Spirit’s End: An Eli Monpress Novel

by Rachel Aaron

  The Weaver closed his eyes. You ask a great thing, girl.

  “The world is fading,” Miranda said. “I could ask nothing less.”

  The Weaver bowed his head, sinking deep into thought. Eli glanced at Miranda, but her eyes were locked on the Weaver and the glowing pearl in his hands. Finally, the old Power nodded.

  So be it, he said. But such a thing can be done only by the Shepherdess. Someone will have to take on the power in order to give it away.

  Without a word, Miranda reached for the collar around her neck. She lifted the heavy gold chain over her head and carefully laid it aside. Next, she plucked her rings off one by one, piling them beside the chain. The pendant under her robes went last, and she lined it up beside the others, careful not to tangle the chain.

  Once all her spirits were lying on the floor, Miranda solemnly held out her hand. The Weaver reached out and gently placed the Shepherdess’s seed in her palm. The moment the white pearl touched her skin, Miranda changed.

  She made no sound, only shivered as the whiteness flooded over her body, washing away her color and her humanity in a great bleaching tide. Her skin was now as white as the floor she knelt on, as white as the robe across her shoulders. Her curly hair was like a snowdrift around her face, and her sharp green eyes were as pale as frost when they opened again, a silver rim the only thing separating her iris from the white of her eye.

  Eli shuddered when he saw her. He couldn’t help it. The face was still Miranda’s, with its tilted nose and stern mouth, so was the unruly hair. But though he told himself color was the only thing missing, he couldn’t help seeing the resemblance. The Shepherdess’s presence clung to her like a shadow. The stillness of her chest, the fall of her white hair across her face, everything about her screamed of Benehime until Eli could barely look at her without bile rising in his throat.

  As the white woman raised her head, Eli could almost hear the hated endearments on her lips. But then the woman spoke, and it was Miranda’s voice cut through with that strange resonance all the Powers shared. The words weren’t even directed at Eli, and there were only three.

  Use it well.

  She whispered the command, and then Eli heard something shatter. All at once, the power left Miranda as quickly as it had come, the whiteness draining away. Her eyes closed in pain, and she fell backward, nearly landing on her head.

  Eli’s arm shot forward, grabbing her just before she hit. He winced as he touched her. Her skin was freezing, and though the faintest touch of the Shepherdess’s burn lingered, it faded quickly, leaving only a shell behind.

  Eli cursed and sat up, ignoring his churning stomach as he pressed his hands against Miranda’s neck. She was breathing and her pulse was strong, but she was out cold. Just as he was about to pry her eyes open to test her pupils, Miranda seized up and launched into a coughing fit. Eli laughed with relief, pounding her back.

  As the coughing faded, she pushed him off and started replacing her rings. “Did it work?” she whispered, her voice raw.

  The Weaver smiled. See for yourself.

  All at once, the Shepherdess’s sphere spun into view. The crumples and cracks were gone, and it hung perfect in the air once again, its gentle curve filled with glittering seas, green forests, and golden deserts. But the colors weren’t as clear as Eli remembered.

  Worried, he leaned in for a closer look and saw that it wasn’t the colors that were fading. The air itself was tinged with white.

  All across the world, a fine white rain was falling. The shimmering drops fell not from the clouds but from the dome of the sky itself, falling on every rock, every wind, every tree. They sparkled like diamonds in the light of the restored sun, falling thick as a blizzard over the whole of the world. Wherever they landed, the white drops sunk in with a faint flash, and whatever they sank into changed.

  All across the sphere, the damage done by the loss of the stars and the demon invasion began to right itself. Toppled forests pushed themselves up. Rivers returned to their beds, taking their silt back with them. The churning sea retreated, drawing back its water and salt to leave the coast bone dry and fertile again. One by one, every spirit in the world seemed to tremble to life, and as they woke, the sphere began to vibrate with the sound of their voices.

  When the change was finished, only the mountains remained silent. They had been hit worst of all by the demons, especially the Master of the Dead Mountain, and they were slow to change by nature. But at their heart, the Shaper Mountain stood taller than ever before, its white slopes shining like a great beacon to all the rest, its deep, rumbling voice calling them forward until, with slow, grinding effort, the mountains began the long, tedious work of filling in that which had been sundered.

  When the flurry of motion finally finished, the Weaver leaned back and ran a tired hand across his face. I hope you’re prepared for what you’ve unleashed, he said. It’s all different now. You’re no longer wizards. Nothing is. Even those rings of yours don’t have to obey you anymore.

  Miranda gave him a superior glare and started carefully sliding her rings back onto her fingers. “If you think a Spiritualist needs magical dominance to keep her spirits, Weaver, you obviously don’t know much about our order.”

  The Weaver’s eyes widened, and Eli started to laugh. Everything might have changed, but Miranda would always be prickly about her spirits.

  “Cut the poor man some slack,” he said, grinning wide. “You’ve just given him a world of headaches. Imagine, rocks with will, trees who can scream in terror when the lumberjack comes to chop them down. Spirit sight and hearing for all! It’s going to be a madhouse.”

  “Then the Spirit Court will do its job, as always,” Miranda said. “I mean to put every Spiritualist I have into helping the world adjust to the changes. It won’t be easy, but at least there won’t be any more Enslavers to worry about.” She glanced at Eli out of the corner of her eye. “Or wizard thieves abusing their power.”

  Eli leaned back, folding his hands under his head with a broad grin. “Lady,” he said, “you have no idea.”

  Miranda’s look of alarm made him burst into laughter, and Eli let it go, laughing in utter freedom for the first time he could ever remember.

  EPILOGUE

  One Week Later

  Alber Whitefall sat in the tent that served as his temporary office and stared glumly at his ruined Citadel. He’d been told he should be happy, that Zarin had suffered far less than most places since Etmon Banage had been on hand to protect it, but the relative luck of his lot wasn’t much comfort right now. His eyes slid over the gaping hole in his entry hall roof, the broken tower that was still scattered across his courtyard, its hammered gold roof crumpled beyond recognition. Even ignoring the destruction of Sara’s levels, which he considered her fault and would be taking out of her budget, this was going to cost a fortune.

  He reached for his tea, mentally adding up the cost of stone and timber. But as his fingers closed around the delicate porcelain teacup, the thing jerked away. “What did we talk about?” it said. “Gently, please.”

  And then there were the other changes to deal with.

  Alber gritted his teeth. “My apologies.”

  “Just mind your fingers,” the cup said with a sniff, which was impressive since it didn’t have a nose. “I’m over a hundred years old, you know.”

  Alber knew this very well. The cup had been reminding him of it every time he so much as tipped it the wrong way. He took a careful sip and set the cup on its saucer as gently as a mother with her new baby. When he managed to get his fingers back without further comment, Alber added find less-talkative teacup to his mental checklist. This led to a fit of nostalgia for happier days when his citadel was still in one piece and he didn’t have to worry about talkative teacups.

  “Sir?”

  Alber looked up to see a page standing at his tent flap. “The Rector is here.”

  Whitefall nodded and the boy hurried off, leaving little swirling eddies of wind behin
d him. Alber shuddered despite himself. That was another thing he was never going to get used to, seeing things like wind. When the change had first come, he’d been sure he’d gone mad. A few minutes later it had become clear that, if he was going mad, he wasn’t going alone. Everyone, young and old, wizard or not, could suddenly see and hear an entire new world.

  The initial panic had lasted about a day, after which people finally seemed to realize their talking doors weren’t going to eat them alive. Once that was out of the way, the shift to the new normal was almost terrifyingly swift. After all, there were still goods to sell and farms to mind, even if the goods were demanding a say in their handling now. Still, life rolled on, and the Spirit Court had played an invaluable part in making sure it rolled smoothly. Which was, of course, the entire reason he’d asked the Rector for this meeting.

  The tent flap whispered again, politely this time, he noticed, and Alber turned to smile as the new Rector of the Spirit Court entered his tent. She was quite young for a Rector, not yet out of her twenties and a bit too pretty for most of the Council to take seriously, which was always their mistake. Even his limited experience had taught him that Miranda Lyonette never took anything less than absolutely seriously.

  She was dressed for official business today in her crimson robes with the heavy chain of her office around her neck, the rings gleaming on her fingers with an unnatural light he no longer dismissed. “Rector Lyonette,” he said, taking her hand. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

  “Merchant Prince,” the Rector said, inclining her head.

  He escorted her to the velvet folding chair at the end of his makeshift desk. As she sat, he couldn’t help but notice there was something else in her, something large and blue. Alber walked around his desk and sat down, watching her covertly. He’d gotten used to the way humans looked now, but no one he’d encountered had the large presence in their chests that the Rector did. He was trying to puzzle out what the strange, fluctuating light behind her eyes meant when he realized the Rector had caught him staring.

  He bit his tongue at being caught like a gawking schoolboy, but to his surprise, the Rector looked amused. “You can look if you like,” she said. “Mellinor’s a bit of a shock to most people, but I promise he’s not dangerous unless you give him cause to be.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Whitefall said.

  “Prying is fine,” the Rector said, laughing. “Curiosity’s a good thing in a new world. And he’s a sea, in case you were wondering.”

  Whitefall nodded politely, wondering how in the world anyone got a sea in their body. Maybe such things were common for Spiritualists? “Does he always…”

  “Live in me?” the Rector finished. “Yes. Well, we had a bit of a gap for a while, but everything shook out in the end.”

  She beamed like this was the best possible news. Whitefall smiled back weakly and decided it was time to retake control of the conversation. After all, he hadn’t put off his meeting with the Council Trade Board so he could talk about seas.

  “I’m sorry Sara couldn’t join us,” he said, getting down to business. “Prior obligations, I believe, what with things being how they are.”

  That wasn’t a total lie. Sara had actually gone missing. This in itself wasn’t terribly unusual. The woman would often vanish without a trace for days on end if something caught her curiosity, and the new changes to the world were certainly curious. He’d been a bit surprised by her going this time, though, considering how she’d been mortally wounded not three days before. Then again, Sara never was one to let a little thing like a punctured lung stand between her and her work. Fortunately, the Rector took the news of Sara’s absence in stride.

  “I understand,” Miranda said with a strange scowl. “Better for both of us, actually. I don’t much care to see Sara, either.”

  That suited Whitefall just fine. Sara’s absence made this next bit easier.

  “Rector Lyonette,” he said, leaning forward. “I asked you here rather than calling the full Council because I’d like to offer you a bit of a personal apology. Our two organizations haven’t exactly been on the best of terms in recent times, and I feel that, as Merchant Prince, I demanded things I should not have.”

  That was a total lie. He had been completely reasonable right up to the cliff Banage had pushed him off. But swallowing your pride was as much a part of being Merchant Prince as the parades, and Alber had been a politician long enough to know the power of a little applied groveling.

  “I was overzealous in the pursuit of what I thought would make my lands safer,” he continued. “And in the process, I fear I may have injured one of the oldest and most mutually beneficial relationships in my Council’s history.”

  “You did,” Miranda said, though there was no anger in her voice. She was just stating a point. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t rebuild that trust.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “I told you, it’s a new world, Whitefall. Everything’s different now. If you asked me here to reforge the ties between my Court and the Council of Thrones, then you don’t have to apologize. We are glad to offer our hands in friendship to anyone, provided they agree to the standards we have always set.”

  “The right treatment of spirits,” Whitefall said, nodding.

  “The fair and open treatment of spirits,” Miranda corrected. “The right treatment is expected of everyone. Anything less makes the Court your enemy.”

  Whitefall sighed. “I find I grow tired of secrets, Rector Lyonette. From this day forward, I give you my word that my Council and its member countries will abide by your rules to the letter. In return, however, I would ask your assistance regarding the recent—”

  “Of course,” Miranda said. “You just went from a Council of human kingdoms to a Council whose lands are now shared by Great Spirit dominions and the Wind Courts. Of course you need our help, and we give it gladly. My Court is at your disposal, Merchant Prince. We’re a little undercapacity at the moment, but we’ve had a surge of new applicants now that being a wizard isn’t a necessity of membership. I’ll assign a liaison to you first thing when I return. Bring all problems to him and we will do our best to help teach your people how to ease any difficulties you encounter. After all”—her smile grew into a grin—“we do have a little experience mediating between humans and spirits.”

  “Yes, well, glad we could come to an understanding,” Whitefall said, rising again to see her out. “It’s been a bit of a shake-up for all of us. I’m still not quite sure how to move forward, actually. Tell me, do I need to negotiate with the stone masons for what it will cost to rebuild my citadel, or do I talk to the stones themselves and see if I can’t get a better rate?”

  He’d meant this as a joke, but the Rector pursed her lips and peered over his shoulder at the fallen tower. “The stones look mostly fine to me,” she said. “Have you tried just asking them to repair themselves?”

  Whitefall froze midstep. “No, actually.”

  “Can’t hurt to ask,” she said. “Most natural things righted themselves when they woke up, but human-made structures often need human input to get themselves together again. I don’t think you’ll have much of a problem here, though. This place was very well built, and bright white stones fine enough to go into a citadel often like being fancy. They may jump back up on their own if you promise to keep your towers spotless. And if all else fails, you can always try a little charm. It’s worked before.”

  That last bit was accompanied by a small eye roll that Whitefall wasn’t quite sure how to interpret, but he had the distinct feeling he’d missed out on a joke. “I’ll try your suggestion,” he said mildly, holding the flap for her. “And thank you again.”

  She nodded and glanced up, staring at the sky. Frowning, Alber leaned out as well, stomach clenching. Ever since that awful day, he’d tried not to look at the sky for fear of spotting another crack, or worse, one of the horrible, unthinkable black hands. But the sky was clear and empty, its vault so blue he
couldn’t even see the edges of the ever-present winds. He glanced back at the Rector to see if he’d missed anything only to find her smiling with rapt wonder.

  When she didn’t move for several second, he asked, “What are you looking at?”

  “The spirits,” she answered, grinning wide as her eyes dropped to his again. “After so many years of wondering, I don’t think I will ever tire of seeing as they see.”

  Whitefall was deathly tired of it, but he kept that thought to himself as he watched the Rector climb up onto the monster of a dog she rode. As soon as she was settled on its back, the creature bolted, clearing the Council’s miraculously unruined gate in a single leap. Whitefall watched them until they vanished around the corner, and then he went back inside to deal with the serious business of picking his empire up out of the dirt.

  When Miranda returned to the Tower, Banage was waiting for her. He was dressed in traveling clothes, rubbing his hand absently across the high back of his jade horse. He smiled as she and Gin trotted to a stop in front of him and moved to help Miranda down. “Well?”

  “Nothing,” Miranda said, taking his offered hand. “Sara wasn’t there, and though Whitefall gave the expected excuses, I don’t think he knows where she is, either. I worry Mellinor might be right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Mellinor’s deep voice said in Miranda’s ear. “When all that water came pouring out of her thrice-cursed tanks, it went straight to the river. Rellenor was a little preoccupied at the time, but once things calmed down she was furious. Ollor was a river spirit before he made the mistake of trusting Sara, and most of the other water came from Rellenor.”