Rachel Aaron: Spirit’s End

“Yes, well, glad we could come to an understanding,” Whitefall said, rising again to see her out. “It’s been a bit of a shake-up for all of us. I’m still not quite sure how to move forward, actually. Tell me, do I need to negotiate with the stone masons for what it will cost to rebuild my citadel, or do I talk to the stones themselves and see if I can’t get a better rate?”

He’d meant this as a joke, but the Rector pursed her lips and peered over his shoulder at the fallen tower. “The stones look mostly fine to me,” she said. “Have you tried just asking them to repair themselves?”

Whitefall froze midstep. “No, actually.”

“Can’t hurt to ask,” she said. “Most natural things righted themselves when they woke up, but human-made structures often need human input to get themselves together again. I don’t think you’ll have much of a problem here, though. This place was very well built, and bright white stones fine enough to go into a citadel often like being fancy. They may jump back up on their own if you promise to keep your towers spotless. And if all else fails, you can always try a little charm. It’s worked before.”

That last bit was accompanied by a small eye roll that Whitefall wasn’t quite sure how to interpret, but he had the distinct feeling he’d missed out on a joke. “I’ll try your suggestion,” he said mildly, holding the flap for her. “And thank you again.”

She nodded and glanced up, staring at the sky. Frowning, Alber leaned out as well, stomach clenching. Ever since that awful day, he’d tried not to look at the sky for fear of spotting another crack, or worse, one of the horrible, unthinkable black hands. But the sky was clear and empty, its vault so blue he couldn’t even see the edges of the ever-present winds. He glanced back at the Rector to see if he’d missed anything only to find her smiling with rapt wonder.

When she didn’t move for several second, he asked, “What are you looking at?”

“The spirits,” she answered, grinning wide as her eyes dropped to his again. “After so many years of wondering, I don’t think I will ever tire of seeing as they see.”

Whitefall was deathly tired of it, but he kept that thought to himself as he watched the Rector climb up onto the monster of a dog she rode. As soon as she was settled on its back, the creature bolted, clearing the Council’s miraculously unruined gate in a single leap. Whitefall watched them until they vanished around the corner, and then he went back inside to deal with the serious business of picking his empire up out of the dirt.

When Miranda returned to the Tower, Banage was waiting for her. He was dressed in traveling clothes, rubbing his hand absently across the high back of his jade horse. He smiled as she and Gin trotted to a stop in front of him and moved to help Miranda down. “Well?”

“Nothing,” Miranda said, taking his offered hand. “Sara wasn’t there, and though Whitefall gave the expected excuses, I don’t think he knows where she is, either. I worry Mellinor might be right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Mellinor’s deep voice said in Miranda’s ear. “When all that water came pouring out of her thrice-cursed tanks, it went straight to the river. Rellenor was a little preoccupied at the time, but once things calmed down she was furious. Ollor was a river spirit before he made the mistake of trusting Sara, and most of the other water came from Rellenor.”

Miranda winced. “She’s not taking it well, then?”

“She’s taking it as a personal attack,” Mellinor replied. “And she’s got the other rivers on her side. That wouldn’t have mattered before, but now that they don’t have to worry about Sara’s power as a wizard, well, you don’t have to be an expert on spirit politics to know how that meeting is going to end.”

Banage gave a long, tired sigh. “Then I suppose I’d better get going while there’s still hope left.”

“I don’t see why you bother,” Miranda said, crossing her arms. “Sara did horrible things. She deserves everything she gets from those rivers.”

“That she does,” Banage said, climbing onto his stone horse. “But for good or ill, she’s still my wife, and I honor my oaths.”

“Even when the other person doesn’t?” Miranda said.

“Our oaths are our own, Miranda,” Banage said solemnly. “You know that.”

Miranda glowered. “She doesn’t deserve such loyalty.”

Banage just gave her a long, sad smile. “I’ll never give up on her,” he said. “The game’s not over yet.” And with that, he started down the tree-lined boulevard, his jade horse picking up speed as its green stone hooves clattered on the paving stones, raising a chorus of complaints.

“Remind me to schedule that formal inquiry to determine which stones actually want to be paving stones,” Miranda said wearily, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Gin nudged her back with his muzzle. “He’ll be back, you know. Maybe even with Sara, assuming he can convince the rivers not to drown her for her crimes.”

“I hope so, for his sake,” Miranda said. “Personally, I don’t understand what he ever saw in her.”

“Humans are strange,” Gin said, flicking his ears.

Miranda sighed and turned back to the Tower. “Come on, we have work to do.”

Gin swished his tail and followed his mistress up the stairs. Krigel was waiting just inside the Tower door, his arms full of papers containing thousands of details that awaited the Rector’s attention. Miranda looked at the pile and sighed again. Then, pulling herself straight, she held out her arms to accept her duty.

Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, or what was left of it, crouched silent and unseen on a ridge surrounded by delicate, yellow-leafed trees, watching the house on chicken legs. Beside him, the other League agent crouched just as silently, but his eyes were on Alric, and he did not look happy.

“How long do you mean to let this continue, sir?” he said in a low voice as the bear-headed man and his daughter went back inside the house. “The Lord of Storms’ orders were very clear.”

“The Lord of Storms isn’t here anymore, Chejo,” Alric said, just as low. “Or if he is, he isn’t worried about us. The demon is gone, the Dead Mountain empty and abandoned, the demonseeds cold and sleeping safely in the vault.”

“Even more reason,” Chejo countered. “She’s the last.”

“That she is,” Alric said. “But let me frame it like this: Even at its peak with the Lord of Storms beside us, the League was defeated by the Daughter of the Dead Mountain. That was three years ago. Part of being a commander is understanding what the men under your command can and cannot do, and I know we cannot take her down. Not with all our men, maybe not even if the Lord of Storms returned. Our gifts may remain, but without our Commander we can’t replenish our numbers with new recruits. Any attempt to fight the demon would cost us men we cannot replace, and anyway, it’s not like she’s running rampant through the countryside, is it?”

They both turned to glance at the knot of three people lying on the rocks beside the crouching house. The thief was talking as always, waving his arms in great circles. The swordsman was sprawled like a lizard in the sun and didn’t seem to be listening, but the girl was. She sat on the edge of the stone, her head tilted in a way that reminded Alric of an entranced cat.

It certainly wasn’t how you expected to find a demonseed, but the Daughter of the Dead Mountain had never been a normal seed. He wasn’t even sure she was a seed anymore now that the world had nearly collapsed, but she was surely a demon. She hid it well, but Alric could see the signs if he looked close enough—the way her black clothes seemed to eat the light, the faint waver of her shadow on the rock though the sun had not moved at all, and of course, the face he knew so well.