The Legend Of Eli Monpress (84 page)

“He’s fine,” Josef said, slapping him on the back.

Somewhere behind them, Eli heard Giuseppe Monpress’s familiar sigh. “Glad I found you, then. If he’d died here, he’d have been too burned to turn in for the bounty.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Eli coughed out, slapping his chest to get his lungs clear. He was just thinking about maybe trying to stand on his own when he felt the courtyard rumble and looked up to see Karon coming.

“I’ve kept the fires confined as best I could,” the lava spirit rumbled. “But I think it’s time for me to go. The river seems to be taking matters into its own hands.”

As if to prove his point, a great crashing sound rose up in the distance, the sound of water washing over things it shouldn’t. Eli opened his arms and let Karon’s smoke pour into him again, wincing as the pain of the burn on his chest flashed like a fresh wound. But the pain faded quickly, and he pushed off of Josef just before a wave of white water burst into the square. It flooded up the street, surging over the burning houses in absurd, gravity-defying waves. Even the great pile of spirits marking where the duke had fallen was washed under, and everywhere the fire vanished beneath the cool, blue-white surge.

With the water came a stiff wind. It blew from the west, driving the stench of burned wood away. By this point, Eli and the rest had slogged through the water to the steps of the duke’s citadel, where they were out of the flood. The wind hit them head-on, chilling their wet clothes and filling the air with the smell of the cold, rocky shore. Then something landed with an enormous splash just around the corner. Eli jumped at the sound, and Josef’s hand went to the Heart, but he dropped his grip when the source of the sound came around the corner. It was a little old man, thin as whipcord and with a genteel, scholarly appearance that was only slightly ruined by the way he was wringing the water out of his billowing white robes.

He stopped when he reached the stairs, staring at the huddled group with trepidation as he settled his spectacles on his nose.

“Excuse me,” he said, leaning forward inquisitively. “Which of you is Eli Monpress?”

“That would be me,” Eli said, stepping forward. “Might I ask who’s asking?”

“My name is Lelbon,” the man said with a dry, polite smile. “I am a scholar and general errand runner for Illir, the West Wind.”

He paused, as if this should mean something to them, but Josef just stared at him, and the elder Monpress leaned back against the doors, keen to see where this would go. Eli, however, broke into a grin.

“The West Wind, you say?” Eli scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And what is the West Wind doing sending representatives here? Gaol certainly doesn’t count as the western coast.”

“My employer is interested in the well-being of all the lands he blows over,” Lelbon said stiffly. “We’ve been aware of the situation in Gaol for some time, but were unable to interfere due to the local Great Spirit’s refusal to allow outside aid. The Spiritualist Lyonette has been investigating for us and, as you can see, has rectified the situation.”

“By flooding the whole place,” Eli said, laughing. “That’s Spiritualists for you.”

Lelbon just gave him a sour look. “I was sent to you with a warning. Spiritualist Lyonette is currently speaking with my master, but she will be heading in this direction shortly. I am instructed to relay that it would be wise of you to move on.”

“Would it?” Eli said. “And where exactly does your master get off giving me orders?”

“It’s only a suggestion,” Lelbon said with a shrug. “The great Illir is merely concerned for your welfare. After all, even for as great a spirit as the West Wind, interfering in the affairs of the favorite is politically unadvisable.”

“Favorite?” Josef said, looking at Eli. “Favorite what?”

“Forget it,” Eli said. “All right, you heard the little old man. Let’s get out of here.”

“What, just like that?” Josef asked. “We’re not going to steal anything?”

“What’s left to steal?” Eli said, nodding at the smoldering town and the great empty citadel. “Besides,” he said, grinning at Monpress, “according to everyone,
I
already stole the entire treasury from the thief-proof fortress. That’s quite enough for one country. We’ve got the Fenzetti; we’re done here.”

That’s when he noticed that Josef wasn’t carrying anything.

“You
do
have the Fenzetti, don’t you?” Eli said. “It’s with Nico, right? Where is she, anyway?”

“I’ve got it,” Josef said flatly. “Nico’s another matter.” He turned around and walked into the shadowed doorway of the citadel, coming back with the Heart strapped across his shoulders and two wrapped bundles. One was sword-shaped and wrapped in cloth, the Fenzetti. The other was small and dark and carefully cradled in Josef’s arms.

“Wait,” Eli said, going very, very pale. “She’s not—”

“No,” Josef said. “But it isn’t exactly good. I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go if we’re going.”

“Right,” Eli said quietly, putting his smiling face back so fast Josef didn’t even see his expression change. He turned to the elder Monpress, who was still lounging on the dry step. “You’re welcome to piggyback on our escape, old man. It makes me feel useful to assist the elderly.”

“Your concern is touching,” Monpress said, “but I’ve still a little unfinished business here. Anyway, even your quiet escapes are too flashy for me.”

“Suit yourself,” Eli said. “See you around.”

“Hopefully not,” Monpress answered, but Eli and Josef were already splashing across the soggy square. They vanished down a side street headed toward the north gate, where the panicked crowds of people, who had fled to the city border the first time the city went mad, were now surging through the newly opened doors and over the walls, which had shrunk back to their original size and shape on the duke’s death.

When the thief and his swordsman had vanished completely into the dark, Lelbon and Monpress exchanged a polite farewell and went their separate ways, Lelbon down the road toward the river, and Monpress, very quietly, into the citadel. That was the last Gaol saw of either of the Monpress thieves.

G
in raced through the streets and toward the burning square, Miranda clinging to his back, urging him on. Minutes ago, she’d felt the pressure of the duke’s Enslavement vanish completely. Since then, everything had been in chaos. The spirits of the city were rioting in their new freedom, and the entire town seemed to be moving as it saw fit. Mellinor’s water was everywhere, putting out fires, moving through the streets, but the water’s spirit was too large for her to touch now, and their link felt thin and distant. By contrast, her rings felt closer than ever, the connection woven thick and heavy up and down her arms.

A wind rose as she rode, stiff and cold and smelling of the sea, though they were a hundred miles inland. It grew stronger as they went until Miranda could feel it through her clothes, pressing on her skin like a weight. Unbidden, Gin began to slow down, falling from a run to a trot, then a walk, then nothing, standing still on the broad street that opened into the square at the front of the citadel.

“What’s wrong?” Miranda whispered. “Keep going.”

“I can’t,” Gin growled. “The wind is blocking the way.”

Miranda glanced up, staring at the empty road ahead. The wind was to their back now, buffeting ghosthound and rider from side to side. Then, all at once, the air fell still. High overhead, the clouds peeled back, brushed aside to reveal the moonlit sky, and in the stillness, the air grew lighter. Miranda smelled wet stone, salt, and sea storms, and then, without warning, the West Wind itself was upon them.

Though she couldn’t see it, Miranda didn’t need to. Playing host to Mellinor had made her an expert at feeling the special nature of the Great Spirits. Still, even if she’d never met one before, she would have known the West Wind for what it was. There was simply nothing else the enormous spirit surrounding her could be. It was the essence of a sea wind, endless, wet, salt laden, and powerful, blowing ever upward. It covered the city, missing nothing, and yet Miranda could feel its attention focus on her as an approving ripple, almost like a chuckle, ran through the enormous, invisible river of power.

“A pleasure to meet you at last, Spiritualist,” the West Wind said. “You and Mellinor have undone a great wrong against the spirits of this place. For this, you have our gratitude.”

Miranda nodded, dumbstruck. The wind’s voice was like a gale in her head. The words ricocheted off the buildings, garbled, and yet there was no mistaking them for anything other than what they were. When she did find her own voice at last, however, she asked a question.

“What of the duke?” she said. “Did Eli succeed?”

“He did,” the wind said, “and disappeared shortly thereafter. I am sorry, Spiritualist.”

Miranda felt like the wind had punched her in the stomach. She slumped over, letting the crippling feeling of defeat work its way through her. There went her reputation, her ticket back into the Spirit Court. There went her career.
Why
had she let Eli go off on his own?

“Don’t look that way,” the wind said. “I had Lelbon promise you great rewards for your assistance here, and I keep my word. Already I have sent winds to the Spirit Court Tower in Zarin to speak with the Rector Spiritualis. Banage and I have met before, and I am sure he will listen with an open mind. I have also sent winds to each tower to inform the Keepers of your deeds today, and the great debt I owe you.” Miranda felt something in the wind slide, and she could almost imagine that the West Wind was smiling. “Surely, such words of praise will smooth over any remaining rough politics.”

Miranda could only nod stupidly. Most Spiritualists had only heard of the West Wind in stories. To actually be directly contacted by such an enormous and powerful spirit would be the experience of a lifetime. They’d forgive just about anything for a chance to curry its good favor.

Seeing her expression, the wind chuckled. “Is it enough, Spiritualist?”

“I suppose,” Miranda said, still dumbstruck. “What happens now?”

“Now, I must leave,” the wind said. “Winds are not meant to be lords over land. I have received a special dispensation from those who care for this sort of thing to allow Mellinor to remain as temporary Great Spirit for the next few weeks until the river Fellbro’s soul can be cleansed and reinstated.”

“Fellbro is still here?” Miranda asked. “You mean he’s not—”

“What?” the wind said. “Dead? Of course not. It takes more than losing some water to kill a river. Mellinor only pushed it aside for a while. Right now Fellboro’s slinking in the mud and sulking. Too long spent living in fear has made his water bitter, but we’ll soon have him to rights. In the meanwhile, Mellinor will put the land back in order. Once a Great Spirit, always a Great Spirit. You should stay here as well. I imagine the human side of Gaol also needs fixing.”

Miranda looked around at the empty town. “That it does, but I’m not exactly a lady of the manor.”

The wind laughed, rippling over her. “I’m sure you’ll manage. I’m leaving Lelbon here to help. Try not to be too hard on the little river spirit when it comes back. And Miranda?”

This last bit was whispered, a bare breeze in her ear. “Good luck and thank you. I won’t be forgetting your usefulness.”

That struck Miranda as an odd way of putting it, but the wind was already blowing past her, rising in a gale and blowing west, clearing the clouds out of the way as the sun began to peek over the horizon.

“Well,” Gin said. “Now what?”

“I’m not sure,” Miranda said. She was feeling a bit deflated, but happy. If anyone could get her back into the Spirit Court without Eli, it would be a spirit like the West Wind. Still, first things first. “Erol,” she said clutching the pearl pendant at her neck. “Go and tell Durn to bring Hern to the citadel so we can lock him up somewhere more comfortable.”

The wind tittered at this and left, blowing out in a whistling gust. When it was gone, she nudged Gin forward. He trotted off toward the citadel, tongue hanging out.

“We need to find the second-in-command,” Miranda said, running her hands through her hair as her brain scrambled. “Send a runner to the Council and to the King of Argo to find out who’s supposed to be taking over, and to explain what happened. I’m not looking forward to that. Plus, there’s cleanup, getting the people back in line and back into their homes, rebuilding, so much to do.”

“You’ll manage,” Gin said. “First, let’s get some breakfast. I don’t think anyone would begrudge me a pig after all that running.”

Miranda laughed, and together they picked up the pace, loping past the burned-out buildings and into the great, empty citadel of Gaol.

All in all it took two weeks for the King of Argo to declare the Duke of Gaol’s successor. Edward of Gaol had no wife or children, and though his nephew was the obvious choice to inherit, the nature of the duke’s death prevented a smooth transition. He’d been murdered, that was certain. Still, the King of Argo couldn’t levy charges against a shop sign, roofing tiles, and an iron door. So, after much deliberation, the duke’s death was written down as an accident. Once that was out of the way, the nephew showed up almost immediately and proceeded at once to instigate a full inventory of Gaol’s wealth and property, a task that left him exceedingly unhappy.