Each blast rocked the iron cart. Bixby curled up in a ball. Seven . . . eight . . . fifteen explosions in all. She heard wails and moans outside her prison. If people were injured badly so many blocks away, was anyone alive in the building or near it? They couldn’t be.
Cantor? Dukmee? Feymare? Had they escaped?
Totobee-Rodolow? Bridger? Toolooknaut? Ponack? Had they been far enough away?
She heard the building next to her cry out as brick and mortar were torn asunder. Falling objects cracked in deafening blows against the wagon. The last one flipped the vehicle again. Bixby bounced against the hard walls, crying out as her cheekbone struck and the rough metal scraped her face and the back of one hand.
A seam burst at the corner of the paddy wagon. Cradling her face in one hand, Bixby squinted at the dust motes whirling in a narrow light ray. She could see outside. But powdered debris filled the air. Paper thin shards of plaster, paper, and cloth floated on the heavy air.
The prison cart had saved her life. She put her hand on the open ridge and pulled it back with a slice of red across her palm. She was alive enough to bleed, but was she alone?
WHERE ARE THE FRIENDS?
Bixby huddled on what was now the floor of the cart and cupped her stinging hand in her lap, pressing it against her legs to stop the shaking. The shallow cut bled just a little, but the jagged metal edge had made a tattered wound. The pain was significant, proof that the pardox had completely worn off.
So many people . . .
Opening her hamper containing medical supplies, Bixby found disinfectant, ointment, and bandages.
How many dead? Maimed?
Clumsily, with one hand, she cleaned and bandaged her palm.
Why wouldn’t they listen?
Taking a deep breath, she put her supplies away and crept to the narrow opening to survey her surroundings. Few people walked the street among the litter of rubble and huddled forms. She wondered how far the devastation reached from the guild building in the center of Gilead. Time to leave her prison shelter.
Primen, give me strength.
Bixby braced her back against one side of the box and pushed against the torn edge with her booted feet. The gap widened. Muttering voices came from the street.
She pounded on the side of the prison cart. “Help! Help. I’m trapped.”
No one came to peer in the slice of an opening she could see through. The people who were within feet of her metal box moved on by. Frustrated, she flung herself back and kicked the damaged metal. A bolt popped out, and the side bent farther away from the frame.
With renewed hope, Bixby applied more pressure. Her thick leather boots protected her feet so she wouldn’t end up with another cut. Although she heard people passing from time to time, no one stopped to help. When the escape hole gaped open, she slid through, avoiding the sharp edges.
The first thing she saw was the uniformed body of the guard who’d arrested her. Beside him lay a still form draped in the black robe of a councilman. The treacherous man must have miscalculated how far away he had to be from the building to be safe. She shuddered and turned away.
Twilight shadows cast the deserted street in somber shades of gray. A haze of dust blanketed the scene. Bixby paused to cover her mouth and nose with a large handkerchief, then chose the route back to the guild building. If she were to find any of her friends, it would be there. She walked a few steps, picking her footing carefully in the debris.
A low moan stopped her. She tilted her head and located the source. Off to the side, she found an unconscious woman holding a child. The child was dead. Bixby removed the little girl from the woman’s arms and looked for injuries.
Aside from a nasty, bleeding cut on her scalp, the woman had a broken arm and a mangled leg. Bixby could stop the bleeding, but couldn’t do any of her healing arts on the street. She wished she’d already had a mentorship with Dukmee. She knew basic aid for minor wounds.
The woman didn’t regain consciousness, and when Bixby had done all she could do, she continued her way to the center of town. The five minute walk took over two hours. Citizens from the outskirts of Gilead came in to see what had happened, look for friends and family, and help.
Bixby stopped for every injured person. She gave what comfort she could, and found some survivors who were able to help the more seriously wounded. Purposely thinking like her mother, she quickly took charge, delegating responsibility to those who reacted in a sensible manner.
As she entered the avenue that ran to the front of the building, she found no more survivors. The destruction broke her heart. No sign of life. None of the fine cultural sites standing. One building was indistinguishable from the next.
She guessed where the Hall had stood. The area looked like a giant had dug under the building, lifted it up, and then thrown it down. The river that flowed around the back side was damned with debris and overflowed its banks, creating more mess.
Where were her friends? Did any of them get out?
A tabletop lay across a mound of plaster, broken wood, and crushed stone. Bixby tested it for stability, then climbed up to perch where she could see in all directions.
She sat with her legs crossed and her arms folded around her middle. Staring at the scene around her, she begged for someone to walk out of the wreckage. She swiveled her head, looking one way along the shambles of the avenue, and then the other.
If someone had gotten out, wouldn’t they come back here to look for her?
A brilliant red and orange glow filled the western sky as the sun set. Bixby coughed. The same dust that irritated her lungs refracted the light and produced unbelievable colors above. Bixby shivered and waited. Her hand throbbed. The scrapes on her face tingled unpleasantly.
Her thoughts went over all she knew about the pardox leaf. The essence would affect her for days after the initial numbness wore off. Her body, which should be safe with her thermea on, felt cold. She fought back waves of emotion, which were probably evidence of shock, but heightened by the pardox. Sleep would ease the effects of the drug, but right now, Bixby wanted to be alert.
With a muddled mind, she thought about cleaning her wounds and covering the deeper ones with a bandage. She’d only tended the hand before. Infection would be a bother later on.
A groan escaped her lips as she forced herself to shift. She pulled out a hamper, but it wasn’t her supplies. She looked for it again and found other hampers. But not the one with salve and cloth wraps. She’d probably left it with the last man she’d treated.
Out of the clothes bag, she pulled a knitted cap that fit like a tight helmet. She tugged it onto her head, flattening her hair, and buttoned the strap under her chin. She wrapped a woolen cloth around her waist and a thick shawl over her shoulders. Two striped tubes in faded shades of pink and rose provided more warmth for her legs. After she’d tidied everything, repacked what she wasn’t going to wear, and hidden the flat hampers away in her skirts, she pulled on long gloves ruffled from wrist to elbow.
There. At least she looked like she wanted to look. She didn’t feel like she wanted to feel. Her heart ached. Parts of her body complained about being tossed about in a big tin box. Her stomach rumbled. Hungry, but her stomach was not the only thing that was empty. All the unpleasant sensations couldn’t be tossed aside, because she was hollow. Nothing distracted her from the uncertainty of her situation.
A thump on the tabletop jerked Bixby around to see what had landed behind her. Jesha swished her tail and promptly climbed into Bixby’s lap. She voiced several rowly complaints, turned about, rubbing her tail under Bixby’s nose, then settled down. Her purr indicated she was content to have found at least one warm body she could count on to provide comfort.
Bixby stroked her. She had trouble speaking through her tears. “I’m just as happy to see you.”
They sat together long after the sun had dropped beyond the rim of their plane.
A swoosh of noise turned Bixby’s head. A short distance away, a portal open
ed, showing a bright and fancy room populated by people in wondrous garments. A man and woman came to the portal and stepped through.
Bixby leapt to her feet and jumped off her platform. She darted through the littered avenue.
“Mother! Father! You came.”
Without any regard to royal etiquette, or her mother’s preference for clean gowns and capes and everything else, Bixby threw her arms around her mother and then her father and then her mother again.
Her mother stroked her head, her fingers running over the bumpy cap again and again. “You’re safe. Thank Primen.”
“Let us get out of the way,” her father said quietly. Then his voice took on a kingly tenor and he boomed, “We have brought aid to Gilead.” He pulled his wife and daughter to the side. A squadron of men marched two by two through the portal and advanced into the city. They carried bundles of supplies. Tears rolled down Bixby’s cheeks as she saw her countrymen disperse to give vital aid.
When the soldiers had cleared the portal, her father led her and his wife back through to the splendor of their throne room.
“Don’t cry, Bixby. I have news I think will lighten your heart.”
She turned her face up to look in his kind eyes. “My friends?”
He nodded. “Yes, your friends. Bridger brought Totobee-Rodolow through a portal to the court and told us of the happenings in Gilead. He asked about his cat. Have you seen a cat?”
Before she could answer, her mother, having regained her royal reserve, continued. “Some minutes later, Dukmee and Feymare lead a motley group of servants and unnamed strays into the battalion quad.”
“Cantor?”
The king looked at the queen with an arched eyebrow.
She nodded decisively. “Yes, there’s a young realm walker named Cantor D’Ahma.” Her expression changed to one of contemplation. “But I don’t remember who he came with or when.”
Bixby looked intently at her mother and father. “But he’s here?”
“Oh, yes, my dear,” said her mother. “He’s here. I think he’s with the mor dragons and Dukmee.” She gently touched her daughter’s cheek. “I’m sure you can find them. Bridger tells me his sister is your constant.” She frowned. “You really should learn to write letters, Bixby. A mother likes to get letters from her daughter.”
“Yes, Mother. I will.” She pulled away and headed for the door to the main palace.
“Is that the cat?” Her mother pointed at Jesha, who sat just inside the portal on the gleaming, polished floor. She posed with her tail wrapped around her and an exaggerated calm expression on her face.
Bixby scooped Jesha into her arms. “Yes, this is Bridger’s cat.”
Her father’s voice carried across the room even when he muttered. “A dragon with a cat?”
Her mother called after her. “You could do that fancy writing like the scribes do on scrolls. That would be pretty, and I know you’re capable.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Oh, Bixby.”
She stopped and turned at the tone in her mother’s voice.
“Say good-bye to your father. He’s going to Gilead to do kingly things.”
She ran and enveloped her father in another hug. “Take care. There are some truly awful people on Dairine.”
“I will. And Feymare has already returned. I’ll be in good company.” He hugged her close and put his lips close to her ear. “And you shall give me your report at a more convenient time.”
“Yes, Father.”
Her father passed through the portal with a royal guard of six men.
Bixby returned to her quest to find her friends. She located them in the west tower, in three connected rooms, resting and eating.
Dukmee and Bridger played a game of cards. Cantor lay on a bed.
Bixby put Jesha down, and the cat ran to her dragon.
“There you are.” Bridger picked her up, gave her a hug, then put her down beside a plate. “I saved you my cheese.”
Bixby smiled at the normalcy of her friends’ activity. Satin drapes, cushioned seats, polished wood, curlicues of burnished metal on lamps and candlestands. Her normal world. Nothing broken, nothing crushed. No one holding on to his last bit of strength. A moment of guilt almost knocked her down, but she knew what Primen said in His Book. She would recover in order to enter the trials of tomorrow. That was not only allowed but also commanded.
And her friends. Bridger’s color was off, each scale seamed with gray. Dukmee’s powerful hand shook as he put down a card. She heard Totobee-Rodolow’s gentle whoosh of breathing as she slept. Jesha leaned against her dragon, not settling down, but maintaining contact.
Then Bixby took a good look at Cantor.
“You’re hurt.”
She rushed to his side and sat gingerly on the bed beside him. His eyes were closed. A cloth wrapped around his head, and a bit of dried blood trailed down his cheek. She could see bruises under the skin, rapidly darkening.
“You’re hurt.” Bixby’s voice broke his intention to stay asleep.
He pinched his face muscles. “You already said that.” Opening his eyes, he examined her. “You’re hurt as well.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Not much.”
“Have you looked in a mirror?”
Bixby backed off the bed and stood by his side. “I’m glad to see you too. I’m glad you’re alive.”
The frazzled tone in her voice alarmed Cantor. He peeked around her to where the dragon and healer played cards.
“Dukmee, you’d better come see to Bixby’s injuries. She’s not quite herself.”
Dukmee abandoned the game and came to examine Bixby. “Just scratches and bruises.”
Bixby cried. Tears flowed from her eyes, and her shoulders shook.
Panic rose to Cantor’s throat and caused his one word to squeak. “See?”
“I cry,” she said to Dukmee. “It was pardox leaf. I just keep crying.” And in defiance of her wet cheeks, puffy eyes, red nose, and voice laden with grief, she stated emphatically, “I never cry.”
She glared at Cantor. “There were people dead everywhere. And people hurt. Badly hurt. I couldn’t help them all. And I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t find any of you. Then Jesha found me.”
She sobbed.
Totobee-Rodolow came from the next room and gathered Bixby into her arms.
“You’re better,” wailed Bixby. “I’m glad. I’m so glad. You aren’t dead.”
Cantor raised his eyebrows when he looked at Bridger. In his mind, he clearly heard Bridger’s response. “I don’t know. I guess it’s one of those woman bones.”
He shifted his gaze and saw that Bixby had intercepted their exchange of looks. This was not a good thing. Her face proclaimed it was a very, very bad thing.
“Don’t you understand?”
He and Bridger shook their heads in unison.
“Some people are dead. Some people are alive. Some people who were just there are dead. Some people who were wicked and horrible are alive. I know one of the bad, bad councilmen is dead. He was supposed to be alive. And maybe the three good councilmen are dead. And maybe they are alive. And those farmhouse councilmen are probably alive. And what did we do to help? And was it enough? And it’s not over, because some people who want people dead are still alive.”
She collapsed on the side of Cantor’s bed. Cantor scooted away, giving her more room.
Totobee-Rodolow sat beside her, keeping an arm around her shoulders. He relished the relief he felt. The dragon had stepped in with comfort. He graciously allowed her to do all she could. He’d observe and stay close for support.
Bixby now faced Dukmee. Dukmee could take care of it.
The healer asked Bridger to bring over his healing supplies. Totobee-Rodolow and her brother helped as Dukmee unwrapped Bixby’s hand, cleaned it, oozed ointment on the jagged tear, and re-wrapped it. He calmly washed the scrapes on her face and put a soothing lotion on them.
She sniffed and shuddered, sighed and squeaked once, and slowly calmed down.
Dukmee packed his unused supplies and gathered up the material that needed discarding.
He straightened and turned away.
Where were the words of wisdom that the healer should say? Wasn’t he going to point out a couple of things designed to make Bixby feel better? Oh, where was Ahma when he needed her?
Disappointment slammed into Cantor’s heart. They hadn’t stopped the explosions. They hadn’t found Ahma and Odem. With the guild in shambles, his likelihood of achieving full realm walker status was nil. For once in his life, instead of looking forward to the next stage of his training, all he could do was look back. He saw in his mind’s eye, his mentor and caretaker. She’d raised him. Her smiles were rare, but her eyes always glowed with love. He remembered her soft voice as he went to sleep. Talking. Not really to him. But the sound of her voice eased him to sleep.
Cantor reached out and cradled Bixby’s hurt hand.
“This is what Ahma said:
‘Forget the past, both the fame and the shame.
The fame and shame of yesteryear are not suitable foundation for today.
Carry with you the lessons you learn each day,
for each lesson is a brick,
solid and true.
Press on to finish the task set before you,
building today for the needs of tomorrow.
Don’t eye tomorrow with impatience in your heart.
For an eye on tomorrow’s journey
will cause you to stumble
over a rock at your foot.’ ”
He caught and squeezed her other hand. “It’s the last one I never get quite right.”
Bixby’s big eyes were still sad. “Do we know what happened to Toolooknaut and Ponack?”
Cantor shook his head slowly. Ahma’s words had comforted him, but not Bixby.