That last word was almost a wail, and she buried her head in her hands. Gin shifted anxiously. He hadn’t seen her this upset in a long time.
“Try to remember that I’ve been in a stable having cold, foul-smelling gunk smeared on my back all evening,” he said. “Could you be a little more specific?”
Miranda leaned back against him with a huff and, in a quick, clipped voice, told him everything. The arrest, her meeting with Banage, the accusations, and Hern’s compromise.
“A compromise, can you believe it?” she said, digging her fingers into the dirt. “Extortion is more like it.”
“Being a Tower Keeper doesn’t sound so bad,” Gin offered.
“It wouldn’t be,” Miranda said, “if I were getting the promotion for any reason other than Hern playing on Master Banage’s sense of duty toward me! Oh, I hate to think what other concessions Master Banage had to make to get that out of Hern. The man is a slime.”
“But if Banage already made the concessions, why not take the offer?” Gin said, sweeping his tail back and forth. “The problem is the Tower Keepers thinking your actions reflect badly on them, right? So let them have their trial. If you’re right and Hern’s only doing this to make Banage look bad, why give him more fodder by fighting? He can’t find fault if you keep strictly to the role of the dutiful Spiritualist.”
Miranda gave him a sideways look. “That’s a very political answer for a dog who always says he doesn’t understand politics.”
“I don’t understand politics,” Gin growled. “But I understand pride, and that’s what this is really about. Sometimes the price of doing the right thing is higher than we realize when we do it. Knowing the consequences, would you have acted differently in Mellinor?”
Miranda froze and thought for a second. “No,” she said firmly.
“There you have it,” Gin said with a shrug. “So pay the price. Take the out Banage bought you, appease the Tower Keeper’s pride, and move on.”
“I will not,” Miranda said. “Maybe it is about pride, mine as much as anyone’s, but I cannot, will not, bow to Hern’s bullying. Those things he accuses me of did not happen, and I will not stand by while he smears my name and my spirits with his lies.”
“So, what, you’re just going to throw Banage’s help away?” Gin growled. “What about the part where losing this trial could lose you your spirits? Your pride is your own, and I respect your right to beat yourself bloody over it, but we’re not something to be thrown away so cheaply.”
“That won’t happen,” Miranda said fiercely, gripping her hands until her rings cut into her fingers. “Trust me, we’ve got right on our side. We won’t lose, especially not to Hern.”
Gin looked at her, his orange eyes narrowed to slits. “And would you bet all of us on that?”
Miranda didn’t answer. They sat in silence for a while, staring out at the darkening streets. Gin sat very still, watching in the way that spirits watch. He could see each of Miranda’s spirits, the flow of their souls pulsing softly with the beating of her heart. Each spirit shone softly with its own unique color, and below them, buried deep within Miranda’s own bright soul, Mellinor’s spirit turned in his sleep. The Great Spirit was enormous and alien even to Gin, ancient beyond comprehension, yet it was also a part of Miranda now, and dear to him because of it, even beyond the natural reverence he owed a Great Spirit. Each glowing spirit, even Mellinor, had a tendril reaching out from its core. These were the bonds, the strong, deep network of binding promises, at the center of which was Miranda. All of them, even the tiny moss spirit, had abandoned their homes to follow her. From the moment they’d sworn their oaths, she’d become 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 one into 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, resting his 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 all be lit at once. The current method of lighting with a pair of lamp lighters walking around telling the lamps when to flare was old-fashioned and inefficient, not to mention a horrible waste of an opportunity to make the Whitefall family owe the Spiritualists a favor for something that would cost the court very little. Still, there was nothing to be done as he was merely Head of the Tower Keepers, and he certainly wasn’t about to give Banage the idea.