by Rachel Aaron
“Sara!” he bellowed, breaking into a run.
Sara rolled her eyes. “Here we go again,” she said with a sigh. “Fire.”
Pain exploded through Miranda’s hand as the catapult obeyed, launching the next black orb into the night. Miranda followed it as long as she could, clutching her injured hand to her chest as the orb exploded and a new, equally horrible scream joined the first as the released glass storm enveloped the next palace ship.
That was when Banage reached them. He grabbed Sara by the jacket, nearly lifting her off her feet as he brought her up to face him. But before he could do more than sputter, he froze. After a second of confusion, Miranda saw why. Sparrow was standing right behind him, a long, slender knife pressed into the back of Banage’s neck.
“Unhand the lady.”
Miranda’s hand moved in a flash, rings lighting up like lanterns as Gin snarled, but Banage moved first. He dropped Sara and stepped back. Sparrow lowered his knife and moved to Sara’s side as she straightened her collar.
“That was very unlike you, Etmon,” she said coldly.
Banage took a deep breath. “I find it hard to control my temper when I see the head of the Council wizards using Enslavement. I will see you hanged for this.”
“I very much doubt that,” Sara said. “We are at war, and my spirits are the only thing holding the line at the moment. But maybe you should ask the Oserans? I’m sure they’d love to die with you to save a few idiot storms.”
“War or not, there are rules that cannot be broken!” Banage shouted. “Morals are not flexible. They don’t change to fit your convenience. You never understood that, Sara.” His arm shot out, finger stabbing at the cartful of orbs. “You will stop this at once, or so help me—”
“Or what?” Sara said. “You’ll leave? Fine, go ahead. You’re already a traitor to your country. What’s one more?” She grabbed Miranda’s shoulder, pushing her into Banage. “Run away,” Sara said. “And take your little parrot with you. There’s no room for idealists in war. I’d have thought you’d learned that years ago.”
Banage didn’t answer. Instead, he clenched his fist. As he did, Miranda caught a flash from the large, black stone on his ring finger, and the ground began to rumble. Sara’s eyes widened, but even she didn’t have time to react as an enormous stone hand exploded from the ground below the awakened catapult. The stone fingers, eight in all, closed over the wagon, crushing it instantly with a crash of splintering wood and a soft cry from the catapult as its launching arm snapped in two. Banage opened his palm, and the stone hand retreated back into the ground, leaving the whimpering catapult crooning over its broken arm.
For a moment Sara just stood there, mouth open, and then she turned on Banage with a cold fury that could have killed a weaker man. “That was bald treason.”
“That was my duty as a Spiritualist,” Banage said, setting his hands at his side.
Miranda stood beside him, grinning so hard her face hurt. But the joy was short lived. The screaming glass clouds on the palace ships were still going, but those ships without mad sandstorms were regrouping. On their decks, circles of wizards were moving in unison, and the decks of the ships began to glow. Miranda stepped back, swallowing against the fear that clenched her throat.
The palace ships’ decks were full, absolutely full, of war spirits. They glowed like bonfires, waiting their turn as the wizards moved from spirit to spirit, launching them one after another until the sky was full of bright burning dots.
Their light was so bright Miranda could see the annoyance on Sara’s face clearly.
“Well,” she said, sticking her pipe between her teeth. “You’ve certainly done it now.”
Banage ignored her and turned to Miranda, his face terrifying in the strange red light.
“Every spirit,” he said softly. “Bring out every spirit you have.”
Miranda nodded and closed her eyes, sinking immediately into the well of her soul. Her spirit opened with a roar. Beside her, she felt a wave of pressure as Banage’s spirit opened as well. It was intense, but unlike an Enslaver’s, Banage’s spirit didn’t press down on the connection she shared with her spirits. Instead, it buoyed them, power feeding on power as they stood together, spirits ready as the bright burning amalgams hurtled down.
“Empress,” the general said. “That black weapon of theirs is powerful. We should pull back and continue the bombardment from a safe distance.”
Nara heard him speaking, but she did not listen. He was just a distraction, a buzzing that interfered with what was truly important. She stood at the very edge of her balcony. Her spirit was open, though only slightly, and she was using it to reach out toward Osera. The island was burning merrily, a sight that should have pleased her, but she was focused on the dark below the fires, searching for a flash of white.
She could feel the Lady on the island. Feel her like the beloved Benehime was part of her own flesh. But where? And why? Nara clenched her teeth until she could taste her bitter anger. Why was the Lady on the island and not with her? Did it have to do with the star controlling the lava spirit she’d drowned earlier? And if so, why? Didn’t the Shepherdess see who was winning?
“Empress?” the general said again, his voice hesitant.
“Why does she not answer me?” Nara growled. “Whom does she think this war is for?”
The general blinked. “Empress,” he said timidly. “I’m afraid I do not under—”
Before he could finish, the Empress vanished. The general blinked, staring at the place where she had been, but nothing was left except the fading afterimage of a long, white line, hovering in the air.
At that same moment, Nara stepped onto the deck of her foremost palace ship, much to the terror of the soldiers. They jumped back when she appeared, raising their swords and then dropping them just as quickly to throw themselves on the ground.
“Empress!” The cry rose from hundreds of throats as the realization of who was standing on the deck spread through the ship. Everywhere, men stopped their attack and fell to their knees, pressing their heads to the deck.
Nara ignored them all. She stomped to the prow of the ship. Ahead of her, the swirling black madness of the storm blocked her view, screaming as it tore through the ship’s nose. Irritated, Nara let a flash of her true nature show. The glass storm froze when it saw her, all anger gone. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand, and the black glass fell pattering to the water, disappearing into the dark sea below with a soft cry. Even before it hit, the Empress was walking forward. For anyone else, this would have been suicide. The raging glass had consumed the prow, leaving a sheer, hundred-foot drop to the sea below. But Nara was the Immortal Empress, a star of the Shepherdess, and the ship knew its place. Boards flew from the lower decks as she walked. They came from the outer hull, the railings, anywhere that was still stable. They piled on top of each other, forming a solid, if makeshift, ramp beneath her feet. When she reached the place where the end of the prow had been, Nara stopped. The boards creaked below her, stretched to the very edge of their ability to hold. Nara ignored the sound and leaned forward, toward the island.
She paused, listening, watching, seething. The feel of the Shepherdess was stronger than ever. Nara followed it as a dog follows a scent, reaching past her ships, across the bloody bay, and up the steep, rocky wall to the lone figure sitting with his back pressed against the cliff. She could see him in her mind as her will touched him—a young man, thin and gangly with shaggy, dark hair. He was hunched over, his arms wrapped around his knees, but she could feel the burning trace of the Shepherdess’s touch all across his body, and the realization stabbed her like a sword in her gut.
“You,” Nara whispered, her voice shaking with hatred.
What’s wrong, Nara? The Lady’s voice seemed to float on the wind. Are you so surprised? You knew there was another star here, and I only have two among the humans.
“Why is he here?” Nara roared, forgetting herself in her rage.
; He’s here because you’re here, the Shepherdess whispered. You said you would do anything to be first in my heart, Nara. Now’s your chance. Fight for my favor. The boy has set himself up as defender of this island. Crush his forces and take it from him, and I will know once and for all who loves me best.
“If you want a fight, I will give you one!” Nara shouted into the wind. “Watch me, Benehime! I will show you the difference between that boy and an Empress.”
Her voice echoed across the water, but the only reply was the Lady’s laughter, chiming like glass bells in the night.
“Captain!” the Empress shouted, looking over her shoulder. Sure enough, the captain was there, kneeling at the end of the makeshift plank. “Tell the wizards to prepare another volley and signal the fleet to ready the assault boats. We conquer this island within the hour.”
“But, Empress.” The man’s voice was shaking. “The wizards on the shore—”
“Will mean nothing in a moment,” the Empress finished for him, turning back to the front. “I am about to teach this land what it means to defy the Immortal Empress.”
She heard the soft thunk of the captain’s head on the deck as he bowed deeper still and assured her that her orders would be followed. Nara barely listened. Instead, she closed her eyes, reaching down into the well of her soul and giving her spirit a hard, sudden twist.
A ripple of power flew out of her, soaring silently over the dark sea, over the new-grown trees blocking the bay, over the bloody water and the forgotten bodies of her soldiers. Her will struck the island like a tidal wave, suffusing the land. All at once, the air was thick with the proof of who she was, what she was.
On the shore, the effect was immediate.
In the minutes before the Empress struck, the storm wall was still in chaos.
Miranda crouched panting against Durn’s solid wall, Mellinor coiled around her in a rope of glowing water. Banage had his own stone spirit out and was holding the war spirit down with three granite shackles. The war spirit strained against his hold, its sharp claws rending enormous gouges in the road, but Banage’s spirit held it firm. Now, it was Miranda’s turn.
“Hit it high and hard!” Banage shouted, his voice straining. “We may not get another shot!”
Miranda closed her eyes, focusing on what she was about to do next. “Durn?” she whispered, accompanying the whisper with a surge of power. “Mellinor?”
“Ready,” Durn said behind her.
Mellinor just tightened the spinning of his water, forcing it to race faster and faster.
That was all Miranda needed. She shot up, pushing off the dirt as she threw out her arm, throwing all her power along with it. At the same time, Durn surged forward, joining her power and riding with it. Mellinor joined a moment later, sharpening his water to a swirling point at the end of Durn’s sharpened fist.
The power from the three of them, Durn, Mellinor, and Miranda, hit the trapped war spirit at the same time, and it screamed as Durn’s fist, sluiced with Mellinor’s water, dug into the tangle of metal and stone at its center. The spirit’s body flashed red hot, boiling Mellinor’s water away, but this just made the attack worse. Water, stone, and steam now forced their way into the Empress’s war spirit like a drill, tearing everything in their path until, with a deafening shriek, the war spirit’s head and front left leg fell to the ground, ripped from its body by the sheer force of her blow.
Miranda flopped to the ground, gasping with relief. Durn and Mellinor fled back to her, and she welcomed them with open arms. She was beaming with pride, but as she opened her mouth to shout her joy, the ground shook.
She scrambled back, raising her hands against the blast of heat as the war spirit tore itself to its feet, breaking through the granite rings of Banage’s stone spirit. She heard Banage cry out somewhere in the dark, but she didn’t have time to look for him. Her eyes were on the war spirit as it teetered on its three remaining legs, its headless torso listing sideways as its metal began to glow red hot yet again.
“These things are impossible to kill.”
Miranda glanced to see Gin beside her with Banage on his back. The Rector Spiritualis hopped down and moved to Miranda’s side, clutching the cloudy-gray gem that had been his stone spirit’s black ring.
“He’ll be fine with time,” he said before Miranda could ask. “Dunerik is nothing if not resilient.”
“None of us will be fine if we don’t find a way to make these things stay down,” Gin growled. “Even that pigheaded idiot’s still fighting.”
Miranda could only guess the dog was referring to Josef. She didn’t have a look to spare for the swordsman, but the constant clang of metal on stone from the walk in front of the tower told her everything she needed to know. If the Heart of War couldn’t carve these monsters… She clenched her teeth, forcing the thought from her head before it could finish. No point in going down that path. She’d do better to stay focused on the spirit in front of her.
The war spirit was burning full tilt now, and the heat pouring off it was enough to make Miranda’s hair crackle. It moved slowly backward, its three feet taking small, careful steps toward the pulverized remains of its head and fourth leg.
“It’s trying to put itself back together,” Miranda said, sending a pulse of power to Durn. “I want a pillar underneath it. Shoot it up, we’re going to knock the head and the leg into the bay.”
But as she gave the order, she realized something was wrong. The surge of power she’d sent down the thread that connected her stone’s spirit to her own had reached its destination, but Durn had not answered. A cold cringe of fear curled in her stomach, and Miranda looked to see Durn standing behind her, still as the ground under their feet.
“Durn,” she said again, adding a little force to her voice.
“I can’t,” the stone whispered, his voice full of fear. “We’re too late.”
“Too late?” Miranda asked, but even as the question left her lips, the wall of power crashed into her. Miranda gasped as the enormous weight forced her to her knees, and she wasn’t alone. Every one of her spirits had gone perfectly still. Even Gin was on the ground, facing the bay with his head on his paws, almost like he was bowing.
“Durn’s right,” her hound whined, pressing his nose into the dirt. “We took too long. She’s here.”
Miranda didn’t have to ask whom they meant. Straining against the power, she lifted her head just enough to see the palace ships. She didn’t know what she was looking for, what to expect, but she knew the Empress the moment she saw her.
She was smaller than Miranda would have thought, narrow boned and pale, her black hair piled in an elaborate knot on top of her head. Her golden armor shone brighter than her war spirits, but it was not the brightness that drew Miranda’s gaze, nor was it the fact that the woman was standing on a seemingly impossible line of wooden boards stretching out from the palace ship’s destroyed prow. What drew Miranda’s attention was the same thing that drew the attention of everything in the bay, large and small, awakened or asleep. It was power. Pure, unadulterated, undeniable power radiated from the woman like light from a lamp. Even as a blind human, Miranda could almost see it burning, and her heart began to sink.
“That’s it then?” she said, almost laughing at the absurdity. “We’ve lost.”
“We never had much chance to begin with,” Banage replied. “We set ourselves against a star, after all.”
Miranda did laugh then, a dry, humorless sound of utter disbelief. Across the bay, those palace ships that still had prows began to lower them. The moment the ramps hit the water, ships laden with troops began to pour out. Hundreds of ships, thousands, more ships than Miranda could count, all rowing toward the bay.
The Empress watched her ships with haughty pride. Miranda was too far to see her expression, but she didn’t have to. The woman radiated triumph as a fire gives off heat. With a great sweeping motion, the Empress swung her hand down and the wall Durn had raised across the bay tore itself apart.
Trees and ship hulls flew in every direction as the seafloor rent itself to let the Empress’s boats pass.
For one endless moment, Miranda could only watch as the Empress, with one motion, undid all the ground they’d gained that day. Despair like she’d never felt filled her mind as the boats began to pour into the bay. Despair so thick, so overwhelming, she didn’t hear Mellinor the first time he spoke.
“I said let’s go,” he said again, his voice surging through her mind like a deep current.
“But she’s a star,” Miranda whispered. “She has the will of the Shepherdess. We can’t stand against her. Nothing in the world can. That’s what the Shaper Mountain said.”
“No,” Mellinor said. “Nothing in the world will. There’s a difference between can’t and won’t.” As he spoke, Mellinor’s voice shifted, and Miranda could hear the echo of the enormous sea who’d spoken to her in the dark throne room so long ago. “I am the Great Spirit of the inland sea,” he boomed in her mind. “I am still myself, with my own mind and my own soul, and I have no love for the stars or their White Lady. Any one of them could have freed me from Gregorn’s prison, but they didn’t. They left me to rot and madness in a pillar of salt for four hundred years.” Mellinor’s voice was racing with rage now, and Miranda could feel his power flowing through her, filling her.
“You have shown me more care and protection in the last year than my Shepherdess ever did,” Mellinor said finally. “If you’re not ready to roll over and give up like the rest, then I am with you, mistress.”
Miranda put her hands to her face to stop the tears flowing down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered. “If we can try, we must. But how?”
Mellinor told her, and Miranda fell still. It was dangerous, very dangerous. It also went against everything she stood for as a Spiritualist, sworn to keep her spirits from harm. But as she turned it over in her mind, something flinched inside her, snapped like a bone being set into place, and she knew what she had to do.