Myth and Storm, page 17
Adrial
Faint strains of music floated under the murmured conversations that filled the cathedral. The musicians had been hidden in a corner behind a trellis of pure white flowers, as though it would be a horrible offense to admit the music was not, in fact, bursting into being at the stars’ sheer joy at a royal wedding.
Each of the Guilds had arranged themselves by the appropriate spoke of the seven-pointed star inlaid in the white marble of the floor. A few mingled outside their group, but most kept to their color, leaving clusters of purple, white, green, red, black, and blue all standing before the silver and gold of the Royal Willocs.
King Brannon and Princess Illia kept close together, both of them radiating joy as though they hadn’t stood in the exact same place to bury the fallen Queen not so very long ago.
“You look pale.” Lord Gareth furrowed his brow as he studied Adrial. “Are you unwell?”
“No, sir.” Adrial bowed. “Though you’re probably right about my pallor. To be completely honest, I think it’s all the time I’ve been spending on the vellum. Coming here in the carriage today was the most sunlight I’ve seen in weeks.”
“You’re not the first I’ve heard that from.” Lord Gareth tapped his wrinkled lips. “The scribes have all become restless. The courtyard is not nearly large enough for a few hundred people to receive the proper amount of exercise and sunlight required to maintain health.”
“You are correct on both fronts, Lord Gareth,” Adrial said.
“The city has been calm long enough, perhaps we might consider easing the restrictions on the scribes’ movement. There would have to be guards, of course. And no one would be allowed out after dark.”
“Absolutely, sir.” A tiny spark of hope shot through Adrial’s chest.
If the scribes were allowed to leave the library, he could take Ena out riding. Not as far as the waterfall, but she could collect some of her own supplies. She’d been well beyond peeved when the man Adrial had hired to find her ingredients had come back with the wrong flowers for the third time in a row.
Adrial could spend the day with Ena, riding beyond Ilara. Enjoying the sun and each other’s company.
Movement toward the front of the cathedral caught Adrial’s eye.
A soldier cut quickly toward the cluster of map makers. The soldier bowed to Lord Karron before speaking beneath the crowd’s chatter.
Lord Karron froze for a moment, his jaw tensing in what anyone who didn’t know him might take to be anger, before nodding and striding across the room and out of the cathedral.
“I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Lord Gareth said.
“I don’t think so,” Adrial said. “If I’m not mistaken, something might finally be very right.”
The bell on top of the cathedral tolled once. The sound reverberated around the space, silencing the crowd.
Adrial glanced back toward the image of Saint Alwyn on the scribes’ stained-glass window.
Please, let this day be one of peace and forgiveness. Let my friend’s heart begin to heal.
The music fell silent as Allora and Lord Karron stepped through the cathedral doors side by side, Allora’s hand resting on top of her father’s as it was meant to be.
Lord Karron’s face held a look of duty and promise. Allora’s lips curved up in a tiny smile, befitting the Queen of Ilbrea.
They stayed in the doorway for a long moment, letting all present bask in the glory of Allora’s beauty. Her blond hair had been woven into what looked almost like a foreshadowing of the crown she would soon wear. Tiny golden stitches peeked through the pure white of her dress, letting the light radiate off her gown as though she were a star come to grace the mortal world.
She wore a thin necklace of diamonds, forgoing the more opulent royal jewels. The simplicity seemed fitting for someone marrying a recent widower. Besides, she didn’t need glittering gems to be sure everyone present would be telling all of Ilara how beautiful their new Queen had been at her wedding.
Allora gave her father a nod, and Lord Karron led her slowly forward. She looked to each Guild as she passed. She caught Adrial’s eye as she acknowledged the scribes.
He hoped the joy on her face was real.
She looked to the other side of the cathedral, nodding to the flock of red-robed healers. She turned again, recognizing the sailors, then stopped in front of the map makers.
She let go of Lord Karron’s arm. He reached up and touched her chin, looking into his child’s eyes one more time before she would become his Queen.
Allora left him in his place with the map makers before acknowledging the soldiers and finally the sorcerers.
She stopped again in front of the King, bowing to the man who would soon be her husband.
The cathedral doors closed.
The King stepped forward and bowed to Allora before kissing her hand. Pride radiated from him as he led her up to stand by his side.
The whole cathedral seemed to exhale at the same moment as the perfect image of their King and future Queen drove the breath from their bodies.
Lady Gwell stepped away from the other sorcerers to stand in front of the King.
“It is my honor to join togeth―”
Bang!
The ground shook.
Lord Gareth wobbled and lurched forward.
Adrial stumbled sideways, trying to catch Lord Gareth while looking for whatever had nearly knocked him off his feet.
“My Lord!” Adrial shouted over the panicked voices, reaching for Lord Gareth, missing his arm as the old man fell to the ground.
A rumble and a crack sounded from above.
Adrial looked up. The dome of the cathedral looked wrong, misshapen.
“Move!” one of the soldiers shouted a moment too late.
The ceiling above the healers crumbled, raining massive chunks of the marble dome onto the flock dressed in red.
“No!” Adrial’s scream didn’t break through the chaos.
He grabbed Lord Gareth’s hand, trying to yank him to his feet as the damage spread around the dome, collapsing a hail of stone onto the map makers. Pain shot through Adrial’s spine as something heavy hit him in the back, knocking him forward. He fell, his vision blurring as his temple struck the floor.
Lord Gareth’s hand slipped out of Adrial’s grip. Someone grabbed Adrial under his arms, lifting him to his feet and shoving him toward the corner of the cathedral, out from under the still-falling dome. They pressed Adrial against the wall, mashing his face to the cold, trembling marble.
A crackle cut over the cries of pain and fear.
“We can make it to the door!” a woman shouted near Adrial’s ear.
“Not yet,” Adrial’s protector said.
The sound from above grew to a high-pitched rasp of stone grinding against stone before the whole building shook as the remains of the dome collapsed.
It was all over in less than a minute.
The noise of the falling debris stopped. The screams of the survivors seemed to triple.
“Allora.” Adrial tried to wriggle away from his protector. “Allora.”
“Wait,” his protector said.
Adrial hated the unfamiliar voice for speaking so calmly.
“Lord Gareth.” Adrial didn’t stop trying to break free. “Where’s Lord Gareth?”
“We have him, Head Scribe.”
That voice Adrial did know. He managed to turn his head enough to see Scribe Natalia Tammin.
In all the time they’d worked together in the scribes’ shop, he’d never once seen Tammin’s eyes filled with such terror. She held Lord Gareth against the wall, sheltering him with her own body just as Adrial was being sheltered.
“We need to get them out,” Tammin said. “Before the rest collapses.”
“Let’s go.” Adrial’s savior kept one hand on his arm and one on the back of his head as he herded him toward the cathedral doors.
The golden doors stood open now. The doorframe hadn’t been damaged. Soldiers poured into the ruins of the cathedral.
Adrial glanced back. For a moment, he thought he’d gotten blood in his eyes. He blinked twice before realizing the blood had been painted on the cathedral floor.
So many bodies crushed. So much blood spilt.
Dust still drifted down from above, looking almost like snow.
Beauty does not belong in this pain.
“Allora.” Adrial pulled against his savior, trying to turn enough to see the far side of the cathedral. “Lord Karron. I can’t leave them.”
“We have to keep moving.” The man steered him toward the door.
“I can’t leave them!”
“Lord and Lady Karron are with the sorcerers,” the man said. “They’re on their feet and well protected. Keep moving, Head Scribe. You have to get to safety and out of the soldiers’ way.”
“Thank you.” Adrial let himself be forced out of the cathedral and back into the sunshine.
Common folk had gathered at the far edges of the square, held back from a closer view of the catastrophe by soldiers with drawn swords.
“Adrial!” Lord Gareth shouted as Tammin and a scribes’ guard lifted him into a carriage. “We must wait for Adrial.”
“We have him.” Tammin reached for Adrial’s hand, dragging him the last few feet to the carriage.
The scribes’ guard lifted Adrial up and into the carriage before banging on the wall. “Go!”
The carriage charged forward, knocking Adrial into his seat as it whisked them away from the cathedral square.
“We have more room!” Adrial shouted out the window. “We can fit more people!”
“It doesn’t matter.” Lord Gareth wheezed as he leaned back in his seat. “They won’t risk waiting. They have to secure us in the library before our guards can help anyone else.” He dabbed at the blood near his mouth with the sleeve of his white robes. “I’ve told you before, Adrial, part of protecting the Scribes Guild is allowing yourself to be protected. Even when you wish it weren’t.”
“I don’t even know the name of the man who saved me.” Adrial touched his temple where he’d cracked his head against the floor. His fingers came away red.
“You’ve never met Declan Farrell?” Lord Gareth said. “I suppose you might not have. He’s a good scribe.”
“I’ll have to thank him for saving my life.” Adrial shifted in his seat, wincing as pain radiated from where falling marble had struck his back.
“It wasn’t your life he cared about. It was the life of the head scribe.”
“Keep the gates secure!” The shout carried from outside as the carriage began to slow. “We need a healer for the Lord Scribe.”
“Send wagons to gather the other wounded. All scribes who are able to move should be brought back here,” another voice added.
The captain of the scribes’ guard yanked the carriage door open. “We need healers.”
“You won’t find any.” Lord Gareth reached out to take the captain’s hands. “They were hit first. They’ll have lost many from their Guild and those that remain will need to tend to the seriously wounded.”
“You are seriously wounded, sir.” The captain lifted the Lord Scribe from the carriage. “Get him to his room and find a healer. I don’t care what it takes.”
Two guards ran forward to carry Lord Gareth.
The captain reached back into the carriage for Adrial.
“I really am fine.” Adrial stood, hunching over to make his way to the door.
The captain took his arm as he stepped down onto the cobblestone.
With a shout from the driver, the carriage pulled away to loop around the courtyard and race back out onto the street.
“We need to get you to your room.” The captain spoke over the rumble of the carriage’s wheels.
“Please see to someone else,” Adrial said. “I got a bump on the head, but I assure you, I am perfectly fine.”
“You’ve blood on your head and on your back, Head Scribe,” the captain said.
“The entire dome of the cathedral collapsed,” Adrial said. “I will survive my injuries without aid, many others will not. I have every reason to believe the Guilds were just attacked in a most horrific way. I will see myself to my room and have my apprentice bring me what I need to wash my wounds. You see to the protection of the library and organize what help you can for the wounded who are still stuck inside the cathedral.”
The captain stared into Adrial’s eyes for a moment, as though looking for signs of an invisible injury, before nodding and turning back to his men. “Straff, get to the kitchens. Have them start boiling water and collecting anything that can be used as a bandage. Vale, ride to the healers’ compound, beg them to send what help they can.”
Adrial cut through the guards as quickly as he could, keeping his gaze fixed front, trying to make sure no one would stop him and declare him an invalid.
“Adrial.”
He looked toward Ena’s voice, swaying as his head protested the sudden movement.
She ran to him, taking his face in her hands and peering into his eyes much as the captain had.
“What happened to you?” She took hold of his arm, guiding him away from the door that led to the scribes’ chambers.
“The dome of the cathedral collapsed,” Adrial said. “It must have been an attack.”
Ena’s steps faltered for a moment.
“Who was hurt?” She tightened her grip on his arm, quickening her pace as she led him toward her workshop.
“Almost everyone.” Adrial’s voice shook. “I think the sorcerers protected the royals. It was awful. There are so many wounded.”
She shifted to walk behind him. “Your back’s bleeding.”
“I think part of the dome hit me. I fell. That’s when I hurt my head. Another scribe pulled me out of the way.”
“How did it happen?” She stayed behind him on the stairs to her workroom, keeping a hand on his lower back as though afraid he might fall.
“I don’t know. Lady Gwell had just begun the wedding ceremony. There was a bang, and the whole place shook. Then the dome started falling on us. Almost like a wave. The healers were hit first, but the damage spread. The stone couldn’t hold its weight.”
“Chivving gods and stars.” She pushed him into her shop and locked the door behind them. She took Adrial’s face in her hands again. A hint of fear had replaced the usual glint of teasing in her eyes. “Tell me you’re all right and mean it.”
“I’m fine.” Adrial pressed her hands to his cheeks. “A little blood spilt, but no real damage done.”
Ena tipped her chin down, her shoulders relaxing as she took a breath before pulling her hands away from him.
“Good.” She grabbed a stool from the corner and set it beside her worktable. “Take off your robes and let me see how bad the damage on your back is.”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine can go horribly wrong if you let a chivving wound fester.” Ena pulled three jars down from her shelf. “And don’t tell anyone I’m doing this unless you want to see me hanged.”
“Hanged for what?”
“Robes. Off.” She reached under the tabletop and pulled down a wooden box, though Adrial couldn’t tell how the box had been held in its hiding spot.
“What’s that?” Adrial stepped around the stool to reach for the box.
“I will slice the clothes from your body if you make me.” She smacked Adrial’s hand away before striding to her bedroom.
“I believe you.” He unfastened his robes, taking a sharp breath through his teeth as the fabric pulled away from the wound on his back. Squinting against the pain, he eased his robes off. A good portion of the pristine white had been stained a horrible red. He’d bled more than he’d thought.
Ena came back out of her room with a bundle of bandages.
“Sit.” She grabbed a bowl of water and a stack of cloths from near the stove.
“You don’t have to clean it for me.” Adrial sat on the stool. “I can go up to my room and take a bath.”
“A bath won’t save you from infection.” Ena dipped a cloth into the water. She wrung it out and stepped behind Adrial’s back. “We’ll get it cleaned up so I can properly see the damage done.”
“You shouldn’t have to tend to me. You’ve already saved my life once.”
“Depending on the sort of infection that could make its way through your filthy wound, I may very well be saving your life again. Don’t worry, scribe, I’ve seen far worse than this and it’s never damaged my feminine wiles.”
A groan escaped Adrial as she touched the cool cloth to his back and pain radiated down his spine.
“Just breathe.” Ena spoke in a soothing tone. “A little pain now will lessen the hurt of healing.”
“I believe you.” He gripped his knees and tried to ignore the throbbing heat of his wound.
“The whole dome fell?” She wrung out the cloth before wiping more of his blood away.
“All of it. It was over so quickly, I barely had time to think. I don’t understand how this could have happened. There were soldiers everywhere.”
Ena stepped in front of him and tipped his chin up. Her fingers lingered against his skin for a moment before she began cleaning the blood from the side of his face. “I don’t think it would have been that hard if you had the supplies and daring.”
“What do you mean?”
“The dome was heavy. That amount of stone doesn’t want to be hovering in the air. It wants to fall. All you have to do is let it. The black powder they use in the mines would work. Pack explosives in at the base of the dome and up one of the seams. Create a crack, and the whole thing would come down.”
“I’ve never seen a place as well protected as the cathedral was today. We were surrounded by an army.”
“Wouldn’t have had to put the explosives up today.” Ena set down the bloody cloth and opened one of the jars. The scent of its contents stung Adrial’s nose.
“What is that?”
“Liquor stronger than homemade frie.” Ena dipped a fresh cloth into the jar. “This part will be awful.”
Spots danced in Adrial’s eyes as she pressed the cloth to his back, working the liquor into the wound. The burning dragged an involuntary groan from his throat. “How could they have placed the black powder if not today?”
