Brenol next followed the sharp jut of Ziel until it met the Pearia. He remained on the western banks and pushed himself a few additional matroles through the lugazzi, itching to feel the terrisdan land beneath his toes before nightfall.
The young man could feel the line approaching as he moved through the neutral land. His senses seemed only to have heightened in his time away, and his arms tingled as if from static electricity as he drew nearer. He smiled, breathed deeply, and strode forward into Garnoble.
But then he paused, confused, and again surveyed the terrain. In the dim light of evening things were obscure, but he had entered the terrisdan; he was certain of it. His lips pressed together tightly. His skin tickled with the knowledge of the land, but the terrisdan was as quiet and still as a coma.
Bewildered, he bent down, placed an open palm upon the soil, and spoke softly, “Garnoble, it is Bren from so long ago. May I pass, old friend?”
There was no reply, nor did the eye of the land bear down upon him as it previously had. It was there, but it was as if it were closed. The soil crumbled from his palm as he retracted his hand.
It’s like you’re asleep…
Brenol went through the motions of setting up camp and preparing for night but knew rest was unlikely. His mind churned with all that was upon and before him. He lay awake for hours, gazing pensively into the sky. Eventually, even his engrossed mind could not withstand the exhaustion, and slumber took him. He slept past dawn.
CHAPTER 4
Fate is not merely a matter for kings.
-Genesifin
Day arrived, and Brenol knew he must find food. His head ached and his thoughts were muddled. He scavenged about and was eventually rewarded with a vined gourd. He plopped it in the fire, cooked it for a time, and, despite its bland flavor, consumed every edible piece of its pulpy flesh.
Renewed, he began again. Walking was pleasant, but monotonous and time consuming. Though he trod at a brisk pace, he refused to push himself too hard in order to preserve his stamina. After several hours, he flirted with the idea of throwing himself into the rushing waterway and praying he did not meet sharp rock, but in the end the temperature deterred him.
The day wore on, and he found himself yet again wishing for a raft. He paused to wash and drink by the water and realized that across the waterway was the road that split and led into the visnati village of Coltair. The ghosted lanes whispered to him of the past and of the massacre that had been the visnati’s fate. Brenol speedily abandoned his efforts for refreshment and hastened past, seeking distraction from the gruesome thoughts. He did not want to see what remained, or did not, of the town.
“Bren,” a familiar voice called from behind him.
He jumped at the sound, but after the initial shock, his face stretched into a grin.
“Arman!” Brenol turned joyfully but gasped when he saw his friend. For indeed, the juile was visible even though they stood in Garnoble. He gaped at the transparent image of Arman, working to make sense of it all. “How?” he muttered, half to himself.
Arman smiled gently at Brenol’s confusion. “It seems we both have something we do not understand… I pray it will be bountiful.” As graceful as ever, he bowed, his robes flowing smoothly down.
Brenol bowed in turn. “Bountiful indeed. But truly, Arman. What—Wait, is this part of the Change? You’re losing your invisibility?”
The juile drew his friend in for a strong embrace. “You have not lost your inquisitiveness, I see. Although I think that might be the only aspect to have remained as it was.” Arman’s dark eyes peered down—although not as far as they once had—into Brenol’s, examining him with patient care.
While Brenol’s face spread into a warm smile, the juile hesitated for a breath. He pondered yet again over his conjectures, the signs he had seen. Do I speak of my thoughts to Bren? Do I tell him of this strange, hidden evil? Unsure, he finally drew the man close again, and with a few clicks, coded out, You have been missed.
Brenol nodded and looked at Arman. Something about the juile’s expression seemed awry. “What is it, Ar?”
“Come, come. I’ll answer questions,” Arman said, swiping away his thoughts. “But first, let’s eat!”
~
Over a sating luncheon of fish and bread and vegetables, Arman listened to Brenol narrate his last four and a half orbits. But the juile exhibited especial interest in the recent encounter with Preifest.
“He has been waiting for your return,” the juile said quietly. “I don’t think any of us believed you would be gone as long as this.”
“No,” Brenol began, solemnly recalling the long orbits of anticipation. “But I am here now.”
“Indeed.”
“I found a maralane body in Ziel,” Brenol said softly, almost reluctantly.
Arman’s eyebrows tilted up. “One, or more?”
The young man’s face was incredulous. “This has become a common thing?” The images from his dream suddenly burst alive again: beached maralane corpses everywhere. He shuddered. The tiny girl had been in his arms but two days previously.
“They are dying, Bren. How can they care for their dead when they cannot care for their living?”
“What—”
Arman held up a transparent hand, begging for patience. “Their corpses began washing up on shore about an orbit ago. It did not take long for creatures to notice—the stench was unbearable. Especially after storms. I’ve seen it myself. Water lapping against their frail bodies spit up on the sand.” His face was ugly with pity. “The people of the lugazzi surrounding Ziel have established some kind of watch and burial system. Maralane do not rest long now when they come ashore.”
Is this what Preifest meant? About the upper-world showing unexpected kindness? Brenol wondered. “What does Ordah say?” he asked.
Arman’s face pinched. “He doesn’t say anything. He lives out in the wilderness. And refuses to talk to or see anyone.”
“Why?” Brenol asked. He never had a problem spinning his speech before, he thought.
Arman flicked out his fingers—the juile equivalent of a shrug. “The maralane dying? His shame at not having the intuit to perceive the true nature of his brother? His familial disgrace? There are numerous reasons I can think of, but he will not confirm or deny any of them. He chooses silence and isolation.”
Brenol shook his head. The prophet rarely made sense to him.
“And your invisibility?” the young man asked. “Where does that fit in?”
“You’re on the right pattern,” Arman replied. “I do not know. In fact, I had hoped you would know more. But time will reveal all. It appears as though both land and water are changing, and with it the creatures themselves.”
“Some survive, some do not.”
“It is provocative,” Arman agreed.
A dark thought seized Brenol. “The juile aren’t dying, are they?”
The black eyes looked upon him kindly. “You need not fear. We are not. But I do appreciate the concern.”
“Then why the fading invisibility?”
“It is not everywhere. It seems that the neutral lands are extending further in.”
Brenol scrunched up his face, trying to make sense of it all. “As if the lands are dying? This place is not neutral,” he said, waving a hand around him. “It is off though…”
The juile laughed. It caused his face to jump into an attractive alignment. Brenol’s chest loosened at the sight. He had sorely missed that smile.
“And here I thought you would be bringing me the answers!” Arman joked. “What does that book of yours say?”
“You knew about it?” Brenol asked. “The Genesifin?”
Arman’s glance narrowed in response. Brenol’s lips curled in a small smile.
Preifest was right, Brenol thought. Juile find out many things they aren’t given privilege to know.
Brenol dug out the manuscript and placed it in his lap. The book was strikingly clean atop his muddied clothing. At the
sight of it, all amusement drained from his heart and face.
“It doesn’t say much…or perhaps I should simply say it doesn’t allow for much hope.” Brenol sighed. “It speaks of the passing of the maralane and some other creatures and says that a new age will come about because of what it calls the Change. There will be a Final Breath.” He shuddered, although he could discern no reason for it. “And that—the Final Breath—seems to really be the end, but it is not. Oh, it also mentions some creature I don’t know: ‘Child of malitas.’ I don’t know what it—or anything—means. It is a muddle in my mind.”
“Malitas?” Arman asked sharply. He paused, his mind churning. Could this be what I have feared? What I think is happening across Massada? “That’s disturbing.”
“Why?”
“You remember the concept of benere?” Arman asked. “The pursuit of wholeness, goodness? Malitas is the night to benere’s day: the seeking of ruin, chaos, corruption. A child of this? It would be evil enfleshed.”
Brenol’s memory flooded with the gripping sensation he had known in the soladrome: there was a darkness upon Massada, and he must do everything to save the land from it. The deluge of images and emotions—the bond of the gortei, the whistle, Pearl’s owl-like eyes and dappled gray feathers, the hoard’s eyes staring expectantly at him—blinded him to his present surroundings.
“What is it, Bren?”
The young man inhaled slowly and gave the juile a sideways glance. “I don’t know why I’m reluctant to tell you. It’s silly.” He glanced down at his dirty fingernails before meeting his friend’s eyes.
“Hmm?” There was an unreadable expression on Arman’s intense face.
Brenol opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it again.
“Is it truly that terrible?” Arman asked. His handsome grin returned.
The young man allowed himself his own brief smile and finally spoke. “I promised an oath of gortei when I was last here.” A hot flush hit his cheeks.
“Yes?” Diversion sparkled in the coal-black eyes.
“Yes,” he repeated.
The juile laughed, the deep rumble spilling from his lips. “Good. It is an honor to have you to care for my land. I thank you.” He dipped his dark head in respect and, despite the smile, betrayed no trace of mockery. He meant every word, as he always did.
Brenol did not have the patience to decipher Arman’s amusement. Instead, he raised the clean white book and slapped it with his left hand. The noise was meager compared to the gesture. “What does this mean?” he asked curtly.
The juile flicked out his fingers again. He extended a hand, and Brenol passed the book readily. Arman smoothed his long digits across the white album for several moments without breaking open the cover.
After a spell, the juile stood, brushed the grass from his gray attire, and strode toward the river. “And you said it was in juile code too?”
Brenol nodded, but Arman did not glance back to see the man’s response. He was merely thinking aloud. The juile lifted his robes and waded in several strides. A monument of swarthy skin and dark hair, lost to the world of sun and breeze and forest, he showed no concern regarding the cold waters licking his clothing.
Brenol lay in the cool afternoon light and occasionally glanced over at the towering steeple in the water. Hours passed, and finally Brenol awoke in a muddled fog to find Arman crouched before him, eyes hooded with mystery.
He yawned. “You read it all?”
The look Brenol received was both answer and slap awake.
“What is it?”
“Bren, this is not simply a jump to the next age.”
He sat to attention. He felt some power spinning inside him, like an arrow about to stop, pointing him in the direction where he should thrust his entire being.
“If you are this foreigner, you carry much of the fate of our world in your hands. This Change, the Final Breath—these are not merely stories to tell at eventide.”
Brenol’s chest sunk slightly, and the inner arrow swung wildly within him. “It’s something I’m still trying to swallow.”
Arman gave him a quizzical glance—idioms forever intrigued him—and asked, “What would Deniel see in this?” He lifted the book and tapped it twice with a clear index finger.
“I have often asked that question.”
“Bren.”
“Yes?” The young man met the intense gaze of the juile.
“Search your mind. He gave his to you for a reason.”
The thought startled him—handing over a mind like a bite of bread?—but he closed his eyes, delving into the mystery of the man’s memory. I know so much of him, yet so little. He perused through the mess of pictures and scenes and sighed. He had sifted through them for orbits. There was nothing new to unearth.
“Push into it, Bren. Push.” Arman’s voice was steady and soft, yet as imperative as a hypnotist’s.
Brenol thought back to the cave, to the look that had comprised more than any language could transcribe, and finally to Deniel’s death. He hesitated—of all the places to visit again, he would not choose this one—and pursed his lips in determination.
Here we go.
And he pushed, falling into picture and sensation. The memory opened for him like a screen of water finally releasing its long-held surface tension.
He gaped, shocked. Silently, fearfully, he walked the length of the cave. It was the same place, cramped and rank with Jerem’s scent, but utterly disconcerting to experience afresh. The happenings were as real as the first time, but he felt intangible and ghostly before the concrete figures around him.
Jerem spoke to the boy—himself many orbits ago—in the corner. “I see we have a guest, Colette. Did you invite him, Deniel?” He paused to drive a rough foot swiftly into Deniel’s side. The young man did not flinch, but Brenol did.
Brenol padded carefully over to Deniel. He hesitated, but then with a determined nod gently lit his hand upon the man’s back. There was no reaction. While he had not entirely expected one, Brenol still exhaled in relief. The memory remained but a memory, even if he was permitted to walk in its folds.
He glanced at Colette. A fire sparked awake in him. He hated seeing her like this, and he was powerless to change her circumstances yet again.
The scene unraveled just as it had when he had lived it as Brenol and then, later, as Deniel. Of all the memories I have to relive so many times, he thought ruefully. He scanned the space, but it was the nightmare it had always been.
Nothing. Nothing here.
He rose from the memory, the experience akin to awakening from a dream. Brenol opened his eyes to find the juile’s obsidian eyes intensely upon him.
“Anything?”
Brenol shook his head. “But the method was effective.” He blinked, hoping to subdue the reeling sensation. Memories of memories within memories. His stomach flopped.
“A different one, perhaps?”
Brenol inhaled slowly. “I suppose. But I don’t know which. I have dozens and dozens…and I don’t think I’ll be able to do this to each one.” He glanced around, scooped up a cool stone from the ground, and held it to his forehead. It was relieving, even if it could not fully calm his spinning insides.
“Any with other people?”
“No. Just Colette.”
Arman paused, rubbing his fingers together in consideration. “Maybe she is the most important. The missing piece.” His voice was an absent rumble: a roaming mind made audible.
Brenol’s body grew taut, as a dog coming to point. “What did you say?”
“Maybe Colette is the missing aspect.”
“Before that. Why did you say she was the most important?” Brenol’s heart thundered in his ears.
“Perhaps she is the most important.” Arman’s quick mind clicked. “So you’ve heard that phrase associated with her before? Where?”
“Maybe?” Brenol closed his eyes, delving. It took him several moments before he was able to place it. “Veronia said it
long ago. Back when I was a nurest. Before I’d met her. I said something about Veronia not even caring about her, and it said she was the most important. Wouldn’t say much to me after that… I couldn’t figure out what those words meant, so I eventually let it go. Forgot them, even. I guess I concluded that the land felt that way because of the connection.”
“But yet, you don’t believe that.”
“Not really. Veronia is not one to speak without intention.”
Arman released his long legs from their tight crouch and extended them, as though their freedom might enable inspiration. “What did Deniel think—about Colette?”
Brenol shrugged. “He thought her pretty significant. He was her cartontz. Plus she was basically a sister to him. I think it all combined to a near obsession when it came to protecting her.”
“Yes. And the abandoning of his own terrisdan to serve another nurest is puzzling itself. Mastering the desire for the connection’s power is battle enough without adding service to another nurest onto it.”
“Mmm,” Brenol mumbled in assent. “There was another thing…” The queenship…the tree…the feather…
“Yes?”
The young man laughed, realizing his love for Colette’s tree was more than likely clouding his ability to see the truth. She had been but a child when she had thought she would be queen over the whole world. And Deniel had not actually seen or heard anything himself. No, it could not be a reality. “Nothing. My mind is not making sense to me right now.”
Arman raised a transparent eyebrow but did not pursue it further. “And Jerem?”
The hair on Brenol’s arms prickled. “What do you mean?”
“Was his obsession with her only because of her connection?”
“Oh.” It was as though Arman had unlocked the door, even if it remained shut. He groped forward in this strange new torrent of thought. “Both of them seemed to know something about Colette. Jerem boxed up the other nuresti to save for later, but she was his experiment and object for orbits on end. He was fixated on her. And Deniel could not get past his cartess. Cartess this, cartess that. He said it was to protect her…but there was more. Because there was always some kind of insinuation that in saving her—”
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