Page 51 of Aubade Rising

We retire to separate rooms that evening.

Neither of us mentions the greenhouse over dinner but I catch myself staring at Eskar whenever he’s not looking at me.

He sent a message to Pentargon via the aqueducts, letting the Concord know we’re alive and returning shortly but that was all.

Neither of us wanted to risk the message falling into the wrong hands.

We have to wait a few days for the next ferry to take us back to the capital and I would be lying if I said I was looking forward to being back at sea. But for now, we can rest.

I wake from my bed to a crashing, thundering noise and the room trembles.

Immediately, I’m a child trapped in a nightmare.

I’ve never experienced an earthquake. In Pentargon, they’re told as fairy tales, abstract in a way I’ve never considered before.

I grip the bedposts in terror, frozen, as the world ricochets around me.

The trembling finally abates, and I clamber out of bed and head towards the window, head pounding from the noise.

Outside, the street is in complete darkness, the moon obscured by thick clouds.

The world looks strange, not because it is night-time, or because the city is unfamiliar.

As my eyes sweep along the rooftops, I know in my gut something is wrong with this silhouette.

When Eskar bursts into my room, my gaze is fixed on the window, fuzzy brain still trying to understand. “Are you alright?” His hands cup my face, eyes raking my face.

“I’m fine. What’s happened? I was asleep and then… was it an earthquake?”

He grabs a cloak from the wardrobe and thrusts it into my arms. “Not an earthquake, Sage, an explosion. The rebels targeted the aqueduct: the city is flooding.” Ice-cold dread runs down my body.

This beautiful city, the people, the damage will be catastrophic.

That’s what was wrong with the view: the towering aqueduct framing the city is gone.

“Because of us?” He doesn’t answer, grimly pulling the hood up so my face is fully covered.

“We need to leave.” His voice is remote, authoritative. I feel him slipping away, back into the role of the King’s Verax. He reaches for the heavy rucksack of serpentine I’ve stored at the foot of my bed and slings it onto his back.

Sensing my need to protest, to stay and try to help people in the city who are vulnerable to the flood water, Eskar interrupts me.

“There are enough Mordros in the city to minimise the damage, to buy them time to escape. The city has evacuation plans for an event like this. People know what to do. My job is to get you out of here safely and back to Chi An Mor. We’re leaving now.”

The streets are treacherous and becoming lethal.

By the time we leave Eskar’s home, with instructions to the housekeeper to let in all those needing shelter, the water is trickling over the cobbles.

However, at the bottom of the street of family estates, we’re hit by rapidly rising flood water, threatening to steal our balance.

Its icy fingers curl round my legs to my knees and continue to rise.

Eskar navigates the streets ahead, I’m grateful he grew up here as the midnight black sky provides no light to see by.

Kitto would have chosen night-time deliberately.

It’s easier to cause chaos and sow fear in the dark.

We pick our way through the streets, moving as quickly as possible.

People shout from home to home, offering sanctuary to those trapped outside.

Being in the lowlands, Cathair was always at risk of flooding.

But not in summer and not to this extent.

There is a frantic energy from the people we pass, but no desperation or panic.

I want to shout at them to get out, to get to higher ground, that the Mordros holding back the water will falter eventually and the city will be swept away.

The river quay is deserted. Not even the night security have stayed; they’ve all gone into the city to help.

Finally, the moon breaks free from the clouds and I get one last look at the beautiful stone buildings glowing like pearls.

I wonder how many will be standing once the water fully rushes in – how much guilt I’ll forever carry at bringing this destruction here.

There’s a boat, barely larger than a dinghy, which Eskar beckons me to. There’s no wind for sailing and, although it’s downstream to Porth, we won’t be able to sail to Pentargon in this tiny boat: the currents will rip it apart in the open sea.

“Get below and, whatever you do, don’t come out until sunrise.” He pulls me onboard and gestures into the hold. It’s tiny and cramped, clearly designed for food and drink storage on a hot summer’s day. I won’t be able to lie flat but if I curl up tightly then I think I can make it work.

The boat rocks precariously, the current bolstered by the floodwater.

I feel the boat moving into the current and my nausea rises.

It’s a miserable few hours, punctuated by my intermittent vomiting.

The rocking of the boat is more intense than the large ferry ride up the river and despite Eskar’s best attempts, we hit the bank on several occasions.

Each time we make contact, the boat shunts aggressively to one side and I’m thrown against the small, wooden walls.

Cramp settles into my legs, and my head is woozy from being hit repeatedly.

I drift in and out of sleep or unconsciousness, I’m not sure which until a bright light sears my eyelids.

“Sage? Sage! Can you hear me?” Eskar’s voice is far away and muffled. I turn towards him, wincing at my bruises.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Anger and concern fight for dominance in his voice as I raise my head.

The brightness recedes as my eyes adjust; it’s early morning and I assume we’re somewhere outside of Cathair but still far from Porth. My stomach heaves one final time and I must make a pitiful sight, covered in my own vomit, bruised and dazed.

Eskar reaches down and lifts me out of the craft, careful not to jostle me. He cradles me and carries me across the little sandbank where we’re moored, and back towards the water.

“This will be cold but I promise it’ll be over quickly. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

He wades into the shallows of the slow-moving river, kneeling so the water rises to his shoulders, fully submerging my aching body.

The water is frigid, but the relief of being able to move my arms and legs and being buoyant in the water is bliss.

Eskar holds me to his body in one arm, washing away traces of sick with the other.

My poor head aches as he runs his fingers through my hair, feeling for lumps and cuts.

I feel pathetic – he endured weeks of torture without complaint, stayed awake overnight twice and I’ve struggled for a few hours cramped in a boat while being rescued from a city where thousands of people were losing their homes or worse.

We huddle under his cloak on a sandbank while we dry off and I feel anger at the rebels build.

“What was the point of attacking Cathair? Of destroying the aqueduct system? What will people do for drinking water in the remote villages now? Tanwen will be run dry too.”

Eskar sighs and looks back towards his hometown in the distance.“Chaos and fear. Because they can. Because they’re radicals. Honestly, I don’t know why.”

The full scale of the destruction is now hitting me: hundreds of towns will be cut off, right as the spring rains have finished and through summer when other water sources run low. Instead of inciting a riot, Kitto has condemned them to a slow and painful death. “I guess she’s angry we escaped.”

“Maybe. Although an attack of this scale couldn’t have been organised overnight. Clearly, they’ve been planning this for a while. You can’t take all the blame.”

I scowl into the distance and he braces his hands on his knees, pushing to his feet. “We’ve made good distance so far. I’ll channel while you dry off and then we’ll continue.”