Authors: Rachel Aaron
“Shaper-made,” Sara said with a smile. “What’s the point in slaving for the Council if you can’t spend some money once in a while?”
Miranda stared at her, eyes wide. “Why do you need a Shaper-made catapult?”
“Because I put far too much effort into these to waste them on bad shots,” Sara said dryly, running her hand over the orb. “We’ll start with the center ship.”
This last bit was directed at the catapult. It obeyed instantly, turning the wagon until it was pointed at the palace ship in the very center of the line. “Ready on your mark,” it said, gears creaking as the arm wrenched back.
Sara held out her hand, checking the wind. The moment it fell slack, she gave the order.
“Fire.”
The catapult slung, and the black orb flew silently through the air, vanishing almost instantly into the dark. Miranda held her breath, listening for… she wasn’t sure. An explosion, perhaps. But all she heard was the slight, musical sound of glass breaking, so soft it was nearly hidden by the waves. But what followed couldn’t have been hidden by anything. Miranda bent double, slamming her hands over her ears as the night began to scream.
T
he scream was high and terrified. It cut through Miranda’s skull, drowning out even her own thoughts. But horrible as the scream was, it was nothing compared to what Miranda saw out in the water. At the center of the Empress’s line, the prow of the middle palace ship was gone. Not wrecked, not cracked,
gone
. The place where it had been was now solid darkness. No, Miranda squinted, not solid. It was more like a shadowy cloud, but there were glints inside it, tiny flashes of fast-spinning light.
The cloud crept down the ship, screaming as it went. The Empress’s soldiers rushed forward, but when they reached the cloud, they vanished as well. After that, the soldiers turned and fled, running for the wizards at the stern of the ship. Miranda watched in horrified amazement as the shadow pushed forward, slowly consuming the enormous ship while a rain of sawdust and powdered metal fell like snow into the sea below.
When her body could move again, Miranda turned to Sara.
“What is that?”
“I should think you’d recognize it,” Sara said, picking up the next orb. “I got the idea from your report.”
“No,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “It can’t be.”
“Of course it can,” Sara said as she lovingly loaded the glassy black ball into the waiting catapult. “Clever idea, actually, compressing a sandstorm. So much power and destruction at your fingertips.” She shook her head. “Only problem was the deadline. It’s not like I can just make storms. What you see here is my entire stock. Now do you understand why I didn’t want to risk them on a nonawakened launcher?”
Miranda was barely listening anymore. “You copied Renaud’s glass storm?” she screamed. “
Are you out of your mind?
”
Sara gave her a sideways look. “It was very effective.”
“It was
Enslavement
!” Miranda roared.
Sara winced. “Not so loud, if you don’t mind.” She turned to the catapult. “Next shot will take out the second-to-last ship on the left.”
“Yes, Sara,” the catapult said, dutifully turning itself.
“Hold that order!” Miranda shouted, grabbing the catapult with both hands. It stopped, confused, and Sara gave Miranda a cutting look.
Miranda was too angry to care. “Did you Enslave this storm?” she said, jabbing her finger at the ball loaded on the catapult’s arm.
“No,” Sara answered. “If I had, I could have gotten it down to the marble size you wrote about. The smaller size would have been more difficult to aim, however, so it wasn’t necessary.”
Miranda blinked in disbelief. “You didn’t Enslave it because you were worried about size?”
“That and Enslaved spirits are far too unstable,” Sara said. “Would you let go of my catapult?”
Miranda tightened her grip. “If you didn’t Enslave these sandstorms, how did they get like this?”
Sara heaved an enormous sigh. “I understand this is difficult for a Spiritualist to comprehend, but there are more ways of being a
wizard than servants and Enslavement. Sandstorms are nothing but sand and air spirits whipped together, a roving spirit brawl without any real kind of mind. All I had to do was lean on them a little, give them some firm direction. Stupid spirits take a strong hand.”
“If all you did was lean on them, how did they end up as glass?” Miranda said hotly.
Sara shrugged. “I can lean fairly heavily, and they might have been a bit upset about it, but it’s a sandstorm’s nature to be upset. I only concentrated that anger, pressed them together into something a little more effective, and now I’m giving them an outlet.” She shook her head at Miranda’s furious expression. “Honestly, you’re as bad as Etmon. There’s no real harm done.”
“
No real harm?
” Miranda roared. “You took an innocent spirit and pressed it so hard you changed its substance! It was a
sandstorm
, not a glass storm.”
“An improvement,” Sara snapped, but before she could say more, a crash echoed over even the sand’s screaming, and they both looked up to see Banage barreling out of the tower. Relief rushed over Miranda like a cool wave. Banage’s face was strangely drawn, his eyes red and sunken, almost like he’d been crying, though that couldn’t be. But whatever had caused him to look that way was gone now, burned away by pure, unadulterated rage.
“
Sara!
” he bellowed, breaking into a run.
Sara rolled her eyes. “Here we go again,” she said with a sigh. “Fire.”
Pain exploded through Miranda’s hand as the catapult obeyed, launching the next black orb into the night. Miranda followed it as long as she could, clutching her injured hand to her chest as the orb exploded and a new, equally horrible scream joined the first as the released glass storm enveloped the next palace ship.
That was when Banage reached them. He grabbed Sara by the jacket, nearly lifting her off her feet as he brought her up to face
him. But before he could do more than sputter, he froze. After a second of confusion, Miranda saw why. Sparrow was standing right behind him, a long, slender knife pressed into the back of Banage’s neck.
“Unhand the lady.”
Miranda’s hand moved in a flash, rings lighting up like lanterns as Gin snarled, but Banage moved first. He dropped Sara and stepped back. Sparrow lowered his knife and moved to Sara’s side as she straightened her collar.
“That was very unlike you, Etmon,” she said coldly.
Banage took a deep breath. “I find it hard to control my temper when I see the head of the Council wizards using Enslavement. I will see you hanged for this.”
“I very much doubt that,” Sara said. “We are at war, and my spirits are the only thing holding the line at the moment. But maybe you should ask the Oserans? I’m sure they’d love to die with you to save a few idiot storms.”
“War or not, there are rules that cannot be broken!” Banage shouted. “Morals are not flexible. They don’t change to fit your convenience. You never understood that, Sara.” His arm shot out, finger stabbing at the cartful of orbs. “You will stop this at once, or so help me—”
“Or what?” Sara said. “You’ll leave? Fine, go ahead. You’re already a traitor to your country. What’s one more?” She grabbed Miranda’s shoulder, pushing her into Banage. “Run away,” Sara said. “And take your little parrot with you. There’s no room for idealists in war. I’d have thought you’d learned that years ago.”
Banage didn’t answer. Instead, he clenched his fist. As he did, Miranda caught a flash from the large, black stone on his ring finger, and the ground began to rumble. Sara’s eyes widened, but even she didn’t have time to react as an enormous stone hand exploded from the ground below the awakened catapult. The stone fingers,
eight in all, closed over the wagon, crushing it instantly with a crash of splintering wood and a soft cry from the catapult as its launching arm snapped in two. Banage opened his palm, and the stone hand retreated back into the ground, leaving the whimpering catapult crooning over its broken arm.
For a moment Sara just stood there, mouth open, and then she turned on Banage with a cold fury that could have killed a weaker man. “That was bald treason.”
“That was my duty as a Spiritualist,” Banage said, setting his hands at his side.
Miranda stood beside him, grinning so hard her face hurt. But the joy was short lived. The screaming glass clouds on the palace ships were still going, but those ships without mad sandstorms were regrouping. On their decks, circles of wizards were moving in unison, and the decks of the ships began to glow. Miranda stepped back, swallowing against the fear that clenched her throat.
The palace ships’ decks were full, absolutely full, of war spirits. They glowed like bonfires, waiting their turn as the wizards moved from spirit to spirit, launching them one after another until the sky was full of bright burning dots.
Their light was so bright Miranda could see the annoyance on Sara’s face clearly.
“Well,” she said, sticking her pipe between her teeth. “You’ve certainly done it now.”
Banage ignored her and turned to Miranda, his face terrifying in the strange red light.
“Every spirit,” he said softly. “Bring out every spirit you have.”
Miranda nodded and closed her eyes, sinking immediately into the well of her soul. Her spirit opened with a roar. Beside her, she felt a wave of pressure as Banage’s spirit opened as well. It was intense, but unlike an Enslaver’s, Banage’s spirit didn’t press down on the connection she shared with her spirits. Instead, it buoyed
them, power feeding on power as they stood together, spirits ready as the bright burning amalgams hurtled down.
“Empress,” the general said. “That black weapon of theirs is powerful. We should pull back and continue the bombardment from a safe distance.”
Nara heard him speaking, but she did not listen. He was just a distraction, a buzzing that interfered with what was truly important. She stood at the very edge of her balcony. Her spirit was open, though only slightly, and she was using it to reach out toward Osera. The island was burning merrily, a sight that should have pleased her, but she was focused on the dark below the fires, searching for a flash of white.
She could feel the Lady on the island. Feel her like the beloved Benehime was part of her own flesh. But where? And why? Nara clenched her teeth until she could taste her bitter anger. Why was the Lady on the island and not with her? Did it have to do with the star controlling the lava spirit she’d drowned earlier? And if so, why? Didn’t the Shepherdess see who was winning?
“Empress?” the general said again, his voice hesitant.
“Why does she not answer me?” Nara growled. “Whom does she think this war is for?”
The general blinked. “Empress,” he said timidly. “I’m afraid I do not under—”
Before he could finish, the Empress vanished. The general blinked, staring at the place where she had been, but nothing was left except the fading afterimage of a long, white line, hovering in the air.
At that same moment, Nara stepped onto the deck of her foremost palace ship, much to the terror of the soldiers. They jumped back when she appeared, raising their swords and then dropping them just as quickly to throw themselves on the ground.
“Empress!” The cry rose from hundreds of throats as the realization of who was standing on the deck spread through the ship. Everywhere, men stopped their attack and fell to their knees, pressing their heads to the deck.
Nara ignored them all. She stomped to the prow of the ship. Ahead of her, the swirling black madness of the storm blocked her view, screaming as it tore through the ship’s nose. Irritated, Nara let a flash of her true nature show. The glass storm froze when it saw her, all anger gone. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand, and the black glass fell pattering to the water, disappearing into the dark sea below with a soft cry. Even before it hit, the Empress was walking forward. For anyone else, this would have been suicide. The raging glass had consumed the prow, leaving a sheer, hundred-foot drop to the sea below. But Nara was the Immortal Empress, a star of the Shepherdess, and the ship knew its place. Boards flew from the lower decks as she walked. They came from the outer hull, the railings, anywhere that was still stable. They piled on top of each other, forming a solid, if makeshift, ramp beneath her feet. When she reached the place where the end of the prow had been, Nara stopped. The boards creaked below her, stretched to the very edge of their ability to hold. Nara ignored the sound and leaned forward, toward the island.
She paused, listening, watching, seething. The feel of the Shepherdess was stronger than ever. Nara followed it as a dog follows a scent, reaching past her ships, across the bloody bay, and up the steep, rocky wall to the lone figure sitting with his back pressed against the cliff. She could see him in her mind as her will touched him—a young man, thin and gangly with shaggy, dark hair. He was hunched over, his arms wrapped around his knees, but she could feel the burning trace of the Shepherdess’s touch all across his body, and the realization stabbed her like a sword in her gut.
“You,” Nara whispered, her voice shaking with hatred.
What’s wrong, Nara?
The Lady’s voice seemed to float on the wind.
Are you so surprised? You knew there was another star here, and I only have two among the humans.
“Why is he here?” Nara roared, forgetting herself in her rage.
He’s here because you’re here
, the Shepherdess whispered.
You said you would do anything to be first in my heart, Nara. Now’s your chance. Fight for my favor. The boy has set himself up as defender of this island. Crush his forces and take it from him, and I will know once and for all who loves me best.
“If you want a fight, I will give you one!” Nara shouted into the wind. “Watch me, Benehime! I will show you the difference between that boy and an Empress.”
Her voice echoed across the water, but the only reply was the Lady’s laughter, chiming like glass bells in the night.