I stop. Fatigue has failed to slow me. The scene before me succeeds.
Her tower rises above me, decapitated. It has loomed over me, broken, puffing, beckoning. The sun is warm now, the air still. The smoke billows; I can see fire lazily licking the bones of its meal. The tower is tilted, nudged, but it stands.
Separating me from what remains of the wide entrance is a trench. The generators that provided power to Section Four hummed here, fussed over by Architects. Dreary, overworked Select. Dead now. I think I see pieces of them here and there. The power facility sat in the barrier wall between Section and Tower. Gone, all of it. Obliterated into powder and junk. The tower entrance reveals the rooms within, like the side of a doll house.
Where are the Select? With magic they move rock, wield wind, control fire. I hear none of it. If regular man survives and begins to dig his way out, Select will too. But I do not see them; I do not see them working.
The trench is deep, its walls steep. My fingers hold my weight; my battered feet find toeholds. I work slowly, unused to climbing, but my will is strong. I have no fear of falling; therefore, I will not fall. I reach the bottom, begin up the other side. I reach level ground. Done.
I peer up as I enter beneath the shattered structure. If it has not fallen, it will not, but even I cannot escape the sense of inexorable gravity pulling down, down, down. I pass through the foyer. Men here died instantly, the ceiling beams and furniture from the floor above crushing them. I listen. There is sound, a voice, nearby. Not hers. It might know where she is, though.
I search it out, moving into the main hall, turning aside into a room designated for drinking and lounging. A club for Guides and their assistants, a place where men who decide the fate of thousands toss dice and wild ideas. One is dead at the threshold. He sprawls across the carpeted floor. The room is miraculously untouched. I step inside, wary. I check behind the door, open the cabinets. No one else is there.
I return to the body. His blood stiffens the carpet. I turn him over. I know him. Essendr, an amiable fellow as Guides go. She hated him. A gash runs along his abdomen, a wound in his chest. Weapons. Blades? Unconventional in Jalseion. I would know.
I say a prayer for his soul. I have largely forgotten my mother’s faith, but old habits die hard. I’ve seen death. The city stinks with it today. But I was to protect ones such as this. And her. Above all, her.
I stand. My hand is shaking. It’s beginning to sink in. She is dead. I don’t know it for certain yet, but it’s becoming reality. Jalseion has been shaken until anything that could move, did. And someone is using it to cover the murder of Select.
No–hesitation is delay. Delay is death. I move on.
I still hear that voice, faint but constant. I force the door to the next room open, the hinges protesting. The floor above is visible. Two more dead, and one alive beneath the rubble. Grigor. He likes tea. That’s all I can remember of him at the moment, all that sticks. He stares up at the third-floor ceiling. His legs are pinned beneath a cabinet. He’s cut somehow; I see blood pooled beneath his lower body. His lips are moving, and sometimes they make noise. I come to him.
“Do you know where Calea Lisan is?”
He stares at me, confused. Suddenly, his hand is at my neck, fumbling for my collar.
“I had a dream,” he says. “I knew I would die this way.”
I let him speak. I am impatient, but by patience I might get an answer. He is not in his right mind; direct questions will yield nothing.
“I die with the world,” he mutters. “I cannot even lift my….” He lifts his neck, craning to see his legs. “The power is gone. Can you sense it? Gone. The world is empty. Do you remember what they used to tell us as kids, about the world dying? It’s hollowed out, emptied. I can’t even….” Again, he looks at his legs.
I understand. A Select should be able to move the cabinet with a push of magic. Shock does strange things. I’ve heard of a mother lifting a car to reach her trapped child; I’ve heard of men going mute after a traumatic experience. Perhaps he is no longer able to reach the magic. My first instinct is to help. My second is that moving the burden would injure him worse.
My third is that I’ve abandoned so many already. What’s one more?
“Do you know where Calea is? Calea Lisan? Guide Lisan?”
His eyes focus on me. “Poor girl. Without magic….”
“Where is she?”
“It’s only a matter of time. Everything will waste away now. Everything. The earth is a corpse. The spirit has fled. We should have known. It was bound to happen someday. Today….”
I stand. It’s useless. I will go where she must be. If she is to be found, it will be in her rooms.
If she is not there…it doesn’t matter yet. Ifs will kill a man and have.
I know every passage in all eight Towers. I studied the maps and walked them to be sure. Just in case.
I don’t know how damaged the rest of the Tower is. I’ll take my chances with the most direct route.
Don't miss a single word of stories as they are published! You'll also receive first notice of special sales and behind-the-scenes information.