Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  The Runeway terminated just south of the city gate, its tip rounded like a finger. From the maps Tharadis had seen, the entirety of the Runeway was shaped like a sword stabbing southward. The parts resembling a sword’s crossguard jutted southwest and southeast, curving around until they neared Caney Forks on the western coast and Twelve Towers on the eastern. The unfinished tip of its blade pierced the barrier of the Rift, into Naruvian lands. This part, then, was akin to its pommel.

  Tharadis exhaled slowly. Hopefully, when he was finished with all of this, he wouldn’t have to worry about the Runeway any longer.

  Peeking up above the rooftops in the northern part of the city was a large, squat dome, a needle of stone rising up in front of it. That would have to be the Dome and Spire, where the Council of the Wall held their meetings. Tharadis decided to head there first. After all, if he got this business about the Runeway cleared up quick enough, he might not even need to get a room at an inn. He smiled at the thought of getting back home that much sooner and made his way toward the city gate.

  * * *

  Plush red-and-yellow carpets ran down the center of the hallway that curved along the outer wall of the Dome and the Spire. The arched ceilings were high—high enough for pikemen to march through. Similarly arched windows with clear glass ran along the outer wall, letting in the day’s dreary gray light. Shaded sconces provided the rest of the light, though Tharadis had heard that the Dome and Spire had special lighting that didn’t even require a flame. Perhaps the claims were exaggerated, or maybe they weren’t so common as to light the Supplicant’s Hallway.

  Most of the people standing in line with Tharadis seemed to be commoners—farmers, artisans, laborers, and the like. The more well-dressed supplicants had the humble poise of servants, standing in for their masters’ needs, though a couple wealthy people stood in line fidgeting impatiently backed by a small retinue of hangers-on. Judging by the hunched shoulders and heavy gazes, Tharadis guessed that nobody wanted to be there.

  Tharadis fought to keep himself from fidgeting. How long had he been waiting in line? By the angle of the daylight streaming in through the windows, he guessed he’d been standing here, inching forward every few minutes, for well over two hours. He couldn’t believe how many people wanted to talk to the Council. What business could all these people have with them? Whenever someone had come to Tharadis for Warden business, it was usually because someone had been robbed, beaten, or killed. He supposed with so many people living together that crime would be more of a problem. But this much?

  “Next,” called a clerk without looking from his ledger book.

  Tharadis realized with a start that he had reached the front of the line. Finally. He stepped in front of the table. “I’m here to see the Council of the Wall.”

  The clerk sighed, as if this were the worst possible thing Tharadis could have said to him. “On what business?”

  “The Runeway.”

  “Trade and guild issues? Land use issues? Labor issues?” Annoyance crept into the clerk’s voice. “You’ll have to be more specific than just ‘the Runeway.’”

  “Land use issues, I suppose.”

  The clerk sniffed. “The Council won’t be convening to discuss land use issues for another four days. I suggest you return then. Next!”

  Tharadis raised his hands. “Wait a moment. My name is Tharadis, and I’m the Warden of Naruvieth. I was summoned by the Council of the Wall.”

  The clerk snorted, a smug grin spreading over his face as he finally looked up. “Yes, I’m sure you …” He trailed off, frowning as he looked Tharadis over. When he spoke again, his voice was small. “Do you have your summons?”

  Tharadis pulled it out of his belt pouch and handed it over. The clerk unfurled the small paper, eyes widening and face reddening as he scanned it. Slowly, almost reverently, he placed it back in front of Tharadis. “I … apologize, Your … ah, Your Majesty.” He stood, bowed twice, and began shuffling backward with his hands raised in a placating gesture as if Tharadis had threatened to strike him down. “Please wait a moment. Just … please wait here.” The clerk dashed off.

  Tharadis tucked the summons back in his belt pouch and waited some more.

  The clerk returned with a woman dressed in similar garb, though her gray robes were ornamented with slashes of red silk. The stiff tilt of her chin suggested she was the clerk’s superior. She smiled at Tharadis, though he could tell it was forced. “Sir Warden Tharadis, welcome to Garoshmir. We are preparing quarters for you and your retinue as we speak. Could you tell me how many servants and soldiers need quartering?”

  “I came alone. And just ‘Warden’ or ‘Tharadis’ is fine.”

  The smile cracked, but the woman recovered with a bob of her head. “Of course, of course, Sir Warden.” She aimed a dark glance at the previous clerk, who had hurriedly sat at his table and began speaking to the next supplicant. Returning her attention to Tharadis, she swept her arm toward a corridor leading out of the Supplicants’ Hall. “Right this way.”

  Tharadis didn’t move. “Are we going to see the Council now?”

  “This is the way to your quarters. They should be ready by the time we arrive.”

  “It’s midday. I’m not tired.” He rested a hand on his hip. “But I am growing impatient. I came a long way to get here. A lot of that was on foot. I’d like to see the Council now.”

  She smiled again, though this time it was indulgent, as if he were a petulant child begging for a treat. “I understand you came a long way, Sir Warden. The Council has every intention of hearing your concerns. But it will take some time to notify them of your presence. They will also need time to prepare themselves for your presentation as well. As inconvenient as it may seem, our procedures are designed to ensure problems are resolved as quickly as possible.”

  Prepare themselves? Tharadis sighed. He had the feeling that no matter what he said, he wasn’t going to see them today. “How long will all of that take?”

  She hesitated. “Possibly three days. More likely four.”

  Tharadis closed his eyes. So much for making it home early. It almost felt as if the World Pattern were conspiring to keep him here longer than he liked. Although he was kept from his responsibilities back in Naruvieth, he had to remind himself that his goal in coming here was to keep the Accord from continuing with the construction of the Runeway. He supposed that a delay in them hearing his case was simply more time they weren’t building. Resigned, he opened his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be back in four days. I will speak to the Council then.”

  Her answering smile held a hint of relief. Apparently, she was as glad to be done with this as he was. “I will see to it that they are informed.”

  “Thank you.” Tharadis stopped himself just as he was about to leave. “Are there any books on prophecy here in the city?”

  “Prophecy?” A slight frown creased the woman’s brow. “If you’re looking for stories about them, there are a few booksellers in the city.”

  “I’m looking for something more … academic.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid the books on prophecy at the Academy library are only open to students and faculty.”

  The Academy library. He would have to figure out how to get in there. Fortunately, he had a few days to think about it. He nodded in thanks and turned to leave.

  Chapter 29: Penellia

  Astiff breeze carried the scent of brine and sulfur through the branches of the long-needle pines. Penellia Varan didn't flinch at the sudden stink wafting off Twelve Towers, even though her mount twitched her reins and snorted. Not even a small part of her wanted to wrinkle her nose in disgust at the scent; it was just another data point, another fold in the Pattern she had been following for much of her adult life. A Pattern that slowly but inexorably led her here, to Twelve Towers.

  She let her horse crop some tall yellow grasses growing up through the rocky earth while she peered over the tops of the trees. The top of the hill gave her a clear vantage of Twelve To
wer lands, if not Twelve Towers itself—she was still too far, the morning air too foggy for that, even if the wind did intermittently bring its distinctive aroma. She wouldn't see the Towers until almost nightfall, and then only if the sky cleared somewhat. Still, she was content to mark her progress. Every step along the path to truth was another small victory.

  She twisted in her saddle—hampered in the act by her large girth—at the sound of her assistant Stem's horse climbing the hill, leading the pack horse behind them. Stem's eyes were glazed with exhaustion, and his horse looked no better. The boy's—well, young man's, she supposed—lean frame sagged in his saddle, hands barely gripping the reins. If the boy were half as competent in the field as he had been in the Academy's classrooms, he would listen to Penellia when she told him to rest. Instead, he often complained that he followed a normal human being's sleep schedule, and not Penellia's—suggesting that she was not normal. Or perhaps not a human being.

  True, Penellia caught short naps in the saddle or on cushions of moss on the roadside whenever her mind began to get overworked, rather than sleeping through the night, but that was because her best inferences were done when her senses weren't flooded with stimuli. She hardly thought such behavior disqualified her from the human race. It merely meant she was an intellectual. She was, after all, a High Patterner of the Academy, a title not given lightly. Or given at all to anyone living, aside from Penellia herself.

  Of course, being of the Academy didn't necessarily mean at the Academy, a distinction her comrades often forgot. Just three days ago a messenger from the Academy trotted up on a lathered horse, the boy himself winded. A roll of parchment from the administrators of the School of Patterning, screaming as well as written words could about untaught lectures, unfiled paperwork, unattended meetings. They had even insinuated that if they had the power to do so, they would have dropped her to mere Patterner—as if the position of High Patterner were a favor doled out by the Academy staff. Penellia had thanked the messenger profusely, saying that it was a good thing he had come with that message because they had just run out of dry tinder. The boy had looked stricken as he turned and rode back the way he came, but surely, he must have been used to the recipients of his messages not always taking kindly to their contents. If he wasn't, he would soon be, or be wise to find another occupation.

  The Academy shouldn't have wasted the poor boy's time. They knew Penellia was on the cusp of a grand revelation and was far too busy to bother with petty things like administration. They also knew that if the Academy burned to the ground, Penellia wouldn't give a damn. She would merely secure a new source of funding for her research and continue on with her life's work.

  Stem's horse slowly walked up beside her, hooves clopping as if the beast were half-asleep and half-dead. Stem swayed slightly in his saddle as he craned his long neck forward, brushing the unruly mop of thick brown hair out of his eyes so he could squint at the eastern horizon. "Are we there yet?"

  Penellia hissed through her teeth, swallowing a retort. While she had devoted the last twelve years of her life to a single intellectual problem, her patience didn't usually extend to other people. Not everyone else had the same goals that she did, or worked at the same pace, a fact she often had to remind herself of. Sometimes out loud, repeating several times.

  "Why don't you check the map?" she said as calmly as she could. His quick glance told her that it wasn't calm enough to fully mask her irritation. Still, he bent his will to the task with little more than a mutter of complaint. Having him bungle through his saddlebags to find it would give her a few minutes of peace to observe and to think.

  Penellia closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, letting the sounds of the world fill her mind. The cry of a hawk, echoing off the jagged mountain peak on her right, the sigh of wind rustling through pine needles, the delicate patter of hooves. And there, ever so faintly, the burble of a shallow creek twisting through the rocky, hilly lands. Sometimes the world felt so alive that Penellia allowed herself to forget her task for a few moments and bask in its vitality.

  Patterners didn't have heightened senses compared to regular people, as many suspected. They were simply trained in the Academy to isolate and focus their senses to better collect information about the world. Such information, after all, was where all Patterns could be found. Merely collecting information was not enough; much of it was noise. Sorting through it all, determining what was relevant, was an even more important skill that Patterners learned.

  Her training had gone far beyond what the Academy could offer. That was the problem with being the very best; you could only go so far with the teachings of others. If you wanted to progress, you eventually had to teach yourself.

  She focused on each sense one at a time, shutting off the others. When she went through this process, others observing her often thought she was in some state of meditation, as if she were some sort of charlatan mystic, shutting out the world for the sake of pondering her navel and misleading others with pleasant-sounding prattle. That couldn't be farther from the truth, but she supposed that was why she was the only living High Patterner. Other people simply didn't have the intellectual discipline to question the world and accept the answers.

  She finished, as she always did, with sight—the most useful of the senses. She tucked the strands of gray hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ears since even the slightest obstructions could interfere with her observations. She took a deep breath, let it out. Body prepared, she focused her mind.

  Tiny details that she hadn't noticed before became glaringly obvious. Tiny fissures in the rock at her horse's feet, the faint shadows cast by protrusions in the mountain's face, the fall of a pine needle, the way the moss grew on a log at the trail's edge, a trampled fern.

  Strange. Trampled by what? It didn't look like the hoof prints of the deer common in these parts. Sensing something subtle in the way the detail caught her attention, like the plucking of a guitar string slightly out of tune, she rode down the side of the hill to get a better look at it. Stem followed.

  At the base of the hill, she slid out of her saddle, booted feet thumping to the ground. She was briefly glad for the softness of the patch of soil beneath them; it kept her knees from jarring too much. Without comment, Stem took her mount's reins in hand as she took a knee a couple paces from the trampled fern, heedless of the dampness of the ground soaking through the leg of her leather trousers. She wasn't one of those women who wore skirts or dresses or those foolish Naruvian long tunics; what practical purpose could such garments possibly serve? All they did was draw attention to the fact that most women were little more than stones with painted faces, willing to tumble down any hill of a man's choosing—so long as the tumble wasn't too rough. Penellia had no respect for such aimless beings, and certainly not for their frippery.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Stem, who happened to be staring at precisely nothing in particular. Penellia sighed. Men, it seemed, were no better than women.

  Ignoring the despondency that naturally arose when one contemplated living amongst other people, Penellia returned her attention to her task.

  Some of the tracks were clearly made by men: they were bootprints. Large men, taking long strides. Most likely soldiers, though most of the Twelve Towers men were now headed to Garoshmir with Shad Belgrith. Thanks to the strange geography—and geology—that gave Twelve Towers its name, it was highly defensible. Few men would be needed to garrison the volcanic, sulfur-spewing Towers, and few men had been left. In spite of the wealth that Twelve Towers enjoyed thanks to its prime coastline, few people hungered for control of it. The people there were reportedly almost as strange as their mistress, Shad.

  These bootprints were odd in how large they were. Large soldiers were rarely left behind for unimportant jobs, since they could carry thicker armor, if nothing else—but their haphazard order showed a lack of discipline. They were not the bootprints of a crack unit.

  Penellia cocked her head as something else caught
her attention. Animal prints. Made by something also quite large, not quite as heavy as a bear but heavier than a normal man. A series of slight indentations suggested claws, and the innermost toe on each foot was set back.

  She had never seen such prints before.

  A chill ran through her, prickling her skin.

  "Should I set up camp here?" Stem asked.

  "Quiet, fool." Penellia leaned forward and touched a print with a finger, letting the sensation envelope her. Her pulse quickened as she considered the implications. One of the most basic things a Patterner learned, particularly if she considered field research, was the various foot- and hoofprints to be found in the wild. While the Accord lands were not small by any measure and had only grown with the recent bridging of the Rift, they were totally isolated. There weren't many creatures that could make tracks like these. And with Andrin's Wall shutting the Accord lands off from the rest of the world, nothing new could come in or out.

  Or at least that's what the world was led to believe.

  She stood and dusted the dirt and bits of moss off her knee. This was significant.

  But how? It wasn't immediately obvious to her. She had spent nearly the entire year—since the crossing of the Rift to Naruvieth—sitting on the beach on the western shore, watching the waves. Not idly, of course; nothing she ever did was idle. The waves carried with them traces of things that otherwise could not be found in Accord lands.

  Traces of Patterns from beyond Andrin's Wall.

  As grateful as Penellia was that the Wall kept out whatever nasties it was intended to, it was perhaps a bit too effective. The magic that powered the Wall was like a knife that severed the Accord off from the rest of the world, just as surely as the Rift had previously severed Naruvieth off from the Accord. And while it was impossible to sail the Restless Sea, it was not impossible for a skilled High Patterner such as herself to read the bits of Patterns that managed to survive from beyond the Wall.