“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,
