The Spirit Rebellion

Book 2: The Legend of Eli Monpress

by Rachel Aaron

Genres: Science Fiction

Synopsis

He's also still at large, which drives Miranda Lyonette crazy. While she's been kicked out of the Spirit Court, Eli's had plenty of time to plan his next adventure. But now the tables have turned, because Miranda has a new job - and an opportunity to capture a certain thief.

Things are about to get exciting for Eli. He's picked a winner for his newest heist. His target: the Duke of Gaol's famous "thief-proof" citadel. Eli knows Gaol is a trap, but what's life without challenges? Except the Duke is one of the wealthiest men in the world, a wizard who rules his duchy with an iron fist, and an obsessive perfectionist with only one hobby: Eli.

It seems that everyone is hunting for Eli Monpress.

"A delightfully giddy romp of a novel." - Karen Miller, author of The innocent mage

"Wry humor, engaging characters and full-tilt action." - Gail Z. Martin, author of The Summoner

Release date: November 1, 2010

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 464

Sample

High in the forested hills where no one went, there stood a stone tower. It was a practical tower, neither lovely nor soaring,
but solid and squat at only two stories. Its enormous blocks were hewn from the local stone, which was of an unappealing,
muddy color that seemed to attract grime. Seeing that, it was perhaps fortunate that the tower was overrun with black-green
vines. They wound themselves around the tower like thread on a spindle, knotting the wooden shutters closed and crumbling
the mortar that held the bricks together, giving the place an air of disrepair and gloomy neglect, especially when it was
dark and raining, as it was now.


Inside the tower, a man was shouting. His voice was deep and authoritative, but the voice that answered him didn’t seem to
care. It yelled back, childish and high, yet something in it was unignorable, and the vines that choked the tower rustled
closer to listen.


Completely without warning, the door to the tower, a heavy wooden slab stained almost black from years in the forest, flew open. Yellow firelight spilled into the clearing, and,
with it, a boy ran out into the wet night. He was thin and pale, all legs and arms, but he ran like the wind, his dark hair
flying behind him. He had already made it halfway across the clearing before a man burst out of the tower after him. He was
also dark haired, and his eyes were bright with rage, as were the rings that clung to his fingers.


“Eliton!” he shouted, throwing out his hand. The ring on his middle finger, a murky emerald wrapped in a filigree of golden
leaves and branches, flashed deep, deep green. Across the dirt clearing that surrounded the tower, a great mass of roots ripped
itself from the ground below the boy’s feet.


The boy staggered and fell, kicking as the roots grabbed him.

“No!” he shouted. “Leave me alone!”

The words rippled with power as the boy’s spirit blasted open. It was nothing like the calm, controlled openings the Spiritualists
prized. This was a raw ripping, an instinctive, guttural reaction to fear, and the power of it landed like a hammer, crushing
the clearing, the tower, the trees, the vines, everything. The rain froze in the air, the wind stopped moving, and everything
except the boy stood perfectly still. Slowly, the roots that had leaped up fell away, sliding limply back to the churned ground,
and the boy squirmed to his feet. He cast a fearful, hateful glance over his shoulder, but the man stood as still as everything
else, his rings dark and his face bewildered like a joker’s victim.


“Eliton,” he said again, his voice breaking.

“No!” the boy shouted, backing away. “I hate you and your endless rules! You’re never happy, are you? Just leave me alone!”


The words thrummed with power, and the boy turned and ran. The man started after him, but the vines shot off the tower and
wrapped around his body, pinning him in place. The man cried out in rage, ripping at the leaves, but the vines piled on thicker
and thicker, and he could not get free. He could only watch as the boy ran through the raindrops, still hanging weightless
in the air, waiting for the child to say it was all right to fall.


“Eliton!” the man shouted again, almost pleading. “Do you think you can handle power like this alone? Without discipline?”
He lunged against the vines, reaching toward the boy’s retreating back. “If you don’t come back this instant you’ll be throwing
away everything that we’ve worked for!”


The boy didn’t even look back, and the man’s face went scarlet.

“Go on, keep running!” he bellowed. “See how far you get without me! You’ll never amount to anything without training! You’ll
be worthless alone! WORTHLESS! DO YOU HEAR?”


“Shut up!” The boy’s voice was distant now, his figure scarcely visible between the trees, but his power still thrummed in
the air. Trapped by the vines, the man could only struggle uselessly as the boy vanished at last into the gloom. Only then
did the power begin to fade. The vines lost their grip and the man tore himself free. He took a few steps in the direction
the boy had gone, but thought better of it.


“He’ll be back,” he muttered, brushing the leaves off his robes. “A night in the wet will teach him.” He glared at the vines. “He’ll be back. He can’t do anything without me.”


The vines slid away with a noncommittal rustle, mindful of their roll in his barely contained anger. The man cast a final,
baleful look at the forest and then, gathering himself up, turned and marched back into the tower. He slammed the door behind
him, cutting off the yellow light and leaving the clearing darker than ever as the suspended rain finally fell to the ground.


The boy ran, stumbling over fallen logs and through muddy streams swollen with the endless rain. He didn’t know where he was
going, and he was exhausted from whatever he had done in the clearing. His breath came in thundering gasps, drowning out the
forest sounds, and yet, now as always, no matter how much noise he made, he could hear the spirits all around him—the anger
of the stream at being full of mud, the anger of the mud at being cut from its parent dirt spirit and shoved into the stream,
the contented murmurs of the trees as the water ran down them, the mindless singing of the crickets. The sounds of the spirit
world filled his ears as no other sounds could, and he clung to them, letting the voices drag him forward even as his legs
threatened to give up.


The rain grew heavier as the night wore on, and his progress slowed. He was walking now through the black, wet woods. He had
no idea where he was and he didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was going back to the tower. Nothing could make him go back there,
back to the endless lessons and rules of the black-and-white world his father lived in.


Tears ran freely down his face, and he scrubbed them away with dirty fists. He couldn’t go home. Not anymore. He’d made his
choice; there was no going back. His father wouldn’t take him back after that show of disobedience, anyway. Worthless, that
was what his father had written him off as. What hope was left after that?


His feet stumbled, and the boy fell, landing hard on his shoulder. He struggled a second, and then lay still on the soaked
ground, breathing in the wet smell of the rotting leaves. What was the point of going on? He couldn’t go back, and he had
nowhere to go. He’d lived out here with his father forever. He had no friends, no relatives to run to. His mother wouldn’t
take him. She hadn’t wanted him when he’d been doing well; she certainly wouldn’t want him now. Even if she did, he didn’t
know where she lived.


Grunting, he rolled over, looking up through the drooping branches at the dark sky overhead, and tried to take stock of his
situation. He’d never be a wizard now, at least, not like his father, with his rings and rules and duties, which was the only
kind of wizard the world wanted so far as the boy could see. Maybe he could live in the mountains? But he didn’t know how
to hunt or make fires or what plants of the forest he could eat, which was a shame, for he was getting very hungry. More than
anything, though, he was tired. So tired. Tired and small and worthless.


He spat a bit of dirt out of his mouth. Maybe his father was right. Maybe worthless was a good word for him. He certainly
couldn’t think of anything he was good for at the moment. He couldn’t even hear the spirits anymore. The rain had passed and
they were settling down, drifting back to sleep. His own eyes were drooping, too, but he shouldn’t sleep like this, wet and dirty and exposed. Yet when he thought
about getting up, the idea seemed impossible. Finally, he decided he would just lie here, and when he woke up, if he woke up, he would take things from there.


The moment he made his decision, sleep took him. He lay at the bottom of the gully, nestled between a fallen log and a living
tree, still as a dead thing. Animals passed, sniffing him curiously, but he didn’t stir. High overhead, the wind blew through
the trees, scattering leaves on top of him. It blew past and then came around again, dipping low into the gully where the
boy slept.


The wind blew gently, ruffling his hair, blowing along the muddy, ripped lines of his clothes and across his closed eyes.
Then, as though it had found what it was looking for, the wind climbed again and hurried away across the treetops. Minutes
passed in still silence, and then, in the empty air above the boy, a white line appeared. It grew like a slash in the air,
spilling sharp, white light out into the dark.


From the moment the light appeared, nothing in the forest moved. Everything, the insects, the animals, the mushrooms, the
leaves on the ground, the trees, the water running down them, everything stood frozen, watching as a white, graceful, feminine
hand reached through the cut in the air to brush a streak of mud off the boy’s cheek. He flinched in his sleep, and the long
fingers clenched, delighted.


By this time, the wind had returned, larger than before. It spun down the trees, sending the scattered leaves dancing, but
it did not touch the boy.


“Is he not as I told you?” it whispered, staring at the sleeping child as spirits see.


Yes. The voice from the white space beyond the world was filled with joy, and another white hand snaked out to join the first,
stroking the boy’s dirty hair. He is just as you said.

The wind puffed up, very pleased with itself, but the woman behind the cut seemed to have forgotten it was there. Her hands
reached out farther, followed by snowy arms, shoulders, and a waterfall of pure white hair that glowed with a light of its
own. White legs followed, and for the first time in hundreds of years, she stepped completely through the strange hole, from
her white world into the real one.


All around her, the forest shook in awe. Every spirit, from the ancient trees to the mayflies, knew her and bowed down in
reverence. The fallen logs, the moss, even the mud under her feet paid her honor and worship, prostrating themselves beneath
the white light that shone from her skin as though the moon stood on the ground.


The lady didn’t acknowledge them. Such reverence was her due. All of her attention was focused on the boy, still dead asleep,
his grubby hands clutching his mud-stained jacket around him.


Gentle as the falling mist, the white woman knelt beside him and eased her hands beneath his body, lifting him from the ground
as though he weighed nothing and gently laying him on her lap.


He is beautiful, she said. So very beautiful. Even through the veil of flesh, he shines like the sun.

She stood up in one lovely, graceful motion, cradling the boy in her arms. You shall be my star, she whispered, pressing her white lips against the sleeping boy’s forehead. My best beloved, my favorite, forever and ever until the end of the world and beyond.

The boy stirred as she touched him, turning toward her in his sleep, and the White Lady laughed, delighted. Clutching him
to her breast, she turned and stepped back through the slit in the world, taking her light with her. The white line held a
moment after she was gone, and then it too shimmered and faded, leaving the wet forest darker and emptier than ever.


Zarin, city of magic, rose tall and white in the afternoon sun. It loomed over the low plains of the central Council Kingdoms,
riding the edge of the high, rocky ridge that separated the foothills from the great sweeping piedmont so that the city spires
could be seen from a hundred miles in all directions. But highest of all, towering over even the famous seven battlements
of Whitefall Citadel, home of the Merchant Princes of Zarin and the revolutionary body they had founded, the Council of Thrones,
stood the soaring white spire of the Spirit Court.


It rose from the great ridge that served as Zarin’s spine, shooting straight and white and impossibly tall into the pale sky
without joint or mortar to support it. Tall, clear windows pricked the white surface in a smooth, ascending spiral, and each
window bore a fluttering banner of red silk stamped in gold with a perfect, bold circle, the symbol of the Spirit Court. No
one, not even the Spiritualists, knew how the tower had been made. The common story was that the Shapers, that mysterious and independent guild of crafting
wizards responsible for awakened swords and the gems all Spiritualists used to house their spirits, had raised it from the
stone in a single day as payment for some unknown debt. Supposedly, the tower itself was a united spirit, though only the
Rector Spiritualis, who held the great mantle of the tower, knew for certain.


The tower’s base had four doors, but the largest of these was the eastern door, the door that opened to the rest of the city.
Red and glossy, the door stood fifteen feet tall, its base as wide as the great, laurel-lined street leading up to it. Broad
marble steps spread like ripples from the door’s foot, and it was on these that Spiritualist Krigel, assistant to the Rector
Spiritualis and bearer of a very difficult task, chose to make his stand.


“No, here.” He snapped his fingers, his severe face locked in a frown even more dour than the one he usually wore. “Stand
here.”


The mass of Spiritualists obeyed, shuffling in a great sea of stiff, formal, red silk as they moved where he pointed. They
were all young, Krigel thought with a grimace. Too young. Sworn Spiritualists they might be, but not a single one was more
than five months from their apprenticeship. Only one had more than a single bound spirit under her command, and all of them
looked too nervous to give a cohesive order to the spirits they did control. Truly, he’d been given an impossible task. He
only hoped the girl didn’t decide to fight.


“All right,” he said quietly when the crowd was in position. “How many of you keep fire spirits? Bonfires, torches, candles,
brushfires, anything that burns.”


A half-dozen hands went up.


“Don’t bring them out,” Krigel snapped, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. “I want nothing that can be drowned.
That means no sand, no electricity, not that any of you could catch a lightning bolt yet, but especially no fire. Now, those
of you with rock spirits, dirt, anything from the ground, raise your hands.”


Another half-dozen hands went up, and Krigel nodded. “You are all to be ready at a moment’s notice. If her dog tries anything,
anything, I want you to stop him.”


“But sir,” a lanky boy in front said. “What about the road?”

“Never mind the road,” Krigel said, shaking his head. “Rip it to pieces if you have to. I want that dog neutralized, or we’ll
never catch her should she decide to run. Yes,” he said and nodded at a hand that went up in the back. “Tall girl.”


The girl, who was in fact not terribly tall, went as red as her robe, but she asked her question in a firm voice. “Master
Krigel, are the charges against her true?”


“That is none of your business,” Krigel said, giving the poor girl a glare that sent her down another foot. “The Court decides
truth. Our job is to see that she stands before it, nothing else. Yes, you, freckled boy.”


The boy in the front put down his hand sheepishly. “Yes, Master Krigel, but then, why are we here? Do you expect her to fight?”

“Expectations are not my concern,” Krigel said. “I was ordered to take no chances bringing her to face the charges, and so
none I shall take. I’m only hoping you lot will be enough to stop her should she decide to run. Frankly, my money’s on the
dog. But,” he said and smiled at their pale faces, “one goes to battle with the army one’s got, so try and look competent and keep your hands down as much
as possible. One look at your bare fingers and the jig is up.”


Off in the city a bell began to ring, and Krigel looked over his shoulder. “That’s the signal. They’re en route. Places, please.”

Everyone shuffled into order and Krigel, dour as ever, took the front position on the lowest stair. There they waited, a wall
of red robes and clenched fists while, far away, down the long, tree-lined approach, a tall figure riding something long,
sleek, and mist colored passed through the narrow gate that separated the Spirit Court’s district from the rest of Zarin and
began to pad down the road toward them.


As the figure drew closer, it became clear that it was a woman, tall, proud, redheaded, and riding a great canine creature
that looked like a cross between a dog and freezing fog. However, that was not what made them nervous. The moment the woman
reached the first of the carefully manicured trees that lined the tower approach, every spirit in the group, including Krigel’s
own heavy rings, began to buzz.


“Control your spirits,” Krigel said, silencing his own with a firm breath.

“But master,” one of the Spiritualists behind him squeaked, clutching the shaking ruby on her index finger. “This can’t be
right. My torch spirit is terrified. It says that woman is carrying a sea.”


Krigel gave the girl a cutting glare over his shoulder. “Why do you think I brought two dozen of you with me?” He turned back
again. “Steady yourselves; here she comes.”


Behind him, the red-robed figures squeezed together, all of them focused on the woman coming toward them, now more terrifying
and confusing than the monster she rode.


“What now?” Miranda groaned, looking tiredly at the wall of red taking up the bottom step of the Spirit Court’s tower. “Four
days of riding and when we finally do get to Zarin, they’re having some kind of ceremony on the steps. Don’t tell me we got
here on parade day.”


“Doesn’t smell like parade day,” Gin said, sniffing the air. “Not a cooked goose for miles.”

“Well,” Miranda said, laughing, “I don’t care if it’s parade day or if Master Banage finally instituted that formal robes
requirement he’s been threatening for years. I’m just happy to be home.” She stretched on Gin’s back, popping the day’s ride out of her joints. “I’m going to go to Banage
and make my report.” And give him Eli’s letter, she added to herself. Her hand went to the square of paper in her front pocket. She still hadn’t opened it, but today she
could hand it over and be done. “After that,” she continued, grinning wide, “I’m going to have a nice long bath followed by
a nice long sleep in my own bed.”


“I’d settle for a pig,” Gin said, licking his chops.

“Fine,” Miranda said. “But only after seeing the stable master and getting someone to look at your back.” She poked the bandaged
spot between the dog’s shoulders where Nico’s hand had entered only a week ago, and Gin whimpered.


“Fine, fine,” he growled. “Just don’t do that again.”

Point made, Miranda sat back and let the dog make his own speed toward the towering white spire that had been her home since she was thirteen. Her irritation at the mass of red-robed Spiritualists blocking her easy path into the
tower faded a little when she recognized Spiritualist Krigel, Banage’s assistant and friend, standing at their head. Maybe
he was rehearsing something with the younger Spiritualists? He was in charge of pomp for the Court, after all. But any warm
feelings she had began to fade when she got a look at his face. Krigel was never a jolly man, but the look he gave her now
made her stomach clench. The feeling was not helped by the fact that the Spiritualists behind him would not meet her eyes,
despite her being the only rider on the road.


Still, she was careful not to let her unease show, smiling warmly as she steered Gin to a stop at the base of the tower steps.

“Spiritualist Krigel,” she said, bowing. “What’s all this?”

Krigel did not return her smile. “Spiritualist Lyonette,” he said, stepping forward. “Would you mind dismounting?”

His voice was cold and distant, but Miranda did as he asked, sliding off Gin’s back with a creak of protesting muscles. The
moment she was on the ground, the young, robed Spiritualists fanned out to form a circle around her, as though on cue. She
took a small step back, and Gin growled low in his throat.


“Krigel,” Miranda said again, laughing a little, “what’s going on?”

The old man looked her square in the eyes. “Spiritualist Miranda Lyonette, you are under arrest by order of the Tower Keepers
and proclamation of the Rector Spiritualis. You are here to surrender all weapons, rights, and privileges, placing yourself under the jurisdiction of the Spirit Court until such time as you shall answer to the charges
levied against you. You will step forward with your hands out, please.”


Miranda blinked at him, completely uncomprehending. “Arrest? For what?”

“That is confidential and will be answered by the Court,” Krigel responded.

“Powers, Krigel,” Miranda said, her voice almost breaking. “What is going on? Where is Banage? Surely this is a mistake.”

“There is no mistake.” Krigel looked sterner than ever. “It was Master Banage who ordered your arrest. Now, are you coming,
or do we have to drag you?”


The ring of Spiritualists took a small, menacing step forward, and Gin began to growl louder than ever. Miranda stopped him
with a glare.


“I will of course obey the Rector Spiritualis,” she said loudly, putting her hands out, palms up, in submission. “There’s
no need for threats, though I would like an explanation.”


“All in good time,” Krigel said, his voice relieved. “Come with me.”

“I’ll need someone to tend to my ghosthound,” Miranda said, not moving. “He is injured and tired. He needs food and care.”

“I’ll see that he is taken to the stables,” Krigel said. “But do come now, please. You may bring your things.”

Seeing that that was the best she was going to get, Miranda turned and started to untie her satchel from Gin’s side.

“I don’t like this at all,” the ghosthound growled.

“You think I do?” Miranda growled back. “This has to be a misunderstanding, or else some plan of Master Banage’s. Whatever
it is, I’ll find out soon enough. Just go along and I’ll contact you as soon as I know something.”


She gave him a final pat before walking over to Krigel. A group of five Spiritualists immediately fell in around her, surrounding
her in a circle of red robes and flashing rings as Krigel marched them up the stairs and through the great red door.


Krigel led the way through the great entry hall, up a grand set of stairs, and then through a side door to a far less grand
set of stairs. They climbed in silence, spiraling up and up and up. As was the tower’s strange nature, they made it to the
top much faster than they should have, coming out on a long landing at the tower’s peak.


Krigel stopped them at the top of the stairs. “Wait here,” he said, and vanished through the heavy wooden door at the landing’s
end, leaving Miranda alone with her escort.


The young Spiritualists stood perfectly still around her, fists clenched against their rings. Miranda could feel their fear,
though what she had done to inspire it she couldn’t begin to imagine. Fortunately, Krigel appeared again almost instantly,
snapping his fingers for Miranda to step forward.


“He’ll see you now,” Krigel said. “Alone.”

Miranda’s escort gave a collective relieved sigh as she stepped forward, and for once Miranda was in complete agreement. Now,
at least, maybe she could get some answers. When she reached the door, however, Krigel caught her hand.


“I know this has not been the homecoming you wished for,” he said quietly, “but mind your temper, Miranda. He’s been through
a lot for you already today. Try not to make things more difficult than they already are, for once.”


Miranda stopped short. “What do you mean?”

“Just keep that hot head of yours down,” Krigel said, squeezing her shoulder hard enough to make her wince.

Slightly more hesitant than she’d been a moment ago, Miranda turned and walked into the office of the Rector Spiritualis.

The office took up the entirety of the peak of the Spirit Court’s tower and, save for the landing and a section that was set
aside for the Rector Spiritualis’s private living space, it was all one large, circular room with everything built to impress.
Soaring stone ribs lined with steady-burning lanterns lit a polished stone floor that could hold ten Spiritualists and their
Spirit retinues with room to spare. Arched, narrow windows pierced the white walls at frequent intervals, looking down on
Zarin through clear, almost invisible glass. The walls themselves were lined with tapestries, paintings, and shelves stuffed
to overflowing with the collected treasures and curiosities of four hundred years of Spiritualists, all in perfect order and
without a speck of dust.


Directly across from the door where Miranda stood, placed at the apex of the circular room, was an enormous, imposing desk,
its surface hidden beneath neat stacks of parchment scrolls. Behind the desk, sitting in the Rector Spiritualis’s grand, high-backed
throne of a chair, was Etmon Banage himself.


Even sitting, it was clear he was a tall man. He had neatly trimmed black hair that was just starting to go gray at the temples, and narrow, jutting shoulders his bulky robes
did little to hide. His sharp face was handsome in an uncompromising way that allowed for neither smiles nor weakness, and
his scowl, which he wore now, had turned blustering kings into meek-voiced boys. His hands, which he kept folded on the desk
in front of him, were laden with heavy rings that almost sang with the sleeping power of the spirits within. Even in that
enormous room, the power of Banage’s spirits filled the air. But over it all, hanging so heavy it weighed even on Miranda’s
own rings, was the press of Banage’s will, iron and immovable and completely in command. Normally, Miranda found the inscrutable,
uncompromising power comforting, a firm foundation that could never be shaken. Tonight, however, she was beginning to understand
how a small spirit feels when a Great Spirit singles it out.


Banage cleared his throat, and Miranda realized she had stopped. She gathered her wits and quickly made her way across the
polished floor, stopping midway to give the traditional bow with her ringed fingers touching her forehead. When she straightened,
Banage flicked his eyes to the straight-backed chair that had been set out in front of his desk. Miranda nodded and walked
forward, her slippered feet quiet as snow on the cold stone as she crossed the wide, empty floor and took a seat.


“So,” Banage said, “it is true. You have taken a Great Spirit.”

Miranda flinched. This wasn’t the greeting she’d expected. “Yes, Master Banage,” she said. “I wrote as much in the report
I sent ahead. You received it, didn’t you?”


“Yes, I did,” Banage said. “But reading such a story and hearing the truth of it from your own spirits is quite a different
matter.”


Miranda’s head shot up, and the bitterness in her voice shocked even her. “Is that why you had me arrested?”

“Partially.” Banage sighed and looked down. “You need to appreciate the position we’re in, Miranda.” He reached across his
desk and picked up a scroll covered in wax seals. “Do you know what this is?”


Miranda shook her head.

“It’s a petition,” Banage said, “signed by fifty-four of the eighty-nine active Tower Keepers. They are demanding you stand
before the Court to explain your actions in Mellinor.”


“What of my actions needs explaining?” Miranda said, more loudly than she’d meant to.

Banage gave her a withering look. “You were sent to Mellinor with a specific mission: to apprehend Monpre