The Select's Bodyguard (Children of the Wells - Bron & Calea Book 1) (5 page)

Her classmates turned away. Her shrieks forced them to recoil. A few were crying; at least one vomited. They said it lasted a long, long time, but the clock said otherwise. Her teacher watched in horror, unable to move or speak or offer help.

Then the screams changed pitch. The agony drained away. A desperate, battered moan remained.

Calea knelt upon the magic, twisted, her right arm sunken to the shoulder, her left leg gone nearly to the hip, but her descent had stopped. She managed in a weak voice: “Help me.”

Her teacher rushed forward, throwing herself down on her belly. “Give me your hand.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

Calea’s body trembled from effort. Slowly, she lifted her unaffected arm. Her hand was clenched in a fist. Her teacher lowered herself farther out. “Give me your hand.”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“You have to, Calea. Give me your hand.”

“I can’t let go. It’ll eat me.”

“Laurie!” The teacher yelled. “Get help!”

A few minutes later, a guard hung suspended over the magic, his legs firmly secured on the deck by another, as he reached out and grabbed Calea’s wrist. With effort, they pulled her up. Stumps remained where limbs had been, cauterized. Calea remained rigid, sitting oddly on towels brought to clean up the blood that didn’t come. They brought out a stretcher and began to lay her on it.

“No,” she said.

“Calea, you’re in shock. You need to be taken to a doctor.”

“I have to let go.” She scooted off the stretcher, half crawling. When one of the guards moved to stop her, she screamed, “Don’t!”

“Calea, what are you doing?” asked the teacher. Calea continued to scoot-crawl to the edge. “Calea?”

Calea extended her clenched hand through the fence and opened it. A ball of shimmering colors sat on her palm, vibrating. She turned her hand over, and it fell to rejoin the rest of the magic.

Calea’s body relaxed. Then her head smacked hard against the floor as she passed out.

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 rebuild--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.