Season of Glory (29 page)

We turned a corner and at last saw Tressa and Killian. He had an arm around her waist,
and she looked beyond weary, her task clearly taxing her strength. I'd been so afraid
that the reason they didn't return to us was because they'd been killed. Blood completely
covered both their shirts, and I knew it had to be from a combination of repelling
our enemies and tending to the wounded.

“There are so many . . .” Tressa said, pushing the back of her hand to her brow and
meeting my gaze. She knew I felt the collective pain in a way that even she could
not. It bonded us.

I reached out and took her other hand. “The Maker will sustain us all,” I said, realizing
I'd adopted Ronan's comforting words. It was what we all needed. To focus on our
one, true, eternal hope. Anything else, as today had so vividly shown us, was temporal.
“We're to meet. They're bringing Vidar. Niero seems to think . . .” I paused, my
voice cracking.

“It's bad,” Ronan said. “Vidar needs you, Tress.”

Killian nodded, pulling Tressa along, but it wasn't long before she knelt beside
an unconscious man. “We'll be right there,” she said, looking up at us. “I know we're
to go to Vidar. But the Maker calls me to heal this man first.”

Ronan looked at me in desperation. We were close to the passageway that led to our
quarters, where our parents were. While Tressa prayed over the man, we might have
just enough time. Wordlessly, we agreed, practically running now. If anything had
happened to our parents, if they'd come out to try and help defend the others . .
.

But then, there they were, outside the reinforced door, working together to aid those
around them—bandaging, bringing water. Ronan's mom had a child on one hip, his face
covered in tears and snot and misery. Ronan went to them, and I to my parents, hugging
them and directing them to the meeting place. “We have to hurry,” I said. Mom and
I led the way, with Dad behind and Ronan and his parents following.

We were halfway there, relieved to see that this quadrant of the Citadel seemed to
be fairly untouched by the destructive path of the Sheolites, when my arm cuff began
to chill. “Mom,” I said, reaching out to grip her wrist, frowning, turning, trying
to ascertain where the threat was coming from, even as I saw Ronan press toward us.
But by then, they were there—two Sheolite scouts who had been left behind.

Or had remained behind, hoping for just such a moment as this.

They both struck at me at once.

If Mom hadn't managed to block one's blow and drive her dagger into his neck, I would've
surely died. The other was fierce enough—seemingly as strong as Sethos in his manic
drive toward me—that he almost cut both my belly and neck by the time Ronan and Dad
intervened and made sure he never rose again. Only as my cuff began to warm did I
begin to breathe normally again. Then, I looked around at our parents with pride
in my heart. All four held both sword and dagger or shield in their hands. Somehow,
I thought that if Ronan and I hadn't had our trainer, these four would've done their
best to prepare us to survive.

“Why?” Ronan asked, panting. “Why is it always
you
that they're after? You that they
find?”

“Those two weren't out to capture me,” I said, my voice trembling a little. “They
wanted me dead. Come,” I urged as Tressa and Killian caught up to us, wide-eyed as
we wiped our blades of blood. “We need to get to the meeting hall.”

We set out again, this time with Ronan and Dad taking the lead and me paying special
attention to any warning the Maker might be sending me through the arm cuff. But
I only felt growing warmth.

When we reached the hive-like room, I wanted to weep at the sight of all the bloody
and hastily bandaged elders, and at how many of their seats were empty. I stopped
when I saw where the oracle had once sat—the ancient woman who was blind and yet
could see more clearly than others. Tyree was here without Clennan, grief etched
into his face, and when Tressa saw him, she let out a cry, knowing what it meant
right away. Her foster father—the only father she'd ever known—was now gone. Tyree
took her into his arms, and they cried together. It was as if the Sheolites had come
in with a special focus on killing every elder and Ailith possible, but the carnage
they left behind told me they'd had instructions to kill anyone in their path.

Mentally, I breathed a sigh of relief as each of my brothers and sisters—Azarel,
Cyrus, Asher, Niero, and the others—arrived. But Vidar was still unconscious, and
when Azarel and Asher helped Keallach and Kapriel carry in Chaza'el, lifeless, I
cried out and went to them. I choked out a sob, looking at his black eyes—eyes that
would never see our future again. I closed my own, tears coming fast then, and heard
others around me. But Niero put his hand on my shoulder. “Come, sister. Pray with
us for a brother we might yet be able to save.”

I tore myself from Chaza'el and entered the circle around Vidar, joining hands with
the others. Bellona was on one side of him, Tressa on the other. He was still terribly
pale, his skin an odd gray, as if chilled to the bone, but he was sweating at the
same time. Tressa had both palms on his chest, head bowed, praying. And quietly,
we all echoed her words. “Maker of all, we commit our brothers Chaza'el and Vidar
into your care. Chaza'el has gone ahead of us, but we beg you to spare Vidar. Bring
him back to us, Maker. Knit together his wound from the inside out.” Gently, she
moved her fingers to hover over his wound—fiercely red around the cauterization.
“Just as you knit him together in his mother's womb, Maker, knit him together again.
Keep his heart steady, his breathing sure. Bring him back to us 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, over and over.

“You are Shammah, ever-present, Maker,” Tressa prayed, and I could hear the tears
that threatened to choke her as she invoked strange, ancient names for the One who
spoke us into life. Had an elder dared to share them with her? My heart thrilled
to the names that I felt I should've known all my life.
“You are Nissi, our banner.
You are Raah, our Shepherd. You are Tisdkenu, our righteousness.” Even with my eyes
closed, I could see the room was growing brighter, the torch flames rising. Heat
flooded through my arm cuff. The presence of the Maker was so tangible that I could
barely breathe.

“Maker, you are Rapha,” Tressa whispered. “Our
healer
. Holy and mighty, holding all
our lives in your very hands. Bring Vidar back to us now. We ask this in your name,
above all names.”

And then it was done.

Tressa was silent. We were silent.

But Vidar did not respond.

And still did not respond . . .

I opened my eyes just as Vidar blinked slowly and then focused on each of us. “Finally
. . .” he mumbled, barely able to form the words, “I'm the center of attention.”

I huffed a laugh, sinking to my knees, and the entire chamber exploded in applause
and cheers, even from those who ailed.

On the edge of our circle, I saw Keallach sink to his knees too, mouth slack with
wonder.

Bellona closed her eyes and lifted her chin, her face so open in gratitude for a
moment that it took me aback. She was beautiful as her usual fierce self, but she
was even more so when she allowed herself to be vulnerable. “Thank you, Maker,” she
breathed.

“See? You do . . . love me,” Vidar said, closing his eyes and wincing slightly.

“Does it hurt?” Tressa asked him. Killian had come around Vidar to kneel at Tressa's
side, his arm again around her waist.

“Only a lot,” he said, giving her a rueful grin. “It feels like I've been in the
worst battle of my life.”

“You have,” Niero said. “In more ways than one.”

The way he said it, I knew that we'd almost lost Vidar. By the look on his face,
Niero had felt Vidar's life slipping away. Perhaps as an angel, he could sense it
in a different dimension than we had. I looked over my shoulder to where Chaza'el's
body lay, aching that we could not have saved him too. Ronan put his hand on my shoulder,
and I welcomed his wordless reassurance.

“So what shall we do now?” Kapriel said, turning to speak to the rest in the chamber,
as well as to us. “The enemy has shown us that we are vulnerable, even here.”

“They've declared war,” Killian said, helping Tressa to a bench and wrapping a blanket
around her shoulders.

“We need to leave the Citadel,” Keallach put in, lifting one hand up and away. “To
remain here is to invite them to continue to come after us. We need to divide and
hide, as the Drifters and Aravanders do, making it harder for them to find us and
destroy so many of us at once.”

“They would not have been able to harm us here,” said our trainer, rising to his
feet, “had they not had the helicopters and missiles. Both their arsenal and such
distinctive weapons must be removed if we are to have a hope in this battle.”

“Ivar speaks with wisdom, as does Keallach,” said an elder.

As surprised as I was at praise for Keallach, the use of our trainer's true name
struck me even more. Ronan and I shared a glance. We'd long tried to guess his name
as children, but he never told us if we were right or wrong. His identity was hidden
for his safety, and that meant going so far as to not use his name. I never knew
where he lived, just as I never knew where Ronan lived, or his parents. But the elders
knew him. They'd likely commissioned him on the day my parents and Ronan's arrived
with us in their arms.

“We could go east and north, deeper into the cold, to my people,” Barrett said, from
halfway up the chamber. “They would welcome you, and the Pacificans would find it
a hardship to bear further cold and wet, especially with Hoarfrost upon us. You
could spend the season among us, allowing the wounded to heal and welcoming more
who seek the Way. We could send out guerrilla parties to destroy the enemy's helicopters
and missiles, assuring a fairer fight come next Harvest.”

“That is what they will expect of you,” Keallach said. “
Us
,” he quickly amended.
“They will assume we will flee. What if we make it look like that's what we are doing,
but catch them by surprise?” He began to pace, drawing each person he looked toward
into his words, and I glimpsed the charisma that made him a natural leader. “They
expect us to run, but the Maker did not call us to do so. He called us to fight for
what is right and true. He called us to fight for what is his—his people.”

I stared at him, his words resonating in a new, impossible way inside me. His people.
His children.

“It is true that the Maker calls us as such,” Ivar said gravely, studying the young
man from under bushy brows. “But discerning his timing is key. We must not rush
to respond to our own agenda or vendetta but, rather, to follow his lead.”

Keallach nodded, accepting the subtle challenge with good grace. He was growing,
maturing, before my very eyes, I thought. Maybe we all were.

“There are people here and about us who are called to the Way,” I said, surprised
to find myself speaking, but unable to stop. “Everywhere we go, they come to us.
Others come to us who have never met us. Some of you came to the Valley that way.
But there are others, behind the Wall, who have been
imprisoned and enslaved. Even
now, whispers of our presence might have reached them, perhaps giving them hope of
rescue. Many of them are children, and many will not survive another Hoarfrost, even
in Pacifica's more temperate zone. If we are to take the fight outward, I can't help
but think that saving those children is a part of the Maker's mission for us.”

“You propose that we march into Pacifica?” Lord Cyrus asked, sitting with his new
bride, Justina, up on the left. I was relieved to see them both alive.

“We are still many, even after the carnage of this day,” I said.

“And we shall grow, exponentially,” Kapriel said, nodding.

“There
are
many more,” Azarel said. “In and around the Great Expanse. And word has
reached us that Georgii Post is ripe for a turn in command. If we were to stop there
en route, I'm confident we could take that city first and free her people to follow
us into Pacifica.”

“Those helicopters would not have reached the Citadel had Keallach been in full command
of his gifting,” Kapriel said gently, steadily looking at his brother. “Between us,
if Keallach were granted his full gifting—”

“You can't be serious,” Ronan barked, frowning at Keallach. “It is too soon.”

Others around him, including Azarel and Bellona, agreed.

“If I advocate for him,” Kapriel said, turning slowly to look at one face after another,
drawing them in, “who can truly argue? Keallach's choices have been the source of
much pain in this room, but I suspect that no one has suffered more because of them
than I.”

Keallach's head dropped to his chest, and he closed his eyes, as if trying to bear
the weight of his guilt again.

“But this is a new man before us,” Kapriel went on, stepping forward to put one
hand on his brother's shoulder. “The man that the Maker breathed into life on the
morning he breathed life into the rest of the Ailith.”

The room grew silent, and Keallach's chin slowly rose again.

“Kapriel, are you certain?” Azarel asked, so quietly that only a few of us heard.

He nodded, staring at his brother.

“I myself am not certain,” Keallach whispered.

“Sometimes it takes a vote of confidence from another to push us over the edge of
indecision,” Kapriel said. “I see you, brother. I know there still is a struggle
within you. But there is not one of us here who is purely good, is there?” He looked
around to Vidar, Tressa, and me. To the Knights. “If the Community had forced any
of us to wait until there was no trace of darkness within us, no self-serving impulse,
no desire to have our own way, would we have our armbands yet?”