Spirit's Oath: An Eli Monpress Novella
Date: 2012-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Short Stories; Novella; Magic; High Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Science Fiction Fantasy; Fiction; Urban Fantasy; Speculative Fiction
Description: Four years before the events of The Spirit Thief, Miranda Lyonette was a young apprentice Spiritualist on the cusp of a promising career. But on the eve of her return from bonding a wind spirit, a night that should have been a celebration, she finds instead that her father has come to take her home. Now, Miranda must choose between her duty to her family and her future at the Spirit Court. But while she's trying to make her parents see reason and avoid an arranged marriage to a man she can't stand, she stumbled across the one one spirit who needs her more than any other, a caged ghosthound who
Publisher: Orbit

Spirit’s Oath

An Eli Monpress Novella

Rachel Aaron

www.orbitbooks.net
www.orbitshortfiction.com

Begin Reading

Meet the Author

Bonus Material

About Orbit Short Fiction

Spirit’s Oath

A sound of wonder went up from the crowd gathered in the small exhibition room at the base of the Spirit Court’s Tower as a gale blew past the hanging lamps, whipping their delicate white flames into miniature bonfires. The wind barreled across the stone floor, making the Spiritualists’ red robes flap like flags before turning on a pin and roaring back to the girl standing on the little platform at the room’s far end. It blew past her, blowing her curly red hair in all directions before spiraling down to the silver-chased pearl pendant she held in her outstretched palm. The moment it hit the pearl’s smooth surface, the wind vanished and the room fell still for  the space of a breath before the Spiritualists burst into loud applause.

“Congratulations, Spiritualist Lyonette!” Spiritualist Krigel said, pushing ahead of the crowd so he could be the first to shake the girl’s hand. “A wind spirit is an achievement few Spiritualists will ever boast, but to take one as your third spirit, and while still an apprentice…” His voice trailed off as his wrinkled face pulled up in a wide smile. “A good omen,” he finished, squeezing her hand so hard her fingers ached. “Very good indeed. Banage chose well.”

Torn between blushing until her face caught fire or grinning until it cracked, Miranda Lyonette settled for a little of both as she returned the Assistant Rector’s handshake. “Thank you, Spiritualist Krigel,” she said. “It was hard work, but Eril was worth it.” She raised her free hand so they could both see the pendant she clutched there. “I just hope I can handle him.”

“Winds are finicky things,” said Reymond, one of the old Tower Keepers who’d been called in as a witness for her official demonstration. “Keep him close, Spiritualist.”

Like most Spiritualists, Reymond had never so much as spoken to a wind, but Miranda thanked him graciously for the advice. Right now she was so happy she would have let open insults go without a blink. That is, if she managed to hear them at all through the overwhelming joy. She’d done it. Three weeks of crouching beside a sedge-grass fire on the open plains, waiting to catch a wind in her smoke long enough to talk to it, and finally everything had come together. She could feel Eril’s breezy touch against her spirit, a light, racing presence even as he curled up in his pendant to sleep. He was worth every second she’d spent out there and more, and not just because wind spirits were useful. In the whole Court there were less than five Spiritualists who could claim a wind as their servant. Even her mentor, Master Banage, the Rector Spiritualis and greatest wizard alive, hadn’t bound his until he was twenty-five and working as a Journeyman Spiritualist. But here she was, barely twenty and still in her apprenticeship, with a wind of her own. If Eril had blown through her at that moment, she would have floated away on a cloud of beaming pride.

She might have already, actually, because Krigel had grabbed her shoulder to get her attention. “Did you hear a thing I just said?”

Miranda blinked and blushed. “No, Spiritualist,” she said, leaning back on her heels to ground herself.

Krigel shook his head. “I know you’re feeling ready to take on the world right now, but I need you to focus for a moment. The Rector wants to see you.”

That wasn’t surprising. He was her master, and she had been gone for nearly a month. But there was an edge in Krigel’s voice that made her think this wasn’t the usual sort of check-in she did whenever she came home.

“I’ll go right now,” she said, bowing. “Thank you, Spiritualist Krigel.”

It took a little pushing to get out of the room. Everyone kept trying to congratulate her, but the same compliments that had sent her over the moon a minute ago were now slowing her down. She excused herself as politely as possible, ducking past the reaching hands as she made her way toward the door. When she finally made it to the hallway, Miranda hiked up the plain red apprentice robes she’d thrown over her traveling clothes for the exhibition and ran for the large spiral staircase that spanned the full height of the Court’s enormous white Tower.

The Tower was the tallest building in Zarin and the heart of the Spirit Court. There were smaller towers in nearly every kingdom of the Council of Thrones, each watched over by a Tower Keeper who made sure the local spirits were being treated with the respect and fairness they deserved, but the Zarin Tower was the home of the Rector and the heart of the Court. For the last five years, it had been Miranda’s home as well, first when she was a novice, and then, after she’d taken her oaths, as an apprentice Spiritualist. Even so, she’d never felt she belonged here as strongly as she did now, bounding up the stairs to answer the call of her Rector with her three spirits sleeping safely in their gems, their souls like warm bodies pressed up against her own.

The Rector’s office was at the very top of the Tower, and Miranda paused at the end of the stairs just long enough to catch her breath before she knocked on the Rector’s heavy wooden door.

“Come.”

Banage’s familiar deep voice was comforting, though he sounded a little annoyed. That wasn’t anything unusual, though, and Miranda didn’t think much of it until she opened the door.

Master Banage was sitting behind his desk as always, leaning back in the throne-like Rector’s chair with an annoyed frown on his face. In front of him was a large man in his early fifties who Miranda had never, ever expected to see in this room. His hair was as red as her own, though his was tempered with silver streaks, and his expensive suit was of the latest fashion, cut to make his chest and shoulders look broader than they actually were. He wasn’t a Spiritualist, which might explain why he thought he could stand there sneering at Etmon Banage like the Rector Spiritualis was some bumbling Council clerk, but then, Simon Lyonette could sneer at anyone.

He looked over his shoulder when the door stopped creaking, and Miranda shrank back on instinct as the furious sneer hit her. “Well,” he snapped. “It’s about time.”

Miranda almost apologized before she remembered who and where she was. She was the apprentice of the Rector Spiritualis, called here by her master. She didn’t have to bow to any man, not even this one. She closed the door behind her and marched across the room, keeping her eyes on Master Banage as she came to stand beside the man in front of the Rector’s desk. Only then did she turn and drop her head in the barest shadow of a nod.

“Hello, Father.”

“Don’t you ‘Hello, Father’ me!” Simon spat, looking her up and down with open disapproval. “Where are your manners, girl? We taught you better than that. Just whom do you think you are speaking to?”

Miranda had a pretty good answer to that, but fortunately Master Banage cut her off before she could make things worse.

“Thank you for your concern, Lord Lyonette,” he said. “But Miranda is a pledged Spiritualist now, and as such she is not required to bow to a lord of Zarin, or to any other nobility, in this Tower.”

“You can’t tell her she shouldn’t honor her father, Banage!” Simon said. When Master Banage arched a dark eyebrow at that, Simon dismissed him with a turn of his head. “Never mind. I’m not here to play your games. Now that Miranda is back, we’ll be going.”

“We?” Miranda cried, outraged. “You can go whenever you like, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Miranda.” Banage’s voice was low, but the warning was clear, and Miranda snapped her mouth shut. Banage watched her a moment longer, and then leaned forward. “Lord Lyonette wrote me last week,” he said calmly. “He’s here to take you home. It seems your family no longer wishes for you to be in the Court’s care.”

“He said you were coming back today from a camping trip where you’d been trying to catch winds or some rotted nonsense,” Simon said, flinging out his hand like he was tossing the idea away. “I’ve been waiting here an hour for you to get in, and my patience is running very thin.” He grabbed Miranda’s arm. “Come along now before it runs out completely.”

“I will do no such thing!” Miranda said, snatching her arm back. “I’m twenty years old and a sworn Spiritualist. What makes you think you can just come in here and order me around?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady!” Simon shouted. “I don’t care how old you are; you are an unmarried woman of noble blood, and that means I, as your father, am responsible for you. It’s bad enough these wizards have let you run wild all over the countryside without so much as a chaperone to ensure you weren’t making a scandal of yourself and your family, but if you dare back talk me about my rights, I will make you regret it, child, just see if I don’t.”

“You’re worried about me making a scandal?” Miranda cried. “I haven’t even seen you since you gave me to the Court seven years ago, and you want me to believe you suddenly care about my life? Please. You didn’t even visit on my birthdays, which is pretty sorry considering you live a mile away.” Miranda crossed her arms and set her feet in a wide, stubborn stance. “Why are you really here, Father?”

Simon’s face went redder than Miranda’s robes. “This is not a matter to be discussed in front of outsiders,” he growled, glancing at Banage, who was starting to look a little deadly himself.

“You’re the only outsider here,” Miranda said. “And I’m not going with you.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Simon said, turning to Banage. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

Miranda didn’t like the smug tone of his voice one bit, and she turned to her Rector. “Master Banage?”

Banage heaved a long sigh. “Your father is within his rights,” he said. “It’s against our doctrine to go against local laws. Though the Spirit Court is a neutral body, you are still a noble lady of Zarin, and he is still your father. Until you marry, the law is unfortunately on his side. However.” Banage’s hand came up, cutting off Miranda’s outburst before it could start. When he was sure she would stay quiet, he turned and focused the whole of his cold disdain on Lord Simon Lyonette. “This is still my Court. While I have no authority to keep Lady Miranda from you, you cannot order the schedule of my Spiritualists. So far I’ve heard no emergency dire enough to send away Spiritualist Lyonette when she has just returned home from a long trip.” He leaned back and picked up his pen, looking down at his papers as he made a series of short notes not so much because they needed noting, but because the action told Lord Simon this conversation was over. “Your daughter will be delivered to you safe and sound tomorrow morning,” Banage said without looking up. “I believe you know your way out.”

Simon just stood there, his jaw hanging open in outrage while his face grew redder and redder until Miranda was sure he was going to pop. But then he turned on his heel and marched out of the Rector’s office. “We will have words about this in the morning, Miranda,” he said when he reached the door. “See you’re not late.”

And then he was gone, stomping off down the stairs. Banage kept writing until the lord’s banging footsteps vanished, and then he threw down his pen.

“Master Banage,” Miranda said, whirling back around. “How could you—?”

“I didn’t want to,” Master Banage said, rubbing his temples. “But the truth is as you heard. He has the law on his side, Miranda. If I hold you here, he’ll get the Whitefalls on my head. That’s a level of trouble we can’t afford right now, especially since Alber will just order me to release you to your father anyway.”

“This is absurd!” Miranda cried. “I’m an adult, a Spiritualist; he can’t just order me around like I’m five!”

“He can and he has,” Master Banage said. “But think a moment, Miranda. Your family was more than eager to give you to the Court the moment you met our age requirement. You said yourself that your father hasn’t sent you so much as a note in the seven years you’ve been with us. Why is he suddenly demanding your return?”

“I don’t know!” Miranda shouted, stalking back and forth across the Rector’s wide office. “Maybe he suddenly remembered I wasn’t hiding somewhere spending every moment thinking how I could please him.” She huffed out a furious breath. “Overbearing idiot.”

Master Banage shook his head. “I don’t think it’s that simple. I think there’s something he wants, something he needs you to get.”

Miranda stopped midstep. “What?”

“I don’t know yet,” Master Banage confessed. But when Miranda threw up her arms in frustration, he held out his hands. “I don’t know what he wants, but I am certain of one thing. For all Lord Lyonette’s bluster, you will never be the sort of docile, tractable daughter a noble like him needs. They gave you to us for a reason, Miranda, and it wasn’t because you were a talented wizard.”

Miranda blinked, cheeks coloring. “Are you saying I was a problem child?”

“I’m saying you are a stubborn, outspoken young lady,” Banage said, his overly serious face breaking into one of his rare smiles. “A talented wizard and exactly the sort of headstrong girl who will never, ever fit into any of the limited roles your father could think of for you. Now, do you want to hear my plan for how you’re getting out from under his thumb or not?”

Miranda motioned for him to go ahead.

Banage stood up and walked around to sit on his desk, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We have no choice but to give you up. So, you’ll go with him as he wants, and then, you just be yourself. I give it three days before Lord Lyonette begs us to take you back and you won’t have to worry about him for another seven years.”

“Or I could just run away and save everyone the trouble,” Miranda countered. “I bet if I went spirit hunting for a few months, the old windbag would forget all about me.”

“No.” The word came so fast and loud it made her wince. Master Banage’s smile was gone, and he was staring at her with an expression so old, hurt, and angry she didn’t know what to make of it.

“Never run away from your parents,” he said, his voice soft now, but the lowered volume didn’t lower the intensity of the words. “Ever. No matter how angry you may be with them. No father, no matter how terrible, deserves the pain of not knowing if his child is alive and safe.”

“I’m sorry,” Miranda said, but Banage shook his head.

“Forget it,” he said with a wave of his jeweled hand. “Just go home, be yourself, and everything will work out. He can try and change you all he wants, but you belong with us.”

Miranda’s head dropped. “You say that,” she muttered. “But what if you’re wrong? What if he keeps me at home forever? All my work and training will have been for nothing. I’ll have to stop being a Spiritualist.”

Banage’s laugh was so sudden, Miranda jumped. She looked up in alarm to see the Rector laughing longer and louder than she’d ever seen him do before. Finally, he stopped long enough to give her a wide grin. “Miranda,” he said, still chuckling, “I cannot think of anything that could keep you from being a Spiritualist. I don’t think I could keep you from being a Spiritualist. Trust me, you’ll find your way back.”

Miranda frowned, not sure if she should feel complimented or insulted, but Banage was already up and walking to the door. “Come,” he said. “We’re running late.”

“Late for what?” Miranda said.

Banage reached the door and glanced over his shoulder. “Did you forget so quickly? My apprentice has just bound a wind spirit, so I’m getting Krigel, and then we’re taking you out to celebrate. You’re not going to let your father ruin that, are you?”

Miranda’s face broke into a huge smile. “No, sir,” she said, jogging through the door he held open for her.

* * *

The cab dropped Miranda off in front of the Lyonette city home early the next morning. She climbed out of the hired carriage with some trepidation, clutching the battered leather bag that held everything she owned, which wasn’t much. Spiritualists traveled a great deal, and Miranda had never found much she was willing to lug around with her. Even so, she felt pitifully under-packed standing on the steps of the enormous, opulent mansion.

Her parents had moved since she’d gone to Court. This was her first time seeing their new house, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. The home she’d grown up in had been down by the river, a lovely old townhouse that had sheltered the Lyonette family for generations. It had been large and gracious, huge to a child, but it was nothing compared to the four-story monstrosity she stood before now.

Miranda hesitated on the street as long as she could, but when the carriage drove off, she forced herself to climb the white marble stairs to the covered portico at the top. Feeling more than a little awkward, she reached out and knocked on the shiny red door. A young woman Miranda didn’t recognize opened it at once. Her plain, dark dress and apron said she was a maid, but the look she gave Miranda’s travel jacket and trousers was as cutting as any noble lady’s.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Spiritualist Miranda Lyonette,” Miranda said, straightening up. “I—”

The maid’s eyes widened the moment Miranda spoke her name, and she stepped back immediately. “Forgive me, Lady Miranda, I didn’t recognize you.”

Miranda didn’t see how she could have, being as the girl was younger than she was and the last formal portrait of Miranda had been painted when she was three.

“Your mother is taking her breakfast in the corner parlor,” the maid continued, shutting the door behind Miranda the moment she was through. “This way, please.”

Miranda followed the girl with a growing sense of dread. The mansion’s interior was as opulent as its exterior, all lofty white ceilings and dark wooden floors covered with thick scrollwork carpets that muffled her boots to nothing. By the time they reached the corner parlor, which turned out to be on the second floor, Miranda was feeling decidedly small and shabby. Even so, she kept her head up and her fingers spread to show off her rings. She had only three—Durn’s large emerald, Alliana’s moss agate, and the heavy gold band of the Spirit Court itself—but she thrust them out like her hands were covered. Much as she would have loved to show off Eril’s pendant as well, she kept him hidden below her shirt. Even bound, wind spirits could be tricky, and nervous as she was right now, it was best if Eril stayed close to her core where she could keep a good feel on him.

The maid opened a white-painted door and stepped aside with a curtsy, letting Miranda walk into the small, sunny room painted a girlish shade of pale pink. Her mother was sitting on a  white silk chair by the large glass window, sipping her tea and staring down at the street below. The pale pink color of the room set off her cheeks and the light blonde of her hair, creating the perfect picture of a lady taking her ease, which was undoubtedly the exact image she wanted to project. Almasetta Lyonette left nothing to chance.

“Miranda,” she said, turning to smile at her daughter, but the smile dropped the second she actually looked at her. “Powers, child, what did they do to you?”

Miranda sighed deeply. “Hello to you, too, Mother.”

Alma didn’t bother answering. She shot up from her chair and marched over, setting down her teacup on the carved mantel so she could grab Miranda’s chin and turn her face side to side. “Gracious, girl,” she muttered. “Did you take no care of your beauty at all? Your skin’s brown as the floor. What have you been doing, squatting in the sun?”

That was exactly what Miranda had been doing, actually, but it made no difference. No eyes except Alma’s could have picked out more than a shade of difference between mother and daughter, but Alma would never let a little thing like that keep her from finding fault.

“And your hair,” she continued, shoving her fingers past Miranda’s head to grab large, curly handfuls of her shoulder-length hair. “What did you do, chop it off with an ax?”

“It got caught when Master Banage and I were dealing with an Enslaver,” Miranda said, ducking out of her mother’s grasp. “Would you rather I’d lost my head instead?”

Her mother pressed a delicately manicured hand to her forehead and sank onto the divan in the corner. “You will be the death of me,” she sighed dramatically. “Why was I cursed with such a child? None of your sisters gave me these sorts of problems.”

“Well, maybe Father should have called one of them home, then, rather than dragging me,” Miranda snapped. It was petty, but she couldn’t help it. Being around her mother always made her feel like she was thirteen again.

“Mind your tone, dear,” Alma said, but the reprimand was more reflex than anger. “A lady’s voice is gentle. No one likes a shrew.”

“Why am I here?” Miranda demanded before she could give in to her old fallback of stomping off in a huff. “And don’t say you missed me.”

“Of course I missed you, dear,” her mother said. “The house has felt so empty since Tima got married last year. And when I saw Martin’s invitation, I just knew here was my chance to have all my girls together again.”

“Invitation?” Miranda said. “What invitation?”

Alma blinked in surprise. “Martin Hapter’s, darling. We’re going to his country home for a few days. Leaving this afternoon, actually. You mean your father didn’t tell you? Where are you going?”

Miranda was already at the door. “Back to where I belong,” she snapped, grabbing the knob. “I’m not going to a house party, and I’m not playing docile daughter for you or Father.”

The knob rattled under Miranda’s hand, and she realized with a flash of rage that the maid had locked it. She turned around slowly to see her mother was standing now, her pretty face, still girlish after almost fifty years and three children, was set in a scowl that still made Miranda cringe.

“Miranda Regina Felecia Lyonette,” she said sharply. “I understand that Banage has allowed you to run quite wild, but this isn’t your Court. This is my house, you are my daughter, and you will do as you are told. It is your duty to this family to at least pretend at a semblance of decorum. Now, you will go upstairs and change into something presentable, and then you will drive out to Mr. Hapter’s with us, and you will behave like a lady. Do I make myself clear?”

When she’d been a little girl, that speech would have sent her scurrying. But Miranda wasn’t a little girl anymore, and she wasn’t going to be pushed around. “I’m not going to a house party,” she said firmly.

“Is that so?” Alma said, crossing her arms. “And here I heard Spiritualists were supposed to be dutiful. I see that’s a lie, considering how quick you are to throw aside the duty you owe your family. The family who raised you, who supported your wish to go to the Spirit Court when no other family of breeding would dream of sending a daughter to such a place. “

“You sent me there to get rid of me!” Miranda shouted.

“How can you say that?” Alma replied, clutching her hands against her chest. “I’m your mother! I nearly died giving birth to you. You are my darling, my own beautiful jewel. Dress it up however you like, but the fact remains that you owe me your life, and your father as well. We have asked nothing of you, and spoiled creature that you are, you take that as your right. But it is a child’s duty to mind her parents, and you will abide by me on this.”

It was the duty comment that undid her, and Miranda clenched her fists. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “But as soon as this party is over, I’m going back to Court.”

“After this party, you won’t be my problem,” Alma said, ringing the little bell on the table beside her. “Now go upstairs and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a farmhand. We leave after lunch.”

Miranda gaped at her mother, but before she could get a word in, the door clicked open and the maid entered.

“Take Lady Miranda to her room,” Alma said. “And watch to make sure she puts on the dress I bought her. Also, see if anything can be done to her hair.”

The maid curtsied and looked at Miranda. With a deep breath, Miranda got a firm handle on her anger and motioned for the maid to lead the way.

* * *

Six hours later, Miranda was dressed in the most uncomfortable, frilly contraption she’d ever worn in her life; her hair was pinned back so tightly her face felt stretched; and her feet had been squeezed into tiny shoes half an inch too small to fit her toes. But all of that would have been bearable had she not been in a carriage with her mother, father, and sixteen-year-old sister.

“Really, Miranda,” Alyssa said, twirling her own strawberry blond curls. “Your dress is yellow and still you’re wearing that ugly green rock on your thumb?”

“That is Durn,” Miranda said, staring pointedly out the window at the rolling farmland that surrounded Zarin. “And he’s a stone spirit large enough to crush this carriage without noticing, so mind your tongue.”

“Are all Spiritualist rings so mannish?” Alyssa continued, leaning across the carriage. “I heard you showed up at the door wearing trousers. What kind of nonsense is going on at your Court anyway? Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re a Lyonette, they wouldn’t even let you in to a party like this.”

“Were you always this much of a snob?” Miranda snapped.

“Girls,” Alma said with a sweet, warning voice that hid murder. “That’s enough.”

Alyssa flopped back with a dramatic huff, but she kept her mouth shut. Miranda was glad. All this family time was wearing her thinner than any Enslaver. The only reason she was still in this carriage at all was because her mother had said she could leave after this party. It was her shining hope, and she clung to that promised escape with everything she had until the carriage finally turned through a pair of stone pillars onto a long drive that ended at the largest house Miranda had ever seen.

It was like someone had decided to build a city in the middle of nowhere. The main house was in the Zarin style, an enormous, soaring structure of white stone and tile roofs with white-painted timber supports, but unlike Zarin, which was ancient, this building was entirely new. Every inch of it shone like a snowflake against the green, green grass of the lawn surrounding it. The large windows were all glass, the front drive was paved with a mosaic of a seashell, and though it was barely five in the evening, all the torches were already lit.

They were hardly the first to arrive. There were five carriages already waiting on the drive and a dozen more pulled around by the stables. Miranda was the first one out when the footman opened their door, pulling her absurdly large skirts along with her and cursing her mother for every one of the frilly petticoats the woman had made her wear. The tiny pointed heels of her too-small shoes sank into the soft grass, making walking difficult. She was getting ready to kick them off altogether when a man’s voice cut through her black thoughts of shoe destruction.

“Lady Lyonette?”

Miranda looked up to see a man standing just a few feet away. He was dressed far too nicely to be a servant, but he didn’t have that effortless snobbery of a noble. He was tall but not handsome, though not ugly either. He mostly looked put-upon and bored, like he’d rather be doing anything else besides standing here, though he did manage a smile at her.

“Miranda!” Her mother cried as she came out next. “Where are your manners?”

“I have no idea,” Miranda muttered, looking back at the man. “Who are you, sir?”

Her mother gasped a little, but the man didn’t seem fazed at all. “Martin Hapter,” he said, putting out his hand.

Miranda shook it with wary curiosity. It was customary for a host to greet his guests, but they usually did it inside, not by coming out and stalking the carriages. Still, he’d done nothing to upset her yet, unlike her family, so there was no reason to be rude.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Hapter,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “I am Spiritualist Miranda Lyonette of the Spirit Court.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Spiritualist?”

Miranda smirked. Her parents must have neglected to mention that tidbit. Her mother was certainly turning a nice, splotchy shade of pink.

“Miranda is a wizard, sir,” she said at last, moving to stand beside her daughter. “Knowing nothing of wizardry, we thought it best to let the Spiritualists teach her.”

“Teaching doesn’t mean taking oaths,” Martin said, looking Miranda up and down. “You’re sworn, then?”

“I am,” Miranda said, holding out her gold ring so he could see.

Martin didn’t even look, but his polite smile fell to a distracted frown, like he was doing math in his head. “I suppose it makes no difference,” he said at last. “Why don’t you come inside?”

Their carriage was blocking the way, so the whole Lyonette family piled out and followed their host into his enormous house. A head of the family and the highest ranking noble, Lord Simon should have walked first, but Martin led the way, and Miranda walked beside him when her mother wouldn’t let her walk anywhere else. Miranda didn’t pay much attention to that after the initial shock, though. She was too busy gaping at the house.

It really was like a palace. Every inch of it was a work of art. Antiques and collectibles from all over the world were arranged to their best advantage throughout the rooms. The lamps hung from enormous rings of antlers cut from animals she’d never seen before. The paintings on the walls were from a broad variety of styles and schools, and the floor alternated between polished stone and some kind of yellow wood she didn’t recognize. Every room was painted a different color, and through the windows Miranda could see a garden filled with plants she couldn’t even name.

“Your house is very impressive,” she said after they’d walked through the third room that would have been at home in a king’s treasury.

“Thank you,” Martin said. “Our company deals mostly in metals and timber, both of which have been booming since the Council lifted the tariffs. We have offices all over, and most of my year is spent traveling among them. I try to bring things back from wherever I visit, but since I’m gone so often, this house is more of a museum than anything else.”

“You’re in trade?” Miranda regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth. She sounded as snobby as Alyssa, but she just couldn’t believe her parents would go to a party thrown by a tradesman. Her mother didn’t even answer letters from anyone who couldn’t prove at least three generations of noble blood.

“Yes,” Martin said, glancing at her. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” Miranda said. “I think it’s very impressive.” Always nice to find someone with money who’d actually earned it. Nice, and rare, though getting less rare as the Council’s influence grew.

Martin left them in the ballroom, which had more windows than walls and looked large enough to act as a formation field for an army. There were close to a hundred other guests there already, and Miranda was starting to worry where they would all sleep when she caught sight of a beloved figure in the crowd.

“Tima!” she cried, louder than she’d meant. Across the room, a beautiful blonde woman looked up and smiled indulgently as Miranda ran over and enveloped her in a huge hug. Trintima was her older sister and the only member of her family Miranda actually liked. Tima might look just like their mother, but her graceful-lady routine wasn’t an act.

“Miranda,” Tima said, looking her sister up and down when they finally broke apart. “You’re looking well.”

“Don’t let Mother hear you say that,” Miranda said. “How have you been? Mother said you got married.” Actually, Tima’s marriage had been the only thing Alma had talked about all the way through lunch and into the carriage. Tima, with her gentle manners and lovely looks, had married into the Whitefall family, a great triumph for minor nobility like the Lyonettes. Of course, Alma was distressed that Tima’s husband was only a second cousin to the Merchant Prince, but a Whitefall was a Whitefall. They had to be good for something eventually.

“Yes,” Tima said. “He couldn’t come, but he sends his love. He wanted to meet you.”

Miranda found that hard to believe, but she was willing to let it lie for Tima’s sake. “I’m sorry I missed the wedding.” No one had bothered to tell her about it, but Miranda wasn’t going to bring that up, either. “I’m so glad you’re here. If I had to live through four days of this with no one but Alyssa and our parents, I think I might actually go crazy.”

Tima glanced over her shoulder at their youngest sister, who was standing at the center of a growing circle of admirers. “Alyssa’s energy can be tiring,” Tima said in that gentle way of hers.

“Alyssa is tiring,” Miranda corrected. “She’s a spoiled flirt and a featherbrain.”

“Now, now,” Tima chided, but she was smiling. “Don’t you like the house?” she asked, deftly changing the subject.

“It’s certainly impressive,” Miranda answered. “Especially for being this close to Zarin.”

“Mr. Hapter’s family has been very fortunate,” Tima said. “He’s one of the richest men in Council.”

“Which explains how a man in trade managed to get all these Zarin blue bloods to come visit his little museum,” Miranda said, snagging a cup of punch from one of the passing waiters. “Poor Hapter. He can dazzle this crowd with money all he likes, but unless he suddenly uncovers a noble relative, all he’ll ever be is an oddity so far as the Zarin nobility is concerned. They’re snobs to the bone.”

“Miranda!” Tima gasped, looking around to see if anyone had overheard.

Miranda just shrugged and drank her punch. It was the truth, and she wasn’t here to be polite. At least the punch was good.

Around this point, the servants brought in card tables, and the crowd began to break into teams. Since the Lyonette family was five, that left an odd player, but Miranda was more than happy to duck out. Card playing was one of those noble time wasters she’d never understood. Honestly, the whole concept of wasting time for pleasure struck her as stupid. Why would you ever want to waste something that you never had enough of? Of course, this whole trip was a waste of time, so far as she was concerned.

But the card game would keep her mother off her back for at least the next hour. That was a gift in itself, and one Miranda was determined not to waste. She was about to sneak off and find something constructive to do, like letting Eril out to work with him on control for a bit, when a voice spoke right beside her.

“Don’t care for cards?”

Miranda managed to keep from jumping at the last second. She turned to see Martin Hapter standing at her side, looking out over his guests like a foreman surveying his crew.

“I’ve never cared for them, either,” he said. “Dreadful waste of time.”

“If that’s how you feel, why did you set up a tournament?” Miranda said, edging down the wall to put a bit more distance between herself and her host.

Martin shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing they expect from a house party.” He glanced at her. “But since card games don’t appeal to you, Miss Lyonette, perhaps you’d like a tour of the rest of the house?”

Miranda frowned. A tour did sound much more interesting than watching a bunch of overdressed snobs play cards. However, “Why are you asking me?”

“Because you look bored,” Martin said with a confident smile. “And because I feel it best that we get to know each other a little.”

Miranda didn’t like that answer at all, but she couldn’t think of a polite way to say no, which was how she ended up walking with Martin Hapter through the rest of his ridiculous house.

It wasn’t boring, at least. Every corner was a treasure trove of interesting things, though Martin’s apparent fascination with trophy hunting left a bad taste in her mouth. Each room seemed to have a dead animal as its crowning feature, and Martin would always stop to tell the story of how he’d acquired this pelt or that head. The first couple weren’t so bad, but by the time they exited to walk through the gardens, Miranda was very happy to be outside where the weather made displaying taxidermy impossible.

Martin’s gardens were as eclectic as everything else, a vibrant mix of plants from all over the Council Kingdoms as well as a hothouse full of tropical plants from the pirate isles in the far south. Miranda would have slowed down for a better look, but Martin hurried her past the flowers toward a building at the garden’s edge.

“I think you’ll really like this next part,” he said as they left the garden. “The rest of the stuff is just curiosities. I keep my real collection in here.”

The side building was one story, long and low as it wrapped around the edge of the garden. It was white like the house, but there was no glass in its windows. Instead, they were high off the ground and laced with ironwork so artistic, you almost didn’t notice the bars. The walls were very thick as well, and the doors were heavy wood held closed by bolts set into the stone floor. A servant undid the bolts as Martin approached, holding the doors open for his master, who in turn held out his arm for Miranda. That was a step too far even for politeness, and Miranda walked right past him only to stop at the threshold.

The first thing that hit her was the strong smell of animal and hay, but this place wasn’t a barn. It wasn’t the docile smell of horse or cow, but the sharper, bloodier smell of creatures that lived on meat. The building was divided into cells with a wide, straw-strewn hallway down the middle. The cells were walled in with stone and the same lovely iron bars from the windows. Low growls drowned out the gentle wind and birdsong from outside, and Miranda caught her breath.

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Lyonette,” Martin said.

“Spiritualist,” Miranda corrected, giving him a wary glare. “Spiritualist Lyonette.”

Martin smiled and started walking down the hall. “As I was saying, the cages are quite strong. It’s perfectly safe. Now”—he smiled at her—“come see my jewels.”

Against her better judgment, Miranda followed. Not surprisingly, considering the smell, the cages held exotic predators. The first contained a pair of silver foxes panting miserably in the heat, their dark eyes dull and reproachful as they glared at their captor. The moment Miranda and Martin stopped in front of the bars, Martin launched into the grand story of how his hunters had trapped the mated pair. The tale itself wasn’t so different from all the other stories he’d told walking through the house, but here in among the cages, Martin was like a different man. He was animated, his eyes bright with life, especially when he got to his plans for the kits his foxes would produce.

“Their fur is softer than anything you’ve ever touched,” he said with a wistful sigh. “I could make a fortune if we could get a farm going, but they don’t breed well in the heat this far south. Such a pity, but these two were more of an experiment, anyway. No real harm done, and they make such a nice addition to my collection.”

Miranda bit her tongue. She didn’t approve of caging anything, but while the foxes looked hot, they had food and water and seemed generally healthy. So she kept her comments to herself as Martin led her to the next cage, which held a pair of black armored pigs. After that there were grass lions, a forest panther, some sort of feathered lizard from the southern rain forest, and an enormous red-golden stripped cat that Martin claimed was some kind of crossbreed that had never been successfully created until now.

“I’m the only one in the world to own one,” Martin said proudly. “I’m thinking of naming it Hapter’s Cat; what do you think?”

“It would certainly be a telling name,” Miranda said, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice. She was getting awfully tired of this tour. “Is that all, then?”

“One more,” Martin said, his smile morphing to a secretive grin. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

They were at the end of the building, so Miranda didn’t know where this “best” would be until Martin turned down a little hall behind the last cage she hadn’t noticed until that moment. The short hall led into a room that was taller than the rest of the building. It was obviously a new addition, built of much thicker stone. The sides were a foot thick at least, and a great wall of iron bars ran straight across the room’s middle, dividing it neatly in half. On Miranda’s side, the floor was tiled and set with padded benches; on the other side, inside the bars, the floor was covered in a thin layer of straw that had been worn to chaff by the enormous creature pacing the cage’s edge.

Miranda had never seen anything like it. At first glance, it looked like a dog, but no dog was ever that huge. The creature was enormous, fifteen feet at least from the tip of its broad, black nose to the point of its tail. Its eyes were orange as pumpkins and nearly as large, and they followed her with murderous intent, but most amazing of all was the creature’s coat. Its fur was as long as her index finger, and for the most part, it was a cloudy silver, but streaking across its pelt in curling patterns was a lighter, pure silver that moved as Miranda watched, the color drifting across the animal’s fur like dappled moonlight. The moving patterns sped up as she got closer, the silver marks flashing so quickly they reminded Miranda of a snowstorm, an impression that was only heightened by the beast’s swift, graceful movements as it stalked back and forth along the bars of its cage, its head down, ready to strike. When its orange eyes met Miranda’s, the creature lifted its lip, showing a wall of foot-long yellow teeth.

She took a step back on instinct and ran straight into Martin.

“No need to be afraid,” he said, catching her shoulders. “The bars are reinforced. I had them specially made so that even the ghosthound’s famous strength couldn’t break them.”

“Ghosthound?” Miranda whispered. That was a ghosthound? She’d heard of them, the enormous monsters that ruled the snowy continent at the top of the world. In the stories they were slavering beasts, huge and ugly, all claws and teeth for eating bad children, but the creature in front of her was beautiful. Beautiful, graceful, and deadly as the blizzard it resembled. Looking again at the swirling patterns, she understood for the first time why they were called ghosthounds. The shifting silver-gray made the dog look otherworldly.

“No other man in the world boasts a living ghosthound,” Martin said, his voice quivering with pride. “I have a few skins in the gallery upstairs, but it’s not the same. Their patterns stop moving when they die, so you don’t get the full effect. The only way to truly appreciate a ghosthound is to see one yourself. Took me almost three years to get a live one. Isn’t he magnificent?”

“He is,” Miranda said, though not for the reasons Martin mentioned. The ghosthound’s eyes were on Martin now, and they shone with such hatred it took her breath away. Unlike the other animals, which had looked hot or uncomfortable or simply bored in their cages, this animal looked furious. Usually, a spirit’s intelligence and power were directly related to its size. Animals were different, though. With the exception of humans, animals tended to be relatively less intelligent than their size said they should be. Spiritualist scholars postulated this was because they had to use some of their power maintaining a living body. It was a trade–off—a horse tended to be markedly less intelligent than a rock of the same size, but where the rock was stuck in one place and spent most of its time asleep, the horse stayed awake and could go where it pleased. Looking at the ghosthound’s eyes, though, Miranda couldn’t help but see the intelligence shining behind them. Whatever this ghosthound was, he was no simple animal like the others. The deep hatred in his eyes could only grow in a thinking mind.

Martin must have seen it, too, because he grabbed Miranda’s arm and pulled her back a step. “Best not to get too close to the cage,” he said, his voice slightly less smug than before. “I haven’t broken him to human company yet, and even trapped behind the bars, his reach would surprise you. That, and he’s very, very fast.”

As though to prove him right, the ghosthound chose that moment to throw himself against the bars. He moved so quickly Miranda’s eyes couldn’t follow. One moment he was pacing, the next the bars crashed as he slammed into them, his front claws slicing out into the air several feet in front of the cage.

The noise made them both jump. Martin recovered first, straightening his jacket with a glare. “I’m going to tighten those bars in a few days so he can’t fit his paw through,” he said. “Come, Miss Lyonette. I believe it’s time for dinner, and you don’t want to see that creature eat.”

Shaken by the ghosthound’s speed, Miranda let Martin lead her back past the other cages. But as they stepped out into the gardens, the fresh air cleared her head, and she turned on her host with new fury. “You shouldn’t keep that ghosthound caged,” she said. “He’s intelligent.”

Martin laughed. “No more intelligent than my hunting dogs, I assure you. He’s an animal, and a very well treated one. I take exquisite care of all my treasures. Once he calms down a little, I’ll move him to a larger enclosure.”

“He’s not going to calm down,” Miranda said, glaring at him as they walked across the lawn toward the house. “He hates you.”

“Ghosthounds hate everyone,” Martin said with a shrug. “He’ll come around once he realizes how good he has it here. As I said, he’s as smart as my hunting dogs, and animals are much better at recognizing a good deal than humans. In a month he’ll be docile as a puppy. You won’t even recognize him.”

Miranda doubted that very much, but they were entering the ballroom, so she was forced to hold her anger for the moment.

Martin delivered her to her family and took his leave. Miranda was surprised to see her mother smiling as he left. She’d been bracing for a lecture about running around unchaperoned with a man, especially one who didn’t come from a good family, but Lady Lyonette looked almost pleased as she laced her arm through Miranda’s and led the way up the stairs to dress for dinner.

As to be expected for such a large party, dinner was a grand affair. The dining room was as large as a normal mansion’s ballroom, and the long white-cloth-covered tables filled every inch. Miranda wasn’t sure what her family had done to deserve it, but the Lyonettes were seated in places of honor beside their host at the very first table at the front. Miranda was sandwiched between her mother and her elder sister with Alyssa thankfully confined to the far end. Her father and Martin sat together at the table’s head, and they spent most of dinner deep in a conversation that must have pleased Lord Lyonette very much, judging by his uncharacteristic smile. The servants brought out seven lovely courses, but Miranda was so worried she didn’t taste a bite. Her eyes never left her father, and the more she watched, the more anxious she became. Anything that made her father that happy couldn’t be good.

She was on the verge of giving in and asking Tima what she thought was going on when Martin stood, tapping his spoon against his crystal glass. When the room fell silent, he smiled out at the crowd. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I called this party in part to celebrate my company’s new alliance with the Council of Thrones to provide construction services for its new forts along the coast, but tonight I wish to make an announcement of a more personal nature.”

He glanced at Lord Lyonette, and Miranda’s father stood with a smug smile that sent Miranda’s stomach straight through the floor.

“With Lord Simon Lyonette’s blessings,” Martin continued, “I am hereby pleased to announce my engagement to his second daughter, the lady Miranda Lyonette.”

The room broke into polite applause. Miranda heard none of it. All she could hear was the thundering of her heart in her ears as the rage washed through her. She grabbed her chair and shot up, ready to scream at the top of her lungs that there would be a marriage over her dead body, only to find she couldn’t move. Her mother and Tima were holding her down. Her mother’s face was furious, but Miranda couldn’t have cared less. It was Tima’s look that stopped her. Her elder sister’s face was stricken, and she gave her head a tiny shake when her eyes met Miranda’s. Miranda might not have cared about embarrassing her family in front of everyone—they deserved no less after this stunt—but Tima was another matter. Angry as she was, Miranda respected her older sister, and so she bit her lip and forced herself to stay silent. When the rest of the room stood up to go congratulate their host, Miranda stood as well and, flanked by her mother and elder sister, quietly walked out of the hall.

It was a testament to the love and respect she had for her sister that Miranda made it all the way back to their rooms before exploding.

“What was that?” she roared, turning on her mother.

Alma Lyonette blinked innocently. “I’d have thought you’d be happy, dearest. It is an excellent match. Martin Hapter might be low born, but he’s very rich, and it’s not like you had any other offers waiting.”

“And you never thought to ask me?” Miranda cried, stepping up until she was right in her mother’s face.

“Of course not,” Alma said, all innocence gone. “You’ve proven time and time again that you care nothing for the standing of your family or the proprieties of society. If I left the matter in your hands, you’d die an old maid. You should be on your knees thanking your father for finding someone willing to take you.”

“This was why you dragged me out of the Court?” Miranda said. “To marry me off?” She stopped and thought for a moment, gritting her teeth as the pieces clicked into place. The new house, her mother’s sudden willingness to associate with someone who wasn’t from a noble family, her father’s unexpected appearance. It was just the sort of nicely tied-up little deal that her mother excelled at, and Miranda couldn’t keep the growl out of her voice as she met her mother’s eyes. “How much is he paying you?”

“More than you’re worth,” her mother growled back. “The world is changing. These last few years have been very hard on your father. The Council’s expansion hasn’t been as good to the Zarin nobility as it has to opportunists like Mr. Hapter. But Hapter’s still low born; he needs a noble to get in to the kind of society he thinks he’s fit to run with.”

“And I’m his ticket in?” Miranda said. “You sold your own daughter for what? A big house?”

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young lady,” Alma snapped. “I have to think of the family. Think of your sister. Unlike you, Alyssa is ready and willing to make a good match. The Merchant Prince’s nephew is her age, and with the sort of money Hapter can throw around, even the main Whitefall family isn’t out of reach. I’ve let you run wild for years, and now I’m asking you for one sacrifice to make all our lives better.”

“You sold me like a horse!” Miranda screamed.

“You should be happy we could sell you at all!” Alma screamed back.

Things might have gone very badly then had Tima not pushed herself between them. “Mother,” she said softly. “Enough. Let me talk to her.”

Alma closed her eyes. “Yes, Trintima, you talk some sense into this ungrateful girl.” She took a deep breath and turned to the door, but as her white-gloved hand closed on the handle, she glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t you dare ruin this for us, Miranda. You’ve ruined enough, and I will not see this family suffer for your indulgences any longer.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Miranda shouted, but Tima held her firmly as their mother left, shutting the door behind her with a slam that rocked the paintings. When she was gone, Miranda slumped against her sister. Tima helped her to the padded chair by the window, and then sat on the footstool beside her, taking Miranda’s hand between her own soft, delicate fingers.

“You knew,” Miranda said. It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” Tima confessed. “But Miranda, it really is for the best. They handled it terribly, I’ll admit, but Father really is in a bind. You have to understand it from his point of view. The Lyonette family has been one of the richest in Zarin for years, but then the Council came and the bar for who was rich got higher and higher. There were appearances to keep up, and Father’s money couldn’t support them. He’s deeply in debt to Mr. Hapter.”

“And I’m his way out,” Miranda said, grabbing the arm of the chair so tightly it creaked.

“If Father goes bankrupt, it will ruin Alyssa’s chances at a good marriage,” Tima said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “We don’t always get to choose our fortunes, Miranda, and honestly, it’s not a bad match. You’ve never cared for noble birth anyway, and with Hapter’s money, you’ll be the richest of all of us. He’s very progressively minded; he doesn’t even care that you were a Spiritualist.”

“Am,” Miranda said, sitting forward so fast that Tima jumped. “I am a Spiritualist. I took an oath, Tima. An oath I will never, ever foreswear.” She thrust out her hand, and the rings on her fingers glowed like lanterns in the dark room. “I’m already bound. Bound to my spirits and bound to the Court, and I will never, ever give up those ties, not for Mother, not for Father, and certainly not for Alyssa.”

Tima dropped her head to kiss her sister’s hand. “I know you’re angry,” she said. “But it will be better for everyone if you just accept it. What Father did is within his rights. The law is on his side, Miranda. If you throw a fit, it will only make things worse.”

Miranda slumped into the chair. Hating the rest of her family came easily, but she couldn’t bring herself to hate Tima. Even so, she couldn’t do as her sister asked, either.

“I’m not marrying Martin Hapter,” she said, standing up. “Father might have the law on his side, but Hapter’s not stupid. He doesn’t want a bride he’ll have to drag into marriage. I’ll just go tell him it’s not happening.”

“Miranda,” Tima said, but Miranda was already marching out of the room. Everyone else was still in the dining room downstairs. Lots of people tried to congratulate Miranda when she came in, but Miranda just pushed by them, her eyes on the man at the crowd’s center. Usually, moving through such a press would be difficult, but these were nobles, and they weren’t used to being shoved aside, so she made it to the front without much trouble. Her father gave her a killing look as she approached. Miranda ignored it, pushing her way forward until she was standing at Martin’s side.

“I need to speak with you,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice.

“Can it wait until this is through?” Martin said without looking at her or dropping the smile he was flashing at the elderly lady who’d reached for his hands.

“No,” Miranda said, grabbing his arm. “It can’t.”

Martin sighed and then smiled indulgently at the crowd. “It seems my future wife has something urgent to tell me,” he said. “Dessert will be served on the terrace; please enjoy yourselves.”

The crowd began to titter at the implications of a soon-to-be bride dragging her husband off, but Miranda ignored the sound just as she ignored her mother, who was trying to get her attention, and her father, who was blatantly grabbing for her arm. She focused on nothing but getting past the crowd as she led Martin through a side door and down a hall to the office he’d shown her earlier during their tour. The band was just striking up as she shoved him inside and locked the double doors. She was dangerously angry, and her spirits were picking up on the feeling, turning in their rings, so Miranda forced herself to stop and take a deep, cleansing breath, letting the calm Master Banage had spent years forcing her to learn wash over her before she turned to face her fiancé.

“I don’t know what kind of rubbish my father’s been feeding you,” she said quite calmly. “But I am not for sale. I am not marrying you.”

Martin leaned on his expansive desk. “Is it because I’m not noble?”

“No,” Miranda said. “I don’t care who your family is. I’m not marrying anyone. My life is being a Spiritualist, not being a wife.”

“I knew that might be a problem,” Martin said. “But all marriages are compromises.” He raised his chin, and his face changed. Suddenly, he was no longer the affable host but a shrewd, hard businessman. “I know women like the fantasy of marrying for love,” he said. “But this is a business transaction, Miss Lyonette. Your family needs money and my business needs a noble connection. You are the link that solves both these problems, and as such, I am willing to be very lenient with you. It’s true I can’t allow my wife to be something as crass as a Spiritualist, but though your father neglected to tell me you’d already taken your oaths, I find I don’t mind much. I like Spiritualists, and I will not ask you to give up those spirits you have already bound or your connections to the Court. Indeed, I look forward to forming closer ties with your Rector, Etmon Banage.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Miranda said. “I’m not marrying you.”

“You say that now,” Martin replied. “But the truth is you have no choice in the matter. I’m not a cruel man, Miranda. You’ll find me a very easy husband. I will never demand anything from you that you are not willing to give. When we marry, you will be free to keep lovers so long as you are discreet. You’ll have a substantial allowance, the freedom to travel as you like provided you play hostess to at least six major parties a year to further my business ties. And you’ll be able to bring your family to heel, since their well-being will now depend entirely upon your favor. Really, I don’t see how I could sweeten this deal much more.”

“What part of ‘I’m not marrying you’ don’t you understand?” Miranda cried. “I don’t care how sweet a deal you offer. I’m not interested.”

Martin took a deep breath. “You are stubborn, aren’t you?”

“I get that way when I’m being forced into absurd situations,” Miranda snapped, but Martin didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he reached in his suit pocket and drew out a small velvet bag.

“Your father got this at my request,” he said, walking across the room to where Miranda was standing by the doors. “It’s tradition in noble families to pass down wedding jewelry, and while I got you something much larger for our actual wedding, I thought you’d appreciate the gesture.”

He shook the bag over his hand until something small and glittery fell onto his palm. It was a ring, a small, golden ring set with a polished opal. It was very old and surprisingly delicate, the kind of ring a father would buy for his daughter.

“I didn’t know your size, so I couldn’t have it fit,” Martin said, catching Miranda’s hand before she could dodge him. “Fitting such old jewelry is always a gamble, anyway. Still, it looks appropriate, don’t you think?”

He’d slipped the ring on her pinkie finger while he was talking, and by the time Miranda jerked her hand away, the band was already in place. It looked absurdly tiny beside her large Spiritualist rings, and for a moment, she had the stupid thought that whichever of her noble Lyonette ancestors had worn the ring before her must have had very small hands. But the thought was fleeting, and she went to take the ring off. Martin’s hand caught her halfway there.

“Don’t throw your gifts away just yet,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Miranda jerked at the threat in his voice and reached for Durn, but he dropped her hand again before she could do anything.

“It’s late,” he said, all politeness again. “Too late for hasty decisions. Why don’t you sleep on it? It’s not like you can just walk to Zarin from here, anyway. Sleep, I’m sure things will be clearer in the morning.”

“No amount of sleep is going to make me marry you,” Miranda said, but she left the ring on her finger.

Martin smiled. “Good night, Miss Lyonette.”

Miranda didn’t offer the same. She turned on her heel and marched out, snatching the ring off her finger the second she was in the hall and shoving it in her pocket. The party was still going strong, the musicians playing a lively dance, but Miranda didn’t even look at the crowd. She went straight up the stairs to her room and locked herself in. The moment she was alone, she scrambled out of the layered formal dress her mother had insisted she wear to dinner, washed her face in the basin, and flopped into bed.

“Mistress?” Durn’s question was soft in the dark. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because people are idiots,” Miranda answered. “We’re getting out of here tomorrow.”

“Yes, mistress,” Durn said, his voice relieved. “I don’t like this place at all. It makes you angry.”

“The place is fine,” Miranda said. “It’s the people.”

Durn rumbled at that, and Miranda pushed him gently back to sleep. Her own rest was harder to find, however. Tima knocked at her door a few hours later, but Miranda ignored her. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Eventually, her sister left, but Miranda still couldn’t sleep. The more she thought about this situation, the angrier she became, and not just at her parents for putting her through something like this. She was angry at Martin. She hated his superior looks, his giant house full of dead animals, and especially his smaller house full of living ones. That thought brought her back to the ghosthound. She’d nearly forgotten him in the shock of discovering her parents had sold her out, but now that she’d remembered him, she could think of nothing else. Whatever Martin said, he was abusing that ghosthound. Capturing and keeping such an obviously intelligent animal was wrong no matter how nice the cage. That thought gave her no rest, and when the sky outside her window began to turn gray with the predawn, Miranda put on the simplest dress her mother had packed and snuck into the hall.

This early, the house was still asleep, and Miranda was able to slip out easily. She crossed the gardens, shivering as the dew soaked through the ridiculous cloth slippers her mother had packed instead of sensible boots. The door to the zoo house was locked, but a quick word from Durn had the latch up and out of the way in under a minute. The animals woke as she passed, and Miranda spoke to each of them, but without a spirit to act as mediator, only the enormous red cat was intelligent enough to answer, and it only asked her when food was coming. Satisfied that at least these animals were not being abused, Miranda put them out of her mind and focused on her real objective.

The ghosthound was sleeping when she entered, his patterns moving in sluggish circles. Miranda moved forward very slowly and opened her spirit just a fraction. “Ghosthound,” she whispered.

The hound moved like lightning. One moment it was seemingly asleep, the next its front leg was through the cage, slashing an inch from her face. Miranda jumped back with a yelp, and the ghosthound growled, dragging its front leg back into the cage. Pressed against the wall, Miranda forced her gasping lungs to breathe normally. On the other side of the room, the ghosthound gave her a disgusted look and sat back on its haunches.

“Ghosthound,” Miranda said again when she was sure her voice wouldn’t quiver. “Do you understand me?”

The ghosthound’s expression didn’t change.

“I know you can hear me,” Miranda said. “I understand you’re angry about being caged, but if you talk, I can help you.”

The hound’s ears flicked forward, and Miranda smiled, but then the dog began washing its front feet, and Miranda felt her hopes drop. The ghosthound was responding to the sound of her voice like any animal would. Maybe she’d imagined the intelligence she’d seen earlier, or maybe Martin was right. Maybe it was smart, but only smart as a dog, not a sentient creature.

“Please,” Miranda said again. “I’m a Spiritualist. I am sworn to help spirits who are being abused, and I think you are one of them. I’m on your side. Talk to me, if you can. Help me understand how I can help you.”

She sat there, waiting, but the dog just continued his unhurried washing. After five minutes, Miranda heaved a deep sigh and turned to leave. If the dog weren’t intelligent, maybe it really would get used to life here once it saw that it had regular food. That would make things less complicated, at least, and her life was certainly complicated enough at the moment. But when she reached the entrance to the little hall leading back to the other cages, a deep, growling voice stopped her in her tracks.

“If you break the cage, I promise to let you live.”

Miranda whirled around. The ghosthound was sitting as before, but he was no longer washing his paws. He was staring at her, his orange eyes bright and knowing. Under such intense scrutiny, Miranda had the overwhelming urge to drop her gaze, but she refused to be intimidated. After all, the dog was the one in the cage.

“You’ve got a rock tied to your soul,” the hound continued, his lips creeping up over his yellow teeth as he spoke. “A big one, well big enough to crush this metal wall. Let me out and I promise to spare you. My fight is with the dark-haired man who smells like powder and hidden fear.”

“Martin Hapter?” Miranda said.

The hound flicked his ears in a gesture that made Miranda think of a shrug.

“I don’t mind letting you out,” Miranda said slowly. “But you can’t kill Hapter.”

The hound’s growl made her hair stand on end. “Afraid I’ll kill your mate, human?”

“He’s not my mate!” Miranda snapped. “I don’t care if he lives or dies, but I can’t let you kill him. One, I don’t condone murder as punishment, and two, if you kill him, or even look like you’re going to, they will kill you for sure.”

“That is acceptable,” the hound said. “So long as the man dies, I am ready for the mists.”

“How can you say that?” Miranda cried. “Martin Hapter isn’t worth your death! I understand you want vengeance, but trust me, losing you will be pain enough for that man.”

The hound looked at her a moment longer, and then turned away, sitting with his back to her. “You asked how you could help,” he growled. “I told you. If you are unwilling to help, then we have nothing more to discuss.”

Miranda stared in disbelief. “So you don’t want to go free at all if you can’t kill Hapter?”

The hound didn’t answer, and he didn’t turn around. He just sat there, silent as the icy mist he resembled, until Miranda wanted to scream. Before she could, though, Durn’s spirit quivered in warning.

“Men are coming, mistress,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” Miranda said. She stepped closer to the cage. “I’ll be back,” she promised. “I won’t let him keep you like this.”

When the dog still didn’t look at her, Miranda turned and walked out, slipping through the zoo and fixing the lock on the door again before the servants came in with the animals’ food.

* * *

Miranda spent the rest of the day trying to convince people she wasn’t going to marry Martin Hapter. Unfortunately, no one was listening.

“How is my opinion the only one that doesn’t matter?” she shouted, fending off her mother, who was trying to fit a bridal crown over Miranda’s head. “I’m the one getting married!”

“You’ve had your way for years,” Alma said, slapping Miranda’s warding hands. “It’s time to let someone else have a say. Honestly, are you even capable of thinking of others?”

“I’ve given my life to protecting others!” Miranda cried, retreating toward the corner. “I’m a Spiritualist. Do you even know what we do?”

“Make a spectacle of yourselves, from what I’ve seen,” Alma said, slamming her hands on her hips. “You’re getting married tomorrow and that’s that. Everyone’s already invited.”

“By you!” Miranda said. “All of this was your doing! I refuse to accept any fault, and I absolutely refuse to get married tomorrow or ever.”

Alma threw up her hands and glared at Tima, who was sitting pale-faced in the corner.

“Miranda,” Tima said. “Really, there’s no use fighting it. It’ll go easier for everyone if you just make the best of things.”

“Maybe you can do that, Tima,” Miranda said, glaring at her sister. “But I’m not going to roll over just because she says so.” Her glare shifted to her mother. “Wasn’t that why you left me with the Spiritualists for so long? So I wouldn’t be around to back talk you?”

“You were the one who wanted to be a Spiritualist,” Alma said, crossing her arms over her chest. “From the moment you could talk, all I heard was Spiritualist this and Spiritualist that. And kind fool that I am, I let you be one for years, but it’s time to stop playing, Miranda. It’s a woman’s duty to get married for the good of her family. I did it, Tima did it, and now it’s your turn.”

Miranda pulled herself up with an angry breath. “My duty lies with my oaths, not this sham of a family that sells out its own flesh and blood for a big house!”

Alma’s lovely green eyes narrowed to slits. “You ungrateful child,” she growled. “But say whatever you like, you are getting married to Martin Hapter tomorrow, and you will behave yourself like a lady. Now”—she thrust the bridal crown at Tima—“I have to go check with Mr. Hapter on the preparations for the engagement ball tonight. I expect you to be dressed and ready by sundown.”

“You can expect whatever you want,” Miranda cried. “I’m not going to that, either!”

But Alma was already out the door, locking it behind her with an angry click. Miranda stared at the door for a moment and then threw herself down on the bed with a frustrated scream.

“Miranda,” Tima said, settling beside her and reaching over to rub her sister’s back. “I know it seems unfair. I reacted much the same way when they told me I’d be marrying Javier.”

“Tima,” Miranda said into the pillows, “I’ve never heard you raise your voice, not even when you broke your finger. I cannot believe you pitched a fit when you heard you were getting married.”

“Maybe I wasn’t as dramatic as you,” Tima admitted. “But I certainly thought of running away. Now, though, I’m glad I saw it through. I don’t think I’ll ever love Javier like the opera heroines love their heroes, but he treats me well, and I’m able to help my family. You’ve always been the cleverest of us. I’m sure you’ll see that this isn’t so bad. Mr. Hapter’s a decent man; he’ll take care of you.”

Miranda had her own thoughts on what kind of man Martin Hapter was, but she kept them to herself. “I won’t marry him, Tima. I don’t care what kind of man he is; I made an oath to the Court. Any path where I can’t be a Spiritualist is a path I will not take, no matter what it does for my family.”

“Then do it for yourself,” Tima said, gently pulling Miranda up off the bed. “Father has the law on his side, and he will take this to the Council if he has to. The Merchant Prince can make you marry Mr. Hapter if it comes down to it, though by that point Mr. Hapter may not want you anymore. Best do it now with the minimum amount of pain.”

Miranda didn’t answer, and she looked away when Tima tried to turn her head. Her elder sister sighed and stood, setting the flower-woven marriage crown on the bed. “I have to go to lunch,” she said. “I’ll tell them you are unwell and get someone to send up a tray for you.”

“Thank you,” Miranda said, gazing out the window.

Tima’s soft steps crossed the floor, and then the door closed with a whisper. Miranda waited for the click of the lock, but all she heard was Tima’s footfalls on the carpet as her sister walked to the stairs. Miranda smiled, shaking her head. Sweet Tima wasn’t one to forget things, but she also wasn’t the sort who could lock up her sister like a criminal. Not that a locked door could have kept Miranda in had she really wanted to get out, but she appreciated her sister’s gesture. Tima had left her an escape. Too bad Miranda couldn’t take it.

Last night, she’d been seriously ready to walk back to Zarin. If her father wanted to drag her before the Council, he was free to try. Personally, Miranda was willing to bet he wouldn’t have the stomach for it, but this was no longer totally about her. She stood and walked to the window, staring out across the garden toward the roof she could just barely see over the tall bushes at the edge of the grounds. She was not the only one trapped here, and she couldn’t leave, not without taking the ghosthound with her.

But that was easier said than done. Durn could keep the ghosthound pinned, but he couldn’t move him, and she dared not let him out if the ghosthound’s first act in freedom would be to go for Martin Hapter’s throat. The ghosthound might be willing to give his life for Hapter’s, but Miranda wasn’t about to let something as beautiful and rare as a ghosthound die for someone as stupid as Hapter. But that left her in a bind. The ghosthound was clearly an abused spirit held against his will. As a Spiritualist, she couldn’t leave without freeing him, but she couldn’t free the ghosthound unless she could convince him not to go for Hapter, and she was running out of time.

She had to talk to the ghosthound again and find some way to make him see reason, but the grounds were crawling with the other guests, and there would certainly be a confrontation if she tried to get out now. Things would only get worse if Hapter knew she was after the ghosthound. He might even move him, and then Miranda really would be in trouble. No, if she was only going to get one shot at this, then she would do it right. Tonight. She would go tonight.

Decision made, Miranda walked back to her bed and settled under the sheets to catch up on the sleep she’d lost last night. If tonight went anything like she hoped, she was going to need it.

* * *

Her mother woke her up four hours later to get her ready for the ball. Alma came in with a whole train of maids carrying a dress that looked like a silk-flower shop had exploded over a wire frame, but the whole lot was sent back out again when Miranda set her heels and announced she was not going to any ball. The next two hours were an ugly scene of screaming and crying, but Miranda didn’t scream this time, and she was immune to Alma’s tears. She’d made up her mind, and no amount of hysterics, pleading, or weeping could budge her. It got so bad that her father was brought in, but even Lord Lyonette’s threats weren’t enough. Miranda would not be moved. Finally, they gave up and tromped off downstairs, leaving Tima to “talk some sense into her sister.” Tima, of course, was too smart to try that. Instead, she just sat in the chair beside her sister with her needlepoint while the music of the ball drifted up from below.

Thirty minutes later, someone knocked on the door, and a deep, angry voice said, “Miss Lyonette?”

Tima jerked and looked at Miranda with wide, worried eyes, but Miranda just shook her head. She’d known this was coming, she was only surprised he’d waited this long.

Martin Hapter didn’t wait to be invited in. He opened the door and stomped inside, stopping short when he saw Tima.

“Lady Whitefall,” he said, his voice tight. “I’d like a moment alone with my fiancée, if you don’t mind.”

Tima looked at Miranda, but Miranda just smiled. “Go ahead, Tima,” she said quietly. “I can handle this.”

Tima did not look happy, but she obeyed, slipping silently out the door with a last wary look. When she was gone, Martin locked the door behind her.

“What do you think you are doing?” he said, his soft voice at odds with the anger that poured off his body.

“Exactly what I told you I’d be doing,” Miranda said, crossing her arms. “I told you I wasn’t getting married, and I see no reason to attend an engagement ball when I’m not engaged.”

Martin whirled around, stalking across the room so fast Miranda flinched back. “I have half the noble families in Zarin down there,” he hissed. “You will not make me a laughingstock.”

“I don’t have to,” Miranda said. “You did that yourself when you kept pushing this ridiculous marriage after I’d rejected you.”

Martin growled and started to reach for her, but Miranda lifted her hand, rings glowing like bonfires on her fingers. “I wouldn’t come any closer, Mr. Hapter,” she said quietly. “Spiritualists don’t take well to threats.”

Angry as he was, Martin wasn’t stupid. He stopped and backed away. “You are playing a very dangerous game with me, Miranda,” he said slowly. “I am not a man to be trifled with.”

“And I am not a woman to be pushed around,” Miranda said, letting her hand hang between them, rings lighting her face. “I am a Spiritualist of the Spirit Court, and this conversation is over.”

Martin backed away, but the anger on his face only grew darker. “Fine,” he said. “Sulk in here all night if you like, but this changes nothing. We will be married tomorrow, one way or another, so I suggest you make peace with the idea.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair. “Good-bye, Mr. Hapter.”

Martin gave her one last glare and marched out, slamming the door and locking it from the outside with a heavy click. Miranda waited until the sound of his stomping boots vanished into the distant music of the ball before she let herself flop forward.

That had been a gamble. Technically, it was against the law for her to threaten anyone with her spirits save in bodily self-defense, but apparently Mr. Hapter wasn’t quite as all-knowing as he seemed, because he hadn’t called her bluff. Miranda wouldn’t bet on it working twice, though, and so the moment she was sure he was really gone, she got to work.

She pulled off her morning dress and wiggled into a dark green two-piece riding dress made of a sensible linen weave. She still didn’t have boots, but she’d found at the bottom of her trunk some sturdier slippers that actually fit her feet. She still felt overdressed, but it would have to do. She braided her hair back to keep it out of her face, tying it at the end with a bit of ribbon from the discarded bridal crown. When she was sure her hair would hold, she walked over to the window and slid it up.

Her room was on the mansion’s third floor. The garden below was dark and deserted. Everyone was in the ballroom on the opposite side of the house. Still, the drop would have been enough to discourage most people, but Miranda wasn’t most people. She drew Alliana’s moss-green ring from her little finger and leaned out the window, dropping the ring when the wind died down. It fell silently, disappearing into the dark, but Miranda didn’t need to see the ring to feel her moss spirit cleanly, and she knew Alliana had landed just below her window. The moment the moss spirit hit the ground, Miranda fed a bit of power down their connection. The effect was immediate. All at once, a great springy bed of moss blossomed, pushing out the grass as it grew into a huge mound so vibrant Miranda could see the green clearly even in the dark. When the moss had finished growing, Miranda reached into her bodice and drew out Eril’s pearl pendant.

“Eril,” she said firmly. “Time to work.”

She wasn’t actually sure she’d gotten through to him until she felt his breath by her ear. “Must I?”

“Yes,” Miranda said firmly, climbing onto the window ledge. “Ready?”

Eril’s answer was a blast of wind that nearly blew her over. Smiling, Miranda nudged forward and slid out the window, plummeting into the night. Eril’s wind caught her as she passed the second story, slowing her fall and dropping her gently onto the bed of springy moss. Miranda took a moment to catch her balance, and then she leaned down, snatching Alliana’s ring out of the moss’s green folds. The beautiful moss vanished immediately, shrinking back into the ring as Miranda slid it onto her finger.

“Good work,” she said, setting off across the grounds. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, mistress,” Alliana said.

Eril just gave her hair one last puff before sliding into his pendant. Miranda rolled her eyes. Maybe the real reason most Spiritualists didn’t keep winds wasn’t because they were hard to catch; maybe it was because they were a pain to work with. But Eril was a problem for another day, and she shoved his pendant back into her dress as she slipped into the dark garden, weaving her way between the tall plants toward the zoo house at the other side.

The building was dark and shuttered for the night. She undid the lock as before, walking straight past the sleeping animals until she was standing again before the ghosthound’s cage. The animal didn’t even bother to feign sleep this time. He was awake and waiting when she came around the corner, his orange eyes wide and glowing in the ambient light from the torches far across the lawn.

“Changed your mind?” he growled.

“Yes and no,” Miranda said, stepping up until she was right in front of the bars, well within claw range. “I’m getting out of here tonight, and I’m taking you with me. I can’t let you kill Hapter, but I can offer you something else.”

The dog snorted. “You think because you’re a wizard you have anything I want?”

“I’m not just a wizard,” Miranda said. “I’m a Spiritualist, and what I can offer you is my solemn promise on my oaths and my name that if you leave here with me tonight, I will not rest until I have returned you to your home. It was wrong of Hapter to bring you here, wrong of him to lock you up. I can’t let you kill him for those wrongs, but I can help undo them. I will take you home, all the way across the sea to the land of ice, but you have to swear to me that you will not make any move for Hapter.”

The ghosthound’s orange eyes widened, and then his long toothed mouth opened in a laugh that made her hair stand on end. “Take me home?” he said, the words so broken by his growling laughter that Miranda almost couldn’t understand them. “You stupid little girl. What makes you think I want to go home?”

“How is that stupid?” Miranda snapped. “Isn’t that why you want to kill Hapter? Because he brought you here and keeps you against your will?”

“Among other reasons,” the dog said.

“So why won’t you let me make it right?” Miranda said. “I can put things back as they were, return you to your life before Hapter came.”

“There is no more home for me,” the ghosthound growled. “You understand nothing, human. I do not want to kill the man who captured me because he brought me here. I must kill him because that is the last act left of my life.” He tilted his head, and his orange eyes grew bitter. “I have no more home to go to. My capture was a disgrace. If I were to take your offer and go back, my pack would hunt me down and kill me. Death is the only cure for such dishonor. I understand this, which is why I must kill the man you call Hapter. If I must die, I will at least die with a cleared name and my honor restored. My pack mates are proud, worthy hunters, and they deserve no less.”

“Wait,” Miranda said. “That’s why you want to kill Hapter? To appease some kind of screwed-up honor system for your pack a thousand miles away across the sea? Powers, mutt, they won’t even know.”

“I will know,” the ghosthound snarled. “And that is what matters.”

“What matters is your life!” Miranda shouted. “You are healthy, strong, alive. You are worth so much more than the dishonor of being captured by some hunter who got lucky. Hapter’s a slime, his life isn’t worth a hair of your coat, and I will not let you die avenging yourself on the likes of him.”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business what I do with my life,” the hound said, lashing his tail.

Miranda lifted her chin. “If you’re so willing to throw it away, then I don’t see how you can complain about me picking it up.”

The ghosthound snorted. “And what would you do with it? Bind me to you with the rest of your pets?”

“My spirits are not pets,” Miranda said. “They are my partners, my strength. They are what I have pledged my life to.” She stepped forward, plunging her hand through the bars. “Come with me. If you won’t go home, we’ll find something else.”

The dog glanced at her hand, growling deep in his throat. On her finger, she felt Durn pull at their connection, but Miranda didn’t dare take her eyes off the ghosthound’s to see what the stone spirit was upset about. “Don’t die here,” she whispered. “Don’t let him break you. Come with me; run with me.”

The ghosthound met her eyes one last time. “It is you who should run, little Spiritualist,” he said, his voice low. “Listen to your rock.”

Miranda frowned and shifted her attention to Durn’s connection. As she did, the warning blared through her right before the hand closed on her shoulder, jerking her away from the cage.

“What do you think you are doing?”

The roar was Hapter’s voice, and the hand was his as well. Caught off-guard, Miranda tumbled back when he pulled her. The ghosthound’s claws snatched out a second later, going through the air where she had been to claw at Hapter. If she hadn’t been there, the blow would have landed, but the ghosthound apparently wasn’t willing to kill her to get to his enemy, because the dog shifted his strike at the last second to keep from hitting her and missed Hapter as a result. Hapter dragged them both back with a string of curses and threw Miranda against the wall, putting them both well out of the dog’s reach.

“Are you insane?” he shouted, panting beside her. “What part of ‘dangerous animal’ do you not understand?”

“He’s not an animal!” Miranda shouted back. “He’s as smart as we are. How dare you keep him in a cage like that?”

Martin stared at her in disbelief. “I see,” he said at last. “It’s not enough for you to throw away all propriety, you have to try and steal my ghosthound while you’re at it.”

“I’m not stealing anything,” Miranda said. “You have no right to lock up an intelligent creature against his—”

“Enough!” Hapter roared, slamming her into the wall.

The moment he touched her, Miranda reached for Eril. The wind flew out with a great whoop, hitting Hapter across the chest so hard he flew backward toward the ghosthound’s cage. She realized her mistake when she caught the glint in the hound’s eyes and grabbed her connection with Eril, turning the wind just before the dog’s claws snatched Hapter out of the air. The new gust blew him onto the ground at her feet, and the ghosthound snapped his teeth in frustration.

“Stop it,” Miranda said, glaring at the hound before turning her eyes to Hapter, who was pushing himself up. “And just so you know, I did that for him”—she nodded at the ghosthound—“not for you. If he’d killed you, your men would have put him down, and that’s far more than you’re worth.”

“Powers, woman,” Hapter wheezed, stumbling to his feet. “Don’t you know who I am? I could buy and sell your miserable life a hundred times over!”

“My life is not for sale!” Miranda cried. “Get that through your head!”

“And when will you get it through your head that you already belong to me?” Hapter said, tugging his jacket straight.

There were other men running through the zoo building, their boots so loud Miranda didn’t need Durn’s warning, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off Hapter. “I belong to no one,” she said as Hapter’s private guard came into the room. “My oaths are to the Court and the spirits. You own nothing of me.”

“There you are wrong,” Hapter said, his thin mouth breaking into a cruel smile. “You are a done deal, Miranda. Bought and paid for, just like him.” He jerked his head toward the ghosthound, who snarled. The sound only sent Hapter’s grin wider, and he glanced at the guard closest to Miranda. “Escort my fiancée to her new room, the one without windows, and see that she stays there. Don’t worry about her spirits. I’ve been informed by a reliable source that, since she’s not acting on behalf of the Court at the moment, she can’t use them except for self-defense from actual bodily harm.” He turned back to Miranda. “And since we’re only doing this to keep her safe, I don’t think there will be a problem, do you, dearest?”

“Why you—” Miranda was unable to finish before the guards moved in. They surrounded her in a ring of muscle, and for several moments, Miranda contemplated letting Durn have his way with them. But Hapter was technically right. She wasn’t acting on the Court’s behalf, which meant her right to use her spirits against others was severely limited, especially considering he was her fiancé. If she wasn’t careful, this could reflect very badly on the Court, and that was a chance she wasn’t willing to take out of temper. So she relaxed and let the guards take her, muttering insults at Hapter the whole way. Behind her, the ghosthound’s growl was loud enough to rattle the stone walls, but he didn’t say another word as the guards escorted her to the house.

* * *

Hapter made good on his threat. The room they put her in was right beside his in the interior of the house. It was very nice, but it was clearly a prison with no windows, no fireplace, and a door solid enough to be a vault. She was deposited there without fanfare and left alone all night. When the door finally opened the next morning, Miranda almost wished Hapter had left her to rot.

“Well,” Alma said, shuffling past the guards with a small breakfast tray. “You finally went and did it, didn’t you? Just when I thought there was no possible way you could embarrass me further, you found one. I only wish I could say I was surprised.” She set the tray down on the washstand with a huff. “Your father can’t even bear to hear your name spoken, you know.”

“I don’t really care what Father can or cannot bear,” Miranda said. “I’m the one locked up.”

“And whose fault is that?” Alma snapped. “I get you a rich husband and all you can do is put on like it’s the worst thing in the world. And then, to escape out the window like a-a…” She began to sputter. “Like a thief in the night. Oh, it is not to be borne, Miranda. I’m just glad the wedding’s today. You’ll be married before Hapter can come to his senses.”

“Considering how far he seems to be from his senses, he’s got a long trip ahead of him,” Miranda said.

Alma threw up her hands and marched back to the door. “The maids will be bringing in your dress shortly. I’ll be back to help with your hair, not that you deserve it. The wedding is at midday, so I suggest you take the time to think about the mountain of blessings you’ve decided you’re too good for.”

She gave her daughter a final sniff and stomped out, slamming the heavy door behind her with enough force to rock the water in the washbowl. Miranda just shook her head and walked over to the breakfast tray, devouring what her mother had brought with quiet efficiency. It wasn’t much, just some bread and fruit, and Miranda sighed in disappointment as she picked up the last crumbs with her finger. She needed energy for the plan she’d spent all night on. It had a decent chance of success, but it was going to take a lot out of her. Fortunately, anger more than made up for the small breakfast, and by the time the maids came in with her dress, Miranda was ready.

She stood passively as they dressed her, letting them move her arms like a doll, but her mind wasn’t on her body. She was deep inside herself, sunk nearly to the bottom of the well of her soul. Durn’s solid spirit was with her, the thread of his connection wrapped around her hands like twine as she fed power into him until they were both humming with energy. After the first hour, it was so strong that even the spirit-deaf maids seemed to feel it, but her mother, who’d come as promised to yank Miranda’s hair into an elaborate pile of curls, was completely oblivious. Her running commentary went on without a hitch as Miranda’s power grew, doubling and redoubling. Had Durn’s ring not been hidden on Eril’s chain beneath her dress, it would have lit up the whole room. The maids had already fled without knowing why or what the terrible prickly feeling was, and Miranda was glad to see them go. Fewer people meant fewer chances of things going sour.

Thirty minutes before the wedding, Alma finally left with dire warnings about what would happen if Miranda moved so much as one inch out of place before they came to bring her down. When the guards locked the door behind her, Miranda closed her eyes and plunged herself completely into the last of her preparations. By this point, the power was so large it took all of her attention to hold it in, which was why she didn’t know Hapter was there until he took her hand.

Miranda caught the power with great effort, holding it still as she looked down to see Hapter slipping the tiny opal engagement ring back onto her pinkie.

“Your mother found it in the pocket of your dress,” he said. “It’s not very considerate to leave other people’s gifts lying around.”

Miranda had a lot she’d like to say to that, but she didn’t trust herself to speak with so much power in the air. Instead, she let her hate of him shine through her eyes as he gently took her chin, turning her head side to side.

“You are a pretty thing,” he said at last, smiling. “I think I’ll enjoy bringing you around.”

She bared her teeth just a little, and Hapter’s smile grew wider. He dropped her chin and took her hand again, raising it to his lips. “See you downstairs, wife,” he said, winking at her before he slipped out the door. Miranda watched him go, scrubbing her hand on her dress until all feel of his lips was gone.

When her mother came in ten minutes later to bring her down, Miranda was ready.

“Well,” Alma said, radiant in her green gown. “I see you’re still dressed and the room is still in one piece. Have you decided to make the best of things, then, dear?”

Miranda just smiled, and then, without warning, she opened her soul. All the power she’d been building poured out of her, and her mother’s smile faded as the house began to rock like a ship at sea. All around the room, things fell off the walls. The washstand toppled over, spilling water everywhere, and cracks sprouted along the ceiling as the mansion’s foundation groaned. But the foundation’s complaints were soon drowned out by the cracking sound coming from the wall behind them. The plaster wall bulged and groaned, and then broke completely as an enormous stone hand punched through, sending a bright shaft of daylight into the dreary room.

“Ready, mistress?” Durn’s voice boomed from everywhere.

“Past ready,” Miranda said, snatching the marriage crown out of her hair and throwing it at her shocked mother. The crown bouncing off her seemed to wake Alma from her shock, because her face went scarlet as her voice returned.

“Miranda!” she shouted. “What do you think you are doing?”

“What I should have done days ago,” Miranda said, lifting her skirts as she vaulted onto Durn’s outstretched hand. “The right thing.”

She waved one last time, and then Durn yanked her out of the house into the glorious sunshine. Miranda took a deep breath of freedom and pointed across the garden at the zoo. Durn obliged. The great stone hand, which had sprouted from the ground outside her room like a weed, grew farther still, reaching across the garden to crash through the roof of the zoo building. Miranda jumped down when they reached the floor, panting from the effort. This much power was far beyond Durn’s usual ability, and they were quickly nearing their limit, but there was one last thing she had to do. As planned, they had landed at the entrance to the ghosthound’s room. Gathering the last of their strength, Miranda marched across the room to the cage. Durn’s hand followed, and when Miranda gestured, he reached out and grabbed the heavy bars, wrenching them aside.

Through it all, the ghosthound had sat perfectly still. Miranda walked through the large hole as the last of Durn’s strength faded and the stone spirit fell back into her, collapsing with a happy sigh back into his ring.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” the hound asked as Miranda stopped just inside his cage. “I was wondering what all that power was. I see you’re a clever sort, Spiritualist. But your power is spent. Now is not the time to stand between me and my freedom.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Miranda said, planting her feet firmly to show she was serious and to keep herself from falling over as Durn’s exhaustion hit her. “I’ve come to make you an offer.”

The ghosthound flicked his tail. “An offer?”

“Yes,” Miranda said. “You told me you could not go home because you had been dishonored, that your pack would not have you, and that this was why you were willing to die. You felt you had nothing left. I say it doesn’t have to be that way.” She held out her hand, palm up, directly in front of the hound’s nose. “I offer a pledge,” she said. “Power for service, strength for obedience, and my own soul to replace the pack you lost. I swear mutual protection, my honor for yours. Come with me, and together we will do things that will make Hapter nothing but an insignificant memory.”

The ghosthound stared at her, his orange eyes unreadable, but Miranda could feel his hot breaths quicken on her palm. “You would offer yourself as my pack?” he said. “What would I do, Spiritualist? Your oath has no power over me. I have a body; I can’t leave it and live through your soul like the rock or the wind or the moss you’ve already tied to you. You cannot bind me.”

“I can’t,” Miranda admitted. “But that’s not what matters. My oath is more than magic, ghosthound. It is a promise between you and me.” She reached up, pulling off the tiny ring Hapter had slid on her finger. “This will be your ring, and though it holds no spirit, it will be dear to me as any other I take. I need no bond to make me honor my promises or give you my strength. From this moment forward, I will guard you as I guard myself. I swear by my Court and my soul that I will honor, defend, and support you. I will never abandon you, never betray you, and all I ask in return is that you swear in kind and agree to abide by my judgment.”

Miranda smiled then, reaching up to touch the ghosthound’s nose. It was warm and dry under her fingers, quivering as he took in her scent. “Let me be your Spiritualist,” she whispered. “Come with me, help me make a better world where things like what happened to you and me can’t happen anymore. A world where no abuse is tolerated, where no soul is forced against its will. Let that good work be your honor, ghosthound, and I promise I will take the life you were so willing to throw away and cherish it as I do my own.”

The hound stared at her a long time, and then he snorted against her hand. “And our loss will hurt Hapter, do you think?”

Miranda grinned. “It will kill him.”

The hound’s muzzle lifted in a toothy grin. “What’s your name, Spiritualist?”

“Miranda Lyonette,” Miranda said.

The ghosthound grinned wider still. “I’m Gin, and I accept your offer.”

“Good,” Miranda said. “Because we have a wedding to crash.”

The dog laughed at that, showing all his sharp, sharp teeth, and then he lay down so swiftly Miranda jumped.

“Get on, then,” he said. “Unless you’re scared?”

“What’s there for me to be scared of?” Miranda said, struggling up onto the spot between his shoulders. “We’re a team now, remember?”

Gin’s answer was to nudge her roughly into place with his nose, and then he jumped up so fast Miranda nearly snapped her neck. She couldn’t help a squeal as they flew through the hole Durn had left in the roof. She’d never expected a ghosthound to be able to jump like that, but Gin cleared the leap effortlessly, running along the roof before jumping into the garden. The wedding was spread across the front lawn, a great sea of colored tents and banquet tables. Hapter was standing at the front, talking hurriedly to a group of guards. He stopped the second Miranda and Gin came into view, his face going scarlet as he opened his mouth to shout.

He never got the chance. Gin moved faster than the wind. He jumped up on the longest banquet table, cracking it beneath his weight before leaping again to land right in the middle of Hapter’s guards. They scattered like thrown sticks, leaving Gin nose-to-nose with Hapter himself, who was now white as the tablecloths. From her perch on his back, Miranda leaned down between the ghosthound’s ears, resting her elbows on the dog’s head as she met Hapter’s terrified face with a wide smile.

“I told you,” she said. “I’m not the sort of woman you push around. Have a nice wedding.”

Gin growled as she finished, slamming his nose into Hapter’s chest so hard the man fell. For a moment, Miranda was afraid Gin would forget that killing Hapter wasn’t part of the deal, but the dog turned away and began running full tilt down the drive.

“Thank you for not killing him,” Miranda said.

Gin gave a loud snort that could have meant anything. “So, where to now?”

“Home,” Miranda said, pointing across the fields toward Zarin.

Gin picked up the pace, shooting across the fields so fast Miranda had to cling to his fur for dear life. After a few minutes, though, she got the hang of it. Finger by finger, she released her death grip, and then she lifted her hands out to her sides, throwing back her head with a laugh as Gin flew over the green hills toward the white towers of Zarin rising in the distance.

* * *

One month later

“How many pigs can you eat?” Miranda said, leaning on the fence that was the only thing separating the world at large from the slaughter currently going down in the Spirit Court’s butcher yard.

“I don’t know,” Gin said, eyeing the next squealing pig in the paddock. “How many do you have?”

Miranda made a disgusted face and turned to Rector Banage, who was dressed for traveling and leaning patiently on the fence beside her. “I’m so sorry, Master Banage,” she said. “We’ll get on the road as soon as my glutton of a dog is full.”

“A few more minutes won’t hurt,” Banage said. “We’re just going to confirm the death of an Enslaver and the freeing of his spirits, not to chase him down. If there weren’t so many spirits involved, I’d have left it to the local Tower Keeper.”

“He won’t be long,” Miranda promised, glaring at Gin. “Will he?”

Gin’s answer was a low growl as he started on his next pig.

Miranda shuddered and turned away. “I will never get used to that.”

“The price of keeping a predator,” Banage said sagely, glancing up. “I wonder what he wants?”

Miranda glanced up as well to see Spiritualist Krigel coming toward them, a large, formal-looking envelope in his hand.

“Oh, good,” he said when he reached them. “I thought I’d missed you. A letter just came for you, Spiritualist Lyonette.”

Miranda frowned. “For me?” She never got letters, especially not such elegant looking ones.

Krigel nodded and handed it over. The seal was that of the Council, and Miranda felt her stomach drop. Council letters were never good. She opened it quickly and pulled out a large stack of papers. There were so many, she wasn’t actually sure what she held in her hands until she caught sight of her father’s name at the top of a large, formal certificate.

“I think I’ve been disowned,” she said, squinting at the elegant, slanted writing. “Yes, here it is.” She tapped the second sheet of the stack. “They’ve crossed me off the family register.”

“Miranda.” Master Banage’s voice was gentle. “I can handle this trip myself. If you want some time—”

Miranda didn’t let him finish. She folded the papers back up and tossed them in the rubbish bin beside the butcher’s shed.

“I knew it was coming,” she said, dusting off her hands as she turned back to her master and Spiritualist Krigel. “I mean, I defied my father, made fools of my fiancé and my family, and trashed a very expensive party. What else could they do?”

“But it is your family,” Banage said.

“My family is right here,” Miranda said. “And if I had the chance, I’d do it all again. Don’t worry, Master Banage. I don’t mind being disowned because I didn’t care for being owned in the first place. I’ll take being a Spiritualist over being a Lyonette any day.” Especially since the only family she actually cared for wasn’t a Lyonette any more. Tima was a Whitefall, and Whitefalls could mix with whomever they wanted. But even if Tima had been unmarried, Miranda knew her sister would never turn her away, no matter what their father said. With that thought, Miranda’s face broke into a smile, and she made a mental note to pay a quiet visit to Tima and her husband as soon as this Enslaver business was done.

Her smile must have reassured him, because Banage smiled as well and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. “Does that mean we have to start calling you something else?”

“Of course not,” Miranda said. “I like my name. And what are they going to do if I keep using it? Disown me again?”

“I guess you’re out of their power,” Spiritualist Krigel said.

“I never was very much in it to begin with,” Miranda replied, turning back to the butcher yard. “Gin! Are you done?”

There was a deep sigh, and then Gin hopped over the fence, red tongue sliding over his bloody muzzle. Miranda shook her head and climbed onto his back while Banage called his stone horse. Krigel stepped out of the way as they rode around to the main road, scattering the afternoon crowds as they made their way out of the Spirit Court’s district and up toward the northern gate.

“Where are we going, mistress?” Gin said, his voice rumbling through her as they ran past the market.

“Somewhere in the north, though only Banage knows for sure,” Miranda said, frowning. “And since when do you call me mistress?”

Gin flicked his ears. “If your family is too stupid to claim you, I will. That was our agreement, wasn’t it? Power for service, strength for obedience, and your soul as my pack?”

“There’s only one of me,” Miranda said with a laugh. “Kind of a small pack.”

“You only need two,” Gin said, tongue hanging out as they reached the gate. “Hold on. I’m about to run off some of those pigs.”

Miranda’s eyes widened, and she barely managed to secure her grip in time before Gin shot forward, racing down the road in a shifting silver streak. She adjusted to the speed soon enough, throwing her arms out with a laugh as they flew up the road with Master Banage’s stone horse hot on their heels, speeding on their way to do the Spirit Court’s good work.

That's about it.

Meet the Author

Rachel Aaron was born in Atlanta, GA. After a lovely, geeky childhood full of books and public television, and then an adolescence spent feeling awkward about it, she went to the University of Georgia to pursue English Literature with an eye toward getting her PhD. Upper division coursework cured her of this delusion, and she graduated in 2004 with a BA and a job, which was enough to make her mother happy. She currently lives in a 70s house-of-the-future in Athens, GA, with her loving husband, overgrown library, and small brown dog. Find out more about the author at www.rachelaaron.net.

Rachel Aaron, photo © Alyssa Alig.

Also by Rachel Aaron

THE LEGEND OF ELI MONPRESS

The Spirit Thief

The Spirit Rebellion

The Spirit Eater

The Spirit War

Spirit’s End

The Legend of Eli Monpress: Part I, II, & III (omnibus edition)

If you enjoyed SPIRIT’S OATH,
look out for

THE SPIRIT THIEF

THE LEGEND OF ELI MONPRESS, BOOK ONE
by Rachel Aaron

Chapter 1

In the prison under the castle Allaze, in the dark, moldy cells where the greatest criminals in Mellinor spent the remainder of their lives counting rocks to stave off madness, Eli Monpress was trying to wake up a door.

It was a heavy oak door with an iron frame, created centuries ago by an overzealous carpenter to have, perhaps, more corners than it should. The edges were carefully fitted to lie flush against the stained, stone walls, and the heavy boards were nailed together so tightly that not even the flickering torch light could wedge between them. In all, the effect was so overdone, the construction so inhumanly strong, that the whole black affair had transcended simple confinement and become a monument to the absolute hopelessness of the prisoner’s situation. Eli decided to focus on the wood; the iron would have taken forever.

He ran his hands over it, long fingers gently tapping in a way living trees find desperately annoying, but dead wood finds soothing, like a scratch behind the ears. At last, the boards gave a little shudder and said, in a dusty, splintery voice, “What do you want?”

“My dear friend,” Eli said, never letting up on his tapping, “the real question here is, what do you want?”

“Pardon?” the door rattled, thoroughly confused. It wasn’t used to having questions asked of it.

“Well, doesn’t it strike you as unfair?” Eli said. “From your grain, anyone can see you were once a great tree. Yet, here you are, locked up through no fault of your own, shut off from the sun by cruel stones with no concern at all for your comfort or continued health.”

The door rattled again, knocking the dust from its hinges. Something about the man’s voice was off. It was too clear for a normal human’s, and the certainty in his words stirred up strange memories that made the door decidedly uncomfortable.

“Wait,” it grumbled suspiciously. “You’re not a wizard, are you?”

“Me?” Eli clutched his chest. “I, one of those confidence tricksters, manipulators of spirits? Why, the very thought offends me! I am but a wanderer, moving from place to place, listening to the spirits’ sorrows and doing what little I can to make them more comfortable.” He resumed the pleasant tapping, and the door relaxed against his fingers.

“Well”—it leaned forward a fraction, lowering its creak conspiratorially—“if that’s the case, then I don’t mind telling you the nails do poke a bit.” It rattled, and the nails stood out for a second before returning to their position flush against the wood. The door sighed. “I don’t mind the dark so much, or the damp. It’s just that people are always slamming me, and that just drives the sharp ends deeper. It hurts something awful, but no one seems to care.”

“Let me have a look,” Eli said, his voice soft with concern. He made a great show of poring over the door and running his fingers along the joints. The door waited impatiently, creaking every time Eli’s hands brushed over a spot where the nails rubbed. Finally, when he had finished his inspection, Eli leaned back and tucked his fist under his chin, obviously deep in thought. When he didn’t say anything for a few minutes, the door began to grow impatient, which is a very uncomfortable feeling for a door.

“Well?” it croaked.

“I’ve found the answer,” Eli said, crouching down on the doorstep. “Those nails, which give you so much trouble, are there to pin you to the iron frame. However”—Eli held up one finger in a sage gesture—“they don’t stay in of their own accord. They’re not glued in; there’s no hook. In fact, they seem to be held in place only by the pressure of the wood around them. So”—he arched an eyebrow—“the reason they stay in at all, the only reason, is because you’re holding on to them.”

“Of course!” the door rumbled. “How else would I stay upright?”

“Who said you had to stay upright?” Eli said, throwing out his arms in a grand gesture. “You’re your own spirit, aren’t you? If those nails hurt you, why, there’s no law that you have to put up with it. If you stay in this situation, you’re making yourself a victim.”

“But…” The door shuddered uncertainly.

“The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Eli gave the wood a reassuring pat. “And that’s enough for now. However”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“if you’re ever going to live your life, really live it, then you need to let go of the roles others have forced on you. You need to let go of those nails.”

“But, I don’t know…” The door shifted back and forth.

“Indecision is the bane of all hardwoods.” Eli shook his head. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be forever. Just give it a try.”

The door clanged softly against its frame, gathering its resolve as Eli made encouraging gestures. Then, with a loud bang, the nails popped like corks, and the boards clattered to the ground with a long, relieved sigh.

Eli stepped over the planks and through the now-empty iron doorframe. The narrow hall outside was dark and empty. Eli looked one way, then the other, and shook his head.

“First rule of dungeons,” he said with a wry grin, “don’t pin all your hopes on a gullible door.”

With that, he stepped over the sprawled boards, now mumbling happily in peaceful, nail-free slumber, and jogged off down the hall toward the rendezvous point.

* * *

In the sun-drenched rose garden of the castle Allaze, King Henrith of Mellinor was spending money he hadn’t received yet.

“Twenty thousand gold standards!” He shook his teacup at his Master of the Exchequer. “What does that come out to in mellinos?”

The exchequer, who had answered this question five times already, responded immediately. “Thirty-one thou sand five hundred at the current rate, my lord, or approximately half Mellinor’s yearly tax income.”

“Not bad for a windfall, eh?” The king punched him in the shoulder good-naturedly. “And the Council of Thrones is actually going to pay all that for one thief? What did the bastard do?”

The Master of the Exchequer smiled tightly and rubbed his shoulder. “Eli Monpress”—he picked up the wanted poster that was lying on the table, where the roughly sketched face of a handsome man with dark, shaggy hair grinned boyishly up at them—“bounty, paid dead or alive, twenty thousand Council Gold Standard Weights. Wanted on a hundred and fifty-seven counts of grand larceny against a noble person, three counts of fraud, one charge of counterfeiting, and treason against the Rector Spiritualis.” He squinted at the small print along the bottom of the page. “There’s a separate bounty of five thousand gold standards from the Spiritualists for that last count, which has to be claimed independently.”

“Figures.” The king slurped his tea. “The Council can’t even ink a wanted poster without the wizards butting their noses in. But”—he grinned broadly—“money’s money, eh? Someone get the Master Builder up here. It looks like we’ll have that new arena after all.”

The order, however, was never given, for at that moment, the Master Jailer came running through the garden gate, his plumed helmet gripped between his white-knuckled hands.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed.

“Ah, Master Jailer.” The king nodded. “How is our money bag liking his cell?”

The jailer’s face, already pale from a job that required him to spend his daylight hours deep underground, turned ghostly. “Well, you see, sir, the prisoner, that is to say”—he looked around for help, but the other officials were already backing away—“he’s not in his cell.”

“What?” The king leaped out of his seat, face scarlet. “If he’s not in his cell, then where is he?”

“We’re working on that right now, Majesty!” the jailer said in a rush. “I have the whole guard out looking for him. He won’t get out of the palace!”

“See that he doesn’t,” the king growled. “Because if he’s not back in his cell within the hour…”

He didn’t need to finish the threat. The jailer saluted and ran out of the garden as fast as his boots would carry him. The officials stayed frozen where they were, each waiting for the others to move first as the king began to stalk around the garden, sipping his tea with murderous intent.

“Your Majesty,” squeaked a minor official, who was safely hidden behind the crowd. “This Eli seems a dangerous character. Shouldn’t you move to safer quarters?”

“Yes!” The Master of Security grabbed the idea and ran with it. “If that thief could get out of his cell, he can certainly get into the castle!” He seized the king’s arm. “We must get you to a safer location, Your Majesty!”

This was followed by a chorus of cries from the other officials.

“Of course!”

“His majesty’s safety is of utmost importance!”

“We must preserve the monarchy at all costs!”

Any objections the king may have had were overridden as a surge of officials swept down and half carried, half dragged him into the castle.

“Put me down, you idiots!” the king bellowed, but the officials were good and scared now. Each saw only the precipitous fall that awaited him personally if there were a regime change, and fear gave them courage as they pushed their protesting monarch into the castle, down the arching hallways, and into the throne room.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” the Master of Security said, organizing two teams to shut the great, golden doors. “That thief won’t get in.”

The king, who had given up fighting somewhere during the last hundred feet, just harrumphed and stomped up the dais stairs to his throne to wait it out. Meanwhile, the officials dashed back and forth across the marble—locking the parlor doors, overturning the elegant end tables, peeking behind the busts of former kings—checking for every possible, or impossible, security vulnerability. Henrith did his best to ignore the nonsense. Being royalty meant enduring people’s endless fussing over your safety, but when the councilors started talking about boarding over the stained-glass windows, the king decided that enough was enough. He stood from his throne and took a breath in preparation for a good bellow when a tug on his robes stopped him short. The king looked down incredulously to see who would dare, and found two royal guards in full armor standing at attention beside the royal dais.

“Sir!” The shorter guard saluted. “The Master of Security has assigned us to move you to a safer location.”

“I thought this was a safer location.” The king sighed.

“Sir!” The soldier saluted again. “With all due respect, the throne room is the first place the enemy would look, and with this ruckus, he could easily get through.”

“You’re right about that,” the king said, glowering at the seething mass of panicked officials. “Let’s get out of here.”

He stomped down the steps from the high marble dais and let the guards lead him to the back wall of the throne room. The shorter soldier went straight to an older tapestry hanging forgotten in one corner and pushed it aside, revealing, much to the king’s amazement, a small door set flush with the stonework.

“I never knew this was here,” the king said, genuinely astonished.

“Doors like these are standard in most castles this age,” the guard said, running his gloved hand over the stones to the right of the door. “You just have to know where to look.” His fingers closed in the crack between two stones. Something clicked deep in the wall, and the door swung open with a soft scrape.

“This way, sir,” the soldier said, ducking through.

The secret passage was only a few feet long. This was good, because it was only a few inches wide, and the king was getting very claustrophobic sliding along sideways between the dusty stone walls, especially when the second soldier closed the door behind them, plunging the passage into darkness. A few steps later, they emerged into the back of another large tapestry. The soldier pushed the heavy cloth aside, and the king was amazed to find himself in his own drawing room.

“Why did no one tell me about this?” he said, exasperated, watching as the second soldier draped the tapestry back into place. “It will be fantastically useful the next time I want to get out of an audience.”

“Over here, sir,” the shorter guard said, waving toward the wide balcony that overlooked the castle garden. The king didn’t see how a balcony was much safer than a throne room, but the guard seemed to know what he was doing, so the king followed quietly. Perhaps there was another secret passage. The king frowned, regretting all those times he’d chosen to go hunting rather than let the Master Builder take him on that tour of the castle the man was always so keen on. Well, the king thought, if the Master Builder had put more emphasis on secret passages rather than appreciation of the flying buttresses, perhaps he would have been more inclined to come along.

The balcony jutted out from the drawing room in a large semicircle of pale golden marble. His mother had had it built so she could watch the birds up close, and the handrails brushed right up against the leafy branches of the linden trees. The king was about to comment on how peaceful it was compared to the nonsense in the throne room, but the shorter of the two soldiers spoke first.

“I’m really sorry about this.”

The king looked at him quizzically. “Sorry about wha—” His question was answered by a blinding pain at the back of his head. The trees and the balcony swirled together, and then he was on the ground with no notion of how he’d gotten there.

“Did you have to hit him that hard?” The soldier’s voice floated above him.

“Yes,” answered a voice he hadn’t heard before, which his poor, aching brain assigned to the tall soldier who hadn’t spoken while they were escorting him. “That is, if you want him to stay quiet.”

The shorter soldier took off his helmet, revealing a young man with a head of dark, shaggy hair. “If you say so,” he said, tucking the helmet under his arm.

The shorter soldier trotted to the edge of the balcony, where the trees were thickest. Spots danced across the king’s vision, but he was sure he saw what happened next. One of the trees moved to meet the soldier. The king blinked, but the tree was still moving. It leaned over as far as it could, stretching out a thick branch to make a nice little step up off the railing. So great was his astonishment, the king barely felt the bigger soldier heft him over his shoulder like an oat sack. Then they were up on the tree branch, and the tree was bending over to set them gently on the ground.

“Thank you,” said the shorter soldier as they stepped onto the grass.

And the king, though his ears were ringing horribly, could have sworn he heard the leaves whisper, “Anytime, Eli.”

That thought was too much for him, and he dove into unconsciousness.

About Orbit Short Fiction

Orbit Short Fiction presents digital editions of new stories from some of the most critically acclaimed and popular authors writing science fiction and fantasy today.

Visit www.orbitshortfiction.com to learn more about our publishing program—and to join the conversation. We look forward to hearing from you.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2012 by Rachel Aaron
Excerpt from The Spirit Thief copyright © 2010 by Rachel Aaron
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Orbit
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.orbitbooks.net
www.orbitshortfiction.com

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-405-52082-9