Chương 16: Chapter 15: The Weight of Quiet - Part I

The climb back through the runoff tunnels feels longer than the descent. No one speaks much after leaving the shattered chamber behind. The soldiers move carefully through the flooded passages while the engineers guide the group along higher maintenance routes away from the lower channels still carrying the reclaimed river beneath the city. Water continues rushing through the stone works around us, though the flow sounds cleaner now, more natural. The corruption no longer presses beneath every current.

Even so, exhaustion settles heavily across the group. Several soldiers lean against tunnel walls whenever Garrick briefly halts the formation at narrow intersections ahead. One of the younger priests walks with a bandaged arm held stiffly against his chest after the vessel nearly broke through the line near the basin. The river clergy appear worse. The eldest cleric nearly collapses twice before the others insist on supporting her during the ascent.

Redirecting the buried river drained them far beyond ordinary fatigue. Their connection to the current still lingers faintly through the tunnels around us, but the sharp awareness carried earlier has softened into something quieter now. Relief, perhaps or grief. I understand the feeling. The vessel's final words continue lingering unpleasantly in my thoughts while we move through the damp stone corridors beneath Fallowspire. Hold. Not rage. Not hatred. Not hunger.

Simple duty carried too long until the difference between prison and prisoner disappeared entirely. My hand tightens unconsciously against Nemain's sheath while the thought settles deeper. The similarity unsettles me more with every passing hour. Garrick notices eventually. We stop briefly near an older reservoir chamber where cleaner runoff pours steadily through repaired stone channels toward the lower districts above.

The soldiers take the opportunity to drink water and check wounds while the engineers quietly argue over how much of the eastern foundations likely survived the collapse below. I remain near the tunnel wall away from the others until Garrick approaches.

"You've been quiet," he says. I almost answer immediately. Then the image of the vessel forcing itself to continue holding long after it should have died surfaces again beneath the sound of rushing water around us.

"I was thinking about the thing beneath the river," I reply. Garrick leans one shoulder against the damp stone beside me.

"You figured out what it was before the rest of us."

"Not quickly enough."

"That isn't what happened down there." Maybe not, but the feeling remains anyway. I stare at the runoff channel cutting through the chamber floor while water rushes steadily toward the deeper tunnels beneath the city.

"It carried corruption for so long that it stopped understanding where the corruption ended and where it began," I say quietly.

"At some point the prison simply became part of it." Garrick studies me for several seconds after that. Then his gaze shifts briefly toward Nemain resting across my back. Ah! of course, he understands immediately. Neither of us speaks for a while afterward. The water continues flowing steadily through the reservoir chamber around us while the soldiers nearby clean wounds, repair damaged straps and quietly recount pieces of the battle beneath the city in low exhausted voices.

Eventually Garrick exhales through his nose.

"You are not that thing," he says. The answer comes too quickly for comfort, because part of me already knows why he felt the need to say it.

"I carry a cursed blade that whispers through my sleep," I reply.

"The grove itself reacts whenever I draw it, even if with the scabbard. Ancient corruption recognizes ancient corruption surprisingly well."

"That thing beneath the river forgot why it existed." Garrick's voice remains steady.

"You haven't." I want to believe him. The problem is that the vessel likely believed the same thing once. The thought follows me when we begin moving again through the upper tunnels toward the surface. By the time we finally emerge from the eastern waterworks beneath Fallowspire, the sky above the city has already shifted toward evening. Cool air moves through the ruined gatehouse outside the runoff tunnels while exhausted workers and waiting guards immediately turn toward our group the moment we appear.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. The reactions spread quickly after that. Relief at first, confusion came second, because the water flowing through the eastern runoff channels no longer carries the blackened sheen that plagued the district for weeks. Clear current rushes steadily beneath the grates surrounding the waterworks now, carrying only ordinary river silt through the fading evening light.

The corruption beneath the city is gone or at least driven deep enough downstream that the city can breathe again. The realization passes visibly through the workers gathered near the gatehouse. One of the older engineers stares openly at the restored flow before sitting heavily against a nearby crate as though his legs simply stopped holding him upright. Another quietly begins crying without embarrassment whatsoever. Honestly, that is the most reasonable reaction.

The eastern district nearly died due to something none of them fully understood. Most probably expected the expedition entering the tunnels this morning to disappear like the others before it, but instead the river returned. The return through the eastern district happens slowly. Word spreads ahead of us faster than the formation can move through the narrow streets surrounding the waterworks.

Workers leave half-finished repairs to stare openly at the runoff channels cutting between the buildings while merchants' step outside storefronts to watch the cleaner water rushing beneath the iron grates. The change is subtle to anyone who did not descend into the tunnels but people who spent weeks living beside corrupted water recognize the difference immediately. The air itself feels lighter. No more stagnant pressure lingering beneath the streets. No more faint metallic scent clinging to the runoff channels.

No more unease crawling beneath every cup drawn from the eastern cisterns. The city notices when something poisonous finally leaves its bones. Garrick handles most of the questions before they reach the rest of us. Exhausted guards from the district barracks begin intercepting the formation near the upper bridge crossings while runners disappear toward the inner districts carrying news ahead toward the council chambers. The captain answers only what he must.

"Yes, the lower tunnels collapsed."

"No, the eastern channels are stable for now."

"Yes, the river flow returned."

"No, we are not descending again tonight." That last answer earns visible relief from half the surviving soldiers. The group looks battered by the time we finally reach the outer district square near the grove path. Mud and river silt stain nearly everyone from the knees downward while several shields remain cracked from the fighting beneath the city. One soldier carries his helmet under his arm because the strap snapped somewhere during the ascent and nobody possessed enough energy to repair it afterward.

The exhaustion feels strangely grounding and real. After everything hidden beneath the city, the sight of ordinary people carrying baskets through evening streets or arguing over market prices almost feels unfamiliar for several moments. Aibell waits near the grove entrance when we arrive. I sigh inwardly, of course she does.

She stands beside the half-collapsed stone wall surrounding the garden with her arms crossed while lanternlight from the nearby street flickers softly against silver strands woven through her dark hair. Several others from the grove remain nearby as well; Lysara, Merrow and two of Garrick's off-duty soldiers who apparently ignored instructions to rest while waiting for news from the tunnels below. Aibell studies the formation once. Then her eyes settle directly on me.

"You look terrible," she says flatly. I consider that briefly.

"The day developed complications."

"That sentence suggests severe structural damage."

"Accurate," Garrick mutters while removing his gloves with visible exhaustion. The dry answer earns the faintest shift at the corner of Aibell's mouth before her attention sharpens again almost immediately. She steps closer afterward, studying the soaked clothing, bloodstains and lingering exhaustion visible across the entire group. Then she notices the silence carried by the river clergy.

The older woman near the rear of the formation still leans heavily against one of the younger priests while dried blood darkens the front of her robes near the collar. Aibell's expression changes slightly after seeing that.

"It was bad," she says quietly.

"Yes," I reply. For a few moments nobody says anything further. The evening wind moves softly through the forming canopy overhead while cleaner water rushes steadily through the runoff channel crossing the nearby street below the grove hill. The grove feels the difference too. I sense it immediately upon stepping closer to the entrance vines. The roots beneath the garden no longer tighten instinctively against the eastern soil.

The lingering tension resting beneath the grove connection has eased considerably since leaving the tunnels. The heartwood trees are calmer now. That realization settles somewhere deep inside me with unexpected relief. Merrow eventually breaks the silence by thrusting a wrapped bundle toward Garrick.

"Food," she says firmly.

"You look one bad decision away from collapsing." Garrick accepts the package without argument.

"You continue becoming more useful."

"I've always been useful. People simply ignored the evidence." A few tired soldiers laugh quietly after that. The sound helps. Not enough to erase the memory of the chamber beneath the river. Not enough to remove the image of the vessel collapsing beneath centuries of corruption but enough to remind everyone standing here that the city above still lives. Aibell's gaze shifts toward me again while the others begin guiding the wounded soldiers and exhausted clergy deeper into the grove.

"You're bleeding through your sleeve," she says. I glance down. She is correct. The strain from reinforcing the chamber foundations reopened several older scars along the mana channels running through my forearm. Faint traces of blood have already soaked through the damp fabric near my wrist. I had not noticed or perhaps I simply stopped caring somewhere beneath the city. Aibell notices that realization too. Without another word, she steps beside me and takes hold of my arm before I can dismiss the injury entirely.

"Inside," she says calmly.

"You can brood after someone stops you from bleeding on the roots." Top of Form Bottom of Form