Season of Fire

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Galen bent and, using a metal instrument, pulled apart the skin to peer inside. She paused, then probed the wound with her finger a moment, then bent again to look inward. Blood poured out of Ronan and onto the table, so much so that it began to drip on the floor. “I need light,” she said. Dad brought the kerosene lamp as close as he could, holding it over her shoulder. “There,” she said, pouring more alcohol on Ronan, inside him this time. She nodded grimly. “It’s his gut. But I don’t think they got his intestines.”

  I tried to swallow and failed.

  Galen lifted a small, sharp knife and made a swift incision. I gasped and turned away until I was certain I wouldn’t vomit, then turned back to see her grab hold of the first needle and bend to begin stitching slippery, bloody flesh. Even then, Ronan did not move. Were we losing him?

  “Pray, Dri,” Niero said quietly, looking at me steadily. “Do not give in to fear. Remain true in your hope in the Maker. He holds it all in his hands, does he not? Even your Ronan?”

  I could feel my father’s eyes on me as he said this.

  “He does,” I said to Niero.

  “Did he not bring this world into being?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he not cause the seers of old to tell of the day the Ailith would be born?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he not keep the Community alive, waiting for the Remnants’ Call?”

  “He did,” I said softly, my eyes moving to Ronan.

  “Has he not brought us this far?”

  “He has.”

  “Remember all of those things,” Niero said, “as you pray.” He turned and looked at the rest in the room. “All of you do so. There is a time for us to act, and a time that we leave our lives in the hands of the Maker. Truly, they’re there all the time. We only delude ourselves in thinking we have more power, more control. But in the end, we come to this. The Maker breathed life into us, and when we breathe our last, he will welcome us in the hereafter. But here or there, we are never alone. We are his.”

  Galen reached for another needle and thread, not pausing long enough to knot off the first. I knew she was trying to stop the bleeding by sewing up one cut at a time, from the innermost out. And if she was trying to repair intestines, her work was delicate indeed. She only left the wound once to open up a vein at Ronan’s arm and insert the end of a tube. Then she set a small, battery-operated pump to forcing blood into his body.

  I turned to Ronan, and, while keeping one arm wrapped around his, reached out to lay a hand on his head. And as Galen continued to toil, hour after hour, and I watched the bottle of alcohol poured and poured again, I did as Niero had directed and prayed for mercy from the Maker, for healing. Then I concentrated on finding faith and trust in my heart again and passing those into Ronan. Then strength. And courage. Calm.

  Much, much later, the doctor was done, stitching up the last of Ronan’s wounds and wiping away the blood, and binding him anew with clean cloths plastered over his side. The blood bag had long been empty. She attached another one now.

  Ronan’s pulse was terribly faint, his breathing rapid and shallow. He was a ghastly shade of gray. But he was still with us.

  Galen straightened and arched backward, obviously in pain. Then she covered Ronan with a thick, clean blanket, studied his face as if memorizing it, and wearily moved to a bucket of water, washing her bloody hands and forearms, and then her face.

  “There’s more here,” she said, gesturing toward the pump and other buckets and looking around at all of us. “You all look like you’ve been in surgery yourselves with the amount of blood on you.”

  “Surgery. Right,” Vidar said, giving her a faint smile.

  “Anyone else need stitches this night?” she asked. But we all shook our heads. I knew that I’d mostly suffered blunt force trauma. But fortunately no cuts. Perhaps the rest were the same. Or more afraid of her needle and thread than any bleeding wound from the fight.

  Galen brought the pink-stained cloth to her face again, pushing back her sweaty hair. Then she reached for a basket she’d set by the door when she first came in. “There’s bread and cheese in here. Enough for all of you. You can rest here tonight. But come morning, you have to be gone.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “That’s impossible. Ronan —”

  “You’ll have to leave him with me,” she said. “I’ll hide him in here, best I can. But there was already a patrol here earlier in the day. Told me there were subversives out and about and I was to report anything unusual I saw, anyone I didn’t know. Lucky for me I only saw family.”

  Niero smiled at that. Vidar was leaning his whole head under the faucet, washing his hair and neck and face. He rose and shook out like a dog, sending drops of water flying in the air. But my mind was on the conversation at hand.

  “We can’t leave Ronan behind,” I said, going to Niero and grabbing his big arm. “We can’t. We might never get inside Pacifica again!”

  Bellona was now washing, filling a bucket as our hostess had. “He’s a knight, Andriana. He made it into Pacifica. When he’s well enough, he can make it out again too.”

  I shook my head. “He’s a knight. He’s not supernatural.”

  “He is, in a way,” Niero said, leaning back on an old bench, “as an Ailith.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said. “We all need one another. None of us is strong enough to do what we were called to do alone.”

  “You might be surprised,” Niero returned before moving to take his turn at the pump.

  CHAPTER

  37

  ANDRIANA

  I knew I was getting nowhere. I’d let them eat, and then I’d revisit the subject. They might be leaving him behind. But there was no way I would.

  When we’d all washed, Galen handed out bread and a hunk of cheese to all of us. Bellona passed out cups of water. I ate numbly, shoving bite after bite down my throat while feeling no hunger. I only ate because I knew it would help me and my kin if I had the energy it would provide. It was the same with the water. Where I’d once been parched, desperate for a drink, now I drank as if I was trying to remember what it meant to be thirsty, even as I distantly noted my chapped lips and shriveled tongue.

  “What else have you heard?” Vidar asked Galen, food in his mouth. “From the Union? Or here, about our cause?”

  “There are stories,” Galen began. “Not many of them on this side of the Wall, but here and there I hear whispers of your healer, your seer. And you,” she said, looking at me. “The beautiful girl who feels every emotion as her own. The people of Pacifica can hardly stop talking of Andriana and how you’ve caught the emperor’s eye. They see it as destiny, you both being Remnants. Some even dare to call it a holy union.”

  She stared hard at me.

  “While Keallach or the Six had that in mind,” I said, “I never did. I was only trying to survive.”

  She lifted a brow again. “You refer to the emperor by his given name?”

  I let out a short laugh. “He is no different to me than Vidar or any of the other Remnants. A wayward brother, nothing more.”

  “A brother,” she said carefully. She was suspicious, I realized.

  “What do they say about me?” Vidar said with a scowl. “The knower?” he prodded.

  Galen shook her head a little, as if confused, and Bellona laughed under her breath.

  “How about the discerner?” Vidar pressed.

  Still, Galen shook her head, lifting her eyebrows and half smiling, as if in apology.

  Vidar grew more intent. “The guy who knows good from evil?”

  “Give it up, Vidar,” Bellona said, leaning back in the hay and closing her eyes.

  “How is that fair?” he railed. “Everyone gets a story but me?”

  “Your story is still being written,” Niero said gently.

  “Sleep now, my friends,” Galen said. “Morning will come soon enough, and you will need your strength for the journey. Know that I will guard your friend wit
h my life until he’s well enough to come after you.”

  I swallowed hard and turned to her. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m so grateful.”

  She smiled a little and nodded once. But there was sorrow in her too, apology. “I did what little I could. If you could’ve gotten him to me sooner …”

  I closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry. “I know,” I said. But the tears ran then, making my nose drip. I lifted a hand to it, even as the slight woman pulled me into her arms for a moment.

  “You never know how the Maker will answer our pleas,” she said. “Never in my life did I believe my path would lead to sheltering or treating Remnants. If he saw me to this place, he will see Ronan through this place too.”

  I couldn’t say anything, knowing if I did, I was liable to cry and never stop. Mom and Dad joined me, wrapping their arms across my shoulders. Galen backed away, wiping her hands on her skirt. “I need to get back. If anyone’s watching the house, they’ll notice my lights are on late. Turn down that lamp, would you, especially as I leave?”

  Bellona did as she asked, and we were plunged into near darkness.

  Galen turned and slid open the barn door, and we heard it roll shut until wood met wood. The others settled down in the hay, each grabbing a blanket. Vidar was asleep in seconds, snoring softly with his pistol in his hand across his chest. Bellona rolled her eyes and turned over in the opposite direction, her sword at her side. Cyrus went up to the hayloft, intent on “keeping an eye on the road” when he wasn’t sleeping. Apparently there was a window up there.

  Mom and Dad gave me another squeeze and went over to Ronan, and I started crying anew when I sensed their fervent hope, their faith, their trust. I soaked it in as my own until I almost believed my knight would make it until morning. When they were finished, Mom cast me one last, weary smile, and the two of them cuddled together in the far corner, one blanket across them both, their weapons on either side.

  But I couldn’t bear to leave Ronan, weary as I was. He was shivering now, with beads of perspiration dotting his forehead and upper lip, more making his neck and chest shine. I brought the lamp closer and gently folded the blanket back. Only the appearance of the blood on the bandage, seemingly halting in the size of a fist, gave me hope. If he wasn’t losing blood any longer, could his body begin to concentrate its efforts on the wounds themselves?

  Niero came closer and watched me a while. When I bent my head to pray in silence, he did too. But he went to his knees. It seemed right, such action, and I went to my knees too, my hands on Ronan’s arm near my forehead, running hot with fever. The only sound in the room was Vidar’s snore, the slow, steady breathing of our companions sleeping, and Ronan’s chattering teeth, but I could have sworn I could almost hear Niero’s unspoken prayer.

  It filled me like a song, so rich, so deep … and yet as if it were in a different language. It was crystalline. Untainted by human sin or desire. Only joy. Only praise for the Maker. And as I became one with the words, they filled every corner of me, driving out my pain, my sorrow, my fear. Every inadequacy became a realized dream. Every weakness was usurped by strength. I was as I was created to be. Andriana, daughter of the Maker. With a Call upon my very life. A Call I could not ignore, no matter how torn it left me.

  I opened my eyes to look up at Niero, who was standing now and staring intently at me. There was only tender care in his dark eyes. “Daughter of the Light,” he said quietly, and I didn’t know if he spoke the words, or somehow whispered them into my mind. “Do not be afraid.”

  The words made no sense. But as he grabbed hold of his tunic and slipped it over his head, leaving his powerful chest bare, my eyes ran again over the scarred flesh I’d seen before. I remembered the cave, and how he healed so quickly, and how it made no sense that a man so young could have born so many wounds.

  He shifted his shoulders, took a deep breath, clasped his hands, and bowed his head. My eyes grew wide as he continued to pray silently — ​prayers I could somehow feel within my own mind and heart — ​prayers so beautiful that tears streamed unbidden down my cheeks. And that was when I noticed that Raniero was practically glowing, lighting up the far side of the room, brighter and brighter by the moment. But then I saw something at his shoulder, spreading, widening, lifting. My mouth fell open as the creamy feathers of wings rose and unfurled in the most majestic vision I’d ever seen.

  Niero lifted his head and looked me full in the face. “If the Maker asks it of you, you must go,” he said.

  I nodded slowly, aware now that I was in the presence of one of the Maker’s messengers. That this was a Word directly from the Maker.

  “But the Maker cares for you, Andriana, just as he does his servant, Ronan.” He reached across Ronan’s body and let his hand hover over the wound. The light grew brighter, and I had to look around at the others, wondering how none of them awoke to it. Was I dreaming? Wouldn’t Vidar awaken if he sensed an angel here?

  I glanced back to Niero’s hand, but it was too bright to look at for long, so I looked up into his eyes. And there, I saw the barest hint of my friend Niero, the one I’d walked so many miles alongside, the one who had saved me, taken a bullet for me, protected me.

  “No matter how it feels,” he said softly, “you are never alone, Andriana. Never alone. Remember that.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  Then he bent over Ronan’s face and I stilled. It looked like he was going to kiss him. But Niero only breathed air into his mouth and nose from inches away. I could almost smell it, that breath from his lips. It smelled of freshly turned earth. Of water off of snowmelt. Of air at the top of the mountain. Of sun warming rock. Of life. Life.

  “Rise, son of Light,” Niero said to Ronan.

  My eyes moved to Ronan’s beloved face and in wonder, I watched his eyelids flutter, then blink open. Ronan grimaced, shifted as if stiff, and then stretched. Stretched. Like there was no pain at all. Then he sat up, looked over at me and said, “Dri. What’s happened?”

  Raniero smiled then, from Ronan’s other side. He lifted a finger to his lips, even while his wings folded back in and disappeared.

  “How did you do that?” I whispered, tears of wonder streaming down my face. For Ronan, restored. For Niero, so much more than our leader. So much made sense now. “How did I not know it before?”

  “Know what?” Ronan asked, hopping off the table.

  “That Niero is the best possible leader for us,” I mumbled.

  But Ronan was studying the bandage at his belly, not really hearing me. “What’s this?” he asked in confusion, pulling back the glued edge to peer beneath. He peeled it all the way off while I fought back a shout for him to leave it in place. I half-believed he would still be bleeding. But what I’d just seen told me it’d be far different.

  It was. There was bruising, but the wound looked as if it had been stitched months before, barely a pink line, the stitches disintegrated. Vidar had risen behind me and ambled closer, rubbing his eyes. Perhaps Niero’s … glory had awakened him? Niero and I shared a long look.

  But Vidar’s eyes were on Ronan’s wound. “Whoa. How’d that happen?” He leaned in to take a look, then even closer.

  “Vidar,” Ronan complained, shoving Vidar’s head back as he tried to get a look himself. “What happened?” He looked up at me, then Niero.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “It can’t be that long,” Ronan said. The others were rousing around us, blinking at us as if we were a dream. Which I suppose we could legitimately be. For a moment, I wondered again if I was asleep and this was all in my head.

  “Ronan?” Bellona asked. “Ronan?”

  “We have to be going,” Niero said firmly to me and Vidar, pulling on his shirt. He put on his shoulder sheath and slid his swords in. “Now.” He moved over to unhook Ronan, who was even more confused as he traced the tube from his arm to the drained blood bag above him.

  “Now?” I asked, even as I moved to grab a pack and rouse my pare
nts.

  “Yes,” Niero replied, giving me a steely look. There was a reason. A very good reason.

  “All right,” I said, but I couldn’t resist pulling Ronan in for a quick embrace as he rose off the table, wincing, moving as if he was only sore — ​not rising from a surgery that should have killed him. I shook my head in amazement. Everyone else readied to go, but stared our way.

  Ronan glanced down at me, and I understood his fear that Niero would see. That we’d be chastised again, even separated. “Hey, what’s that for?”

  “For not … for being here. With me. I’m so glad you’re with me, Ronan.”

  I saw as he noticed the tears in my eyes. “Hey,” he whispered, turning away from Niero, so that our guide would only see his back. “You all right?” he asked urgently, searching my eyes, lifting a quick hand to my cheek.

  “Never better,” I said brightly, taking his hand in my own. “Come on, Knight. We need to gather our things. We’ve been called.”

  “And we will answer,” he muttered behind me, still clearly trying to figure out what was going on as my mother and father came over to him and embraced him like a long-lost child. I was sure Ronan had no idea why everyone was acting so strangely.

  Niero grinned over his shoulder at me as he slid open the barn door. We ran out in a line, scurrying across the field, back to the safety of the canyon. And as we climbed and climbed, heading north and east under a velvet sky laden with stars, I felt nothing but hope, even in the heart of enemy country. We would make our way out and onward to wherever the Maker called.

  Whenever he called us.