Spirit’s End

CHAPTER 19

Eli fell as the Shaper Mountain pitched under his feet. He would have landed on his face had Josef not grabbed him at the last second. Eli grumbled his thanks as the swordsman set him back on his feet, but the return was short-lived. The mountain was bucking like a bull beneath them, forcing Eli to his hands and knees to avoid getting thrown again.

He shifted his weight with the stone, cursing his own stupidity. Of course the Shaper Mountain would join the fight. It was the Heart of War’s brother. But as he looked to see what Slorn and Weaver’s attack would be, he saw something that confused him utterly.

Slorn, his father, and the Weaver were all on the ground the same as he was, and all three of them were staring up at the white ceiling as though the mountain had gone mad. It would have been comical if their faces hadn’t been so terrified. Eli had no clue what was going on, but whatever it was, they hadn’t expected it, either. He frowned. Surprises were rarely good in this sort of situation, but before he could figure out how to turn this to his favor, a scream shot through him with the force of a battering ram.

Josef couldn’t catch him this time. Eli tumbled forward, his whole body tightening as the sound punched through him. He was dimly aware of Josef going down beside him, the Heart falling with an iron cry. The Shaper Mountain was wailing as well, a deep vibration that shook through the undulating stone, but all Eli could hear was the unknown man’s scream.

The voice was deeper than any Eli had heard before and filled with shock. Shock, pain, and a betrayal so deep it brought tears to Eli’s eyes. But that was only the beginning. The scream cut off seconds after it had begun, and as it vanished, the hole it left was filled with a loss deeper than Eli had realized he could feel, and he knew, knew in his bones that something vital had died.

No, his breathing hitched, not died. It had been killed. A pillar of the world he never knew existed had been knocked down, and they were all about to go tumbling after it.

Eli was powerless against such a death. He clung to the bucking ground, letting the loss and the anger flow through him. He could have stayed that way forever, but a flash of white caught his eye. He looked up instinctively to see the Weaver standing between the crippled forms of Slorn and the Guildmaster. The Power stood straight and tall despite the mountain’s shaking, but his white face was contorted with despair even more powerful than the wave Eli was trapped in. Despair, and a fierce, white-hot rage.

The old man thrust out his hand, and the air tore itself apart. A great rent opened in the world as the veil split before its master. The gateway hung as white as snow at noon in the air, but the Weaver did not step through.

He started to, but stopped right at the portal’s edge. For a moment he just stood there, his white hands pressed against the hole in the world, and then the air itself began to vibrate as the Weaver crashed his fists against the white wall of the portal, his fury a crushing weight on top of the loss that had already sent the world to its knees.

Brother! he cried. What has she done to you?

Slowly, crawling on his hands and knees, Eli pulled himself across the still-moving floor to the Weaver. When he reached the Power’s bare feet, he flopped over and stared up in amazement. The enormous hole in the veil hung above him, dazzling and solid white. The Weaver’s hands were flush against it, beating against the brilliant light like a wall. Eli blinked in confusion. That was not supposed to happen. Then again, he was fairly sure none of this was supposed to happen.

“Why does the veil not open?”

It was Slorn’s deep voice that spoke. Eli turned to see the bear-headed Shaper pushing himself up as well. “What has happened, Weaver?”

My brother is dead, the Weaver said, his voice breaking as he pressed his white forehead against the glowing wall. The Hunter has been killed, and it seems Benehime has taken his seed for herself.

The Weaver closed his eyes in pain. I am now the odd man out, he said gravely. My sister controls the power of the Shepherdess as well as what remains of the Hunter, and she has locked the Between against me.

He lifted his head from the solid wall of light and looked over his shoulder. If it were just her, I could still break through. The veil is my domain, the product of my own hands. But she has the remnants of our brother’s power now as well as her own, leaving me outnumbered, though I suppose it matters little now.

Eli gawked at the old Power. “Matters little?” he cried. “She just killed your brother!”

That she did, the Weaver said, sinking down to the stone floor. The Hunter is dead and we are unguarded. Don’t you see, human? All is lost. Even if she had not locked the Between against me, I can’t weave the shell faster than our enemies rip it down. Without the Hunter’s protection, the wall will fall. His voice crumbled into a sob as he lowered his head into his hands. Oh, Benehime…

No one said a word. The Power’s weeping echoed through the now-still mountain, the only sound in the world. It was Slorn who finally broke the silence, his gruff voice hard and echoing. “How soon?”

An hour, the Weaver whispered. Maybe less.

“Wait,” Eli said. The agony of the Hunter’s loss was fading now, and he pushed himself to his feet. “What happens in an hour?”

When no one answered, Eli clenched his fists and raised his voice. “What is on the other side of the shell?”

The question echoed through the cavern. Eli let it hang, glaring at the Weaver until the old man sighed.

Our shadows, he said. Before the beginning of time, the Creator formed creation. To every piece he gave a spirit so that the world might know itself as he knew it. But the moment he brought forth the world, a shadow was cast, and a second world was created. If creation is concave, they are convex; they are the opposite world. Where the Creator brought forth life from nothing, they return it to nothing. They are the devourers, the eaters of worlds. His white eyes narrowed. My sister named them demons.

Eli blew out a breath. “You mean there are more of the thing under the Dead Mountain out there? More like Nico?”

The Weaver looked away, but just as Eli stepped forward to demand an answer, the ground shook under his feet. “Innumerably more,” the Shaper Mountain said.

Durain, the Weaver said, his voice harsh.

“What point is there in secrecy now?” the mountain rumbled. “Weaker spirits may take comfort in their ability to forget and sleep, but I never will. Anyway, he’ll see it for himself in a few minutes.”

The Weaver sighed, but the mountain turned its attention to Eli. “Listen, thief, if you would know the truth. My brother and I were created at the birthing of the world, wrought by the Creator’s own hands, two small bumps in the spine of a world so large you could not begin to comprehend it. Back then, there were no humans, all spirits were awake, the large cared for the small, and we held our own against the devourers, the demons. The Creator walked the land, creating the world even as it was eaten. There were seasons, then. Time moved forward and stars shone in the sky. We were part of the world, all of us, the spirits and those who preyed on us. For thousands of years we lived in balance, if not harmony, but then something changed.”

The mountain wavered and fell silent. It was his brother who continued the story, the Heart of War’s deep, iron voice filling the cavern.

“The demons began to overrun us,” the sword said. “Small losses at first, but it grew quickly out of control. Creation was being devoured faster than it could be made. If something hadn’t been done, the world would have been eaten entirely.”

“Out of love of his creation, the Creator devised a last, desperate gambit,” the Shaper Mountain said, picking up the story again. “He created a shell around what was left of the world he’d made, a wall that could keep the demons out. But nothing created can stand against uncreation forever, so he took three pieces of his own body and fashioned them into the three Powers. Each was given a portion of the Creator’s own power and a job. The Hunter guards the shell from the outside, cutting the demons from the walls. The Weaver weaves the shell, repairing the damage caused by those blows that slip by his brother. It takes both the Hunter’s protection and the Weaver’s repairs to keep the shell that shields the world from cracking, but it was the third child who held the Creator’s most treasured power.”

Our sister was fashioned from our father’s heart, the Weaver said, his voice trembling. The Creator loved his creation above all else. He created the Shepherdess to watch over the spirits when he could not. She was made to love the world and guide it in his stead.

“Three Powers and a shell,” the Shaper Mountain rumbled. “This is what the Creator gave us, and then he closed the circle, locking himself outside. As he left, he promised he would return and let us out when it was safe.”

“And will he?” Eli said.

No, the Weaver whispered. That promise was made thousands of years ago. Our father sacrificed everything to lock the demons outside, away from his creation. He thought, as we all did, that the demons would die off if we deprived them of food. Starve them off, that was our plan, but it did not work. The demons do not die. I think they cannot. All our efforts have managed is to starve them to madness. He raised his head, staring up through the mountain and, Eli wagered, through the sky beyond, glaring with pure hatred at the things waiting on the other side.

There is no food left for them save what lives in this sphere, he said. This last crumb of the world. They no longer think of anything save eating, but they shall get their meal soon enough. Even if I were able to get to the Between right now and resume my weaving, without the Hunter’s aid I could only hold the shell together for a day, maybe less. However long I held, though, the eventual end would be the same. The shell will weaken and crack and the demons will pour in to devour all that remains of the world.

The Power’s words hung in the air like sad music, low and tremulous, and the defeat in them made Eli clench his jaw in fury. “So you’re telling me we’re as good as dead?” he shouted. “I don’t believe it! How did the Shepherdess even kill the Hunter, anyway? I thought you Powers were supposed to be equal.”

We are, the Weaver said. I don’t know how she did it. We all heard his scream, so the Hunter must have been inside the shell when he died. Nothing inside the shell should be able to kill a Power, even another Power. But the how changes nothing. The Hunter is still dead.

“On the contrary,” Eli said. “The how matters a great deal.” He tore his eyes off the Weaver and began to pace. “When the Creator first closed the shell, one demon snuck in, didn’t it? That’s why we have the Dead Mountain.”

The Weaver nodded. We contained it as best we could, but—

“I know the rest,” Eli said, walking faster. He knew he was being rude, but if there really was only an hour left until the shell began to crack, he didn’t have time to be nice. “Josef?”

From his spot beside Nico’s box, the swordsman glanced up. “If you’re going to ask me something, you should know I’ve heard only about half of the nonsense conversation you’ve been having.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eli said. “Tell me, when the Lord of Storms took Nico’s seed, did you see it?”

Josef nodded. “It was long and black, about the length of my short sword’s blade. Sharp, too.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

Eli ignored the question and turned back to the Weaver. “You said nothing in creation could kill a Power. But demons aren’t creation; that was the whole point of your story. The seed inside Nico is part of the demon under the Dead Mountain. Tell me, would a piece of a demon this long be enough to kill the Hunter if he didn’t see it coming?” He spaced his hands at the size Josef had said and held them out to the Weaver.

The old man’s white eyes went very wide, and he began to tremble. It would, he whispered. Oh, Benehime. Oh, sister, how could you?

Eli shook his head. “You said earlier that it was our good luck Benehime decided to do all this when the Hunter was coming, but I don’t think it was our luck at all. It was hers, her plan.” Eli dropped his hands and began to pace faster than ever. “You’ve known Benehime a long time, but I think I know her better than you do these days. Your sister’s a schemer. That’s why we got along so well at the beginning, I think. She doesn’t do anything without an end in mind.”

Eli took a deep breath. This next bit was going to be hard. Not talking about his tangled relationship with Benehime was deeply ingrained, but what went for the Weaver went for him as well. The time for careful stepping was over. It was now or never. Eli winced. He’d never used that phrase quite so literally.

“Ever since I found out what Nico was, I’ve been struggling with the question of why,” Eli said. “Why did Benehime let her stay with us? With me? I learned early that the Shepherdess did not take unmeasured risks, and Nico was a liability from the moment Josef found her. So why did Benehime tolerate it? Why did she forbid the Lord of Storms from taking down a demon who was such an obvious threat? She always said it was because of me, but Nico and I have been separated several times since we started working together. There were ample opportunities for the League to take her down with no threat to me. Yet when the Lord of Storms tried to do just that, he was punished severely. So, why? Why did the Lady leave her alone until just now?”

“Because you’re no longer the favorite,” Slorn said.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Eli said. “For once, I don’t think this had anything to do with me.” He turned and stared at the bone metal box. “I was a handy excuse, a cover. She knew Nico was strong. Strong enough to pull herself back from the brink over and over, strong enough to grow the weapon she needed. All she needed was time.”

The room was silent. Everyone, even the Weaver, was gaping at him openly.

You’re saying she grew the demonseed for the purpose of killing her brother? the Weaver whispered. That she defended the seed from her own guards?

“I’m actually beginning to wonder if it’s just coincidence Josef happened to be on the mountain when Nico fell,” Eli said. “We can’t know for sure how far her plans went, but I know Benehime well enough to guess that she’s probably been working on this for years, setting up the pieces in preparation for this day. This was a premeditated murder. She’s wanted out of her job as Shepherdess for a long time, but she knew she could never run away while her brothers were both alive. So she created the one set of circumstances that allowed her to circumvent the Creator’s will. She grew a demon and killed the Hunter with its seed, and then she sealed the Between to prevent you from interfering while she escapes into her paradise and leaves the rest of us to be demon food.” The plan was so selfish, so like her, that Eli could almost hear Benehime’s voice explaining it along with him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she were already gone.”

No, the Weaver whispered. Even through the seal, I can feel her presence. She’s still here, but why? What more can she be waiting for?

“Her paradise isn’t complete,” Slorn said, looking up at the stone ceiling. “She doesn’t have Durain yet.”

“No,” the mountain rumbled. “Her pull on me vanished when the Hunter died. If she is waiting, it’s not for me, but I can guess whom she would hold back for.”

Eli sucked in a breath, eyes squeezing closed. Of course. How could he ever think she’d actually drop his leash?

“She won’t give you up until the very end,” the Shaper Mountain said. “You are the tie that will hold her here until the shell shatters, and as such you may well be the only hope we have of reclaiming the Hunter’s seed.”

Eli blinked, startled out of his self-pity. “Seed?”

The piece of the Creator inside us, the Weaver said.

“You mean like a demonseed?” Eli said.

I told you, they are our shadows, the Weaver said testily. But where their seeds devour, ours nurture and sustain us. My brother is dead, but the core of the Creator that gave him life can never be destroyed. That is how Benehime is able to hold a part of the Hunter’s power even when the Hunter is no more. She has his seed.

Eli licked his lips. “And could that seed be used to create a new Hunter?”

The Weaver considered. It’s never been tried before, but I don’t see why not. Provided the correct soul was found.

Eli grinned and clapped his hands together, making everyone jump. “All right,” he said. “I think I’ve got a plan.”

“I’ve learned to fear those words from you,” Slorn grumbled.

Eli shrugged. “You want to stand around here and wait to die?”

Slorn shook his head and motioned for Eli to continue.

Eli took the cue with a flourish and gathered everyone around, including Josef and the Heart of War. Especially them. Those two were vital to his plan, but while Eli was reasonably sure the Heart would go along, Josef was another story. He made a mental note to play up the heroic warrior parts and straightened up to speak. But just as he opened his mouth to expound what he was sure would go down in history as the idea that saved the world (or the idea that doomed the world, but no one would be around to call him on it if that was the case), a white line flashed into existence right in front of his face.

Miranda forced herself off the floor of the Rector’s office. The heartbreaking loss was still pounding in her brain, but she couldn’t afford to stay down any longer. Stumbling like a drunk, she made her way to the large windows behind Master Bana—Her desk and pressed her face to the thick glass. She already knew what she would see, she could feel it in her own spirits and from the window against her cheek, but she forced herself to look anyway.

Down below, all of Zarin seemed to be pulling in. The white buildings were leaning as though the stone itself had doubled over. The glittering strip of the river, still fragile after its breakdown the day before, was pulling back in its banks, its water swirling into whirlpools so large Miranda could see them even at this distance. Strangest of all, though, were the people.

Everywhere she looked, the citizens of Zarin were on the ground. Spirit deaf or wizard, they’d all felt it just as she had. She slumped against the window. Something vital had died; she knew that fact as clearly as she knew her own name, but what? What in the world could have done this?

“The Hunter.” The Tower’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Miranda could feel the strain in the gold collar at her neck and the ring on her finger.

“Easy,” Miranda said, layering the word with power. “Who’s the Hunter?”

Even with her calming weight pushing on it, the Tower’s answer was almost hysterical. “Our protector. Our hope. Our wall. We are defenseless, and they are coming. They are coming!”

The Tower finished in a deafening wail, and then the floor under Miranda’s feet began to buck.

Without hesitation, Miranda opened her spirit and slammed her will down. She slammed it through the Tower’s ring, hammering their connection until she was panting from the effort. She could feel her own bound spirits cringing from her fury, but she dared not let up. The Tower was the great bedrock spirit beneath Zarin. If she let it lose control, the city could be destroyed.

The seconds ticked by as she kept up the pressure, sweat rolling down her face. She pushed until she felt she was going to throw up from the strain, but she never let her will slack. Slowly, inch by inch, she felt the Tower relax, and then finally surrender. She kept the pressure up a moment more before pulling back into herself.

“Thank you,” the Tower rumbled, and his tone said he meant it.

“You’re welcome,” Miranda panted. “Now, who’s coming?”

The Tower’s voice began to tremble so badly that were it human Miranda would have said it was crying. “I can’t say,” it whispered. “The Lady forbids us old spirits to speak of it. She wishes it forgotten. Even now…” The Tower shuddered. “I cannot act against her edict. All I can say is that the Hunter was the wall that held back the black tide. Now he is fallen and they are coming. They are coming.”

“Easy,” Miranda said, pressing her spirit down again. It was a gentle, soothing pressure, not the hard slam she’d used earlier, but it worked. Miranda let out a grateful sigh. She didn’t think she could manage something like that again.

“If you can’t tell me, that’s fine,” she whispered, petting the Tower’s chain like it was a frightened puppy. “I’ll find out another way. Can you at least tell me what’s about to happen?”

She got the strangest feeling that the stone was staring at her as it whispered.

“The end.”

Miranda shot up from the floor and marched to the door, tearing it open with a bang. Outside, Krigel was curled under his desk in a ball. She dropped to her knees beside him, shaking him by the shoulder.

“Krigel!”

The old Spiritualist looked up, his eyes glittering with terror and newly shed tears. “Rector,” he whispered. “What happened?”

“I mean to find out,” Miranda said, helping him to a seated position. “I need you to listen and tell me where the panics are.”

Locations, she needed locations. Needed to know where to send her Spiritualists to get things under control again. But Krigel was just staring at her, his eyes wide and confounded as if she’d asked him to recite all the kingdoms of the Council in alphabetical order.

“Krigel, please,” she said. “We have to move now or this is only going to get worse.”

“Yes, but…” Krigel’s voice trailed off as he stared at her in disbelief. “Can’t you hear it?”

“No,” Miranda said, fighting to keep her temper under control. “The Tower’s presence in my mind muffles the spirit’s panic. You know that.”

The old man looked down, his face falling as he stared at his limp hands.

“Come on, Krigel,” Miranda said, shaking him again, gently this time. “I need you. Tell me what we’re dealing with.”

“I thought you’d be able to hear it,” he said. “Even muffled, I thought—”

“I can’t,” Miranda said. “The Tower does it to protect me. That’s why you’re so important. Close your eyes and listen. I need to know where the panics are so we can send Spiritualists to calm things down. That’s our mission now; that’s why we’re here. We’re going to serve the spirits and get them what they need. Now, where are the panics?” She hoped there weren’t too many; she was getting frightfully shorthanded.

“Everywhere,” Krigel said at last. “Everything is panicking. Besides your voice, all I can hear are screams.”

Miranda cursed and threw out her hand. The Tower answered at once, opening a hole in the stone wall to the outside. The blast of wind nearly blew them both over, but Miranda pulled herself upright, grabbing the stone and looking out over Zarin. She almost didn’t need to. The second the wind hit her, she heard it.

The air itself was screaming, the wind crying in terror as it blew in mad circles. Down in the city, the buildings were wrenching themselves apart, timbers splitting like matchsticks as the stones below them rolled in fear. The river was flooding madly now, filling the lower part of the city with crazed muddy water. Even the Council’s fortress was twisting. One of the seven golden spires toppled as she watched, screaming as it fell, and Miranda had to press her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming herself.

The Tower was right; it was the end. Zarin was tearing itself apart like Izo’s town had, only there was no demon running through its streets, and this was far, far larger. So large she didn’t know how to begin to fix it, assuming something like this could ever be fixed. All at once, the searing sense of loss hit her again, but this wasn’t grief for the death of the unknown, beautiful, irreplaceable thing that had struck her earlier. This was a closer tragedy, a pain that ground her heart to dust. Everywhere, in all directions, the spirits she’d given her life to serving were in a mad panic and she could see no way of making it right. The world was ripping itself to shreds right before her eyes and there was nothing she could do.

The need to cry almost overwhelmed Miranda then. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself on the floor beside Krigel and let the bawling sobs ride through her. But even if this was the end of the world, she was Rector Spiritualis still, and she had work to do.

But just as she bent down to try and get Krigel to sit up so they could start regrouping, she felt a familiar prickle on the back of her neck. She froze halfway down, eyes darting to the twisting city below. No, she thought with a frown. It couldn’t be.

That was her last thought before Etmon Banage’s open spirit landed on Zarin.

His will fell like an iron weight, and wherever it landed, the panic stopped. The twisting spirits lay still, frozen beneath Banage’s pressure as a deep, deep silence fell over the city.

For five breaths, Miranda stood dumbstruck, and then she clenched her fingers around her glowing rings. “Where is he?”

The Tower’s answer was joyous and immediate. “Front promenade.”

Miranda nodded. “Take me there.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when the floor opened beneath her feet.

She fell like a stone, hurtling past the floors. The descent was over in seconds, the Tower slowing her gently before setting her down in the corner of the Court’s enormous entry hall. Miranda was running the moment her feet touched the ground. The newly repaired red doors sprung open for her before she reached them, and she flew down the stairs into the wide promenade that led from the Tower to the city proper.

All around her, spirits were bowed under the pressure. Even the laurel trees that lined the Spirit Court district’s broad streets were bent over like they were bearing up under a deep snow. Miranda saw none of it. Her eyes were fixed on the tall figure standing at the center of the empty road, his hands spread in front of him as though he were waiting to receive a heavy burden, his gray-streaked black hair falling limp around his tired face.

“Master Banage!”

The name flew from Miranda’s throat as she charged into him, arms flying around his chest and squeezing him in a vise. He stumbled a little as she hit him, but the weight on the city didn’t even flicker. Miranda wouldn’t have noticed if it had. Her eyes were too blurry with tears to see anything other than her master.

“Where have you been?” she cried, burying her face in his shirt. She knew she was making an undignified scene, but she didn’t care. Master Banage was smiling down at her with one of his rare, true smiles, and the sight of it was almost enough to dissolve her.

“I’m still a criminal,” he said. “I thought it best that I stayed away, but now I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

His voice was low and strained, no doubt from the effort of keeping so much pressure on the city. Miranda dropped her arms at once and stepped back guiltily. Powers, what was she doing? Master Banage was maintaining the largest open spirit she’d ever seen. He was pressing down an entire city; she’d never even heard of such a thing. She beamed up at him, remembering yet again why he was her Rector.

“Here,” she said, reaching to take the golden mantle of the Tower off her shoulders. “This is yours.”

His hand stopped her before she’d gotten it to her chin.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I gave up being Rector. But the fact that you’re wearing the Tower’s chain proves I made the right gamble on the beach at Osera. The Tower and Court are yours by bound oath now. I cannot take them back.”

Miranda stopped, stricken. “But you’re the—”

“Not anymore,” Banage said, looking out over the silent city. “But I am still a Spiritualist, and I mean to hold Zarin as long as I can.”

“I can’t let you do that alone,” Miranda said. Calming the Tower had taken everything she had, and that was just one spirit. How long could Master Banage possibly expect to keep a whole city calm?

“It won’t be as hard as you think,” Banage said, smiling again. “I’m not alone in my work. The Tower is here as well, and we don’t need the mantle to work together. Do we, old friend?”

“No, indeed,” the Tower said, its deep voice buzzing through the gold-wrought chain. “We will hold here.”

“That we will,” Banage said. Then he caught Miranda’s eyes with his, and his look grew deathly serious. “You have greater work to do, Rector. This disaster is the sort of thing this Court was created for. Whatever this is, the spirits are powerless before it. We must stand for them, and you must stand for the Court.”

“But what do I do?” Miranda cried.

Banage tilted his head. “What do you think you should do?”

Miranda bit her lip and looked down at her rings. They glittered back at her, each of them keeping strangely silent. She thought about what the Tower had said earlier. The end, he’d called it. Miranda didn’t know about that, but whatever this was, it was something the Shepherdess had forbidden the spirits to speak of, something they feared above all else. Something was broken, that much was clear, but she had no idea what.

Miranda’s hands curled into tightly balled fists. This worry was getting her nowhere. If she was going to do any good at all, she needed knowledge. She needed answers, real, straightforward ones, and she had a good idea where to get them. Of course, going there would likely get her killed, but if she did nothing she was pretty sure she’d end up dead all the same, along with everything else. In that light, the risk didn’t look so bad.

“I’m going,” she said, raising her head. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“We’ll hold as long as it takes,” Banage said. “Keep the Tower’s mantle close to you. He’ll need your strength.”

“I’ll need no such thing,” the Tower rumbled. “Go, little Rector. We will hold.”

Miranda nodded and looked over her shoulder only to see Gin sitting right behind her.

She jumped in surprise. “How long have you been there?”

“Since about a second after you got here,” the dog answered, showing his teeth. “Come on, Banage’s spirit coming down on everything? Not hard to guess where you’d be.” His orange eyes shifted to Banage. “Though your weight did slow me down, old man. I’d have beaten her otherwise.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Miranda said walking over to put a hand in his fur. “Ready to jump into the fire?”

“Always,” Gin growled, his tail lashing back and forth.

Miranda nodded and closed her eyes, steeling her determination into an iron wall. When her mind was set in stone, she raised her hand and pictured her destination in her mind, lingering on the white stone and the soft, constant white light she still sometimes saw in her dreams. The cut appeared immediately, ripping down through the air. The moment it was clear, she stepped through the world into the Shaper Mountain, her demands ready on her lips… and ran into Eli Monpress.

Eli stumbled as Miranda slammed into him, almost falling over Josef in his rush to get back. She looked just as startled to see him as he was to see her. The Spiritualist scrambled back as soon as she realized whom she’d run into, only to get pushed forward again as Gin stepped through the white hole behind her.

Miranda caught herself at the last second, clinging to her ghosthound. Gin, to his credit, immediately fell into guard position, ears back and teeth bared as he growled at Eli and Josef. Through the hole in the veil, Eli caught sight of his father’s tense face looking out at what appeared to be a ruined Zarin before the white portal closed, the line fading away as fast as it had appeared.

Realizing suddenly that he looked like a proper idiot, Eli pushed off Josef and stood on his own two feet. He was about to call the Spiritualist out for barging in like that, but the words died in his throat. Miranda looked terrible, like she hadn’t slept in a week. Her eyes were a mix of dark circles and puffy edges, as though she’d been crying, and she looked utterly confused, almost fragile in her bewilderment.

The illusion was gone in an instant. The second she caught him looking, she pulled herself straight, casting off tiredness and doubt like a veil. It was then he noticed that she was dressed in the formal crimson robes of a high officer of the Spirit Court. The intense color was almost painful to look at after the blank white of the Shaper Mountain, and the effect was only enhanced by the glittering rainbow of rings on her fingers and, brighter still, the enormous collar of woven gold and gems draped across her shoulders.

Eli pursed his lips, impressed. Banage really had made her Rector, and she seemed to be playing her part full force. But, for all the trappings, it was still Miranda, a fact that was hammered home as she crossed her arms over her chest and glared icy death in his direction, her curly red hair bristling with righteous fury.

“Eli Monpress,” she said, speaking his name the same way most people said dead skunk. “Is there any disaster in this world that doesn’t have you at its center?”

Eli blinked in surprise. “Now hold on,” he said. “What makes you think any of this is my fault?”

“The fact that it’s always your fault,” she snapped. Beside her, Gin’s growl swelled in agreement.

“And you always jump to conclusions,” Eli snapped back. “I’ll have you know I am an innocent bystander.” That wasn’t completely true, but this was Miranda. Give her a handhold and she’d pull the whole rope down. “And I’m trying to make things better, believe it or not. The real question should be why are you here? You’re no Shaper, and that was one of the Shepherdess’s portals, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are,” Miranda said. “It’s a League portal.”

“Same difference,” Eli grumbled, but Miranda was already rolling over him.

“I’m here on behalf of the Spirit Court and all spirits under our protection,” she announced. “I demand to know what is going on, and I’m not leaving until I get some answe…”

Her voice faded off as she finally realized that Eli wasn’t alone. Her eyes darted across the group, pausing longest on Slorn, but when she got to the Weaver, they stopped altogether. “Are you the Teacher?” she whispered, her voice shaking with wonder.

Overhead, the Shaper Mountain made a disgusted sound. “I would never put any part of my power into a human form. That is the Weaver, a Power of Creation. If you’re going to barge in whenever you like, Spiritualist, the least you can do is try to be informed.”

“The Weaver?” Miranda sounded more confused than ever. Suddenly, even her self-righteousness didn’t seem to be enough to hold her up. Her body began to shake, legs wobbling like jelly. She would have fallen into a heap had Eli not grabbed her arm.

Miranda let him ease her down without comment, another sign of how bad a shock all this must be for her. When she was safely seated on the floor, she looked up again, her eyes flicking between the white man, the bright white wall hanging in the air, Eli and Slorn standing beside him, Josef and the Heart, Nico’s coffin, the Shaper Guildmaster, and then she put her hands over her face as though she were dizzy.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” she whispered, her face almost green. “But will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Be at ease, child, the Weaver said, his eyes dropping to the golden mantle on her shoulders. You are the leader of those humans who have sworn themselves to the spirits?

She nodded.

Then you must be here because the world is in panic.

Miranda laughed at that, a dry, humorless sound. “The world’s been in panic for the last two days, sir,” she said, her voice shaking. “We’d just gotten that under reasonable control when… whatever it was that just happened happened.” She lowered her voice again. “Who was the Hunter?”

Our greatest protector, the Weaver answered gravely. My brother, killed by the Shepherdess, our sister.

Miranda went white then, her color fading away until she was as pale as the stone she sat on. Behind her, Gin made a low keening sound.

“The Tower told me our hope had died,” she whispered. “Our wall, he said.”

The Weaver nodded. He was all those things.

Miranda swallowed. “A wall against what?” When the Weaver didn’t answer at once, Miranda lurched forward, her hands slamming into the stone. “Something’s coming, isn’t it?” She demanded, “Something terrible. Tell me what it is.”

The Weaver started to answer, but Eli stepped in front of him, cutting him off. “You remember the thing at Izo’s?”

Miranda nodded.

“Think that,” Eli said. “But larger, and more.”

The Spiritualist began to tremble again. “How many more? More than the League can handle?”

Let me put it this way, the Weaver said, pushing Eli aside. Eli winced when the old man’s hand touched his arm. The painless burn was the same as Benehime’s.

The Lord of Storms and the League were created to answer the challenges of one demon, the Weaver said. Just one. And a buried, bound one at that. In less than an hour, the wall that guards this world will begin to crack, and they will pour in. Even if every spirit in the sphere were a member of the League, it wouldn’t be enough to handle what’s coming.

Miranda stared up at him, utterly still, and then her head dropped. “The Tower was right,” she whispered. “It is the end, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.”

Everyone turned to look at Eli. He put his hands on his hips and glared back. “We’re not dead yet,” he said. “We still have an hour, and I don’t mean to waste any more of it on doomsaying and hand wringing.”

There is a line between hope and self-delusion, the Weaver said, his white brows drawing together in disapproval. If we are to stop the shell from cracking, I must weave and the Hunter must hunt. The Shepherdess has made both of those impossible. How can you still play like we have a chance?

Eli clenched his teeth and fixed the Power with a glare. “First rule of thievery,” he said. “Until the noose snaps your neck, there is always a chance of escape. You just have to find it, and I mean to find ours. I didn’t work this hard just to sit around twiddling my thumbs while I wait for death.”

“The thief is right.”

Eli snapped his head down to look at Miranda. She looked just as surprised as he at the words that had left her mouth, but surprise quickly faded into a much more familiar Miranda expression: determination. Grabbing Gin’s fur, she pulled herself to her feet. “What’s your plan?”

Eli couldn’t stop the grin that was sneaking across his face. “You mean you’re going to put yourself at my mercy? You always said my plans were terrible.”

She arched an eyebrow. “They are. But, as I’ve mentioned before, your terrible plans have an infuriating habit of working, and I think I’d like that luck on my side for once. Besides, I can’t actually see how you could make things worse, for once.”

“How very astute of you,” Eli said, glancing around at the others. “Anyone else feel like taking an active role in their own survival?”

Slorn sighed and raised his hand. Beside him, the Shaper Guildmaster set his jaw stubbornly, but he nodded. Josef was in from the beginning, which left only one. Eli turned to face the Weaver. “Well, old man?”

The Weaver took a tired breath. What did you have in mind?

Eli grinned. Having Miranda burst in might actually make his plan easier. First, though, he had to make sure step one actually worked. He glanced at his swordsman. “Josef?”

Josef stepped forward. “What?”

“You cut the Lord of Storms,” Eli said, pointing at the enormous glowing wall of the blocked veil behind the Weaver. “Think you can cut that?”

Josef lifted the Heart. “I can try.”

The swordsman walked up to the glowing wall and stood there for a second with his head cocked, like he was listening to a voice only he could hear. At his side, the Heart of War began to vibrate like a tuning fork. A low humming sound filled the Shaper Mountain’s white chamber as Josef raised the blade, pulling it up over his shoulder. And then, stepping into the swing, he brought it down with all his strength.

The black blade struck the white wall with a great gong, and blinding light exploded over everything. The vibrations rocked the Shaper Mountain, and Eli had to brace to keep from falling over again. Even within the Shaper Mountain’s own brightness, the white light flooding from the veil blinded him. Eli blinked furiously, rubbing his eyes hard as he tried to get them working again.

The first thing he saw was the Shepherdess’s seal. The mark glowed with phosphorescent fire, shining so bright the other whiteness looked dingy. For several seconds, the mark seemed to float in the air. Then Eli’s eyes recovered enough to see the mark was not, in fact, floating but set in a solid white blade the exact size and shape of the Heart of War.

Eli squinted in amazement. The Heart of War was glowing as white as the Lady herself, shining like the sun in Josef’s hands. This was the Heart’s awakened light at last, Eli realized, the light he’d never seen. But as bright as the Heart was, the mark on its blade shown brighter.

The Shepherdess’s seal burned whiter than anything Eli had ever seen, but as he stared at it, Eli realized that, though the sword was straining in Josef’s hands, the seal itself never moved. It stayed locked in place, holding the blade a hair’s width away from the white wall of the veil. On the other side of the sword, Josef was pushing with all his might, but the sword would not budge.

And then, without warning, the Heart’s light snuffed out.

The sword fell like a stone, blacker than ever as its light vanished. Josef fell with it, landing in a sprawl on the white floor. Eli was at his side before he could think to cry out. The swordsman was gasping for breath, his face pale from effort. He flipped over with Eli’s help and hugged the Heart’s blade to his body, clutching the metal like a wounded limb.

“We could have cut it,” he wheezed. “But she stopped us. Never landed the strike. The Heart—” His voice broke off as he launched into a coughing fit. “The Heart says it can’t. It’s her creation. It can’t attack—”

The words vanished into another coughing fit, and Eli saw with a start how stark Josef’s face was, how heavy the Heart rested against him. They’d been at their limit after the fight with the Lord of Storms, he realized. How hard had they swung just now? He put the thought out of his mind and helped settle Josef back onto the ground.

What now?

The Weaver’s voice made Eli clench his eyes shut in frustration. He left Josef’s side and turned to see them all standing there, staring at him.

I told you. Spirits can’t stand against her, the Weaver said. Though the Heart of War had a good chance. After it gave up its body, Benehime re-formed it with her own hands, just as she made humans. That’s why it has will as you do, but in the end even that wasn’t enough, apparently. So, now what?

“Give me a moment,” Eli muttered, sinking to the floor.

Burying his head in his arms, he tried to make himself think. He’d really thought that would work. The barrier was a product of the Shepherdess’s will just as the Lord of Storms was. If Josef could cut one, he should have been able to cut the other. The rest of his plan depended on them getting inside. If they couldn’t get through the veil, everything else was a wash. He had to find another way, and fast. There wasn’t much time left.

Pushing the looming deadline out of his mind, Eli set himself to finding another way in. But the others had started talking, and their voices were distracting him. Miranda was pestering Slorn, asking him about other spirits. She even suggested finding the Lord of Storms, though thankfully Slorn turned down that plan. The League Commander was the Shepherdess’s oldest ally; he’d never turn against her. The old thunderhead was probably already relaxing in paradise, Eli thought grimly. His nice, fat reward for a job well done. The fact that the storm would be bored stiff after an hour with nothing to attack was Eli’s only consolation, but before he could take any bitter pleasure from it, the Weaver joined Slorn and Miranda’s conversation, and they all started talking over each other.

Eli rolled his eyes and gave up, letting the voices bleed over him, mixing together until the words were just sounds. An idea. He needed an idea. A really good—

He stopped suddenly, ears straining. Below the drone of the arguing voices, he’d caught another sound. It was soft as a heartbeat, almost lost in the noise, but it was steady and strong, tapping out a rhythm Eli knew as well as his own breath.

And with that, his idea came to him clear as a trumpet.

Eli jumped up and scrambled over to Josef. The swordsman was still lying on the floor. His chest rose and fell with his deep breaths, as though he were asleep.

“Josef,” Eli whispered.

The swordsman’s eyes cracked open, and Eli grinned in response. “Hear that?”

For a moment Josef looked confused, and then recognition spread over his face. Eli’s grin widened. “Up for one more cut?”

Josef’s answer was to pry one of his hands off his sword so Eli could pull him up.

Everyone else was still arguing, so no one noticed as Eli hauled Josef to his feet and helped him walk over to the bone metal box lying forgotten at the center of the Shaper Mountain.

The thumping grew louder the closer they got—three long beats followed by two short raps, then a silence, then the pattern twice again before a slight variation, four raps instead of two.

Eli had thought of that part himself, a safeguard against imposters. By the time they reached the box, Eli’s grin was so wide his cheeks hurt. He looked down at the dull white lid, watching with deep pride as the heavy bone metal vibrated in the unmistakable rhythm of their long-standing all-clear code.

Without a word, Josef let go of Eli’s arm and stood on his own before the coffin. He hefted the Heart in his hands, lifting the black blade to his elbow before dropping it in a clean stroke. The blade fell perfectly, sliding between the coffin’s edge and the gleaming chains and then pulling out, snapping the chain with one swift motion.

The awakened steel broke with a ringing cry, and the room fell deathly still as the metal links clattered to the floor. Eli didn’t have to look to know everyone was staring at them, so he didn’t. He kept his eyes on the coffin as the knocking stopped. And then, with a long, groaning creak, the bone metal lid began to open.