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

by Hayden, Nick

  I stand up, leaving her to press the wound. She is half a woman, covered in blood, and as pale as a corpse.

  “Coward!” she shouts. “Leave me then! Run away! Bodyguard, hah! How have you ever protected me? Weak, stupid, useless!”

  “If any magic remains, could you use it?”

  “The Well is empty!”

  “If any remains below, a puddle or a small spring, could you use it to save yourself?” She would have to be quite close to sense a source that small.

  “It doesn’t work like that. Magic is brute force. It doesn’t heal. It doesn’t perform miracles. It burns and moves and smashes.”

  “You can use needles of fire to close the wound.”

  “You are getting desperate, Bron.” But I can tell she is considering the possibility.

  “I will see that you live.”

  “Then why do you not take me back to the city? How would you find this hypothetical magic, anyway? Go down into the Well?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to see me die, then. This Well is the deepest on record. How would we get down? Fall?” She grimaces from pain as she speaks; I think she humors the conversation because it keeps her mind busy.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Why not the city? Don’t I have a better chance of surviving the trip to the city?”

  At first, I do not know if I will answer her. Perhaps I am wrong. What does it matter if I am? “You will not make it, because you will not try to make it. You will give up. You think there is nothing left for you.”

  She watches me carefully. “And the Well?”

  “If there is magic, there is hope for Jalseion--for you.”

  She looks at me from behind her mask. “I would rather stay here.”

  “You don’t really have a choice. I’m the one carrying you.”

  Chapter 8 - Revelations in the Lab

  One Week Before

  Calea sat at the desk in her lab, welding on a square of outer metal to the damaged shell of her arm. That afternoon, an attempt at compacting magic into one of her thimble-sized batteries had pressed against the limit of her ability. The resulting explosion tore into her arm and singed some of her clothes. She’d been wearing a mask, so she was unhurt except for the cosmetic damage to her upper arm.

  She’d found the best way to weld was to use some sort of “lightning rod,” a piece of metal that focused the magic she pulled up from the Well. The thin rod of metal worked wonderfully in directing the fine manipulations of heat. The tighter the flow of magic, the trickier it was to direct accurately, even as its accuracy became essential.

  Bron entered just as she finished. He was a few minutes early, which was just on time for him. He kept a squeaky clean record, never a tardy or sick day, never an indiscretion with wine or women after work. Calea had watched carefully for one for the last five years, with no luck.

  It didn’t matter now. She’d gotten her way. It had taken persistence and not a little pressure, but it was done as of tonight.

  “Thank you for coming, Bron,” she said formally. “This won’t take long.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “I no longer require your services. You’re officially dismissed.”

  He started, a rare occurrence. Slowly, he took the sheet and read it over. “Straight from the Overseer.”

  “I didn’t want there to be any confusion.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Why now or why in general? I think you’re well aware of the second.”

  “You think you don’t need me.”

  “I know I don’t. A maid can do your work, and for significantly less pay.”

  “This isn’t about the money.”

  “Of course.” Calea waited. “You can leave now.”

  She honestly didn’t know what Bron would do. Would he protest? Probably. Would it come to threats? Sometimes, she thought it might. She believed, though he had never given her indication, that he had a temper below the surface. He was self-righteous enough; would he act on it?

  He did nothing for a long time, maybe half a minute. Then he handed back the paper. “I’m...sorry.” He headed for the door.

  What did he mean he was sorry? He hadn’t said it in an accusatory manner. He had meant it. He wasn’t going to make this about him.

  “What do you mean?” Calea demanded.

  “Nothing. Just what I said.”

  “What are you sorry for? For being a waste of flesh? For being unable to do the least to actually protect me? For having rocks for brains? You are a brute, single-minded, obsessed with your own ideas of what the world needs. Haven’t five years shown you? Did I take weeks to recover from that abduction attempt? No! You did. If you’re sorry for anything, be sorry you wasted my time.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You still haven’t. Tell me what you meant. I want to hear it. I demand it.”

  Bron stood there, his eyes meeting hers darkly. “If I am no longer employed, I will take my leave.”

  Calea shot to her feet. “Don’t you dare! You stubborn, horrible, wretched, hurtful man! Who do you think you are? I didn’t ask for you, and yet I’ve spent five years with you at my side, like a dog, a stupid dog that needed more kicks than I gave it. Be relieved you’re leaving me. Be glad. You’re free. Free from my grasping. Free from my complaining, my insults, my weakness. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re sorry I was so weak. You’re sorry you had to put up with me all these years. Tell me.”

  She had come around the desk. She was in his face, eye-to-eye, forcing him back, but he refused to move. His face revealed nothing.

  “I will tell you,” he said. A small emotion crossed his face. He had made a decision. “Sit, and I will tell you.”

  Calea flung herself back into her chair. “Begin.”

  “I am more than twenty years older than you. When you were a child, I was a young man. I was employed with the Academy as a maintenance man. It was my job to keep the areas under my supervision clean and in good repair. One of my responsibilities was the Greinham Observation Deck. For some weeks, I was extremely busy in upkeep. Things all go bad at the same time. Then, one day, I heard that the gate at the corner of the Observation Deck had come loose and a girl had fallen into the Well. She lived, but she had been irreversibly injured.”

  Calea hardened herself. “And you felt guilty.”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “And you thought protecting me would relieve this guilt?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did it?”

  It seemed he was trying to find words. “You are a proud woman. You have accomplished incredible things. The injury did not stop you. You have done remarkably well for yourself.”

  “And the guilt?”

  “It is what it is.”

  Calea stood again, tamping down the raw emotions. “I forgive you, of course. We may part on good terms. You could have been far worse to me than you were.”

  Bron nodded. Her words had not exactly been kind, but they were the best she could manage without revealing her emotions. Bron had seen her rage, her sorrow, all her violent lashings, but she refused to let him see it again, at the end. “Good-bye, Bron. Perhaps our paths will cross occasionally.”

  “Perhaps.”

  After he left, she let the tears loose. A thin film of anger covered them, but mostly it was sorrow for what had been lost. She couldn’t blame him for her accident. She wanted to, but in the middle of the many, many nights, she had faced the loss of her limbs and discovered she had no one to blame. Not herself, not another, just blind chance. The gate had happened to be loose; she had happened to fall against it. Neither she nor Bron factored into it. If not Bron, then another. If not her, then another.

  And that is why she cried. For the guilt. She felt it, too, just as he did. Guilt for her own loss. Guilt for the stupidity of the world. Guilt for the things that no one could change. She felt blindly, inexorably responsible for what had happened simply because she lived. Guilt for
having existed and for continuing to exist in such a stupid, random world. She had almost forgotten the despair....

  The night after the accident, she had been unable to sleep. She was afraid to close her eyes. Whenever she began to drift into sleep, she felt the tug of the magic, and woke with a jolt, a scream in her throat. She looked; she still remained. But if she slept, she would be eaten up. She would vanish like the coins and the ribbon. She would simply...cease.

  And a girl who might simply vanish had no business investing in anything but herself.

  Bron was the only person she had never been able to scare off, the only one who tried to do something extra for her, for no reason at all.

  Well, he had a reason. Everyone had a reason. Maybe everyone’s reason was guilt.

  But he was gone. Finally. She took a deep breath. With luck, she’d never see him again.

  Chapter 9 - Rock Bottom

  After I lock the three soldiers in the storage room, I set Calea down in the lab. She screws her face into some interesting expressions, but she doesn’t complain about the pain. The color has left her lips.

  I am restless, bottled, ragged. I know I have to keep moving. If I stop, fatigue will catch up to me. I try to think. My brain is spinning wildly. I can’t even begin to consider what to do with the soldiers; Calea is my one concern. Thoughts come, but they don’t follow one another. I consider heading back to the Tower. I search the cabinets for something I can use for a descent. I walk down the hall and bring back some day-old cookies someone left in the common room. I make Calea eat one while wondering if I can signal for help somehow.

  Of Jalseion’s many specialities, medicine is not one. Magic is difficult to use in a healing capacity. Doctors are normally non-Select. The Academy partners with a special medical school in Averieom, the village nearest Jalseion.

  I need tools. The descent is near a mile, if Calea is correct. I have no idea how Architects managed to measure the Well’s depth. I hope they are wrong.

  I force myself to take a breath, take stock of my surroundings. As my eyes pass over the desk, I feel a wave of guilt and disgust. I lied to her in this room a week ago. I want to tell her the truth. She has closed her eyes. No--not now. I will save her, somehow.

  I am insane. What good will descending do?

  It will show her what I am willing to do for her. She needs to understand. I want her to understand. Even if she...

  In the back of the room is a steel door, locked and deadbolted. I retrieve the key from its hidden place and throw open the door. I feel the cool air of evening. I am at the edge of the Well. The sun is nearly set. The floor is shadowed and growing darker. I stand on the stone pillar that supports the Academy. A day ago, at its greatest expansion magic rose up almost to the lip, near enough that one could touch if one dared. Now, a sheer descent. I walk the edge; only a small arc of the circumference is accessible from Calea’s lab, but if I am to start, I need to start immediately. I have little enough light as it is. I search for the best path down. I need handholds if I am to have a chance. An incline less than straight down would be helpful.

  I stop. I cannot believe what I see. I carefully lower myself down, placing my foot upon the ledge about four feet down. It is solid. It is real. It is a step, almost. And below it, another, hugging the pillar. It is impossible.

  I climb back up. I am hopeful, excited, but convinced that something is wrong. It is too good to be true. There must be an explanation. I return to Calea. She is staring blankly at the ceiling. My presence brings her back.

  “Have you found the way we’re to die?” she asks.

  There is a strange hope rising within me. Her bitterness fans it. “I’ve found stairs.”

  “Impossible.”

  “There are stairs.”

  “It is not possible. What hand would have made them?”

  It doesn’t matter to me. All day I have pressed ahead against hope. I will take hope when I can. My mother, she believed in things I was never able to. She would not be surprised by this. I am not sure why I think of her now; whatever hope I have is from her, and whatever kindness. Perhaps in this strange moment, I understand a little of what she felt when she spoke of her beliefs.

  “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.”

  Sh
e 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.