Rachel Aaron: Spirit’s End

Impossible, the Weaver said. They will crush you because you cannot see or hear enough to understand.

“So take away our blindness,” Miranda said. “Let humans see and hear as the spirits do so that we can all understand the world we live in. With will, the spirits will no longer be helpless victims of humans or demons. They’ll be able to stand against whatever comes, just as we do. Share the Shepherdess’s power, give the world a reason to wake up, and we will make this lifeboat into a world we can all thrive in. A world where no one has power over another simply by virtue of being human. Our world, spirits, humans, and Powers, all working together to make a place worth saving, a world that can grow.”

The Weaver closed his eyes. You ask a great thing, girl.

“The world is fading,” Miranda said. “I could ask nothing less.”

The Weaver bowed his head, sinking deep into thought. Eli glanced at Miranda, but her eyes were locked on the Weaver and the glowing pearl in his hands. Finally, the old Power nodded.

So be it, he said. But such a thing can be done only by the Shepherdess. Someone will have to take on the power in order to give it away.

Without a word, Miranda reached for the collar around her neck. She lifted the heavy gold chain over her head and carefully laid it aside. Next, she plucked her rings off one by one, piling them beside the chain. The pendant under her robes went last, and she lined it up beside the others, careful not to tangle the chain.

Once all her spirits were lying on the floor, Miranda solemnly held out her hand. The Weaver reached out and gently placed the Shepherdess’s seed in her palm. The moment the white pearl touched her skin, Miranda changed.

She made no sound, only shivered as the whiteness flooded over her body, washing away her color and her humanity in a great bleaching tide. Her skin was now as white as the floor she knelt on, as white as the robe across her shoulders. Her curly hair was like a snowdrift around her face, and her sharp green eyes were as pale as frost when they opened again, a silver rim the only thing separating her iris from the white of her eye.

Eli shuddered when he saw her. He couldn’t help it. The face was still Miranda’s, with its tilted nose and stern mouth, so was the unruly hair. But though he told himself color was the only thing missing, he couldn’t help seeing the resemblance. The Shepherdess’s presence clung to her like a shadow. The stillness of her chest, the fall of her white hair across her face, everything about her screamed of Benehime until Eli could barely look at her without bile rising in his throat.

As the white woman raised her head, Eli could almost hear the hated endearments on her lips. But then the woman spoke, and it was Miranda’s voice cut through with that strange resonance all the Powers shared. The words weren’t even directed at Eli, and there were only three.

Use it well.

She whispered the command, and then Eli heard something shatter. All at once, the power left Miranda as quickly as it had come, the whiteness draining away. Her eyes closed in pain, and she fell backward, nearly landing on her head.

Eli’s arm shot forward, grabbing her just before she hit. He winced as he touched her. Her skin was freezing, and though the faintest touch of the Shepherdess’s burn lingered, it faded quickly, leaving only a shell behind.

Eli cursed and sat up, ignoring his churning stomach as he pressed his hands against Miranda’s neck. She was breathing and her pulse was strong, but she was out cold. Just as he was about to pry her eyes open to test her pupils, Miranda seized up and launched into a coughing fit. Eli laughed with relief, pounding her back.

As the coughing faded, she pushed him off and started replacing her rings. “Did it work?” she whispered, her voice raw.

The Weaver smiled. See for yourself.

All at once, the Shepherdess’s sphere spun into view. The crumples and cracks were gone, and it hung perfect in the air once again, its gentle curve filled with glittering seas, green forests, and golden deserts. But the colors weren’t as clear as Eli remembered.

Worried, he leaned in for a closer look and saw that it wasn’t the colors that were fading. The air itself was tinged with white.

All across the world, a fine white rain was falling. The shimmering drops fell not from the clouds but from the dome of the sky itself, falling on every rock, every wind, every tree. They sparkled like diamonds in the light of the restored sun, falling thick as a blizzard over the whole of the world. Wherever they landed, the white drops sunk in with a faint flash, and whatever they sank into changed.

All across the sphere, the damage done by the loss of the stars and the demon invasion began to right itself. Toppled forests pushed themselves up. Rivers returned to their beds, taking their silt back with them. The churning sea retreated, drawing back its water and salt to leave the coast bone dry and fertile again. One by one, every spirit in the world seemed to tremble to life, and as they woke, the sphere began to vibrate with the sound of their voices.

When the change was finished, only the mountains remained silent. They had been hit worst of all by the demons, especially the Master of the Dead Mountain, and they were slow to change by nature. But at their heart, the Shaper Mountain stood taller than ever before, its white slopes shining like a great beacon to all the rest, its deep, rumbling voice calling them forward until, with slow, grinding effort, the mountains began the long, tedious work of filling in that which had been sundered.

When the flurry of motion finally finished, the Weaver leaned back and ran a tired hand across his face. I hope you’re prepared for what you’ve unleashed, he said. It’s all different now. You’re no longer wizards. Nothing is. Even those rings of yours don’t have to obey you anymore.

Miranda gave him a superior glare and started carefully sliding her rings back onto her fingers. “If you think a Spiritualist needs magical dominance to keep her spirits, Weaver, you obviously don’t know much about our order.”

The Weaver’s eyes widened, and Eli started to laugh. Everything might have changed, but Miranda would always be prickly about her spirits.

“Cut the poor man some slack,” he said, grinning wide. “You’ve just given him a world of headaches. Imagine, rocks with will, trees who can scream in terror when the lumberjack comes to chop them down. Spirit sight and hearing for all! It’s going to be a madhouse.”

“Then the Spirit Court will do its job, as always,” Miranda said. “I mean to put every Spiritualist I have into helping the world adjust to the changes. It won’t be easy, but at least there won’t be any more Enslavers to worry about.” She glanced at Eli out of the corner of her eye. “Or wizard thieves abusing their power.”

Eli leaned back, folding his hands under his head with a broad grin. “Lady,” he said, “you have no idea.”

Miranda’s look of alarm made him burst into laughter, and Eli let it go, laughing in utter freedom for the first time he could ever remember.

One Week Later

Alber Whitefall sat in the tent that served as his temporary office and stared glumly at his ruined Citadel. He’d been told he should be happy, that Zarin had suffered far less than most places since Etmon Banage had been on hand to protect it, but the relative luck of his lot wasn’t much comfort right now. His eyes slid over the gaping hole in his entry hall roof, the broken tower that was still scattered across his courtyard, its hammered gold roof crumpled beyond recognition. Even ignoring the destruction of Sara’s levels, which he considered her fault and would be taking out of her budget, this was going to cost a fortune.