by Rachel Aaron
All she saw was ships. Her fleet spread to the horizon, her palace ships filled the great bay of Istalirin until no glimpse of water was visible between the hulls. Pride welled up in her chest. Twenty-six years ago, when she was the favorite and the world was as it should be, she’d sent a handful of ships to test the strength of the other half of the world. They’d returned defeated, but that was to be expected. She’d conquered close to a hundred countries since becoming Empress, and she’d learned early to use a small force to sound out the enemy’s strengths before attacking in earnest. What had surprised her were her generals’ reports of the enemy’s ability to talk across distance. That had caught her for a moment, but the counter proved easy. If they could gossip about her movements and pile all their troops to meet her at full strength wherever she hit, then she would simply build so many ships that such a small advantage wouldn’t matter.
The Empress enjoyed such simple, effective plans, but even for her, it took time to raise that large a force. But again, she was the Immortal Empress; time wasn’t an issue. As soon as she’d heard her defeated generals’ report, she’d put her shipyards to work and sat back to wait. For eleven years, everything went as planned. But then, just as her army was nearing completion, the boy had appeared and ruined everything.
Nara took a deep, shamed breath. When the boy first took Benehime away from her, she’d gone a little mad. She’d abandoned her lands, abandoned her nearly finished fleet, abandoned her people, abandoned her wish to hide in a cave like an animal. Fifteen years she’d lost to worthless misery, and then to be rescued by Den, of all people. It was her greatest shame. One she meant to undo with the fleet that lay before her.
Satisfied, the Empress turned away from the window and took her place at the head of the table as her generals began to arrange the battle maps for her inspection. As the papers were laid in place, she spotted Den himself entering the war room. Her officers stiffened visibly as he stepped up to the table, but Nara motioned for him to stand beside her. Mindless of the great honor, Den walked up and sat on the table by her elbow, his hard face sullen and bored.
“I’m here,” he said. “Can we go?”
“Soon,” Nara promised, nodding for her generals to begin their presentations.
Den sneered and walked over to the window overlooking the bay. As the generals began to speak, Den paid them no attention. His eyes never left the ships, and he stared at them with the ardor of someone witnessing the birth of his heart’s desire. That look alone set Nara’s mind at ease. Confident that her monster would be loyal for now, she turned to hear the greatest military minds of her Empire outline their plans to crush all who stood in her way.
Just beyond the bay at Istalirin, at the outskirts of the Empress’s control, an enormous wind flew over the growing fleet. It blew through every ship, taking note not only of the mountainous hulls and cavernous crew quarters but of the great war spirits that slept deep in the ships’ bellies. The wind looked as long as it dared, skirting the edge of the Empress’s awareness. When it had seen enough, the wind turned west, flying as fast as it could back to its lord who waited on the far western edge of the world.
Far across the Unseen Sea, Tesset sat on the plush window seat in the Merchant Prince of Zarin’s office, watching his employer pace a rut into the fine silk rug.
“Whitefall’s an idiot if he thinks this is going to work,” Sara muttered around the pipe she clenched between her teeth. “Compromises don’t work with men like Banage.”
“It’s my impression that he doesn’t have much choice,” Tesset said. “Council and Court must stand together or face mutual destruction.”
“Which is exactly why it won’t work,” Sara said, walking faster. “Mutual destruction loses its teeth when one party is willing to die for his beliefs.”
Tesset leaned against the window. “If the Merchant Prince is showing any lack of judgment, Sara, it’s not trying to compromise with Banage, but inviting you to attend.”
Sara shot him a look that would have frozen the Whitefall River. Tesset settled his shoulders against the cool glass and stared back.
“There’s no point in leaving me out of things,” she said, resuming her pacing. “Whitefall may fancy himself the shadow king of the world, but this is as much my Council as it is his. He can’t make a decision involving wizard matters without my say-so, and Banage knows it. Etmon won’t agree to anything without me there for him to gloat over.” She puffed on her pipe, adding more smoke to the haze that already filled the room. “This is ridiculous. I got back from the desert not an hour ago. I don’t have time for this farce. Not if Alber wants his miracle, anyway.”
Tesset started to comment, but a soft sound outside the door caught his attention. “Well,” he said, “here’s your chance to tell him so yourself.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door opened and Alber Whitefall swept into the room. He was dressed in full regalia, with the white suit and golden medals of the Merchant Prince of Zarin as well as the maroon sash of the Council of Thrones, which the prince’s valet was still attempting to tie as he followed his harried master through the doorway.
Tesset smiled approvingly. A clever move, playing to Banage’s pride by greeting him with full honors as an equal. But Whitefall was a subtle, clever man, and Tesset never got tired of watching him maneuver. Pity he was spirit deaf. With the right training, he could have made a dangerous fighter.
“Banage is on his way,” Whitefall said, holding out his arm so the valet could fasten his cufflinks. “Remember, let me do the talking. If you antagonize him, he’ll just leave.”
“It’s what he’s going to do anyway,” Sara said, blowing an enormous puff of smoke at the ceiling.
Whitefall smiled. “We’ll see. Our dear Rector is about to run out of options.”
Sara eyed him curiously, but the Merchant Prince’s face was all politeness as he glanced at the enormous clock on the wall. “Time to take our places.”
He turned and walked out of the room, valet trailing in his wake. Sara followed, handing her pipe to Tesset, who tamped it out and placed it carefully in his pocket.
They walked through the citadel and into the large room at its heart, the Council Hearing Chamber. The chamber was empty this late in the evening, and Tesset got the feeling Whitefall had planned it that way. Another clever move. He was robbing Banage of his audience, hoping that the lack of witnesses would help the Rector compromise his principles. Tesset wasn’t sure if that hope would pan out, but Whitefall was wise to seize whatever advantage he could.
They took their places, Whitefall at the head table, Sara beside him with Tesset standing at her back. Moments after the valet had finished pinning the final length of gold braid to Whitefall’s shoulder, the doors at the opposite end of the chamber opened and Banage swept in. The Rector was in full regalia as well, the red robes of his order smothered beneath the heavy chain of his office. The enormous rings on his fingers glowed brighter than the lamps on the walls as he strode proudly across the polished marble to the table that had been prepared for him, but he did not sit. Instead, he stood, hands crossed at his waist, and waited.
Tesset bit back a smile. Banage had come ready to fight. This might prove more interesting than he’d hoped. For a moment, the two parties simply stared at each other, and then Whitefall made an almost imperceptible gesture with his fingers. The servants took their cue, closing the chamber door with a soft crack, leaving the three most powerful people in Zarin alone.
“So,” Whitefall began politely. “Would it be a waste of my breath to ask you to sit?”
“It would,” Banage answered, his blue eyes flicking from Sara to the Merchant Prince. “Let’s not dance about, Whitefall. What do you want?”
“It’s less what I want and more what we need, Banage,” Whitefall said, lacing his fingers together. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now, but I’ll tell you formally: War is coming. Twenty-six years after we drove her fleet back to the ocean, th
e Immortal Empress is on the move again, and we have precious little time. If our continent is to survive this assault, we must stand together. All of us. Even you.”
Banage’s eyes narrowed. “The Spirit Court is a peaceful organization dedicated to the protection of the spirit world. We do not go to war.”
“And I am head of a trade coalition dedicated to beneficial coexistence and mutual profit,” Whitefall said with a shrug. “These are times of extraordinary threat. We must all reach outside our normal parameters.”
“And you’re demanding my help?” Banage sneered.
“I’m asking for it, yes,” Whitefall said. “I’m asking for everyone’s help.” He leaned forward, cool affection gone. He was staring earnestly at the Rector Spiritualis, and when he spoke again, his voice was full of real emotion. “I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, Etmon. You fought with us in the last war against the Empress, you know how bad things could get. We may never have seen eye to eye on everything, but I know you care about what we’ve built. This war could destroy all of that—the Council, the Spirit Court, everything. The Empress isn’t coming to expand her borders or seek a treaty. She’s coming to conquer. If we’re going to stop her, we must find a way to work together.”
He ended with his hands on the table, eyes locked on Banage. On his side of the room, the Rector Spiritualis sighed.
“I understand what you’re saying, Alber,” he said quietly. “But the Spirit Court is not a political organization. We have worked together with the Council many times to our mutual benefit, but war is different. We serve the spirits, the land itself, and the land does not care who rules it. I cannot ask my Spiritualists to violate their oaths and put their spirits in danger to defend your borders.”
“This isn’t about borders,” Whitefall said, his voice growing heated. “Do you think the Immortal Empress is going to let the Spirit Court continue to operate? You were with Sara and me on the beach at Osera when her wizards dropped their flaming war spirits on our heads. Do you think a woman who uses that kind of force is going to sit back and let you keep running your towers as you see fit?”
Banage lifted his chin. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Whitefall repeated sharply. “That wasn’t how you felt last time.”
“It is because I fought then that I cannot ask my wizards to fight now,” Banage said. “How many times must I say it? Our duty is to our spirits, not your Council. Our oaths are built on a trust deeper than anything your spirit-deaf mind can imagine. I lost two spirits in the war with the Empress. I will not make my Spiritualists go through that pain as well.”
“We all lost friends in the war,” Whitefall said. “I lost an entire legion in one night alone when Den the Traitor turned against us. Every single one of those men had a soul, had a mother, had a family. Are you saying your spirits’ lives were worth more than theirs?”
“Men fight for countries,” Banage said. “They choose to risk death in the name of their cause. But spirits have no countries or causes. This is their world, we are the interlopers. We have no right to drag them from their sleep into our petty conflicts. You are a leader of men, Alber. It is right for you to be concerned with their struggles. But I am a custodian of the Spirit World. If I compromised that position for human interests, I would be unworthy of the name Spiritualist.”
Whitefall heaved an enormous sigh and collapsed back into his chair. “What will it take, Etmon? What can I do to bring you over?”
Banage tilted his head, and his eyes took on a gleam that Tesset knew well. He’d seen it on every fighter: the look that came just before the finishing blow.
“The Spirit Court exists to ensure the greatest good for all spirits,” Banage said. “I was very young when we first fought the Empress, and I thought, as young people do, that the enemy was evil because she was our enemy. That we were right and she was wrong. But I am no longer young or naive, and I’m no longer sure that I am on the right side.”
“That is very close to treason,” Sara said, but she fell silent when Whitefall put out his hand.
“We are the right side, Banage,” Whitefall said earnestly.
“Are you?” Banage said, his eyes flicking to Sara. “Then why does the Council hide its business with spirits down in its bowels? Why is its head wizard allowed to do as she pleases without Spirit Court oversight?”
Sara shot up from her seat. “I knew it!” she shouted. “I knew this was all just a ploy to—”
“Sara!” Whitefall’s voice echoed through the chamber.
Sara flinched and shut her mouth. Across the room, Banage looked positively triumphant. Whitefall, on the other hand, looked dogged.
“Sara’s achievements support the Council,” the Merchant Prince said, picking his words carefully. “The Relay is what keeps the countries tied together. It’s what makes them need us. Therefore, we need her, and she needs the freedom to innovate.”
“Then it’s time to weigh which need is greater,” Banage said, crossing his arms. “Sara’s secrecy or my Court. I know you are a man who plays with words, Alber, so I will say this as plain as possible. If you want our help, you must change your ways. I will lead the Court toward whatever end supports its purpose. Black as you paint the Empress, her crimes against the spirits are as yet only possibilities. Sara’s crimes are far closer to home. You need my Court? Prove you are worthy of it. Tear down the wall of secrecy Sara has built. Allow my people to inspect the Relay and all other works of Council wizardry, and swear to fix whatever abuses we find. Show the Spirit Court that you deserve our loyalty, and we will follow the Council wherever you need us.”
Sara’s face was scarlet with rage as Banage finished, yet she said nothing. Tesset could see why. Whitefall’s hand was at her wrist, his long fingers pressed into the pressure point. The Merchant Prince was calm, his eyes half lidded as they regarded Banage. Tesset leaned back, watching the old man with interest. When Whitefall had nearly lost his temper earlier, Tesset had been worried he’d misjudged the man. Now he saw with satisfaction that the earlier bluster had been a feint, a ruse to draw out Banage’s real objective just as a swordsman feigns injury to trick his enemy into revealing his finishing strike. But now that he knew what Banage really wanted, Whitefall didn’t seem quite sure what to do with it. Tesset watched him carefully, waiting to see how he would counter. However, when the Merchant Prince finally did answer, even Tesset didn’t see the blow coming.
“I’m afraid you leave me no choice,” Whitefall said, drawing a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “Give this to him.”
Tesset stepped forward and took the paper. He walked across the chamber to Banage, who accepted the note with a suspicious glare before dropping his eyes to read.
“What is this?” he asked as Tesset returned to his position behind Sara.
“It’s a conscription notice,” Whitefall answered.
“Conscription?” Banage roared. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You’ve put me in a bind,” Whitefall said, his voice growing cold and sharp. “I would like nothing more than to throw open the Council and let the Spirit Court scour every inch of it, but I don’t even need to ask to know Sara’s response. You know as well as I do that her word is final when it comes to Council wizardry, and yet you bring me this impossible request. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted this to fail.”
Banage stiffened. “I want only what I have always wanted,” he said. “Humane treatment for all spirits. If you will not let my Spiritualists inspect the Council’s practices, then I no longer have suspicions. I now know that the Council of Thrones is abusing spirits, and you can’t possibly think I would ally my Court with such a shameful organization.”
“Be that as it may,” Whitefall said. “Take a closer look at that paper in your hand. Like it or not, every member of your order is also a citizen of this ‘shameful organization,’ and it is my right, as written under section three of the Council edict, to order citizens of the Council to war
for our mutual defense. If you and your wizards do not comply in full, then, by Council law, I have no choice but to declare you traitors.”
Banage’s face grew very pale, and Whitefall leaned forward. “Don’t be a fool, Etmon,” he hissed. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Join me willingly and I will do everything I can to keep your spirits from harm. I swear it.”
Banage looked the Merchant Prince directly in the eye, but he did not speak. Instead, he raised the conscription notice in the air between them and ripped it cleanly in two.
Whitefall watched tight lipped as the torn paper fluttered to the polished floor. “You realize you’ve just committed treason.”
“One cannot commit treason against an authority he is not part of,” Banage answered. “The Spirit Court was doing its duty centuries before you even imagined the Council of Thrones. We do not answer to you.”
Whitefall let out a tight sigh. “As you like,” he said. “Tesset, arrest the traitor.”
Tesset stepped out onto the smooth marble, watching Banage warily as the attack played out in his head. The tall Rector had reach on him, but the man was not a hand-to-hand fighter. The hardest part would be taking him down before he could call his spirits. Quick jab to the stomach should be enough. Decision made, Tesset dropped and began to run. But fast as he was, Banage was faster. Just before his fist landed, a wall of wind sent Tesset flying.
He turned in the air and landed on the Merchant Prince’s table, catching an ink pot just before it blew into Sara’s face. Across the room, Banage stood in the center of a small tornado, his robes flying like flags.
“Keril,” the Rector said, and the pale blue stone on his index finger flashed like a small sun. The wind intensified, forcing Tesset to a crouch as he shielded Whitefall and Sara.
Tesset squinted against the wind. Banage was moving his other hand now, bringing a green cabochon of glowing jade to his lips.