Rachel Aaron: Spirit’s End

“I already told you. There won’t be a next attack,” Sara said, blowing a line of smoke into the air. “The boy’s right; we’ve already done all the work. The Empress is gone. Defeated. Sent packing. You’ve come too late, Myron dear, as you would know if you listened to any of the Relay messages I sent you or the last five minutes I just wasted trying to keep you from looking like an idiot.”

Myron’s face went scarlet. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you defeated the Immortal Empress with a handful of wizards and a few hundred Oseran troops?”

“What you believe is your business,” Josef said. “The truth is what it is. The Empress vanished. We saw it with our own eyes, and all her ships vanished with her.”

“Vanished?” Myron shrieked. “How does an armada vanish? And how do you know it wasn’t a trick?”

“We don’t,” Sara said. “But if it was a trick, it was a badly timed one. She was winning, after all.”

Myron looked affronted, and Sara heaved a long sigh. For a moment, she looked almost sad, and then the expression was gone as she went on brusquely as ever. “Much as it pains me to say it, I believe we were merely the lucky recipients of a miracle. A miracle I intend to thoroughly investigate, but a miracle nonetheless.”

Josef listened with growing anger. Sara’s flippant words seemed like an insult to what had happened last night. He could still see it clearly—the dark, frozen sea, the glowing lines, and Eli standing in the middle of it all with that horrible, defeated look on his face as the white arms dragged him through the world. He’d be back, of course, Josef reminded himself. Eli would never pull something like that unless he had a plan.

Somewhat appeased by that, Josef turned back to Myron. The Council commander had lost his look of confident superiority and was now standing bewildered, his eyes begging Josef to let him in on the joke. But there was no joke, and all Josef could do was try and bring the Council man around to his side.

“There may be no Empress to fight,” he said. “But we still need your help. As I’m sure you saw on your way up, Osera was nearly flattened last night.” He glanced down the mountain to where the Council’s ships were moored to whatever docks were still above water. “A dozen warships full of hands would mean a lot to us right now.”

Whitefall bristled for a moment, but then his shoulders fell. “Of course,” he said at last. “The Council will of course offer aid to Osera in her time of need.”

“Good,” Josef said. “I’d hate to think we were paying those dues for nothing.”

This earned him a nasty glare from Myron, but Josef was already looking over his shoulder to where his advisers had gathered on the stairs. All of them were leaning in to hear what was going on in the tent. When Josef waved his hand, the old men hurried forward.

“The Council has offered to help us clean up,” he said as they entered the tent. “Can you work with him?”

Since he said this to no one in particular, every one of his advisers thought the king was addressing him personally, and they all agreed in unison.

“But of course—”

“Your majesty is too gracious—”

“It would be an honor to serve—”

“The Council is a valued ally—”

The cries dissolved into argument almost immediately, and Josef, realizing he was going to have to do something, started making assignments at random, dividing the city’s five districts between the five younger advisers before putting the oldest in charge of working directly with Whitefall on logistics.

Surprisingly, everyone seemed reasonably happy with this setup. They immediately started working things out among themselves, and Josef took the chance to make his escape.

He motioned for a guard and lowered his voice. “I’m going to grab some sleep while they work this out. Spread the word, whoever wakes me up without a good reason loses his head.”

“Yes, sire,” the guard said, bowing. “Rest well.”

Josef nodded and turned away, disappearing up the stairs toward his room, Nico, and the cool, welcoming dark.

Sara sat back, puffing on her pipe and watching with bemusement as Myron was set upon by a swarm of Oseran officials eager to prove their worth to the new king. Despite the horrible things she’d heard about Theresa’s son, he seemed to be adapting to his new life quite well. He’d certainly learned how to delegate. He’d learned how to make a quiet exit, too, possibly an even more useful skill, and certainly one that served her purposes at the moment. The boy didn’t seem to be any great friend of Banage or his darling apprentice, but she had the feeling the next hour would be much simpler without the king’s interference.

Once Myron had extricated himself from the mass of officials, Sara waved him over. He gave her a dirty look, but he came.

“To hear those Oserans talk, you’d think I’d laid the wealth of the Council at their feet,” he grumbled, sinking down onto the stool beside Sara. “I can’t grow buildings out of the ground.”

He gave her a sideways look, and Sara chuckled.

“Neither can I,” she said. “I’m no Shaper. And don’t look at me like that. You can’t be sneering at wizard tricks one week and begging for them the next.”

“You’re the one spouting nonsense about miracles,” Myron said bitterly. “Are you going to tell me what actually happened here?”

“I don’t think you’d understand if I tried,” Sara said, tapping the ashes out of her pipe. “I’m not sure I understand yet, but I intend to.”

Myron snorted. “And I suppose your little fop is working on that?”

Sara laughed. “Sparrow? No, he’s asleep. Even he needs his rest sometimes. Unfortunately my curiosity will have to wait just a little longer. For now, you should reserve a squad of soldiers before the Oserans set them all to picking up bricks. We have unfinished business to wrap up.”

“We?” Myron said. “What do you mean?”

Sara looked pointedly at a knot of Spiritualists talking to a building across the square. “The Empress may be defeated,” she said, “but treason is still treason, Myron.”

Myron’s expression darkened as he caught her meaning. “I’ll get some men. Do you at least know where we’re going?”

“I have a very good idea,” Sara said, glancing east, over the mountain, toward the sea.

Myron shook his head and called for his escort.

Miranda stood with her bare feet in the cold surf. Her soul was open, reaching through the water as far as she could for what she knew wasn’t there. Behind her, Gin and Master Banage sat at the base of the storm wall, watching her with matching worried expressions.

She’d been in the water since before dawn. At first, Banage had been content to let her deal with Mellinor’s loss in her own way. Now, after hours of watching her stand in the water with her open spirit straining far past the point of exhaustion, he decided enough was enough. He stood up slowly and walked across the sand. When he reached his former apprentice, he said nothing, just put his hands on her shoulder and gave her a stiff pull.

After two days without sleep, a raging battle, losing her sea, and now hours of pushing her spirit beyond its limits, one pull was enough. Miranda toppled backward, landing in the sand. She tried to stand up even before she hit, desperate to keep her feet in the water, but Banage was too fast. He slipped between her and the surf, using his larger body as a wall to block her.

“Miranda,” he said softly. “You have to rest.”

Miranda glared at him, but she stopped struggling. She simply didn’t have the strength. “How can I rest?” she said, staring down at the sand, its battle scars already erased by the tide. “How can I just walk away? It’s my fault Mellinor’s—”