~
Brenol slept fitfully, his mind aching to draw connections between all the facts, for the depth of his exhaustion prevented him from achieving either lucid thought or rest. His dreams became fragmented and merged with the delirium of insomnia until finally he grew so agitated that he threw the blankets from his pallet in disgust. He rubbed his bleary eyes until there were streaks behind his lids.
He clambered up and felt his stomach rumble. Ignoring the pangs, he bent to bathe in the nearby basin. He shook his face in a futile attempt to warm and invigorate, but as neither were achieved, he stood dripping and shivering in the darkness.
Child’s play thing. Hos. Maralane. Deniel. Preifest. What is the connection?
He dressed in the clothes he had left heaped on the floor, despite protests from his nostrils, and stepped into the dark hallway. There on a sideboard, a thoughtful servant had placed freshly laundered terrisdan attire. Brenol passed on the Veronian sandals—he already regretted the pair he had brought—and instead plucked up some dark boots and stockings along with the folded clothing and ducked back through his doorway. He relished the feel of the Massadan material and scents, and even more the casual casting of his fetid garments into the fireplace. While there was no flame to lick them away, the action itself granted him an assurance that his ties with Alatrice were cut. Even if things were not right, he was home.
He slipped from his room and walked the darkened halls. He meandered for several minutes before scurrying footsteps behind tapestries told him he was not alone in his slumber-less state.
A small blond head, made up almost entirely of curls, poked out from behind a drapery and took in his presence with popping turquoise eyes. She let out a surprised squawk and, horrified at her own commotion, ducked away in haste. Slowly, she reemerged, flushed and hesitant. Eventually she dug up enough gumption to whisper out, “W-would ya like some breakfast, sir?”
Brenol crouched down to her height and smiled genially. “I would indeed. There is rarely a time I would not.” He winked. “But what are you doing awake this early?”
The girl’s timidity melted away at his friendliness. “I’m with Mama. She said I could come this morning. An’ help.” Her chest puffed out in satisfaction. “’s not that early. Only two hours ’til dawn. I’m a big girl.”
“I can see that now,” he said solemnly, with a dip of his head. “I apologize.”
She giggled, and her yellow curls disappeared in a flash behind the blue folds. Brenol waited patiently and was rewarded several moments later with the apparition of a woman bedecked in a white apron and carrying a curious expression. She led Brenol into a serving room nearby. Her own golden curls sought to sneak their way out of their sensible bun. He smiled at the likeness between mother and daughter and stoked the fire while tea brewed.
Breakfast was luxurious, at least by Brenol’s standards: oatmeal, fish, fresh rolls, and a cinnamon cake that was doughy and soft within but nicely crisped at the crust. All was delicious. After the meal, Brenol found that his brain was able to flex and move with greater ease. He took his coffee to the fireplace and stared into the flames, allowing his mind to stretch.
Something about his posture and the cradling of his mug drew up a memory of Darse. The man had been staring vacantly into his cooking fire in Alatrice, consumed by private musings. Brenol had asked about his thoughts, but the question had been brushed aside. It was evident to Brenol now, only after encountering this other world, that Darse’s mind must have lingered long and regularly over Massada—the site of his past and his hoped-for future.
Fondness kindled, Brenol sat smiling, and as if Darse himself were there, he heard the low grumble of reason in his mind: Delve into it, Bren. You have your mind, you have the memories. Delve.
Brenol sighed and shuddered; he did not relish the dig. The experience was akin to furrowing down into a closed wound to remove souring green puss. Yes, necessary, and yes, relieving when completed, but far from a bowl of berries and cream.
He laid his lids down reluctantly but went to work.
Brenol skimmed many memories before laying hold of the one that had been silently tugging. He exhaled, steeled himself, and clenched his jaw. He trembled forward with the force of his mind, and the memory wrapped him in as it had during his time with Arman.
Brenol was surrounded by flowers, a field of them. They were white, lily-like clusters, but smaller and without the cloyingly sweet scent. Bunches heaped upon stalks that reached the height of his thigh and even his hip. It was exquisite. Like walking in a painting.
Deniel was nearby. It was one of the rare times the man had stopped and rested in the last orbits filled with his pursuit of rescuing his kidnapped charge. He floated through the field, allowing his fingers to tickle the flowers’ tips as he strode. Brenol remembered the sensation from a previous memory: smooth, soft, calming. There had been so much beauty for Deniel in this moment. It had been undoing and fortifying all at once.
Brenol left Deniel, though, and moved to the journal lying a stone’s throw from the man. It was open.
Would it be there? Brenol knelt and desperately sought to move pages that would not flip. Memories could not be altered, even if they could be relived.
Calm, Bren, he told himself. Just wait and see.
So Brenol lingered and studied the scene. There was little occurring around him, but he attended regardless. He felt assured that the effort was not in vain, for this memory rang with importance. He knew it in the way he knew the voice of the land. It was instinct and gift braided together in intuition. While intuit was scary at times, here it was simple. He only had to wait.
The winds swept upon the white blossoms, swaying them like an ocean swell. Deniel stood in wonder.
The pages flipped joyfully in the wind, flapping in merry claps. As the breeze settled, the whipping reeds calmed, and the pages came to a still. Deniel’s scrawl upon the white page was clear and precise: Colette—Lady of Purpose.
Somehow, Deniel knew. How?
Colette is important, he thought, but at this, he was ripped from himself into Deniel’s mind.
Flash!
Deniel rose from the moonlit waters, drenched and warm but shaking with new revelations. The waters had been pregnant with words tonight, speaking to him of his cartess.
Yes, she is to be Queen… And yes, she must be saved.
No more nuresti, no more cartontz.
She will be Queen of all Tindel, the Lady of Purpose.
If I find her.
Brenol opened his eyes, thankful he was seated. He felt a swirling queasiness, and although the return to reality was not as jarring as it had been with Arman, it still was unpleasant. The delve into memory had drained his already exhausted mind, and now he was left with a sagging hollowness and even more to discern.
Could this be true?
It seemed ridiculous to doubt Deniel. The man shared his own mind. But still, Brenol had not experienced the revelations from the waters, just the intense after-moments. He wondered how Deniel could be so certain.
Colette didn’t believe she’d be queen of all. She said as much four orbits ago. And it had been her revelation… Could Colette’s mistake have led Deniel into a false belief? Brenol wanted to trust Deniel, but it seemed too great a leap to accept without consideration. He sighed and sank back in his chair.
He did not find repose for long because soon Isvelle entered the room. His musings faded into open-mouthed awe.
Brenol had forgotten the glow—and the stunning effect it had on him. Colette’s light was a soft moon compared to the brilliant sun of Isvelle’s. His eyes followed her like a sunflower tracking its namesake across the sky.
She moved gracefully, not indicating any awareness of his awkward fumbling to his feet, and smiled warmly. “I’ve not been able to tell you my thanks. You’ve done so much for me. Thank you for finding Colette those many orbits ago.”
“In good accord,” Brenol replied, shaking his head in dismissal. “B
ut, really, I did little.”
“Darse and Colette tell me differently.”
A smile rounded Brenol’s lips. “Where is the old man anyway?”
“Arrived yesterday. Colette had sent seal asking him to come. She didn’t tell us until he had arrived, though, that you were coming. I’m surprised he’s not awake, even if it is but dawn.” She stole a furtive glance out the window. Brenol followed her gaze.
“—you do?”
Brenol snapped back to attention, realizing his thoughts had distracted him from the conversation. “Excuse me?”
“What is your occupation back in your world?” Isvelle asked.
Brenol’s lips curved up again as if her words were humorous. “I finished schooling but mainly worked on Darse’s land—his homestead.”
“A farmer,” she said with a nod. “Honorable work.”
He laughed easily. “It is. It took me orbits to finally accept as much. I hated it for ages.” He held out his palms, as if amazed they had matured to their size. “But I seem to have grown into it.” Again he laughed. “I woke up one day and realized I liked it. It wasn’t toilsome anymore to use my tools and work the land and raise animals. I actually liked it. I can’t see myself doing anything else now.”
Isvelle smiled generously. “The land making the man.”
Brenol blinked, slightly taken aback. “I suppose so.”
After several minutes of conversation, Darse meandered in, grinning. The man had changed too, though more subtly. He looked healthy and strong, alive and exuberant. The golden eyes were an ever-present reminder of Fingers, but the man had clearly found much recovery, and time apart from conscription passes and door letterings had also done him well. A slight dip at the corners of Darse’s lips gave Brenol a moment’s pause—something did weigh upon the man—but on the whole it appeared as if orbits had washed from his frame and features. He beamed joyfully as he pulled Brenol into an ursine embrace, slapping him roughly on the back.
“Awake by dawn? Much has changed in the last few orbits,” Darse laughed, winking. He drew the young man back, in the fatherly manner of examination, and smiled at the tall figure before him. “You’ve gotten fat.”
Brenol laughed. “So have you.”
~
They conversed while Isvelle and Darse ate. Brenol could only hope that Veronia’s sickly eye did not perceive all that transpired, but he felt little choice in the matter; time drove him forward like a horse before a switch, and he recounted to them the meeting with Preifest and Jerem’s poison.
Darse furrowed his brow in confusion. “It doesn’t make sense to me. Why haven’t the terrisdans said anything? At least to their nuresti? How is it that we haven’t known about it ’til now?”
Brenol bobbed his head in comprehension. “The terrisdans are another thing entirely. They…they are different.” He winced as he sought a coherent explanation. “They aren’t tame or, well, human-thinking. I guess one can never really guess a terrisdan’s motives.” Something in his speech caused his heart to prick awake. He wondered at it but could not discern its meaning.
Darse leaned back, releasing a low whistle. “There’s too much there for you to try to sort through on your own.”
Brenol nodded, accepting the obvious truth. He felt his inadequacies down to his marrow. He hesitated, unsure of how much to share with Isvelle, but decided to continue. “There’s something else.”
Darse’s eyebrows arched in question. More?
The young man reached a slender hand into his pocket, retrieving a small item he had wrapped in a yellowing cloth. “Preifest gave this to me.” He looked determinedly at Darse. “But I know it. Deniel found this on the man Jerem murdered—the one who had given him the poison for the maralane. It’s called a hos, but I don’t know much else about it.”
He unwrapped it with the care of a glassworker and held the object out for their perusal. They both hovered forward with stilled breaths. Brenol blinked as Isvelle’s brilliant glow grew closer, but he inhaled purposefully and shook his senses back into place. Too much weighed upon his shoulders to let anything distract him.
Brenol gently set the piece upon the table, its opal eyes glinting mysteriously. Gingerly, Isvelle’s elegant fingers extended and wrapped around the cool edges of the hos. Darse’s eyes followed her, attentive and soft.
She drew the object so near that Brenol waited for her green eyes to cross. While her vision remained clear, the warmth of her breath upon the figurine made it glow a glittering teal that illuminated the room with a dazzling shine and splashed the walls with dozens of tiny lights.
Brenol stared, amazed.
She cupped her hands and warmed the belly of the hos with hot air again and then plucked it quickly up to closely scrutinize the tails. Blue light shot in every direction. She ran her fingertips in an ordered way over the whole of the toy and finally exhaled in understanding.
She leaned back, placing the hos squarely in Brenol’s hand. She closed his fingers over it with a firm touch, for he had long since allowed his arms to fall limp in wonder.
“I do not know the code,” Isvelle said, “But something is written on her. I saw it on the tails, but there could be more.”
Brenol looked at the hos as one scrutinizes an article after a magician’s touch, yet it was the same figurine: small, delicate, attractive. “How? How did you know?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t. But I could see that there was more to that piece than what appeared. No grown man—nor maralane, for that matter—would carry this otherwise. And I’d heard of maralane enchanting objects before, although it has long been banned in the upper-world. It seems strange to choose such a piece, though.” Her puzzled eyes hovered upon his hands where it now lay hidden.
“Why?” breathed Brenol.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, recalling his lack of experience with Massada. “It’s like turning an old, dog-chewed burlap doll into an invaluable magical tool.”
“But it isn’t a cheap thing. Not even damaged,” Brenol argued. He looked down at the lovely figurine, shaking his head.
Isvelle cut in, “It is to the maralane. Only a very young lake-child would see this as desirable. It lacks gems beyond the eyes, and there are no major reliefs in the glass.” She indicated the apparent defects. “It is the right size, though.”
“I think you’re missing the point, Bren,” Darse said.
“Huh?” Brenol’s head came up from his hand after a moment’s delay.
“The code?”
Brenol’s mind geared to work. He cupped the small toy up to his mouth, breathing warmth upon the glass. It sprayed teal sparks around the room like a firecracker. Brenol jumped slightly in surprise. He looked questioningly to Isvelle.
“Can you read it?” she urged curiously.
He breathed again but found it too difficult to decipher and blow simultaneously.
“Here,” Isvelle offered. She plucked the piece from Brenol’s hand and held it out between her and Darse. Darse blushed at the proximity, but soon the two huddled together to breathe in unison over the hos. It glowed from teal to a blinding gold, brighter than the yield of any cupellation.
Brenol leaned his face over the extended object with desperate hope. At last, he found the code, and was amazed Isvelle had discerned its presence so readily. The lettering was in gold, but it was difficult to read because the object itself gave off such an effulgence of light that it caused his eyes to stream with tears. That, and the letters were so minuscule that he would have missed them without Isvelle’s directions. The markings were maralane—or juile, depending on who you asked—and told a two-fold story more intricate than would be expected possible on such a tiny item. Brenol rolled the object to examine the back, belly, and head as he strained his eyes upon the barely perceivable notations.
After several minutes, Brenol stepped away—much to the relief of Darse and Isvelle. Though they had been taking turns, both felt dizzied by their labored breaths. Brenol himself found his ey
esight reeling and spent several moments with lids slammed shut and fists rubbing them raw.
He painfully peeled open his eyes, blinking dramatically, to see Colette gliding through the entryway. She wore blue trousers and a matching shirt that hugged her figure. The ensemble was lightweight and well suited for travel and paired flatteringly with the braids securing her dark plaits.
The princess’s face bespoke wonder at their gathering but suggested angst as well.
Brenol straightened and smiled gently in welcome, although his eyes still blearily blinked back spots.
“I didn’t know you were awake,” she said, and a touch of pink colored her tight cheeks.
His heart swelled in compassion. He longed to tenderly take her hand in his and comfort her; even had he not experienced the nauseating perception of Veronia’s eye, her speech made much plain—to him, at least.
She has little connection, little sight.
He knew the desperate experience of childlike vulnerability she was living, but was suddenly struck with a new realization: Colette must feel even more frantic at the connection’s absence than he had. He had barely tasted the nuresti power and had been utterly rent at leaving it behind, but she had known the power and felt the thrill of its omniscience since childhood. Colette’s dependence, and terror at its loss, must be great indeed. He touched her warm back to offer reassurance, pleased to see that his emotions did not spike.
Colette waved him away with a sharp swipe of her hand. Brenol frowned but did not speak.
Wildness. The wildness is deep, he thought.
“What is this?” Colette asked. She knelt to examine the tiny lake-woman. “A hos?” She pulled her face back in confusion, yet her hand hungrily reached out to touch it as if it were her only lifeline in the drowning waters of Massada’s demise.
Brenol stood, and three curious pairs of eyes all turned to him. The dual codes of the piece churned through his mind. He was still struggling to swallow it all himself, but before all of these people… As if sensing his weakness, his heart lurched forward suddenly in a desire for Colette to love him, accept him.
Eyes in the Water Page 8