and his ilk were glaring at him.
The Tower Keeper had a large contingent, too. A good third of the Spiritualists on that side of the room had come in with him, probably from one of those secret meetings he was always holding. The man was as bad as Hern. Blint had jumped at the chance to go over to the Council when Banage was declared a traitor, and though he’d dressed it up afterward, saying he’d just been doing his duty to the land of his birth, the bald truth was that Blint had grabbed for power the moment he saw weakness. From the naked hunger in his eyes, he was clearly ready to do so again, and given the current situation, Banage’s supporters weren’t in much position to oppose him.
Rubbing his aching chest, Krigel let his glare drift up to the place everyone else was studiously avoiding. High above him, the Rector’s chair stood empty. Miranda has been missing since yesterday afternoon. Considering how she’d been acting over the last two days, Krigel shouldn’t be surprised, but seeing as she was the one who’d called the Conclave in the first place, he’d assumed she’d at least show up for it. But here it was, thirty minutes past noon, and there was no sign of her.
Krigel gritted his teeth. If it were anyone else he’d have wagered she’d skipped town, but not Miranda. The girl was too stubborn to run from her own execution. She was probably off doing something she considered frighteningly important. More important than being Rector. Hopefully whatever it was would give her some comfort when she lost her position and Krigel was torn to pieces as Blint rushed the Rector’s seat. Assuming, of course, his heart didn’t give out first.
Krigel was sinking deeper down that bleak line of thought when a cracking sound shocked him out of his gloom. At the other end of the enormous room, the double doors flew open. A hundred long benches scraped as all the Spirit Court leaned forward, looking to see if this was Banage’s protege at last. But their gasp of anticipation faded to a hiss as, alas, not the Rector but her ghosthound strode into the room.
Gin trotted across the empty assembly floor, his claws clicking on the polished stone. He’d barely gone three steps before the room exploded. Spiritualists shouted over each other, demanding to know where his mistress was. The ghosthound ignored them completely. He simply made his way to the spot directly below the Rector’s chair and sat down, wrapping his tail around his feet as he glared at the assembled Spirit Court, most of whom were now very close to rioting.
“Order!’ Krigel shouted, jumping to his feet as he banged his hand on the heavy banister.
The wizards ignored him. A few were already up and making their way to the doors. Blint was on his feet as well, but he was headed for the Rector’s chair, his face set in a predatory smile of long-held ambition nearing its fulfillment. Krigel cursed under his breath and leaned over the railing.
“Where is the Rector?” he hissed at the ghosthound, who was sitting directly below him. “Everything is falling apart!”
“She’s coming,” Gin said, his quiet voice picking up the hint of a growl as his orange eyes locked on Blint. “Just a bit longer.”
“We don’t have a bit longer,” Krigel snapped. “We haven’t had a bit longer for the past half hour. You tell her to get here now, or I’ll—”
A brilliant flash of light cut him off. Blinded, Krigel fell backward, his mouth working dumbly in his shock. He wasn’t alone. The light cut through the chaos in the room like a falling ax, leaving the chamber silent except for Gin’s growl. When Krigel’s blindness faded at last, he looked up to see the Spirit Court gaping at him in shocked silence.
No, he realized belatedly, not at him. Their eyes were locked on the seat above him, the Rector’s raised pulpit. Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Krigel braced his hands on the banister and turned, his eyes going wide.
A white line hung in the air in front of the Rector’s throne-like seat. It was no thicker than a thread, but it flashed as bright as a sunbeam off a mirror. He saw it for only a moment, and the world split open as Miranda stepped into view.
She stepped through the hole in the world as though she did it every day. Her face was set in an utterly implacable frown, and her clothes were wrinkled and travel worn, but that mattered little. What did matter was the enormous golden chain that lay across the neck and shoulders of her tattered coat.
Krigel’s breath caught. She was wearing the mantle of the Tower, the sacred mark of the office of Rector that he’d laid out for her this morning, back when he’d still thought they’d have time to discuss the Conclave before it began. He had no idea when she’d had the time to go up to her office and put it on, but she had it now, and she wore the golden weight as though she’d been born to it.
When Miranda had both feet on the wooden floor of the Rector’s stand, the white line she’d entered through flickered and vanished. But as it died, another flashed, this time to her right, and Krigel felt his poor chest constrict as a middle-aged man with neatly cropped dark hair, a golden sword, and a long black coat stepped out of nothing to stand at Miranda’s right. By this point, the stunned silence was as thick as cotton. Krigel himself had never seen the man before, but there wasn’t a soul in the room who didn’t recognize the long black coat with its high collar trimmed in silver, or what it meant.
Krigel raised a shaky arm to wipe away the sweat beading on his face. The Rector Spiritualis and the League of Storms, standing together. Powers, what had the fool girl gotten herself into?
The scrape of the Rector’s chair was offensively loud as Miranda pushed it aside to stand before the podium. The League man hung back, his cold eyes moving over the assembled Spiritualists, judging each of them in turn. Outside, despite the clear sky, a roll of thunder crashed in the distance.
Krigel closed his eyes as the rumble shook the Tower. Forget the girl, what had she gotten the Court into? His only answer was another peal of thunder as the sunlight faded from the Court’s high windows.
Miranda faced the gathered Spirit Court with iron determination. The Court stared back at her, a sea of faces packing the ring of benches. She’d never seen so many people in the Court’s chamber, and for several moments the sheer weight of their stares threatened to send her curling into a ball. But she steadied herself against the Rector’s wide podium, keeping her back straight as a beam. Now was not the time for weakness. Now was the time to perform the task Master Banage had entrusted her to do. On her left hand, the Rector’s ring gripped her finger like a vise, trembling with the thunder that shook the Tower. The Lord of Storms would be here soon. She had to move quickly.
“Spiritualists of the Court,” she said, and then stopped. Even with the crowd, her voice boomed through the chamber. It rang in her ears and echoed in her stomach, not just loud but clear, like a brass bell. The chamber’s high walls and polished stone took her voice and made it a proclamation. The mantle on her shoulders rang with the words as well, and Miranda realized that the Tower itself was helping her. Immense gratitude flooded her mind, and Miranda began to speak in earnest.
“I am sorry for the delay,” she said, her voice ringing in the air. “Thank you all for responding so quickly to the call for Conclave. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Miranda Lyonette, former apprentice to Rector Banage, who was arrested three days ago for supposed treason against the Council of Thrones. Knowing he could not perform his duty from the Council dungeon, Master Banage conferred upon me the role of emergency interim Rector Spiritualis for the sole purpose of calling the Court to Conclave.”
The crowd shuffled and began to whisper. On her left, Blint leaned over the railing and opened his mouth to speak. Miranda didn’t give him the chance.
“Master Banage’s arrest by the Council violated the neutrality of our order,” she said hotly. “Whitefall’s attack on our Rector was an attack on all of us, but this was not the reason Rector Banage ordered the Conclave convened.”
She turned slowly, fixing her eyes on Blint. “The war with the Immortal Empress lasted only one night, but in the run-up to that night, great damage was done to our Court. Our strength was splintered, our ideals muddied. Rector Banage ordered me to call the Conclave because he hoped to heal this division so that the Court could once again stand united against the trials to come. In hindsight, this was immeasurably wise. For in the last two days a disaster of unprecedented scope has fallen upon the world. A crisis even Etmon Banage did not foresee.”
“But you did?” Blint’s voice shot through the room like an arrow. All eyes turned to the Tower Keeper as he leaped to his feet, glaring at Miranda like she was a stain on his robes.
“You fancy yourself a wise leader, girl?” he cried, his face blotchy with rage as he spat the words at her. “You dare stand at the Rector’s podium and lecture us on Etmon Banage’s goodness? Have you forgotten that it was Banage’s ego that broke the Court in the first place? And now you say a crisis is upon us. Let me guess, is it a
