It blew the sand in waves and whipped the man’s robes around him, though, miraculously, they never tangled in his arms or impeded his legs. When he reached Miranda’s fire, the man sat down gracefully, like a guest at a banquet, and gestured with his hand.
The moment he moved his fingers, the wind died out, and in the sudden silence, he extended his hand to Miranda.
“Please,” he said, smiling. “Sit.”
Miranda didn’t budge. It took a strong-willed wizard to work with a wind, and she wasn’t about to give him an opening just because he was polite. “Who are you?”
“Someone who wants to help you, Spiritualist Lyonette,” the man said pleasantly.
“If you know that much,” Miranda said, relaxing a fraction, “then you should know it’s just Miranda now. My title was stripped last week.”
“So I have been told,” the man said. “But such things matter very little to the powers I represent.” He motioned again. “Please, do sit.”
Curiosity was eating at her now, and she inched her way down the wall until she was sitting, facing him across the fire.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his robe. “I have been rude. My name is Lelbon. I serve as an ambassador for Illir.”
He paused, waiting for some kind of reaction, but the name meant nothing to Miranda. However, the moment Lelbon spoke, she felt a sharp, stabbing pressure against her collarbone. At first, she thought the man had done something, but then she realized it was Eril’s pendant driving itself into her chest.
Careful to keep her face casual, she sent a small questioning tendril of power down to her wind spirit. The answer she received was an overwhelming, desperate need to come out.
“Eril,” she said softly, pulling on the thread that connected them, giving permission. The pendant’s pressure stopped and the wind spirit flew out. For once, however, Eril did not rush around. Instead, he swirled obediently beside Miranda, creating little circles in the sand.
“Sorry, mistress,” the wind whispered. “Illir is one of the Wind Lords. To not pay my respects to his ambassador would be unthinkably rude.”
Miranda tensed. “Wind Lords?”
“Yes,” Lelbon said. “The West Wind, specifically.”
“And this Illir,” Miranda said carefully, “is the Great Spirit of the west?” It seemed like a tremendous area to be under the control of one Great Spirit, but with spirits it was always better to suggest more power rather than less, so as not to risk offending. From the way her usually intractable wind spirit was acting, Miranda guessed that Illir was not someone you wanted angry with you.
“Great Spirit isn’t the most accurate description,” Lelbon said with the slow consideration of someone who thrived on particulars. “Great Spirits have a domain: The river controls its valley, an ancient tree guards its forest, and so forth. Winds are different. They can cross dozens of different domains over the course of their day, and since they do not touch the ground, local Great Spirits have little control over them. So, rather than be part of the patchwork of grounded domains, the winds have their own domain in the sky, which is ruled by four lords, one for each cardinal direction. Whenever a wind blows in a direction, it enters the sway of that lord. Illir is the Lord of the West. Therefore, when a wind blows west, it is under the rule of Illir.” He smiled at the space where Eril was circling. “Any given wind will blow in all directions during its lifetime, and thus owes allegiance to all four winds. Angering any of them could mean shutting off that direction forever.”
“A terrible fate,” Eril shuddered. “It is our nature to blow where we choose. Losing a direction for a wind is like losing a limb for a human.”
Miranda nodded slowly, a little overwhelmed. She’d never heard of any of this, not from her lessons in the Spirit Court or her travels, and certainly not from her wind spirit.
“Don’t look so fretful.” Lelbon smiled at her wide-eyed look. “There’s no reason for humans, wizard or otherwise, to know the obligations of the winds. Most spirits don’t even understand how it works. They don’t need to. The winds handle their own affairs.”
“So what are you?” It felt rather personal to ask, but she had to know. “Are you human or…”
Lelbon laughed. “Oh, I’m human. I’m a scholar who studies spirits, wind spirits in particular, which is how I stumbled into my current position. The West Wind is an old,