Chejo’s glare grew icy, but he lowered his head. “Aye, sir.”
Alric nodded. “Have you anything else to report?”
“Yes,” Chejo said. “There’s a woman here to see you.”
Alric’s eyebrows shot up. “A woman?”
Chejo smiled. “Pretty little Spiritualist with a ghosthound. She arrived a few seconds after I did. Asked for you by name. I left her arguing with the quartermaster, but I thought you would like to know.”
Alric leaned back and resumed rubbing his temples. It did little good. “I would, thank you, Chejo. I’d like you to return to Zarin and see if you can’t learn more about where the thief might have gone. Could you send the Spiritualist up before you leave?”
“Of course, sir,” Chejo said, turning on his heel. “Good luck, sir.”
Alric waved him off and stood up, carefully moving the remaining unopened reports to a side table. There was only one Spiritualist with a ghosthound he knew of, and if he was going to deal with her without losing his temper, he needed to remove all other sources of frustration. When his desk was bare, he sat down, folded his arms, and waited for the knock.
Miranda stood in the courtyard where the League man had left her, leaning on Gin and trying not to look as wobbly as she felt. Though she’d never admit it, she was vaguely disappointed. She’d always thought flying would be more freeing, or at least more fun. But after a night and a morning spent hurtling through the air, she’d never been happier to be on solid ground. From the way Gin had pressed himself into the stone the second they touched down, she knew he felt the same. Her stomach certainly did, though this particular stretch of ground wasn’t helping much on that account.
Against her better judgment, her eyes drifted up again. The League’s fortress was perched on a lonely jut of land in the far, far northwest corner of the continent, a desolate country well beyond the Council maps. The sea, iron gray and choppy beneath the cloud-heavy sky, surrounded them on three sides, and the land wasn’t any more hospitable with its wet stone and wild nettles.
The fortress itself looked as though it had been pushed up from the rock during some great argument among the lava flows and then forgotten completely. Its surface was black and pitted save for the sea-facing walls that had been worn smooth by the endless wind. The stern black battlements, the sharp, jutting towers, the harsh military efficiency of it all was dreadful to look on and even worse to stand under. Already, after less than five minutes of waiting for Alric, her stomach was a quivering mess of nerves far worse than the man deserved.
Miranda closed her eyes, missing Mellinor terribly. Diminished or not, he had still been a Great Spirit, and his presence, not to mention his advice, would have been very welcome now. As it was, all she could do was clutch Gin’s fur and try to keep her mind calm, for her other spirits if nothing else.
She could feel them shaking in their rings, even Eril, and the wind spirit was usually the cockiest of them all. Miranda couldn’t blame them. The longer she waited, the more she realized that it wasn’t the fortress or the anticipation of meeting Alric that made her uneasy. The League’s Fortress was just a building, and she’d dealt with the Deputy Commander before, but the growing dread that gnawed at her resolve was something greater. She could feel it rising in her throat even now, an icy bile of fear, completely irrational and so omnipresent it seemed to radiate from the black stone itself.
“It’s the vault,” Gin whispered.
Miranda jumped and looked down to see her ghosthound was crouched low on the ground, his pointed ears pressed flat against his skull. “It must be right below us,” he whispered again, softer this time.
“What?” Miranda whispered back.
“The vault of the demonseeds,” a strong voice answered.
Miranda whirled around to see the tall, dark League man who’d been there when the wind had dropped her into the courtyard. The one who’d told her to wait. He’d been gone awhile, but now he was back, standing only a few feet from her. His hand rested on the red sword at his hip as he looked her over, its hilt glowing as red as an ember between his fingers.
Miranda winced. She hadn’t heard him return, but from what she’d seen of the League, that was normal. The man’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t touch his eyes and he nodded to the ground at her feet. “The dog is right. The fear you’re feeling comes from the vault. This citadel is built on the great cavern where the League stores the seeds of the demons after we cut them from their hosts.”
Gin whimpered and pressed himself flatter against the paving stones, but Miranda stepped forward in alarm. “Why would you keep such things?”
“Demonseeds are indestructible,” the man said with a shrug. “All we can do is pile them up and lock them away. If that’s how it must be, then what safer place is there for them than beneath the Lord of Storms’ own fortress?”
Miranda frowned. She didn’t have an answer to that. Fortunately, the League man seemed to have lost interest. “The Deputy Commander will see you in his office,” he said, pointing at the gate behind him. “Second floor, first door on the right.”
“Thank you,” Miranda said, but before she’d gotten to the “you,” the man was gone. She stood a moment, staring at the shimmering white line as it faded from the air, and then, setting her shoulders, she marched across the black-paved courtyard. “Stay here,” she ordered.
For once, Gin didn’t argue. He just put his head down, his orange eyes following her as she vanished into the fortress.
It was just as cold inside the fortress as it was outside, but at least the black stone walls blocked the endless wind. Still, Miranda shivered as she climbed the stairs, blowing on Kirik’s spark to keep her hands warm. When she reached the top, she went to the door the League man had indicated and knocked purposefully.
Alric’s voice rang clear and immediate through the heavy, metal-bound wood. “Enter.”
She opened the door to see a spare but surprisingly normal office. A large, worn desk took up most of the room. Alric sat in a high-backed chair behind it, looking the same as he ever did. On the wall above his head, a sheathed sword rested on a mounted stand, its swooping, golden hilt shining like the day’s last sunbeam in the dim, cloud-shrouded light that filtered through the tall window. Outside, she could see the courtyard where Gin was still crouching and the sea beyond, an endless swath of ash-gray water and white peaks running to sky’s edge.
“Spiritualist Lyonette,” Alric said. “Or, forgive me, Rector Spiritualis. Please”—he held out his hand toward the carved wooden chair in front of his desk—“sit.”
Miranda sat, folding her hands in front of her so that her rings would catch the gray light. “Why am I not surprised you’ve already heard about that?”
“I try to stay informed,” Alric said with a tight smile. “And on that note, would you mind telling me how you arrived at our headquarters today? Chejo was vague on that point.”
When Miranda frowned, Alric held up his hands.
“I don’t ask just to be nosy. We guard many things here, so you can understand how an unexpected guest, no matter how welcome, would be a matter of some concern.”
That made sense, Miranda thought, and there was little point in trying to keep the West Wind’s involvement secret after his wind had blown her across half the continent. “One of Illir’s winds brought me,” she said. “Payment for a favor.”
“Must have been some favor,” Alric said thoughtfully. “Thank you for your honest answer, Rector, but I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a rather busy time.”
“I thought you might be busy,” Miranda said quickly. “That’s why I’m here.”
Alric gave her a strange look. “Really?”
Miranda nodded emphatically. “I think we can help.”
If Miranda had known the Deputy Commander better, she would have known how rare the look of pure confusion on his face was. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe you should explain from the beginning,” he said. “Just to be sure we understand one another.”
“I don’t see that there’s much that needs explaining,” Miranda said. “Surely the League is aware that stars are vanishing.” She paused, watching Alric’s face. His polite smile fell at once.
“Ah,” he said. “You’re here about the panics.”
“Why else would I be here?” Miranda asked, exasperated. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but the world is tearing itself apart out there. The spirits who lose their stars are convinced the world is ending, and frankly, I don’t
