Free The Select's Bodyguard (Children of the Wells - Bron & Calea Book 1) by Nick Hayden Page A

to slip. I reposition some. I have a complicated strand, made of several lengths, that runs around the back of my neck and crosses over my chest and around Calea so that she can place her weight as in a chair. Between that pressure and the crook of her elbow around my neck, I fully expect my head to pop off.
    I take a moment to refocus myself. That ridiculous image tells me I am growing fully aware of the situation’s severity. My mind is trying to compensate by making jokes.
    I lower myself feet first, crawling down face toward the rock like a toddler practicing on steps. My feet touch the ledge. It is thinner than I remember. My face is pressed against the rock. I search for the next ledge with my feet. It is much closer than the first step down. It is not a steep descent, but it takes caution.
    “There is an explanation for this,” Calea says. I do not know if she is speaking to me or to herself. “There have been numerous unscientific attempts to manipulate the columns of the Wheel. We are still unsure how the original Architects managed such a feat. Perhaps they constructed the steps. The great goal of our study has been to move magic, transport it, contain it, multiply it.”
    I hardly listen. My world is the rough wall before me, the stone upon my hands, the pressure of my feet. I let her talk. It keeps her occupied and it allows me to focus; it acts as white noise, sharpening my senses. I do not hear the wind or the sounds of the city, whatever they might be.
    “Hewren talked of cultivating the Well. He wanted to build passages through it, that we might study it from within. Our strength with magic is proportional to our proximity to a well, with the limit of our reach determined by Tourac’s constant, but we have only guessed at the consequences of being within the source itself. Some thought our power would grow exponentially if we could somehow find a way to enter the magic in some sort of capsule or submerged lab. What feats we might have performed for the world. How we might have changed everything!”
    She continues to cite those who might have constructed the steps. I walk upon them, unconcerned with their history. They are smooth, almost slick. Time expands as she talks. Distance expands. One minute passes, and I feel an hour of patient movement completed. Another minute passes. I do not count them. I do not count the steps. The light is fading. It has faded. It is dark. Another minute passes. Another step. I do not look down to see my progress. I do not allow my brain to consider the fire in my muscles. It is best to be a machine, to stifle human weakness, in these cases.
    Calea is silent. I do not know when she ceased. I can hear her breath in my ear. It is labored. Her belly is warm against my back. She is bleeding again.
    She is no longer half-machine, trying to stifle human weakness. But I do not know if she has the strength to allow herself to be weak.
    I dare a look downward. The bottom is hidden in darkness. Perhaps it is close. I do not tell myself that. It is far away, I tell myself. Then I do not look again. I take a step, then another. It is a rhythm held together by will. My legs burn, but I am beyond that.
    “We’re almost there, Calea,” I say. “We’ll reach the bottom.”
    She does not respond.
    Time passes. It is pitch black when my feet cannot find another step. The ground all around is flat. I have reached the bottom. “Calea,” I call softly. I do not know whether she is awake or asleep or unconscious. My back is sticky with blood. “Calea, can you sense any magic?”
    She stirs. I sit and untie her, lowering her to the ground. “Calea.”
    “Are we there?”
    “We’re in the Well. Can you sense anything?”
    “It’s gone, it’s all gone.”
    “How close do you need to be? There’s surely a little left, somewhere.”
    She shakes her head. I catch the movement in the dark like wind upon my skin.
    I pick her up and begin to walk. “Tell me if you sense any. Which way