Season of Glory (35 page)

I knelt before her. “Hello, little sister. My name is Andriana. What is yours?”

“Dolla,” she said through chattering teeth.

“Are you sick, Dolla?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Only cold.”

“Why are you not with the others?” I asked. “Have you not heard the singing? The
celebration?”

“I, my, I . . . can't. I am not one of them. I have no family.”

“Hmm,” I said. My first instinct was to reach for my cape and give it to her, but
I realized I'd left it inside. I glanced around, toward a sputtering street torch
in one direction and into the gathering dark in the other, but the child and I were
momentarily alone. Feeling nothing but the urge to ward off the obvious chill the
trembling child felt, I pulled my sweater off and then pulled it over her head, helping
her to press her tiny arms through the long arms until her small, grubby hands peeked
out the ends. In one hand, I placed my last chunk of bread, and in the other, my
last slice of cheese. “You do have a family, Dolla. You are one of the Way, if you
claim the Maker as your own. He sees you and loves you, little one, as a treasured
daughter. Always remember that, whatever comes.”

She nodded, her big, brown eyes intent upon me, even as she bit hungrily into the
cheese. Her mouth fell open, and she chewed more slowly, as if exploring the new
taste of it. As if she never wanted to forget it.

I sat down beside her. “Did you ever meet a man named Asher here, who once ran a
school?”

Her face whipped up toward me, half of her searching me, as if to see if I might
be playing some sort of cruel joke, and half of her alight with hope. “Asher! Is
he here?”

“Yes,” I said with a smile. “He has returned, along with his friend, Azarel.”

“Azarel!” she squeaked. “It is true, then,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “The
time for the people of the Way has come! I was so scared! Last time, when people
of the Way came . . .”

“It ended poorly,” I said soberly, looking up at her. In the meager light cast from
the street torch, the bones of her face stuck out in stark contrast to what the normal
swell of childhood's bounty should be. I reached out and took her empty hand, not
wanting her to fear for her bread. “But the Maker is ushering in a new day, a new
time for the Way, Dolla. Do not be afraid to serve him.”

She nodded eagerly. “Can I go to him? To Asher?”

“Of course,” I said, rising. “I will take you to . . .” But she was already sprinting
away, my sweater's edge dangling around her calves. I laughed and wondered if she
would be able to find him, but I figured the Maker would show her the way.

I rubbed the back of my neck, shivering a little in my T-shirt and realizing that
the crowds had departed for their homes, leaving this section of town very quiet.
That was when I saw him. As Dolla passed by, his silhouette was clear with the street
torch behind him.

“Keallach,” I said, stepping toward him, feeling an odd lurch of my heart. He swept
off his fur-lined cape and began to wrap it around my shoulders, but I blocked him.
“No, it's okay. I'll be warm enough until I get back.”

“Don't be foolish,” he insisted, pulling the cape around my shoulders again and tying
it at my neck. “You are shivering nearly as much as that little girl was.”

My hands dropped, almost as if they were beyond my will, and I realized he spoke
the truth. I hadn't felt the chill of the night as I served others. But I did now.
And his cape, so thick and soft, still warm from his own body, readily warded off
the cold. He took an inordinate amount of time tying the knot. Maybe it was because
he was staring at me, as if silently begging me to look into his eyes.

“Keallach,” I began, slow alarm building within me, and yet I felt frozen, unable
to say anything more. I was distantly shocked as he cupped his warm palm against
my cheek, urging me to look upon him again. And when I at last met his gaze, my
pulse quickened.

“That,” he said, inclining his head toward the spot where Dolla had been, “was the
most selfless, beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.”

He leaned in then, kissing me softly. It wasn't like the last time we'd kissed in
the palace. This was a longing, a hunger that my heart noted and, in turn, wanted
to assuage. There was a fire building within me as his kiss deepened.

It was the chill of my armband that snapped me out of my dreamlike reverie and brought
me back to myself with a start as he pressed my back against the wall, even as he
pulled me closer.

“No,” I said, finally finding my voice and the sudden strength to push him away.
“Keallach,
no
. What is going on here? What are we doing?” I cried.

He staggered back from me, looking dazed and startled himself, then his brow lowered.
“Dri, I'm sorry. It was the wine tonight, the joy of the day. I—”

“No!” I said, fumbling at the knot of his cape, suddenly desperate to get him—anything
of him—off of me. How had
I allowed . . . But I hadn't allowed it. Not really. My
arms had been—

“Keep it, Dri, keep it! Wear it back to the mansion,” he muttered, closing his eyes,
deep regret wafting through him.

Regret
, I registered.
Sorrow. Fear.
And as those emotions emerged from him, I also
noted that my arm cuff was warming. He looked at me with his beautiful eyes, nothing
but pain in them, and fear that he'd just destroyed everything he'd so carefully
built.

“Keallach, what
was
that?” I spat out, still angry with him, even as I felt for him
over his pain and confusion. “Did you just compel me?”

“It was nothing,” he said, shaking his head in agitation. “Echoes of my old feelings
for you.”

“Old feelings,” I said. “Feelings you aren't to allow to reign any longer, now that
I am Ronan's wife. And you, my sworn Remnant
brother
.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “You, of all people, should know that
feelings
are a hard
thing to master.” He straightened slowly, looking into my eyes. “Andriana. You were
the first one, you know. The first one who made me remember . . . called me back
to the Way I thought was lost to me. If it wasn't for you . . . I'm so grateful for
you, Dri. So grateful.”

I swallowed hard, recognizing the growing heat rising between us, the spark in the
air that I found tantalizingly hard to ignore. And in turn, the returning chill of
my armband.

I grit my teeth. “This is the remains of Sethos's spell, nothing more.”

“But Dri, I need to—” he began, his voice heavy with agony.

“
No
. Don't say it,” I said, putting up one hand, and with the other, finally managing
to untie the knot and free the
cape from my shoulders. I handed it over to him as
the drizzle became a drenching, icy rain, but he would not accept it. His guilt shifted
to anger.

“Take a moment to search
yourself
, Dri,” he said, water dripping down the chiseled
lines of his cheekbones and jawline, down his neck, which had such an attractive
hollow just there . . . “You feel it too. This pull between us. This pull that is
more than the spell that Sethos wove. Any
compelling
that you may wish to blame.”
He reached out to take hold of my waist again. To pull me toward him.

“Maker,” I breathed. And with the last of my strength, I took hold of his wrist,
turned, bent, and yanked him over my hip and to his back on the cobblestones.

I put a knee on his chest and leaned down so I could look him in the face. He heaved
for breath, looking partially stunned and partially like this was exactly what he
wanted to happen. Like he knew he deserved it. “This ends here,” I panted. “Never
again,” I said, watching as rain dripped from me and onto him. And yet I found it
oddly tantalizing, as if the weather itself was weaving us together, one raindrop
after another streaming down my face and onto him. “Never again,” I bit out.

“Never again,” he said slowly, each word an agony. “You're right, of course. So,
so right . . .” I watched as raindrops ran across his lips, until I was leaning closer,
thinking how much I wanted just one last kiss from him. To be certain. Sure that
this was right. That
he
wasn't the one that my heart wanted most . . .

Until I was kissing him, and he was wrapping his hand in my wet hair and then rolling
me over onto my back, kissing me deeper. “Andriana,” he moaned between kisses. “How
I've longed for you, Dri.”

“No,” I said, feeling the chill of my armband, remembering myself again and now sick
at heart, trying to press him away but finding I had no strength. “No, Keallach,
no,” I said, moving my head as his lips moved to my ear and down my neck. “Please,
stop,” I whimpered, feeling unaccountably weak, unable to move other than to allow
him more space for his sweet kisses along my neck. “Keallach.
Keallach
.”

“Andriana, don't stop this,” he said, his arm wrapping around my lower back, pulling
me closer, up to match the arc of his own body.

“Stop,” I said. “Please, stop. I am Ronan's,” I said, my voice gaining strength.
“Ronan's.”

“In name only,” he soothed, his lips moving along the soft flesh beneath my jaw.
“You have not yet consummated your vows. There is time to make another choice. Many
seasons yet, to see what might unfold.”

“No,” I said. “It is done. I have made my choice. Keallach, please.”

“Please, Andriana, don't back away now,” he said, wrapping his fingers through mine,
pressing my hands above my head, to the cold stones.

Of Georgii Post.

A city belonging to the people. People of the Way.

The Way . . . The Way . . .

“Maker,” I breathed. “Maker!” I called. “Give me strength!”

A hand reached down and
yanked Keallach bodily from me.

I blinked against the rain, feeling both the cold shock of it—without Keallach's
body or his cape shielding me from it—as well as the heat of my arm cuff. I knew,
then, that we were surrounded by angels.

But Niero was the only one I could plainly see. He shoved Keallach back until he
was against the wall, his huge hand at the prince's neck, strangling him. “What are
you doing to her?” Niero ground out, his jaw muscles pulsing, the veins in his arm
sticking out. “What have you done?” His wings unfurled. I felt his righteous fury.
I knew then his deadly intent.

I rose, rushed to them, and grabbed Niero's arm with both hands, trying to pull it
away as Keallach gasped for breath. “No, Niero! No!”

“He carries with him the stench of Sethos still. He is not free of his old master.
He was using his low gifting against you again!”

“Yes!” I agreed, panic rising. “But when I've succumbed to the dark, you've granted
me grace, time and again, have you not?”

I felt him falter a bit, then press harder, choking Keallach.

“Niero!” I cried. “Let him speak. Don't you see? He is not fighting you! Yes, he
used his low gifting. But he isn't using his higher gifting now, is he? I feel his
sorrow, his anger at himself.” I was angry at him too. But if he died here, now.
. . “Niero, we need him. With us. To battle what is to come.”

“You and Dri are both the strength of the Remnants, and the weakest links,” Niero
gritted out, his face an inch from Keallach's.

“Yes,” Keallach gasped. “Help us. Help . . . me.”

His words made Niero's breath catch and then his eyes narrowed to slits. He took
Keallach's throat with both hands, lifting him up until he was on his tiptoes.

“Niero,” I wept, “don't do this. Is the Maker really . . . is he really calling you
to end Keallach's life?” I choked out, unable to stand straight, feeling the weight
of my terror and sorrow.

Niero held Keallach up against the wall, wriggling, desperate for seconds that seemed
like hours. And then he let him fall, his hands swooshing out in an arc, as if he
were washing him away. Keallach fell heavily, gasping for breath. He reached for
me, but Niero took hold of my arm and yanked me away from him and down the street.

When we'd turned the corner by the next torch, he swung me around to face him, a
hand on either of my arms. “Andriana,” he whispered, a tone I found more frightening
than when he shouted, “you must find it within you . . . how to discern what is truth,
and what is a lie.”

“I know,” I whispered in return, half crying. “I know,” I repeated, the tears now
flowing. “But I can't. Back there . . . with him . . . it was as if I lost myself.”

“You
did
lose yourself,” he said, shaking me a little, staring down at me with fierce
consternation. “Everything about you that was true and righteous. You allowed yourself
to be sucked into what was primal and sinful. You are more than that, Dri.” He released
me, and I shuddered as I felt his disappointment. “Over and over again, we go through
this,” he said, pacing back and forth before me. “When it comes to battle, you must
rely on what you know, not what you feel. The enemy will continue to use all that
is good in you”—he paused to put his finger to my chest—“a gifting the Maker gave
you himself, as his own, righteous weapon. But you can choose not to allow the enemy
to use it.”

“How?” I shook my head slightly. “I don't know. Tell me.”

“You
know
. You've always known. You simply must
choose
,” he said sharply.

My head whipped toward his, his words sifting through my mind again.
Choose, Andriana.
Choose for right. Choose
the Way. Choose strength. Choose wisdom. Choose a love that
never fails, not a love the flesh pretends.