After confirming Mukyrt Menshen’s death and passing out, the next thing Cyril remembered was waking up in the Lyrique barracks. The stone fortress overlooked Lyrique from a rolling hill in the northern part of the city. Attached to the barracks was a medical ward and a prison connected by thick walls with enclosed passageways. The walls between each wide turret of the barracks made the fortress into a barrier. It unofficially separated the port district from the vast manors of the city’s wealthiest.
Cyril realized, with a start, that he was in a prison cell. The sting of a needle piercing his skin woke him. It delicately wove thread through his flesh, closing an open gash in his stomach. The monster’s attack opened smaller wounds around the large hole in his belly that needed to be sewn shut. The largest of his injuries had been blanketed in white bandages that wrapped all the way around his torso. Menshen’s souvenir, the opening in his stomach, yowled in pain with every breath. But, Cyril was alive.
“Almost done,” the surgeon said. She was an older woman, with her gray hair pulled into a tight bun. Liver spots decorated her face. A contraption of multiple glass lenses covered her right eye. Cyril tried to relax his breathing, to still his diaphragm and let the woman work. He winced at the pain.
“How bad is it?” Cyril asked.
“You’ll live,” the surgeon quickly said. “Scissors.” Someone else cut the thread. The old woman stood to leave.
“Wait,” Cyril said. He wasn’t thinking and tried to sit up. The injury under his bandage painfully protested. The old woman didn’t listen and left the prison cell. Her assistant, a younger woman, cleaned up after the surgeon. She gathered the spool of thread and wadded bloody bandages into a pail.
“Why have I been arrested?” Cyril asked.
The girl looked at him like he was speaking a different language. Her expression softened before she said anything. “Relax. The medical ward is overflowing. We had to move some patients into the empty prison cells to accommodate.” Cyril released a long sigh of relief. “Why? Did you do something naughty?”
What Menshen had said put him on edge. Nobody was meant to know about the freed djinn. But, the secret was out.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The assistant had stopped cleaning up. Cyril took a proper look at her from atop his thin mattress. The girl wasn’t as young as he thought. Faint smile lines bound her mouth and dark circles underscored her eyes. She wiped sweat from underneath her brown bangs.
“You’re from that pig bar,” Cyril said.
“Silver Swine,” she said.
Cyril nodded. “You’re a nurse and a butcher?”
The girl didn’t answer, not really. “I’m Maze.”
“Cyril.” Maze moved to leave, but Cyril called after her. “There was another warden with me. Near me. Wherever… whoever found me. He probably would’ve been brought here at the same time as me. Do you know what happened to him?”
Maze looked down. Looked out the prison door. Anywhere but at Cyril. He braced for bad news. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I saw when they brought you in. You were alone.”
Cyril didn’t need to ask what that meant. If whoever found him didn’t bother to bring Ysidro back for treatment, then the old man died on the scene. Anything short of that and the Lyrique guard would have done whatever they could to save the old man. Cyril must have looked as horrible as he felt, because Maze only apologized again and left quickly. The man’s last breaths were spent saving Cyril, saving the world in all likelihood. Cyril never even got the chance to thank him.
When all eyes were off of him, Cyril rose from the bed. His shirt and coat were missing, probably thrown out. His Gwyllion Abbey medallion had been left in the heel of his boots. Cyril needed to find out what happened to the kids. He pulled on the boots and escaped his cell. Maze was right, half of the prison had been converted into an emergency medical ward. Prisoners stayed quiet in their cells, under especially close watch by city guards. Nurses and surgeons buzzed around the other rooms, darting in and out to deliver treatment.
Cyril slipped between the guards and into one of the enclosed passageways. He passed an armory and double backed, slinking inside to steal a new shirt from one an open iron locker. Not the most upstanding course of action, but the warden could call it payment for slaying Menshen. He flashed his medallion at one of the guards to a gate outside and the man obediently opened it.
Autumn approached. The warm Summer days had taken on an unwelcome chill and the sunlight was leaving a little quicker with every coming night. Cyril wanted to run back to Gwyllion Abbey, but one hurried step demanded too much of his fresh injuries. He would be walking through town.
Already, the efforts to rebuild had begun. Dour families recovered possessions from demolished houses. Old maids swept rubble into great heaps. Carpenters patched roofs and reattached doors. Columns of smoke still climbed into the early afternoon sky even after the fires had been quenched. Dinghies chased after unmoored ships. Cyril tried not to gawk at all the crying faces. He kept his head down and pushed through.
He wondered if the work was a way of coping with the tragedy. Gwyll and magic were beyond the reach of most people. Hammering nails and putting out fires were things these people could control. Wardens were meant to manage all of the monsters of the world. If only they knew how little control the wardens really had.
Amidst the desolation, Cyril did witness light. Little moments of promise. An old dog absorbed the pets and pats of about eleven people, all astonished that the animal had survived the day’s ordeal. A father led his displaced family into the house of a neighbor, only to be welcomed with a cheer and a drink. A young girl hugged a brown rabbit toy with all of her strength while a doctor commended her bravery and addressed her injured leg. No amount of goodness could erase the tragedy, but they seemed to promise to Cyril that hope persisted. That a community could not be destroyed so easily.
Even the yellow flowers from the town's prevalent ivy had persisted and survived.
Cyril soaked in the good and the bad. The lessons and the triumphs. He felt guilty and proud. Like a stranger and like he was at home. He walked on to Gwyllion Abbey.
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Cyril would have an easier time fighting off ten Mukyrt Menshens than dodging the old man’s bear hug.
“He lives!” Bu announced. Soraya joined in on the hug as well. Bu hefted him and the girl off the ground, laughing all the way.
“Please… my injuries…”
“Sorry! Sorry!” Bu apologized but stayed smiling. He dropped Cyril on a table and the younger warden’s belly hissed in agony. “Where in the four winds were you, son? I saw every side of that mess today and never caught a whiff of you!”
“I’ll give you the long version later, old man,” Cyril promised. Soraya still hadn’t stopped hugging him. Piper and Wakahn seemed content to watch. They sat in a semicircle in the guild mess hall. Even Xin had pulled up a chair with them. Abine leaned against a wall off to the side, but paid attention to what Cyril had to say. He pressed a hand on her shoulder. “Glad to see nobody died with you in charge, Miss Hadessian.”
“Despite her best efforts,” Xin said. Piper and Wakahn seemed to glare at him until the other teenager offered a peaceful laugh. “Kidding, kidding.”
“And you two?” Cyril nodded his head at the other kids.
“It was no big deal,” Piper grinned. “Daddy’s boy just needed me to bail him out is all.”
“How did I know you were going to blame me?” Wakahn said. He delivered a more official report to Cyril. “By the time we got to the bell tower, much of the fighting had passed. We were mostly asked to carry messages across town, before the city guard finally told us to go home.”
“So boring!” Piper complained.
“It was an important task!”
“You’d think wiping my ass is an important task if someone with a title told you to do it.”
“Your insolent mouth…”
“Okay, okay,” Cyril said. “Save it for… any day but today. Going home sounds like a good idea. You kids should all get some rest.”
Wakahn nodded dutifully. “I’ll see you later tonight then.”
Cyril screwed up his face. “‘Later tonight’?”
“My father’s ball?” Wakahn asked the question like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He expects your attendance.”
“Your dad is still gonna throw a party after today?” Abine couldn’t maintain her cool exterior before news like that.
“Naturally,” Wakahn said. “As I understand it, the monsters left the Degatawa estate unharmed. If he promised a ball, then it will be thrown, come flood or famine. Or monsters.” The news stunned the rest of the room, save for Soraya.
Bu rubbed his hands together. “I respect a man who parties through anything! You gotta bring us back some of their fancy drink, son,” he ordered Cyril.
Wakahn considered the boss’ words and stroked the beads hanging off of his ear. “Actually, why don’t you all join us tonight?”
“Really?” Bu shook the young kids hand violently. “You’re a real friend, lad!”
“Daddy’s really gonna let us in?” Piper asked.
“He’s surely not oblivious to the day’s events,” Wakahn explained. “I can’t imagine he would refuse any warden at his door.” The boy paused for a moment to evaluate the group of them. “So long as you are dressed appropriately for the occasion. I must return to prepare myself, but I look forward to your company.”
Wakahn was out the door while Bu was still celebrating. “I get to wear my fancy duds!” He laughed and left the guild hall too, practically skipping out of there.
“You should bring your things to my house, Piper,” Soraya offered. “My sisters and I always get ready for these things together.”
“No chance! I’m not wearing anything that doesn’t feel good. Especially not in his house.”
Soraya pouted, but didn’t protest. Cyril wanted to ask how she would spend her night instead, but thought better of it. Prying into the girl’s life only tended to bring heartache to the surface. After not knowing if Piper was alive, Cyril felt disappointed that the girl wouldn’t attend the party. He wanted all of his students to be able to celebrate together, even if some of them were opposed to the idea.
“Wardens are often called to these sorts of functions as part of our job,” Cyril explained. He tried to explain things in a way that would convince the girl to come out, even if it wasn’t the most honest of him. It was selfish and manipulative, but Cyril had expected to die earlier that same day. He wanted to go to party with Gwyllion Abbey, in whatever version of the guild that happened to be. “We also have to disguise our dress and our manners in order to infiltrate certain social circles from time to time. This is the perfect event in which to practice.”
Piper didn’t seem totally convinced. “So… going to this party is like an undercover mission?”
Cyril sensed her excitement at the prospect and went with it. “If you’re up for it.”
Piper sighed and relented to Soraya. “Fine, but I don’t have any clothes for this.”
Soraya looked about as happy as Bu was at the prospect of expensive liquor. She snatched Piper by the arm and started dragging her out of the hall. “Yes! It’s okay. My sister is the same size as you! See you all there!”
Cyril realized he did not have anything to wear himself. His nicest clothes had been stripped from him at the barracks and he was wearing a stolen shirt. Running off to the nearest tailor when so much of the town had gone up in smoke felt vulgar.
“I’m going home to get changed too,” Abine said. “Don’t go stealing any of my prospects at this party,” she warned Cyril. The man raised his hands defensively, not quite an apology and not quite an agreement. Abine probably intended to probe the parade of rich parents to find whose kid had dreams of being a warden. He’d have to remember to play nice.
“Maybe we can ask around about some work of our own,” Cyril suggested to Xin.
“A coarse idea,” Xin replied. “This is an opportunity our guild has not had in quite some time. It would be best not to go about begging for jobs from the city’s most influential.” Cyril sneered. The kid would do anything for Cyril not to get a real assignment that paid real money. Xin handed him an opened envelope, its wax seal broken open. “Here.”
“You’re reading my mail?” Cyril asked. He read the contents and forgot about the invasion of privacy. It was from a port master at the docks explaining that his belongings had been identified. They had been lost upon arrival as all identifiable markings had been removed from the crates. Cyril suspected somebody from the Runaway really didn’t like how he’d punched holes into the boat. The letter also invited him to pick up his things at his earliest convenience. That would include the wardrobe he brought from Loucester.
“A surprise,” Xin said. “For your safe return.” Xin did not seem especially happy about awarding it to Cyril. The words sounded sarcastic. The young man had a strange apprehension about him whenever the two faced each other. Cyril had wondered if it was just the nature of their first impression. Or the fact that Bu called Cyril “son.” Or Cyril’s defiant attitude about what Gwyllion Abbey had become. Or some combination of all of those things.
“How long have you been holding on to this, anyways?” Cyril asked. “What are you hiding?”
“Funny,” Xin said, before slinking into his room. “I’ve been meaning to ask you the same thing.”