The Spirit War: The Legend of Eli Monpress Volume 4

by Rachel Aaron

  “He didn’t take the bait,” the duke said, shrugging. “Josef Liechten is determined to stay and get his mother her grandchild whether she’s alive to enjoy the brat or not. You’d think after abandoning every other shred of duty, this would be easy, but no.”

  “What are we going to do?” Henry said, sinking into the chair beside his father’s.

  “Nothing,” the duke said and snorted, staring into the fire. “We’re going to sit and we’re going to wait. Even if he got her with child last night, the queen won’t live long enough to confirm the pregnancy. Once the old cow is dead and I’m on the throne, no one will care what’s in the princess’s belly.”

  “Father,” Henry said delicately, sitting on the edge of his chair. “Aren’t you dismissing Adela too quickly? She’s very popular with the people. We could use that. I—”

  “I am well aware of your shameless infatuation with the princess, Henry,” the duke said dryly. “Now, and I’m not going to tell you this again, forget her. She’s nothing but trash who knows how to play a crowd, just like her mother. If you speak of her again, I’ll pull you off the guard and put you on a deepwater patrol boat for the rest of the year. Do you understand?”

  Henry bit his lip. “Yes, father.”

  “Good,” the duke said, sitting back. “Powers, the way my luck’s been going, you’ll be the one to get the princess pregnant and lose your throne to your own son.”

  “Father!” Henry cried.

  “You can’t hide things from me, boy,” Finley said, glaring. “Not that you’ve tried. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m working so hard to secure your place in the succession when you seem intent on ruining your reputation, cornering the princess in hallways in sight of anyone who walks by.”

  Henry looked away, cheeks scarlet. “Doesn’t matter, anyway,” he grumbled. “Everyone’s saying we’re done for now that the clingfire’s up in flames.”

  Finley sat up. “Who’s saying that?”

  “All the guards, for one,” Henry said. “It’s common talk on the docks, and why not? You could see the smoke from the mainland. Everyone knows that we can’t down the palace ships without clingfire, and if the palace ships don’t go down, the Empress wins.”

  “A minor setback,” the duke said dismissively. “I’ll have the crown make a statement tomorrow that we have a backup clingfire stock hidden.”

  “But we don’t,” Henry said.

  “Well, no one needs to know that, do they?” Finley said. “The last thing we need is a panic. If we are to stand before the Empress, we must be united, and we can’t do that if people are scared.”

  “You can’t just lie about things like that,” Henry said.

  “I can and I have,” Finley said. “How do you think this island’s been functioning for the last month? We’ve been plagued by setbacks since we heard the Empress was on the move. First there was the queen’s dramatic turn for the worse that put everything in uproar and brought back the idiot prince, and then we had that horrid mess with the tar eating through the wood in the new ships. We had to scrap half a fleet of runners thanks to that one. And there was the dry rot in the corn vault.” The duke shook his head. “Trust me, Henry, this fire was nothing. Just another headache in a long line of bad, bad luck.”

  Henry stared at his father. “I didn’t hear about any of that.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Finley said. “That’s what it means to keep things secret. Fortunately, we’ve still got time to make up the shortfalls before the Empress arrives. Assuming, of course, nothing else goes wrong.”

  Henry paled. “What else can go wrong?”

  “Never ask, my boy,” Finley said quietly. “Never ask.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes, both lost in their own dark thoughts as they watched the fire burn lower and lower. And then suddenly and without warning, Henry sat bolt upright.

  “What was that?” he said. “Did you hear that?”

  “No,” the duke grumbled, sinking lower in his chair. “Probably our idiot porter getting into the—”

  The sound cut him off before he could finish. It was a soft, rolling thump, followed by a clatter. Finley looked at his son, all tiredness gone, and they stood up together. The duke’s hand dropped down to the old sword at his side as he crept toward the library door.

  Just before his hand touched the handle, the door flew open, and a white-faced servant burst into the room.

  “My lord!” he whispered, his voice cracking with panic. “You have to get out!”

  “Why?” the duke said. “What’s happened?”

  The servant looked over his shoulder at the dark hall. “An intruder, sir.”

  “Intruder?” the duke said. “Nonsense, let the guards have him. That’s what I pay them for.”

  The servant shook his head, grabbing the duke’s arms. “The back, quick—”

  The word ended in a tight gasp. The servant’s mouth was still moving, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide as he crumpled, the back of his neck cut wide open. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The duke jumped back before he realized what was happening, drawing his sword on instinct alone. Now that the servant was out of the way, he could see the guards at the end of the hall. Both men were down, lying in dark pools with the back of their necks cut, spines severed cleanly, just like the servant’s.

  Finley grew very still, eyes searching the shadows while his fingers tightened on his sword. But the house was still, silent except for his own ragged breaths and those of his son behind him.

  Without taking his eyes from the door, he motioned Henry back to the fireplace. Other than the windows, the room had only one entrance. Finley kept his sword up, watching the shadows for any trace of movement. On the floor, the servant’s blood was seeping into the thick carpet. It was so quiet the duke could hear the liquid spreading through the fibers. Panic began to rise in his stomach, but Finley fought it down. He took a deep breath, ignoring the taste of blood in the air and forcing himself to be calm, to look.

  That was when he saw the killer.

  The man stood at the corner where the stairs met the hall, less than five steps from the fallen guards. He was so still that the duke’s eyes had a hard time picking his dark clothes out of the shadows. Finley blinked several times, still not sure if his eyes were telling the truth. If the man was standing at the other end of house, there was no way he could have killed the servant, not from that distance. Perhaps there were two intruders? As Finley’s mind scrambled to reconcile the facts, the man began to move. He rushed forward, racing down the hall in a handful of seconds, his padded feet completely silent on the hardwood floor.

  Finley gritted his teeth and cursed himself for a fool. He’d just wasted his only chance to escape. Now the man stood in the study door, blocking the only exit with his body.

  “What do you want?” Finley said, surprised at how stern and clear his voice was.

  The man didn’t answer. Now that he was standing in the well-lit library, the duke could see the intruder was slender and tall. He was wrapped head to toe in dark cloth, and even his eyes were hidden beneath black netting. He had a sword at his hip, the sheath wrapped in black as well, but Finley could tell it was a short blade. The duke hefted his own sword. There was still a chance. He had reach on the assassin, so did Henry. The killer had lost his chance at surprise by running forward, and it was two on one now.

  At once, Finley felt his confidence returning. He inched his feet forward, stepping into position. Behind him, he heard Henry follow his lead. Finley licked his lips, getting ready to shout for Henry to begin the attack. But the words died on his lips, for at that moment, the assassin drew his sword.

  The sword appeared with a flash of silver. Its blade was heavy, short, and gleaming with its own silver light. Finley sucked in a breath. A man in Osera didn’t go through a lifetime of sword training without learning to recognize an awakened blade. The duke was no wizard, but even he could see the sword’s surfa
ce trembling in anticipation as the assassin stepped over the servant’s body.

  The blow came before the duke could think to raise his sword. One moment the assassin was facing them, short sword in hand, the next the sword was through him. Finley gasped more in surprise than pain, looking down at the blade through his chest, and then up again at the man still standing in the doorway holding a sword that was no longer short, but long as a spear with its point jutting out Finley’s back.

  On the other side of the room, the assassin flicked his hand. The sword flashed like a wave, the steel sliding out of Finley’s body, and Henry began to scream. The duke jerked in surprise and turned to help his son, but his body wasn’t moving anymore. He toppled, falling to the carpet. He turned as he fell, looking back just in time to see the glowing blade snap like a whip as it finished slitting his son’s throat.

  The duke could only stare as Henry fell, hitting the carpet with that now-familiar soft thump. Behind him, he heard the hiss of steel on steel, and he rolled his eyes to see the swordsman’s blade shrinking back to its original size, the glowing metal folding into itself until the assassin held a short sword once again. The killer lifted his gleaming weapon and walked to the window, using the duke’s velvet curtains to wipe Henry’s blood from the blade. Finley’s breath was growing scarce now, but he hardly noticed. Rage filled his body in a way life no longer could, and he lunged across the carpet, grabbing the man by the ankle.

  “You dare!” he hissed. “Who are you?”

  The swordsman turned to face him and slowly raised his hand to the cloth over his face. He unhooked something behind his ear, and the covering fell away. The duke’s hand went limp with surprise, and he collapsed back to the carpet.

  “You,” he whispered in disbelief. And then, with his last breath: “Why?”

  The question was barely past his lips when the sword swept down, giving Duke Finley the last and only answer he would ever receive.

  CHAPTER

  15

  It was full dark when Gin pushed through the last crowd of soldiers and under the gate that separated the Spirit Court’s district from the rest of Zarin. Miranda clung to his back, staring bleakly at the wide, suddenly empty streets. The colored lamps were lit and swinging gently in the night air, but no one was around to enjoy the light. From the moment they entered the Spirit Court’s district until Miranda slid off Gin at the foot of the Tower, they didn’t see a single soul.

  Stomach sinking, Miranda started up the stairs. She’d always known that the Rector Spiritualis controlled the Tower, but it was an academic, abstract sort of knowledge. She’d seen it in action only once, at her trial. Even so, she never would have imagined something like this.

  The Tower was completely sealed. Its enormous red doors lay abandoned on the ground, shed like outgrown scales. In their place, a wall of white stone rose smooth as river rock from the ground. It was as though the entire Tower had become a solid stone pillar, and though she walked all the way around the base, Miranda could find no way in.

  “Try knocking?” Gin suggested.

  Feeling more than a little foolish, Miranda reached out and rapped her knuckles on the stone. Nothing happened. She pulled her hand back, frowning, and then she reached out again, with her left hand this time, knocking with the heavy gold band on her ring finger, the one set with the Spirit Court’s perfect circle. The gold made a lovely ringing sound when it touched the Tower, and the stone began to twist. The Tower wall rumbled softly, opening like a flower to reveal a tunnel just large enough for Gin to squeeze through.

  With one final glance at the empty street, Miranda stepped inside. Gin followed on her heels. The moment his tail was clear, the Tower closed behind them.

  They came out in the Spirit Court’s grand entry hall, which looked exactly as it always had except that the grand doors were now grown over with stone and the center of the room was full of huddled people. Spiritualists sat in circles on furniture pilfered from other parts of the Tower. Several had their fire spirits out, and the warm, flickering light filled the void left by the missing windows, giving the room a primal, cave-like feel.

  She was scarcely inside when someone shouted, “Miranda!”

  She looked up to see a young man break away from the main group and run toward her, waving.

  “Jason!” she cried, recognizing him at once.

  He stopped in front of her, grinning wide in the light of the will-o’-the-wisp that floated in his wake. Miranda smiled back. She and Jason had been in the academy together and taken their oaths on the same day. He’d gone on to apprentice for some distant Tower Keeper after that, and they saw each other only rarely. Still, they’d always been friends.

  “I’m happy to see you,” she said.

  “Not as happy as we are to see you,” he said. “Hello, Gin.”

  Gin blinked slowly, which was as nice a greeting as one could expect from a ghosthound.

  “The Rector said you’d entered the city this morning,” Jason said. “I have to admit, when you didn’t show up at once, some people worried you’d gone over to the Council. I knew better, though. That bunch of traitors are as bad as Hern.”

  “No one’s as bad as Hern,” Miranda said. “Where’s Master Banage?”

  “Upstairs,” Jason said, nodding toward the grand staircase. “Powers, I’m glad you’re here. The Rector has been looking grimmer than usual.” Jason lowered his voice. “I don’t think he expected quite so many of the old guard to turn on him.”

  Miranda frowned. “How many are here?”

  “A little over a hundred,” Jason said. “We’re mostly Journeymen Spiritualists down here. The Tower Keepers are upstairs in the private rooms for the most part, or the library.” His hands moved as he talked, and the will-o’-the-wisp followed his fingers like an eerie, blue-green firefly. “We’ve got close to eight hundred Spiritualists still unaccounted for, though I don’t know what’s taking so long. It’s been three days since the Rector called us in. That’s enough time for a determined Spiritualist to get to Zarin from anywhere on the continent.” Jason bit his lip. “You don’t think they’ve all gone over to the Council?”

  “No,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “I just came from there. Blint’s in charge, and he had only three hundred a few hours ago. Hern’s old cronies, mostly, but that’s no surprise. They always did prefer politics to spirits.”

  “Three hundred,” Jason said with a dismayed sigh. “Still, where’s everyone else?”

  Miranda shrugged. “Probably waiting to see how things play out before they cast their lot.”

  “Cowards,” Jason said, sneering.

  “Maybe,” Miranda said. “But they’re still Spiritualists.” She turned and started toward the stairs. “Speaking of which, I’m going to see Master Banage.”

  “Of course,” Jason said. “Good to have you back!”

  She waved as he jogged back to the main group to share the good news. Miranda started up the shadowy staircase, Gin slinking behind her.

  The climb to Banage’s office was surprisingly short. It was the Tower’s doing, Miranda was sure. Things had always been a little strange inside the stone pillar the Spiritualists called home, but what else could one expect from a tower raised in a day by Shapers? After her unwilling stint in the Shaper Mountain, Miranda was surprised the Tower didn’t move more. Even so, despite the shorter-than-expected climb, she was still out of breath when she reached the landing outside of Banage’s office where Spiritualist Krigel, Assistant to the Rector Spiritualis, was waiting.

  “Took you long enough,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Miranda panted. “I didn’t even know there was a war until this morning. Where’s Master Banage?”

  Krigel jerked his head toward the closed door.

  Gin sat down without being asked, stretching out down the long staircase. Krigel gave the dog a nasty look, and Miranda took the opportunity to slip past the old Spiritualist, pushing open the door to Banage’s office as quietly as she coul
d.

  The office of the Rector Spiritualis had changed dramatically. The first thing she noticed were the windows. The large panes of clear glass were still there, but they looked out into a wall of solid white stone. Still, the office was not dark. White light radiated from a small, unflickering flame burning at the bottom of a large, metal bowl on the floor. Miranda recognized the fire immediately. It was Krinok, a rare type of chemical fire spirit Master Banage had rescued from a rogue Tower Keeper turned Enslaver back when she was still his apprentice. Krinok’s harsh, white light threw everything into sharp, monochrome relief, but even that couldn’t drown out the light coming from Banage himself.

  The Rector Spiritualis was sitting on his desk, which was uncharacteristically empty. For the first time Miranda could remember in many years, he was dressed not in the formal red robes of the Rector’s office, but in a plain, somber suit. Over that, around his neck, the regalia of the Rector Spiritualis shone like a collar of light. The heavy necklace with its golden chain of jewels glowed in a rainbow of colors, humming with power. Even standing at the door twenty feet away, Miranda could feel the enormous pressure of the Rector’s connection to the Tower and, woven into and through that, the power of Banage himself. She took a deep breath, her own spirits waking to the familiar weight of Banage’s soul, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was home.

  “Miranda,” Banage said, opening his eyes. “It is good to see you. I wish the circumstances were better.”

  “Whatever the circumstances,” Miranda said, walking across the room to stand before him, “it is good to be back.”

  Banage smiled, a slight turn of his thin mouth. “Sit,” he said softly, “and tell me what you have seen.”

  With a deep breath, Miranda sat cross-legged on the stone floor and told him.

  She started from the moment she left Zarin, chasing Sara’s tip about Eli north with Tesset and Sparrow. She told him about entering Izo’s camp and the Council’s deal with the Bandit King. She told him about catching Eli and losing him again. She told him about Slorn and the wondrous things the bear-headed Shaper could do. After that, things got harder. She told him about Sted, about the demon and the League. She told him what she had seen in the arena after Josef beat Sted and about working with Alric to defeat the creature Sted became. Then, after a couple of deep breaths, she told him as best she could about the thing she’d seen in the woods beyond Izo’s camp, the creature made of shadows and hunger, eating the world. Even as she told him, the afterimage of the hideous shape flickered across her vision, forcing her to turn away. When she had control of herself again, she looked her master in the eye and told him how that vision had cemented her decision to go with Slorn to the Shapers. She told him about their arrival at the mountain, her imprisonment, and what she’d seen in the mountain’s memory. She told him about stars, the spirits lifted above all other. She told him all the mountain had told her about the Shepherdess, the sleeping spirits, everything. The world the mountain had shown her was still clear in her mind, the great valley changing between life and death and the endless night sky filled with strange, sparkling lights, but describing it was harder than she imagined. Still, in fits and halts, she told him the whole naked, disjointed truth Slorn had asked her to spread.