Rachel Aaron - Spirit’s End

“Making us,” Eli said.

The Weaver nodded and sat back with a deep sigh. This sphere is too small to support a true spirit ecosystem. It was meant as a lifeboat, not a home. Unless the Creator returns to breathe new energy into this world, the best we can hope for is a slow, peaceful decline.

He shook his head, white eyes locking sadly on Miranda. It may be soon enough that you humans find yourselves alone in this prison. And though wizards will continue to be born, there won’t be anything awake enough left to talk with. The Hunter will hunt and the Weaver will weave, but our jobs only keep back the tide. This is the spirits’ world, not ours, and in the end even the Shepherdess couldn’t make them thrive.

Miranda flushed, and Eli knew she was about to argue. The thought made him grin. Trust a Spiritualist to argue with a Power of creation. But before she could open her big mouth, a noise made them all jump, even the Weaver.

It was a demon scream, a sound Eli could now recognize instantly, much to his dismay. But not just one. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands, all screaming in the distance. Beside him, the Weaver closed his eyes, his fingers twitching frantically as he searched for the hole in the shell. But the white world was flawless again, as though the last few hours had never occurred.

Just when Eli was growing well and truly stumped, he spotted it. There, a dozen feet away, a black line was falling through the air. It fell quickly, forming a door in less than a second, and a blast of cold hit Eli like a blow to the face. He jerked back, lifting his arm to shield against whatever might be coming. He’d barely gotten it over his nose when the Lord of Storms stomped into the shell.

It was strange to see him so white, Eli thought idly as the black door closed behind him, cutting off the screams like a knife. Everything else was the same, the sword, the coat, the long hair, the insufferable expression. Only the color was missing, and with it, any trace of kindness, though Eli wasn’t sure the old thunderhead had possessed any of that to begin with.

The Weaver stood as the Hunter approached. Welcome back, brother.

The Hunter didn’t answer, just thrust out his fist. As he opened his hand, a soft, white radiance shone from his palm. Eli blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thought the Between or its Powers could get any whiter, and yet the light kept shining from the Lord of Storms’ hand. He held it there until the Weaver offered his own hands, and then he dumped the light unceremoniously into the old man’s cupped palms.

Eli sucked in a breath as it came into view. The thing that fell from the Lord of Storms’ hand was a perfect pearl, its smooth surface glowing whiter than the moon through alabaster. It rolled as it landed in the Weaver’s hands, filling his palms with light.

The moment the white pearl was transferred, the Hunter turned and marched away. The black line appeared with a jerk of his hand, and even though Eli expected it this time, the cold mixed with the screams made him cringe anyway. The Hunter didn’t even flinch as he strode into the dark, but he did pause at the threshold.

I can see your fear, old man, he said, his low voice rumbling like thunder. Make no mistake. I am not your brother, but, like him, I was also born to fight the demons. He smiled, his white eyes glittering with pure, bloody joy. I will not fall.

I know you shall not, the Weaver said. And I will still name you brother, if you will have it.

The Hunter turned back and strode through the door. As you like. See you in a hundred years.

The Weaver nodded. Good hunting, brother.

The Hunter was gone before he finished, the black line vanishing behind him without a trace. The Weaver sighed and looked down at the light in his cupped hands. All is not lost, it seems.

Eli leaned forward, arching his neck to see, despite the pain. “That’s the Shepherdess’s seed, isn’t it?” When the Weaver nodded, he added, “What are you going to do with it?”

There’s no choice but to make a new Shepherdess, the Weaver said. We must be three, else we are incomplete.

“This from the man who was going to lock her away,” Eli said with a snort.

The Weaver’s eyes narrowed. The Shepherdess would still have existed then, he said. A dead Power does us no good. She must be reborn.

“Fine, fine.” Eli groaned. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

Actually, the Weaver said. I mean it to be you.

Eli jerked up so fast he was staring the Weaver in the face before he remembered sitting was bad. He fell back again, fighting the nausea all the way down. When he had himself under control, he glared at the Weaver and said, in what he considered a very measured tone given the circumstances, “Are you out of your muddled white mind?”

It’s the logical choice, the Weaver said. As a star, you’re already familiar with the spirit’s power structure and politics. Of all her favorites, you were certainly the most popular, and since you’re a powerful human wizard who bore her mark for years, you carry a large fraction of her will with you already. That should help ensure that as much power as possible survives the transfer. Really, I can’t think of anyone better suited for the task.

Eli closed his eyes. “Listen, old man, I can’t believe I’m having to explain this, but the Shepherdess or Shepherd or whatever is the Power responsible for every spirit in existence. Obviously you’re not a fan of my work, or you’d have realized by now that, overlooking today’s extremely uncharacteristic heroics, I’m probably the least responsible man in this oversized spirit preserve. Ask Miranda, she’ll vouch for me.” Eli glanced at the Spiritualist, who dutifully nodded her head. “See?”

The Weaver sighed. I’m sure you would be—

“No, I wouldn’t,” Eli said. “Even if I would make a fine Shepherd, I don’t want the job.”

The Weaver stared at him. Didn’t you hear me? There must be a—

“I don’t care,” Eli said, jerking his thumb at his chest. “Irresponsible, remember? And anyway, I’ve done my time. I’ve spent the last decade trying to get away from this boring white whatever. If you think I’m coming back of my own free will now that Benehime can’t make me, you’re crazier than the Shepherdess. I don’t care how much power is in that glow rock, count me out.”

The Weaver stared down at the glowing pearl in his hands. If you won’t take it, I don’t know who else could.

“I do,” Eli said. “And I cast my vote for Miranda.”

Eli bit back a grin as the Spiritualist jumped. Actually, the more he thought about this new solution, the better he liked it.

“It’s an inspired choice,” he went on. “I mean, she works all the time, she’s stubborn as a mountain, and she always has the spirits’ best interests at heart. I can’t even count how many times she’s nearly killed herself for some ungrateful ball of water or hunk of rock. Illir the West Wind is half in love with her already, so that’s the Wind Courts right there, and they’re always the worst. Even the Shaper Mountain respects her, and let’s not forget that you have her to thank for the fact that we have such a hardworking new Hunter. If she hadn’t bound the Lord of Storms, we might have ended up with Josef in the job, and then the world would really have been doomed.”

The Weaver tilted his head, staring at Miranda with new interest. For her part, the Spiritualist looked like someone had just dunked her in freezing water. Her mouth kept opening and closing, and she was staring bug-eyed at Eli like she was trying to choose between being flattered or punching him in the face. Since his face was one of the few parts of his body that didn’t hurt, Eli hurried to clinch the deal.

“She’s a wizard strong enough to power the Lord of Storms, who’s also utterly, almost pathologically dedicated to serving the spirits,” he said solemnly. “And I guarantee you she’s a much better choice than I am. In fact, I don’t think you could create a better candidate for Shepherdess if you tried.”