Eyes in the Water

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  Colette grit her teeth as her mind swam. For a brief moment, she considered the suggestion and, in this allowance, found her will sink under its duress. Her hands slowly pushed her body aright, and she found herself sliding from the fire into the darkness. Her body moved stealthily into the woods. She did not stop, but kept gracing the forest with swift steps.

  About an hour passed before the hunger lost its sure grip. She still pulsed with desire, but her body was exhausted, and its limitations worked to wake her clouded mind.

  “What am I doing?” she asked aloud, and she blushed to her ears. Her triumph and healing at Ziel now seemed pitifully shadowed by the corruption that clearly reigned in her. “What am I doing?”

  In answer, the voice within spoke: “If you’re quiet, you might have a chance to get it. Just wait. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Colette pressed her lips together, perturbed, and about-faced to make the return journey to camp. As she went, she stumbled and fell regularly, and her bare feet became raw with cuts. Several times the lunitata stopped to sit and weep, but there was little else to do but continue on in the dark.

  Eventually, after nearly missing the small clearing, Colette came upon Darse still deep in sleep. She wiped away the silent tears that stained her cheeks and collapsed into her blankets.

  I’m a monster, she thought.

  As if in response, the inner darkness whispered back, “Just bide your time.”

  ~

  The morning dawned, and Darse groaned to life. His limbs still held rebellious aches from the hours of grave digging. He rubbed his legs and stretched his shoulders while pondering Colette’s words yet again. His heart jittered with anticipation, and his mind arched forward in both apprehension and longing.

  The man prepared a simple breakfast, and with the newfound clarity that comes with food in the belly, he resolved to tuck away his musings. Too much time lay until the next encounter with Isvelle to be flittering about full of school-boy angst. There was much to be accomplished, and he needed a sharp mind.

  They cleared camp and extended their weary limbs east for a day of travel. Darse went slowly, for Colette appeared strangely beaten and fatigued. They crossed into Selenia but then curved farther north out of the lugazzi to avoid the rough and exhausting mountains hugging Ziel. Still, the air reaching their lungs felt thin and left them with rasping breaths. At midday they paused to rest, settling among the smooth grasses. Darse’s eyes repeatedly rose up to the slate-blue southern peaks thrusting up in stupefying majesty.

  Glancing to Colette, he saw the lunitata staring vacantly at the soft green turf. What is bothering her?

  Darse parted his lips to ask but was stopped before he could even draw breath. A startlingly close voice jolted him from his seat.

  “I pray it has been bountiful,” the voice said, although in the openness of the mountainside, it was experienced more as a terrible booming.

  “Bounty forgotten, Arman! You could warn us before making my stomach jump out of my very body,” Darse cried.

  Colette gave a small smile but could not hide her shaking hands.

  “I am here, as Bren promised.”

  “Promised?” Darse asked the air.

  “I—”

  Colette quickly regained her composure. She interrupted Arman. “I used the aurenal. I told Bren to come or send someone to meet and take me on to Limbartina.” She paused, weighing her words for a moment, but continued after a breath. “I knew you’d not leave me to travel alone, but your path lies to the south. There’s nothing for you here. Or east to Granoile.”

  Arman had not been privy to the previous conversation, but he caught Darse’s crimson blush. While he guessed as to its cause, he thought it best to respect the man’s privacy. The juile instead stood silently, his mind brimming with deliberations of his own.

  Darse fidgeted with his coat pockets and answered her. “That’s not true. Bren needs—”

  “Bren needs nothing” she interrupted swiftly. “And he’d agree with me if I spoke with him.”

  “I—”

  “Darse, I ask this of you. It’s not something to delay. Please.”

  The man nodded, but the thought of heading to Veronia—to Isvelle—made his insides as soft as pudding. “I-I—” His voice choked in his throat. He peered out at the lofty mountains.

  Can I really do this? I—

  Arman finally found he could not wait any longer and severed Darse’s weaving thoughts. “Darse, pardon me for interrupting, but I must ask you something. Did any see Arista give you the jekob nut in Caladia?”

  Darse blinked his golden eyes to steady his swirling mind. “Oh…” He pushed his memory back in recall. “I don’t think so. She came to my home. It was the first time.”

  Silence ensued for a moment before Arman spoke. “Do not mention it again, please.” It was not a request.

  “I had not planned to.” A strange discomposure lined Darse’s voice; he felt a fool. His time with the frawnish had been exactly as Colette had said: separate.

  Colette stepped forward and laced his fingers with hers. Her hands were warm and delicate, and her eyes tugged at him. Again, his stomach swirled as he recalled the new purpose ahead.

  “I’ll see you soon. You need have no fear. I know.” She toed herself a few digits higher and gently kissed his cheek, rough from the wind and his salted beard.

  He granted her a weak smile and faced west. He strode forward a pace, halted, and turned back. “Thank you, Colette,” Darse said genuinely.

  She nodded and watched him head toward the vale.

  She took a deep breath, wishing her own troubles could be solved as simply, and followed Arman’s pedasse to Limbartina.

  CHAPTER 9

  A foreigner shall call the great of the lands. They shall come, obedient as never before.

  -Genesifin

  Brenol sent out seals across Massada. He requested keepers, cartontz, and kings alike to join him at Limbartina. The nuresti had never before met together in council, and likely would have refused under other circumstances, but Brenol had won an element of respect from them orbits ago. The black coffins of Jerem were not so easily forgotten, even by those who had not personally lived the horror. The rumors that Brenol was part nurest were argued and defended, and whether due to curiosity or fate, the keepers were tugged from their borders and soon trickled their way into Selenia. The royalty also came, but they proved neither as patient nor as prone to respect; Brenol’s legends meant little to them. Representatives from varying races were also invited, but many of these were missing; time and circumstance—and frawnish obstinacy—did not allow for every species to attend.

  Colette, seemingly one of the last to arrive, entered into the midst of the chaos with bewildered eyes set in a solemn face. The group was nearly pawing the ground in their impatience to learn why they had been requested. Brenol had refused to convene until the majority of those summoned were present.

  “Called. Like a serving boy with a platter,” muttered a short, balding man with a beard as thick and red as a setter’s coat. His eyes burned as he turned them upon Colette.

  She let his words fall from her without effect and approached Brenol.

  Brenol spied her and stared, taking in her new radiance with awe. The glow was lovely and fitting, as if somehow the light was a shining picture of the intricate goodness within her. He felt like he was gazing at her soul, and it was breathtaking.

  “What is this?” she whispered to him, looking around her.

  Brenol suddenly blinked, recalling the moment and the crowd around them. His expression grew austere and he shook his head, for there was no time to delve into the last few days, no matter how much he longed to. The mystery of her light would have to wait.

  He led her to a chair and breathed into her ear, “I’m glad you’re here. And safe.”

  Colette took her place as proffered and lifted her wondering eyes. The room surrounding them was a grand hall with vaulted ceilings and intricately p
ainted murals running down the walls. Carpets and thick rugs clothed the tiled floors, and fires crackled kindly to combat the chill attempting to press its way inside. Colored banners flowed in silken rivers, and art splashed the space in a manner uncustomary to umburquin fashion; this was a place created and reserved for grand occasions and royal visits.

  There were about forty seats set in three rows ringing an empty wooden dais. She was stunned to see so many, but at the same time, in that vast space, their party felt trifling. It was comprised mainly of humans, but an umburquin stood to the side, a lanky ignalli lounged nonchalantly, and several empty seats betrayed the presence of juile.

  As Colette gazed about, she choked in a startled breath as she realized that she recognized several attendees. They were changed, but yes, she knew them. Colette had seen their hollow eyes after they had emerged from Jerem’s black boxes, heard their shrieks in the sterile hallways, felt their shrill sobbing in her veins. They had been more dead than alive—inside and out. It was a wonder to see them, but their still-sickly glances wrested her heart with pity.

  Their faces were volatile and twisted with loathing. Jerem had ruined them both in life and from the grave. It was as her mother had said—Jerem owned them through their hate.

  As if they haven’t experienced enough, she thought sadly.

  She watched one elderly man specifically, and his expression suddenly tightened her gut with an even graver understanding. Every nurest present, every one, shared the guilty glance, the clenched features, the doubt in the eyes. These people experienced the same clawing greed for the nuresti connection. They would likely be tempted with just as much treachery as she. It was a sobering reality.

  Brenol came, poised himself on the dais, raised his palms up, and begged for quiet. He shuffled his feet—this was a new experience for him—but his face remained purposeful and direct. “I know you’re not accustomed to meetings or being summoned, and I apologize for the inconvenience. But we must face what’s before us. And as we must make a choice, I want it to be together, as one.”

  While the words themselves fell upon the room without igniting interest, Brenol himself caused all to pause. His whole person commanded attention, and even the royalty found a strange stirring within them at his presence.

  Soon all fidgets and murmurings ceased, and the audience barely breathed as he unfolded the story of Jerem, the poison, and the hos.

  “The umbus have examined the hos and tested it… While we must take care not to waste it, I think there is only one way to truly show you its power.”

  At a brief flicking gesture of his hand, an elderly woman approached the dais nervously. Her hair was white and thinning, and her skin drooped loosely from her features. The woman’s eyes darted around, and she hugged her bandaged left arm to her chest.

  Brenol gave her a reassuring nod and slowly removed the lengths of cloth wrapping the wounded limb. He was slow and careful, for her face had screwed up and exposed her teeth in a show of pain.

  When he was done, exclamations and mutterings carried through the room. All could see the severe gash running up the length of her arm.

  Brenol extracted the hos and with simple care touched the piece to the injured limb. She cringed but did not retract her arm. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

  The clear glass of the hos suddenly clouded. It swirled inside as though a storm churned through it, dark and chaotic. As the gray sweep whirled, the woman’s countenance abruptly altered. Her face sagged in relief, and her eyes softened from their hardened stare. She sighed in a near whimper, her shoulders loosening.

  Every back arched forward to see, and when Brenol raised the hos from her arm, the woman’s skin was entirely whole. Not a scratch was present, not even a scar to mark the terrible wound that had been present but moments previously. Awed exhalations fell from many lips. The woman ran her right hand across the site, both amazed and relieved. She seemed almost in a trance as she stepped down and hobbled from the room.

  Brenol stared grimly at the piece. The smoky cloud within began to settle, and the glass gradually returned to its original clarity. The enigmatic opal eyes shimmered at him.

  He scanned the crowd. Every pair of eyes rested upon him, rapt.

  “It’s a healing instrument. Mysterious and powerful. It was enchanted by the maralane, but their secrets are dying with them. We can’t ask them anything, for they’ve stopped surfacing except as corpses.”

  “Can’t we send them a message?” a small voice quivered. It came from a thin whisper of a woman—the nurest of Callup.

  “They don’t respond. I’ve tried. As have others.”

  Tension blanketed the party, only the occasional whisper scratching at the silence.

  Brenol’s voice again echoed out powerfully. “I’ll be plain. I don’t know how to best administer the treatment. The umburquin have seen these before, but never specifically to be used on a terrisdan. The ones they’ve seen in the past work just as this one you saw, charged by the holder’s intent. By contact, health is restored, yet there is a measured amount of enchantment to every piece. It cannot heal forever. We do not want to test it too much for fear we will not have enough power to heal the lands.”

  Brenol inhaled, scanning the many eyes upon him. “So this is what lies before us. I don’t know if we’re going to have enough time to save the terrisdans. But this cannot be a decision that I, or any one person, makes. Massada belongs to us all.” Brenol took a deep breath. “And we’ll have to live with the consequences of our decision every day after.”

  He gingerly placed the glass hos on the dais and stepped back. It appeared so tiny and fragile before the great hall, grand people, and grave disasters of Massada. The words of the dream-Preifest echoed in his ears: “Don’t kill us. Don’t kill us.”

  Colette stared unblinkingly at the piece, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. She hardly breathed as the others leaned forward to see. In her mind she could picture placing the little figurine upon her beloved soil and Veronia answering back with a flooding wake of knowledge and bliss. She could have everything again. She truly could.

  “What did the maralane say when they gave it to you?” asked an older cartontz gentleman. His rectangular face was set with purpose, and his gray hair was combed back in a clean sweep.

  Brenol met his gaze. “The code isn’t entirely clear on how to best use it, but it does say it would be a mistake to put it into Ziel. I think it would destroy the maralane. It’s powerful and works in ways we cannot guess.”

  “How could it heal a person or a terrisdan and cause death to the maralane?” the man persisted.

  “I imagine the treatment is not suitable for them,” Brenol replied. “Or maybe there is an entirely different reason.” He lifted his palms up to indicate he lacked answers. “This hos is a mystery. We don’t know so much about it or how it even heals. It makes sense that we would follow the instructions of its creators.”

  “But they never told you how to use it. You said the poison went into Ziel, right? Shouldn’t the antidote as well?”

  Brenol cringed. He wondered now if it had been a mistake to call the council. “Are you not listening? It’s not an option, but even more, I don’t think the hos works like that. Tossing it in Ziel would merely be throwing away our one chance for healing.”

  Inside the space of a breath, the room erupted in argument. Colette wiped her sweating palms and stood to leave the room and its consuming temptation. Brenol, coming down from the dais, stopped her with a calm hand upon her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered. His eyes were gentle and kind. “Are you tired from travel?”

  She did not respond, and Brenol, misreading the emotions in her eyes, lightly led her back to her seat. He kept a hand securely upon her back as though she might tumble over without it. Brenol was not blind to the raised eyebrows at this preferential treatment, but he was determined to find peace in helping both Massada and Colette.

  He was brought
out of his thoughts as the arguing halted and a sharp voice pierced the air.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” The mocking voice issued from a spidery figure with black hair and dark, cunning eyes. Her face had a cloyingly sweet quality to it: attractive, but too thin and without genuine benere.

  Brenol bowed his head in respect as he recognized the emblem of the royal house of Granoile on her silver gown. The queen held power over most of the terrisdan, but not even she could pretend to rule the frawnish.

  He spoke evenly, “If I were to make the choice alone, I’d start with the sickest terrisdan. I’d bring the hos to Garnoble and Veronia, and intentionally touch it to the land. If it worked, I’d then circle Ziel. I would end with the healthiest… And if the enchantment does not endure?” He inhaled but refused to blink. “I’d wait and see what came.”

  The group murmured and exchanged looks. “You’d not seek to save any one terrisdan in particular?” the queen asked, her eyes narrowing on Colette’s splotchy face.

  “I would not.”

  “But every terrisdan has been affected. It does seem that releasing the antidote into Ziel would be the most efficacious plan.”

  Colette cringed, and her temptations dissipated before her mounting grief. The maralane child was still alive, still eking out her final days in the cool waters.

  “Again, I don’t think the hos works that way. You have heard the term ‘antidote,’ but it is more like an instrument. It makes little sense to throw a shovel, a knife, a hammer into Ziel. You use tools.”

  “But what if that is how this tool works?” she retorted.

  “Wouldn’t the maralane have said as much? They gifted us with the chance to save the lands,” Brenol replied evenly. “I don’t want to be the hand that slides a knife back in exchange. It makes more sense to be discerning with this gift.”

  Colette sighed, thankful for Brenol’s quick words. Yes, that is the right thing, she thought.