursion, you can get three dollars off a Geneti-Me-Happy DNA ancestry and heritage package, included with your ticket. Now sit back, relax, and prepare to experience All the Time in the World!”

Winston made a grand show from the back of the boat, pretending to flick dials and spin the steering wheel, but the actual launch only took a single press of a round green button labeled Go. As his thumb depressed the plastic nub, the air around them sizzled hot and bright. Winston watched as electricity webbed across the sphere, turning its surface from translucent to milky white, and bam! His stomach dropped out of his body only to ricochet up through his skull and then settle back among his guts, all in the space of a second. A shriek came up from the middle of the boat, but it wasn’t of panic this time—it was pure delight.

The Niña floated above an ocean, deep blue and rolling beneath a steely sky. Straight ahead, just beyond the mandatory hundred-meter minimum, two fleets of long wooden ships with billowing sails stretched to the horizon. Bodies writhed and roiled across the decks as arrows, stones, and fire crisscrossed the space between the vessels. Shouts and screams could barely be heard above the groans of wood, bending and flexing and snapping as boats crashed and charged with little concern for human life. It was carnage. It was destruction. It was, in the eyes of any twelve-year-old or ancient history major, absolutely awesome.

“The date is September 2. The year, 31 BCE,” Winston said into the boat’s microphone, a handheld device with a permanently tangled cord. “The forces of Rome and Egypt meet on the Ionian Sea, ready to battle for supremacy over the Mediterranean world. This encounter will be forever known as—”

“The Battle of Actium!”

Jayla had once again thrown herself to the railing, her raincoat flapping wide as the winds whipped her puff of dark hair back. She looked over her shoulder, her smile a brilliant shimmer of slightly crooked teeth and unfettered glee.

“Which are Antony’s ships?” she called above the spray.

Winston pointed to the right, where red-and-gold strips of cloth hemmed a hundred sails. To their left, ships emblazoned with the eagle of Rome were bearing down.

“Antony? Like Mark Antony?” Harold asked.

“The singer?” Anne asked.

“So most of those,” Jayla said, pointing at the red-and-gold ships, “must be Cleopatra’s ships. And soon, she’ll be calling—”

“An all-out retreat!” Winston finished. “The rest of Antony’s ships will be pulverized, though Antony will make it back to Alexandria—”

“In time for their infamous joint suicide, ensuring the victory of Octavian and Rome!” Jayla beamed.

“Suicide?” Anne squeaked. “Jayla! What are you talking about?”

The girl gave the older woman a frank look.

“History,” she said.

“Now, Mister Winston,” Harold boomed, gesturing vaguely at the clashing ships. “They can’t see us, right? We’re not in any danger here?”

“Correct,” Winston said. He walked out from behind the captain’s station to stand beside the nervous couple. “The bubble around us masks us from sight, and the preprogram has carefully selected an area of ocean that is historically interference free. Nothing can get to us so long as the bubble is up.”

“Thank heavens,” Anne whimpered.

“Don’t you need to drive?” Harold asked, cautiously looking back at the captain’s chair.

“Everything’s in the program,” Winston reassured him. “We’ll have a nice viewing of the battle for about fifteen minutes, then the engine will kick us back to present day, and you’ll be back with plenty of time to catch your dinner reservations.”

And for Winston to lock up at four, but he didn’t say that aloud.

“Look!”

Like a rising flock of birds, a cloud of arrows rose from the Roman ships, peaking between the two fleets to arch down, fast and deadly, onto the Egyptians. Distant howls of pain carried to the Niña, and Egypt’s boats launched their own volleys of rocks and projectiles.

“Marcus Agrippa is leading the Roman fleet, right?” Jayla asked, barely taking her eyes from the scene.

“Yes, and it will be one of his greatest achievements,” Winston said. “I always thought it was a shame that the rest of his life was just politics and parties.”

“But he is the reason we have Rome today,” Jayla said, finally turning to face him. “He built baths and aqueducts and the first pantheon. And he was the right-hand man of Octavian. He did so much cool stuff!”

“Ahh, but when you consider his—”

“Uh, Mister Winston?”

Harold and Anne were nervously watching the captain’s station, which was beeping loudly. Winston returned to his seat to see the screen blinking an orange warning. “Recommended return: click to confirm,” flickered on and off, with seconds counting down below it.

“But time isn’t up yet,” Winston said to himself. He pushed the warning off the screen, only for another box to pop up, lined in red. “Security breach imminent. Temporal return: confirm?”

“Is there something wrong?” Anne asked.

“Everything’s fine, the program is just—”

The screen went full crimson, practically screaming in black text “CONFIRM RETURN.” His insides twisting, Winston reached out to press Go when a powerful gust of salt air roared by, and a dozen pointy shadows appeared overhead. He didn’t have time to yell as arrows pelted the top of the sphere. The translucent film flickered opaque, then clear, then opaque again, and with a whine like gears wound too tight, the sphere shuddered and collapsed. Ancient arrows, their momentum slowed, clattered to the boat’s benches and deck and, a moment later, the Niña dropped into the sea.

The issue with time-travel boats is that they are boats in name only. Sure, they float in their docking pools, but that’s just to cushion their returns to the current era. They were not designed for waves, or salt spray, or even water deeper than a few inches. And they were certainly not made to be dropped into a violent ocean battle between two ancient superpowers.

Water surged up as the Niña landed, waves splashing over the low railing to soak socks and practical footwear. Both Harold and Anne fell sideways across their bench, shouting and clawing all the way. Jayla managed to remain upright, though she’d wrapped herself around the railing so tightly her toes barely skimmed the deck. Winston bounced in his captain’s chair, which he quickly pushed himself from to begin banging on the console.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” he said to himself, his voice pitching higher with each repetition. The screen had abandoned the previous warnings, and was now flickering “Failure” over and over. He jammed his palm into the green button, rewarded by a despondent whir that died a moment after it started.

“What’s happening?” Anne cried, just as Harold yelled, “Did it break?” and Jayla shrieked from the bow, “Are we all going to die?”

“It’s fine!” Winston said, waving his free hand as the other smacked the console. “It’s fine. Fine. I just need to . . . to . . .”

“Can you reboot the program?” Harold asked, pushing himself to his feet before pulling up Anne.

“Yes! A reboot! I just need to reboot the program!”

Winston reached beneath the console and flicked a switch on its underside. There usually wasn’t any need to restart the boats while on a tour, so all the top-facing console buttons were more for show. Buzzers, lights, an oversized volume control for the speaker system. The only practical items were the Go button on top, and the On/Off button below. The latter of which now caused the entire boat to shudder, sputter, and go still.

“Hey,” Jayla said, only to yell, “Hey!” a second later. Winston looked up to follow the girl’s desperate pointing. Across the waves, at the edge of the sea battle, fingers were being pointed in their direction. Fingers, and swords, and quite a few bows.

“Can they see us now?” Jayla asked.

“Y-yes,” Winston said, his mouth suddenly gone terribly dry. “The security sphere is down. It’s-it’s somehow not working, so they can definitely see us.”

“They’re turning this way,” Anne said.

And indeed, one of the ships was changing course toward them, a full-sailed Roman vessel bristling with soldiers. The crew had pulled out oars to assist their turn, dipping and rising in tandem as they pulled away from the battle’s throng.

Winston pressed the On/Off switch again, and the console screen lit up, flashing the All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company’s logo, as well as a dancing, animated T. rex. It transitioned to a loading screen, and after a small eternity, flickered finally to a program directory.

“Mister Winston . . .” Harold said.

The ship was much closer. A row of archers lined the portside, arms and strings tensed as their bows bent toward the Niña, wave-tossed and soggy and barely able to compute.

“Get down! I mean, get back! I mean—” Winston gave up on speech and threw himself at the Mackenzies, pulling Harold and Anne to the deck between the benches. Reaching out, he hooked the collar of Jayla’s raincoat and jerked her backward, sliding her across the damp deck to land beneath the first row of seating. The back of Winston’s neck tingled, and he didn’t spare a look over his shoulder. He simply curled between the benches, trying to squeeze his most vital bits under the lip of the seating.

The arrows rained down. The last volley had been diminished by their mistaken trajectory and the security sphere, their momentum spent by the time the field collapsed and they could clatter, toothless, to the Niña’s deck. The second attack had no impediment. Iron tips clattered like hail, pings and plunks against the benches, the captain’s station, the deck. Anne had begun an inconsolable wail, and Jayla was jabbering, panicked, about the arrows and the armies and if they were all about to die.

The onslaught quieted, and Winston forced himself to be the first to stand. The Niña was peppered with fletching and wooden shafts, many standing straight up, quivering, in the now dimpled metal of the benches and deck. Jayla and Harold popped out next, the former unbattered except for an arrow shaft tangled in her cloud of dark hair. Harold was less well off, bright blood splashed on his left sleeve.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said gruffly, waving Winston off. “Just a nick. Can you reload the program?”

Winston nodded, hurrying back to the captain’s station. The approaching ship was so close now, he could catch snippets of Latin as the wind whipped around them. Jayla appeared at his elbow, and he didn’t have the heart to send her away. At least with her nearby, he could tuck her safely behind the console at the next inevitable attack.

“What are you going to do?” Jayla asked as Winston clicked and scrolled through the programs and scenarios.

“Reboot back to our starting point and try again,” Winston said, though as the words fell out of his mouth, he knew it wouldn’t work. This program was flawed. The calculated safe spot didn’t account for the wind and air-based projectiles. Jayla seemed to come to the same conclusion and pressed a little closer to the station’s cool surface.

“Can we go to another point in time?” she asked. “That’s what people do in old cartoons and stuff when they have time-travel machines.”

“These boats are designed to go out and back. They can’t hop destinations,” Winston said. “They do their fifteen minutes in time, then jump home.”

“But we can’t wait for our fifteen minutes to be up,” Jayla said. There was a pitch to her voice that made Winston want to tell her everything was going to be fine when it obviously was not. “The Romans are almost here!”

“I know,” Winston said, one hand pressed to the side of his face as the other scrolled. “I know, I kn—”

He paused, scrolled back, blinked. They couldn’t jump to a new destination, but maybe they could jump temporally while staying in the same location. Winston reopened the Battle of Actium program, and accessed its coordinates. He knew how the battle ended. He knew when Cleopatra’s, and then Antony’s, ships would turn. If he could calculate when the waters might be clear without jumping too far . . .

“When did the battle end?” Winston said, looking at Jayla.

“The date?” she asked. “The war—”

“No, the time. When did this battle stop?”

Jayla frowned, her brow scrunched as she considered. Then, like a storm dispersing before the sun, her face brightened, and she smiled.

“Antony was trying to defend the coast and his camp, so he was forced to attack first around noon to keep Octavian from spreading him too thin. They fought through the afternoon, at which point Cleopatra’s ships retreated. Antony fought as long as he could, until about nightfall, then he burnt the ships he couldn’t defend and retreated to Alexandria, leaving many men in Actium,” Jayla said.

“Right, but what time?” Winston said. “If we wait until tomorrow, we risk Octavian’s ships headed out to follow Antony. If we come back too early, the battle could still be going on.”

“Eleven at night,” Jayla said. “No, one! Just to be sure.”

Winston nodded, selecting a new time within the program. Holding his breath, he clicked Launch and turned the ignition key. One second, two, three . . . and the Niña hummed to life once more.

Everyone jerked as the boat lifted from the rolling waves, a translucent sphere of light and electricity dancing up around it, flickering spottily in some areas. Through the shimmering security field, Winston could see how close the Roman ship was, see each dirty, bronzed face as they glared and howled and raged. The archers lifted their bows. Winston didn’t waste another moment before slapping Go.

A flash of white light, a thrust down and up and center, and Winston blinked at the sudden blindness that struck him. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, and by the light of distant fires and a starry sky, he could see the remains of the battle.

Of the burned Egyptian vessels, only three were still afloat, a slow smolder of wood and resin and cloth that rose and fell on the waves. Flotsam and debris crowded the waters, and Winston hoped none of the Mackenzies looked too closely at what might be floating near them. Far off on the horizon, new fires glowed like embers, as Octavian and his men collected the abandoned soldiers of Mark Antony and captured the last rebel ships.

“Oh my, what beautiful stars!”

Anne had finally emerged from beneath the benches, unmarred, though sodden. She had her head tipped to the sky, and the others followed suit. A blanket of silver and white shimmered above them, masked occasionally by a dark cloud of smoke from the fires.

“Haven’t seen anything like that since I was a boy,” Harold said. “You miss a lot in the cities.”

Winston felt a poke in his side, and he looked down to see Jayla’s upturned face, focusing on him instead of the stars.

“Did we do it?” she asked softly, cautiously.

Winston considered the waters around them, and whispered back, “I think we did.”

“Can we go home now?”

Winston looked over at Harold and Anne, each with an arm wrapped around the other, both transfixed by the heavens.

“Let’s let this program run its course. I think they both need a minute,” Winston said.

Jayla paused for a moment, then nodded.

They all stood in the quiet of the Mediterranean while the program’s timer counted down. After fifteen minutes, the console chirped a happy tune, and the Niña flashed them back to their own era.

The time at All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company was 4:06. Surveying the wet, arrow-riddled Niña, Winston knew he wasn’t going to be headed home early today. He might not even have a job after this. With a sigh, he unlatched the door on the boat and ushered the Mackenzies back to the front of the store.

“We didn’t pay!” Anne said, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Oh goodness, we went through all that and we never actually bought the tickets. I’m so sorry. How much was it?”

The absurdity of the woman insisting on paying after nearly being killed was almost enough to make Winston laugh. Or cry. Probably a little of both.

“No, please,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Between you and me, it’s better if this one isn’t on the books. But here . . .” He rooted around the front desk until he came up with a fistful of coupons, which he shoved into Anne’s and Harold’s hands. “I promise, not all our tours are like that. Actually, none of our tours are like that. A lot more sitting and looking, and fewer murderous soldiers.”

“Well, thank you, Mister Winston,” Harold beamed. “I think we will—”

“Harold, you’re bleeding!”

“It’s fine, dear. We can fix me up at home. Look, it already stopped.”

Jayla walked over to Winston and solemnly extended a small hand. Winston shook it, feeling a little stupid somehow.

“Thanks for not taking us on a tour for babies,” Jayla said.

“Thanks for helping me out,” Winston said. “Really. We might have been—no. We would have been in a lot of trouble if not for you.”

Jayla shrugged, making the arrow in her hair bob. Winston reached to pull it out, but thought better. He pointed at his head. Jayla tapped her own, grasped the arrow, and pulled nearly a foot of wood and beaten iron from her locks. Her eyes went wide as she surveyed the weapon, but she quickly extended it to Winston.

“Keep it,” Winston said. “Just don’t tell anyone where you got it. I’d get in a lot of trouble.” If I’m not already . . .

“Thanks,” Jayla beamed, and Winston smiled back.

The Mackenzies left All the Time in the World Temporal Travel Company with a promise they would surely come again. They pulled up their hoods, despite already being drenched in seawater, and filed out into the rain, the smallest among them clutching a two-thousand-year-old arrow to her chest as if it were a teddy bear. Winston watched them go until they disappeared into their car, then locked the door and let out a very long, exhausted sigh.

Maybe teaching wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Alyssa Eckles

Alyssa Eckles writes funny birthday cards for American Greetings, and speculative fiction in her spare time. Her work has appeared in DreamForge, Shoreline of Infinity, and several anthologies. When she’s not writing, Alyssa likes running, grabbing a bowl of pho, or planning elaborate vacations she'll never take. She lives in Cleveland, Ohio with too many books and her cats, Libel and Poe.

Website: www.alyssaeckles.com

Twitter: @alyssaeckles

Email: Alyssa.eckles@gmail.com

10,000 Words

I WIPED BEADS of sweat from my brow with my handkerchief. Bringing the oddly thick square of material closer to my eyes, I squinted at it. Only a narrow shaft of daylight reached me where I lay sprawled on a flat board propped up by casters underneath the carriage. Oilcloth, not handkerchief. Nicely done, Rae. My sigh turned into a giggle as I returned the cloth to my back pocket. Where’s the harm in one more smudge?

Angling my screwdriver back into place, I removed the last screw holding the water tank on. I grunted as its full weight collided against my chest. Still plenty of water, and its connection to the heating element was fastened. Why wouldn’t the engine start? I gave the valve a tug. Stuck. Wincing, I rummaged through my tool basket for my tube of lubricating grease. Always look for the most obvious explanation first. How Daddy would have laughed at me for such a novice mistake.

If only he were here to help me.

Clenching my jaw, I unscrewed the cap from the tube and squeezed a drop of grease onto the edge of the valve. After massaging it in, I jiggled the valve again. Much better. I replaced the grease and gripped my screwdriver, holding the water tank in place until each attachment was secure.

Time to attempt another trial run.

The midday sun made me blink as I scooted out from beneath the carriage. I gathered all my tools into my basket and placed it on the front stoop. Please let this work. I vaulted into the coachman’s seat and pushed the dark hair escaping from my ponytail behind my ears. With a deep inhale, I yanked the lever into the on position and hovered my foot over the pedal. If the stuck valve was the only problem, the heating element should be warming the water, then—The carriage let out a sputter and jerked forward. My jubilant laugh echoed down the cobblestone street.

It worked. It actually worked! Mother, Dianthe, and Herra would be the only ones in a steam-powered carriage on their way to the ball tonight. What a grand entrance they would make. And how many more townsfolk would start taking me seriously as a mechanic. Maybe enough that I could finally open my own shop.

After a quick jaunt around the nearest cluster of houses, I drove the carriage back into our large barn. The three different speed settings worked, as did the brakes and steering. I would help Dagen, our coachman, drive it to the palace, then wander the gardens until my stepmother and stepsisters had enough of the stuffy ballroom and throngs of people. I heaved the barn door closed and secured the latch.

They’d be home soon, and I wanted to save my success as a surprise for the ball.

“Do try to hurry, Dianthe!” Mother called from the foot of the winding staircase, her fingernails clicking on the black steel railing. She paced back to where Herra and I lounged in the sitting room. “Her poor maid never knows what to do with those curls.”

Herra poked at the mass of braids and curls adorning her own head. “Oh, Raella, how can you bear to miss the ball? The palace will be spectacular, and to lose the chance to dance with Prince Hendrick . . .”

Surrounded by people, not knowing how to act or what to say. Just another opportunity to be an embarrassment to Mother . “I confess I would enjoy a look at the inner workings of the palace, but ideally under quieter circumstances.”

Mother coughed. “I wouldn’t count on a private audience any time soon, Raella.”

The clock on the mantel chimed, the central gear rotating a set of six smaller gears until they formed an image of a seven-pointed star. My favorite of my father’s creations.

Mother tapped her accordioned fan on the back of my chair. “Ah, here’s your sister.”

Dianthe strutted down the stairs, her wild blond curls tamed into an elaborate braid interspersed with an occasional fabric rose. A black jacket with puffed sleeves was draped over her scarlet corseted bodice and ruffled skirt.

Herra squealed and jumped up from the settee. “What a pair we’ll be! Prince Hendrick is bound to notice.” Her ensemble was formed in a similar style, but her dress was silver, her jacket a deep blue with buttons down to her elbows.

“Indeed.” Mother strode forward. “But I’m afraid that entrance will be late unless we get going.”

I rubbed my sweaty palms against my cropped pants. Time for the big reveal. “Of course. The carriage is all ready for you out front.” The moment they’d sequestered themselves to get ready for the ball, I’d given Dagen a quick lesson, then driven the carriage out just beyond the porch and polished off the layers of dust.

I led the way out the door, pressing my lips together to hide my grin.

“But where’s the horse?” Mother placed her hands on her hips. “Dagen, what is the meaning of this?”

He winked at me from his perch on the driver’s seat. “It seems we don’t need Dolly anymore.” The top of his balding head almost disappeared beneath the layer of fringe dangling from the front canopy.

Mother huffed. “Of all the idiotic—”

“It’s true.” I rushed ahead of them to Dagen’s side. “You asked me to fix the carriage, and I added . . . well, an enhancement. The carriage drives itself now.” My grin finally escaped my attempts to subdue it. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“And a surprise it is. Quite an accomplishment, Raella.” Mother’s expression was more sour than ever.

“You mean it has an engine?” Dianthe squinted into the dim light cast by the nearest streetlamp.

“Yes, precisely. Once I pull this lever, the heating element will—”

“But think of all that horrid steam.” Dianthe wrinkled her nose. “Mother, we cannot attend the ball in such a contraption. No one will want to come within miles of us.”

“Perhaps they’ll think it’s interesting.” Herra gave me a half smile.

“It will be the only one, at least for this ball.” I placed my hand on the twisted metal of the tall front wheel. “But after everyone’s seen it, by the next event I’m sure dozens will—”

“That’s enough, Raella.” Mother had walked to the far side of the carriage, now she rounded it to face us. “Of course you’re proud of your invention, but we can’t possibly consider driving it to Prince Hendrick’s ball. What if it breaks down on the way, or starts a fire that ruins other carriages? No, Dagen will hitch up Dolly this instant, and we’ll be on our way. I presume it still functions as a horse-drawn carriage?”

I dragged the toe of my boot across the dirt. “Not exactly. I’m still trying to sort out . . .”

Dianthe whimpered.

Mother’s exaggerated sigh could have emanated from a steamship. “Then we’ll go on the cart. Dagen, I want it ready in five minutes.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” He shot me a sympathetic glance as he scurried to the barn.

“Girls, let’s return to the house before our dresses get covered in dirt.” Mother stalked past me up the porch stairs.

Herra lifted her skirt, the buckles of her knee-high boots glinting in the moonlight. “I thought it was a neat idea.” Her voice barely reached me as she shuffled by.

Dianthe’s stiff posture mimicked Mother’s. “When will you learn your tinkering is a useless, unladylike waste of time?”

I glanced up from where I’d crumpled onto the front porch. The cart was no longer in sight, only a trail of dust left in its wake. My hands returned to my face. How had I fooled myself into thinking they’d understand this time? That they might even appreciate my efforts? A stream of tears escaped between my fingers, and I didn’t bother to stop them. No one was here to see.

A point of pink light flickered, followed by a buzz. I swiped my sleeve across my eyes. Farther in the distance, a green twinkle of light hovered in the air. I might have guessed the fairies would be out the night of a ball, but why so far from the palace? The tiny creatures attended to the queen and other noblewomen, but no one of such rank lived this far from the center of town.

I pushed off from the porch’s splintering wood and stretched my legs. Might as well return the carriage to the barn for the night. A yellow light blinked to my right, then pale blue to my left. How many fairies were here? Maybe they weren’t allowed in the palace during events as grand as Prince Hendrick’s ball. Shaking my head, I started for the carriage.

A woman clad in shimmering white materialized before me.

I lurched back with a screech. “Who are you? And how—?”

“My apologies; I suppose that was a bit startling.” Her voice had the resonance of a bell, vibrant and commanding. “They told me you were on the porch, but, well, I guess now you’re not.”

“I was just . . .” Wait. I didn’t owe any explanations to this bizarre apparition. “What is your purpose here?”

“Ah, a practical girl. Well, I might as well share the good news right at the start. You’ve been chosen to attend the ball.”

“Excuse me?”

More tiny lights glimmered around her shoulders, appearing and disappearing so quickly I couldn’t keep track of them all. The buzzing in the air grew to a hum. “I am Louvaine, mistress of fairies, and if you must know, I have come under a bit of criticism lately. Something about magic misuse. It’s all nonsense, of course, but I thought Prince Hendrick’s ball was the ideal opportunity to clear my name with a good deed. So, I sent out my fairies. ‘Ladies,’ I told them, ‘Find a girl who’s miserable about not going to the ball. One with the potential to be a true belle.’ And of all the crying girls in town, they chose you. We’ll get you looking like a princess, and to the ball you shall go!”

This cannot be happening . “That is very kind of you, but I have no desire to go to the ball. My crying was about something else.”

“Nonsense. You’re a young, pretty girl”—she stepped back to appraise my attire—“who only needs some assistance with her wardrobe to be presentable. The perfect recipient of our help.”

“No, I mean it. I’m sure another one of the crying girls would be much more appreciative of such an opportunity.”

She released a weary sigh. “I know your kind, dear girl. The martyrs who never want anything for themselves, who claim they don’t mind slaving their lives away without any frivolity, then cry about it in secret. You will go to the ball, and you will look spectacular. Ladies.” She snapped her fingers, and every light blinked on in a dizzying assortment of colors. “Escort Miss—”

Her brows raised expectantly.

“Raella.”

“Escort Miss Raella inside, get her bathed, if necessary, and into one of your finest gowns.” She pointed toward the house, and the fairies swarmed like a colony of tunnel bees. “And do something about that hair!”

My feet rooted to the ground as I squinted against the roiling lights. Had I fallen asleep while sitting on the porch? Or had my loneliness since Daddy’s death finally driven me mad?

Gentle pressure on my back inched me forward. Whether dream or reality, apparently it was time for me to get dressed.

I sat, transfixed, as the tiny fairies swirled around my head, twisting my hair this way and that. Up close, each was about the size of a large dragonfly. Only in rare moments of stillness were their faces and figures discernible. The so-called mistress of fairies had yet to make a reappearance.

“So, your mistress—she gives you orders but doesn’t stay to help?” I didn’t know if the fairies were capable of speech, but any sound other than the humming of their wings was a welcome change.

Several paused long enough to bow at the waist. Comparable to a nod, perhaps?

“That doesn’t seem fair. Do you like working for her? Do you even have a choice?”

The buzz in the air seemed to reach a higher pitch. Not one fairy bowed.

“I see.” If the faster movements indicated fear, I’d best not proceed with that line of inquiry. “Has she always been the mistress of fairies?”

Lights whizzed before my face in a muddle of color. Had I angered them?

“Please, I’m sorry. I’ll stop—”

The lights converged into the silhouette of a woman, much shorter and plumper than their current mistress, and with a more kindly air.

At some point my mouth had fallen open. I clamped my jaw shut as the image dispersed. “Then she—she was your prior mistress?”

A few more bows as they resumed work on my hair. Maybe this other woman had been nicer to them. How does one become the mistress of fairies, anyway?

Tugs at my elbows coaxed me to rise from my chair. Streaks of light flitted toward the vanity mirror. I turned and caught my reflection, ducking my head so the painted gears in the upper corners didn’t obscure my view. “It’s beautiful.” My dark hair cascaded over one shoulder in a mass of perfect curls. Was all that hair even mine? I bent to look closer, but pressure on my shoulders kept me upright.

“I’ll admire it later, then. What’s next?” Currently, I stood in my underclothes. The mistress of fairies had said something about a dress, but no such garment had entered the house with us. I mentally sifted through the few frocks hanging in my closet. Nothing half as expensive or stylish as what Dianthe and Herra had worn.

I’d become so used to the fairies’ movements, I hadn’t noticed they’d begun spiraling around my neck. Glancing at the mirror again, my breath hitched in my throat. Glossy pink fabric was now draped over my shoulders, dipping slightly in the center of my chest. Not the color I would have chosen, but it somehow softened the sharp angles of my face and the hard lines of my lips. I had assumed the “belle” comment was meant to be a joke, but now . . .

Something tapped my upper arms. “Oh, sorry. I suppose you need to get under there.” I cautiously raised my arms, and a group of fairies began a new circle around my rib cage.

They hadn’t brought a dress because they were creating one just for me, faster than a dozen skilled seamstresses.

“Couldn’t I just wear boots like everyone else?” The shining heeled shoes the fairies had materialized around my feet cramped my toes.

“Everyone else. Pah! Looking like everyone else is hardly the way to catch a prince’s eye.” The mistress of fairies, who had apparently been outside twiddling her thumbs during our preparations, was giving me her assessment.

She made a rotating motion with her hand, and I twirled yet again. The tiers of my skirt rippled around my waist, draped into elegant gathers punctuated with pearly buttons. Thankfully, the skirt flared wide enough to hide the handful of tools I’d strapped to my leg in case the carriage needed repairs en route.

“Yes, this will do quite nicely. Well done, ladies.” She nodded to the cluster of fairies hovering at my side. “Now, for transportation . . .”

“That I have covered.” At least I’d get to show off my motorized carriage after all. Good thing I never had a chance to put it away. I hurried to it as fast as my uncomfortable shoes and layers of skirts would allow.

Her nose puckered. “But you’ve no horse or groomsman.”

“It drives by itself.” I couldn’t let her take the conversation in the same direction as my stepmother and stepsisters. “And I really should be going if I want an opportunity to dance. But—” I looked to the sweet little fairies. Can I help them in some way? Maybe I could find out more from a smaller group separated from their mistress. “Could I bring a few fairies along with me? Enough to fix my hair if it goes awry? I’m not sure I could do it myself. Six or eight, perhaps?”

Louvaine clicked her tongue. “Considering the state of your hair when we found you, I can well believe that.” A snap of her fingers brought eight fairies to her side. “But they must travel inside the carriage. I don’t want anyone claiming I play favorites.” She addressed the fairies as they whisked through the carriage window. “I shall return to my chamber at midnight. I expect to see you there.”

With a set of bows, they disappeared into the carriage. Time to go, before she changes her mind. I pulled a lever, and the carriage rumbled to life.

Louvaine coughed her distaste before vanishing into the night air.

“How does she do that?” My question went unanswered as the carriage hurtled us forward.

Halfway to the palace, we reached a sparse neighborhood whose streetlamp had burned out. Only a few lights glimmered from beneath the sloping roofs and turreted chimneys of the houses. Perfect. I slowed the carriage to its lowest setting, then eased it to a stop at the side of the road. Keeping my movements slow, I swiveled the door’s curved handle and climbed into the section for passengers.

The fairies flickered around me. “Sorry for the delay, friends. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions before we arrive.”

The lights collected in front of me.

“Thank you. Can you tell me any more about your mistress? Is she kind to you?”

Not a single bow. Presumably no to the second question, then. Their lights formed a tall, stately woman with something radiating from her. I’d barely registered the image when it was replaced by what appeared to be drooping fairies.

“I’m not sure I understand. She’s gained power from you? Your lives weren’t always like this?”

The pictures came faster now. A thriving hillside garden. A set of people lying on beds. Elaborate carvings on a tree. Drops of water swirling on a pond surface.

I blinked, my head spinning. “Wait, please, slow down. These are all things you used to do?”

Their frantic movements stilled, and as a unit, they bent at the waist.

“But now . . .”

They formed an image of a woman in a dress curling her hair.

“So, fairies like to do lots of things, like gardening, and art, and healing. But your mistress forces you all to attend to noblewomen instead?”

Two brave fairies bowed emphatically, the others turned away.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to get you into trouble. I won’t breathe a word of this to your mistress. I just want to help. How—how does she control you?”

A faceted green stone gleamed before me.

Power over all the fairies contained in a fancy gem. Typical, but rather absurd. “Do you know where she keeps it?”

Their lights blazed into a replica of the palace, high battlements and all. Then a room with windows on two sides, looking out on a garden from a high vantage point.

“Hmm. That’s where she lives?”

The same two brave fairies bowed.

“And what happened to your former mistress?”

The nearest fairy frowned before joining the formation. A downcast woman with bindings around her wrists being led through trees. A log cabin, then a path with a mossy rock.

Trapped somewhere in the forest?

My mind spun with all their revelations. I closed my eyes for two breaths. “I suppose we’d best be going, but thank you for sharing so much information. I’ll see what I can do to help.” I tugged at the lace cuff of my gown as guilt nagged my chest. “And I’m sorry you had to get me all gussied up for the ball.”

A series of fluttering wings brushed against my cheeks.

My pursed lips relaxed into a smile. I said I would help, and I at least had to try.

I joggled the extra brake into place, then stretched my tense fingers. Driving that far, in an impractical dress and slippers, had been much more challenging than my little jaunt around the block. But we’d made it. The castle stretched high above, small gas lamps illuminating each of the hundred or so windows. Such a feat must have taken the servants all day. Not the most economical use of their time, but the effect was quite pretty. I glanced toward the grand staircase leading to the ornately carved front doors. Did I have to go to the dance? Or could I spend the time searching for the mistress of fairies’ chambers instead?

I poked my head into the back portion of the carriage. “You’re all welcome to roam the gardens. I’ll look for you there if I need you.” Each light winked and floated out the far window. I waved, chuckling. “Goodbye.”

Now, to find a back entrance and sneak in . Perhaps I should follow them to the gardens, then—

A low whistle interrupted my thoughts. I spun around. A man in a collared shirt and striped vest approached.

“Is this the carriage I just saw driving by itself? Does it belong to you?”

I swallowed. So much for sneaking in. “Yes, it belongs to me. And yes, it drives by itself.”

“Remarkable. Does it run on a steam engine?”

“A variation. To work in such a confined space, the heating element had to be adapted to a smaller scale. And the pistons have a limited range of movement, which greatly reduces the power.”

“Carriages never were built for speed.”

“True. Though it would be such fun if it could tear through the streets like a locomotive.” What a thrill, to talk with someone who could appreciate the efforts that had gone into my creation. I stepped closer, to where he was illuminated by a shaft of light from the palace. His black hair was cropped close, revealing a strong forehead and eyes a deep brown. Even more thrilling when that someone happened to be quite handsome. “If the ratios were tweaked just right, perhaps someday—”

He blinked and cleared his throat. “My apologies, miss. You’re clearly dressed for a ball, not discussing the workings of engines. I’ll not detain you, but is your coachman about? I’d be very interested to hear more.”

“I-I’m afraid I don’t know where my coachman has gotten to.” The bird soaring in my chest plunged. If I said too much about my own involvement with the engine, would the admiration in his gaze fade? “But I don’t mind telling you more about it, truly. I’m not much of a dancer.”

“I somehow doubt that.” His gaze lingered on my face, then he squared his shoulders. “I suppose you were drawn here with hopes of winning Prince Hendrick’s hand, then. Which would still require your presence in the ballroom, whether or not you intend to dance. Lovely as you are, he won’t be able to choose you as his bride if he doesn’t see you.”

Warmth crawled up my neck. “I haven’t the least desire to marry Prince Hendrick.”

His eyes widened.

“Meaning no offense, of course. I’m sure he’s very handsome and has impeccable manners. And probably is an excellent dancer.” Off I went, babbling again. Good thing Mother isn’t here. I pressed my knuckles to my forehead. “What I mean to say is that no matter how charming the prince may be, I have no wish to be a princess. I was only brought here through . . . heavy persuasion.”

“I see.” He studied me, his head tilted. “You are certainly an unusual maiden, Miss . . .”

“Call me Rae.” I much preferred the nickname my father had bestowed upon me, but Mother didn’t approve of such informality.

“And you may call me Tad.” He shifted his feet. “If you truly don’t mind staying out here a bit longer . . . may I take a look?”

“Certainly.” We both stepped up to the carriage. Bending to see underneath, I explained the workings of each stage of the engine.

He grasped the carriage window for support to stand, then offered his hand to help me rise. Tingles interlaced with the sweat lining my palm.

“How is it you came to know so much about machinery, Miss Rae?”

My inhale came in unsteady bursts. I’d hardly spoken about Daddy in years. “My father was part of a team that manufactured and repaired engines for steamships. And he loved to invent. I spent many happy hours at his side in our workshop.” The only person who ever really understood me. “Somehow I always had more of a knack for machinery than for music and sewing.”

He squeezed my fingers. “He doesn’t invent anymore?”

“He passed away six years ago, when I was twelve.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He bit his lip, looking back to the carriage. “But I’m sure he would be very proud of you. This . . . you’re the one who created it, aren’t you?”

I nodded, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you for taking an interest. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to share it with someone knowledgeable about mechanics. Not everyone is so appreciative.”

“I know what you mean.” He drew closer and ran his free hand through his hair. “Rae, I—”

The glowing clock on the highest castle tower chimed. I jumped and glanced up. Already ten o’clock.

Tad stepped back and released my hand. “I’ve kept you far too long; I’m so sorry. I wasn’t planning to return to the dance, but now I think I will, if you’ll join me.”

His shy smile made my heart whir like a racing locomotive. Maybe I could make time for a few dances before embarking on my search.

The sights and smells of the ballroom pressed in on me in a nauseating blend. Gas lamps, silver platters, gowns of every color, appetizers, colognes. But dancing in Tad’s arms almost made me enjoy the activity. His soap had a woodsy scent, and he held me as though I were precious, cherished. The brighter lights revealed an endearing set of freckles dotting his nose and golden flecks in his eyes. I returned his smile, my heart fluttering as fast as the fairies’ wings. Most men made me feel small, overlooked—this one made me grin like a half-wit.

My foot collided with the toe of Tad’s boot.

He grasped my waist, holding me upright. “Steady there.”

“I’m so sorry.” Heat inflamed my cheeks. “I told you I’m not much of a dancer.”

“You’re welcome to step on my toes all night. I promise I won’t complain.” He tweaked my chin, his gaze darting to my lips. Easing his grip on my waist, he winked. “Learning your way around a toolbox was a much better use of your time.”

The music ended, and I bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you. I—”

“You’ll dance at least one more with me, won’t you?” He circled his thumb and fingers around my wrist and leaned close to my ear. “After all, how else can I protect the feet of the other gentlemen in the room?”

I sent him a glare, then turned on my heel.

His chuckle vibrated through me as he pulled me close once more, launching into the steps of the next dance. “Please forgive me.” The mischievous glint in his eyes softened. “I’d just rather have you stomping on my toes than to dance flawlessly with anyone else.”

I couldn’t seem to get enough air. Blasted corset. Could he truly want to dance with me all night? Because of my interest in mechanics, rather than in spite of it? My heart tripped in the midst of its jig. No matter how perfect this man was, I still had to find Louvaine’s room and escape with that stone before midnight.

“You said your father passed away.” Tad gripped my hand tighter. “What of your mother? Do you have any siblings?”

“My mother died when I was a child, before I really knew her.”

He winced.

“It’s all right. You didn’t know. And I still have family. I live with my stepmother and her two daughters.” I fought to keep my expression serene.

“I see. Then I hope I get to meet them.”

“I-I haven’t seen them since we came inside.” I bit my lip and glanced around the room. Where were Dianthe and Herra? Would they even recognize me in such attire? A silver dress reflected in the candlelight closer to the instrumentalists. Herra smiled at her tall dance partner, her cheeks pink. At least she was enjoying herself. Knowing Dianthe, she hovered somewhere near Prince Hendrick.

“Perhaps later, then.”

“Mmm.” Time to change the subject. “Tell me about your family.”

Tad coughed. “I’m fortunate to have a loving father and mother, plus a brother and two sisters. But I’m not sure—”

The song ended, but he didn’t release my hand.

“Rae, I don’t know if—”

A pretty redhead tapped his shoulder. “Didn’t you promise me a dance tonight? It is my first ball.”

“Carissa. You’re right, I did.” He turned to me. “Rae, this is Carissa. The younger sister of a good friend of mine.” He stepped closer to my side. “But I’m sure you’ll find plenty of eager partners, Carissa, and I was hoping Rae would—”

“No, I don’t mind.” An unwelcome but necessary disruption. “I assure you, I haven’t the stamina to dance the entire night away. And I’d hate to see you break a promise.” I relinquished his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Carissa.”

“If you’re sure . . .” Tad’s brows lowered as he glanced between us. “I’ll find you soon, Rae.”

I could lose myself so easily in those eyes. Blinking, I moved away as the new song began. Picking my way to the edge of the dancers, I scanned for an alternative exit from the ballroom. Perhaps the door beyond the beverage table . . .

The mistress of fairies stood on the far edge of the dance floor, her eyes narrowed as she watched the twirling couples. I shivered.

“Excuse me, miss.”

I willed myself not to jump. Another gentleman wanted to dance with me? Those fairies really did work magic. I took my time raising my head, preparing my response.

Prince Hendrick smiled down at me. “May I have this dance?”

My glassy heels clicked through the marble hall like hoofbeats on pavement. I might as well have shouted, “Hello, guards! I’m wandering around where I’m not supposed to be!” With a sigh, I pried the slippers from my feet and draped them over my fingers. Much better.

My time with Prince Hendrick had been more pleasant than I’d anticipated, but thankfully his obligation to meet as many young ladies as possible caused him to move on after one dance. He’d seemed oddly interested in getting to know me, but with none of Tad’s playful flirtation. Heat skittered up my neck. Was Tad looking for me? If only we could have danced once more . . .

No . I’d managed to slip from the ballroom unseen, now I needed to see this mission through.

The lights from the front window display made navigation simple but secrecy impossible. Each set of tasseled, velvet curtains were draped open, gathered in dark metal loops to allow the gas lamp tucked into each window ledge to shine through. If I were spotted, the only place to hide would be to duck into a room. I surveyed the pristine white doors lining the back side of the hall, each painted with a distinct pattern of intertwining leaves. Probably all locked. I slunk farther from the lanterns and quickened my pace. If questioned, I’d have to feign stupidity. I strayed a bit from the ball and got lost. My exhale blew a curl from my cheek. Extreme stupidity.

My pulse thundered faster in my ears as I neared the end of the hall. Crouching at the front window, I peeked out to regain my bearings. Third story, eastern wing, facing the gardens. The adjacent door ought to lead to Louvaine’s room if I’d interpreted the fairies’ picture correctly. I knocked and listened at the door. Silence. My sweaty fingers slipped as I tried the door handle. Even after a few more attempts, it wouldn’t budge.

Stooping, I raised my skirt just high enough to reach my tools. I removed the utility knife and the smallest screwdriver and set to work.

I jiggled the handle. The bolt had moved, but not enough. If only I had something smaller . . . A constant prick throbbed at the back of my head. Of course. I dug through my curls until a hairpin came loose. More useful than I thought. My throat tightened at the final click of the lock shifting.

Was that it? Or did her chamber have additional protections?

Easing the door open, I slipped inside. A turned-down gas lamp bathed the room in a yellow glow. Perfumes, lipsticks, and powder containers lined the vanity. A half-dozen top hats decorated with feathers, beads, and tulle adorned an engraved metal hat rack. Elaborate lace edged the smooth white bedspread. Rows of shoes, several made from the same iridescent material as the ones I’d set near the door, peeked out from the bottom of the closet. It appeared I really had found Louvaine’s chamber.

But how did this green stone work? Would she hide it or display it? I peered above and below dressers and shelves, lifted the corners of the drapes and the bed skirt. I squinted at the pocket watch I’d clipped to the waistline of my dress. Eleven thirty. My fingers trembled as I tucked the watch back into the folds of my skirt. She’d told the fairies she would arrive at midnight, but might she return sooner? I let my head fall back and my eyes drift closed. Think, Rae. Think. I pictured the stone again—thin and rectangular, like a large jewel. Darting to the dresser, I began sifting through the drawers, trying to disturb the contents as little as possible. I shut the top drawer with a huff. Still nothing. My gaze landed on a large jewelry box just above, studded with gold filigree and glimmering pearls. I wonder . . .

Rising to my toes, I lifted the lid. Green sparkled from the stone within, creating a light of its own. Thank you. I removed my handkerchief and gingerly used it to lift the jewel. For all I knew, tampering with such a magical object could cause burn or paralysis. After clicking the jewelry box lid back into place, I folded the stone more carefully into my handkerchief. Biting my lip, I stared at the package in my hands, still emitting a slight glow. I could hardly walk down the halls and out the front entrance with such evident contraband.

Failing to find any kind of pocket amid my voluminous skirts, I loosened the band around my leg and tucked the wrapped stone within. I surveyed the room one last time. No obvious signs of trespassing. I grabbed my shoes, closed the door behind me, and reset the lock before taking off down the hall. Almost there.

Either luck was smiling on me, or the guards had all been employed to keep an eye on the ball. I made it back down the stairs without encountering a soul. Hopefully, most of the partygoers hadn’t run out of energy yet, and I could slip home unnoticed. I considered putting my shoes back on as I neared the ballroom. My feet shuddered in protest. Nah, easier to tiptoe through the hall without them.

A cool breeze wafted past. I slowed my pace as the front doors came into view, wide open to the night air. Pasting on a smile, I nodded to the guards on either side. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

They each bowed in response. I glided down the stairs, suddenly less perturbed by my tight bodice and heavy skirts. I did it! I actually—

The clock in the bell tower chimed. Swirls of light streaked through the sky, all bolting through the open door. I blinked at the array of colors as panic surged through my veins. Midnight. Louvaine could discover the missing stone at any moment if she hadn’t already. I clutched my skirts to break into a run, but a hand caught my elbow.

“Rae?”

Oh, no. Not now.

“It is you. I looked for your carriage and saw it was still here. I was so hoping to speak with you again.” Tad rounded to face me, then bent to peer into my eyes. “Is everything all right? You disappeared from the ball so quickly.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just prefer fresh air. But I really—”

“That’s a relief.” He ran his fingers down my arm and grasped my hand. “But if anything has upset you, if I said anything amiss, or Prince Hendrick . . . please allow me a chance to make it right.” His thumb traced my palm, sending shivers up to my shoulder.

“No, truly. Everything was perfect.” I dared a glance at his face. Those earnest eyes were so near, those full lips . . .

The bell chimed again, rousing my senses like an alarm clock.

I wrenched my hand from his grasp. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could explain, but I really must go.”

He looked to his now free hand, then back to me. “Can I at least—?”

Voices rose to a swell behind us as people exited the ballroom. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be stuck in a throng of carriages the entire way home.

“Goodbye, Tad.” I raced down the remaining stairs, forcing myself not to look back. A stone cut into my foot, throwing me off balance. One of my slippers dropped from my fingers. I paused, then kept running.

My feet were eager to switch back to boots anyway.

Daylight, at last. I peeled off my covers, dressed in the white shirt and cropped tan pants I’d worn to bed. The drive home the prior evening had been blissfully uneventful, and I’d managed to sneak into my chamber before Mother, Dianthe, and Herra returned. Hopefully, they weren’t aware I’d ever left.

The green stone caught my eye as I crossed the room to grab my jacket. Even buried in a blanket, it radiated energy. Shivering, I scooped up the blanket and stuffed it into my satchel. I stopped in the kitchen for an apple and a hunk of bread. In this anxious state, I doubted my stomach could handle anything more substantial.

I surveyed the dim street before slipping out the door. Could Louvaine’s search have brought her close yet? I would have preferred to locate the deposed mistress of fairies last night, but the hunt for her remote cottage prison would be challenging enough during the day, impossible under cover of darkness.

I darted across the road to where I’d stowed the motorized carriage behind the barn. Hoisting myself into the driver’s seat, I rubbed my eyes. Hopefully, I could drive safely on only a few hours’ rest. At least the primary obstacles on this route would be trees, not carriages drawn by unpredictable horses.

The path leading into the thick tree cover at the edge of town opened before me like a gateway to the underworld. Only an occasional ray of sparse daylight penetrated the deep shadows. Stop it, Rae. You’ve never been scared of this forest before. The carriage plunged through the trees, bouncing across the dirt until my teeth chattered. Once I’d wound along several curves and could no longer see the forest entrance, I slowed to the lowest speed. No use breaking the carriage—or myself—when there was no sign of pursuit. Was it possible Louvaine hadn’t noticed the stone’s absence yet? Or were there others she suspected might steal it?

A plump squirrel darted into view. I jumped, nearly wrenching one of the carriage’s levers out of place. Several deep breaths did little to slow my rocketing heart rate. If only I knew more about fairy magic, to have some sense of the danger I’d placed myself in. I pictured the fairies’ delicate faces, the way their wings had brushed against my cheek like a kiss from a shy child.

Whatever the danger, I was doing the right thing.

Farther into the tangles of reaching branches and twisted undergrowth, I spotted a mossy rock. My breath hitched in my throat, and I yanked the carriage to a stop. Almost square, with a dip in the middle and one copper corner adding variation to the gray. The rock from the fairies’ picture. No amount of swallowing could settle my heart back in my chest. I checked the carriage’s extra brake, then hopped down. The former mistress of fairies wasn’t likely to be held captive right along the main path.

I wandered amid the thicker trees, each rustle in the underbrush swiveling my head like a pendulum. More sunlight streamed between the leaves, and my feet grew itchy with sweat. I clutched my satchel tighter and wiggled my toes in my boots. How much longer should I search before concluding I’d chosen the wrong section of the forest?

A whiff of smoke made my nose wrinkle. I squinted, scanning for a trace of gray in the air. Either I was about to get caught in a forest fire, or I was nearing the cabin. I prayed for the latter.

A chimney peeked out from among the trees, and I broke into a run. At the clearing, I pressed a fist to my mouth to cover my squeal. The very cottage the fairies had shown me—knotted logs, rickety porch, and all. After picking my way up the sturdiest-looking portions of the front stoop, I rapped at the door. What if she couldn’t get to the door? What if she wasn’t even alive? I gritted my teeth to contain my shudder. A ghost couldn’t light her own fire.

Just as I raised my fist to rap again, the door swung open.

“Hello?” I blinked as I strode forward, willing my eyes to adjust to the cottage’s dark interior. “Please forgive the intrusion. But I’ve come to help.”

“How very kind of you.”

“I . . .” My words died in my throat as the mistress of fairies—the current mistress of fairies—stepped into view. “What are you doing here?” My voice hovered at a whisper, as though I could still keep my mission a secret.

“I might ask you the same question.” She slammed the door behind me.

“But you—you live at the palace.”

“So I do. I trust you know the very chamber.” Louvaine adjusted her beaded top hat, as though we were chatting about the weather over tea. “But a very important item of mine went missing last night. And while I couldn’t imagine who might’ve stolen it, I had a very good guess where they might take it.” Raising her eyes to me, she tilted her head. “I was so proud of you at the ball, gliding across the floor in the arms of the prince. But it seems my fairies made a poor choice after all, ungrateful girl. Did they put you up to this?”

“No, but—” I craned my neck to see around her. There, tied to a chair in the corner of the room, sat the fairies’ deposed mistress. Her clothes shabby, her face wrinkled and worn, but still sitting tall. I ran to her and knelt by her side. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to cause you any trouble. I only wanted to help.”

She leaned close to my ear. “You must call to them.” Her gaze angled to my pack.

“Call to them?”

“Now. Hurry.” She raised her voice. “Could it be you’ve made so many enemies you can’t even predict which will strike, Louvaine?”

“Not a word from you.” Louvaine marched over to us and kicked her predecessor’s bound feet.

Their argument rose in volume. I had to make use of the distraction, but how did the stone operate? Unwrapping it would be too obvious, and I hadn’t observed a single button or switch. I buried my face in my satchel. “Come to me, fairies. Please. Come save your former mistress.”

“Up.” A tug on my shoulder wrenched me to standing. “I wouldn’t bother befriending old Hattie, here, since her life won’t extend much longer. In fact, you’ll be the one to end it.”

“Me?” I stepped back until the wall blocked my retreat. “Why do you need me, when you could’ve already taken care of it yourself?”

“A curse of the fairy magic.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “If I were to kill a mistress of fairies, the fairy magic would refuse to respond to me. Otherwise I would’ve ended her ages ago.” She heaved a sigh. “Instead, I had to fake her death, remove her from the palace, and care for her myself.”

I edged toward the door. “I have no intention of hurting her, and you can’t force me.”

“I doubt I’ll need to.” Louvaine pulled a dagger from a sheath hidden in the folds of her layered skirt.

“If you kill me, I’ll be no use to you.” I willed my wobbly legs to keep moving.

She traced a finger along the blade. “Many persuasive tactics wouldn’t render you incapable of performing my task.”

I gulped. Please let her be bluffing.

“Besides, all you need to do is serve her a cup of tea and help her drink. Nothing the least bit gruesome about that.” Louvaine crossed to a pot strung over the hearth and raised a ladle of frothy liquid. Poison?

I raced to the door and tugged at the handle. Nothing. My mind galloped liked the pistons of a steamship. No lock, no barrier. How did it open?

My nemesis laughed and selected a teacup from the cupboard. “Just how simple do you think I am? Dear Hattie could’ve escaped years ago if one could merely open the door.”

One of my remaining hairpins could pick a lock if I could find a lock to use it on. I mentally reviewed the tools in my satchel. Could I remove the hinges? Or was it held shut by some form of magic?

“Time to stop playing around.” A knife tip poked at my back. “Hattie needs her tea.”

My shoulders drooped. I’m so sorry Hattie. Fairies. I’ve failed you completely.

Louvaine led me to the hearth and placed a steaming cup in my hand. “See? Nothing worth all this fuss. It will be over in a moment.”

Not if I stall. I bit down the smile creeping to my lips as I shuffled forward, pretending to carefully balance the cup in my hands. A few steps later, I tripped, sending the contents streaming across the floor. The wood sizzled beneath the spilled liquid, stained black.

“Be more careful next time, or you’ll be drinking it yourself, clumsy girl.” Louvaine’s voice rasped out in a growl.

I winked at Hattie before returning to the hearth with slow, measured steps. “My nerves must be getting to me. Perhaps if you allow me to rest for a few moments first, I might—”

“Perhaps a slice across your pretty cheek would be more persuasive.” She advanced on me, knife raised.

A light blinked above her shoulder. Then another near the ceiling. My breath burst from my lungs like locomotive exhaust. The fairies!

In a blur I could hardly follow, the knife flew from Louvaine’s hands. She whimpered as silky thread enveloped her, tying her arms tight to her sides and covering her mouth with a gag. Other lights swirled in, surrounding Hattie until she could rise from her chair, free from her bonds. A whirlwind of wings brushed my arms and cheeks.

“You came.” I grinned into the cluster of lights filling the room. “You finally defied her. But how—?”

“I can answer that.” Hattie picked her way across the room, careful to avoid the spilled poison. “Any command spoken into the stone must be obeyed by the fairies. No doubt Louvaine’s been ordering them to be loyal to her and to stay far from me, but your instructions overturned all that.”

The fairies flitted around us with an energy and brightness I’d never seen. Clearly thrilled to be restored to their true mistress. I tugged the blanket from my satchel and placed it in her hands. “My intent all along was to restore this to you.”

She unwrapped the stone with an air of reverence. “Thank you, dear girl. I don’t know why such a young, pretty thing would risk her life for an old biddy like me, but I am most grateful.”

“Your fairies left quite an impression on me.”

“Marvelous creatures, aren’t they?”

The humming around us swelled almost to a song, like a hint of music from another realm. After savoring it for a moment, I opened my eyes and faced the door. “Excuse me, but do any of you know how to get out of here?”

The fairies circled Louvaine, prodding her with pokes and hisses until she pointed out a knot in the wall that swiveled open to reveal the latch for the door. Much as I detested the woman, I had to admit it was a clever arrangement.

“We’d best get this one back to the palace. I’d rather keep her locked up in a proper dungeon than here, in case she attempts further mischief.” Hattie placed her hands on her hips. “But I confess, I’m not sure I can walk all the way on these spindles of legs.”

My smile stretched wide. “I have just the thing.”

Another screw clattered to the small circular table beside my chair in the sitting room. I pushed it toward the center of the table, then pried my fingernail beneath the edge of the pocket watch’s back panel to ease it open. I shook the watch, producing a slight clink. “I think you just have a loose gear, Herra. Should be easy enough to fix.”

She glanced up from the embroidery in her lap. “Oh, thank you, Raella. That one always was my favorite.”

Mother kept her gaze directed out the window, taking another sip of tea. We’d all been a bit melancholy the past few days after the excitement of the ball. I’d hoped for an excuse to visit the palace to check on Hattie and the fairies, but after helping secure Louvaine’s arrest, I hadn’t seen the slightest hint of a fairy light.

I wouldn’t even mind another ball if it meant getting to see Tad again.

My heart clenched. If only I could have lingered, spent a few more moments with him. Perhaps even . . . I shook my head. The fairies were well worth the sacrifice.

“The prince is coming!” Dianthe practically toppled over a footstool as she barreled into the room. “Get up, get up! He’ll be here any moment.”

Mother set down her cup and dabbed a napkin to her lips. “Why in the crown would the prince be coming here?”

“Auravia said he’s looking for a maiden he met at the ball. He insists on speaking to every young lady in town until he finds her.” She clasped her hands with a squeal.

“I doubt he could be coming to see me, but I’ll go put on my blue skirt just in case.” Herra hurried from the room, followed by Dianthe.

I tightened my grip on my screwdriver. I’d do nothing but embarrass Mother in an impromptu audience with the prince. “May I go to the workshop? I’d like to finish fixing this for Herra this afternoon, and the prince could hardly have any desire to see me.”

Mother’s nose wrinkled as she surveyed my patched trousers. “Yes, I think that might be best.”

I gathered my tools, the watch, and the displaced screws and other parts I’d removed and carefully made my way to the workshop. Conversation from the sitting room would carry through the closed door, but at least I could continue my work in secret.

My goggles were strapped in place to inspect the smallest gear when footsteps pounded down the stairs. No doubt Prince Hendrick had arrived.

Herra’s giggle carried down the hall, followed by a lower tone. Several pitches lower than I remembered the prince’s voice from the ball. Strange. Shaking my head, I resumed my scrutiny of the watch’s inner workings. Perhaps the long night of dancing and conversation had made him lose his voice or catch a cold.

“What can we do for you?” I could picture Mother’s serene hostess expression.

“I’m afraid I’m in an odd predicament. A girl I’d very much like to see again disappeared shortly after the ball, and I can’t find her anywhere. I’m certain she wore fairy-made clothing, but no one among the noble families seems to know a thing about her.” He paused, then let out a breathy chuckle. “I even brought along this slipper she left behind in case it would help identify her. Being fairy-made, it would only fit her, after all.”

A vice tightened in my chest. Someone else must have lost a slipper at the ball as well. Odd.

“How lovely.” Awe laced Herra’s words.

“I’m afraid no one in our circle of acquaintance can afford garments made by fairies.” A bit of Mother’s cordiality had worn off.

“But perhaps you’ve heard of her? She said her name was Rae.”

My screwdriver clinked to the table, and I grasped for it. He couldn’t mean me. Our time together had been pleasant enough, but it was only one dance. Unless . . . Did he know about my search of the palace and interference with the mistress of fairies?

I tugged off my goggles and examined the window ledge. Escape might be possible, but I’d have to displace the entire window.

“Rae?” Herra clicked her tongue. “Isn’t that what Raella asked us to call her?”

“She wasn’t even at the ball.” Dianthe’s voice had lost its former exuberance. “Too busy tinkering with her silly carriage.”

Thank you. I paused in my removal of the window hinges to listen.

“Indeed.” The prince’s inflection almost made it a question. “Might I meet this Raella, just in case she knows something?”

No!

“Certainly.” Mother coughed. “But if you would excuse us a moment, she’s not dressed for such formal company. Otherwise, she would’ve been happy to join us for your visit.”

No time to make my escape silent, but at least she’d bought me a minute or two. I yanked at the window latch.

“Oh, I don’t mind about her attire. Where can I find her?”

Blast him. Had he predicted I’d try to escape?

Footsteps approached, and the door jerked open. Mother shadowed the doorframe. “Raella, you . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“It was stuffy in here.” I resumed my seat, tucking my shaking hands into my pockets.

“I see. Well, the prince would like to see you. Please join us in—”

“No need. I can visit with her just as easily in here.”

That voice . . . The pulse thudding in my head wouldn’t let me think.

“If you insist.” Mother pursed her lips and stepped aside.

“Tad.” My jaw dropped like a sagging axle. “They said the prince was coming.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he took a step closer. “And no doubt you were expecting Prince Hendrick. My brother.”

“You’re—” A gust of air hissed through my teeth, deflating my lungs. He was Prince Thaddeus? “But you never told me.”

He gave a familiar half cough, half chuckle and eased the door shut behind him. “Every lady’s attention was on my brother that night anyway. Heir to the kingdom. The one who intended to choose a bride. I didn’t even want to go, at least not until you showed up.” He crept nearer with every word. “I worried he gave me away while you were dancing and scared you off. But he swore he didn’t say a word about it—I guess I should’ve believed him. He heartily approves of you, by the way.”

“No, Prince Hendrick didn’t . . .” I rose, anger replacing the fear coursing through my veins. “You should’ve said something.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He stopped just out of arm’s reach, his eyes torn between regret and mischief. “But to be fair, you were quite adamant about not wanting to become a princess. I feared you’d march away in an instant if you knew the truth.”

A blend of motor oil and cedar tickled my nose. It would be so much easier to be mad at him if he didn’t look so endearing in his wrinkled black shirt.

“I wouldn’t have.” I glanced away, pressing my lips closed before I could say anything else idiotic.

“Hmm, now that sounds promising.”

I watched his leather boots advance within inches of mine.

“You know, your gown the other night was stunning, but you look surprisingly fetching in your work clothes. I almost think I prefer them.”

He chuckled at my glare. Cheeky man. But the other night . . . My fingers gripped the edge of the table at my back. He deserved the truth from me too.

“Tad. I mean, Prince Thaddeus—”

“Stick with Tad, please.”

I swallowed. “I may have mistakenly given you the wrong impression at the ball as well. The fairies made my dress and shoes as a kindness, not for payment. As you can see, I’m hardly a noblewoman.”

“What does that matter? You will be if you—” He coughed, and red tinged his cheeks. “But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. What I mean to say is, my attraction to you had nothing to do with what I might’ve perceived as your social or financial status.” He placed his hands on my shoulders.

Warmth radiated through me, both comforting and exhilarating.

“Rae, you’re kind and smart and interesting. You care more about mechanics than your wardrobe, and you gave me your full attention without knowing I was a prince. I know better than to scare you off by proposing with only a few hours’ acquaintance, but can I please spend more time with you?” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “A lot more time?”

“Yes.” His lips were on mine before the word was fully formed. Gentle but sure. My eyelids drifted closed, my arms twining around his neck.

He released me from the kiss, his chest rising and falling in a rapid cadence. His shy smile widened as he stepped back, digging a hand into his pocket. He removed an iridescent slipper. “I almost forgot; I believe I have your shoe.”

With a laugh, I placed the shoe on the worktable before kissing his cheek.

“So, when do I get a ride in that motorized carriage?”

“How about now?” I didn’t bother to conceal my grin. “Could we go to the palace?”

“Of course. You’re welcome there any time.” He offered his arm.

I hesitated only a moment before accepting. Who cares how silly I look on a prince’s arm in my worn trousers and grease-stained shirt? “I have some friends I’d like to visit.”

Laurie Lucking

An avid reader practically since birth, Laurie Lucking discovered her passion for writing after leaving her career as an attorney to become a stay-at-home mom. When she gets a break from playing board games and finding lost toys, she writes young adult fantasy with a strong thread of fairy tale romance. Her debut novel, Common, won the Christian Editor Connection’s Excellence in Editing Award and is a finalist in the ACFW Carol Awards. Laurie has also published several short stories and is a co-founder of Lands Uncharted, a blog for fans of clean young adult speculative fiction. A Midwestern girl through and through, she currently lives in Minnesota with her husband and three children. Find out more by visiting www.laurielucking.com.

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