Rachel Aaron - Spirit’s End

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.