Chapter 151: Whispers of the next trial [2]
Kaelin laughed. "Of course you are there".
He flipped the spine of the devise and turned the bolt. The snare folded into the bone, vanishing into the hollow. "It catches a foot," he said. "Or a pride."
Clayton raised a brow.
Kaelin smirked. "It locks around a limb, tight and quiet, and ties the limb to the nearest anchor point. A hinge, a handle, a wrist of a friend," he grinned. "It can tie an enemy to an enemy, it can tie an enemy to a door he didn’t see, and it can tie me to the right place to climb."
"Useful," Clayton said.
"I know," Kaelin said, pleased. Then he sobered. "You’ll take me, right?"
Clayton did not answer.
Kaelin chuckled and nodded as if he had. "Good, I know the shape of that place in your head. It does not like straight lines, it likes seams, and I live in seams."
"You also leave them," Clayton said.
Kaelin’s mouth quirked. "Not this time."
Kaelin was the angle; he was also the jolt of humor that made fear blink.
If Clayton took him, the Trial would gain edges and ghost steps. If he left him, the city would lose some tricks but keep most of its eyes.
Just like the others, he did not decide yet.
He focused on Lorn and Mirra next. Both never left the clinics that day.
He watched them between rounds. He watched after sunset too as Lorn moved like a steady wave, while Mirra moved like a quick stream. Both of them kept the waiting room soft. They kept the whispers from turning into worms.
He asked Lorn about the bunkers.
He knew he won’t take her, but he just took the opportunity to spend some time with her.
She described the list of repairs like she was describing the weather, and she also asked him if he had slept in a worried tone.
When he couldn’t reply definitely, she doubled down. "You have to rest, now!"
Helpless, Clayton ran water on his face and slept one hour on a bench. He woke with his boots still on and the taste of leaves in his mouth. Lorn had placed a cooling vine across his forehead without waking him.
He took it off and went back to work.
Lorn was the pulse, and Mirra was the hands. He would not take both. He would not take either, unless he could not avoid it. He would sooner take a spear from the wall.
He did not write Mirra’s name off yet though. He left them gentle and necessary where they were.
By noon he met Harrick at the western bridge.
Harrick checked every lash twice. He walked the length with a slow, heavy step, testing each plank. He did not trust anything until it tried to fail and did not.
"You will pick me if it is about carrying," Harrick said without preface. "You will leave me if it is about holding."
Clayton looked at him. "You make the wall stand when others lean."
"I do," Harrick said. "But I can also carry three men and a door."
Clayton thought of narrow rooms and heavy gates and floors that lied. He thought of traps that needed a man who did not refuse a second step.
"You would not mind staying," Clayton said.
Harrick shrugged. It cracked a scab on his shoulder. He did not look down at it. "Mind is wrong. I want to do what helps the most."
Clayton gripped his forearm. "You already do."
Harrick did not smile. He held the grip, then went back to the knots.
He ended the circuit back at the Spire. The light had gone amber. The market was softer now, the noise a hum. The moss map glowed faintly under the first lamps.
He did numbers.
The food would last nineteen days at current rates if markets stopped. Four extra caches deep, two near, three under stone in the outer ring; it was enough for thirty days if rationed right.
The water wells were strong, new bracing in place. The flow was steady, with filters replaced. Root sponges grown in deep chambers can clean flood water if needed in emergency cases.
The arrows and spears were also in good condition.
As for the medical department, the ashcap was low. Blue film replenished at half, and Mirra had a list. He wrote it on a slip and marked a route east that Kaelin liked. Two runners would leave at dawn.
The twelve beacons were all bright, and four new bridge lids were installed in recent days, including six thicket gates layered. The thorn-cannons on two towers were also moved to better angles.
As for the laws, Soren’s board was posted in three squares, one market, and four gates for all to see. People had started quoting rule three to each other, and it helped more than he expected.
Clayton set the slate down and exhaled.
He could leave for a week, and the Rootsite would stand.
He could leave for two, and it would not break if nothing massive hit.
He hoped nothing massive would hit, but hope was not a plan though. He read the boards again.
At dusk, he went to the high garden.
The ironwood tree there had a scar on the bark from his first week back from Echoterra. It reminded him of hands and days that were gone. He touched the scar and waited.
The Heartseed pulsed in his chest, and the Spire pulsed in the ground. They found the same rhythm and beneath that rhythm, the Trial hummed like a second heart, calling for him.
He closed his eyes and let it speak without words.
When he opened his eyes, he looked at the sky until the stars came through the clouds. He would take five; he would not go in half-made.
He left the garden and went back to the hall.
Torren met him there with sweat still on his neck.
"Third squad finally breathes together," he said. "Took a day, but they found it."
Clayton nodded.
Torren eyed him. "You look like a man who wants to pick someone and hasn’t."
"True," Clayton laughed.
"Then pick no one tonight," Torren said. "Sleep. In the morning, you’ll know which face your head keeps showing you."
Clayton almost smiled. "You talk like Lorn."
"She’s right often," Torren said. "Don’t tell her I said that."
They laughed once, quick and quiet.
"Walk with me," Clayton suddenly said.
They climbed to the outer ledge. The wind was gentle there. Below them, lanterns dotted the lanes. People moved slower now and a song drifted up from the market, simple and warm.
"Two months ago," Torren said, "this looked like a camp waiting to die."
"It looks like a city now," Clayton said.
"It does," Torren said. "If the Trial takes a week, they will be here. If it takes two, they will be here. If it takes longer, they will still be here. But pick well, because if it takes too long, they will start to wonder."
Clayton nodded. "I will not waste time."
"Good," Torren said. He leaned his elbows on the rail. "You thinking Veyra?"
"I am," Clayton said.
"You thinking Kaelin?"
"I am."
"Soren?"
"Yes."
"Harrick?"
"Maybe."
Torren blew air through his teeth. "I would choose Kaelin and Soren next, then choose between Veyra and Harrick".
"If you take Veyra, take a plan to teach the archers while we are gone. If you take Harrick, warn the archers that they will miss the quiet voice that makes them better."
Clayton listened; he did not argue.
Torren bumped his shoulder. "You don’t need me to tell you this, you already knew."
"I needed to hear it out loud," Clayton exhaled.
"Fair," Torren said.
They fell silent again as the Spire thrummed under their boots, and the city breathed below.
Clayton looked toward the east again. The hum behind his ribs rose a little, spreading through his arms before sitting in his hands.
He spoke without thinking. "Soon."
Torren did not ask what he meant.
The night deepened and the Rootsite went to sleep in layers. The market went first, then the training yards, then the streets.
The walls stayed awake. The beacons watched, and the bunkers were open and empty.
Clayton walked the last round alone.
He checked a latch that hadn’t been tightened and made a note on the board. He righted a dropped bucket and set it against the wall so no one would trip in the dark. He picked up a child’s carved seed-toy and placed it on a step where a small hand would find it in the morning.
He ended on the balcony again.
He didn’t make a speech to the night. He didn’t ask for anything, he just let the quiet stand.
The Heartseed pulsed once, then again, strong and even.
The hum of the Trial rose to answer it.
For a breath, the two sounds braided together as a faint ripple moved through the Spire’s veins, bright and thin, like a bell note inside the wood.
Clayton opened his eyes.
He did not smile; he did not frown too. He simply stood and accepted what the world was telling him.
Soon.
He turned away from the rail and went inside.
He would sleep, he would wake, and he would watch them move once more.
Then he would carve the second mark.