For a while, the road after the wall was more of the road before. Gwen grew even closer to the top of the Fourth Root. Fjorir grew even smaller below her. Breathing became even more of a struggle.

Two things were different. The first was that Gwen had to work to keep her worries about her village at bay. She tried to trust Frederick that the soldiers would take care of everything, but that only eased her fear so much.

The second was that Gwen had to work to keep up with the wagons. Between the thinning air and walking uphill for several hours, even her Torchbearer body was starting to grow sore and sluggish. She hadn’t realized how much of a difference a small incline would make. If the road were flat, she could probably have walked for twelve hours before getting tired. Here, it hadn’t even been six and she was already dragging. Her only saving grace was that Frederick in front of her and Irina behind looked just as worn out.

Gradually, as the caravan grew closer to the immense Trunk, the West Lift came into view. It was an immense contraption made mainly from wood and rope, though most of the joints and pulleys were iron, and iron ran along most of the beams to brace them. The apparatus stretched upward higher than the Roots were tall, vanishing into the overcast sky. A Branch--likely Nergund--actually cast a shadow on the clouds from above.

Gwem found herself wishing Steffan were here. He would have loved such a fantastic fusion of carpentry and engineering. But thinking of Steffan disturbed the worries in the back of her mind, so she put those thoughts aside as best she could.

They neared the top of the Fourth Root as the sun drifted behind the Trunk. Seeing as they were about a mile up, with barely any Root to end the day early, the light up here lasted longer than it did in Fjorir. Wait, were they still in Fjorir? Did being thousands of feet above the city count as having left it? Gwen supposed if height didn’t matter, then Selador was technically just another district of Wirtrumburg.

As the sun began setting, another shadow appeared on the clouds, a wider and darker one. Then the great stone block that was the Lift platform emerged, trailing white tendrils of mist. It drifted slowly downward, guided by its interconnected ropes and machinery. Down below, at its destination, Gwen could see tips of buildings peeking above the horizon. Those were inns and worker housing, she guessed.

About half an hour later, Gwen noticed something odd: her breathing had grown easier. She paid more attention to it, and after another half an hour, her suspicions were confirmed: the air was getting thicker again, slowly returning to normal as they drew closer to the Trunk. It seemed that height alone wasn’t the only factor. Gwen was too worn out to think about it much further, though, so she accepted the small blessing and focused on closing the rest of the distance to the Lift.

Once they did that, stumbling onto flat ground for the first time since midday, Gwen surveyed the area. Buildings were arranged in two squares, one inside the other, except that each only had three sides--the Trunk served as the fourth. The Lift itself was inside the inner square of buildings, and it also rested almost flush against the Trunk, though not close enough to hit it. The stone slab had seemingly just settled into place, because two guards opened its gate and let its occupants stream out into the square. There were a few wagons, some horses laden with saddlebags, and even a handful of travelers on foot.

“Enjoy the inn,” Waggoner said as his wagons pulled up to one of the outer buildings, which bore a sign painted with a bright white dove. “We won’t stay in another one for a while. And I’m only paying for one drink for each of you. Anything more comes out of your own pockets, understand?” He didn’t wait for replies, instead turning to talk to the stable hand who ran up.

The guards had two rooms: one for Erik and Frederick and one for Gwen, Bo, and Irina. The second room contained a third mattress, but not a third bed frame. Irina didn’t seem to mind, though; after dinner, she slid the extra mattress against the door and stretched out onto it, leaving the beds for Gwen and Bo. It was a nice gesture, albeit one tinged with a bit of paranoia. Still, Gwen wasn’t about to question or protest. She was just happy to be off her feet.

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“You should rub them,” Bo said. He was already in the process of doing so with his own feet. “And stretch your ankles and calves for twice as long as you think you need to. If you don’t, you’ll cramp up tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Gwen said with a smile. She wished her ember would help with stiffness, but if it did, it was only barely, so she got to rubbing.

“So,” she began after a few minutes of silence, “how did you get started as a caravan guard?” She was curious about all of the guards, but Bo was the most reserved, which made him the most mysterious.

“Mm. That’s a story. Most people here came to it for happier reasons than I did. Are you sure you don’t want to ask them?”

“I’m going to,” Gwen said. “But I’ve known my share of sad times. I can handle it.”

Bo nodded. “I used to live in Annwick, about a third of the way up Ascangen. Do you know about the Annwick Colosseum?” He pronounced it Ann-ick.

Gwen shook her head.

“It’s a giant arena. They hold gladiator duels and tournaments, along with spectacles like lion taming or horse races. People come from all over Ascangen for the biggest ones.”

He shifted so he was leaning against the wall. “The Colosseum runs a betting pool for each event. That and the tourism make Annwick a lot of money. They make a lot of indebted gamblers, too. That’s how they get half their fighters: people who owe them too much money are made to work it off. Only the most skilled or entertaining live long enough to go back to their lives. If they have lives to go back to by then.”

“That’s horrible,” Gwen said. Among the Roots, circumstances often made people desperate enough to turn to violence, but that was because of the trolls and monsters and poverty. If food was scarce because of bad growing conditions, then money was scarce, which kept many Root-dwellers one fire or theft or injury from destitute. The Colosseum sounded like it was making people that way on purpose to take advantage of them.

“Sure is,” Bo said. Gwen thought he seemed sad, but he was always so impassive that it was hard to be sure.

“When I was fifteen, my parents made some bad bets and got into more debt than they could pay. They were too old and weak to fight in the Colosseum, so the debtors took me instead. The Colosseum trained me to fight and then sent me into the arena to kill people.”

“So you were skilled enough to make it out?” Gwen asked. She’d never seen Bo fight. Was he really that strong? Should her goal be to defeat him instead of Frederick?

“Ha! No. I started saving lives instead of taking them. In duels, I’d only knock my opponents out. In team battles, I didn’t care how long it took to win as long as I kept my teammates alive. The trainers started getting mad at me for it.”

“Why were they mad at you?” Gwen asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Irina sit up and lean back against the door. Was the captain listening in? Had she not heard this story before?

“Crowds come for blood,” Bo said. “And by doing something different, I was sort of saying the way the others did things was wrong, and no one liked that. Besides, the more people who live through a fight, the more debts the Colosseum has to mark down and the less cells open up for new fighters. If I was flashy enough to become a draw on my own, it might have been worth keeping me around, but I don’t have much charisma.” He gave a wry smile, the most expression Gwen had ever seen him show.

“They were getting really fed up with it around the time Waggoner came to watch a match. He hates the Colosseum, mind you, so you’d do best not to bring it up. He was only there to meet a client who thought he’d enjoy the spectacle.

“Anyhow, he noticed how hard I worked to save lives, and the owners wanted to get rid of me anyway, so they let him buy the rest of my debt for cheap. He made a deal with me: if I worked for him for a year, he’d forgive the debt and pay me full wages. I’ve been with him ever since.”

“Wow,” Gwen said. It seemed Bo had been lucky that Waggoner showed up when he did. But no, she realized, it wasn’t just luck. Bo had survived a rotten thing without letting it rot him. He probably had plenty of scars, both inside and out, but he still valued others’ lives. Without his principles or his skills, that luck would have passed him over.

“Yeah, well. It was a long time ago.” Bo lay back down. “We should get some sleep. Standing around on the lift is worse than walking.” He groaned as he lifted his feet into the bed. “Well, maybe not walking up the ramp.”