The Spirit Rebellion (21 page)

Miranda stayed put until he left. When his shadow vanished into the sea spray, she grabbed the rabbit and began to dress it.

Stupid dog
, she thought.

She skewered the rabbit on a stick and arranged it over the coals. Gin might be a particularly perceptive dog, but he was still a dog, and he didn’t understand. If she made a scene, things would only get worse for Master Banage, and that would be intolerable. Banage had been the one trying to help her, as always, and she’d thrown it back in his face. As Miranda saw it, she had only one option left,
one final duty: disappear, fade into the world, and never give Hern another inch of leverage against her master.

Miranda sat back against the cave wall, digging her fingers into the hard-packed sand as the rabbit began to sizzle. Outside, the gray ocean crashed and foamed, throwing cold spray deep into the cave. She grimaced. Gin was right about one thing: They couldn’t stay here forever. She had no spare clothes, no blankets, and she was filthy with sea grime and sand. Even her rings had cataracts of salt on them. Still, she didn’t know where else to run, or what to do when she got there. When she tried to imagine life separated from the Spirit Court, her mind went blank.

She supposed that was understandable. She’d been in the Spirit Court since she was thirteen, and from the moment she’d taken her vows the Court had been her life. That, she’d always suspected, was the main reason Banage had accepted her as his apprentice over all the others. She was only one who would work the hours he worked. But she’d done it gladly, because when she was doing the Spirit Court’s work, she felt as if she was doing something that mattered, something worthwhile. It gave her purpose, meaning, confidence. Now, without the Court, she felt like a block of driftwood bobbing on the waves, going nowhere.

She leaned back, staring up at the firelight as it danced across the smooth curve of the sea-washed stone. The wind blew through the cave, whistling over the rock like it was laughing at her. Then, out of nowhere, a voice whispered, “Miranda?”

Miranda leaped to her feet with her hands out, ready, but the cave was empty. Only the fire moved, the little
flames clinging for life in the high wind. She pressed her back against the wall. A trick of the wind? Spirits sometimes mumbled as they went, especially winds, who seldom slept. Yet the voice had been clear, and it had certainly said her name.

She was turning this over frantically in her head, trying to keep a watch on everything at once, when her eyes caught something strange. At the mouth of the cave, silhouetted by the strip of sunlight, a figure landed.

Miranda blinked rapidly, but it didn’t change what she saw. With the light at their back, she couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but it was certainly human, even though she’d just seen it do something a human shouldn’t be able to do. Whatever it was had not walked up or climbed down—it had
landed
in front of her cave. Landed neatly, as though it had hopped down off a step, but that made no sense at all. The cliff was nearly a hundred feet tall.

Even as she was trying to sort this out, the figure ducked under the cave’s low entrance and walked forward with quick, sprightly steps. Miranda pressed her back to the wall and sent a tremor of power down to her rings only to find that they were already awake and ready, glimmering suspiciously. As the figure stepped into the circle of the firelight, Miranda saw that it was a man. She placed him at late middle age, maybe older, with gray hair and skin that was starting to droop. He had an intelligent, wrinkled face and large spectacles, which gave him the air of a kindly scholar. This effect was aided by the long, shapeless robe he wore wrapped several times around his bony shoulders so that he looked like someone who’d lost a fight with a bed sheet. Other than the robe
and the spectacles, he wore no other clothes she could see. Even his feet were bare, and he took care to walk only on the sand, stepping around the washed-up patches of sharp, broken shells.

Miranda didn’t move an inch as he approached. Nothing about him was threatening, yet here was a stranger who’d appeared from nowhere, and she was a wanted fugitive. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she felt almost silly for thinking it. Anyone could have seen that the man wasn’t from the Spirit Court. If the lack of rings wasn’t proof enough, the fact that he just walked up to a Spiritualist, who had all her spirits buzzing, without a trace of caution completely tossed out all suspicion of Spirit Court involvement. That left the question, what was he?

As he approached, the wind continued to roar, drowning out all other sounds. It blew the sand in waves and whipped the man’s robes around him, though, miraculously, they never tangled in his arms or impeded his legs. When he reached Miranda’s fire, the man sat down gracefully, like a guest at a banquet, and gestured with his hand.

The moment he moved his fingers, the wind died out, and in the sudden silence, he extended his hand to Miranda.

“Please,” he said, smiling. “Sit.”

Miranda didn’t budge. It took a strong-willed wizard to work with a wind, and she wasn’t about to give him an opening just because he was polite. “Who are you?”

“Someone who wants to help you, Spiritualist Lyonette,” the man said pleasantly.

“If you know that much,” Miranda said, relaxing a
fraction, “then you should know it’s just Miranda now. My title was stripped last week.”

“So I have been told,” the man said. “But such things matter very little to the powers I represent.” He motioned again. “Please, do sit.”

Curiosity was eating at her now, and she inched her way down the wall until she was sitting, facing him across the fire.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his robe. “I have been rude. My name is Lelbon. I serve as an ambassador for Illir.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of reaction, but the name meant nothing to Miranda. However, the moment Lelbon spoke, she felt a sharp, stabbing pressure against her collarbone. At first, she thought the man had done something, but then she realized it was Eril’s pendant driving itself into her chest.

Careful to keep her face casual, she sent a small questioning tendril of power down to her wind spirit. The answer she received was an overwhelming, desperate need to come out.

“Eril,” she said softly, pulling on the thread that connected them, giving permission. The pendant’s pressure stopped and the wind spirit flew out. For once, however, Eril did not rush around. Instead, he swirled obediently beside Miranda, creating little circles in the sand.

“Sorry, mistress,” the wind whispered. “Illir is one of the Wind Lords. To not pay my respects to his ambassador would be unthinkably rude.”

Miranda tensed. “Wind Lords?”

“Yes,” Lelbon said. “The West Wind, specifically.”

“And this Illir,” Miranda said carefully, “is the Great
Spirit of the west?” It seemed like a tremendous area to be under the control of one Great Spirit, but with spirits it was always better to suggest more power rather than less, so as not to risk offending. From the way her usually intractable wind spirit was acting, Miranda guessed that Illir was not someone you wanted angry with you.

“Great Spirit isn’t the most accurate description,” Lelbon said with the slow consideration of someone who thrived on particulars. “Great Spirits have a domain: The river controls its valley, an ancient tree guards its forest, and so forth. Winds are different. They can cross dozens of different domains over the course of their day, and since they do not touch the ground, local Great Spirits have little control over them. So, rather than be part of the patchwork of grounded domains, the winds have their own domain in the sky, which is ruled by four lords, one for each cardinal direction. Whenever a wind blows in a direction, it enters the sway of that lord. Illir is the Lord of the West. Therefore, when a wind blows west, it is under the rule of Illir.” He smiled at the space where Eril was circling. “Any given wind will blow in all directions during its lifetime, and thus owes allegiance to all four winds. Angering any of them could mean shutting off that direction forever.”

“A terrible fate,” Eril shuddered. “It is our nature to blow where we choose. Losing a direction for a wind is like losing a limb for a human.”

Miranda nodded slowly, a little overwhelmed. She’d never heard of any of this, not from her lessons in the Spirit Court or her travels, and certainly not from her wind spirit.

“Don’t look so fretful.” Lelbon smiled at her wide-eyed
look. “There’s no reason for humans, wizard or otherwise, to know the obligations of the winds. Most spirits don’t even understand how it works. They don’t need to. The winds handle their own affairs.”

“So what are you?” It felt rather personal to ask, but she had to know. “Are you human or…”

Lelbon laughed. “Oh, I’m human. I’m a scholar who studies spirits, wind spirits in particular, which is how I stumbled into my current position. The West Wind is an old, powerful spirit, but also rather eccentric and very interested in the goings-on of humans. In return for letting me study him and his court, I serve him as messenger and ambassador whenever he needs a face people can see. Most people find talking to a wind directly to be quite disconcerting.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Miranda said, glancing sideways at the empty spot where Eril was spinning. “But why did Illir send you to talk to me? What does the West Wind want with a former Spiritualist?”

The man pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Your reputation among spirits who care about this sort of thing is quite exemplary, Miranda Lyonette. Particularly your daring rescue of the captured Great Spirit Mellinor.”

Miranda jerked. “You know about that?”

Lelbon chuckled. “There is very little the winds do not hear, and it was hardly a small event. Next to that, the technicalities of Spirit Court politics and who is or is not officially a Spiritualist aren’t important. All I need to know is would you be willing to do a job for us?”

Miranda sat back. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong person. You would be much better off taking your plea to the Rector Spiritualis in Zarin.”

“Ah,” the man said. “My master has already determined that the Spirit Court is not in a position to offer the assistance we require, which is precisely why I was sent to find you. Won’t you at least hear our offer?”

Miranda frowned, then nodded. After all, what harm could there be in just hearing him out?

Lelbon smiled and leaned closer. “As I explained, the Wind Lords, while very powerful spirits, aren’t technically Great Spirits, in that they don’t have dominion over a specific area. Even so, they, like all large, elder spirits, have a duty to protect and look after spirits less powerful than themselves. So it has always been. Now, this arrangement seems simple enough on the surface, but in reality it’s a delicate balance of responsibilities. The winds are required to act on whatever problems they see in the domains they cross over. Yet, as they have no real dominion over any spirits except wind spirits, this often means nothing more than reporting the problem to the local Great Spirit, who deals with the trouble in its own way, if at all.”

“Doesn’t sound very reliable,” Miranda said.

“That depends on the Great Spirit,” Lelbon said. “If they are open to outside assistance, things go smoothly, the problem gets dealt with, and everyone moves on. However, if the Great Spirit does not welcome interference in their affairs…” He trailed off, looking for the right word. “Well, let’s say that things can get complicated, which brings us to my offer.”

“Let me guess,” Miranda said. “Your lord has found trouble somewhere where the local Great Spirit doesn’t want him.”

“More or less,” Lelbon said, smiling. “I can’t go into
the particulars of the goings-on. My master is already trespassing on dangerous ground simply by seeking you out. All we’re asking you to do is go to the place and make your own assessment as a neutral party. That’s the job. We would pay your expenses, of course, and my master would be very grateful.”

For a long moment, Miranda was very tempted. It sounded like an interesting problem, and it must certainly be urgent if the West Wind would rather pull her in than wait for the Spirit Court to assign someone. But…

“Strictly for curiosity,” Miranda said slowly. “Where would I be going?”

“Are you familiar with the land surrounding the Fellbro River?” Lelbon said. “The duchy called Gaol?”

Miranda froze. “Gaol?”

“Yes,” Lelbon said. “Medium-sized holding, about four days’ ride from Zarin.”

“I know where it is,” Miranda muttered. This changed everything. Gaol was where Hern kept his tower. “Look,” she said. “You seem to know a great deal about me, so you know I can’t go to Gaol. That’s Hern’s land. If I was seen there at all, everyone would think I was there for revenge. Anywhere else I could maybe help you, but not Gaol.”

“It is precisely because of your history with Hern that we chose you,” Lelbon said seriously.

Miranda’s eyes widened. “You think Hern is involved?”

“Let me put it this way,” Lelbon said, leaning closer. “If he were doing his job as a Spiritualist, would we need to ask your help? We need
you
, Miranda, exactly as you are. No one else will do.”

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Miranda looked away. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve muddied the Spirit Court’s reputation too much as it is already. If I go and make a scene in Gaol, I’ll be no better than the thief Monpress. Tell your master thank you for the offer, but I can’t do it.”