Sethos. My master. I’d failed him. Fell to weakness, surrounded by the Ailith. Failed. Failed, failed, failed …
Max smiled and patted my cheek. “There you are!” he said cheerfully.
Even that tiny motion set my shoulder on fire. And then the room was spinning again and, blessedly, I succumbed at last to unconsciousness.
CHAPTER
38
RONAN
In Palace Pacifica,” Dri said, taking my hand, “we got down to the dungeons via the servants’ staircase. Think it’s the same here?”
“It’s a good guess,” Niero said. “Anyone go below, last time we were here?”
Everyone shook their head. “Only up,” Vidar said.
“Let’s try it,” Niero said, already running down the hallway. We all followed behind, nervously checking every doorway as we went. I kept Dri to the center of the hallway, ready to yank her away from trouble if someone came from the opposite side and protect her from my side too. But I grimly admitted to myself that we were just going deeper into the trap.
“Wait!” I called, and Niero and Azarel pulled up, looking back at us.
“I don’t like it,” I said, shaking my head, feeling my cheeks heat as I wondered if they’d think I was a coward. “We’re just getting farther from any escape route down there. What if we wait for them to approach us upstairs?”
Niero frowned and looked to Vidar. “What say you?”
Vidar shifted and glanced my way, then to Niero. “I don’t like it either,” he said with a shrug. “Our enemy is ahead. But so is our brother. And if we don’t go after him now, he might be dead or lost to us. Somehow, they’ve curtailed his gifting, captured him. I think it’s his hands, Niero. Somehow, he needs his hands to be free in order to use his gift. And they’ve figured that out.”
I swallowed hard. It was true. And we needed Keallach and his gifting if we were to win this war and honor what the Maker had put into motion.
Niero looked each of us in the eyes. “All right, I think we’re in agreement. But stay together. Do you understand me? We work together. Keallach is our example—if they get you alone, they can expose a weakness. Those who are not Ailith, spread out along the perimeter once inside, and work your way inward. Be ready for my call. Those who are Ailith, stay together. Defend one another.”
His instructions were passed backward. I felt like we were a powerful, tremendous force, but having to enter through a solitary doorway only big enough for one man or woman at a time sent alarms ringing in my head. “Stay close, Dri,” I hissed. She nodded and squeezed my hand, following behind me as we entered the dark, musty hall.
Ahead of us were two huge Aravanders, plus Niero, Azarel, and Kapriel. Tressa, Killian, Vidar, and Bellona were behind us. Every protective fiber in me rose at the thought of Keallach, swiped from our very grasp. The fact that they were able to accomplish such a feat burned, and I inwardly vowed that neither Dri nor Kapriel would be taken away from me in similar fashion. Not while I was still living.
We walked between two banks of cells, and I was chagrined to see people wasting away within them. Some came to the iron bars, reaching out grimy hands to beseech us to save them. If the Maker would smile upon us over the next hour, perhaps we could come back this way and find a way to free them. Even as we passed, Tressa hurriedly went to the well and took the full bucket that sat there taunting them, and passed it to the nearest cell for the prisoners to share.
“Bless you, lady, bless you,” the prisoners murmured.
But our attention was on what was before us. A line of torches lit up the cavernous room beyond that spread the entire width of the castle, from side to side, and was braced by huge stone arches that climbed three stories above us. It was a foundation level, providing the strength to shore up the weight of the impressive towers and rooms above. It was an architectural triumph, really, something I’d read about in the construction of castles of old, but had never seen for myself. Palace Pacifica likely had something similar, but there I had focused on getting up above, to Andriana, rather than beyond the dungeons that once held me.
I pulled her a bit closer as my arm cuff grew Hoarfrost-cold. Grimly, I recognized we were heading right where we were supposed to go. To face our enemies. What form would they take this time? I was glad for the additional troops, spreading now around the massive hall’s perimeter. They would flush out any enemy hiding among the crates and bales of supplies. We walked and walked and finally saw Keallach, hanging by a chain with his arms cruelly pinned behind him, on his knees, clearly unconscious.
Rage set my heart to pounding, even if it was Keallach. He was our brother. Our kin. They would pay for his mistreatment.
“Together, Ailith,” Niero said, drawing both curved blades out as the Council stepped into view, each carrying his own weapon. “Work together. Do not let them separate you.”
“Niero,” Kapriel whispered, belatedly understanding as he stared in horror at his twin. “Down here … without reach of the sky …”
We all comprehended his meaning at once. This was why they’d divided the twins. Why they had kept Keallach from lifting his hands before him, and separated Kapriel from the weather he could command. And without the twins’ full gifting at our disposal, this would be a more challenging fight than we’d even imagined. We’d lost our two chief weapons. My hold tightened on my sword. Killian, Bellona, and Dri tensed around me. Azarel drew back on her bow, arrow notched, and Vidar’s fingers danced over the triggers of two pistols. Tressa—bless her—shouldered a shield; I knew she had several daggers at her belt, but her most significant weapon would be to pray protection for all of us at the front—and for healing over those who fell.
“Welcome, welcome,” Maximillian said from behind Keallach’s shadowed form, lifting his hands and flashing us a grin, as if we joined him at a banquet table instead of this dank pit. “How I’ve longed for this day.” With those words, he brought his hands together and smiled over at us. “Undoubtedly, you thought you’d seen the last of me,” he said, moving around Keallach’s inert form. “Thankfully, Pacifica boasts some fine physicians, and they were able to save me from death’s fearsome clutches. I regret to say, however, that none of those healers are here, in Castle Vega. So as each of you”—he paused to look down the line of us—“lies dying here, your blood seeping between the blocks of this wonderful castle, know this—no one will come to save you.”
“It is you who are in mortal danger,” Niero said. “You are surrounded, our soldiers moving closer even now!” He shouted the last of his words, and they echoed through the massive chamber, giving those with us the signal to move in. Then he turned back to Lord Jala with a narrowed gaze. “Surrender now, and we shall not kill you. We will set you free with enough water and food to cross the Great Expanse on foot and see where the Maker’s will leaves you.”
“Well,” Lord Jala sniffed, “I don’t much care for the sound of that. Your own journey brought you close to death, did it not? Before you reached the emperor’s sanctuary?” He glanced down at Keallach, as if our brother was sitting on a throne instead of in chains and unconscious. In that moment, I saw the glint of madness in his eyes and knew that our last battle had not only done damage to his body, but also to his mind. He’d always hovered at the edge of it. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe that’s my chosen end.” He drew out his sword and stared straight at me.
Sethos chose that moment to enter the circle of light cast by the torches, his red cape swirling about his legs as he stopped. I felt Andriana shrink back a bit, farther behind me. “So there shall be blood,” he said, looking at Niero. “Or we shall take Keallach, Kapriel, and Andriana and depart, leaving you and your precious Ailith whole.”
“Never,” Niero ground out, his ivory wings peeking up over his shoulders.
“Never say never,” Sethos said, dark wings unfurling. “Attack!”
The two rose in a streak above us, staff and curved blades clanging as crates all about us opened, the
men hidden inside letting loose a battle cry. My momentary hope that we outnumbered our enemy fell away like grim, dry flakes, and I turned to counter Lord Jala’s first strike.
He was surprisingly strong, given his grave injuries just weeks before. I remembered him bleeding out across the intricate, beautiful flooring of Palace Pacifica and wished I had finished him then so he wasn’t here today.
“No, Ronan.” Dri’s quiet voice reached my ears. “We won’t beat them in a battle of hate, only love. Reach for it.”
I frowned, frustrated at her confusing words. Irritated by them. Could she not see that I battled to save her? To save us and all we believed in? And yet her words niggled at me as I turned, sinking against Lord Jala’s third and fourth strikes, driving him backward on the fifth. It is true, I thought. The enemy deals us lies, and I am accepting every card.
Dri followed us, lifting her hands, whispering a prayer for me … and, unexpectedly, for Maximillian Jala. I swallowed hard as I heard her utter his name, battling between wanting her to cease and wanting her to continue. Because in her words, I sensed the balm of the Maker’s sweet call, his guidance, his leading. My love was following where the Maker led her. And my best path was to follow her along the Way. In that vein, I became stronger with each strike.
“Stop it,” Lord Jala seethed, trying to strike at her, but I blocked him. “Tell her to stop it,” he said, jutting out his chin.
I grabbed his wrist, turned, and yanked him over my shoulder, throwing him to the floor. “I do not correct my wife when the Maker has called her to do something. Nor should you,” I said, setting the tip of my sword at the hollow of his collarbone.
He lifted his hands in surrender, letting his sword drop from his fingers with a clang to the stone beside him. I battled between ending his life and giving in to the call to mercy, to love, to all that Dri was praying for right now. Even for an enemy such as this. Had not the Lord of Zanzibar turned to the Way too? Dri was praying that Max would turn, see the light, know the Way that was true.
Sweat drifted down my brow as my sword hovered.
“What, Knight?” Jala goaded, eyes narrowing. “Can you not do it? Is it not within you?”
Such hate wafted in his eyes, such malice, that it was all I could do to not end him there and then. Above us, Sethos and Niero still wrangled. In a circle, all about us, soldiers fell to wounds or deathly blows. I had no time for this. I had to move on to aid the others! But still, Jala’s gray-green eyes held me.
He grew still, curious, and I knew then that Dri had knelt and laid a hand on his arm, still praying. But his eyes were on me, distant, cold, as if waiting for my deathblow. But there was also a spark of wonder, curiosity, and hope kindling behind them.
I paused, sucking in my breath.
This was what it felt like to be the Maker.
To hold life and death in your hands.
To decide.
Half of me wanted to destroy this man, who had wreaked havoc upon my wife, Keallach, Kapriel, my friends, my community.
Half of me wanted to save him.
Maker, not me, but you. What would you have me do?
And the Maker stayed my hand. I’d swear it … he physically kept me from piercing the throat I longed to run through. He reached for Max. Reached for him. Even him.
Slowly, I knelt and set my sword carefully to one side. Then I took Lord Jala’s tunic in my hands and raised him up to my face, until there was but an inch between our faces. “Know this, Maximillian Jala. I wanted nothing more than to end your life this day, but the Maker has chosen to offer you one last chance.”
He blinked and shifted his gaze, considering my words. For a moment, there was hope—wild hope—within him, which I could feel as clearly as if I had Dri’s own gifting. But then it was gone. His eyes grew hard, and he laughed. “Fool,” he said, waving an arm.
I sensed the incoming strike too late. It hit me partway back on my skull, sending me reeling from Max, over and over. In the distance, I heard Dri scream and Lord Jala shout. But I was fighting unconsciousness. My vision steadied a moment, and I lifted myself with one arm. Then my head spun so wildly, I collapsed.
ANDRIANA
We had been so close.
I’d felt Max falter. I had a vision of what Keallach and Kapriel and he could do together, leading a whole new Pacifica in partnership with—not domination of—the Trading Union. Freeing the innocents who toiled in the mines, ceasing the kidnappings, and more. And beyond that, I had felt the hope flicker within him of something more, something beyond himself. A connection, brief as it was, with the Maker who had given him his first breath.
But just as quickly as he’d recognized the Maker, he denied him. And that action, though I should’ve expected it, hurt me as much as if he’d driven a sword through my belly. I ached over it, felt the sheer, heart-stopping folly of it. To deny the One who formed you and invited you into a relationship with him? To deny the One? I couldn’t get my head and heart around the idea. The only way I came close was to think of myself as a god too. How else did you not bow down to the One who ruled the beginning and the end, when forced to face him at last?
I cried out as a Pacifican dealt Ronan a terrible blow, and he faltered and then fell unconscious. I picked up my sword and ran to keep his attacker from killing him as he lay there, vulnerable, narrowly blocking our enemy from decapitating him with his first strike and eviscerating him with the second.
I leaned closer to the young Pacifican, noting his skin covered in pimples. “Turn away from Lord Jala,” I said, “or he shall destroy your future.”
“I follow the master!” he sneered back. “Not a bit of a girl.”
“But I am a Remnant,” I said, lifting my brows. “Do not tempt me, or I shall loose the full weight of my gifting upon you.”
“I know who you are,” he said, shoving me backward and bringing his sword up between us. “What threat are you, Andriana of the Valley? Shall you kill me with love?” he taunted, eyeing me head to toe and back again. “Perhaps that’s the way I would wish to die,” he said, mouth twisting.
His words angered me at first, and then I considered them more fully. Flinging aside my sword, I leaped at him, grasping hold of his neck and arm and willing nothing but love and mercy and compassion into him.
At first he struggled, but it was only seconds before he was gazing at me with rapture in his eyes, tearing up, looking at me as if he wanted to cradle me in his arms and never let go. But it wasn’t love or lust for me, it was gratitude, in its purest form. For the One who had brought him into life and seen it through. And in sharing it with him, my anger and frustration with him—every bit in me that marked him as enemy—turned to love and compassion, making me want to weep.
“This love,” I whispered in his ear as he slackened in my arms, “is born of the Maker. Go and serve him. Fight those who fight against him. Let it be known that you are his soldier and no longer his enemy. Tell them why. Because you know love—the purest love of the Maker—for the very first time. And you will never go back.”
He gaped at me, tears streaming down his face. “How could I? How could I ever turn away from this?”
I smiled. “Go and serve him. And fight those who deny him.”
“Yes,” he murmured, looking around the room, a sea of fighting men and women. “Yes.”
I released him and turned to the next man who advanced on me, hope sparking in my heart. Could it be so simple? To awaken the Maker’s love in each man or woman I met? Show them who they should be fighting for? Remind them of who gave them life from the very start? My heart swelled with the knowledge that this was a latent part of my gifting that I had never tapped into. A way to fight, to break, in a manner that made sense to the soul. I had known I could will emotion into others, of course. But I’d never thought to push people into facing the realities of their Maker’s love. Not to brainwash or change their minds, but to open the door that so many had firmly shut and locked behind them.
This made me think of Lord Jala. I saw him, rising now, wiping his sweating forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. Ronan had come close to slaying him. I’d felt Max falter, had almost visually seen his defenses down. And then he had chosen against the Maker. Could I help him cross the bridge he was so adamantly opposed to crossing? I moved toward him, electing not to draw my dagger or pick up my sword. For this battle, I would use only the gifting my Maker had bestowed on me.
I knelt and prayed over a Pacifican, unconscious on the floor. Then I went to Vidar, who struggled with another, the enemy’s sword nearly at his neck. I reached out and laid both hands on our enemy’s shoulders.
“What … are … you … doing, Dri?” Vidar choked out, face straining and sweating while keeping the larger man at bay.
But I didn’t answer. I only prayed that the Maker would show this man—once a little boy—what it meant to be loved through and through, not for what you’ve done, but for who you are … and who you were made to serve.
I felt him physically falter. A moment later, the man cried out and dropped his sword. Both he and Vidar gaped at me, but I continued on, touching a Pacifican woman who had shot her last arrow, gripping her arm even as she thrashed—until she knew. She knew. I felt the knowledge flow over and through her with all the relief of a cooling bucket of water after several long, dusty days on the road. Her eyes rounded as she whispered, “Thank you.”
I grinned and looked around, silently asking the Maker who was next, who I might safely reach, when my gaze landed again on Lord Jala. But my actions had stirred our Sheolite enemies, and several scouts advanced on me from all sides. Even Sethos, high above us, still battling Niero, looked down at me with hatred in his eyes.
Azarel took on two of the Sheolites; Vidar and Bellona the others.
But I knew what I was to do.
Maximillian stared at me, wondering at my lack of weapon. My palms opened to him as I approached. If I could just reach him, show him what he was missing, turn him to our side, then the rest of the Council was bound to fall.
Season of Glory Page 30