The Wyrm fluttered as hard as he could, with one wing mostly shredded and the other full of holes.

It was a long way down. After a while, he spun, and lost what little control he had—lost consciousness—and fell.

Harmodius watched the victor glide away into the shadows of the far west, even as the other fell. The fall was long—the heavens were very high.

Higher than I thought.

Gabriel was at his door, and then in his head.

“He covered us, for hours. Can you save him?”

Harmodius chuckled grimly. “Save him? I’ll dance on his grave.”

Gabriel paused. “Listen—you are the closest thing to a teacher I have had in a long time. I want you to think of something. Today we are still standing because bear and irk and man stood together. Some irks and many men are deeply evil. What of it? We—whoever we are—we choose to believe that we can stand together. The bishop is no fool, Harmodius. This is murder.”

Harmodius watched the dragon fall. “I did not kill him,” he said.

“Are we an alliance of all the peoples of this sphere?” Gabriel asked. “Or are we just another set of Powers?”

Harmodius grunted.

“Save him,” Gabriel begged.

Harmodius cursed. But he reached out, into the real, and gave without stint. He gave until trees died—gave more when Gabriel gave him his reserve.

He poured in his ops, and then, daring, he used Amicia’s as well.

Master Smythe awoke with his head on a linen pillow. He opened his eyes.

And met the eyes of the beautiful nun. He had never met her in human form, but he knew her well.

“I am not dead,” he said.

Amicia smiled. “No,” she said. “We saved you.” She pushed a lock of hair back inside her wimple. “Only fair, as you saved us.”

Master Smythe lay still for a long time, savouring that. He understood—with terrible clarity—what had been done to him. He had no right arm.

Not in the real.

At the next bed, another beautiful human woman stood by the bed of a tired, dark-haired man. Master Smythe knew him perfectly well. And his brother, who stood with yet another beautiful woman—dark-haired, where the woman by the Red Knight was pale.

“Gabriel,” he said. “You lived. You won.” He sat up a bit—an odd motion, unsuited to human form—and then turned and smiled at Gabriel’s brother Gavin. “Who are all these beautiful women and what do they see in you two?” he asked.

The blonde woman turned away, drawing a sharp breath.

Gabriel extended a hand and caught hers. “This is Blanche Gold, and I have no idea what she sees in me,” he said. “Stay,” he said to her. “I have no secrets from you.”