The Spirit War (6 page)

“I am well aware of Banage’s low opinion,” Whitefall said. “He’s never bothered to hide it, after all. But the years have made you too
jaded, Sara. Even Banage can’t stand around on his principles doing nothing while the Immortal Empress destroys everything he’s built.”

“Banage will stand on his principles until they gnaw his legs off,” Sara said with a puff of smoke. “But we don’t need Banage to get the Court. There are several Spiritualists, especially among the Tower Keepers, who would have no problem working with the Council.”

“Sara!” Whitefall said, shocked. “We are on the verge of a perhaps unwinnable war. I will not cause a schism in what might be our only salvation just because you don’t want to work with your former husband.”

“The Spirit Court’s already broken,” Sara countered. “Banage’s constant hard line has driven many of the more moderate members away. He almost tore the Court apart last year when they put his apprentice on trial. If Hern hadn’t gotten himself tangled up in that Gaol nonsense, the Court would already be ours.”

“Put it out of your mind,” Whitefall said. “You don’t win wars by ripping up your allies. Not if there is any other hope.” He turned away, looking out over the city. “I’ll send Banage an invitation to talk. Compromise is always possible, and who knows? Maybe this Empress thing will make him see we’re not actually that bad.”

Sara chuckled. “Want to wager on that?”

“I already am,” Whitefall said, looking at her over his shoulder. “I’m wagering our survival on the hope that Etmon Banage likes being Rector Spiritualis more than he dislikes working with you. After all, if we can’t find some way to work together, the Empress will crush us both, and you can’t be Rector when there’s no more Spirit Court.”

Sara bit her pipe between her teeth. “I wish you wouldn’t group the rest of us in on your impossible wagers.”

Whitefall set his empty glass on his desk. “We’re all going to have to do the impossible before this mess is done. Now, get downstairs and start working on that miracle. I’ll take care of Banage.”

Sara stood and walked out without a word. When she was gone, Alber called his pages in. One he sent to the Spirit Court, and the rest he set to opening windows. When his office no longer reeked of smoke, he poured himself another glass of brandy and lay down on his silk couch to contemplate the wreck his carefully cultured plans had become.

CHAPTER

3

S
o,” Miranda said. “One more time. The demon under the Dead Mountain is sealed, but he can sneak out shards of himself, called seeds, that bury themselves into host bodies, who become demonseeds.”

“Correct,” Slorn said. “Demonseeds are tiny slivers of the demon itself. Each seed has the potential to grow into a new demon, given enough time and food. The stronger the host and the longer the seed is able to incubate, the stronger the resulting demon is at awakening.”

Miranda shuddered, blinking her eyes against the memory that refused to vanish—the hideous black shape standing over the woods outside Izo’s bandit city, its black wings blotting out the sky as it ate the screaming world.

“How do we stop it?” she said quietly. “Stop the seeds from coming out?”

“I don’t know,” Slorn said. “Unawakened demonseeds constantly travel through the shadows in and out of the mountain, bringing their master new vessels. There is a human cult that serves there, presenting wizards to the demon in hopes of becoming demonseeds
themselves. The League has cleared out the mountain several times—killing the human followers, setting up a perimeter, but the seeds always get through. All demonseeds can hear the demon’s voice in their heads, and he moves them like pieces on a board that only he can see the whole of. This makes them very hard to block completely, especially as the League can find them only when they cause a panic. Alric gave up trying to blockade the mountain years ago. Staying on the mountain for any length of time is dangerous, even for the Lord of Storms, and the reward wasn’t worth the risk. They now focus on the eradication of seeds that cause problems.”

“Well,” Miranda said with a huff, “it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“It works,” Slorn said, looking at her with his black, calm, bear eyes. “We are still alive.”

Rebuked, Miranda shut her mouth and focused on the path ahead. Seeing that the lesson was at an end, Slorn leaned back on the roof of his walking cart to stare thoughtfully at the wispy clouds flowing like silk across the pale blue sky.

They were high in the mountains, riding north. It was slow going, even for Gin. The constant wind kept the ground clear from snow, but the stone itself was icy and treacherous. The ghosthound kept his eyes on his feet, delicately picking his way across the steep slopes, his dappled silver coat shifting with the wind. Still, they could have gone faster if not for Slorn’s wagon. The wooden cart climbed at a snail’s pace, rattling and scraping as its carved wooden legs scrabbled on the ice despite the metal hooks Slorn had attached. Sometimes they barely made ten miles in a day, but the pace didn’t bother Miranda. She’d learned more from Slorn in the two weeks since they’d left Izo’s camp than from all three years she’d spent training to begin her apprenticeship with the Spiritualists. Gin, however, didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.

“I don’t like him,” the ghosthound growled when they stopped for lunch.

“You don’t like anyone,” Miranda said, smearing a sliver of cold butter across her hard baked bread as best she could. “And keep your voice down.”

“He asks too many questions,” Gin said, loud as ever. “And he looks at the sky too much.”

Miranda glanced at Slorn. He was standing beside his cart, talking to it softly as he checked the wooden legs. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Gin made a
harrumphing
sound. “He shouldn’t be doing it, is all. Or talking about the Dead Mountain like he does. I’ve never understood you humans and your constant need to know things. You’re the nosiest spirits in creation.”

“And you’re the biggest curmudgeon in creation,” Miranda said, smacking him across the haunches. “You saw that thing at Izo’s the same as all of us. I’m a Spiritualist, but that thing, demon or demonseed or whatever, makes the usual Spirit Court worries look like children’s games. It’s not something I can just ignore, and until I find out what I can do to stop what happened at Izo’s from happening again, even if that turns out to be nothing, I can’t go back to Zarin. Not while still calling myself a Spiritualist.”

Gin flattened his ears. “Not everything’s a crusade, Miranda. The bear man’s leading you places you shouldn’t go, and you’re going to get hurt if you keep following.”

“I’m a big girl,” she said, reaching out to scratch his nose. “I won’t get in over my head.”

Gin moved away from her hand and shook himself, sending dirt and ice everywhere. “Just watch yourself,” he said, trotting away.

Miranda frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Hunting,” Gin growled, stalking off down the frozen path.

Miranda started to remind him that there was dried meat in Slorn’s cart, but the ghosthound had already vanished into the
frosty landscape, his shifting fur blending into the white mist rolling down from the peaks.

“I’m starting to understand why they call them ghosthounds.”

Miranda turned with a start. Slorn was standing behind her, smiling in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring but never quite made it, thanks to his sharp teeth.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Gin doesn’t have a lot of tact.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Slorn said, sitting down on the large, flat rock that sheltered their little fire from the wind. “It’s a ghosthound’s nature to be protective and wary of outsiders, and I never fault a spirit for following its nature. Besides, he’s not exactly wrong. Spirits have learned over countless centuries that some things are better left alone.”

Miranda frowned. “You mean the demon?”

Slorn shrugged. “The League, the Dead Mountain, demonseeds, these are all things that spirits, even Great Spirits, have learned to ignore. Must learn to ignore. You can’t have a life worth living when you’re constantly worrying about things you cannot fight or change. All they can do is trust the system that has worked for thousands of years and go on with their lives.”

Miranda’s frown turned into a scowl. “And where does the thing we saw at Izo’s fit into that system?”

“It doesn’t,” Slorn said. “That’s why we’re going to the Shaper Mountain. If the League will not listen, then I must make my case to an outside party. If I can find even one voice to speak for me that the Shepherdess will heed, Nivel’s death won’t have been in vain.”

Miranda bit her tongue. Slorn spoke his wife’s name with such sadness that words felt pointless. But there was so much of what he said that she still didn’t understand and she could not keep quiet.

“The Shepherdess,” she said. “I’ve heard of her, of course, but never in any detail. Most Spiritualists are lucky if they ever get to
talk to a Great Spirit.” Mellinor found that amusing, but Miranda ignored his bubbling laughter and pressed on. “She’s the greatest spirit, isn’t she? The one at the top of the spirit world.”

“Assuming she’s a spirit at all,” Slorn said. “Which I don’t think she is. The Shepherdess is the force that guides the world and commands the spirits. She also controls the League and keeps the demon locked beneath the mountain, among other things.”

“How can she not be a spirit?” Miranda said. “Everything has a spirit.”

“I don’t know the answer precisely,” Slorn answered. “But I do know her control is nothing a spirit could manage. No spirit except a human’s can control another, and humans can’t touch the spirits of other humans. But, so far as I understand it, the Shepherdess can command everything. Therefore, she’s not a spirit. Or, at least, not a spirit like we are familiar with.”

Miranda slumped down. “I feel so ignorant,” she muttered. “You’d think I’d have at least heard more than a passing mention of something so important.” A tremor of reproach went through her before she could stop it, and deep in her mind she felt her rings twinge.

“Don’t blame your spirits,” Slorn said. “Nothing talks about the Shepherdess unless they have to. It took me decades to piece what little I have together, and even I don’t know for certain. All I have are theories. Suppositions based on years of asking too many questions, as your dog would say. It may be that the Shaper Mountain can do nothing and this journey is little more than a waste of time.”

“But we have to try,” Miranda said.

“Yes,” Slorn said quietly. “We have to try.” He leaned back, looking up at the snow-covered slope they’d been following all day. “If we keep this pace we’ll make Knife’s Pass by sunset. From there it’s a straight shot to the Shaper Mountain. We’ll reach the gate by noon tomorrow, weather permitting. After that, there’s no turning back.”

Miranda laughed. “There’s been no turning back for a while now. Remember, I was the one who asked to come along.”

“I have not forgotten,” Slorn said, standing up. “Let’s go. We have more miles to cover than we can make if we dawdle.”

Miranda took his offered hand, and he helped her to her feet. They had almost everything together by the time Gin returned with a scrawny mountain goat in his jaws.

It was late when they reached Knife’s Pass and Miranda was too tried to look at anything besides her bedroll. When she woke at dawn, Gin was still sleeping, his body curved to shelter her from the icy winds. She smiled and packed her blankets, and then, stepping softly so she wouldn’t wake the ghosthound, she tiptoed to Slorn’s wagon. As always, Slorn was already awake. He was sitting on the fold-out steps, staring up at the clear morning sky. There were two steaming mugs of tea on the step beside him, one half empty, the other full. Miranda took the full one.

“How much farther?” she said, blowing on the steaming liquid.

Slorn looked at her with an incredulous expression and pointed north. Miranda’s eyes followed his gesture and she nearly dropped her tea. The sheltered pass they were camped in wasn’t a pass at all, or at least not a natural one. It was a road cut between the mountains, running due north in a perfectly straight line between two sheer cliffs, and at the end of that road stood the largest mountain Miranda had ever seen. It was impossibly tall, soaring above the surrounding mountains like a spire. Its steep sides were snowbound and blinding white in the morning sunlight, but the mountain’s peak was too sheer and tall even for snow. It loomed far, far overhead, naked and gray-white, a porcelain knife set against the pale sky.

“That’s the Shaper Mountain?” Miranda said when she could speak again. “How does anyone live on a slope like that?”

“Not on,” Slorn answered. “In.”

Miranda frowned and looked again, squinting against the glare. Sure enough, the tiny dark spaces beneath snowy overhangs that she had first taken to be shadows were now clearly windows. There were balconies as well, each placed so elegantly along the mountain’s natural cliffs that Miranda would never have spotted them if not for the faint glimmer of the icy railings. Panes of glass flashed between the snow banks, and at the end of the pass she could just make out the unnaturally straight edge of what looked like a door set deep in the mountain’s base.

“The upper body of the mountain is given over to the Shapers for their work,” Slorn said. “In return for its protection, leadership, and instruction, the Shapers serve the mountain and work in its name.”

Miranda shivered. “And what kind of work does a mountain need done?”

“All kinds,” Slorn said with a toothy smile. “Though only the Great Teacher understands how it all fits together.”

“Great Teacher?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Slorn said, standing up. “Let’s get moving. We have far to go.”

Miranda looked back at the mountain. It didn’t seem that far away. But she obeyed and walked back across the camp to wake up Gin. The hound was already up and waiting when she reached him, his orange eyes narrow and guarded as he watched Slorn’s wagon pack itself. He answered her “good morning” with a gruff snort, and though Miranda tried several times as they packed their camp, that was all the comment the hound would make.