The chamber was enormous and the distance between the doors and the torches would have taken a healthy man several long seconds to run across on warm, living legs. The corpses limped and ambled at a fraction of that speed, but still they moved faster than a mere walk, and they spread outward from the doors, slowly filling the vast ballroom with groaning, stumbling figures.
And the first of them were about to reach the torchlight.
Guns began to fire, some of them booming right in Wren’s ear, making her wince as her head filled with watery white noise. Men were shouting behind her and small objects began flying over her head toward the corpses. Chair legs, candles, pens, knives, ink wells, jars, and even a boot or two whizzed by her, nearly hitting her tall ears more than once.
Wren wrapped her fingers together, turning her hands into one massive fist, and she swung both arms together through the air, trying to coax all eight bracelets into resonating through the aether one last time, but the otherworldly mist was simply too thin now and it barely nudged the corpses sideways as they rushed into the light.
The body of a middle-aged man lunged at her, and she threw up both of her arms to shield her head as she closed her eyes and hoped…
Eight silver bracelets veined with sun-steel crashed together as she crossed her arms, and they resounded with a horrible metallic whine. Wren opened her eyes and jerked her face back from her arms and the noise coming from the trinkets on her wrists, and then she saw the corpse standing just in front of her, wobbling in place, stutter-stepping sideways.
The sound!
She crashed her arms together again and again, letting the bracelets ring out with their buzzing, hissing, growling whines. And with every crash, the dead bodies stumbled and turned and tripped and fell. But only for a moment. As the ringing died, the corpses recovered, crawling back up to their feet and turning back toward the clerks and soldiers gathered within the ring of torches.
“Wren!” Tycho appeared at her side, fumbling with the bullets for his revolver. He snapped the gun shut and pointed it at the dead men and women. “Get behind me!”
He fired twice and two corpses slumped to the floor. But in the shadowy corners of the room, Wren’s keen fox eyes saw the dead bodies still pouring in through more and more doors by the dozens, by the hundreds. She clutched Tycho’s shoulder to steady herself as she stared at the countless dead faces stumbling toward her out of the darkness.
Aether. I need more aether! How? HOW???
And a familiar voice whispered to her, “Draw it up from the earth.”
Wren’s eyes snapped to her finger where the slender ring of Denveller gleamed with coppery gold.
“Is that… Hrist?” Wren asked. She frowned at the ring, not certain when she had last heard Hrist’s voice. She had always been the quietest of the Yslander ghosts.
“It is I,” the dead vala answered. “Draw the aether you need up from the earth using the bracelets.”
“How exactly?”
“Sit on the ground,” Hrist said. “Place your palms on the ground, and shiver your soul just as you do when you move the aether around you. But this time, imagine the shivers rippling upward through your body, like ripples on the surface of a lake when the wind blows straight across it.”
“No, not straight across,” a second voice said from the ring.
“Kara?”
“Yes, Wren. Do as Hrist says, but picture the shivers spinning around you like a water spout, rising as it spins, faster and faster. Do it now!”
Wren jerked away from Tycho and ran to the center of the office where Lady Nerissa stood calmly, though very pale, surrounded by her servants. Wren dropped to the cold floor and placed her hands on the damp tiles. Closing her eyes, she tried to forget about the yelling and the shuffling and the gun shots.
Making her own soul shiver was easy enough. Over the last few months, it had almost become a comfortable reflex from her long hours of practice with Omar’s guidance. It then took several moments of effort to make the tiny ripples in her ghost start to turn, to revolve around her, sweeping over her skin from right to left like a wave of gooseflesh, faster and faster, until she was trembling uncontrollably as though she were standing naked on a glacier, her whole body shaking as her flesh tried desperately to stay warm against the freezing elements.
“Faster!” Hrist cried.
“Faster!” Kara ordered.
Wren bore down on her chest, tightening her muscles, making herself smaller so her shivering ghost could spin ever faster. And suddenly the trembling stopped and she felt strangely warm. She knew, dimly, that her ghost was whirling within her body, spinning like a top, but spinning so fast that she could barely feel it anymore.
Wren opened her eyes.
At first, all she could see was white. Then she blinked and saw that the white was moving, flying, whirling past her face, whirling around her body. She turned her head and saw through the tiny wispy gaps in the white wall to the faces of the men and women standing around her, staring in at her in fear.
I did it.
She looked up and saw that the column of aether reached all the way up to the distant ceiling.
I really did it!
“Now use it!” Kara grumbled.
Wren rose to her feet, careful to keep her hands close to avoid touching the aether storm.
“Everyone get back!” She yelled through the white wall. “Everyone get down on the floor!”
She squinted through the whipping clouds, but couldn’t tell if anyone had heard her.
“Get down now!” she screamed.
Wren raised her arms over her head, letting the bracelets fall to her elbows. She could still feel her soul revolving within her flesh, spinning like the stars in the night sky, flying like the leaves on an autumn wind. She brought her hands together, feeling the humming vibrations in her ring and in her bracelets, and slowly she brought her hands down in front of her as she pulled the aether out of the storm cloud, drawing it in tighter and tighter into a ball of freezing white mist rolling between her hands.
As she pulled the aether down to her, the wall of the storm grew thinner, revealing a room full of people lying flat on the floor with their hands over their heads, and a few young men in the distance on their knees, still shooting at the dark figures out beyond the torches.
Wren inhaled and in one final gesture she pulled all of the aether into the whirling sphere of storm clouds trapped between her palms. Now she could see everything. The terrified people, the broken furniture, the guttering torches, and the sea of rotting faces clambering over the fallen dead to reach the huddled survivors.
Wren turned her hands so that one was below the storm-sphere and the other was above it, and with a silent prayer she ripped her hands away from each other. The aether exploded outward in a flat arc, tearing across the entire room like a pair of enormous white bullwhips snapping through the darkness. And everywhere that the aether whips struck a cold body, a soul would fly free up into the air as the corpses toppled over to the floor.
In an instant every dead body in the entire chamber was lying on the ground and a thousand pale faces and figures hovered in the air looking lost and frightened and sad, but also relieved and grateful. They looked down at her, a multitude of fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, farmers and soldiers and sailors and fishers, and the ghosts smiled gently as one by one they faded away into the darkness.
Wren stood very still, staring into the shadows with her fox eyes and listening with her fox ears. But no more figures shambled through the open doors, no more frozen tongues murmured, and no more dead feet scraped over the tiled floor. Everything was still and silent, except for the dripping of the water and the purring of the torches.