Rannald watched as a glance passed between the man to his right and the man directly in front of him. A moment later, the strike came from the right. A distraction; Rannald passed under it. The true attack would come from in front. It came fast, but not fast enough—Rannald deflected it with his buckler, rapping his own sword against the man’s knee. The man cried out, but only until Rannald’s knee took him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
That was five down, but Rannald didn’t wait for the next attack. He pressed forward to the man on his left, exchanging a quick flurry of blows before sweeping the legs out from under the man on the right, who landed hard on his face. It was one of the lessons Rannald continually drove into them. The sword was merely one tool among many, and the warrior who hadn’t mastered them all had weaknesses.
The remaining two launched into a coordinated attack—another thing Rannald had taught them. A sword couldn’t be everywhere at once, but two swords working in concert could be in twice as many places. Rannald’s grin widened as he deflected the flurry of blows with sword and buckler. He even had to backpedal a couple steps.
Once he had them lulled into a false confidence, he went on the offensive. In a heartbeat, both of their swords flew from their hands, with the span of Rannald’s wooden blade at both of their necks. His two final opponents, both clutching their wrists which Rannald hoped he hadn’t broken, took to their knees, yielding the battle to him.
The room erupted into applause.
Rannald chuckled to himself as he tucked the practice sword under his arm and bent to pick up a rag to wipe down his face and chest. He knew the applause wasn’t for him. It was for the two that had lasted the longest against him. Rannald shook the hands of those two, and the others who had fallen earlier, as everyone funneled out of the sparring room, leaving Rannald alone.
He didn’t feel alone, however. His gaze traveled up to a fixture on the wall, a wooden oval with words inscribed along its bottom edge: “We fear not.” Above the words were two pegs, and resting on the pegs, a sword with a large amethyst in the pommel.
Rannald’s sword, Guiding Light.
He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but his hands ached to hold that sword. It had been—how long? Five years, since he had held his sword? It felt much longer than that. Though he taught his men that a sword was merely a tool, he knew Guiding Light to be much more than that to him. It was his friend. Perhaps even his very soul.
And he had given it up for love.
Sherin.
Rannald felt eyes upon him. He turned towards the door, and as if thinking her name had summoned her, there stood his wife.
Though it wasn’t a very warm day, the pale blue dress she wore was sleeveless. Only a thin linen shawl hung over the crooks of her elbows. A wide leather belt, studded with silver, hung over her hips and met in a large turquoise clasp below her stomach. The folds of the dress followed the contours of her body closely. Stately, elegant, yet leaving no questions as to beauty of the one who wore it.
Her brown hair, parted on the side, was pulled tight against her head and tied into a tail. Some would call the look austere, but Rannald knew that wasn’t right. It was … tempered. As was all of Sherin. She wasn’t the same wild-eyed idealist he had fallen in love with. She had changed in their years of marriage. Still full of life and passion, but she had grown. Matured.
To Rannald’s eyes, she had become even more beautiful.
She looked at him towering above her, stripped to the waist and covered in sweat. He could see the desire in her dark brown eyes, the desire to come to him, but she remained where she stood. Those eyes filled with sadness as they stared at him.
Rannald knew why. Carelessly, he tossed the practice sword away. It clattered on the wicker mat.
She smiled then, though it looked forced. “I thought you’d be here.” The sadness didn’t leave her eyes. It never seemed to, of late. It was as if she was beginning to realize the truth of Rannald, a truth that he had long since known: no matter how much physical distance there is between him and his sword, it will always be with him in spirit.
The pain of knowing he could never truly be good enough for her was as ever-present in Rannald as was the sadness in her eyes.
He smiled, though it too required effort. He continued to wipe down his shoulders, if only to give his hands something to do. “The Council in recess?”
She nodded. “I thought we could have lunch together.”
Sherin didn’t come into the room. She never had. So he went to her. As he always did.
Rannald didn’t want to keep her in the Sentinel compound any longer than he had to, so he instructed her two aides to take their baskets to the small garden on the other side of the high stone wall separating the compound from the rest of the city.
Once they passed under the portcullis, Sherin hooked her arm through his. “You should probably wear a shirt when escorting a Councilor of the Wall to lunch.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“You’re right,” he said. “But you aren’t just any mere Councilor. You’re the wife of Rannald Firnaleos.”
She pinched his arm, chuckling. A little sharper than a playful pinch, but he endured it nonetheless with a chuckle of his own.
They sat on a stone bench, a small mat loaded with food between them. Sharon told the aides to enjoy themselves until the next hour bell. The aides hastily disappeared onto one of the footpaths curving between the hedges.
Rannald and Sherin ate in companionable silence for several minutes until she spoke. “People have been talking about Gaspard Rikshost. About how he had been planning to join some secret order within the city.” She took a deep breath without meeting Rannald’s eyes. “His body was returned to his family this morning.”
Rannald picked up a salted plum and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly and saying nothing.
“He was a promising young man,” she continued. “Top of his class at the Academy. He was even a favorite for becoming a member of the Lesser Council once he came of age.” She placed her hands in her lap. “They say he died of a sword to the heart. That it … may have been self-inflicted.”
“A tragedy,” Rannald said. “May his journey to Farshores be filled with peace.”
Sherin shook her head slowly. “He is only in Farshores because a sword killed him.”
Rannald had been there. He watched as the young man fell onto the sword. He had killed himself; the sword, as Rannald always said to the Sentinels, had merely been a tool.
He knew Sherin wanted him to admit that the young man had been trying to enter the Sentinels. That he had died before Rannald’s eyes. But Rannald wouldn’t tell her. He had sworn an oath to his order to keep the Ritual of Joining a secret. He couldn’t answer her unspoken question and still deserve to call himself a Sentinel. Or a man at all. His integrity wouldn’t allow it.
So he said nothing.
Sherin nodded as if she had expected his reaction. She stood, and her aides, having apparently sensed Sherin’s intentions, returned to gather up the remains of the picnic.
“Goodbye, Rannald. I will see you at home.”
Rannald reached forward to brush her hand with the tips of his fingers, but she was already out of reach, walking away with her two aides in tow.
Sitting on that bench, Rannald thought of the Sentinel oath carved into the fixture holding his sword: We fear not. It wasn’t entirely true—a Sentinel could, and often did, feel fear. But he was not threatened by it. It was an obstacle, something to overcome. But not something he was helpless before.
Rannald knew that a fear had been growing within him, one that was beginning to overwhelm his ability to resist.
More than anything in life or death, he feared losing Sherin.
Chapter 27: Someday
Erianna Vondallor sat in the corner of the carriage, hands folded in her lap, looking out the narrow window as the world passed her by. Trees, hills, and, just out of sight to the north, Andrin’s Wall all rolled by
smoothly. Too smoothly, to her eyes.
She had been Shad Belgrith’s servant for most of her life and had been by her mistress’s side nearly every day. But that hadn’t granted her many opportunities to travel out of Twelve Towers. Shad didn’t leave Twelve Towers often, and did so even less as of late. Ever since the sheggam came.
Still, Erianna knew what it should have felt like to travel by carriage. The wheels were supposed to catch every hole and rock and stick on the road, jarring her teeth every few minutes. This stillness, the relative silence … it was eerie. Like traveling in a dream.
Only it wasn’t a dream at all. The feeling was simply the result of riding over the perfectly flat plane of the Runeway.
“Erianna.” Shad sat in the opposite corner of the wagon, elbow resting on the windowsill with her chin propped up on her fist, eyes watching the landscape roll by. “Something to drink.”
“Of course, mistress.” Erianna opened a small compartment next to her seat, pulling out a decanter of Pattern-chilled wine and a ceramic mug. She poured the wine and handed it to her mistress, her eyes lingering a moment too long.
It was hard not to stare. The changes in Shad ever since the sheggam emissary had given her his … gift, were subtle. Perhaps too subtle for others to see. But Erianna had bathed, groomed, and dressed her mistress more times than she could count, and knew her mistress’s appearance far better than she knew her own. The drab paleness of her skin could have belonged to a sick person. Erianna would have written it off as such if she hadn’t seen what the sheggam had done to her.
The white smoke creeping over the tiles, rushing into Shad’s piercings, Shad writhing on the floor, screaming …
The decanter clinked loudly as Erianna returned it to its place, drawing a frown from her mistress. Erianna folded her hands in her lap, hoping Shad didn’t notice the shaking that the memory had brought on.
Shad took a slow sip of her wine before returning her attention outside.
Erianna restrained the urge to exhale and cursed herself for letting her emotions get the better of her.
Odd, that. She had never had much of a problem holding in her feelings. Shad had beaten that impulse out of her at a young age, when they both had been in their teens, after Shad had officially assumed the governorship. Since Erianna no longer had a real outlet for her emotions, they had begun to wither away, until there was only duty left in her heart. Duty to her mistress.
Slaves had no room, and no need, for anything else.
True, slavery had been outlawed years ago, ever since the rebellion in Caney Forks, but Erianna knew that one still could be a slave while being called something else. And she had no illusions as to what she was to Shad Belgrith.
It hadn’t bothered her, not for a long time. Duty had no need for freedom. Duty needed only itself.
But that had changed when the sheggam came to Twelve Towers.
Duty had given way to fear, which began to wriggle and gnaw in her gut like a bloated worm. She had continued to obey, just as she always had, but she also began to wonder. About her mistress and about herself. About a great many things.
Beyond the creaking of the carriage axles, Erianna could hear the faint sound of marching from the two companies of Twelve Towers soldiers arrayed around them. Occasionally she caught sight of them through her narrow window, breastplates and pikes gleaming in the intermittent sunlight.
Beyond them was the forest, filled with ferns and shadows and twisting paths. A place a lone woman might be able to run and escape.
Erianna cursed herself for a fool for even considering the notion. The soldiers of Twelve Towers were the most disciplined and obedient in the Accord. None of them would hesitate to cut Erianna down if Shad commanded it.
And even if she could get past the soldiers, Orthkalu, an actual sheggam, rode in the wagon behind them. Erianna knew he had powers far beyond those of a normal human—perhaps even beyond those of a Patterner. The way his face was hidden in the hood of his cloak, as though the light were afraid to touch him … Did she really think she could escape him, too?
Maybe. For a few moments, at least. And for those few moments before Orthkalu tore her limb from limb with his massive taloned hands, she would be a free woman.
Would it be worth it?
Erianna had to think long and hard about the answer. She almost felt that it would be worth it.
Perhaps a better opportunity would present itself, one that didn’t end with her dead. Now was not the time, she knew, no matter how much she wished it were.
She would flee her mistress. Someday.
Shad Belgrith turned abruptly, startling Erianna from her thoughts, to knock on the wall between her and the driver. “Stop the carriage.” Turning back around, she frowned again at Erianna. “Something the matter, Erianna?”
“No, mistress,” she said, feeling the heat rush to cheeks. “I suppose I was distracted. Forgive me.” Once the carriage came to a halt, she opened the door, climbed out, and took Shad’s hand to help her down the steps. Three officers dismounted and strode toward them in case Shad had orders to give, but she dismissed them with a wave and started walking toward the wagon behind their carriage.
Orthkalu’s wagon. Erianna’s heart raced as she turned her eyes to it.
It was enormous, rising to nearly twice the height of the carriage. Tall enough for Orthkalu to stand up in it comfortably—but why would he need to? Shad had built it to his specifications, even ensuring it was windowless so no one could see inside. And it was heavy, borne on six wheels and pulled by four huge oxen. Apparently, horses wouldn’t go near it.
Erianna didn’t believe the wagon was for Orthkalu alone. Something else was in there with him. She couldn’t imagine what, but even wondering made her shudder.
What was so horrible that even a sheggam would hide it?
“Would you—” Erianna stammered, taking a step toward the wagon. “Would you like me to accomp—”
“No,” Shad said, striding forward without turning back. “I know you don’t like our guest. I’m sure he knows as well. I don’t want you to offend him any more than you already have.”
Erianna swallowed. “I understand, mistress. I will wait in the carriage.” If she had offended their guest, she would be beaten, she knew. But not until they returned from Garoshmir. Shad had said she would need her there, that she would need Erianna’s pretty face. But for what, Erianna had yet to learn. Something to do with Shad’s meeting with the Council, she imagined.
She watched as Shad ducked under Orthkalu’s strange staff, set length-wise in a rack above a small door in the side of the wagon. Shad pushed the door in and slid into the wagon’s dark interior before letting the door shut behind her.
Erianna loosed a long, shaky breath, glad her mistress wasn’t there to see it. Shad was likely taking another “lesson” from Orthkalu, as she called it. Erianna didn’t know what her mistress was learning, but she believed it had something to do with keeping her human. For now.
Erianna walked back to the carriage. She could feel the eyes of one of the officers on her as he lingered nearby. She wondered, foolishly, if the man could read her thoughts. She was glad he couldn’t. She was glad he didn’t know what she was now planning to do.
Someday, she thought as she climbed into her seat. Someday.
Chapter 28: Garoshmir
Tharadis stood at the top of a tall, boulder-strewn hill overlooking the sprawling city of Garoshmir. A panoply of wood and tile roofs of every shape and color poked up over the crenellations of the curtain wall surrounding the city. Tharadis would become an old man before he could count every building here. Five of Naruvieth could fit within these walls with room to spare.
Yet for how surprisingly vast Garoshmir was, he stared at it for only a brief moment before something else just past the city drew his attention away, forcing him to draw a sharp breath.
At first, he had thought it a line of low-hanging clouds obscuring the horizon, but it was too close, its lin
es too distinct.
Andrin’s Wall.
It stretched out of sight to the east and to the west, dwarfing the city before it. For all that Tharadis could see it, he found it difficult to fully focus his attention on it. His gaze wanted to slip past its white surface, focusing on the trees along its base or the clear morning sky above it. After a few moments of trying, he made himself stop and rub his eyes. Any longer and he would give himself a headache.
It would almost be worth it. He had never seen anything so incredible. Not even the ocean filled him with such wonder. How had human hands created something so monumental as this? It was hard to tell, but with Garoshmir’s wall as a guide, he figured the top of Andrin’s Wall reached over two hundred feet high. If the stories were to be believed, Andrin had finished building it in less than six months—six months of pitched battle with the sheggam vanguard. Yet, with the help of his Patterners and Crafters, he had done it. Against all odds, he had built his Wall and saved mankind.
Emotions suddenly seized Tharadis, overwhelming him. Without this wall, the world would have been a very different place—likely a terrible place. Humanity would have been vanquished and enslaved. Tharadis would never have lived. Neither would those he loved.
But thanks to Andrin’s Wall, none of that came to pass. Tharadis bowed his head, feeling immense … gratitude.
Once he had wiped his cheeks dry, he headed down the hill toward the city. His pack, lightened of the supplies he had used, bounced against his back. Off to his left, through breaks in the trees, he caught sight of the Runeway. He had avoided it as much as possible on his way here, only using it when hitching a ride with a merchant or farmer driving a cart over its disconcertingly flat surface. It was strange how something so similar to Andrin’s Wall in scope and scale could provoke such a different reaction in him. Perhaps it had more to do with those building it than the thing itself.
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