The Legend of Eli Monpress(380)

She whirled around and stomped toward the door, sending officials scrambling to get out of her way. Banage stared after her, shocked beyond retort. When he came to enough to realize he was being stared at, he turned back to the window and glowered out over the city as the lamplighters began their rounds.

Benehime sat in her white nothing, staring, as always, at her orb when a man appeared in front of her. There was no opening portal, no door in the air. One moment there was nothing, and the next he was standing there, glaring down at her.

Shepherdess.

Benehime’s white eyes narrowed, and she pushed her orb aside. The man’s white face was that of an old but active man with a pure-white beard that fell to his knees. His hair was the same, a snowy cascade that hung around him like a robe. His white hands were folded in front of him, the white fingers long and skilled, and his eyes were the same white as her own.

Weaver, she said. You’re out of your element.

You left me no choice. The Weaver’s deep voice filled the air. Not when you take such risks. He looked at the orb. Benehime followed his gaze to the ruined valley where the demon had woken.

I had everything under control.

Did you? The Weaver’s beard did nothing to hide his frown. It didn’t look that way from where I stood.

It is not your place to be looking at all, Benehime said fiercely. Your place is to tend the shell. The sphere and everything inside is my domain.

So it is, the Weaver said. But when your risks threaten the shell, they become mine as well. What were you thinking, letting a demonseed grow that large? You put everything in danger, and not for the first time, I hear. Your spirits have been complaining to me. They say you ignore your duty, that you play favorites to the point of exclusion. Have you forgotten why you are here?

I forget nothing! Benehime shouted. It is you who has forgotten his place, Benehin! Now get out. You have no right to order me around.

And you have no power to make me leave, the Weaver said. We three, Shepherdess, Weaver, and Hunter, are the children of the Creator, equals in all things. There is no power you can wield that I cannot counter. You may force your spirits to grovel at your feet, but you cannot touch so much as a hair on my beard.

Benehime stood up, eye to white eye with the Weaver. This is still my sphere. It is by my will alone that you can exist at all in this place, and I am done listening to the hysterical ravings of a cowardly old man. Leave, now, before I force you out.

The Weaver stayed perfectly still.

Eyes still locked with hers, he stretched out his white hand and laid it against the edge of her domain. As if in answer, the dim shapes of clawed hands began to gather, their edges pressing hard against the wall, scraping at the fabric that separated her world from theirs. Far in the distance, the screaming grew louder.

The shell is a delicate thing, the Weaver said, stroking the thin barrier as the claws scraped against his hand. I can maintain it against assault from without, but not from within as well. He glared hard at her. Remember that the Hunter has his day of rest in one year’s time. When that happens, it will be two against one. I suggest you think very carefully about what happened today, Benehime. We have served together for a long, long time. I would hate to lose you over something as petty as a favorite, sister.

I forget nothing, Benehime whispered. Get out.

As silently and suddenly as he had appeared, the Weaver vanished. Benehime stared at the place where he had been for a long time. Eventually, her white eyes drifted past it, to the edge of her domain and the long, clawed hands still clustering where the Weaver’s hand had rested. With a furious snarl, she turned back to her sphere and buried herself in her world.