Mender Jeffers.
“Have Rolan pull the wagon forward out of the range of arrows. The Vigil and Andr will remain guard. The phrenics will hold the gate. I’ll go collect the mender.”
Without another word, Kaep rushed back toward the wagon and the inner doors of the Pining Gate. Her bow remained ready to loose its deadly projectiles. Her eyes scoured the top of the Palisades for danger.
The great wall’s top was now devoid of citizens and nobles alike. The guards that remained, hidden behind its staggered crenulations, cautiously peered inward with worried eyes. They had been shaken by the incomprehensible actions of the phrenics. What thoughts ran through their heads as arrows were shattered to splinters by an invisible hand, or incinerated in a fireball that appeared out of nowhere?
In nothing but myth had such fantastical occurrences ever materialized. They were afraid. Some were curious. Few were awestruck.
The divide continued to grow.
Ryl turned his attention back toward the clinic as he quickly strode forward to meet the mender. Jeffers remained standing where he had first seen him; his normally sterile, emotionless face showed true shock and wonder. He knew the mender’s scientific mind was working feverishly to decipher all that he had seen. All that he couldn’t currently explain.
He took the short staircase leading to the door in a single bound, stopping a step before the mender. Ryl opened his mouth to speak, Jeffers interrupted him before the words could escape his lips.
“Sarial spoke often of your return,” his voice was flavored with an undeniable tinge of wonder. “I’ve wanted to believe. I’ve worried it was a lingering effect of the trauma she sustained from Delsith.”
Mender Jeffers’ voice dripped with anger as the name of the previous master invoked a physical response. His brows furrowed; his lips curled into a snarl. Ryl felt the heat of anger surge through his body as well. The previous master had monstrously abused and tortured the tributes for cycles, forever striving to keep any glimmer of hope, of joy, from catching light.
“It’s good to see you again, my friend,” Ryl admitted.
The look of hate diffused from the mender’s face as quickly as it had come. In its place Jeffers grinned with wonder. He reached his hand out toward Ryl’s right arm. The mender hesitated before his fingers contacted his tattooed skin.
“What happened to you?” Jeffers gasped.
Ryl smiled at the mender, reaching out, clapping him on the shoulder with his left hand. The sudden contact broke the inquisitive, determined concentration on the studious man’s face. The sudden jolt sent a wave of pain shooting through Ryl’s body.
“There will be time for answers soon enough,” Ryl admitted with a shrug though he winced at the discomfort. “Now we need to make haste. Jeffers, I have with me tributes that are in desperate need of your aid. Clear all the supplies you can from the clinic; we leave for Tabenville now.”
Jeffers shook his head quickly, snapping himself from his contemplative trance. His look began as one of curiosity before quickly morphing into concern.
“You’re injured,” Jeffers stated plainly. The mender had tended to Ryl on more than enough occasions—it was almost as if he’d anticipated that some treatment would be required. He moved to Ryl’s side, carefully probing his shoulder with his hands.
“It’s dislocated,” Jeffers announced. One hand remained still against the back of Ryl’s shoulder, the other gently felt for any additional sign of damage.
“I know, I could …” Ryl’s words were cut short as Jeffers applied careful pressure to his shoulder without warning. The momentary surge of pain was intense yet faded rapidly as the shoulder popped back into its socket.
“Compassionate as always, I see,” Ryl hissed at Jeffers through gritted teeth.
A look of mild annoyance flashed across the mender’s face. He opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off before his retort could be heard. Captain Le’Dral with a pair of guards in tow loped up the steps behind them; Ryl watched them cautiously as the guards approached.
“Mender, it’s time to go,” Le’Dral announced. “Bring everything you can. These men will help you pack. Do hurry. The entirety of the Cadsae Proper garrison will likely fall on these walls before long.”
Jeffers’ eyes travelled from Ryl to the captain then back again. Ryl offered a subtle nod of his head. He rolled his shoulder gingerly, pleased to find that the pain had mostly subsided. Jeffers mumbled under his breath as he wheeled toward the door, obviously anxious to reach his obsessively organized supplies before Le’Dral’s men. He stopped abruptly, pivoting his head back, using his arm to block the doorway.
“You spoke of injuries earlier. I see no more that need my assistance,” Jeffers commented. The captain looked on curiously awaiting the response.
“I know not whether you’ll remember their names,” Ryl said. Jeffers’ immediate grimace acknowledged the unintended insult in his words. He was quick to amend his statement to placate the mender.
“I mean no offense, my friend. Names have never been given much weight among the guard,” he added quickly. “There are eleven. In truth, though I recognize most of their faces, it pains me to admit, I cannot remember their names. Except for one. He was like a brother to me. His name is Elias.”
Both the mender and the captain gasped in response. His was a name the pair clearly remembered.
“That name was well known by all,” Le’Dral interrupted the mender who’d opened his mouth to speak. “His stunt at his Harvest carried vastly polarized responses among the guards. He was taken two cycles ago. How …?”
The captain’s voice trailed off as his eyes traveled to the square. The breeze from the sea had picked up again, kicking up small clouds of dust independently from
