by Rachel Aaron
She stood passively as they dressed her, letting them move her arms like a doll, but her mind wasn’t on her body. She was deep inside herself, sunk nearly to the bottom of the well of her soul. Durn’s solid spirit was with her, the thread of his connection wrapped around her hands like twine as she fed power into him until they were both humming with energy. After the first hour, it was so strong that even the spirit-deaf maids seemed to feel it, but her mother, who’d come as promised to yank Miranda’s hair into an elaborate pile of curls, was completely oblivious. Her running commentary went on without a hitch as Miranda’s power grew, doubling and redoubling. Had Durn’s ring not been hidden on Eril’s chain beneath her dress, it would have lit up the whole room. The maids had already fled without knowing why or what the terrible prickly feeling was, and Miranda was glad to see them go. Fewer people meant fewer chances of things going sour.
Thirty minutes before the wedding, Alma finally left with dire warnings about what would happen if Miranda moved so much as one inch out of place before they came to bring her down. When the guards locked the door behind her, Miranda closed her eyes and plunged herself completely into the last of her preparations. By this point, the power was so large it took all of her attention to hold it in, which was why she didn’t know Hapter was there until he took her hand.
Miranda caught the power with great effort, holding it still as she looked down to see Hapter slipping the tiny opal engagement ring back onto her pinkie.
“Your mother found it in the pocket of your dress,” he said. “It’s not very considerate to leave other people’s gifts lying around.”
Miranda had a lot she’d like to say to that, but she didn’t trust herself to speak with so much power in the air. Instead, she let her hate of him shine through her eyes as he gently took her chin, turning her head side to side.
“You are a pretty thing,” he said at last, smiling. “I think I’ll enjoy bringing you around.”
She bared her teeth just a little, and Hapter’s smile grew wider. He dropped her chin and took her hand again, raising it to his lips. “See you downstairs, wife,” he said, winking at her before he slipped out the door. Miranda watched him go, scrubbing her hand on her dress until all feel of his lips was gone.
When her mother came in ten minutes later to bring her down, Miranda was ready.
“Well,” Alma said, radiant in her green gown. “I see you’re still dressed and the room is still in one piece. Have you decided to make the best of things, then, dear?”
Miranda just smiled, and then, without warning, she opened her soul. All the power she’d been building poured out of her, and her mother’s smile faded as the house began to rock like a ship at sea. All around the room, things fell off the walls. The washstand toppled over, spilling water everywhere, and cracks sprouted along the ceiling as the mansion’s foundation groaned. But the foundation’s complaints were soon drowned out by the cracking sound coming from the wall behind them. The plaster wall bulged and groaned, and then broke completely as an enormous stone hand punched through, sending a bright shaft of daylight into the dreary room.
“Ready, mistress?” Durn’s voice boomed from everywhere.
“Past ready,” Miranda said, snatching the marriage crown out of her hair and throwing it at her shocked mother. The crown bouncing off her seemed to wake Alma from her shock, because her face went scarlet as her voice returned.
“Miranda!” she shouted. “What do you think you are doing?”
“What I should have done days ago,” Miranda said, lifting her skirts as she vaulted onto Durn’s outstretched hand. “The right thing.”
She waved one last time, and then Durn yanked her out of the house into the glorious sunshine. Miranda took a deep breath of freedom and pointed across the garden at the zoo. Durn obliged. The great stone hand, which had sprouted from the ground outside her room like a weed, grew farther still, reaching across the garden to crash through the roof of the zoo building. Miranda jumped down when they reached the floor, panting from the effort. This much power was far beyond Durn’s usual ability, and they were quickly nearing their limit, but there was one last thing she had to do. As planned, they had landed at the entrance to the ghosthound’s room. Gathering the last of their strength, Miranda marched across the room to the cage. Durn’s hand followed, and when Miranda gestured, he reached out and grabbed the heavy bars, wrenching them aside.
Through it all, the ghosthound had sat perfectly still. Miranda walked through the large hole as the last of Durn’s strength faded and the stone spirit fell back into her, collapsing with a happy sigh back into his ring.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” the hound asked as Miranda stopped just inside his cage. “I was wondering what all that power was. I see you’re a clever sort, Spiritualist. But your power is spent. Now is not the time to stand between me and my freedom.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Miranda said, planting her feet firmly to show she was serious and to keep herself from falling over as Durn’s exhaustion hit her. “I’ve come to make you an offer.”
The ghosthound flicked his tail. “An offer?”
“Yes,” Miranda said. “You told me you could not go home because you had been dishonored, that your pack would not have you, and that this was why you were willing to die. You felt you had nothing left. I say it doesn’t have to be that way.” She held out her hand, palm up, directly in front of the hound’s nose. “I offer a pledge,” she said. “Power for service, strength for obedience, and my own soul to replace the pack you lost. I swear mutual protection, my honor for yours. Come with me, and together we will do things that will make Hapter nothing but an insignificant memory.”
The ghosthound stared at her, his orange eyes unreadable, but Miranda could feel his hot breaths quicken on her palm. “You would offer yourself as my pack?” he said. “What would I do, Spiritualist? Your oath has no power over me. I have a body; I can’t leave it and live through your soul like the rock or the wind or the moss you’ve already tied to you. You cannot bind me.”
“I can’t,” Miranda admitted. “But that’s not what matters. My oath is more than magic, ghosthound. It is a promise between you and me.” She reached up, pulling off the tiny ring Hapter had slid on her finger. “This will be your ring, and though it holds no spirit, it will be dear to me as any other I take. I need no bond to make me honor my promises or give you my strength. From this moment forward, I will guard you as I guard myself. I swear by my Court and my soul that I will honor, defend, and support you. I will never abandon you, never betray you, and all I ask in return is that you swear in kind and agree to abide by my judgment.”
Miranda smiled then, reaching up to touch the ghosthound’s nose. It was warm and dry under her fingers, quivering as he took in her scent. “Let me be your Spiritualist,” she whispered. “Come with me, help me make a better world where things like what happened to you and me can’t happen anymore. A world where no abuse is tolerated, where no soul is forced against its will. Let that good work be your honor, ghosthound, and I promise I will take the life you were so willing to throw away and cherish it as I do my own.”
The hound stared at her a long time, and then he snorted against her hand. “And our loss will hurt Hapter, do you think?”
Miranda grinned. “It will kill him.”
The hound’s muzzle lifted in a toothy grin. “What’s your name, Spiritualist?”
“Miranda Lyonette,” Miranda said.
The ghosthound grinned wider still. “I’m Gin, and I accept your offer.”
“Good,” Miranda said. “Because we have a wedding to crash.”
The dog laughed at that, showing all his sharp, sharp teeth, and then he lay down so swiftly Miranda jumped.
“Get on, then,” he said. “Unless you’re scared?”
“What’s there for me to be scared of?” Miranda said, struggling up onto the spot between his shoulders. “We’re a team now, remember?”
Gin’s answer was
to nudge her roughly into place with his nose, and then he jumped up so fast Miranda nearly snapped her neck. She couldn’t help a squeal as they flew through the hole Durn had left in the roof. She’d never expected a ghosthound to be able to jump like that, but Gin cleared the leap effortlessly, running along the roof before jumping into the garden. The wedding was spread across the front lawn, a great sea of colored tents and banquet tables. Hapter was standing at the front, talking hurriedly to a group of guards. He stopped the second Miranda and Gin came into view, his face going scarlet as he opened his mouth to shout.
He never got the chance. Gin moved faster than the wind. He jumped up on the longest banquet table, cracking it beneath his weight before leaping again to land right in the middle of Hapter’s guards. They scattered like thrown sticks, leaving Gin nose-to-nose with Hapter himself, who was now white as the tablecloths. From her perch on his back, Miranda leaned down between the ghosthound’s ears, resting her elbows on the dog’s head as she met Hapter’s terrified face with a wide smile.
“I told you,” she said. “I’m not the sort of woman you push around. Have a nice wedding.”
Gin growled as she finished, slamming his nose into Hapter’s chest so hard the man fell. For a moment, Miranda was afraid Gin would forget that killing Hapter wasn’t part of the deal, but the dog turned away and began running full tilt down the drive.
“Thank you for not killing him,” Miranda said.
Gin gave a loud snort that could have meant anything. “So, where to now?”
“Home,” Miranda said, pointing across the fields toward Zarin.
Gin picked up the pace, shooting across the fields so fast Miranda had to cling to his fur for dear life. After a few minutes, though, she got the hang of it. Finger by finger, she released her death grip, and then she lifted her hands out to her sides, throwing back her head with a laugh as Gin flew over the green hills toward the white towers of Zarin rising in the distance.
* * *
One month later
“How many pigs can you eat?” Miranda said, leaning on the fence that was the only thing separating the world at large from the slaughter currently going down in the Spirit Court’s butcher yard.
“I don’t know,” Gin said, eyeing the next squealing pig in the paddock. “How many do you have?”
Miranda made a disgusted face and turned to Rector Banage, who was dressed for traveling and leaning patiently on the fence beside her. “I’m so sorry, Master Banage,” she said. “We’ll get on the road as soon as my glutton of a dog is full.”
“A few more minutes won’t hurt,” Banage said. “We’re just going to confirm the death of an Enslaver and the freeing of his spirits, not to chase him down. If there weren’t so many spirits involved, I’d have left it to the local Tower Keeper.”
“He won’t be long,” Miranda promised, glaring at Gin. “Will he?”
Gin’s answer was a low growl as he started on his next pig.
Miranda shuddered and turned away. “I will never get used to that.”
“The price of keeping a predator,” Banage said sagely, glancing up. “I wonder what he wants?”
Miranda glanced up as well to see Spiritualist Krigel coming toward them, a large, formal-looking envelope in his hand.
“Oh, good,” he said when he reached them. “I thought I’d missed you. A letter just came for you, Spiritualist Lyonette.”
Miranda frowned. “For me?” She never got letters, especially not such elegant looking ones.
Krigel nodded and handed it over. The seal was that of the Council, and Miranda felt her stomach drop. Council letters were never good. She opened it quickly and pulled out a large stack of papers. There were so many, she wasn’t actually sure what she held in her hands until she caught sight of her father’s name at the top of a large, formal certificate.
“I think I’ve been disowned,” she said, squinting at the elegant, slanted writing. “Yes, here it is.” She tapped the second sheet of the stack. “They’ve crossed me off the family register.”
“Miranda.” Master Banage’s voice was gentle. “I can handle this trip myself. If you want some time—”
Miranda didn’t let him finish. She folded the papers back up and tossed them in the rubbish bin beside the butcher’s shed.
“I knew it was coming,” she said, dusting off her hands as she turned back to her master and Spiritualist Krigel. “I mean, I defied my father, made fools of my fiancé and my family, and trashed a very expensive party. What else could they do?”
“But it is your family,” Banage said.
“My family is right here,” Miranda said. “And if I had the chance, I’d do it all again. Don’t worry, Master Banage. I don’t mind being disowned because I didn’t care for being owned in the first place. I’ll take being a Spiritualist over being a Lyonette any day.” Especially since the only family she actually cared for wasn’t a Lyonette any more. Tima was a Whitefall, and Whitefalls could mix with whomever they wanted. But even if Tima had been unmarried, Miranda knew her sister would never turn her away, no matter what their father said. With that thought, Miranda’s face broke into a smile, and she made a mental note to pay a quiet visit to Tima and her husband as soon as this Enslaver business was done.
Her smile must have reassured him, because Banage smiled as well and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. “Does that mean we have to start calling you something else?”
“Of course not,” Miranda said. “I like my name. And what are they going to do if I keep using it? Disown me again?”
“I guess you’re out of their power,” Spiritualist Krigel said.
“I never was very much in it to begin with,” Miranda replied, turning back to the butcher yard. “Gin! Are you done?”
There was a deep sigh, and then Gin hopped over the fence, red tongue sliding over his bloody muzzle. Miranda shook her head and climbed onto his back while Banage called his stone horse. Krigel stepped out of the way as they rode around to the main road, scattering the afternoon crowds as they made their way out of the Spirit Court’s district and up toward the northern gate.
“Where are we going, mistress?” Gin said, his voice rumbling through her as they ran past the market.
“Somewhere in the north, though only Banage knows for sure,” Miranda said, frowning. “And since when do you call me mistress?”
Gin flicked his ears. “If your family is too stupid to claim you, I will. That was our agreement, wasn’t it? Power for service, strength for obedience, and your soul as my pack?”
“There’s only one of me,” Miranda said with a laugh. “Kind of a small pack.”
“You only need two,” Gin said, tongue hanging out as they reached the gate. “Hold on. I’m about to run off some of those pigs.”
Miranda’s eyes widened, and she barely managed to secure her grip in time before Gin shot forward, racing down the road in a shifting silver streak. She adjusted to the speed soon enough, throwing her arms out with a laugh as they flew up the road with Master Banage’s stone horse hot on their heels, speeding on their way to do the Spirit Court’s good work.
That's about it.
Meet the Author
Rachel Aaron was born in Atlanta, GA. After a lovely, geeky childhood full of books and public television, and then an adolescence spent feeling awkward about it, she went to the University of Georgia to pursue English Literature with an eye toward getting her PhD. Upper division coursework cured her of this delusion, and she graduated in 2004 with a BA and a job, which was enough to make her mother happy. She currently lives in a 70s house-of-the-future in Athens, GA, with her loving husband, overgrown library, and small brown dog. Find out more about the author at www.rachelaaron.net.
Rachel Aaron, photo © Alyssa Alig.
Also by Rachel Aaron
THE LEGEND OF ELI MONPRESS
The Spirit Thief
The Spirit Rebellion
The Spirit Eater
The
Spirit War
Spirit’s End
The Legend of Eli Monpress: Part I, II, & III (omnibus edition)
If you enjoyed SPIRIT’S OATH,
look out for
THE SPIRIT THIEF
THE LEGEND OF ELI MONPRESS, BOOK ONE
by Rachel Aaron
Chapter 1
In the prison under the castle Allaze, in the dark, moldy cells where the greatest criminals in Mellinor spent the remainder of their lives counting rocks to stave off madness, Eli Monpress was trying to wake up a door. It was a heavy oak door with an iron frame, created centuries ago by an overzealous carpenter to have, perhaps, more corners than it should. The edges were carefully fitted to lie flush against the stained, stone walls, and the heavy boards were nailed together so tightly that not even the flickering torch light could wedge between them. In all, the effect was so overdone, the construction so inhumanly strong, that the whole black affair had transcended simple confinement and become a monument to the absolute hopelessness of the prisoner’s situation. Eli decided to focus on the wood; the iron would have taken forever.
He ran his hands over it, long fingers gently tapping in a way living trees find desperately annoying, but dead wood finds soothing, like a scratch behind the ears. At last, the boards gave a little shudder and said, in a dusty, splintery voice, “What do you want?”
“My dear friend,” Eli said, never letting up on his tapping, “the real question here is, what do you want?”
“Pardon?” the door rattled, thoroughly confused. It wasn’t used to having questions asked of it.