The Office of Shadow by Matthew Sturges Page A

work could begin in
earnest. He copied the pattern from the map onto a new sheet of linen
paper-large, but not so big as the original map. Only the pattern remained,
with detailed figures noting the invocative spectra, the normalization factors.
The web stood in front of him, begging to be understood. It was a pattern, yes, but what did it mean? In his imagination about this moment, he'd
assumed that the answer would leap out at him at this point. These exact
physical components. This precise juggling of Elements, Motion, and Poise,
and perhaps any four other Gifts that he could theorize being involved. He
was damn clever. It should all have been there, leaping out at him. But it
wasn't. The pattern implied nothing. The pattern meant nothing. It was only
itself. It suggested things, certainly, but only impossibilities.

    Ironfoot awoke. It was late afternoon. He'd fallen asleep at some point,
still contemplating the pattern, still frustrated. He opened the shades and let
the (morning? afternoon?) sun illuminate the pattern. Still nothing. He stood
it upside down. Nothing. He held it up to the window, viewing the pattern
through the back of the page. Still nothing.
    It gnawed at him, this sensation that the key to its mystery was just outside his grasp. The Einswrath was an explosive-there had to be an Elements
component to it. It was a delayed reaction, so it had to use the Gift of
Binding as well. But what components? Which bindings? There was no
binding ever created to hold in that amount of Elemental force, and no way
to trigger it from such a distance. So what, then? It was right there in front
of him. So why couldn't he see it?
    The dread inside had grown into a fever. This was what he'd truly been
afraid of. This was the source of the dread that had been welling up inside
him ever since he'd returned to Queensbridge.
    He had the pattern complete in front of him.
    And he didn't understand it.
    He turned toward the wall and lashed out with his fist, making a
strangely satisfying crack in the plaster, though the pain that followed wasn't
worth it. Raw failure sunk into him like a stone through mud.
    You can do better than this, came the voice from inside.

    He was disturbed from his misery by a message sprite tapping at the window.
It looked familiar.
    "Hey, handsome! Open up!" the thing shouted.

    He tried to ignore it, but it just kept rapping on the windowpane,
calling, then shouting, then howling expletives. He pulled himself out of the
chair and shuffled across the room, stepping on the map and not caring. He
opened the window, and the sprite flew in and alit on the edge of the chair in
which he'd been sitting.
    "What do you want?" he said.
    "Wow, it took you long enough," said the sprite, sticking its tongue out
for emphasis. "What are you, deaf or something? You weren't deaf last time.
Did you stand too near something really loud? Because that can happen
sometimes."
    Ironfoot stared at the sprite, all of his fondness for it having evaporated
in his desolation.
    "I have feelings too, you know!" said the sprite, stamping its foot soundlessly. "Of course, my feelings are quite shallow, and can easily be repaired
with a yummy stalk of parsley, or better yet ..." The sprite paused, rubbing
its tiny hands together. "Celery!"
    "Enough already!" Ironfoot shouted, stunned at the anger in his voice.
The sprite fell backward, swore loudly, then flitted up again, raising its head
gingerly above the back of the chair.
    "Wow, you sure got mean."
    "I'm sorry," said Ironfoot, trying to be patient. "I've had a hard day.
What's your message?"
    "Lord Everess replies that he's extra-sad you won't come see him. Except
he said it in a less nice way."
    The sprite thought for a moment, tapping its finger on its forehead.
"There was something else, too. Something important. Let's see. Lord
Everess ... extra sad and so on ... celery ..."
    It snapped its tiny fingers. "Oh, yeah! He wants to know if