“If they can concoct a serum for the land, why can’t they make one for themselves?” a woman in the back called.
Brenol sagged. “I wish I could say.” And I wish I knew they had tried.
“We could always try Ziel to see what happens. They are already dying,” argued a burly man in tan. “Maybe they’re even already dead.”
Brenol shook his head and walked forward to the dais. “No.”
“If it is—”
Brenol slammed his fist to the podium. The wood boomed, and the hos trembled under the motion. “No! We will not save the upper world at the cost of the lower. I do not care what workings are already in place for them. We will not.” His strong frame quivered in fury and left no space for dissension. “Use your minds! Let’s not waste our one chance for Massada!”
Colette welled with a surprising pride and gasped slightly as she recognized submission in every pair of shocked eyes. They would follow him—whether they agreed or not.
“Let us take the day to think of what we’ll do. Tomorrow we’ll all have a chance to speak. And then decide.”
The group stood, eying the hos as they trickled out.
“Who will carry it until we make a choice?” a stocky, bearded man asked.
Why must there be so little trust? Brenol sighed within but met his gaze coolly. “We leave it here until we can agree. It’s neither mine nor yours. We must choose together.”
~
“Are you well? Were your travels difficult?” Brenol’s concern was etched in every line on his face.
“I am well. I… I am well,” Colette responded hesitantly. Images of her own raw feet—sliced and bruised during her aborted attempt to steal the hos—filled her mind and turned her silent.
Brenol studied Colette, confused. She certainly appeared better—her lunitata glow burst from her like a star in the night—yet her countenance was also full of melancholy and doubt. She could barely lift her eyes to his.
Could it be Veronia? he wondered. I hate these cursed connections! Now I see what Darse endured with me. He longed to brush the silky plaits from her cheek, to stroke her arms and whisper words of comfort to her aching soul. But he restrained himself.
“Are you sure?” he finally asked.
Colette began to nod but stopped. She met his eyes and said softly, “We buried eighteen maralane on our way here.”
Brenol frowned in immediate comprehension. It is grief. Colette grieves. And I believed her angst to be the nuresti connection? I should have trusted her, he realized shamefully. I should have assumed her goodness.
That must be why she is so full of light now, he mused. She grew like I did when I buried that maralane girl. Even recalling the memory brought an ache to his chest, and he decided not to pester Colette with questions. Mourning was burdensome enough without others prying at the wounds. Quietly, he placed a hand upon her forearm, hoping to offer a small consolation.
Colette nodded in appreciation, and he retracted his hand. With a deep breath, she again peered around the vacated room. “I hadn’t realized you were going to call a council.”
Brenol winced. “I hope it was a wise choice. I cannot say… I do wish more had come.”
“Is my mother coming?” Colette asked, suddenly concerned that Darse’s travels would prove pointless.
“No. Her seal gave leave for you to vote on her behalf. You speak for Veronia.”
Colette considered this quietly.
“Why did Darse need to leave?” Brenol finally asked.
Colette’s lips twitched, and the corners of her mouth rose. She looked more herself in that instant, and more lovely too. “He went to find love.”
Brenol gaped. “You’re kidding. I’ve always wondered… Arista? Is that why he lived out there with them?”
Colette’s laugh was strained but genuine. It lightened Brenol’s heart to hear. “No, he is leaving the winged with their own.”
“Who, then?” Brenol lowered his face, smiling even in his bewilderment.
“My mother.”
The pieces came together, and Brenol let out a ringing laugh. He finally perceived the curious glances and awkward interactions between the two with new clarity. “Yes. Of course it is. Of course he goes there. Of course.”
He did not begrudge Darse his timing in the least, for not everyone needed to forestall love for Massada. A fleeting desire filled his own longing heart—could I?—but he dismissed it just as quickly; his mind sank under the insistent weight of the hos, the maralane, the council. There was no room for romance in this madness.
Brenol silently wished bounty upon Darse, scooped up Colette’s hand with a smile, and turned his thoughts to the most currently pressing task: finding food.
~
The following day did not bring the resolution Brenol had hoped for. The party was restless and argumentative, finding fault and false motives in every corner. He would have acquiesced to nearly any unanimous plan—assuming it followed Preifest’s instructions—but the group dipped and danced as though they were altogether unconcerned with the pressing need for haste. Even if he had been willing to dump the hos into the lake, the party would not have agreed to it in the end, for they rolled over every course of action with bitterness and suspicion. The nuresti alone demonstrated some desire for speed, but their crippling fears and obsessions prevented them from agreeing upon terms. And so they waited. And debated.
After a particularly biting argument, the group agreed to a recess. Brenol had spent the morning watching the tormented Colette gnaw her lip to shreds. She stood, as if to escape through the back entrance, and he swiftly swept up beside her.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He smiled, even if his heart was far from cheerful.
She hesitated.
Brenol pounced upon the opportunity, for he had expected straight refusal. “Come! We’ve been listening to this drivel for too long.” His eyes met hers. They seemed pinched in pain. “Plus, I’m getting fat with this sedentary lifestyle.” He grabbed his non-existent gut and slouched slightly with puckered face.
Colette exhaled a surprised laugh. She nodded and gifted Brenol with a genuine smile, even if a tiny one.
His heart leaped, and he grabbed her hand to tug her along.
His steps ended in the kitchen, which was a-bustle with movement. It was meticulously run, and each umburquin had a section in which to operate. There was no shortage of cooks, as the soladrome required constant provisions for the caretakers and the ill, and the young man watched the dizzying scene for a moment before he spied the person he had been seeking.
Brenol wove through the press of movement, still gripping Colette’s hand, to a short umburquin with graying hair held back in a neat bun. Her friendly face was screwed up in focus as she measured spices to grind. She occasionally wiped her fingers clean upon the crisp white apron hugging her small frame.
“Seral?” he asked, smiling questioningly at her.
The umburquin turned half a step and pinched her lips together in a tight smirk. “I see it didn’t take you long to find me.” She brushed her hands absently as she took in the tall young man and petite lunitata. “What can I do for you?”
Brenol blushed slightly but maintained his composure. “A picnic lunch?”
Seral laughed, eying Colette. “In this wind?”
Colette’s eyes referred the question back to Brenol. He nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Can you manage it?”
She laughed again. It was a melodious sound, full of orbits and experience and playfulness. Her silvery eyes sparkled. “If you can, I shall try.”
Within minutes, Seral had wrapped up a simple luncheon. She passed the basket of items to Brenol with a smile. “Glad to help.”
He bent his head in thanks and pulled the quiet Colette in tow.
“Is it windy?” she asked. “I haven’t been outdoors yet today.”
“No,” he replied. “Seral just meant the craze of the talks.” He furrowed his brow. “I think,
at least.”
The two wound their way across the gardens and back terraces. The northern patch of woods beckoned, and Brenol urged his companion on with a small squeeze of the hand. She remained thoughtful but periodically flashed a faint yet encouraging smile. The grass beneath them had long since grown stiff in hibernation, but once they entered the glade, the soil proved soft and springy beneath their restless feet. The air was thicker here, filling their nostrils with the musty scent of green life.
Brenol found a patch of moss and glanced to Colette. She nodded and settled herself into the soft cool. Her hands brushed the tender green around her as one would stroke a house cat.
Brenol unloaded the basket and was delighted to find the fare still warm and, even better, paired with a small bottle of cider. The two munched happily upon the fish sandwiches and took turns gulping the tangy brew.
Colette was the first to speak. “What would you do?”
Brenol shook his head firmly. “Nope. No talk of that. Not one word.”
Colette could not hide the sudden freedom she experienced. She breathed deeper, and her shoulders relaxed. “What would you speak of, then?” Her voice was lighter, if not especially happy.
“The inane?” he asked.
Her eyes glinted in assent. “All right.”
After a moment, he laughed. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Surely you have a story of yourself,” she replied with a smirk.
“So funny.” He pressed his lips together in feigned annoyance but then tilted his head in question. “What was your favorite game as a child?”
Colette thought a moment before bubbling up with laughter at the newfound memory. “I’d forgotten,” she explained. “I liked to name people.”
“Name them?”
She laughed again. The strained creases on her face smoothed slightly. “Deniel and I wouldn’t tell anyone, but we would give names to everyone in the castle. I think he had a more difficult time keeping them secret, though.”
Brenol raised his eyebrows.
“He actually called the nurse ‘NoseGoes’ in passing…” She covered her mouth with a graceful hand and giggled softly behind it. “And the cook, ‘Pug.’”
“NoseGoes?”
“Her nose was always dripping.” She laughed again without restraint.
It loosened the strings in his chest to hear her, and he found himself relaxing. He swept his vision up to the skies. The heavens were open, spotted only by the occasional cloud. “What would you name your children?” he asked easily. “Surely not Pug?”
Silence filled the glade, and he turned his glance from the lovely blue. Colette’s face sobered him. “What? I…”
She shook her head, giving him a small, conciliatory smile. “I don’t think… Jerem… I… I probably can’t have children,” she said softly. “The umbus told me when I first woke up that it could maybe happen. Maybe. But that I should not assume. Jerem… he…”
His gut felt like lead. I should’ve known. “Oh. I’m sorry, Col. I…”
She again shook her head. Her chocolaty plaits swished, framing her perfect face. “Why would you know?” Colette swept her hands across the turf. Her fingers swirled as though she were painting a picture in the green, a picture only she could see.
“I don’t suppose you can sing?” Her eyes came up to meet his startled glance.
“Sing?”
“Yeah. I want to lay here and hear a song.” Colette smiled. “Oblige me?”
Brenol squirmed. It had been orbits since he had sung for anyone. “Ok,” he acquiesced hesitantly.
She promptly responded by extending her legs, lying back upon the ground, and cushioning her head with hands. She peeked at him and gave a tiny nod of encouragement. He blushed but began to sing in a low rumble.
Fly dear baby toward my arms, swing so low and high,
Speed rosy infant o’er my way
Hasten ’cross the sky.
She came to me as child, she came as suckling sweet,
She soaked up my caresses and sighs
And I sang my babe to sleep.
At eventide she found me, and she was babe no more.
She stroked my head and heart and soul
’Til tears swelled sweet and sore.
Farewell my child of the skies, farewell my forever sweet.
Wash me in your caresses and sighs
And sing me ’til I sleep.
Yes, sing me ’til I sleep.
His voice swayed evenly in the still wood, circling them and the moment. As the words left his mouth, he became keenly aware of his poor song selection and blushed, but nonetheless, the slow melody dipped sweetly and swung until he was nearly lost in it himself. He tried not to stare at Colette but found that his gaze inevitably fell upon her beautiful face. She, thankfully, peered into the sky and settled her eyes on the high branches dancing in the soft wind. Her glance did not turn to him until he had issued out the last note. She sighed. Her smile was gentle, grateful.
“I liked that.”
He warmed inside. “Yeah?”
“Mmmm,” she answered. “A lullaby?”
The story hovered in his mind—the legend of a child gifted to a barren woman when a stranger passed through town—and he was thankful that the words made little sense to any unversed in Alatrician lore. He nodded quietly. “More or less.”
“Thank you.”
“In good accord,” he replied.
She smiled again with a soft contentment and beckoned him closer. Brenol scooted over until she had securely claimed his lap for her pillow and nestled in like a cat.
“Could you sing it again?” Colette peeked one eye open. “Just once more,” she added judiciously.
Brenol touched her forehead with the gentlest of caresses before reluctantly retracting his hand. “You know you’re just being greedy now.”
She laughed, and her voice was lovely and golden. “Be careful, or you’ll be punished with a second encore.”
Brenol dipped his head in mock apology. “Of course, my lady.”
He inhaled deeply and let the song pour out from him again, but this time as soft as a secret. Her breathing slowed, and her body eased into relaxed slumber. He hummed the melody twice more, afraid the silence might cause her to stir, until he knew she was safely tucked into the depths of sleep.
Brenol gazed down upon her with an open face, open heart. Had any seen him, they would have had little doubt as to his affections. The princess’s breath rose and fell, and with each inhale, his own breath aligned, as though even his lungs longed to be one with her.
My heart could almost spill over…
The understanding was not new, but with the thought, he accepted the pain that plainly scored his soul. Her revelation of likely infertility had stung him with an initial shock but then left him with a raw agony he had not expected. He gnawed his cheek absently; now his song choice made infinite sense.
Brenol sighed and found his vision blurring as he cradled the sleeping lunitata. Her entire body lay limp, and her face was soft in the peace of dreaming. He pondered how long it had been since she had last slept, truly slept.
I want to take care of her. Cherish her. Would she ever have me?
And children? he asked himself honestly. He wanted a future brimming with life, but could not see joy outside of a union with Colette. The implications rent Brenol’s heart raw, and he fought for composure lest he wake her.
The young man inhaled deeply. He knew the answer—and it was true, even if not entirely consoling. It matters not. She is the only one. I love her.
I will walk the path of being childless if I have to. If she will take me.
Colette is all that matters.
~
I wish I had wings, Arman thought, not for the first time.
His lungs stung from exertion, and his heart pounded at his temples. He darted his vision about the vista to take in the varying trails and paths, deliberating which proved quicker. Travel was hard
on the body, and time was precious.
Complaints don’t make feet move faster, he reminded himself sternly. Impatience shook his core, but he could do little save drive his aching muscles onward.
He had begun his travels intending to seek out more representatives for the council and to utilize the chance—and guise—to meet with Arista and consult with her about her note in the jekob nut, but he had been derailed by fresh news of the black fever. Disturbing rumors of death and subsequent conflict had reached him as he had broken past the city limits of Limbartina, and he had changed course immediately. Dread for the future drove him. Not a breath had been spared, not a foot had been lifted needlessly.
It was only too likely that he would arrive to find the scene at Callup cleared away and lost to his investigation, but he would race time until then. Yes, he would race.
There were two small human villages, hardly large enough to be termed as such, that eked out an existence on the eastern front of Callup. He had seen neither Taro nor Veto but had known of their existence, and their poverty. They were a mere ten matroles apart yet maintained strict separation except for occasional trading: a long-held grudge over unrequited love, or something of the sort.
Three houses in Taro had been found bursting with bodies stricken with the black fever. Somehow, the deaths had been attributed to Veto. As the fever was mixed into the mess, Arman doubted everything he heard.
It makes little sense, Arman mused. Could one group truly inflict the infection upon another? He did not think this monster he had been perceiving could be a mere human. He tugged his cloak closer around him and leaned forward to combat the strong winds.
Darkness stole across the skies as the sun dipped, and he knew there was little he could do. Tomorrow he would reach the villages. He would have plenty to think about then. He built a fire, ate from his stores, and slept.
~
Dawn stretched up lazily only to find Arman already in motion. He had packed and breakfasted before light had even softened the skies. With the brief refreshment of the night’s rest, his mind felt clear, and he noted an odd instinctual urge to visit the accused village, Veto, first. He paused for the space of a breath but then flicked out his fingers and shifted direction. He rarely regretted listening to his instincts, so he said a prayer for bounty and continued on.
Eyes in the Water Page 14