Leaning low in the saddle and clutching the reins desperately, she glanced over her shoulder. Thankfully, Stem had heeded her advice for once and was riding right behind her. The expression on his face was so serious, so fiercely determined that Penellia had almost thought it was someone else.
She caught a glimpse of shadow not far behind them and moving quickly. Foliage and tree branches slapped at her face and arms, and slowed her horse, but Penellia was grateful nonetheless. She feared to think what would happen if they reached open ground.
She steered her horse toward thicker vegetation, careful not to ride into an area wide enough to allow the beast to fly beneath the tops of the trees and reach her and Stem. Soon, though, she could see the shadow at her side, keeping pace with her horse. It would only be a matter of time before it descended.
A flying sheggam! The histories had never mentioned such a thing. They had always been vague, unfortunately, allowing the imaginations of the generations since to fill in the gaps. Penellia wished they had been more academic back then, but she couldn’t rightly blame them now. She was quickly learning how fear filled the mind, making her think of only one thing: escape.
The path was rugged, and her horse was already blowing. She couldn’t keep up this pace, not without killing her horse. And what if Stem’s horse fell first? Would she stop to help him, or would she take the opportunity to ride on while her pursuer was busy? She honestly didn’t know what she would do, and that scared her. Not because she would leave him to die, but because she was thinking about what she would do to save him.
The wing-shaped shadows on the ground next to her flapped once, and then again. The sheggam was soaring, barely using any effort to chase them. No matter how far Penellia and Stem rode, the sheggam would follow them with ease. They had no chance of outdistancing it.
Only one thought rang out in her head, like the tolling of a distant bell: I was too late, I was too late, I was too late.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a thick patch of vegetation. She rode toward it. Her horse slowed, but she spurred it on and they crashed through it. Suddenly she was falling; at the same time, she heard something snap. Her horse screamed and fell out from under her.
For a few moments of confusion, Penellia was airborne, slowly spinning. When she finally crashed to the ground, all the air rushed out of her lungs. She clutched at her chest, struggling to breathe, eyes watering against the pain. A few paces away her horse thrashed and screamed, one of its legs bent at a sickening angle.
Mere seconds passed before she drew in her next agonizing breath, but it felt like an eternity. She rolled off her back and scrambled to her feet as best she could, and started running, each step ringing oddly, leaving her horse behind. Perhaps it would distract the sheggam long enough to buy her escape. The late morning sun warmed her back—she was no longer under the cover of the trees.
She was standing on the Runeway. It stretched off to the northwest, its dark metallic surface gleaming dully.
She spun, panicked, looking for something to hide behind. She had been running the same direction she had been riding—which was now away from the trees. Here, where she stood, there was nothing to hide behind. She briefly considered going back to the tree line, but that was where her horse was. If her horse was to serve as a distraction, she wanted to get as far away from it as possible. Still, her head pounded, clouding her thoughts. Where was Stem?
The frantic clang of horseshoes on the surface of the Runeway answered her question. She turned and saw him riding toward her. The sword he kept packed away for scaring the odd highwayman, which until now had been merely for their own assurances rather than any practical benefit, was unsheathed and in his hand, gleaming. He rode tall in the saddle, fear absent from his eyes. Skinny, young, stupid Stem, now looking to Penellia like some hero out of legend. Relief flooded her at the sight of him, and tears filled her eyes. She almost believed that he could save them.
Almost.
The shadow once again passed over her just as Stem slid out of his saddle and began running towards Penellia. A thump behind her announced the creature’s landing. Penellia turned to see what she faced.
Pale skin stretched across its wings. Its wide, elongated face was more like a dog’s muzzle than a man’s. Muscles packed its wide, hunched shoulders. Penellia could see the slight bulge of breasts under its ratty mail shirt. A female? Penellia couldn’t tell; there was nothing else to indicate the creature’s sex.
Greasy, black hair hung around its head in clumps. Solid crimson orbs, with only the slightest hint of yellow indicating pupils. Watching Penellia as if she were an annoyance, less than an insect. In any other creature, they would have been seductively beautiful, but in this thing, they only seemed to highlight its monstrosity.
Along its arms was a ridge of bony protrusions, skin stretched across them. They were heavily scarred, and Penellia realized they were likely as deadly as its claws.
A sheggam, standing before her. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Penellia muttered, unsure of whom she was speaking to.
Stem gripped Penellia’s arm tightly—she hadn’t heard him approach—and then pulled her behind him protectively, the tip of his sword held out in front of him.
“What are you doing, you fool.” There was no scorn in Penellia’s voice. Only pleading. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
She felt the quivering in Stem’s grip. He was shaking with fear, but his voice was steady. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m dead either way. I can’t fight this thing. But you can, if I buy you time.”
“What?” But then she knew what he meant: she was the most skilled living Patterner in the Accord. She had spent the most recent part of her life only reading Patterns, but it wouldn’t take much to remember how to work the other half of her magic.
“Go,” Stem shouted, pushing her back. “Go!”
Penellia stood a moment, speechless, before she saw the sheggam surge forward.
She ran.
Once past the edge of the Runeway, she fell to her knees. The ground here was dry, but not as sandy as she would have liked. It would have to do. She swept away the largest of the stones and brushed the earth as flat as she could with a single swipe of her arm. Then she grabbed a stick and started drawing.
At first, the Pattern eluded her. She merely drew preparatory symbols, the kind she practiced a thousand times when she was still a student at the Academy. These she could do without thought. But once it came to the important part, to the strokes that would create a Pattern that could change the world around her, her mind went blank. Still, her head throbbed. And though she forced herself to focus on her task, she could hear the sounds of Stem’s fight. She could hear his frantic shouts, his panicked breathing. The beast was toying with him.
Stem, she thought, her throat tightening. But the name triggered something in her mind. There were patterns found in nature, that even those with mundane training could see—especially in living things. Things like plants.
Stem. Branch. Leaf. Flower. A cascade of images and connections formed in her mind. She understood the Pattern her imagination made. She set to making it real.
Sharp, quick gestures, varying in speed and intensity. Some were deeper in the dirt, some shallower. The Pattern she created was simple, but it was a work of beauty.
She realized that it wouldn’t only kill the sheggam. It would kill Stem, too.
Stem’s sudden scream finished wetly. Penellia could hear him breathing, but she didn’t look up. Please, Stem. Live just a little bit longer. She hated wishing for his prolonged suffering, but each moment the sheggam was distracted helped her chances. And as Stem said, he would be dead soon anyway.
Only a few more strokes, and the Pattern would be complete. Only a few more strokes, and his pain would end.
Only a few more—
A wet, ripping sound. Stem was silent. Against her better judgment, Penellia glanced to the side. The sheggam tossed Stem’s limp body—no, only
the top half—away, discarding it like so much trash, and stalked toward Penellia, crimson eyes fixed on her. Penellia hurried to finish the Pattern.
The stick caught on a root hidden in the dirt. It snapped.
No.
Quickly, she finished the last stroke with her finger.
She turned as the sheggam reached for her with blood-soaked claws.
An unseen force, like the footstep of an invisible giant, yanked one of the sheggam’s wings down, pulling the sheggam back. The other wing folded in a way that looked wrong to Penellia’s eyes—accompanied with a satisfying snap. In a choked voice, the sheggam screamed in agony and began to thrash about blindly. It wasn’t dead, but nor was it coming for her.
Grinning, Penellia rose to her feet, wincing when she put her weight on her right ankle. She must have twisted it. Favoring that leg, she walked over to where Stem’s sword had fallen and picked up it. Mindful of the sheggam’s thrashing, Penellia walked over to its head and held the sword over it.
“See you in Farshores, bitch.” Penellia drove the sword down with a crunch.
The sheggam went limp.
Penellia fell to her knees, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. She had done it. She, a fat scholar, had killed a sheggam and survived. Stories would be told about her for decades. She laughed and wept, utterly overwhelmed.
Stem’s horse stood a ways off, wary and watching. At least it hadn’t run off, though wouldn’t have blamed it if it had. She might be able to make it in time to warn the Council if she left now.
A rustling in the trees drew her attention.
Her skin prickled as she turned. Worry turned to abject horror.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of the sheggam burst out of the trees, running on all fours, most of them naked, snarling like dogs.
A half dozen pairs of crimson eyes turned her way. The beasts’ paths veered towards where Penellia knelt, helpless.
As they leapt for her, she took one final look at Stem’s dead face. See you in Farshores, Stem.
Soon.
She felt regret, then terrible pain, then nothing.
Chapter 42: To the Hall
The road to the Dome and the Spire, which housed the Council Chambers, was bumpier than usual. The wheels of Yarid’s carriage seemed to seek out every loose paving stone there was and slam into it with a vengeance, even jarring Yarid’s teeth once or twice. He decided he knew what the Council’s first order of business should be—fixing this road. Or maybe second, after the Runeway. But it should definitely be on the agenda. It was an important road after all.
The drizzle had finally stopped, and the sun had come out through breaks in the clouds. Yarid took the opportunity to throw open the shutters and lean with one arm hooked over the narrow sill, gazing impassively at the thickening crowds on the street in the growing warmth of the sun. It was still early yet, but the Council session was getting closer, and more and more people usually had business in the Council District around this time. Yarid liked to arrive early at the Council Hall for a number of reasons, not least of which was the fact that his carriage wouldn’t be crammed wheel-to-wheel with other Councilors’ carriages along the way. Some of the blunter and stupider Councilors loved taking such opportunities to corner people since there was nowhere for them to go, sometimes for several minutes at a time. It was tacky and boring, and so Yarid had decided long ago to avoid putting himself in those situations.
But as a particularly boxy yellow carriage, led by a team of ill-fed horses and trimmed in garish orange, trundled up next to his, he realized he might not be so lucky today.
“Councilor Yarid.” A round, grinning face with narrow-set eyes slowly leaned in to fill the other carriage’s window.
Yarid stifled a sigh. “Minister Aelor. I certainly didn’t expect to run into you like this today.”
“Yes, and I’d wager you didn’t want to run into me today, either.” Aelor combed his sausage fingers through the curly, black mess of whiskers he insisted was a beard. A bad habit of his, and one he engaged in often.
Yarid pasted an ingratiating smile on his face. “Nonsense. I’ve always got time for the Minister of Disasters.”
“It’s Minister of Disaster Relief.” Aelor shook his head, nearly tossing off the small tassled hat of his office. “I can’t believe how shoddy your memory is. I have to remind you of this every time I see you.”
“Ah yes, I apologize.” Yarid bowed his head slightly in a mimicry of contrition. “At least I remember the important things.”
Aelor’s gaze sharpened as he bared his teeth in a fierce smile. “I hope you’re referring to the matter of the small debt you owe me.”
“Indeed I am. I look forward to the time when I am finally able to offer what is owed.”
Aelor’s chuckle was high, like a tiny dog’s frantic barking. He gripped the edge of his window as he leaned forward. “Of course you are. No one, not even a mighty Councilor of the Wall, wants to be indebted to a Minister of my standing.”
That much is true, thought Yarid, because you stand as high as a worm. “I hate leaving my balance sheet like this. I just wish I could be of more use to you, Minister.”
“Well.” Aelor sat back, apparently satisfied with Yarid’s level of groveling. “I too dislike the status of your balance sheet, Yarid. I shall think of something you can do to settle the score soon, perhaps.” He watched Yarid, eyes narrowed. “Or you could share some more of your information. That would go a long way towards balancing the scales, and it will help me decide how I shall make use of the favor owed.”
Yarid feigned thoughtfulness for a moment. “I may have some information coming soon that will be of use to you, Minister. I shall let you know the moment I have confirmation.”
“See that you do. Councilor.”
“Minister.”
Aelor waggled his fingers, and his coachman lashed the reins. In a few moments, they were out of sight.
Yarid had no leads he wanted to share but had just wanted to get rid of the Minister. Aelor was a stupid man, his mind shielded from reality by sycophants. He thought himself far more powerful than he was—but to his credit, he did have influence where no Councilor, not even Yarid, had any due to the separation of powers outlined in the original Accord agreements.
But stupid, greedy men like Aelor were easily manipulated. All you had to do was get in their debt and pay them back in a way that benefited you greatly and them not at all. Which had been Yarid’s design from the moment he first laid eyes on that pompous fool. He had no need of the man yet, so he would continue to string him along for the time being. Once Yarid found a use for him, he would yank on the string.
And the minister who fancied himself a fisherman would find himself in the water, boat capsized, circled by the very sharks he thought to make his dinner. I just hope you taste better than you look.
Yarid nodded to one of his servants, who then knocked on the panel behind the coachman’s seat. The snap of reins sounded, and the carriage lurched into motion.
* * *
The Dome and Spire was so-named for what would appear to be, to the architecturally inclined at least, a melding of disparate ancient styles. This was to represent mankind’s mixed heritage; after all, the beginning of the Accord was Andrin’s army, which consisted of soldiers from wherever they could be found, and a host of civilians of a similar lack of shared origin. Since no one culture could claim what would become the Accord, they decided they all could. And thus, a building with such confused aesthetic elements as domes and spires was built, declaring to all that the pure blood of nobility and royalty was a thing of the past, and we were all mutts now.
But the exterior was hardly the most important aspect of the Dome and the Spire. In its heart sat the Council Chambers. The Chambers, a vast half-circle of a hall lined with tiered alcoves, was heart to more than just the Dome and the Spire—it was the heart of all human civilization. Proclamations issued here flowed like blood to all the other cities in the Accord, giving them l
ife in just the same way. The Councilors were the ones holding that heart in their hands, squeezing it to pump that lifeblood. In a very real way, that was Yarid’s job—to make sure that all the Councilors squeezed in concert. Otherwise, everything they did here was in vain, and human civilization would begin to wither and rot, from the extremities inward.
As carefree as he often was, Yarid could not help but feel that he walked upon hallowed ground as he treaded the curving hallway, servants silently trailing behind him. The carpets beneath his slippered feet gave him a charge of motivation, as if merely walking them was enough to change the fate of the world.
Once he reached his own alcove, the alcove used for the two Councilors representing Garoshmir, one of his servants slid the door open for him. Nodding for them to stand outside the door, he stepped into the relative darkness of the Council Chambers. His alcove was on the third tier and, like the others, held two chairs—one for the Lesser Councilor, and one for the Greater. Yarid’s chair was empty, but the other one was already occupied.
Without a word or sideways glance, Yarid sat.
“You know,” came the voice from the other chair, tremulous with age. “I asked your man Jordin where you were earlier this week. He covered for you beautifully, with more skill than half the Councilors would have.”
“Of course he did, Councilor Gorun,” Yarid said. “He speaks with me every day. One would think I would rub off on the old fellow.”
“You don’t deserve him.”
“Truer words have never been spoken. He vexes me daily.”
Yarid glanced over at his Greater Council counterpart. Gorun sat heavily in his chair, as if he bore the weight of rule all by himself. His chin was lowered, nearly resting against his chest, white beard splayed across his breast. He was the very epitome of advanced age. Yarid supposed that could be an advantage, since advanced age was often associated with the power of the Greater Council. Yarid thought it just made the man look slow and ineffective.
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