Spirit’s End: An Eli Monpress Novel Page 5

  Miranda refused to believe that. “They can’t mean to keep pressing the charge of treason,” she said. “You defied Whitefall’s initial order to fight the Empress for the Council, but you helped defeat her in the end. Surely that makes things even.”

  “The end doesn’t matter,” Banage said.

  “How does it not matter?” Miranda cried. “The Council got what it wanted. You fought! If they bring a charge of treason against you for this, it’ll break the Spirit Court between those who are loyal to you and those who want to join the Council. The Merchant Prince needs us, he needs the Court whole and functioning. Why would he keep forcing the issue now that everything has already worked itself out?”

  “I might have fought the Empress at the end,” Banage said, reaching down to brush his rings as the riders closed in. “But I defied Whitefall’s command.”

  “That’s worth wrecking his greatest wizard allies?” Miranda said.

  “The Merchant Prince risks more than the Court by appearing weak on traitors,” Banage said calmly, raising his glowing rings.

  Miranda cursed under her breath and reached for her rings as well. She didn’t know what good it would do. She had nothing left to give her spirits. Anything stronger than her moss might well knock her out for the day. Still, she intended to back her Rector no matter what. But, to her great surprise, Master Banage didn’t call any of his spirits. Instead, he pulled the ring from his left middle finger and reached out, pressing it into Miranda’s palm.

  She looked down in amazement. It was the heavy gold band set with the perfect circle of the Court that all Spiritualists received the day they took their oaths. Banage’s ring was larger than her own, warm, and surprisingly heavy. Far heavier, in fact, than it should have been.

  “It’s not gold,” Banage said, as though reading her thoughts. “Look inside.”

  Miranda turned the ring in her hand, and her eyes widened. The gold ended there, worn off by years of use to reveal the white stone core beneath.

  “That is the Rector’s Ring,” Banage said. “The direct link between the head of the Court and the spirit of the Tower.”

  “But,” Miranda whispered, remembering the heavy gold collar set with the flashing gems, Banage’s mark of office, “I thought—”

  “The collar is a tool,” Banage said. “It makes feeding power to the Tower easier, but it is not necessary. That ring is the link that forms the heart of the Rector’s power. It’s difficult to use, but I expect you to master it before you need it in earnest, which may well be very soon.”

  “No,” Miranda said, thrusting the ring back at him. “Why are you giving it to me? You’re the Rector. If that ring is the connection to the Tower, then it belongs with you. I can’t—”

  “Now is not the time to be willfully ignorant, Miranda,” Banage said, his voice dangerous. He glanced at the riders, now only a hundred feet away. “I defied the Council knowing very well how it would end, but I did what I did because I thought it the right thing to do, and I have no qualms about paying for it. But the world is changing quickly. Now more than ever, the Spirit Court must be united. We must make peace among ourselves and the Council if we are to uphold our duty in the days to come.” He met her eyes again. “Whatever you believe, the Council sees me as a traitor now. A traitor cannot make peace. But a young woman, a Spiritualist beloved by spirits great and small as well as a former agent for the Council, she could.”

  “No, she couldn’t!” Miranda cried. “It’s you we need, Master Banage. You’re our Rector. I won’t leave you to Sara!”

  Banage grabbed her hands, and Miranda stilled at once. She was so tired, so weak, she couldn’t fight him. She had no will to fight Banage anyway. He peeled her fingers apart, pulling off her own golden ring from her left ring finger before deftly sliding the Rector’s ring down in its place.

  Banage’s ring hung below her knuckle. The masculine gold circle was far too large for her, but even as Miranda was wondering how she would ever keep it on, the ring began to change. The gold-covered stone slithered like a living thing, warm and fluttering against her skin as it cinched itself to a perfect fit. When it was settled, the ring lay still against her skin as though it had always been there. Miranda tensed, waiting to feel something, a brush of a spirit across her mind, a voice, but there was nothing. The moment the ring stopped moving, all proof that it was anything other than a simple gold ring vanished save only for the suspicious warmth and oppressive weight.

  Banage nodded and released her hand. “It won’t fully open for you until you’re confirmed as Rector,” he said, turning to face the riders. “That may or may not happen, depending on the Tower Keeper’s vote, but it will do for now. You must call the Conclave as soon as possible.”

  “Conclave?” Miranda whispered. The Conclave was the most sacred Spiritualist gathering, called only in dire emergency. Every Spiritualist had to attend or forfeit their oaths. “How could I call one? There hasn’t been a Conclave in nearly a hundred years.”

  Banage smiled. “High time for one then, I’d say.” The Council troops were almost on top of them now, and Banage pulled himself straight. “Wipe your eyes. Sara preys on weakness.”

  Startled, Miranda scrubbed her eyes as the riders circled them. Sara pulled her borrowed horse to a stop a few feet from Banage and dismounted stiffly. The man beside her, a middle-aged officer Miranda recognized as the one who’d helped Sara surround the Spirit Court Tower before the Court had left Zarin the day before, stayed in his saddle, watching with the bored detachment of a soldier doing his duty as Sara faced her husband.

  “You were wise not to run, Etmon,” she said. “You’ve spared your Court the indignity of watching their Rector be hunted down like a common criminal.”

  Banage lifted his chin. “Considering how bad the Council is at catching common criminals, perhaps I should have taken my chances.”

  Sara sniffed. “Your agents haven’t done much better, as I recall.”

  “At least my agent managed to actually make contact once in a while,” Banage said, holding out his hands. “Shall we get this over with?”

  Sara pushed his hands away with a smile. “Don’t be silly. We both know no common restraints can hold you.” She stepped forward, sliding her arm around Banage’s. “Until we return to Zarin, I am your manacles. It’ll be just like old times, won’t it, Etmon?”

  Banage said nothing, but Miranda saw his shoulders sink at Sara’s touch.

  “Now,” Sara said, lifting Banage’s hand to get a look at his rings, “Myron here brought the loyalist Tower Keepers with him. Alber would prefer if you named one of them as interim Rector. Where’s your ring?”

  “With her,” Banage nodded over his shoulder at Miranda. “Spiritualist Lyonette has agreed to serve as Rector and lead the Spirit Court until a vote can be taken.”

  “Her?” Sara glared at Miranda. “Really, Etmon, playing favorites to the end? It won’t look good, you putting another traitor at the head of the Court. The Council may start believing that all Spiritualists share your rebellious tendencies.”

  “I don’t care what the Council believes,” Banage said. “The Spirit Court is an independent body, and it will govern itself as its members see fit.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sara said, looking away from Miranda with a superior smirk. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

  She motioned, and the soldiers fell in around them. Banage climbed onto the horse Sara had ridden down and Sara climbed up behind him, wrapping her arms around the Rector’s waist in a way that reminded Miranda of a hawk’s talons wrapping around a rabbit.

  Miranda started forward, her mouth open to object, but Banage’s eyes stopped her in her tracks. She stood frozen as the Council troops turned and galloped up the mountain, taking Banage away toward the city. When they were gone, Gin pressed his cold nose into her side.

  “I would have eaten them for you,” he said.

  “I would have eaten them, too,” Miranda answered, rubbing her eyes. “Co
me on, we have to find the others. I’ve got some tough news to deliver.”

  Gin knelt. As soon as Miranda was safely on his back, he took off up the hill. Miranda clung to his fur as they passed the Council guards. She didn’t look at Banage as they rode by. She didn’t look at the sea behind her. She only looked forward, toward the city, the core of loyal Spiritualists who waited there, and all that must be done.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Nico opened her eyes and saw nothing but blackness. For a long moment she lay perfectly still, fighting to keep the panic from overwhelming her mind. Then something moved over her face and she realized she was staring into the wraps of her coat. She sank into the soft bed with a relieved, almost embarrassed sigh and tilted her head. Her coat obeyed instantly, sliding off her to reveal Josef’s bedroom.

  She sat up, pushing back the covers, then paused. The blankets next to her were rumpled. She slid her hand over them. The coverlet was warm, as though someone had been lying on top of it, and from the sloughed-off pile of throwing knives on the chest at the end of the bed, she had a pretty good idea who.

  Pulling her hood up to hide her blush, Nico swung her legs around and stood up. The room was dark, not that it mattered to her, but the flavor of the dark suggested it was night. A line of yellow light shone under the door leading to the sitting room, and Nico could hear soft voices on the other side, followed by the clink of silverware.

  She crossed the bedroom, bare feet silent on the wooden floor, and paused at the door. For a moment, she considered stepping through the shadows so she could see what was waiting before she entered the other room, but something held her back. Something was different now. She could see the world of spirits clearer than ever, but even they couldn’t hide the darkness that seeped along the edges of her vision. It was swirling like inky water, the tendrils reaching for her whenever she looked away.

  She’d noticed them when she first woke up the night she and Miranda had watched Eli vanish. Then she’d thought it was a side effect of her injuries, but she felt fine now, and the darkness was still there. She slid her eyes to the side of her sockets, trying to catch more, but the tendrils slid away every time she tried to look at them straight on. But the more she tried to catch a glimpse of it, the more Nico realized the swirling dark wasn’t actually new. The blackness had always been there. She was just noticing it now, because now Nico knew what it was. She’d seen it for herself when she’d looked down at her body during the fight with Den. The swirling darkness was her. Her true form. The malicious, grasping shadows weren’t some trick of the demon or the seed repairing her injuries. She was seeing the edges of her own eyes.

  You wish it was me, don’t you? The demon’s voice seeped through the back of her mind like cold water. At least then you’d have someone to blame. But whom do you blame now that you’re the monster?

  Nico clenched her teeth and slammed her will down hard. The demon’s voice vanished, leaving only silence. When she was certain she was completely in control, Nico turned away from the shadows and seized the door handle, pushing it open with a loud click.

  Josef and the other man looked up in unison. They were sitting at the table by the fireplace. Josef was eating dinner, and his side of the small table was buried under a plate of roast beef, a pitcher of water, and a basket with bread with a vial of flavored oil. The other man was far older, though much of that age may have been an illusion caused by the lamps casting shadows into the deep, deep worry lines that crossed his face. His side of the table was covered in ledgers and reports, and neither he nor the king looked happy with their contents.

  Josef’s frown deepened the moment he saw her. “Nico, go back to bed. There’s no way you should be up yet.”

  “I’m fine,” Nico said, eyeing his plate. “Hungry more than anything.”

  Josef grabbed a spare chair and pulled it up beside his. “Eat,” he said gruffly. “And then back to bed.”

  Nico bit her lip to hide her smile as she walked over and took her seat. Josef piled a plate high with meat and bread before plopping it in front of her. Only when she’d taken her first bite and was well on the way to her second did he turn back to the man with the ledgers.

  “Continue.”

  The old man began to drum his fingers nervously against his papers as he made every effort not to look in Nico’s direction. “My lord, these are matters of Osera’s national—”

  “If you can say it to me, you can say it in front of her,” Josef said, shoving a fresh roll into his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, your majesty.” The old man shifted uncomfortably. “But I don’t believe I know your young lady, and I’m afraid I cannot divulge information this sensitive to—”

  “Powers,” Josef muttered around his mouthful of bread. He jabbed his thumb at Nico. “Nico, this is Lord Obermal, my, um—”

  “Keeper of the treasury of Osera,” the old man supplied.

  “Right,” Josef said. “Treasury Keeper, Nico. Nico, Treasury Keeper. Now that we all know each other, can we get on with this?”

  The old man went paler still, and Nico had to take a large bite to keep from laughing. Actually, she knew exactly who Lord Obermal was. She’d kept an eye on him while Eli and Josef had infiltrated the castle that first night in Osera. She just hoped the old treasurer didn’t connect the strange case of the missing audit officials with his prince’s sudden appearance, or, if he did, that he had the good sense not to mention it.

  “Very well, my lord,” Obermal continued at last, pushing a ledger toward Josef. “As I was saying, your mother, may she rest in peace, extended nearly all of Osera’s reserves preparing to meet the Empress. Our gold supply is at a critical level, and with the extensive damage to the city, especially to the docks and roads, we cannot expect to levy enough tax revenue to meet our basic obligations, much less the needs of Osera’s citizenry for repairs to the basic infrastructure required for—”

  “So we’re broke,” Josef said. “Too broke to rebuild, but we can’t get money until we rebuild because everything’s too wrecked to do business.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” Obermal said with a long sigh. “As I just said—”

  “So how do we get money?” Josef interrupted again.

  Lord Obermal stiffened. “If my lord would allow me to finish.” He waited until Josef nodded before continuing. “We have no choice but to borrow from the Council. Until the full damage reports are in, I can’t say for certain how much we’ll need, but if the numbers so far are any indication—”

  “No,” Josef said, crossing his arms.

  Lord Obermal blinked. “No to what, my lord?”

  “No, I’m not going to go begging money from the Council,” Josef said. “Whose skin do you think we saved stopping the Empress? If it wasn’t for Osera, it’d be their houses on fire, not ours. They should be falling over themselves to help us.”

  “That’s not the way the Council works, sire,” Lord Obermal said, his voice taking on the patient air of a tutor with an exceptionally stupid child. “The Council of Thrones is an economic and defensive agreement for the mutual benefit of all countries. Though I’m sure our fellows in the Council are very grateful to Osera for stopping the Empress and will almost certainly grant us a very favorable rate of interest in any loan for rebuilding, you can’t possibly ask them to just give—”

  “Interest?” Josef roared, slamming his chair against the floor as he lurched forward. “You mean those bastards want to make a profit off rebuilding the country that saved their lives? Are you kidding me?”

  “There are several precedents, my lord,” Obermal said gently.

  “Forget it,” Josef said, shaking his head. “Forget the whole thing. There is no way I’m borrowing money from that Council of vultures who couldn’t even be bothered to show up to fight their own war until eight hours after the Empress was gone.”

  “But the repairs must be made!” Lord Obermal cried. “And there’s simply no other way to raise that sort of capital. Th
e Council’s the only body large enough to offer the amounts we will require.”

  “How much?” Josef said.

  Obermal paused. “Pardon?”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  Obermal began riffling through his papers. “I couldn’t be sure without—”

  Josef rolled his eyes. “Guess.”

  “Yes, sire.” Obermal ran his fingers down a list of figures. “If I had to guess, and mind you, this is almost certainly a gross underestimation, but if I had to make a blind guess based on incomplete information for the cost of rebuilding the docks and all the infrastructure in Osera, I’d say it could be anywhere from a hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand gold standards.”

  “Oh,” Josef said, sitting back. “Is that all?”

  “Is that all?” Obermal cried, forgetting himself as his face turned scarlet. “I don’t know how much money you handled as a murderer for hire, Thereson, but Osera is one of the most prosperous countries in the Council, and we pull in, at most, a hundred and twenty thousand per year, including our tax on sea traffic. Even if my lowest estimates were correct, which I can assure you they aren’t, it would take one and a half years of Osera’s pre-Empress income to save that much money, assuming of course we didn’t pay for anything else during that time, so no guards, no servants, no social services, no garbage men or lamp lighters. And let’s not forget that level of income is impossible now since our docks are destroyed.” The treasurer shook his head. “It can’t be done. We cannot raise that kind of money on our own, not unless you want the repairs to take twenty years. Your mother borrowed Council funds the last time the Empress destroyed Osera, and it was the salvation of our island. The least you can do is try to follow her good example.”

  Josef leaned back, glaring at the old man as he finally fell silent. “Are you done?”

  Obermal went very still, his eyes growing wide as he realized what he’d just done. “Yes, sire,” he whispered. “Forgive me. It’s been a very stressful time for our office, and—”