Spirit’s End

EPILOGUE

One Week Later

Alber Whitefall sat in the tent that served as his temporary office and stared glumly at his ruined Citadel. He’d been told he should be happy, that Zarin had suffered far less than most places since Etmon Banage had been on hand to protect it, but the relative luck of his lot wasn’t much comfort right now. His eyes slid over the gaping hole in his entry hall roof, the broken tower that was still scattered across his courtyard, its hammered gold roof crumpled beyond recognition. Even ignoring the destruction of Sara’s levels, which he considered her fault and would be taking out of her budget, this was going to cost a fortune.

He reached for his tea, mentally adding up the cost of stone and timber. But as his fingers closed around the delicate porcelain teacup, the thing jerked away. “What did we talk about?” it said. “Gently, please.”

And then there were the other changes to deal with.

Alber gritted his teeth. “My apologies.”

“Just mind your fingers,” the cup said with a sniff, which was impressive since it didn’t have a nose. “I’m over a hundred years old, you know.”

Alber knew this very well. The cup had been reminding him of it every time he so much as tipped it the wrong way. He took a careful sip and set the cup on its saucer as gently as a mother with her new baby. When he managed to get his fingers back without further comment, Alber added find less-talkative teacup to his mental checklist. This led to a fit of nostalgia for happier days when his citadel was still in one piece and he didn’t have to worry about talkative teacups.

“Sir?”

Alber looked up to see a page standing at his tent flap. “The Rector is here.”

Whitefall nodded and the boy hurried off, leaving little swirling eddies of wind behind him. Alber shuddered despite himself. That was another thing he was never going to get used to, seeing things like wind. When the change had first come, he’d been sure he’d gone mad. A few minutes later it had become clear that, if he was going mad, he wasn’t going alone. Everyone, young and old, wizard or not, could suddenly see and hear an entire new world.

The initial panic had lasted about a day, after which people finally seemed to realize their talking doors weren’t going to eat them alive. Once that was out of the way, the shift to the new normal was almost terrifyingly swift. After all, there were still goods to sell and farms to mind, even if the goods were demanding a say in their handling now. Still, life rolled on, and the Spirit Court had played an invaluable part in making sure it rolled smoothly. Which was, of course, the entire reason he’d asked the Rector for this meeting.

The tent flap whispered again, politely this time, he noticed, and Alber turned to smile as the new Rector of the Spirit Court entered his tent. She was quite young for a Rector, not yet out of her twenties and a bit too pretty for most of the Council to take seriously, which was always their mistake. Even his limited experience had taught him that Miranda Lyonette never took anything less than absolutely seriously.

She was dressed for official business today in her crimson robes with the heavy chain of her office around her neck, the rings gleaming on her fingers with an unnatural light he no longer dismissed. “Rector Lyonette,” he said, taking her hand. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

“Merchant Prince,” the Rector said, inclining her head.

He escorted her to the velvet folding chair at the end of his makeshift desk. As she sat, he couldn’t help but notice there was something else in her, something large and blue. Alber walked around his desk and sat down, watching her covertly. He’d gotten used to the way humans looked now, but no one he’d encountered had the large presence in their chests that the Rector did. He was trying to puzzle out what the strange, fluctuating light behind her eyes meant when he realized the Rector had caught him staring.

He bit his tongue at being caught like a gawking schoolboy, but to his surprise, the Rector looked amused. “You can look if you like,” she said. “Mellinor’s a bit of a shock to most people, but I promise he’s not dangerous unless you give him cause to be.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” Whitefall said.

“Prying is fine,” the Rector said, laughing. “Curiosity’s a good thing in a new world. And he’s a sea, in case you were wondering.”

Whitefall nodded politely, wondering how in the world anyone got a sea in their body. Maybe such things were common for Spiritualists? “Does he always…”

“Live in me?” the Rector finished. “Yes. Well, we had a bit of a gap for a while, but everything shook out in the end.”

She beamed like this was the best possible news. Whitefall smiled back weakly and decided it was time to retake control of the conversation. After all, he hadn’t put off his meeting with the Council Trade Board so he could talk about seas.

“I’m sorry Sara couldn’t join us,” he said, getting down to business. “Prior obligations, I believe, what with things being how they are.”

That wasn’t a total lie. Sara had actually gone missing. This in itself wasn’t terribly unusual. The woman would often vanish without a trace for days on end if something caught her curiosity, and the new changes to the world were certainly curious. He’d been a bit surprised by her going this time, though, considering how she’d been mortally wounded not three days before. Then again, Sara never was one to let a little thing like a punctured lung stand between her and her work. Fortunately, the Rector took the news of Sara’s absence in stride.

“I understand,” Miranda said with a strange scowl. “Better for both of us, actually. I don’t much care to see Sara, either.”

That suited Whitefall just fine. Sara’s absence made this next bit easier.

“Rector Lyonette,” he said, leaning forward. “I asked you here rather than calling the full Council because I’d like to offer you a bit of a personal apology. Our two organizations haven’t exactly been on the best of terms in recent times, and I feel that, as Merchant Prince, I demanded things I should not have.”

That was a total lie. He had been completely reasonable right up to the cliff Banage had pushed him off. But swallowing your pride was as much a part of being Merchant Prince as the parades, and Alber had been a politician long enough to know the power of a little applied groveling.

“I was overzealous in the pursuit of what I thought would make my lands safer,” he continued. “And in the process, I fear I may have injured one of the oldest and most mutually beneficial relationships in my Council’s history.”

“You did,” Miranda said, though there was no anger in her voice. She was just stating a point. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t rebuild that trust.”

She looked at him and smiled. “I told you, it’s a new world, Whitefall. Everything’s different now. If you asked me here to reforge the ties between my Court and the Council of Thrones, then you don’t have to apologize. We are glad to offer our hands in friendship to anyone, provided they agree to the standards we have always set.”

“The right treatment of spirits,” Whitefall said, nodding.

“The fair and open treatment of spirits,” Miranda corrected. “The right treatment is expected of everyone. Anything less makes the Court your enemy.”

Whitefall sighed. “I find I grow tired of secrets, Rector Lyonette. From this day forward, I give you my word that my Council and its member countries will abide by your rules to the letter. In return, however, I would ask your assistance regarding the recent—”

“Of course,” Miranda said. “You just went from a Council of human kingdoms to a Council whose lands are now shared by Great Spirit dominions and the Wind Courts. Of course you need our help, and we give it gladly. My Court is at your disposal, Merchant Prince. We’re a little undercapacity at the moment, but we’ve had a surge of new applicants now that being a wizard isn’t a necessity of membership. I’ll assign a liaison to you first thing when I return. Bring all problems to him and we will do our best to help teach your people how to ease any difficulties you encounter. After all”—her smile grew into a grin—“we do have a little experience mediating between humans and spirits.”

“Yes, well, glad we could come to an understanding,” Whitefall said, rising again to see her out. “It’s been a bit of a shake-up for all of us. I’m still not quite sure how to move forward, actually. Tell me, do I need to negotiate with the stone masons for what it will cost to rebuild my citadel, or do I talk to the stones themselves and see if I can’t get a better rate?”

He’d meant this as a joke, but the Rector pursed her lips and peered over his shoulder at the fallen tower. “The stones look mostly fine to me,” she said. “Have you tried just asking them to repair themselves?”

Whitefall froze midstep. “No, actually.”

“Can’t hurt to ask,” she said. “Most natural things righted themselves when they woke up, but human-made structures often need human input to get themselves together again. I don’t think you’ll have much of a problem here, though. This place was very well built, and bright white stones fine enough to go into a citadel often like being fancy. They may jump back up on their own if you promise to keep your towers spotless. And if all else fails, you can always try a little charm. It’s worked before.”

That last bit was accompanied by a small eye roll that Whitefall wasn’t quite sure how to interpret, but he had the distinct feeling he’d missed out on a joke. “I’ll try your suggestion,” he said mildly, holding the flap for her. “And thank you again.”

She nodded and glanced up, staring at the sky. Frowning, Alber leaned out as well, stomach clenching. Ever since that awful day, he’d tried not to look at the sky for fear of spotting another crack, or worse, one of the horrible, unthinkable black hands. But the sky was clear and empty, its vault so blue he couldn’t even see the edges of the ever-present winds. He glanced back at the Rector to see if he’d missed anything only to find her smiling with rapt wonder.

When she didn’t move for several second, he asked, “What are you looking at?”

“The spirits,” she answered, grinning wide as her eyes dropped to his again. “After so many years of wondering, I don’t think I will ever tire of seeing as they see.”

Whitefall was deathly tired of it, but he kept that thought to himself as he watched the Rector climb up onto the monster of a dog she rode. As soon as she was settled on its back, the creature bolted, clearing the Council’s miraculously unruined gate in a single leap. Whitefall watched them until they vanished around the corner, and then he went back inside to deal with the serious business of picking his empire up out of the dirt.

When Miranda returned to the Tower, Banage was waiting for her. He was dressed in traveling clothes, rubbing his hand absently across the high back of his jade horse. He smiled as she and Gin trotted to a stop in front of him and moved to help Miranda down. “Well?”

“Nothing,” Miranda said, taking his offered hand. “Sara wasn’t there, and though Whitefall gave the expected excuses, I don’t think he knows where she is, either. I worry Mellinor might be right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Mellinor’s deep voice said in Miranda’s ear. “When all that water came pouring out of her thrice-cursed tanks, it went straight to the river. Rellenor was a little preoccupied at the time, but once things calmed down she was furious. Ollor was a river spirit before he made the mistake of trusting Sara, and most of the other water came from Rellenor.”

Miranda winced. “She’s not taking it well, then?”

“She’s taking it as a personal attack,” Mellinor replied. “And she’s got the other rivers on her side. That wouldn’t have mattered before, but now that they don’t have to worry about Sara’s power as a wizard, well, you don’t have to be an expert on spirit politics to know how that meeting is going to end.”

Banage gave a long, tired sigh. “Then I suppose I’d better get going while there’s still hope left.”

“I don’t see why you bother,” Miranda said, crossing her arms. “Sara did horrible things. She deserves everything she gets from those rivers.”

“That she does,” Banage said, climbing onto his stone horse. “But for good or ill, she’s still my wife, and I honor my oaths.”

“Even when the other person doesn’t?” Miranda said.

“Our oaths are our own, Miranda,” Banage said solemnly. “You know that.”

Miranda glowered. “She doesn’t deserve such loyalty.”

Banage just gave her a long, sad smile. “I’ll never give up on her,” he said. “The game’s not over yet.” And with that, he started down the tree-lined boulevard, his jade horse picking up speed as its green stone hooves clattered on the paving stones, raising a chorus of complaints.

“Remind me to schedule that formal inquiry to determine which stones actually want to be paving stones,” Miranda said wearily, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Gin nudged her back with his muzzle. “He’ll be back, you know. Maybe even with Sara, assuming he can convince the rivers not to drown her for her crimes.”

“I hope so, for his sake,” Miranda said. “Personally, I don’t understand what he ever saw in her.”

“Humans are strange,” Gin said, flicking his ears.

Miranda sighed and turned back to the Tower. “Come on, we have work to do.”

Gin swished his tail and followed his mistress up the stairs. Krigel was waiting just inside the Tower door, his arms full of papers containing thousands of details that awaited the Rector’s attention. Miranda looked at the pile and sighed again. Then, pulling herself straight, she held out her arms to accept her duty.

Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, or what was left of it, crouched silent and unseen on a ridge surrounded by delicate, yellow-leafed trees, watching the house on chicken legs. Beside him, the other League agent crouched just as silently, but his eyes were on Alric, and he did not look happy.

“How long do you mean to let this continue, sir?” he said in a low voice as the bear-headed man and his daughter went back inside the house. “The Lord of Storms’ orders were very clear.”

“The Lord of Storms isn’t here anymore, Chejo,” Alric said, just as low. “Or if he is, he isn’t worried about us. The demon is gone, the Dead Mountain empty and abandoned, the demonseeds cold and sleeping safely in the vault.”

“Even more reason,” Chejo countered. “She’s the last.”

“That she is,” Alric said. “But let me frame it like this: Even at its peak with the Lord of Storms beside us, the League was defeated by the Daughter of the Dead Mountain. That was three years ago. Part of being a commander is understanding what the men under your command can and cannot do, and I know we cannot take her down. Not with all our men, maybe not even if the Lord of Storms returned. Our gifts may remain, but without our Commander we can’t replenish our numbers with new recruits. Any attempt to fight the demon would cost us men we cannot replace, and anyway, it’s not like she’s running rampant through the countryside, is it?”

They both turned to glance at the knot of three people lying on the rocks beside the crouching house. The thief was talking as always, waving his arms in great circles. The swordsman was sprawled like a lizard in the sun and didn’t seem to be listening, but the girl was. She sat on the edge of the stone, her head tilted in a way that reminded Alric of an entranced cat.

It certainly wasn’t how you expected to find a demonseed, but the Daughter of the Dead Mountain had never been a normal seed. He wasn’t even sure she was a seed anymore now that the world had nearly collapsed, but she was surely a demon. She hid it well, but Alric could see the signs if he looked close enough—the way her black clothes seemed to eat the light, the faint waver of her shadow on the rock though the sun had not moved at all, and of course, the face he knew so well.

“My orders stand,” Alric said, settling down on the ridge. “We watch. If she panics so much as a pebble, we move in. I don’t think we can kill her, but there’s always the Shaper’s box. Still, seeing as she can afford a confrontation better than we can, we move only if she forces us. If she plays nice, we’ll play nice.”

“And just how long do you mean to play, sir?” Chejo said, gripping the hilt of his blood-red sword.

“Until the game ends,” Alric answered. “Now, report back to the citadel. I expect my relief to find me in three hours.”

Chejo saluted and vanished through a slit in the air. When he was sure he was alone, Alric released the breath he’d been holding. The League was a dangerous tangle of aggressive personalities without the Lord of Storms to keep them all in check. He would have to tread carefully, but then he’d been treading carefully for centuries. After almost a thousand years as the de facto organizational leader of the League, handling the sort of brute fighters the Lord of Storms preferred came to Alric as naturally as breathing.

He glanced down at the girl, still smiling in the sunshine. It was probably all a trick, of course, but Alric saw no reason a demon couldn’t be happy every once in a while. Especially when that happiness seemed to involve no eating of spirits for once.

Alric smiled, leaning back to catch a shaft of the warm sunshine the rest of them were enjoying. Watching a happy demon might not be exciting, but it was far better than martyring yourself fighting one. The demon lounged on the rock, feet swinging in the breeze like any normal, happy girl enjoying a nice day, and Alric’s smile widened before he could stop it. Good for her, he thought. For all he cared, she could stay like this forever. And so, for that matter, could he.

Basking in the sunlight that was so rare for a man who’d spent his immortality in a fortress of storms, Alric relaxed into the grass and set about enjoying the next three hours of his watch.

“And that’s the plan,” Eli said, finishing with a flourish. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Josef said, scratching at the bandages that swaddled his chest. “Seems needlessly risky to me. And we’ve never pulled a job in Zarin before.”

“That was to avoid my father,” Eli pointed out. “But I’ve put the past behind me and come to embrace the target-rich environment Zarin provides.”

Josef made a noncommittal noise, and Eli turned his eyes to Nico, pleading. The girl just shrugged and smiled, legs swinging back and forth in the air beneath her.

Seeing her like this still threw Eli for a loop. He was used to Nico being a ball of coat, not kicking limbs. But now she sat in the sunlight in a pair of trousers, boots, and a loose shirt that dropped to her wrists despite the heat. All black, of course, but everything she made for herself was. There didn’t seem to be much option for color when you formed your clothes out of shadow.

Still, it all looked normal enough except for the long, ragged scarf she wore around her neck. The scrap of black cloth was all that remained of the coat Slorn had made for her so long ago. They’d come here hoping to get it patched, but even Slorn couldn’t work a miracle that large. Still, even torn to bits and changed by Miranda’s gift of will, the scrap of coat had never lost its loyalty to Slorn, Nico, and its duty, and Nico absolutely refused to give it up. It clung to her neck like a snake, twitching occasionally whenever Eli looked at it sideways.

“Maybe we should keep lying low,” Josef suggested, his voice warped by a wide yawn. “Give things a chance to shake out. I know I haven’t gotten used to doors yelling at me when I slam them yet.”

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t wait,” Eli said, exasperated. “The unrest is what creates the sort of wide-open opportunities we’ll need for a job like this. It’s perfect. We’ll hit the opera first and then Whitefall’s private manor house, netting five priceless treasures in a little under two hours. This is the sort of heist people will be talking about for years. Think of my bounty!”

“What is your bounty now, anyway?” Josef said, yawning again.

“Two hundred and eighty-five thousand,” Eli recited. “Which is still seven hundred and fifteen thousand from where it needs to be.”

Josef shrugged and lay back in the sunshine, completely oblivious to the seriousness of the matter. Folding his arms over his chest, Eli decided to raise the stakes. “Josef,” he said calmly. “If you don’t get off that rock so we can get going, I’m going to write your ministers and tell them I found their king.”

Josef’s body went stiff, and Eli broke into a cruel smile. “I’m sure they’d be willing to fork over some of Den’s bounty to drag you home,” he continued. “One way or another, my number is going up. So which will it be, your majesty?”

Josef sat up with a long sigh. “When do we leave?”

“That’s more like it,” Eli said, starting off toward the edge of the clearing where Slorn and Pele were talking with the trees of the Awakened Wood. “And we leave as soon as I thank our hosts.”

“Wait a moment, Eli,” Josef said, standing up.

Eli stopped and looked over his shoulder to see his swordsman lift the Heart of War and look at it for a long moment before slinging it over his shoulder, well away from his injured chest. “I’ve been thinking,” he said at last. “Can we even pull the heists anymore?”

Eli frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean now that you’re not a wizard,” Josef said. “Is that going to change the way we do things?”

Eli stared at him a moment, and then stepped over to the side of Slorn’s house where a small tool chest had been fastened onto the wooden exterior. Its door was locked with a latch and fastened tight with three ornate hinges, all wrought from the same smooth, black iron. After a glance to make sure Josef was watching, Eli fixed his face in his best smile and leaned down, tapping the door with his long fingers.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I was just walking by when I happened to notice the extraordinary grain of your wood.”

The shed door rattled slightly. “My wood?”

“Who else’s?” Eli said.

The door waggled happily a moment, and then froze. “Wait,” it said. “You’re the thief, aren’t you? Slorn said I wasn’t supposed to listen to you, Eli Monpress.”

“Slorn’s a tinkerer,” Eli said, waving dismissively. “He doesn’t like anyone messing with his toys. But I’m not going to do anything. I just want a closer look.”

“Well, I guess that’s all right,” the door said, angling its wood so Eli could see the grain clearly.

“Absolutely stunning,” Eli said, stroking the door with his fingers as he pored over the completely normal wood grain like it was a list of lock combinations for the Council of Thrones’ tax vault. “Can I see the other side?”

“Of course,” the door said, its voice swelling with pride. “Let me have a word with the lock.”

The spirits chattered among themselves for a moment, and then the lock popped with a grudging click. The door sprang open, revealing Slorn’s neat and near-priceless collection of custom awakened saws. Eli nodded appreciatively and turned to Josef with a smug smile. “Any more questions?”

Josef shook his head.

Eli thanked the door and stepped away. As he started toward Slorn to make his farewells, he glanced again at Josef and Nico only to see them both waiting by the rocks, fully armed and ready to go. Grinning wide, he hurried toward the bear-headed Shaper while visions of his new bounty danced through his head with all the little zeros trailing behind.