Trevn

Trevn stood with Hinck, Cadoc, and Oli on the corner where Procession Way met the Sink road. The path to the docks was crammed with debris and people.

Oli lifted his sword. “We’ll have to fight our way through.”

Trevn pressed his hand to his abdomen. “We would never make it. I have a better way.” He walked toward the bakery. Its windows had been smashed; it looked to be abandoned. He opened the door and went inside. Empty. Even the food shelves had been cleared out.

“You know a shortcut?” Oli asked.

“Indeed I do,” Trevn said.

Hinck groaned. “Not the roofs.”

“It’s the fastest way. By far.”

“Last time, at least,” Hinck said. “It will take years to build enough roofs for you to run wherever we land.”

“What do you mean run?” Oli asked.

Cadoc chuckled. “You’ll see.”

“Put away that sword, Your Grace,” Trevn said. “You will need that hand.”

Trevn led the way out the back of the bakery and up the ladder. His wounds hurt with each rung. The rooftops were delightedly vacant. He instantly started running, which hurt his gut. He pressed one hand tight against the cut and ran anyway, clutching the map tube tightly to his side with his other hand.

They ran. It was the same path Trevn had taken dozens of times before, but this time he didn’t much enjoy it. His mind dwelled on Beal’s words about his mother, and he wondered where Mielle might be. He almost didn’t see the missing chandler’s shop and barely stopped in time, his feet skidding over crumbled masonry. A peek at the street showed that the building had collapsed into rubble.

Five Woes! Trevn took in the destruction and backtracked to the butcher’s shop behind the Lazy Man’s Inn. He had to stop before reaching the leatherworks to catch his breath. He doubted he could make the jump with his wounds. Below, the streets were chaos, people packed together like wheat in a sheaf.

Cadoc reached him. “Are you well?”

“I’ll live,” Trevn said. “We could have jumped here if someone hadn’t stabbed me.”

“I said I was sorry, Your Ungratefulness,” Hinck said. “Guess we go my way today.” Hinck led them to the rear of the leatherworks, down the half ladder to the roof of the weaver’s, and on from there.

Another tremor came, and they stopped to wait it out. Across the street a tenement crumbled. People on the ground screamed and scattered, but with the street so packed, they only trampled each other. Trevn looked away as the chunks of stone from the building crushed the crowd. On the other side of the temple, an angry throng of people swarmed the pier. Leagues inland much of the city was burning.

They climbed down to one of the lower roofs that edged the harbor, approaching from the south. Trevn’s feet had barely touched ground when a familiar voice yelled his name.

“Sâr Trevn!”

A filthy, blood-spattered man staggered toward them. Who was that? He was wearing part of a guard’s uniform—no tabard, belt, or sword. Boots were gone too. Yet he wore a woman’s ribbon tied in his hair like he’d just won a match at tournament.

Cadoc drew his sword and moved to engage.

The man lifted his hands above his head. “Cadoc, no! It’s me, Novan Heln.”

Cadoc lowered his sword. “Five Woes, man, what happened to you?”

Novan shook his head, eyes hollow and distant as he studied the mob. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” His voice cracked.

“Not on my watch,” Cadoc said.

Trevn took a deep breath and considered the mob. “We’re going to have to fight our way through.”

“You mean we are,” Oli said. “Not you.”

“Exactly.” Trevn grinned. “I seem to have forgotten a sword.”

“Mine was taken,” Novan said. “But I will stand behind you, Your Highness.”

“Very well,” Trevn said. “Let us board the ship.”

Oli, Cadoc, and Hinck waved their bloodied swords to clear a path. Novan shoved aside anyone who came near, and they slowly made their way across the harbor toward the gangplank of the Seffynaw.

“It’s the sâr!” someone yelled.

The crowd surged around them. Someone grabbed Trevn’s hair, another his arm. His feet left the ground. Sands, they were going to kill him! He hugged the map tube tightly.

Novan charged Trevn’s attackers like a bull, knocking them away. Hinck grabbed Trevn, and the crowd went for Novan instead. Novan punched one man in the face, kicked another. Trevn snagged the guard’s arm and dragged him through the press of bodies. Cadoc lunged into their wake, sword darting out and scaring back the mob.

When the guards at the gangplank saw Trevn, a small cheer went up.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” one of them said.

Trevn’s men ushered him onto the ship, where Mielle embraced him.

Trevn gave the Book of Arman to Mielle and asked her to hide it in her cabin for the time being, knowing that he would need to find a better place. At some point he would also need to convince Wilek to read it.

Cadoc dragged Trevn to the physician, and once he’d had his wounds dressed, he evaded his mother by sneaking up to the stern deck. He wasn’t ready to deal with the woman yet. Wasn’t sure how or what to say. Still didn’t understand Beal’s words. He would ask Wilek’s advice later. For now, Wilek was busy.

Trevn sat cross-legged at the center of the stern rail, squished between the bodies of commoners who had drawn lot numbers. People covered the deck, sitting side by side, some with children on their laps. No part of the stern deck was visible.

The Seffynaw had set sail moments ago. Trevn stared at the carnage that was Everton, both horrific and majestic. The maps he had pored over for so many years, drawn and redrawn—they were relics now. The cataclysmic earthquakes had riven the city into shards. The southern coastline had crumbled all the way to Echo Crack, which now looked more like a gorge. Debris filled the water. Animals and people too, the latter holding on to anything: doors, barrels, the occasional straw roof. People capsized smaller crafts, fighting each other to get inside. Behind them on shore, houses crumbled or sank beneath the ground. Despite it being so early, the tide had risen. Trevn thought back to his demonstration on the beach. It was happening. As the ground collapsed, the water rolled in to fill the holes.

Trevn saw a man push another from a skiff. The first man struggled in the water, clearly panicked and unable to swim. Up he came, then down again. Up and down, until he no longer came up.

Trevn closed his eyes. Let them go quickly, Arman, with little or no pain. Forgive us for not making room for more.

He couldn’t bear to watch more death but felt that his people—those left behind—deserved to be remembered. So he forced himself to watch until the ship carried them out of sight. He didn’t have his grow lens with him, so he said one last prayer for the people of Everton, Armania, and the Five Realms. May Arman have mercy on their souls.

Trevn got up and walked carefully through the seated crowd. Cadoc, who’d positioned himself near the stairs, walked with him down to the quarterdeck. There they found Wilek and Kal at the port rail, each peering through grow lenses at the other ships.

“There!” Kal yelled. “That’s the dinghy, headed for that merchant ship.” He pointed to a ship ahead on their right.

“Looks Sarikarian,” Trevn said.

“Can we mark it somehow?” Kal asked. “I need to go over there and find him.”

“Patience,” Wilek said, peering again through his lens. “The Wanderer. We only need remember that name, Kal.”

Kal nodded. “The Wanderer.”

Trevn left them and headed toward the main deck, Cadoc following in silence. They wove between people, climbed up to the foredeck, and walked all the way to the bowsprit. Down the steps and into the nose of the ship. Some younger boys were already there, looking over the rail at the figurehead of Thalassa, goddess of the sea. Trevn stood behind them and gazed into the distance ahead. He had always wanted to know what was out there.

Now he would get his chance.

Not the End.