18. The Man in the Rubble

The flight from the sewers was a blur, a picture seen through a veil of tears. Dazed and disbelieving, Lux might’ve died too, had Freija not been there to carry him to the relative safety of the city limits. He had screamed, sobbed, and now stood silently beside Caela as they watched the city burn. It seemed the grief had burned through him, too, leaving nothing but banked, smouldering sorrow.

Disregarding navigation in the urgency to get away, they’d fled blindly, recklessly. Their random choice of tunnels had spat them out beyond the eastern wall, near where the city met the sea. There, chaos churned the coastline into a desperate, seething mass. Smoke rolled over the city in thick, sooty waves, curling over the masts of the ships that choked the harbour.

It seemed that the whole population of the city swarmed the waterfront, scrambling to escape the cancerous mass bursting up from the sewers and sweeping down the streets. Motley fleets of boats were ferrying panicked refugees from the port to landing sites further down the coast, far enough to have a chance of escaping.

Behind them, San Aria was unraveling. The monstrosity - no longer bound by the sewers - was spreading, unfurling its grotesque bulk through the streets. All was swallowed up by its ever increasing mass.

The stories from those who’d escaped were fragmented, often contradictory, but certain strains repeated. The wanton destruction had started fires, which had started more panic, and more fires. Flames spread hungrily from building to building. The market district was all but gone. The fine manor houses of the noble families toppled just as easily. One survivor claimed the Mages’ Guild was containing the situation. Others said darkly that they’d fled once their sanctum had been demolished.

Caela scanned the crowds, her heart pounding as she searched for familiar faces. It felt impossible that anyone could have survived that nightmare. But then, glittering scales caught the light near the harbour.

Ren.

Tears welled in her eyes as she ran toward the mermaid, who looked just as desperately relieved. “Thank the gods, girl. I thought you and your friends were lost.”

Ren swam alongside a familiar ship - one now emptied of statues, all dead weight discarded to make room for panicked refugees. Caela heard Vyne’s confident voice, ushering people aboard, and saw-

“Zora,” Caela choked out.

The medusa turned at the sound of her name, reaching out. Her arms found Caela, and she clutched her close, her breath hitching in relief. But then she stilled. Her blindfolded face tilted slightly, waiting. Listening.

Waiting to hear a voice that would never come.

There were a few long, terrible moments before the realisation dawned on Zora’s face, expectation giving way to something brittle. She brought a hand to her mouth, fingers trembling. The dampening of her blindfold was the only sign of her grief before it broke free in a single, quiet sob.

Caela could only hold her, feeling her frail shoulders shake until there were no tears left to cry. She opened her mouth, searching for words that would make it better. He was so brave. He was a hero. He fought right to the end…

But no. None of that would help. Instead, she carefully led Zora back to the ship, back to Vyne’s understanding gaze, and then forced herself to turn away. There was still work to be done. There were still others unaccounted for.

Finally, her gaze fell on a pale figure, standing apart from the panicked crowds. Despite everything, Qitala was an island of stillness amid the storm. The mistress of San Aria’s sewers had escaped with a good number of her acolytes - including, Caela was relieved to see, Alexander - but the daylight did not suit her. She looked utterly out of place, far from her quiet world of damp and verdant tunnels.

Like everyone else, her home lay destroyed behind her. There would be no going back.

—

As the exodus continued, more and more of the city swallowed up, their group, much reduced in number, sought refuge at her uncle’s lodge. It was a relief to see the familiar homely thatch, the garden still green, after so much destruction. For a few heartbeats, Caela could pretend nothing had happened since they’d last left it.

Until she glanced back, and saw the limp, dark bundle in Valerios’ arms.

Johannes, who was still regaining his faculties - there was a worrying dazed look in his eyes, and he couldn’t walk in a straight line - grew increasingly restless the closer they got to their destination. As soon as they passed through the gate, he came to a sudden halt.

“Stop! Down here, on the grass, quickly!” he cried, waving at a patch on the ground. Valerios gingerly laid down Hellebore’s corpse as the wizard scrambled away into the garden. The others, unsure whether to intervene or to let the old man mourn in his own strange way, stood frozen.

Johannes returned with an armful of seemingly random flowers and stones, which he placed around the body according to some pattern only he could see. Placing his orb at the top of the makeshift dial, he began tracing spectral lines between the items, the building thrum of energy causing the flowers to blanch and the stones to crack in half.

“Then with this, and this, and surely this…” Johannes muttered to himself as he worked, adding further details to the pattern. He slipped a corked bottle from his pocket, and tapped its contents into his palm. Caela recognised the lump of crimson bark he’d purchased in their first encounter.

“Wait. That’s not… Johannes, is that Sarciel bark?” Freija asked, aghast.

Caela stepped towards the circle. “I know what you’re trying,” she began, voice carefully measured, “but it won’t…”

“What do you know?” Johannes snarled, with surprising venom. His eyes were wild, his silver hair untamed. “It is all a matter of components. I need only reconstitute the body, and then the soul can… can…”

He broke off as he tossed the priceless fragment into the centre of the circle and waited for results. It dissolved in midair, leaving not even ash. The magic circle glowed brighter blue.

The party, as one, held their breath.

The wind moved the scattered flowers, rustling the edge of Hellebore’s hood.

The seconds ticked past.

Hellebore did not move.

“It’s simple,” Johannes insisted obstinately, slamming a bony fist into the ground as the light faded. “If even that fool could create half a dozen bodies, there’s no reason I should not be able to…”

His protestations trailed off.

“Johannes…” Caela weakly patted his back as he slumped forwards. “It’s okay. You did all you could.”

Johannes smiled faintly.

“You are right, of course. When I saw you, brought back to us, I grew presumptuous. But that was far beyond our comprehension. It was foolish of me to think I could replicate such a phenomenon.”

His hands were still pressed into the soft earth. After a moment, fingers flexing slowly, he spoke a short incantation in an unsteady voice, and Hellebore’s body sank into the ground. A beat later, Freija reached out her own hand. At her touch, a patch of deep purple flowers bloomed over the place where the thief lay.

Caela knew the plant at once, and couldn’t help a small, sad smile.

—

The lodge couldn’t be their sanctuary forever.

Caela knew she had to face them sooner or later. The others - Ren, Vyne, Zora, Qitala - the ones who hadn’t seen the events unfold in the third laboratory. Who had no idea what had caused all this.

When, voice faltering, she managed to explain what had happened down there - as far as she understood it - she looked into their confused faces and struggled to find words of encouragement. Like a lost cat wandering home, her mind kept returning to the events that had caused the disaster. That they had caused. Her fellow survivors were little help, reeling from their own shock and grief.

Instead of platitudes, then, Caela offered the only thing she could.

“Take my uncle’s house,” she told Ren, the idea becoming solid only when she spoke it into existence. She turned to Qitala, meeting those troubled pink eyes. “You, too. And anyone who needs it. I don’t think I do, any more.”

“Are you sure, my dear?” Ren asked doubtfully, before she saw the look in Caela’s eye. Her face softened, and she leaned from her barrel of water to give the elf a damp hug. “You’re of a type, that’s certain,” she murmured, kissing her on the cheek. “Caela, Cael and Menelaus.”

Making the decision about the house felt like at least one weight lifted off Caela’s shoulders. Ren, well-used to taking charge of a messy situation, moved swiftly into action, arranging for a cart to bring injured survivors up to the lodge and directing Qitala and her rats to collect supplies. Packing her uncle’s most precious possessions safely out of the way, Caela was relieved to at least be doing something.

As the dawn broke on the next day, the six survivors assembled at the gate, looking out over what remained of San Aria. During the long hours of the night, the skyline had periodically been lit up with multicoloured arcane flashes, but now they had stopped.

“The mages did not flee, after all,” Johannes said distantly. “The destruction may have been contained.”

“But the rebuilding will be substantial,” rumbled Valerios. “I shall coordinate the survivor camps in lieu of their fallen leaders.”

They’d received word that the Council of Twenty had been decimated by the calamity. Of particular note had been Councillor Daedalus Gwill, who had fallen to his death from his glass observation point, and had been succeeded by a tiefling called Lencia.

Valerios, plan decided, moved to leave immediately - but Caela caught his arm, and he caught her expression. His craggy face softened.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. Today, I may rest here.”

One by one, her friends dispersed back into the estate, until Caela and Lux stood alone with the view of the smouldering city.

“Was it worth it?” Lux asked, flatly. “Reckon we caused more problems than we solved.”

Despite everything, and surprising even herself, Caela laughed. It was the only thing she could do. Lux stared blankly at her for a few moments, before his expression shifted. A more familiar light shone in his eyes as he came back to himself for the first time, looking at her in amazement.

“Yeah,” she chuckled, “We seem to do that a lot.”

She looked him in the eye, suddenly serious.

“It’s not your fault Vozloc tried to take the city with him. It’s not your fault you couldn’t save everybody.”

As he opened his mouth to protest, she clutched his hands.

“If you saved a single person yesterday, then it was worth it. And there’s one standing in front of you.”

Lux looked away, embarrassed.

“Yeah, well,” he said, kicking his heel. “Technically, there’s two.”

Mene licked his hand, his tail wagging in a very un-wolf-like fashion. Smiling, Caela turned Lux around and gently pushed him towards the house.

“That’s the spirit. Go, get some rest. You’ve done enough heroics for now.”

Lux limped back up the garden path, giving her one last wave over his shoulder. With a sigh, Caela moved to follow him, when a flicker in the corner of her vision caught her eye.

At first, she thought it was a dead leaf, but its shape was far too regular. It drifted on the wind, a fluttering purple square. As she watched, the fragment of lavender paper tumbled down in front of her, catching in the dense hedgerow. Caela tugged it free before the wind could do it for her.

It was a letter.

Baffled, Caela looked up to try and work out where it had fallen from, but there was nothing above her but a clear sky. She turned the lilac envelope in her hand, reading the address written in an elegant slant. There was only one line.

To The Relevant Party

19.  Trouble Comes In Threes >>