Miranda snapped the book shut in disgust. Whoever had purged the library had probably left it on purpose.
“Well,” she said, handing the book back, “that explains much.”
The girl cringed at the scorn her voice, and lowered her head until the thick woolen veil that covered her blonde hair slid down to hide her face as well. “I did not mean to offend, lady wizard.”
“Spiritualist,” Miranda corrected gently. The girl peeked at her quizzically, and Miranda tried again. “Let me explain. Wizards don’t do magic-at least, not like the book describes it. What Kant calls ‘magicks’ are actually spirits. The world we live in is made of spirits. Mountains, trees, water, even the stones in the wall or the bench I’m sitting on”-she rapped the wood with her knuckles-“they each have their own souls, just as humans do. The word ‘wizard’ is just a catchall name for a person who can hear those spirits’ voices. Now, it’s possible for anyone to hear the spirits if they are seriously injured or dying. Death brings us as close as humans can get to the spirit world. What makes a wizard different is that wizards hear spirits all the time, even if they don’t want to. But a wizard’s real power is not just hearing the spirits, it’s control. Wizards can exert their will over the spirits around them and, if the wizard’s will is strong enough, control them. Though, of course, this control must always be used responsibly and only with the spirit’s consent.”
She looked at Marion to make sure this wasn’t more explanation than the girl was willing to listen to, but the librarian was practically leaning on to Miranda’s shoulder in rapt attention, so the Spiritualist continued.
“Not all spirits are the same, of course. There are Great Spirits, a mountain, for example, and small spirits, like a pebble. The larger the spirit, the greater its power, and the stronger a wizard’s will has to be to control it, or even just get its attention. Almost any wizard can wake up a small, stupid spirit, like a pebble, or that door you saw me yelling at earlier, but it’s how they treat the spirit once they’ve woken it that determines what kind of wizard they are.”
Miranda pointed at her rings. “I am a Spiritualist. Like all wizards, I have the power to dominate spirits and force them to do my bidding, but I don’t. The Spirit Court does not believe in forcing the world to do our will. Instead, we make contracts. Each of these rings contains a spirit who has willingly entered my service.” She wiggled her fingers. “In return for their work and obedience, I share my energy with them and provide a safe haven. That’s the way a Spiritualist works, give and take. Often, it’s a good deal for both wizard and spirit. Born wizards often have large and powerful souls, and spirits love to share that power that is often greater than their own. In return, the wizard gets a powerful ally, so it works out both ways. Still, service is always by choice. We never force a spirit to serve us against its will. Any wizard who does is not a Spiritualist, and thus not someone you want around.” She pointed at the only ring on her hand without a jewel, a thick gold signet on her left ring finger stamped with a perfect circle. “This is the mark of the Spirit Court. The only legitimate wizards are ones who show this ring proudly. It is a sign of the vows Spiritualists make to never abuse that power, or the spirits who depend on us.”
“I see,” Marion said, her blue eyes widening until her wispy eyebrows were lost under her square bangs. “But there are wizards who aren’t Spiritualists, right? Who can dominate any spirits? Could those wizards dominate another person?”
“No,” Miranda said. “A wizard can move mountains if her will is strong enough, but no wizardry can touch another human’s soul. Brush it, maybe, press upon it, certainly, if the other soul is sensitive to spirits, but no power I have could force you to act against your wishes. I could make trees dance and rocks sing, but I couldn’t even make you bow your head if you wanted it straight. Does that make sense?”
Marion frowned thoughtfully. “I think so, but-”
“Good.” Miranda stood up with a smile. “Then today hasn’t been a complete waste.” She looked dolefully around the small cell. “I don’t think there’s much more I can do here. We need a change of scenery.” She took a small leather folder out of her bag and began to flip through a neat stack of papers.
Marion looked quizzical. “Scenery?”
“Ah-ha,” Miranda said and smiled triumphantly, holding up a small, tattered note. “Looks like we’re going for a walk to the west side of town.”
A horrified look spread over Marion’s face. “Why?”
“I’m getting nowhere around here.” Miranda stuck the folder back in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Either Eli is a much more powerful wizard than I anticipated, which is unlikely, or he’s got some trick that lets him march around unnoticed. Either way, I need to learn more about him, so we’re going to see an expert.”
Marion’s look of horror deepened. “An expert? But what kind of-lady!” She had to scramble to keep up as Miranda swept out of the room, past the prison guards, and up the narrow stairs. “Lady wiz… Spiritualist! Lady Miranda! Wait!” She chased her through the maze of narrow passageways and caught up just as Miranda pushed open the outer door, where the prison let out below the stable yard. With a gasp, she threw herself in front of the Spiritualist. “Wait!” she said, panting. “The west side of the city isn’t exactly, that is, I have to alert the guards. You’ll need a security squad and-”
“Security squad?” Miranda pushed past her with a grin. “Gin!”
He must have been waiting for this, because the ghosthound appeared with a speed that surprised even Miranda. Gin slid to a halt right in front of them, grinning toothily, while the misty patterns flew over his coat in a way that meant he was feeling extraordinarily pleased with himself. Miranda shook her head and turned to the librarian. Marion was almost sitting on the ground in her scramble to get away from the monster that had not been there a second before. It was all Miranda could do not to reach down and shut the girl’s gaping jaw for her.
“I don’t think a security squad will be needed,” Miranda said, vaulting onto Gin’s back. “Coming?”
The girl had barely nodded before Gin swept her up with his paw and tossed her on his back. The stable dogs howled as the ghosthound loped across the castle grounds, fast as an icy gale. He took the castle gate in two leaps and hit the city street running, sending the well-dressed townsfolk screaming in all directions.
“Did you find anything?” Miranda asked.
“Of course not.” Gin sighed. “So, do we have a destination, or are we just putting on a show?”
“West side of the city, and slow it down a little.” She glanced over her shoulder at Marion, who was clinging to the ghosthound’s short coat with everything she had. “We have a delicate flower with us.”
The ghosthound slowed just a fraction as he took a narrow alley westward, downhill toward the river.
CHAPTER 6
If looked at from the sky, Allaze, the capital and only walled city of Mellinor, was a thing of beauty. It lay like a sun-bleached sand dollar on the grassy banks of the river Aze, circular and white with the spires of the castle as the star at its center. Low, undulating hills, spotted with split wood fences and fat cattle, rose around it, so that the city was a bump at the lowest point of a soft, green bowl.
Along the city’s northern wall, the bushy edge of the king’s deer park met the city in a mash of green oaks and tall pines. Only a thin strip of grass and the taller than usual northern parapets kept the trees out of the city proper. Within the walls, a charming, if confusing, knot of streets twisted outward and downward from the castle hill. Following the king’s example, the citizens had also arranged themselves vertically, starting at the top with impressive, stone mansions pressed right against the castle’s outer perimeter and moving down to the sprawling ring of flat-roofed timber houses leaning against Allaze’s edge, where the white stone outer wall ran in a nearly perfect circle around the city. Nearly perfect, but for one slight flaw.
In a fit of architectural rebellion, a small section of the city’s western edge deviated to form an unsightly bulge. It was as if the stones in that part of the wall had tried to make a break for the river, only to fail halfway and rejoin the circle a quarter mile later in sullen resignation. If this building irregularity had a purpose, it was long forgotten, and the western bulge was now a pile of ramshackle buildings on top of what had been a swamp, but was now home to some of the least reputable businesses in Mellinor.
Gin trotted to a stop in front of one such establishment, a ramshackle building with the words MERRYMONT TAVERN painted in fading, uneven block letters across the shuttered upper story.
