
The Select's Bodyguard

Bron & Calea – Book 1

A Children of the Wells novel

www.childrenofthewells.com

By Nick Hayden

Smashwords Edition
Table of Contents

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Other Books in the Series

Chapter 1 - While the City Bleeds

Chapter 2 - While the City Sleeps

Chapter 3 - The Ruined Tower

Chapter 4 - The Ruined Girl

Chapter 5 - The Journey In

Chapter 6 - The Journey Out

Chapter 7 - Discoveries in the Lab

Chapter 8 - Revelations in the Lab

Chapter 9 - Rock Bottom

Chapter 10 - The Sky is Blue

About the Author

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This book is part of an ongoing series. New books are published regularly. Visit www.childrenofthewells.com for the latest news and to get to know the authors.

Bron & Calea

The Select's Bodyguard

The Doctor's Assistant

The Well's Orphan

Jaysynn

The Fall of the House of Kyzer

The Rules Change

New Wells Rising

Call of the Watchman
Chapter 1 - While the City Bleeds

She was wrong. She said my head was full of rocks. It isn't. I know because there's blood on my fingers. My head throbs, beats, aches. It burns. My hand is wedged beneath something, but my fingers can touch my scalp. Blood.

I can't help but think of her. Where is she? Does she bleed? I want to believe she is safe, but something's happened, an explosion, an earthquake. I don't know. I was asleep when...din, motion, pain. I am on my bed. My bed is beneath the roof. The roof has collapsed.

She said I was too intense, that I would miss the end of the world if it happened when I was focused on something else. Wrong again. She won't be pleased to hear she's wrong. Twice wrong.

My head....

I think I lose consciousness for a time. Maybe I don't. I can move my other arm, my left arm. My legs push off some of the weight pressing down on me. I shift. Bruises, cuts. They don't matter. The fog in my brain is clearing. I realize I am on the floor, not on the bed as I thought. The bed is on top of me. I don't know how. And on top of that is not the roof, but the brick wall, collapsed. There is light from somewhere. Yes, the roof is gone. It's morning, almost, somewhere above me. If I listen, I can hear an indistinct roar.

It doesn't matter. Something's happened. Something massive. I need to know she's safe. She'll be in the Wheel, in her Tower, in her room. Safe. I'll make certain she's safe. That's what I do.

Bit by bit I burrow my way out. The walls of my apartment are broken, jagged edges like shards of glass in a broken-out window. I can see across the street. The building there is disfigured, a face beaten bloody. Smoke, fire, more sensed than seen. The roar is clearer now--screaming, crying, shouting.

An attack?

I can't see the Wheel from my apartment. I am on the outer edge of the city, in a room chosen for me by the authorities of Section Three. The current experiment does not go well for those of us on the ground. The wreckage of my room is hardly a loss.

Screaming, crying, shouting....

It doesn't matter. I can't save them all. They have each other. They don't need me. But she does.

My legs threaten to buckle as I stand. I force them ramrod straight. I wipe the blood out of my eyes. I'm not bleeding badly. It has nearly stopped on its own.

In the corner, my chest of drawers still stands, somehow, like a good soldier. Climbing over the tiles of what was once my roof, I find my legs. I force my knees to hold. They hold. The body will obey. It _will_ obey. I wrench open the top drawer. It always sticks. I pull out my pistol, a rarity for a non-Select, and strap three knives to my belt. Panicked people do stupid things. If it's an attack, the weapons might not be enough. It doesn't matter. I'm good with the knives, and a few well-placed blasts at the right moment go a long way.

My shoes are somewhere in the rubble. I keep them under my bed. I don't have time to scrounge for them. It's quicker to wrap my feet. The arm of my leather jacket is visible beneath the fallen bricks of the chimney. I dig it out, cut it up. I tie the makeshift shoes on with belts. It'll work for now.

I scramble over the mound of brick and tile, managing the terrain with increasing agility. A creak shivers down the building. I don't stop to wonder. Hesitation is a sure way to die.

The stairs are out, or enough to make it difficult. The drop is ten feet. I take it, twist my ankle. Ankles heal. I have learned to let pain skulk in a corner of my consciousness, unnoticed. I have a mission; pain is a distraction. When one is truly immersed in the goal, hunger doesn't matter, fatigue doesn't matter, pain doesn't matter. Focus, mission, her.

The next staircase is intact. Tenants call me for help. Someone's stuck beneath the rubble. I'm already past when the words register. A rough hand grabs my shoulder. "I can't," I say. "I have to go. She needs me." He's yelling at me now, tugging my arm. I swat him away. He grabs again. I push him down, two-handed hard, and move on. I should have socked him, but he was desperate, panicked. I have the one I need to help; he has his.

She might be in her suite, covered in glass and iron and blood. Dead, maybe. Then I will bury her. If she lives, I will keep her alive. Others want her dead. She laughs at them. I don't. Sometimes the world shudders. Buildings collapse. She can't protect herself from everything.

On the ground floor, I stop. I hesitate. The man above needed my help. Desperately. Who had he said was trapped? His wife?

In the street, I can taste smoke, fire, death. Above, it was panorama. Here, it's a punch in the face. And another smell--ionized air. It's been three years, at least. I was with her when she surveyed the wreckage after the first third-gen battery exploded. Gruesome. The air still sizzled with the acrid tang of spent magic. It sizzles now, so thick it makes my skin itch.

It's strangely still. Not quiet, but all the usual sounds are gone, the roar and bustle and rough-housing of the Grunt transformed. Instead, shouts, calls for help, breaking glass, screams of barbarism taking hold, but I can't see anyone moving or I only see bits and pieces, as if in a series of photos that has been stitched together. One of the trams hunkers against the street, the body twisted into refuse, the wires that feed it power snapped, limp, like arms with broken bones.

I break into a run toward the Well and the Wheel, the source of power and the siphon. The grocer next door is overrun. Men flee with arms full of food. Already looting, and the city is still shaking off the shock like a man shaking off a deep slumber. I know in my bones it is the city burning, not just the Grunt, not just Section Three. When the shock is past, then what? Men fend for themselves. It's animal instinct. How do you fight that?

You beat it down.

She has decided she no longer needs me, that she can fend for herself. She's wrong.

The streets are churned, as by a beast. Buildings lean, topple, expose their innards to the morning light. Some stand pristine. Whole blocks ruined, others untouched.

If this is the result of a Thyrian attack, it is on an unimaginable scale. But if not an attack...?

Someone will look into it when the dust settles. The Examiners will question for a decade. Questions are hesitation.

The trams are out, obviously. A car is discarded nearby, dead bodies beneath. It will take an hour by foot to reach her Tower. Too long. I begin to run, aching. It's hardly better than walking. With the debris and the people and the sudden shifting of buildings, crumbling one last time, it is almost more dangerous than walking. I deliberately take hold of my racing thoughts. I grab them, jerk them back, force them to slow. It will take an hour. Fine. (It will take longer. The whole city is in my way.) Imagination lives a hundred lives in the space of a thought, I remind myself. If she still lives, she might live a long time, even pinned beneath rubble. Even if she bleeds. And if she is dying, if she is dead, five minutes is too long.

What might be does not matter. I do what I can do; it is all I can do. This is the only philosophy that makes sense to me.

I pass men sitting on piles of broken brick, mothers digging in four stories of collapsed buildings, children screaming for their parents, dozens descending precarious heights that were once homes. They understand, too, now. Life is simple. Politics, rumors, traditions, dreams, jobs--everything that is not survival is luxury. Sweet, unimaginable bliss. To her, life is strife and struggle. She has never understood.

Does she now?

A man stops me. He is old, but he surveys the wrecked city street with leisure. By his rags and breath, I am certain he lost little and perhaps even gained by the disaster. "Where are you going?"

"To the Wheel."

"The Select can't help. They won't. They'll watch us and write books about how we ate each other."

"Maybe." I don't want to argue. I start moving again, and he calls out. I stop because there is something wild in his voice. I stop because there is something I wish to say. I do not know what it is.

"It's time to start over," he says, a fire in his eyes. "No more powers that be. No more distinctions. Every man a king. Down with the Select and their magic!"

The word has hardly left his mouth before I have his neck squeezed in the crook of my arm. Cold fire is in my gut. "I am sworn to protect the Select. Are you their enemy?"

"No, no," he hisses. "I--"

"I am going to one of them now." Yes, this is what I wanted to say. In case I fail, someone will know that I tried, that I did not abandon her. "There is a Select I will protect. If she is dead, I will have nothing left. Her name is Calea. If you ever meet her, honor her."

I let him go and continue on, picking up the pace. Perhaps an hour will not matter. Perhaps it will.

The gate to Section Four is near. Already, the people are massing, pushing, swarming, trampling. They think there is safety there, on the other side of the wall that separates the sections. Section Four--the section she controls. Her domain. If this was an attack...but where are the soldiers? What's the objective? Her Section, where the common man has wealth to rival the Select. Or soon will.

The immigration offices are hollowed-out shells, walls and furniture and bodies littered on the street. Even from my place, away from the mob, I can see that the wall separating the Grunt from Section Four has fallen.

It does not have to take an hour.

I throw myself into the mass of people, silent among the mad. I claw forward, shoving bodies out of my path. They resist. I press harder. I throw a punch, climb over six as they collapse in a huddle. I am inside the Office of Neighborhood Immigration. The thick flow of humanity stagnates. Men are pressing forward and backward, diving into corners and searching out alcoves. I can tell by their clothes the men of the Golden Streets. If they are seeking refuge in the Grunt, then they have been hit hard.

I hit hard, too. I will not be stopped. I lean forward, head down, shoulder leading, and cleave a path. I am growing angry. Why will they not get out of my way? I must go. I must move.

I am on the other side, in the place we Grunters call the Golden Streets. The road is blackened by explosions, the avenue utterly destroyed. Every building has been blown to pieces. Emaciated frames remain, shivering in the wind. Blood is splattered on the concrete and steel. Behind me, the breach between the Sections writhes, but the scene before me is still. I count three cars, the newest models, twisted like sheets of paper after the flame.

It doesn't matter. She is not here. She is in the Tower overlooking her experiment.

I spring forward, my legs reaching their full stride. My makeshift shoes have fallen off. I continue. The way is shredded rock. I find my way by honed sense. My feet are beginning to bleed. I take a moment to rob shoes off a dead man. They are too small. I cut a line along the soles to give my feet space. Uncomfortable, but it'll do.

I stop. I glimpse handlebars just ahead. I take the moments necessary to pull it upright. Every other vehicle in Section Four has been demolished. This remains intact. It's one of her creations, a bicycle with a battery-powered engine. The key is in it. The driver moans nearby. I turn the key. It starts. I look at the reading. Nearly empty.

But not completely empty.

I rev the engine. Steadying the bike with my feet, I let loose. The front wheel hops over the next mound of rock. I look for the smoothest path; I bump and jolt over riven road. My teeth jar in my body. My insides quake. But I am moving.

It is bone-cracking work. I sweat. I live moment by moment. My body burns. I force myself not to glance at the energy reading. Like my body, I will it to continue on. It sputters, leaps forward, hesitates, dies. I throw it aside, take two or three deep breaths.

I am near enough to see her Tower. The top is gone. A jagged summit fumes black smoke. I can see her balcony below the smoke. I hope for a moment to see her there. She is not there.

I'll find her.
Chapter 2 - While the City Sleeps

Five Years Earlier

Half of Jalseion lay open to Calea's examination, the wedge-shaped sections of the city clearly delineated. Section Three and Four opened before her like pages of a book, both dark though the sun had set only an hour before. Both sections had labored beneath the economic and social theories of their current Guides, the population of the latter faring better by all metrics available. To the far left, Calea could see the riotous lights of Section Two, a largely lawless neighborhood, but on the whole happier than Three and Four, if the data collected by the surveyors was accurate (which was an ongoing debate). Section Five, to the far right, shone quietly, an obedient child by her bedside with her religious texts open. Alseum, the Guide of that Section, was an odd one, more suited for the theoretical pursuits of an Examiner than for the politics of a Guide, but his citizens were happy and healthy, which was more than could be said for three-fourths of Jalseion.

Tomorrow, that would change. Although she was only seventeen, Calea had been promoted to Guide of Section Four. She would begin to put her theories and inventions to work. Prosperity would follow for its citizens, prestige for her. As it should.

Calea hovered over the city for ten more minutes. Her rooms were halfway up Telmion's Tower--Tower Three to be proper--and the breeze brought her the merest hints of the city's odor and din. She loved to spend evenings upon her balcony, planning how she might mold the city below her. It was an extension of herself, like an arm or a leg, and the merest thought could move it. Or so she dreamed.

She heard a shuffle. They had sent another man to retrieve her.

"Guide Lisan, the Overseer eagerly awaits your arrival."

"I know. I was on my way."

"Of course."

By the time Calea turned away from the view, the servant was gone. He should have asked to accompany her. That was what etiquette required.

She strode inside to check herself in the mirror. She was tall, thin, with sharp features. Her hair was cut short so she didn't have to bother with it. She didn't bother smiling, either; her smile was usually mistaken for a grimace. Her dark eyes were fierce, and combined with the pronounced nose and chin, she looked ready for a fight. Though it was spring, and the winds off the barren hill lands had warmed, she wore sleeves with her gown, and gloves, so that only her neck was exposed. The gown was indigo, almost black in the night.

Her appearance was ordered and pristine, and that was enough for her. She walked with a slight hesitation, noticeable only if one watched closely. She was certain everyone watched.

In the hall outside her rooms, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited. So, they had followed through with it. She ignored him and headed to the elevator.

The knobbed door opened, meaning the platform had been sent for her. Stepping in, she pulled the door shut before the broad-shouldered man could follow her in. Then, siphoning magic from the Well where it resided, she raised the air pressure in the shaft below the platform, pushing it upward. The act took only the slightest concentration; it was like tensing a muscle, thought and action intertwined--energized by the Well's magic rather than a beating heart.

The elevator box rose until it thumped softly against the end of the shaft. She had reached the roof.

The gala was already in progress. Displays of fire-work lit the area, magic-sustained flames twisted into contorted and fantastical shapes. The broad-shouldered man appeared from the door to the stairwell, but he hung back, blending into the milling Select.

Teacher Almetter noticed her first. The prematurely gray-haired woman grabbed a glass of wine and headed over. "Here, take a drink. You deserve it. And it'll help you enjoy the night, at least a little."

"I'll enjoy it. Where's Essendr? I'd like to see his face."

"He's accepted his retirement from guiding Section Four with grace, Calea. Why rub it in?"

"He's certain I'm too young."

"You _are_ young. But I've never heard him say any such thing. He is quite impressed with you."

"That's what he tells people. It's not what he feels." Calea gulped down the glass, repressing a shudder. It was stronger than she had expected.

"I'm proud of you, Calea. You've come a long way--"

"That's enough."

"I'm just trying to say this isn't Thyrion. If one of us makes a breakthrough, we all move forward."

"That's not what you were saying. Get me another glass."

"Try to be pleasant tonight. For my sake."

"Of course, my dear, dear teacher," she mocked. "Wouldn't want you to be looked down upon. Now, another glass. Is it my night or not?"

"You're lucky I don't take your fits to heart. Marrying a bear of a madman has its advantages."

"Honored. Now, go!"

Calea hung back from the main crowd, waiting impatiently. She could feel their eyes, dissecting her. And his eyes, too, watching her discreetly. After tonight, she'd find a way to be rid of him.

Overseer Piers approached as Almetter slipped away. He smiled genially and moved to embrace her in his grandfatherly way before he caught her look. He was a forgetful, touchy-feely sort of man, the last an unusual trait in an Overseer, but his mind was extraordinarily quick and intuitive when presented with a problem. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You remind me of my daughter, that's all. She's out there, in Section Eight somewhere. Doesn't like to visit. I tend to forget important things like her birthday, her name--never quite forgave me for all those years." He nodded vaguely. "We won't make a prolonged speech. Everyone's read the research. We'll do a quick little thing then get on with the party. If you'd come along?"

She followed, taking the glass Almetter passed her and finishing it before the Overseer had started his announcement. It didn't taste better the second time down, but she would keep at it until it did.

The Overseer waved a hand at the two musicians, who ceased their manipulation of wind over the many pipes of the panorgan. Those gathered were mostly of the political class, including the seven active Guides and a number of their bureaucratic assistants. Used to social cues, they quieted quickly. A few of the more eccentric Examiners, the theoreticians of Jalseion, had to be hushed.

"My fellow explorers," the Overseer began. Calea forced a smile, her hands curling into fists at her side because she didn't know what else to do with them. Everyone was looking at her, taking stock, deciding if she really belonged. She knew many of them, at least by sight, but how many truly believed in her? None. She wanted to hide; she pressed the thought away, bore their polite smiles, suffered their applause. She was better than they were, and she would prove it.

Then, that quickly, the speech was over, the story of her advances in magic storage and the promotion it gained her told in a few concise words. The Overseer patted her on the shoulder and meandered off. Calea fumbled her way through handshakes and congratulations, fellow Select commenting on her work, or, worse yet, on her gown. At the first lull, she made her way to the food table, giving the cold shoulder to others who wanted to talk. She took another glass and finished it. Almetter reappeared.

"I hate this," Calea breathed.

"People adoring you? I thought you demanded it."

"You're an idiot," Calea said. "You're all idiots!" she shouted. Those nearby looked at her, uncertainly trying to take it as a joke.

Almetter grabbed Calea's arm. "What was that about?"

"It's the truth, that's all." Another glass. Soon, she'd stop caring. "I miniaturized the battery. So what? Wait until they see what I have planned next."

"Excuse me, Calea?" The voice belonged to a rather handsome young man. "I suppose you remember me?" Rodin had been a Student a level above Calea when he graduated. He had begun three levels above, but Calea had worked hard and fast.

"I do. I have a memory."

He smiled. "Yes, you do. And an astounding one at that, I recall. Not the only thing you excel at, either, it seems." He indicated the festivities. "I've read the papers. It took me three times, but I finally followed. It'll take me longer to replicate it on my own. Your magical technique is very delicate."

"Why bother? Let the Architects bother with the menial labor."

"No, it'll be a nice challenge, and I need to keep in practice. I haven't much reason to practice fine manipulation otherwise. But that's not important right now. I actually came over here hoping you'd give me the honor of a dance."

"No."

His face fell momentarily and what returned was a little less certain. "I'm not sure what I expected. If not yes, then an excuse."

"I won't dance. End of story."

He glanced down at her feet, and she grew angry. "No. And tell everyone. No dancing. I'm here to enjoy myself, so I'd be pleased if you'd leave me alone."

He gave a little nod, almost a mock bow, but not quite. "I'm sorry."

Almetter had snuck away at the start of the conversation, to grant them "privacy." Calea grabbed a glass and a plate of cheese and fruit and headed to the corner of the roof, away from the crowd. A dreadful turmoil raged against her ribcage, demanding tears. She took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching her right fist with slow, deliberate motion. She bottled up the storm, pressed down the cork, and held it firmly in place until the danger had passed.

The dark city lay beneath her, music and foreign acquaintances behind. She floated, unanchored and alone.

She set her empty glass down. Someone was near.

"Go away."

"I cannot."

"No one's going to attack me here. Now or ever."

"I've been informed otherwise."

"So you insist on babysitting me."

"I'm here to protect you."

Calea turned. The man stood nearer than she had supposed. He was taller than she was, and thick--thick-faced, thick-armed, thick-shouldered. Thick-headed, no doubt. "What's your name?"

"Bron."

"Do you know why the Overseer assigned you to me?"

"Not specifically. I was told to protect you. That is all I need know."

"I'll show you why." The storm was bottled; the alcohol was working. She'd show him she didn't care. She set her untouched plate on the roof-ledge beside her glass and began peeling her right-hand glove off mid-bicep. Nearly from shoulder to fingertip, metal and wire. Gears and hinges worked with the faintest creak as she unflexed her fingers. "A year ago, this was impossible. I would have had to wear a 100-pound backpack to power this, or perform a dozen intricate magical manipulations minute by minute. The power source on this is the size of what should be my humerus. So, apparently, I'm in danger."

"I understand."

"Quicker than you look, then. Or are you just pretending to humor me? Explain."

"Magic is power. When magic is stored in a battery, portable power. You make the battery smaller, you increase its range and application. You've created something everyone wants."

Calea clapped. "Very good. You earn a passing grade. I'll recommend you for a level up. Now, if you want to be helpful, get me something to drink. I'm parched."

"You've had plenty."

Calea pulled her glove back on, pulling it tight at the fingers, and got her own drink. She was feeling light; the prosthetics normally made her feel heavy. Essendr was at the table, too. He was in his late forties, bearded, rather tight in the belly, and perpetually tragic-looking due to the tilt of his eyes and mouth. He'd found a wife during his time Guiding Section Four, a homely, non-Select thing. They were talking closely when Calea saw them. "Essendr! Nice party. When'd you have yours, sometime before I was born?"

He smiled sadly. "Something like that, yes. I was a rather different man then."

"Skinnier, I hope."

He nodded amiably. "Less happy, more hopeful, so to speak."

His wife added, "I'd just like to say again, Calea, how proud we are of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Neither Essendr nor his wife could find an answer. Bron intruded, "It means you've had a bit to drink."

"That's not what it means!" She grabbed a glass and poured it down her throat before Bron could take it from her. "It means you pity me. This isn't a celebration. It's therapy. That's what you all think. I made myself an arm and a leg and everyone thinks it's a big deal. It isn't. I haven't even started. This was a hobby, something I did to pass the time. But you're all so anxious to make me feel good about myself, show me I'm almost your equals. Isn't that right?" Essendr was pale-faced, his wife red. Calea laughed at the contrast.

Bron touched her shoulder and she jumped as if stabbed. "Get off me!"

Others were beginning to gather around, though they still pretended to be absorbed in other conversations, but Calea noticed. "Closer, closer! What have you heard about me? It's all true, every last bit of it. Even the parts that contradict. Who'd like to dance with me, take me out for a test run? No one? Where's Rodin? Rodin, I change my mind. Let's sweep across the dance floor, and let these fine folks take notes. Sketches, too, like good scientists. Rodin? Where are you?"

Bron grabbed her again and did not let go when she tried to escape. With an iron grip, he pinched her shoulder and led her away. She cursed and screamed, and he, in her ear, said softly, "Be quiet. Don't make this worse."

He ushered her to a far corner, away from the lights, near the stairs. She was crying now, shuddering in his grasp. The bottle had cracked; the storm was loosed. "How dare you! How _dare_ you!"

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"They can't hurt me," she screamed, voice raw. "But you--you--!" She turned away, bawling uncontrollably. She felt his presence, silent, unreadable, unmoving, relentless. She wanted to squirm. She could take any insult; she could not take this. But she forced herself to stop crying. She forced it down, beat it down, crammed it tight, tight, into a crevice. It would come out again, unexpectedly, but for now, she was calm.

She hated him.

"I'll have you fired," she said.

"I don't think they will listen. I'm good at what I do."

"No one's trying to kill me."

He did not answer. He met her gaze then, suddenly, looked down. "You're right. I will remain at a distance."

"I'm returning to my room. You enjoy yourself up here."

"Of course. Thank you."

Calea studied him for a moment longer. She would repay him for what he had done to her. Carefully, she made her way down the stairs, listening for the sound of her knee. She could hear it; that would have to be fixed.

Bron watched her go and waited. Then he descended, following her.
Chapter 3 - The Ruined Tower

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.

The nearest stairs are used by the maids who keep the Tower clean. I see it in my head: Down the hall, turn right, fourth door on the left is the stairwell. I am to the turn as quick as conscious thought can recount the location. Dust and plaster fly up as I hurry along the hall. It is oddly preserved, like an old house, dusty and skewed, but largely intact. Footsteps stand out on the filthy carpet.

Calea's apartment is on the eighteenth floor. I throw open the stairwell door, rush up the stairs. The steps are steep, the flight narrow. I ascend easily, up, up, but the passage is unnaturally bright. The lights are dead, so it must be the sun. By the sixth floor, I can see the scar above me, a slash that cuts the stairwell in half, opening the column to rooms on either side. I stop at the eighth. Beyond, the steps are twisted by the spasm that has compressed this whole area. Four floors are wedged together, collapsing into one another, but hanging delicately, waiting for a final tickle to destroy the balancing act.

I return to the seventh and exit. Students live on this floor and the one above. Or lived. I don't know which, after today. I hear movement, talking, anxious sounds. The nearest classroom is packed with young girls, with three teenage mentors soothing them. The nearest sees me first. She freezes, then boldly asks, "Are you here to help us?"

"I have someone I need to find."

"We need to get these children down."

"Use the stairs."

All the girls are staring at me now, wide-eyed and fearful. "Is it safe?" the first, the one who has decided to lead, asks. Lowering her voice, she says, "We heard screams. We've been waiting for someone to find us, to show us the way...."

"Yes, it's safe." I remember Essendr's wound. "For now. Don't stay here. Get to ground level. Get out of the Tower. The stairs are fine."

Another of the older girls speaks up. "You're looking for Guide Lisan."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I...I just recognized you."

It is a strange thing to say. A bodyguard is not meant to be noticed. "How?"

She turns red. "I just... Guide Lisan lectured in our class one day. You were there. That's all." She is embarrassed for some reason. Teen girls are strange creatures.

"Can one of you power the elevator for me?" It's a stupid question. They would have tried that first, if they tried anything.

"It won't work," the first says. "Not anymore."

"Get out of here. All right?"

The three leaders nod their heads. So do all the little ones. I am anxious to keep moving. Mentioning the elevator triggered something. Farther down the hallway, the floor is badly damaged, one wall blown out and blocking my way. I work my way over carefully. To head to another elevator would take too much time.

The mass slips beneath me. The floor shudders. I pause, muscles tense. For a minute I wait. Nothing. I slowly shift my weight, take a step. I move more slowly now, placing each step carefully. Perhaps there is no floor beneath me, but only wood and steel wedged in a hole.

I am not quite over the mound when I reach the elevator door. I clear away enough broken material to slide through the opening. The lift is gone, probably in pieces on the first floor. Normally, there is a rope in the center of the shaft, a crude mechanism to prevent injury if some accident or error should happen while a Select manipulates the air pressure in the chamber. Any sudden jerk, and the rope locks up, halting the lift's downward progression.

Light filters from above. The rope runs along the right wall. With the top levels of the Tower gone, what is holding the rope? Any number of things, certainly. It must be wedged tight somewhere. This is what I hope. I eyeball the jump. It'll hold. It will. I launch myself. My calloused hands burn as I catch the rope. It slips a few horrible feet, then holds.

I do not look forward to the climb. Never again, I tell myself. I have muscle, but I am a heavy man. She will be happy to learn of my pain.

Hand over hand I pull myself, using my feet against the wall. Eleven levels. My muscles burn after seven. I do not stop to rest. Movement is life. My feet slip, but my arms hold. Eight levels. I have no thought, no emotion. Just pain and mission. Hand over hand. Ten levels. Hand over hand. I would go ten more if it would take me to her. My arms will not fail until I let them; I will not let them.

I work myself back and forth, pedaling the best I can against the wall, try to work up the speed to reach the shaft entrance. Back and forth, now, back and forth. I will get no closer than I now reach. I release and hang over the darkness for a moment. Then I crash into the door. It does not quite open at my impact, and I snatch the ledge of the threshold with my hand just in time. The bottom of the door is at my fingertips. One-handed, I try to push it open. Something is blocking it.

I consider. It would be wisest to drop down a level and try that door. Instead, I pull myself up, gripping now the inside frame of the door. Using toeholds and fingertips, I wedge my head into the opening, hoping to force the door with my body. I manage to bring one of my shoulders through. I can see around the door. A discarded suitcase is all that stops my entry, its spilt contents gathered beneath the door, shoes and clothes acting as a doorstop.

I let out a murmur of a laugh and bully my way through the tight space. She would laugh, too, to see me moving like a cat in a tight space.

I take a moment to rest on the other side, sparing the time to try the abandoned shoes on. My feet emerge from the old ones with a squelch of blood, but it's worth it. The new pair is nearly perfect after the vise of the others. My feet are larger than the average man's.

This is the elevator near her rooms. I could have pressed on and returned for the shoes. I am afraid to continue and almost unable to admit it.

Her apartment is demolished. Splinters of furniture and broken glass cover the ground. She is not in the foyer. I think I see blood, but I press on, looking for her body. The bedroom has collapsed into the floor below. I cannot see her in what remains. The living room is pocked with smaller holes, the floor bent like a half-closed book, her possessions collecting in the fold and weighing heavily. I wait, searching with my eyes. The room opens onto the balcony, the frames of the glass door empty. Smoke rises slowly from the city. It's almost peaceful.

I retrace my steps before daring my way across the precarious living room floor. I examine the blood more closely. It's a smear--a trail. Not much, but I can follow it. It leads out of the room.

She was alive, alive enough to crawl. 
Chapter 4 - The Ruined Girl

Fourteen Years Earlier

"All right, class, line up."

The nineteen young girls stood quietly from their desks and formed a line in front of the door. Except for the two in the back, all waited with their hands at their sides. In Classroom Two, the students were given more freedom of self-expression and fewer rules, but here in Classroom One, the prevailing theory was that discipline, particularly at an early age, sharpened the mind and cultivated a lifestyle of industriousness.

That was the theory, at least.

"Calea, stop whispering, unless you want to share it with the whole class."

The eight-year-old stood at attention, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I was just saying that Donava didn't wash her hands last time she was in the bathroom." She turned to the other girls in the line. "We all know how germs spread. If anyone gets sick, it'll be her fault. Remember that."

"That's enough, Calea."

Calea opened her eyes wide, as if shocked, faked a shudder, and stood rigidly at attention. She was taller than any of the other girls. "Yes, ma'am."

"Enough." Their teacher took a deep breath. "We're going down to examine the Well. We'll be on the Greinham Observation Deck this time, so stay together and watch your step."

The girls glanced at one another excitedly.

They took the main staircase down, a long, curving expanse around the open air center of the Tower. Calea wanted to ride the elevator. She had been on it twice in Tower Three since coming to school earlier in the year, once on her way to see the Headmaster. She tapped on Sindi's shoulder as they descended.

"Don't. You're going to get me in trouble," Sindi whispered.

"Why're we going to the Well _again?_ It's not going to change."

"We're going close. I mean, Greinham almost sits on top of the Well. I hear you can touch the magic if you want."

"Yeah, and burn your fingers off."

"I said if you want," Sindi complained.

The line stopped. "Calea, come up here."

Calea obeyed the teacher, flashing Sindi an exaggerated look of terror as she made her leisurely way to the front.

"I want you here beside me. I don't want you playing games. We're very lucky to have a chance to visit the Greinham Observation Deck. Most times, there are too many experiments being conducted for students to be allowed onto it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's very important."

A sour look crossed the teacher's face. "If you do not behave, I will put you in solitary for the entire evening session."

This did worry Calea. Three hours in that spotless, soundless, lonely room was horrible. "I'll behave, ma'am."

"Now, step in line behind me."

They continued down, and Calea kept quiet. She was sullen at first, but as they passed through the first security door, it was hard not to be excited. Before they passed through the second security point, a man with a mustache and clipboard gave a stern lecture about the dangers of magic. Calea didn't listen. She'd heard it from the teacher before. Like ten times.

There was a gun fastened securely to the wall, however, and she could not take her eyes off it. It was thick and heavy. She did not think she could pick it up, and she saw where a soldier could flip out handles on the sides so that two people could lug it around quickly. The shoulder straps were hidden nicely, too. She'd seen a gun fired, once, while passing through the Academy on an errand. With current capacity, it could get off twenty shots before draining the pack. But what shots!

The girl behind prodded her and she followed the teacher down a final staircase and onto the Greinham Observation Deck.

Everyone knew what the Well was--the lake of magic at the center of Jalseion. The Select, who were able to draw power from the Well, had built the Wheel over the top of it. Calea could see the eight spokes above her, radiating from the Academy in the center and terminating in each of the eight towers. And below was the magic.

Approaching the edge, she stared. Sindi had been right. Magic pulsed just beneath the platform they stood upon. It shimmered, its surface something like a soap bubble, seemingly thin and filled with flittering colors. She had never looked so closely into it. Though it seemed clear, like glass, it showed no reflection. It projected an illusion of clarity, but the longer Calea looked at it, the more it seemed to resonate with hidden meanings, like a strand of music snatched and lost.

"The Well is nearly at its high point," the teacher said. "As you know, it rises and falls according to the use we put it to. Given time, it always regenerates. Even if it didn't, at our current consumption rates it would take more than a year the expend the energy."

"Have you ever been to Thyrion's Well?" asked one student.

"I haven't, but it is many times larger than ours. Ours has its own unique properties, though. For instance, we have determined that our Well is deeper than any other known well."

Calea had a coin in the pocket of her dress, and she had an idea.

"The wells sustain our way of life in so many ways," the teacher continued, "but they are also our limitation. We Select cannot manipulate the power we find here unless we are nearby. Outside of a certain range, the ecosystem becomes bare, and vegetation and animal life is very difficult. That is why continued research into the battery is so vital. Next week we will be touring a battery facility, and you can see what amazing work our Architects are doing."

Calea turned away from the group, leaned over the guardrail, and tossed in her coin.

It hissed as it touched the magic, not sinking, but setting on the surface, or even, it seemed, just above the surface. Then, it sank, disintegrating, and was gone.

"Neat-o," Calea whispered.

She fished two more coins from her pocket and tossed them in to see which would vaporize quickest. Oddly enough, the bigger coin disappeared fastest. She thought she caught a whiff almost like static electricity or a dry day beneath rain-filled clouds. She searched her pockets for something else to toss. A pen and some crumbled paper went in. These burned up in a flash.

Calea looked around. The teacher was engaged in conversation with Laurie, a particular favorite. Satisfied, Calea took the ribbon out of her hair, knelt down, and dangled the red strip over the magic. Slowly, she lowered it. The end crumpled on the surface as if on a table, but only for a second. Then the magic engulfed the end, tugging it softly like a fish on a pole. With a little jerk, Caea pulled, but the length that had entered the magic was gone. She started to lower it again, reaching her arm through the space between the railing, letting the magic eat away at the ribbon, bit by bit....

"Calea!" The voice was pitched an octave higher than usual. In a flash, the teacher was forcefully dragging Calea from edge. "You idiot girl! You horrible brat! You could have died! Stand up! I said, stand up!"

Calea did so in the shock of the moment, though she later regretted not delaying and getting up at her own leisure. A deep fear had taken hold of her, ignited by the panic in the teacher's voice. Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and the shame of them, in front of so many, made her want to cry harder.

"What did I tell you? What did I say?" The teacher was screaming. "You _do not_ play with magic. People have lost arms. They've died."

"I didn't die." Calea was regaining her composure, but she hated herself for breaking down in front of the class. "I was being careful."

The teacher laughed in her face. "Careful? You? I want you to go back through security and wait for us. Now."

Calea wiped the last vestige of tears from her face. "No. I want to stay."

"It's not up for debate." She extended her arm and pointed. "Go."

Calea just looked at her, then turned away, returning to her place along the guardrail. The teacher grabbed her hard on her bony shoulder. She pulled away viciously, breaking into a run. She headed toward the far end of the platform. She didn't have a plan; she was angry and hurt and wanted to frustrate the teacher. Let them talk about her antics, as long as they didn't talk about her crying.

A few of the kids blocked her path. They didn't really know what they were doing. They had been farthest away and heading to the commotion when Calea made her escape. She dodged around them, slammed into the fence. She enjoyed the hard, unforgiving pain.

She'd reached the far corner, and in the corner was a small gate that opened to allow tools and probes easier access to the magic. It was normally latched securely and locked. It jarred beneath Calea's impact with the fence. Something came loose. Calea had almost regained her balance when the door swung open.

She teetered on the edge. She could see the expressions on her classmates' faces. She seemed to remain precariously perched for a long time. Part of her tried to stop her fall; part of her watched the events unfold with crystal clarity. She was falling and she would fall and she would land in the magic and she would die.

And she did fall. She landed hard on the magic. It knocked the breath out of her. Her thoughts were slow, but she reacted quickly, trying to stand and grab the edge of the platform. Her limbs wouldn't react. She couldn't get traction. It was like trying to push off air.

Then her arm began to sink below the surface.

Calea screamed. She stopped thinking. Afterward, she couldn't remember anything except pain--not just fire and burning, but pulling, sucking, ripping. Her body was being torn apart at the most basic level. Her classmates reported later that she had managed to get to her knees, but her arm was being devoured. By this time, it had sunk up to the elbow. Then her foot slipped in.

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.

I've chosen Calea. I will not choose another.

We enter the main hall. It's a disaster. We take roundabout passages, mostly staying on level ground. Twice we navigate heaps of broken masonry, Calea stubbornly at my side, cursing beneath her breath. I stop once to move debris and dig a path through. When we finally reach the spoke and see the sky again, it is early evening.

I set Calea against the decorative wrought iron that acts as a barrier between the road leading to the Academy and the Well below. Calea is pale and can hardly catch her breath. Her injuries are superficial, but her body has been pushed beyond its normal limits. I watch her discreetly as I study the road before us. She is thin, almost frail. I have always thought her weaker than she presented herself, but now she looks broken, like a doll thrown in a corner. "We'll keep moving after a moment's rest," I say. She will not want me to think her weak, but I will delay for more than a moment.

The road itself, two lanes plus wide avenues for walking on either side, seems sturdy enough. Ahead I can see some gaps, but I think we will manage if we keep an eye out. The trees lining the avenues are half bare, green trees with naked branches. The land is harsh away from the wells, verdant within its reach. What happens now?

I can see most of the Towers, too, or what is left of them. Three have completely collapsed. Tower Six stands nearly intact. Tower Five leans precariously over the Well, rooms open to the pit below.

It is hard to comprehend what has happened. I examine each Tower in turn, thoughtless and overwhelmed.

I become aware that Calea is crying. I do not look, to look would be cruel, but my eyes are drawn in that direction. It is then I finally see what I should have seen at first sight.

I had not even thought to look into the Well. It is below and our path is above. Now I step to the railing and stare into the gaping pit. It is huge, immensely deep, more than two miles end to end, and it is empty.

The sight is shocking. All my life, I have seen the shifting colors of magic as they hummed beneath the Wheel. Nothing remains. It is hollowed out. The contrast strikes me cold. And yet, I do not understand what it means. I have lost nothing. It is an emptiness in the landscape, but it has not removed a thing from my life.

But Calea's life has been drained out.

I glance at her. I am afraid of what she might do, and I want somehow to connect with her. She is sobbing, eyes closed, hand pressed against her lips, trying to keep the sounds from escaping.

"Let's keep moving." It's not what I want to say. It's the only thing I can say.

She stands slowly, pulling herself up with her one arm, balancing on her one foot. I do not help her. She waits a long time, hand clenched on the railing, trying to breath. I give her time.

"Are you ready?"

"Of course." She manages to control her voice. "Are you going to help me or not?"

I support her once again and lead her forward. We take to the center of the road, so as to avoid the barren depths of the Well. And we walk.

About midway to the Academy, the spoke starts to show evidence of fractures. I step carefully, watching the cracks. The avenues along the edges fall away for a time, first one side, then the other, the road like a garment with moth-eaten edges. I see the break long before we reach it, but even with time to consider, I have no plan to get across. The road disappears for twelve feet or more, except for girders exposed by the blast and a few thin walkways of unsupported concrete.

"We are not turning back," she says. I support her almost entirely by my own strength. She has nothing left.

"We aren't."

There is no good way to do this. "Calea, I need you to hang on to my back. Can you do that?"

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Tightly."

That gets a little smile from her. She must be exhausted. "All right. I'll hang on if you promise not to fall."

"Deal."

I choose the girder that seems the sturdiest. That's a guess at best. The girder runs a few feet below the surface of the road. I lower Calea onto her belly and climb down onto the girder. It is barely wider than my shoulders. "Lay your arm over my chest. I'll grab it and keep you leveraged."

"You'll pull my arm out of socket. Here, this'll work."

She wraps her arm around my neck, my throat in the crook of her elbow. It's suspiciously like a choke hold.

"Can you hold tight?"

"I'll hold. Now go."

I bend forward, easing her off the road and onto my back as smoothly as possible. I stare at the metal beneath my feet, not into the abyss below. She settles. I raise up, finding my balance. It is difficult to breath with her weight pulling down on my esophagus.

I take my first step. I waver a moment, wait, rediscover my center. Another step. Slow breathing. The wind picks up and I stop. Another step.

"Hurry," Calea says.

"Don't look down."

"Stop talking and go!" she shouts.

Another step.

Since I woke this morning, everything is another step--just one more step. That's enough. That's all that matters. One more step.

I find my rhythm. Only for a moment, at the start, did I allow thoughts of falling. After that, it is only the next step. A step is easy. And after that, only one more. And one more.

I am at the other end. I climb the short ascent, leaning forward to ease the pressure of Calea's weight. I crawl onto the road, lower myself, and allow Calea to roll off.

"Help me up," she says. "And stop wheezing. You sound like an asthmatic dog."

I laugh, or try to. I rub my neck. Not crushed, but it might be bruised. Calea held on very tightly.

We resume our journey. The Academy looms before us, the facade broken to pieces but still hanging on. It is an octagonal building, thickly built, squat. The road is pocked and mangled, but it looks as if it will hold, as long as we are careful. "We'll be there soon," I tell her.

"Not soon enough."
Chapter 6 - The Journey Out

Three Years Earlier

Calea gave Bron credit for one thing--he was quiet.

Most days she spent in her lab, sometimes working forty-eight hours non-stop, oblivious to time, fatigue, and hunger. She'd drop deep into the problem before her until she understood the contours of the dilemma, its form and shape and idiosyncrasies. Her theories and the symbols on her whiteboard and the experimental applications of magical transference played one off the other, each held loosely so that it could change with the situation. She tested, dissected, recombined, discarded, and retried. Bron very well might leave for hours at a time when these moods took her, but she knew he did not. He took his required days off, but he watched and waited endless hours. Sometimes she returned to her surroundings with him in the other room, a tray with warm food sitting beside her.

If that had been all a bodyguard was, she could almost have dealt with it, if only because she wouldn't have to deal with it at all. A shadow was the most forgettable thing in the world as long as it kept quiet. And Bron did admirably--but not perfectly. He urged her to eat or to socialize. He hovered over her, prodded her, gave her looks that showed he thought she was wrong. He did it softly, and subtly, but she noticed.

It was the principal of the thing, too. She remembered that first night. She knew the perception: she needed protecting, because she could not protect herself.

Today, Calea was out of the lab and out of the Tower. She had begun introducing cheap, efficient personal transports into the Section Four economy, as well as a host of less visible but more important upgrades to the power grid. Occasionally, she found it necessary to look over her project personally, if only because she didn't trust others to tell her the whole truth. Her assistants were largely upper-level students who were both frightened of and in awe of her. They performed the task of administrative paperwork well enough, but they certainly could not judge the results of her current experiments with as critical an eye as she demanded.

So, once a month, on schedule, she descended into the city. She went without announcement. She did not like to draw attention to herself, whatever the rumors in the Wheel claimed. She'd heard the muttering. It was caused by envy. That pleased her.

Though she walked inconspicuously among the people, she could not come alone as she desired. Bron was at her side, quiet, yes, but still there, on alert, like a hawk. He walked coolly enough, but his eyes roamed back and forth.

"You do a poor job of remaining hidden," she said.

"I am not trying to hide."

"I wish you would. I do not need you here, anxious to throw yourself in front of some energy blast. There was a study some years ago showing that less than twenty percent of the population could identify the Overseer by sight, and I'm not the Overseer. I do not think I'll have an angry citizen see me and attempt to punch me in the face."

Bron said nothing, and this, more than some excuse or explanation, aggravated Calea. She was already in a bitter mood. She had woken up that way. Now, she was beginning to roil within.

"When can I be rid of you?" She tried to say it lightly. Sometimes he seemed to be hiding a smile when she became furious at him.

"When I am no longer needed."

"Ha! Needed? No one's needed in this world. We're all extraneous, accidents. Men live and die. Their names sometimes linger a few generations. For what? I'll be forgotten soon enough, even if I change the whole world with my mind. I'll hang on as a name in a book and a picture on a wall, if that."

Bron nodded. "Then why do you do what you do?"

"They think they need me. It's a lie. Someone else would do what I'm doing, if not now, then within a decade. But I might as well do it. It gives me a way to spend my time, and it pleases them."

"Well, protecting you gives me something to do as well. Let's leave it at that."

Calea wanted to scream at him. She had rattled off that little speech to make him uncomfortable--and from some uncomfortable emotion of her own. He had accepted it without question. He was either an unthinking brute or he was mocking her. It was possible both were true.

Her destination was a retailer she'd recently partnered with, a bicycle shop she was using to sell the new motorcycle she'd help develop. With the newest battery, streamlined, magic-powered vehicles were now possible. Most cars were still clunky and over-large, but that was slowly changing. Calea wanted to shock the people with her compact two-wheeled vehicle. She hoped to do some interviews with customers today.

"This is going to be a nice place to live," Bron said. He did not often start conversations.

"The metrics of happiness and prosperity have been rising steadily in this section. Technology is the most efficient means of changing a person's position in life."

"Not the only way."

"The most efficient."

"Will you spread your work to the rest of the city?"

"I don't have much say in other sections. In time, others might borrow from my work, as long as it doesn't contradict with their own experiments. The technology will spread to Thyrion before it's publicly released, if history teaches us anything. They're tech-grubby, and it causes them more than a few problems. The minor villages will get it in time. But my work needs tested over years, and verified by others, then repeated, before the socio-economic blueprint will be made officially available."

He did not respond. He was a normal, a native of routinely poor Section Three. He likely disagreed with the process. The non-Select always took the short view of things. "We're doing this for your own good, you know."

"Yes, I know."

He seemed to tense up. That encouraged her. He had been hurt in some way.

People and traffic crammed down the street. This section had more cars per household than any other, not a particularly difficult feat considering how few civilian cars had been allowed in the city. By her estimation, in three years nearly half of all households in Section Four would own one. Her newest battery was more compact, efficient, and long-lasting than any before it, and the method of creation safer. Manufacturing costs would drop, and the retail price to civilians would fall. Previous administrators of Section Four had run a moderately open economy. Calea didn't plan to make any changes. Let the people work, earn money, and purchase what they would. They'd purchase her work.

Bron leaned over casually. "We are being followed."

So perhaps his earlier stiffness had not been from affront but paranoia. "It's lunch hour in the busiest part of downtown. You'd have to work not to follow someone."

And if she was being followed, what did it matter? She could handle it. It didn't concern her much.

She felt a sense of pride walking among the people--people who did not know that _she_ was making their lives better. It wasn't a sense of identification with these people; she felt as if she were invisible, walking between them as they lived whatever lives these people lived. She did not look down on them. Not much, anyway. She simply regarded them as agents in her experiments, blind beneficiaries of her work. Driving, as many Guides were wont to do, either from desire of speed or a vague fear of the masses, would draw unwanted attention.

She was beginning to feel eyes upon her, though, but it was a fancy, invented by Bron so he could feel useful. The man was dull, slow, and single-minded, a personality better suited to a dog than a man.

The bicycle shop was two roads over. The sun was hot, the people close, and her hip was beginning to ache, a flaw in her prosthetic. This was a main road, narrow but busy, men and cars working at cross-purpose, neither yielding to the other. Stores crammed close to one another, savory aromas coming from many, shoes and clothes and books and groceries sold in others. It was all a bit quaint, actually, with two-story buildings, apartments over storefronts, a far cry from the tall towers of Section Six and the relentless propaganda of Section Eight. It would almost certainly have to change as technology did, but she had no strong opinions on the direction. She'd keep track of the retail, consumer, and architectural evolutions and let them run their course, whatever that would be.

She pressed her way across the street, hoping to lose Bron in the crush. He wouldn't reprimand her, but she would smirk and show him how little he meant to her. The crowd quickly thinned a block over. Calea looked back to see if she had lost Bron. Three men surrounded her. Two grabbed her arms and the third spoke. "Come quietly. Your expertise is needed. We have much to offer you." They pulled her into a narrow alley.

Calea was more affronted than frightened. Her mechanical arm easily freed itself from the grip holding it. "You must be from Thyrion. There is nothing I want. Everyone here knows that."

"You will come, one way or the other."

Bron stumbled around the corner. Blood ran from his forehead. He unleashed a shot from his gun, but the blast streaked above their heads. He wobbled badly, fighting for consciousness. The leader of the three tilted his head. A brick pulled loose from the wall. Bron collapsed, groaning.

"A non-Select bodyguard. How useless."

"It wasn't my idea," Calea answered. "The Overseer naively believes Thyrion will refrain from armed assault on Jalseion. You know, the treaty. The bodyguard's for more mundane plots."

"Who says we're from Thyrion?" He smiled. "Perhaps we're just in it for the money."

Bron kept twitching, as if his will refused to listen to his body. "This is a crowded area," Calea said. "What if I resist? You wouldn't want there to be an incident."

The leader snapped his fingers. Fire sprung to life at their tips, taking the form of a miniature sword. Deft manipulation, that. These three were trained in precision. Perhaps the motion was show, but perhaps he still required it to guide the magic properly. "I have found that heating the brain can have lasting effects. Are you willing to risk losing all that precious knowledge of yours?"

"Are you?" Calea projected confidence, but she was beginning to tremble against her will. Panic shuddered through her at the mention of brain damage. Her mind was all she had. Everything else was already broken. "You need my knowledge."

"We can take your arm and leg. There are many smart people in the world. One of them will figure out how they work. You haven't shown the world everything, I think."

She reacted quickly, almost before she had decided what to do. Digging deep from the Well, absorbing the aura of power that surrounded it, she swelled with magic until she wanted to vomit and then forced it out in torrents of raw power. Electricity emanated from her in waves, beating back the thugs. They reacted, pulling bricks down in heaps to bury her, but the electricity sparked into a wall of flame, burning her, scorching her, the blast of its heat knocking the three off their feet and breaking the bricks to pieces. Calea struggled to keep upright as the broken shards fell upon her. Now air hammered the three, keeping them down, choking and compressing them, battering them. She tapped the stone in the brick, throwing aside all her years of technique, and buried the three beneath the rock, melting it into unbroken mounds, where they were trapped, but alive. Probably.

The energy dissipated, emptying her. It had lasted less than a minute. She stood up straight, testing her limbs. A little stiff. She was covered in bruises and cuts. Blood trickled down her cheek, but she didn't care. She felt barren, with a hint of sorrow and anger and joy somewhere beneath. Nothing else seemed necessary, no action, no thought. She felt she could stand there, frozen, for a long, long time, wanting nothing, needing nothing.

She saw Bron rising to his knees.

"I didn't need you," she said. "What use are you? I told you I didn't need you."
Chapter 7 - Discoveries in the Lab

The final approach to the Academy is uneventful. The road is relatively clear, and the nearing goal has reinvigorated me. I know it is a momentary boost, but I will take what I can get.

The Academy seems churned by giant hands, the walls mangled, but the damage seems largely superficial. It is built upon a stone pillar that rises out of the Well, a pillar erected by Select of several centuries past. They christened the well Curiosity's Fount and set to work with their experiments. I wonder at their ambition, to create a residence in the center of the source of their power. Rumors say they attempted even greater things in their desire to live as near the magic as possible.

As is well known, the laboratory and research center they established evolved into the hub of the Wheel and modern-day Jalseion; now, it is an isolated, empty edifice, stranded above a desolate canyon of no importance.

And I am certain that the Academy is empty. Nothing moves in the exposed rooms. I remember the cars and generators in the city, blown to pieces by the blast, whatever it was. Did men who could feel magic and manipulate magic also fill up and overload on magic?

"We're almost there," I say.

"Save your breath," Calea bites back. She is on the ragged edge of exhaustion.

The entry arch held a vast wall of glass, in which had been set a number of doors. The ground is covered in shards now. I am glad for my shoes. It is as if we are entering some vast cave, dark and forbidding. The Academy is a pensive structure. Within, the rooms are close and cluttered, most cut off from sunlight and illuminated by the building's generator, which is certainly destroyed. Luckily, Calea's labs are on the basement floor, which is built into the rock, in the outer ring, since her experiments deal with the actual substance of magic. This places her both closer to the source and deeper into the rock of the pillar. This last is for protection if something were to go wrong with her experiments.

I stop in the dark passage. Something is moving.

"What are you doing?" Calea demands. "You're not going to give out on me."

I squeeze her to quiet her, straining my ears. I hear it again, a rustling, but no voices. I thought I heard voices the first time. I turn aside, into the nearest room, one with walls taken off. Calea begins to protest, but I set her down in the corner with a firm command: "Don't make a sound." Her face is an entire diatribe, but she is silent.

I wait. After a time, Calea begins to speak, but I cut her off. Ten minutes pass. The structure creaks. Wind whispers over the rooms. I am not satisfied.

I have been examining the room. It is an office, with two walls lined with shelves. The books are oddly disordered. Whole sections are untouched, while others lie in disarray across the floor. I cannot see it from where I am, but some form waits behind the desk. I stand, holding one of my knives. I'm certain the pistol is worthless now, its magic charges overloaded. I approach.

The form is a corpse. Another familiar face, a bookworm by the name of Julian. I used to see him in the common room, occasionally. His body is marred by scratches and bruises, but it is uncovered, so there is no evidence of what caused his injuries. It could mean a lot of things, probably, but to my heightened senses, it means this: he died face first and someone turned him over.

"Let's get this done," I say. I lift Calea in my arms. She does not protest much.

"What do you think--?"

"I'm carrying you. I'd like you to walk on your own two feet as soon as possible."

The floor seems uncertain beneath me. The Academy stands, but the foundation has shifted beneath it, somehow. All the well-defined passages have been shaken.

The door to Calea's labs is open. I stop at a distance and set her down in the frame of a neighboring door. She does not ask what I am doing. She senses it too.

I have a knife in each hand, now, and a third in my belt. After the encounter with mercenaries three years ago, I taught myself how to hit a target at thirty feet. A Select with a grudge is likely to snuff me out without getting close, but I'll make him hurt.

I step into the room, silently, listening. Muffled voices slip in from the connected room. Stepping carefully, I cross to the next door. I peer around. Two men in dark uniforms wait at the door to Calea's storage room. They are exchanging words quietly and looking in. Military. A third and fourth exit from storage, one holding a cylinder between his thumb and forefinger for the others to see. Calea's newest battery. He places it in a padded container with a dozen others of various sizes.

It is time for me to go. I need to return to Calea and hide her.

I step into the room. "I can't let you leave with those."

They raise their guns at me. I walk toward them. The guns are useless. I _think_ they are useless. "Those don't belong to you."

"We outnumber you. Leave us be, and you'll live."

"As I see it, you may very well be responsible for the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands, of Jalseians. I'll take my chances."

"This isn't your fight."

I laugh. He doesn't know how wrong he is. I sold my life to Calea. It was my choice. I don't back down from a choice.

"You have ten seconds," I say.

"We'll shoot."

"You're Select. Thyrion wouldn't send less. And I'm still living. You're powerless. Five seconds."

I sense the move before I see it. My first knife leaves my hand just as it begins. The commander falls, the pack of batteries going down with him. My second knife lodges deep into the abdomen of the man beside him as the first man hits his knees. I rush in, barreling with all my weight into the third, smashing him against the wall. He's dazed. I have a moment to grab the batteries--but the remaining soldier has already taken them. I lunge for him, but a hand grasps me from behind. The soldier with the batteries retreats from the room as I turn to face my attacker. Though dazed, the third man is flailing, trying to keep me busy and perhaps land a punch. He tries to pin me and I let him, using his momentum to my advantage. I force him around, press him to the floor, and choke him out. It takes no time, too much time. I should have pulled my third knife.

A solid weight slams against me. Slippery hands grasp my throat, knees press into my back. His grip is strong but slick, and I pull my head free, forcing my elbow behind me with all the force I can manage. It connects solidly. I gain my moment and scramble away.

I turn, lifting my knee. It slams into bone. I kick with my other foot. Solid contact. He falls to the floor with a squeal of pain. Only then do I realize who it is I'm fighting. It's the commander; my borrowed shoes have dug into the knife wound. The knife itself has fallen out, apparently.

I take a second to breathe. It's a mere moment. I have to contain three men or I need to leave them and return to Calea. They are incapacitated for now, I decide, one unconscious, one twice beaten, and the last pale-faced in the corner. My aim was good.

I hear her scream. Perhaps I've been hearing it, but it finally registers. A spike of panic lacerates my insides. I am already at the door, in the hall. Calea is writhing. I see a form racing away in the darkness. I throw my final knife, but it is too far and I am moving too fast. He escapes.

Calea is screaming, holding nothing back. It is full of pain and anger. I see the wound in her side first, a nasty, bloody gash. Her hand is pressed against it in agony. I retreive towels from the bathroom in her lab. She has quieted a little, but she is cursing, mostly at me. Nothing coherent, just vile, hateful words. I place the first towel against the wound and press firmly. She intakes a painful breath before swinging her arm at me.

"Stay still," I command.

"Let it bleed, let it! Let it run, let it spurt, let me die!"

I know why she is saying such things. It is not the pain. In a little bit, she will tell me it does not hurt. I see what is missing. I saw it at first, but it was not the most pressing matter. Her leg and arm have been stolen. The stubs glisten with blood. The limbs were removed forcibly, the grafts cut through.

The last soldier--he took my knife from the commander's body. My knife did this.

I let her wear her tongue out against me. I place another towel on as the first soaks through, and then another. The flow is slowing. I need to move her as soon as I can, but where will I take her? It is a long way over dangerous ground to anyone who might have the skills and resources to help.

"Why won't you let me die?" she cries. "You've failed. It's over. Now or in a few hours, I die. Let me die. There is nothing left."

I do not resist. I change the subject. "What will they do with your limbs?"

"Who cares? Study them, wear them, hang them on a wall. The world is ended because of me. Let me die with it."

"It's not your fault. Thyrion doesn't have the resources to destroy a well, and they certainly didn't do it to get to you."

"Quiet! Idiot! Fool! Someone destroyed it. Someone did it. Who else? Thyrion is covered in blood, from beginning to end. 'Red as blood, red as blood, the Thyrion soldier comes.' They are taking everything with them, all the resources, all the ideas, all the brains they lack."

"I'll get you out of here, and when you're better, you can move to another well."

I am putting her into a fighting mood. Her words become less emotional, more emphatic, as she argues. "You think this is the end? If they control who has wells, they control who has power. Will they let me live quietly near some backwater pool of a well? No! And I wouldn't. I will be free to work and to use magic. But Jalseion is dead and the idea of Jalseion is dead and I am dead. You are lying to yourself and to me. Everything I have has been taken from me. You started this journey by coming to find me--you should end it. Take your knife and finish it."

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."

She 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.

"I might call it pity, but you would misunderstand me. I know you abhor pity more than anything else. But I do not look down on you. I do not consider myself superior. But I do see your weakness, and I want to cover over it. In children's stories, a dragon can only be injured in the chink in his armor. Pity is that chink, and you hate it. You rage and yell. You make yourself hard and cold. But I want to do what I can to protect you. I need to.

"It's not about saving you from a knife or a blast of magic. It's about giving you security, a sense of trust, a person on which to release all your blows. There is no secret motivation. I have no deep psychological guilt. If anything, I have a fault. I want to protect those who most need it. It is an instinct, a belief. Maybe a religion. Who would protect you if not me? Everyone needs someone, Calea. Everyone. I have chosen to be that person, whether you want me or not. Because...I can't leave you to yourself. Hate me for it if you need to. I will be everything no one else is for you. I wouldn't change it. I can't."

I am exhausted. I have rarely spoken so many words to anyone. I fear I have failed to explain, or perhaps enraged her. She will not allow me to call her weak. She doesn't understand. Everyone is weak. Everyone.

She says nothing. I hope she has not heard. I have said what I needed to say. If she did not hear, all the better. Her breath is soft, but she lives. For a while, she lives. And I have shown her, the best way I know, what she is worth.

I wait for morning.

I wake suddenly. It is still dark. A hand is around my arm, squeezing gently. The hand contracts again. It is desperate, but it is weak. "Bron?"

I am fully roused.

"Stay with me." Her voice is a fierce whisper, begging. "I don't want to go. I don't want to."

"I'm here."

She swallows, a drawn-out act. "Look at them. The stars. They're beautiful. I don't want to go into darkness."

I look up. In the depth of the Well, there is no light, and the sky is brilliant with jewels. I have never seen so many. It is almost like looking upon a city from a distance, a city larger than Thyrion, larger than any even in stories.

"What are we?" Calea manages. "So little, so useless."

I grasp her hand. She needs strength, not words. She will argue words.

She lapses back into silence.

I am out of actions, out of steps, out of time. If I could will her to live, if I could grant her my life, I would. It is an ache in my soul. _So little, so useless._ The despair in those words move me. I want to lift her to her feet, make her stand--but I can't.

The steps that led us here were miraculous, but they were false.

The fact is she will be dead by morning. I have done everything possible. There is no regret, no second-guessing. But I still refuse to accept these facts until hope is gone. I refuse to give in. There is nothing left but another miracle.

"Be strong, Calea," I say. "Stay with me."

From a distance comes the reply. "I can't. I'm so afraid. The stars are fading."

"I'll be strong for you. Do you understand? I'll be strong for you. Just hang on. Let me be strong for you."

"Help me, Bron. Please help me."

Tears begin to fall down my face. I am willing her to live, physically trembling with a desire to save her which I cannot put into words. I pull her up, into my arms, and hold her tight. She is cold. I want her to feel warmth. I want her to know she is not alone. I want her to hang on, to hold out, until....

"I'm here, Calea. I won't leave. I'm here. You'll be all right." Empty words, but I believe them. I am not deceiving her; if anything, I deceive myself. "It'll be all right."

Her body warms as the hours pass. My eyes are heavy, my entire body pulling me down to sleep. She is already asleep, her breathing easy. When she passes, it will be in ease, in a dream. I set her down and lay beside her, almost delirious in my extreme fatigue. I pass into sleep effortlessly.
Chapter 10 - The Sky is Blue

Blue. I stare into it. It's deep, and for a long time I need nothing else but to be immersed in color. It is immensely deep, incredibly brilliant, and filled with such a complexity of beauty that I dare not look elsewhere unless I wish to break the spell. It's the sky. I know it's the sky, but if it's the sky, it means I am alive, and I desperately wish to be alive.

It takes courage to look elsewhere, and it takes me a long time to gather it. The world is built of particles and equations; life is easily stripped to the essentials; but in the blue, all that is swept aside into something else, something I can't quite quantify, something I don't want to quantify. I don't want the moment to pass. The past hovers over me, ready to pounce, but if I don't look...

I turn my head. He is there, next to me. He is dead. That's my first thought. And my first emotion is relief. It is fleeting, but it's there. I don't want to deal with what he means. But the immediate second emotion is guilt. No one should suffer for me. I don't deserve it.

And then I see his chest rise. He is alive, and that brings different emotions. I let them play out, returning my gaze to the sky. The wonder is gone, but it retains some of its beauty. I let the emotions have their way, unwilling to beat them down as I normally would. That world has passed away. At least for the moment.

I sit up. I am crippled again, incapacitated. Half a woman.

I look up. I can see three of the spokes, each broken along its length. The city is crippled, incapacitated.

Bron stirs. He sees me and sits. I have never seen a look of shock upon his face, but it is there now. Before he bothers me with the question, I assure him: "There's an explanation."

"I don't understand."

"The Well always gave life. Vegetation grows most verdantly about the wells. Something of that must still remain, some remnant, drifting away."

"I don't believe it."

"There may be another explanation. But there is an explanation. There is always an explanation. You did not save me."

"I didn't think I did. I just...don't believe it."

I heard what he confessed in the deep dark night. I do not know what to do with it. But he needs me. It is cruel to beat him down like this. And it isn't true. "You brought me here," I say after a moment. "So, I guess you helped save me, in some way."

He shrugs. "It's my job."

"It was your job."

He nods. "I'll return you to the Tower. They'll need your help."

The suggestion is hollow. It repels me, and I know that something has changed. "I don't want to stay here." The Wheel is broken. Jalseion is maimed. I'm ashamed to appear before them, without magic, without my limbs, like a beggar in a corner. "I want to go to Thyrion."

There are many objections he could give. They're occurring to me as I wait for his answer. I don't care. I don't want to stay here. There's nothing for me. In Thyrion, I can find answers. I can find justice. I can find magic. That's as far as I'm looking.

He finally speaks. "How will you get there?"

"You'll take me."

"I can do that."

He makes to stand, but he does not. "In a bit," he says. "I think...I think I am very tired."

I laugh. "I can't imagine why. Well, rest if you need to, you weak little man. I'm not going anywhere."

Not without him. For now, at least.

END of THE SELECT'S BODYGUARD
About the Author

Nick Hayden is a Jalseian by nature, a man with more ideas than time. Most of these apply to fiction in some way or another.

Sometimes Nick really loves to write. Sometimes, he prefers to dream about writing. Most times, he enjoys reading things he's already written.

Without a doubt, he has to write. He truly believes that fiction is a lie that tells the truth. That is why he writes, and that is why he loves fiction.

He tends to read books published before his birth, though he is always willing to make exceptions. He tends to write speculative fiction, though he is always willing to make exceptions.

Nick is married to his lovely wife Natasha. He is father to his wonderful children Fyodor (no, we are not Russian) and Serenity (for all you browncoats out there).

If you enjoy his work here, visit his personal website, www.worksofnick.com. His fantasy novel, The Unremarkable Squire, was published Summer 2013.

