by Rachel Aaron
Eli blew out a breath. “You mean there are more of the thing under the Dead Mountain out there? More like Nico?”
The Weaver looked away, but just as Eli stepped forward to demand an answer, the ground shook under his feet. “Innumerably more,” the Shaper Mountain said.
Durain, the Weaver said, his voice harsh.
“What point is there in secrecy now?” the mountain rumbled. “Weaker spirits may take comfort in their ability to forget and sleep, but I never will. Anyway, he’ll see it for himself in a few minutes.”
The Weaver sighed, but the mountain turned its attention to Eli. “Listen, thief, if you would know the truth. My brother and I were created at the birthing of the world, wrought by the Creator’s own hands, two small bumps in the spine of a world so large you could not begin to comprehend it. Back then, there were no humans, all spirits were awake, the large cared for the small, and we held our own against the devourers, the demons. The Creator walked the land, creating the world even as it was eaten. There were seasons, then. Time moved forward and stars shone in the sky. We were part of the world, all of us, the spirits and those who preyed on us. For thousands of years we lived in balance, if not harmony, but then something changed.”
The mountain wavered and fell silent. It was his brother who continued the story, the Heart of War’s deep, iron voice filling the cavern.
“The demons began to overrun us,” the sword said. “Small losses at first, but it grew quickly out of control. Creation was being devoured faster than it could be made. If something hadn’t been done, the world would have been eaten entirely.”
“Out of love of his creation, the Creator devised a last, desperate gambit,” the Shaper Mountain said, picking up the story again. “He created a shell around what was left of the world he’d made, a wall that could keep the demons out. But nothing created can stand against uncreation forever, so he took three pieces of his own body and fashioned them into the three Powers. Each was given a portion of the Creator’s own power and a job. The Hunter guards the shell from the outside, cutting the demons from the walls. The Weaver weaves the shell, repairing the damage caused by those blows that slip by his brother. It takes both the Hunter’s protection and the Weaver’s repairs to keep the shell that shields the world from cracking, but it was the third child who held the Creator’s most treasured power.”
Our sister was fashioned from our father’s heart, the Weaver said, his voice trembling. The Creator loved his creation above all else. He created the Shepherdess to watch over the spirits when he could not. She was made to love the world and guide it in his stead.
“Three Powers and a shell,” the Shaper Mountain rumbled. “This is what the Creator gave us, and then he closed the circle, locking himself outside. As he left, he promised he would return and let us out when it was safe.”
“And will he?” Eli said.
No, the Weaver whispered. That promise was made thousands of years ago. Our father sacrificed everything to lock the demons outside, away from his creation. He thought, as we all did, that the demons would die off if we deprived them of food. Starve them off, that was our plan, but it did not work. The demons do not die. I think they cannot. All our efforts have managed is to starve them to madness. He raised his head, staring up through the mountain and, Eli wagered, through the sky beyond, glaring with pure hatred at the things waiting on the other side.
There is no food left for them save what lives in this sphere, he said. This last crumb of the world. They no longer think of anything save eating, but they shall get their meal soon enough. Even if I were able to get to the Between right now and resume my weaving, without the Hunter’s aid I could only hold the shell together for a day, maybe less. However long I held, though, the eventual end would be the same. The shell will weaken and crack and the demons will pour in to devour all that remains of the world.
The Power’s words hung in the air like sad music, low and tremulous, and the defeat in them made Eli clench his jaw in fury. “So you’re telling me we’re as good as dead?” he shouted. “I don’t believe it! How did the Shepherdess even kill the Hunter, anyway? I thought you Powers were supposed to be equal.”
We are, the Weaver said. I don’t know how she did it. We all heard his scream, so the Hunter must have been inside the shell when he died. Nothing inside the shell should be able to kill a Power, even another Power. But the how changes nothing. The Hunter is still dead.
“On the contrary,” Eli said. “The how matters a great deal.” He tore his eyes off the Weaver and began to pace. “When the Creator first closed the shell, one demon snuck in, didn’t it? That’s why we have the Dead Mountain.”
The Weaver nodded. We contained it as best we could, but—
“I know the rest,” Eli said, walking faster. He knew he was being rude, but if there really was only an hour left until the shell began to crack, he didn’t have time to be nice. “Josef?”
From his spot beside Nico’s box, the swordsman glanced up. “If you’re going to ask me something, you should know I’ve heard only about half of the nonsense conversation you’ve been having.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Eli said. “Tell me, when the Lord of Storms took Nico’s seed, did you see it?”
Josef nodded. “It was long and black, about the length of my short sword’s blade. Sharp, too.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”
Eli ignored the question and turned back to the Weaver. “You said nothing in creation could kill a Power. But demons aren’t creation; that was the whole point of your story. The seed inside Nico is part of the demon under the Dead Mountain. Tell me, would a piece of a demon this long be enough to kill the Hunter if he didn’t see it coming?” He spaced his hands at the size Josef had said and held them out to the Weaver.
The old man’s white eyes went very wide, and he began to tremble. It would, he whispered. Oh, Benehime. Oh, sister, how could you?
Eli shook his head. “You said earlier that it was our good luck Benehime decided to do all this when the Hunter was coming, but I don’t think it was our luck at all. It was hers, her plan.” Eli dropped his hands and began to pace faster than ever. “You’ve known Benehime a long time, but I think I know her better than you do these days. Your sister’s a schemer. That’s why we got along so well at the beginning, I think. She doesn’t do anything without an end in mind.”
Eli took a deep breath. This next bit was going to be hard. Not talking about his tangled relationship with Benehime was deeply ingrained, but what went for the Weaver went for him as well. The time for careful stepping was over. It was now or never. Eli winced. He’d never used that phrase quite so literally.
“Ever since I found out what Nico was, I’ve been struggling with the question of why,” Eli said. “Why did Benehime let her stay with us? With me? I learned early that the Shepherdess did not take unmeasured risks, and Nico was a liability from the moment Josef found her. So why did Benehime tolerate it? Why did she forbid the Lord of Storms from taking down a demon who was such an obvious threat? She always said it was because of me, but Nico and I have been separated several times since we started working together. There were ample opportunities for the League to take her down with no threat to me. Yet when the Lord of Storms tried to do just that, he was punished severely. So, why? Why did the Lady leave her alone until just now?”
“Because you’re no longer the favorite,” Slorn said.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Eli said. “For once, I don’t think this had anything to do with me.” He turned and stared at the bone metal box. “I was a handy excuse, a cover. She knew Nico was strong. Strong enough to pull herself back from the brink over and over, strong enough to grow the weapon she needed. All she needed was time.”
The room was silent. Everyone, even the Weaver, was gaping at him openly.
You’re saying she grew the demonseed for the purpose of killing her brother? the Weaver whispered. That she defended the seed from her own guards?
“I’m actually beginning to wonder if it’s just coincidence Josef happened to be on the mountain when Nico fell,” Eli said. “We can’t know for sure how far her plans went, but I know Benehime well enough to guess that she’s probably been working on this for years, setting up the pieces in preparation for this day. This was a premeditated murder. She’s wanted out of her job as Shepherdess for a long time, but she knew she could never run away while her brothers were both alive. So she created the one set of circumstances that allowed her to circumvent the Creator’s will. She grew a demon and killed the Hunter with its seed, and then she sealed the Between to prevent you from interfering while she escapes into her paradise and leaves the rest of us to be demon food.” The plan was so selfish, so like her, that Eli could almost hear Benehime’s voice explaining it along with him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she were already gone.”
No, the Weaver whispered. Even through the seal, I can feel her presence. She’s still here, but why? What more can she be waiting for?
“Her paradise isn’t complete,” Slorn said, looking up at the stone ceiling. “She doesn’t have Durain yet.”
“No,” the mountain rumbled. “Her pull on me vanished when the Hunter died. If she is waiting, it’s not for me, but I can guess whom she would hold back for.”
Eli sucked in a breath, eyes squeezing closed. Of course. How could he ever think she’d actually drop his leash?
“She won’t give you up until the very end,” the Shaper Mountain said. “You are the tie that will hold her here until the shell shatters, and as such you may well be the only hope we have of reclaiming the Hunter’s seed.”
Eli blinked, startled out of his self-pity. “Seed?”
The piece of the Creator inside us, the Weaver said.
“You mean like a demonseed?” Eli said.
I told you, they are our shadows, the Weaver said testily. But where their seeds devour, ours nurture and sustain us. My brother is dead, but the core of the Creator that gave him life can never be destroyed. That is how Benehime is able to hold a part of the Hunter’s power even when the Hunter is no more. She has his seed.
Eli licked his lips. “And could that seed be used to create a new Hunter?”
The Weaver considered. It’s never been tried before, but I don’t see why not. Provided the correct soul was found.
Eli grinned and clapped his hands together, making everyone jump. “All right,” he said. “I think I’ve got a plan.”
“I’ve learned to fear those words from you,” Slorn grumbled.
Eli shrugged. “You want to stand around here and wait to die?”
Slorn shook his head and motioned for Eli to continue.
Eli took the cue with a flourish and gathered everyone around, including Josef and the Heart of War. Especially them. Those two were vital to his plan, but while Eli was reasonably sure the Heart would go along, Josef was another story. He made a mental note to play up the heroic warrior parts and straightened up to speak. But just as he opened his mouth to expound what he was sure would go down in history as the idea that saved the world (or the idea that doomed the world, but no one would be around to call him on it if that was the case), a white line flashed into existence right in front of his face.
Miranda forced herself off the floor of the Rector’s office. The heartbreaking loss was still pounding in her brain, but she couldn’t afford to stay down any longer. Stumbling like a drunk, she made her way to the large windows behind Master Bana—Her desk and pressed her face to the thick glass. She already knew what she would see, she could feel it in her own spirits and from the window against her cheek, but she forced herself to look anyway.
Down below, all of Zarin seemed to be pulling in. The white buildings were leaning as though the stone itself had doubled over. The glittering strip of the river, still fragile after its breakdown the day before, was pulling back in its banks, its water swirling into whirlpools so large Miranda could see them even at this distance. Strangest of all, though, were the people.
Everywhere she looked, the citizens of Zarin were on the ground. Spirit deaf or wizard, they’d all felt it just as she had. She slumped against the window. Something vital had died; she knew that fact as clearly as she knew her own name, but what? What in the world could have done this?
“The Hunter.” The Tower’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Miranda could feel the strain in the gold collar at her neck and the ring on her finger.
“Easy,” Miranda said, layering the word with power. “Who’s the Hunter?”
Even with her calming weight pushing on it, the Tower’s answer was almost hysterical. “Our protector. Our hope. Our wall. We are defenseless, and they are coming. They are coming!”
The Tower finished in a deafening wail, and then the floor under Miranda’s feet began to buck.
Without hesitation, Miranda opened her spirit and slammed her will down. She slammed it through the Tower’s ring, hammering their connection until she was panting from the effort. She could feel her own bound spirits cringing from her fury, but she dared not let up. The Tower was the great bedrock spirit beneath Zarin. If she let it lose control, the city could be destroyed.
The seconds ticked by as she kept up the pressure, sweat rolling down her face. She pushed until she felt she was going to throw up from the strain, but she never let her will slack. Slowly, inch by inch, she felt the Tower relax, and then finally surrender. She kept the pressure up a moment more before pulling back into herself.
“Thank you,” the Tower rumbled, and his tone said he meant it.
“You’re welcome,” Miranda panted. “Now, who’s coming?”
The Tower’s voice began to tremble so badly that were it human Miranda would have said it was crying. “I can’t say,” it whispered. “The Lady forbids us old spirits to speak of it. She wishes it forgotten. Even now…” The Tower shuddered. “I cannot act against her edict. All I can say is that the Hunter was the wall that held back the black tide. Now he is fallen and they are coming. They are coming.”
“Easy,” Miranda said, pressing her spirit down again. It was a gentle, soothing pressure, not the hard slam she’d used earlier, but it worked. Miranda let out a grateful sigh. She didn’t think she could manage something like that again.
“If you can’t tell me, that’s fine,” she whispered, petting the Tower’s chain like it was a frightened puppy. “I’ll find out another way. Can you at least tell me what’s about to happen?”
She got the strangest feeling that the stone was staring at her as it whispered.
“The end.”
Miranda shot up from the floor and marched to the door, tearing it open with a bang. Outside, Krigel was curled under his desk in a ball. She dropped to her knees beside him, shaking him by the shoulder.
“Krigel!”
The old Spiritualist looked up, his eyes glittering with terror and newly shed tears. “Rector,” he whispered. “What happened?”
“I mean to find out,” Miranda said, helping him to a seated position. “I need you to listen and tell me where the panics are.”
Locations, she needed locations. Needed to know where to send her Spiritualists to get things under control again. But Krigel was just staring at her, his eyes wide and confounded as if she’d asked him to recite all the kingdoms of the Council in alphabetical order.
“Krigel, please,” she said. “We have to move now or this is only going to get worse.”
“Yes, but…” Krigel’s voice trailed off as he stared at her in disbelief. “Can’t you hear it?”
“No,” Miranda said, fighting to keep her temper under control. “The Tower’s presence in my mind muffles the spirit’s panic. You know that.”
The old man looked down, his face falling as he stared at his limp hands.
“Come on, Krigel,” Miranda said, shaking him again, gently this time. “I need you. Tell me what we’re dealing with.”
“I thought you’d be able to hear it,” he said. “E
ven muffled, I thought—”
“I can’t,” Miranda said. “The Tower does it to protect me. That’s why you’re so important. Close your eyes and listen. I need to know where the panics are so we can send Spiritualists to calm things down. That’s our mission now; that’s why we’re here. We’re going to serve the spirits and get them what they need. Now, where are the panics?” She hoped there weren’t too many; she was getting frightfully shorthanded.
“Everywhere,” Krigel said at last. “Everything is panicking. Besides your voice, all I can hear are screams.”
Miranda cursed and threw out her hand. The Tower answered at once, opening a hole in the stone wall to the outside. The blast of wind nearly blew them both over, but Miranda pulled herself upright, grabbing the stone and looking out over Zarin. She almost didn’t need to. The second the wind hit her, she heard it.
The air itself was screaming, the wind crying in terror as it blew in mad circles. Down in the city, the buildings were wrenching themselves apart, timbers splitting like matchsticks as the stones below them rolled in fear. The river was flooding madly now, filling the lower part of the city with crazed muddy water. Even the Council’s fortress was twisting. One of the seven golden spires toppled as she watched, screaming as it fell, and Miranda had to press her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming herself.
The Tower was right; it was the end. Zarin was tearing itself apart like Izo’s town had, only there was no demon running through its streets, and this was far, far larger. So large she didn’t know how to begin to fix it, assuming something like this could ever be fixed. All at once, the searing sense of loss hit her again, but this wasn’t grief for the death of the unknown, beautiful, irreplaceable thing that had struck her earlier. This was a closer tragedy, a pain that ground her heart to dust. Everywhere, in all directions, the spirits she’d given her life to serving were in a mad panic and she could see no way of making it right. The world was ripping itself to shreds right before her eyes and there was nothing she could do.
The need to cry almost overwhelmed Miranda then. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself on the floor beside Krigel and let the bawling sobs ride through her. But even if this was the end of the world, she was Rector Spiritualis still, and she had work to do.