Chapter Two
Chapter
two
We wind a twisted path out of the ruined palace, a journey that once took only minutes lengthened to nearly an hour.
Navigating the wreckage is no easy task.
Hallways end abruptly in piles of ruptured stone.
The remaining staircases are too structurally unsound to tread upon with any confidence.
We use a mix of servants’ passages and debris-strewn corridors, following a series of lit torches from the throne room deep within the bowels of the earth back toward the surface.
The air grows somewhat less stale as we progress, tendrils of wind creeping in through cracks and crevasses in the keep’s battered fortifications. I breathe easier as the constricting bands of claustrophobia loosen their death grip around my chest.
Not much farther now.
We hasten our steps through the grand ballroom, scrambling over loose stone and exposed mortar.
A narrow path was cleared during the desperate search for survivors—a mission of rescue that all too quickly became one of recovery, for there was no one left alive to dig out from beneath the rocks.
Only corpses. The ceiling is concave, a gaping hole open to misty gray skies.
The detritus of two collapsed turrets rests on the dance floor, where now only ghosts twirl and pirouette.
With the bridge felled, the front gates demolished, and the main courtyard impassable, a new point of entry was forged by necessity through a seldom-used side terrace.
Once used exclusively for the queen’s garden parties and high teas, it now serves a far more pedestrian function.
As we near it, we begin to pass burly soldiers in dusty brown uniforms, working to clear the rubble bit by bit.
It is a grueling, monotonous task, one I do not envy as I examine their grime-caked faces and bloodied knuckles.
Their muscles strain to lift gargantuan pieces of rock, often working in teams of two or three.
They spare us no attention as we pass through their ranks.
I squint against the haze as we step out onto the terrace. It is eerily untouched by violence, its hedge topiaries green with new growth, its marble fountains still gurgling, its tile pathways unbroken. An aberrant sliver of normalcy amid the decay.
This section of the palace is the most intact.
Its turret still stands, a lone sentinel piercing the sky high over our heads.
From here, one could almost pretend that Fyremas had never happened.
Even the lake looks almost normal. Almost. The illusion is marred somewhat by the pile of rubble that hashes a line down its center.
That scar of tumbled rock and stone is all that remains of the fallen turrets, the bridge beneath. The bodies beneath.
So many lost.
Mist from the nearby falls hovers close over the water’s surface, so thick it appears almost as fog.
The familiar thunder of cascading water drowns out the grunts of the soldiers as they lug their heavy loads down a short incline, where a wooden access pier has been constructed atop an uneven pile of rubble.
Several sleek wooden craft are tied there awaiting use, most bobbing low in the water as they are piled high with debris to be ferried across to the distant shore for removal.
As we make our way down the makeshift dock, Penn’s grip on my hand tightens, wordlessly steadying me whenever my soles lose purchase on the damp boards. This close to the falls, everything is slicked with a thick coat of moisture.
After helping me into one of the unoccupied wooden craft, he climbs nimbly in after me and casts off our dock lines.
For a time, there is no sound but the smooth dip of his oars as he steers us swiftly across the lake, the occasional puff of exertion between tight-pressed lips.
Our silence strains with the weight of words left unsaid.
I feel Penn’s eyes on me, but I keep mine fixed on the opposite bank as it nears.
Teal waters lap gently at the sand. It is still strange to see the stretch of shore empty—no fishermen tossing weighted nets into the shallows or casting baited lines off the bridge.
There are no fish left to catch. They perished along with the ice giants when the waters boiled.
It will be generations before the lake teems with new schools.
Even then, I doubt anyone will try their hand at luring them.
Who would dare plumb the depths of a watery tomb?
The rest of the capital feels hardly less macabre, in no small part because of the gloomy weather of late.
Mist blankets the broken bones of the city.
It never seems to burn off, even when sparse midday sunshine pierces the persistent cover of clouds that hangs over the crater.
Unusual conditions for Caeldera in springtime—or so I am told.
But then, nothing has been usual for several months.
Our silence endures as we walk toward my apartments.
Penn seems content to follow me without question or complaint, lost in something of a daze, his thoughts distant as his expression as we wind through the marketplace.
Gone is its buzzing energy, exchanged for the somber atmosphere of a graveyard.
The cobblestones where citizens once traded crowns for all manner of goods are still stained with the blood of those who fell here beneath the cutting blades of Reaver battle-axes.
One day, I tell myself, the vendors will return, trading coin and gossip freely as their wares change hands, filling the afternoons with spices and laughter. For now, though, it, like much of this place, remains eerily vacant.
In unspoken agreement, Penn and I both increase our pace, not wanting to dwell any longer than necessary.
I avert my eyes from the fountain where the old apothecary breathed his last; from the stretch of sidewalk where the cobbler and her wife met their sad end in each other’s arms. But I do not need to look to see. Such memories are etched in my bones.
The worst of the glass and debris was swept off the sidewalks weeks ago, but the more substantial damage remains. Whole blocks are boarded up, their residents either dead or fled.
And even as traces of the slaughter are wiped away, even as the rubble is cleared and carted off…things are not the same. I fear they will never be the same. A grimness has settled over all of us, much like the unseasonable haze that clings to the air. Neither shows any sign of lifting.
So lost in my own thoughts, I hardly notice we’ve reached my front door until I am standing before it with my hand on the knob. I hesitate before I twist it open, eyes sliding to the man at my side.
“This is, um…where I’ve been staying,” I say. Astoundingly adroit, Rhya. “Since I left the barracks, I mean.”
“I know.”
He knows? How can he know?
He’s never once asked me about my sleeping arrangements, nor bothered to pay a visit. Farley or Mabon could’ve told him, I suppose. Though I’m surprised he was curious enough to inquire. For weeks now I’ve harbored the rather painful suspicion that he’s forgotten my existence entirely.
My tongue feels abruptly too big for my mouth, but I force it to form a handful of faltering syllables. “Right. Well, then…Come in.”
I shove open the door and step into the dim shop without further delay.
The soothing scent of dried plants and fresh linen envelops me instantly, a familiar perfume that reminds me of my childhood in Seahaven.
The old apothecary’s place on High Street was a natural choice of abode after the battle.
He no longer has need of his tidy shelves of bottled tinctures or well-stocked inventory of hanging herbs.
His spirit has fled to the skies, his ashes scattered on the winds.
I hope, wherever he is now, he does not mind my continuing his work or making myself at home in his sparse apartments.
The back staircase is narrow and in need of a dusting.
Penn’s boots send up small plumes as he follows me up, each tread groaning under his weight.
As we step into the parlor, my eyes scan the cluttered space, noting the books piled on practically every surface, the threadbare cushions of the sofa, the tattered edges of the rug.
There is not much in the way of furniture or finery.
Soft light trickles through the panes of the large picture window, the only source of illumination.
Penn stops just over the threshold. He says nothing, taking in my living quarters in silence, his eyes lingering on the crumpled throw I spend so many evenings curled beneath, the half-empty teacup I forgot to clear in my rush this morning.
Chronicling each tiny trace of life like it is something worthy of acute study.
I examine him in turn, wondering why it is so difficult to find the right words to speak.
Wondering why awkwardness has taken root in the space between us, and when the safe distance we’ve been keeping stretched into this insurmountable chasm of discomfort.
Most of all, wondering how to possibly breach it.
Gods, I wish he would say something. His lingering taciturnity is beginning to unnerve me. It was my idea, coming here, and yet, now that we are…I feel as though I have brought a feral wolf into my living room without a proper plan as to how to domesticate him.
Those dark, intent eyes finish their investigation and shift back to fix on mine. I lose my breath when our stares lock, all the air in my lungs used up by a burgeoning flame that bursts to life deep within my gut.
“Wait here for a moment, will you?” My voice comes out strangled. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
I escape into the kitchen like a fugitive on the run.
Cowardice, thy name is Rhya.