“How is this going to help with the Monpress problem?”
“Eliton’s proven on several occasions he has a soft spot for spirits, and the Spiritualist girl,” Sara said. “I’m sure you’ll find something we can use. Now, I suspect the girl’s behavior has something to do with the events in Osera and the disappearance of her sea spirit, but I can’t be sure. The Relay point I had you plant on her isn’t responding anymore, so I’m afraid we have to do things the hard way. Go find out as much as you can about what’s going on. I’ll expect a full report tomorrow morning.”
Sparrow could feel his body tightening with long-checked anger. “And it didn’t occur to you that, after months on the road, followed by a war in Osera, I might not be up for sneaking around the Spirit Court?”
“It did,” Sara answered, leaning over to glance at the water record again. “But I don’t much care. I ask no more of you than I ask of myself.”
Sparrow crossed his arms over his chest. “And what if the standard you set for yourself is inhuman?”
“Then I would be dead,” Sara said. “Which, as you can see, I’m not. Now stop complaining, and don’t even think of shirking. Remember”—she reached into her coat—“I can always find you.”
As she spoke, she drew a small, round object out of her inside pocket, and Sparrow’s chest began to constrict. Between Sara’s fingers was a Relay point. It looked like all her others, a small glass sphere on a chain, but where the other points were blue, this one was a deep, deep crimson. Her fingers tightened on the glass as he watched, and suddenly it felt like someone had dropped a weight on his lungs. The pain sent spots dancing across his eyes, and it was all Sparrow could do to keep from doubling over.
“Really, Sara,” he said, fighting to keep the effort out of his voice. “A threat? We’ve been together almost ten years now. I thought we were past all that.”
“So did I,” she said, rolling the red orb between her fingers. “But then you started complaining again. I ask very little, Sparrow. Just that you do your job. If that proves too difficult, I can always give you back to Alber. Now that the war’s done, he’s running short on favors. I’m sure he’d love to earn some back by offering his family another chance at the head of the only man to kill a Whitefall and live.”
“I’m very aware what a treasure my head is,” Sparrow said, his voice growing thin as he fought the pain. “No need to twist quite so hard, Sara dear.”
“Apparently, I need to twist harder,” Sara said. “You’re still here.”
Sparrow stood with effort. “Just on my way out.”
Sara nodded and finally slid the orb back into her pocket. Sparrow steeled his face against the rush of relief as the pressure on his chest vanished, determined not to give her the satisfaction of seeing him wince. Instead, he smiled as wide as ever and started up the stairs, slipping out the door as quietly as he’d entered.
The wizards outside took no more notice of him as he left than they had when he’d come in, but Sparrow took no joy in their ignorance this time. His mind was wholly focused on the lingering pain in his chest. It wouldn’t be too much longer, he told himself as the pain finally began to fade. He’d been patient for a long, long time now, playing his role, waiting for his opening. Now, at last, he was almost there. Banage had always been Sara’s weakness, the chink in her cold, logical armor. Her son was even worse, and now they were both here, together.
Considering how edgy Sara became at their mere presence, going so far as to use her control over him for the first time in years for a relatively minor disobedience, it wouldn’t be long before something pushed her out of her usual caution. Soon, very soon, one of the Banages would do something to make Sara angry enough to forget what she should never forget, and when that happened, Sparrow would be there.
By the time he made it back to where he’d left his jacket, Sparrow was smiling again. He pulled on the glaring yellow coat and yanked the collar up rakishly before shoving his hands into the magenta-lined pockets. Then, whistling, he started down the suspended walkway.
With every step, the plan in his mind grew clearer, simpler, the pieces clicking into place. By the time he reached the turnoff that led to the service door, his usual exit when Sara sent him to spy on the Spirit Court, everything was set, and he passed the turning without so much as a glance. Instead, he headed up the stairs toward the citadel proper.
When the time came, Sara wouldn’t have a chance to use her control, Sparrow thought as he reached the Citadel’s main floor. When he was done, Sara wouldn’t know what hit her. That thought made him grin until his face ached, drawing suspicious glances from the noble hangers-on that clogged the Council hallways. Sparrow happily ignored them, picking up his pace as he started up the stairs leading to the tallest of the Citadel’s seven towers, his whistling growing louder and more cheerful with every step.
The Lady’s summons came as they always had, quickly and without warning. And, as he had done since the beginning of memory, the Lord of Storms answered immediately, leaving Alric midsentence to open a door into her white world.
Her back was to him when he entered. She was standing by her orb, bent over the curve of the sky like a woman at her spinning wheel. Her white hands were deep inside, digging through the bedrock and magma that made up the foundation of the miniature world. He could see her fingers pushing against the veil as they moved, and he wondered, briefly, if the spirits felt her passing through them. He didn’t think so; otherwise the bedrock would be shaking the world to pieces in its rush to bow. Still, it was a strange sight, the Shepherdess up to her elbows in the world she’d been ignoring for so long.
If Alric were here, he’d probably be curious. He might even ask a question. The Lord of Storms knew his deputy was bold enough for it. But Alric was not here, and the Lord of Storms did not bother with questions. So long as the Lady’s actions didn’t interfere with his hunting, he didn’t much care what she did.
She dug for sometime before going stiff, and then her hands withdrew. The Lord of Storms stood at attention, watching with growing impatience as the Lady pulled something from the sphere. From where he stood, it looked like a root. Like a root, it was long and spindly with branches curling off in all directions, but no root was ever that beautiful, golden color. The thing in the Lady’s hand shone like a river of sunlight, hanging on her fingers with a weight far greater than the Lord of Storms would have expected given its size. A gold vein, he realized at last. An enormous one.
He mulled this over as the Lady lifted the vein to her lips, whispering sounds sweet as pure water across its beautiful surface. As the gold vein shook in delight, the Lady closed her hands, pressing the vein into the skin of her fingers. No, not her fingers. The Lady was holding something.
The Lord of Storms scowled. It looked almost like a soap bubble, a translucent, shimmering sphere no larger than the top joint of the Lady’s thumb. She pushed the gold vein into it as he watched. The Lord of Storms wouldn’t have thought the thing would fit into such a small, delicate space, but the vein entered willingly, singing to the Lady all the while in a heavy, ringing voice.
When the last golden gleam had vanished, the Lady lowered her hands and turned to face him. She looked tired, he thought, her white eyes nearly gray with fatigue. He scowled. It was dangerous for the Lady to tire herself. Dangerous for her and very dangerous for everyone else. Her temper was deadly when she was tired. Even so, her voice was surprisingly sweet when she spoke to him at last.
I have a task for you.
“I should hope so,” he said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Your League held together well in my absence. We are ready to act.”
What do I care of the League? The Lady’s voice turned scornful. Did I not just say this was a task for you?
The Lord of Storms stiffened. “What would my Lady have of me?”
A hunt, the Shepherdess said, her white lips turning up in a slow smile. One you’ve been after for a long time now. She reached out for her orb, laying her free hand, the one that wasn’t still cradling the tiny pearl, on the vault of the sky. The time has come to rid the world of the demon’s protege.
The rush of anticipation left him shaking. “You would let me hunt the Daughter of the Dead Mountain?”
I demand it, the Lady said. You’ve been very loyal, my sword. Even in your rebellion, everything you’ve done has been for me. As a reward, I give you leave to track down this threat at last. She turned, gazing at the world below her fingers. I would have my sphere clean of the demon’s filth before my brother returns.
The Lord of Storms blinked. The Hunter, of course. The days ran together when he was a storm even more than they did when he was a man. In the confusion, he’d forgotten that the Hunter’s day of rest was close at hand. Unlike her other brother, the Weaver, whom she despised, the Shepherdess honored the Hunter. It made sense that he should be the one to finally make her see what the Lord of Storms had been saying all along.
