The Face He Could Not Keep

The second impact shook soot from the Spire’s ceiling. Kaelen caught the edge of the table before the wounded slid from their blankets.

A runner stumbled through the stairwell door, one hand pressed to his split brow. “The gate’s moving again. The upper brace is tearing.”

Oren stood over the brazier, weighing what little heat remained against the bodies gathered around it. “How many at the wall?”

“Eight. Maybe nine. They can’t keep the passage.” The runner swallowed, looking at Kaelen. “There are more coming down the pass.”

The wounded had gone quiet. Elora knelt beside an old man with a bandaged thigh, holding a cup to his mouth. Her lips moved as she urged him to drink. Kaelen knew she was speaking. He could not hear her voice in his mind, even as the sight of her mouth made the absence press harder.

He crossed to her and took the cup before the man spilled it. Elora looked up at him. He knew her face. He knew it was his daughter’s face, and that he loved it. The thoughts sat together without reaching one another.

“Go with Oren,” he said.

“I’m helping him.” She pointed at the wounded man, who still had both hands around the cup. “He can drink by himself now.”

“Then help the others downstairs.”

“Where will they go?”

Kaelen had no answer that would make the order useful. The Spire’s lower rooms were cold. The roof above the bell chamber was torn open, and the north gate stood between the town and a horde that had already found its weak place. The wounded had nowhere safe to go.

Oren stepped in, leaving the brazier to Vey. “We need everyone away from the north ward. If the gate opens, the street will be the first place they reach.”

Vey gave a hard nod. “Then clear it. There’s no timber left to make another fire line.”

The runner tried to straighten. His legs failed him, and Oren caught his arm. “Sit. Tell me what you saw.”

“The iron’s bowed farther out. The split has reached the side post. They’re hitting it again.” He glanced at Kaelen. “The gate won’t last through another strike.”

The Pyre-Chime waited above them, its dark rings visible through the broken roof. Wind pushed fine black snow across the chamber floor. Kaelen felt the cold on his hands and the burns along his palms. The outer ring might drive off a handful. The main bell could scatter the mass at the gate. He knew what it would reach for. The bell did not bargain. It took weight from him and answered with force.

Elora came to his side. She held out the cup for him to set down. He placed it on the table, carefully, so it would not tip.