Remnants: Season of Fire

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  “Right, good,” said the man. I found it oddly reassuring when Keallach offered his hand in greeting — familiar and welcoming — rather than accepting a bow as some aloof monarch might. “You’re welcome any day, any hour, Highness. We’re honored to have you visit us at all.”

  “I’d like you to give Miss Andriana a tour. Show her how our operation with the children works here. Tell her everything. Hold nothing back. Answer any question.”

  “Certainly,” the man said slowly, obviously feeling anything but certain inside. Perhaps it was only because no one had ever asked before, or expressed interest. He undoubtedly wondered who I was and why I had a right. But he wasn’t going to question the emperor.

  “Please, follow me,” he said. He turned and went through double doors to the right, leaving the woman behind at the desk, presumably to intercept any other visitors who entered the building. The doors shut with a locking sound behind us.

  We followed the slight man down a long hall. “We house over two hundred children, none of whom have reached their first decade, but all rescued from the greater Union.”

  “Rescued?” I asked carefully, remembering the reaping in Georgii Post.

  “Yes. They are orphans, found among the streets of the various cities and brought here to begin a new life.”

  “I thought they were brought here to be adopted into Pacifican homes.”

  “Most shall be, in time. Nearly every home in Pacifica houses at least one or two. But the children must first learn to live as civilized humans rather than the street urchins they arrive as. And the older they are, the longer that takes. Here,” he said, gesturing about as we passed a wide bank of windows that looked out to the sea, “they learn how to bathe, sleep regularly, eat as if it might not be their last meal. They are given a bit of an education and learn the value of hard work.”

  We moved through another set of double doors, and I heard the click of another lock behind us.

  This hall was full of what appeared to be classrooms, and the children sat in neat rows, all in gray uniforms, their hair tidy and their hands folded on their desks as the teachers lectured. It was like something out of a scene from the Pre-War days, something I’d longed for, wished for. Even in the Valley, only a few chosen children received such instruction. What would happen if all had access as these did?

  “They go to school all day?” I asked, moving from one window to the next.

  “Perhaps someday,” said the headmaster, looking a bit sorry for his answer. “For now, all we can do is provide them a few hours of reading and writing and mathematics. The brightest receive instruction in science and history. But the other part of their day is to learn the value of hard work.”

  I was torn as to what to pursue first, and yet did not want to appear too accusatory in front of Keallach. He wanted to impress me, win me. So I chose the positive first. “You teach these children to read? I thought it was expressly forbidden.”

  “In the Union,” Keallach said gently. “Out there, it tends to breed rebellion. But as I told you in Wadi Qelt, I am in pursuit of enlightenment, for my people as well as myself. If we can all come together, I do not fear the power of intelligence. It can only benefit our people at large, help us move forward as a true empire. So we are experimenting with it here.”

  My mind raced. He was educating children that had once belonged to the Trading Union. How long until the practice spread beyond the Wall? I thought of Asher, and him teaching the children the sacred words. Did any of these children in these classrooms whisper of them? Dare to write them down? My pulse quickened, partially in fear, partially in excitement. And as much as Keallach or the headmaster might wish to control or shape these children, they were undoubtedly beginning to develop their own thought processes.

  We heard the hum of machinery before we opened the next set of double doors. The sound became louder as the doors slid open, but at the sight of Keallach, it faded to a stop. I saw that each boy or girl sat before a sewing machine, stitching together fabric, their eyes dull, mouths slack. But when they saw Keallach, joy lifted each one’s lips in a smile and they came to him, surrounding us, hands lifted for him to touch, crying out greetings. Their combined joy and hope flooded through me in such a sudden wave that it took me aback and tears streamed from my eyes.

  Keallach lifted a boy in one arm and a girl in the other and turned around, shouting out a jaunty tune, wading forward through the fifty or so children, as if to allow them all to reach out and touch him. He looked at each of them — ​really looked them in the eye — ​and my mouth dropped open when I realized that he was greeting them all by name with a word for each one. Finally, he looked back at me, and seeing my tears, gave me a puzzled smile. I hurriedly wiped them away as the children quieted.

  “I see you all are doing a most fine job here today,” Keallach said, his attention on the children again. “If you hit the headmaster’s quota this week, I shall invite you all to the palace for a party. Would you like that?”

  The children laughed, clapped, and cheered.

  “Well, don’t just stand here,” he said, eyebrows lifting. “Get working!”

  The children all ran back to their machines and the hum again filled the air. We moved out of the room and to the next, a large, empty hall filled with long tables and benches.

  “Our dining hall,” said the headmaster. “The children are fed three times a day. Most of them used to get only one meal, if they were so fortunate. It takes them a while to relax, to eat slowly and not so much that they vomit. They are unused to the idea that there will not only be a next meal, but countless after that.”

  I nodded, my hands behind my back as we walked down yet another hall. Outside this bank of windows was a large sandbox and what looked like brightly colored bars and slides on which to climb, though no little ones were out there. “What happens to the children after they reach their first decade?”

  “Most are adopted by then,” he said. “Though our families seem to prefer younger children, despite our good work with them here in the home.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then they are placed where they can earn their keep,” he said easily.

  “You put them to work,” I said slowly.

  He nodded earnestly. “In homes, in factories, some in mines. All become model Pacifican citizens.”

  “You make them slaves,” I said, at last landing on a place to focus my anger.

  Keallach stopped abruptly and faced me. “No. They are paid.”

  “Paid, but somebody else makes a great deal of money off of their hard work.”

  “Is that not enterprise? Progress? Life as this land once knew it?”

  “But is it life as we want to know it again? What are their hours? Their conditions? Where do they live? A child of one-and-one is hardly ready to take care of himself!”

  “And yet they were taking care of themselves on the street at a far younger age.” Keallach stepped closer to me. “Were they not? And were they not working twice as hard, merely to survive?” He rubbed his forehead as if trying to find the right words to reach me. “What we’re creating here is opportunity for everyone, Andriana. Opportunity to become a part of a Pacifica family — ​which undoubtedly is the chief goal — ​but for those who are not chosen, opportunity in the empire. We are forming these street urchins into contributing members of society.”

  I wanted to take issue with it, but was it so different than at home? Every child had to work from morning until night to help keep themselves and their families alive. Only a few were educated; the rest worked. But something about this place around me made me feel uneasy. Something was off.

  “Keallach, not all of these children were orphans. I saw, with my own eyes, Pacifican soldiers wrench younger children from their parents’ arms.”

  He frowned. “That is not sanctioned action. I’ve told you I shall inquire about it. Perhaps you saw a few rogue soldiers, out to make some extra coin.” His look soured. “Younge
r children are sometimes purchased by desperate women unable to wait for their allotted adoption chips. It is something we’re trying to stop at every opportunity.”

  “Why is it that your women do not bear their own children?” I asked, looking toward Keallach. I thought I knew the truth. I wanted to hear his version.

  He began walking again and I turned to catch up. “After the War, the toxins left us with generations of infertility. It was in our water, in our soil. And while our land and water is now clean, our women still struggle. In fact, it seems worse than ever before.”

  “But the men are not infertile.”

  He shook his head. “By and large, no.” He studied me then. I shook off memories of the Six jeering over my supposed fertility and how I might make the perfect bride.

  “What of …” I began. “I’ve heard mention that your women prefer to not put their bodies through pregnancy, even if they can get pregnant.”

  He frowned and looked to the headmaster, gesturing for him to go, then back to me, once we were alone. “There is some truth to it. In the last three decades, only about a hundred children have been born in our land, Kapriel and I being two of them. If you do not grow up seeing older women bearing children does it not become … foreign? Vaguely frightening or even … repugnant?”

  I considered that. He’d risked much, telling me of their plight. His vulnerability and understanding of his people moved me. We stared at each other and I felt his need — ​for his people. For himself.

  “How long has it gone on then?” I said, forcing words out to break our awkward moment, ignoring the heat of my blush. “This … incorporation of Union children into your populace?” My mind was racing back to Zanzibar. How long until the Pacificans realized they could take a wife from the Union and break this endless cycle of infertility?

  “Only a decade or so,” he said. “My father began the campaign, well aware of the plight of the children beyond our Wall and the need among our own populace. It seemed the perfect solution. At first, every child was placed in a home. Now, there are so many in need … Well, you’ve seen our solution.”

  A cold thought came to me, again born in what I’d seen in Zanzibar. Many of the children back there had been girls …

  “You suspect wrongdoing,” Keallach said, sounding shocked. The warm feelings between us quickly chilled. “You suspect me, even after seeing this?” he said, lifting a hand about the clean walls and sparkling windows.

  “I have seen hard things, Keallach. Dark things. Are you aware of what goes on in Zanzibar?”

  His brow lowered and he rested his chin in his hand. “I am.”

  “Then you are aware that the men there are short of women. That girls, far short of their second decade, are sold into ‘marriage.’ ”

  He nodded once.

  “How long?” I asked, lifting a hand to the windows. “How long until your men demand a wife of the Union too? From among these children?” I waved in the direction of the sewing hall, the image of all those little girls among the boys sending a shiver down my back. “And how are those girls, now Pacifican brides, to be treated among your people? As equals? Or something less than?” I paced, my thoughts coming together now. “And how long until the men of the Union realize that what you’re doing is basically importing breeders for you, stealing away the women, putting their children — ​even orphans — ​to work in your factories or mines? Will that produce unity? Peace?”

  “It is not like that.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “But you have to admit, it’s a likely outcome. You said it yourself, in so many words — ​without changing things, you will gradually die out. Women who can produce a babe will become a prize. You will become like the Zanzibians.”

  “No. I won’t allow it. We will never become like that scum. We will not take to their ways! I intend to force them to civility.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly!”

  I stared at him a long moment. “Then tell me why Sethos was sent to capture me. Tell me —”

  “Because I wanted you to know me,” Keallach said, lifting a hand to his chest. He stared at me with earnest eyes. “Even after what happened on Catal … I still wanted you to know me. I want you to decide for yourself if I am the monster that others made me out to be or your missing brother.”

  “Not to become your bride,” I said, not dropping my eyes.

  “No,” he said with a grimace, but he looked away and I felt his flash of guilt.

  “Not to bear you a child,” I pressed.

  He dropped his head, turning it this way and that as if my words hurt him.

  “Not to use my gifting for your own purposes and —”

  “Enough! Enough questioning!” He strode to the window and stared out at the sea, arms crossed. I licked my lips, tried to gather myself, and then forced myself to follow him. I leaned against the windowsill, staring out at the clouds gathering on the horizon.

  “I know you are not all bad,” I said.

  He huffed a laugh. “There’s a start.”

  I didn’t smile with him. “I think the Maker continues to urge you toward us because you know it’s where you belong. Your path diverged from ours, but there is a way back. There is always a way back.”

  He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to make my own way. But I don’t want to do it alone. I need you, Andriana. Here. By my side.”

  I battled between objection and compassion, staring at our ghostly reflections in the window, not daring to look him full in the face. On one hand, he was still my Ailith kin. He was meant to be with us, one of us. But he’d all but killed his parents. Allowed his knight to die fighting Kapriel’s. I tried to imagine watching Ronan battle Killian or Bellona, and them both dying. Thoughts of death led me to my parents. He was responsible too, in a way, for their deaths. Did the Sheolites not report to Sethos, and Sethos to Keallach?

  And what was I attempting here? I remembered the alarm in Chaza’el, Vidar, Raniero, even the knights, whenever we spoke of Keallach’s potential redemption. They clearly all thought it impossible. I reached up and rubbed my throbbing temples. Was I going mad? Doing what the Sheolite wanted of me instead of the Maker? I needed my fellow Ailith. I needed their strength. Most of all, I needed Ronan.

  “I’ve taxed you,” Keallach said, glancing over at me in a tender way. “We both have said much and have much to think about. Come, we’ll get you home to the palace where you can rest.”

  I walked beside him out of the facility and out into the cool air of evening. I was eager to get to the car and back to that marvelous fur blanket. But once I was settled beneath it, the car door shut and the engine purring beneath our feet, the ocean sprawling outside my window, Keallach’s words came back to me.

  Home to the palace.

  I smiled, thinking of what Vidar would say about that.

  “Is something amusing?”

  I glanced over at him, embarrassed to be caught in my reverie, and shook my head.

  “You are very beautiful, Andriana,” he said softly. “Especially when you smile.”

  He wasn’t flattering me idly. He meant it.

  I quickly looked out the window, feeling the blush burning up my cheek. “It is not our way to speak of outward beauty,” I said lowly.

  “Bah,” he said dismissively. “It’s a foolish Valley tradition.”

  “It’s the tradition of our elders. Presumably of yours too.”

  He shook his head a little, irritated. “You are as beautiful inside as you are out,” he said. “I see no harm in recognizing that fact.”

  We pulled up along the sweeping drive before the palace, then past armed guards and gates. He got out and offered his hand to help me, but I ignored it, leaving the fur behind and feeling guilty for accepting it at all.

  “You will join me for supper,” he said, a few steps behind me.

  “No,” I said. “I think I shall take it alone, in my room tonight
. As you noted, I am suddenly weary.”

  “Please, Andriana. Rest. Then join us in the dining hall.”

  I thought of the Council of Six, and all I could visualize was that horrific dinner table at Castle Vega. “No thank you.”

  He let out a sigh of exasperation as we strode down the long hall to my third-floor quarters. At least I hoped I was heading to my quarters. “You do realize that there is not another woman in the empire who has been allowed to refuse me outright.”

  I rolled my eyes, and turned to face him. “Are you an emperor? Or a spoiled child?” I said the words without thinking, and instantly regretted them.

  Fury, black and roiling, burst forth in him and the muscles in his jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might hit me. But then it was gone, and he resumed his composure. The flash of all we’d both just felt left me stunned. Reeling. He ran his hands slowly down his sleeves, as if they were out of order, and then looked down at me. “You … seem to bring out the best and worst in me.”

  I considered him for a long moment. “As you might, with me,” I allowed.

  “The Council,” he tried again, “will wonder why you are not at our table this night.”

  “Let them wonder. I don’t care.” His anger had ignited my own.

  His lips clamped together. Then he took a firm grip of my elbow, hustled me to my quarters, and let go of me inside. “You are not a prisoner in this palace,” he said curtly. “But you are not behaving like a proper guest. Keep in mind I do have limits, regardless of my fondness for you. I shall send a servant with a tray. You may explore this third floor or the second. But no further.”

  I huffed a laugh and crossed my arms, feeling like a bundle of agitation and confusion. Why had my refusal so totally sent him into such a state? Were we now enemies? Doubt ripped away any fresh, light cords that had been woven between us in the last hours.

  Whatever had transpired, I knew this: If he was ever to join the Ailith, he had to get over his pride. Pride was forbidden among my brothers and sisters and quickly weeded out — ​it inevitably led to other sicknesses.