The Spirit War(100)
“Empress,” the mountain’s voice was pleading. “I cannot hold, Empress. I will sink.”
“You will not,” the Empress said. She flung out her will, reaching over the bay, over her ships, and out into the ocean. The moment she hit open water, her spirit dove. She plunged into the water, ignoring the mad rush of the water spirits and sinking deep into the black abyss until she found what she wanted. At the bottom of the trench that ran along her continent was a current, one of the great highways of the sea. This current was not a spirit in itself, but a union of the tattered remains of shredded water spirits torn apart by the ocean’s pull. These spirits, no longer large enough to have minds of their own, banded together to flow as one in one direction, operating with a herd mind that had only one purpose: to flow. And that was the purpose Nara took.
She grabbed the current with her will. The water screamed and fought as she pulled it up, too mindless to care that she was a star. But Nara fought harder, crushing the spirits until the water cried out in surrender. When it was pliant in her grip, Nara pulled the current up from the seafloor and into her bay. The deep, cold water flooded into the warm shallows with a scream, lifting her fleet in a great swell before slamming into the gap between her war palace and the seafloor. The palace shook in relief as the current lifted the uprooted mountain, floating it like a cork under Nara’s iron command.
Nara smiled as her palace bobbed and shifted her focus westward. Screaming, the current had no choice but to follow. The blast of water caught the palace ships at once, and her fleet shot out, riding the great wave of water westward toward the unconquered half of the world.
Panting, Nara fell to her knees, clutching the balcony rails to keep herself upright. Even as a star, moving such enormous spirits was exhausting. But it was done. Her fleet and her war palace were racing out of the bay, carried into the sea by the great current that flowed at her command. There was nothing that could stop her now.
Slowly, she stood and drew her sword, raising its gleaming blade to the fading sunlight. “Are you watching, lady?” she cried, holding her sword to the sky. “With this, I begin your war.”
As she spoke, words appeared on the sword’s blade, a single sentence etched in gleaming steel.
Sleepers wake, I am coming.
Nara held her breath. The rushing wind filled her ears, but if she strained, she could hear the Shepherdess’s beautiful laugh at the very edge of her hearing. That was enough. Smiling, Nara sheathed her sword and walked into her palace.
High overhead, those winds who were not yet loyal turned and rushed west to bring word to their master of the star’s coming.
Duke Finley arrived at his town house shortly after sunset. His servants ran out to greet him as the coach pulled to a stop. Finley stepped down, letting the valets take his overcoat while his footmen ran to close the elegant iron gate that separated the mansion from the street. Henry was waiting for him at the door, a glass of wine ready in his hand.
“Welcome home, father,” he said. “How was your day?”
“What you doing here?” Finley said, snatching the glass with enough force to spill half its contents on the marble entry. “You’re supposed to be heading the palace watch tonight.”
“The captain gave me the night off,” Henry said. “She heard about your meeting with our beloved prince and thought you could use the company.”
“Did she?” Finley downed the wine in one gulp and tossed the glass at his manservant, who caught it expertly. “How thoughtful of our dear princess.”
Henry’s smile wavered as he followed his father into the house. Like all high-ranking Oseran nobility, Duke Finley’s mansion was located in the tangle of fine houses just down the mountain from the palace. But though his house was less than a block from the castle, it was worlds away in style. Where the royal palace was a stalwart relic of a lost era, the duke’s home was impeccably modern. The smooth, austere facade presented a clean face to the street while delicate flourishes of carved waves lapped tastefully at the cornerstones. Inside, wide halls paneled with carved slats of imported wood led to rooms filled with windows. Elegant lamps enhanced with crystals hung from the ceilings, and fine rugs covered the floor with rich colors. The furniture was ornate, painted gold and upholstered in silk in the Zarin style.
But for all this modernity, Finley was still the heir to the throne, and was he guarded accordingly. Because of this, the delicate ambiance of his brightly lit stone foyer was marred by a pair of guards in full armor standing at attention. A second pair of guards, scarred veterans, stood at the top of the grand stair where they perpetually got in the way of the servants. A third pair of guards watched the door to the duke’s small garden, their great armored shapes ridiculous against the outline of the delicate fruit trees. Each post saluted the duke as he passed, and the duke saluted back, muttering to himself the whole way up to his study.