Season of Glory

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Vidar kneeled beside her and gazed at the woman, brow furrowed with concern. “Long has this city been heavy with the weight of the dark, woman. You yourself bear the burden of many demons. But we have come to bring the light.” He lifted his hands to the woman, as did Tressa. The rest of us laid a hand on Tressa and Vidar’s shoulders or did the same as they had, raising our hands toward the fortune-teller as if covering her, blessing her.

  “No!” screamed the woman, falling back as if our action brought her physical pain. And I glimpsed the bent, grotesque forms of many, clinging to her back, her neck, her side. “No!” she cried again, writhing now on the ground, tearing at her clothes. “Leave us!”

  “We have come to claim you,” Vidar continued. “To destroy those who hold you captive.”

  “To set you free,” Tressa whispered, her face and tone reverent. “In the name of the One who was, and is, and is to come.”

  “In the name of the One who was, and is, and is to come,” we repeated.

  The woman gasped, grew rigid, every limb and digit stretched taut. Then she convulsed, ramming up and down until I feared she’d render herself unconscious. Tressa scrambled forward to cradle her head—keeping her from injuring herself—praying all the while. The rest of us prayed too, each in our own way. Free her, Maker. Make her yours. Drive away these dark ones. Fill her with your light.

  And then she abruptly relaxed, every bit of her body calming. I felt the darkness recede and slide out the door, like an inky tide. The woman blinked heavily, her brown eyes gradually clearing. Vidar was grinning and reached for her hand. “Rise, sister. You are free of the dark ones who have ruled you for far too long.”

  She looked up at him, and I knew the swelling wonder and gratitude within her as my own. Tears fell down my cheeks as she took Vidar’s hand and rose. When we had entered, we’d seen a haggard and wild woman. Now she was serene, not beautiful in an outward sense, but so clearly beautiful from a that it took my breath away. This was true beauty, I thought. Light indwelling what was once a dark shell. This was life.

  “Use this mouth,” Vidar said gently, lightly touching her lips in a blessing, “to speak of what has transformed you. Use these hands,” he said, lifting hers in his, “to help others. You are the Maker’s, and he is yours. You will find continued life and light by remaining in relationship with him.”

  She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking at him and Tressa and the rest of us. “Bless you.”

  “May the Maker bless and keep you,” Niero said and then turned to go, expecting the rest of us to follow. Reluctantly, we did. Much in me wanted to remain, to know more of this woman and why the Maker wanted her freed. I knew from our last visit that this city held hundreds like her, and I wondered why she was set apart. But the answer would have to wait for another day.

  As we ran down the street, we noticed many of the city’s people had begun to gather alongside the road, kneeling in submission. Some begged forgiveness. Others praised our arrival. Many had tears on their faces. But we didn’t have long to tarry. We knew we had to get to the castle for some reason, and quickly. We passed by the people who had surrendered—tenfold our own number—touching heads and hands, praying for them as we moved on. Later, we could divide up and reach them all, but now, the tension gathering in all of us told us one thing: do not let your guard down. I likened the urge to a crazy itch, or the desire to scrub away some dark spot from an otherwise pristine, white surface. An infection needed cleansing in order for it to heal.

  We rounded the last corner, and there it was before us. The towering castle, with its elegant turrets and windows. I think we expected Sethos and the Pacifican guards to begin firing at us from their assigned positions above. My armband had grown colder, and the Maker was definitely leading us inward, but what we discovered confused us.

  There was no one on guard.

  The doors were wide open.

  Behind us, some of the city’s people had followed—more than fifty, many of them very young. Niero turned and growled at them. “Be away from here! It is dangerous!”

  Some scattered immediately. Others backed away a bit but hovered, curiosity beating out any sense of risk. We knew well what captivated their interest, regardless of the danger. Why would the palace be open? It felt like a trap. And yet this was exactly where we had to be.

  “Gather around,” Niero said. We pulled into a tight circle, heads huddled together. “You know what is ahead, just as I do. Within those castle gates, we are bound to encounter new ways for the enemy to challenge us. It is the reason they leave the gates open—they’re confident they can bring us down if they can just get us inside. This is a battle we must fight, but we must do it alongside the Maker, not on our own. Do you understand me?” He paused to look around, lingering on Keallach and me. “Do not let your gift lead you—let the Maker lead you. Call upon him constantly. Put him first, not yourselves. We will stay together whatever comes, because together, we are strongest. And Knights, do not get separated from your Remnants. Kapriel and Keallach, Azarel and I will be by your side without fail.”

  We all nodded and straightened. Wordlessly, Keallach took the lead. He, of all of us, knew the castle best. We had some experience with the kitchens and large meeting spaces and hallways, but something told me we wouldn’t find our enemies there. They were pulling us in, deeper. Kapriel was a step behind Keallach, to his right. Azarel was beside him. Niero was on Keallach’s left.

  Five paces from the door, curved sword in hand, Niero bade us to stop while he went ahead, cautiously approaching the open doorway and peering inward. When he had cleared it, he gestured for the rest of us to follow.

  As soon as we entered and paused, we heard it—someone singing, from far away. The tune sounded familiar, but I could not make out the words from this distance. My skin prickled, as again, we saw no one. Only heard the haunting voice, carried along the marble floors and plastered walls to our ears.

  We passed the grand reception rooms, then the sprawling dining room where I had first encountered Maximillian Jala. And it was in passing that room, seeing the sun glint through the windows, that I remembered where I had first heard the song that was being sung ahead of us. We could make out some of the words now, and I knew that the girl had been singing for some time. Her voice was clearly strained, hoarse, giving out through some phrases.

  Even before we turned the last corner to see her halfway down the hallway, I knew who it would be.

  The same girl who had been singing in the courtyard the first time we were here.

  The one who seemed to be singing to me, aware of my arrival when no one else had known yet. I’d gone to the castle windows as if called by her voice, and she had looked right up at me as she sang.

  “And upon the field, and upon the plain,

  The Ailith rose where they were slain,

  And forevermore, whene’re she sang,

  He wept and wept and wept again.”

  When she saw us, her eyes widened with a combination of terror and yet also relief. Her voice faltered, and her next lyric trailed away. A man stood beside her, a sword tip held to her throat.

  Lord Maximillian Jala.

  I’d tried to kill him. I must have nearly been successful—there’d been so much blood that day in the palace. And yet now he stood before us, and he knew I’d tried to kill him.

  “Welcome,” he said, with his smooth, handsome grin. “Come in, my friends. This singer has a fresh refrain to her song that she wishes to share with you.” He pressed the tip of his sword a bit deeper, and a trickle of blood began winding its way down the girl’s throat and through her cleavage. “Go on, my darling,” he crooned to her, as if she was a songbird to be coaxed with silvered words, rather than a woman held captive. When she remained silent, he turned toward her, stroked her cheek with his free hand, and then let his fingers drift through her blood, smearing it across her chest. “Now,” he growled, no measure of cajoling remaining i
n his tone. “From the beginning.”

  She began to warble as he turned back toward us, watching us approach, his eyes mostly on Keallach and then me. When our eyes met, he rubbed his bloody fingers together and lifted them to his nostrils to inhale. I knew what he was doing—reminding me of the moment when we’d been captured in this castle. The moment he had actually tasted my blood and looked like he wanted more. My pulse quickened as bile rose in the back of my throat.

  But could it be that we were merely to hear this song and face this lone man? It seemed impossible that we were called here for this. Was it just a distraction? We all looked about, wondering about hidden passageways, possibly full of our enemies, ready to pour out around us. We stopped, giving each other enough room to move in case that happened. And yet we remained rooted to the spot, listening to the song as the pale girl—sweat dripping down her face and neck, mingling with her blood—finished her task.

  “For once the king loved, and once he called,

  But weakened, he fell upon the wall.

  Even as Knight and Remnant, one by one,

  Breathed their last and knew the gall.”

  Knew the gall. The gall of what? As the last note hung in the air, Maximillian dropped his sword, and the girl slumped in a dead faint. Niero only narrowly caught her before her head hit the marble tiles. But Lord Jala had grabbed hold of Keallach’s wrist and swung him wide, ramming him into one wall. I heard the crack of a bone—his collarbone? Shoulder?—and Keallach gasped. I did too, reeling from the surprise and anger and pain I felt from him, ten paces away.

  But Maximillian didn’t relent; he dragged Keallach back to where the girl had been singing, where the floor had now collapsed into an open trapdoor.

  “No!” I cried, knowing we were too late, even as we charged forward. Both disappeared below.

  The floor-tile doorway clicked shut just as Azarel reached it, a second too late. Madly, she felt the perimeter of it. She looked up to Kapriel. “Where does this lead?”

  He looked stunned, face blank. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “I don’t remember that being there at all.”

  Azarel rose, face grim as she looked to Niero then back to Kapriel. “Think, Kapriel. Do you know how to get below? Is there a dungeon below? There has to be a foundation level to this massive structure, at least.”

  “I was only here as a child,” he said, frowning and shaking his head, as if trying to reach for a memory. “And I don’t think I was ever below this floor.”

  “That’s where they lie in wait for us,” Niero said grimly. “Why we can sense them but cannot see them. They mean to do battle with us in the depths.”

  I swallowed hard. The whole castle above—with all its beauty—reeked of evil in my nostrils, the place always sending shivers of warning skittering across my skin. But going below, to her very foundation?

  I steeled myself. I was with Ronan. The rest of the Ailith. Our friends. And the Maker. He had called us here.

  Together, we would see it through.

  CHAPTER

  37

  KEALLACH

  They shoved a hood over my head and dragged me forward, yanking at my injured arm until I saw bright spots of color, even in the dark. I tried to summon the strength to cast them aside, but they seemed to know my injury weakened me in other ways. With the constant pressure on my arm I could barely get a full breath, let alone move them from me.

  A man cruelly pulled my wrists together behind me and swiftly chained them, then pressed me forward, a hand on my shoulder in an excruciating hold that made me eager to do anything he asked of me. Indeed, I tried to anticipate his direction before we turned corners in order to not add any extra pressure at all.

  I knew from the earthy, damp smell that we were beneath the castle, near the dungeons, but heading farther west, to the vast underground storehouse that held inky space and soaring arches and crate upon crate of supplies.

  It had been a place where Sethos had favored bringing me during our long training sessions. But it had been my least favorite spot in all of Castle Vega. I could smell the tang of torch oil and glimpsed patches of light behind my hood. I knew there were hundreds of places for our enemies to hide, lying in wait for my brothers and sisters, who would undoubtedly come after me.

  I was yanked to a halt and heard the clank of another chain, then I gasped again as my wrists were lifted and the chain grew taut above me. I cried out, in spite of myself, pain shooting through my shoulder and seeming to pierce my temple like an arrow, over and over. I fell to my knees with my arms wrenched at a sharp angle behind me, lifted until a man growled, “Enough.”

  He pulled the hood from my head, and I blinked as my vision swam.

  I’d expected Sethos—had felt the chill of my arm cuff become ice—but it was Max, backed by the remainder of my Council. “Welcome home, Highness,” he sneered, bending to pat my cheek. He straightened, hands on hips, as I surveyed the rest. Two sat on crates behind him, Fenris tearing off a stray nail, Daivat leaning back against another crate, leg casually swinging beneath him. Kendric leaned against a pillar, arms crossed.

  “Release me,” I panted, blinking as a bead of sweat dripped into my eyes. “I command it.”

  “Command it?” Max scoffed. “Your days of commanding anyone are over, Majesty. You were supposed to infiltrate them and bring home Kapriel and your bride. Sethos was quite clear.”

  “And I attempted it,” I said, my mind racing, trying to buy time. “But my efforts were thwarted. In time, I came to peace about it. Because I found another way. And has that way not brought both Kapriel and Andriana right here?”

  Max let out a scoff. “You found another Way, all right. You became the head of the enemy’s party! Zanzibar? Georgii Post? Now Castle Vega? To us, it seems like you’ve been conquered, swallowing the story of your fairy tale birthright hook, line, and sinker.”

  “It is not a false tale,” I ground out. “It is living truth. Release me, and I shall tell you.”

  “No,” he sniffed. “We are well aware of your gifting. Sethos believes that in this posture that gift can be controlled. You need your hands before you.” He nodded, and a guard beside me wrenched cruelly upward on the chains again. I thought my wrists would break. I fought for breath as sweat ran down my brow and into my eyes.

  “I am your emperor,” I seethed, reaching hard to try and make them remember the power I once wielded.

  Max leaned down. “Until you convince us otherwise, you are nothing more than a prisoner.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts into a believable tale—some way to win them over to get out of their cruel hold. “When I arrived at the Citadel, it became clear that I wouldn’t be able to convince Kapriel to leave. He is too ingrained with the rest, and the others were too protective for me to get him alone. Instead, I focused on rebuilding our brotherly trust, and I was fairly successful at that.”

  “Kapriel forgave you for … everything?” he said, his voice dripping with doubt. “The Isle of Catal? Leaving him to languish? Your parents?”

  I stared back at him, remembering how I had once loved him as my best friend. I now hated him and wished I could send him sprawling with a wave of my hand. “My brother has a greater capacity for forgiveness than I ever shall have,” I spat out.

  “And the lovely Andriana? What came of your efforts with her?”

  I glowered at him and turned my face away. Just remembering my move on her the night before—my efforts, as he put it—made me despise myself. I had done as Sethos and the Council had demanded, even though I knew it was wrong. With Kapriel and with her. And yet it was all confused in my mind, because I wanted both of them. Wanted a deeper relationship, wanted access. Wanted control … Oh, how I wanted to control both of them. To own them. To know they served me.

  I winced and moved my head slowly, feeling the dark pull again, capturing me, weaving tendrils around my mind and heart, confusing my holy want with my human desire.

  Maker …r />
  “You came close to victory, didn’t you?” Max whispered, turning a small circle around me. “But then they managed to turn you for their own goals. You abandoned us,” he said. “Betrayed us.”

  “No,” I whispered back, confusion swirling my thoughts. “No.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did,” Daivat said, coming closer, arms crossed. “We trusted you to do this, Keallach. Believed in you.”

  Believed in me.

  Niero’s words came back to me. Trust in the Maker, not your own gifting.

  This is not about any of you. But him. The Maker.

  Maker, I thought again. Maker. Help me. You reclaimed me. Help me now.

  Max stumbled backward as if I’d hit him, as did Fenris. The others were on their feet, edging closer, two of them drawing swords, as if I’d drawn my own. And perhaps I had.

  Max advanced on me, digging his fingers across my head, as if he wished to will his own thoughts into mine.

  I cried out, a shameful, unmanly cry that I could not keep from escaping my lips.

  “Stop it,” he hissed. “You are ours, not theirs. Ours!”

  My heart lurched, swelled, and then felt as if it were being torn in two. As if I was being torn in two, straight down the middle, the dark on one side and the light on the other. “Maker,” I gasped.

  “Shut up!” Max cried, leaning away to backhand me across the cheek.

  My resulting swing to the left wrenched my injured shoulder again, and my vision swam, making me dizzy.

  Max leaned in and pulled me close. “Are we losing you, Keallach? Ah, well. As you give into unconsciousness, think back on your promises and the call of the one who made you all you were meant to be.” His tone dropped. “Who is that, Keallach? Who made you who you are, not in legend, but in real life?”

  The Maker, was what came to mind first. But soon after, Sethos. He was the one who had stood beside me for so many years. The one who had helped me usher Pacifica into an era of wealth and prosperity and relative health. The one who had placed me on the throne.