Remnants: Season of Wonder (A Remnants Novel)

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  We moved down the hallway, Ronan held between two strong guards with others before, between, and behind us. I relaxed, as if I had no more fight left in me, wanting them to relax, just looking for the right opportunity, as did my knight. Ronan and I had practiced this many times with our trainer. All we needed was just the tiniest diversion …

  We turned the corner and I saw Raniero dive into the two guards in the middle, taking them to the floor. Vidar leaped on top of the back of one, ramming his head to the marble floor.

  “That’ll work,” I muttered, wrenching so hard that Sethos faltered. Bellona charged us and we went to the ground. I looked back to see Tressa cut loose my hands and feet, then rammed my foot into the nearest guard beside me, carefully avoiding eye contact with him. Ronan was shouting and roaring, driving one man into the wall with brute force, audibly cracking his ribs, then doing the same to the next.

  We still had three men who fought to hold us, including Lord Jala and Sethos. Lord Jala grabbed me and slammed me against the wall, leaving me stunned and woozy for a moment, then pulled a long, fearsome knife against my neck and my body across his as a shield. I panted, trying not to move, because each time I did, the knife bit into my skin.

  “You just get more and more fascinating, Ailith girl,” he whispered in my ear.

  He’d known from the start. Since … when? When I looked familiar? Or when he saw my armband?

  He wrenched me toward Ronan as my knight turned his attention on us, his hands still bound. Jala made a warning sound, sidling backward, pressing the knife against my skin so hard I felt a warm trickle of blood.

  A dagger came singing through the air, and I saw Bellona, on her knees, still pointing at us after the throw. I winced, thinking it was about to hit me, but it struck Lord Jala in the flesh of his arm that held the knife. I rammed backward against him, even as I felt his pain wash through me, touching me as he was. We hit the wall, and he dropped the knife and fell, apparently dazed from hitting his head. Sethos let out a seething, snake-like sound and twisted as Bellona and Vidar ran toward us, screaming in defiance, Raniero right behind them. Sethos turned and turned and then disappeared, leaving nothing but his black cape.

  Ronan stepped on it, to make certain it wasn’t an illusion. “How … ?”

  “A sorcerer,” Raniero said, joining us.

  Bellona sliced Ronan’s bound wrists apart, and he reached for Lord Jala’s lapels, clenching them in his fists as he stared into his green eyes. “Tell your people the Ailith have arrived. And everything is about to change.” With that, he shoved him into a room with two guards, slammed the door, turned the key and slipped it in his pocket. He took my hand.

  And then we ran.

  CHAPTER

  25

  The Georgii Post family had alerted my companions to our plight, and therefore made it possible for us to escape. Downstairs, they shoved our stowed weapons and clothes, still damp from the washing, into our hands. As shouts and screams sounded above us, they led us out of Lord Jala’s home and through the alleyways, then into crates set inside the beds of a trader truck and outfitted with escape hatches beneath. Apparently we weren’t the only ones who used the route to enter or exit unseen. The father pressed a sack of coin in Raniero’s hand. “We are eternally grateful. As is my father. Thank you, brother, for saving my family.”

  “Thank you for aiding mine,” Niero said with a grin, glancing over at the rest of us.

  “I was only able to secure four mudhorses,” the man whispered, nodding to those in the back of one of the trucks. “The smugglers will get you partway.” He looked nervously over his shoulder when someone shouted. “And hopefully the mudhorses will make it the rest. I’d better be going. Be safe.”

  “You as well,” Niero said, clasping his arm.

  Four soldiers in gray ran down the street, yelling. Hurriedly, we settled down into the crates, two in each, and three men set about hammering shut the tops.

  “If they come looking for us,” Ronan said, grasping my arms, “it will make it look more like cargo. They’ll be less likely to pry them open.”

  I nodded.

  Ronan took my cheek in one hand and seemed to try and see my face in the slivers of light that came through the crate slats. I could feel his worry.

  “I’m fine, Ronan,” I said, answering his unspoken question. “He didn’t hurt me. But if it’s all right with you, I’d very much like it if you held me for a while.”

  He didn’t answer, but I knew his relief, his pleasure. He sat back against the wall of the crate, legs akimbo, and I curled up against his chest. He wrapped his big arms around me, cradling me close, stroking my arm, and my armband hummed with warmth. I knew Niero wouldn’t like it, this intimacy, but I didn’t care. The day had taken my very last bit of energy. Negotiating my time with Lord Jala and Sethos had sapped me dry. And here, nestled against my best friend in the entire world, hearing his heart beat, steady and sure … Well, it gave me hope. Strength.

  We spent the night listening to soldiers blow whistles and sound alarms, shouting at one another as they madly sought us out. Holding our breath when they came near. Somehow, comforted by Ronan, I managed to sleep. I hoped he had too.

  By morning, I was so antsy for the trader to get rolling, to leave Castle Vega’s walls behind us, I thought I might scream. I rose and scrambled back to the far side of the crate, rubbing my face, pushing my hair back into a quick knot that wouldn’t hold without a strap or pin. Ronan watched me, moving his legs as if they were stiff, his greenbrown eyes calm. I envied his ease, even in the face of such awkward intimacy.

  “I wish you were the one who could cast emotions,” I whispered.

  A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He had nice lips, I decided. Full and inviting

  “I gotta get outta here,” I said, widening my eyes and stretching out my hands as if they were electrified. I reached out and touched the side boards of the crate that confined us.

  “Soon, Dri,” he whispered. “Hang in there.” But his head was turned as if he were listening to something outside.

  Violet predawn light infiltrated our crate, and we could hear the traders exchanging jibes with another. Then, at last — at long last — we were finally moving. The wagon jostled us back and forth, and the crate creaked in protest. I thought of the others in the crates around us, and it gave me comfort. We were leaving this dreaded place at last.

  Of course, we moved deeper into enemy territory. But at the moment, the prospect of facing our enemies in the future versus being seized by them now seemed like the lesser of two evils.

  There was little cover left to us anymore, anywhere, now that the Council of Six had a clear vision of my face, as well as most of my companions. We needed to move, and fast, if we wanted to accomplish the most we could.

  Pacifica was bent on keeping the Trading Union captive; we had to somehow break free of that bond, and to do so it seemed clearer than ever that we needed to infiltrate her borders and free Kapriel. We needed a figurehead. A leader that all would recognize. But Pacifica would be wary of our approach, making certain no Ailith entered past her wall. Lord Jala knew we wore the armbands now. He was certain to alert every guard on every transport inward.

  The trader truck pulled to a stop with an ear-splitting screech of brakes, and I caught the low tones of conversation. The back gates were opened, and I could hear a couple of guards move in and around us, tapping on the boxes nearby and trying to lift our crate lids. I closed my eyes and thanked the Maker that the traders had thought to nail them shut. One, a woman, spoke lowly to the mudhorses tied inside, sounding as if she was petting one. Moments later, the guards hopped out, giving the driver clearance to move forward. Perhaps the hours between our escape and now had made them all think that we were long gone.

  How I wished we had been able to leave hours ago.

  But there was only one way for us to enter Pacifica at this point — through a barrier most considered insurmountable, the Great Ex
panse. We drove for a long while, bouncing so hard that sometimes Ronan and I hit the lids of our crates. The light became peach-hued and warm, dust motes dancing in the air between me and my knight. We sneezed and coughed, choking on both the dirt in the air and the exhaust from the truck wafting about us, thicker and thicker.

  At last we pulled to a stop, and the traders came and freed us, offering us canteens of water, even as a boy led our mudhorses down the ramp.

  I gaped at what I saw as I stretched and paused at the edge of the truck bed. I’d thought the Central Desert had been desolate, but it did not prepare me for what it was to be in the middle of the Great Expanse. In a daze, I took Ronan’s hand and walked down the ramp to the cracked earth, turning in one direction and then other other. In the distance, I could see the tiniest hint of buildings, waving in the heat rising from the ground — what I assumed was Castle Vega. To the other side, I thought I could see bits of mountains, what the traders gestured to and said in a vague tone, “Pacifica.” They didn’t want to know where we were going or why. They’d received their payment; now they wanted as much distance between us as possible.

  The driver climbed into the cab of the truck then, leaving us with nothing but several tanks of water, four mudhorses, and a casual point west. “Good luck,” the driver said, leaning an elbow out of his cab.

  “The Maker watches over us,” Raniero said, looking up at him. “We don’t need luck.”

  The driver gave him a startled look. “Don’t let those people hear you say that,” he said, gesturing west with his head, toward Pacifica. “They’ll tear your fingernails from your fingers, force you to recant. Before they slice the skin from your body, to prove you are mad when you scream.”

  “We cannot be stopped,” Raniero said, straightening, facing the man. “Tell everyone you meet. War is coming. The Ailith will lead you. It is time for the oppressed to be set free.”

  The rest of us stilled even as the driver whistled lowly. “Well, I’ll think on that. I’m right attached to my head staying on my body. And what you’re suggesting I share, brother, is punishable in all forms of death.”

  He drove off, and I saw then that he was flanked by two Jeeps with massive guns mounted on back, presumably his protection against Drifters. We all circled slowly, taking in the wide, desolate plain again. Our mudhorses were clearly on their last legs, probably given up as good as dead already, so why not send them off across the impassable desert? The traders had brought us miles north, in order to avoid any soldiers or transports crossing the desert to our south. I shivered, thinking of the driver’s comment about death, and then squinted up to the sun in the midst of a cloudless sky.

  Never in my life had I seen a sky without cloud. Never in my life had I known a day without rain at some point.

  But I was about to.

  Hour upon hour, we crossed the endless Great Expanse, following what we believed was a black market trading trail, the barest of smoothing in an otherwise uniformly wind-blown field.

  I couldn’t believe how little precipitation we encountered over the following days. Clouds gathered and then dissipated above us, leaving us vulnerable to the sun’s merciless beating. Back home, I had never not wished for more sun. Nor had I not wished for the clouds to go away. But now I prayed for the opposite, craved the protective covering of gray, the relief of rain.

  We wished we had our dirt bikes back.

  Wished we were through this dreary, dry landscape with mountains that teased us ahead, always ahead.

  Wished we’d received more water from the smugglers.

  Wished we’d come across any water, even if it might be impure.

  Wished we could steal our sister’s or brother’s water without feeling guilty about it.

  Wished they had any left for themselves, even.

  Wishing upon wishes. Prayers lifted, dust upon our dry tongues.

  By the third day, Bellona and Vidar’s mudhorse collapsed beneath them and died moments later. They walked beside us, moving almost as fast as our weary, dehydrated horses. An hour later, our mudhorse gave way too, his front legs folding beneath him, as if he hoped to still rise for a long moment but then gave up and rolled to the side, his tongue hanging out, thick and discolored. I felt a wave of guilt as I stumbled aside, as if I’d killed him. Perhaps I had, riding as long as I had.

  And yet I’d had no choice.

  It was either him or me.

  “So, boss,” Vidar said with a dry cough, pausing beside our horse, lifting a hand to Raniero. “This whole saving the world thing is gonna be tough if we die of thirst in the desert.”

  Raniero looked over at him and then ahead again. “Keep the faith, Vidar,” he said in a weary tone, “even when it looks dire.”

  I made a slow turn, keeping an eye out for Drifters, knowing we’d be vulnerable here if they came upon us. It was unreasonable to fear them more on foot than on the back of a mudhorse, but I felt it just the same. But it seemed even the Drifters had abandoned this part of the desert, perhaps fearing patrols from Pacifica. Which gave me another reason to scan the horizon.

  My lips cracked, and I had not even the saliva to moisten them for a moment. I hadn’t urinated in two days and felt no need to now. That can’t be good.

  Up ahead, I watched Niero’s mudhorse falter, then collapse. Niero awkwardly jumped away, narrowly avoiding getting pinned.

  The only mudhorse remaining was Killian and Tressa’s. Hours ago, Killian had jumped to the ground and led the mare forward, Tressa still on its back with her fair skin sheltered by an oilskin cape that had to be holding in all kinds of horrible heat.

  But it was as if the sight of Niero’s horse going down gave this last one permission to do so too. Killian pulled Tressa from the horse’s back as she fell. They stood to one side, staring at the horse, her tongue hanging out of giant, yellowed and cracked teeth.

  We thought about burying the mudhorses, but it would’ve taken too much time and left us exposed for too long, so we left them where they fell. Our time was limited — of that we were certain.

  We carried on, walking as a disjointed group, each one only managing to put another foot forward, lacking the energy to care how close they were to the others. The only one who paid attention to me was Ronan. He walked behind me, too weary to constantly turn and see if I was keeping up or wandering. He stayed silent, until I faltered or slowed. Then he’d put a gentle hand at my lower back and pushed me onward, saying nothing.

  We had to be close. Had to be. We’d walked more miles than we’d been told it took to cross the Great Expanse, hadn’t we? Barely slept. Barely ate.

  Tressa stumbled and couldn’t rise; Killian paused beside her, begging her to keep moving, cajoling, yelling in moanlike fashion.

  We kept on going, knowing if we stopped, we’d collapse as well. The only choice, if we wanted to live this day, was to press on, Niero said, when he first recognized we might not make it. Press on, no matter what happens to the rest of us. If any of us can get to the end of this infernal desert, they will round up help and send them to collect the rest. Understood?

  His words rang in my head like a dim, hollow memory. Almost a dream. Had it really happened? Had he really said that? Advocated us leaving one another when all along, that was the last thing he wanted us to do?

  Survival instinct seemed to have a way of messing up any plan.

  On and on we trudged forward, frequently stumbling, others coming to our side, awkwardly helping us rise and continue. I was barely able to keep track of them all — barely able to focus my eyes on Niero, before me, Vidar to my right by about ten paces, and the vague sense of Ronan, still behind me. I thought I ought to turn around and make sure he was still trailing me — be certain nothing had happened to him — and spot the others in the same motion, but even the thought of that was too much. Anything beyond one step after another was too much.

  I fantasized about the Hoodite waterfall, spraying us with its mist. Standing before it after a meal of grilled fish
and berries and corn, after diving deep into a pool and drinking all I wished. I daydreamed about the river that separated the Drifter’s camp from Hoodite territory. I longed for the rivers and falls of the Valley, the springs that dotted every acre, bubbling up, delicious and cold. I thought about them so much that I thought I could almost hear one. Could practically taste the minerals and sweetness upon my tongue.

  And then I was sure I did. I stopped, hands splayed, cocking my head, listening.

  Ronan tried to urge me on, as he had so often these last days, but I pushed away his hand and urged him to shush, his trudging, dusty feet covering the sound.

  He came alongside me, listening. Dimly, I recognized his face was covered with a sheen of sweat, and dust caked to every pore. Then he turned sharply to the left, where we could see a flurry of red boulders from a nearby hill, apparently dislodged in a slide. At the bottom, there was a telltale sign of new growth, and the closer we got, the scent of water.

  Until that moment, I didn’t think water could have an odor. Other than stagnant pools, filled with rot, or lakes lined with dark peat moss, of course. I didn’t think water, fresh from the ground, spilling over rocks, smelled.

  But oh, it did. It did.

  The scent of delicious, liquid, mineral life filled my nostrils. I think I cried out, as Ronan did; a partial moan, a partial victory yell. We stumbled forward, half of us not wanting to believe it, in case it wasn’t real — a mirage, Niero called it — half of us exulting in relief and unable to fight off the glory.

  It was a desert spring, cut open by the rockslide. A miracle.

  Ronan reached it first, hesitantly dipping in his hands, acting like it might disappear if he touched it. But it didn’t. He pulled his cupped hands to his face and drank every drop he could, wiping the rest of it over his sunburned skin, even as I cupped my hands beneath his to catch the falling droplets. We took turns, greedily dipping and drinking, and it took everything in me to back off and give the others a chance too, when they reached us. It was as if my body had become layers of paper, thin and dried in the desert wind, almost ghostlike, a see-through version of my true self, and the only thing that would bring me back was to drink and drink and drink and drink.