by Rachel Aaron
Both Marci and her spirit jumped at the sudden agreement, and Algonquin sighed. “This is why I can’t stand mortals,” she said. “You’re too young to have any perspective. Of course I’m afraid of Mortal Spirits. Everyone should be. Mortal Spirits are the magical representations of humanity’s universal fears. Your own spirit is a face of death powered by humanity’s narcissistic terror of being forgotten, and he’s just the beginning. More will rise as the magic fills up the gap left by the drought, and when they come, they’ll bring hell with them.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Marci said with a nervous laugh. “There were Mortal Spirits before the drought, and the world didn’t end.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Algonquin said bitterly. “It’s been more than a thousand years since the drought sent us all to sleep, and your kind still has stories of the Wild Hunt and monsters in the night and bloody gods who demand sacrifices. This is because those things didn’t use to be stories. They were real, Mortal Spirits created by humanity’s terrors. Occasionally, Merlins would show up to control them, but mostly they raged unchecked across the landscape, self-fulfilling prophesies of your kind’s worst fears.”
“But there were good ones too, right?” Marci said, remembering what Myron had said. “I thought the whole idea of Mortal Spirits was that they were what happened when magic filled up the depressions left in the landscape by the combined weight of enough humans all putting their concern into a single concept. But cultures all over the world believe in love and justice and fairness and lots of other good things. We’re not all bad.”
“But you’re not good, either,” Algonquin said, glaring at her. “Yours is not a gentle race, Marci Novalli. True, you’ve produced gentle spirits, but they can’t begin to balance out or stop the far stronger devils. But horrible as the Mortal Spirits of the past were, they’re nothing compared to what they’ll be when they come back this time.”
“Why is that?” Marci asked. “We’re still just people.”
“But there’s a lot more of you,” the lake spirit said, pointing through the dark at her own DFZ, glittering in the distance. “A thousand years ago, the total human population numbered in the hundreds of millions. You were also spread out, with multiple cultures living in isolation from one another. Both of these factors helped to keep the Mortal Spirits in check. With a relatively small population and limited communication, the gouges your collective fears could make in the magical landscape were limited to the size of a large mountain at worst. Dangerous, but still controllable. This is no longer the case.”
Marci could see where this was going. “You’re saying humanity’s gotten too big. But there’s no proof that the new Mortal Spirits will—”
“I don’t need proof,” Algonquin snapped. “I know how spirits work! You said it yourself. Mortal Spirits are what happens when enough people care about the same thing. This is why so many of them revolve around death, because every mortal fears death. But there is a world of difference between a few hundred million people fearing death and nine billion humans doing the same thing. Can you even comprehend the size of the impression that leaves in the world? Or the spirit that will rise when it finally fills?”
That was a truly terrifying image, but Marci was still skeptical. “So you’re saying you’re doing this to save human lives. You drowned hundreds of thousands of people, and you want me to believe you’re the good guy now?”
“Good has nothing to do with it,” Algonquin said dismissively. “If it was only your deaths, I wouldn’t care. Dying is what mortals do. But humans won’t be the only ones to pay when your Mortal Spirits come. We will all suffer, and unlike mortals who will perish quickly and be freed from the consequences of their mistakes, we immortal spirits will have to stay and deal with the hell you left. Even after you’re all dead, the monsters you created could linger on for eons, and when there are no more of you to prey on, they’ll turn on us.”
“But you’re powerful,” Marci said. “Surely—”
“Powerful next to you,” she said. “But no spirit of the land can possibly compare to the monstrosity that is humanity’s ego. We’ll be hopelessly outmatched, and we can’t even die to escape. Your demons will make us their slaves, and the world—this land that was beautiful and perfect before your kind evolved and began destroying it—will fall to ruin. That was what I realized when I woke up and saw what you had done. That’s what I’m trying to stop. That’s why I’m doing all of this.” She threw her hands out, gesturing over the enormous vista of the endlessly spinning circles and the thing at their center.
“I’ve been doing everything I can to head this problem off for sixty years now,” she went on. “And thanks to the dragons’ generous donation, I’m nearly there. Another few months and I’ll have it. But happy as that makes me, why should I wait if I don’t have to?”
Marci sighed. “I get it,” she said. “You want me to try and stop this. That way, if I fail, you’ll still have your original spirit as a backup.”
Algonquin nodded. “Beautiful, isn’t it? You’re the unexpected gift, Marci Novalli. I usually make it my policy to never trust anything touched by a dragon seer, but a ready-made Mortal Spirit with its human already attached is too good to pass up. If you can figure out how to take the final step and actually become a Merlin, you can take control of the world’s magic as your ancestors did, and we can fix this problem years ahead of schedule. I don’t want you to shut the magic off again. That would send us all back to sleep, and we can’t have that. I just want you to dampen the flow back down to a level that’s too low for Mortal Spirits to survive in. A mute, not a stop, that’s all I’m asking, and if you care anything about our shared future, you’ll do it.”
Marci looked down at her feet. Honestly, Algonquin’s request was a lot more reasonable than she’d expected. Up until now, everyone had talked about Merlins as if they were weapons, but the Lady of the Lakes seemed to see them as tools to prevent apocalypse. But while everything she’d said about increased human population leading to truly monstrous Mortal Spirits made sense given what Marci understood about how spirits worked, she just couldn’t believe they were all as bad as Algonquin made out. Just look at Ghost. He was spooky and dark and even terrifying at times, but he wasn’t evil. Most parts of humanity weren’t. They were just…people. Besides, if all Mortal Spirits were monsters who were going to kill mankind, why was one needed to make a Merlin? Why would a system that made the mages who—if she believed Sir Myron—were the ancient champions of mankind be based around partnering with the very spirits who would destroy them?
And Algonquin is hardly an expert on humanity, the Empty Wind added, his glowing eyes never leaving the Lady of the Lake. She built a city on human suffering and cares more for her fish than the children who die forgotten in its streets. Who is she to say we are evil? What does she know of us?
The dead boy they’d found in the dumpster flashed in front of her eyes, and Marci nodded. She’d known from the moment she arrived that for all its impressive architecture and glittering opportunity, the DFZ was at its core a cruel, pitiless city, mostly because Algonquin had never allowed it to be anything else. She’d steadfastly refused to pass any laws to protect even the most basic human rights, despite petitions from her own citizens. There were no safety nets, no second chances, no representation or guarantees of fair trial. Before, Marci had thought that was because the spirit simply didn’t care. Now, though, it almost felt as though Algonquin wanted to show the world just how bad humanity could be when left to their own devices.
But even when there were no laws to make them, most citizens in the DFZ were good, honest, normal people just trying to make a living. Marci knew that for a fact, because she’d been one of them. So had Ross and Lark and countless others she’d met while living and working in the city, and unlike the spirits of the land, who already had their power, humanity’s magic was just beginning. If she did as Algonquin asked and stopped the magic from rising any higher (assuming that was even possible), s
he’d be both the first and last Merlin humanity ever produced. Ghost would fade for good, and never rise again. As for the rest of them, they’d be stuck right where they were now—below spirits, below dragons, below everything—forever.
Just the thought made her shake with anger. It didn’t matter what Algonquin threatened, that was a price too high. No amount of possible future spirit Armageddon prevention was worth giving up their entire race’s magical future. Besides, if she really was a Merlin, then there was no way her first act was supposed to be giving up her power and shutting the system down for everyone just because Algonquin thought humans couldn’t handle it. According to Raven, Algonquin didn’t trust humans to handle anything, and once she’d remembered that, Marci knew her answer.
Thank goodness.
Don’t thank me yet, Marci warned. If she’s right, this might be the act of hubris that ends the world.
Better yours than hers, the Empty Wind said, glaring at Algonquin. She thinks she’s a god for no other reason than she’s been here forever. She’d rather kill the true gods and force us all back to a lower time when she was strongest than let the world move on to a future where she doesn’t rule. His glowing eyes narrowed. She’s no better than Bethesda.
Harsh, Marci thought with a wince. Still, there’s no guarantee I’m right.
There never is with anything that matters, he said, reaching out to take her hand. And I’d rather be wrong with you than right in a world that would see me dead before I was born. Besides—she felt him smile in her mind—a mage without audacity is no mage at all.
That made her grin wide. “I knew you were the cat for me,” she said out loud, turning back to Algonquin, who’d been watching their silent exchange with a growing scowl. “We refuse.”
Algonquin’s scowl deepened. “Maybe you don’t understand what’s at stake here.”
“No, we understand,” Marci said, gripping the Empty Wind’s freezing hand as tight as she could. “We just don’t agree. Fear is no reason to throw away opportunity. If I do as you ask, not only will I be denying all Mortal Spirits the chance to rise, I’ll be throwing away every human mage’s chance to become a Merlin themselves. I don’t care what hell you think is coming, it’s not worth that. So that’s our answer. We refuse.”
“Then you are as selfish as the snakes you serve,” Algonquin rumbled, her angry voice losing even the semblance of human tones. “But it makes no difference. As I said, I only took you to give myself two shots at this instead of one and to deny the dragons their potential Merlin. You’ve refused the former, but the latter doesn’t require your participation.”
Her voice was a razor’s edge by the end, and Marci flinched. “So you’re going to kill me?”
The spirit made a show of thinking it over before she shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Mortal minds are ever changing. We still have a month or so before my spirit is ready to rise, so I’ll just leave you here to think about your future and how long you’d like it to be.”
Marci felt no need to dignify that with a reply. Algonquin was already melting back into water anyway, rolling off the ledge and down the cliff like the mountain stream she’d been when she’d first appeared.
Send your cat when you’re ready to change your mind, her now-disembodied voice whispered. I’ll be waiting.
“Yeah, well, you’re in for a long wait!” Marci yelled, kicking the last of the trickling water off the ledge. She was kicking it again when the Empty Wind joined her. What do we do now?
“What do you think we’re going to do?” she growled, rolling up her sleeves. “We’re a mage and a spirit with nothing to lose on a mountain surrounded by enough magic to blow this whole city sky high. We’re going to escape.”
He had no face to show it, but Marci knew he was grinning. I hoped you’d say that.
“Change ‘hoped’ to ‘knew,’ and I’ll believe you,” Marci said, grinning back as she grabbed her bag off the chair and pulled out her favorite piece of casting chalk. “Let’s break something.”
The Empty Wind threw back his head and laughed, an eerie, terrifying sound that echoed down the mountain, startling the spirit beasts running their eternal circles on the field below.
Chapter 16
Four hours after his confrontation with Chelsie in the dining room, Julius was beginning to think that getting roasted, clawed, and then stabbed was actually the easiest part of putting this vote together.
It had sounded like such a simple idea to start. The whole clan was already in the mountain, and there was only one candidate. In theory, all they had to do was get everyone together into the throne room to physically cast their ballot. Compared to the scramble of yesterday’s vote, with dragons arriving from all over the country, it should have been a snap. But Julius had grossly underestimated his mother’s ability to make her children fall into line, and now that Bethesda was actively not helping, getting all of Heartstriker together in one place on short notice had turned into a full evening of trying to herd a mountain’s worth of prideful, nervous, fire-breathing cats into a box.
Even the lower-alphabet dragons who’d actively supported Ian during his campaign were being obnoxious, claiming they had something or another to do that night that couldn’t possibly be put off. Julius wasn’t sure if they actually had things to do, or if they were just trying to look busy and important. Either way, the whole situation was impossible. In the end, the only reason it happened at all was because of David.
Julius wasn’t sure if the senator was taking his new life debt seriously, or if he just wanted to get this over with, but David was working like a fiend. While Julius and Ian struggled to get the lower clutches together, David had the upper alphabet in line and ready to vote in a mere two hours, after which he came to help with the rest. Whatever was inspiring David’s new helpful nature, Julius was excessively grateful for it, because despite his determination to see this through, his body was rapidly reaching its physical limit. They were still thirty dragons short when he finally gave out, slinking back to his hospital room to take a nap while Ian and David finished putting everything together.
As he fell into bed, Julius was certain it would all come to nothing. The vote would just have to happen tomorrow morning as planned. But then, shortly before twelve a.m., Fredrick woke him up to tell him that the clan—all of them, except for Justin, who was still stuck, and Amelia, who was blatantly playing hooky—was awaiting his presence in the throne room.
Julius leaped out of bed. There was no bothering with ancient armor this time. He didn’t even take time to look at the suit Fredrick was helping him into before he was out the door. He finished dressing in the elevator, combing his hair with his fingers as he walked into the crowded throne room at the stroke of midnight.
He was the last to arrive. Even Bethesda was out of her rooms, probably thanks to Conrad, given the murderous looks she kept giving him. But while she clearly wasn’t happy about it, she didn’t seem ready to fight that battle again so soon. She didn’t even make a speech this time. She just looked down her nose at her children as though she couldn’t possibly be more disgusted and snarled, “Get on with it.”
And with that, the second Heartstriker Council vote commenced. Given the insanity they’d gone through to get to this point, Julius was braced for something to explode. From the dark look on her face, Chelsie was clearly thinking the same thing, but nothing happened. There were no dramatic interruptions or last-minute challenges. Now that they were all finally in here, everyone seemed to be as ready to get this over with as Julius. Not fifteen minutes after the Fs handed out the slips of paper, all the votes were in.
Unsurprisingly seeing how he was the last candidate standing, Ian won by a landslide. There were a few other names—mostly contrary dragons voting for themselves—but by the time the last vote was counted, Ian’s pile was well above the fifty percent needed to win.
“And I believe that’s that,” Ian said, strutting up onto the stage proud as a peacock. “The vot
es have been witnessed. I’ve won beyond the shadow of a doubt, which means the Heartstriker Council is finally officially complete.” He put out his hand to their mother, who looked like she was trying not to choke on her own bile. “I look forward to working with you.”
Bethesda smacked his hand away. She glared at them all for a moment, and then she turned without a word, stalking back into her rooms and slamming her door so hard, a new crack appeared in the throne room’s battered stone wall.
Julius sighed. “That didn’t go well.”
“Really?” Ian said. “I was waiting for her to go for my throat. By that measure, I’d say it went very well indeed.”
“I’m not expecting her to dance on the rooftops,” he grumbled. “But would it be too much to ask for her to at least not drag her tail? It’s over, she lost.”
“Exactly,” his brother said. “Bethesda isn’t a good loser under the best of circumstances. But don’t worry. She’s in a snit right now, but she’ll come around. For all her faults, Mother’s a survivor. She’s not going to turn her nose up at some power just because she can’t have it all.”
“I hope you’re right,” Julius said tiredly. “We’ll have a hard time making this Council work if one third of it refuses to come out of her room.”
“Well she has until tomorrow to sort it out,” Ian said, checking his phone. “It’s too late to start anything tonight. Also, I have a date.”
Julius gaped at him. “You scheduled a date after this? It’s nearly one in the morning.”
“Like that matters,” Ian said, turning to smile at Svena, who was sweeping into the newly unsealed throne room while Heartstrikers scrambled to get out of her way. “What’s the point of victory if you don’t stop to enjoy it?”
Julius supposed that was true, but it still bothered him. They’d been pushing as hard as possible on this for what felt like forever. Letting things slide now, even if it was just until tomorrow morning, felt wrong somehow. He was about to push one last time when a familiar hand landed on his shoulder.
