“But this is a whole species! This isn’t just the changing of the seasons!”
“Brenol, you know the Genesifin—”
“But I’m not cowering behind it,” Brenol interrupted. “Fate isn’t locked in. You must be able to choose!”
The yellowing fingers lay motionless upon the blue screen. The scene—Preifest included—was far too placid. Brenol felt suddenly sickened.
“I do not choose the end of my people. But acceptance can be embraced. Do I spend my last days in fury? Fighting? Then fighting who?” The violet eyes flashed with the old iron glint. “Dresden himself would tell you there’s ultimately no disease. There’s nothing to be done. The land and waters are,” he arched his back suddenly and grimaced in pain before continuing, “changing. Some are given the ability to survive, others are not.”
“But—”
“It is not for me to question.”
“Why?” Brenol asked sharply.
“The creature knows not the purpose or design of the whole.”
“You’re going to tell me that the gods want you dead?”
Preifest smiled weakly. It was a small gesture, a tight coupling of humor and fragility, but it tamed Brenol slightly.
“The Genesifin—you read it, but I don’t think you truly understood it.”
The young man bristled but then released his stern face; the maralane was not intending insult. “I haven’t had a lot of time to figure out what it means for Massada.”
Preifest’s eyes twinkled, and he seemed to rest easier in the water. “Continue, tell me what you know.”
Brenol sighed. “I don’t understand much.” He had not wanted to voice it aloud, but once the words left him he felt lighter. “How do you know I am that foreigner? And who is this Lady of Purpose? And why must the maralane end? And what is this creature malitas? And this ‘Change’ the book speaks of?”
“I do not know what everything means in its entirety. I don’t need to. I do not question the design of the whole.”
Brenol’s jaw clenched tightly. How can he accept it all so simply? “Who is the designer, then? How do we even know whether he is good?”
Preifest’s purple eyes widened under his arched eyebrows. “How can the creators of the waters be bad? No, I think it is our vision that must be mistaken.”
The waters… Brenol’s eyes stung as he recalled the flowing waters healing Darse, healing Colette. He remembered the soft heat that had burned in his heart every time he had crept to Darse’s cellar to whisper out his burdens upon the ever-welcoming waters.
Brenol could not seem to place words to his questions about the mysterious Three. How could gods who cared enough to heal be so harsh? He recalled standing before that foreign statue in Trilau—a representation of Abriged, the Eye—and felt the same bizarre tug in his gut.
“I don’t understand,” he finally said in defeated weariness.
Preifest nodded. “I doubt any truly do. But do know this: the maralane shall pass, and the worlds will go on. The Change is already upon us and will lead to the Final Breath. A Lady will guide the remaining people through the passing of this age, and she shall make things right. But as to the details, it will only be clear in hindsight.”
The young man’s shoulders slumped. He could not deem whether Preifest’s words were true or not, for all felt askew, but his protests died on his lips, and he gazed blankly out to the horizon.
“Is it not so?” the maralane asked genuinely.
Can it really ache and be right at the same time? Brenol asked himself. Can we really not change anything that’s happening?
Brenol glanced down, suddenly aware again of Preifest. The maralane’s sharp look helped to draw him back to what was before them.
“What can I do, then? What do you need, Preifest?”
“You can lead your people. Share the Genesifin in the way you think best.” He held up a webbed hand to prevent any interruption. “I don’t know how or why you’ve been given this position to carry the book. But it is yours regardless. So help them. There is change coming—the Change. This Age is closing, a new one is beginning. It is good, but they will fear it. Show them it’s not to be feared. Help them.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Find someone who can,” he replied simply.
“When…” Brenol began, but he found he could not complete the sentence.
“As the Genesifin says, there will be a shower of light in the skies the day after we have met our end. It will mark our passing from this world.” He coughed roughly. “And then the waters will be yours to protect.”
“But you’re certain it will happen?”
Preifest nodded. “It will happen.”
Brenol studied the lake-man. Bent and opaque. Passing, but alive beyond measure. Failing, yet somehow strengthening his own young heart. Preifest was no ordinary creature: steel willed, loyal, honest. Brenol wished he could muster a fraction of his stamina and courage.
The maralane extended his arm out, raising his hand so Brenol could take the tiny object contained in his clammy palm. Brenol’s fingers closed around it, but he could not see through the tears flooding his vision.
“You have the waters. Use them.” Preifest’s voice was gentle in spite of its hoarseness.
“Thank you, Preifest. For everything,” Brenol whispered.
“In good accord.”
Preifest descended into the deep, ripples pushing out gently. Brenol stared at the site, frozen. He knew the leader was unlikely to be seen again by the upper world.
~
Brenol maneuvered along the edge of the lake for the rest of the morning. The cave had spit him out much farther north than it had on his original journey. He knew he was in the lugazzi—the neutral lands between every terrisdan and surrounding Ziel—and guessed it was most likely the patch beneath Brovingbune. He would need merely to press around Ziel to reach the Pearia River. From there, he would find himself in familiar territory, even if he had not a single freg to his name.
The banks were easy traveling, aside from the brisk chill, and the monotony of his footfalls led his thoughts to hover more upon the encounter with Preifest than upon the scenery. The conversation, and the emotions that accompanied it, played again in his mind. Preifest’s words echoed loudly: “You have the waters. Use them.”
Use them.
Brenol sighed, realizing he could no longer ignore the advice. He left his path, pack, and sandals, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped gingerly into the water.
He cringed at the cold, but not out of discomfort. Why is Ziel—the heart—growing cold? What does this all mean?
“I’m afraid Colette won’t like me.”
The initial reluctance to speak diminished as he experienced the water’s catharsis, and his tongue shifted naturally to the heaviest parts of his heart. “I’m afraid of failing her. Of failing Massada. Of failing the gortei. Of failing the Genesifin. I’m afraid… I’m scared I might find the nuresti greed again inside me… I left Ma and there’s nothing I could ever do for her… She thinks I’m a traitor… I feel so alone… The maralane are dying, and I can’t do anything about it…”
And like every previous time, he inhaled deeply and found the thirst of his heart slaked and health and peace restored. The waters lapped softly around him, and the sweet nectar soaked into his soul.
With a clear head, he dug into his pocket and removed the Genesifin. It barely weighed anything, yet it had taxed him unbearably for orbits. He paged through until he found the passage his mind had been seeking. There, in code, it lay: The maralane shall perish. They shall pass from land and lake. No more shall their songs echo out upon the waters. Their beauty will be but a memory.
Brenol skipped back a few pages, perusing earlier code. Malitas shall come; its shadow heralds the approaching Change. It will destroy much before the end…
He frowned and flipped forward a few pages. A foreigner shall call the peoples of the land, and they shall be obedient as never be
fore seen… Many will pass with the ending tide of the maralane… Healing can only be achieved from the right hands at the right moment… He flipped several more. The Lady of Purpose will arise, ushering in the next age: The Time of the Tindel.
Brenol closed the book with care and gazed out thoughtfully upon the shining expanse of waters. They were so beautiful, alight in the midday. Yet something drew his vision, and he peered into the sparkling depths with a furrowed brow, trying to make sense of the floating mass atop the brilliance.
His stomach lurched, aware even before his cognizant mind. He flailed his way out deeper, and the icy waters pressed at his heaving chest until he clutched the corpse and dragged it back to the bank.
Even in death she was lovely, a tiny figurine of perfection. She had small lips and features as symmetric as a porcelain doll’s, and her crowned braids still had a golden luster. The white arms were limp and cool; the green eyes, glassily absent. Her tails drooped over Brenol’s strong arms. She looked about nine orbits old.
He tenderly laid the body down upon the soil, deliberating what course was appropriate.
If I bury her, will they be angry?
But I can’t leave her floating.
The thought of pushing her back into the water like refuse was repellent.
No, I will bury her.
He brushed his hand gently across the child’s face, gripped his nerves together, and set about finding objects with which to dig. He found he could work only so long before returning back to the girl to softly caress her cheek—he did not want to leave her alone on the ground. Her glassy eyes stared beyond him, empty.
After several hours of determined labor, Brenol lowered the lake-girl into the hole. Her tiny figure barely took up any space, and her milky-clear skin contrasted sharply with the darkness of the pit. The scene perturbed him; she was not meant to be clothed in earth.
Brenol knelt and removed the finger-smoothed stone from his pocket. He placed it in her palm, squeezed it shut, and laid her hand to rest upon her small chest.
“I held this ’til it brought me home,” Brenol whispered to her. “You do the same.”
The wind bit at him, but he gave no indication of notice. He refused to turn his eyes away from the child. It ached terribly to look, as though he might snap under the pressure of the bitterness, but he held himself captive regardless.
Then, it was as though his old self fractured and collapsed to the ground and a change rose up within him. He found a determination to do his fate, to lead, to help. His spine straightened with a foreign strength. His foal legs were no more.
He would not be a boy, he would not be weak. More so, he could not be.
He had grown into a young man on his first trip here, but Brenol always remembered this moment, crouched before the fish-child, as the one in which his whole person seemed to accept his manhood. At her graveside, he found he was fortified for the work ahead of him.
He kissed her cool forehead and began the task of covering her diminutive body with soil.
There was no room left for adolescence; death watched and waited.
~
Colette’s skin tingled as Veronia’s presence flowed fast through her mind. Her soul soared with elation, and she grasped toward the power as though it were her very life. The connection had returned in sputters at times, and this last empty span had been the longest one yet. But she brushed aside these thoughts and threw herself into the joy of being one with the land again.
You’re here! Colette thought to the terrisdan. You’re back.
Veronia did not respond, but that was often its way. She gave no heed to the silence and scampered through the castle, already reaching forward in her mind to see if her favorite garden nook was vacant. It would be nicely cool. Her dark hair blew behind her as she raced out to the gardens. She felt alive and free, like a little girl. Colette wound through the pathways, breathing quickly in triumph, and eventually arrived.
It was a sheltered corner. A hedgerow cupped the area, and two julicara trees provided shade. In early summer, the towering giants saturated the space with the fragrance of their indigo blossoms, but for now, the trees simply spread lovely dark green life across the sky. A small wooden bench rested in one corner, and a stone bird bath lay a few strides away.
Colette leaped forward and took a seat. She absently rubbed her hand across the surface, her consciousness leaning into the connection. Scenes from across Veronia whipped through her mind—children dancing in an open field at a lifing-day celebration, a man kissing his daughter’s cheek, a school of ruby fish swimming in the Pearia—and her heart thrilled.
“What has been wrong, Veronia?” she whispered.
“You are here,” the land replied.
Colette laughed, delighted. “Of course I am!” Her face radiated joy as she thrust her mind forward to probe the connection. Her blood thrummed in satisfaction. She could see! She could know anything! She could do anything!
A doubt snagged within her mind, and she paused. This moment felt like it would last forever, but would it? Could it? Every other time, the power had been snatched away from her abruptly and without mercy.
“Where did you go?” she finally asked. “Why do you keep leaving me?” Her voice was sullen, as if she had been spurned. “Why does this always happen?”
Veronia did not reply. Instead, the land purred through her, and she felt the potency of its love. Colette sighed in stupefied bliss, more than mollified.
But in a blink, the connection broke, and she felt like a blanket had been ripped from her in the midst of a storm. Her vision went black, and she quivered in fury.
“Where are you, Veronia?” she yelled heatedly. She stood, looking around frantically. “What is happening?”
With a rushing flood of emotion, the land swept into her mind anew. She sighed in pleasure, but as the land’s emotions dissipated, she glanced about, crazed at the possibility that the power might be yanked from her again. The jerking rise and release of the nuresti connection was enough to send her clawing up the hedgerow.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” a small voice asked.
Colette spun around. There before her was Marnet, the gardener’s daughter. She was eight orbits old and still carried the round cheeks of youth and wore her light brown hair in braids. Her gentle eyes peered at the princess with concern.
Colette could feel the connection slipping from her, and she bore cold eyes into the child. “Get away from me,” she snarled.
The girl paled and fled without a word.
Colette focused again, but yes, the connection was gone. She was blind. She could see solely with her eyes. She knew only what was in her own mind. Desperation flooded her, and she felt like screaming. She began to sprint aimlessly away, but she slipped in the first two strides and stumbled down to the gravel. Her hands burned, and her dress tore at her knee.
It took many long, painful breaths before Colette could recall herself and perceive her behavior. Shame rouged her cheeks and pinked her ears. The poor child was a friend to her, and she had likely tainted their relationship forever.
What is wrong with me? Why must this longing grip me so strongly?
Colette cupped her face and wept. Finally, she stood, wiped the dirt from her ruined dress, and went to seek the girl.
I won’t lose myself. I won’t.
~
Brenol washed in Ziel before setting out again. It was late afternoon, and his insides were gnawed by hunger, but he pressed forward, pausing only for a brief bite from his stores, for Colette’s needs were far more urgent than his belly’s. By evening, he had reached what must be the Pleoner, where she emptied out into Ziel. He carefully hopped across the large stones that extended across the river’s girth, but about ten strides from the bank, he tripped and soaked himself to the neck anyway. Knowing he could go no further now, Brenol coaxed up a fire, aired out his drenched attire, and slept deeply, waking only once to tend the flames.
At dawn, Brenol ate t
he remainder of his food but still felt weak from hunger. There was nothing else to do, so resolutely, he kicked the graying embers cool and restored his possessions to his pack. As he straightened his back, he spied a man emerging from the folds of the forest. The stranger was robust, but with a left leg that dragged lifelessly behind him through the mud and pine needles. His handsome, rounded face was punctuated by angular features and topped by a full head of brown locks. He gripped an obsidian cane and allowed it to steady his weak leg. The white runes along the dark wood were worn but clearly visible.
The man grinned and raised a hand in greeting. He had yellowing teeth but a friendly smile. As he approached, all Brenol could think of was Pearl’s whistle in his pocket. It was so close, but not in hand. Somehow, that bothered him.
The man continued to hobble toward him, and goose bumps jumped to life upon Brenol’s spine.
Why does this guy disturb me? There’s no reason.
The stranger maneuvered forward and spoke in a genial voice, “May I join you?”
“No.” The word escaped Brenol’s lips before he had a moment to think. He grappled to amend his social awkwardness, saying, “I’m actually leaving right now. Sorry. No time.”
The man smiled, but his eyes narrowed into a chilling glare. They were even blacker than Arman’s onyx pools, with no iris discernable. “Another time?”
“No.” Again, Brenol was shocked. What’s wrong with me?
Wordlessly, he scooped up his bag and made his way around the stranger.
The man stood unmoving. Only his eyes slid sideways to track Brenol as he trotted off through the trees.
“We shall see,” he said when Brenol was beyond hearing range. His glance was stony and cold, harboring a lethal anger. “We shall certainly see.”
~
Brenol dismissed the bizarre encounter and worked his way west; there were far more crucial things to consider and accomplish in the following hours. He paused briefly at a sealtoz in a humble lugazzi town, leaving a letter for Arman and promising, with an apology, that the juile would reimburse the sealtor.
Eyes in the Water Page 4