At first, I was convinced that I had heard Tiirdan incorrectly. He’d spoken very clearly, mind you; I didn’t have any trouble distinguishing the words. But the statement was so utterly impossible that my brain couldn’t help but struggle to comprehend it.
Syrene couldn’t possibly be the Envoy. The Envoy was dead. They’d perished beside Prince Arcturus Lohengrin in the Battle of Camden Hill.
And yet… faeries couldn’t lie.
Syrene bowed to Tiirdan—a deeper gesture of respect than that which he’d offered to her. I’m not the most knowledgeable man when it comes to high society manners, but Lady Navi had conveyed a basic understanding of political power to me in her time on the Iron Rose. Had Syrene been a common faerie, I thought, she probably would have been required to prostrate herself entirely.
The South Wind—the Herald of Death Victorious—considered Syrene to be barely beneath him in power and authority.
“And how does the war progress, Envoy?” Tiirdan asked, with an avian tilt of his head.
I couldn’t help it. A sharp, hysterical laugh bubbled out of me, where I still cowered on the quarterdeck. The sound was far too loud; it hung awkwardly on the cold air, echoing strangely across the ship.
Tiirdan turned his amber eyes upon me—and all of my strength immediately fled. I felt his attention like the pressure that comes just before a storm. In fact, I could swear that my ears popped.
“I have amused you, mortal,” Tiirdan observed calmly. “Such was not my intention.”
I dragged myself up to my knees, still trembling. I knew that he expected some sort of answer. I didn’t particularly want to answer him—in fact, I cursed myself roundly for drawing his interest at all. But I also knew that his gaze wouldn’t leave me until I offered some measure of explanation.
“The…” I choked on my own rasping voice, trying to clear my throat. “The war is over,” I managed shakily. “It ended twenty years ago.”
The railing’s wood groaned in Tiirdan’s grip as he leaned forward, considering me gravely. “Not so long ago, then,” he observed.
Faeries. I will never get used to faeries, as long as I live.
“Emperor Lohengrin is dead,” Syrene informed Tiirdan smoothly. “His son has yet to take the throne.”
The South Wind turned his sharp eyes back to Syrene. The weight of his scrutiny lifted from my shoulders, and I breathed a soft sigh of relief.
“We felt the emperor die,” Tiirdan acknowledged, “though he has yet to give his story to Death Victorious. We carry out his last wishes until the new emperor arrives.” Midnight wings resettled around him, as he adjusted his position. “And… where is your charge, Envoy?”
My stomach sank with nauseous realisation.
For years, I’d quietly catalogued all of Strahl’s bizarre irregularities. Yes, he’d served in the Imperial Army—but no, he hadn’t taken the usual Oaths. He’d been someone important, high-ranking. He’d been recognised in Lyonesse. He’d dared to issue orders to Wraithwood, even if the Legionnaire had entirely ignored them.
Strahl was valuable enough that even a ruthless killer had seen the use of keeping him alive.
“Captured,” Syrene said coldly. “Betrayed. We travel now to remedy the situation. We, too, follow the emperor’s last wishes. It is our Oath that leads us through your storm.”
The South Wind drew himself up. Lightning flickered in his golden eyes, crawling across his storm-black skin. “Go, then,” he declared. “We shall speed your passage. Our daughters will not trouble you further.”
Syrene bowed to him again, radiating an alien sense of gratitude. “Death be Victorious,” she intoned. I’d only ever heard the phrase used as a sort of exclamation—but Syrene spoke the words as a solemn benediction. “Until we meet again, Lord of the South.”
Talons scraped across wood, as Tiirdan rose into the air. His dark form blurred and expanded, stretching out across the sky. A heavy gloom fell upon the ship as that great storm bird blocked out every last glimmer of light, blinding us once again.
Tiirdan flapped his wings.
The Rose lurched forward, propelled by a sudden wind. After a moment, the ship responded, and I knew that Syrene had silently retaken the wheel.
We broke through the darkness, back into strange storms and frenzied lightning. The wind ran ahead of us, sweeping obstacles from our path as we went. It blew behind us, filling our sails to the brim and driving us forward.
“It would be wise to release the sails, Captain,” Syrene reminded me, from her place at the helm.
I shoved up to my feet, forcibly shaking off the remainder of my shock. Yes, I would soon have to deal with all of the awful things I had just learned… but right this second, it was time to sail.
All around me, the crew started breaking free from the horrified reverie that Tiirdan’s presence had incited within them. “All hands to your stations!” I called out. “Full sails, everyone! The herald has granted us passage!”
The news bolstered people’s flagging nerves. The crew rallied, renewing their efforts with frantic strength.
Though the wind was in our favour now, it was no less gentle than it had been. We lowered the sails with slow, agonising caution, as the deck rattled uncomfortably beneath our feet. My poor, wounded ship groaned—but I knew she wouldn’t break. All in all, I figured she had earned the right to complain a little bit.
Ruined, floating ships and ribbons of spilled aether blurred past us, dangerously close—but the herald had not turned his gaze away from us. We missed them all by inches, guided unerringly by that divine wind.
Time was slippery in that eternal storm… but where I was certain it had taken us hours to thread the needle on our way into the Fury, it took us barely a quarter of an hour to plunge through to the other side. The last veil of black storm-clouds parted abruptly before our wind shield… and then, the Rose broke back into the world beyond, where warmth and sunlight waited.
The unearthly chill of the storm fell away all at once. The sun was relatively weak, but it still felt blissfully hot on my skin. When my eyes finally adjusted, registering the beautiful blue sky ahead of us, I laughed.
I kept laughing. It was a manic, riotous fit of pure joy.
I don’t know if I could possibly explain it unless you were there. Tiirdan’s Fury had soaked into us all, bit by bit, until we’d become convinced that it was the entire world. The storm had been bleak and terrifying and unconquerable… but suddenly, it was safely behind us. The normalcy to which we’d returned was infinitely more precious than it had been before. Every detail was a fresh and wonderful delight.
Cheers and wild laughter echoed dimly in my ears as I sagged against the railing, trying to catch my breath. The wood bit my hand, and I looked down to see the splinters where the herald of Death Victorious had briefly perched.
I laughed harder. What else could I have done?
I don’t know how long I leaned there, wet and shivering and unutterably relieved. But I do remember what it was that broke me from the moment.
The breeze before us was much softer than the storm that howled behind us. But there was a different wailing noise upon it—one that I had heard a thousand times before, in the shadow of a haunted mountain.
Twenty years after its destruction, the capital still screamed.
It was a familiar scream. I had been there on the day that it first sounded—as the people of Galtir looked up to the sky and saw their inevitable doom racing towards them. The noise shivered down my spine, stealing what little warmth I’d managed to reclaim. It dissolved the decades that once had stood between then and now; all at once, I was twelve years old again, staring down at the unexpected wreckage of everything I’d ever known.
The ruins of Galtir stretched out below us like bleached bones. Aether exposure had long since leached all colour from the city; even the tangled foliage that grew across the wreckage was mostly ashen grey. Crashed ships—both Imperial and Coalition—laid entwined together like dead lovers amidst the beds of broken buildings. Armoured vehicles and ruined outflyers littered the abandoned city like discarded toys.
Every corner of the city blazed with glimmering blue lights.
I stared down at the ruins, trying to process the sheer scale of what I was seeing. Every one of those lights, I realised, was an individual shade or tatterdemalion, living out the last cursed moments of its previous life. There had to be thousands of them, all meandering in endless circuitous loops.
The cheers on the main deck died away slowly, smothered by a shocked and sombre pall.
Dimly, I realised that the horror I felt was not… entirely my own.
I turned my eyes away from the wreckage, towards the faerie that still stood at the Rose’s wheel. The noble visage that Syrene had worn when greeting Tiirdan was gone; now, her bark had taken on the aether-bleached cast of the dead trees below us. The once-vivid autumnal leaves of her hair were brittle and unnaturally grey.
Syrene was rigid and uncomfortable as she looked out over the city.
“Is this… Galtir?” she whispered.
I blinked at her, still dazed and overwhelmed. “You haven’t seen it since the war?” I mumbled.
Distress rippled out from her slender form. Syrene turned her dark, unblinking eyes upon me. “We were present when this city was planted,” she said. “We saw it blossom and grow strong. What has it now become?”
I looked back at her with a dull weariness. “Pelaeia,” I said. “It’s become Pelaeia. But you didn’t care about that city, because… you didn’t spend any time there, did you?” Suddenly, I understood—and it was a strange realisation. As terrifying as Syrene was, she had only a toddler’s sense of empathy. Galtir mattered because she had spent hundreds of years walking its streets; Pelaeia was foreign to her, and therefore of no consequence.
At least, I thought, she had empathy. I had nearly concluded that Syrene had no care for anything other than the Seelie Court.
“I couldn’t undo this,” Miss Hawkins whispered behind me. “Not even if I had a hundred years.” I turned to see her stumbling up the stairs of the quarterdeck, staring down at the city below in abject despair.
Syrene tilted her head at the aethermancer. A tiny curl of surprised understanding radiated from her—as though she had truly seen Hawkins for the first time. It was, I thought, a moment of unexpected connection for a being who so rarely understood the humans around her.
Hawkins, of course, had never seen Syrene at all. Eventually, the sea of echoes below us lost its initial grip upon her, as she turned to face the faerie with unnatural calm. It was a testament to the sheer exhaustion of the last few days, I thought, that Syrene’s strange form elicited only one more quiet, tired assessment from the aethermancer.
Syrene’s unblinking eyes shifted to an empty spot just next to Hawkins. “Greetings, Galatine,” she said softly.
Miss Hawkins turned her head to follow Syrene’s gaze. Both of them, I realised, were looking at something I couldn’t see.
The recognition in Syrene’s manner soon turned to puzzlement, however. “Will you not speak with us?” she asked.
She wasn’t talking to Miss Hawkins.
Hawkins took a slow step back from Syrene, watching the faerie with new wariness. “Please take no offence,” she said quietly. “Galatine is weary.”
Any mortal would have caught the lie in her voice. But Syrene accepted the reply as though it had been true. “Rest your spirit, Galatine,” Syrene commanded evenly. “We have much left to do.”
I wasn’t entirely certain what was going on. But I suspected it was best interrupted, whatever it was. “Syrene,” I interjected, as firmly as I could manage. “I need you to take us slowly around the perimeter of the city and find us a safe place to land. Keep us low, if you can. Wraithwood is out there, along with the rest of the Cinderwolves. I’d rather they don’t see us coming.”
“Yes, Captain,” Syrene replied.
I took up the longhorn, informing the rest of the crew that we had exited the Fury. I took brief reports from each of my officers, before quietly informing them that I would need them gathered for a meeting in the wardroom.
I saved my chief engineer for last. After Mr Finch explained to me in very clipped tones that his new list of repairs was three pages long, I forced my way in between words.
“Mr Finch,” I said. “Is Aesir in the engine room with you right now?”
“That he is, Captain.” Mr Finch’s voice vibrated with irritation. “I would greatly appreciate it if you could come and retrieve him. He keeps… touching things.”
“I’ll be down shortly,” I told him.
I set the chatterbox back into its cradle and jerked my chin at Hawkins. “We should talk,” I told her grimly. “Would you mind taking a walk down below with me, Miss Hawkins?”
I offered out my arm, as though to punctuate the point. The aethermancer offered Syrene one last careful look before threading her hand through the crook of my elbow.
Tension radiated between us as we descended the stairs belowdecks. After a few minutes, Hawkins cleared her throat as though to speak—but I shook my head at her.
“Not here,” I said quietly. “Not until we reach the engine room.”
Aesir MacLeod was indeed up and investigating the Rose’s innards when we arrived—much to Mr Finch’s ongoing dismay. Mr Finch hovered over the northerner’s shoulder, caught between his meticulous need for order and the agony of his own good manners. Aesir seemed blissfully unaware of the other man’s anxiety as he chatted up one of the other engineers, asking questions about the repairs they were currently effecting to the ship.
As Miss Hawkins caught sight of Aesir, she tried to halt herself just outside of the doorway—but I dragged her in after me against her wordless protests.
Broken crockery crunched beneath my boot as I went. I stifled a wince.
Aesir turned away from the dials in front of him, taking in our presence. His expression turned instantly cold and careful.
“We’re still pressed for time,” I reminded them both. “Your very legitimate problems will need to wait until later.” I glanced at Mr Finch. “We’re close to the aetheric core here,” I said. “You once theorised that would make it difficult for Syrene to overhear us, didn’t you?”
Mr Finch blinked owlishly. “I did theorise that,” he agreed. “May I ask what relevance that has at the moment, Captain?”
“You may not,” I told him pleasantly. “At least, not right this second. In fact, I think it might be best if you all left us here for a few minutes, Mr Finch.”
My chief engineer glanced worriedly at Aesir—clearly loath to leave the northerner alone in his engine room.
“I’ll make sure everything stays in one piece,” I assured him. “Just a few minutes, Mr Finch.”
Mr Finch slunk reluctantly for the door of the engine room, shepherding the other engineers out with him. He offered the room one last mournful look, before closing the door behind himself.
I turned back to Aesir and Miss Hawkins. “All right,” I announced. “Once again, we’re short on time. Here’s my problem: There’s a faerie on this ship. Right now, she’s on our side, but I don’t know if that will last.”
Aesir raised an eyebrow at me. “What, ye got a brownie on board?” he asked. It wasn’t a terrible guess—faeries were rare, but house spirits were probably most common among them.
I offered him a grimace. “More like a murderous tree,” I said darkly.
Aesir’s expression sobered quickly.
I looked at Hawkins. “Your sword injured a sylph; do you think, if push came to shove… it could kill Syrene?”
The question came with more difficulty than I anticipated. I’d seen how little respect Syrene had for mortal life; I knew she was the only creature aboard this ship that still believed in the empire. But while I was absolutely certain the faerie would murder me under the right circumstances, the idea of betraying her in turn still troubled me.
I forced myself to ignore the feeling. I wasn’t the only one who would pay the price if we failed to keep Syrene in check.
Miss Hawkins swallowed at my question. Her grey eyes dropped to the floor. “Galatine fears that faerie,” she said softly. “She instigated its bondage. I don’t know if the sword’s will can hold against her.”
“Wait,” I said dimly. “Go back a second. The swords are alive? I mean—they can think?”
Miss Hawkins offered me an offended look. “Of course they can think!” she said. “Everyone knows the wargears are conscious. Why would you assume that the silver swords are any different?”
“Wait…” Aesir started incredulously, as he realised what we were discussing. His eyes blazed at Hawkins with renewed fury. “Wait a minute. Ye brought a silver sword to Old Pelaeia—”
Miss Hawkins whirled on him. “You can blame me all you like,” she told him tightly. “But don’t you dare blame the swords for the crimes of their captors. You have no idea what they’ve been subjected to. The Silver Legionnaires broke these weapons to their will. They considered it a rite of passage, forcing the swords to act against their nature.”
“Oh, finish the thought!” Aesir scoffed at her. “What’s their nature, then? They’re weapons. They were made tae kill. And they’re bloody well good at it, tae!”
Miss Hawkins drew herself up. “Galatine was forged with honour and mercy,” she said in a low voice. “It was charged with protecting the innocent from harm. It brings me no pleasure to say that Jonathan Silver abused this sword—but Galatine has protected me from Wraithwood so far, of its own volition. If I die, and Gideon takes it back from me, it will be enslaved all over again. Galatine knows that.” She pressed her lips together, and I was surprised to see tears at the corners of her eyes. “Please,” she begged. “It can’t even speak in its own defence. Don’t condemn it just because I’m the only one who can speak for it.”
Whatever response Aesir had been preparing died on his lips. Instead, he fell into uncomfortable silence.
It was the pleading, I think. Aesir had always been well-prepared to handle a bracing argument—but raw sincerity was something else entirely.
Every instinct I had demanded that I intervene to try and smooth things over… but I knew that would only complicate matters. The ugly rift that had sprung up between Aesir and Miss Hawkins was the sort of injury that couldn’t be solved with clumsy meddling.
Aesir drew in a long, deep breath. And then, he asked something that surprised me.
“Wraithwood’s sword,” he said quietly. “What about tha’ one?”
Miss Hawkins blinked quickly. The oddly placid response had caught her off-balance. She searched Aesir’s face for meaning. “Clarent,” she said. “The Lady of Fools and the Benefactor forged it together. It’s meant to slay cruel tyrants. Mostly the Unseelie, but… Galatine says Clarent has always played a bit loose with the rules.”
Aesir tightened his jaw. “Ye know the things that sword has done,” he told Hawkins. “Ye saw.”
Hawkins pressed her lips together. “I felt,” she corrected him darkly. “I died a dozen times on that mountain, MacLeod. I lived the last moments of every echo I sent on.” Her grey eyes fixed on his. “Wraithwood’s will engineered those deaths. I intend to make him pay for every single one. And Galatine intends to rescue the sword that Gideon broke.”
Aesir took a step back as though she’d slapped him. He started to speak again—stopped. Rubbed at his face in consternation. I couldn’t tell exactly what was going on behind his eyes. I knew it was conflicted, and miserably confused.
Finally, he turned on me. “What d’ye even need me here for, Blair?” he asked bitterly. “Ye’ve got a silver sword. Ye want me tae hop in ma outflyer an’ shoot yer faerie?”
I shook my head. “I’m giving you a heads-up,” I told him. “I’m about to discuss our plan of attack with the officers. I’ve learned a lot of terrifying things in the last little bit, and I don’t want to keep them from you—but once we leave this engine room, you cannot lose your calm. Syrene can listen in just about anywhere on this ship, if she feels so-inclined. And she will tear you limb from limb if she thinks you pose a threat to any of her interests. If you decide you want to do something to upset her… you’d best wait until you’re absolutely ready to do it. Don’t give her any warning while we’re up here in the sky.”
I inclined my head at him. “That’s how I intend to play things, anyway. For instance…” I raised my eyebrows at Hawkins. “We don’t need Galatine’s help to kill Syrene—we’ve got Unseelie aether in the hold. Grab what you need and keep it close by. If anyone asks, it’s for your echo-machine.”
Miss Hawkins closed her eyes. I knew it was an intimidating request. But she nodded mutely, all the same.
“Ye think ah’m gonnae want tae cross that faerie, Blair?” Aesir asked me slowly.
I thought again of the man who’d given himself up in order to save my life—the empire’s bloodthirsty, shining star, groomed to rule the next generation of mortals. It didn’t surprise me at all to hear that Strahl was the same man who’d ruthlessly slaughtered woefully under-equipped Coalition forces at Camden Hill.
How many times had Strahl emphasised to me that he wasn’t a good man? I thought I’d believed him. But nothing could have possibly prepared me for the truth of who he was and what he represented.
Some part of me still desperately wanted to believe that Strahl had been honest with me when he’d said the empire deserved to die. But I knew that part of me was biassed. I needed to believe that everyone was capable of redemption, didn’t I?
Like Aesir, I was bewildered, and angry, and helplessly pressed for time. I didn’t have the luxury of processing it all.
But I did know that Aesir MacLeod had absolutely no reason to show any mercy to Arcturus Lohengrin.
“I’m almost positive you are going to want to cross that faerie,” I said bleakly. “And the thing is, Aesir… I don’t think I have the right to stop you.”