“This is an evil place,” she heard one grizzled levy corporal mutter.

That was one way to look at it, and another helpful corollary was that the evil came from the dwenda presence here, either the once-long-ago mythical city or the more recent incursion. But Archeth could not help, could not stop herself from wondering, if that sensation of evil came from the weapon itself; if there was not some smoldering remnant of its awful power still buried at the tip and if that was what came rising from the surrounding swamp like some ancient phantom in black rotting robes.

She had for so long been confident of Kiriath civilization, of a moral superiority that lifted her and her whole people above the brutal morass of the human world. Now she thought back to some of Grashgal’s and her father’s more brooding moments, their less intelligible meditations on the past and the essence of who they were, and she wondered if they had lived with this knowledge, of weapons to murder entire cities, and had hidden it from her, out of shame.

These fucking humans, Archidi, Grashgal had told her, and shuddered. If we stay, they’re going to drag us into every squalid fucking skirmish and border dispute their short-term greed and fear can invent. They’re going to turn us into something we never used to be.

But what if, Archidi, that wasn’t the truth of the revulsion in his voice at all. What if the truth of Grashgal’s fears was that these fucking humans are going to turn us back into something we haven’t been for a long, long time.

She didn’t want to think about it. She buried it in the day-to-day tasks of the clear-up, the creation of the new garrisons at Beksanara and Pranderghal and half a dozen other strategically placed villages around the swamp. If the dwenda were coming back, it was her job to ensure that the Empire was equipped to repel them with massive force. For the moment, nothing else need matter.

But for all that, the knowledge would not go away.

Even here and now, in the sun and the garden at Pranderghal, the great black iron spike stayed buried in the back of her mind just the way it was buried in the swamp, and she knew she’d never get rid of it. Knew, abruptly, looking at Ringil’s slowly healing face and the stitched wound that would inevitably leave a scar, that he was not the only one the dwenda encounter had damaged for good.

He caught her watching him and gave her a grin, one of the old ones.

“Want to finish your beer?” he asked her. “Come out and wave goodbye?”

SO THEY ALL WENT OUT TO THE START OF THE ROAD TO SAY FAREWELL. Archeth had gifted Ringil and Sherin both with good Yhelteth levy mounts—and she thought she’d seen the faintest of sparks kindle in Sherin’s eyes when the woman glimpsed her horse, and understood that it was hers to keep. It was a tiny increment, a trickling spring-melt droplet of good feeling inside Archeth, but she supposed it would have to do.

“What are you going to do when you get back?” she asked Ringil as they stood beside the horses.

He frowned. “Well, Ishil owes me some money. I guess that might be first port of call, once I’ve seen Sherin here safely home.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve done what was asked of me, there wasn’t a plan after that. And to be honest, I doubt I’m very popular in Trelayne right now. I’ve dishonored myself and the Eskiath name by not showing up to a duel. I’ve crippled a member in good standing of the Etterkal slave traders’ association, and killed most of his men. Fucked up the cabal’s plans for a new war. I have a feeling it might be time to leave town again, soon as I’m paid.”

Egar grinned and poked him in the chest. “Hey, there’s always Yhelteth. They won’t give a shit what you’ve done, long as you can swing a blade.”

“There is always that,” Ringil said gravely.

He took his arm out of the sling to get on his horse, winced a little as he swung up. In the saddle, he flexed the arm again a couple of times and grimaced, but he didn’t put the sling back on.

“See you again, then,” he said. “Someday.”

“Someday,” Archeth echoed. “Well, you know where I’ll be.”

“And me,” the Majak said. “Don’t leave it too long, though. We’re not all semi-immortal half-breeds around here.”

Laughter, again, in the warm sun. They made the clasp all around, and then Ringil nudged his horse into motion and Sherin, wan and quiet, fell in alongside. Archeth and Egar stood together and watched them ride away. Fifty yards out, Ringil raised a hand straight into the air for them, but that was all. He didn’t look back.

Another five minutes and watching the tiny figures recede started to seem faintly ridiculous. Egar nudged her with an elbow.

“C’mon, I’ll buy you another beer. We can watch them disappear over the hill from the garden.”

Archeth stirred, as if from a doze. “What? Okay, sure. Yeah.”

And then, as they wandered back toward the inn, “So, did I hear right? You’re going to come back to Yhelteth with me?”

The Majak shrugged elaborately.

“Been thinking about it, yeah. Like Gil said, I’m not exactly popular back home right now. And I could use some sun. And from what you said about the Citadel, you could use some armed protection about the house.”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “I’m a fucking hero now. No way they can touch me after this.”

“Yeah, not publicly, maybe.”

“Okay, okay. You’re invited. Stay as long as you want.”

“Thanks.” Egar hesitated, cleared his throat. “You uh, you ever run into Imrana these days?”

Archeth grinned. “Yeah, sure. Seen her around the court, on and off. Why?”

“Dunno, just wondered. I suppose she’s married by now.”

“A couple of times at least,” Archeth agreed. “But I don’t think she lets it get in the way of anything that matters to her.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

EPILOGUE

Grace-of-Heaven Milacar jolted awake.

For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was; he’d been dreaming of the past, the house on Replete Cargo Street, and now the room he woke to felt wrong. He blinked at the full-length balcony windows and their muslin drapes, the polished décor and space around him, and for that first waking moment, it all felt alien, as if it didn’t belong to him or, worse, he didn’t belong to it.

He reached out blindly in the bed beside him. “Gil?”

But the bed was empty.

And he remembered then where he was, remembered how he’d come to be there, the years it had taken, and last of all he remembered he was old.

He sagged back onto the bed. Stared up at the painted ceiling, the debauchery whose details it was too dark to make out.

“Ahhh, fuck it.”

A sliver of the dream dropped abruptly back into his head, a piece that didn’t fit with the nostalgia and the old house memories of the rest. He’d been standing out on the marsh, quite a long way from the city walls, and it was getting dark. The sunset showed amid ragged black and indigo cloud at the horizon, like a smashed egg in mud. There was salt on the breeze, and a few odd noises in the undergrowth that he could really have done without. There was a chill on the nape of his neck.

A young girl stood before him amid the marsh grass with a flagon of tea clutched in her hands. The wind plucked at the simple oatmeal-colored shift she wore. At first he thought she was going to offer the flagon to him, but as he put out his hands she shook her head and turned away without a word. She started walking away, into the gloom of the marsh, and he was seized with a sudden, unaccountable fear of her leaving.

He called out after her.

Where are you going?

I have other fish to fry, she said obscurely. I don’t need to watch this to the end.