by Rachel Aaron
From this point, everything happened both painfully slow and blindingly fast.
Miranda’s hand shot out, Durn’s cloudy emerald already flashing with light. The rock spirit tore himself from the ring, grabbing the bridge’s broken edge with one enormous boulder of a fist. At the same time, his other hand swung down to grab Gin’s middle. The stone wrapped around them in a vise and then released, flipping them up. Miranda’s fingers were torn from Gin’s coat as they tumbled through the air and landed sprawling on the smooth stone paving of Knife’s Pass. She grabbed the ground and lay still, pressing herself into the stone to make sure it was real and, more important, not falling. When she was sure she really was grounded, Miranda lifted her head to check on the others. Gin, of course, had already rolled to his feet. Sparrow, on the other hand, was still flat on his stomach, staring at the ground like he’d never seen it before.
With a long, shaky breath, Miranda sat up and held out her hand for Durn. The stone spirit was still hanging from the remains of the broken bridge. When he saw her reaching, he pulled himself up and rolled to her.
“Thank you,” Miranda said, patting the stone with a smile.
“My pleasure, mistress,” Durn said, his gravelly voice smug with pride.
Miranda grinned. It wasn’t often the stone got to play hero. Gin would never hear the end of it. She held her hand steady as Durn broke down and returned to her ring. When he was finished, Miranda let her eyes drift back across the ravine. The Shaper Mountain rose above her, as cold and enormous as ever. Its slopes were smooth and snowy with no trace of the hole Sparrow had punched or the tree he’d used to punch it. Two jagged edges at either side of the ravine, the remains of the broken bridge, were the only signs of the mountain’s anger or their narrow escape from it. The ground, however, was still rumbling.
“Come on,” she said, standing up. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Sparrow said. “Little help, please?”
Miranda walked over and grabbed his hands, pulling him to his feet. He grimaced as he stood, bending slowly, like his ribs hurt him, but he didn’t say anything when Miranda finally got him to his feet.
She left him to get his balance on his own and hurried to catch up with Gin, who was already making his way down the pass.
“Don’t ask,” the ghosthound growled, moving to walk so close Miranda couldn’t take a step without bumping into him. “He’ll hear.”
Miranda nodded and kept her mouth shut.
“He showed up about two hours ago,” Gin continued. “They had me chained in the front hall with the carriages. I would have eaten him, but I didn’t know where you were. He kept saying he was going to get you next. I didn’t believe him, but it’s better to be out than in, so I let him spring me. If you hadn’t shown by noon, I would have hunted him down.”
“Thank you for the sentiment,” Miranda said, glancing back at Sparrow, who was limping to catch up with them. “How did he get you out?”
“Picked the lock,” Gin said. “Impressive bit of work, actually. He’s almost as good as Eli.”
“That’s saying something,” Miranda grumbled, looking back again. Sparrow was falling behind. His face was set in a smug smile, but his body was moving in jerks, and Miranda realized that he must be really injured.
“Stop,” she said, turning around. She caught Sparrow’s eye before climbing onto Gin’s back. “Get on. We’ll be walking forever if we wait for you.”
“How kind,” Sparrow said, walking over to the ghosthound.
“Kind nothing,” Miranda said. “Practical. We may owe you our freedom, but that doesn’t mean I want to take a hiking holiday together. I just want to get to Sara and discharge my debt as soon as possible. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that horrible abuse of a tree spirit. I will be making a full report to the Court about that.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sparrow said, pulling himself slowly onto Gin’s back.
Miranda glared, suspicious. “How did you get so injured, anyway?”
“Bit too much excitement for me,” Sparrow answered, finally sliding into place behind her on Gin’s back. “I don’t usually get out this much.”
Gin snorted. “Lies. He’s a born sneak. I saw your crazy ride down the mountain. Mellinor cushioned you, but bird boy was bouncing all over, probably because Mellinor couldn’t see him.”
“See who?” Mellinor said, sloshing in Miranda’s head.
Miranda tightened her grip on Gin’s fur. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “It makes me dizzy.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the sea grumbled.
“Don’t blame the water,” Gin said. “I can’t see him unless I look with my eyes. He doesn’t even have much of a smell. You can’t trust a man with no smell, but at least he’s not flickering so much anymore.”
“Would you care to explain any of that?” Miranda said, poking Gin in the back.
“I’ve already told you,” Gin said. “Weren’t you listening all those times I said he flickered?”
“You didn’t explain then either!” Miranda cried.
“It’s not something that can be explained to a human,” Gin said, lashing his tail. “Right now, for instance, I can’t see him at all unless I look with my actual eyes. Otherwise, he’s like a nothing, a blank. I would say I’ve never seen anything like it, but I wouldn’t know if I had, so forget it. You’ve thrown our lot in with his already. Just watch yourself.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mellinor said. “Who’s a blank?”
Miranda shook her head with a frustrated sigh. Behind her, she felt Sparrow lean back. “Is everything all right? Your dog is growling more than usual, which I didn’t think was possible.”
For a moment, Miranda considered just asking Sparrow about the flickering, but quickly decided it would be a waste of time. Sparrow wasn’t a wizard. He probably had even less of a clue than she did about whatever it was about him the spirits didn’t like. Even if he did know, this was Sparrow. Getting a trustworthy answer out of his mouth was like a flood in the desert—not impossible, but very unlikely, and cause for alarm if it did actually happen. So Miranda dropped the subject and moved on to questions she might actually be able to get a straight answer for.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Where to?”
“Zarin, where else?” Sparrow said. “I’ve had all I care to see of mountains.”
“There at least we agree,” Miranda said. “Did you hear that, Gin?”
“No,” Gin growled, more annoyed than ever. “I can’t even hear him unless I concentrate. What is wrong with that man?”
“I don’t know,” Miranda said. “But I’m going to find out. Zarin, fast as you can.”
“Got it,” Gin said, laying his ears back. “Hold on tight.”
Miranda didn’t have time to relay the warning before Gin launched himself down the pass, nearly knocking Sparrow off. By the time Sparrow had regained his seat, they were well away from the Shaper Mountain. Miranda leaned forward over Gin’s neck, getting as far away from Sparrow as she could, which wasn’t very far. She had a lot to think about, but her mind kept drifting back to the mountain looming behind her and the man it still held prisoner somewhere deep beneath its stone. The image of the Shaper Mountain’s memories still stood clear in her mind, and she gripped Gin’s fur even tighter. Lock her up, would it? Well, she would tell everyone. She would tell Banage, she would tell Sara, she would tell anyone who would listen. That was her promise to Slorn, and she made it over and over again as they ran through the icy pass back toward civilization.
At the very, very top of the Shaper Mountain, perched on the crusted snow at the tip of the mountain’s peak, a man stood with his arms crossed. Pure white hair covered his body like a coat except for the white hands stroking the long white beard that covered his front as he watched the three specks of the wizard girl, the ghosthound, and the man who looked like nothing flee down
the path through the mountains.
You play a risky game, Durain.
“Nonsense,” the mountain rumbled under his feet. “I am ever a loyal servant to the Shepherdess. And to you, Weaver.”
The white man smiled. I wouldn’t say that too loudly. The Shepherdess doesn’t like to share.
“All the Powers are equal,” the Shaper Mountain said. “Though she seems to have forgotten.”
My sister forgets many things, the Weaver said bitterly. And what she remembers, she ignores. But that is no call for you to risk our plans by openly defying her. Showing your memories to that group of children and then letting all but one free, what were you thinking?
“They saw nothing that was not true,” the mountain said. “I cannot help if I remember the truth. Anyway, I tried to keep her from escaping, but I am an old spirit. Too old to be looking after young idiots and too busy to spend my limited energy catching them when they run away.”
Of course. The Weaver chuckled. Very old. But do be careful, Durain. This is the Shepherdess’s domain. I cannot protect you here. If she suspects, she will not hesitate to act, and we have lost too many irreplaceable spirits to risk another.
“I have not forgotten Gredit,” the mountain said, his great voice heavy with anger. “And I am not the only one. When the Hunter returns, we will be ready. I have already started the process. Heinricht is being briefed by his father as we speak.”
The bear man? The Weaver frowned. You put a great deal of faith in him.
“I must,” the mountain said. “He is the only one who can finish Fenzetti’s work.”
Is that so? The Weaver pursed his lips. How fortuitous that he should appear now.
“Fortune has nothing to do with it,” the mountain rumbled. “The Creator is still with us. We will be free again.”
You still believe that? the Weaver said.
“Yes,” the mountain said. “You forget. We old ones, we were the first. I am older than you or your siblings, Shaped by the Creator’s own hand. I remember the world as it was, as it was meant to be, and I know that world will return. It must return, or why are we still living?”
Why, indeed, the Weaver said, looking up at the sky. I must go. I leave it to you.
“We will not fail,” the mountain said, but the Weaver was already gone, vanishing through a white cut in the thin air as though he had never been. The mountain rumbled at the Power’s sudden absence and shifted its focus away from the outside world and the distant feel of the fleeing figures. Instead, it tilted its attention inward, down toward the long hall at the very heart of its roots. There, two humans, the current Guildmaster and the wizard who shared his spirit with a bear, walked the mountain’s deepest path toward the vault where Durain, the Shaper Mountain, kept its greatest hope, the small, white kernel of a desperate plan many, many years in the making.
CHAPTER
11
Josef woke with a gasp. He froze, hands knotted in the sheets, body braced to kick or leap away, whichever was needed. That was when he realized he was in his old bedroom. He collapsed back into bed with a silent curse and took stock of his situation. He was naked, his knives stacked carefully on the bench against the wall beside him. But he had no memory of removing his knives or his clothes. He had no memory of going to bed.
Josef frowned. To wake that violently, he must have been sleeping very soundly. Even now, his head was still groggy, and that made him nervous. He’d shaken the sound-sleeping habit the first year he’d left home. Maybe being back in his old room had brought back old habits, but Josef didn’t think so. He glanced at the bed. The space beside him was rumpled. Someone had slept there, but the sheets were cold when he slid his hand over them. His frown deepened. Whatever bad-sleep habits his old room could have lured him into, he’d never sleep that soundly next to a stranger, married or not. Something was going on, and he meant to find out what.
Josef slid silently out of bed and looked around for his clothes, but they were gone. He cursed under his breath and quietly took a knife from the pile. The door to the sitting room was closed, but he could hear movement on the other side of door that led to his dressing room. He put the knife in his teeth and pressed himself against the wall, easing his bare feet along the carpet until he was directly beside the dressing room door. Then, in one lightning-fast movement, he stepped in, opening the door with one hand while grabbing his knife with the other. He swung forward and grabbed the man on the other side, pressing the blade against his jugular.
The man screamed and began to thrash, nearly slitting his own throat in the process. Josef grabbed his shoulders and whirled him around, lowering the knife before slamming the man face-first against the wall.
“What are you doing here?” Josef growled, pressing the knife into the man’s back.
“Please, my lord,” the man whimpered. “I am here to help you dress.”
Josef glanced down, noticing for the first time that the man was dressed in the well-cut, somber suit of Osera’s high-ranking servants. With a horrible, sinking feeling, Josef released his grip and stepped back. The man fell to the floor, gasping and grabbing his throat.
The servant looked up with horrified eyes, and Josef felt his stomach sink even further. This wasn’t going to help his reputation.
“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching out to help. The man shied away from Josef’s hands, using the shelves to pull himself up instead.
“Forgive me, your highness,” he whispered, averting his eyes from Josef’s nakedness. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“Forget it,” Josef said. “Where are my clothes?”
The man’s eyes bulged like Josef had just asked for a carcass. “I gave them to the laundry, sir. I have fresh clothes for you, straight from the tailors.” He nodded toward the chest against the wall where several starched shirts, jackets, and breeches lay neatly folded. “I can fetch your old clothes back, if you would like,” he added cautiously.
“Those are fine,” Josef said. He grabbed a shirt, jacket, drawers, and pants at random, pulling them on carelessly. He could still see the servant out of the corner of his eye, but the man made no move to help Josef dress. He seemed to be glued to the wall, eyes wide as a fish’s. Josef grit his teeth and dressed faster, ticking the facts over in his head. It had been this man who’d taken his clothes, not Adela. Sleeping through Adela he could maybe understand; she was a fighter and knew how to move, but he would never sleep through this idiot entering his room, collecting his clothes, and leaving. There was simply no way two nights in Osera could have dulled his senses to the point where a servant could sneak past him.
By the time Josef had finished dressing, the man had collected himself enough to fetch Josef’s boots, freshly polished and resoled, from the boot stand. He held them out with a shaking hand, keeping his eyes on the floor as Josef took them.
“Thanks,” Josef said, sitting down to tug his boots on over his new socks. “Where’s Adela?”
The man had already returned to his corner. “I’m not sure of the princess’s whereabouts, sir,” he said, wringing his hands. “I can send someone to find her, if you desire.”
“No,” Josef said, standing up. Best not to let Adela know he was looking for her before he knew what role she played in this. First, he had to find Eli. If the thief was good for anything, it was rooting out trouble.
He went back to the bedroom and grabbed the rest of his knives, slinging them into place as he walked into the sitting room. His frown tightened into a solid grimace at the bright, midday sunlight streaming through the narrow window. Not only had he slept soundly, he’d slept late.
“Worse and worse,” he muttered, grabbing the Heart of War from the fireplace where he’d left it the night before. He slid the enormous sword over his shoulders and onto its spot on his back. When the blade was secure, he stomped toward the door that led to the rest of the castle. He stopped when he reached it, looking over his shoulder at the servant who was still clutching the dressing room door, t
rembling like a kicked dog.
“Sorry, again,” Josef said, struggling to think of the appropriate action for cases like this. “You can, um, have the rest of the day off.”
The servant just stared at him blankly as Josef slipped out of the prince’s chamber and started jogging through the halls toward Eli’s room.
Eli’s door was partially open when he reached it. Josef stopped, eyeing it suspiciously. He couldn’t see any outward signs of trouble, but he checked his blades anyway, easing the knives down in his sleeves in case he needed them. When he was satisfied he could get any weapon he needed in a moment’s notice, he stepped inside.
He stopped again almost immediately. The room was a disaster. There were piles of junk everywhere—furniture, produce, paper goods, candles, silverware, weapons, tapestries, building tools, a pile of locks, and the other things he couldn’t see enough of to name. It was all piled around the room as though it had been thrown there, and sitting in the middle, perched on the rubbish like the king and queen of trash, were Eli and Nico. Judging by the dark circles under their eyes, they’d been up all night, but doing what he couldn’t even begin to say. Neither of them seemed to have heard him enter. Instead, they were both staring at what looked to be the carved wooden end of the banister from the grand staircase in the castle’s front hall.
“All right,” Eli said, hefting the carved wooden hunk in his hands. “Closer to the door or the chess piece?”
“Neither,” Nico said, scowling. “It looks almost fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy,” Eli muttered, scribbling on a piece of paper so covered with similar scribbles it was almost entirely black. “Interesting. Fuzzy like the fork or fuzzy like—”
“What is going on?” Josef roared.
They both jumped and looked at Josef, eyes wide with surprise.
“Good morning,” Eli said.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” Josef said, kicking the junk aside until he’d made enough space to close the door. “Did you rob a dump? What is all this garbage?”
“Not garbage,” Eli said. “Experiments.” When Josef gave him a skeptical look, he clarified. “Wizard stuff, as you would say.”
