Page 107 of The Hanging City

His tone is accusatory. He has no change of clothes for me, and the trollis council didn’t allow me to take a spare.

“I just ...” I try to let natural panic edge my voice. “I-I just need to take care of it.”

I stand up, better showing the stain on my pants. My pulse radiates in the cut. I’ll need to clean it out as soon as I’m able, so it doesn’t get infected.

A few of the closer soldiers pale. One of them awkwardly withdraws a handkerchief.

My father snatches it and throws it at my feet. “Martos, watch her.”

The youngest of the band frowns but begrudgingly gets up. Little provides cover out here, only a few scraggly trees and ditches, some sagebrush. I choose the farthest scraggly tree in the direction of the Pentalpoint. I’m halfway there when Martos whines, “What in hell are you doing?”

“I-I just need privacy.” I show him my bloody hand again. He recoils.

Men.

I quicken my step. He quickens his to match. I slip behind the tree, which isn’t nearly wide enough to cover me. I think Martos will turn around when I move to pull down my pants, but he only folds his arms and watches.

“Do you mind?” I wad up the handkerchief and remember what my father said about “anxious” men.

Martos shrugs.

Daring, I let the slightest shiver of fear pass from me. I don’t even feel it, my own worry bubbles so strongly.

But Martos does. And thankfully, he turns around. Probably afraid of invoking Ottius Thellele’s rage for ogling his daughter. Or he’s disturbed by menstruation.

I rustle my shirt. Slip out of my shoes. Tiptoe away, keeping that trickle of fear steady, just as I did with the soldier last night. Just as I always did when Father brought in farmers and landowners to barter with, or anyone he wanted something from.

I don’t want Martos to hear me run. There’s a hill a short ways north. If I can wind around that, he won’t see which way I went. I need to get distance between my father and myself. He has a horse, and—

A sliver of white crosses the sky overhead. I squint. An aerolass! I haven’t seen one since I was sixteen. Like trollis, they have a build similar to a human’s, but with great feathers stemming from their long arms, and wide tails like a bird’s. Most of them have migrated away from here.

The ones that stayed were violent.

The stars, the gods, have heard my prayers. Or have they? The aerolass is so far away and alone.Fight or flee.If it’s the second, then it doesn’t matter.

Pushing my focus onto that aerolass, I ball up fear until my skin sweats cold and my knees clack together; then I shoot the fear out of me, sharp and fast as an arrow.

The aerolass’s flight falters. It banks toward the army.

I start to run. I’m nearly to the hill when shouts sound behind me. I don’t turn to see if the aerolass has attacked or if it’s been spotted. I don’t turn to see if my guard or anyone else has noticed me. I don’t turn around for anything.

I run and run and run, slipping through any cover I can get, ignoring the jagged rocks and thorns that bite at my bare feet. I don’t havetime to put on my shoes. I don’t have time to do anything but run, run,run.

My father will be furious. He’ll send men after me.

With luck, I will never have to face them.

I don’t stop running.

My heart burns my blood, my blood burns my muscles, my muscles burn my bones, and the sun burns my skin. I dash through every ditch, descend every hill, wind through every skeletal thicket and tree graveyard I find. I rush toward the Pentalpoint, looping around just in case Terysos, the closest human township, has its own scouts.

The evening is turning blue when I trip, skin my knees, and vomit over gravel and dust. I try to will my body to calm, to preserve its water, but it dry heaves and shudders, like I’m a wet rag wrung.

My stomach takes its time to settle. My muscles skip and twitch as though they’re still running, and my wild, knotted hair sticks to my face.Water. I need water.

Light-headed, I stumble to my feet and look around. This is the place ... or close to it. Isn’t it? What if I guessed wrong? I can see the faintest indigo line in the north—the distant mountain range. I know this area fairly well. I should be close. And yet I doubt myself.

My hips creak as I stagger forward, searching, pulling sweat-slick hair from my face. My throat feels raw. My feet are shod—I couldn’t keep them bare forever—but they thrum just off beat with my heart, swelling in their confines. The cut on my upper thigh radiates and chafes.

---