Rachel Aaron - The Spirit Rebellion - The Legend of Eli Monpress - Book 2

“Are you all right?” he snapped, looking her over, then looking at Hern. “Oh, good, you did win. I thought you had when the rock barrier went down, but I had to be sure.”

“What, so you tore all the way up here?” Miranda winced, imagining the beautiful, decorated halls smashed to pieces in Gin’s frantic wake.

Gin gave her a sharp look. “See if I come to help you again.”

Miranda just laughed and shook her head. “Sorry, sorry, I’m very happy to see you. Now”-she shoved her arms under Hern’s shoulders-“help me get this idiot secured.”

Together they got Hern into one of his chairs and tied him tight with a curtain pull. Once he was secure, Miranda plucked off every bit of his jewelry. It was quite a pile, ten rings, five bracelets, and a half dozen necklaces, all humming with power. These she put in the bucket that she’d thrown at him earlier and gave them to Durn.

“Watch him,” she said, giving the rock spirit a firm look. “If he starts to wake up again, club him, but gently; don’t crack his skull. Just keep him asleep, away from his rings, and out of trouble.”

“Very well, mistress,” Durn said. “Where are you going?”

Miranda looked out through the enormous gaping hole in the side of Hern’s tower, where the city of Gaol lay dark, silent, and frozen under the Enslavement. “I’m going to make sure that thief keeps his promise.”

Durn bowed, and Miranda climbed onto Gin’s back. As soon as she was on, he leaped through the hole in the wall, landing neatly on the roof of the house next door. The moment his feet hit the rain-soaked tiles, he was running, jumping along the roofs toward the citadel.

Duke Edward stood soaked and alone on the battlements of his citadel. His guards were gone; so were his servants. He didn’t know where and he didn’t care. He had larger problems. He stood very still, his eyes closed, his face twitching in a concentration deeper than any he’d ever had to maintain. Below him, spread out in a dark grid, was the city, his city, and every spirit, every speck of stone, cowered in homage to him. Their fear bled through the raging spread of his own spirit, making him feel ill and weak, but he did not loosen his grip. Such unpleasantness was necessary if he was to preserve the perfection he’d worked his whole life to achieve. This was just another test, and though he’d never been pushed to Enslavement before, he’d always been ready to do what he had to do. Perfection was not something that could be achieved through half-measures.

Out on the edge of his control, he could feel the sea spirit that had taken over his river surging. It was gathering water from farther upstream, increasing its size and power. It had doubled since he began the Enslavement, swollen with water until he could no longer feel the Spiritualist girl’s hold on it. Maybe she had died, or maybe the water spirit had grown too large for her and broken away. Whatever the case, Hern’s idea of catching and forcing her to remove her spirit had never been an efficient option. The river was growing too quickly. In another ten minutes it would have enough water to flood the whole city, an outcome that could break his already tenuous hold on his spirits and ruin his town, neither of which was an option he was willing to consider. No, his path was clear. Reestablishing control meant getting the sea spirit out of his river, and Edward was going to do just that, even if it meant destroying the water.

He reached out, his focus sliding across the cowering city to the warehouses on the northern stretch of the river, where he kept his tanneries. Long ago, when he was just a boy, he’d brought the river to heel by threatening to dump the tannery waste into its waters. Now, forty years later, he made good on that threat. With a great thrust of his spirit, the side of the tannery burst open, and five enormous metal barrels of stinking hide soak, their tops frothy with flies and decay, toppled into the river’s newly clear water. He grinned when he felt the Great Spirit’s power shudder and cringe as hundreds of gallons of rancid, black-green sludge slithered across its surface.

Still, it wasn’t enough. The river surged beneath the layer of poison, denying Edward’s control of the area, refusing to retreat. He needed something more drastic, but he was already panting from the effort of controlling spirits so far away. Fortunately, the next step was easy. Even Enslaved, fire needed little encouragement to burn. All he had to do was nudge one of the fallen torches that lay on the docks, dropped by his retreating army, and the flame leaped into the polluted water.

The sludge caught instantly, and the night lit up as hot red fire streaked across the river’s surface. The water screamed and churned, raising great waves as it tried to break the surface film of floating sludge and smother the flames, but all it managed was to fan them higher. The duke smiled in triumph, but never let his control waver. Even this might not be enough to drive the invading spirit out.

“My lord?” a small voice whispered beside him. It was plaintive and hoarse, as if it had been calling a long time. He would have ignored it, but if a spirit had gotten up the courage to interrupt him under these circumstances, it was probably important.

“What?” he said, turning only a tiny fraction of his attention from his battle with the river.

The spirit flickered, and he saw it was the castle fire, the single large fire that moved the treasury door and cooked the castle’s food and heated the rooms, speaking through the chimney. The fire had remained loyal even when the river had been compromised, which was why he turned to listen more closely.

“The thief, Eli Monpress,” it said, its voice crackling. “He’s out in the front square.”

The duke’s patience vanished instantly. “Don’t bother me with such rubbish,” he said, turning back to the river.

“But sir,” the fire said again. “I really think you should look. He’s doing something…” It paused, throwing a puff of nervous smoke into the air. “Odd.”

“Odd?” The duke looked sideways at the chimney. “Odd how?”

“It looks like he’s giving a speech, sir,” the fire finished in a rush, its light ducking back down the chimney just in case the duke decided it was wasting his time. But Edward was frowning, considering his decision. The river demanded his attention, but ignoring Eli Monpress was a risk only fools took. He tried it one way, then another, and came to the conclusion there was nothing to be done but to have a look himself. Keeping the back of his mind on the burning river, the duke walked through the small knot of buildings at the top of the citadel to the battlements on the opposite side, which overlooked the square.

The moment he looked down he understood why the fire had called him. There, standing on a pile of barrels and crates he’d scavenged from who knew where, was Eli Monpress. He was standing in plain sight in the middle of the square, and he seemed to be yelling. Very cautiously, the duke shifted a bit of his spirit away from the river and toward the city center. As his spirit moved over the square, he suddenly heard the thief’s words loud and clear, and his hands clutched the edge of the battlements in white-knuckled fury.

Eli stood atop his mountain of borrowed barrels like a general in a war monument. Light rain soaked his shirt and plastered his black hair to his scalp, which added nicely to the desired effect. Beleaguered heroes always looked better in the rain.

He threw out his hands dramatically as he spoke, pouring every ounce of every scrap of everything he’d ever learned from a lifetime of unconventional wizardry into his voice. “Spirits of Gaol!” he cried, layering just enough power so that his words flowed smooth and strong over the quivering panic around him. “Look at what’s been done to you! Look at the situation you’ve allowed yourselves to be put in! What has happened in Gaol? Free spirits are beholden to no one save their Great Spirit, and yet here you are, cowering while your river is out there fighting the duke for your freedom!”