Spirit’s End

CHAPTER 25

The Demon of the Dead Mountain’s roar echoed off the cliffs. His claws tore long rents across Nico’s wings, lacerating her shadow-wrapped body and breaking her teeth. Nico ignored the pain, even as one of her wings tore free. Though the demon was much larger than her now, Tesset’s training gave her the edge. Her front teeth were still locked around the demon’s throat, still chewing on the tender black flesh, and though he slammed her against the mountains over and over, she would not let go. She was the master now.

The demon’s struggles grew more frantic, and Nico bit down harder, her claws digging into the joint where the monster’s arm met its body. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the sky breaking apart as more hands thrust down toward the screaming spirits. The world was crumbling, collapsing under the weight of the demon’s hunger. Fragments of the sky fell like snow over mountains that rolled like waves in their fear. The only still peak was the one under their feet. The Dead Mountain stood as solid and black as ever, its empty husk a reminder of what was to come. Never loosening her grip, Nico’s yellow eyes flicked up to the ledge where Josef had fallen. There, too, all was still. All was lost, and yet she would not let go.

The demon was flailing now, his claws scrambling to pry between her teeth from his jaw. Nico snarled and bit down harder, feeling the demon’s furious scream through her grip. The scream grew louder as the demon surged up, his long, hideous arms wrapping around Nico’s torso. She panicked as his grip tightened, thinking he was about to crush her, but the demon did no such thing. Instead, he yanked her away with all his might.

Nico’s hold never faltered, but the demon’s own flesh was not so strong. He tore her off him, taking off a large chunk of his neck and one arm in the process. The demon barely seemed to notice the loss in his fury as he flung her away, his enraged roar shaking the Dead Mountain to its roots.

She landed hard, her claws grabbing the mountain’s peak to keep herself from falling into the sharp rocks below. Down the slope, the Demon of the Dead Mountain was growling at her, his black claws folded around the gaping hole she’d left in his throat. “You always were a dirty fighter,” he rumbled, his three yellow eyes narrowing.

Nico’s answer was to spit out the piece of him she’d torn away. The demon’s flesh was already turning to dust in her mouth. It dissolved completely as it struck the Dead Mountain’s bare slope, and the demon growled deep in what was left of its throat. “Why are you doing this?”

“To stop you,” Nico answered.

“Stop me?” The demon burst out laughing. “Look around, girl. I’m hardly the greatest threat.”

“I don’t care,” Nico snarled. “You killed Josef. I couldn’t stop them all on my own anyway, but I can kill you.”

“No, you can’t,” the demon said. “That was the same mistake your king made, the one called the Creator. He thought he could starve us by locking us away. Make us turn on each other. And I’m sure they did, those mad skeletons, but it didn’t work. Think, child. If demons could kill other demons, there’d be nothing left outside the shell. The Creator’s plan would have worked and the Powers would have led you out to recolonize the emptiness ages ago. But nothing created has ever understood us. Nothing that is born can know the truth of our kind, which is really tragic, because the truth is so simple. We cannot die because we do not live. We are nothingness, the reverse of creation. We are consumption, destruction, the darkness that persists with or without light. You can no more kill us than kill death itself.”

“I don’t care,” Nico said, digging her claws into the stone. “I will fight you.”

“I’m sure you will,” the demon sneered. “You always were a bit stupid that way.” He shook his head, torn neck sliding grotesquely. “What I don’t understand is why you give all that endless, idiot energy fighting for a world that will turn on you the first chance it gets. Even you can’t be foolish enough to still believe you’re human.”

“I am myself,” Nico snapped.

“Well, good for you,” the demon snapped back. “But let’s play a game, shall we? Let’s say you win. Let’s say I vanish, the shell is mended, the demons are pushed back, and everything comes up daffodils for you and your swordsman. What happens then?”

Before Nico could answer, the demon’s mouth opened in an enormous grin. “I’ll tell you,” he crooned, reaching down to caress the Dead Mountain’s slope. “You’ll end up here, right where I was. Because no matter how well you may think you control yourself, you’re not a spirit of creation anymore. You’re like me, like all of us. You’ll never die, even if you long to. You’ll never be able to rest, never be able to drop your guard. I’m impressed you’ve been able to keep your hunger at bay this long, but how much longer can you do it, Nico? A century? A millennia?”

The demon shook its head. “No one’s will holds forever, my child. The hunger will win in the end, and then you’ll be everything they already think you are—a monster, a predator, a devourer of spirits. Something to be stomped on and pinned at all costs.”

As he finished, Nico realized with horror that his throat was nearly mended. Her eyes widened. How? They were on the Dead Mountain. There should be nothing to eat. Then she saw that one of his long legs was arched backward, his biggest claw just touching the valley beyond the Dead Mountain’s border. Where it touched, the once-snowy valley was now as black and dry as the Dead Mountain’s own slopes.

The sight of it made her snarl, and she pulled herself to her full height, her broken wing hanging painfully from her shoulder. Nico ignored it. She stood on the mountain’s peak, glaring down at the demon. In her mind, Nivel’s warning was playing over and over. Don’t listen. He always lies, don’t listen. But he wasn’t lying, not this time, though Nico wished he were. A lie would be nicer than this ugly truth. But ugly as it was, hateful as it was, the truth was there, hanging between them, and she could not ignore it. Though she no longer needed air, Nico took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the sky, steeling herself to see the world break.

The breath caught in her throat. Above them, three of the six hands had vanished. For a second, she felt nothing but panic. If they were gone, what more would come through? But even as the thought slid through her like an icy spike, a flash of white blazed in the sky. For a moment, the whole, battered arc was illuminated, and then, with a demon’s jagged scream, one of the three remaining hands began to fall, dissolving to dust before it could hit the ground.

The second flash came a moment later, slicing the next arm through. She saw it better this time—a curved white blade biting through the darkness beyond the sphere, singing with pure, bloody joy as it sliced the demon flesh. By the time the final arm was cut, the shell itself was shaking, and the dome of the sky began to groan. Overhead, the cracks flashed and ground against one another, the shattered sections popping back into place like puzzle pieces.

As the edges came together, they began to melt into one another, the cracks fraying before weaving back together as though they’d never broken. It was beautiful to watch, more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen. So beautiful that Nico couldn’t tear her eyes away from the world as it put itself back together, and that was her fatal mistake.

She felt the Demon of the Dead Mountain right before his claws closed on her throat. She roared and began to fight his grip, but he loomed over her, his strength infinite.

“You never could learn to pay attention to your surroundings, darling daughter,” the demon purred in her ear, his jagged teeth tearing the flesh on the side of her head. “Looks like your thief won his gambit. They’re repairing the shell as we speak. So it’s time for you to go.”

Nico’s feet kicked in the air as he lifted her. Holding her at arm’s length, the demon turned and raised his other arm, the one she had injured, and dragged his curved, black claws across the air. For a second, nothing happened, and then, with a horrible, unnatural ripping, the veil began to tear.

“The Weaver is too busy to stop a little hole like this,” the demon told her, his jagged teeth blacker than midnight in the pure white light that spilled through the hole in the air. “It pains me to treat you this way, my child, but if you won’t stand with me, then you leave me no choice. After all”—the black grin widened—“I can’t kill you.”

Nico lashed at him with her claws, but his long arms held her well out of reach. With a sickening lurch, the demon hopped up through the sundered veil, taking her into a world of blinding white. The moment they were inside, the demon raised her up and slammed her against a wall she hadn’t even seen.

The impact sent an explosion of pain through her body, and Nico screamed as the wall cracked behind her, bowing out with the force of the demon’s blow. When he pulled her back, her body was too limp to fight him, too stunned even to struggle as he dug his claws into the white floor and slammed her a second time. This time, the wall shattered.

Nico’s body shrank as freezing cold, colder even than the world inside the shadows, surrounded her. The demon had broken the shell with her body. Even as Nico realized what had happened, she felt the demon’s claws leave her throat, and then she began to fall.

She couldn’t even flap her wings anymore. The hole in the shell shrank above her, the light growing farther and dimmer, leaving only endless, hungry blackness. For one long breath, Nico fell into the dark, and then, with a deafening cry, the hands grabbed her.

They wrapped around her body, large and small, clawed and spindly, all pulling her into the dark. Black mouths bit down on her flesh only to roar in impotent fury when they realized she was not food. She was like them.

After that, they thrust her aside, trampling her as they scrambled madly for the hole the demon had punched in the shell of the world with her body. Far, far overhead, Nico could still see the outline of the demon against the light, his grotesque face split in an enormous smile. And with that, rage took over where strength could not.

With a roar that made the hands on her snatch away, Nico surged forward. She could not let it end like this, could not let him win. She tore through the other demons, ripping them to shreds as she clawed her way up. Starving and mad, they barely noticed, moving their limbs out of her way only when she took a piece off. Ahead of her, the hole in the shell was closing, cutting off the light. Nico screamed and climbed faster, clawing her way up the endless demons until, at last, her hand closed on the hole’s jagged edge.

The Demon of the Dead Mountain’s claws were on her at once, prying her grip free. Nico slammed her other hand up in answer, her claws biting deep into the Demon of the Dead Mountain’s arm. As he screamed in pain, Nico yanked herself forward, tearing her other hand off the shell’s edge only to plant it in the demon’s chest. Her claws cut through the shiny, protective carapace and dug into his core, locking in place. At the same time, she brought her head forward, jaws flung wide as she latched herself onto his shoulder.

“You’re right,” she hissed against his flesh while he flailed beneath her, screaming in pain. “There’s no place for our kind here.” And with that, she pushed off the shell, using her weight as an anchor to drag them both into the dark.

The demon’s roar rattled her teeth, but Nico didn’t let go. As he locked his limbs against the closing shell, she clung to him like a lead weight. If they had been inside the shell, it never would have worked. He was too large now, and she too small. But here, on the edge, things were different. Nico’s body buffeted as the demon hands shot past her, scrambling for purchase on the shell’s broken edge. They grabbed the Demon of the Dead Mountain as well, pulling him down in their rush to clear the hole and get inside, using his bulk as leverage to pull themselves up.

The demon screamed again, and this time there was real fear in his roar. He tore at Nico with his claws, digging into the shell with his feet as he tried to free himself. But the broken shell was too fragile to hold him, the thousands of hands too much even for his strength. Even so, he might have worked himself free had Nico not been latched to him, her weight an anchor on his own, dragging him inch by painful inch into the dark. When he finally toppled, Nico went with him, her claws and teeth buried in his flesh as the hands dragged them both into the dark.

It was a good end, she thought as they started to fall. Even if she lived forever out here in the dark, she was still herself, and she had used the last of her strength to take the Demon of the Dead Mountain with her. For a creature who could no longer die, she’d earned herself a death to be proud of. A warrior’s death. She smiled against the Demon of the Dead Mountain’s flesh, still straining under her teeth. She only wished Josef could have seen it.

But even as she thought his name, a shadow appeared against the white light of the closing hole. It was a small shadow, man-sized, and Nico slumped in relief. Good, the Weaver was here to seal the breach. But the figure didn’t try to close the hole. Instead, he leaned out, one arm holding onto something behind him, the other reaching into the dark. And as he reached, he screamed.

“Nico!”

Josef cursed and slammed his sword into the strange white floor. It cracked under the Heart’s blunt point like an eggshell, but the blade held. Grabbing the hilt as his anchor, Josef leaned out beyond the edge of the world. Hands clawed at him, but he beat them away, slamming them against the sharp cracks of the shell without looking. Even as he fought, his eyes never left the spot where he had seen Nico vanish.

His chest burned as he reached out. He’d barely let the gash close before going after Nico, barely made it through the hole the demon had ripped in the veil. He’d pulled himself on his elbows the last few feet even after he saw both demons tumble out of the shell into the dark, even when he knew it was too late.

It didn’t matter. Josef couldn’t stop. The idea of losing her now, after everything they’d gone through, after all they’d fought, was simply unacceptable. He wouldn’t give up, and he wouldn’t let her go. He would stand here reaching into the freezing dark until the healing shell took his arm off if there was so much as a chance that her fingers would close on his.

Josef leaned out farther still, looking frantically through the dark for a pair of golden eyes, but there was nothing outside except blackness and hungry hands. “Nico!” he screamed again, cringing in pain as his wounded lungs expanded.

As the name left him, Josef couldn’t shake the horrid, creeping feeling that, even if she could hear him, Nico wouldn’t answer. He’d seen her shoving her claws into the demon when he’d climbed in. She’d dragged the creature into the dark with her on purpose, and now he may have lost her forever.

Josef swore loudly. Whatever form she took, Nico was Nico. Demon, human, or anything in between, she would sacrifice anything to keep him and Eli safe. It drove him crazy. She didn’t seem to understand that she had value, too, that she was worth saving.

“Dammit, Nico!” he roared into the dark. “I will not let you go like this! I will chase you out of this hole if you don’t come back!”

His words vanished into the blackness, eaten like everything else. Josef didn’t care. “You told me you wanted to live!” he screamed. “The demon ate your childhood. He ate everything you had. Don’t give him this, too! Don’t let him take you from me!”

He threw himself forward until his fingertips on the Heart’s pommel were the only things anchoring him to the world. His legs were braced on the closing edge of the shell, his hand thrust out so far his joints were screaming. Josef didn’t care. He pushed out farther, the scream wrenching out of him. “Take my hand!”

The demons screamed back at him, black claws scrambling to eat him. Josef thrust them away with his will and stayed perfectly still, an iron statue, waiting. The light was fading quickly now as the shell closed behind him. Soon, the healing wound would be too small for him to retreat, but Josef didn’t look back. He stood, hand grasping, aching lungs bellowing in his chest.

“Nico!”

And then, without warning, he saw something. It was tiny in the infinite dark, little more than a pale flash, but it caught his eyes like a spark. He locked onto it, bashing the mad demons out of his way until he saw it flash again. It was a finger. One white finger, reaching out.

Josef lurched into the dark, and his straining hand brushed soft, human flesh. The moment the white finger touched his, he hooked the joint with his own and yanked back. The white finger jerked forward, revealing a white hand.

Josef reached out again, grabbing the tiny palm with his larger grip. Holding his sword with his anchoring hand, he pulled with every ounce of the Heart’s monstrous strength, and together, inch by inch, they dragged her out of the dark.

The hand was followed by a white arm, and then the crown of her head came into view, her short, black hair falling over her face. Next came her shoulders, her thin white chest, her hips, her legs.

Nico emerged with painful slowness, as though they were pulling her out of tar, but as Josef braced his legs and leaned back, pulling with all his weight, Nico’s head lifted and her yellow eyes locked onto his. She was crying, screaming, and though the demons ate her words, he could see them on her lips. She wanted to live. She wanted to live with him.

With a final roar, Josef yanked her free, dragging her against his chest and falling backward just as the shell closed. The wound slammed shut, slicing through the grasping hands that had tried to follow them. As the severed limbs crumbled to ash, Josef slammed onto his back, holding Nico against him with one hand and the Heart with the other as his chest thundered. He almost didn’t believe they’d made it until he felt Nico grab him and bury her head in his side.

“I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t belong here. I’m a—”

“I don’t care,” Josef said, cutting her off before she could finish. He slid his hand up her back to grab her head, forcing her to look at him. “You. Are. Nico,” he said, grinding each word between his teeth. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

Nico’s golden eyes widened. “But I—”

“If there’s a problem, we’ll figure it out,” Josef said. “Or make Eli figure it out. That’s what we keep him around for.”

Nico laughed at that, a tearful snort as she ducked her head against him. Satisfied, Josef lay back and focused on overcoming the enormous pain that he’d been putting off. As he blacked out, he felt Nico’s hands on his face.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered.

“We save each other,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”

He felt a soft brush on his forehead. Her lips, he realized. That thought made him grin wide as he slid into blissful unconsciousness, his fingers tangled in Nico’s short, soft hair.

Eli woke to the most horrible pain he’d ever experienced, which was a joy in and of itself. He hadn’t expected to wake up at all. After all, the Shepherdess had stabbed him, twice. He should be dead, expected to be. Death was the reward you got for playing the hero, and he’d been frightfully heroic there toward the end. That’s why the good thieves were never heroes. Hard to spend your ill-gotten gains when you were dead.

“I think he’s waking up.”

He went still. It was Miranda’s voice, and it was close, as though she were sitting beside him. A great feeling of relief crushed into his chest, and Eli realized he’d half believed that the only reason he was alive was because Benehime had won and somehow saved him for worse punishment. But Benehime would never let Miranda near him.

Slowly, hopefully, Eli cracked his eyes. Miranda’s face filled his vision. She was hovering over him, and he felt a pressure on his chest as she shook him gently. “I knew it,” she said, her pretty face pulling into the sneer he recognized as well as his own reflection. “Stop faking and get up, you degenerate.”

“Well hello to you, too,” Eli croaked, opening his eyes all the way.

He was lying on his back in the white nothing of the Between. Miranda was sitting beside him, fiddling with the gems in the Rector’s mantle as she glared in his direction. That much wasn’t surprising. What was, was that they weren’t alone. The Weaver sat on his other side, his old face pulled in a kindly smile as he peered down at Eli.

Welcome back to the living, Eliton.

“Don’t call me that,” Eli muttered, sitting up.

As the wave of nausea hit him, Eli realized this was a terrible idea and promptly lay back down.

You should take it easy, the Weaver said. I’ve repaired most of the damage, but you were on the edge of death for almost an hour while I repaired the shell. Some trauma was sadly unavoidable. Best to stay still.

“Right,” Eli said, swallowing. “Good plan.”

Rather than risk lifting his head again, Eli slid his fingers up his chest to assess the damage. After the way Benehime had stabbed him, he expected to find gaping holes, or at least a bloody mess, but his shirt was cleaner than it had been in days, and his skin was smooth and painless to the touch. He smiled. Having a Power to play surgeon certainly had its benefits.

As he moved his fingers down to prod the place where the second stab had hit his abdomen, Eli brushed a rough spot on his skin and jumped off the floor.

“Eli!” Miranda shouted, slapping him back down. “What part of ‘lie still’ don’t you understand?”

Eli didn’t answer; he was too busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. As he tore it open, he nearly cried in relief. There, spanning the center of his chest, was Karon’s burn. The moment he saw it, he felt Karon turn deep in his mind, settling himself sleepily below Eli’s conscious.

He was released when you smashed the paradise, the Weaver said. He was deathly exhausted. Apparently he’d been fighting the stars, trying to get back to you. After he was free, he refused to leave until I let him return to your body. I hope you don’t mind.

“How could I mind?” Eli said, laughing as he ran his fingers over the burn’s circular pattern. Everything really was coming back together, the loose ends tying themselves off. All but one.

He glanced at Miranda, buttoning his shirt again. “Where’s…” He trailed off. Somehow, it was hard to say her name. Fortunately, Miranda caught his meaning.

“The Shepherdess is gone,” she said. “After losing both her paradise and her favorite, she stopped fighting. The Lord of… I mean the Hunter took her with him outside the shell. I don’t know what happened next, but the demons were driven back and the Weaver was able to repair the shell.”

Not fully, the Weaver said, his voice despairing. I am not the Creator. I have patched the cracks, but the shell will never be truly whole again. And though the new Hunter bears the seed of the old, he will never be as strong as that which the Creator wrought with his own hands. He closed his white eyes and rubbed his forehead with tired hands. So many spirits lost who can never be replaced. The trust of the world is shaken, and our Shepherdess is gone. We are diminished forever, I fear.

“Surely not forever,” Miranda said.

Forever, the Weaver said again. We avoided destruction today, Spiritualist, but the problems that drove my sister mad still remain. The spirits will continue to grow smaller, sleepier, and stupider in their confinement, perhaps even faster now that we’ve lost so many. I can weave the shell stronger, but I can’t make new spirits. Even the Shepherdess had only one act of creation, and she spent that long ago.

“Making us,” Eli said.

The Weaver nodded and sat back with a deep sigh. This sphere is too small to support a true spirit ecosystem. It was meant as a lifeboat, not a home. Unless the Creator returns to breathe new energy into this world, the best we can hope for is a slow, peaceful decline.

He shook his head, white eyes locking sadly on Miranda. It may be soon enough that you humans find yourselves alone in this prison. And though wizards will continue to be born, there won’t be anything awake enough left to talk with. The Hunter will hunt and the Weaver will weave, but our jobs only keep back the tide. This is the spirits’ world, not ours, and in the end even the Shepherdess couldn’t make them thrive.

Miranda flushed, and Eli knew she was about to argue. The thought made him grin. Trust a Spiritualist to argue with a Power of creation. But before she could open her big mouth, a noise made them all jump, even the Weaver.

It was a demon scream, a sound Eli could now recognize instantly, much to his dismay. But not just one. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands, all screaming in the distance. Beside him, the Weaver closed his eyes, his fingers twitching frantically as he searched for the hole in the shell. But the white world was flawless again, as though the last few hours had never occurred.

Just when Eli was growing well and truly stumped, he spotted it. There, a dozen feet away, a black line was falling through the air. It fell quickly, forming a door in less than a second, and a blast of cold hit Eli like a blow to the face. He jerked back, lifting his arm to shield against whatever might be coming. He’d barely gotten it over his nose when the Lord of Storms stomped into the shell.

It was strange to see him so white, Eli thought idly as the black door closed behind him, cutting off the screams like a knife. Everything else was the same, the sword, the coat, the long hair, the insufferable expression. Only the color was missing, and with it, any trace of kindness, though Eli wasn’t sure the old thunderhead had possessed any of that to begin with.

The Weaver stood as the Hunter approached. Welcome back, brother.

The Hunter didn’t answer, just thrust out his fist. As he opened his hand, a soft, white radiance shone from his palm. Eli blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thought the Between or its Powers could get any whiter, and yet the light kept shining from the Lord of Storms’ hand. He held it there until the Weaver offered his own hands, and then he dumped the light unceremoniously into the old man’s cupped palms.

Eli sucked in a breath as it came into view. The thing that fell from the Lord of Storms’ hand was a perfect pearl, its smooth surface glowing whiter than the moon through alabaster. It rolled as it landed in the Weaver’s hands, filling his palms with light.

The moment the white pearl was transferred, the Hunter turned and marched away. The black line appeared with a jerk of his hand, and even though Eli expected it this time, the cold mixed with the screams made him cringe anyway. The Hunter didn’t even flinch as he strode into the dark, but he did pause at the threshold.

I can see your fear, old man, he said, his low voice rumbling like thunder. Make no mistake. I am not your brother, but, like him, I was also born to fight the demons. He smiled, his white eyes glittering with pure, bloody joy. I will not fall.

I know you shall not, the Weaver said. And I will still name you brother, if you will have it.

The Hunter turned back and strode through the door. As you like. See you in a hundred years.

The Weaver nodded. Good hunting, brother.

The Hunter was gone before he finished, the black line vanishing behind him without a trace. The Weaver sighed and looked down at the light in his cupped hands. All is not lost, it seems.

Eli leaned forward, arching his neck to see, despite the pain. “That’s the Shepherdess’s seed, isn’t it?” When the Weaver nodded, he added, “What are you going to do with it?”

There’s no choice but to make a new Shepherdess, the Weaver said. We must be three, else we are incomplete.

“This from the man who was going to lock her away,” Eli said with a snort.

The Weaver’s eyes narrowed. The Shepherdess would still have existed then, he said. A dead Power does us no good. She must be reborn.

“Fine, fine.” Eli groaned. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

Actually, the Weaver said. I mean it to be you.

Eli jerked up so fast he was staring the Weaver in the face before he remembered sitting was bad. He fell back again, fighting the nausea all the way down. When he had himself under control, he glared at the Weaver and said, in what he considered a very measured tone given the circumstances, “Are you out of your muddled white mind?”

It’s the logical choice, the Weaver said. As a star, you’re already familiar with the spirit’s power structure and politics. Of all her favorites, you were certainly the most popular, and since you’re a powerful human wizard who bore her mark for years, you carry a large fraction of her will with you already. That should help ensure that as much power as possible survives the transfer. Really, I can’t think of anyone better suited for the task.

Eli closed his eyes. “Listen, old man, I can’t believe I’m having to explain this, but the Shepherdess or Shepherd or whatever is the Power responsible for every spirit in existence. Obviously you’re not a fan of my work, or you’d have realized by now that, overlooking today’s extremely uncharacteristic heroics, I’m probably the least responsible man in this oversized spirit preserve. Ask Miranda, she’ll vouch for me.” Eli glanced at the Spiritualist, who dutifully nodded her head. “See?”

The Weaver sighed. I’m sure you would be—

“No, I wouldn’t,” Eli said. “Even if I would make a fine Shepherd, I don’t want the job.”

The Weaver stared at him. Didn’t you hear me? There must be a—

“I don’t care,” Eli said, jerking his thumb at his chest. “Irresponsible, remember? And anyway, I’ve done my time. I’ve spent the last decade trying to get away from this boring white whatever. If you think I’m coming back of my own free will now that Benehime can’t make me, you’re crazier than the Shepherdess. I don’t care how much power is in that glow rock, count me out.”

The Weaver stared down at the glowing pearl in his hands. If you won’t take it, I don’t know who else could.

“I do,” Eli said. “And I cast my vote for Miranda.”

Eli bit back a grin as the Spiritualist jumped. Actually, the more he thought about this new solution, the better he liked it.

“It’s an inspired choice,” he went on. “I mean, she works all the time, she’s stubborn as a mountain, and she always has the spirits’ best interests at heart. I can’t even count how many times she’s nearly killed herself for some ungrateful ball of water or hunk of rock. Illir the West Wind is half in love with her already, so that’s the Wind Courts right there, and they’re always the worst. Even the Shaper Mountain respects her, and let’s not forget that you have her to thank for the fact that we have such a hardworking new Hunter. If she hadn’t bound the Lord of Storms, we might have ended up with Josef in the job, and then the world would really have been doomed.”

The Weaver tilted his head, staring at Miranda with new interest. For her part, the Spiritualist looked like someone had just dunked her in freezing water. Her mouth kept opening and closing, and she was staring bug-eyed at Eli like she was trying to choose between being flattered or punching him in the face. Since his face was one of the few parts of his body that didn’t hurt, Eli hurried to clinch the deal.

“She’s a wizard strong enough to power the Lord of Storms, who’s also utterly, almost pathologically dedicated to serving the spirits,” he said solemnly. “And I guarantee you she’s a much better choice than I am. In fact, I don’t think you could create a better candidate for Shepherdess if you tried.”

If that is true, then I would be glad to offer you the task, the Weaver said to Miranda, his face breaking into a warm smile. Considering all you have done for us already, Spiritualist, I would be honored to call you sister.

Miranda just sat there, her eyes flicking between the Weaver, Eli, and the white seed in the Weaver’s hands. Eli could almost see the wheels turning in her head, and he kept his face earnest, willing her to accept. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said she would be a good choice, but he’d left out the part where such a choice would benefit him doubly. If Miranda became Shepherdess, the world would get a competent minder for the first time in centuries, and the Spirit Court would lose the only person they had who could possibly catch him. He’d miss their rivalry, true, but it was a small price to pay for the good of the world, and he was in a heroic mood today.

Finally, after almost two minutes of silence, Miranda took a deep breath, and Eli burst into a wide grin. She was going to do it. He could see it by the way her mouth was set in that responsible frown of hers. But as he was celebrating in his mind, planning all the work he was going to do in Zarin now that the Spiritualist was out of the way, Miranda opened her mouth and ruined everything.

“No.”

No? the Weaver said.

“No?!” Eli shouted at the same time.

Miranda glared at them both. “I won’t be Shepherdess, but not because I don’t want the job. All my life I’ve had to face the knowledge that I can’t help every spirit, that I can’t fix every bad thing. As Shepherdess, I could, and that’s very tempting, but it’s also wrong.” She lifted her head, chin set at that stubborn angle that made Eli’s heart sink. “I can’t accept because I don’t think there should be a Shepherdess at all.”

Eli buried his face in his hands, but the Weaver said what he’d meant to anyway.

What in creation are you going on about?

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now,” Miranda said. “When the Shaper Mountain showed Slorn and me his memories, he showed us the world as it was before the Shepherdess. A world of change under a sky full of stars. A world without Powers.”

We needed none, the Weaver said. The Creator was with us then.

“The Creator didn’t manage the day-to-day life of the spirits,” Miranda said. “He was too busy creating what the demons destroyed. But the spirits, the winds and mountains, the seas, they lived free. As I understand it, the lessening wasn’t a problem then. Everything was awake and aware. Spirits grew instead of shrinking, and even though they lived under the constant threat of demon attack, they thrived. It was only after we entered the sphere that things started falling asleep, right?”

True, the Weaver said.

“How could they not?” Miranda said, holding out her hands. “There was nothing to fight, nothing to do, and nowhere to go. Even the demons weren’t a problem anymore, and the Shepherdess took care of everything. You said yourself that this was a lifeboat, not a home. Everything was under emergency rule, and as the emergency became the new normality, the spirits fell into complacency. With nothing to do, no power of their own, and no escape from the Shepherdess who demanded their loyalty rather than earning it, what other choice was there but to bury themselves deep and fall asleep?”

The Weaver started to speak, but Miranda looked down, clenching her fists in her lap. “I love the spirits,” she said. “I love serving them. I love protecting them. Ever since I first heard their voices as a little girl, I knew they were my calling. A Spiritualist was the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be, and I will not accept that slowly falling into a stupor is the only possible future for the spirits I’ve sworn to protect.

“But the Shepherdess got one thing right,” Miranda continued, lifting her hands to her chest. “Us. I’ve heard my whole life that she made us blind, but that’s not all she made us. We each have a bit of her will. That’s how we’re able to command the spirits, because we each carry an echo of her power.”

And that’s why one of you must become the Shepherdess, the Weaver said.

“No,” Miranda said again, shaking her head. “I’ve always noticed that spirits who live around humans are more awake than spirits who live in solitude. If the world really was lessening like you say, then all the spirits should be falling asleep at the same rate, but they’re not. A Shaper’s work stays awake for years in the hand of a good wizard, and in Zarin even the cobblestones wake easily. Do you see what I’m saying?”

No. The Weaver sighed.

“I do,” Eli said. He pushed himself up on his elbows, biting back the nausea so he could look Miranda in the eye. “You’re saying spirits are falling asleep because there’s nothing to do. They’ve been locked up in this tiny box with a Shepherdess who spent her whole life trying to keep them calm. She told them what to think and what to say and gave them no challenges and no real threats other than humans, and then never for more than our short life spans.” He felt himself starting to smile. “Horrible as Gaol was, everything there was awake. The threat of the duke kept them that way.”

“Right,” Miranda said, her face lighting up. “Of course, I’m not saying we should terrify the world, but I am saying that if we want spirits to stop sliding into sleep, if we want the world to grow again rather than settle, we’re going to have to change the way we do things. Now is not the time to thrust another Power back on top of the heap. We have to give the spirits power over their own lives again, like it was always meant to be.”

That would be a disaster, the Weaver said. Spirits are panicky in the best of times. They’ll tear each other apart without a Shepherdess.

“Only because they’ve been told for so long that they can’t live without her,” Miranda said heatedly. “Of course spirits are panicky. They have no power. But I have seen spirits stand against demonseeds even when they can’t do anything. Spirits as a whole may be prone to panic, but that’s true for humans, too. Individually, any of us can be brave if we have cause to stand firm. I’ve worked as a Spiritualist all my adult life, and the one thing I’ve learned over and over is that the spirits are all different. Some are clever, some are helpful, some are stupid, and some are cruel, but they’re all individuals, and they don’t deserve to have their choices made for them without their say, even by someone who has their best interests at heart.”

What would you have us do, then? the Weaver said. Let the Shepherdess’s power rot?

“No,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “Give it to the spirits. You said it yourself. This is their world. For five thousand years they’ve had an all-powerful mother telling them how to live. Their complaints were ignored and their voices silenced whenever they questioned her rule. Under such a system, how could the world do anything but stagnate? Well, I say enough. This world may have been created as a temporary shelter, but it’s our home now. If we want to keep living in it, we need to accept the truth that things change, and so must the Powers if they are to keep serving the world they were created to nourish and sustain.”

Change how? the Weaver said. This world stands on our work.

“On you and the Hunter’s work,” Miranda said. “But the world doesn’t need a Shepherdess any longer. If you want to avoid spirits sinking into sleep, then you shouldn’t use that seed to create a new Shepherdess. You should use it to give all spirits a fraction of the Shepherdess’s will, just as humans have. That way, just as one human’s will cannot dominate another’s, so will all spirits be free of human control.”

Impossible, the Weaver said. They will crush you because you cannot see or hear enough to understand.

“So take away our blindness,” Miranda said. “Let humans see and hear as the spirits do so that we can all understand the world we live in. With will, the spirits will no longer be helpless victims of humans or demons. They’ll be able to stand against whatever comes, just as we do. Share the Shepherdess’s power, give the world a reason to wake up, and we will make this lifeboat into a world we can all thrive in. A world where no one has power over another simply by virtue of being human. Our world, spirits, humans, and Powers, all working together to make a place worth saving, a world that can grow.”

The Weaver closed his eyes. You ask a great thing, girl.

“The world is fading,” Miranda said. “I could ask nothing less.”

The Weaver bowed his head, sinking deep into thought. Eli glanced at Miranda, but her eyes were locked on the Weaver and the glowing pearl in his hands. Finally, the old Power nodded.

So be it, he said. But such a thing can be done only by the Shepherdess. Someone will have to take on the power in order to give it away.

Without a word, Miranda reached for the collar around her neck. She lifted the heavy gold chain over her head and carefully laid it aside. Next, she plucked her rings off one by one, piling them beside the chain. The pendant under her robes went last, and she lined it up beside the others, careful not to tangle the chain.

Once all her spirits were lying on the floor, Miranda solemnly held out her hand. The Weaver reached out and gently placed the Shepherdess’s seed in her palm. The moment the white pearl touched her skin, Miranda changed.

She made no sound, only shivered as the whiteness flooded over her body, washing away her color and her humanity in a great bleaching tide. Her skin was now as white as the floor she knelt on, as white as the robe across her shoulders. Her curly hair was like a snowdrift around her face, and her sharp green eyes were as pale as frost when they opened again, a silver rim the only thing separating her iris from the white of her eye.

Eli shuddered when he saw her. He couldn’t help it. The face was still Miranda’s, with its tilted nose and stern mouth, so was the unruly hair. But though he told himself color was the only thing missing, he couldn’t help seeing the resemblance. The Shepherdess’s presence clung to her like a shadow. The stillness of her chest, the fall of her white hair across her face, everything about her screamed of Benehime until Eli could barely look at her without bile rising in his throat.

As the white woman raised her head, Eli could almost hear the hated endearments on her lips. But then the woman spoke, and it was Miranda’s voice cut through with that strange resonance all the Powers shared. The words weren’t even directed at Eli, and there were only three.

Use it well.

She whispered the command, and then Eli heard something shatter. All at once, the power left Miranda as quickly as it had come, the whiteness draining away. Her eyes closed in pain, and she fell backward, nearly landing on her head.

Eli’s arm shot forward, grabbing her just before she hit. He winced as he touched her. Her skin was freezing, and though the faintest touch of the Shepherdess’s burn lingered, it faded quickly, leaving only a shell behind.

Eli cursed and sat up, ignoring his churning stomach as he pressed his hands against Miranda’s neck. She was breathing and her pulse was strong, but she was out cold. Just as he was about to pry her eyes open to test her pupils, Miranda seized up and launched into a coughing fit. Eli laughed with relief, pounding her back.

As the coughing faded, she pushed him off and started replacing her rings. “Did it work?” she whispered, her voice raw.

The Weaver smiled. See for yourself.

All at once, the Shepherdess’s sphere spun into view. The crumples and cracks were gone, and it hung perfect in the air once again, its gentle curve filled with glittering seas, green forests, and golden deserts. But the colors weren’t as clear as Eli remembered.

Worried, he leaned in for a closer look and saw that it wasn’t the colors that were fading. The air itself was tinged with white.

All across the world, a fine white rain was falling. The shimmering drops fell not from the clouds but from the dome of the sky itself, falling on every rock, every wind, every tree. They sparkled like diamonds in the light of the restored sun, falling thick as a blizzard over the whole of the world. Wherever they landed, the white drops sunk in with a faint flash, and whatever they sank into changed.

All across the sphere, the damage done by the loss of the stars and the demon invasion began to right itself. Toppled forests pushed themselves up. Rivers returned to their beds, taking their silt back with them. The churning sea retreated, drawing back its water and salt to leave the coast bone dry and fertile again. One by one, every spirit in the world seemed to tremble to life, and as they woke, the sphere began to vibrate with the sound of their voices.

When the change was finished, only the mountains remained silent. They had been hit worst of all by the demons, especially the Master of the Dead Mountain, and they were slow to change by nature. But at their heart, the Shaper Mountain stood taller than ever before, its white slopes shining like a great beacon to all the rest, its deep, rumbling voice calling them forward until, with slow, grinding effort, the mountains began the long, tedious work of filling in that which had been sundered.

When the flurry of motion finally finished, the Weaver leaned back and ran a tired hand across his face. I hope you’re prepared for what you’ve unleashed, he said. It’s all different now. You’re no longer wizards. Nothing is. Even those rings of yours don’t have to obey you anymore.

Miranda gave him a superior glare and started carefully sliding her rings back onto her fingers. “If you think a Spiritualist needs magical dominance to keep her spirits, Weaver, you obviously don’t know much about our order.”

The Weaver’s eyes widened, and Eli started to laugh. Everything might have changed, but Miranda would always be prickly about her spirits.

“Cut the poor man some slack,” he said, grinning wide. “You’ve just given him a world of headaches. Imagine, rocks with will, trees who can scream in terror when the lumberjack comes to chop them down. Spirit sight and hearing for all! It’s going to be a madhouse.”

“Then the Spirit Court will do its job, as always,” Miranda said. “I mean to put every Spiritualist I have into helping the world adjust to the changes. It won’t be easy, but at least there won’t be any more Enslavers to worry about.” She glanced at Eli out of the corner of her eye. “Or wizard thieves abusing their power.”

Eli leaned back, folding his hands under his head with a broad grin. “Lady,” he said, “you have no idea.”

Miranda’s look of alarm made him burst into laughter, and Eli let it go, laughing in utter freedom for the first time he could ever remember.