by Rachel Aaron
Why won’t you just die? she screamed, lunging at him again.
The Lord of Storms roared his answer, white sword flying up to meet her.
Left on her own, Miranda would never have been able to tear her eyes away from the Powers’ fight. It wasn’t until she heard the groan that she remembered there were other things to do. She looked down to see Eli already on his knees by the injured Weaver. Wincing with guilt at her own thoughtlessness, she dropped down to join him.
“What can I do?” she said, reaching for his wound.
The old man batted her hands away. Leave it be, human, he whispered. Mending things is my purpose. He stared at her as she jerked back, his white eyes looking through her. You have bound the Hunter, he said, his voice incredulous.
“He wasn’t the Hunter at the time,” Miranda started, but the Weaver interrupted her, grabbing her hands.
Listen, he said, his voice low and urgent. He’s not a full Power yet. It’s too soon after the transition. The seed hasn’t taken full root yet. That’s why he can’t cut the Shepherdess. Their battle is grossly uneven, and if he continues to fight, he will surely die. We cannot lose him again. You have to help.
“Help how?” Miranda said. “If he can’t cut her, surely there’s nothing I—”
You are his Spiritualist, the Weaver said, his hands gripping hers with a strange, painless burning. Strength for service, power for obedience, that is your oath, is it not? Honor it. He’s fighting for you, for all of us, so feed him your power.
Miranda turned to stare at the White Lady. She was so beautiful as she stalked after the Lord of Storms. The idea of going against her felt so wrong that Miranda could barely think of it. She tried to imagine hitting the woman from behind and was almost sick where she sat as her body violently rejected the concept. “I can’t!” Miranda cried, not even knowing where the words came from. “She’s my Shepherdess!”
She betrayed us all! the Weaver said.
Miranda gritted her teeth and tried, but her body refused to obey. Something fundamental was blocking her, some deep rule of nature she’d never known before this moment. She didn’t even think she could open her spirit right now if she tried. Hot, shameful tears began to well up behind her eyes, and she knew she’d failed. She’d come this far only to fail.
“Miranda.”
Eli’s voice made her jump. She looked up to see the thief kneeling beside her, his hands on her shoulders as he gently turned her away from the Shepherdess, away from the Weaver, straight toward himself.
“Don’t think about the Shepherdess,” he said softly. “The Lord of Storms is your oath-bound spirit, just as Mellinor was. Don’t think about what he’s doing. Don’t think about why. Just relax and let the power flow.”
Miranda shook her head. “But—”
Eli’s hand covered her mouth, cutting off her words as he leaned closer, his voice little more than a whisper. “He’s going to die if you don’t help him. If he dies, the world dies, and your oath to protect the spirits is broken forever.” He stared at her, blue eyes boring into hers with an intensity that reminded her more of Banage than anything else she’d seen in him. “You’ve never once failed in your resolve. Don’t let her break you now. Close your eyes, forget the fight, and honor your oath. Feed him the power he needs to win.”
Miranda stared at Eli for three long heartbeats, and then she obeyed. She closed her eyes and shut it all out, the Powers and the whiteness, the demon fear and the crumbling veil. She thrust every thought from her head save the oath that made her what she was and sank into the well of her soul.
She could feel her spirits clinging to her as she fell deeper, their connections strong as steel. She could feel the Tower drawing nearer as the gems at her neck began to grow warm, but most of all she could feel the enormous presence of the Lord of Storms, a great swirling vortex of rage and power tied like a cable around her center.
Her connection to him was larger than any of the others, larger even than her link to Mellinor had been, though not as close. Still, she could feel him like he was a part of her own body. He was straining, fighting with everything he had, and yet there was no pull on the connection, no request for help. Nor would there be, she was sure. The Lord of Storms would fight on his own until he fell, and it was up to her to make sure he didn’t. With that certainty hanging in her mind, Miranda set herself against the wall of her instinct and, pushing with everything she had, pried her spirit open.
Power filled her to bursting. It boiled up until she felt she would pop, but she did not let it go. Instead, she took that power, the power that sustained her spirits, the power that linked her to the Tower, the power that had served as Mellinor’s shore, her power, and fed it through her link to the Lord of Storms.
She encountered resistance immediately. The Lord of Storms rejected her offer, his disgust at being helped filtering up their connection like backwash. Gritting her teeth, Miranda thrust the rejection aside. Power for service, she snarled, filling each word with enough strength to stop a Great Spirit cold in its tracks. Strength for obedience. Her soul was roaring now, the power building to the breaking point, but she did not let it out. She would not. Her mind was set beneath the full weight of her will. The Lord of Storms would take this power or she would die making him, but she would not let him fight alone.
Accept the offer!
With a roar that shook her bones, the Lord of Storms’ barriers went down and her strength flooded into him. Once he accepted, he took it all, draining her dry in an instant, but Miranda refused to close their connection. She sank deeper and deeper into herself, deeper than when she’d bound Mellinor, deeper even than she’d gone in Osera. She fell into depths she hadn’t even known she possessed, reaching for more power, more strength. And the further she reached, the stranger things became.
The more Miranda gave, the more aware she became that the power she was sending the Lord of Storms was no longer solely her own. Her rings were humming on her fingers, feeding their own strength into the flow. She nearly closed the connection then, terrified that she’d somehow broken her oath and begun draining her rings.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the rejection of it overwhelmed her senses. Her spirits were screaming at her to keep going, to use what they freely gave, and it wasn’t just her rings. The Tower was there as well, the enormous strength of the bedrock flowing through her to become the foundation of something larger. There was even an echo of Mellinor, a freezing rush of power that vanished a second after it came. One by one, every spirit she’d ever bound gave itself to the Lord of Storms, braiding their power through hers until she was sure she would be crushed under the weight.
But she was not crushed. She stood firm, holding her oath in her mind. Today, she would save the spirits or die trying. Today, they would win. That was the only truth she allowed as the flow of power finally settled into a steady stream.
When she opened her eyes again, everything had changed.
The Shepherdess was now crouching several feet from the Lord of Storms, the ugly black dagger clutched in front of her. Her earlier confidence was gone, and there was a thin, glittering slash along her cheek. Across from her, the Lord of Storms stood with his sword at his side. His chest was bright with blood, but his face held no pain. Though he was the bloodier one, he stood straight and proud, his body so taut with power he nearly glowed from it. Next to him, the Shepherdess looked gray and dirty, her face screwed up in an expression very close to panic.
How? she demanded, her lips curling back to reveal her sharp, white teeth. Where are you getting all this strength? Her white eyes flicked to Miranda. It can’t be the human. No human can stand against me. I created them. They cannot—
You created them, the Lord of Storms said, raising his blade. And in your arrogance you gave them a fraction of your will. It’s not just me you’re fighting, Benehime. It’s everything. Everything you’ve betrayed, everything you’ve cast aside in your selfishness.
You
are still a Power! Benehime screamed. You cannot touch me! That is the law!
If you hadn’t killed your brother, that might still be true, the Lord of Storms sneered. But you upset the system. I may bear the Hunter’s essence and power, but I’m still a storm and a sworn spirit. I’m no essence of the Creator, no part of his balance. I am my own will now, and you cannot stop me anymore.
The Shepherdess’s eyes went wide at that, and she screamed, charging forward. The Lord of Storms brought his sword down, biting into her arm, but she did not stop. She ran into him, and though she was smaller, it was the Lord of Storms who went down with her on top, the demonseed clutched in her hands as she raised it over his head.
Miranda watched, helpless. Everything she had was already flowing into the Lord of Storms, but as good as he was, the Shepherdess was still older, still stronger, and fueled with such mad hatred Miranda couldn’t bare to look at her eyes. She could only stand there as the Shepherdess brought the crude dagger down, the tapered point flying down to stab the Lord of Storms’ throat.
And then, just before the point pierced the new Power’s skin, the Shepherdess stopped.
It happened so suddenly that Miranda thought it must be a trick. Or maybe the world had ended at that moment and she hadn’t noticed. But her heart was still beating. Time was still flowing, and the Shepherdess still did not move. No one did. At last, the Lady’s head turned. The movement was painfully slow, but her expression was pure horrified fury as her eyes slid past Miranda, past the Weaver, to land somewhere behind the crumpled sphere.
And that was when Miranda realized she hadn’t seen Eli in a while.
Swallowing against the sudden dryness in her throat, Miranda forced herself to turn as well.
Eli was standing beside the broken sphere. His posture was casual, like he just happened to be there. One hand was in his pocket; the other was tossing something small, round, and beautiful up and down, up and down.
“What?” he said, catching the tiny, beautiful sphere up between his fingers. “Lose something?”
For a long second the air seemed to turn solid, and then the Shepherdess lurched off the Lord of Storms.
She moved faster than light, appearing on top of Eli instantly, but it still wasn’t fast enough. The moment she lunged, Eli slammed his foot down, cracking the veil like rotten wood. He was already raising his arm when the hole appeared, and the second the veil was breached, Eli threw the tiny, perfect world down as hard as he could.
Benehime’s hand flew out, her long, white fingers brushing the sphere as it passed, but it wasn’t enough. The tiny world tumbled through the hole in the veil, and the moment it touched the real world, the fragile sphere cracked.
All at once, the air was filled with ringing, glorious shouts as the stars burst into freedom. They flew from the crumbling sphere in a shower of color so beautiful, so brilliant, Miranda couldn’t bear to watch. Instead, she focused on the reflection the colors cast against the white world, each one sparking and vanishing until, in a heartbeat, it was over.
As the Between faded back to white, Benehime lay frozen on the ground at Eli’s feet, her hand still flung out after her lost paradise. Her face was a mask of loss more bitter than anything Miranda had ever seen, but the look was gone in an instant, replaced with absolute fury.
Without a word, without a warning, without even a sound, the Shepherdess shot up. Miranda caught a glimpse of black in the white rush before the Power wrapped herself around Eli. She saw him tense, his smug expression falling away to one of shock, then resignation.
For several seconds, Miranda wasn’t actually sure what had happened. But then she saw the Shepherdess’s hand pull back with deliberate slowness, the black dagger dripping crimson before she slammed it again into Eli’s chest. He grunted as the blade entered, and then Benehime stepped back, letting Eli fall face-first onto the white floor at her feet.
“Eli!”
Miranda didn’t recognize her own voice as the scream echoed across the crumbling white nothing. She scrambled toward the thief’s crumpled body, so desperate to get to him that she didn’t even feel the Shepherdess’s foot in her ribs until she was flung backward. Miranda landed hard on her side and lay stunned for a moment, watching helplessly as the Shepherdess threw the black dagger down.
It landed with an echoing, metallic clang that went on and on as the dagger’s uneven surface rocked back and forth against the veil. The Shepherdess fell to her knees beside the thief, her white eyes empty as she took him in her arms.
Why, she whispered. Why? Why? Her voice grew louder with each question until her scream filled the Between. Why did you make me do this?
The scream faded to a choked sob as she wrapped herself around Eli’s bloody body. You didn’t have to break it, she whispered, turning his face toward hers. There was no paradise without you.
And then she kissed him, her lips pressed hard against his even as the Lord of Storms’ hand wrapped around her neck.
She did not struggle as he lifted her, not even to pry his fingers off her throat. She merely hung from his hand like a limp doll as he carried her to the edge of the white world. When he reached the wall of the shell, a black portal opened in front of him, and Miranda gasped as the air of the Between began to pour out in a great gale.
Beyond, grasping hands shot out, grabbing the Lord of Storms and the Shepherdess, struggling to pull them both into the blackness. The Lord of Storms ignored them. He walked into the dark, carrying the Lady at arm’s length until the darkness swallowed them both. The wind died as the door closed behind them, and Miranda felt her connection to the Lord of Storms snap like a cut thread.
The backlash nearly made her black out, but she forced herself to stay conscious, dragging her body across the floor toward Eli. Wincing with effort, she yanked her hand up and held her fingers under his nose. For several long seconds, nothing happened, and then she felt his faint breath on her skin. Relief flooded through her, and she turned back to the Weaver to see him sitting up, his eyes closed, his hand out toward Eli.
I caught him, the old man said, his voice impossibly tired. He won’t get any worse, though whether or not he gets better is up to him.
Miranda looked back to Eli, her face as pale as the white world around them. “What do we do now?”
The Weaver opened his eyes with an incredulous look as he pulled himself to his feet. We fix the world, he said, spreading his hands out in front of him. What else?
Miranda had no answer to that, so she sat back, watching in wonder as the Weaver flexed his fingers and began to weave.
CHAPTER
25
The Demon of the Dead Mountain’s roar echoed off the cliffs. His claws tore long rents across Nico’s wings, lacerating her shadow-wrapped body and breaking her teeth. Nico ignored the pain, even as one of her wings tore free. Though the demon was much larger than her now, Tesset’s training gave her the edge. Her front teeth were still locked around the demon’s throat, still chewing on the tender black flesh, and though he slammed her against the mountains over and over, she would not let go. She was the master now.
The demon’s struggles grew more frantic, and Nico bit down harder, her claws digging into the joint where the monster’s arm met its body. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the sky breaking apart as more hands thrust down toward the screaming spirits. The world was crumbling, collapsing under the weight of the demon’s hunger. Fragments of the sky fell like snow over mountains that rolled like waves in their fear. The only still peak was the one under their feet. The Dead Mountain stood as solid and black as ever, its empty husk a reminder of what was to come. Never loosening her grip, Nico’s yellow eyes flicked up to the ledge where Josef had fallen. There, too, all was still. All was lost, and yet she would not let go.
The demon was flailing now, his claws scrambling to pry between her teeth from his jaw. Nico snarled and bit down harder, feeling the demon’s furious scream through her grip. The scream grew louder as the demon
surged up, his long, hideous arms wrapping around Nico’s torso. She panicked as his grip tightened, thinking he was about to crush her, but the demon did no such thing. Instead, he yanked her away with all his might.
Nico’s hold never faltered, but the demon’s own flesh was not so strong. He tore her off him, taking off a large chunk of his neck and one arm in the process. The demon barely seemed to notice the loss in his fury as he flung her away, his enraged roar shaking the Dead Mountain to its roots.
She landed hard, her claws grabbing the mountain’s peak to keep herself from falling into the sharp rocks below. Down the slope, the Demon of the Dead Mountain was growling at her, his black claws folded around the gaping hole she’d left in his throat. “You always were a dirty fighter,” he rumbled, his three yellow eyes narrowing.
Nico’s answer was to spit out the piece of him she’d torn away. The demon’s flesh was already turning to dust in her mouth. It dissolved completely as it struck the Dead Mountain’s bare slope, and the demon growled deep in what was left of its throat. “Why are you doing this?”
“To stop you,” Nico answered.
“Stop me?” The demon burst out laughing. “Look around, girl. I’m hardly the greatest threat.”
“I don’t care,” Nico snarled. “You killed Josef. I couldn’t stop them all on my own anyway, but I can kill you.”
“No, you can’t,” the demon said. “That was the same mistake your king made, the one called the Creator. He thought he could starve us by locking us away. Make us turn on each other. And I’m sure they did, those mad skeletons, but it didn’t work. Think, child. If demons could kill other demons, there’d be nothing left outside the shell. The Creator’s plan would have worked and the Powers would have led you out to recolonize the emptiness ages ago. But nothing created has ever understood us. Nothing that is born can know the truth of our kind, which is really tragic, because the truth is so simple. We cannot die because we do not live. We are nothingness, the reverse of creation. We are consumption, destruction, the darkness that persists with or without light. You can no more kill us than kill death itself.”