Spirit’s End

CHAPTER 24

Miranda rubbed her eyes as they ran, not quite believing that a place could be so white. She’d thought the Shaper Mountain’s heart was blinding, but it was dingy compared to the landscape they were now running through. The Lord of Storms led the way, though he was now so white himself that she kept losing him. So, instead, she followed Eli.

The thief’s posture was grim as he jogged just ahead of her, his dirty, torn shirt sitting tight across his tense shoulders. Miranda understood. Her own body felt like a spring pulled to breaking. Her spirits cowered in their rings, utterly silent. Even the Tower was still, hovering at the very edge of their connection. The only thing that felt truly alive was the Lord of Storms.

From the moment Eli had thrust the Hunter’s seed into his chest, the Lord of Storms’ presence in her body had grown from enormous to overwhelming. Even though he was no longer pulling strength from her, Miranda felt utterly drained just from being attached to so much power. She kept waiting for him to sever the connection. After all, what did the Hunter need with a wizard? But he didn’t. He just surged forward, a white fury in a white world, while she bobbed in his wake, drawn inexorably toward the Power at the center of everything.

As they ran, the world grew less white. Cracks were starting to appear, bits and pieces of the Between falling away to reveal glimpses of the world below. Miranda saw forests, mountains, even a snatch of Zarin’s skyline. The longer they ran, the more holes they passed and the more alarmed Miranda became. She had no idea what counted as normal in this place, but she was fairly certain this wasn’t it. Worse still, every time they ran by a gap, she could feel her spirits cringe.

“Are these more cracks in the shell?” she asked, wincing at the loudness of her own voice.

The shell is the wall between creation and the nothing outside, the Lord of Storms said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. So unless you’re seeing black, the answer is no.

Miranda was going to drop it there, but her next step changed things completely. She put her foot down as always, but instead of hitting the strange white floor, her foot hit nothing. She fell with a cry, her boot going straight through the white world as the floor crumbled.

She caught a glimpse of ocean below before Eli grabbed her hand. For a moment, she dangled between the white world and the endless sea, and then the Lord of Storms’ hand joined the thief’s and she was yanked up. The Lord of Storms tossed her down on mercifully stable ground, and Miranda clung to it, staring in horror at the now-gaping hole. “What is going on?”

“The veil is crumbling,” Eli said, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, we need to move.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda said, letting him yank her up. “I thought the Weaver maintained the veil.”

“He does,” Eli said, pulling her after him. “But I left him fighting the Shepherdess. Now the veil is crumbling, so what do you think is happening?”

Miranda swallowed and dropped his hand, moving into a jog beside him. Fortunately, the floor didn’t give out again before the Lord of Storms stopped them a minute later, his hand raised in warning. When Miranda peeked around his enormous shoulders, what she saw made her want to shrink to nothing.

Directly ahead, two blindingly white figures stood in tableaux. One was a woman, pure white and impossibly beautiful. She was as tall as the Lord of Storms, her glorious naked body clad only in her shining hair. She held a sharp, black object in her hand like a dagger, and her white eyes looked down with scorn at the man on the floor.

The Weaver lay before her, his breathing loud in the white silence. His hair lay spread out around him like a robe, but his chest was bare and slick with a glowing substance that was so beautiful it took Miranda several moments to realize the Weaver was bleeding from a stab wound in his stomach. He’d covered the wound with both hands, and she could see the skin knitting together under his touch, healing before her eyes, but even the miraculous speed was far too slow.

Above him, the White Lady wasn’t even panting. She watched the Weaver like a hawk, her white eyes clear and sharp with rage. Behind her, a crumpled sphere lay smashed on the floor like a discarded toy. Above that, another sphere floated. This one was little bigger than the white pearl of the Hunter’s seed, but unlike the seed or the dull, shattered orb on the ground, this sphere was filled with glorious color. It hung in round perfection, the only color in the whole, white world, and the White Lady stood before it like a guardian.

The Powers were wholly focused on the other, and neither seemed to have noticed the three strangers intruding on their private fight. Miranda glanced at the Lord of Storms, waiting for him to say something arrogant, or at least tell the Shepherdess to back away, but he did neither. Instead, he drew his sword with a whisper of steel and lunged straight for the White Lady’s throat.

Miranda covered her mouth, stifling the surprised yelp with her hands. The Lord of Storms moved faster than anything she’d ever seen, and for a split second she was sure it was already over. But then a great crash filled the silence, and she saw the Lord of Storms’ white sword grinding against the Lady’s long, black dagger inches from her face.

The Shepherdess stared at her former servant, her eyes round with shock. You.

The word was spoken like a curse. And though Miranda couldn’t see the Lord of Storms’ face, she could feel his grin in her gut. Me, he growled.

As he spoke, his white sword flashed down, flying toward the Lady’s thigh. But the black dagger moved just as fast, blocking him again. No longer caught off guard, the Shepherdess stepped back, keeping her dagger up. The weapon was hideous to look at, two feet long and grossly uneven, tapering to jagged points at both ends. As the Lady caught the Lord of Storms’ next blow, Miranda wondered briefly why the Shepherdess, the queen of all spirits, would use anything so ugly.

The Shepherdess flicked the black dagger, carelessly throwing off the Lord of Storms’ blow. The Lord of Storms growled and raised his sword again, but the Lady only laughed, holding her arms wide.

What? she cried, her beautiful voice mocking. You think that now that you have my brother’s seed you can cut me? Go on. She waved at her bare stomach. Try.

The Lord of Storms struck before she’d finished speaking, his white sword stabbing into her unguarded belly. The Lady didn’t even wince as the blow landed, her lovely face turned up in that hateful smile.

Though she knew what she would see, Miranda forced herself to look anyway. The Lord of Storms’ sword lay against the Shepherdess’s stomach, its cutting edge pressed into the unmarked white flesh. The Lord of Storms stared at the stopped blow, and Miranda could feel his rage burning under her skin, but before either of them could master it, the Shepherdess backhanded the new Hunter across the face.

He flew backward, landing on his back to Miranda’s left. The Lady was on him in a flash, straddling him as she brought the demonseed up. The Lord of Storms scrambled, barely raising his sword up in time to stop the black point from stabbing into his chest. The Lady was about to try again when, with a thundering roar, the Lord of Storms threw her off. She landed and rolled, her hair flying as she pulled herself into a crouch, panting as she clutched the demonseed in her hands.

Why won’t you just die? she screamed, lunging at him again.

The Lord of Storms roared his answer, white sword flying up to meet her.

Left on her own, Miranda would never have been able to tear her eyes away from the Powers’ fight. It wasn’t until she heard the groan that she remembered there were other things to do. She looked down to see Eli already on his knees by the injured Weaver. Wincing with guilt at her own thoughtlessness, she dropped down to join him.

“What can I do?” she said, reaching for his wound.

The old man batted her hands away. Leave it be, human, he whispered. Mending things is my purpose. He stared at her as she jerked back, his white eyes looking through her. You have bound the Hunter, he said, his voice incredulous.

“He wasn’t the Hunter at the time,” Miranda started, but the Weaver interrupted her, grabbing her hands.

Listen, he said, his voice low and urgent. He’s not a full Power yet. It’s too soon after the transition. The seed hasn’t taken full root yet. That’s why he can’t cut the Shepherdess. Their battle is grossly uneven, and if he continues to fight, he will surely die. We cannot lose him again. You have to help.

“Help how?” Miranda said. “If he can’t cut her, surely there’s nothing I—”

You are his Spiritualist, the Weaver said, his hands gripping hers with a strange, painless burning. Strength for service, power for obedience, that is your oath, is it not? Honor it. He’s fighting for you, for all of us, so feed him your power.

Miranda turned to stare at the White Lady. She was so beautiful as she stalked after the Lord of Storms. The idea of going against her felt so wrong that Miranda could barely think of it. She tried to imagine hitting the woman from behind and was almost sick where she sat as her body violently rejected the concept. “I can’t!” Miranda cried, not even knowing where the words came from. “She’s my Shepherdess!”

She betrayed us all! the Weaver said.

Miranda gritted her teeth and tried, but her body refused to obey. Something fundamental was blocking her, some deep rule of nature she’d never known before this moment. She didn’t even think she could open her spirit right now if she tried. Hot, shameful tears began to well up behind her eyes, and she knew she’d failed. She’d come this far only to fail.

“Miranda.”

Eli’s voice made her jump. She looked up to see the thief kneeling beside her, his hands on her shoulders as he gently turned her away from the Shepherdess, away from the Weaver, straight toward himself.

“Don’t think about the Shepherdess,” he said softly. “The Lord of Storms is your oath-bound spirit, just as Mellinor was. Don’t think about what he’s doing. Don’t think about why. Just relax and let the power flow.”

Miranda shook her head. “But—”

Eli’s hand covered her mouth, cutting off her words as he leaned closer, his voice little more than a whisper. “He’s going to die if you don’t help him. If he dies, the world dies, and your oath to protect the spirits is broken forever.” He stared at her, blue eyes boring into hers with an intensity that reminded her more of Banage than anything else she’d seen in him. “You’ve never once failed in your resolve. Don’t let her break you now. Close your eyes, forget the fight, and honor your oath. Feed him the power he needs to win.”

Miranda stared at Eli for three long heartbeats, and then she obeyed. She closed her eyes and shut it all out, the Powers and the whiteness, the demon fear and the crumbling veil. She thrust every thought from her head save the oath that made her what she was and sank into the well of her soul.

She could feel her spirits clinging to her as she fell deeper, their connections strong as steel. She could feel the Tower drawing nearer as the gems at her neck began to grow warm, but most of all she could feel the enormous presence of the Lord of Storms, a great swirling vortex of rage and power tied like a cable around her center.

Her connection to him was larger than any of the others, larger even than her link to Mellinor had been, though not as close. Still, she could feel him like he was a part of her own body. He was straining, fighting with everything he had, and yet there was no pull on the connection, no request for help. Nor would there be, she was sure. The Lord of Storms would fight on his own until he fell, and it was up to her to make sure he didn’t. With that certainty hanging in her mind, Miranda set herself against the wall of her instinct and, pushing with everything she had, pried her spirit open.

Power filled her to bursting. It boiled up until she felt she would pop, but she did not let it go. Instead, she took that power, the power that sustained her spirits, the power that linked her to the Tower, the power that had served as Mellinor’s shore, her power, and fed it through her link to the Lord of Storms.

She encountered resistance immediately. The Lord of Storms rejected her offer, his disgust at being helped filtering up their connection like backwash. Gritting her teeth, Miranda thrust the rejection aside. Power for service, she snarled, filling each word with enough strength to stop a Great Spirit cold in its tracks. Strength for obedience. Her soul was roaring now, the power building to the breaking point, but she did not let it out. She would not. Her mind was set beneath the full weight of her will. The Lord of Storms would take this power or she would die making him, but she would not let him fight alone.

Accept the offer!

With a roar that shook her bones, the Lord of Storms’ barriers went down and her strength flooded into him. Once he accepted, he took it all, draining her dry in an instant, but Miranda refused to close their connection. She sank deeper and deeper into herself, deeper than when she’d bound Mellinor, deeper even than she’d gone in Osera. She fell into depths she hadn’t even known she possessed, reaching for more power, more strength. And the further she reached, the stranger things became.

The more Miranda gave, the more aware she became that the power she was sending the Lord of Storms was no longer solely her own. Her rings were humming on her fingers, feeding their own strength into the flow. She nearly closed the connection then, terrified that she’d somehow broken her oath and begun draining her rings.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the rejection of it overwhelmed her senses. Her spirits were screaming at her to keep going, to use what they freely gave, and it wasn’t just her rings. The Tower was there as well, the enormous strength of the bedrock flowing through her to become the foundation of something larger. There was even an echo of Mellinor, a freezing rush of power that vanished a second after it came. One by one, every spirit she’d ever bound gave itself to the Lord of Storms, braiding their power through hers until she was sure she would be crushed under the weight.

But she was not crushed. She stood firm, holding her oath in her mind. Today, she would save the spirits or die trying. Today, they would win. That was the only truth she allowed as the flow of power finally settled into a steady stream.

When she opened her eyes again, everything had changed.

The Shepherdess was now crouching several feet from the Lord of Storms, the ugly black dagger clutched in front of her. Her earlier confidence was gone, and there was a thin, glittering slash along her cheek. Across from her, the Lord of Storms stood with his sword at his side. His chest was bright with blood, but his face held no pain. Though he was the bloodier one, he stood straight and proud, his body so taut with power he nearly glowed from it. Next to him, the Shepherdess looked gray and dirty, her face screwed up in an expression very close to panic.

How? she demanded, her lips curling back to reveal her sharp, white teeth. Where are you getting all this strength? Her white eyes flicked to Miranda. It can’t be the human. No human can stand against me. I created them. They cannot—

You created them, the Lord of Storms said, raising his blade. And in your arrogance you gave them a fraction of your will. It’s not just me you’re fighting, Benehime. It’s everything. Everything you’ve betrayed, everything you’ve cast aside in your selfishness.

You are still a Power! Benehime screamed. You cannot touch me! That is the law!

If you hadn’t killed your brother, that might still be true, the Lord of Storms sneered. But you upset the system. I may bear the Hunter’s essence and power, but I’m still a storm and a sworn spirit. I’m no essence of the Creator, no part of his balance. I am my own will now, and you cannot stop me anymore.

The Shepherdess’s eyes went wide at that, and she screamed, charging forward. The Lord of Storms brought his sword down, biting into her arm, but she did not stop. She ran into him, and though she was smaller, it was the Lord of Storms who went down with her on top, the demonseed clutched in her hands as she raised it over his head.

Miranda watched, helpless. Everything she had was already flowing into the Lord of Storms, but as good as he was, the Shepherdess was still older, still stronger, and fueled with such mad hatred Miranda couldn’t bare to look at her eyes. She could only stand there as the Shepherdess brought the crude dagger down, the tapered point flying down to stab the Lord of Storms’ throat.

And then, just before the point pierced the new Power’s skin, the Shepherdess stopped.

It happened so suddenly that Miranda thought it must be a trick. Or maybe the world had ended at that moment and she hadn’t noticed. But her heart was still beating. Time was still flowing, and the Shepherdess still did not move. No one did. At last, the Lady’s head turned. The movement was painfully slow, but her expression was pure horrified fury as her eyes slid past Miranda, past the Weaver, to land somewhere behind the crumpled sphere.

And that was when Miranda realized she hadn’t seen Eli in a while.

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in her throat, Miranda forced herself to turn as well.

Eli was standing beside the broken sphere. His posture was casual, like he just happened to be there. One hand was in his pocket; the other was tossing something small, round, and beautiful up and down, up and down.

“What?” he said, catching the tiny, beautiful sphere up between his fingers. “Lose something?”

For a long second the air seemed to turn solid, and then the Shepherdess lurched off the Lord of Storms.

She moved faster than light, appearing on top of Eli instantly, but it still wasn’t fast enough. The moment she lunged, Eli slammed his foot down, cracking the veil like rotten wood. He was already raising his arm when the hole appeared, and the second the veil was breached, Eli threw the tiny, perfect world down as hard as he could.

Benehime’s hand flew out, her long, white fingers brushing the sphere as it passed, but it wasn’t enough. The tiny world tumbled through the hole in the veil, and the moment it touched the real world, the fragile sphere cracked.

All at once, the air was filled with ringing, glorious shouts as the stars burst into freedom. They flew from the crumbling sphere in a shower of color so beautiful, so brilliant, Miranda couldn’t bear to watch. Instead, she focused on the reflection the colors cast against the white world, each one sparking and vanishing until, in a heartbeat, it was over.

As the Between faded back to white, Benehime lay frozen on the ground at Eli’s feet, her hand still flung out after her lost paradise. Her face was a mask of loss more bitter than anything Miranda had ever seen, but the look was gone in an instant, replaced with absolute fury.

Without a word, without a warning, without even a sound, the Shepherdess shot up. Miranda caught a glimpse of black in the white rush before the Power wrapped herself around Eli. She saw him tense, his smug expression falling away to one of shock, then resignation.

For several seconds, Miranda wasn’t actually sure what had happened. But then she saw the Shepherdess’s hand pull back with deliberate slowness, the black dagger dripping crimson before she slammed it again into Eli’s chest. He grunted as the blade entered, and then Benehime stepped back, letting Eli fall face-first onto the white floor at her feet.

“Eli!”

Miranda didn’t recognize her own voice as the scream echoed across the crumbling white nothing. She scrambled toward the thief’s crumpled body, so desperate to get to him that she didn’t even feel the Shepherdess’s foot in her ribs until she was flung backward. Miranda landed hard on her side and lay stunned for a moment, watching helplessly as the Shepherdess threw the black dagger down.

It landed with an echoing, metallic clang that went on and on as the dagger’s uneven surface rocked back and forth against the veil. The Shepherdess fell to her knees beside the thief, her white eyes empty as she took him in her arms.

Why, she whispered. Why? Why? Her voice grew louder with each question until her scream filled the Between. Why did you make me do this?

The scream faded to a choked sob as she wrapped herself around Eli’s bloody body. You didn’t have to break it, she whispered, turning his face toward hers. There was no paradise without you.

And then she kissed him, her lips pressed hard against his even as the Lord of Storms’ hand wrapped around her neck.

She did not struggle as he lifted her, not even to pry his fingers off her throat. She merely hung from his hand like a limp doll as he carried her to the edge of the white world. When he reached the wall of the shell, a black portal opened in front of him, and Miranda gasped as the air of the Between began to pour out in a great gale.

Beyond, grasping hands shot out, grabbing the Lord of Storms and the Shepherdess, struggling to pull them both into the blackness. The Lord of Storms ignored them. He walked into the dark, carrying the Lady at arm’s length until the darkness swallowed them both. The wind died as the door closed behind them, and Miranda felt her connection to the Lord of Storms snap like a cut thread.

The backlash nearly made her black out, but she forced herself to stay conscious, dragging her body across the floor toward Eli. Wincing with effort, she yanked her hand up and held her fingers under his nose. For several long seconds, nothing happened, and then she felt his faint breath on her skin. Relief flooded through her, and she turned back to the Weaver to see him sitting up, his eyes closed, his hand out toward Eli.

I caught him, the old man said, his voice impossibly tired. He won’t get any worse, though whether or not he gets better is up to him.

Miranda looked back to Eli, her face as pale as the white world around them. “What do we do now?”

The Weaver opened his eyes with an incredulous look as he pulled himself to his feet. We fix the world, he said, spreading his hands out in front of him. What else?

Miranda had no answer to that, so she sat back, watching in wonder as the Weaver flexed his fingers and began to weave.