The Legend Of Eli Monpress (120 page)

Miranda started. “How did you know about that?”

Slorn gave her a look. “I told you, I’ve been watching everything. How else do you think I found you out here?”

Miranda knew she looked petulant, but she couldn’t help it. Lately, it seemed she was always the last to know anything.

“Don’t worry about your thief,” Slorn said, resting his elbows on the table. “Sted is a blunt man who lives only to beat the wielder of the Heart. He cares nothing for Eli’s bounty or his true power. He only took the thief to get a hand up on Izo. Now that the prize everybody’s after is safely in his possession, Sted is free to demand what he really wants, a rematch with Josef Liechten.”

“How can you sound so pleased about it?” Miranda said. “I know Josef has the Heart, but this is a demonseed.” Her mind flitted back to the ruined throne room in Mellinor, to Nico crouching in the dark, her eyes glowing like lanterns while the world screamed around her, and she shivered. If that was a controlled demonseed in a little girl’s body, she’d hate to see what a brute like Sted could become.

“I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Liechten,” Slorn said. “Sted may be a demonseed, but he’s a mediocre swordsman. The Heart, on the other hand, doesn’t let just anyone swing it around.”

Miranda frowned, sipping her tea. She was still turning things over in her mind when a metallic clank nearly startled her out of her seat. Across the table, the oven popped open, spilling out a geyser of blisteringly hot air.

“Ah,” Slorn said. “Good work.”

Without tongs or mitts, he reached his hand into the roaring stove. Miranda was about to shout a warning when she saw the fire peeling back for him. When he took his hand out again, Kirik’s ring was sitting in his open palm, the ruby glowing like a red lamp. Miranda took the ring from his hand. The gold was warm to the touch, but nowhere near as hot as it should have been. Inside, she could feel Kirik sleeping, happy and content and fully himself with no sign of his previous injury.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, sliding the ring lovingly onto her thumb.

“No need,” Slorn said. “I would be a poor wizard indeed if I saw a spirit like that and did nothing.”

Miranda sat turning her ring on her finger as Slorn cleaned the embers from the stove and restowed the kettle on its hook. By the time he’d finished tidying up, she’d come to a decision.

“Slorn,” she said, sitting up. “Take me with you.”

The bear-headed man turned to look at her, curious, and Miranda continued. “I owe Sted a thing or two myself. Let me help you take him down. If I go back to Izo’s now, I won’t be able to do anything except go along with everyone else’s plans. You seem to know everything, but you may not know that Sparrow has orders from Sara to make sure you come back to Zarin with us, whether you want to or not. Take me with you and I’ll keep him back long enough for you to get out with the seed.”

“A generous offer,” Slorn said, scratching his muzzle. “And in return, I suppose, I look the other way while you capture Monpress.”

Miranda winced. She wasn’t used to people seeing
straight through her like this. “I know he’s your friend,” she started. “But—”

“You misunderstand me again,” Slorn said. “I’ll gladly take your help. Monpress reaps what he sows, but he knew that when he decided to become a thief. Besides, I imagine he rather likes having someone as dedicated as yourself on his trail. He would be cross with me if I tried to protect him.”

Miranda chuckled. Slorn’s words made sense in the twisted, Eli-logic sort of way.

“Well,” Slorn said, “if we’re going to be working together, the first thing I’ll ask is that you get some sleep. You’ve been riding all night, and I can’t have that sort of a liability on my hands. I’m going outside to check up on a few things. You can use my bunk in the meanwhile.”

Miranda tried to protest, but Slorn was pulling the folding bed down, its crisp, white sheets already tucked into place. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket from a cabinet beside the door and tossed them on the bed.

“Sleep well,” he said. “We’ll discuss strategy in a few hours when your mind is awake.”

He gave her a polite nod and vanished down the stairs, the red-painted door falling quietly shut behind him. Miranda stood there a minute more before she gave in, flopping down with a loud sigh on the surprisingly soft trundle bed. She had barely kicked her boots off before she was asleep, her head pillowed on the pile of blankets Slorn had left for her.

Slorn heard the growling before he’d reached the wagon’s bottom step. He turned to see the Spiritualist’s ghosthound lying at the entrance to the dense bushes, his
enormous orange eyes watching Slorn in a way that was far too predatory for comfort.

Slorn stared right back. “She’s asleep.”

“I can tell that,” the ghosthound said. “I presume we’re throwing our lot in with you, then?”

“For the time being,” Slorn said, nodding. “Is there something you’d like to add?”

“If that’s what Miranda says, then that’s what we’re doing,” the ghosthound said with a yawn. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t need to rip your throat out before going to sleep.”

Slorn heard the wagon hiss, and he put his hand on the wood, sending out a calming tendril of his spirit. The hound yawned again, showing an impressive line of teeth, and then, almost in the same instant, he was asleep, curled in a ball with his long nose buried in his tail.

Slorn waited until he was sure the ghosthound wasn’t bluffing before letting out a long, low sigh. He had no doubt the dog would have killed him if he’d threatened the girl, no questions asked. Slorn shook his head, marveling. Shapers could blend spirits together in ways no other wizard could, but he’d never seen anyone who could match a good Spiritualist for spirit loyalty.

He whispered to the bushes, and they stretched out their branches to cover the dog’s sleeping form. It would be awhile before Sted moved again. There was plenty of time to let his guests sleep a bit before moving on. Meanwhile, he would gather more information.

Slorn turned and walked out of his hidden camp, climbing farther up the slope until he reached the crest. They were high up, higher than his own Turning Wood, and the air was cold and swift. Squinting, Slorn looked up
and north, following the line of the cliffs until he spotted his wind riding high and bright over the sleeping mountain spirits. He raised his hands, sending a flash toward the wind. It danced a moment longer and then dropped down, spiraling through the trees until it ruffled the fur on his face, making his eyes water.

“The swordsman has agreed to the fight,” it whispered. “It was very hard to make out, I hope you know. The spirit deaf are so difficult to focus on.”

“I appreciate your efforts,” Slorn said. “What about Sted?”

The wind shivered when he said the name. “In the mountains, I think. He’s even harder to follow than the others. I can’t make out exactly what he is, but I don’t like him at all.”

Slorn wisely stayed silent on that. “Thank you very much for your help. I won’t forget it.”

“Don’t tell
me
you’re happy. Tell the West Wind,” the spirit said. “Why else do you think I’m doing this?”

“Of course.” Slorn nodded. Even after all these years, spirit politics baffled him, especially winds. “Would you mind going back to the camp?”

“If you like,” the wind sighed. “Staying in one place too long makes me ache.”

“It won’t be for long,” Slorn said. “I’ll join you there this evening. And I’ll be sure to inform the West Wind of the great pains you’ve taken to help us.”

This seemed to please the wind immensely, and it took off with a great whoosh, shaking the thin trees as it flew skyward and turned south, back toward Izo’s camp. Slorn watched it go, staring up at the blue dome of the sky until
his wind was long gone and replaced by other winds, all moving like great currents through the sky.

He was about to turn back when a flash of movement caught his eye.

As always, something inside him, inside the deep animalistic instincts he’d inherited when he let the bear into his soul, told him to look away, but the stronger part, the curious, purely human side of him, tilted his head upward. There, above the snowy mountaintops, above the winds, something was moving on the dome of the sky itself. It was a subtle motion, one he couldn’t have seen at all if he hadn’t been looking for it. He’d first noticed it years ago by chance. Now, against his better judgment, he looked whenever he caught a glimpse. High overhead, pressing against the arc of the sky itself like a weight pressed on a taut cloth, was the faint outline of a long, bony, clawed hand. As he watched, the hand scraped slowly downward, running long, sharp grooves in the sky that vanished the moment it passed, only to be replaced by another hand, sometimes smaller, sometimes larger, pressing down again.

Fear like no fear he’d ever felt before began to well up inside him, and a great need stronger than any instinct screamed at him to look away. Even so, he locked his eyes a moment longer, watching the hands scrape across the dome of the sky.

“Slorn?”

He jumped at the voice, whirling around to see the wind waiting, circling him in worried little circles.

“Yes,” he said, struggling to keep his voice normal.

“I just came back to let you know the West Wind told me to tell you to be kind to the Spiritualist girl. Who
knows why. Spiritualists are busybodies, but Illir’s word is law.”

“I’ll look after her, don’t worry,” Slorn said, managing a weak smile.

The wind spun again. “Slorn.” Its voice was not nearly so certain this time. “What were you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Slorn lied. “Nothing at all.”

The wind made a frightened wheezing sound. “It’s not good to stare at the sky.”

“It’s nothing,” Slorn said again. “Off with you.”

The wind held on a moment longer and then whipped away, flying hard and fast between the trees. Slorn waited until it was completely gone before wiping the cold sweat from where the fur met his neck. When his breathing was steady again, he walked down the slope back toward the bushes. He did not look at the sky again.

W
hen the sun rose on the third day, Josef Liechten woke up, took the Heart of War from his chest, and stomped off to his fight. Nico trailed him like a shadow, pulling Tesset behind her so that they made a strange sort of line pushing their way across Izo’s camp. The city was packed. Bandits wearing the Bandit King’s red and black had come from all across the mountains, abandoning their small camps and outposts for a day of glory.

“What are all these idiots doing here?” Josef growled, glaring as a gaggle of young men, some barely into their teens, made themselves comfortable on a rooftop with a good view of the arena. “This is a duel, not a circus.”

“For the men up here, the two are the same,” Tesset said. “Sted may have forced Izo to play host, but you’re kidding yourself if you think Izo isn’t going to get something out of it. The Council’s been cracking down and troop morale is low. How better to boost it than a spectacular fight to the death? It’s a clever use of a bad situation,
but Izo’s famous for turning things to his favor. He didn’t become king of the bandits for his nobility, you know.”

Josef shook his head in disgust. “I just hope he remembered his end of our deal.”

“He did,” Nico said softly. “They’ve been hammering for days.”

Josef didn’t need to ask what she meant by that, for a moment later the arena itself came into view. Lying on the hard-packed sand was a jagged heap of newly forged swords. Some blades were almost black with imperfections, others were actually crooked, lying sideways across the blades beneath them. Still, hundreds of swords in all. Josef grinned and clapped his hands together.

“Perfect.”

Izo was standing at the arena’s edge with his retinue and the foppish man from the Council, whose finery was looking a little wilted today. They both turned as Josef approached, and Izo brightened visibly, grinning so wide Josef could count his gold crowns.

“The sleeper wakes,” he said, laughing. The Bandit King was dressed in silks like a lord and obviously in a fine mood as he stretched out his hand toward the pile of swords. “See, it is all here, as promised. You asked for a spectacle and I delivered.”

“The crowd is too much,” Josef said. “But Sted will probably like it, so let them stay. Neither of us will be holding back, though, so I can’t vouch for your men’s safety.”

“What bandit looks for safety?” Izo scoffed.

Josef shrugged and stared down at the circular pit of the arena, measuring the wood-braced walls with his eyes. “In that case, get some of your men started putting
the swords on the walls. The blades are no good to me piled like that. I need every one of them on a hook, hilt up. I’m guessing that’s your seat?” Josef nodded toward the short tower at the edge of the arena topped with a crimson-covered box that held benches, a throne, and a balcony.

“Who else’s?” Izo said.

Josef ignored his boastful grin. “I’ll need a pillar about the same height directly across from it. There.” He pointed. “Just a simple post will do, so long as it’s at least a foot thick.”

“Easily done,” Izo said. “But why?”

“I need a safe place for this.” Josef reached over his shoulder and grabbed the Heart’s hilt. In one motion, he brought the enormous black blade over his shoulder and plunged it into the ground. The blade sank a foot into the hard dirt before it stopped.