The Spirit Rebellion (46 page)

Next, because he knew he’d never hear the end of it if he forgot, he grabbed the Fenzetti blade from the corner where it had landed and hefted it on his shoulders. Finally, he gently lifted the black bundle that was Nico and held her against his chest. Going slowly so he wouldn’t jostle her too much, Josef walked to the door of the warehouse, which, miraculously, was whole and untouched. He opened it with a swift kick that took it off its hinges and stepped into the night. Clutching Nico carefully, he ran across the one remaining bridge over the now inexplicably glowing river. Soft, cold rain splattered on his shoulders, and he could hear people far away yelling, but the streets he could see were dark and empty. Ordinarily, this would have put him on his guard, but Josef was in too much of a hurry to worry about threats he couldn’t see. Instead, he picked up the pace, moving toward the citadel, Eli’s most likely location.

He only hoped the thief was alive to get them out of this.

G
in ran through the silent, rain-soaked streets of Gaol with Miranda crouched low on his back. The city cowered around them, crushed under the duke’s will. It made Miranda ill just passing by, but she ignored it as best she could. Her duty right now was to get her rings back, then she could help Monpress put the duke in his place… assuming he even intended to carry out his end of things.

She looked back over her shoulder at the river, and Gin growled. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, picking up the pace. “We’ve got our plan and we’re sticking to it. If we start second-guessing things now, we won’t save the town or your spirits.”

Miranda nodded and let him run. Hern’s tower was on the northern edge of the city, an ornate stone spire surrounded by wealthy houses. Or at least that’s how it had looked that afternoon. What met them now as they came to a stop at the end of the charming little street leading up to Hern’s private domain was not an elegant tower
but an enormous spike of rough stone. Gin slid to a stop and Miranda jumped off for a better look. Hern’s tower looked like a boulder had fallen on it. Miranda walked up and put a hand against the stone and then snatched it away again with a grimace.

“It’s Hern’s stone spirit,” she said, shaking her hand where the stone had bitten it. “He’s wrapped it around the tower like a shell to shield himself and his other spirits from the Enslavement.”

“He has a spirit powerful enough to stand up to the duke?” Gin snorted.

“Normally I’d say no,” Miranda said. “But he’s got the same advantage we have right now, namely that the duke is stomping on his own spirits, which leaves the Enslavement too thinly spread to press down much on Spiritualist servants.”

Gin crouched down, nosing the spot where the rough stone met the cobbled street. “Does it go all the way down?”

“It would have to,” Miranda said, tapping the stone with her fingers. “I hate to say break it, but I don’t see any other way we’re getting in. Of course”—she opened her spirit a fraction, putting a warning edge of power into her voice—“I’m not feeling particularly charitable toward spirits who willingly help Hern stamp out mine.”

The stone shuddered, and high above them in the tower, something made a low grinding noise. A second later, the smooth rock face in front of them cracked, and a gap just wide enough for Miranda to slip through opened up.

Miranda and Gin exchanged a look, and the ghosthound sat down firmly.

“No,” he said. “That might as well have ‘trap’ written
out in glowing letters. You’re not going in. Especially not without me.”

Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Who was it who just said we’re sticking to our plan?”

“That plan didn’t include you facing Hern alone on his own turf,” Gin growled. “You might as well hand him the knife to stab in your back.”

Miranda glanced at the opening. Inside was pitch blackness, but for the first time since that moment by the river, she could feel the wisps of her spirits through their connection again. Very faint, but there, and that made her decision for her.

“Keep watch, Gin,” she said, turning toward the tower. “If you hear anything strange coming from the keep, go and help Eli.”

Gin reached out and slapped his paw down on the hem of her skirt, pinning her to the pavement. “What part of ‘you’re not going in’ didn’t you understand?”

Miranda took a deep breath and turned to face the hound. This wasn’t a card she played often, but sometimes Gin was too protective for his own good.

“Gin,” she said stiffly. “They’re my spirits, just as you are. Let me go.”

It was an order, not a request, and Gin, despite not being a formally bound spirit, had to obey. Slowly, begrudgingly, he lifted his paw, and Miranda walked toward the cleft in the tower.

When she reached the entrance, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you, mutt,” she said. “Promise.”

“
If
you ever come out of there,” Gin growled, looking away, “I will hold you to that.”

Miranda smiled, then turned and vanished into the cleft of stone. The rock face sealed instantly behind her.

Hern’s tower reminded Miranda more of a wealthy townhouse than a Spiritualist’s working office. The inside was all polished hardwood and stone hung with tasteful, expensive tapestries, oil paintings, and fine porcelain. Small oil lamps burned in the dark, giving just enough light to make the elegant hall feel claustrophobic. The lamps were lit in a line leading her toward the stairs, painting an obvious path to Hern. Any other turning was blocked with heavy doors Miranda didn’t bother trying. She was already in the trap; she might as well follow it through. In any case, her rings were upstairs. She could feel them strongly now, and they were pulling her toward the spiral stair to the tower’s high second floor.

When she reached the foot of the stairs, she spotted something that made her stop. Nestled in the space beneath the stairs was a small pump room. Buckets and clothes were stacked neatly, and below the pump was a large bucket of soapy water probably left by Hern’s cleaners, for Miranda couldn’t imagine the Spiritualist scrubbing his own floors. Still, it gave her an idea. She stepped sideways, scooping up the sturdy bucket by its wooden handle and holding it carefully behind her back as she began to climb the spiral stairs.

Though they might vary greatly in style according to the individual, all Spiritualist towers were built the same. The first floor was cut into multiple rooms for private living, while the second, connected by a wide spiral stair, was one open room that served as the Spiritualist’s office, work floor, meeting room, and library. Hern’s tower was no exception. Miranda emerged from the spiral staircase
at the center of an enormous room. Dozens of lamps hung from the pointed ceiling, and Miranda had to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness. Even so, it was immediately obvious that Hern’s taste for nice things didn’t stop at his professional space. This room was every bit as elaborate as the rooms below. Fine silk furniture clung to the rounded walls, arranged in little, inviting clusters perfect for confidences. The wooden floor was smothered in fine rugs and the walls were strewn with paintings, mostly cityscapes of Zarin and lovely lounging women wearing very little.

But what caught her attention the most wasn’t the glitz or the opulence, the fine statues or the heavy bookcases filled with leather volumes seemingly arranged by color rather than author or subject. Instead, her focus was instantly drawn to a wooden box sitting on a stone end table just in front of her. It was a simple thing, rough-hewn wood and an iron latch with a heavy lock, but Miranda’s heart leaped to see it, or rather to feel what was trapped inside. In answer, something inside the box rattled, a beautiful, tinkling bell sound of gold on gold as her rings clattered together.

“Not another step, if you please,” a charming, hated voice sounded from somewhere on her left.

Miranda turned, slowly. There, lounging in a chair beside an opulent liquor cabinet, with a sifter of something golden dangling from his jeweled hands, was Hern himself. The arrangement was so contrived Miranda couldn’t help wondering how many setups he’d experimented with before settling on this one. He was dressed in a lounging jacket and soft silk pants, more like a gentleman enjoying an evening at home than a Spiritualist
whose land was being Enslaved, and he met her glare with an indulgent smile.

“Now,” he said, “don’t look like that. You should be happy I didn’t just catch you in stone and cart you back to Zarin. I’d be well within my rights, considering the trouble you’ve caused.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any rights once the Court hears about this,” she said. “Having a drink in your tower while your lands are crushed beneath the boot of Enslavement? Have you given up even the pretense of being a responsible Spiritualist, Hern?”

“That is a delicate political situation,” Hern said. “Not that you’d understand anything about those, seeing how, yet again, you’ve barged in and upset a stable and delicate system to satisfy what?” He sneered at her across his glass. “Some childish need for revenge? Or do you just enjoy helping Monpress upset kingdoms?”

Below the edge of the stairwell, out of Hern’s line of sight, Miranda clenched her bucket of water. “Enough lies, Hern,” she said. “Hide here all you want, but I’m taking my spirits back, and then I’m going to put a stop to this. If you won’t do your duty to your lands, I will.”

She took a step toward the box containing her rings, but she stopped at the familiar whoosh of flame. Hern was standing now, his outstretched hand wreathed in blue fire.

“You forget yourself, Miranda,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “You are in my tower, on my land. You are powerless, spiritless, and trapped. You are in no position to be making demands.”

The flames licked at his fingers in long, threatening waves. It was just what Miranda had been waiting for. In
one sweeping motion, she flung the bucket at him. Hern barely had time to understand what had happened before the bucket, and the wave of water flying out of it, struck him straight across the chest. The flames on his hands sputtered out and Hern yelped, leaping back and toppling his heavy chair as he did so.

It was only a momentary interruption, but it was enough. From the second the bucket left her hands, Miranda was running for her rings. By the time Hern had his feet back under him, she had the box in her hands. Roaring with rage, Hern made a throwing motion, and a wave of fire leaped from his hand.

Clutching the box to her chest, Miranda dove behind a long couch upholstered in gold and blue silk. The fire flickered out inches from the couch’s surface, and Miranda grinned. She’d known Hern would never risk his nice furniture, not even to get her, and that hesitation would be her victory. She looked at the box in her hands. It was small, about the size of a hat box, and she could feel her rings inside jumping and clattering against the wood, trying to get to her.

Miranda checked the lock, but it was enormous, heavy, and dead asleep. So were the hinges, and the wood itself. Still, she thought, grimacing, there was no point in being subtle anymore. So with a whispered apology to the sleeping box, Miranda closed her eyes and opened her spirit. Power flowed into her, and she caught it as it surged, sharpening the raw wizard’s will to a needle-thin point that she forced through the crack in the box and into her spirits.

The moment the surge of power hit her rings, she felt their power echo back along the connection. The box
in her hands burst into a shower of splinters as Durn, her stone spirit, exploded out of his ring. He rose to his full height in the blink of an eye with her rings clutched gently in his enormous stone hands. Almost sobbing with relief, Miranda took her spirits and slid them back onto her fingers, quaking as the connections roared open again as they met her skin. Durn stood guard until she’d fit every last one back on her fingers. Then, her rings awake and flashing like embers on her hands, Miranda stood again and turned to face the man responsible for all of this.

Hern, however, was ready. He stood across the room, his rings blazing like small suns, and a calm, concentrated look on his face.

“So,” he said. “It’s come to this.”

“You were the one who started it,” Miranda growled, standing firmly beside Durn’s hulking form. “If you’re too scared to finish it, then you shouldn’t have called that trial in the first place.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about the finish,” Hern sneered, lifting his hand so Miranda could see not only his rings but the glittering bands of his bracelets set with large, colorful stones, all sparkling with suppressed power. “You might be Banage’s protégé, but I’m the older Spiritualist, more experienced, and master of a larger retinue of spirits. No, I know exactly how this will finish. I’m only sad because I’ll probably have to kill you, as that seems to be the only way to keep you down.” He sighed. “I was so looking forward to parading you in shame before Banage and the Court, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get. However”—his face broke into a thin, hateful smile—“with you dead, I can probably blame this
whole Enslavement mess on you, seeing as you won’t be around to defend yourself, so the situation is not without its silver lining.”

“Don’t count your victory so easily,” Miranda growled, planting her feet and raising her glittering, jeweled hands. “You may have more spirits, but even if I had only one I would count it against all of yours. It’s quality and loyalty of spirits that matters, Hern, not quantity, and we have no intention of losing to a man like you.”