Chapter 232: Missing

On the third morning after the bridge fell, Gus was still holding the lamp.

He sat on a flat rock at the edge of the camp, his knees pulled close to his chest. The small blue-glass lamp rested in his lap. It had been dark since they left the Lampwrights’ Hall.

The folded papers remained inside his coat, pressed against his chest. He could feel them with every breath.

Hold these for me. I’ll want them back.

Behind him, eight thousand people struggled to turn the edge of a cliff into a place they could call home.

Their camp stretched for nearly a mile along the southern edge of the Riven. Some slept beneath wagons, while others used their cloaks as makeshift shelters. Many had nothing at all.

Somewhere in the camp, a baby had been crying since before dawn.

Gus paid no attention to any of it.

His eyes remained fixed on the north, across half a mile of empty air, where the bridge had once stood.

Zuri arrived at sunrise, just as she had yesterday and the day before.

Without saying a word, she walked past Gus and stopped at the edge of the gorge. She carried a long brass spyglass that she had taken from an officer of the Fifth Legion.

She raised it and began searching the other side.

First, she examined the broken shelf where the Span had once stood. Then she moved her gaze along the road and toward the distant hills.

She searched from left to right, then right to left, and then left to right again.

Her braid was coming undone, and there was dried blood on her sleeve. The blood was not hers. As far as Gus knew, she had barely slept for three days.

He did not tell her to rest.

Sir Agnus had tried that the previous day. One look from Zuri had been enough to send him away.

After a long while, she lowered the spyglass.

"Nothing," she whispered.

Then she raised it again.

Rael arrived a little later, limping up from the Gleaning’s section of the camp. Hask followed close behind him. Rael’s burned arm rested in a sling made from someone’s belt.

He stopped beside Gus’s rock and stared across the gorge.

For a while, nobody spoke.

"They want to hold a funeral," Rael finally said.

Gus tightened his grip on the lamp.

"Who does?"

"Some of the watch officers. Some of the Wall people." Rael’s voice was rough. "They want to give him a proper farewell. Say the words and burn something, since there’s nothing to bury."

"Young master is not dead."

The word came out louder than Gus intended. A few people near the campfires turned to look at him.

Rael showed no surprise.

"I told them the same thing," he said.

Zuri lowered her spyglass and turned toward them.

"I told them nobody saw a body," Rael continued. "You don’t hold a funeral just because someone isn’t standing in front of you. You hold one when you’ve seen that person die. Nobody has."

"I saw someone take him," Gus said.

He had repeated those words to anyone willing to listen over the past three days. "Someone was there just before the stone came down. They bent over him and picked him up. Then they were both gone."

"I believe you," Rael replied.

Hask stood a step behind him. He said nothing, but gave a single nod.

"The old man believes you, too," Rael added. "Ask him."

? ? ?

The Grand Magus lay in the back of a supply wagon, covered by three blankets.

He looked much smaller than he had on the bridge. His face was pale and grey, and his hands trembled on top of the blankets.

But his eyes were open.

When Gus climbed onto the wagon’s wheel to see him, the old man’s gaze followed him.

"The servant boy," he murmured. "The one with the lamp."

"Yes, sir."

"Don’t call me that."

The Grand Magus broke into a coughing fit. It took him some time to recover.

"What do you want?"

Gus explained what he had seen on the bridge.

The old man listened with his eyes half closed. When Gus finished, he remained silent for so long that Gus wondered if he had fallen asleep.

At last, the Grand Magus spoke.

"The spell took a minute and a half to fall. I know exactly how long it took because I created it. Nothing on that bridge should have been able to escape before it struck."

He opened his eyes fully and looked at Gus.

"But something did. I felt it happen. It was like a gap opening in the world, shaped like a man. One moment it was there, and the next, it was gone."

He let out a slow, tired breath.

"Whoever took him was faster than my spell. There are perhaps five people alive who could do that and I wouldn’t trust any of them."

Gus gripped the edge of the wagon.

"Then he’s alive."

"I didn’t say that."

The old man turned his gaze toward the canvas above him.

"I said he left the bridge. What happened after that, I cannot tell you."

His voice grew quieter.

"That brat was very badly hurt."

Gus climbed down from the wagon.

He refused to think about those last words.

? ? ?

That afternoon, Ansel Corr finished counting the survivors.

He had been working on the list since the first night, sitting in the back of his wagon with a tally board across his knees. Wren had helped by moving from one fire to another, collecting names and checking who had crossed the bridge, who had failed to cross, and who had survived the crossing only to die in the cold afterward.

When Corr finished, two soldiers carried him to Sir Gareth.

Gareth sat beside another wagon, sheltered from the wind, with a portable desk resting on his knees.

Gus was already there. Gareth had asked him to come.

"Seven thousand, nine hundred and forty-one," Corr said quietly. "Living."

Gareth slowly nodded.

Corr hesitated before turning the board around to show them the final line.

One name stood apart from all the others.

Encrid Gannon, Strategist of the Wall.

In the column where Corr had recorded more than three thousand deaths, he had written a different word beside Encrid’s name.

Missing.

"I didn’t know what else to write," Corr admitted.

Gus stared at the word for a long time.

After Corr left, Gareth returned to his letter.

It was a report for the Duke. He had started writing it four times and torn up three attempts. A rider was waiting to carry the finished letter south at dusk.

"You told me what you saw," Gareth said without looking up. "Tell me again, slowly. I want every word to be exact."

Gus repeated his account.

Gareth wrote it all down, carefully recording every detail. Then he continued writing about the fallen Wall, the grand magus’ spell, Encrid’s display of power, the broken span, and the eight thousand people who had survived.

He wrote for a long time.

Finally, he reached the end of the letter and stopped.

His pen hovered above the paper. His face was pale, and he sat perfectly still.

For a long moment, he seemed unable to continue.

Then he wrote three more lines and put the pen down.

Gus had learned to read in the last one and half years. The young master had taught him his letters during their journey north and continued teaching him through two winters at the Wall, using a slate and the light of a lamp.

He had not meant to read the final lines.

But his eyes found the words anyway.

The young master is currently missing.

|| I do not know whether he is alive or dead. Forgive me, my Lord - I have failed to carry out your order. ||

? ? ?