The Select's Bodyguard, Page 5

  Chapter 5 - The Journey In

  The trail of blood is faint. This means she is not badly injured, but it also means I may lose her. I cannot assume she has taken the path of least resistance. It is almost certain she has not.

  Even so, such thoughts give me hope, a strange thing when I was nearly convinced she had died. I rein in the expansive thoughts. Hope makes one believe things a more sober judgment would not. I will hope when I have found her. It will be far too hard to let her go if I hope now.

  She is heading toward the central stairwell. As I travel the winding halls, I become certain of it. The stairwell of the Column is a long way from her room, but the most protected from outside attacks. She is taking the long view. It is perhaps a wiser choice than my headlong rush upward. Wiser, perhaps, but not faster. I prefer a straight line, even with roadblocks.

  Still, it has taken me a long time to reach this place. She could be long gone by now. The marks of blood have vanished. I stop. The floors above have collapsed, blocking the entire hall. I backtrack, taking the first passage I find. It is only a small detour, one she must have taken.

  My assumptions are compounding. It may not even have been her blood.

  I stop again. I force myself to stop. It is difficult. I have been pressing and pressing; it seems a sin to stop. I wait a whole minute, impatiently trying to reevaluate my options. One thought overrides the others: I must protect her.

  It is not just a thought. It is a belief, a decision, an ethic.

  I continue forward. My path is set.

  Another collapsed hall. I turn again, now veering farther from my original path. And I see her.

  She is on the ground, on her belly. I stop a third time, this time to say, carefully, “Calea?”

  She starts to turn her head--yes, she’s alive. “Go away.”

  I somehow expected the response.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I said, go away.”

  I step forward to help her to her feet.

  “Go away!” she screams. Her body shudders.

  I think she is crying. That silences me. I wait until she calms herself. It takes longer than I expect. Then I wait. I wait for her to speak.

  Finally, she does. “Why are you here?” she accuses me.

  I do not answer. She knows why I am here. Any answer I give will infuriate her.

  I have been studying her closely. She does not seem injured, but her mechanical limbs have not moved. Something is wrong with them.

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Apparently.” I decide to try a different angle. “Is no one left on this floor?’

  “I heard them evacuating, heading to the Column.”

  “They didn’t come looking for you?”

  “No. Why would they?”

  A cold answer. She had long ago taught the other Select to avoid her except in precisely defined circumstances.

  “I know the truth. They did come.”

  “One. I told her to leave. I had something I needed to do.”

  “And you’ve crawled all this way?”

  She cursed. “Idiot. You think it’s funny.”

  “I think it’s unnecessary.”

  “What’s happened? Tell me that.”

  “I don’t know. The city’s in ruins.”

  “The city? I don’t care about the city. Let the city burn and the people bury their dead. I hope they die. I--” But she catches herself.

  “You what?”

  A long, scathing pause. Then: “I want to die. Is that fine with you? I want to die! Are you happy now?”

  “We can repair your limbs. Whatever happened to them--”

  She screams at me. It’s a shriek of rage and pain, cutting off my words. I take a step back. I have never heard such emotion from her. I begin to doubt my previous conclusions. Perhaps she is mortally wounded or she is suffering from some delusion. The cry passes, like a siren dying away. She takes in lungfuls of air. I dare not speak. I want her to let me help her; I do not want to force the issue. It will make things unpleasant. More so, it will injure her deeply, and I have vowed to protect her.

  “What?” she demands after a time. “What do you think of me?”

  “I think you are holding something back.”

  “Are you so dull? You’ve made a mad dash from whatever smoke-filled den you frequent and you don’t know? I knew it from the first. It’s gone. I can’t feel it anymore.”

  She wants me to ask. I do. I don’t mind playing the fool; most times, with her, I’m not playing. “What is gone?”

  “Magic. The Well is empty. It’s gone. All of it. Jalseion has fallen.”

  I am not sure I believe her. I don’t know how to believe such a statement. But she is supremely confident. I understand, too, what Select Grigor meant. He believed it, too.

  Another person might ask how this happened. But that is a question unrelated to what must still be done. “It hasn’t fallen yet. Let me get you out of here.”

  “I’m going to the Academy.”

  The Academy is in the center of the Wheel. If the rest of the Wheel is as battered as Tower Three, it will be a difficult journey. “After the dust settles, we’ll come back.”

  “No! My work is there--my batteries.”

  And now I understand what is left unsaid. Her limbs have ceased to work because the magic in them has run dry. Throughout the city, vehicles and devices powered by magic were destroyed, overloaded when...when what? What had happened? A shockwave?

  Her laboratory in the Academy holds the most advanced magic storage tech in the known world. And she will not leave without it. Not for reasons of science, but because without her batteries, she’s...incomplete.

  It is an unwise decision to continue on. Calea’s knowledge is irreplaceable. If the Select community loses her, advancement in the field of magical containment hits a roadblock. Going deeper into the ruin of the Wheel is foolishness.

  I have not forgotten that someone is killing Select.

  “I’ll help you.” I walk around, coming to her front and kneeling down. “Let me help you.”

  “You can’t carry me.”

  “I’m strong.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “I won’t let you crawl. It’s ridiculous.”

  She makes a face, like a child mocking me. “Lift me up and support me. Under the shoulders. I’m not lame. I can walk. It’s just heavy.”

  This is the best compromise I can manage for the time. I offer my hand and wait for her to extend hers. Finally, she does. Pulling her arm is not enough. I lift her bodily. Her mechanical limbs are inordinately heavy. I lean her body against mine, positioning her carefully. When she finds her balance, we begin to move forward. I feel out the rhythm, not looking to her or speaking. She is ashamed, and she does not want me to know. She is shaking, not just from effort, but from emotion. She hates this.

  I don’t like it much either. We move in fits and starts, Calea pushing forward faster than she can manage and forcing me to provide the extra balance needed. We work as one only as far as I am able to react to her motions. We weave back and forth between hallways, searching for an open path, like mice in a maze. I avoid obstacles whenever possible, and so wind a tortuously slow route toward the center. The closer we come to the Column, the less structural damage we find, until we finally emerge into the center of the tower. The stairwell of the Column is nearly undamaged. Glass shards from the glass dome above sprinkle the carpeted steps, and black stains show the remnant of fires. The central column is filled with a haze of smoke and dust and light.

  “If you let me---” I begin. The expression on her face is the answer. No carrying her.

  Here, there is movement. I can see people farther below, looking up and down between the floors, sometimes small groups being led or two or three together on some errand. The activity is focused. These are efforts to recover those who have not yet evacuated, or perhaps to assess the damage. Within a week, the Architects will have plans to r
ebuild--maybe not the means to rebuild, but certainly the plans.

  There is no reason Calea must go to the Academy herself. I do not tell her that. I look for the opportunity to bring the issue up with one of those searching the Tower.

  Down, down, we go, step by step. Calea is red-faced from exertion and breathing heavily. A Select I do not know sees us and hurries to help.

  “You may go about your business,” Calea says before he can reach us.

  “Um...yes, of course.” He stands there, uncertain. “What floor have you come from?”

  “Eighteen,” I say. “We didn’t see anyone else.”

  “I’d heard they’d started at the top, or as far up as they could reach. I’m glad you two are safe.”

  “Safe, yes,” Calea says. “And what do they say about the magic?”

  The man squirmed. “Nothing, except that it’s gone.”

  “And where has it gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Exactly. That is the vital question. If you’d get out of my way, I’ll be determining the answer to that as soon as I can walk properly.”

  “Is our spoke intact?” I ask. If we can’t get to the Academy from Tower Three, I may be able to dissuade Calea from the journey altogether.

  “I’ve been told it’s dangerous. I haven’t seen it myself. I know some of the other spokes are completely gone. I watched number four collapse.”

  “It’ll be fine. Bron here is strong,” Calea says, forcing a wretched smile. “It’s about all he’s good for. He’ll get me there.”

  The man is older than Calea but obviously recently graduated, still used to obeying, probably below 50 Falsan in skill. Calea, on the other hand, commands. You can see clearly the moment when he realizes he’s out of his depth. “Of course,” he says quickly. He turns, walking away uncertainly.

  She looks at me. “I’m not turning back. My lab contains the largest collection of batteries in the city, outside the factory. This may not be Thyrion, as everyone’s so fond of saying, but Jalseion isn’t Paradise, either. I’ll protect what’s mine.”

  As we head down again, I can feel my focus slipping. I think clearest with a single goal. Calea muddies all that. I need to protect her. I want to remove her from this place. But she needs her limbs, so I’m forced to either protect her physically or aid her in the way she needs most, which is repairing her arm and leg.

  Worse, she’s already convinced herself she’s heading to the Academy not for intensely personal reasons but to protect scientific property. In another twenty minutes, she’ll say she’s doing it for the good of the city.

  My body drags. Adrenaline drove me to the eighteenth floor, pushed me to the Column, but now the immediate danger has passed. I feel empty.

  “Faster, Bron. I want to be away from all these people.”

  Faster, Bron. New goal--the Academy, before the citizens mob the Towers, before the last spoke collapses, before the batteries are stolen. To protect Calea, I must repair her. That is enough for now.

  I move quickly, nearly dragging Calea along, narrowly avoiding lifting her off the ground. I no longer want to speak with the others. They will present other options, additional needs.

  I’ve chosen Calea. I will not choose another.

  We enter the main hall. It’s a disaster. We take roundabout passages, mostly staying on level ground. Twice we navigate heaps of broken masonry, Calea stubbornly at my side, cursing beneath her breath. I stop once to move debris and dig a path through. When we finally reach the spoke and see the sky again, it is early evening.

  I set Calea against the decorative wrought iron that acts as a barrier between the road leading to the Academy and the Well below. Calea is pale and can hardly catch her breath. Her injuries are superficial, but her body has been pushed beyond its normal limits. I watch her discreetly as I study the road before us. She is thin, almost frail. I have always thought her weaker than she presented herself, but now she looks broken, like a doll thrown in a corner. “We’ll keep moving after a moment’s rest,” I say. She will not want me to think her weak, but I will delay for more than a moment.

  The road itself, two lanes plus wide avenues for walking on either side, seems sturdy enough. Ahead I can see some gaps, but I think we will manage if we keep an eye out. The trees lining the avenues are half bare, green trees with naked branches. The land is harsh away from the wells, verdant within its reach. What happens now?

  I can see most of the Towers, too, or what is left of them. Three have completely collapsed. Tower Six stands nearly intact. Tower Five leans precariously over the Well, rooms open to the pit below.

  It is hard to comprehend what has happened. I examine each Tower in turn, thoughtless and overwhelmed.

  I become aware that Calea is crying. I do not look, to look would be cruel, but my eyes are drawn in that direction. It is then I finally see what I should have seen at first sight.

  I had not even thought to look into the Well. It is below and our path is above. Now I step to the railing and stare into the gaping pit. It is huge, immensely deep, more than two miles end to end, and it is empty.

  The sight is shocking. All my life, I have seen the shifting colors of magic as they hummed beneath the Wheel. Nothing remains. It is hollowed out. The contrast strikes me cold. And yet, I do not understand what it means. I have lost nothing. It is an emptiness in the landscape, but it has not removed a thing from my life.

  But Calea’s life has been drained out.

  I glance at her. I am afraid of what she might do, and I want somehow to connect with her. She is sobbing, eyes closed, hand pressed against her lips, trying to keep the sounds from escaping.

  “Let’s keep moving.” It’s not what I want to say. It’s the only thing I can say.

  She stands slowly, pulling herself up with her one arm, balancing on her one foot. I do not help her. She waits a long time, hand clenched on the railing, trying to breath. I give her time.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Of course.” She manages to control her voice. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  I support her once again and lead her forward. We take to the center of the road, so as to avoid the barren depths of the Well. And we walk.

  About midway to the Academy, the spoke starts to show evidence of fractures. I step carefully, watching the cracks. The avenues along the edges fall away for a time, first one side, then the other, the road like a garment with moth-eaten edges. I see the break long before we reach it, but even with time to consider, I have no plan to get across. The road disappears for twelve feet or more, except for girders exposed by the blast and a few thin walkways of unsupported concrete.

  “We are not turning back,” she says. I support her almost entirely by my own strength. She has nothing left.

  “We aren’t.”

  There is no good way to do this. “Calea, I need you to hang on to my back. Can you do that?”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Tightly.”

  That gets a little smile from her. She must be exhausted. “All right. I’ll hang on if you promise not to fall.”

  “Deal.”

  I choose the girder that seems the sturdiest. That’s a guess at best. The girder runs a few feet below the surface of the road. I lower Calea onto her belly and climb down onto the girder. It is barely wider than my shoulders. “Lay your arm over my chest. I’ll grab it and keep you leveraged.”

  “You’ll pull my arm out of socket. Here, this’ll work.”

  She wraps her arm around my neck, my throat in the crook of her elbow. It’s suspiciously like a choke hold.

  “Can you hold tight?”

  “I’ll hold. Now go.”

  I bend forward, easing her off the road and onto my back as smoothly as possible. I stare at the metal beneath my feet, not into the abyss below. She settles. I raise up, finding my balance. It is difficult to breath with her weight pulling down on my esophagus.

  I take my first step. I
waver a moment, wait, rediscover my center. Another step. Slow breathing. The wind picks up and I stop. Another step.

  “Hurry,” Calea says.

  “Don’t look down.”

  “Stop talking and go!” she shouts.

  Another step.

  Since I woke this morning, everything is another step--just one more step. That’s enough. That’s all that matters. One more step.

  I find my rhythm. Only for a moment, at the start, did I allow thoughts of falling. After that, it is only the next step. A step is easy. And after that, only one more. And one more.

  I am at the other end. I climb the short ascent, leaning forward to ease the pressure of Calea’s weight. I crawl onto the road, lower myself, and allow Calea to roll off.

  “Help me up,” she says. “And stop wheezing. You sound like an asthmatic dog.”

  I laugh, or try to. I rub my neck. Not crushed, but it might be bruised. Calea held on very tightly.

  We resume our journey. The Academy looms before us, the facade broken to pieces but still hanging on. It is an octagonal building, thickly built, squat. The road is pocked and mangled, but it looks as if it will hold, as long as we are careful. “We’ll be there soon,” I tell her.

  “Not soon enough.”