The Spirit Rebellion (6 page)

He was looking at Eli as he spoke, but it was Josef who answered, and the vehemence in his voice made them both flinch.

“Nico is a survivor,” the swordsman said. “When I found her, she was a breath away from death. I waited for her to die, but she didn’t. She kept breathing. Every breath
should have been her last, but she always found another. She’ll beat this, too, bear man, so make the damn coat.”

Slorn stared at him in abashed silence, but Josef ignored him and stood up. “I saw a bath on the way in.” He slid the Heart of War from his back and dropped it on the table with a resounding gong from the iron and a painful shudder from the wood. “If Nico asks, that’s where I’ll be. If anyone else needs me, they can wait.”

With that, he turned and stomped off down the hall. Slorn watched him go, looking as astonished as a bear could. Eli just watched from his seat at the table, grinning like a maniac.

“He certainly doesn’t mince words,” Slorn said, turning back to the chest.

“No,” Eli said and grinned wider. “That’s why I like him.”

Slorn shook his head and turned back to the chest.

Eli watched him for a moment, but he could see the work settling on the bear-headed man’s shoulders like a vulture, and he decided it was time to move somewhere more comfortable before Slorn forgot him completely.

“I’m going to freshen up as well,” he announced. “I presume the guest bedroom is still in the same place?”

“More or less,” Slorn said. “Top of the stairs, third door on the right.”

“Third door, much obliged.” With a gracious nod, Eli gathered his bag and set off up the stairs, leaving Slorn alone in the great room. On the broad worktable, the enormous pile of gold glittered in the fire light, forgotten by everyone.

G
in was asleep in the flower bed that surrounded the low building where Miranda kept her chambers when she was in Zarin. His legs kicked in his sleep, sending the well-turned dirt flying, and his shifting patterns swirled in strange, spiraling shapes across his body, all except for the patch between the shoulder blades. There, the wound from his fight with the demon girl Nico stood out like a red brand beneath the dried layers of green polluce the stable master had smeared over it. It looked better than before, but it would never be part of his patterns again. Even in his sleep, he seemed to favor the wound, cringing away from it whenever he rolled over.

Suddenly, his dream running stopped. He lay perfectly still, except for his ears, which swiveled in quick circles, each moving independently from the other. The night was as quiet as a city night could be, but Gin jerked up, his orange eyes wide open, watching the corner of the building. A few moments later, Miranda flew around it. She
saw him at once, and ran toward him, moving strangely, keeping her breathing almost too regular and her face down so that the last evening light couldn’t touch it. This was probably to keep Gin from seeing that she was crying, but his mistress had never fully appreciated just how much his orange eyes could pick up, especially in low light.

Still, he played along, rolling over and sitting up properly as she came near, his tail wrapped around his paws. Miranda didn’t slow when she reached him, didn’t say a word. She slammed into him and slumped down, and though she never made a sound, the salty smell of tears filled the air until he had trouble breathing. After several silent minutes, Gin decided to take the initiative. After all, if they needed to escape, it would be best to do it now, before the lamps were lit.

He lowered his head until he was level with hers. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Miranda made a sound somewhere between a curse and a sob. Gin growled and nudged her with his paw. “Don’t be difficult. Spit it out.”

“It makes me so angry!” Her answer was a whip crack, and Gin flinched. Miranda muttered an apology, scrubbing at her eyes in a motion he was probably not supposed to notice. “It’s just… How could they do this to me? How could they betray me like this? All my life, from the moment I understood that the voices I heard were spirits, all I’ve wanted was to be a Spiritualist. To do good and defend the spirits and be a hero and all the stuff they tell you when you start your apprenticeship. And now here I am, on trial for making the decisions the Spirit Court trained me to make. It’s not
right
!”

That last word was almost a wail, and she buried her head in her hands. Gin shifted anxiously. He hadn’t seen her this upset in a long time.

“Try to remember that I’ve been in a stable having cold, foul-smelling gunk smeared on my back all evening,” he said. “Could you be a little more specific?”

Miranda leaned back against him with a huff and, in a quick, clipped voice, told him everything. The arrest, her meeting with Banage, the accusations, and Hern’s compromise.

“A compromise, can you believe it?” she said, digging her fingers into the dirt. “Extortion is more like it.”

“Being a Tower Keeper doesn’t sound so bad,” Gin offered.

“It
wouldn’t
be,” Miranda said, “if I were getting the promotion for any reason other than Hern playing on Master Banage’s sense of duty toward me! Oh, I hate to think what other concessions Master Banage had to make to get that out of Hern. The man is a slime.”

“But if Banage already made the concessions, why not take the offer?” Gin said, sweeping his tail back and forth. “The problem is the Tower Keepers thinking your actions reflect badly on them, right? So let them have their trial. If you’re right and Hern’s only doing this to make Banage look bad, why give him more fodder by fighting? He can’t find fault if you keep strictly to the role of the dutiful Spiritualist.”

Miranda gave him a sideways look. “That’s a very political answer for a dog who always says he doesn’t understand politics.”

“I don’t understand politics,” Gin growled. “But I understand pride, and that’s what this is really about.
Sometimes the price of doing the right thing is higher than we realize when we do it. Knowing the consequences, would you have acted differently in Mellinor?”

Miranda froze and thought for a second. “No,” she said firmly.

“There you have it,” Gin said with a shrug. “So pay the price. Take the out Banage bought you, appease the Tower Keeper’s pride, and move on.”

“I will not,” Miranda said. “Maybe it is about pride, mine as much as anyone’s, but I cannot,
will
not, bow to Hern’s bullying. Those things he accuses me of
did not
happen, and I will not stand by while he smears my name and my spirits with his lies.”

“So, what, you’re just going to throw Banage’s help away?” Gin growled. “What about the part where losing this trial could lose you your spirits? Your pride is your own, and I respect your right to beat yourself bloody over it, but we’re not something to be thrown away so cheaply.”

“That won’t happen,” Miranda said fiercely, gripping her hands until her rings cut into her fingers. “Trust me, we’ve got right on our side. We won’t lose, especially not to Hern.”

Gin looked at her, his orange eyes narrowed to slits. “And would you bet all of us on that?”

Miranda didn’t answer. They sat in silence for a while, staring out at the darkening streets. Gin sat very still, watching in the way that spirits watch. He could see each of Miranda’s spirits, the flow of their souls pulsing softly with the beating of her heart. Each spirit shone softly with its own unique color, and below them, buried deep within Miranda’s own bright soul, Mellinor’s spirit turned in his
sleep. The Great Spirit was enormous and alien even to Gin, ancient beyond comprehension, yet it was also a part of Miranda now, and dear to him because of it, even beyond the natural reverence he owed a Great Spirit. Each glowing spirit, even Mellinor, had a tendril reaching out from its core. These were the bonds, the strong, deep network of binding promises, at the center of which was Miranda. All of them, even the tiny moss spirit, had abandoned their homes to follow her. From the moment they’d sworn their oaths, she’d become their center, their Great Spirit, their mistress, worthy of service. The thought of being taken from her made him afraid in ways he hadn’t felt since he was puppy. Yet the Spirit Court could do that, if it chose. Miranda’s oath had forged the bonds, but every one of those promises had been made under the authority of the Court. So long as Miranda believed in that authority, the Court owned her rings and the spirits inside, even him. As with all human magic, it all came down to will. So long as Miranda wasn’t willing to go against the organization she’d pledged her life to, they were all bound to the Spirit Court’s whims. Still, the choice was Miranda’s, and despite what he’d said, Gin knew her well enough to know her decision. So he waited patiently, watching as the city lamps flickered on, the tiny fire spirits winking to life as the lamplighters walked the districts, filling the dark streets with soft, dancing light.

When Miranda answered at last, her voice was small but steady. “Gin,” she said, “I have always lived my life according to principle. I believe more than anything that there is right and there is wrong, and that the gap between them is wider than any words can bridge. No amount of good intentions or clever plans can turn one
into the other. What we did in Mellinor, for Mellinor, was the right thing. I will not sit by and let anyone say it wasn’t.”

“Does that mean you’re going to fight?”

“Yes,” Miranda said and smiled, tilting her head to look up at him. “To the great inconvenience of everyone involved.”

“The life of principle is never convenient,” Gin said with a toothy grin. “At least not that I’ve seen.”

Miranda laughed, and Gin got up with a long stretch. “Now that that’s decided,” he growled, “you should get inside. You’re crabby when you haven’t slept.”

Miranda stood up stiffly, brushing the dirt off her trousers and looking forlornly at the deep rut Gin had made in the flower bed. “The garden committee is going to kill us.”

“Eh,” Gin said, shrugging. “You’re already on trial for treason. What more could they do?”

Miranda rolled her eyes at that, but she was smiling. As Gin nosed her toward the door of her building, she caught his muzzle in her hands and gave him a serious look.

“Thank you,” she said, “for being a pushy ass.”

“What else am I here for?”

Miranda shook her head and walked into her building, trudging up the stairs to the tiny suite of rooms the Spirit Court allotted all traveling Spiritualists. Gin watched her until she was out of sight, then moved out to the alley to watch the light come on in her window. The lamp flickered, and then, a minute later, the room went dark again. Satisfied that things would be fine until tomorrow, Gin ambled back to his flower bed and flopped down, resting
his head in a soft, sweet-smelling clump of something silver-green with furry leaves, and, after scarcely two breaths, promptly fell back to sleep.

Far away from the low, plain buildings where the common Spiritualists kept their rooms, at the other end of the Spirit Court’s district where the architecture took a turn for the large and ornate, Grenith Hern was sitting on his balcony enjoying a bottle of wine. Bright light from his sitting room shone through the open double doors, highlighting the graying gold of his long, straight hair and casting his shadow in perfect contrast on the empty street below, a fine, trim figure in fine, trim clothing. This was not by chance. Hern often sat this way in the evenings, for he enjoyed the picture he presented, and the view of the city was very fine.

From here he could look down the ridge to see the lamps flicker on, one pair at a time. As he watched them, he couldn’t help thinking, as he always did when he spent his evenings at home, how, if he were Rector Spiritualis, he would have put every lamp spirit in the city under the control of a single fire, so that they could all be lit at once. The current method of lighting with a pair of lamp lighters walking around telling the lamps when to flare was old-fashioned and inefficient, not to mention a horrible waste of an opportunity to make the Whitefall family owe the Spiritualists a favor for something that would cost the court very little. Still, there was nothing to be done as he was merely Head of the Tower Keepers, and he certainly wasn’t about to give Banage the idea.

Hern sighed at the waste and refilled his glass, his lace cuff holding itself neatly out of the way of the dark wine.
He was just about to take a sip when he heard the sound he’d been sitting on the balcony waiting to catch: the whisper of dust as it moved up the smooth white marble of his townhouse walls. He turned his chair to face the far corner of his balcony as a stream of dark-colored dust began to collect in the tray he’d left out for it. He waited patiently as the dust gathered, forming a thin layer at first, then growing to a large pile. As it collected, a smell began to collect in the air, char and smoke, and it quickly became clear that the powder on the tray was not, in fact, dust, but fine, gray ash.

When the last of the ash had collected, Hern leaned forward, a smile on his slightly lined but still handsome face. “You’re early. I hope it’s good news.”

The ash sighed, sending a smell of burnt hardwood into the air. “For your information, it’s been a very difficult day. I will never get used to moving about in such a spread-out fashion, being stepped on and losing bits of myself in the street. It’s not to be borne.”

Hern made a tsking noise. “Come now, Allio. You’re far more useful as a pile of ash than you ever were as a tree.”