Miranda was about to ask how he could be so sure when a man appeared on the bank a dozen feet downstream. Miranda didn’t see where he had come from—he seemed to just appear from the woods—but once she saw him, she could look at nothing else. There, walking toward her, was a large man with a bear’s head. She thought it was a mask until she saw the eyes staring at her, intelligent and dark above the sharp-toothed muzzle. Miranda swallowed and began to call her spirits. But even as she reached for the threads of power that tied her to her rings, the bear-headed man stopped and put up his hands.
“I mean no harm, Spiritualist.” The voice that came from the bear’s mouth was deep and gruff, but undeniably human. “You seem to be lost and in need of some assistance.”
“We need no assistance,” Miranda said carefully.
“No?” The bear face looked skeptical. “Do you always keep your fire spirit on the brink of flickering out, then?”
Miranda paled, and the bear-headed man smiled. “I thought not,” he said. “Miranda Lyonette would never put her spirits in such danger unless things were very grave.”
“How do you know my name?”
The bear-headed man laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “There aren’t many Spiritualists who ride ghosthounds and carry great seas inside their bodies. For those of us who study spirits, you’re quite the oddity. I would know, being somewhat of an oddity myself.” He touched his muzzle with his hand. “Come,” he said, turning. “Let’s get your fire stoked before it flickers out. I can hardly bear to look at it.”
Gin did not budge an inch, and Miranda made no move to force him. “Who are you?”
The bear-headed man kept walking down the bank. “I’m Heinricht Slorn. Now come.”
For a long moment, Gin and Miranda could only stare at his retreating back. Then Miranda looked down at Kirik’s dark ruby, and they followed.
The bear-headed man led them up the creek bank to a row of tall bushes, the deep green, waxy-leafed kind that thrive on steep mountain slopes. He pushed the branches gently aside and turned to motion Miranda forward like a well-mannered host inviting guests into his estate. Miranda dismounted stiffly and ducked under the branches. Gin eyed the tiny space with scorn and lay down on the bank. Slorn waited a moment more, and then he turned and followed Miranda into the canopy, letting the branches fall quietly behind him.
Miranda had not gone more than a few steps into the
bushes before she stopped, staring in amazement. Parked at the heart of the little grove was a large wagon. No, that wasn’t right. Wagons had wheels. This was shaped like a wooden traveler’s wagon, complete with a rounded wooden roof, shuttered windows, a chimney pipe, and a set of folding steps going up to a painted door. But down at the bottom, in the spots where the wheels should have been, were six long, splayed legs. Each leg stuck out from the wagon’s body at a right angle and cornered sharply at a knobby joint before reaching the ground on a wide, flat foot with five splayed toes, like a lizard’s. Each leg appeared to be newly carved from green wood, bright yellow-white and smelling of sawdust, and they sprang from the cart as though they had grown there. There were no joints, no nails, just the fresh wood of the legs lying flush against the older, stained wood of the wagon’s body, molded together as though they’d always been that way. She was still trying to make sense of it when she saw something even stranger. The legs shuffled, adjusting their weight, each one flexing and adjusting its splayed foot so that the cart sat slightly closer to the ground as Slorn came up and flipped down the little stair.
“There,” he said, smiling as the red-painted door opened for him of its own accord. “Come in and we’ll have a look at your ring.”
“How did you do that?” Miranda said, and then bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like a child gawking at a street magician’s trick, but Slorn didn’t bat an eye.
“I’m a Shaper,” he said as he stepped inside, as though that explained everything.
Well, Miranda thought, in a way it did. Even Master
Banage wasn’t exactly sure how the Shapers did what they did. One thing was certain, though, the bear-headed man wasn’t abusing his spirits. She could practically hear the wood beaming as she gawked at it, the legs shifting to show the cart at its best. That pride made her feel more comfortable than any assurance Slorn could have given, and she hurried up the folding stair after him.
The covered wagon was much more spacious than she would have guessed from the outside. One wall was lined with hinged bins, all neatly latched and labeled. The other was taken up by a folding cot, now stowed away, and a little table that bolted to the floor. Slorn was already sitting on one of the folding seats, his large hands fussing with the small iron stove just large enough to heat a kettle that was built into the wall just above the table.
Slorn unlatched the cold grate and placed a few sticks of wood into the stove’s tiny iron belly. “There,” he said, leaning back. “Put your ring in.”
“Are you sure?” Miranda said, unfolding the chair opposite him and sitting down. “Kirik’s a bonfire spirit. I don’t want to risk your wagon.”
Slorn’s bear eyes widened, and he looked at the stove. “What do you think?”
The stove made a scornful sound. “I’ve never met a fire I couldn’t contain,” it said, opening its grate wider. “Give him to me.”
Miranda blinked in surprise, first that the grate was awake, and second that it was so confident. She slipped Kirik’s ring from her finger and placed it with the wood in the stove’s belly. The second her hand was clear, the stove snapped shut and a blast of hot air hit her face as the fire crackled to life. A surge of relief radiated up Kirik’s
connection, and Miranda felt like sobbing with relief herself.
Across the table, Slorn’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “My stove is very good with fires,” he said. “An hour and your Kirik should be good as new.” He reached overhead, taking a shiny copper kettle from a hook on the ceiling. “It would be a shame to waste the heat; may I offer you some tea?”
“Yes, please,” Miranda said, still shaking.
Slorn got up and walked over to the water barrel, holding the kettle crooked as the water arced up the spout of its own accord. Impressed as she would have been, Miranda saw none of it. Her eyes were locked on the roaring blaze behind the stove’s grate as a great lump of guilt rose up in her throat. She hadn’t realized how close she’d come to losing Kirik. Her thoughts went to Gin outside; Gin, who’d run all night for her. Her mind flashed back to the night before, to Gin retreating, blood dripping from his muzzle as he glared at Sted. Was he really all right, or had she been too blind in her pursuit to see? What had she been thinking, fighting a demonseed? She should have tossed Monpress at his head rather than risk her spirits. Miranda clenched her fists. She was becoming as obsessed with him as everyone else seemed to be. What must Slorn think of her, a Spiritualist who nearly killed her fire for a thief? What would Master Banage say?
She jumped as Slorn placed two steaming mugs on the table and looked up to find him staring at her, his dark eyes almost human in the glow from the stove.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said. “It’s a strong spirit’s deepest nature to fight a demon and save the weaker ones from the panic. That you were able to pull
the fire back before it was devoured is a sign of the deep bond of trust between you.”
Miranda gaped at him. “How did you know?”
“What?” Slorn said. “About the demonseed? What else could do that to a spirit? Also, I’ve been keeping an eye on Izo’s camp for some time.” His voice deepened into a growl. “There’s a man there I have unfinished business with.”
Miranda swallowed, suddenly very aware of Slorn’s massive jaw full of sharp, yellow teeth. “Is that why you wrote to Sara for help?”
“At the simplest level, yes,” Slorn said, his voice suddenly calm and smooth again. “But Sara and I have been professional colleagues long enough that I knew a simple letter wouldn’t be enough to get her to act, at least not in the immediate, large-scale way I needed her to. That’s why I made sure my daughter knew how to find Monpress, and that Sara would find out.”
“Wait,” Miranda said. “You mean that wasn’t a leak?”
“Of course not,” Slorn said. “At this point, I can afford to leave nothing to chance. I tracked Sted alone as long as I could, but as soon as it became clear he was entering Izo’s service, I knew I needed a larger pressure than I could provide myself. I needed the Council, which meant I needed Sara, and if anyone can get that woman to play her cards, it’s Eli Monpress.”
“Hold on. You’re after
Sted
?” Miranda knew she was just repeating things now, but she really could not believe what she was hearing. “
Why?
Demonseeds are League business. Why waste time fussing around with Sara and Eli? Five League members could clear out Izo’s entire camp in an hour. You seem to have more connections than
Lord Whitefall himself, so I can’t believe you don’t have a way to contact the League.”
Slorn leaned back, his inhuman face suddenly distant, and Miranda snapped her mouth shut. She’d said too much. She gripped the handle of her mug, waiting for a rebuke, but when the bear-headed man spoke, his voice was gruff and low.
“Can I tell you a story?”
Confused, Miranda nodded.
Slorn took a deep breath. “Ten years ago, my wife, Nivel, disappeared. We were both Shapers then, wizards of the Shaper Mountain. Up there, in the snow, we are always in the shadow of the Dead Mountain. When a wizard disappears, like Nivel did, it usually means only one thing. They were taken by the mountain.”
Slorn stopped here, and Miranda watched nervously, unsure if she should offer comfort or simply wait for him to continue. Fortunately, Slorn made the choice for her.
“Because of this, to protect ourselves and our mountain, the Shapers have a law. Any wizard who vanishes is considered dead. Should they be seen again alive, they are to be given to the League as a demonseed. When Nivel vanished, I was prepared to mourn her. But then, suddenly, she came back.”
Slorn looked up, dark eyes flashing. “Do you know what it is like, Spiritualist? To see the dead walk again? I expected a monster, but she was the same Nivel I married, my best friend, the mother of my daughter.”
“She wasn’t taken by the mountain?” Miranda said.
Slorn shook his head. “No,” he said darkly. “You misunderstand me. She was what we feared, she was a demonseed. But what I had never been told, what I
never prepared for, was that the person would remain unchanged. Nivel had always been strong, always forceful and determined. None of that had changed. She knew what had happened to her. She could feel the seed, but she did not want to give up, and I could not let them take her. So we did the only thing we could do: we ran. We fled the Shapers with our child, and for the last ten years we dedicated our lives to studying demonseeds, how to hide them, how to control them, and, ultimately, how to defeat them.
Ten years
, Spiritualist. Most seeds survive for one if they’re quiet, but through constant deals with the League, constant concessions, we held on. And we were making progress, learning so much. But then, a month ago, all of that was ruined. Sted, then just a defeated swordsman, snuck into the valley where my wife was hidden. She was deep in the seed’s trance and she could not fight back. He killed her and took her seed into his own body, becoming what before this I would have named impossible, a nonwizard demonseed.” Slorn stood up, walking over to gaze out the wagon’s tiny window. “I have been tracking him ever since.”
“I see,” Miranda said softly as his words faded. “You want revenge for your wife. But still, surely the League could help. That’s their job, isn’t it?”
Slorn began to chuckle, the sound horrible and out of place in his menacing mouth. “Again,” he said, turning to look at her, “you misunderstand me. If it was only revenge I desired, I could have had that long ago. I could have called the Lord of Storms down that very day, but it’s more complicated than that. Do you know what the League does with demonseeds?”
Miranda shook her head.
“First,” Slorn said, “the host body is killed. Demon-possessed spirits are fearsome combatants, which is why all League members must be excellent fighters, but after the fight is when the League’s true function becomes clear. When the host body has been defeated, the League member splits it open. Carves it straight down the middle, like a hunter gutting a deer, and takes the seed. Depending on how long the seed was active and how many spirits it ate, the seed can be anywhere from one inch to a foot in length.
“Demonseeds are the product of a seed being placed in a host,” Slorn continued. “The host can be killed, but the seeds themselves are not from our sphere and cannot be destroyed by any known method. The best the League can do is lock them away. They have a great vault in their headquarters, a storehouse of every seed they’ve ever purged. Once a seed enters their possession, it never comes out again.”
Slorn looked her straight in the eyes. “Nivel and I both knew it would end eventually,” he said. “Maybe not as it did, but still, no one can fight forever. However, the final stage of our research requires the seed itself. There is so much more it can tell us, so many questions to answer. If I let the League get ahold of Sted, then the seed inside him, Nivel’s seed, disappears forever into their vault, and ten years of the work my wife suffered for with it. That, Spiritualist, is why I needed Sara, why I needed you and Monpress and this whole farce. I’m fairly certain Sted, being spirit deaf, will never muster enough power to awaken the seed by himself. Already, not being a wizard, he can’t generate the kind of fear usually associated with demonseeds,
so the League is searching blindly. That gives me a good chance, especially now that he’s stolen Monpress.”