Season of Glory (5 page)

“Your attention was needed at the border, Majesty. And I had hoped the Council would
succeed in finding Andriana and the traitor, Cyrus, and bring them here for you to
consider proper retribution.” He let out a small sigh. “Unfortunately, it seems my
faith in them was misplaced. Lord Jala was injured in the attack, and the others—”

My anger sagged. “What?
Cyrus
? A traitor? And Maximillian. He was hurt?”

“Yes. Severely. I can take you to him now—if you would only release me, Majesty.”

I loosened my hold on his cape and let my hands drop, feeling suddenly like a defeated
boy caught doing something horrible. “You should have told me, Sethos.” I shook my
head and rubbed my temples, feeling a familiar ache return behind my eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “I see that now. Forgive me.”

“Take me to Max,” I said, feeling lost, empty. I glanced up and around the marble
foyer, sensing the structure as a cold, sterile cell, now that I knew Andriana wasn't
within it. While she'd been here, I'd felt such hope, such warmth. It was if her
mere presence had made it more a home than a palace.

I turned to follow Sethos, who moved down the south wing to our small palace hospital.
I tried to hurry, but my legs felt like weights.

What had I been thinking, leaving her here alone? And after she and I had our . .
. misunderstanding. When I'd tried to get her to acknowledge what I knew she had
to be feeling, that what was between us was love. The purest understanding, the closest
I'd felt to the Maker in all my life. The culmination of an ancient destiny, just
as Sethos had said. All of it had been falling into place so rapidly that I'd gotten
ahead of myself. Pressed her. If I'd been more patient, would she have gone? Even
if they hadn't come for her? Maybe she hadn't had a choice . . .

My eyes narrowed.

Ronan.

Of course it had been Ronan. Only he would have had the power to wrench her from
my home. From what we had been building together. When she had been so close to acknowledging
it.

Hate lashed through me. I wanted him dead. He was a Knight, but he was no brother
to me. Only the enemy. Only a barrier to what I might have with Andriana—what was
meant to be.

My mind moved to the other puzzle. “Tell me what you must about Lord Cyrus,” I said,
trying to keep my tone light (as Sethos himself had taught me to do) as if all of
this hadn't thrown me.

“Of course. It appears that he fell for a courtesan in Castle Vega, a follower of
the Way.”

I sniffed and frowned. Surely it had taken more than that to convince Cyrus to leave
my side. To aid Andriana in escaping.

“Who else was here? Who helped her escape?”

“Ronan, her Knight. The one they call Niero,” he said, with particular venom in his
tone before he caught himself. “Others—Vidar and Bellona—were seen in the tunnels
as they fled.”

“The guards were that close to them?” I said, pausing to face him again. “Close enough
to see them, and yet they still escaped?”

His nostrils flared. He didn't like it when I made him take responsibility for errors.
“Yes, Majesty.”

I sighed heavily and turned to walk the rest of the way to the hospital. Inside the
long, cavernous room, multiple beds were occupied, but I spied my Council at the
far end, loitering around a pale Max. A woman sat on Daivat's lap, kissing him as
he sloppily gestured with a glass of wine. Others gathered around Fenris. I cleared
my throat, and Kendric looked up. With a quiet word, all rose to their feet.

“Highness,” said Kendric, nervously clearing his throat before bowing hurriedly and
then glancing at Sethos and me. “You have returned. We have much to tell you.”

“Get out,” I said to the women. “Be gone!” I growled when they paused and looked
to Fenris and Daivat before obeying. They hurried past me. But my eyes remained on
my men. I wanted to yell, but I was conscious of Max and forced myself to focus on
him first. I slipped past Fenris to the bed. Max was on a respirator, and he looked
ghastly, like he'd faced death and only narrowly avoided succumbing. His eyes were
mere slits. “How is he?” I bit out. “What is the prognosis?”

“They don't know,” Sethos said, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder. He'd known
this too, then. Known that Max's life hung in the balance.

I edged out from under his hand and faced him and the others. “You have the best
doctor for him?”

“Of course. We will summon him so you can speak to him yourself—”

“Not now,” I interrupted. I stared at the others. “Tell me what happened!”

“It was her Knight, Majesty,” Daivat growled. “The one they call Ronan. He was in
our prison.”

“Are you telling me,” I said, walking toward Fenris until I'd backed him against
the wall, “that you allowed Ronan—a Knight of the Last Order—anywhere
near
the Council
chambers? In the palace at all? When and how was he even arrested?”

“He returned with Lord Cyrus after we'd departed,” Sethos said, leaning against the
wall with a sigh, crossing his arms. “Cyrus claimed he had captured him in the desert.
That he wanted it to be a surprise for you upon your return.”

I struggled to absorb this. “Regardless of Lord Cyrus's stated desire to
surprise
me,” I said to Sethos, “you didn't think it wise
that I know of it? And did you not
think twice about bringing him here? You know what the elders say about a Remnant
and Knight together. They're three times as powerful.”

Sethos's eyes moved to what remained of my Council, his gaze silently reproachful.
My Council of Five,
I thought bitterly, wondering which noble would soon be vying
for the coveted sixth spot that Cyrus had vacated in this treasonous act. The thought
of it made me feel nauseous. Betrayed. As well as deeply hurt. Cyrus had been one
of my favorites among the Council. He was far more serious and thoughtful than the
rest. It dawned on me then. Only four were present. “Where is Broderick?”

Fenris stiffened, and Daivat's head slumped. “He's dead,” Sethos said. “He was killed
in the fight that ensued as they battled to leave the palace.”

I slumped to the cot beside Maximillian. “Dead,” I muttered, trying to get my head
around this latest blow.
Ronan
. He had to have been the one that killed him. Surely
Cyrus wouldn't have gone so far. We were like brothers, my Six and I. We had been
together since the day I had to send my twin away to the Isle of Catal and Sethos
realized I mourned for him in more ways than one.

I rubbed my head again. “How did Ronan escape the dungeon and make it all the way
here, with so many soldiers on each level?”

They all shook their heads and looked away or to the floor.

“And Cyrus . . .” I said, repeating his name, still trying to believe that everything
had transpired as they'd said. It didn't make sense. Why would Cyrus give up all
he had here? And, yet, the pull of my fellow Ailith was strong. Had I not felt it
myself? Did others feel that way about them too, even if they weren't of Ailith blood?
Was that the key to their draw? Why so many were following them now among the Trading
Union?

“Cyrus fell for that girl at Castle Vega,” Kendric said. “We thought it was a fling,
but when we found out she was a follower of the Way . . .”

“We thought it best if she was removed before becoming a serious . . .
distraction
,”
Fenris said distastefully.

I stared at him as the pieces fell into place. “So you killed her. Murdered her.”

Fenris frowned at my surprise and horror. “Well, it was poison, Majesty, as we've
utilized before in such circumstances.”

I closed my eyes and turned slightly away from them, sickened. What if they had
poisoned Dri? How might I have felt? This was what had turned Cyrus. Why he'd been
willing to do what he had. “And . . .?” I asked.

“He was seen carrying her out of Castle Vega. He explained it away as too much drink
to the guards and said he was taking her home.”

I resumed rubbing my temples. “And returned with Ronan as his prisoner.” It had been
the Knight's way in—the only, desperate way in—to Palace Pacifica. I had to admire
the sheer bravado of it. The risk he'd taken to get to Dri.

And now he'd stolen her away.

“It all happened so fast,” Fenris said, daring to look me in the eyes. “If you'd
been here, if you'd seen what they did to poor Max, how they cut him down in cold
blood, you'd share our desire for retribution.”

I wrenched my eyes from him to Max, my dearest friend. My most trusted confidante.
It was Max I'd go to before Sethos. It was Max who advised me, protected me, and
helped me sort things out when I got confused. I squeezed my eyes shut. He couldn't
die. If he died . . .

On and on they went, telling me how Ronan and Cyrus and Dri broke through the Council
chamber windows and ran to the forest. How others were there, ready to defend them.
How they'd all but disappeared into the tunnels and then out, and later been tracked
to a farm where a doctor obviously treated one who had lost a great deal of blood.
After that, despite heavy searching, the trail had run cold.

I let silence fall before I dared ask what I had to.

“Did she . . . did Andriana go willingly?” I said, keeping my eyes on Max and his
machine-driven, rhythmic breathing.

For a moment, I thought no one would answer me. “Yes,” Kendric said at last.

I took a breath, then two, considering what it meant, to breathe within this space
that I had come to associate sharing with Andriana. “Summon the doctor,” I said softly.
“And the rest of you, go to your quarters for the night.
Alone
,” I added, knowing
there was venom and disappointment dripping from my tone. “In the morning, I'll expect
you to rise the moment I call.”

RONAN

At the end of first watch, I continued walking the perimeter as they slept, but it
was Dri I looked to, again and again, even though I could see little of her in the
darkness. She was sound asleep, with her back practically against Bellona's. Vidar
snored loudly, but it didn't rouse the women, Lord Cyrus, or Dri's parents. We were
all exhausted. I was fighting to stay awake until Niero relieved me.

I settled on a rock near the smuggler who drove us, asleep himself. The black market
boss had sent his convoy on a separate track from us, not wanting to endanger the
whole shipment. Our driver had a few crates and barrels that we rode atop of, though,
just in case we went undetected and he made it.

Content that we were safe here, for the moment, two-thirds across the Great Expanse,
I looked up to the starry skies and then rubbed my face and eyes, feeling every ache
of the battle behind us—in particular, a nagging ache at my side. I knew I'd been
injured in the fight and that the Maker had somehow healed me—even without Tressa
present—but not much more. I hadn't really wanted to go back to that memory. Remembering
the sword piercing me. The moment I knew that it was likely a deathblow, one from
which I'd die slowly. The moment I knew I had failed Dri.

Dri
, I thought, staring over at her silhouette in the darkness, remembering how it
felt to be leaving her as I lost consciousness, wondering if I'd ever wake. Losing
her forever. Abandoning my post as her guardian, her protector. And then later, rising
to consciousness, Dri and Niero hovering near.

Suddenly, there was a movement beside me, and I half rose, startled and already drawing
my sword, when I realized who it was. “Ah, Niero,” I whispered, relieved. “Just in
time. I didn't know how much longer I'd last.”

“I thought that might be the case,” he said quietly, settling down on the rock and
casting an eye over our sleeping companions. But when I turned to go, he gestured
to me. “Sit a moment with me.” He waved back to the rock.

It was the last thing I felt like doing. I wanted to unroll my blanket and settle
down next to Andriana. To close my eyes for a few hours before daybreak was upon
us. But I took a deep breath and returned to my seat.

“You cannot continue to hold on to your resentment with Dri,” he said, without preamble.

I frowned. “Resentment?” Was that what I was feeling?

“I think you're well aware of the divide between you,” he said. “And a Remnant and
a Knight . . . they cannot abide by divisions. It leaves you vulnerable in a way
the enemy might use.”

I took a deep breath. It was true. Our trainer had drilled it into our minds from
the start. Made us work out our petty grievances. Drove us to build our relationship
in every permissible way.

“I thought you'd be glad for a bit of separation between us,” I said, knowing there
was an edge of bitterness in my tone.

He glanced at me from the side, and I knew my own shame. There was no truth to that.
Not really.

“You and Andriana,” he began, pausing, as if choosing his words, “are on a path that
none of us had foreseen. Love blooms where it will, and with all you've built together,
all you've endured, and all you will endure, it will likely deepen still. I don't
sense displeasure in that from the Maker. Not now. Do you?”

I turned to face him more fully. “Wait. Are you . . .
blessing
us? Giving us permission
to deepen our relationship?”

He shifted. “I'm saying it's already done. Your relationship is what it is. And now
you must make the most of that, rather than allowing it to become a detriment. Let's
follow where the Maker leads. Forgive as you have been forgiven. Give up this irritation,
this jealousy over what happened to Andriana with Keallach, and move on. We have
no time for it. You have a bigger call on your life, do you not?”