Spirit’s End

CHAPTER 1

Eleven Years Later

The vast desert that stretched across the Immortal Empire’s southwestern tip was still and quiet in the moonlight. At its edges, the coast was calm, the ocean lapping tiredly against the beaches. The great storm that had raged for weeks up and down the continent’s seaboard had died as suddenly as it began, the clouds dissipating in a handful of seconds to leave the night sky clear and blank as though there had never been a storm at all. Only the wreckage of the sea towns and the wall the Empress had raised to protect them remained, an improvised barrier standing awkwardly at the edge of the placid sea.

Suddenly and without warning, a light cut through the stillness. All across the dark desert, white lines appeared. They sliced high in the air, forming long needles of light that dangled several dozen feet above the sand. One after another they appeared until the sky was full of them, their white light filling the desert until it was bright as noon, and then the quiet shattered as the Immortal Empress’s invasion fleet fell through the white lines and crashed into the dunes below.

The palace ships slammed into the sand, their great keels cracking against solid ground. Without the water to keep them upright, the boats toppled immediately, rolling onto their sides like falling horses. The night was full of cracking wood as hulls splintered and masts snapped like twigs, and then, as the white lines faded and the ships settled into their deathbeds, the cries of men rose to drown out the groaning of the boats as the Empress’s army, the largest army ever raised, began to pick itself up.

At the head of the now grounded fleet, a large crowd was gathering around a boat that had lost its prow. Even in the chaos, word spread quickly, and the soldiers surged like ants from their toppled ships to gather around the palace ship with the broken hull at the very front of the fleet where, rumor had it, the Empress herself was buried under the wreckage. Up on the deck, the ship’s captain was already at work, shouting orders to a crew of fifty strong men as they hauled the top half of the broken mast off the deck where the Empress had fallen.

They found her lying in a crater of broken wood. Her golden armor was shattered and the cloth beneath was stained bright red with blood. When they saw her, the soldiers fell silent, struck dumb at the possibility that the Immortal Empress, the undying, unquestioned divine ruler of the world, could possibly be dead.

But then, with a groan, the Empress opened her eyes. The men flinched back. Some fell to their knees, others simply stood, shocked. The Empress paid them no mind. She just pushed herself up, throwing off the remains of her golden armor to free her arms.

“Empress?” her captain whispered.

The Empress didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at her men. Her attention was entirely focused on getting to her feet. When she was standing at last, she reached out and tapped the air in front of her. No sooner had her finger moved than a new, thinner white line flashed in the dark, dropping through the air to just above her feet. The moment the line stopped growing, the Empress stepped through it, leaving the dark desert full of broken ships and moving into a world of pure white light. When she was through, the line shimmered and faded, leaving her soldiers staring in vain at the empty place where their Empress had been.

Opening a door through the veil to Benehime’s private world without the Shepherdess’s permission was forbidden even to stars. Nara didn’t care. She stomped through the portal, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the blinding white. But even before she could see, the Empress knew exactly who was waiting.

Benehime lounged in the air, her white hair falling over her body like a cloak. Behind her, the Lord of Storms hovered like a glowering black shadow. A small, distant part of Nara’s brain noted that the Shepherdess must have pulled him back together not long ago. Bits of him were still shifting between flesh and cloud, giving him that wild look he always got when he was fresh from his true form.

His expression, however, was solid as sharpened steel and locked on her with a look of pure disgust as Nara stumbled forward. But even as she registered his presence, Nara put the Lord of Storms out of her mind. He was beneath her notice. All that mattered was the Lady and the creature she held in her arms.

The thief sat in Benehime’s lap like a dog. The travel-stained clothes he’d worn on the beach were gone, replaced by a pure white fitted jacket and trousers tucked into tall white boots. The Shepherdess held him close, one hand around his waist, the other brushing over his thigh like she was petting him. The thief had the good sense to keep his eyes down as Nara approached, but the Shepherdess looked straight at her, absently stroking the boy as she regarded her former favorite through narrowed, white eyes.

I do not recall summoning you here, Empress.

For the first time in her life, Nara’s rage was so great that even the sound of the Shepherdess’s voice couldn’t shock her out of it. She stopped right in front of the Lady, breathing the cold, white air in great gasps until, at last, she managed a single, coherent word.

“Why?”

Benehime tilted her head, laying her ear against the thief’s chest. He is my favorite, she said simply. I thought I’d made that clear.

“I’m your favorite!” Nara screamed. “I’ve always been your favorite! For the last eight hundred years I’ve given you my utter devotion. I gave you half the world as a peaceful, prosperous Empire! I raised you an army and sailed across the Unseen Sea. I destroyed an island, sacrificed my men, all for you! Everything I’ve ever done has been for you! So why? Why am I so summarily replaced by this disobedient, arrogant, faithless—”

The words froze in her throat as the air around her solidified. Suddenly, Nara couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe. In front of her, Benehime’s white mouth curled in a disgusted sneer.

You will not speak so of my favorite.

Completely frozen, Nara could only stare in response.

The Lady reached down and took Eli’s wrist. He flinched when she touched him, but didn’t say a word as the Shepherdess lifted his hand and held it out to Nara.

I am the Shepherdess, the Lady said, turning the thief’s hand palm down and pushing it forward until his fingers were half an inch from Nara’s frozen lips. A Power of Creation, given dominion over all spirits by the Creator himself. There is no opinion in the world that matters save mine, no will save my will. Now, do you love me, Nara?

The frozen air thawed just enough for Nara to take a breath. “Yes,” she whispered, tears running down her face. “But—”

And do you wish to stay by my side forever?

“I do.” The words burned in Nara’s throat.

The Lady smiled a cruel, beautiful smile. Then know your place. She pushed Eli’s fingers closer to Nara’s lips. Kiss my favorite and apologize for hurting his lava spirit and putting his friends in danger.

Nara stared at the Lady, her battered body perfectly still though the frozen air had already released her.

Benehime’s smile faded. Do it, she snapped. Prove you love me. Honor my favorite and take your place at the bottom of my stars.

Nara glanced at the thief’s fingers, now barely a quarter of an inch from her lips. On the Shepherdess’s lap, Eli’s face was a calm, bored mask, his gaze fixed on some unseen spot on the ground. But as much as he tried to hide it, Nara saw the truth. The thief’s eyes were full of pity. He pitied her, and in that moment, Nara hated him more than she knew she could hate. But even so, even though it boiled her blood to do it, she leaned forward until her lips touched the thief’s outstretched hand.

“Hail the favorite,” she whispered.

Eli flinched as though the kiss were an arrow in his chest, but the Shepherdess looked pleased. She dropped Eli’s hand and reached out to lay her fingers gently on Nara’s head.

Poor Nara, the Shepherdess said, stroking her hair. You probably think I’ve played you unfairly these last few days.

The Empress resisted the urge to lean into the Lady’s touch. “You used me,” she said, glaring daggers at Eli. “To get to him.”

That I did, the Shepherdess said. But it was you who said you would do anything for me. What could be a greater honor than being a tool in the pursuit of my happiness?

Nara clenched her teeth and said nothing.

Unfortunately, the Shepherdess went on, all tools outlive their usefulness eventually.

Nara blinked. “What?”

Times are changing, Nara, the Shepherdess went on, stroking the Empress’s dark hair absently, like she was petting a cat. There’s no room anymore for the disobedient.

“What?” Nara said again, louder this time.

The Shepherdess’s fingers suddenly curled, tangling in Nara’s hair, and the Empress cried in pain as Benehime wrenched her head up.

You shouldn’t have thrown that water on my favorite’s lava spirit, she whispered, her white eyes boring into Nara’s. You shouldn’t have come here uninvited, and you should have kissed my Eliton’s hand the first time I told you to. One disobedience I could overlook; three is simply insulting.

Nara’s eyes watered at the pain of Benehime’s grip on her hair. This was all wrong. This was not how it was supposed to be. The Shepherdess was her beloved, her everything.

“No,” she whispered, reaching up to grab Benehime’s hand. She clutched the Lady’s white wrist, arching her neck painfully as she tried to kiss it. “I love you. If I was ever disobedient, it was from love of you. Tell me what to do, tell me how to change to make you love me again.” Her voice rose to a frantic shriek. “Tell me how to love you and I’ll do it!”

The pain in her head faded as Benehime’s fingers released their grasp. The White Lady snatched her hand away and looked down with a disgust so intense Nara barely recognized her.

Why would I need you? she said, her voice cold as a glacier’s heart as she pulled the thief closer. I already have someone to love me. Good-bye, Empress.

Nara doubled over as something inside her, something deeper than she’d ever known her soul could go, twisted and broke. All at once, she could no longer feel her body. She tried to breathe, but her lungs wouldn’t obey. Looking down at her shaking hands, Nara saw her skin turn gray, then white, then vanish altogether. Her bones shrank before her eyes, growing smaller and brittler until they snapped under their own weight. Her chest ached, and she looked down to see that it was caving in.

She would have screamed then, but there was no longer breath in her crumbling throat. As her vision went dark, her last thought was a memory. She was kneeling in the swamp again, and Benehime was reaching out, her lovely fingers curved in an inviting gesture, her light lighting up the world. Before Nara could rise and go to her, the moment was gone, and she fell to dust with Benehime’s name on the last remnants of her lips.

Well, Benehime said, shaking her hand as though she could shake the last feel of Nara from her skin, that’s that.

On her lap, Eli was staring at the pile of dust that, seconds ago, had been the most powerful ruler in the world. “What did you do?” he whispered.

She was no longer worthy of being my star, Benehime said. So I removed my blessing and allowed age to catch up with her at last. Eight hundred years is a lot to handle all at once. I guess she couldn’t take it.

Eli’s voice was shaking so badly he could barely get the words out. “But she loved you.”

Everything loves me, the Shepherdess said with a shrug. Even you. Isn’t that right, darling?

Eli said nothing, and the Shepherdess tightened her grip, her sharp fingers biting into his ribs.

None of that, she whispered. I won. You’re mine, remember? Now, don’t you love me, darling?

Eli turned to her with a slow smile. “Of course I do.”

Benehime smiled back and gave him a kiss on the nose. Then she motioned for him to get off her lap. Eli moved to sit where she motioned, leaving the Shepherdess some space as she turned to talk to the Lord of Storms.

Their conversation was low and tense. It sounded like an old argument, and though Eli tried to listen, his attention kept drifting to the Lady’s floating sphere, which was hanging in the air by his elbow. Particularly, his eyes kept going to one small island off the coast of the western continent where the fires were still burning in a destroyed city as dawn broke over the eastern sea.

Josef Liechten, King of Osera, was spending the twentieth hour of his reign in the still-smoking shell of Osera’s throne room, listening to old men argue.

He sat on the steps of the throne beside the one remaining iron lion. The other lay toppled on the floor, its head melted to slag by the foot of the war spirit whose cold corpse lay collapsed in the rubble of what had been the throne room’s western wall. The throne was crushed as well, the carved stone bench and backboard pounded into gravel. That was probably for the best. Sitting on the stairs listening to his mother’s advisers bicker over Osera’s future was bad enough. If Josef had been forced to sit in her chair for it, he probably would have walked out.

He was close enough to walking as it was. The advisers weren’t even talking to him, just yelling at each other over his head about what must be done. Apparently, there were a lot of musts. Disgusted, Josef turned and looked out the crushed wall of the throne room. Through the large hole the war spirit had left, he could see the whole of the royal city, or what was left of it.

The stylish stone buildings and narrow lanes that had once covered the western slope of Osera were now little more than blackened piles of rubble. Entire blocks had shattered when the war spirits fired from the Empress’s palace ships had landed, leaving craters of blasted, burned dirt where houses and shops had once stood. The Spiritualists had managed to get most of the fires under control, but a few stray lines of smoke were still rising from the docks, and, of course, there were the war spirits themselves. Their corpses were everywhere. After Eli had done… whatever it was he’d done and the Empress’s fleet had vanished, the war spirits had toppled over and gone cold. They hadn’t moved since, but the damage was done. Everywhere Josef looked, Osera was destroyed, and try as he might to remember that his island had rebuilt before, it was hard to feel any kind of hope.

Josef sighed and rested his chin on his fist. Eli’s eternal optimism usually grated on him, but he could have really used some right now. How long did the useless thief mean to disappear for, anyway?

“Sire?”

Josef flinched and glanced up. All the old men were staring at him. Powers, he’d missed something again, hadn’t he?

Seeing his panicked look, the oldest of the ministers, a man Josef remembered seeing with his mother in court as a child, though he couldn’t remember the old bastard’s name now to save his life, repeated the question.

“Minister Archly was asking your opinion on how we should prioritize our emergency response. Should we focus on evacuation or should we concentrate our attention on saving what we can of our remaining structures?”

“We must do all we can to help the people, of course,” put in another minster, whom Josef could only guess was Archly. “But our infrastructure is Osera’s most valuable asset. We should—”

“Can’t have infrastructure without people,” Josef said, glad of a simple question. “Our first priority is to make sure we save as many people as possible. We’ve given the Empress too many Oseran lives as it is. I’ll not give her any more.”

“Of course, sire,” the old minister said, his voice strained. “But what about—”

“Figure it out,” Josef growled, standing up. The old men all started talking at once then, but Josef just pushed past them, stalking off toward the blown-out doors.

The Oseran palace had been as hard hit as the rest of the city, but, remarkably, the royal wing was still intact. Josef stomped through the empty corridors. He’d sent the servants to help with the recovery, and so far he didn’t miss them. After all the noise and chaos of the last two days, the silence in the empty halls was much more comforting than having someone around to make his fire. Josef jogged down the hall and quietly opened the door to his chambers, tiptoeing through the parlor and into his bedroom, where he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark.

Nico lay in his bed, a dark shape buried beneath the covers. He’d carried her here himself when they’d cleared the survivors off the storm wall. She’d been awake then, but was sleeping now. Josef let out a breath. Seeing the steady rise and fall of her chest calmed him better than anything else.

Walking to the bed, Josef eased himself down to the mattress. He kept his eyes on Nico to make sure the motion didn’t disturb her, but Nico didn’t stir. Smiling, Josef leaned against the heavy headboard and closed his eyes against his own tiredness.

He hadn’t slept since the night before last, when he’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Adela. Now that he was sitting, he could feel the tiredness in his marrow. Even the Heart on his back felt heavy. He wanted more than anything to lie down beside Nico and let her calm breaths lull him to sleep, but there were still fires in the city below. People were still digging their families out of the rubble, and all the ministers wanted to do was argue over infrastructure.

Josef gritted his teeth. He should have sent the old men down to dig through the broken houses themselves. That would have taught them. But, of course, he’d never do that. He could chop a palace ship in two, but Oseran politicians still made him feel like a stumbling boy. They’d probably taken his “Figure it out” command as a chance to do whatever they liked, but Josef wasn’t really sure he cared. After all, they knew more about running a country than he did. Maybe it was for the best if he just stayed out of things.

He must have drifted off in the dark room. One moment he was looking at Nico; the next he was jerked awake by the sound of someone knocking on the door. Stiff and more tired than ever, Josef forced himself to his feet. He walked quietly to the door and opened it a fraction to see one of the guardsmen who’d stood with him on the storm wall.

The young man had bandages on his face and arms, but he was standing, and he bowed when he saw Josef. “Sire,” he said, “you’re needed in the square.”

“What’s happened?” Josef said, slipping out of the bedroom and closing the door so their voices wouldn’t disturb Nico.

The guard grinned far as the bandage across his jaw would allow. “Wouldn’t you know it, sire? The reinforcements have finally arrived.”

“About bleeding time,” Josef said, motioning for the guard to lead the way.

Since most of the palace meeting rooms had been either burned or crushed in the attack, the palace guards, those who were left anyway, had brought the newcomers to a hastily set up tent in the stable yard. A dozen soldiers in Council white stood crammed into the narrow space. Josef wasn’t surprised to see Sara there as well. The Council wizard was talking animatedly to a large, middle-aged man in an ornate military coat who seemed to be the troop’s leader. So far, the only Oserans present were a few bandaged guards. They saluted as Josef approached, and he saluted back, keeping his eyes on the Council man and Sara as he entered the tent.

“Shall I fetch your advisers, sire?” whispered the guard who’d brought him.

“No,” Josef said. The last thing he needed when he was dealing with the Council were old men making him feel like a tongue-tied teenager. “They have their jobs already. I’ll fill them in later.”

The guardsman nodded and moved to take up position behind his king. Meanwhile, Josef himself took a seat on the folding stool, leaning forward so he could rest his weight on his knees. Sara arched an eyebrow at this, but the man in the military jacket looked almost ill with insult.

“You’re the new Eisenlowe?” he said at last, looking Josef up and down, his eyes lingering on the rips in Josef’s shirt and the bloodstains on the bandages beneath.

“I am,” Josef said. “Who are you?”

The man pulled himself straight. “Myron Whitefall, Commander of the United Council Forces, come to offer Osera the Council’s aid against the Empress.”

“You’re a little late for that,” Josef said. “The Empress is gone, but if you’d like to stay and help clean up, you’re welcome to.”

“As much as we’d like to help, the Merchant Prince gathered the Council army to march against the Empress, not to act as janitors,” Myron said testily. “You have our thanks and admiration for turning back her initial assault, King Josef. You should rest and regather your armies. We will take up position on the coast for her next attack.”

“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—”

“It’s not your fault,” Banage said firmly. “Mellinor knew the risk and asked you to stand against the Empress with him anyway. Now she is defeated, in no small part by your efforts. Rather than mourning, you should be proud that you accomplished what he so wanted so badly.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Miranda cried. “It was Eli who stopped the Empress, and now he’s gone, too.” She rubbed her eyes with her hands. “I sent everybody to their deaths.”

Banage’s eyes narrowed. “That is talk unbecoming of a Spiritualist,” he said. “You did exactly what you should, your duty. You protected the spirit’s will from the human who would have crushed it. But our duty is never done, Miranda. The Empress is gone, but we have as much ahead of us as behind. If you let guilt over what you could not change cripple you, then Mellinor’s sacrifice will have been in vain.”

His hand shot forward, hanging in the air inches from Miranda’s face. “Get up, Spiritualist Lyonette.”

Still crying, Miranda took her master’s hand. Banage pulled her to her feet and turned her away from the sea. Gin trotted over to meet them, sliding his broad head under Miranda’s arm. She smiled a little then, tangling her fingers in his coarse, shifting fur as he helped her to the stairs from the beach.

But when they reached the broken walkway at the top of the storm wall, Banage stopped suddenly. He was staring up the hill, his face, pale and drawn from the night’s horrors, going paler still. Still on the stair, Miranda leaned on Gin to peer around her master to see what had stopped him. Given how still he’d gone, Miranda was braced for something horrible—a reactivated war spirit, or the fires bolting up again. What she saw was even worse: a squad of soldiers in the Whitefall family’s white and silver riding down the mountain with Sara at their head.

Her hand went for Banage’s sleeve at once, but the Rector just shook his head. “It was only a matter of time.”

Miranda refused to believe that. “They can’t mean to keep pressing the charge of treason,” she said. “You defied Whitefall’s initial order to fight the Empress for the Council, but you helped defeat her in the end. Surely that makes things even.”

“The end doesn’t matter,” Banage said.

“How does it not matter?” Miranda cried. “The Council got what it wanted. You fought! If they bring a charge of treason against you for this, it’ll break the Spirit Court between those who are loyal to you and those who want to join the Council. The Merchant Prince needs us, he needs the Court whole and functioning. Why would he keep forcing the issue now that everything has already worked itself out?”

“I might have fought the Empress at the end,” Banage said, reaching down to brush his rings as the riders closed in. “But I defied Whitefall’s command.”

“That’s worth wrecking his greatest wizard allies?” Miranda said.

“The Merchant Prince risks more than the Court by appearing weak on traitors,” Banage said calmly, raising his glowing rings.

Miranda cursed under her breath and reached for her rings as well. She didn’t know what good it would do. She had nothing left to give her spirits. Anything stronger than her moss might well knock her out for the day. Still, she intended to back her Rector no matter what. But, to her great surprise, Master Banage didn’t call any of his spirits. Instead, he pulled the ring from his left middle finger and reached out, pressing it into Miranda’s palm.

She looked down in amazement. It was the heavy gold band set with the perfect circle of the Court that all Spiritualists received the day they took their oaths. Banage’s ring was larger than her own, warm, and surprisingly heavy. Far heavier, in fact, than it should have been.

“It’s not gold,” Banage said, as though reading her thoughts. “Look inside.”

Miranda turned the ring in her hand, and her eyes widened. The gold ended there, worn off by years of use to reveal the white stone core beneath.

“That is the Rector’s Ring,” Banage said. “The direct link between the head of the Court and the spirit of the Tower.”

“But,” Miranda whispered, remembering the heavy gold collar set with the flashing gems, Banage’s mark of office, “I thought—”

“The collar is a tool,” Banage said. “It makes feeding power to the Tower easier, but it is not necessary. That ring is the link that forms the heart of the Rector’s power. It’s difficult to use, but I expect you to master it before you need it in earnest, which may well be very soon.”

“No,” Miranda said, thrusting the ring back at him. “Why are you giving it to me? You’re the Rector. If that ring is the connection to the Tower, then it belongs with you. I can’t—”

“Now is not the time to be willfully ignorant, Miranda,” Banage said, his voice dangerous. He glanced at the riders, now only a hundred feet away. “I defied the Council knowing very well how it would end, but I did what I did because I thought it the right thing to do, and I have no qualms about paying for it. But the world is changing quickly. Now more than ever, the Spirit Court must be united. We must make peace among ourselves and the Council if we are to uphold our duty in the days to come.” He met her eyes again. “Whatever you believe, the Council sees me as a traitor now. A traitor cannot make peace. But a young woman, a Spiritualist beloved by spirits great and small as well as a former agent for the Council, she could.”

“No, she couldn’t!” Miranda cried. “It’s you we need, Master Banage. You’re our Rector. I won’t leave you to Sara!”

Banage grabbed her hands, and Miranda stilled at once. She was so tired, so weak, she couldn’t fight him. She had no will to fight Banage anyway. He peeled her fingers apart, pulling off her own golden ring from her left ring finger before deftly sliding the Rector’s ring down in its place.

Banage’s ring hung below her knuckle. The masculine gold circle was far too large for her, but even as Miranda was wondering how she would ever keep it on, the ring began to change. The gold-covered stone slithered like a living thing, warm and fluttering against her skin as it cinched itself to a perfect fit. When it was settled, the ring lay still against her skin as though it had always been there. Miranda tensed, waiting to feel something, a brush of a spirit across her mind, a voice, but there was nothing. The moment the ring stopped moving, all proof that it was anything other than a simple gold ring vanished save only for the suspicious warmth and oppressive weight.

Banage nodded and released her hand. “It won’t fully open for you until you’re confirmed as Rector,” he said, turning to face the riders. “That may or may not happen, depending on the Tower Keeper’s vote, but it will do for now. You must call the Conclave as soon as possible.”

“Conclave?” Miranda whispered. The Conclave was the most sacred Spiritualist gathering, called only in dire emergency. Every Spiritualist had to attend or forfeit their oaths. “How could I call one? There hasn’t been a Conclave in nearly a hundred years.”

Banage smiled. “High time for one then, I’d say.” The Council troops were almost on top of them now, and Banage pulled himself straight. “Wipe your eyes. Sara preys on weakness.”

Startled, Miranda scrubbed her eyes as the riders circled them. Sara pulled her borrowed horse to a stop a few feet from Banage and dismounted stiffly. The man beside her, a middle-aged officer Miranda recognized as the one who’d helped Sara surround the Spirit Court Tower before the Court had left Zarin the day before, stayed in his saddle, watching with the bored detachment of a soldier doing his duty as Sara faced her husband.

“You were wise not to run, Etmon,” she said. “You’ve spared your Court the indignity of watching their Rector be hunted down like a common criminal.”

Banage lifted his chin. “Considering how bad the Council is at catching common criminals, perhaps I should have taken my chances.”

Sara sniffed. “Your agents haven’t done much better, as I recall.”

“At least my agent managed to actually make contact once in a while,” Banage said, holding out his hands. “Shall we get this over with?”

Sara pushed his hands away with a smile. “Don’t be silly. We both know no common restraints can hold you.” She stepped forward, sliding her arm around Banage’s. “Until we return to Zarin, I am your manacles. It’ll be just like old times, won’t it, Etmon?”

Banage said nothing, but Miranda saw his shoulders sink at Sara’s touch.

“Now,” Sara said, lifting Banage’s hand to get a look at his rings, “Myron here brought the loyalist Tower Keepers with him. Alber would prefer if you named one of them as interim Rector. Where’s your ring?”

“With her,” Banage nodded over his shoulder at Miranda. “Spiritualist Lyonette has agreed to serve as Rector and lead the Spirit Court until a vote can be taken.”

“Her?” Sara glared at Miranda. “Really, Etmon, playing favorites to the end? It won’t look good, you putting another traitor at the head of the Court. The Council may start believing that all Spiritualists share your rebellious tendencies.”

“I don’t care what the Council believes,” Banage said. “The Spirit Court is an independent body, and it will govern itself as its members see fit.”

“Yes, yes,” Sara said, looking away from Miranda with a superior smirk. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

She motioned, and the soldiers fell in around them. Banage climbed onto the horse Sara had ridden down and Sara climbed up behind him, wrapping her arms around the Rector’s waist in a way that reminded Miranda of a hawk’s talons wrapping around a rabbit.

Miranda started forward, her mouth open to object, but Banage’s eyes stopped her in her tracks. She stood frozen as the Council troops turned and galloped up the mountain, taking Banage away toward the city. When they were gone, Gin pressed his cold nose into her side.

“I would have eaten them for you,” he said.

“I would have eaten them, too,” Miranda answered, rubbing her eyes. “Come on, we have to find the others. I’ve got some tough news to deliver.”

Gin knelt. As soon as Miranda was safely on his back, he took off up the hill. Miranda clung to his fur as they passed the Council guards. She didn’t look at Banage as they rode by. She didn’t look at the sea behind her. She only looked forward, toward the city, the core of loyal Spiritualists who waited there, and all that must be done.