Wystwood

49. The father and daughter

Armestrong whispered "Min" before Ada had the chance, though it was lost to the Bonneville as, together, the bandits and Ada clambered back over the wall and into the labyrinthian streets. The roaring flames faded out with each twist and turn through the city, but the midday sun set the cobblestones aflame beneath their feet. Every now and then there came the echo of a distant bell, lost and lonesome. Otherwise, Wysthaven was eerily silent.

Raeph insisted that they stay in a shaded alleyway when they reached the bridge into the outer city. It took both of Lark's hands upon her shoulders to keep Armestrong back while Raeph hoisted himself up onto a balcony and scoured the street for patrolling Hounds. But here too there was nobody. The only sound came from Raeph thudding back down next to Ada before they walked together to the bridge. Ada shuddered as she crossed, seeing the skeletal houses reflected on the canal.

Ruins reigned on the other side of the bridge. A long strip of houses had been burnt back to the southern edge of the city, and heaps of timber smouldered amongst blackened brick. A wind whispered across the cobbles, drawing with it a veil of ash. Ada hoped that whoever had lived within the ghosts of these houses had been spared the time to flee.

They walked east, staying close enough to the canal to keep their bearing, but deep enough in the wreckage so that they would appear like flitting forms of smoke to anyone who may have been watching. Ada's cloak had dried, and she pulled its hood up, letting the velvet drape loosely over her face. The fires had burnt out and a chill had descended quickly. Between the matchstick houses, the sun chose not to shine.

Ada realised something else was wrong when Armestrong began to quiver again. They had made good progress despite the rubble, and even with a limp, Lark had kept their pace towards the easterly buildings. They towered up above the southern quarter, where the brickwork was only flecked with soot, and silver bells were still singing from their strings. But even here, as in the inner city, tendrils of smoke threaded through ivy facades.

Nowhere is safe, was the first thought to flicker into Ada's mind. But as Armestrong's strides became wider, her feet and breath quicker, a new realisation struck. Min isn't safe. 

Ada didn't recognise the streets they barreled down; a flower shop here the colour of wilted poppies, a bakery there that smelt more like a blacksmith. A sign for an apothecary had been cleaved fully in half.

But Ada did recognise the pocked pillars of the lyceum, its frescos now little more than charcoal visions faded into rock. The scent was putrid, like meat left too long in the sun, but the sounds were worse. There were cries from lungs too filled with smoke to scream, shrieking chickens penned by meshes of scalding wire, and the constant rattle of chains.

Few Hounds had remained to see their destruction, and those that had wore their metal masks pulled back and held burning torches in hand. They set fire to whatever remained; a box stuffed with mint, then an allotment of cabbage. Revelling in their carnage, they took turns mocking the cries of the fae they had chained to the lyceum's pillars.

There were eight pale pillars in total, rising up amongst the smoke, and at their bases were eight fae. The Hounds had unravelled the chains from their necks and used them to secure the merchants' bodies to the stone, a stretch around their chests and another around their ankles. Some were sobbing, growing fires beginning to flare around their feet, while others hung limp and vacant above dying bonfires.

It was easy to spot Florentin's yellow caravan as it was one of the last remaining spells of colour amongst the ruin. The fires had burnt away his table of flowers and herbs fast enough, but now flames were building beneath the caravan's rickety wheels. They licked at its closed window and lit up the face of the man mounted on the nearest pillar.