Remnants: Season of Fire (13 page)

No, we would likely give our lives for this cause, to turn the world back toward the Way. To point toward hope. Peace.

“Supreme goals always demand supreme sacrifice,” I muttered, repeating a quote my father had often shared with me.

I waited for him to speak. “It’s selfish, our love,” he whispered slowly, as if each word pained him. “We were born to serve a love even greater than ours.”

He turned toward me again, his beautiful river-green eyes searching me, and I watched as the morning sun filtered through the trees and caught the tips of his dark lashes. The longing, the aching within him doubled my own. “We were,” I made myself whisper.

Then I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pulled him close, resting my cheek against his chest, feeling the comforting
thump
of his heartbeat, the warmth of him as he struggled.

“Dri,” he groaned, his voice strangled.

“I know. I know,” I said, tears rising. “I just need you to hold me. One more time.”

Tentatively, he put his arms around me at last, his hands unmoving. Disappointment sliced through him, and me. A slow, grinding pain, the knowledge of impending division.

“We won’t be separate, Ronan. We’ll be together more than most married couples are.”

“All of the pain, none of the pleasure,” he said with a sardonic laugh.

I huffed a laugh with him. “It’s a gift to be your best friend, even if I can never have all your love.”

When he said nothing, I leaned back to look in his face.

He reached then, to touch my cheek, every bit of his action denoting devotion. “Make no mistake, Andriana,” he said fiercely, but softly. “I intend to see this mission through.” He
put his other hand on my other cheek then. His eyes searched mine, back and forth, and I felt the ferocity of his pledge. “But when it’s over, I will not rest until you are completely mine.”

With that, he kissed me one final time, just the barest, lightest, slowest touch of our lips.

Then he took my hand and led me back to camp.

Ronan dropped my hand as we glimpsed the other Ailith waiting for us, and now I could fully see the village’s huts as they were meant to be, camouflaged to meld with the forest.

“They come once, perhaps twice a moon cycle,” the chief’s husband, Jezre, said as we entered his clearing. People around him were wide-eyed, still hyper alert. Several searched the sky, as if expecting the spy birds to return. Others were shimmying up or down trees — probably those who had alerted the camp to hide.

A clenched-teeth wail from his hut made all of us flinch. Jezre stared back at the hut for a moment, then sank wearily to the ground, and I could feel the heavy mantle of responsibility he carried. We sat down with him.

“So you don’t believe our presence brought them upon you?” Niero said carefully.

Jezre moved his head back and forth as if weighing that idea. “It could be. Kapriel’s escape will chafe our enemy, and they’ll likely suspect us. They will double or triple their efforts to find us. They know we travel by boat. So they search and search the rivers and streams. But never have they come inland, thank the Maker. Despite our efforts to disguise them, they may see our huts and fires and paths between the trees.”

I could see the fear lurking behind his eyes, even as he tried to hide it. Slowly, he looked around his village.

“Two seasons ago, we thought all was lost,” he went on. “We’d been living far nearer the coast, just up the mouth of another river, about three days’ journey from this river. More than half of our village was either taken prisoner or killed on sight.”

“By the Pacificans?” Niero said. “For what purpose?”

Jezre shook his head, and I noticed his long, graying-black hair shimmering in the sun. He had to be past his fourth decade, old for a father. “They called us rebels.”

“You
are
rebels, are you not?” Niero returned gently.

He lifted his thin chin, each motion regal. “We are . . . separatists by necessity. Followers of the old ways. We have not wished to swear fealty to Pacifica, especially as we learned more and more of them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They are difficult to discern without time among them, but once you are a part of their social order, you recognize the deep illness that permeates them. They are of the dark. We have been waiting for . . . you Remnants, really. I believe we’ve been waiting all along, through the generations. We’d heard the foretelling. We knew of your coming, even if we didn’t know your exact shape,” he said, waving over us. “And we hoped. Hoped there would be an alternative. And now here you are.” He swept a gentle smile over the group, but I felt his confidence waver, even as he kept his face steady as his wife screamed in the hut behind him. He grimaced and looked down. When she was silent he said, “We shall aid you in any way possible.”

“But we are not as you expected,” I said.

His brown eyes shifted to meet mine. “No. My father . . . He always thought you would bring an army. Weapons. And many behind you to fight.”

“There are many behind us,” Kapriel said. Bellona shifted to allow him better access to our circle.

“More than even you might realize,” Niero said, nodding to the prince. “And many ahead. Everywhere we go, we will gather momentum now, find people who support our cause and will rise to our defense. Beyond the Wall, there are many who don’t yet see that Pacifica is using them, sucking their resources dry and leaving them to the ways that continue to eat away at their foundations. But the Remnants are here to change that.”

Jezre took a deep breath, tapping his steepled fingers together. “How can we assist you?”

Niero glanced around. “For now, serving as a safe haven as we regain our strength is a tremendous gift.”

“And you have a good knowledge of healing herbs in these woods,” Chaza’el said. “Tressa would do well to spend more time learning of them.”

Kapriel nodded. “Pacifica hordes their medicine to fight the Cancer. If we could make medicine available to the Trading Union —”

“That’d buy further support,” Killian put in. He pushed an errant blond dreadlock over his shoulder. The rest were tied with a leather strap at the back of his neck. “You also have salt.”

“Salt would be of excellent value too,” Vidar said.

“Though it’s more challenging for us to harvest,” Jezre said, “without being seen. It’s best to have wide places, open to the sun, and better farther south, where the sun is more plentiful. Hiding from Pacifica — well, it limits our productivity.”

“The fish,” Niero said. “There are many?”

“More than we can harvest,” Jezre said.

“We need every man, woman, and child on the task,” Niero said. “Dried fish would be welcome in trade. And these pelts,” he said, running his hands over the brown fur across his chest.

“Beaver,” Jezre said. “They’re farther inland, up higher on the rivers, but they are making a good comeback to these streams.”

“Trap as many as you can without endangering their return,” Niero said.

“We’ll need to take a great number of them with us as we travel north,” Kapriel said. “To keep us warm.”

We all looked at him in confusion.

“In time,” he said, nodding once, slowly, as if this should be obvious to everyone. “We shall go everywhere we’ve already been . . . and beyond. Building support. Destabilizing Pacifica’s strength.”

“But not Zanzibar,” Killian said.

His mouth dropped open as Niero met his gaze.

“Everywhere we’ve been, and beyond,” Niero repeated.

Killian cocked his head and folded his arms. “Everywhere we’ve been, we’ve left some serious enemies behind us. And
Zanzibar
.” He leaned forward. “There is no way I’m taking Tressa back there.”

“If the Maker calls us, we shall go,” Niero said calmly.

“Do you not remember where Tressa was when we freed her?” Killian spat. “How close she was to being hanged?”

“If the Maker calls us, we shall go,” Niero said again, staring Killian down.

They were silent for several seconds, before Killian broke
first, shaking his head. “You’re mad! Did they strike you a few too many times across the skull back in Wadi Qelt?”

“Sometimes the right path looks wrong from afar. We will not go anywhere the Maker does not send us. We must trust, Killian. Not in our own strength, but the Maker’s.”

Ronan let out a mirthless laugh and turned away, lifting his face to the sky. He was as stunned as Killian. He turned back, and I could see the agitation within him. “Our enemy actively hunts us,” he said, lifting a hand toward Niero. “Now more than ever, with Kapriel in our fold! And you want to go back to cities they have easy access to?”

“If we follow the Maker’s lead, those cities might become Community strongholds. And not all of our time shall be spent in the cities,” Niero said, his gaze clear-eyed and assured. “There are many communities like this one and the Hoodites. We will sojourn there too.”

I tried to swallow, but found my throat terribly dry. Thoughts of our narrow escapes in one city after another — even from the Drifters. “Why?” I sputtered. “Why must we return to those places? Why not edge around them?”

“Because the people in each of those places are speaking of you, even now,” Niero said quietly. “Don’t you see?” he asked, looking around at each of us. “Hearts are softening. People whisper of the miracles we’ve left in our wake. It’s clear to them that the Maker travels by our side. They are ripe for the Truth. We can turn them, prepare them to take up arms against Pacifica.”

“If Pacifica doesn’t kill us first,” Ronan said bitterly.

“Death does have a way of slowing a man down,” Vidar said, laughing a little at his own joke. Bellona shook her head, clearly not amused.

Latonia cried out from inside the hut, and we all held our breath.

Tressa came out a moment later, her ivory skin covered by a sheen of sweat. We waited for her to come near. “It appears we have a long day before us. Can you come and pray over her?”

As one, we rose, immediately moved by her suggestion. It felt more like a command, like the Call.

Jezre grabbed Chaza’el’s arm as he turned, and shook his head slowly, sorrowfully. “We’ve never had a babe born alive. Latonia . . .” His words trickled away as he looked to the trees, his eyes bright with tears. He turned away, and I felt the shame within him. “She can’t survive many more losses.”

Chaza’el turned and put a hand on his shoulder, as his wife cried out again from the hut. “Today, Jezre, you will greet your son.”

Jezre glanced at him, hope and disbelief warring within him.

“But we must pray, brother,” Chaza’el said. “
Pray.
”

CHAPTER
11

ANDRIANA

N
iero insisted we pause to give Kapriel his armband first. “Whatever’s about to happen in there,” he said, gesturing to Latonia’s hut, “I think we need all Remnants with every bit of the gifting the Maker has granted them. Agreed?”

We readily nodded, none of us in a hurry to face the laboring chief, except for Tressa, who had probably already witnessed a hundred births as a healer. So we quickly gathered, with many of the Aravanders around us, and Kapriel pulled off his shirt. I swallowed hard when I saw Kapriel’s back, crisscrossed with long, red, angry scars, evidence of a whipping. It made me grieve what he’d been through and feel guilty over defending Keallach. But I put his brother firmly out of my mind as he placed his right hand on my shoulder, preparing himself, as Chaza’el knelt at his other side.

My skin tingled with anticipation of what was to come, the
most vivid visitation from the Maker I’d ever experienced. But Niero was moving quickly, reciting ancient words that we were coming to know well, words we loved. And then there was fire, and a rush of wind, and we were done, Kapriel crumpling forward, gripping his arm, face full of wonder.

Niero gave him only a couple of moments to gather himself. Then, as one, we entered the chief’s hut, and the smell of blood and sweat was nearly overpowering. We crowded in, shoulder to shoulder. Two women supported Latonia from behind, a blanket draped over her legs. I braced for a funny comment from Vidar, but for once, his eyes were wide and his lips were clenched shut. Chaza’el, Kapriel, Vidar, and I gathered around the laboring chief’s back.

“The babe is breech,” Tressa said lowly, as Latonia cried out again and panted through a contraction.

“How can we help you?” Kapriel asked.

“Pray with me as I turn him. Latonia is terribly weak, but if we don’t do this, the babe will not survive. She might not either.” Her last words were in a whisper, and I wondered if I’d imagined she’d even said it.

“Save him,” Latonia said, reaching out and grabbing Tressa’s arm with such force, the skin turned white around her fingers. “Even at the cost of my life. Please,” she said, and then her voice softened, weary tears slipping down her face. “Please.”

Chaza’el came closer and took the woman’s hand from Tressa and held it in his own. “Latonia, I have seen it. You will be holding this baby by noon. And he will be a great leader for your tribe. Just as you helped to deliver us, we shall help deliver you.”