Sted’s uncomfortable, glowing gaze, Eli rolled back toward the wall. He wiggled a bit, trying to find the most comfortable angle, but it was hopeless. Finally, he gave up and flopped on his back, staring up at the low stone ceiling.
It was going to be a very long three days.
Gin crashed through the forest, panting as he jumped over fallen logs and scrambled up slopes slick with fallen leaves. Miranda hunched low on his back, doing her best to avoid looking at the lightening sky or thinking about the fact that they’d already passed that rock formation twice before. But even as she tried to keep hope alive, the ghosthound padded to a stop at the edge of a creek.
“It’s no good,” he panted. “They’re gone. Sted was too fast. I don’t even know if we’re in the right part of the mountains anymore.”
“Just a little farther,” Miranda said, clenching her hands in his fur. “We just need a hint of his scent.”
“He’s gone.” Gin snapped the words, then shook his head and lowered his tongue to the swift water, drinking deeply. “I lost him hours ago,” he said when he was finished. “We need a different plan.”
“Like what?” Miranda said, gritting her teeth. “Go back to the bandits? Wait?”
“We’re not going to find him by wandering around,” Gin snarled.
His tone stopped her cold, and Miranda leaned back. He’d been running all night; of course he was tired. They were both tired, but the idea of going back to that camp empty-handed, of letting Eli slip through her hands again…
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Gin’s neck. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lose again, not like this. But what else was there to do? Saying he couldn’t find Eli wasn’t something Gin would admit unless he was truly out of options. The forest was huge, and they didn’t even know if Sted had continued north or changed direction entirely. No, finding him in the woods would require more luck than she had. She needed to reconsider her options.
Miranda took a deep breath and forced herself to think clearly. There were only two reasons Sted would have taken Eli: the bounty or as a bargaining chip against Izo. That meant he would eventually be headed either toward Zarin or back to Izo’s camp. She discarded the bounty idea immediately. If Sted was going to Zarin, then he was already so far ahead of her there was little point in giving chase, and Eli would end up in custody whether she caught him or not. Also, whatever Sted was, he certainly didn’t seem like the type to walk into Lord Whitefall’s office and ask for a voucher. And there was that display last night. No, Sted was after Izo. She was sure of it, and that meant he’d be heading back to the camp.
Miranda grimaced. As much as the idea of going back to Sparrow empty-handed grated, she had to admit it was the best choice. Also, Josef and Nico were still at the camp. If Eli escaped from Sted, that’s where he’d go, and if Sted wanted something from Izo, that’s where he’d take the thief.
“All right, mutt,” she muttered into Gin’s fur. “Take us back to Izo’s.”
But the ghosthound didn’t answer. He was standing still as a statue below her, staring down the stream bank.
Miranda looked around. “What?”
“We’re being watched,” Gin growled low in his throat, ears going flat against his head.
Miranda pressed herself against his back, mentally nudging her rings awake. She winced when she was forced to skip over Kirik’s smoldering ember, but she couldn’t think about that now. “Is it Sted?” she whispered, slightly hopeful.
“No.” Gin was growling full tilt now. “It’s a wizard.”
Miranda was about to ask how he could be so sure when a man appeared on the bank a dozen feet downstream. Miranda didn’t see where he had come from—he seemed to just appear from the woods—but once she saw him, she could look at nothing else. There, walking toward her, was a large man with a bear’s head. She thought it was a mask until she saw the eyes staring at her, intelligent and dark above the sharp-toothed muzzle. Miranda swallowed and began to call her spirits. But even as she reached for the threads of power that tied her to her rings, the bear-headed man stopped and put up his hands.
“I mean no harm, Spiritualist.” The voice that came from the bear’s mouth was deep and gruff, but undeniably human. “You seem to be lost and in need of some assistance.”
“We need no assistance,” Miranda said carefully.
“No?” The bear face looked skeptical. “Do you always keep your fire spirit on the brink of flickering out, then?”
Miranda paled, and the bear-headed man smiled. “I thought not,” he said. “Miranda Lyonette would never put her spirits in such danger unless things were very grave.”
“How do you know my name?”
The bear-headed man laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “There aren’t many Spiritualists who ride ghosthounds and carry great seas inside their bodies. For those of us who study spirits, you’re quite the oddity. I would know, being somewhat of an oddity myself.” He touched his muzzle with his hand. “Come,” he said, turning. “Let’s get your fire stoked before it flickers out. I can hardly bear to look at it.”
Gin did not budge an inch, and Miranda made no move to force him. “Who are you?”
The bear-headed man kept walking down the bank. “I’m Heinricht Slorn. Now come.”
For a long moment, Gin and Miranda could only stare at his retreating back. Then Miranda looked down at Kirik’s dark ruby, and they followed.
The bear-headed man led them up the creek bank to a row of tall bushes, the deep green, waxy-leafed kind that thrive on steep mountain slopes. He pushed the branches gently aside and turned to motion Miranda forward like a well-mannered host inviting guests into his estate. Miranda dismounted stiffly and ducked under the branches. Gin eyed the tiny space with scorn and lay down on the bank. Slorn waited a moment more, and then he turned and followed Miranda into the canopy, letting the branches fall quietly behind him.
Miranda had not gone more than a few steps into the bushes before she stopped, staring in amazement. Parked at the heart of the little grove was a large wagon. No, that wasn’t right. Wagons had wheels. This was shaped like a wooden traveler’s wagon, complete with a rounded wooden roof, shuttered windows, a chimney pipe, and a set of folding steps going up to a painted door. But down at the bottom, in the spots where the wheels should have been, were six long, splayed legs. Each leg stuck out from the wagon’s body at a right angle and cornered sharply at a knobby joint before reaching the ground on a wide, flat foot with five splayed toes, like a lizard’s. Each leg appeared to be newly carved from green wood, bright yellow-white and smelling of sawdust, and they sprang from the cart as though they had grown there. There were no joints, no nails, just the fresh wood of the legs lying flush against the older, stained wood of the wagon’s body, molded together as though they’d always been that way. She was still trying to make sense of it when she saw something even stranger. The legs shuffled, adjusting their weight, each one flexing and adjusting its splayed foot so that the cart sat slightly closer to the ground as Slorn came up and flipped down the little stair.
“There,” he said, smiling as the red-painted door opened for him of its own accord. “Come in and we’ll have a look at your ring.”
“How did you do that?” Miranda said, and then bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like a child gawking at a street magician’s trick, but Slorn didn’t bat an eye.
“I’m a Shaper,” he said as he stepped inside, as though that explained everything.
Well, Miranda thought, in a way it did. Even Master Banage wasn’t exactly sure how the Shapers did what they did. One thing was certain, though, the bear-headed man wasn’t abusing his spirits. She could practically hear the wood beaming as she gawked at it, the legs shifting to show the cart at its best. That pride made her feel more comfortable than any assurance Slorn could have given, and she hurried up the folding stair after him.
The covered wagon was much more spacious than she would have guessed from the outside. One wall was lined with hinged bins, all neatly latched and labeled. The other was taken up by a folding cot, now stowed away, and a little table that bolted to the floor. Slorn was already sitting on one of the folding seats, his large hands fussing with the small iron stove just large enough to heat a kettle that was built into the wall just above the table.
Slorn unlatched the cold grate and placed a few sticks of wood into the stove’s tiny iron belly. “There,” he said, leaning back. “Put your ring in.”
“Are you sure?” Miranda said, unfolding the chair opposite him and sitting down. “Kirik’s a bonfire spirit. I don’t want to risk your wagon.”
