Morningside Fall(148)

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.

Not just survival.

Purpose.





The sky must have been darkening overhead for some time, but the lateness of the day struck Wren suddenly. Now that he’d noticed, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen it earlier. They’d left the Windspan behind some hours ago and taken only two brief breaks since. Their pace had slowed noticeably. At first, Wren had thought that maybe Swoop was trying not to run them too hard. But now, watching the man ahead of him, he wasn’t so sure.



Swoop’s stride wasn’t as smooth as it usually was, and he seemed to be swaying from time to time. He’d been keeping ahead of them the whole time, saying it was safest to keep some distance between the point man and everyone else. Even when they’d stopped, he’d continued on a little ways to scout ahead, and then waited for them to catch up. But Wren couldn’t remember how long it’d been since he’d seen anything other than Swoop’s back.