The Spirit Rebellion(85)

“Yes,” the wind said, used to the duke’s sudden subject changes. “And the measures to make sure she stays that way are in place, as you ordered. Hern was gloating the whole time, though his cronies looked less pleased. He swears she’s the real Miranda Lyonette, the one who worked with Monpress in Mellinor. She won’t wake for another hour or two, but she apparently knows Eli better than most. Are you going to go talk to her?”

“Of course not,” the duke said. “In an hour or two, everything should be over. Besides, no amount of information is worth dealing with extremists like Banage and his sympathizers. I have far too many contingencies as it is. No, so far as I’m concerned, she’s Hern’s problem now. I’m just keeping hold of her for the moment, since Hern can’t keep a prisoner to save his life. It’s his love of gloating. He gives them too many opportunities for escape.”

“What about her dog?” the wind asked. “I’ve been hearing reports from the countryside about a dog.”

“As I said,” the duke said, walking out of the treasury, “Hern’s problem. Moving on, is the city ready for lockdown?”

“Of course,” the wind said. “Has been for hours. All we’re waiting on now is for the conscripts to finish clearing the last of the nonenlisted townsfolk back into their homes.”

“Good.” The duke smiled as he walked down the front steps of his citadel. “It may not be unfolding quite as I designed, but the trap is still in place. Eli will come, mark my words. Just be ready to tighten the noose when you hear the signal.”

“Yes, lord duke,” the wind said, spiraling up into the cloudless sky as the duke made his way across the square shouting for his officers.


On a black cliff above the gray northern sea stood a great citadel. It was cut from the same black stone as the cliff, or perhaps it was part of the cliff. After so many years it was difficult to tell. It stood tall and sharp, looming over the choppy waves and the desolate strip of shore far below like some great weapon dropped in an ancient battle of giants. Yet it stood alone. There was no town nestled in the rocky field at its base, no houses on the barren hills beyond. Nothing but stone and sand and wind-dwarfed trees and the citadel, its windows dark beneath the grudging noon light that filtered through the ashy clouds overhead.

Midway up one of the leaning towers, sitting at a broad desk that faced one of the larger windows overlooking the sea, Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, was dealing with the morning’s crises. A demonseed had awakened in the desert that spanned the southern tip of the Immortal Empress’s domain. So far, it had eaten three dunes, a cactus forest, a small nomad camp, and the agent who’d been sent to deal with it. Alric listened carefully to the wind spirit who’d come with the report, his thin-lined face set in a thoughtful frown as the wind blustered about the size of the demon and how it had already eaten a great desert storm and didn’t Alric know they were all doomed?

When the wind finally blew itself out, Alric turned to the large, open book that took up most of his desk, and he flipped to the last page. Taking his sharp pen, he neatly crossed out the name of the now-deceased agent. It was a shame. The boy had shown promise. He flipped forward a few pages and decided to put one of his senior agents on the desert problem. Ante Chejo was an excellent swordsman and a level thinker, and he was from that part of the empire. He would do nicely. Decision made, Alric made a note next to Chejo’s name in the great book and called in a runner. The silent, somber-suited man was at his side instantly. Alric gave him the orders and the runner left to find Chejo.

Thanking the wind for the message, Alric sent it to wait in the courtyard with stern assurances that Chejo would take care of things from here on. The wind didn’t seem convinced, but it left, blowing out the window in a blustery huff and leaving Alric to deal with the other fires that were already flaring up.

There were rumors of a possible demonseed on the southern jungles of the Council Kingdoms and a new report of something off the north coast of the White Wastes, which was probably just a leviathan but had to be investigated all the same. There were reports piling up from agents in the major cities on demon cult activity, fund movements, and possible candidates for the League as well as the usual panic reports from spooked spirits that had to be investigated, compiled observations from each of the great winds, and equipment requests from the League armsmaster. It was the same rubbish over and over, but they had to be sorted, all the same.

He was about halfway through the morning’s work when something fell onto his desk with a clatter. He looked up. It was a bound and capped tube stamped with the seal of their post in Zarin. Alric frowned. It was not unusual for a message to simply appear on his desk. That was part of the system the League of Storms had always used to spread information quickly, set up long, long before he was born. What was unusual was that Zarin would be sending a report now when he’d just received their morning report thirty minutes ago. He popped the seal with his finger and began to read.