The crystalman stood right outside their building.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The thudding retreated.
An explosive exhale burst from Avena, her hot breath swirling around her hand. She pulled it away from her mouth, her need to sneeze dwindling. She rolled onto her back, panting as the darkness deepened. The glow from the crystalman dwindled as it marched farther away. The tingles in her digits retreated.
“Elohm be praised,” Bran groaned. She heard movement.
“Don’t move,” Avena hissed. “Don’t turn on the lanterns. Let’s make sure it’s far away from us.”
“Yeah,” Fingers answered, his voice hoarse and tense. “Elohm’s Colours, I almost pissed myself.”
Avena understood; her insides felt liquefied. She could have soiled her pants in a whole manner of different ways. She pressed up from the floor, the dust tickling at her nose. She sneezed three times and groaned, her shoulder throbbing from the violent expulsions of air.
“I can’t hear them any longer,” Bran said. The door creaked. “I think we can go on.”
Avena hated agreeing with the impostor. “Yeah. One lantern for now. I wished we had diamond torches and not lanterns.” Torches shone light in one direction instead of all of them. “Maybe we can rig up a cover for the lantern, so it only illuminates forward.”
“Maybe,” said Fingers. “But with what? I don’t have any spare clothing.”
“Just socks,” she said. Her hand swept through the darkness until she found her lantern.
Brilliant light flooded the area. She winced against it, eyes squeezing shut. It shone through her eyelids, a red glow that still hurt. She looked away from it and opened them again, blinking a few times as they adjusted.
They crept out of the building, Avena’s ears straining for sounds. They moved slowly, no one stepping heavily. Every step was placed with care. They found a branching tunnel. The crystalman had come from straight ahead and had gone left past them. Luckily, going straight and away from the crystalman was where they needed to go.
Patches of ruby became more common as they crept forward. The veins came every ten or so cubits, each thicker than her torso. They preserved the tunnel’s original look, the pipes along the ceiling, the walls made of mortared blocks. They found a rat once, frozen in mid-scurry through the tunnels.
Crystal spiders lurked in recesses in the walls, scurrying away from their light. She felt their beady eyes peering out at the interlopers. Her hairs stood on end. The tunnel ended at a jagged break and spilled out onto a street almost entirely made of ruby. The buildings around them were transmuted, with only small gaps of normality between the transmuted city.
“We must be near the epicenter,” Avena said, “of whatever caused this.” Flashes of her dream rippled through her mind, the melting of reality.
“Poor bastards,” said Fingers, nodding to the figures frozen in the jeweled street.
There were hundreds of them; men, women, and children. They looked frightened, their final moments captured on crystalline faces. Some held hands as they ran. A mother cradled a swaddled infant to her chest. A few of the carriages were in the road, their window panes made of ruby so thin they were translucent, revealing the shadows of the occupants inside.
The rubble above them seemed to be held up by poles that ran along the street with ruby wires strung between them. A few chunks of rock had fallen past the makeshift supports and crashed down to the street, some shattering a few of the statues.
Avena shuddered as they threaded their way through the frozen horde. A boy lay on his belly, struggling to stand while his father bent to help him. A woman supported a man who looked to be limping. Their clothing was strange, the women in dresses that fell to their mid-thighs and were often sleeveless. Others wore pants that fit them tight, hugging legs and buttocks. Men wore pants, some with shirts, others had jackets. A girl in a smock rode her father’s shoulders. She looked behind, her awe captured on her cherubic face.
Every step broke off another piece of Avena’s heart.
“What caused this?” Bran whispered, voice hoarse, his eyes gleaming wet. He stared down at a kneeling woman sheltering two small children with her body.
“The Shattering,” Avena answered.
Fingers looked lost as he gazed at a young woman being pulled along by a man. She’d lost one of her heeled shoes, her skirt’s swirling frozen forever.
Avena touched his arm. “Fingers?”
“She just . . . reminds me of my wife,” Fingers said, voice thick. “She’s got that same nose, you know.” He glanced at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Same cheekbones.”
“It’s not her,” Avena said. “Your wife’s fine. She’s back at your village.” With the miller, Avena thought. Happy without you. After Miguil betrayed her with Pharon, Avena understood the bitterness a cheating lover or spouse could engender. “Let’s keep going.”
“Yeah,” he croaked.
They left behind the crowd, passing the last few stragglers running from the transformation. The buildings on either side of them were all ruby, their tops lost to the destruction that had buried the city. Some final cataclysmic event had plunged the city underground and allowed the Upfing Forest to spread over it.
Fatigue gnawed at Avena’s muscles. A hollow pit rumbled in her stomach. She wanted to keep going, driven more by her fear for Ōbhin. She wanted to find him before the crystalmen did. She needed to reunite with him more than she needed to fix her mind.
Finding the antenna wasn’t worth the dangers. Not with those things lumbering around.
She glanced at Bran. He looked weary, too. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the padded sleeve of his gambeson. He’d lost his backpack, but they still had hers and Fingers’. Not enough food to last them more than a few days, and
