Remnants

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  “A couple hits, when they took us,” I said, brushing his hand away. “It’s to be expected. I’m fine.”

  “She fought like a true Ailith warrior,” Niero said, his voice croaking out. All of us turned to him, laid out against a grassy bank.

  “Niero,” Bellona said, falling to her knees beside him.

  “Niero!” I cried, falling to his other side, taking his hand in mine.

  He took a deep, faltering breath and looked each of us in the eye. “I’m alive. Thanks to the Maker. And Andriana.”

  “And Socorro,” I hurriedly added, my eyes wet with tears, looking for my new friend. I made way for Tressa, who knelt beside Niero. By the light of the shepherd boys’ lanterns, she’d prayed over him and dressed his wound, but now, in the daylight, she moved to unwind it and see if there was something else that could be done.

  Niero caught her wrist and shook his head. “Not now. We must get to the Hoodites. Then, you may see to me.”

  Tressa paused and then nodded once. Vidar produced a canteen and Niero drank deeply from it.

  A few minutes later, more Hoodites approached, and they carried a stretcher, woolen fabric stretched across poles.

  “Let’s get you in,” Ronan said to Niero, gesturing to the stretcher. Killian waited on the other end.

  “I can walk,” Niero muttered. “If you’ll just help me to — ”

  “We’ll make better time with this.”

  “But I — ”

  “C’mon, Niero. In you go,” Tressa said, urging him toward it. “With as much blood as you’ve lost, you’re liable to faint dead away at any moment again.”

  “I very much doubt that,” he said, still resisting. Was that a hint of pride within him?

  But we all circled around, arms crossed, until he did as she asked.

  We set out again, Vidar taking lead, his pistol in hand. I was behind him, with Ronan carrying the front of the stretcher and Killian the back. Tressa and Socorro were in front of Bellona, who brought up the rear, an arrow nocked on her bow. Vidar studied the cliffs that surrounded us, as if wary of an ambush. But all we saw as we hiked were the Hoodites giving way to a massive, smooth, silver-stone cliff, and all we heard was the thundering waterfall ahead. It was a long time before we finally saw the falls, and when we did, we paused to admire it. Where there was less velocity, it spread wide and ran down the face of the cliff at the edges, creating beautiful, painted colors beyond it on the rock — a natural painting of bright green, a brilliant aqua, and blood red in waves. In the center it spread in an even sheet, misting upward from the pool at the bottom.

  “It’s the color of your eyes,” Ronan whispered to me.

  “Hey, Dri,” Vidar said over his shoulder, when we moved out again, his tone oddly hushed. Vidar was never hushed. He was a little short on breath too, by the sound of it. I opened my eyes wider, realizing that I was feeling incredibly drowsy, exhausted from the pain and trauma of the night. Practically asleep on my feet.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tressa told me … She said you said on the canyon rim that your gift is unfolding, growing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Emotions now feel stronger to you, now, when you touch someone?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, blinking slowly, forcing myself to take a step and then another rather than shuffle and likely trip.

  “Mine too.”

  That got my attention. “What?” I forced my eyes open and stared at the back of his head.

  “I mean, not emotions. And touching people. But my, uh, vision? My understanding of light and dark? That’s changing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can see them, everywhere.”

  Ronan spoke up. “See what, specifically, Vidar?”

  Vidar paused. “You know.”

  “Vidar,” I said wearily. “We don’t. What? Shadows and light?” What else did a man with the gift of discernment see?

  “No,” he said. “Angeli e demoni,” he whispered over his shoulder in what I guessed was an old language, as if he didn’t quite dare to say it in our own. Vidar wiped his right cheek against the shoulder of his shirt, clearing it of sweat, and then studied the ridge. “Like up there,” he said, “above us.”

  I looked up to the waterfall, then along the cliff, but I saw nothing. “On the ridge?”

  “Yes. There are about twelve of ’em, I think, all along the ridge.”

  My eyes widened and I searched the ridge too.

  I was about to tell him I didn’t see anything, but then I reached out to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and get a better read on his emotions. Fear startled me — but it was a respect kind of fear, not a scared kind of fear. Then awe. Wonder. And such a sure gladness … it was almost as if I had seen them, through him.

  “Angels, huh?” I said.

  “You see them too,” he said, hope lacing his tone.

  I smiled. “No. But I can feel your emotion, brother. And your heart tells me what my eyes cannot.”

  There was a mixture of sorrow and gratitude that came from him then. To be understood, at least on one level, was a blessing; to not be able to share our gift, truly share it, was somewhat isolating. I knew it well.

  “What do they look like?” Ronan asked.

  I liked how he understood too, in measure. How he never doubted Vidar. Believed him from the start.

  Vidar searched the ridge again and tripped over a rock, barely keeping his feet. But he didn’t seem to notice, other than hurriedly holstering his pistol.

  “I’m not sure. I can just barely make them out. But they seem to be waiting on us or something.”

  “Indeed,” Niero said from his stretcher, looking up to the ridge. Ronan and I shared a look. Could Niero see the angels?

  The closer we got to the waterfall — and presumably, the angels — the more my armband emitted a low, pleasing thrum. Vidar stumbled a couple of more times, and me behind him, so enrapt that Ronan yelled at us to pay attention to where we were going. It felt like he barely heard Ronan, and I understood why. I couldn’t release his shoulder, so engaged was I at the wave of wonder and joy that washed through him, again and again. What would it be to see angels?

  “They are here to watch over us,” Vidar said. “Welcome us. We’re right where we’re supposed to be,” he said, in such wonder that I felt warmed to the core.

  I thought about that. About the Drifters. About the pain. Had the Maker used it all to bring us here? Was that his way? And why here?

  And, Maker? Couldn’t you have managed to direct us here without Niero getting shot?

  The shepherd boys took us on a path that led under the waterfall, spraying us so thoroughly my entire front was wet, then led us deeper in, behind it, into a natural grotto that spread wide above and around us, and was covered with green moss at the edges. I smiled. Sometimes you have to brave a little wet to enjoy getting dry, my dad used to say. Memory of him saying it — and thinking of how he’d love it here — made me a little sad. All their lives, my mom and dad never left the Valley, their only thought to protect me. To raise me to take this journey, to answer this call.

  Ronan led me to a roaring fire, ringed by stones that warded off the damp chill of the cave. Tressa moved to Niero, sitting across the fire from me, but he again waved her away, toward me, whispering something to her as he moved off his stretcher and leaned back against a sloping boulder and closed his eyes. She reluctantly left him and came to my side, studying my face with the practiced eye of a healer.

  Killian brought her a bag, and two children brought her a pot of steaming water and rags. She set to work on my face, gently washing away the blood that I hadn’t known was there, then mixing a poultice together to pat across my bruises. She dipped a cloth into the steaming water, wrung it out, and then handed it to me. “Let it steam against that for a while,” she said, her blue eyes looking into mine. “Do you have other injuries, Andriana?” she asked gently, under her breath.

  I could feel the heat of my blus
h and quickly shook my head, knowing she had guessed the sort of treatment I had endured in the Drifter camp. “Thankfully, no,” I said lowly. “But had not Socorro come to my aid …” My voice cracked and I knew my blush likely deepened, judging from the fierce heat beyond the steaming cloth.

  “Thank the Maker he did,” she said, patting my arm, and in her touch I felt no judgment, only understanding, empathy, care.

  People brought me water — and food, delicious food, trying to tempt me and nourish me, even in the midst of my weariness and distraction. Dimly, I acknowledged a portion of pink fish, cooked over the flames and handed to me on a stick. And with wonder I took what looked like corn from a young girl offering it to me. The tiny, beautiful, light yellow kernels were in perfect rows, and seemed stuck to what felt like a small rod the size of my fist. Flame-roasted leaves held it like a plate.

  I looked from it to the girl, who had another in her hand. She giggled. “You haven’t seen corn before?” she asked, biting into her own.

  “Have you?” I countered, lifting it up to smell it. My mouth watered. “I ate some from a can, once. Long ago. This is almost too pretty to eat, in those perfect little rows.”

  She giggled again, and was about to take another bite when her eyes opened wide.

  My armband began to thrum again, and for a moment I wondered if Vidar’s angels — our angels — had entered the grotto. And as much as I wanted to take a bite of my corn, I wanted to see who’d arrived more. The people in the grotto — more than a hundred strong — parted to make way for a small woman, with dark hair shorn to just inches. She wore boots, pants, a sleeveless shirt, and what appeared to be a vest made out of some dark animal skin. Across her olive-skinned forehead she wore a braid of leather, but it was another braid that drew my attention.

  Around her right forearm, she had the tattoo of an armband, exactly like our cuffs.

  She took a skewer of fish from a boy who offered it to her and took a bite, even as she grinned at us Ailith, looking each of us in the eye. She moved to grasp arms with Niero, still seated, smiling down at him as if they were old friends.

  Then she came to me and squatted. Without asking, she rested a gentle hand on my head and bowed her own, as if listening. My armband hummed with pleasure at her arrival, and my mind burned with a thousand questions.

  At last she smiled into my eyes. Her own dark, sparkling eyes lilted in a cheery slant against her dark skin, reminding me a lot of Niero. “My friends,” she said, setting aside her fish and giving us a regal, royal bow, then rising to look at us all again. “Long have I waited for this day. I bid you greetings in the name of Kapriel, true heir to the throne. I am Azarel of Pacifica.” She spoke with a royal edge, crisp and yet full of depth. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before.

  “You … you know Kapriel?” Vidar asked. “You know where he is?”

  Her smile faded and I felt her pain. “Not at the moment, though I’ve searched every path opened to me over the last year, which eventually led me here. Perhaps now that we’ve been joined, the Maker shall illuminate Kapriel’s hidden prison. For we are to free him,” she said with a single, confident nod, bringing a fist to her chest.

  “You are Ailith?” Tressa asked, gesturing toward Azarel’s tattoo.

  “No. I am but Kapriel’s servant, and now yours too.” She ran a small hand over her arm, across the tattoo. “Kapriel dreamed of this mark, every night, for over a year. Together, we took the ink to commemorate the vision. When the Hoodite shepherds saw you,” she said, looking to the children, then over to me, “captured and stripped, exposing your armband, we knew. We knew. The Maker had brought you to us. I’ve been here for weeks, waiting on word as to where I was to go next — but on and on, he bid me to remain. To be still and listen.”

  “The Maker speaks to you,” Killian said flatly.

  She cast him a curious look. “As he does to every one of his faithful. Have you not heard him? You, who travel with so many with high gifting?” Her brow knit in confusion.

  “You speak of hearing him,” he repeated, looking back at her as if she’d gone crazy. He shook his head, sending his blond dreadlocks bouncing about his shoulders. “As I hear you now.”

  She paused. “Yes. And no. It’s more of a listening, deep within. An understanding sort of ear. I hear him in bits, phrases. But it is enough.”

  “It is a high gift, like those of the Remnant,” he said, looking at me, Vidar, and Tressa, eager to explain it away. “She must be Ailith.”

  “No. It is a gift, but for everyone of the Way,” she said, crouching and biting into her fish. “Be at peace, brother. There is time enough to speak of such things. But tonight we must eat and decide where we are to go next.”

  “We heard of another, a follower of Kapriel, living among the salt caves north of here,” Ronan said. He folded his arms. “A man. We were heading in that direction when we were confronted by the Drifters.”

  Slowly she looked away from Tressa to Ronan. “You’ve heard of our brother, Asher. He was living and ministering to the faithful there, true. Building a Community to serve the coming king, as I endeavor to do, everywhere I go.” She studied him. “Apparently, the Maker’s plans were different than your own, bringing you here, to me. Because I can tell you that Asher left the salt caves weeks ago. He was on his way to Georgii Post.”

  “Georgii Post,” Ronan allowed, a shadow of challenge in his eyes. I knew what was irritating him. Her demeanor was overbearing, almost lordly. As if she was in on every secret. But I saw Raniero took her manner in stride, as if he was not bothered by it.

  I bit into the corn and the creamy, roasted taste exploded in my mouth. It was so much better than what I’d even remembered.

  Azarel laughed at my expression. “Delicious, isn’t it? You must try the alpine strawberries and fiddlehead stew.” She rose and went to a table, then brought some of each to me. Three tiny red berries and a bowl of creamy, green soup. Then she went to get more for my companions.

  I tried the soup first, wanting to reserve the bright-colored berries. Whatever the green fiddleheads were, I knew I liked it. There were bits of dried meat and potato in the stew too. When my wooden bowl was empty, I set it aside and popped one of the precious berries — fresh, not dried — into my mouth.

  Azarel laughed again, and I decided her laugh was like music, a bright, happy tune, which seemed to lighten her heavy bearing. She wasn’t mocking me — only amused. “You don’t normally eat the stem of the berry.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, still chewing, not wanting to swallow yet, because then the sweet, tart taste would be gone from my tongue. At last I swallowed. “Where did you get those? And the fiddleheads? Do they grow here?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Along with leeks, kale, arugula, fennel, and more. Dagan, over there, can show you, when you’re up to it.” Her eyes drifted to where I still held the cloth against my poultice. Her eyes narrowed. “I heard you were taken captive by the Drifters. Did they hurt you quite badly?” she asked gently.

  “Not in any way that won’t heal,” I said.

  She nodded in approval, taking a sip from her soup bowl and studying me so intently, it made me skittish.

  I glanced over to a reedy young man of perhaps two decades, the one named Dagan. He shifted and smiled shyly as if he was honored by Azarel’s attentions, and a bit in awe of us.

  But as I tossed the last berry in my mouth, feeling it ignite taste buds I hadn’t known I had, it was I that found myself in awe of him.

  CHAPTER

  16

  I slept soon after supper, exhausted from my trials as well as the relief in our rescue.

  I awakened in the deep of night to the sound of the falls, the crackle of the nearby fire. I reached down and felt the stones from the fire they’d set around me, and they were still lukewarm. All around, the Hoodites and Ailith were asleep, reminding me of the cave full of Drifters last night, and yet so different. So very different.

  The feel, th
e spirit of true Community. For the first time, I began to believe all I’d been taught from childhood on. That it wasn’t just a time to come, a dream held for generations. I was living it, right here. I wasn’t just a part of seeing the Maker’s vision come to pass. I was a vital aspect of it.

  A movement over by a pool of water that drifted inside the cave drew my eye, and I noticed Raniero. He was naked to the waist. Unwinding the bandages, washing the blood from his torso. I sat up and then gingerly stood, feeling every ache and pain of the battles and abuse I’d endured, and yet I also felt alive, so alive and free. Was it my escape? Or this place?

  I carefully moved past Ronan, sleeping at my head, and between Tressa and Killian’s mats, making my way to Raniero. He was trying to reach his back with a sponge, to wash away the dried blood there, and looked up at me when I neared, then away. Was I intruding? Was it too private? And yet, did he not need assistance?

  I remembered the moment the Drifter’s bullet struck him. How I had the sensation that he was broadening, stretching, to protect me. I’d felt the impact of the bullet as it struck him. The wave of his body, slamming against me, shuddering from the pain …

  I crouched behind him. “Here. Let me,” I said, reaching my hand out for the sponge.

  “No, I’m fine, Andriana. Go back to sleep.”

  “I had to let you go, Niero,” I said miserably. “Drop you off the bike. That moment … It was terrible. Please, let me. It will make me … feel better. To help.”

  He sighed and handed me the sponge. I rubbed it over the wide breadth of his bronze skin, frowning as the water illuminated scars across his back. A hundred battle scars, faint but present. Some of them were massive. I frowned. He wasn’t that old. Only a few seasons older than we. How had he gathered so many wounds? Healed so many times? And in what battles?

  I knelt by the pool and rinsed out the sponge, glancing over at him. “You want to tell me how you received all those scars on your back?” My eyes flicked down to his broad, sculpted, naked chest. I could see more there too, faint, raised, pale lines