Chapter 303: A City Growing Too Quickly

Carol outgrew her winter coat in twelve days.

This would have been less alarming if Helena had not altered it twice already.

She stood our daughter on a low stool in the nursery and pulled the sleeves down.

They stopped above Carol’s wrists.

Helena frowned.

“I added two fingers to these.”

Carol lifted both arms.

Frost moved along one sleeve.

The cloth stretched.

Helena caught her hands.

“No.”

Carol looked down.

“No?”

“You may not solve every difficulty with divine power.”

Carol considered this.

Then pointed toward me.

“Papa does.”

Evelyn covered her mouth.

I looked at my wife.

“You might have defended me.”

“I might have.”

Garrick had outgrown his boots.

Again.

He no longer tolerated being carried unless the destination interested him.

When it did not, he occasionally shortened the distance between where he stood and where he wanted to be.

He could speak in short sentences.

Carol had begun asking questions.

Most started with why.

Some did not end.

They had turned two.

They did not look four.

Not yet.

But their development no longer belonged entirely to ordinary childhood.

Their balance had improved too quickly.

Their understanding came in sudden leaps.

Their bodies changed by small amounts while we watched.

Evelyn measured them every morning.

She did not tell them why.

They believed the marks on the nursery wall were a game.

Garrick stood with his back against the stone.

Evelyn placed one hand over his head.

“Still.”

“I am still.”

“You are standing on your toes.”

“I am taller.”

“You are attempting to become taller.”

He lowered himself.

My wife made the mark.

It stood half a finger above the one from six days before.

We looked at each other.

Garrick turned.

“More?”

“No,” Evelyn said. “That is enough growing for today.”

He nodded seriously.

I was not certain he understood that she had been joking.

With our children, that had become a dangerous uncertainty.

They were not the only ones changing.

Beatrice had stopped rubbing her left knee when she climbed the western stair.

A mason named Corren had regained enough movement in two damaged fingers to return to carving.

Three women who had struggled through previous winters had not become ill at all.

Children in Havenreach recovered from fevers more quickly.

Old scars softened.

Eyesight improved by small degrees.

People slept more deeply near the inner wards.

None of those things proved extended life.

Mary had records suggesting it anyway.

She brought them to breakfast.

That was how most problems reached me.

She placed three books beside my bowl.

Carol immediately reached for the smallest.

Mary moved it beyond her.

Carol looked at the book.

Then at the distance between them.

“No crossing,” I said.

Our daughter sighed.

Mary opened the first volume.

“I compared the health records from the first settlement year with the current infirmary rolls.”

Evelyn stopped cutting Garrick’s bread.

“And?”

“Visits for ordinary illness have decreased by thirty-two percent.”

“Population has increased.”

“I adjusted for population.”

My wife leaned closer.

“What kinds of illness?”

“Winter lung complaints. Infected wounds. Persistent fevers. Joint pain. Complications following childbirth.”

“Those should not all decline together.”

“They did.”

Mary opened the second book.

“I also compared the ages and current condition of the first families who arrived at Greykeep.”

“You cannot measure lifespan while they’re alive,” I said.

“No.”

“Good.”

“I can measure the rate at which their health is declining.”

I looked at Evelyn.

She had gone very still.

Mary continued.

“It has slowed.”

“How much?”

“That depends upon where they live and work.”

“Meaning?”

“People spending most of their time inside Greykeep show the strongest change. Residents of the inner city show less. Outlying farms show the least.”

The fire moved quietly in the hearth.

Aurelia sat at the far end of the table.

She lowered her cup.

“The wards.”

“Or the gods,” Evelyn said.

“Or both.”

Mary opened the third book.

This one contained a map.

Small circles marked every divine residence, shrine, ward connection, and public place where gods regularly worked.

A second set of marks showed improvements in health.

They overlapped.

Not perfectly.

Enough.

“The effect appears stronger where divine power is concentrated,” Mary said.

I looked toward Aurelia.

“Are you doing this?”

“No.”

“Thesra?”

“No.”

“Maelin?”

“She would tell us.”

Evelyn studied the map.

“It may not belong to one domain.”

Aurelia nodded slowly.

“Divine power changes the place where it remains. Greykeep has more active domains within its walls than any place I have known.”

“And the people are absorbing it?” I asked.

“Not as power,” Evelyn said. “More like nourishment.”

“That sounds reassuring.”

“It was not meant to.”

Ilyen examined the records before noon.

Elianor joined her.

So did Soren, Evelyn, Aurelia, Rysa, and three healers who had lived in Havenreach since its first winter.

They tested blood.

Breath.

Healing rates.

Memory.

Strength.

Sleep.

They did not discover immortality.

This disappointed several people who had already heard the rumor.

They did find that ordinary aging appeared to be slowing.

Not stopping.

Not reversing.

Slowing.

The change varied from person to person.

Aurelia refused to estimate how long anyone might live.

Mary did it anyway.

“Under stable conditions,” she said, “some residents may retain good health for decades longer than expected.”

“Some?” I asked.

“We do not know whether the effect reaches everyone equally.”

“And stable conditions?”

“The concentration of divinity remains. The wards remain healthy. The person remains in Havenreach.”

That last part would cause trouble.

It began causing trouble before supper.

The first new caravan reached the southern gate carrying sixty-three people.

The second carried one hundred and twelve.

By the end of the week, more than nine hundred people had arrived.

Some were sick.

Some were old.

Some brought children they hoped would grow safely beneath Greykeep’s wards.

Others had sold homes, fields, or workshops because they had heard Havenreach could add twenty years to a life.

Nobody knew whether that was true.

The number increased to fifty years by the time the rumor reached the eastern kingdoms.

By the time it returned to us, Greykeep’s wells restored youth and no one within the walls could die.

Mary ordered corrections posted at every gate.

People read them.

Then entered the line anyway.

“We cannot promise longer life,” Evelyn told the crowd outside the receiving hall.

A man near the front raised his hand.

“Can you promise better health?”

“No.”

“My brother came here last spring. His cough is gone.”

“That does not mean yours will be.”

“But it might.”

Evelyn paused.

“Yes.”

The honesty moved through the crowd more effectively than reassurance would have.

A woman holding a little girl stepped forward.

“We know there are no promises. We still want to stay.”

Behind her stood hundreds more.

Some had nowhere to return to.

Others had chosen Havenreach before leaving home.

We could not treat them as an invading army because there were too many.

We could not treat them as guests because guests required rooms.

The mines made everything worse.

Damar arrived in Havenreach three weeks after the first reports of Othellos killing gods.

He was not Kelden.

Mary had written this on another board.

Someone had already confused them twice.

Damar was the god of mines, stone, and safe passage underground.

Kelden was the god of dirt and the things held within it.

The distinction mattered to both of them.

Damar understood mountains opened by deliberate labor.

He knew how stone carried weight.

He felt hidden air pockets, dangerous pressure, unstable roofs, and the routes by which miners might return alive.

Kelden understood soil.

Clay.

Buried seeds.

Bones.

Metal or stone still held within earth that had never been opened into a mine.

“If someone digs a tunnel,” Damar explained, “it becomes my concern.”

“If they have not dug it yet,” Kelden said, “what lies there is mine to reveal or conceal.”

“And once you reveal it?”

“Damar tells them whether reaching it will kill them.”

They had clearly explained this before.

Kelden had felt the metal first.

Deep beneath the northern ridge lay silver.

Not a narrow vein.

An enormous bed.

Gold lay farther west.

Below it, gemstones had formed in chambers no mortal surveyor would have discovered for generations.

Kelden showed us where the earth held them.

Damar showed us how to reach them.

He refused the first plan.

Then the second.

Eleanor produced a third.

Damar approved half of it.

Eleanor appeared pleased.

That was how I knew he understood mining.

The first silver shipment reached Havenreach under guard.

The second carried uncut sapphires, garnets, and pale green stones that made Mary stop writing long enough to stare.

The third contained gold.

Not enough to build a city from it.

Enough to persuade every merchant within six kingdoms that Havenreach was about to become rich.

They were correct.

That did not make the arrival of all of them convenient.

Prices rose.

Rents followed.

Land near the walls changed hands three times in a month.

A baker attempted to charge six copper pieces for a loaf that had cost two.

Amaya entered the shop.

The price returned to two.

No one asked what she said.

We established a public mining treasury before the fourth shipment.

The wealth beneath our land would not belong entirely to the crown.

Or the gods.

Or the first group wealthy enough to purchase every claim.

Miners would be paid well.

A portion would maintain the mines.

A portion would support the families of anyone injured or killed.

A portion would enter Havenreach’s treasury.

A portion would be reserved for the districts built above the ground being opened.

Damar insisted upon a permanent rescue fund.

Kelden insisted upon restoration wherever earth was disturbed.

Eleanor insisted upon inspections.

Mary insisted upon records.

Perrin asked whether he might see the gem chambers.

Everyone said no.

He asked again two days later.

Havenreach became richer than several neighboring kingdoms before we had enough latrines.

Mary regarded this as a failure of planning.

The Castellan regarded it as an imbalance.

Eleanor called it disgusting.

Aldren called an emergency meeting.

The city council called it three hours earlier.

By the time I arrived, the council chamber had run out of chairs.

Mary stood at the head of the table.

Eleanor occupied one side with six rolled plans in front of her.

Perrin had built a model of Havenreach.

Aldren had covered the opposite wall with maps showing roads, farms, supply stations, and every temporary camp outside the gates.

The Castellan stood behind him.

The elected city council filled the remaining seats.

Merchants.

Laborers.

Healers.

Craftspeople.

Two representatives from the outer farms.

One from the preserved district.

One chosen by the newest arrivals.

Eliza stood near the door.

She had brought no soldiers inside.

That was deliberate.

I remained standing.

There were no chairs left.

That was less deliberate.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

Mary looked at Aldren.

Aldren had changed since I last worked closely with him.

More gray at his temples.

A permanent ink mark near one thumb.

He had spent years coordinating storehouses, wagon routes, and settlements that became part of Havenreach before anyone remembered to draw them on a map.

He pointed toward three numbers on the wall.

“Our current permanent population is just under forty-two thousand.”

I stared at him.

“When did that happen?”

“While you were discussing war with the gods.”

“That answer feels personal.”

“It is arithmetic.”

He moved to the second number.

“Another eleven thousand are living in temporary camps, inns, warehouses, unfinished houses, and structures not approved for habitation.”

Eleanor’s expression explained what she thought of the last category.

“And the third?” I asked.

“People confirmed to be traveling here.”

The number was larger than the first two combined.

“How confirmed?” Melody asked.

She had entered behind me.

Aldren pointed toward the maps.

“Road station reports. Merchant records. Gate messages. Letters from three kingdoms asking whether we intend to accept their departing citizens.”

“Do we?”

The city representative for the southern district spoke.

“We cannot close the gates because too many people are coming.”

“That sounds like exactly when gates are usually closed,” Melody said.

“It would strand families on the roads before winter.”

Tessa, seated beside the outer-farm representatives, nodded.

“And they will not turn around. They’ll camp outside the walls.”

Eliza looked at the city map.

“Where we cannot protect them.”

Aldren touched the third number.

“If present movement continues, Havenreach’s population may double before spring.”

The Castellan’s eyes brightened.

“Tripling remains possible.”

Everyone looked at him.

“That was not helpful,” Perrin said.

“It was accurate.”

Mary placed a list on the table.

“We need housing.”

Eleanor added another.

“Water.”

A councilor raised a third.

“Waste removal.”

“Food storage,” Aldren said.

“Healers,” Evelyn added from the doorway.

She had arrived with Ilyen.

“Schools,” Helena said behind them.

Apparently the meeting was becoming larger without anyone admitting more people.

“Roads,” Tessa said.

“Fire brigades,” Eliza added.

“Markets,” Amaya said.

“Bathhouses,” Halwen said.

“Public kitchens,” Nara said.

“More receiving halls,” Mary said.

“More guards,” Eliza said.

“More everything,” Melody concluded.

Mary wrote it down.

The Castellan projected a map above the table.

Golden lines formed Havenreach’s walls, streets, wards, and unfinished districts.

Temporary camps appeared outside them.

The city looked as though it had spilled from a full cup.

“We cannot extend Greykeep’s central ward system over the projected population without additional anchors,” he said.

“How many?” I asked.

“For double the population, six.”

“And triple?”

“Fourteen.”

Eleanor looked at the projected streets.

“Where?”

The Castellan placed points around the map.

One fell inside the Sanctuary of the Open Hand’s future grounds.

Two stood near planned schools.

One occupied the market square.

Another sat directly beneath Perrin’s workshop.

He looked delighted.

“No,” Eleanor said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were going to.”

Mary drew a circle around the overcrowded inner city.

“We cannot keep adding houses here.”

“Not safely,” Eleanor said. “The lanes are too narrow. The water lines were designed for half this use. Foundations near the eastern wall are already too close together.”

Perrin touched his model.

“We could build upward.”

“How far?”

“Three floors easily. Four with stone lower levels. Five if Damar approves the foundations.”

Damar stood near the back wall.

“I approve nothing described as easily before I examine the ground.”

Perrin turned.

“That is fair.”

Eleanor looked at him.

“You agreed too quickly.”

“I am learning.”

“That worries me more.”

Aldren uncovered another map.

It showed land beyond the existing walls.

Four broad sections followed the northern road, the riverward slope, the old quarry route, and the transit district.

“Satellite districts,” he said. “Planned before construction. Each with its own market, school, infirmary, watch station, public kitchen, bathhouse, wells, cisterns, and ward anchor.”

“Outside the walls?” Eliza asked.

“Until we expand them.”

“That could take years.”

“Then the districts require temporary defenses.”

The Castellan added pale boundaries around them.

“Independent wards may be established.”

“Independent?” I asked.

“They would connect to Greykeep without depending upon it for every function. If one failed, the others would remain.”

Mary nodded.

“Like the divine contribution channels.”

“Yes.”

A city built to avoid becoming one point of failure.

Aurelia would approve.