* * *


    When she came around there was something wet and cold on her face; her first reaction was to paw at it with her right hand, but it seemed to evade all her attempts to bat it away – it was moving, leaving her skin and then returning, softly, over and over –


    “There, miss. Yer’ll be a’right.”


    The barman’s gentle voice, close by. The wet thing – it was in his hand. He was… mopping at her face.


    She pushed herself upright – her head felt like a melon, simultaneously far larger and heavier than it ought. Her vision swam when she braved the visible world, opening her eyelids just a crack.


    Light hurt but the candles in here were sparse, the nearest far-off, their illumination rather dim. It wasn’t so bad.


    She turned her stare upon the concerned-looking Mr. Almost-Bald, crouching beside her. Over his shoulder she saw the others who must’ve come to her rescue, loitering around the nearby tables. Rowse was amongst them, exchanging slurred words with another drunk, a bright smile on his weathered face.


    Through the daze she heard her own words as a caustic croak, and it took her aback, to hear herself as they always heard her.


    “What happened?”


    “All I know, is what yer said.” The barman’s voice was low and calm, and he put the damp rag in her hand so she could dab at her own face. “Yer could’a ‘ad yer… thing grow big, right? I seen one ‘as like it, once. Fort it was a snake, ‘fore it went all massive. Gob liker dragon.” He drew a deep breath, then released it with a shudder. “All I know is, yer didden. They was gonna kill yer, miss. Why didden yer give ‘em some back?”


    She forced herself to swallow. Talking hurt. Her tongue hurt.


    “Couldn’t.” It was impossible to put into words. “Can’t kill them. Not… Not after Kas.”


    I’m not dark.


    She couldn’t put the thoughts in order. She screwed the rag up in her hand and pressed it hard into the centre of her forehead, praying for everything to stop spinning.


    Then, belatedly, she sent her hand to her belt.


    Pouches…


    Fe was still wriggling in her pocket. The fiend’s affection for her, such as it was, always made her frustrated whenever Ciraya was hurt. Especially if it was a situation she could’ve helped fix only for her mistress to keep her on the side-lines. That frustration would have to be released in a gallop, soon, or else Ciraya would have to dismiss her and let the demon express herself on her plane of origin without any of the usual limitations. Otherwise the summoning-spell binding the yithandreng to the sorceress’s will would strain, maybe even snap, long before its proper expiration.


    Mumbling apologies, Ciraya found the tear in her belt where the straps had been ripped.


    “No need to ‘pologise, miss.” The barman stood up, and the people lounging around started heading back to their spots around the room. Ciraya only noted the chair-leg as the balding man retrieved it from the next table, smacking it down into the palm of his empty hand. “Sick to me tonsils o’ them rotten folk: Marbin’s lot, an’ that Gebbured too. No accountin’ the motivations o’ men. They gets driven by summat they thinks they can explain, only it’s not. It’s summat off, deep inside.”


    She blinked.


    I understand their motivations. I know why they wanted to kill me.


    Doesn’t he?


    “Doan look at me like that, miss. I tend bar, remember.” He misunderstood her sceptical gaze, responding by winking and smiling congenially – a bit of action certainly seemed to have perked him up. “Only too ‘appy t’ oblige yer. Like yer say, that Kas – yer mean Feychilde, right? You know ‘im?”


    She croaked in the affirmative.


    “Yeah, well… least one of ’em’s got ‘is ‘ead screwed on the right way round.” He glanced at her fumbling hand. “Ah, sorry they got off wi’ yer packets, like. Was they full o’ coin? Didden ‘alf jingle when they ran!”


    Ciraya shook her head, then instantly stopped; knocking her brain around inside her skull made the throbbing ten times worse.


    “Well, ne’er mind. Less it breathes, yer can get a new one.”


    My elixirs…


    Right now, with the city in the state it was in, the populace lost and leaderless… the asking price of everything was going to go through the roof over the coming days – food, clothing, protection – never mind magically-enhanced goods. She’d seen it before, back home: the value of the currency would plummet, at least until the city stabilised and the supply-lines were reopened… maybe permanently, if the magical colleges and guilds had suffered a similar attrition rate to the Magisterium over the course of the day.


    She would’ve preferred it if they’d made off with every coin in her pocket – anything to stop them taking her last healing potion. They clearly hadn’t had long to search her, given they hadn’t found the hidden pouches on the inside of her robe where she kept her meagre supply of gold, her most important reagents…


    Why didn’t I keep my healing potion hidden?


    Because I might’ve needed it.


    Like you don’t need it now!


    She spent the next ten minutes recovering, her back propped up against a wall, trying and failing to sort out her thoughts. The barman, who gave his name as Dez, brought her a tankard of clean-ish water and she sipped at it until the pain started to recede.


    “What do you think, girl?” she crooned down into her lap, looking at Fe. The yithandreng was coiled about the tankard’s handle, quivering, forcing Ciraya to lift it with two hands to save herself from pricking her fingers. “Are you ready to go?”


    Fe met her eyes. The miniature red orbs were filled with hunger – hunger for motion, for violence. For food.


    “Yeah, we’ll get you a pig if there’s one going. I’ll have to pay over the odds for it. But that’s okay.”


    Fe seemed to smile.


    “Come on.”


    She had Fe grow, the tiny lizard-like demon inflating in the span of a second to the size of a big dog, or small pony. Ciraya crawled atop her, settling herself in her accustomed place. It was far less comfortable – far spikier – than usual.


    She heard the gasps, the squeaks of flung-back chairs; by the time she was ready to lift her head and peer about, she was impressed to find that only a handful of the patrons had fled their tables, pressing themselves into the far wall with their anxious eyes peering unblinkingly back at her.


    Fe pottered towards the door, obviously a bit unused to operating her limbs when locked into this medium scale.


    “Thanks, Dez,” she said as loudly as she could without splitting her own head open. “Thanks, Rowse. Thanks, everyone.”


    Dez looked concerned, but clearly thought better of trying to stop her, nodding to her gravely. Some of the scared patrons managed to wave. Others muttered. Some actually said bye without sounding like dropheads.


    Fe poked the door open with her nose, then swelled to her accustomed size as soon as they cleared the doorway. Before Ciraya could even take note of the time, eyeing the dark skies in confusion, they were pounding down the roadways. Not for the first time, the sorceress thanked the gods for yithandreng impact absorption.


    “Where are you taking me, girl?” she asked.


    “Dweoslab,” was the panted answer.


    “No, girl!” she cried in Infernal. The yithandreng instantly slowed her pace, tossing her head impatiently. “No. I’m not going back there. Not now. Not ever.”


    The magicrux were enemy territory now. She’d been Henthae’s creature, and Arithos’s.


    No longer.


    “But you must be attended to by a healing magician, Mistress.“


    “No,” she snapped, then, more gently, repeated: “No…”


    This was the balance-point of her life. Like so many others within these cursed white walls, this day following the Incursion was the very crux about which all her future wheeled.


    She had to be clear-headed, and the pain helped with that. It always had.


    “Fe… Take me to the river.”


    * * *


    She sat on a patch of rock overlooking the Blackrush. The night sky was a smooth pearl, its bands reflecting the dark-blue heart of the oceans, swimming with stars. The gods were strong, tonight. One could almost be forgiven for believing that the only purpose of night was to accommodate such beauty. Yet the Blind Eye sailed on its course, almost open, a constant, persistent reminder of Kaile’s eternal vigilance. A constant, persistent reminder of the need for such vigilance.


    The darkness doesn’t just exist to let the light shine. It was there before. It will be there after. And if we don’t make it to Celestium…


    She looked across to Ismethyl’s constellations and held up her hand, letting starlight fall into its inky mirror as she had that sacred night, when she was initiated. A night of similar significance. She knew it in her soul. She had to decide, now, forever. Portent itself rose up inside her, making every second seem a minute, every thought an eternal etching on the substance of her mind.


    I swore to do war upon the darkness, its own tools my weapons.


    She closed her fist, trapping the starlight, feeling it burn there in her palm as she’d been taught.


    It’s like Kas always said… I never swore to fight fairly. If you’re my guide, Ismethyl, where do you point me? Did I do wrong? Did I fear Kaile’s swift sword of justice over your seven swords of victory? Should I have shown those four fools the justice of Ciraya the sorceress?


    She lowered her hand, the muscles in her arm beginning to ache.


    A wind came racing down the river, and she looked up to see a blue-feathered condor, its wingspan almost half the Blackrush’s breadth, almost surfing the waves.


    Glimmermere.


    The druidess wheeled, coming about to settle down and shrink onto the rocks. It was only then that Ciraya heard the second wind, a great grey osprey following in Glimmermere’s wake. The latter druid wheeled about, landing a little more clumsily beside the champion-turned-heretic.


    “You’re hurt,” Imrye said. It was odd, seeing the still too-large beak move as it emitted human sounds. “You’re in dire need of repair, magister.”


    Or elvish sounds, she reflected, as the druidess transformed. Imrye was perhaps even pure-blood, she thought, now she was seeing her again up-close. The smoothness of her black skin, the vibrant colour of her hair, the delicate, chiselled features – no, there was no mistaking Glimmermere’s heritage.


    The second druid followed suit, changing shape, and though her appearance was less otherworldly in nature Ciraya was taken aback even more to look upon her – the druidess’s likeness to her dead friend stunned her. The newcomer wore a strange coat and a stranger smile – an expression of astonishment, but dulled by overexposure.


    She’s new to this, the sorceress thought. Or new to Mund, even.


    Funny, how much she resembles Emrelet.


    “This is Kirid,” Glimmermere said, gesturing. “She followed Feychilde down from Telior. I’m showing her the ropes.”


    Feychilde’s latest lover, she realised with an inward sigh.


    The newcomer ducked her head in an awkward nod, the oddly-wistful smile still on her face. “I am the please to meet you, magizter.”


    “Ciraya,” the sorceress croaked.


    “Ziraya,” the druidess repeated, beaming.


    Ciraya moved her eyes to Imrye. In order to face her properly she was forced to first lean back, gingerly placing her hurt elbow on the rock behind her.


    “No, and no,” she said with every bit of casualness she could muster. “No healing, thanks and all. And not a magister, either. Not anymore.”


    “Oh really?” The tall druidess folded her arms across her chest. “Symbol on your chest says otherwise.”


    “Carrying an extra robe in that satchel? It’s still warm out and I’m not too shy to change in front of you.”


    “Fair play.” Glimmermere hunkered down with her arms back, as though she were about to transform into an avian shape again – but no metamorphosis occurred. The former champion must’ve just been too used to the pose; she looked altogether at her ease in what should’ve been an awkward position. “So… You another one that’s thinking of running?”


    Ciraya just shook her head. No spinning anymore, at least.


    “Good to hear. There’s nothing out there. Nothing like Mund.” The druidess regarded her sombrely. “It took me a long, long time to realise. But you’re wrong about the healing, child. You’re in need, as much as you tell yourself otherwise. If you’re thinking of helping out with this lovely dragon apocalypse we’ve got booked as anything other than a zombie – you aren’t, right? Planning on becoming undead, because –”


    Ciraya snorted. Imrye allowed a small smile to cross her features, while Kirid stood in silence looking between them.


    “Good. I know how to burn the undead down, now. It doesn’t look painless.”


    “Pain is a teacher.” Ciraya clenched her good fist. “Pain heightens everything.”


    “And you’re afraid that without the pain you’ll lose something of yourself?”


    “I know I will.” She laughed. To her own ears the sound of her cackling was cold and haughty – in spite of the possible age difference between them, and the obvious power disparity, there were things she knew that this ageless druidess had never learned. “Every one of these was a lesson.” She held up her fist and unfurled her fingers, turning her arm so that the starlight danced down the inky designs. “There’s no going back.”


    “Yet I could undo them. Kirid could, too. Take the body-parts off one at a time, regrow them. Or just take the skin off in one go. Better to put you to sleep first for that one, though. People tend to panic when their skin disappears.”


    Was that a threat? She wasn’t afraid of Imrye, even after everything she’d seen.


    “Speaking from experience?”


    She let the question linger, hanging in the air between them. Imrye might’ve been older, might’ve had the seniority. But Ciraya had the superiority. And right now it had to be going through the druidess’s head: Did she witness the aftermath, deal with my victims once the rats were done with them? Followed by the inevitable corollary: Did she know it was me?


    Yes and yes were the answers. Not everything ‘Glimmermere’ did after her descent to the Thirteen Candles was beyond the sight of Magisterium diviners. Most of it, but not all.


    “Those animals… they deserved it,” the druidess said at last, managing to sound detached.


    “That’s not our place to decide.” Ciraya looked pointedly up at the moon.


    “Ah, but we’re the gods’ hands. They won’t serve our justice, sorceress. It is for us to serve.”


    “I’m surprised you of all people think animals can deserve punishment.”


    “Everything that lives, dies.” Imrye shrugged. “You mistake me. The rats deserved their food, more than Mund deserved those… those fiends-in-waiting.”


    “And yet you want to just go right back to it. Healer supreme. Filling Leafcloak’s shoes, with blood up your elbows.”


    “Don’t define yourself by someone else. Not a man you want to be with. Not a woman you want to be. It’s the first thing I told Kirid.” The two women exchanged a glance, and the foreigner’s smile slipped a bit. “But I’m still a healer,” Imrye went on. “I still want to fix things. The right things. Like you. My eyes are open now, ex-magister. I’ll only offer it once more. The pain’s one thing, child, and your brain’ll survive, but the numbness there in your side? That’s a bleed, in your kidney. The Seven-Star Swords will be miffed if I just pass you over.”


    The sorceress sniffed. “They wouldn’t even know I was gone.”


    That did it. For only the third time in her life, Ciraya felt a sob come ripping through her chest, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The tears started to fall down her face and the shame of it made her angry, but there was nowhere for the anger to go but out, out, out through her eyes, as if she contained all the oceans of the world within her skull.


    Then she flinched, but there was nothing she could do to reject that gentle, insistent embrace. The arm placed about her shoulders was immovable, a steel trap, when she tried to squirm away.


    She beat at the archmage, but she might as well have attacked a mannequin. The woman’s head didn’t even budge. Her skin, when struck, was like heavy wood or soft stone.


    Finally, there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but bury her head in the woman’s shoulder and weep.


    She knew instantly that it wasn’t Imrye that touched her – it was Kirid. The fabric was some kind of felt and it reeked of the sea, salt stronger than any her own eyes could produce. The sorceress knew their healing didn’t require touch, especially if the wound was non-magical. This wasn’t some necessary step to the performance of her spells. This was comfort.


    “Vill you let me do it?” the stranger asked her. “I may be new to your city, but I know my craft vell. It vill only take a moment.”


    “Let me go.“


    Kirid seemed to take her reticence for scepticism, and as the druidess slowly withdrew the arm enclosing her, allowing Ciraya to retreat back and mop at her face with her sleeve, the archmage continued to press her case, sounding confused:


    “I haf healed many, many of Mund zis day. Im-yee trust me. I haf healed Raz – Feychilde, I mean. Efen… efen after ze Diphroniz, h-he trust me –”


    “Oh, just heal me already, damn you,” she growled, glowering up at the Emrelet clone through her tears. “Of course he trusts you.”


    Did he tell you how much you look like his ex?


    Emrelet wouldn’t have been dead when he’d met Kirid, but how was that making him feel about his little rebound now? He surely knew of Emrelet’s fate.


    Kirid’s face just flushed with pleasure at Ciraya’s compliment, the foreigner not capable of discerning the dagger hidden beneath the cloak. The eyes of the archmage came alight suddenly and she reached out, her hand gloved in a radiance that seemed to match the pine-green glow of her gaze. She placed her palm down on the sorceress’s hairless scalp, and there was no change in sensation – no numbness, no pain-relief of any kind. Yet just a few seconds later the druidess withdrew her hand, its light now spent.


    “Is this vot you vont?” Kirid asked gently.


    Ciraya just frowned. The tears were spent now. “I don’t know what I want. Apparently he does.”


    She ignored their curious glances and slowly got to her feet. Imrye at least should’ve recognised the similarity between Kirid and Emrelet, shouldn’t she? She should’ve understood.


    Fools. Fools, both of them.


    Her motion prompted them to stand as well, doing it faster, better than she could. Before she even got up both of the druids were there, towering over her, tall, austere specimens that they were – aloof, untouchable demigods regarding her as if she were some novelty. The scrawny sorceress clambered to her feet then stepped aside to a flat area beside the rocks, digging into one of her secret pockets for her vial of cursed dust, her unlight-candle, her flame-maker…


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    “I’m summoning a demon,” she called over her shoulder. “No one freak out.”


    “We’re leaving,” Imrye called. “No need to thank us.”


    Ciraya kept her eyes and mind on her task, until she heard the two great birds take wing once more, rushing south-east down the river. Only then did she look after them, watching them vanish into the distance.


    Thanks for breaking me, druids. Thanks for nothing.


    She returned her gaze to her circle, returned her lips to her chant.


    What can they understand? They see death as an enemy. A leashed dog, to set upon their foes.


    How I used to.


    Within a minute she was waiting for the red fires of Infernum to rise up, for the portal to birth Fe back onto the material plane.


    It’s unfair of me to expect too much of them. They’re blind. They’re blind. I’m like the one-eyed man, lost in their land. Lost and alone.


    The crimson flames shot up, then shrank back down once more. The yithandreng was coiled about the candle as usual, and Ciraya stooped to retrieve her.


    “Not quite alone,” she murmured.


    We have to find Kas.


    Fe hissed.


    “Good girl. C’mon.” She placed her down. “Let’s go for a –”


    “People of Mund!”


    Kas’s voice came roaring from the sky above her head, pouring up out of the ground at her feet. The foam of the Rush bubbled with it.


    It was the Invocatrix, again.


    Oh gods, what now?


    “People of Mund! I am sorry to disturb you, and for those of you who still have beds, you can return to them shortly. But I must speak, and you must listen. For I need to present you with a choice. This will be the most momentous decision you ever make in your lives. Please, give me a minute of your time.”


    “So long as you don’t expect me to stop,” she said, mounting Fe.


    “I am Feychilde. I was born Kastyr Mortenn, of Mud Lane, Helbert’s Bend, Sticktown. Yes. I am still alive. I never died. They failed in their attempts to kill me. And as much as you would think I hate them, I would have you hear me now – the violence against the magisters must end. Nightfell and I will continue to intervene where lives are put in danger. We will not have you use us as agents of revolution, whether we desire change or not. We are entrusted with power as the old powers are fading. The Arrealbord is gone, never to return the same again. The Thirteen Candles melt. The Magisterium… It is ours now. We will no longer work against one another. We will work as one. Do not attack your own. They will be your brothers and sisters in the days to come.”


    Well no one came to my dropping rescue, did they? she thought as she pounded her way northwards.


    “The Magisterium’s rotten core has been removed. Transformed. By the will of the gods I have been forced to wrest control of the city from their hands. I act in the name of Kultemeren and Yune, and tomorrow night Keliko Henthae will be shriven in the eyes of Illodin and Glaif, reborn as Oathbreaker, a champion of Mund. But I warn you. We are no more heroes than we are tyrants. I do not claim to be unstained; I do not wish to rule. Nor does Everseer, who came before you once before like this. She works for me now. No longer must you fear her wrath. She and Killstop together operate as the champion Nightfell, and without their aid and the aid of many former heretics and champions there would be no more Mund remaining this day. Even if you hate them, I ask you also to love them, if you can find a corner of your heart with which to do so. They risk more than just their lives in fighting for yours. They risk their very souls. And you should recognise that.


    “We all fell into the dragons’ traps. Heresy is more than an enchantment, more than a fatalistic philosophy. It’s truth. And how could the Magisterium ensure we survived the oncoming Crucible without planning for it, expecting it, even longing for it, like a man with with a rotten tooth longing for its extraction? Mund has always been a sacrifice. But we aren’t bound to the altar, not yet. We champions – we’ll be the knife in your hand. Maybe we can slit the executioner’s throat before the axe falls. And we’ll die trying. That much we can promise.”


    Ciraya, riding up Funnel Mile, caught the glances of slack-jawed beggars, gangs of mucky adolescent brats – but only their eyes were moving. Almost everyone was stock-still, absorbing Kas’s voice.


    “The dragons are coming. Redgate is bringing them. This is no lie. No one will come out tomorrow to tell you I was wrong. The criers will all be informed. We will only tell you the truth, from now on, I promise it. But what happens if the Magisterium loses control? Do all their worst fears come to pass? Do we all flee? Do you raise your children on foreign soil, surrendering to hope to save you? I tell you now – Hope would have you fight! I will not call you craven if you run, will not tolerate to hear you called coward. But Oathbreaker has become one of us. One of us.


    “Champions. Me and you.


    “You know who you are. I’m speaking to you now. Stop what you’re doing and listen.”


    The sorceress slowed Fe to a walk, then a stop. She joined the crowds in their tranquillity, and, though it was powerful enchantment-magic that made the arch-sorcerer’s voice audible throughout the city, that tranquillity was not forced. It was simply the reaction of the people.


    Simply her reaction.


    “Maybe you’re a magister. Maybe you’re a darkmage. You work for a guild. Heretic. Bauble-maker. Rune-tracer. I ask you… I give you the choice… for the sake of Mund, for the sake of the Five and the gods of light whose stars we would preserve… please. Come to me, tomorrow. Meet me at the Giltergrove. I broke all the secret armies. I need your help. We need to build a new one, in the open. If you have the power… bring it. Use it. We need it.


    “I understand the pitfalls. The perils. But I’m doing it anyway. I’m opening a new college, right there in Sticktown, on the remains of my home. The Hand of Hope, I’ll call it. A school of sorcery, bigger and better than all the others. We’ll make weapons of dragonslaying. Demonslaying. Weapons that put the undead back where they belong. And yes – we’ll distribute them. We’ll go into it with our eyes open, arm ourselves for the battle. No tricks, people of Mund. I will accept all. Highborn. Lowborn. Somewhere-In-The-Middle-born. If you need purpose – come. I have your purpose right here! All I ask is that you’re willing to accept each other. You’ll be equals in my eyes. My equal. Every man or woman willing to fight – they are my brother. My – my sister. Put aside petty hatreds. Sow no more discontent. We’ll have plenty of discontent to come. And ladies and gentlemen… Ladies, and gentlemen… You’ll see dragons. With any luck… you’ll see dragons fall.”


    A splotchy guy nearby started crowing in excitement. A woman who’d been eyeing Ciraya mistrustfully from a doorway lowered her glare at last.


    “If you want to go – go, and go with the gods’ blessings. No one will stand against you. Take with you such provisions as you may, and run, run till you feel safe. But if you want to stay… be prepared. We will lead you into the coming nightmare, and through it, if we can. The black storm, this Incursion like no other – that was just a taste of what is to come. And I’m as weak, as guilty as any of you. Not a hero. A killer, just like Vardae. So if you want to trust us to rule until the Crucible is passed – trust this.


    “We will submit. To you. When it’s all over, Vardae and I – we’ll go before the judges – whatever courts remain. We’ll take our punishments. Judge us, in place of the gods, as is your remit, Mund. We’ll put power aside, once our need of it is over. We’ll let you do with us as you will.


    “I only pray enough of you come to our rescue tomorrow. When the sun is high over the Autumn Door, we’ll see. We’ll see, and we’ll start.


    “It’s not something you can be ready for. That’s okay.


    “We’ll make you ready.”


    The voice fell away and didn’t return. Slowly, Ciraya came back to herself.


    “Mistress?” Fe asked over her shoulder.


    “Come on.” She pushed the yithandreng into a trot once more.


    She didn’t know where he was going next, so she decided to wait for him in the one place he had to go. She parked Fe beside the mound of debris that had once been Mud Lane, gazing out into the charred mess. The weather hadn’t been kind. The infernal rain had drenched everything, then the summer sun had baked the moisture out of it; the aroma was unpleasant but such things didn’t really bother Ciraya. It was almost a homely scent. She’d spent years on the streets, wandering the districts aimlessly, and squalor was nothing new to her.


    It didn’t take too long before her gamble paid off: she saw him coming streaming down through the air towards her, the dark blues and greens and greys of his tattered robe overwritten by the purplish blur of nethernal energies.


    She’d spent long enough studying the wreckage that she decided to immediately voice her concerns.


    “Knew you’d stop by,” she called out. “I don’t quite know how you’re planning on building a school here.”


    The arch-sorcerer slowly floated down until he was at her eye-level atop Fe, hovering above the pancaked ruin of the Gold Griffin.


    “To be honest,” he replied, gazing out over the mess, “neither do I.”


    She didn’t like smiling – it had a way of making her look skeletal.


    She eyed the debris sceptically instead. “I suppose… if you get enough people willing to help…”


    He was nodding as his eyes went strobing the morass of timber. “I’m going to put demons on it. We’ll take it all out or… or pack it all down into a foundation? I’ve got a wizard, from Telior – I’ll ask Orcan for help with the earthworks. I’m more worried about getting the actual construction done. Frankly, I don’t have the foggiest what’s involved.”


    Do I mention the eolastyr? This would’ve been the perfect time to confront him – force him to summon her, so she could confront the arch-demon…


    More confrontation.


    What was the point? Kas was right. After everything… the fiend was just a tool now, wasn’t she? It was all over.


    “You’ll want Killstop,” Ciraya said instead, and let the self-deprecating smile free, no matter how ugly it made her look. “Half the work’s in the architect’s hands – planning the right craftsmen to be in the right places at the right times – making sure the right materials get their aero-inscriptions, chronomancy to set the cement…”


    Kas was staring at her. Now he’d stopped moving he’d seemingly let go of some of his ghostly essences, and she thought she saw the glint of his green eyes in the moonlight. Paler than his new lover’s pine ones. Brighter.


    She lowered her head, feeling heat in her cheeks and hoping to hide the signs of it with the folds of her hood.


    “Go on,” he urged, then half-laughed. “Ah! Why am I not surprised you seem to know everything about it. You… you’re too good for the Swords, Ciraya. I only wish…”


    “You wish what?”


    Would he ask? Would he request her?


    “Nothing.” He sighed heavily. “I know how you… never mind. Do you – do you know anyone in the industry? I mean – contacts in the guilds? I suppose I can just go annoy Ghemenion tomorrow…”


    He slowly rotated in the air, casting his eyes north-east, towards Hightown.


    “I won’t beg, Kastyr Mortenn, but I’ll listen if you ask.”


    “What?”


    “I…” Her croak was worse than usual through the frog in her throat; she cleared it, as quickly and quietly as she could, then tried again. “What do you even think I’m doing here, Feychilde?”


    “You… you heard me. You’re… thinking of joining me?”


    She saw the incredulous wide eyes, shining bright under the moon, and almost let her smile become a grin to match his own.


    “Let’s say it’s on the cards… I won’t be some bit player, Kas. Not this time. I want to be in on the top floor.”


    “But – I know, I mean, the Magisterium will let you, sure – I’ll droppin’ tell them to! – but the Swords? What about your oaths, and Arithos? If…”


    She felt the smile drain from her face.


    “Is everything okay?”


    “Arithos is dead. One of your… eolastyr…”


    She shook her head, seeing the sudden horror cross his face.


    “It’s not important. Henthae… Henthae is something else.” She curled her lip. “As you well know.”


    He nodded, frowning thoughtfully.


    “So… here I am.”


    She looked back at the mound, gestured at it, controlling herself so that the tears didn’t fill her eyes. She wasn’t going to do that again. Not in front of him.


    “You didn’t answer my question.” His voice was low… concerned.


    “You didn’t ask the right one.”


    It took him a moment.


    “Ciraya… damn it, Ciraya, why don’t I know your surname? Wait… Ciraya isn’t your surname, is it? Because that would just be weird, now.”


    “Ostelwin,” she said with a snort.


    He smiled gratefully. “Ciraya Ostelwin… will you join me? You can be the Middle Finger on the Hand of Hope.”


    “Now that is an offer I can’t refuse.”


    The arch-sorcerer bowed deeply in mid-air. “What do you have planned for tonight?”


    Nothing. No one. Nowhere. “Why’d you ask?”


    He pursed his lips. “Ah, no real reason. If you’re busy, we can just find the time over the next couple of days, but… yeah, I’d love to pick your brains over a curriculum. I’ve got some ideas where to start – I did get a bit of experience, in Telior – but…” He held up his open, empty hand.


    “I was planning on a few more beers, to be honest.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Somewhere a bit safer than a Lowtown pub. Those druids did more than heal my bruises.” She glanced aside, and said it as quickly and smoothly as she could: “Are you not hooking up with Kirid tonight, then? Or would that be –” she gave her slyest smile, looking back up at him through her lashes “– much later?”


    “Kirid?” He frowned. “Oh – oh.” His face fell. “You think, b-because she… No, I hardly know the woman. She tried to have me killed. It was this whole debacle. I…” He looked across at her curiously. “I’m over Emrelet – I didn’t even know what Kirid looked like, before we were already on our way to Mund.”


    The druidesses’ reactions earlier on suddenly made much more sense. Ciraya felt her cheeks flame once again. What was she doing, acting like a schoolgirl?


    Thankfully Kas didn’t seem to notice; he was focussed on the content of her words, rather than her complexion.


    “So, you were attacked?”


    She shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”


    She put a casual face on it but his keen eyes seemed to peer directly into her soul. He wasn’t buying it.


    “We did everything we could, to protect you all… Some people are just put on this plane to be belligerent, I swear. Assaulting mages sworn to protect the city, when we’ve got all this hanging over our heads…”


    “You’ve spent too long looking at the big picture. Even Mud Lane’s destruction… you weren’t here, Kas. Your hate might burn hot, but it cools quickly. There’s some here who’ll hate the Magisterium forever. They might hide it, especially while you’re around, but there’s no taking back what we’ve done. We lost control, long before you came back.”


    He nodded. “You’re probably right. All the same… are you sure you’re okay?”


    She bared her teeth, and he laughed.


    “Aha! Fine… fine.” His grin slipped again somewhat, a flicker of nervous energy crossing his features, like he was worried. “Let’s find an open cask, then, and maybe you can come with me, if you’ve got nowhere better to go.”


    “Where are we going?”


    “Somewhere a bit more private than here, I hope. I’m getting more attuned to my vampire senses, and we’re definitely being watched. It’s only a matter of time before they start getting really curious.”


    She didn’t glance about; it would be futile, and would only make her look more suspicious to any witnesses. There had to be two hundred different windows overlooking them while they had their little chat.


    “Whatever. But I need to tell Fe where we’re going, genius.”


    He shook his head.


    “Fly with me again.”


    * * *


    “Well I’ll be damned.” She marvelled at the ghost as it hovered there in the middle of the room. Its near-humanoid dimensions were blurred by a smear of indigo energy, like vibrant pulsing paint that clung not just to its translucent flesh but to the very air about it. “He really is an elf.”


    “A dark elf,” Kas replied, picking up his ale-jar from the table, “if that makes any difference.”


    “Not a clue.” She heard the hunger in her own voice; while he was hefting his beer she was setting hers back down, leaning forwards and eyeing the thing appraisingly. The dark elf’s eyes were closed, nothing but serenity on the beautiful, smeared features – yet the nethernal light seeped out from beneath his eyelids all the same. “It looks powerful.”


    “He got an infusion directly from one of Zyger’s three guardians.” Kas said it with feigned nonchalance, but she could tell from the twitching at the corner of his mouth that he was trying to shock her. “But even if it’s stronger, the essence is no different to any of the others. I don’t know if it’s just because of the speed with which I took them, or if their souls really are just… duplicates?”


    He drained half his jar and let it rest on his thigh, his hand atop it, staring off at the shuttered window as though he could see clean through it.


    Maybe he can, she thought.


    There’d been plenty of options, plenty of places for them to go, in spite of the ransacking gangs, the hordes of foreigners clamouring for housing. She could tell the empty buildings just from the volume levels, and when they started gaining height she was convinced he was going to claim a penthouse suite from one of the apartment-blocks they soared by, lounge there in the relative opulence of a landlord’s lofty residence. But he took her straight through the wall of one of the middle floors without explanation, suddenly swerving at the wooden surface and pulling her right through it with him.


    It was a standard apartment for Sticktown. Wooden benches, the arms hacked at by delinquent children. A tiny stone fire-pit, long cold. Almost everything removable had been taken away except for some heavy tin cups, a mouldy plate, and half a candle.


    The arch-sorcerer didn’t need the candle; a wave of his arm brought a comforting yellow illumination to the room. He summoned forth an imp called Gristlehead to cleanse the cups with hell-fire. They had no need of an actual fire – it was plenty warm-enough as it was. Within a minute they were settled on the benches, the keg of brown ale on the table between them, talking shop.


    “If they had no time in the shadowland, their essences didn’t get a chance to develop.” She smacked her lips. It was strange to think that she’d partaken in this mighty ghost’s power just an hour earlier. Arch-sorcerers were excellent insulators; there was no discernible feedback whatsoever, not the merest tingle in her tattoos. “I’d bet good money if you’d let them stew, oh, a good few decades…”


    “Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.”


    “What actually happened out there, in Telior? These souls –” she glanced back across at the ghost “– how did you…?”


    “Liberate them?”


    She laughed. “Oh, so is that how you see it?”


    “With them? Yes, I suppose.” He wasn’t joking now, she could tell. “It’s… it’s all a bit foggy at this point, to be honest, but once they died I rid myself of all my unwilling eldritches. Well, fey and undead, at least. But them…”


    He turned his own eyes to the hovering ghost and spoke harshly in Netheric:


    “You! What would you do if I released you to the shadowland?”


    Its head turned sharply to regard him and the closed lids opened wide, exposing the twin amethyst stars behind its eyes; but its pressed-together lips never parted as it spoke, only seeming to swim across the surface of its face while the indigo blur endlessly shifted.


    “I would seek out my kin.” Its voice was an icicle. “I warn you. Do not release me. Blood and bone, Master. Yours, and others’. Yours, and others’.”


    Kas waved a beckoning hand, rejoining with the creature. He seemed to sit more comfortably almost instantly.


    “They’re far better off with me. You know how it is, with demons.”


    “They aren’t demons, Kas.”


    “What’s the difference?”


    She almost bit her lip. The matter of the eolastyr was still between them… Then, with a sigh, she relented.


    “Demons are cool.”


    It was his turn to laugh again. “Oh, fine. You’ve got me there. Did you know your colleagues – former colleagues – killed my Pinktongue?”


    “If someone did that to Fe…” She shook her head and gulped some more beer. “Drop on the Magisterium. Let’s go over there and kill the lot of ’em.”


    “Haha! I swear, there’s something in the atmosphere.”


    “It’s called beer.”


    “Cheers to that.”


    He leaned over the table with ghostly fluidity – their mugs made a tinny clink, and some of her ale got in his cup.


    “Thief,” she said, her lip curling.


    “Thank youuuu,” he sing-songed before chugging.


    “So…” She drained half her mug, set it down on the bench beside her, then slouched down, sticking her booted feet on the table between them. “Telior?”


    * * *


    By the time ‘Zabby’ was done illustrating Kas’s overseas stories with luridly-drawn landscapes, she had both her boots off and an old cushion under her heels, thoroughly enjoying the experience. Kas disappeared for five minutes so she took the opportunity to go and relieve herself. He returned with a pouch filled to the brim with nuts and berries, and sat next to her so they could share. She didn’t ask where he found them, crunching her way through three handfuls while the tale continued.


    The gremlin replaced the waves of Telior with a huge cave and the gargantuan form of a dracolich. The final mouthful went unchewed for a few moments, as she took it in.


    “I can’t believe you fought it,” she said thickly. She took another deep swig of beer and swept her tongue along her gums, finding the last shards of nut left and swallowing them.


    “Redgate fought one just like it,” Kas said quietly, “and he won.”


    He reached out for the gremlin, rejoining with it and creating a more-atmospheric sphere of light once more.


    “He had help,” she said, equally quiet.


    “So did I.”


    “You’re afraid?”


    Kas nodded. “A bit.” He closed his eyes then slowly opened them again and it was like a different person was looking across at her. “More than a bit. The Incursion – this last one, I mean… it’s shaken me. They almost broke the city. I… They had me, Ciraya. I would’ve been dead, if – if the crown hadn’t saved me.” He took another swig then put the beer down and sat back. “Do you – do you ever get tired?”


    The question was sudden and strange. She cast him what she hoped would be a quizzical look.


    “Tired of it all, I mean. What we’ve been through. What’s going on. What’s going to happen.”


    She found herself shaking her head, a minute but firm motion.


    “No, me neither.” The smile that came to his lips then was a twisted, painful thing, but she fancied it was the first time she’d seen a true smile on his face. “We’re messed up, aren’t we? Five ur-dragons from the dawn of time, and it’s like… then what?“


    The bravado wasn’t working on her. “You won’t be alone next time either.” She turned a little towards him and put her hand on his. “We’ll be there. Let me and Fe have a crack at them.”


    “Seriously?”


    “Seriously. That’s what champions are for, right?”


    He smiled thinly, falsely, looking down at her hand atop his. “But Redgate?”


    Maybe it was something the druid did to her. Maybe it was the alcohol, or just the way he looked, imposing and scary and scared…


    For all that Ciraya didn’t care to take Imrye’s advice, she understood what the elven archmage meant, and she appreciated it. But Kas didn’t represent a new master. He was a new mastery. A doorway to a new life.


    Maybe you’re overdoing it.


    She moved her hand back to her lap and sighed. “What about him?”


    “He’s the only sorcerer I’ve ever met that I… you know…”


    She cocked her head. “You don’t think you can take him? I thought you’d just – sucker-punch him…”


    “He’s already dead, Ciraya.” He bit briefly at his lip. “I’ve got this horrible feeling – he’s not going to drop like all the others. He’s… beyond me.”


    “Mal Malas dropped.”


    “Mal Malas feared him. I heard it in his voice when he spoke. And the crown misled him. It wanted to be with me, handicapped him for its own purposes. Damn, Durgil, where are you?” He laughed, but it was a harrowed, haunted sound. “It wanted me to fight the Sinphalamax… It doesn’t matter. Any day now they’re going to spot a whole dropping flight of dracoliches over the sea, and Redgate’s going to be there, winging his way towards us. He’ll want us to bend the knee, living or dead. Quite why the gods of undeath are going to let it happen, is beyond me… if Mother-Chaos is against it…”


    She scowled. “You’re not making any sense. Start at the beginning.”


    “Sorry,” he said blandly. He patted her familiarly on the leg, then left his hand there. “Suppose I should’ve mentioned. They want to become gods, Ciraya. That’s why they’ve been stealing our souls. That’s why all this has been happening. Incursions. Archmages. It’s all the same thing. God-power for the dragon-gods.”


    “What?”


    “They killed the god of magic. Oh, how stupid are we? Of course there should be a god of magic… Maybe that’s why the Five were able to harness it…”


    “Magic… is… divine?”


    He nodded enthusiastically, his hand gripping at her thigh. “You see it!”


    “Locus’s eyes!” she hissed, grateful for the fast-flowing conversation, the means to hide her sudden flush behind the topic of debate. Did he even know he was touching her? Did he recognise her permissive reactions for what they were? “Is that why druids can only change the things they’re wearing? I swear, it never made any sense, and everyone just acted like I was mad…”


    “Me too! It drove me crazy.” His smile was delirious. “It’s got something to do with expectations, hasn’t it? And… division of essences… Can’t have seers inheriting the power of planar speech, when summoners need that bit…”


    He chattered on, and she stared at him, burning beneath the robe.


    His hand on her leg – it wasn’t innocent. She felt the pressure of his fingers, their nervous twitches as he fought his urge to clutch her, caress her…


    No. There was no denying it any longer. There’d always been something between them, even back then, when he’d only had eyes for Emrelet. She’d known it from the moment he gave her the sight, let her see the Maginox wards as he saw them. She wanted to have a part of it. His knowledge. His purpose. His soul.


    Does he feel the same way?


    She remembered the lightning of his touch on her neck. What she wanted and what she needed blended at last, and that purpose swept through her. The flesh had to be permitted to fulfil its imperatives. She couldn’t stand in its way.


    “… couldn’t allow the wizards to affect the wood itself, when druids… druids…”


    Her body moved itself of its own volition, bringing her out of her seat.


    She disrobed in a single fluid motion and he finally fell silent.


    Kas sat back, regarding her with a new, raw sombreness in his gaze. She stood over him, no longer quivering. The moment swelled between them, the tension inflating until it drove aside all thought.


    His eyes ceaselessly raked her up and down, the arcane patchwork of her skin bared to his hungry gaze. He cast aside his beer, hurling it to the floor, as if incapable of sparing it a single thought.


    She put her knee across him and sat down in his lap, straddling him.


    “I’ve wanted you since the first night we met,” she breathed, placing her hand on his face.


    Lips found lips. Velvet crushed velvet. His kiss filled her, his hand tracing her spine then pressing on it, pressing himself into her.


    Fingers sank into clothing, flesh into flesh, until it was like there was a joining, a meeting not just of body but of soul. Purple light enveloped them, a cool cocoon against the summer heat, and the weightlessness of his embrace came over her even as she melted into it. The adoption of the ghost-essence only brought more texture to her skin, an infusion of pure excitement, sensation in its basest form. Everything was heightened. Flesh itself fell away and the substance of her mind was exposed to him in its true nakedness. She knew what he was, what his power meant.


    Exhilarating pain. Excruciating bliss. The need and the desire were intermingled, existence incoherent in its intensity.


    She was still astride him even as they came free of the mortal coil, leaving the material world behind. She was still in control. His teeth at her neck – she laughed and pulled him in deeper. Her nails in his shoulders – his grunts – his breaths, breathing in her own –


    There was a part of her that knew he had chosen Emrelet. That the love between herself and this arch-sorcerer could never be the pretty, perfect thing he’d found with the Onsolorian. But that was itself a facet of perfection. The recognition of the ugliness of things. This wasn’t some immature expression of lust, everything left neat and tidy inside the mind. No. This was real.


    She knew he didn’t want her to see it, to touch it – but she didn’t fear it. She knew wounds; she knew death. She knew what he was. He didn’t intimidate her. His past. His future. The dark fate awaiting the both of them. None of it mattered.


    She saw what it did to him, and she caressed his stump, nuzzled it with her cheek.


    His eyes widened, and he spoke her name like it was a prayer.


    “Say it again,” she commanded. “Say it again… Say it again…”


    Was he really over Emrelet?


    By the time the sun rose, even she believed him.