Fray (The Ruin Saga Book 3) (50 page)

“Finish what they started,” Norman said.

“Norman. After all this, we’ve proven—”

“That we can only ever save anything together.”

There was no fear now, no doubt. Norman knew what he had to do.

“Norman,” Allie said. “Outside.”

The floor-length window had been blown out. A few storeys below, people once more stared up at him. Norman could feel the pressure of their combined gazes, joined by those around the edge of the room. He drew himself up, looking down into the courtyard. Thousands of faces watched and waited; from adolescent to octogenarian, every shade and shape; all covered in dust and mud, and the blood of those they loved. Nothing moved except spots of light cast down by the breaking storm clouds.

They all gathered at the foot of the building. Norman expected his throat to seal in the face of their expectation, but he felt only the sure knowledge of what came next: they would go on. He beckoned Allie and Billy to his side. They shared a look, their hair caught in the wind, framed by a halo of sunlight before the people of North and South.

There’s no such thing as destiny, but maybe some things are meant to be
, he thought.

Norman traced circles in the grass. “It’s today,” he said. “The negotiations are over.”

Before him the graves of Alexander Cain and James Chadwick lay side by side, slabs of granite from the tower’s lobby. Around them lay hundreds more, lined along the edge of Greenwich Park. Nearby lay the remains of Twingo, the mercantile township that had fallen to the army.

We’ll rebuild it just like we’ll rebuild the Wharf. We need all types in this world
, he thought.

Amongst the tombstones others walked, their footfalls deadened by birdsong and the whispering wind. Norman took a moment to take in the sight, bracing for the day to come. It would be a long one.

He laid a hand on each of the stones and made his way back to the tower, charred and pockmarked, but still as majestic as ever in the early morning sun—perhaps more so.

Negotiations had lasted for days after the Battle of Canary Wharf. Standing before delegates from as far as their scouts could reach over land and sea, he had argued as he would never have dreamed. No more running, no more hiding. They would rebuild what they had lost, through their own labour. It would be a long road; it would mean sacrifice, it would mean work for all of them, but that was the way. The Old World had wonders and horrors to offer. It was up to them to take the best parts from those who had come this way before and would never come again.

But not all of them. Many left London after the battle. Bandaged up with water on their backs, they had returned to whatever homes awaited them; not to retreat or flee, but merely to rest. There had been enough bloodshed for a lifetime. There would never be any great society for them: the quiet isolation of the lone survivor would be their solace.

Presently, Norman made his way to a fledgling encampment beside the old wall, entering one of the infirmary tents. Volunteers from as far away as Leeds and even Radden tended to the wounded, cleaning bodies and changing bandages.

Charlie passed by, carrying a pot of soup, and their eyes met. Neither said a word, just nodded to one another. Charlie sat upon a wooden palette before a young woman, solemn as a monk, and set about ladling into a bowl.

Norman moved on and felt a pang in his gut as he realised was looking for Heather. He stopped before a bed at the far end of the tent. Richard lay breathing steadily under the sheet, his face swollen and purple-green with bruises. His right side was bound in plaster.

Norman watched him sleep as the camp went about its business, and the past few days revolved in his mind. So many burials, endless talks, speculations on what freakery had almost ended the world a second time. They had gained more ground than in the previous forty years combined. Through it all, Norman had wanted Richard by his side.

It was for this that the professor had schooled his disciple. It was with Richard’s kind that their future lay.

They had a long way to go. New Canterbury was cinders, thousands of innocents lay dead in the wilds, having taken countless memories and skills and titbits of knowledge with them. Leaders of a calibre that came about but once in a generation had been exterminated. All their faces swirled in his mind as he watched Richard’s eyes flicker under their bloated lids.

Alexander, James, Agatha, Evelyn, DeGray, Heather, Marek—even Robert, whom nobody had seen since the battle’s end. Norman didn’t expect to see him again, even if he had survived. If he had learned anything, it was that some things, once broken, could never be whole again.

Norman reached into his pocket, found the charred king piece that had belonged to Professor DeGray, and set it upon the bedside stand. “You earned it,” he said.

He remained until Allie appeared by his side. They watched Richard sleep until she said, “It’s time for the ceremony.”

Norman nodded. “I wonder if they felt like we do now, before the lies started: are we as blind as they were?” He turned to her. “How do we know we’re doing the right thing, Allie?”

She drew close and laid her hands on his chest. “We never will. All we can do is what we can.”

He nodded. “And if I fail?”

She smiled, tracing his cheek with a fingertip before slapping it gently. “I’ll be there to put you on your arse.”

They left the tent and headed for the foot of the tower. A crowd had gathered at its base, filling the courtyard. The ground had been cleared of bodies, but otherwise remained untouched.

They would not hide what had happened, lest they forget, not until they saw who they stood to become.

Norman made his way to the front of the gathering, numbering some two thousand in total, and took note of a few faces. The surviving councillors of the Old Alliance: Robert Oppenheimer, David Rush, Emma Thompson; those who had once sat upon high as gods to their flocks were now lost among their peers as the everyman.

Southerners stood beside Northerners, survivors of the fiefdoms of the feudal lords and free peoples of the Old Alliance alike. A handful were Scots, emissaries from the reaches of the highlands.

All had been drawn by the voice of Latif Hadad. The radio Blanket had fractured in full, leaving a spectrum utterly clear. The white noise had lasted but a few days before voices had emerged from the static. Not all spoke as they did. Some spoke languages only a handful of survivors had heard. There was a world out there, and it remembered. Perhaps, across the world, millions awaited.

Latif and Lincoln were nowhere to be seen, and Norman smiled, knowing they were both locked away in the workshop, toiling over their next broadcast. There was much work to be done.

Whoever’s out there, we’ll find them
, he thought.

“It’s time,” Allie said.

“Where’s Billy?”

Allie pushed him forwards gently. “She’ll be watching.”

Norman searched himself and found no trace of the chill that had bound him to Billy and the strange other world. He stepped from the crowd to meet Lucian, whose silver hair blended with the white robe he had donned: the robe of the elders of the Old Alliance. Though he wore it with visible reluctance, he wore it well.

Norman said, “I’ve been remembering a lot lately. From before this”—he gestured to the scar upon his head—“and before…” Flames in his mind’s eye, flashes of a much younger James, whole and brave and scared, racing into the heart of a faraway place called Newquay’s Moon. “I know it was never supposed to be me.”

Lucian’s eyes creased to slits. “Don’t go talking about things
meant to be
. Those are his words. Be yourself: that’s what we need.” Lucian held out a woodsman’s axe. “Do your brothers proud.”

Norman lifted the axe and approached a sheet covering the wall above the lobby. A rope held by a peg in the floor bound it in place. He stepped to one side and took a long look around at everyone. “There is no future set in stone. We are who we choose to be.”

He swung the axe into the soil, cutting the rope. The sheet fell away and revealed the crest of the New Alliance: a white-robed figure with an arm outstretched, upon which a pigeon alighted.

Billy sat cross-legged on a vent grating, high above London’s streets. Up here the wind was cold and mussed her hair, fresh and clear. Far below, Norm and the others disappeared into the tower.

“We did it, Daddy,” she said, kicking her heels. “We beat the Bad Men.”

She reached out inside, searching for a glimmer of Daddy’s voice, his face, hoping the Light might bring him back to her just this once. But not this time. She had only her memories.

“We did it,” she muttered.

A piece of her hadn’t wanted the quest to stop. Since arriving in Enger Land she had been hurt and scared, seen things that swept away pieces of her like dandelion petals in the wind—but she had had a purpose, and she hadn’t been so alone.

Without Daddy and Ma and Grandpa, she had nobody.

No
, she reminded herself as Allie and Norm’s faces floated in front of her. Things had changed.

“It’s okay, Daddy. You don’t have to worry about me.”

The wind swept her hair under her chin, tickling her neck, and she smiled. She imagined Daddy by her now, and the wind became his hand on her skin, his lips kissing her cheek.

Stranger things had happened in Enger Land.

“It’s over,” she said, watching the sun climb higher in the sky. She let herself drift off, just staring, wondering whether maybe, just maybe, the world had grown a little brighter.

She wasn’t sure when she first sensed a presence close by, but when she returned from drifting in the clouds, cold crept up the vent under her legs, and somebody sat beside her. She didn’t look over, didn’t need to, just kept watch over the city twinkling in the sun.

“I did it,” she said.

“Yes. You did,” said Fol. He drew a long sigh.

“It’s not over, is it?”

“No.”

She looked at him. His pale face bore his signature half-friendly expression. His thin body was covered by the same dark overcoat. But something was different about him. The cragged cap to his head that looked like hair—but she knew had been the seat of his Jester’s hat—rustled in the wind. His clothing crumpled as he moved.

He seemed more
there
…

Billy reached out and prodded his arm. Her finger bent on contact with his overcoat. Cold, touched with Frost, but there.

“You’re…”

“Things are different now. We’re playing a whole new game. You saved this world for now, but the Vanished still labour, and All Where is still in danger. The gloves are off, girl. It’s time to take the fight to them.”

Billy swallowed. She knew she could say no, if she wanted. She could stay here with Allie and Norm and the others, and she might be happy.

But the Light would never fade, and one day soon, it would all go away for good—not just this place, but all places.

“We have to find the others,” she said.

“You feel them?”

Billy searched herself. “They’re so far away.”

Fol stood from the grate, dusting his coat. “Better get started then. Are you ready, Billy?”

She stole one last look at the city, held it in her mind like a glowing ember, and hopped down from the grate. “Where now?”

Fol walked to the roof-access door, gesturing with theatrical flair. “Our chariot awaits,” he said.

“You’re mad.”

“No,” he said, his face consumed by a leer lost between humour and insanity, revealing his pointed teeth. “Just a little foolish.” Then just as quickly, the grin fell into a solemn stare. “Comes with the job.”

He pulled the door open, revealing a perfect oblong of darkness; leading not down into the building, but elsewhere.

“Where?” she said.

“Now that would be telling.”

The start of a long, long road
¸ she thought.

Fol held out the crook of his elbow, bowing slightly. “Shall we?”

Billy threaded her hand through his arm, hesitated, then led them through the door and into darkness. For a moment she thought everything had come to an end. Then came new light and beyond.