The Select's Bodyguard (Children of the Wells - Bron & Calea Book 1) (9 page)

“We need to move quickly. The sun is setting. I want to use the light as long as I can.”

There is no sensible way to carry an injured woman down into a gorge, even with the aid of steps. I must carry her on my back. Calea keeps a small drawer with spare clothes in the back room. I cut them into strips and, placing myself as if to allow a child to climb onto my back, I begin to tie her to me. The bonds are tight, causing her to complain. It is all I can think of on such short notice. I heave myself to my feet. Her arm is around my neck again, and her head is over my shoulder. She has grown quiet.

“Ready?” I ask.

There is no answer. I learn the distribution of weight as I walk outside. The bonds seem to want to slip. I reposition some. I have a complicated strand, made of several lengths, that runs around the back of my neck and crosses over my chest and around Calea so that she can place her weight as in a chair. Between that pressure and the crook of her elbow around my neck, I fully expect my head to pop off.

I take a moment to refocus myself. That ridiculous image tells me I am growing fully aware of the situation’s severity. My mind is trying to compensate by making jokes.

I lower myself feet first, crawling down face toward the rock like a toddler practicing on steps. My feet touch the ledge. It is thinner than I remember. My face is pressed against the rock. I search for the next ledge with my feet. It is much closer than the first step down. It is not a steep descent, but it takes caution.

“There is an explanation for this,” Calea says. I do not know if she is speaking to me or to herself. “There have been numerous unscientific attempts to manipulate the columns of the Wheel. We are still unsure how the original Architects managed such a feat. Perhaps they constructed the steps. The great goal of our study has been to move magic, transport it, contain it, multiply it.”

I hardly listen. My world is the rough wall before me, the stone upon my hands, the pressure of my feet. I let her talk. It keeps her occupied and it allows me to focus; it acts as white noise, sharpening my senses. I do not hear the wind or the sounds of the city, whatever they might be.

“Hewren talked of cultivating the Well. He wanted to build passages through it, that we might study it from within. Our strength with magic is proportional to our proximity to a well, with the limit of our reach determined by Tourac’s constant, but we have only guessed at the consequences of being within the source itself. Some thought our power would grow exponentially if we could somehow find a way to enter the magic in some sort of capsule or submerged lab. What feats we might have performed for the world. How we might have changed everything!”

She continues to cite those who might have constructed the steps. I walk upon them, unconcerned with their history. They are smooth, almost slick. Time expands as she talks. Distance expands. One minute passes, and I feel an hour of patient movement completed. Another minute passes. I do not count them. I do not count the steps. The light is fading. It has faded. It is dark. Another minute passes. Another step. I do not look down to see my progress. I do not allow my brain to consider the fire in my muscles. It is best to be a machine, to stifle human weakness, in these cases.

Calea is silent. I do not know when she ceased. I can hear her breath in my ear. It is labored. Her belly is warm against my back. She is bleeding again.

She is no longer half-machine, trying to stifle human weakness. But I do not know if she has the strength to allow herself to be weak.

I dare a look downward. The bottom is hidden in darkness. Perhaps it is close. I do not tell myself that. It is far away, I tell myself. Then I do not look again. I take a step, then another. It is a rhythm held together by will. My legs burn, but I am beyond that.

“We’re almost there, Calea,” I say. “We’ll reach the bottom.”

She does not respond.

Time passes. It is pitch black when my feet cannot find another step. The ground all around is flat. I have reached the bottom. “Calea,” I call softly. I do not know whether she is awake or asleep or unconscious. My back is sticky with blood. “Calea, can you sense any magic?”

She stirs. I sit and untie her, lowering her to the ground. “Calea.”

“Are we there?”

“We’re in the Well. Can you sense anything?”

“It’s gone, it’s all gone.”

“How close do you need to be? There’s surely a little left, somewhere.”

She shakes her head. I catch the movement in the dark like wind upon my skin.

I pick her up and begin to walk. “Tell me if you sense any. Which way should I go?”

“Bron.” She says it three times before I stop. “Bron, it’s no use.”

“There might be some.”

“We both know this ends here. You’ve done enough.”

The words shake me. “Not yet. The steps. They were there for a reason.”

“It had nothing to do with us. Nothing. Set me down.”

I set her on the ground. The stone is as smooth as glass. I sit beside her.

Her breath is ragged. I am empty, unable to feel anything except a deep weight that can’t quite express itself. She tries to speak: “Bron, I...I forgive you.”

The words pierce through the fog of my emotions. She doesn’t understand. She never has, and I have always kept it from her. I mean to keep it from her now, though it pains me. She has done a noble thing in forgiving me, but it is false. She has offered words to me that she would never say in lesser circumstances. I remain silent, wrestling with myself. Should I tell her? I must. I hate the lie, and I do not want her to die with it still left hidden.

“I must tell you something,” I say. I do not know if she is listening. “When I told you that the gate’s failure was my fault, I lied. I was a maintenance man, but the Observation Deck was not assigned to me. I do not do my job out of guilt. I told you that to spare you. I understand now what hurts you most. I did not grasp it at first. It took me a long time to realize how much I hurt you that first night, at the party, when I tried to deflect their insults. But what hurts you is what drives me.

“I might call it pity, but you would misunderstand me. I know you abhor pity more than anything else. But I do not look down on you. I do not consider myself superior. But I do see your weakness, and I want to cover over it. In children’s stories, a dragon can only be injured in the chink in his armor. Pity is that chink, and you hate it. You rage and yell. You make yourself hard and cold. But I want to do what I can to protect you. I need to.

“It’s not about saving you from a knife or a blast of magic. It’s about giving you security, a sense of trust, a person on which to release all your blows. There is no secret motivation. I have no deep psychological guilt. If anything, I have a fault. I want to protect those who most need it. It is an instinct, a belief. Maybe a religion. Who would protect you if not me? Everyone needs someone, Calea. Everyone. I have chosen to be that person, whether you want me or not. Because...I can’t leave you to yourself. Hate me for it if you need to. I will be everything no one else is for you. I wouldn’t change it. I can’t.”

I am exhausted. I have rarely spoken so many words to anyone. I fear I have failed to explain, or perhaps enraged her. She will not allow me to call her weak. She doesn’t understand. Everyone is weak. Everyone.

She says nothing. I hope she has not heard. I have said what I needed to say. If she did not hear, all the better. Her breath is soft, but she lives. For a while, she lives. And I have shown her, the best way I know, what she is worth.

I wait for morning.

I wake suddenly. It is still dark. A hand is around my arm, squeezing gently. The hand contracts again. It is desperate, but it is weak. “Bron?”

I am fully roused.

“Stay with me.” Her voice is a fierce whisper, begging. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to.”

“I’m here.”

She swallows, a drawn-out act. “Look at them. The stars. They’re beautiful. I don’t want to go into darkness.”

I look up. In the depth of the Well, there is no light, and the sky is brilliant with jewels. I have never seen so many. It is almost like looking upon a city from a distance, a city larger than Thyrion, larger than any even in stories.

“What are we?” Calea manages. “So little, so useless.”

I grasp her hand. She needs strength, not words. She will argue words.

She lapses back into silence.

I am out of actions, out of steps, out of time. If I could will her to live, if I could grant her my life, I would. It is an ache in my soul.
So little, so useless.
The despair in those words move me. I want to lift her to her feet, make her stand--but I can’t.

The steps that led us here were miraculous, but they were false.

The fact is she will be dead by morning. I have done everything possible. There is no regret, no second-guessing. But I still refuse to accept these facts until hope is gone. I refuse to give in. There is nothing left but another miracle.

“Be strong, Calea,” I say. “Stay with me.”

From a distance comes the reply. “I can’t. I’m so afraid. The stars are fading.”

“I’ll be strong for you. Do you understand? I’ll be strong for you. Just hang on. Let me be strong for you.”

“Help me, Bron. Please help me.”

Tears begin to fall down my face. I am willing her to live, physically trembling with a desire to save her which I cannot put into words. I pull her up, into my arms, and hold her tight. She is cold. I want her to feel warmth. I want her to know she is not alone. I want her to hang on, to hold out, until....

“I’m here, Calea. I won’t leave. I’m here. You’ll be all right.” Empty words, but I believe them. I am not deceiving her; if anything, I deceive myself. “It’ll be all right.”

Her body warms as the hours pass. My eyes are heavy, my entire body pulling me down to sleep. She is already asleep, her breathing easy. When she passes, it will be in ease, in a dream. I set her down and lay beside her, almost delirious in my extreme fatigue. I pass into sleep effortlessly.

Chapter 10 - The Sky is Blue

Blue. I stare into it. It’s deep, and for a long time I need nothing else but to be immersed in color. It is immensely deep, incredibly brilliant, and filled with such a complexity of beauty that I dare not look elsewhere unless I wish to break the spell. It’s the sky. I know it’s the sky, but if it’s the sky, it means I am alive, and I desperately wish to be alive.

It takes courage to look elsewhere, and it takes me a long time to gather it. The world is built of particles and equations; life is easily stripped to the essentials; but in the blue, all that is swept aside into something else, something I can’t quite quantify, something I don’t want to quantify. I don’t want the moment to pass. The past hovers over me, ready to pounce, but if I don’t look...

I turn my head. He is there, next to me. He is dead. That’s my first thought. And my first emotion is relief. It is fleeting, but it’s there. I don’t want to deal with what he means. But the immediate second emotion is guilt. No one should suffer for me. I don’t deserve it.

And then I see his chest rise. He is alive, and that brings different emotions. I let them play out, returning my gaze to the sky. The wonder is gone, but it retains some of its beauty. I let the emotions have their way, unwilling to beat them down as I normally would. That world has passed away. At least for the moment.

I sit up. I am crippled again, incapacitated. Half a woman.

I look up. I can see three of the spokes, each broken along its length. The city is crippled, incapacitated.

Bron stirs. He sees me and sits. I have never seen a look of shock upon his face, but it is there now. Before he bothers me with the question, I assure him: “There’s an explanation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Well always gave life. Vegetation grows most verdantly about the wells. Something of that must still remain, some remnant, drifting away.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“There may be another explanation. But there is an explanation. There is always an explanation. You did not save me.”

“I didn’t think I did. I just...don’t believe it.”

I heard what he confessed in the deep dark night. I do not know what to do with it. But he needs me. It is cruel to beat him down like this. And it isn’t true. “You brought me here,” I say after a moment. “So, I guess you helped save me, in some way.”

He shrugs. “It’s my job.”

“It was your job.”

He nods. “I’ll return you to the Tower. They’ll need your help.”

The suggestion is hollow. It repels me, and I know that something has changed. “I don’t want to stay here.” The Wheel is broken. Jalseion is maimed. I’m ashamed to appear before them, without magic, without my limbs, like a beggar in a corner. “I want to go to Thyrion.”

There are many objections he could give. They’re occurring to me as I wait for his answer. I don’t care. I don’t want to stay here. There’s nothing for me. In Thyrion, I can find answers. I can find justice. I can find magic. That’s as far as I’m looking.

He finally speaks. “How will you get there?”

“You’ll take me.”