by Rachel Aaron
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,” M
iranda 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.”
They sat in silence, and then, slowly, Lelbon stood up.
“Well,” he said, “if that’s your final decision, I won’t insult you with arguments. However”-he reached into the folds of his white robe and drew out a little square of bright, colored paper-“should you change your mind, just give us a signal.”
He pushed the folded paper into Miranda’s hands before she could refuse and turned away, padding across the sand toward the cave’s mouth. Belatedly, Miranda stood up and hurried after to show him out. It was only good manners, though she felt a bit ridiculous playing hostess in a cave. Even so, Lelbon smiled graciously as she ducked with him under the cave’s low-hanging lip and out onto the stony beach.
“I am sorry,” Miranda started to say, but the man shook his head.
“All I ask is that you think about it. After all”-his soft voice took on a cutting edge-“you are the Spiritualist. You must decide how best to uphold your duty.”
Miranda winced at that, but said nothing. Lelbon smiled politely and, after a little bow, walked away down the beach. She watched him go, feeling slightly awkward. After his dramatic and mysterious arrival, she’d thought for sure his exit would be something more dramatic than ambling down the stony beach. But the old man kept walking, his bare feet deftly dodging the patches of stone and broken shells, growing smaller and smaller behind the clouds of sea spray. She was about to turn back into her cave when she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye.
Far down the shore, she saw Lelbon raise his hand, as if he were hailing someone. As his hand went up, a great wind rose, whipping Miranda’s hair across her face as it barreled down the beach. It reached Lelbon seconds after passing her, and the old man’s shapeless robe belled out around him like a kite. As she watched, his bare feet left the sand. He soared up with the wind, the white of his robe like a seabird against the dull gray sky, and vanished over the cliffs. Miranda ran into the water, hoping to see more of his amazing flight, but the sky was empty, and the old man was already gone.
She was still staring when the sound of something heavy landing in the sand behind her made her spin around. Gin crouched behind her, panting as if he’d run the whole cliff line. “What’s going on? What was that enormous wind?”
“Wasn’t it amazing?” Eril said before Miranda could even open her mouth. “It was one of the great winds who serve the west. I’ve never met a wind so large!”
“What was a great wind doing here?” Gin growled, glaring at the sky.
“Trying to give us a job,” Eril said, whirling so that his words blasted into Miranda’s face. “I can’t believe you turned him down! Illir is the greatest of the Wind Lords, and you passed up the chance to do him a personal favor?”
“Wait, what?” Gin looked at the wind. “What kind of job?”
“One we’re not taking,” Miranda said firmly, sending a poke of power at Eril. “If it had been anywhere else, maybe, but there isn’t a spirit in the world who could make me go to Gaol.”
As she was saying this, Eril was talking under her in a frantic rush, filling Gin in on the particulars of Lelbon’s request. Gin listened, the fur on his back standing up in a ridge by the time the wind finished.
“Is it true?” he said, orange eyes flashing as he looked at Miranda. “You turned down a plea of help from a spirit who sought you out?”
“Don’t look at me like that!” Miranda shouted. “I didn’t make us fugitives to turn around and walk straight into Hern’s backyard! Would you have me make everything we went through in Zarin worthless?”
“Better than making your entire career as a Spiritualist worthless!” Gin shouted back. “We a
re your spirits, Miranda. We serve you because we believe in you. The Miranda I follow would never turn down a spirit’s plea for help.”
“Weren’t you listening to anything I’ve said?” Miranda cried. “Master Banage-”
“Banage would never forgive a Spiritualist who turned her back on her oath to the spirits in order to serve the Court.” Gin was snarling now. “And you know it.”
“That’s not fair!” Miranda said. “This isn’t that simple!”
“Isn’t it?” Gin growled, turning away. “You told me not too long ago that there was right and there was wrong, and no amount of words could bridge the gap between the two. Maybe it’s time you considered your own words, and what those prized oaths of yours really mean.”
With that, the dog took off down the beach. Miranda could only stare after him, fuming. She felt Eril slide back into his pendant, curling back into place with a long, disappointed sigh, leaving her alone on the long, thin stretch of rocky beach. Suddenly too tired to go back into the cave, Miranda sat down in the sand, digging her bare feet under the smooth rocks and staring out at the pounding waves.
To serve the spirits, to protect them from harm, to uphold their well-being above all else, that was the oath all Spiritualists took the day they received their first ring. Miranda looked down at the heavy gold ring on the middle finger of her left hand, tracing the smooth, perfect circle stamped deep into the soft metal. It was supposed to represent the circle of connection between all things, from the smallest spirits to the greatest kings, and the Spirit Court’s duty to promote balance within that connection.
The ocean spray blew her hair wild around her face as she turned to look where Gin had gone. Balance and duty, right and wrong. Even as she thought about it, she could almost feel Banage’s disdainful look. After all, Banage’s deep voice echoed in her head. What greater shame could there be for the Spirit Court than a Spiritualist who turned her back on a spirit in need?