Neither was there any hesitation in Ianthe’s. Gideon had seen the exquisite sword of the Third House lying in a smear of blood next to the body of its cavalier: now it was suddenly in the hand of its necromantic princess. She met his blade with a flat parry—it knocked away that titanic blow as though Ianthe were not a head shorter and a third of his weight—and she eased back into perfect, surefooted precision.

It was Naberius Tern’s movement that tucked Ianthe’s arm behind her back, and Naberius Tern’s perfect, precise footwork. It was profoundly weird to see Naberius Tern’s moves restrung in Ianthe Tridentarius’s body—but there they were, recreated right down to the way she held her head. Colum moved in for advantage, a high vertical cut to her naked collarbones. She avoided his move with boyish contempt and countered. Colum had to scramble to meet her.

It was only then that it hit home to Gideon what Ianthe had done. The bizarre sight of a necromancer holding a sword—a ghost fighting inside the meat suit of his adept—made it real that Naberius was dead, but that he was dead inside Ianthe. It was not that he had taught her how to fight: it was him fighting. There was Naberius’s instant counterstrike; there was Naberius’s gorgeous deflection, the tiny movement knocking Colum’s shield away. Normally Gideon would have been fascinated to watch the cavalier of the Eighth at work—he was as light on his feet as a feather, and yet his blows were all heavy as lead—but her gaze was locked on Ianthe, only Ianthe, who was moving more Naberius than Naberius ever could, whose body was agile and lithe and as suprahuman as a wisp.

But there was one catch. The sword of the Third House must have weighed at least a kilogram, and Naberius’s muscle memory could not quite account for Ianthe’s arms. Some power must have been compensating for her body—her elbow should have been locking like a door—but whatever she was doing to wield that thing, it was just a fraction not good enough. She was sweating. There was a pucker in the middle of that preternaturally calm forehead, a wince in the eyes, the slight drunken lolling of the head that she had suffered from before. As she faded, Colum took the advantage. She shook herself, and he raised his foot and kicked her sword out of her hand. It spun over to the wall where Palamedes had been, and clattered there miserably, far out of reach. Colum raised his sword.

The Princess of the Third House raised her hand to her mouth, gored a chunk of flesh from the heel of her palm, and spat it at him like a missile. Ianthe disappeared beneath a greasy, billowing tent—cellular, fleshy, coated all over with neon-yellow bubbles and thin pink film. Colum bounced off this thing as though he had hit a brick wall. He went ass-over-teakettle and rolled over and over, only at the last skidding back up to stand, locking himself into position, panting. Where there had been a necromancer, there was instead a semitransparent dome of skin and subcutaneous fat, baffling to the eye. Nothing loath, Colum charged again, smashing his shield down on it with a bad wet noise like squirk. It was rubbery: it bounced back against him. He gave a mighty slash downward with his sword: the flesh-bubble tore and bled, but did not give.

Gideon put her hand on her sword to draw it, and slipped her fingers into her gauntlet. Thin fingers wrapped around her wrist. When she looked around, Harrow was tight-lipped.

“Don’t go near them,” she said. “Don’t touch her. Don’t think about touching her.”

Gideon looked around wildly for the Sixth House: she found only Camilla, swords sheathed, face impassive. Those watching were doing so in near-embarrassed, breathless silence as Colum circled the horrible skin shield, testing it with slashes, shoving his blade home hard and grunting when the flesh did not give. Then Silas closed his eyes and said quietly, “The necromancer must fight the necromancer.”

Colum raised his arm for a beautiful downward cross-slice, then jerked back as though he had been stung. He retreated, sword and small shield at the ready, and gritted his teeth. Gideon now knew what leeching felt like, and swore to God she could see the haze in the air and feel the chilly suction as his necromancer began to siphon.

“Stop fighting me,” said Silas, without opening his eyes.

Colum said gruffly: “Don’t do it. Don’t put me under. Not this time.”

“Brother Asht,” said his necromancer, “if you cannot believe, then for God’s sake obey.”

Colum made a sound in the back of his throat. Ianthe was visible as a blurred shape behind the yellow-streaked flesh wall. Silas walked forward on light feet—crackles of electricity arcing over his skin, his hands—and laid his palms on the shield.

The skin puddled around his fingers, and for a moment Gideon thought it was working. Then the wall sucked his hands inward, ripping and bristling with canine teeth. The shield bit down savagely, and there was blood at Silas’s wrists. He cried out, and then closed his eyes, the heat pouring off him in waves; Colum went greyer and greyer, and stiller and stiller, and Silas squeezed his hands into fists.

The shield went pop, like a pimple or an eyeball, and fell to the floor in ragged strips and jiggling globs. Silas looked almost surprised to see Ianthe, who was gripping her head in tight-knuckled hands. When Ianthe looked up, her eyes were wild and white again, and she screamed in a voice that required many more vocal cords than she possessed.

Silas approached her with hands like hot white murder. Ianthe ducked past him and flung herself down onto one of the still-bubbling sheets that had made up her shield. She sunk down into the skin with a splash, peppering the wooden floor with hot yellow fat. The skin blistered and crinkled up on itself like it had been burnt, and then it deliquesced into a viscous puddle, leaving no trace of Ianthe.

Silas knelt by the puddle, and—silver chain starting to warp and buckle on his perfect white tunic—thrust his hand into it. Colum made a noise as though he had been punched in the gut. A bloodied hand emerged from the puddle, seized Silas by the shoulder, and jerked him in.

The ceiling broke apart like a thundercloud, and a torrent of bloody, fatty rain sluiced down on them all. Gideon and Harrow gagged and pulled their hoods down over their heads. Two figures tumbled from above, filthy with blood and lymph. Ianthe landed on her feet, and delicately shivered off the fetid red soup, more or less unblemished, while Silas fell heavily to earth. There was a faint red mark like a slap on Ianthe’s face; she touched her cheek, and it paled into nothing.

Silas clambered to his knees, clasped his fingers together, and the feeling of suction popped the pressure in both of Gideon’s ears. She saw his power warping around Ianthe now, and she gave a disbelieving laugh. She was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating.

“Octakiseron,” Ianthe said, “you can’t take it faster than I can make it.”

“He’s trying to drain her,” muttered Harrow, spellbound. “But he’s splitting his focus—he needs to bring Colum back, or—”

Colum—ashen as his name, drunk in movement, numb—had lifted his sword, and was moving inexorably toward Ianthe. He backhanded her full across the face with his shield, as though to test her. Ianthe’s head snapped back, but she looked more dazed and surprised than hurt or injured. Her breath was coming in stutters. She righted herself like nothing had happened, and the cavalier thrust forward with his blade. She raised her hand and wrapped it around the shining edge like it was nothing. Her hand was bloody, but the blood itself pushed back gracefully, quietly repelling the blade like it was all just so many more fingers.