The Spirit Rebellion (12 page)

They were moving slowly, and Miranda had plenty of time to look down at her hands. Her rings glittered on her
fingers, each one shining with its own tiny light, innocent, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Mellinor, however, knew things were wrong. He moved under her mind, a shadow under the water that was her conscious, restless and thrashing. Miranda closed her eyes, feeling the pull of her spirits, the bond of the vows she had made them, the vows that had just been pronounced void. It felt the same as ever, an iron cable tying her soul to her spirits.

Standing there on the stand with the Spiritualists advancing toward her, Miranda faced her choice. Truly faced it, for the first time. Honor the Spirit Court or honor her spirits. When she saw her situation like that, laid bare of all its pomp, she realized she’d already chosen. All that was left was to act.

The thought terrified her, but not nearly as much as it would have an hour ago. After all, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Eli’s whispered in her head,
What more could they do to you?

The approaching Spiritualists were an arm’s length from Gin’s tail when Miranda turned to face them.

“Eril,” she said softly, “distraction.”

A great cackling laugh rose up from the pendant on her chest, and Eril burst forth in a blast of wind that nearly knocked her flat. He howled as he circled, overturning empty chairs, scattering papers everywhere, and the room erupted into chaos. Hern shot out of his chair, but his voice was lost in the gale. The other Spiritualists were standing as well, thrusting out hands covered in bright glowing rings, but Miranda had no time to watch them. The Spiritualist with the sand tiger shouted something, and her spirit sprang forward, meaning to trap Miranda in
an avalanche of sand. As it leaped, Miranda threw out her hand. A blast of water flew from her fingers, meeting the sand creature head-on. The wall of water engulfed it, and sand flew out in all directions with a rasping scream. The girl who commanded it cried out as well, and another ring on her hand flashed, but Miranda was too quick.

“Skarest,” she ordered, and lightning crackled down her arm, jumping in a white arc from her finger to the girl’s chest. The Spiritualist flew backward with a great cracking sound, landing in a sprawl on her back across the room.

“Skarest!” Miranda shouted, horrified.

“She’ll be fine,” the lightning crackled smugly. “Watch your back.”

Miranda whirled around just in time to see the other Spiritualist send his stone centipede skittering forward, but even as she opened her mouth to call Durn, her own stone spirit, Gin leaped over the spirit and landed on its Spiritualist. The stone monster froze as the ghosthound picked the boy up by his collar with one claw and tossed him into the benches. The rock centipede scurried over to its fallen master, but other spirits were joining the fray now. Hern had jumped down from the seats onto the chamber floor, his hands wreathed in a strange blue fire that matched the flashing stone at his neck.

Seeing they were about to be horribly outnumbered, Miranda hurried over to Gin. “Time to go!”

“Where?” Gin growled, kneeling down so she could jump on his back. “We’re in the heart of the Spirit Court. I’m all for leaving these idiots in the dust, but you picked a really bad place to rebel.”

The Spiritualists in the benches had their spirits out now. Everywhere Miranda looked she was ringed in by
spirits of every type and size beginning to move down out of the gallery to the floor.

“There.” Miranda pointed at the high windows.

“It’s too narrow,” Gin snapped. “We won’t get through.”

“Well, try anyway,” Miranda said, getting a death grip on his fur.

Gin growled and dropped into a crouch. She could feel his muscles tensing, gathering strength, and then, in a single, explosive motion, he jumped. Miranda had never seen him jump like this. It felt as if they were flying. They soared over the benches, over Hern, who could only watch openmouthed, lifting his flame-ringed hands too late. Gin and Miranda flew past Banage, and Miranda turned to catch one last glimpse of her mentor. What she saw, however, was not what she’d expected. Despite the fiasco going on in his Court, Banage had not moved. He simply sat there at his seat, watching her. Then, without warning, he smiled, and his spirit welled up around her.

She’d felt him open his spirit wide before, but this was different. The stones on his chain of office glowed like sunlight, and Miranda’s bones hummed with power. Not just Banage’s power, but the power of the Rector Spiritualis, the wizard tied to the interconnected spirit of the Spirit Court’s tower and the great sleeping spirits that lay beneath Zarin itself.

Banage flicked his fingers and the room shook with an enormous groan. It lasted only a second, but it was enough. Ahead of them, the too-narrow window they were flying toward suddenly slid away, the milky white glass that was never meant to open dropping down to let them through. It didn’t stop there, though. Next, the stone
that ringed the window began to peel outward, the white marble bending and curling like an opening flower, creating a hole just large enough for Gin. Miranda barely had time to gawk before they were through, soaring out of the tower and into the clear morning air.

For one glorious moment they flew high and free with all of Zarin spread out before them. Then, in a slow, inevitable arch, they began to fall. Miranda felt Gin’s legs kick, then begin to scramble in the empty space, and she realized something was wrong. They were too high, even for Gin, and falling at the wrong angle.

For a single, breathless moment, they tumbled in free fall, the sky and ground swapping places in sickening circles as they hurdled the three stories down toward the cobbled courtyard. Miranda gripped Gin’s fur and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. Instead, Mellinor poured out of her. Later, thinking back, she could never recall if she had asked him or if the water spirit had acted on his own, but she had never been so happy to see the impossibly blue water.

Mellinor plummeted ahead of them in a great wave, falling to the pavement below and forming a vast pool of water. She watched, her terror overcome by amazement, as the water shaped itself into a great, floating well a dozen feet deep, or tall, depending on how you saw it, and Miranda realized she had better hold her breath.

Gin hit the pool with a great splash, and it was all Miranda could do to hold on as the force of the water threatened to scrape her off the ghosthound. But Mellinor caught her, his water absorbing the impact. She regained her seating just as Gin’s feet touched the ground. The water held them a moment longer, until Gin had his
balance, and then, with a heady rush, Mellinor poured back into Miranda. She went stiff, gasping for breath as the water spirit returned to her, and she would have fallen off if her fingers had not already been tangled in Gin’s fur so tightly. Then Mellinor was back where he always was and they were standing in the courtyard, dry and safe, with the sound of spirits clamoring above them.

Gin didn’t give Miranda time to assess the situation. As soon as the water was gone, he burst forward, nearly running over a handful of gawking people. Miranda could only hold on and keep her head down as the ghosthound jumped the wall that separated the Spirit Court from the rest of the city. No one tried to stop them as they ran through the busy streets and made a beeline for the southern wall.

“We’ll hit the south fields,” Gin said, his voice barely audible over the rush of the wind and cries of the people forced to jump out of their way. “Make a show. Then when Zarin’s out of sight, we’ll circle back east and lose ourselves in the farmland. Lots of hiding places there. We can rest and decide where we’re actually going.”

Miranda nodded against his fur, happy to let him decide. She looked down at her fingers knotted in Gin’s fur, at the rings that pressed into her skin. Then she looked back over her shoulder at the great tower of the Spirit Court standing straight and white over the city. She regretted it immediately as a surge of emotion choked her throat, and she ducked her head, burying her face in Gin’s neck. She did not look at anything again until they were far, far away.

Etmon Banage eased his spirit a fraction, and the stones that Miranda and Gin had just gone sailing through folded
in again, the window sliding back into place as though it had never moved. Below him, the solemn chamber was in complete uproar. Hern stood by the empty stand, his hands still wreathed in his blue fire spirit, shouting orders. The other Spiritualists weren’t listening. They were busy withdrawing their retinues and helping the poor pair who had tried to confront Miranda get back on their feet.

When Hern realized he was getting nowhere, he marched to the foot of the great bench and glared upward.

“Banage!” he shouted. “Have you gone soft in the head? Why did you let a convicted criminal escape?”

“That window is a priceless part of our tower,” Banage answered matter-of-factly. “The ghosthound was going through it, one way or another. Would you rather I let it be broken?”

“Don’t play that line with me,” Hern growled, pointing a finger wreathed with blue flame. “You knew. You knew she would try to escape!”

Banage arched his eyebrows at the younger man. “You were the one who pushed her into the corner, Hern,” he said. “Miranda is a strong, proud Spiritualist. Is it surprising she pushed back?”

Hern gritted his teeth and lowered his hands, the flames sputtering out. “It makes no difference; she’s a traitor and a criminal now. We’ll hunt her down sooner or later.”

“Perhaps,” Banage said, unfastening his stiff collar. “But your involvement in this matter is at an end, Hern. I suggest you put it out of your mind.”

Hern glared at him. “What do you mean? I’m not finished until that girl’s rings are dust.”

“The pursuit and apprehension of traitors is the sole
purview of the Rector Spiritualis.” Banage removed his heavy chain next and handed it to Krigel, who had stepped forward to help him. “Rest assured, I will give this matter the attention it deserves.”

Hern glared murder at him. “I will not let you bury this,” he said, his voice taut. “Do not think this is done, Etmon!”

“I would never allow myself such luxuries,” Banage answered, but Hern was already off, marching through the chaotic hall, his robes flying behind him like fantastic wings. A handful of the remaining Tower Keepers fell in behind him, leaving the room nearly empty.

“Well,” Krigel said when they were gone, “that was a fine fiasco.”

“Yes,” Banage said, sinking back down into his chair. “I seem to have a talent for making troublesome enemies.”

Krigel sniffed. “Any man who wasn’t Hern’s enemy would be no friend of mine.”

Banage nodded absently, staring up at the window.

Krigel followed his eyes. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, that was very unlike you. What possessed you to do it?”

“What,” he said, “let her escape? It certainly wasn’t the proper thing to do.” He paused, and a thin smile spread across his lips. “Let’s just say it felt more right than letting Hern win.”

“I see,” Krigel said. “And are you saying that as the Rector Spiritualis or as her master?”

“Both,” Banage said. “She made her choice and she chose her spirits. I can’t say I would respect a Spiritualist who chose otherwise, not as mentor or as Rector.
Now”—he stood up—“back to work. Tell me, which traveling Spiritualist reported in last?”

“That would be Zigget,” Krigel said. “He stopped in last week and left promptly a day later to investigate reports of spirit abuse by pirates on the Green Sea.”

“Good,” Banage said, nodding. “Notify anyone who asks that Zigget is now in charge of catching Miranda Lyonette and bringing her to face trial.”

“But he’s on a boat by now,” Krigel said. “Even relaying through the towers, it will take weeks to inform him of his new assignment.”

“Too bad,” Banage said. “I suddenly have the strong feeling that no one but Zagget is right for this job.”

“It’s Zigget, sir,” Krigel said.

“Whatever.” Banage shrugged, looking around at the scattered papers and overturned benches. “Put him on it and make sure Hern knows, and get someone in here to clean this up.”

“Yes, Rector.” Krigel bowed.

Banage patted him on the shoulder and walked down the stairs and out of the chamber, running his hand along the wall as he went. Beneath his fingers, the stone tower whispered that the white dog and its master were already outside the city, running south and east across the plains. Smiling, Banage pulled back his hand and started up the stairs, feeling much better than he’d expected to feel.

A
s soon as Slorn announced he would start the coat, he vanished into his workroom and did not come out for food or sleep. The first day of waiting passed quickly enough, but by the second Eli was getting dangerously bored.

“You know,” Josef said, “it’s a sign of maturity to be able to entertain yourself.”

They were sitting around the table in the main room. Josef had all his knives, swords, and throwing spikes laid out by size, and he was carefully sharpening them with a contented look on his face. Nico was sitting beside him, reading some book of Slorn’s she’d picked up the day before, one of Morticime Kant’s fourteen-volume
A Wizarde Historie
. This activity had surprised Eli for two reasons: one, that Slorn kept that kind of trash in his house, and two, that Nico could read. She’d never given any signs that she was literate before, but there was so little he knew about her, it wasn’t safe to assume anything. Anyway, that
had been yesterday’s realization. Today, he was slumped over the hard chair by the fire, bored out of his mind.