Remnants: Season of Fire (9 page)

He turned in a tight circle, and then again, then brought the engine to an idle. We all stared at him as the mist began to turn into a light rain. “Uh, Niero,” Vidar began. “Are we going to —”

Niero lifted a hand, shushing him. And in a moment, a boat emerged from the coastline — a river mouth, I realized — and came toward us. At the back was a dark-haired woman, perched behind a massive machine gun. We hadn’t seen anything like it since the Drifters, on land.

“Uh, Niero . . .” Vidar said again.

“It’s all right,” Kapriel said, sharing a look with Niero. “They are friends. I’ll explain everything once we’re clear.”

I stared at Vidar as he rubbed his cuff, as I did too. And
neither of us knew foreboding or worry in those moments. Only warmth. Gladness. Promise.

Niero and Kapriel’s new friends circled us, and when they’d exchanged a hand signal with him, they pulled alongside. “Everyone in that boat,” Niero said, and we made our way into the larger vessel. The small, sandy-haired captain with light amber eyes helped each of us aboard, and when Kapriel crossed onto her deck, she knelt.

“My prince,” she said. “I am Aleris. It is an honor to serve you.”

“I shall find a way to repay you, friend,” he replied, and I started at the royal edge that now laced his tone. “I understand that you and your tribe have taken great risk to assist us.” I studied Kapriel, and reached out, wondering if I would detect pride, arrogance. But there was nothing but joy and gratitude within him.

Niero was last aboard, and after he clasped arms with the new captain, he turned and stared at the boat we’d just left as it drifted away on a swift current.

Were we just going to let it drift out to sea? Such a valuable commodity? Surely we could sell it to somebody, even for a fraction of its worth —

He turned and nodded at the woman behind the machine gun, and she lifted something from her belt, pressed a red button, and we heard the pop of a light explosion. Immediately afterward, the boat’s nose began rising, faster and faster, even as the bottom sank. In ten breaths, she was entirely under.

“Oh, I
need
one of those,” Vidar said, sidling up to the machine gunner and gesturing toward the remote triggering device. “And tell me about this beauty,” he added, running his
fingers along the massive shaft of the gun. But his eyes were solely on the dark-haired girl.

She tossed Vidar a saucy smile as a wave hit our boat and almost sent him to his knees. “I’d sit down if I were you.”

He straightened. “Nah. I’ll get my sea legs soon enough,” he began.

But Aleris pushed her boat into action, and we all lurched with the motion. Vidar wasn’t ready, and careened forward, making Bellona laugh. He landed half on a cushioned seat beside the gunner. He flipped and shifted as if he’d planned to do just that, all along, and then winked up at her. “Me falling at your feet. How can you resist?”

“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes. But I could see the hint of a smile behind them.

The captain took us back into the river mouth and expertly maneuvered up the winding waterway, dodging rocks and sandbars, which became progressively more challenging the farther we went. The banks narrowed inward, and in places we moved against a current so strong that we slowed. But then the river widened again and we surged forward. The gunner moved to the front and turned on a powerful light that illuminated the obstacles before us, which were hard to spot with only the last vestiges of twilight.

We traveled so long, I wondered if this river might eventually reach the eastern border of Pacifica. Where had they obtained such boats, and the petrol to run them? They were relics of the age before the Great War, and I had a hard time believing that Pacifica would knowingly let such machines go
to anyone but loyalists. I shivered in the cold; even Ronan’s hands were like ice. I found myself praying we’d soon run out of fuel so that the wind would cease, at least. But then, around the next bend, the river spread even wider and almost stilled, reflecting the stars above. The captain brought her boat to a swift stop. She cut the engine, cupped her hands around her mouth, and made the bright chattering sound of what I guessed was a local bird.

We paused, all searching the riverbank, and the collective tension I felt made me want to close my eyes and scream. But at last an identical call sounded from the riverbank. There was rustling among the reeds, and I blinked, trying to see if I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing. It was as if a gate had opened, and what once appeared as just part of the river became another dark waterway.

Aleris smiled and started the engine again, moving slowly toward the channel and into it.

I felt Ronan tense beside me, then edge between me and the channel bank, just a leap away. Bellona moved in front of Vidar. Killian in front of Tressa, on the other side. Raniero, I noted, stood between Chaza’el and Kapriel, but he seemed relaxed, confident. We could see the movement in the shadows, heard the stretch of a bowstring pulled taut, again and again. But as soon as they saw the captain and the gunner, the bows were lowered and we could hear the murmuring of excited chatter as we passed.

“They’re Aravanders,” Chaza’el whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.

“What?” I said, not knowing if I should look at him or the many people who now followed our progress up the channel. But his excitement and sense of glory was tangible.

“Rebels, people of the river,” he said, “on Pacifica’s northern border. We’re now farther north than even my mountain is. I . . . I’d thought Aravand a myth, legend,” he said, staring into the dark, towering trees that now surrounded us.

Aleris laughed, the sound of it rich and full of joy. “Our tribe is worthy of the stories people tell,” she said, grinning over her shoulder at him. “As you shall soon see.”

The engine was cut and two boys leaped aboard with ropes, gradually pulling the boat to a smooth stop by wrapping them around trees along the edge, as if they’d done it a hundred times before. Perhaps they had.

We gazed up at the gathering crowd, covered in what appeared to be pelts of some river animal. Otter? Beaver? Did they survive in this part of the country? I didn’t know. The Aravanders’ faces were mostly a uniform brown with dark eyes, and they stared at us hungrily, as if we were characters rising from the pages of a book. Half of them were armed with bows, arrows nocked.

A chiding voice cut through the din of their chatter, and the crowd split. A tall, elegant woman about my mother’s age moved toward us. She smiled in welcome even as she spread her arms wide, then clasped her hands quickly, in wonder. With the movement of her robe, I saw that she was heavy with child, though she moved as lightly as a girl. It shocked me; I’d never seen a woman so old — well past her third decade — pregnant. There was a wide gap between her top front teeth, and yet she seemed exquisitely beautiful. Behind her were three men, one who edged closer to her as if intent on protection. Her husband?

She seemed unaware of him, her eyes only on Kapriel as he exited the boat. Just as the captain had done earlier, she sank
to her knee, every bit of her movement full of grace and dignity. Her people immediately imitated her action, each taking a knee and bowing their heads. “My prince,” their leader said, eyes to the pine needles before her. “You have no idea how long we have prayed for this day.”

“The Maker has heard those prayers, Latonia,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “And others’. Our day has come,” he said. “The night has been cold and long, but now morning is upon us.”

CHAPTER
7

ANDRIANA

O
nce we were out of the boat, the others covered it with many dirt-colored tarps and then laid branches across them, effectively disguising it. I looked upward, wondering what they feared from the air, or how anyone could see anything beyond the river. There was good reason that Aravand had remained hidden, “a myth,” as Chaza’el had called it, for decades. While seemingly settled, it appeared that the tribe could pull up stakes and leave within minutes.

I inhaled deeply and smiled. It felt so good to be in the forest again, the scents different in this place so far from the Valley but similar enough to feel like home. I sensed Ronan’s pleasure too, as well as Bellona and Vidar’s, and yet the reminders made me feel a pang of melancholy too.

I shoved away thoughts of my home. Of the blood, so much blood. Mom’s handprint near mine . . .

We padded along the path, winding our way through the woods in utter darkness now. I wondered how Ronan could see enough through his one good eye to so confidently lead me forward, but then his night vision had always been sharper than mine. For a moment, I remembered that terrifying first night when we’d felt the Call and known the Sheolites were near, hunting us. In some ways it felt like years before. So much had happened over these last months as Harvest faded, edging nearer and nearer to Hoarfrost, that it felt almost as if both seasons had come and gone rather than just a few cycles of the moon. Even now, our breath clouded before our faces.

I smelled the fires before we saw them, and I shivered in anticipation of getting out of the thin white gown that marked me as a prior prisoner of Pacifica and into the warm robes of the Aravanders. I wished we had had the opportunity to wash the salt of the ocean away in the river before we’d left the fresh water. Perhaps we’d have the chance come morning. Though, truth be told, I felt too weary to truly care about anything more than food and sleep and a warm change of clothes, and my companions were much the same.

Ahead of us, Kapriel stumbled — plainly spent — and Raniero wrapped his arm around the smaller man’s waist. There was something about the way Niero moved that told me he hurt, but my eyes remained on Kapriel. “It is too much,” I said, wrapping my hand around Ronan’s arm. “He’s not been out of his cell for so long. And now . . .”

Ronan put his other hand on mine, reassuring me. Ahead, we could see the dark shapes of the tree trunks against the approaching fires. “It’ll be all right. It’s a lot,” he said, “but our prince draws from a deeper well than most. After a night’s sleep we’ll all feel better.”

“I hope so,” I said, forcing myself to form the words. Even the thought of it made me want to plead for a place to rest and eat and talk come morning. But I knew propriety wouldn’t allow it.

Boys with torches joined us, and we entered a village of small huts, one on each side of the small path we walked. The huts were uniform in appearance, each with a low doorway only waist-high, their roofs made of what looked like pine branches tightly wound together. People poured from them as we passed, and shouts of celebration kept erupting from one or the other as word spread that Kapriel was here, and with him his Ailith kin. The villagers stared at us in barely concealed awe, and over and over again, they clapped, eyes bright in the firelight. A song began from somewhere behind us and overtook those around and in front, until we were surrounded by such a sweet, haunting song that we all came to a halt.

I listened, their combined voices sending shivers down my back. They sang of the Maker, of hope, of promise. And every note brought the words into vivid color.

Kapriel collapsed to his knees and I gasped, thinking he’d fallen again, but then saw his face turning to the skies above. Niero immediately took a knee beside him. The rest of us did the same, feeling the song swell to a crescendo, and I stared up at the stars the Maker had put into place, then around at friends — unmet brothers and sisters — he’d placed here too. For their sakes, and ours. And there was such an overwhelming surge of joy, within and without, that I found tears streaming down my face.

We continued to lift our hands to the skies as the villagers reached the end of their song. With the last note fading, we were silent, and the silence was almost more a moment of
sheer, perfect praise than the song that preceded it. I scarcely dared to breathe, wishing it could go on.

It was Kapriel who tried to rise first, and faltered. Niero gained his feet and helped him up. As before, he wrapped his arm around Kapriel’s waist and I was again struck by how oddly my friend moved. I’d spent enough long days on a trail following the man and the rest of the Ailith that I’d be able to know their movements by shadow alone. Was Niero suffering from an injury? What had they done to him, back at Wadi Qelt, when he was captured? What had he endured in order to escape?

My mind went back to seeing his bare back and chest in the soft, flickering firelight of the Hoodites. The hundreds of scars . . . and the swiftly healing wound he’d just sustained. He’d been bathing alone, when he thought us all long asleep. Would he wait for a similar opportunity here? I doubt he’d allow me to surprise him again, even though I longed for another glimpse of his back, a mystery I longed to unravel. He was only a little over two decades old. And yet his skin looked as if he had been in constant battle for centuries.

Huts, covered with bound, green tree limbs, were nestled here and there, usually against taller underbrush. There was no uniform circle, but there were greater numbers of the huts as we neared what had to be the center of the Aravander camp. In a small clearing was the huge fire that we’d glimpsed through the forest. Women and men were tending to spits that surrounded the bigger fire, some turning meat that splattered hissing grease to the coals beneath while others fed the flames with more dried wood. Cries of welcome moved through them along with the murmuring of news shared, so that soon all knew what had transpired on this day.