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

the empty space where he knew the wind was waiting. “Report.”

“My lord,” the wind whispered, “two things. First, Hern has arrived.”

“Has he?” The duke set his ledger aside. “That’s unexpected.”

“He went straight to his tower as soon as he was through the gate.” The wind made a chuckling sound. “He doesn’t seem very happy about being back.”

“Interesting,” the duke said. “What’s the second?”

The wind’s whistle grew nervous. “I caught a blip of something over by the docks this evening.”

The duke scowled. “A blip? Explain.”

“Well,” the wind said, “it’s hard to describe to a blind man-”

The duke’s glare hardened, and a small surge of power rang through the garden. All at once, the wind found the words.

“It was like a flash,” it said. “And then it was gone. I passed over twice but never saw it again. Could have been a hedge wizard, some spirit-sensitive riverboater who never developed his skills past listening for floods.”

“But you don’t think so,” the duke said.

The wind jerked at this, surprised, and Duke Edward smiled. He’d always been good at picking up what wasn’t said. It was a useful skill for people and spirits alike.

“I don’t know what it was,” the wind said, finally. “But nothing ordinary shines that brightly.”

“I see,” the duke said. “I trust discipline is being maintained.”

“Of course,” the wind huffed. “Your spirits speak to no one.”

“Good,” Edward said. “Keep an eye on this blip. Tell everyone that I want tight patrols tonight. The bait has been spread far and wide. Our little mouse may be in the trap already.”

“Yes, my lord.” The wind spun in the closest equivalent a wind can give to a bow. “Anything else?”

The duke thought for a moment. “Yes, on your next round, send Hern over. I’m curious what he’s doing back in Gaol so soon after my investment in his success in Zarin.”

“Of course, my lord,” the wind chuckled. It had never liked Hern much, and it delighted in the chance to make the Spiritualist come when called like he was one of his own fawning ring spirits.

“Thank you, Othril,” the duke said. “You may go.”

The wind circled one more time before blowing away. When he was gone, the duke opened his ledgers again and returned to marking numbers.

Nearly an hour later, one of the duke’s house servants came into the garden to announce Hern’s arrival. Duke Edward had long since finished his accounting and was now using the time to work with his vines. He ordered them one way, then another, sending them twisting up the stone walls of his garden and along the narrow breezeway door that looked out over the dark western hills. He heard Hern enter but didn’t turn his attention from his vines until they had worked themselves into the desired double spiral.

When he finally turned to greet his guest, he found the Spiritualist standing in the doorway and looking quite put out.

“So,” Hern said slowly, “you wanted something?”

“Straight to the point, this time,” Edward said, sitting back down in his chair. “You must be in a foul mood.”

“Being ordered from my bed by a wind after a long journey has that effect.”

“I’ll make this quick then,” Edward said, his voice clipped and clinical. “I gave you money to dominate the Spirit Court in Zarin. Why, then, are you back in Gaol?”

Hern gave him a cutting look. “Politics isn’t like your garden, Edward. I can’t force things into the shape I want.” The Spiritualist began to pace. “Banage has been working his connections in Zarin tirelessly. You’d think escaping a trial for treason was a heroic effort! The ink on her banishment edict is barely dry, but all I hear is poor Miranda, the noble, oppressed Spiritualist who threw away honor and safety to uphold her promise to her spirits. The whole Court is eating it up, even the Keepers who voted against her, and it’s making things very difficult.” Hern stopped there a moment, reaffirming his composure. Edward, for his part, simply watched and took note.

“As it stands,” Hern continued in a tight, calm voice, “Zarin is no longer the optimal place for me to pursue my objectives, so I’ve returned to regroup. I’ve got some sympathetic and influential Tower Keepers coming in tomorrow to discuss our next move. It is vital we counter Banage’s spin on the facts before he sways the whole Court back under his cult of personality.”

“Mmm.” The duke nodded, turning back to his vines. “See that you do. I would hate to think that my investment in you was a bad one, Hern.”

The Spiritualist stiffened, but said nothing. Edward smiled. It pleased him to know that Hern understood the difference between them here. Hern might have influence in Zarin, but this was Gaol. Here, there was no power, no authority that the duke did not control.

“It is late,” Hern said at last. “Please excuse me.”

Edward waved, listening as Hern turned and left. When the man was gone, Edward picked up his ledgers and his lamp and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he stopped and turned to his garden. He looked at it for a moment, the well-balanced colors, the sweet fragrance of the flowers, all in perfect order. Satisfied, he said, “Good night.”

As soon as the words left his lips, every flower in the garden snapped itself shut. With that, Duke Edward of Gaol took his lantern and went down the empty halls to his bed.

CHAPTER 10

Far, far west of Gaol, far west of everything on the barren coast of Tamil, the westernmost Council Kingdom, Gin ran through the sparse grass with a bony rabbit hanging from his teeth, his swirling coat making him almost invisible in the clouds of cold, salty sea spray. The land here met the water in great cliffs, as though the continent had turned its back on the endless, steely water, and the ocean, in retaliation, bit at the rock with knife-blade waves, eating it away over the endless years into a large and varied assortment of crags and caves, yawning from the cliffs like gaping mouths below the dull gray sky.

Gin followed the cliff line until he reached a place where the coast seemed to fold in on itself. Here, moving his paws very carefully on the wet, smooth stone, he climbed down into a hollow between two pillars of rock. It was narrow, and he had to scramble a few times to keep from getting stuck. Then, about ten feet down, the rock suddenly opened up, dropping him into a large cave.

It was dim, but not dark. Gray light filtered down through the cracks overhead and through the wide mouth of the cave that looked out over the ocean. Little ripples of shells and sea grass on the sand marked the high-tide line, filling the cavern with the smell of salt and rotting seaweed. Gin landed neatly on the hard sand and turned away from the roaring sea, trotting up toward the back of the cave where a small, sad fire sputtered on a pile of damp driftwood. Beside it, hunched over in a little ragged ball, was his mistress.

He dropped the rabbit in the sand beside the fire and sat down.

“Food,” he said. “For when you’re done moping.”

Miranda glared at him between her folded arms. “I’m not moping.”

“Could have fooled me,” Gin snorted.

She reached for the rabbit, but just before her fingers touched the torn fur, Gin scooted it away with his paw.

“Are you ready to talk about where we’re going next?”

Miranda sighed. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Gin’s orange eyes narrowed. “So we’re just going to live out our lives in a sea cave?”

“Until I can think of somewhere better,” Miranda snapped. “We’re fugitives, remember?”

“So what?” Gin said. “If anyone is actually looking for us, it’s probably Banage trying to set this mess straight.”

“This isn’t Banage’s problem,” Miranda said, meeting Gin’s eyes for the first time. “I was the one who decided to do things the hard way, and I failed.” She buried her head in her arms again. “If I can’t be a good