their center, their Great Spirit, their mistress, worthy of service. The thought of being taken from her made him afraid in ways he hadn’t felt since he was puppy. Yet the Spirit Court could do that, if it chose. Miranda’s oath had forged the bonds, but every one of those promises had been made under the authority of the Court. So long as Miranda believed in that authority, the Court owned her rings and the spirits inside, even him. As with all human magic, it all came down to will. So long as Miranda wasn’t willing to go against the organization she’d pledged her life to, they were all bound to the Spirit Court’s whims. Still, the choice was Miranda’s, and despite what he’d said, Gin knew her well enough to know her decision. So he waited patiently, watching as the city lamps flickered on, the tiny fire spirits winking to life as the lamplighters walked the districts, filling the dark streets with soft, dancing light.
When Miranda answered at last, her voice was small but steady. “Gin,” she said, “I have always lived my life according to principle. I believe more than anything that there is right and there is wrong, and that the gap between them is wider than any words can bridge. No amount of good intentions or clever plans can turn oneinto the other. What we did in Mellinor, for Mellinor, was the right thing. I will not sit by and let anyone say it wasn’t.”
“Does that mean you’re going to fight?”
“Yes,” Miranda said and smiled, tilting her head to look up at him. “To the great inconvenience of everyone involved.”
“The life of principle is never convenient,” Gin said with a toothy grin. “At least not that I’ve seen.”
Miranda laughed, and Gin got up with a long stretch. “Now that that’s decided,” he growled, “you should get inside. You’re crabby when you haven’t slept.”
Miranda stood up stiffly, brushing the dirt off her trousers and looking forlornly at the deep rut Gin had made in the flower bed. “The garden committee is going to kill us.”
“Eh,” Gin said, shrugging. “You’re already on trial for treason. What more could they do?”
Miranda rolled her eyes at that, but she was smiling. As Gin nosed her toward the door of her building, she caught his muzzle in her hands and gave him a serious look.
“Thank you,” she said, “for being a pushy ass.”
“What else am I here for?”
Miranda shook her head and walked into her building, trudging up the stairs to the tiny suite of rooms the Spirit Court allotted all traveling Spiritualists. Gin watched her until she was out of sight, then moved out to the alley to watch the light come on in her window. The lamp flickered, and then, a minute later, the room went dark again. Satisfied that things would be fine until tomorrow, Gin ambled back to his flower bed and flopped down, restinghis head in a soft, sweet-smelling clump of something silver-green with furry leaves, and, after scarcely two breaths, promptly fell back to sleep.
Far away from the low, plain buildings where the common Spiritualists kept their rooms, at the other end of the Spirit Court’s district where the architecture took a turn for the large and ornate, Grenith Hern was sitting on his balcony enjoying a bottle of wine. Bright light from his sitting room shone through the open double doors, highlighting the graying gold of his long, straight hair and casting his shadow in perfect contrast on the empty street below, a fine, trim figure in fine, trim clothing. This was not by chance. Hern often sat this way in the evenings, for he enjoyed the picture he presented, and the view of the city was very fine.
From here he could look down the ridge to see the lamps flicker on, one pair at a time. As he watched them, he couldn’t help thinking, as he always did when he spent his evenings at home, how, if he were Rector Spiritualis, he would have put every lamp spirit in the city under the control of a single fire, so that they could
When Miranda answered at last, her voice was small but steady. “Gin,” she said, “I have always lived my life according to principle. I believe more than anything that there is right and there is wrong, and that the gap between them is wider than any words can bridge. No amount of good intentions or clever plans can turn oneinto the other. What we did in Mellinor, for Mellinor, was the right thing. I will not sit by and let anyone say it wasn’t.”
“Does that mean you’re going to fight?”
“Yes,” Miranda said and smiled, tilting her head to look up at him. “To the great inconvenience of everyone involved.”
“The life of principle is never convenient,” Gin said with a toothy grin. “At least not that I’ve seen.”
Miranda laughed, and Gin got up with a long stretch. “Now that that’s decided,” he growled, “you should get inside. You’re crabby when you haven’t slept.”
Miranda stood up stiffly, brushing the dirt off her trousers and looking forlornly at the deep rut Gin had made in the flower bed. “The garden committee is going to kill us.”
“Eh,” Gin said, shrugging. “You’re already on trial for treason. What more could they do?”
Miranda rolled her eyes at that, but she was smiling. As Gin nosed her toward the door of her building, she caught his muzzle in her hands and gave him a serious look.
“Thank you,” she said, “for being a pushy ass.”
“What else am I here for?”
Miranda shook her head and walked into her building, trudging up the stairs to the tiny suite of rooms the Spirit Court allotted all traveling Spiritualists. Gin watched her until she was out of sight, then moved out to the alley to watch the light come on in her window. The lamp flickered, and then, a minute later, the room went dark again. Satisfied that things would be fine until tomorrow, Gin ambled back to his flower bed and flopped down, restinghis head in a soft, sweet-smelling clump of something silver-green with furry leaves, and, after scarcely two breaths, promptly fell back to sleep.
Far away from the low, plain buildings where the common Spiritualists kept their rooms, at the other end of the Spirit Court’s district where the architecture took a turn for the large and ornate, Grenith Hern was sitting on his balcony enjoying a bottle of wine. Bright light from his sitting room shone through the open double doors, highlighting the graying gold of his long, straight hair and casting his shadow in perfect contrast on the empty street below, a fine, trim figure in fine, trim clothing. This was not by chance. Hern often sat this way in the evenings, for he enjoyed the picture he presented, and the view of the city was very fine.
From here he could look down the ridge to see the lamps flicker on, one pair at a time. As he watched them, he couldn’t help thinking, as he always did when he spent his evenings at home, how, if he were Rector Spiritualis, he would have put every lamp spirit in the city under the control of a single fire, so that they could
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