by Rachel Aaron
Josef grunted as the breath slammed out of his lungs. Hitting the Lord of Storms’ parry was like running into a stone wall at full speed. He bore down with a roar, pushing with all his strength. The Lord of Storms stood before him, a bored look on his sharp face, holding the blue-silver sword against the Heart of War’s straining blade with one, bored hand. The will of the Heart pounded through Josef’s muscles, clearing his vision and sharpening his senses to a level he’d reached only once before, and it was only thanks to that painful clarity that he perceived what was about to happen.
He caught the gleam in the taller man’s eyes just in time before the blue-white blade swung, cutting through the air where Josef’s head had been a split second earlier. Josef danced back, panting, bringing the Heart up again. But the Lord of Storms lowered his blade, looking at Josef as though he were seeing him for the first time.
“If you’re good enough to dodge my attack, then you’re too good to die like a dog here,” the Lord of Storms said calmly. “The Heart chooses its wielders with great care. It must see great potential in you. Don’t waste its time on a battle you can never win.”
The Heart of War quivered in Josef’s hands, rejecting the idea, and the Lord of Storms looked surprised.
“You always did love lost causes,” he said, shaking his head. “But facing me with a deaf boy for a wielder is foolish even for you. The Lady will not be happy when she hears how you’re using the freedom she gave you.”
The Heart burned against Josef’s hands, and a surge of strength flowed up his arms, urging him forward. Josef didn’t need to be told twice. He charged, but this time he was watching for the Lord of Storms’ lightning-fast block. Sure enough, it moved into position with a silver flash, but with the Heart’s rage singing through him, Josef moved even faster. He dropped and rolled under the Lord of Storms’ sword, coming up inside the taller man’s guard with a triumphant cry as the Heart of War’s black blade bit into the Lord of Storms’ unprotected ribs.
The Heart slid into the Lord of Storms’ side, cutting flesh for a split second before a flash of lightning blinded Josef, and the Lord of Storms vanished. Josef reeled as the resistance disappeared, flying through the air on the force of his blow, which was now lodged in thin air. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened when something hard and impossibly sharp struck his back directly between his shoulder blades. Josef slammed into the ground, gasping and choking on the blood that was suddenly everywhere. The Heart of War clattered from his hand, but Josef couldn’t see where it had landed. Flashing spots danced across his eyes, but as he struggled to push himself up, something cold and dull slammed into his ribs, flipping him over onto his back.
The Lord of Storms towered over him, taller and darker than before, his long black hair dancing in a wind that blew only for him. His lightning-colored sword was dark with blood, but what caught Josef’s eye was the man’s left side, where the Heart of War had stuck. There, where the wound should have been, black clouds were billowing. There was no blood, no bone, just black thunderheads swirling in and out of the gap in the Lord of Storms’ black coat. Josef blinked in disbelief as lightning arced across the wound, and the hole in the man’s side began to shrink. The clouds pulled together until there was only the smooth fabric of the Lord of Storms’ coat, leaving no sign that he had been breached at all.
Josef’s horror must have been plain, for the Lord of Storms’ face broke into a wide grin.
“Ah,” he said and chuckled. “The arrogant boy begins to understand his situation.” He held out his sword, pressing the flat against Josef’s cheek. “And I was so impressed. To think, someone as spirit deaf as you was able to feel the Heart’s will. I haven’t seen such a thing in centuries, yet here you are, on your back like all the others, not even realizing you’re dead.”
Josef tried to answer, but his retort turned into a hacking cough. He spat out the hot blood in his mouth and tried to focus, but his back was burning against the freezing stone, and he could feel the slick, hot blood melting the ice below him. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Above him, the Lord of Storms was blurring, becoming just another shape in the red dark, and Josef realized with a start that he was dying. Truly dying, from a single blow.
The Lord of Storms watched sadly as Josef struggled to breathe, and then he turned in a swift motion.
“I am not without honor,” he said, walking to the far end of the narrow pass. “You fought well for what you are, so I shall give you a warrior’s death.” He turned again when he reached his destination, sword held delicately in his long hands. “Stand up,” he called, fixing his eyes on Josef’s. “Stand and die as the swordsman of the Heart of War should.”
The pass fell silent. Even the endless winds outside ceased their blowing, leaving the narrow space between the cliffs dark and still, save for Josef’s ragged breathing. With a low groan, Josef’s hand reached out from his chest and began to feel for his sword. He found it at once, the rough-wrapped hilt jumping into his grip. He expected the Heart to say something. He was certainly gone enough to hear it, but the black blade stayed silent.
A great, clear sound rang out between the mountains as Josef plunged the Heart of War into the stone. He took a long, shuddering breath and, using the Heart as a crutch, pulled himself up. The moment he was no longer horizontal, blood began to rush down his back. The pain between his shoulders grew so intense he had to stop a moment, halfway between sitting and standing, just to bear it. But a second later he was moving again, uncurling inch by inch until he was standing straight, facing the Lord of Storms with his sword clasped in both hands. He would not die. He would not fail Nico. He would not fail Eli. He would not fail his sword. He hadn’t thrown everything away to die like this. He would stand and meet the monster, the man whose body was made of storms, and he would not go down.
The Heart of War radiated its approval, and he felt its strength flowing back into him, clearing his vision, dimming his pain. This was it, the final blow, and they would make it together. But as he stepped into the ready position, a piercing cry stopped him cold. It was high and keening, and it came from behind him. Even the Lord of Storms looked startled, and they both turned to find the source of the sound. What Josef saw next turned his blood to ice water.
“Powers,” he whispered. “Not now.”
CHAPTER
9
Eli climbed down the snowcovered slope until the pass hiding Josef and Nico from the wind was itself hidden by the blowing snow. This turned out to be a shorter distance than he’d anticipated, thanks to the rather spectacular blizzard howling on this side of the peak. The flurries were so thick he could barely see his own feet as he picked his way down the cliff, but the white storm did little to hide the mountain rising across the valley ahead, enormous and sharp against the endless snow.
Eli let out a low whistle. The mountain was an inkblot on the white landscape. Impossibly tall, it towered over the surrounding peaks, its black slopes rocky and bare without a flake of snow or twig for cover. Eli stared in wonder at the mountain a moment longer before he sat down in the snow to wake up his suit. Sneaking into castles and treasuries was one thing. To sneak into the home of the demonseeds, he was going to need all his tricks.
“Eli.” Karon’s whisper was like smoke in his ear. “Are you sure about this?”
“Getting cold feet?” Eli asked, laughing as he rubbed his hands on his sleeves. “I didn’t think it was possible in a lava spirit.”
The burn in his chest began to tingle, a sign that the lava spirit was not in a joking mood.
“I’m positive,” Eli said, his voice steady and certain. “This is our best chance of helping Slorn, and the only chance to get around Josef’s stubbornness.” He heaved an annoyed sigh. “The man is thick as his sword, sometimes. If I hadn’t taken Nico’s offer I might have ended up on the wrong end of that iron pigsticker. A famous death to be sure, but not the kind I want.”
“Josef wouldn’t raise his hand against you,
” Karon said. “It’s not his way. As for Slorn, he’s a better friend to you than most, but to go willingly onto forbidden ground? The very home of the demon? That’s too much, even for him. So why are we here? For real, this time.”
Eli closed his eyes. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”
The lava spirit chuckled. “I’ve lived in your chest for four years now. If I can’t call your bluffs, then your tongue really will have turned to silver.”
“Fair enough,” Eli said. “I am here to find information on Slorn, but also because Nico suggested it. I always suspected she knew more than she was letting on, and now’s a good time to show I trust her advice.”
“Do you?” Karon sounded surprised.
“Well, I certainly want her to think so,” Eli said. “I don’t know what’s going on with that girl most of the time. If she feels I trust her, maybe she’ll open up a little more, especially about her powers, or the lack thereof. But”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“that’s just extra, sugar on the pie. Really, I’m here because it is forbidden.” Eli leaned back and stared up at the shadow of the mountain. “It’s the only place in creation Benehime forbade me to go.”
“Naturally,” Karon said. “You’re her darling. She didn’t want you to become a bed for a demonseed.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Eli said. “Not all of it, anyway.” He squinted through the snow. “Living with her, I always felt like I was a doll in her perfect white dollhouse. Nothing there existed unless she willed it, even me. Everything I did, I did because she wanted me to do it. So while she always said I had everything I wanted, what I really had was everything she wanted. But I always knew, even then, that somewhere beyond the white world there had to be places she didn’t control. Places where the spirits didn’t fall all over themselves to answer her every beck and call. I think the Dead Mountain may be one of them.”
“But it was the Shepherdess who trapped the demon under the mountain,” Karon whispered. “Her will that keeps it pinned.” A tremor ran through Eli’s chest, and he realized the lava spirit was terrified. “This isn’t something we want to mess with, Eli.”
“Maybe so,” the thief said, grinning. “But we’re already here. We need to find Slorn, and there’s no harm in just taking a look. Besides, last time I checked, even demons weren’t omniscient. If we play our cards right, they’ll never know we were here.”
The burn tingled again, painfully this time, and Eli gave his chest a pat. “We’ll leave at the first sign of trouble,” he promised. “Fast as we can, trust me.”
“First sign, don’t forget.”
“I swear,” Eli said.
The burning sensation faded, and Eli rubbed his chest with a long, painful breath. Now, to business. He looked down at his suit. It was a simple cat burglar suit, all muted grays and blacks tied close to keep his limbs limber. This particular suit was a little worn. It had been given to him by the original Monpress, back when the old man still thought his adopted son would make a respectable cat burglar one day. He’d learned better, of course, but Eli had kept the suit. Not for sentimental reasons, but because he’d remade it with some improvements.
Eli moved his long fingers over his padded shoes, drying them out with Karon’s heat and talking constantly about what he needed them to do in the low, excited voice that smaller spirits found irresistible. They woke easily, the woven fibers turning like snakes under his fingers. Once his feet were awake, he moved up his legs to his chest, then his arms, talking constantly in that same low voice. He did his mask last, unwrapping and holding it up between his hands as he gave an extremely energized pep talk about what they were all about to do together.
Altogether the process took about fifteen minutes. Of course, if his suit had been made from Shaper cloth it would always be awake and he wouldn’t have to go through this every time, but Shapers were nosy, and Eli preferred to keep the true nature of his thieving clothes a secret. If the old Monpress had taught Eli anything, it was that you never showed all your cards. Besides, Shaper cloth was horridly expensive.
Now that it was properly awake, Eli’s cat burglar suit began to show its true value. Every thread had seven colors, a spectacular bit of dye work that had taken Eli five tries and one very angry cloth merchant to get right. Once awakened, these threads had one job: turn in unison so that the color on the suit’s surface best matched the color of whatever Eli was hiding against. Now that every piece was awake, the effect was instant. The moment Eli tied his mask back around his face, his suit went dapple gray-white, a perfect match for the snow he crouched in.
Eli grinned behind his mask. It wasn’t perfect, of course. Even when he could blend them together by alternating threads, seven colors was hardly enough to camouflage him from someone who was really looking. Someday, when he had favors to burn, he’d have Slorn make him a suit with a hundred different colors. Assuming, he thought bleakly, they found the bear in time. For now, though, he was satisfied to creep through the snow, keeping Karon’s heat just at his body as he made his way across the valley until, at last, he stood at the foot of the mountain where piled snow met bare stone in a razorsharp line.
Eli stopped, staring at the division between the normal world and the forbidden. Finally, he took a deep breath and, bracing himself one last time, lifted his foot out of the snow and placed it carefully on the mountain’s dry slope.
Nothing happened. Eli blinked, confused. He’d always imagined that setting foot on the Dead Mountain would feel different, forbidden, or at least dangerous. But standing there, with one foot on the stone and one in the snow, he didn’t feel anything special. In fact, he felt absolutely nothing. It was like stepping into a void. He could hear the wind screaming behind him, the wet of the snow pressing against his back, but ahead there was nothing but cold, empty silence. Even so, it took him a solid minute to put his other foot on the slope. It was the emptiness. Stepping into something that silent, that bare, made him feel tiny and weak, like a rabbit stepping into an open field when there were hawks overhead. Eli swallowed. He wasn’t used to feeling like prey.
His suit dutifully switched from dapple white to dull black as he began his creep up the mountain. It was rough going. Other than being coal black and completely bare of snow, it was much like any of the other mountains in the range, only taller and sharper, unshaped by wind for who knew how long. The air on the slope was still and heavy, yet even as he took great gasps of it, there wasn’t enough. He felt light-headed and weak, and it only got worse the farther up he went. He clung to the slope, a tiny black spot moving up the great black spike of the mountain’s peak, until, at last, he reached a ledge.
Eli threw himself onto the flat surface with a relieved gasp and lay there on his back for several minutes, catching what breath he could from the strange, heavy air. When he felt somewhat himself again he lifted his head and looked around. He was lying on the lip of a long, level rise tucked between the sharp cliffs of the mountain’s face, cutting between the impossible slopes almost like a path. But that wasn’t all. Eli tilted his head, staring at the ground beside him. The ledge was covered in fine black dust, proof that, even separated from the elements, the Dead Mountain was decaying. Well, Eli thought, no surprise there. No physical body, not even a mountain, could keep itself together without its spirit. But it was what he saw in the dust that caught his eye. There, not an inch from his head, was a small scuff in the blanket of powdered stone, a long depression in the unmistakable shape of a human foot.
Eli sat up, careful not to touch the footprint. There was another one not far from it, and another by the cliff’s edge, following the slope of the ledge behind the cliffs and up the mountain.
“Well, well,” Eli said, standing. “Not so lifeless after all.”
Karon’s only answer was a deep, terrified shudder as Eli dusted himself off, turned his suit a duller black with a wave of his hand, and began to follow the footprints up the mountain. The path, for it was unmistakably a path now, wound up th
e mountainside, cutting back and forth to avoid the steep drops between the cliffs. Eli climbed it slowly, partly because he was being careful and partly because he couldn’t go any faster. The air was nearly unbreathable now, thin and dank and icy cold. Every breath burned his lungs, yet he couldn’t stop gasping. He sucked in the air as best he could, moving at a slow shamble until the path he was following suddenly and unceremoniously ended at the lip of a little hidden valley. Eli cursed and dropped, pressing himself against the ground as he stared wide-eyed over the valley’s edge.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
Just below him, nestled in a hidden valley on the Dead Mountain, was a town. It was a small town, two dozen stone shacks arranged in a semicircle around a stone cistern half filled with greasy water. Still, that was two dozen more shacks than Eli had expected to find on the forbidden mountain. All around the shacks, people in threadbare black robes moved with their heads down, carrying boxes from a horseless wagon into a small cave at the other end of the valley under the supervision of two large men in matching black leather armor.
“Who sets up shop on the Dead Mountain?” Eli whispered. When Karon didn’t reply, Eli answered his own question. “They must be cult members. I remember hearing the League saying something about the cult of the Dead Mountain, misguided idiots who actually want a demonseed inside them.”
“How can they live here?” Karon said, trembling. “Can’t they see it?”
“Of course not,” Eli said, waving his hand in front of his face. “Blind, remember?” He paused. “Out of curiosity, what does it look like?”