“Because you wouldn’t have let me go.”
She shook her head as he said it, but she didn’t reply. Wren could see she knew he was right. Tears finally dripped from her eyes, and she embraced him. He put his hands on her back to comfort her as best he could. She was squeezing both his arms though, so it was hard to do much. After a time she released him, and pulled away.
“You’re hurt,” he said, and he touched her cheek. Cass wiped the tears and… whatever her blood was now, away, and looked at her hand. Then she wiped her hands on her pants and stood.
“Swoop’s right. We better get moving.”
Wren shook his head. “Mama, I don’t want you to come.”
“I don’t want you to go,” she answered. “So we’re both going to be disappointed.”
She held out her hand. Wren looked at it. This wasn’t going anything like he had planned. Not anywhere close. But he knew he’d never convince her to let him continue without her. And though there was a part of him that had wanted to be a noble warrior, he couldn’t deny that he would be glad to be with her again. At length he took her hand, and together they walked to meet Swoop and Painter on the bridge.
The snow had dwindled to a light flurry of dust-like flakes. The wind gusted and Wren became aware of how wet his pants had become from being thrown down in the snow.
“Set?” Swoop said as they approached. Cass nodded, and without another word Swoop swiveled and started up the Windspan. Painter hesitated, but not quite long enough for Cass and Wren to catch up to him. He kept a few steps ahead, though Wren couldn’t judge whether it was because he was still trying to give them some privacy, or if maybe Painter was afraid of what Cass would say to him.
Chapel remained kneeling as they neared and Cass didn’t seem to have any intention of talking to him. Wren slowed his pace slightly, trailing behind his mother as she moved wordlessly past the old man. Wren stopped walking, but held on to his mother’s hand. She halted a step or two ahead when she felt him pull against her.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do, Chapel?” Wren said.
“I have,” he answered. “In my haste, I deprived your guardian of his weapon. In recompense, I will lend my protection until you reach your destination.”
“And will you stay with us when we get there?”
Chapel stood with such grace and ease it almost looked like he was falling in reverse. “After, I will go where I am led.”
Wren didn’t know what he meant, but he assumed that it was probably a no. Cass tugged Wren forward and they started on again. Chapel stayed in place for a few moments while they moved away, but in his own time he followed after them.
There was no conversation as they walked. Wren was still trying to process everything that had just occurred. It had been an utter whirlwind. Pursued, escaped, attacked, rescued, reunited. And completely confused.
If it had been anyone else, Wren would never have turned his back on the old man who was now following them. And he wasn’t certain how much of the man behind him was still the man he once knew. But one thing that hadn’t changed was the strength of Chapel’s word. Even with the strangeness, and the unbelievable nature of his tale, there was some comfort in knowing Chapel’s sword would be on their side. At least as far as Morningside.
Swoop had started out about ten yards ahead of everyone else, but he slowed his pace and let them close the gap to five yards or so before he picked it up again. The heavy cloud cover made the day seem later than it actually was. The degree of the bridge’s ascent hadn’t seemed too severe when Wren had just been looking at it, but as they continued upwards, he was surprised by the toll it took. And the Windspan was aptly named. The higher they climbed, the harsher the wind grew. They walked on in silence, hunched against the bite and bitter cold.
The group kept mostly towards the middle of the bridge, though from time to time Wren glanced out to one side or the other. From the Windspan, the city below looked like a circuit board coated in dust, running for miles in every direction. After about half an hour of walking, the snow had disappeared from beneath their feet, and the concrete was merely wet. They were still climbing up, though it was hard to tell if the angle of incline had lessened, or if Wren had just become used to the rise. Another half hour passed and a chilling fog descended upon them. He wondered briefly if they’d actually wandered up into the clouds.
Eventually the bridge seemed to level off, and the journey became a mere test of will; one foot in front of the other, with no end in sight — and cold to the bone. Swoop let them take a brief break, though it didn’t provide much rest.
Wren had thought he couldn’t possibly get any colder. Once they stopped moving, he quickly discovered he could. Cass and Swoop drew aside for a few minutes and spoke in low whispers, but Wren couldn’t make out what they were discussing. They didn’t halt for long, and though Wren’s body screamed with fatigue when they started off again, he was at least thankful for the warmth the effort generated, meager as it was.
“Only about four klicks to go,” Swoop said as they resumed their march.
“Only?” Painter said. “How mmmm-many were there to sss-, to start with?”
“Twelve,” Swoop answered. “Give or take.”
Wren tried to console himself with the thought that they were over two-thirds of the way across, but it wasn’t much use. He knew all too well that the end of the bridge wasn’t the end of their journey. And he didn’t know nearly well enough what the end held in store.
Painter’s whole body ached with the cold. Ache maybe wasn’t quite right. The sensation wasn’t exactly pain. It was more like a deep fatigue. Depletion seemed more accurate. But there was no doubt he was feeling the strain and discomfort of their bitter journey. He wondered now what would have become of him if he had come alone. Though, if he had come alone, he wondered if there would’ve been any need to make the journey in a single day.
He had been out among the Weir on his own before. Not often, but enough. Only once had he been attacked, and though he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone when they’d asked before, he felt certain he had provoked it. He had pushed the boundaries, testing his own limits. Though he hadn’t been bold enough to spend an entire night outside the wall, he felt stronger now than he had before. Stronger than he’d ever felt. And the closer they got to Morningside, the less certain Painter was that he would actually enter the city.
Painter started thinking through the scenarios likely to greet him upon his return. Would they arrest him for traveling with Wren and Cass? Or shoot him on sight? Finn had said Painter hadn’t been named in the order. Maybe if he showed up separately, everything could go back to normal.
But what then? Was there any reason to believe he’d face anything other than persecution? Would he be free to come and go as he pleased? It seemed doubtful that the situation in Morningside had changed for the better in the short time they’d been away. More likely it had worsened. Which meant that the best outcome Painter could reasonably expect was a return to a life of meaningless service to people who despised him.
Why, when you could have power?
The thought rippled through his mind, like rings of water after a stone has disturbed its surface. The thought was his, but what had instigated it seemed to have come from somewhere else. Within his mind, but not of it. And for the first time since that had started happening, he didn’t shy from the question it had stirred up.
What kind of power, he didn’t know. But he felt it within himself. Something else for him, besides a life of lurking — and merely hoping to escape notice. Something more concrete than vaguely wandering the open in search of his sister.