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

“By flooding the whole place,” Eli said, laughing. “That’s Spiritualists for you.”

Lelbon just gave him a sour look. “I was sent to you with a warning. Spiritualist Lyonette is currently speaking with my master, but she will be heading in this direction shortly. I am instructed to relay that it would be wise of you to move on.”

“Would it?” Eli said. “And where exactly does your master get off giving me orders?”

“It’s only a suggestion,” Lelbon said with a shrug. “The great Illir is merely concerned for your welfare. After all, even for as great a spirit as the West Wind, interfering in the affairs of the favorite is politically unadvisable.”

“Favorite?” Josef said, looking at Eli. “Favorite what?”

“Forget it,” Eli said. “All right, you heard the little old man. Let’s get out of here.”

“What, just like that?” Josef asked. “We’re not going to steal anything?”

“What’s left to steal?” Eli said, nodding at the smoldering town and the great empty citadel. “Besides,” he said, grinning at Monpress, “according to everyone, I already stole the entire treasury from the thief-proof fortress. That’s quite enough for one country. We’ve got the Fenzetti; we’re done here.”

That’s when he noticed that Josef wasn’t carrying anything.

“You do have the Fenzetti, don’t you?” Eli said. “It’s with Nico, right? Where is she, anyway?”

“I’ve got it,” Josef said flatly. “Nico’s another matter.” He turned around and walked into the shadowed doorway of the citadel, coming back with the Heart strapped across his shoulders and two wrapped bundles. One was sword-shaped and wrapped in cloth, the Fenzetti. The other was small and dark and carefully cradled in Josef’s arms.

“Wait,” Eli said, going very, very pale. “She’s not-”

“No,” Josef said. “But it isn’t exactly good. I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go if we’re going.”

“Right,” Eli said quietly, putting his smiling face back so fast Josef didn’t even see his expression change. He turned to the elder Monpress, who was still lounging on the dry step. “You’re welcome to piggyback on our escape, old man. It makes me feel useful to assist the elderly.”

“Your concern is touching,” Monpress said, “but I’ve still a little unfinished business here. Anyway, even your quiet escapes are too flashy for me.”

“Suit yourself,” Eli said. “See you around.”

“Hopefully not,” Monpress answered, but Eli and Josef were already splashing across the soggy square. They vanished down a side street headed toward the north gate, where the panicked crowds of people, who had fled to the city border the first time the city went mad, were now surging through the newly opened doors and over the walls, which had shrunk back to their original size and shape on the duke’s death.

When the thief and his swordsman had vanished completely into the dark, Lelbon and Monpress exchanged a polite farewell and went their separate ways, Lelbon down the road toward the river, and Monpress, very quietly, into the citadel. That was the last Gaol saw of either of the Monpress thieves.

Gin raced through the streets and toward the burning square, Miranda clinging to his back, urging him on. Minutes ago, she’d felt the pressure of the duke’s Enslavement vanish completely. Since then, everything had been in chaos. The spirits of the city were rioting in their new freedom, and the entire town seemed to be moving as it saw fit. Mellinor’s water was everywhere, putting out fires, moving through the streets, but the water’s spirit was too large for her to touch now, and their link felt thin and distant. By contrast, her rings felt closer than ever, the connection woven thick and heavy up and down her arms.

A wind rose as she rode, stiff and cold and smelling of the sea, though they were a hundred miles inland. It grew stronger as they went until Miranda could feel it through her clothes, pressing on her skin like a weight. Unbidden, Gin began to slow down, falling from a run to a trot, then a walk, then nothing, standing still on the broad street that opened into the square at the front of the citadel.

“What’s wrong?” Miranda whispered. “Keep going.”

“I can’t,” Gin growled. “The wind is blocking the way.”

Miranda glanced up, staring at the empty road ahead. The wind was to their back now, buffeting ghosthound and rider from side to side. Then, all at once, the air fell still. High overhead, the clouds peeled back, brushed aside to reveal the moonlit sky, and in the stillness, the air grew lighter. Miranda smelled wet stone, salt, and sea storms, and then, without warning, the West Wind itself was upon them.

Though she couldn’t see it, Miranda didn’t need to. Playing host to Mellinor had made her an expert at feeling the special nature of the Great Spirits. Still, even if she’d never met one before, she would have known the West Wind for what it was. There was simply nothing else the enormous spirit surrounding her could be. It was the essence of a sea wind, endless, wet, salt laden, and powerful, blowing ever upward. It covered the city, missing nothing, and yet Miranda could feel its attention focus on her as an approving ripple, almost like a chuckle, ran through the enormous, invisible river of power.

“A pleasure to meet you at last, Spiritualist,” the West Wind said. “You and Mellinor have undone a great wrong against the spirits of this place. For this, you have our gratitude.”

Miranda nodded, dumbstruck. The wind’s voice was like a gale in her head. The words ricocheted off the buildings, garbled, and yet there was no mistaking them for anything other than what they were. When she did find her own voice at last, however, she asked a question.

“What of the duke?” she said. “Did Eli succeed?”

“He did,” the wind said, “and disappeared shortly thereafter. I am sorry, Spiritualist.”

Miranda felt like the wind had punched her in the stomach. She slumped over, letting the crippling feeling of defeat work its way through her. There went her reputation, her ticket back into the Spirit Court. There went her career. Why had she let Eli go off on his own?

“Don’t look that way,” the wind said. “I had Lelbon promise you great rewards for your assistance here, and I keep my word. Already I have sent winds to the Spirit Court Tower in Zarin to speak with the Rector Spiritualis. Banage and I have met before, and I am sure he will listen with an open mind. I have also sent winds to each tower to inform the Keepers of your deeds today, and the great debt I owe you.” Miranda felt something in the wind slide, and she could almost imagine that the West Wind was smiling. “Surely, such words of praise will smooth over any remaining rough politics.”

Miranda could only nod stupidly. Most Spiritualists had only heard of the West Wind in stories. To actually be directly contacted by such an enormous and powerful spirit would be the experience of a lifetime. They’d forgive just about anything for a chance to curry its good favor.

Seeing her expression, the wind chuckled. “Is it enough, Spiritualist?”

“I suppose,” Miranda said, still dumbstruck. “What happens now?”

“Now, I must leave,” the wind said. “Winds are not meant to be lords over land. I have received a special dispensation from those who care for this sort of thing to allow Mellinor to remain as temporary Great Spirit for the next few weeks until the river Fellbro’s soul can be cleansed and reinstated.”

“Fellbro is still here?” Miranda asked. “You mean he’s not-”

“What?” the wind said. “Dead? Of course not. It takes more than losing some water to kill a river. Mellinor only pushed it aside for a while. Right now Fellboro’s slinking in the mud and sulking. Too long spent living in fear has made his water bitter, but we’ll soon have him to rights. In the meanwhile, Mellinor will put the land back in order. Once a Great Spirit, always a Great Spirit. You should stay here as well. I imagine the human side of Gaol also needs fixing.”