Season of Glory (41 page)

“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.

“Do you surrender?” Maximillian asked, stepping toward me.

“Yes,” I said nodding, smiling. “Yes.” As he got closer and took hold of my wrists,
I looked up into his face. “I surrender to the One who was, and is, and is to come!”

He released me as if I'd burned him, but it was my turn to grab hold of his wrists.
“You knew him once, Maximillian Jala. The One who brought you into the world . .
. before the one who seeks to master this world mastered you. But you
were born to
serve your Creator, Max. Born for more. Not more things, not more power, not more
control, but to serve the Eternal One. Isn't that what you seek? Eternal power? And
yet there is only One who holds that in his hands, and it is not Sethos or the dark.”

He grew desperate, trying to pry my fingers from his arm, looking as if he was considering
biting me in order to make me stop. I could feel the cold pressing in, more Sheolites
approaching . . . the
whoosh
of Sethos's wings landing nearby, then Niero's.

But I bent my head and laid my life in the Maker's hands—along with Max's—knowing
that this was a critical juncture, not just for me and our cause, but for this man
before me, so hateful and yet redeemable still.
Maker, open his heart. Open his mind.
Let him feel your vast love and forgiveness—

I didn't see the sword coming, but I felt the impact at my side. I crumpled to the
ground, more fearful of losing my grip on Maximillian than death. But I could only
relinquish to gravity's pull. I went down heavily, feeling the ripping of flesh and
muscle and sinew. Only then did I lift my hand to my side and feel the warm wet of
blood, far too much blood.

I blinked quickly as my vision tunneled, fighting to stay true to those I was with.
Across the room, I saw Ronan, dreadfully still—dead?
Please, Maker, let him live
.
And at my side, I saw Niero land, blocking a Sheolite scout's next blow across my
chest, then Sethos's attack too. As if from far away, I felt the tickle of the feathers
from his wings across my cheeks and felt as if they were stroking my face, encouraging
me to remain, to not give in to death.

You serve the One who breathed life into you, Dri. Cling to him.

I will.

Stay with us. In this life.

I'm trying.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, as if it aimed to generate more blood
to replace what I was losing. I reached out red-stained fingers to touch the tip
of Niero's wing, dancing before me as he defended me from Sethos and others, and
frowned as I noticed I was leaving crimson stains on the pristine, ivory feathers.

And then I felt horror emanate from our angel-protector, the first clear glimpse
of emotion I'd ever felt from him. I managed to turn my face upward, and his horror
became my own.

Because Sethos's sword had pierced him through.

Its bloody point was above me, at Niero's back, glistening in the torchlight.

He held his second curved blade to block Sethos's next blow, but he was clearly faltering.

The feathers from his wings were shimmering, almost becoming translucent.

“Niero!” Azarel screamed, the name hovering in the echoing chamber, even above all
the shouts and groans and cries about us. She was swooping in—an angel too, I saw
now, observing it not with shock but with dim recognition of something, again, that
I should have known as fact.
Azarel is an angel.

One of her arrows hit Sethos in the shoulder, but he merely grimaced, twisted it
from his flesh, and flung it away.

Niero fell to his knees, his hands trembling, fighting to hold on to his blade but
clearly unable to lift it.