by Rachel Aaron
Eli’s magical power—having the ability to talk to the spirits of inanimate objects—is something rather new and exciting. How did you derive the idea for this?
As I’ve mentioned, I’m a nerd, and one of the nerdy things I do is make up magical systems. I have tons of them lying around waiting for a story, but this particular one seemed tailor-made for someone whose main superpower is talking people (and now objects) into doing what he wants. I’ve always loved the idea of talking things. Not just swords or items of great importance, but silly, normal things like pots and fireplaces. I wanted to create a world where everything could talk back to you, if you could listen, and also one where humans weren’t looked on terribly favorably. We’re a pretty scrubby bunch, after all. I’m sure my couch doesn’t approve of me.
Do you have a favorite character? If so, why?
Eli, of course! He’s hands down the most fun to write. Josef is a close second, because I adore straight-talking swordsmen, followed by Gin, as he’s just a straight-talking swordsman of another (shifting) color. I also have an extremely soft spot in my heart for Miranda. She tries so hard.
What’s in store for Eli and his crew in the next novel, The Spirit Rebellion ?
Eli and company had it relatively easy in Mellinor, but now they’re headed out into the larger world where things get more complicated. After all, as Eli never misses the chance to point out, he’s worth a lot of money now. Money attracts attention, and attention makes even simple heists much more dangerous. To keep his hide intact, Eli’s going to have to play his cards much closer to his vest… Too bad subtlety isn’t one of his strong points. Meanwhile, Miranda has to deal with the fallout from the fact that, not only did she fail to catch Eli in Mellinor, she actually ended up helping him. Let’s just say that her homecoming to the Spirit Court isn’t as warm and cheery as she’s used to.
Finally, what has been your favorite part of the publishing process so far?
The feedback, definitely. Back when I was first writing The Spirit Thief I would give it to my friends and family to read, but I always had a hard time believing them when they said they liked it. I thought, oh, they’re only saying that because they have to or because they don’t want to hurt my feelings. But then I started submitting my novel to agents, and even though I got a lot of rejections, I also got requests for more pages. Then I got a letter from my current agent’s assistant, the wonderful Lindsay Ribar. She’d read the first few pages of The Spirit Thief and wanted to see more. Now, anyone who’s ever tried to do anything with publishing, or with any competitive creative work, can understand the elation I felt at this. Here was a person, an exceedingly busy person with no reason to give me the time of day, wanting to read what I’d written. A publishing professional who’d picked me up out of the slush pile, out of the hundreds of other pages from hundreds of other authors, and liked my words enough to write me an e-mail asking for more. That’s a fantastic feeling.
I still had a long way to go after that, of course. The novel you hold in your hands is the product of the hard, dedicated work of many wonderful, book-loving people, both on my agent’s side and from Orbit. Without their feedback, time, and attention, The Spirit Thief would never have become what it is. That’s the part of publishing that never loses its sparkle, the fact that these wonderful people are willing to pour their time and attention into my silly little story about a thief who talks to doors. Every time I think about it, I feel humbled and elated all at once, and also determined to do my part to deliver the best stories I possibly can. That feeling of working together and being part of a team is definitely my favorite part of the publishing process.
introducing
If you enjoyed THE SPIRIT THIEF,
look out for
THE SPIRIT REBELLION
The Legend of Eli Monpress Book 2
by Rachel Aaron
PROLOGUE
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 role 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.
CHAPTER 1
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 th
ese 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.”
