have to free him.”
“On what grounds?” Krigel said.
Miranda stared at him, disbelieving, but Krigel just laced his fingers together. “He’s made himself a traitor to the Council,” the old Assistant Rector said. “And he must answer for that. If we try to spare him his punishment, all we’ll do is widen the rift between the Court and Whitefall.”
“But we can’t just leave him there!” Miranda cried.
“We can and we must,” Krigel said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “He gave himself up as a traitor to save the Court. By turning himself in, he confines his crimes to one man rather than dooming our entire organization. In going with Sara willingly, he’s freed the Court to make peace with the Council and mend the schism.”
Miranda slumped against the pillows. She hadn’t thought of it that way. Honestly, the idea of Banage under Sara’s thumb without anyone to help him made her so angry she couldn’t see past it. But as Krigel spoke, she could hear Banage’s voice on the beach as he pressed the ring onto her finger, telling her to mend the Court. And, as much as she hated it, she knew what she had to do.
“We must call a Conclave,” she said. “We must bring all the Spiritualists together again and unite the Court. That’s what Banage told me to do.”
“Already done,” Krigel said, smiling at her surprised look. “I sent the messages while you were sleeping. The Conclave is set for the day after tomorrow.”
Miranda blinked. “So soon? Can we even gather the Court on such short notice?”
“Conclaves are always short notice, as I understand it,” Krigel said. “And Spiritualists move very quickly when they have to.”
Miranda bit her lip. It made her nervous to rush something so important. “But—”
“Calling the Conclave was the entire reason Banage gave you that ring,” Krigel said. “Only a Rector can call a Conclave, and if we’re to avoid charges of favoritism over his appointing you as interim Rector splitting the Court further, we must move as fast as possible. The Court exists to bring order to wizardry, and we can’t do that if we can’t bring order to ourselves.”
Miranda lay back, covering her tired eyes with her hands. “Very well, what do I have to do?”
“For the moment, nothing,” Krigel said. “Except try and stay out of trouble, if you’re even capable of such a feat.”
Miranda laughed at that, but then her face grew serious. “I wish I could stay here and not move for the next two days,” she said. “But the world is changing, Krigel. Greater forces than I knew existed before a few days ago are moving. Banage told me that the world needs the Court now more than ever, and I believe him. The Court must be united to do whatever must be done.”
“And we will be,” Krigel said, pushing himself up. “One way or another.” He reached to take her tray and paused. “You realize, of course, that many of the Tower Keepers were very unhappy with Banage at the end. When the Court comes together for the Conclave, the first thing the Tower Keepers will do is call for a vote for a new Rector.”
“That’s fine with me,” Miranda said. “I became a Spiritualist to help spirits, not play politics.”
“That may be for the best,” Krigel said solemnly as he gathered the tray. “The Rectorship is often the worst thing that can happen to a good Spiritualist. Just look at Banage.”
Miranda couldn’t argue there.
When Krigel had everything stacked, he turned toward the door. “There was a Spiritualist who wanted to see you earlier. I told her you were resting, but she was very insistent. Shall I show her in, or would you rather sleep?”
Miranda wrinkled her nose. “What did she want to talk about?”
“Something about the river,” Krigel said. “Should I tell her to wait?”
“No,” Miranda said, pushing herself up again. “Send her in.”
Krigel nodded and vanished into the hall. A few moments later, a woman Miranda had never seen poked her head in. “Rector? May I enter?”
“Of course,” Miranda said, fidgeting self-consciously. Answering to “Rector” would take some getting used to. Fortunately, the woman didn’t sit on ceremony. She let herself right in and shut the door behind her.
She was middle aged, plump in an active, good-living sort of way, but what really caught Miranda’s eye were the woman’s rings. She had several, an impressive collection for any Spiritualist, but where most of the Court had a variety of colored stones marking a wide array of servant spirits, this woman’s rings all seemed to be cut from the same watery blue stone.
“Sorry to bother you while you’re resting, Rector,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t have intruded, but Rellenor was very insistent.”
“Rellenor?” The name was familiar.
“The river running through Zarin,” the woman answered, staring at Miranda like she was stupid.
“Oh, the Whitefall,” Miranda said. She regretted it instantly.
“She has her own name, you know,” the Spiritualist said in a huff. “Honestly, Rector, it is a disgrace to hear a Spiritualist using the name imposed upon her by the Whitefall family’s hubris!”
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said. “I’m afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting Rellenor. How can I help you, Spiritualist…”
“Brennagan,” the woman said. “Jenna Brennagan. I’m the head of the Court’s Committee on Water Relations.”
Which explained the blue rings, Miranda thought.
“But I didn’t actually come here to talk to the Rector,” Jenna said. “I came here to talk to Miranda Lyonette.” She paused. “You are Spiritualist Lyonette?”
“I am,” Miranda said.
“Oh good,” Jenna said with a sigh. “Everyone kept calling you Rector, so I wasn’t sure. Anyway, I was paying my daily visit to Rellenor this morning and found her all in a tizzy. Some foreign water spirit had invaded her river, you see. A sea spirit, if you can imagine. He was being frightfully rude, getting salt everywhere, but Rellenor said he kept asking for you by name.”
Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. “A sea spirit?”
“Yes,” Jenna answered. “I told him I’d pass on the message, but only if he promised to… Where are you going?”
Miranda was already up. She ran past the woman, sock feet sliding on the polished stone.
“Thank you, Spiritualist Brennagan!” she cried as she ran down the stairs. “I’ll take it from here!”
“Right,” Jenna said, staring bewildered as the Rector Spiritualis ran down the stairs yelling for her boots. “Thank you for your prompt action.”
Miranda was already too far away to hear.
Ten minutes later, Miranda was dressed and in a carriage clattering toward the river. She sat impatiently on the bench seat, drumming her fingers on the window as the hired driver worked his way through the crowded street. It would have been faster to wake Gin, but with all she’d put her ghosthound through already, Miranda hadn’t had the heart. Now, she wished she had.
It was early morning and Zarin was in full swing. Everywhere Miranda looked, people were out doing their morning shopping at the market stalls as though the war had never happened. Of course, for these people, it hadn’t. The Immortal Empress had come, triumphed, and fallen without causing Zarin so much as a hiccup. Mostly the crowds seemed happy to have their streets to themselves again now that the soldiers were in Osera. Normally, this would have made Miranda smile. Today, they were in her way.
Three crowded blocks from the docks, Miranda gave up on the carriage. She paid the driver for the full trip and set off on foot, taking the back way down the cargo ramps to the water. After some finagling and more than a few dirty looks from the barge men, she climbed down a steep-graded stone ramp toward the black water of the Whitefall River. Rellenor, she reminded herself.
The river that cut through the center of Zarin was swift and deep. Centuries of city planning had squeezed the once broad waterway into a narrow, stone-walled channel riddled with docks and shadowed by bridges. Boats of all sizes crowded the intakes, but one boat slip was empty, and Miranda scrambled down it to the water’s edge. The white stone of the ramp was slick with green slime where it met the river, but Miranda fell to her knees in it without thinking, plunging her hands into the cold water up to the elbow.
