Freed from Gravity (Bound and Freed #2)

Chapter 36

Thirty-Six

SENAN

With the second dose of antidote humming through my veins, I should feel better than I have in years. Instead, my breakfast is about to make a second appearance. A letter arrived from Aeron this morning saying that a carriage would be waiting outside the burrows at noon, ready to take us to Stratiss. We’ve spent the last few hours packing what little we own and helping Josie wash and hang the sheets from our bed, so they’ll be ready for any unexpected guests that may arrive.

We came to the burrows a little over two weeks ago and already it’s come to feel like home. Leaving is going to be more difficult than I anticipated. What pains me most is that I won’t have the opportunity to tell Harold goodbye. He left for work this morning before any of us were out of bed and won’t return until dinnertime.

Tears sparkle in Josie’s eyes when she hugs us, still referring to me as Simon as she bids us farewell. Did I mention she gave us a basket of snacks for the long trek to Stratiss Castle?

Come to think of it, maybe the turn in my stomach has to do with the smell of the two sweet potato pies and dishes of stewed vegetables she packed for us.

Allette’s hand slips into mine, her head falling to my shoulder. “I’m going to miss this place.”

“So am I.” Josie’s cooking, though? That I can live without. This basket is about to be donated to the first beggar we come across.

We make our way to the mouth of the cave where the burrows open into Kumulus City. What we find when we finally reach the entrance makes my knees quake.

Men and women wail alongside tiny huts of straw, wearing little more than rags. Muck covers their faces, and the whole place reeks worse than a privy. Who knew such poverty and horror awaited so close to such a beautiful, peaceful place? No wonder no one in Kumulus wants to visit the burrows. If we’d come this way, there is no way anyone would’ve convinced me to enter.

My stomach twists, and I find myself wishing I could do something to help these people. That I had the money or the land to offer them a place to live and earn an honest wage instead of begging for coins from passersby.

With my heart in my throat, I step around a small girl with mud streaked through her ringlet curls. Her piercing yowl echoes off the low ceiling. When I look down, I recognize the little face staring back.

Dahlia, the Nightingale’s neighbor, the one who wanted the bunny.

I kneel in the dirt, Josie’s basket tumbling onto the ground next to me. “Are you all right?” I ask, taking her gently by the shoulders.

She grins back at me. “Hi, Simon.”

The knife in my gut twists a little deeper. Why is she out here? Did something happen in her burrow? “Hello, Dahlia. Where are your mother and father?”

“Mum’s right there.” She points a dimpled hand toward one of the huts, where a silver-haired woman hunches over an iron pot, stirring with a wooden spoon.

Why are they here when they have a home inside?

Dahlia glances up to where Allette watches us through tear-filled eyes. “Who’s she?”

“This is my wife.”

Dahlia cups her hands around her mouth but whispers loudly enough for anyone within earshot to overhear. “She’s really pretty.”

Allette smiles down at the girl. “I think you’re pretty.”

“I know.” Dahlia beams, gripping the sides of her skirts and doing a little twirl. “Do you like my costume?”

“Costume?” Allette and I say in unison, trading wide-eyed looks.

She nods. “Today’s our day to play pretend. Mummy says I’m the best actress.”

Allette sucks in a breath.

Play pretend …

I take in the entrance with fresh eyes, recognizing some of the faces from deeper in the burrows. The woman who sold me the apples. The man who made the swords.

None of this makes any sense. “Why do you need to play pretend?”

Dahlia’s face scrunches and she raises her arms in the air, her fingers curling like tiny claws as she stomps toward me. “To keep the bad men away.”

“Who are the bad men?” Allette asks.

“The ones with the wings, of course.”

Bloody hell…

All of this is a ruse.

Whoever thought of using sickness as a deterrent might be a genius. I certainly wouldn’t want to go past these people if I didn’t know the truth of their “ailments.”

Does anyone from above the clouds know the truth?

Not that it matters. We’re leaving today and I cannot see us returning as long as Boris holds the throne. If nobody stops him, that could be a very, very long time.

“Not everyone with wings is bad,” I tell her. “I had wings before. Do you think I’m bad?”

Her mouth twists as she considers, her gaze falling to where my shirtsleeves meet my forearms. “Just bad at drawing.”

I chuckle. She has a good point.

Dahlia’s smile slowly fades. “What happened to your wings?”

“Someone stole them.”

“Mummy says stealing is bad.”

“Dahlia!” The woman with the spoon shouts, gawking at me with a horrified expression.

I smile at Dahlia, silently wishing her a long and happy life. One full of bunnies where all her wishes and dreams come true. “Better go to your Mum.”

“Bye, Simon. Bye, Simon’s wife.” The girl takes off running, leaping over mounds of dirt, her stained skirts billowing behind her.

Allette folds her arms over her chest. “Bad at drawing, huh?”

“I can’t be good at everything.”

Her laugher warms my soul as I collect the discarded basket. With her hand in mine, we traverse the well-worn path together, the mud so deep it slurps at our boots.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Going through all of this just to keep people out,” she muses.

“It’s genius, that’s what it is.” The Tuath keep to themselves, and the king and his guards avoid the place like a plague. Everyone wins.

The gray light of day grows brighter as we near the mouth of the cavern. Outside, a carriage waits on a dirt road. The driver leans against one of the oversized back wheels, pipe smoke like a cloud around his head.

I’ve never travelled by carriage before. Those cushions look comfortable, and if we close the curtains, my girl and I would have plenty of privacy.

Perhaps today won’t be so bad after all.

When the man sees us, he nudges his cap higher, his jaw dropping as he gawks at Allette.

I have to clear my throat twice before he turns toward me. “Are you Tallin?”

A nod. “Simon, I presume?”

“That’s right?—”

A deafening boom of thunder rumbles in the distance. The ground beneath my boots shakes and shudders, throwing me off balance.

Allette yelps, gripping my arm with both hands. “What’s happening?”

Tallin catches himself against the carriage wheel, his pipe clattering to the ground. A plume of black smoke billows into the sky, mixing with the low-hanging gray clouds on the horizon.

“What’s up there?” I ask.

“The mines,” Tallin says.

The ground shakes again, the violent rattle knocking my girl and me to my knees. Is it the same mine where Harold works?

It doesn’t matter .

We need to leave.

What if he’s hurt? What if he needs help?

It’s not safe for us out in the open.

Aeron is expecting us in Stratiss by nightfall.

More smoke billows over the treetops.

Allette clutches my hand. “Harold.”

Screams echo through the valley.

You’re better at causing problems than fixing them.

I have no business getting involved. Hell, I’ll probably make it worse. Yet, I find myself shoving the basket at the driver. “Wait here.” I take off up the hill, sprinting toward the smoke.

“I have other fares, you know!” Tallin shouts at my back.

I hear Allette tell him that we’ll pay double if he doesn’t leave us behind. When I glance over my shoulder, I find her running behind me.

The mines aren’t difficult to find on account of all the screaming.

Men painted black with soot stumble from a hole cut into the ground, coughing and gasping as inky clouds surge from behind them like living shadows. They fall onto the stones and dirt, chests heaving as they fight for air. Some have gashes dripping with blood while others seem relatively unscathed.

“Is that Iver?” Allette points to two men carrying a third.

Shit . It is Iver. I’m there in a blink, helping them ease the unconscious man onto the damp grass.

Not just any man.

Harold Nightingale.

Allette kneels next to Braith’s father, taking his hand in hers. “What happened?”

Iver sinks onto the ground, his eyes glazed and hands covered in deep cuts. “Cave-in…” His throat bobs. “Dad… He… He went back in to help drag men out when the ceiling fell on top of him.” Tears track down his face, streaking the soot on his cheeks.

“Harold? Harold, can you hear me?” Allette cups his weathered cheeks, but Harold remains silent. Her fingers shake as they unfasten his shirt.

When I see the black and blue bruises mottling his torso, my heart stops. Years ago, I remember one of the servants being dragged from the stables, his chest and stomach looking the very same. Internal bleeding, the physician said. The man would’ve succumbed from his wounds if Boris hadn’t healed him.

It’s one of the few times I recall Boris helping someone.

I hold my hands against Harold’s chest, begging for my missing magic to return, but it’s no use. Not even a spark remains. “Allette? Can you try?”

She tries for a moment only to shake her head in defeat. “There’s nothing there.”

Dammit. “Are there any other Scathians nearby?” Surely there must be someone else who can help him.

Iver’s eyes narrow into slits. “What do you mean? You’re Scathian. Heal him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I haven’t seen the sun in months.” Not properly, anyway.

“Then fly through the clouds and find the fucking sun.”

I would if I could, but I can’t.

With a humorless chuckle, Iver shakes his head. “Just when I started to think maybe you weren’t all a shower of bastards… You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you? Using us and then casting us aside when we need help.”

“I’m not?—”

“Save it.”

I will not save it . He needs to understand that I’m doing everything I can—which is fuck all. “I cannot fly because I have no fucking wings. The king cut them off.”

Iver’s jaw drops.

“Now, are there any other Scathians nearby?”

“The foremen are Scathian, but they only come by every couple of days to ensure we’re meeting our quota.”

Allette raises her head toward the thick layer of clouds, as if begging the sun to appear. “There must be someone nearby who is willing to help.”

“There’s a clinic near the textile factory,” Iver says.

Right. The textile factory. That’s not too far, is it? Gods, I’m so turned around, I don’t even remember.

I glance over at Allette. “Can you run down to the carriage and have Tallin drive it up here? It’ll be quicker than trying to carry Harold.” Not to mention safer.

She nods and pushes to her feet, running like the wind she wields, her hair and cloak billowing at her back.

Harold groans. Iver clutches his father’s hand to his chest. “You’re going to be all right. We’re going to heal you.”

More whimpers and moans fill the air.

How can we only help one man and leave the others behind? “Iver, can you find those with the gravest wounds and bring them here?” We might not be able to save them all, but at least we can help some of them.

With a reluctant bob of his head, Iver places his father’s hand in mine and takes off toward the entrance of the mines.

“Senan?” Harold gasps, peering up at me, his eyes glazed with pain. “You…”

“Shhh… Save your energy. Once you’re healed, we can have all the chats you want.”

Wincing, he shakes his head. “You…shouldn’t be…afraid. You… You would make a great…king.”

A great king would have the strength to heal this man’s wounds. Me? I am sitting here in the dirt doing nothing .

Harold’s lids flutter closed, and his hand grows heavy.

“Hold on just a little longer.” Just until we can find someone to help.

You’re better at causing problems than fixing them.

I might not have caused the cave-in, but I’m certainly not fixing anything.

Even knowing it’s useless, I can at least try, can’t I?

Forcing Boris’s taunting voice from my mind, I close my eyes. With my hands anchored to Harold’s chest, I call on my absent magic, attempting to coax it from nothing. I saw the sun in the human realm. Briefly, but I felt its rays on my bare skin. There must be something there.

Come on. Please. Let me fix this.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, searching deep within myself.

Harold begins to convulse beneath my palms.

No. Please . I don’t give a shit about my element. The gods can keep my fire for the rest of my days. All I need is a spark of healing magic, just enough to save this man who gave us refuge when he could’ve turned us away.

Where the hell is it?

Allette can access her power, so where is mine?

It feels as if I’m staring into an abyss as big and wide as space itself. Fathomless, cold, empty, and dark?—

Dark except for one speck of light, like the farthest star in a midnight sky, barely glowing.

I call to that star, begging it to grow brighter with every part of my blackened soul.

You’re better at causing problems than fixing them.

NO.

I might have caused problems in the past, but now all I want to do is make up for the many mistakes I’ve made. To do something to help instead of drowning in sorrow and guilt.

The speck grows a little brighter.

Don’t you think it’s time to give back instead of take?

I will.

Give me this, and I’ll stay and fight. I swear.

Something stirs in the center of my chest. Magic . I force every last drop of power from my body to Harold’s. When I dare to pry open my eyes, I find the bruises on Harold’s chest have faded. They’re not gone, but it’s a start. At least he isn’t convulsing anymore, and his breathing seems to have evened out.

The carriage finally rolls into view. Allette leaps down from where she sits next to the driver at the front and sprints toward me. “Tallin said he can bring six more.”

I call a man over to help me maneuver Harold into the carriage. Allette climbs in next to him, holding his hand and speaking in soothing tones. We manage to fit in four more, with wounds ranging from lacerations on their heads to what looks like a broken leg.

Iver refuses to take up a seat that could be given to one of the wounded men, choosing instead to run behind the carriage. I climb up next to the driver, gripping the edge of the seat as the mammoth horses lunge for town. We drive to the tune of wails and curses, racing to save Harold and heal the rest of these men.

It feels like forever before we’re pulling in front of a squatty stone building with the word “Clinic” painted in faded white letters above the door.

Women and a handful of whimpering children huddle beneath the overhang, staring at us with blank expressions, as if they cannot see us at all.

The carriage barely comes to a halt before I leap from the seat. “We need a physician,” I bellow, pushing through the door and stopping dead in my tracks. More women sob on tables, clutching blood-drenched hands while men and women dressed in bloodstained white robes pace between them, working furiously to heal the wounded. To my right, shoeless feet protrude from beneath a white sheet.

Gods … “What happened?”

“Fire at the Textile Mill,” a stern-faced woman says as she passes, an armful of white gauze clutched to her chest.

There isn’t a spare table in sight, and with so many patients already waiting, how can we expect them to help us first?

Outside, Allette and Iver speak in low tones, their expressions grim. When I explain the situation, Iver curses, dragging a hand down his grimy face.

There’s only one way I can think to help now.

“We need sunlight.” Curse the thick blanket of clouds above us. Why did Boris have to take my fucking wings?

Iver holds his head between his hands. “If we’re caught in the sun, they’ll throw us into the pit.”

“There might not be time for us to restore our magic and return.” Hell, by the time we find a way above the clouds, it still might be too late to save Harold.

Allette’s gaze finds mine. “Isn’t Lord Windell’s tower on this side of the city?”

Shit . She’s right.

Except showing up at Philip Windell’s tower is akin to announcing myself to Boris himself.

Behind me, a girl no older than Dahlia starts to cry. This one isn’t in costume. This one isn’t pretending.

Allette’s hand finds mine. “Senan?”

Iver chokes. “Did she just call you Senan ?”

Looks like not everyone in the burrows was in on my little secret. There’s no time to explain. “Philip Windell will go straight to the king.”

“What other option do we have?”

The only other option is to leave these men behind.

Even as the thought crosses my mind, I know we cannot abandon these people.

You’re better at causing problems than fixing them.

Fuck off, Boris. I’m going to fix this.

“We’ll go to Windell.”