The Spirit Eater

CHAPTER 16

Eli woke with a start. He was lying on his side, curled in a ball on a cold stone floor with his face pressed against a stone wall. He lifted his head away from the wall and gave his limbs an experimental wiggle. Tied, of course, ankles, legs, arms, and hands. He sighed and flopped his head back down on the stone. This captured thing was becoming depressingly frequent. Still, he wasn’t wet anymore, which meant he wasn’t with Miranda, and that greatly improved his chances of escape. Spiritualist spirits were so stingy. Of course, if he wasn’t with Miranda, where was he?

Slowly, painfully, Eli wiggled against his bindings, turning by fractions until he was on his back. Unfortunately, this only made him more confused. He was in a cave, a high one from the little scrap of sky he could see through the distant opening. A thin, cold breeze blew across him, carrying the smell of snow. He sniffed again, searching for woodsmoke or pine, but he caught nothing but wet stone and frozen water. Wherever he was, he was far away from Izo’s camp, far away from anywhere, and that, much more than the ropes, posed a problem.

Eli started wiggling again, turning until his back was to the wall. First rule of thievery, always know what’s around you. The cave was quite small, barely six feet across and twice as deep, with a ceiling low enough to make a child claustrophobic. Still, despite the cave’s tiny dimensions, it took three look-overs for Eli to realize he wasn’t alone.

Sted’s enormous shape took up the entire back of the cave, his dull clothes blending perfectly into the dark stone. He was hunched over with his eyes closed, his right arm resting on his knees and his head touching the cave’s ceiling even sitting down. His other arm he held cradled against his chest, the black claws twitching. Even in the dark, what little Eli could see of the claw was enough to make him ill. It was simply too alien, too inhuman, the way the black, hard shell met Sted’s flesh in that sickening melding at the shoulder…

Eli shuddered and looked away before he really was sick. But as he lay there waiting for his stomach to calm down, he realized something else. With the exception of the place where his hideous arm connected to his body, Sted had been uninjured. Frowning, Eli snuck another glance, just to be sure. It was true. Sted’s clothes were blackened in places, ripped in others, but his flesh was whole and uninjured.

Eli bit his lip. Sted was a demonseed, that much was obvious, but even Nico didn’t heal instantly. This left two possibilities: Either he’d been out longer than he thought, or Miranda had gone down very quickly. Neither was a possibility he liked to consider.

Sted’s eyes were closed, but Eli was sure he wasn’t asleep. Never one to lie in silence, Eli took the opportunity to speak first.

“Congratulations!” he said, lifting his head to grin at Sted. “You’ve caught—”

“Shut up.” Sted’s voice was flat and annoyed. He opened his eyes a fraction, revealing the eerie, unnatural glow beneath the heavy lids. “Prisoners who talk too much end up dead.”

“That would be some very expensive silence,” Eli tsked. “I’m worth much more alive.”

“You think I care about money?”

Eli considered. “No. No, I don’t think you do.”

Sted nodded and lapsed back into silence. After about three minutes, Eli couldn’t bear it any longer.

“At the risk of the aforementioned premature death,” Eli said in his most charming voice, “would you mind if I ask why you took me from the Spiritualist? Doesn’t seem your style, quite frankly.”

Sted said nothing. As the minutes stretched on, Eli resigned himself to curiosity. But then, suddenly, Sted answered.

“I took you to force Izo’s hand,” he said. “That idiot was going to give Josef Liechten to the Council, but now that I have you, all that’s changed. Izo will have no choice but to give me my fight.”

“Hold on,” Eli said, wiggling along the stone floor until he could look at Sted straight on. “You stole me, Eli Monpress, greatest thief in the world, a ninety-eight-thousand gold-standard bounty, just so you could fight Josef?” If his hands hadn’t been tied, he would have thrown them up in the air. “Powers, man, he’d fight you for free. Just take me back. I’m sure he’ll oblige.”

“I will,” Sted said. “In three days.”

Eli frowned. “What happens in three days?”

“I’m letting him heal,” Sted said simply. “My victory over the Heart of War and its wielder is not something I want polluted by a handicap. I will fight Leichten when he’s at full strength or not at all. You’re here to ensure I am not rushed or dictated by the petty ego of that bandit thug. Once I’ve defeated Josef, I’ll set you free.”

“Set me free?” Eli said. “Just like that?”

“Or kill you,” Sted said, tilting his head. “Depends on how generous I’m feeling and how much trouble you make for me. Whatever happens, you won’t be going back to Izo. That bastard deserves nothing, trading away what he’d already promised.”

“Well,” Eli said, “he is a bandit.”

Sted gave him a murderous look, and Eli snapped his jaw shut.

When he was sure the thief would stay silent, Sted continued. “In three days, we head back down the mountain. Until then, you’re going to sit there and not talk. And don’t even think about escaping. I don’t sleep much these days, and your dead carcass will still buy me my fight. Am I being clear?”

“Decidedly,” Eli said. “But can I ask you one last question?”

Sted frowned. “You can ask.”

“You used to be League, or that’s what Josef told me after your fight,” Eli said. “So why did you kill Nivel? When Pele said you took Nivel’s seed, I assumed it was some internal League struggle. But now it’s clear that you took Nivel’s seed for yourself, even though Josef said you were spirit deaf. So, why? How did it happen? Why did you switch?”

“To fight Josef Liechten,” Sted said simply. “I made a deal. A bad one on both sides, as it turned out, but I won’t give up until Josef Liechten is lying dead at my feet. He’s the only man who ever truly bested me, and if I’m going to die, I’ll die undefeated.”

Eli’s eyebrows shot up. “But—”

He swallowed his words at Sted’s glare. Clearly, that was all the answer he’d be getting. Turning away from Sted’s uncomfortable, glowing gaze, Eli rolled back toward the wall. He wiggled a bit, trying to find the most comfortable angle, but it was hopeless. Finally, he gave up and flopped on his back, staring up at the low stone ceiling.

It was going to be a very long three days.

Gin crashed through the forest, panting as he jumped over fallen logs and scrambled up slopes slick with fallen leaves. Miranda hunched low on his back, doing her best to avoid looking at the lightening sky or thinking about the fact that they’d already passed that rock formation twice before. But even as she tried to keep hope alive, the ghosthound padded to a stop at the edge of a creek.

“It’s no good,” he panted. “They’re gone. Sted was too fast. I don’t even know if we’re in the right part of the mountains anymore.”

“Just a little farther,” Miranda said, clenching her hands in his fur. “We just need a hint of his scent.”

“He’s gone.” Gin snapped the words, then shook his head and lowered his tongue to the swift water, drinking deeply. “I lost him hours ago,” he said when he was finished. “We need a different plan.”

“Like what?” Miranda said, gritting her teeth. “Go back to the bandits? Wait?”

“We’re not going to find him by wandering around,” Gin snarled.

His tone stopped her cold, and Miranda leaned back. He’d been running all night; of course he was tired. They were both tired, but the idea of going back to that camp empty-handed, of letting Eli slip through her hands again…

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Gin’s neck. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lose again, not like this. But what else was there to do? Saying he couldn’t find Eli wasn’t something Gin would admit unless he was truly out of options. The forest was huge, and they didn’t even know if Sted had continued north or changed direction entirely. No, finding him in the woods would require more luck than she had. She needed to reconsider her options.

Miranda took a deep breath and forced herself to think clearly. There were only two reasons Sted would have taken Eli: the bounty or as a bargaining chip against Izo. That meant he would eventually be headed either toward Zarin or back to Izo’s camp. She discarded the bounty idea immediately. If Sted was going to Zarin, then he was already so far ahead of her there was little point in giving chase, and Eli would end up in custody whether she caught him or not. Also, whatever Sted was, he certainly didn’t seem like the type to walk into Lord Whitefall’s office and ask for a voucher. And there was that display last night. No, Sted was after Izo. She was sure of it, and that meant he’d be heading back to the camp.

Miranda grimaced. As much as the idea of going back to Sparrow empty-handed grated, she had to admit it was the best choice. Also, Josef and Nico were still at the camp. If Eli escaped from Sted, that’s where he’d go, and if Sted wanted something from Izo, that’s where he’d take the thief.

“All right, mutt,” she muttered into Gin’s fur. “Take us back to Izo’s.”

But the ghosthound didn’t answer. He was standing still as a statue below her, staring down the stream bank.

Miranda looked around. “What?”

“We’re being watched,” Gin growled low in his throat, ears going flat against his head.

Miranda pressed herself against his back, mentally nudging her rings awake. She winced when she was forced to skip over Kirik’s smoldering ember, but she couldn’t think about that now. “Is it Sted?” she whispered, slightly hopeful.

“No.” Gin was growling full tilt now. “It’s a wizard.”

Miranda was about to ask how he could be so sure when a man appeared on the bank a dozen feet downstream. Miranda didn’t see where he had come from—he seemed to just appear from the woods—but once she saw him, she could look at nothing else. There, walking toward her, was a large man with a bear’s head. She thought it was a mask until she saw the eyes staring at her, intelligent and dark above the sharp-toothed muzzle. Miranda swallowed and began to call her spirits. But even as she reached for the threads of power that tied her to her rings, the bear-headed man stopped and put up his hands.

“I mean no harm, Spiritualist.” The voice that came from the bear’s mouth was deep and gruff, but undeniably human. “You seem to be lost and in need of some assistance.”

“We need no assistance,” Miranda said carefully.

“No?” The bear face looked skeptical. “Do you always keep your fire spirit on the brink of flickering out, then?”

Miranda paled, and the bear-headed man smiled. “I thought not,” he said. “Miranda Lyonette would never put her spirits in such danger unless things were very grave.”

“How do you know my name?”

The bear-headed man laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “There aren’t many Spiritualists who ride ghosthounds and carry great seas inside their bodies. For those of us who study spirits, you’re quite the oddity. I would know, being somewhat of an oddity myself.” He touched his muzzle with his hand. “Come,” he said, turning. “Let’s get your fire stoked before it flickers out. I can hardly bear to look at it.”

Gin did not budge an inch, and Miranda made no move to force him. “Who are you?”

The bear-headed man kept walking down the bank. “I’m Heinricht Slorn. Now come.”

For a long moment, Gin and Miranda could only stare at his retreating back. Then Miranda looked down at Kirik’s dark ruby, and they followed.

The bear-headed man led them up the creek bank to a row of tall bushes, the deep green, waxy-leafed kind that thrive on steep mountain slopes. He pushed the branches gently aside and turned to motion Miranda forward like a well-mannered host inviting guests into his estate. Miranda dismounted stiffly and ducked under the branches. Gin eyed the tiny space with scorn and lay down on the bank. Slorn waited a moment more, and then he turned and followed Miranda into the canopy, letting the branches fall quietly behind him.

Miranda had not gone more than a few steps into the bushes before she stopped, staring in amazement. Parked at the heart of the little grove was a large wagon. No, that wasn’t right. Wagons had wheels. This was shaped like a wooden traveler’s wagon, complete with a rounded wooden roof, shuttered windows, a chimney pipe, and a set of folding steps going up to a painted door. But down at the bottom, in the spots where the wheels should have been, were six long, splayed legs. Each leg stuck out from the wagon’s body at a right angle and cornered sharply at a knobby joint before reaching the ground on a wide, flat foot with five splayed toes, like a lizard’s. Each leg appeared to be newly carved from green wood, bright yellow-white and smelling of sawdust, and they sprang from the cart as though they had grown there. There were no joints, no nails, just the fresh wood of the legs lying flush against the older, stained wood of the wagon’s body, molded together as though they’d always been that way. She was still trying to make sense of it when she saw something even stranger. The legs shuffled, adjusting their weight, each one flexing and adjusting its splayed foot so that the cart sat slightly closer to the ground as Slorn came up and flipped down the little stair.

“There,” he said, smiling as the red-painted door opened for him of its own accord. “Come in and we’ll have a look at your ring.”

“How did you do that?” Miranda said, and then bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like a child gawking at a street magician’s trick, but Slorn didn’t bat an eye.

“I’m a Shaper,” he said as he stepped inside, as though that explained everything.

Well, Miranda thought, in a way it did. Even Master Banage wasn’t exactly sure how the Shapers did what they did. One thing was certain, though, the bear-headed man wasn’t abusing his spirits. She could practically hear the wood beaming as she gawked at it, the legs shifting to show the cart at its best. That pride made her feel more comfortable than any assurance Slorn could have given, and she hurried up the folding stair after him.

The covered wagon was much more spacious than she would have guessed from the outside. One wall was lined with hinged bins, all neatly latched and labeled. The other was taken up by a folding cot, now stowed away, and a little table that bolted to the floor. Slorn was already sitting on one of the folding seats, his large hands fussing with the small iron stove just large enough to heat a kettle that was built into the wall just above the table.

Slorn unlatched the cold grate and placed a few sticks of wood into the stove’s tiny iron belly. “There,” he said, leaning back. “Put your ring in.”

“Are you sure?” Miranda said, unfolding the chair opposite him and sitting down. “Kirik’s a bonfire spirit. I don’t want to risk your wagon.”

Slorn’s bear eyes widened, and he looked at the stove. “What do you think?”

The stove made a scornful sound. “I’ve never met a fire I couldn’t contain,” it said, opening its grate wider. “Give him to me.”

Miranda blinked in surprise, first that the grate was awake, and second that it was so confident. She slipped Kirik’s ring from her finger and placed it with the wood in the stove’s belly. The second her hand was clear, the stove snapped shut and a blast of hot air hit her face as the fire crackled to life. A surge of relief radiated up Kirik’s connection, and Miranda felt like sobbing with relief herself.

Across the table, Slorn’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “My stove is very good with fires,” he said. “An hour and your Kirik should be good as new.” He reached overhead, taking a shiny copper kettle from a hook on the ceiling. “It would be a shame to waste the heat; may I offer you some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Miranda said, still shaking.

Slorn got up and walked over to the water barrel, holding the kettle crooked as the water arced up the spout of its own accord. Impressed as she would have been, Miranda saw none of it. Her eyes were locked on the roaring blaze behind the stove’s grate as a great lump of guilt rose up in her throat. She hadn’t realized how close she’d come to losing Kirik. Her thoughts went to Gin outside; Gin, who’d run all night for her. Her mind flashed back to the night before, to Gin retreating, blood dripping from his muzzle as he glared at Sted. Was he really all right, or had she been too blind in her pursuit to see? What had she been thinking, fighting a demonseed? She should have tossed Monpress at his head rather than risk her spirits. Miranda clenched her fists. She was becoming as obsessed with him as everyone else seemed to be. What must Slorn think of her, a Spiritualist who nearly killed her fire for a thief? What would Master Banage say?

She jumped as Slorn placed two steaming mugs on the table and looked up to find him staring at her, his dark eyes almost human in the glow from the stove.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said. “It’s a strong spirit’s deepest nature to fight a demon and save the weaker ones from the panic. That you were able to pull the fire back before it was devoured is a sign of the deep bond of trust between you.”

Miranda gaped at him. “How did you know?”

“What?” Slorn said. “About the demonseed? What else could do that to a spirit? Also, I’ve been keeping an eye on Izo’s camp for some time.” His voice deepened into a growl. “There’s a man there I have unfinished business with.”

Miranda swallowed, suddenly very aware of Slorn’s massive jaw full of sharp, yellow teeth. “Is that why you wrote to Sara for help?”

“At the simplest level, yes,” Slorn said, his voice suddenly calm and smooth again. “But Sara and I have been professional colleagues long enough that I knew a simple letter wouldn’t be enough to get her to act, at least not in the immediate, large-scale way I needed her to. That’s why I made sure my daughter knew how to find Monpress, and that Sara would find out.”

“Wait,” Miranda said. “You mean that wasn’t a leak?”

“Of course not,” Slorn said. “At this point, I can afford to leave nothing to chance. I tracked Sted alone as long as I could, but as soon as it became clear he was entering Izo’s service, I knew I needed a larger pressure than I could provide myself. I needed the Council, which meant I needed Sara, and if anyone can get that woman to play her cards, it’s Eli Monpress.”

“Hold on. You’re after Sted?” Miranda knew she was just repeating things now, but she really could not believe what she was hearing. “Why? Demonseeds are League business. Why waste time fussing around with Sara and Eli? Five League members could clear out Izo’s entire camp in an hour. You seem to have more connections than Lord Whitefall himself, so I can’t believe you don’t have a way to contact the League.”

Slorn leaned back, his inhuman face suddenly distant, and Miranda snapped her mouth shut. She’d said too much. She gripped the handle of her mug, waiting for a rebuke, but when the bear-headed man spoke, his voice was gruff and low.

“Can I tell you a story?”

Confused, Miranda nodded.

Slorn took a deep breath. “Ten years ago, my wife, Nivel, disappeared. We were both Shapers then, wizards of the Shaper Mountain. Up there, in the snow, we are always in the shadow of the Dead Mountain. When a wizard disappears, like Nivel did, it usually means only one thing. They were taken by the mountain.”

Slorn stopped here, and Miranda watched nervously, unsure if she should offer comfort or simply wait for him to continue. Fortunately, Slorn made the choice for her.

“Because of this, to protect ourselves and our mountain, the Shapers have a law. Any wizard who vanishes is considered dead. Should they be seen again alive, they are to be given to the League as a demonseed. When Nivel vanished, I was prepared to mourn her. But then, suddenly, she came back.”

Slorn looked up, dark eyes flashing. “Do you know what it is like, Spiritualist? To see the dead walk again? I expected a monster, but she was the same Nivel I married, my best friend, the mother of my daughter.”

“She wasn’t taken by the mountain?” Miranda said.

Slorn shook his head. “No,” he said darkly. “You misunderstand me. She was what we feared, she was a demonseed. But what I had never been told, what I never prepared for, was that the person would remain unchanged. Nivel had always been strong, always forceful and determined. None of that had changed. She knew what had happened to her. She could feel the seed, but she did not want to give up, and I could not let them take her. So we did the only thing we could do: we ran. We fled the Shapers with our child, and for the last ten years we dedicated our lives to studying demonseeds, how to hide them, how to control them, and, ultimately, how to defeat them. Ten years, Spiritualist. Most seeds survive for one if they’re quiet, but through constant deals with the League, constant concessions, we held on. And we were making progress, learning so much. But then, a month ago, all of that was ruined. Sted, then just a defeated swordsman, snuck into the valley where my wife was hidden. She was deep in the seed’s trance and she could not fight back. He killed her and took her seed into his own body, becoming what before this I would have named impossible, a nonwizard demonseed.” Slorn stood up, walking over to gaze out the wagon’s tiny window. “I have been tracking him ever since.”

“I see,” Miranda said softly as his words faded. “You want revenge for your wife. But still, surely the League could help. That’s their job, isn’t it?”

Slorn began to chuckle, the sound horrible and out of place in his menacing mouth. “Again,” he said, turning to look at her, “you misunderstand me. If it was only revenge I desired, I could have had that long ago. I could have called the Lord of Storms down that very day, but it’s more complicated than that. Do you know what the League does with demonseeds?”

Miranda shook her head.

“First,” Slorn said, “the host body is killed. Demon-possessed spirits are fearsome combatants, which is why all League members must be excellent fighters, but after the fight is when the League’s true function becomes clear. When the host body has been defeated, the League member splits it open. Carves it straight down the middle, like a hunter gutting a deer, and takes the seed. Depending on how long the seed was active and how many spirits it ate, the seed can be anywhere from one inch to a foot in length.

“Demonseeds are the product of a seed being placed in a host,” Slorn continued. “The host can be killed, but the seeds themselves are not from our sphere and cannot be destroyed by any known method. The best the League can do is lock them away. They have a great vault in their headquarters, a storehouse of every seed they’ve ever purged. Once a seed enters their possession, it never comes out again.”

Slorn looked her straight in the eyes. “Nivel and I both knew it would end eventually,” he said. “Maybe not as it did, but still, no one can fight forever. However, the final stage of our research requires the seed itself. There is so much more it can tell us, so many questions to answer. If I let the League get ahold of Sted, then the seed inside him, Nivel’s seed, disappears forever into their vault, and ten years of the work my wife suffered for with it. That, Spiritualist, is why I needed Sara, why I needed you and Monpress and this whole farce. I’m fairly certain Sted, being spirit deaf, will never muster enough power to awaken the seed by himself. Already, not being a wizard, he can’t generate the kind of fear usually associated with demonseeds, so the League is searching blindly. That gives me a good chance, especially now that he’s stolen Monpress.”

Miranda started. “How did you know about that?”

Slorn gave her a look. “I told you, I’ve been watching everything. How else do you think I found you out here?”

Miranda knew she looked petulant, but she couldn’t help it. Lately, it seemed she was always the last to know anything.

“Don’t worry about your thief,” Slorn said, resting his elbows on the table. “Sted is a blunt man who lives only to beat the wielder of the Heart. He cares nothing for Eli’s bounty or his true power. He only took the thief to get a hand up on Izo. Now that the prize everybody’s after is safely in his possession, Sted is free to demand what he really wants, a rematch with Josef Liechten.”

“How can you sound so pleased about it?” Miranda said. “I know Josef has the Heart, but this is a demonseed.” Her mind flitted back to the ruined throne room in Mellinor, to Nico crouching in the dark, her eyes glowing like lanterns while the world screamed around her, and she shivered. If that was a controlled demonseed in a little girl’s body, she’d hate to see what a brute like Sted could become.

“I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Liechten,” Slorn said. “Sted may be a demonseed, but he’s a mediocre swordsman. The Heart, on the other hand, doesn’t let just anyone swing it around.”

Miranda frowned, sipping her tea. She was still turning things over in her mind when a metallic clank nearly startled her out of her seat. Across the table, the oven popped open, spilling out a geyser of blisteringly hot air.

“Ah,” Slorn said. “Good work.”

Without tongs or mitts, he reached his hand into the roaring stove. Miranda was about to shout a warning when she saw the fire peeling back for him. When he took his hand out again, Kirik’s ring was sitting in his open palm, the ruby glowing like a red lamp. Miranda took the ring from his hand. The gold was warm to the touch, but nowhere near as hot as it should have been. Inside, she could feel Kirik sleeping, happy and content and fully himself with no sign of his previous injury.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, sliding the ring lovingly onto her thumb.

“No need,” Slorn said. “I would be a poor wizard indeed if I saw a spirit like that and did nothing.”

Miranda sat turning her ring on her finger as Slorn cleaned the embers from the stove and restowed the kettle on its hook. By the time he’d finished tidying up, she’d come to a decision.

“Slorn,” she said, sitting up. “Take me with you.”

The bear-headed man turned to look at her, curious, and Miranda continued. “I owe Sted a thing or two myself. Let me help you take him down. If I go back to Izo’s now, I won’t be able to do anything except go along with everyone else’s plans. You seem to know everything, but you may not know that Sparrow has orders from Sara to make sure you come back to Zarin with us, whether you want to or not. Take me with you and I’ll keep him back long enough for you to get out with the seed.”

“A generous offer,” Slorn said, scratching his muzzle. “And in return, I suppose, I look the other way while you capture Monpress.”

Miranda winced. She wasn’t used to people seeing straight through her like this. “I know he’s your friend,” she started. “But—”

“You misunderstand me again,” Slorn said. “I’ll gladly take your help. Monpress reaps what he sows, but he knew that when he decided to become a thief. Besides, I imagine he rather likes having someone as dedicated as yourself on his trail. He would be cross with me if I tried to protect him.”

Miranda chuckled. Slorn’s words made sense in the twisted, Eli-logic sort of way.

“Well,” Slorn said, “if we’re going to be working together, the first thing I’ll ask is that you get some sleep. You’ve been riding all night, and I can’t have that sort of a liability on my hands. I’m going outside to check up on a few things. You can use my bunk in the meanwhile.”

Miranda tried to protest, but Slorn was pulling the folding bed down, its crisp, white sheets already tucked into place. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket from a cabinet beside the door and tossed them on the bed.

“Sleep well,” he said. “We’ll discuss strategy in a few hours when your mind is awake.”

He gave her a polite nod and vanished down the stairs, the red-painted door falling quietly shut behind him. Miranda stood there a minute more before she gave in, flopping down with a loud sigh on the surprisingly soft trundle bed. She had barely kicked her boots off before she was asleep, her head pillowed on the pile of blankets Slorn had left for her.

Slorn heard the growling before he’d reached the wagon’s bottom step. He turned to see the Spiritualist’s ghosthound lying at the entrance to the dense bushes, his enormous orange eyes watching Slorn in a way that was far too predatory for comfort.

Slorn stared right back. “She’s asleep.”

“I can tell that,” the ghosthound said. “I presume we’re throwing our lot in with you, then?”

“For the time being,” Slorn said, nodding. “Is there something you’d like to add?”

“If that’s what Miranda says, then that’s what we’re doing,” the ghosthound said with a yawn. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t need to rip your throat out before going to sleep.”

Slorn heard the wagon hiss, and he put his hand on the wood, sending out a calming tendril of his spirit. The hound yawned again, showing an impressive line of teeth, and then, almost in the same instant, he was asleep, curled in a ball with his long nose buried in his tail.

Slorn waited until he was sure the ghosthound wasn’t bluffing before letting out a long, low sigh. He had no doubt the dog would have killed him if he’d threatened the girl, no questions asked. Slorn shook his head, marveling. Shapers could blend spirits together in ways no other wizard could, but he’d never seen anyone who could match a good Spiritualist for spirit loyalty.

He whispered to the bushes, and they stretched out their branches to cover the dog’s sleeping form. It would be awhile before Sted moved again. There was plenty of time to let his guests sleep a bit before moving on. Meanwhile, he would gather more information.

Slorn turned and walked out of his hidden camp, climbing farther up the slope until he reached the crest. They were high up, higher than his own Turning Wood, and the air was cold and swift. Squinting, Slorn looked up and north, following the line of the cliffs until he spotted his wind riding high and bright over the sleeping mountain spirits. He raised his hands, sending a flash toward the wind. It danced a moment longer and then dropped down, spiraling through the trees until it ruffled the fur on his face, making his eyes water.

“The swordsman has agreed to the fight,” it whispered. “It was very hard to make out, I hope you know. The spirit deaf are so difficult to focus on.”

“I appreciate your efforts,” Slorn said. “What about Sted?”

The wind shivered when he said the name. “In the mountains, I think. He’s even harder to follow than the others. I can’t make out exactly what he is, but I don’t like him at all.”

Slorn wisely stayed silent on that. “Thank you very much for your help. I won’t forget it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re happy. Tell the West Wind,” the spirit said. “Why else do you think I’m doing this?”

“Of course.” Slorn nodded. Even after all these years, spirit politics baffled him, especially winds. “Would you mind going back to the camp?”

“If you like,” the wind sighed. “Staying in one place too long makes me ache.”

“It won’t be for long,” Slorn said. “I’ll join you there this evening. And I’ll be sure to inform the West Wind of the great pains you’ve taken to help us.”

This seemed to please the wind immensely, and it took off with a great whoosh, shaking the thin trees as it flew skyward and turned south, back toward Izo’s camp. Slorn watched it go, staring up at the blue dome of the sky until his wind was long gone and replaced by other winds, all moving like great currents through the sky.

He was about to turn back when a flash of movement caught his eye.

As always, something inside him, inside the deep animalistic instincts he’d inherited when he let the bear into his soul, told him to look away, but the stronger part, the curious, purely human side of him, tilted his head upward. There, above the snowy mountaintops, above the winds, something was moving on the dome of the sky itself. It was a subtle motion, one he couldn’t have seen at all if he hadn’t been looking for it. He’d first noticed it years ago by chance. Now, against his better judgment, he looked whenever he caught a glimpse. High overhead, pressing against the arc of the sky itself like a weight pressed on a taut cloth, was the faint outline of a long, bony, clawed hand. As he watched, the hand scraped slowly downward, running long, sharp grooves in the sky that vanished the moment it passed, only to be replaced by another hand, sometimes smaller, sometimes larger, pressing down again.

Fear like no fear he’d ever felt before began to well up inside him, and a great need stronger than any instinct screamed at him to look away. Even so, he locked his eyes a moment longer, watching the hands scrape across the dome of the sky.

“Slorn?”

He jumped at the voice, whirling around to see the wind waiting, circling him in worried little circles.

“Yes,” he said, struggling to keep his voice normal.

“I just came back to let you know the West Wind told me to tell you to be kind to the Spiritualist girl. Who knows why. Spiritualists are busybodies, but Illir’s word is law.”

“I’ll look after her, don’t worry,” Slorn said, managing a weak smile.

The wind spun again. “Slorn.” Its voice was not nearly so certain this time. “What were you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Slorn lied. “Nothing at all.”

The wind made a frightened wheezing sound. “It’s not good to stare at the sky.”

“It’s nothing,” Slorn said again. “Off with you.”

The wind held on a moment longer and then whipped away, flying hard and fast between the trees. Slorn waited until it was completely gone before wiping the cold sweat from where the fur met his neck. When his breathing was steady again, he walked down the slope back toward the bushes. He did not look at the sky again.