The Legend Of Eli Monpress

by Rachel Aaron

  Even now, minutes after the initial wave, the demon panic was still flooding through the air. The shouts of people outside echoed down the shaking halls, tiny and distant under the rumbling of the terrified stone. The duke ignored them. He simply waited, patiently, with his hands crossed behind his back. The moment the demon panic began to ebb, he opened his spirit.

  At once, every stone was still. The duke’s will filled the castle, crushing all resistance, stomping down on fear. He laid his hands firmly on the wall beside him, feeling every stone in the castle as they lay subservient before him. Only then, when he was certain he had every pebble in the citadel’s full attention, did he give his command.

  “Clean yourself up.”

  The fortress obeyed. Stones jumped off the floor and refitted themselves into place. Cracks mended themselves, and he felt the citadel groan and shake as the collapsed northern corner shuddered and then rebuilt itself. When the duke lifted his hand from the stone, there was no sign there had been a panic at all. Even the scuff marks on the stone from Josef’s fight with the soldiers were gone.

  The duke shook his hands with a sigh and turned to face his gawking officers, who’d come running in the moment the citadel stopped moving.

  “It’s a miracle,” one of the young guards whispered.

  “No,” the duke said. “It’s business as usual.” He glared at the soldier. “I’m not just some wizard, boy. I’m the Duke of Gaol. Everything here is mine to command, the stones, the water, the winds, and you. Don’t ever forget that. Now”—he pointed at one of his officers—“you, take your men and get the courtyard under control. I want the conscripts back in position by the river and everyone else in their houses. Full lockdown. I don’t want to see so much as a stray cat on the streets, understand?”

  “Sir!” The officer saluted and motioned his men down the tunnel.

  Edward looked over the remaining soldiers. “The rest of you, stand by. I have one final problem to attend to, and then”—he smiled—“we’re going thief hunting.”

  The soldiers saluted and stood at attention. Satisfied, Edward turned back toward his treasury. Out of everything in the castle, only the treasury door remained out of place. It alone was still bashed and dirty, and still stubbornly closed. The duke walked forward slowly, deliberately, letting his open spirit go ahead of him as a warning, but the door did not move.

  “Why?” the duke asked softly. “Why so willfully disobedient?”

  “I can’t help it, my lord,” the door shuddered. “She ordered me closed. I must obey.”

  The duke leaned in, his voice very low and very cold. “Whatever Monpress’s girl can threaten is nothing compared to what I’m about to do to you if you do not open .”

  The door gave a terrified squeak and began to thrash in its track, but no matter how it fought, it could not roll back.

  “Please, my lord,” it panted. “Mercy! She struck something deep, I’m afraid. A strange mix of demon fear and wizardry. I’ve never felt anything like it! Please, just give me a few minutes to overcome the fear and I swear I’ll obey. I beg you, my lord!”

  The duke waved his hand. “Time is a luxury I do not have.” He glared at the stones on either side of the door. “If you cannot open, then I’ll find something that will.”

  He snapped his fingers at the wall beside the door, and all at once, the mortar began to crumble. Stones popped themselves out of their sockets and landed in a neat pile on the floor. Robbed of its support, the door began to wobble. Duke Edward stepped back and motioned for the blocks to keep coming. The door held out for an impressively long time, but soon, as more and more of its supporting structure was removed, not even its will was enough to stand against gravity. It fell with a long, tragic cry, crashing to the floor in an enormous cloud of dust.

  The duke turned to his soldiers. “Get some rope and take this hunk of metal outside. Set it up at the center of the square where the rain can hit it. We’ll see what a few years of rust can do for its temperament.”

  The soldiers, spirit deaf and not quite understanding what was going on, ran to obey him. At his feet, the door began to sob, a terrible, squealing metal sound, and something made a little crackling noise at the duke’s elbow. Edward looked over and saw his fire, the fire that connected all the hearths in the citadel, flickering hesitantly.

  “My lord,” it crackled. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh? He was wounded by a demon, and—”

  “Would you like to join him out in the yard?” the duke snapped.

  “No, sir,” the fire answered immediately.

  “Then don’t say another word.” The duke straightened up, watching as the soldiers came back with the rope and began looping it around the heavy door.

  “If it can’t serve as a door,” the duke said, “then it can at least serve as an example. Disobedience will not be tolerated.”

  “Yes, sir,” the fire whispered again, but the duke was already off, walking over the poor sobbing door and into his empty treasury.

  The cracks and broken stone had been repaired here as everywhere, but the shelves were still in disarray. He put them back with an impatient wave of his hand, noting that the false Lion of Ser and a few of the other cheap pieces were still in place. There was, however, no sign of the thief’s escape. Duke Edward walked in a slow circle, scanning the wall, running things over in his mind, but he got no further than he had this morning when he’d first investigated the crime scene. He’d been sure before, but he was now positive that the first robbery had not been Eli’s work. So why had Eli come?

  Pride was the obvious answer. Monpress was a prideful man. He might have come looking for clues as to who would impersonate him. Yet that seemed too simple an explanation. If his studies had taught him anything, it was that Monpress never did anything simply. Also, it was too fast. The robbery had only happened this morning, which meant Monpress must have already been in town. That made him smile. His bait had worked. At least that part of the plan had stayed on track. His smile faded, someone had sprung the trap early, and he meant to find out who. Still, today’s events had convinced him that the situation was salvageable. Monpress was in town. He’d probably been planning his own heist when he heard about the impostor and came to investigate. That certainly matched what he knew of Monpress, but still, something was off.

  Edward walked in a slow circle around the room. Eli’s exit bothered him. The thief was known for his flash, and the demon trick with the door had certainly been flashy, but after that, nothing. He’d vanished just as smoothly as the thief last night. He briefly entertained the idea that the two thieves might be in league, but he dismissed it almost as quickly. Monpress wasn’t the kind to share glory.

  He was still walking and thinking when he spotted something white on the floor. He stooped to pick it up, turning it over in his hand. It was a card, marked the same as all his others, with the fine, cursive M. Smiling, Edward slid the card into his coat pocket. Cocky to the last, that was Eli. He couldn’t bear to leave any credit unclaimed. But as he straightened up, his eyes caught something else out of place. There, straight ahead, the wall was uneven.

  Edward stared at it. He’d ordered all the bricks to square themselves when he’d righted the citadel. Was this more disobedience or just simple incompetence? He stepped in for a closer look, brushing the crooked stones with his fingers. As he touched the smooth cut surface, his eyes widened, and several mysteries clicked into place.

  Othril blew in through the front door of the citadel, pausing to stare at the sobbing bulk of the treasury door as the guards struggled in teams of twenty to drag it down the steps. After a moment of gawking, the wind hurried on. It was best not to question things like that, and he had news for the duke that could not wait.

  He found the duke in the treasury, which wasn’t surprising, staring at the wall, which was. Othril circled uncertainly overhead. Interrupting the duke while he was working was never something that ended well, but neither was withholding a time-sensi
tive report. He was still warring between those two bad choices when the duke made the decision for him.

  “Othril,” he said, pointing at the square of wall in front of him. “Look there and tell me what you see.”

  Othril swooped down to the duke’s level and stared at the stone. “Nothing,” he said. “I see nothing at all. Why?”

  “Nothing,” the duke said. “I thought so.”

  He reached forward and grabbed the stone. The blocks crumbled in his grasp like flaky pastry, revealing a tunnel.

  A tremor of panic shot through Othril. It had been his job to inspect the castle. His job to find anything untoward. The duke was not forgiving of failure. Fortunately, Duke Edward looked more annoyed than angry.

  “It’s a mash-up,” he said, picking up a large chunk of the fake wall and crumbling it in his hands. “Tiny specks of stone and sand too small for consciousness, and thus below the notice of awakened spirits, bound together in brittle glue and then stamped to look like a wall.” He paused, shaking his head. “It’s actually brilliant in a simplistic way. How else would you hide a tunnel from a wizard who knows every spirit in his castle than to make something those spirits can’t see? Not Eli’s work, of course. Far too subtle. Still,” he sighed, “one can’t help being a little impressed by such a simple and effective escape.”

  “Yes, well,” Othril said, “about that. I came to let you know that the spirits have reported in and we’re ready to move into position.” The wind paused. “Do you still want to go ahead with the plan, my lord? If you’re certain he’s not Monpress, perhaps we should wait.”

  “No,” the duke said, standing up. “We’re absolutely going ahead. Monpress is in town, and he’s also looking for the impostor. This may well be our chance to catch two thieves for the price of one.”

  “Monpress is here?” Othril said, astonished. “But I haven’t—”

  The duke gave him a cold look, and Othril backed away. “Of course, my lord. As you say.”

  The duke nodded. “What about our other business? Is the Spiritualist secured?”

  “Yes,” the wind said, used to the duke’s sudden subject changes. “And the measures to make sure she stays that way are in place, as you ordered. Hern was gloating the whole time, though his cronies looked less pleased. He swears she’s the real Miranda Lyonette, the one who worked with Monpress in Mellinor. She won’t wake for another hour or two, but she apparently knows Eli better than most. Are you going to go talk to her?”

  “Of course not,” the duke said. “In an hour or two, everything should be over. Besides, no amount of information is worth dealing with extremists like Banage and his sympathizers. I have far too many contingencies as it is. No, so far as I’m concerned, she’s Hern’s problem now. I’m just keeping hold of her for the moment, since Hern can’t keep a prisoner to save his life. It’s his love of gloating. He gives them too many opportunities for escape.”

  “What about her dog?” the wind asked. “I’ve been hearing reports from the countryside about a dog.”

  “As I said,” the duke said, walking out of the treasury, “Hern’s problem. Moving on, is the city ready for lockdown?”

  “Of course,” the wind said. “Has been for hours. All we’re waiting on now is for the conscripts to finish clearing the last of the nonenlisted townsfolk back into their homes.”

  “Good.” The duke smiled as he walked down the front steps of his citadel. “It may not be unfolding quite as I designed, but the trap is still in place. Eli will come, mark my words. Just be ready to tighten the noose when you hear the signal.”

  “Yes, lord duke,” the wind said, spiraling up into the cloudless sky as the duke made his way across the square shouting for his officers.

  On a black cliff above the gray northern sea stood a great citadel. It was cut from the same black stone as the cliff, or perhaps it was part of the cliff. After so many years it was difficult to tell. It stood tall and sharp, looming over the choppy waves and the desolate strip of shore far below like some great weapon dropped in an ancient battle of giants. Yet it stood alone. There was no town nestled in the rocky field at its base, no houses on the barren hills beyond. Nothing but stone and sand and wind-dwarfed trees and the citadel, its windows dark beneath the grudging noon light that filtered through the ashy clouds overhead.

  Midway up one of the leaning towers, sitting at a broad desk that faced one of the larger windows overlooking the sea, Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, was dealing with the morning’s crises. A demonseed had awakened in the desert that spanned the southern tip of the Immortal Empress’s domain. So far, it had eaten three dunes, a cactus forest, a small nomad camp, and the agent who’d been sent to deal with it. Alric listened carefully to the wind spirit who’d come with the report, his thin-lined face set in a thoughtful frown as the wind blustered about the size of the demon and how it had already eaten a great desert storm and didn’t Alric know they were all doomed?

  When the wind finally blew itself out, Alric turned to the large, open book that took up most of his desk, and he flipped to the last page. Taking his sharp pen, he neatly crossed out the name of the now-deceased agent. It was a shame. The boy had shown promise. He flipped forward a few pages and decided to put one of his senior agents on the desert problem. Ante Chejo was an excellent swordsman and a level thinker, and he was from that part of the empire. He would do nicely. Decision made, Alric made a note next to Chejo’s name in the great book and called in a runner. The silent, somber-suited man was at his side instantly. Alric gave him the orders and the runner left to find Chejo.

  Thanking the wind for the message, Alric sent it to wait in the courtyard with stern assurances that Chejo would take care of things from here on. The wind didn’t seem convinced, but it left, blowing out the window in a blustery huff and leaving Alric to deal with the other fires that were already flaring up.

  There were rumors of a possible demonseed on the southern jungles of the Council Kingdoms and a new report of something off the north coast of the White Wastes, which was probably just a leviathan but had to be investigated all the same. There were reports piling up from agents in the major cities on demon cult activity, fund movements, and possible candidates for the League as well as the usual panic reports from spooked spirits that had to be investigated, compiled observations from each of the great winds, and equipment requests from the League armsmaster. It was the same rubbish over and over, but they had to be sorted, all the same.

  He was about halfway through the morning’s work when something fell onto his desk with a clatter. He looked up. It was a bound and capped tube stamped with the seal of their post in Zarin. Alric frowned. It was not unusual for a message to simply appear on his desk. That was part of the system the League of Storms had always used to spread information quickly, set up long, long before he was born. What was unusual was that Zarin would be sending a report now when he’d just received their morning report thirty minutes ago. He popped the seal with his finger and began to read.

  Fear pulse reported at midmorning, Gaol. Spirit destruction, mass panic, suspect five weeks or higher. Request backup.

  Alric read the message twice in rapid succession before letting it curl back into a scroll. He hunched forward, his frown deepening. This was a problem. A fear pulse was League jargon for the wave of demon panic that was generally the first warning when a new demonseed finally devoured its human host and became active on its own. Yet Merick, his man in Zarin, had placed the demon at five weeks of unrestrained growth, which was simply not possible. No demon could escape League notice for five weeks, especially not somewhere as populated and civilized as Gaol. But Merick was an experienced League member and not one for embellishment. If he said five weeks, then that’s what they were dealing with.

  Alric pushed the message away and leaned back in his chair to consider his options. There were only two demons remotely that active outside of the Dead Mountain itself, Slorn’s wife and Monpress’s pet. Alric drummed hi
s fingers on the table. Nivel was well contained, but Eli’s creature was another matter. If she was the source of the fear Merick reported, then this was going to be a complicated situation. The White Lady had forbidden the League to hunt that specific demon. The Lord of Storms had made that much clear, though he didn’t say why and obviously wasn’t happy about it. Still, the League couldn’t just ignore a mass panic in a highly populated area. Their mission was to promote order, and order depended on rapid, predictable response. They could cause another panic even worse than the first if they didn’t show up. Alric tapped his fingers thoughtfully, turning the problem over in his head. Slowly, a plan began to piece itself together.

  Smiling slightly, Alric took the message and carefully slid it under a stack of other finished papers. Powerful as she was, the White Lady could not read minds. He had no proof that the disturbance in the report was Monpress’s demon. There was no physical description, no witness reports. All he had was a dire message and a request for aid, and following up on such things was his job. If he never let on to his suspicions, how was she to know that the accidental elimination of the Monpress demon was less than accidental? He just had to make sure he put the right agent on the job. Someone strong enough to take on a demon of that size and a good enough swordsman to deal with her guardian, not to mention prideful enough to take on the Heart of War. But at the same time, he needed a man ignorant enough not to realize whom he was fighting, and whose loss wouldn’t be a crippling blow to the League when the Lady took her vengeance.

  Fortunately, he had just the man in mind.

  Smiling slightly more than was appropriate, Alric summoned a runner. The dour man appeared instantly, stepping into Alric’s office through a narrow slit in the air. It opened soundlessly, a cut in the fabric of reality from one place to another, in this case, from the common room to Alric’s office. Instant travel was yet another of the niceties of League membership, a necessity when you had to travel around the world on short notice, and one that League members designated as runners were particularly skilled at.