Airel - Aaron Patterson [109]
I was rebirthed in that moment. That’s the only way to describe it. I had to be cut so deeply that I felt my own death was imminent.
I saw clearly that everything from my birth to the day I had been kidnapped had been planned—foreseen—and provided for. There were no accidents, no coincidences; right down to whomever I met and what school I went to. And then, from the expansive view of my lowest moment, I could rest in the fact that there was a purpose for everything.
I had never asked for it. But there I was. I didn’t know what the end would hold for me, but I had to try. The pain of losing Michael threatened to crush me, but I understood now that I had never lost him. I had only lost who I thought he was. Simply knowing that I could love so deeply helped me begin to work past the pain, in a way. It would be a long, long journey, and I knew that my confrontation with Michael would be telling.
I didn’t want to think about what could have been. It wasn’t Why, but What. What was I supposed to learn and would I become a better person for it or let the pain and loss consume me?
Chapter XII
1250 B.C. Arabia
The Seer peered into the red light pulsing from the bloodstone, as if in the midst of it was the answer for which he was searching. He was filled to brimming with black rage. Within his tortured mind the staccato ringing of his Brother, his master resounded: “Slave, fool! The Sword was within our power—and you failed to keep it!”
The face of the Seer became old and withered again: “I have not failed us. It is you who failed to foresee what Kreios would do—” He doubled over in mid-sentence as scalding pain ripped through his body. He coughed and spit, and thick blood boiled on the ground. “Where are our nine spies? Have they returned?” He was writhing in agony until this new thought opened his eyes.
He did not know where they were. They should have been back with prisoners by now. The Seer struggled to his feet, the pain ceasing. He pulled his hood up, so as to hide the face of the almighty Seer from those who might want to see who he actually looked like. He walked out from his tent into the night air. It was disgustingly fresh, even in the midst of their encampment.
On a distant hilltop a small fire was dancing, sending its light up through the night sky. He could hear singing—the two escaped prisoners mocked him. No fool would sit and sing around a fire in plain view so soon after escaping from the most powerful horde army in the world. “And where are my nine?!”
Yet there it was. No shouts. No sounds of battle. Only singing, and the flicker of a campfire, star-like from this distance. The Seer growled, turned and grabbed his newest replacement captain of the guard. “Send twenty more Brothers with their hosts and bring me back the Sword—kill anyone in the enemy camp and bring me their heads. Tell them not to return empty-handed unless they wish to die.” He spit out the words with so much hatred that some blood sprayed against the guard’s face.
“Yes, master.” He scurried off and spread the word. In the next moment, twenty of the Brotherhood stood before the Seer, ready for battle. He waved his hand toward the firelight. The group moved out and disappeared into the forest.
***
Kreios and Yamanu had made camp for the night on the rise of a small open hillock, in perfect view of the enemy, and had lit a fire, not worrying if horde scouts saw them or not. The idea was to attract some attention and leave a trail. Besides, they were hungry. Yamanu stirred a stew made from fresh herbs, select roots, and a grouse he had killed. They talked and sang in thanks to El with loud voices as the stew simmered.
Kreios, a resounding baritone, and Yamanu, a tenor, sang songs they had used to sing as children before they had left paradise. Their voices rang out clear, strong, over the ravine, and reached all the way to the horde camp—making the patrols uneasy. Kreios knew there was power in the songs of angels.
Yamanu dipped his finger in the warm stew and a look of pure