“Is she awake?” an excited voice called from behind the screen. There was a shuffle, and then King Henrith came bounding into view, a handsome but sloppily tuned tenor vikken dangling from his left hand. His cheeks and neck were wrapped in white bandages and there was an angry gouge across the bridge of his nose, but otherwise he looked quite well compared to the last time she’d seen him. The maid backed away reverently as he approached, and Miranda sank a little deeper into the bed.
“I was hoping you’d wake up during one of my visits,” the king said, grinning. “Of course, I haven’t been able to visit very often. Things have been busy, but I did think you’d enjoy some music.” He held up the poor vikken by its strings. “How did you like my—”
“It was lovely,” Miranda cut in. “How long have I been like this?”
“Well,” the king said and scratched the top of his chin, which was the only section of his beard that wasn’t
covered in bandages. “Three days, I think. Really, it feels longer.”
“Three days?” She clutched her ring bag. “Eli is gone, I take it?”
“Yes,” Henrith said, sounding annoyed, “and all the loose gold with him, what wasn’t melted to slag, anyway. Honestly, I don’t think we could have expected better. I was more distracted by the state of the room and, of course, you and my brother. We thought you were dead as well, but your beast told us that you were merely suffering from exhaustion, so I asked one of the girls—”
“Gin told you?” Miranda sat up in a rush, but the pain that shot through her skull at the movement sent her right back down again.
“Well, he didn’t tell us exactly.” The king sat down on the nightstand. “One of the other wizard chaps spoke with him.”
“Other wizards …” Miranda closed her eyes. This conversation was veering rapidly in directions she didn’t think her battered mind could handle right now. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Could you start over? From the beginning, please.”
“There’s not much to it,” the king said. “They arrived right after I did. That night, when the shaking started and your dog ran off, I just couldn’t stay put. I kept hearing these awful sounds. It was like the forest itself was trying to get away from something.”
Miranda remembered the terrifying aura of Nico’s uninhibited powers and shuddered. The king didn’t seem to notice.
“I decided it was time to stop hiding, so I made my way back to the castle only to find everyone out in the yard
because of a fire in the kitchens or some such. The kitchen staff had it well in hand, but with all the noises from the throne room and the stories the wounded soldiers were telling, no one wanted to go back in.” The king chuckled. “Nobody believed I was who I said at first. It took me a good hour to convince them I really was their king, and then it was another two hours after the water stopped pouring out of the castle before I could get together a group bold enough to go inside and see what all the fuss was about.
“I’m still not quite clear on what happened,” Henrith said, frowning. “But the wizards showed up about half an hour after we found you and just sort of took charge.” He gave her an amused look. “It’s funny, after four hundred years without them, Mellinor’s suddenly up to its neck with wizards.”
“These wizards,” Miranda said, reaching into her leather bag, pulling out the thick, gold loop of her Spirit Court signet, “do they wear rings like me? Are they Spiritualists? How many are there?”
“That’s the strangest thing,” Henrith said, adjusting his bandages. “They wore no rings, and they didn’t say anything about the Spirit Court. The serious fellow who leads them said he was with the League of Something or Other.”
Miranda froze. “The League of Storms?”
“Yes! That’s the one!” Henrith grinned. “There were more than fifty at the beginning—seemed to pop right out of thin air, gave us quite a fright, I can tell you—but most vanished again after an hour or so. Now there are maybe eight or nine. Still, they’re doing a great job fixing the damage Renaud did to my throne room, and at no expense to us, so I’m inclined to let them be. Though I would like to ask you for your version of what happened
that night. The doctors demanded we take it slowly so as not to risk your … Where are you going?”
Miranda had swung her feet over the edge of the bed and was shoving her rings back onto her fingers. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” she said in a rush. “The Spirit Court will not forget such kindness, and I will of course be happy to relate what happened in the throne room, but I can’t afford to waste any more time in bed.”
“Are you sure you should be getting up?” Henrith said, eyeing her suspiciously. “The doctors still aren’t sure what’s been wrong with you.”
For a moment, Miranda considered trying to explain the dangers of opening one’s spirit for prolonged lengths of time, especially to such an extreme degree as she had, and then accepting a new spirit on top of that. However, seeing the concerned look on Henrith’s face, she opted for something less explanatory and more understandable.
“It’s just exhaustion,” she said, sliding to the edge of the fluffy mattress while ignoring the increasingly urgent calls from her muscles that standing would be a very bad idea. “I was a bit overzealous with my abilities. Luckily, I recover quickly.”
Henrith arched an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything as she took a deep breath and, gripping the heavy bed frame like a lifeline, hauled herself to her feet. It hurt every bit as much as she’d expected, but she firmly ignored the pain and set about looking for something more substantial than a woolen nightgown. Fortunately, some thoughtful servant must have anticipated this, and a delighted smile spread over Miranda’s face when she saw her riding suit, freshly laundered and mended, laid out on the dresser under the window. Using the heavy furniture to support her sleep-weakened
legs, she hobbled along the wall to the dresser. When she picked up her jacket, something white tumbled out of the pocket and landed on the thick carpet by her feet.
“Ah,” the king said. “We found that with you, in the pocket of the librarian’s uniform you, um, borrowed. It looked important, so I told them to keep it here for you.”
Miranda bent down and picked up the rectangular object. It was an envelope. She turned it over. Stamped at the center of a large glob of green sealing wax was a fanciful, calligraphic
M
that she recognized all too well. However, what caught her breath was the name written across the fold in neat, precise capitals.
“Etmon Banage,” she read, frowning in confusion. What in the world could that thief have to say to her master? She slid her thumbnail under the wax, but, right before it cracked, she thought better of it. No matter the source, opening the Rector Spiritualis’s private mail was not a wise career move. Squishing her curiosity, she tucked the unopened letter back into her coat pocket and reached instead for her freshly pressed shirt. She draped it over her arm and turned around, looking at the king expectantly.
He looked back at her, smiling pleasantly, and showed no signs of leaving.
“Thank you for your concern, Majesty,” she said pointedly. “I really do appreciate it, but I’ve had my time to lie about. I must do my duty.”
“Fine, have it your way.” The king sighed sullenly, tucking the vikken under his arm. “Just don’t blame us when you get sick again. I’ll wait for you in the garden.”
She dropped a half curtsy as he walked back behind the screen. She heard the footman greet him, and then the scrape of the door as he left. When it closed, she gave
herself a little shake and, with the maid’s stony assistance, began the painful work of getting dressed.
Fifteen minutes later, Miranda was dressed and on her way to the throne room. She probably should have gone to meet Henrith in the garden first, but the League of Storms took priority over just about everything, even courtesy. She felt ten times herself again back in pants with her rings and Eril’s pendant in their rightful places. Her spirits were in an uproar, both at being left behind and at the new interloper they could feel through Miranda’s skin. She sent a warning thread of energy down her arms, and the ruckus quieted instantly. Miranda felt guilty forcing them down after everything that had happened, but dealing with the League of Storms was not an activity that bore distraction.
She paused at the end of the corridor and smoothed over her hair with her fingers one more time. When she was satisfied that she looked as collected and competent as she could make herself without a mirror, she turned the corner into the promenade hall and stopped dead in her tracks.
The throne room looked nothing at all as it had when she’d last seen it. The marble floor was smooth again, with no sign that it had ever been scoured by the acidic soul of a dead enslaver. The colored-glass windows were unbroken, filtering the sunlight into colorful streams that played across the gracious golden fixtures and delicate ornamental stonework, all of which was back in its proper place. The roof had been restored to its original graceful arch, and the walls were smooth and straight again, as though they’d never been broken. Only the great golden doors were immune to this miraculous repair. They hung
sadly from their hinges in a cascade of melted gold and iron slag, just as Eli’s lava spirit had left them.
Men in austere black coats were standing in pairs over the few remaining spots where the damage was still apparent. Most of them seemed to be lost in deep contemplation, studying the last bits of wreckage as if the shattered stones were works of art. As she watched, one of them waved his hand, and a cracked stretch of wall righted itself before her eyes.
“Should you be up, Lady Spiritualist?”
Miranda jumped at the voice, and she turned to see a handsome middle-aged man in a long black coat standing a few feet behind her with a polite smile on his face.
“My apologies,” the man said and held out his gloved hand. “I did not mean to frighten you. I am Alric, deputy commander for the League of Storms.”
Miranda took his offered hand firmly, keeping her eyes locked on his face. This was not the time to show weakness. “Miranda Lyonette.”
“Ah,” he said, smiling, “Master Banage’s young protégé.”
“How unfair,” Miranda said, taking back her hand. “You know who I am, but I’ve never heard of you, Sir Alric.”
“The League lives to serve, lady. We have no need to make a show of our achievements.” He smiled as he spoke, but the thin-lipped expression did not reach his blue eyes. “Now”—he took her arm and began walking her toward the throne room—“to business. I was hoping you would wake up before we finished our work. I have several questions I’d like to ask you about the night all this unpleasantness occurred.”
Miranda nodded. “You want to know about the Great Spirit.”
“Of course not,” Alric said. “That’s your realm, lady, not ours. Our interest lies in the one called Nico.” He stopped, and his grip on her arm tightened. “You know what she is, of course.” He smiled at her. “Tell me, then, why did you let her escape?”
Miranda stepped back, putting some space between them. “It was my duty to see to the welfare of the spirits first,” she said, keeping her voice steady and neutral. “Considering the extraordinary circumstances that night, I judged her to be the lesser threat.”
“The ‘lesser threat’?” Alric chuckled. “I sincerely doubt that.”
As he spoke, his pleasant smile took on a sinister tint and, despite the warm sunlight, a shiver ran down Miranda’s spine. Suddenly, she was uncomfortably aware of just how powerful a wizard the man standing in front of her was.
“That night,” Alric said, “the demonseed inside the girl awakened, correct?”
“She did change,” Miranda said, choosing her words carefully. “But things were happening very quickly, and I have no experience with demons. Some of your members must have been close by, since you arrived in Mellinor in such a timely fashion. Surely you can ask one of them.”
“The League can move quickly when it needs to,” Alric said. “And seeing how every spirit within a hundred miles of this place was in a screaming panic on the night in question, we felt it necessary to move very quickly indeed. Thus, imagine our surprise when we arrived and found not only no demonseed but no spirits that would tell us where it had gone. I was hoping you could shed some light on the subject.”
“I’ve told you what I know,” Miranda said coldly. “She changed, and my ghosthound was injured trying to subdue her. However, one of Eli’s companions was able to bring her under control, and she changed back.”
“Awakened demons don’t just ‘change back.’ ” Alric leaned closer. “Isn’t there something else you’d like to tell me?”
“No.” Miranda glared stubbornly.
Alric’s blue eyes grew colder still, but before he could speak, a man’s voice called his name from the throne room.
Miranda jumped at the low, rumbling sound. Alric gave her a final warning look before turning on his heel and marching back into the throne room where the man who’d called him was waiting. The man was standing at the center of the sun-drenched hall and was wearing the same long black coat as all the rest, but Miranda was positive he hadn’t been there when she’d arrived—there was no way she could have missed a man like that. He was enormously tall, close to seven feet, and every inch of him—the ready tenseness of his broad shoulders, the lightness of his boots on the stone, the clenched hand on the hilt of his long blue-wrapped sword—spoke of a man who lived for one purpose: to fight. To fight and win.
He turned as Alric approached, and his silver eyes flicked to Miranda for only a moment, but a moment was enough. She felt blinded by the intensity of his attention, the sheer weight of his focused gaze, enough to make her lungs falter. She hung on his look, pinned like a fly, until his eyes flicked down to Alric, and the air came thundering back.