the bottom in thick black blocks: fifty-five thousand gold standards. Eli let out a low whistle.
Renaud rolled the notice back into a tube and tossed it casually on top of the piled gold. “Everything you wanted, exactly as promised. Now give me my brother.”
“Gold first,” Eli said, putting his hand on the king’s rope.
Renaud nodded, and the third rider, a dark-haired swordsman with a scar across one side of his face, dismounted. He took the reins of the chest carriers and led them out to the center of the clearing, twenty feet from either party. There, he cut the straps, and the chest fell with a thud onto the dusty grass. He led the horses back to their riders and took his place again beside Renaud.
When he stopped completely, Eli nodded to Nico, and she released her death grip on the king’s tether. Eli picked up the slack and twisted the rope around his arm until it was tight. Then he put his hand on the king’s shoulder and, tied together, they started the slow, silent walk to the center of the circular field.
Five feet from the gold, Eli stopped. “All right,” he said slowly, “I’m going to let him walk forward. Any funny moves on your part, and”—he tugged the rope, nearly taking the king off his feet—“Got it?”
Renaud nodded, and Eli unclamped his hand from the king’s shoulder. The king walked forward. As soon as he passed the gold, Eli reached for the chest.
He heard the spirit almost too late, and he jumped back just in time as a bolt of blue lightning shrieked inches from his face. He fell backward, tugging hard on the rope. The king came flailing after him, and they landed in a heap a few feet from the chest.
“That’s enough,” said a cold voice. The thick brush at the edge of the clearing rustled, and the enormous ghosthound stepped into view, Miranda sitting high on his back. They were dirty, and Miranda looked like she was having trouble staying mounted, but the hand she pointed at Eli was steady as a stone, and the blue lightning arcing from the large aquamarine on her right middle finger was nothing to be flippant about.
Gin padded silently across the open ground. “I don’t know how you dodged Skarest,” Miranda said, and the lightning on her arm crackled angrily, “but the next shot will kill you before the girl can move.” She shot Nico a glare before turning it on Eli. “Step away from the king and put your hands out where I can see them.”
“What do you think you are doing, Miss Lyonette?” Renaud said, reining in his nervous horse.
“The Spirit Court is done playing politics, Renaud,” she said. “My orders were to placate the local officials only if it did not interfere with my primary mission.” She gave him a cold look. “Mellinor is free to deal with Mellinor’s problems, prince, but this thief will answer to us. Now,” she continued and turned her glare back to Eli, and the lightning arced high above her head, “release your hostage and put out your hands, Mr. Monpress.”
Eli got to his feet, smiling cockily. “And if I don’t?”
“My orders are to apprehend you and bring you to the Rector Spiritualis.” She smiled right back at him. “But they didn’t specify what condition you had to be in when you got there.”
Eli opened his mouth to reply, but Miranda never got to hear it, for at that moment, her lightning spirit discharged.
It happened instantly, as if some giant hand had plucked the lightning off her finger and hurled it across the clearing. The world became very still, and she could do nothing but watch in horror as Skarest arced through the air with an ear-ripping crack and struck the center of the king’s chest. King Henrith convulsed and toppled to the ground, a thin wisp of smoke rising from his open mouth. Lightning sparked on her fingers as Skarest returned to his ring, and the spirit’s fear racing through their connection made her blood run thin.
“Mistress!” he crackled. “He was too strong, mistress. I couldn’t fight him!”
“Who?” Miranda shouted, but the spirit had buried himself in his ring.
The Mellinor group was frozen in shock, and even Eli was gaping at her. Only the prince kept his composure, turning on her with a look of triumphant hate.
“Foul murder!” Renaud shouted, breaking the stunned silence. “The Spiritualist has killed our king! She’ll stop at nothing! Soldiers, attack! We won’t let