Rachel Aaron: Spirit’s End

Benehime sneered, her beautiful face twisting into a terrible mask. It seems the whispers of treason were grossly understated. I came here to deal with a spirit who didn’t understand my very simple doctrine of silence and find a full-blown rebellion. Tell me, human, when those spirits who’ve stupidly thrown their lot in with you were spilling my secrets, did they also tell you that the price for such knowledge was death?

“And what do I have to fear from death?” the Spiritualist said. “I am old, my life well lived. I have spent sixty years in duty to the spirits. I consider it an honor to die asking the questions they cannot.”

With that, the old man pushed himself off the bed. He creaked as he stood, rings burning on his fingers as his spirits poured their strength into his fragile, old limbs. When he spoke again, his voice was threaded with the voices of his spirits.

“What is on the other side of the sky, Shepherdess?” he asked. “Why is it forbidden to look at the hands that scrape the edge of the world? Why do the mountains ignore the claws that scrape their roots? What secret horror do the old spirits hide from the young at your order? What are you hiding that is so dangerous that speaking of it, or even just looking its way, is cause for death?”

His voice rose as he spoke. By the time he finished, he was nearly shouting, and yet his calm never broke. The Spiritualist’s soul filled the room, its heavy power steady and tightly controlled. His spirits clung to it, cowering in their master’s shadow from the Shepherdess’s growing rage. Eli could feel the Lady’s cold fury seeping through the veil itself, but when she spoke at last, it was a question.

Why do you care? she asked. Even if I told you, you couldn’t do anything. Why waste your life on knowledge that means nothing?

Eli held his breath. Benehime wasn’t talking to the man but to the trembling spirits on his fingers. Even so, it was the Spiritualist who answered.

“I ask because they deserve to know,” he said, raising his rings to his lips. “And while you may control my spirits utterly, you cannot control me, and you cannot control the truth.”

The Shepherdess bowed her head, and Eli clenched his fists. If this man had made his Lady cry, he’d… He was still figuring out what he would do when a sound rang out through the still room. It was musical and cold, colder than anything he’d ever felt, and Eli realized the Shepherdess was laughing.

Do you know how many times I’ve been told that? She giggled, raising her head with a smile that made Eli’s blood stop. You think that you’re the first to demand answers? Please. I’ve been Shepherdess for nearly five thousand years now. I can’t even remember how many times I’ve been asked those same questions, but I’ve never once answered. And do you know why, little wizard?

For the first time since she’d arrived, the Spiritualist was speechless.

Let me tell you something about spirits, Benehime whispered, reaching out to trace the old man’s jaw. Spirits are panicky, stupid, and willfully ignorant. They knew what was on the other side of the sky, and they chose to look away and say nothing, to let the truth be lost under the press of time. They chose safety. They chose ignorance. The only one who didn’t get a choice was me.

She sighed deeply, trailing her fingers down the old man’s neck to his sunken chest, tapping each rib beneath his threadbare nightshirt. You want the truth, Spiritualist? she said, her white eyes sliding up to lock on his dark ones. I’ll tell it to you. The truth is your precious spirits don’t want to know what’s out there, because if they did, their panic would tear them apart.

“I don’t believe you,” the Spiritualist said, though his voice was far less sure than before. “The spirits deserve—”

The spirits deserve exactly what they have, Benehime snapped back, anger cutting through her voice like an icy wire. This is their world, created for them, and its rules, my rules, are for their protection.

As she finished, her hand slid into the old man’s chest. Her white fingers parted his skin like a blade, and the old Spiritualist gasped in pain. He would have fallen to his knees had Benehime’s hand not been in his ribs, lifting him up until his face was an inch from hers.

That may not have been the answer you thought you were dying for, she whispered. But that’s the problem with demanding the truth, Spiritualist. It doesn’t always come out as you’d like.

With that, she slid her hand out of his chest, and the old Spiritualist fell. His body changed as he plummeted, growing thinner, the skin shriveling. Eli pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming as the old man, now little more than a skeleton, hit the ground and crumbled to dust. His rings hit a second later, the gold and jewels landing on the wooden floor with hollow clinks.

Benehime flicked her hand in disgust, and the Spiritualist’s blood fled from her skin, leaving her fingers clean and white. When her hand was purified to her satisfaction, she reached down to pick up the largest of the Spiritualist’s rings, a great onyx band the size of Eli’s thumb. The spirit began to sob the second Benehime touched it, and she silenced its blubbering with a sharp shake.

You, she said. See what you’ve done? This is your fault, you know. Why did you tell him?

The ring did not speak. Benehime scowled, and her light grew brighter. Even through the veil, the pressure of her anger was enough to make Eli’s ears pop. He clung to the veil, watching in horror as the ring trembled. Just when he was sure it was about to shake itself apart, the ring spoke one word.

“No.”

Benehime arched a thin, white eyebrow. No?

“I’m not afraid of you, Shepherdess,” the black stone whispered. “No, not Shepherdess. Jailor, for that’s what you really are. You say you’re our Shepherd, our provider, but our wizard gave us more than you ever have. He fought for us, fought to learn the truth, and you killed him for it.”

Benehime’s white eyes narrowed. You want to share his fate? she said. You’re a strong stone, Durenei. Bow and beg forgiveness, and I may yet overlook this transgression.

The ring trembled in her hand, but its voice was stone when it spoke at last. “I hold true to my oaths and my master,” it whispered. “And I will never bow to you again.”

Benehime’s face closed like a trap. She clenched her hand in a fist, crushing the ring with a snap of cracking stone. The spirit gave one final cry, and then Benehime opened her hand to pour a thin stream of sand onto the floor.

After that, the Shepherdess didn’t offer her forgiveness again. She stepped forward, stomping her bare, white foot on the Spiritualist’s rings one by one. Each one died with a soft cry, and when her foot lifted, nothing was left of the old man’s spirits but dust. When they were all destroyed, the Shepherdess snapped her fingers.

The veil rippled, and Eli tensed, ready to run, but she wasn’t calling him. Instead, the Lord of Storms stepped through the hole in the world to stand at the Shepherdess’s side. He looked around the Tower as he entered, and his face settled into an even deeper scowl when he saw the piles of dust on the floor.

Erase this man and his spirits from the world’s memory, the Shepherdess said, waving at the dust. I don’t know his name, and I never want to.

The Lord of Storms folded his arms over his chest. “That’s not my job.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when the Shepherdess’s arm shot out, her white fingers grabbing his throat.

I’ve had enough insurrection for today, she whispered. You are my sword. I made you, and you will do whatever I ask. Do I make myself clear?

“Yes, Shepherdess,” the Lord of Storms whispered around her hold.