Something glints in the pool nearby, and I pull up the heavy golden box Dieter had ripped from the wall. The history-lover in me recognizes the symbols etched into the metal. I was right; this is a reliquary.
I gesture to Fritzi as I place the box atop the makeshift barrow. Johann deserves gold. Fritzi has more stone wrap around the reliquary, allowing a glimpse of the shining metal to serve as a marker.
“This is ancient,” I mutter, running my hand over the gold. Christianity was still young when this box was made. It could even be as old as Trier itself, or Saint Simeon.
Holda isn’t my god, but I still shoot off a quick thought to her:Good hiding place. Putting the pagan rock inside a Christian box. Not bad.
Water sloshes along Johann’s grave. Water…the water Fritzi summoned, the water Dieter pulled… Did both the siblings have such strong powers with water because of the water stone Holda hid here?
“We have to go,” Fritzi says, tugging on my arm. I shake myself, blinking away the burning in my eyes.
I must stop Dieter, I tell myself.I must stop him, and then I must come back and complete the work I started, and that Johann continued.
Swallowing down my emotion, I nod at her. “I’m ready.”
While earlier Fritzi ran through the tunnels as if she knew them, she pauses now. I realize it was her magical connection—to Holda, the stone, or her brother, I’m not sure which—that had led her so assuredly through the dark. Without that beacon, she’s lost.
But I know this darkness well.
“This way,” I say, the map of the aqueducts already unfurling in my mind. We’re too close to the basilica, where the debris will be the worst and the tunnels the most unsteady, to venture that way. North, toward the Porta Nigra, is out of the question. The third gate, closer to the amphitheater, is crawling with hexenjägers and still at least partially collapsed.
I lead us west, following the tunnels as they grow narrower and narrower. There’s a drain under the Roman bridge, one that dumps into the Moselle river. We slosh through the crisp water, both of us shivering. The cold and the shock vibrates through us, ricocheting against our bones. Keep moving. If I keep moving forward, we will make progress.
If I stop, I’ll only see Johann’s unblinking eyes.
We emerge at an opening under the old Roman bridge. The aqueduct flows directly into the river so that we have to swim the last bit, following the current until we pour out into the Moselle. The concrete and stone pillars holding the Roman road up are spaced out all the wayacross the river, creating a dangerous blockade. The surface teems with boats. And…bodies?
“Help!” someone nearby screams, and I whip around. At the same time, Fritzi surfaces behind me, gulping air. She meets my eyes, nods—she’s okay—and I spin to see a man shouting, pointing to the water where a young girl a little older than Liesel thrashes. I grab her by her braids so her flailing arms don’t pull me back under and swim one-handed toward the man, who helps me haul up the panicked girl. All around me, there are more boats tipped over, people screaming or swimming, chaos reigning.
“What’s going on?” Fritzi asks, her skin flushed with exhaustion. Her teeth are chattering in the cold as we tread water.
“That pull of water Dieter did,” I guess. “The water had to come from somewhere. He pulled the river through the tunnels, then it all got pushed back…” The resulting waves and flooding sent the small boats tipping and the large barges banging into each other or the waves. Barrels of wine bob nearby, caught against the pillars, and there are looters throwing ropes down, trying to steal the goods that have fallen overboard.
“Can you swim?” I ask. Fritzi nods and, together, we weave our way through the debris toward the shore.
The only good thing about this is that we are merely two more drenched rats among dozens as we claw our way up the shore. Near the bridge, the crane that lifts cargo from ships swings out, and the workers there scramble down, helping get people up. Water and mud make the banks even slipperier, and the crane operator swings the arms around, dropping a rope to help us pull ourselves closer to the road.
Once we’re up, Fritzi leans against the white plaster of the round crane hut, her hands on her knees as she catches her breath. I cast an eye at the river, where things are still chaotic.
“What are the odds Cornelia, Brigitta, and the others didn’t notice this and are waiting for us at camp?” I say.
“I can ask Holda,” Fritzi starts.
“Don’t bother.”
I jump at the deep male voice and whirl around, heart thudding, in time to see Alois, brown cloak pulled up, his face mostly hidden by the hood. His eyes are dark, and his expression is more furious than I’ve ever seen it, but as he rakes his gaze over us, a smile cuts across his glower.
“Thank the Three you’re both safe,” he says, pulling me into a hug and clapping my back so hard I cough up some water on his cloak.
He whips off his cloak and wraps it around Fritzi, whose teeth are chattering, then leads us away from the main bridge.
“We all felt the magic surge,” he says, setting a quick pace. “But Cornelia already had us racing this way. She said Holda was…”
“Screaming at her?” Fritzi guessed.
“Something like that.”
“But—” Fritzi starts.
