by Rachel Aaron
The question caught Miranda off guard, but before she could collect her thoughts, the Lord of Storms answered it himself.
“We listen,” he said, tapping the fall of black hair covering his ear. “When a demonseed awakens, a wave of fear is born with it. When that fear hits the spirits, a great cry arises, and it is that which calls us to our duty. But a cry of demon fear and a cry of loss for something as precious and vital as a star sound very much the same, especially when so many cries happen at once.” He turned to glare at her. “The demon we hunt is a quiet prey. She’s hard enough to track under normal circumstances, but this racket has made the task nearly impossible.”
Without warning, the Lord of Storms leaned down, his face hovering dangerously close to Miranda’s own, and it took everything she had not to duck away. She could feel him all around her, now. The pressure was almost painful, the air alive with the quick pulse of lightning about to strike.
“I tire of waiting while my League wastes its time sorting through frightened spirits,” he said, his low voice booming. “If your Court can quiet the field long enough for us to find and conquer our quarry, I will grant you whatever power you need.”
“My lord,” Alric said, his voice taut with warning.
“It is already done, Alric,” the Lord of Storms said. He straightened up, and Miranda shivered as the enormous pressure subsided. “I’ve decided. The hunt is all that matters. Anyway, they can hardly make things worse, can they?”
“Things can always get worse,” Alric said tiredly. “But if you’ve decided, then that’s that. We’ll still need a pledge for the transfer, though. When can we address your Court?”
It took Miranda several moments to realize this last question was for her. “The Spirit Court gathers for the Conclave this afternoon,” she said. “Everyone alive who’s taken the Spiritualist oath will be there.”
“Conclave?” Alric’s voice shifted from weary to interested in a flash. “Isn’t that the Court’s great meeting, called in times of dire crisis? And doesn’t it usually start with a referendum on the Rectorship?”
Miranda’s cheeks flushed again, with shame this time. “It does,” she said quietly.
The Lord of Storms’ glare swept back to her. “I hope you have not promised more than you can deliver, girl.”
“The Spirit Court will do whatever it needs to ensure the protection of the spirit world whether I’m Rector or not,” she snapped. “We will keep our end of the bargain, Lord of Storms.”
The Lord of Storms laughed then, a great, terrifying sound like thunder cracking directly over her head. “I love it,” he said, grinning wide. “Alric, get it started.”
“Yes, Commander,” Alric said, bowing.
The Lord of Storms nodded and vanished in a flash of lightning. Miranda covered her eyes a hair too late and was left blinking against the afterimage of clouds pouring through a long, white line.
“Well,” Alric said, standing, “shall we get going?”
“We have some time,” Miranda said slowly, glancing out the window as she pulled herself together. “It’s still morning. The Conclave doesn’t start until noon.”
“Then we should certainly get going,” Alric said. “It’s twenty past already.”
Miranda blinked at him. “But the sky,” she said lamely, looking again at the gray morning clouds.
“It’s always like that here,” Alric said. “This is the citadel of the Lord of Storms. The sky reflects his moods, not the time of day.”
Miranda took a deep breath and saved the cursing for later. “Do I have time to get Gin?”
“He’s already in Zarin,” Alric said, taking the sheathed gold sword down from the stand behind him and buckling it to his belt.
Miranda’s head whipped back toward the window. Sure enough, the ghosthound was gone. So was the man who’d introduced himself to her as the League quartermaster when she’d first come tumbling out of the sky.
“We in the League take good care to jump before the Lord of Storms says frog,” Alric said with a smile. He reached out, his hand hanging in the air before her. “Shall we be off?”
Rather than answer, Miranda reached out and took his offered hand. His skin was surprisingly cool and dry to the touch, and as his fingers closed over hers, a white line opened in the air in front of them.
“After you, Lady Rector,” the Deputy Commander said with a smile she would have called wry were his face less serious.
Miranda nodded and, after only a tiny hesitation, stepped through the hole in the world.
CHAPTER
14
Spiritualist Krigel rubbed his knotted hands across his wrinkled face. He was too old for this, he reminded himself. The ache in his chest was constant now, forcing him to take his breaths in short, tight gasps. His heart had been through too much already. Another hour of this kind of stress and he would be dead.
Against his better judgment, he lowered his hands and looked out at the crowd. The circular assembly hall of the Spirit Court was packed to the rafters. As demanded, every Spiritualist who had ever sworn an oath, from the most influential Tower Keepers to the newest crop of apprentices, had answered the call of the Conclave. They filled the raised gallery that surrounded the hearing room floor. Those who’d arrived early and those whose rank demanded deference sat on the benches. The rest piled in wherever they could, a great mass of red robes and nervous shifting.
Below the ring of benches, the white floor was empty, as was the witness stand at the room’s center. This was a formal meeting of the Court, not a trial. Of course, Krigel sighed, you’d think it was his trial the way Blint and his ilk were glaring at him.
The Tower Keeper had a large contingent, too. A good third of the Spiritualists on that side of the room had come in with him, probably from one of those secret meetings he was always holding. The man was as bad as Hern. Blint had jumped at the chance to go over to the Council when Banage was declared a traitor, and though he’d dressed it up afterward, saying he’d just been doing his duty to the land of his birth, the bald truth was that Blint had grabbed for power the moment he saw weakness. From the naked hunger in his eyes, he was clearly ready to do so again, and given the current situation, Banage’s supporters weren’t in much position to oppose him.
Rubbing his aching chest, Krigel let his glare drift up to the place everyone else was studiously avoiding. High above him, the Rector’s chair stood empty. Miranda has been missing since yesterday afternoon. Considering how she’d been acting over the last two days, Krigel shouldn’t be surprised, but seeing as she was the one who’d called the Conclave in the first place, he’d assumed she’d at least show up for it. But here it was, thirty minutes past noon, and there was no sign of her.
Krigel gritted his teeth. If it were anyone else he’d have wagered she’d skipped town, but not Miranda. The girl was too stubborn to run from her own execution. She was probably off doing something she considered frighteningly important. More important than being Rector. Hopefully whatever it was would give her some comfort when she lost her position and Krigel was torn to pieces as Blint rushed the Rector’s seat. Assuming, of course, his heart didn’t give out first.
Krigel was sinking deeper down that bleak line of thought when a cracking sound shocked him out of his gloom. At the other end of the enormous room, the double doors flew open. A hundred long benches scraped as all the Spirit Court leaned forward, looking to see if this was Banage’s protégé at last. But their gasp of anticipation faded to a hiss as, alas, not the Rector but her ghosthound strode into the room.
Gin trotted across the empty assembly floor, his claws clicking on the polished stone. He’d barely gone three steps before the room exploded. Spiritualists shouted over each other, demanding to know where his mistress was. The ghosthound ignored them completely. He simply made his way to the spot directly below the Rector’s chair and sat down, wrapping his tail around his feet as he glared at the assembled Spirit Court, most of whom were now very close to r
ioting.
“Order!’ Krigel shouted, jumping to his feet as he banged his hand on the heavy banister.
The wizards ignored him. A few were already up and making their way to the doors. Blint was on his feet as well, but he was headed for the Rector’s chair, his face set in a predatory smile of long-held ambition nearing its fulfillment. Krigel cursed under his breath and leaned over the railing.
“Where is the Rector?” he hissed at the ghosthound, who was sitting directly below him. “Everything is falling apart!”
“She’s coming,” Gin said, his quiet voice picking up the hint of a growl as his orange eyes locked on Blint. “Just a bit longer.”
“We don’t have a bit longer,” Krigel snapped. “We haven’t had a bit longer for the past half hour. You tell her to get here now, or I’ll—”
A brilliant flash of light cut him off. Blinded, Krigel fell backward, his mouth working dumbly in his shock. He wasn’t alone. The light cut through the chaos in the room like a falling ax, leaving the chamber silent except for Gin’s growl. When Krigel’s blindness faded at last, he looked up to see the Spirit Court gaping at him in shocked silence.
No, he realized belatedly, not at him. Their eyes were locked on the seat above him, the Rector’s raised pulpit. Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Krigel braced his hands on the banister and turned, his eyes going wide.
A white line hung in the air in front of the Rector’s throne-like seat. It was no thicker than a thread, but it flashed as bright as a sunbeam off a mirror. He saw it for only a moment, and the world split open as Miranda stepped into view.
She stepped through the hole in the world as though she did it every day. Her face was set in an utterly implacable frown, and her clothes were wrinkled and travel worn, but that mattered little. What did matter was the enormous golden chain that lay across the neck and shoulders of her tattered coat.
Krigel’s breath caught. She was wearing the mantle of the Tower, the sacred mark of the office of Rector that he’d laid out for her this morning, back when he’d still thought they’d have time to discuss the Conclave before it began. He had no idea when she’d had the time to go up to her office and put it on, but she had it now, and she wore the golden weight as though she’d been born to it.
When Miranda had both feet on the wooden floor of the Rector’s stand, the white line she’d entered through flickered and vanished. But as it died, another flashed, this time to her right, and Krigel felt his poor chest constrict as a middle-aged man with neatly cropped dark hair, a golden sword, and a long black coat stepped out of nothing to stand at Miranda’s right. By this point, the stunned silence was as thick as cotton. Krigel himself had never seen the man before, but there wasn’t a soul in the room who didn’t recognize the long black coat with its high collar trimmed in silver, or what it meant.
Krigel raised a shaky arm to wipe away the sweat beading on his face. The Rector Spiritualis and the League of Storms, standing together. Powers, what had the fool girl gotten herself into?
The scrape of the Rector’s chair was offensively loud as Miranda pushed it aside to stand before the podium. The League man hung back, his cold eyes moving over the assembled Spiritualists, judging each of them in turn. Outside, despite the clear sky, a roll of thunder crashed in the distance.
Krigel closed his eyes as the rumble shook the Tower. Forget the girl, what had she gotten the Court into? His only answer was another peal of thunder as the sunlight faded from the Court’s high windows.
Miranda faced the gathered Spirit Court with iron determination. The Court stared back at her, a sea of faces packing the ring of benches. She’d never seen so many people in the Court’s chamber, and for several moments the sheer weight of their stares threatened to send her curling into a ball. But she steadied herself against the Rector’s wide podium, keeping her back straight as a beam. Now was not the time for weakness. Now was the time to perform the task Master Banage had entrusted her to do. On her left hand, the Rector’s ring gripped her finger like a vise, trembling with the thunder that shook the Tower. The Lord of Storms would be here soon. She had to move quickly.
“Spiritualists of the Court,” she said, and then stopped. Even with the crowd, her voice boomed through the chamber. It rang in her ears and echoed in her stomach, not just loud but clear, like a brass bell. The chamber’s high walls and polished stone took her voice and made it a proclamation. The mantle on her shoulders rang with the words as well, and Miranda realized that the Tower itself was helping her. Immense gratitude flooded her mind, and Miranda began to speak in earnest.
“I am sorry for the delay,” she said, her voice ringing in the air. “Thank you all for responding so quickly to the call for Conclave. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Miranda Lyonette, former apprentice to Rector Banage, who was arrested three days ago for supposed treason against the Council of Thrones. Knowing he could not perform his duty from the Council dungeon, Master Banage conferred upon me the role of emergency interim Rector Spiritualis for the sole purpose of calling the Court to Conclave.”
The crowd shuffled and began to whisper. On her left, Blint leaned over the railing and opened his mouth to speak. Miranda didn’t give him the chance.
“Master Banage’s arrest by the Council violated the neutrality of our order,” she said hotly. “Whitefall’s attack on our Rector was an attack on all of us, but this was not the reason Rector Banage ordered the Conclave convened.”
She turned slowly, fixing her eyes on Blint. “The war with the Immortal Empress lasted only one night, but in the run-up to that night, great damage was done to our Court. Our strength was splintered, our ideals muddied. Rector Banage ordered me to call the Conclave because he hoped to heal this division so that the Court could once again stand united against the trials to come. In hindsight, this was immeasurably wise. For in the last two days a disaster of unprecedented scope has fallen upon the world. A crisis even Etmon Banage did not foresee.”
“But you did?” Blint’s voice shot through the room like an arrow. All eyes turned to the Tower Keeper as he leaped to his feet, glaring at Miranda like she was a stain on his robes.
“You fancy yourself a wise leader, girl?” he cried, his face blotchy with rage as he spat the words at her. “You dare stand at the Rector’s podium and lecture us on Etmon Banage’s goodness? Have you forgotten that it was Banage’s ego that broke the Court in the first place? And now you say a crisis is upon us. Let me guess, is it a crisis only you can face? One that requires you to remain as Rector so you can continue Banage’s doctrine of destructive absolutism?”
The room erupted as he finished. The benches rocked as the Spiritualists turned on each other, shouting and arguing. Miranda banged her hand against the wood of the podium, but her calls for order were lost in the chaos.
She felt Alric shifting beside her. There wasn’t much time before the Lord of Storms arrived. If he saw the Court in such disagreement, he could rescind the deal. She had to get control, and she had to get it now. Clenching her fingers, she brought the Rector’s ring to her lips. Please, she mouthed against the smooth, warm gold, let me be heard.
The ring began to buzz against her finger, and Miranda had the curious sensation that the room was bending toward her. When she spoke again, her voice fell on the crowd like a torrential rain, drowning out all else.
“This isn’t about Banage!” she cried, the words booming loud as thunder cracks. “Not anymore. Forget your politics for one moment and think. Something horrible is happening, something far greater than Banage or the Council or even this Court. You’ve all felt it, haven’t you? Your spirits launch into a sudden panic and won’t tell you why. The Whitefall River overflows its banks in a screaming terror with no provocation. All around the Council Kingdoms, reports flow in of earthquakes and floods, of spirits turning on each other in terror, and none will say why.”
She stopped, her unnaturally loud voice echoing in the newborn silence, but all around the
room, heads were nodding. Hands crossed over rings turned inward, and faces drew tight with worry. Strangely, Miranda felt a swell of relief. They knew what she was talking about, and they were as afraid as she had been.
“Your spirits won’t tell you what is happening because it is forbidden for them to speak of such matters,” she said, her voice gentle. “But it is not forbidden for me.”
And then she told them. She told them as the Shaper Mountain had told her, about the stars, about the Shepherdess. After that, she told them about Mellinor and his warning, and then she told them of her own research and calling the West Wind, about her trip to the broker and her promise to Rellenor, the Whitefall River. She told her story in a rush, letting the last three days pour out of her, stopping just before she’d left for the League’s stronghold. When she finished, the room was as silent as a tomb. Only Blint’s face was unchanged. But for all his haughtiness, his fingers were clutching the dark green ring on his right thumb, and Miranda knew that, whatever else lay between them, he believed her.
“I don’t have to tell you the scale of the disaster we’re facing,” she said slowly. “You saw it for yourselves yesterday, when the rivers flooded. You’ve felt it in your own spirits. The stars are the foundations of this world, but one by one, they are being pulled away, leaving the spirits who depended on them in free fall. As they unravel, so does the world we’ve sworn to protect.”
She leaned forward, and her voice dropped low. “Spiritualists,” she said, letting the title shake with emotion. “I don’t have to remind you of your oaths or your duty. When Rector Banage told me to call the Conclave, he meant it to reunite the Court. But I say that no matter our past squabbles or petty politics, we have always been united in our core purpose: the protection and preservation of the spirit world. For every ring I see in this chamber, I know your dedication, and I’m asking you now to act on it. I’m asking you to stand with me, to stand together as a Court, and do what must be done.”