“I can see that,” Miranda snapped. “What I want to know is, if you knew all this, why you didn’t see fit to tell me.”
Sparrow arched his thin shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “What good would it have done you to know? You were already running your darling dog into the ground to get to Zarin, so it’s not like the knowledge would have spurred you any faster.”
Miranda’s jaw clenched. “And did it never occur to you that a continent-scale war is something I should be informed of?”
“It did,” Sparrow said. “But quite frankly, Miranda dear, you have a bad habit of getting bent out of shape over things that have nothing to do with you. Remember who sprung you out of your charming little cold cellar under the mountain. You’re working for Sara now. She, not I, decides what you need to know and when, and she said nothing about telling you anything about the war.”
Miranda’s eyes went wide. “Said?” she hissed. “When did you—”
Before she could finish, Sparrow flicked his hand and a blue ball the size of a marble attached to a leather cord rolled out into his palm. Miranda snapped her mouth shut. Of course. She’d forgotten he had a Relay point. How stupid could she be?
“You still should have told me,” she grumbled.
“Think that all you like,” Sparrow said, rolling the Relay point in his hand. “I’m not sticking my neck out for your desperate need to meddle.” He flicked his hand again, and the blue orb disappeared. “Remember, little Spiritualist,” he said, smiling at her startled jerk. “Sara owns you now. I suggest you do as I do and do just what she says, no more and no less. In the meanwhile, get moving. You’re wasting our time.”
Gin snarled and craned his head back, enormous teeth bared, but Miranda shook her head.
“Ride,” she said.
Gin snapped his teeth. “Let me teach this—”
She dug her fingers into his fur. “Go.”
Gin snarled one last time, but then he turned and dashed toward the northern gate as fast as he could go, his fur bristling in wild gray swirls. Miranda hunkered down on his back, grateful that the rushing wind made further conversation impossible.
Zarin’s gates were thrown wide open to accommodate the massive influx of people. The northern gate was staffed with a squad in Whitefall’s white and silver directing traffic. They waved Gin forward without question, and Miranda immediately turned them down a side street, dodging the crowds as best she could. When they were clear of the gate’s confusion, Miranda nudged Gin west, toward Whitefall Citadel. It felt strange to enter Zarin and not go directly to the Spirit Court, but she had the feeling that if she didn’t see Sara first, things would get ugly. Still, she couldn’t help craning her neck as they rode, watching for any flash of the Spirit Court’s white walls between the buildings as Gin began the run up the hill to the citadel.
The approach to the Council’s stronghold was even more crowded than the road into Zarin. The city was packed to bursting. Troops in a rainbow of country colors clogged the streets and side alleys in noisy, suspicious packs. Everyone made room for Gin, even bravado-filled soldiers weren’t stupid enough to stand in a ghosthound’s way, but it was still infuriatingly slow going. Finally, after almost an hour of climbing, they made it to the citadel gate.
The guards stepped aside the moment they saw Sparrow, and Gin trotted into the citadel’s paved yard. Even here, the traffic was heavy. Ornate, official carriages clogged every inch of the Council’s entry, and servants, footmen, and guards stood in every available space, waiting for their masters with sullen, suspicious looks. Gin turned immediately, sticking to the fence until he found a space under the ornamental trees wide enough for his passengers to dismount.
“Wait here,” Miranda said, eyeing the other carriages nervously. “And try not to startle the horses. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
Gin nodded and sat down with a huff, growling deep in his throat. He was still biting mad, but he’d been with Miranda long enough to know that acting out wouldn’t get him anywhere but into her bad graces. Still, swallowing anger graciously was not a ghosthound virtue, and so Miranda had to content herself with leaving him growling in the shady corner of the packed citadel yard. This should have made her nervous, but today she was too angry herself to care. And so, filthy, bedraggled, and furious, Miranda marched past the carriages and up the stairs of the Council of Thrones. Sparrow drifted along behind her, thoroughly amused by the whole affair.
A page separated himself from the flock in the entry hall the moment they entered to inform Miranda and Sparrow that Sara was expecting them.