Vesper made no move to take it off, but the Magruwen flicked his hand and it was wrenched from her, its lacing loosening just enough to pull it over her head and off. Beneath it she wore a fine plain gown, and bereft of Bellatrix’s treasures, with her wild living hair, she was nearly unrecognizable. She turned and fled Issrin Ev, leaving her Never Nigh subjects with their mouths agape.

“Fools,” the Magruwen hissed at them, clutching Bellatrix’s tunic in one great gold-sheathed hand and her crown in the other. “A crown does not a queen make, as a sword does not a warrior make . . . but for one. One blade there is, cursed to slay any who wield it but the champion. With it Bellatrix turned the tide of the devil wars and since then it has traveled through blood and dust, the ornament of skeletons, releasing all who claim it to the Moonlit Gardens. Skuldraig, it is called. Backbiter. You faeries believed you would know a new champion by the relics of the old one, and you were right. But you looked to the wrong relic.”

He paused and held up the circlet, and as they watched, its gleaming gold shone brighter still until it burned white-hot. It warped and melted and trickled down the Djinn’s gauntlet, raining a patter of molten gold onto the tumbled stones below. “This circlet was naught but ornament. But Skuldraig is power, and it has found a new mistress. And I, a new champion.”

Talon turned to stare at Magpie, and Magpie stared at the Magruwen, eyes wide, her lip clamped between her teeth. The Djinn said, “Magpie Windwitch,” and all eyes swung to her. She flushed. “Come here, little bird,” he said, and she flew to him, feeling tiny before him.

“Lord,” she whispered, “I thought the Blackbringer . . .” She hesitated, suddenly seeing what folly it had been to think that this great being could fall so easily. “He went down the well,” she said.

“He hears the whispers of the roots and springs. He knew I had gone and went to see what he could scavenge.”

Up close Magpie could see the new skin was wrought of many fine scales of gold interlinked in a sinuous mesh not unlike the firedrake tunic. She drank in the sight of him, recalling the wild flame that had swirled in the depths of the well, scorching and blinding her. He reached out his great golden hand. His fingertip, when it touched her forehead, was cool. No sooner did she feel it than a complex glyph sprang whole into her mind.

“This is the champion’s glyph,” he said. “It was once fused of seven sigils but with the passing of the Vritra, now only six. When you hold it bright in your mind only a Djinn can break through its protection. It will keep you whole in the darkness, but you must not let it slip or you will be lost.”