by Rachel Aaron
Josef hissed, backing away, but Eli raised his hand. “Wait,” he said. “The first demon was bound under the corpse of the greatest mountain in the world whose soul went on to become the Heart of War. With all the stars gone, do you even have a spirit large enough to do that sort of thing?”
Slorn and the Weaver looked helplessly at each other. Behind them, the Shaper Guildmaster lowered his head in pain. When the silence had stretched on long enough, Eli scowled and opened his mouth to ask again, but before he could get the words out, a great rumble cut him off.
“There is one.”
Eli shrank back in surprise. The deep, rumbling voice came from everywhere, echoing off the walls and vibrating through the stone under his feet.
“I will be the prison,” the Shaper Mountain said, his words as proud and solid as the stone they came from. “I have lived a half-life in this twilight world long enough. It is my honor to give my body to save those spirits whose stars have abandoned them for the Shepherdess’s paradise.”
The Guildmaster of the Shapers bit back a sob as the mountain spoke. Slorn’s head was bowed as well, his eyes hidden behind his hand. Even the Weaver looked stricken, but it wasn’t any of them who spoke next. The Shaper Mountain’s rumbling words had barely faded when another voice filled the room. It was a voice Eli had heard only once before, but had never forgotten. You did not forget the iron fury of the Heart of War.
“No, brother!” the sword shouted. It fell from Josef’s back, landing on the white floor with a deafening crash. “I gave my stone so that you could live. Would you throw my sacrifice away?”
“We always knew it would come to this, brother,” the Shaper Mountain answered, its deep vibrations resigned.
“This is different!” the sword roared. “The Shepherdess will not be here to save your essence as she saved mine. You were always the Teacher, the one who did good for the world, the one who spoke the truth. You are the one who must go on. I will not allow you to do this. I will not let you die.”
“This is what must be done,” the Shaper Mountain said. “And you cannot stop it. The favorite and my children will restrain your swordsman, and he will restrain you. We are all bound by the inevitable, my brother. Fate has dealt us two horrors that must be contained and only one prison. As a spirit and a star, I cannot hold the Shepherdess, but I can hold the demon just as you did. This is my choice to make, and I will make it no matter how much you rage. This isn’t a battle you can win.”
The Heart of War shook against the stone, and then, in a voice so low Eli felt the words more than he heard them, it said, “Take my hilt, Josef Liechten. We cannot allow this to happen.”
Eli almost laughed then. Was the sword so angry it had forgotten Josef was spirit deaf? But the laughter died in his throat as Josef’s arm shot out, his hand wrapping around the Heart’s leather-bound hilt.
“There we agree,” the swordsman said. “I’m through listening to this nonsense. Nico will be leaving that box, but she’s not going under any mountain. She’s coming with me, and we will stop anyone who says otherwise.”
The Heart of War hummed in agreement, its hilt fitting into Josef’s palm as though it had grown there.
Eli slapped his hand over his face. Even his imagination couldn’t come up with a way this situation could possibly get worse. But as he was searching frantically for the magical combination of flattery and reason that might be enough to calm Josef down, the Weaver and Slorn stepped into line in front of him.
We must restrain them quickly, the Weaver said. The Hunter arrives any minute.
“I’m not joking around,” Josef said, taking up position in front of Nico’s coffin, the Heart steady in his hands. “Stand down before you get hurt, Eli.”
“You must stand with us, Monpress,” Slorn whispered. “We cannot risk the whole world on a mountain’s love for his brother and a swordsman’s love for a demonseed.”
Eli didn’t move.
Favorite? the Weaver said, staring at him with those white eyes. We have no time. Are you with us?
Eli’s eyes flicked from Slorn to the Weaver to Josef and back again.
“Eli,” Josef growled. “Step back.”
At the warning, Slorn grabbed Eli’s shoulder. The gentle weight of the large Shaper’s fingers drove the knife of conflicting loyalties deeper. For one long breath, Eli hung motionless, and then, legs shaking, he stepped out into the open space between them and Josef.
The Weaver’s hiss was as sharp as a knife behind him, but Eli ignored it and stepped forward again. Step by step, he crossed the smooth white stone of the Shaper Mountain’s heart until he was standing directly in front of Josef’s blade.
“I’ve bet it all on Nico three times now,” he said quietly, tilting his head back so he could look Josef in the eyes. “I’m willing to bet it all again if you’re in with me.”
He reached out his hand, fingers trembling slightly in the white light. Josef didn’t even hesitate. His hand shot forward, clasping Eli’s painfully hard. “Always have been,” he said, his face breaking into a wide grin.
Eli grinned back and moved to stand at Josef’s side. On the other side of the room, Slorn buried his bear head in his hands. The Weaver sighed, and the Guildmaster, who had spoken not a word all through this, broke into a righteous sneer. Eli ignored them all, tilting his head toward Josef.
“Stand your ground, thief,” the swordsman said. “It’s going to be a rough few minutes.”
Eli nodded, but as he moved to brace himself, the floor of the Shaper Mountain bucked beneath him, tossing him and Josef off their feet.
Benehime stood motionless at the end of her white world, waiting. In front of her, the clawed hands were scraping, their sharp nails raising long trails on the barrier that marked the edge of her domain. As she watched, the clawing grew faster and more frantic until the curved inside of the shell looked like it was boiling. Just when it seemed like the barrier would burst, a black line fell through the turmoil and the shell split.
All at once, a sucking wind roared up around her, nearly taking her off her feet. The air of her white Between was pouring out through the hole in her wall, vanishing into cold, black, deep, lifeless beyond. As it left, the clawed hands beyond shot out, scrabbling for a touch of the wind’s soul, and as they reached, a horrible sound rose in the dark.
It was a scream. An enormous, keening wail layered over and over as though a million throats were splitting themselves raw to make it. There was rage in it, fury and anger and a hunger so deep it made her ache. The terror hit her next, and it took every ounce of Benehime’s will to stay standing before the sundered wall. But stand she did, holding her ground as a white figure strode out of the dark.
His body was like hers, but larger, pale, and looming as he stepped through the hole in the shell. His white hands carried a white sword, its blade gently curved, like the Lord of Storms’.
That was no accident. She’d shaped the Lord of Storms in the imitation of the man walking toward her. Behind him, she could see the shadow hands grasping, thin as bone, their claws so black they ate the light. The mere sight of them filled her with dread, and she said a prayer to her father as the black hole closed, hiding them from view.
The sucking wind vanished, and Benehime gave herself a moment to drink in the relief before pushing it aside and returning to her purpose. She turned to the man, and her face filled with love as she held out her arms. Welcome home, brother.
The Hunter stepped into her embrace. Sister, he whispered.
She winced at his voice. It was always so deep, so weary.
I cannot stay, he said, hugging her gently. The Weaver requests my presence on some pressing matter.
The Shepherdess ignored the claim and pressed her brother down onto the white seat she had summoned. Let him wait a moment, she said. You must rest.
The Hunter did not fight her. He all but collapsed into the chair, his sword falling to the floor beside him. Coming from the dark he’d seemed white as
alabaster, but here, against the true white of her world, her brother looked dirty. His whiteness, once a twin of her own, was marred with black scars. They blasted his skin and the fine armor of his hair that wrapped across his torso, shoulders, and down his legs. He was the youngest of them all, but sitting there with his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped, he looked older than the Weaver.
Brother, she whispered.
It never gets better, the Hunter said softly. They never die, Benehime. No matter how many I strike down, they never die. They’ve eaten nothing since Father created the shell. They have nothing out there, no food, no light. They were supposed to have starved off long ago, but the hunger only seems to make them stronger.
His scarred hands went to his face, hiding his ruined features. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out. After five thousand years, I think we can all admit that the Creator is never coming back. We are alone and growing weaker while our enemies endure and strengthen. I see no future, sister. Nothing but slow and crippling death.
Benehime stroked the hard shell of his hair where it wrapped around his shoulders. Shh, brother, you don’t have to fight. Rest now.
I do, he said. I will fight until I am destroyed. So I was made, just as you were made to love the spirits. I could no more stop fighting than you could stop loving, but I’m so tired, sister.
Relax your hair for me, Benehime whispered, stroking his shoulders. Let me ease you.
The hard shell of his hair relaxed at once, the blackened strands going soft as water under her fingers. Gently, she pushed them aside to reveal the still perfect white skin of his back. There, there, she said softly, running her fingers across his hard muscles until they began to unclench. Rest.
The Hunter relaxed under her touch, his head lolling forward. How many of these reprieves have I taken? he said. One hour out of every hundred years. That’s all I dare take, but I wish I could see you both more. Seeing my siblings reminds me why I fight. I forget, sometimes, alone out there in the dark.
You honor us with your strength, Benehime said, lifting one hand from his back. Father was cruel to give you the most difficult job. We have relied on you too long, borne this endless waiting too long. It is only right that we be tired, you most of all.
How you ease me, the Hunter said, his scarred face breaking into a smile. The expression made Benehime’s heart clench. How beautiful he’d been once, as beautiful as herself. But that beauty was gone now, and the unfairness of the loss, the endless, pointless nature of their existence galvanized her resolve. Slowly, quietly, her hand slipped down to the folds of her hair at the small of her back.
I must go, the Hunter said, moving to stand. My hour is short, and I must see what our brother wants.
Not yet, Benehime said, gently pushing him down again. He can wait one more minute.
The Hunter hesitated, then relaxed again under her stroking hand. Benehime smiled, bringing the long, wicked black length of the Daughter of the Dead Mountain’s seed from the shelter of her hair.
Be at peace, brother, she whispered, brushing one hand across his back as she raised the other high over her head, the seed grasped like a dagger in her fist.
The Hunter nodded and dropped his head, that sad smile still playing over his face, reminding her of all they had lost. She stared at it for one last moment, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the strong line of his brow. When she could picture every bit of him in her mind, she brushed a final kiss against the back of his neck before bringing her other hand up to join the first. Gripping the seed in both fists, she threw back her arms and stabbed the sharp point into the Hunter’s exposed back with all her strength.
The Hunter’s scream filled her white world, striking her spheres, large and small, with a blast that made the seas slosh and the bedrock tremble. One moment, that was all it lasted, but in that moment the world changed, and everything, from the greatest mountain to the smallest blade of grass, knew it.
CHAPTER
19
Eli fell as the Shaper Mountain pitched under his feet. He would have landed on his face had Josef not grabbed him at the last second. Eli grumbled his thanks as the swordsman set him back on his feet, but the return was short-lived. The mountain was bucking like a bull beneath them, forcing Eli to his hands and knees to avoid getting thrown again.
He shifted his weight with the stone, cursing his own stupidity. Of course the Shaper Mountain would join the fight. It was the Heart of War’s brother. But as he looked to see what Slorn and Weaver’s attack would be, he saw something that confused him utterly.
Slorn, his father, and the Weaver were all on the ground the same as he was, and all three of them were staring up at the white ceiling as though the mountain had gone mad. It would have been comical if their faces hadn’t been so terrified. Eli had no clue what was going on, but whatever it was, they hadn’t expected it, either. He frowned. Surprises were rarely good in this sort of situation, but before he could figure out how to turn this to his favor, a scream shot through him with the force of a battering ram.
Josef couldn’t catch him this time. Eli tumbled forward, his whole body tightening as the sound punched through him. He was dimly aware of Josef going down beside him, the Heart falling with an iron cry. The Shaper Mountain was wailing as well, a deep vibration that shook through the undulating stone, but all Eli could hear was the unknown man’s scream.
The voice was deeper than any Eli had heard before and filled with shock. Shock, pain, and a betrayal so deep it brought tears to Eli’s eyes. But that was only the beginning. The scream cut off seconds after it had begun, and as it vanished, the hole it left was filled with a loss deeper than Eli had realized he could feel, and he knew, knew in his bones that something vital had died.
No, his breathing hitched, not died. It had been killed. A pillar of the world he never knew existed had been knocked down, and they were all about to go tumbling after it.
Eli was powerless against such a death. He clung to the bucking ground, letting the loss and the anger flow through him. He could have stayed that way forever, but a flash of white caught his eye. He looked up instinctively to see the Weaver standing between the crippled forms of Slorn and the Guildmaster. The Power stood straight and tall despite the mountain’s shaking, but his white face was contorted with despair even more powerful than the wave Eli was trapped in. Despair, and a fierce, white-hot rage.
The old man thrust out his hand, and the air tore itself apart. A great rent opened in the world as the veil split before its master. The gateway hung as white as snow at noon in the air, but the Weaver did not step through.
He started to, but stopped right at the portal’s edge. For a moment he just stood there, his white hands pressed against the hole in the world, and then the air itself began to vibrate as the Weaver crashed his fists against the white wall of the portal, his fury a crushing weight on top of the loss that had already sent the world to its knees.
Brother! he cried. What has she done to you?
Slowly, crawling on his hands and knees, Eli pulled himself across the still-moving floor to the Weaver. When he reached the Power’s bare feet, he flopped over and stared up in amazement. The enormous hole in the veil hung above him, dazzling and solid white. The Weaver’s hands were flush against it, beating against the brilliant light like a wall. Eli blinked in confusion. That was not supposed to happen. Then again, he was fairly sure none of this was supposed to happen.
“Why does the veil not open?”
It was Slorn’s deep voice that spoke. Eli turned to see the bear-headed Shaper pushing himself up as well. “What has happened, Weaver?”
My brother is dead, the Weaver said, his voice breaking as he pressed his white forehead against the glowing wall. The Hunter has been killed, and it seems Benehime has taken his seed for herself.
The Weaver closed his eyes in pain. I am now the odd man out, he said gravely. My sister controls the power of the Shepherdess as well as what remains of the Hunter, and she has
locked the Between against me.
He lifted his head from the solid wall of light and looked over his shoulder. If it were just her, I could still break through. The veil is my domain, the product of my own hands. But she has the remnants of our brother’s power now as well as her own, leaving me outnumbered, though I suppose it matters little now.
Eli gawked at the old Power. “Matters little?” he cried. “She just killed your brother!”
That she did, the Weaver said, sinking down to the stone floor. The Hunter is dead and we are unguarded. Don’t you see, human? All is lost. Even if she had not locked the Between against me, I can’t weave the shell faster than our enemies rip it down. Without the Hunter’s protection, the wall will fall. His voice crumbled into a sob as he lowered his head into his hands. Oh, Benehime…
No one said a word. The Power’s weeping echoed through the now-still mountain, the only sound in the world. It was Slorn who finally broke the silence, his gruff voice hard and echoing. “How soon?”
An hour, the Weaver whispered. Maybe less.
“Wait,” Eli said. The agony of the Hunter’s loss was fading now, and he pushed himself to his feet. “What happens in an hour?”
When no one answered, Eli clenched his fists and raised his voice. “What is on the other side of the shell?”
The question echoed through the cavern. Eli let it hang, glaring at the Weaver until the old man sighed.
Our shadows, he said. Before the beginning of time, the Creator formed creation. To every piece he gave a spirit so that the world might know itself as he knew it. But the moment he brought forth the world, a shadow was cast, and a second world was created. If creation is concave, they are convex; they are the opposite world. Where the Creator brought forth life from nothing, they return it to nothing. They are the devourers, the eaters of worlds. His white eyes narrowed. My sister named them demons.