“Bountiful indeed.”
“Tell me,” he said with sudden urgency.
Her face sagged in relief. “You got it then? My note?”
“Yes. The murdered children. The black fever in Ferita.”
“Do you know what it means?” Arista asked. She took in a breath, attempting to bottle her emotions; the freedom to finally speak after so long was an undoing sensation, and her grief for her friend was still raw and harsh.
His eyes narrowed in thought. “Something is happening. Someone, or some group, wants war. Hints of this keep sprouting up across Massada.” He recalled anew a discussion with Brenol from several orbits previously. They had been discerning motives for the maralane bringing Jerem to the isle.
War. Bren had said it looked like an attempt at war.
“It is happening in every corner,” Arman added grimly. “And has been for some time.”
Arista looked out across the sandy terrain. “Hetia saw the possibility immediately when he found the children.”
“I don’t understand it. But I think there…” he hesitated but then continued, “There might be a connection to the fever.”
Arista’s eyes snapped back to Arman’s location. Her face was strung with tension. “The fever?”
“Yes.”
“As if someone was purposefully giving the fever to others? To incite conflict?”
Arman flicked out his fingers, unsure, and began to stride forward. “Come,” he called back to her. “We must start walking, but I have much to discuss with you before we arrive.”
She jumped to join him. “You’re entering town?”
“I came to speak to your people about joining the council in Limbartina. I know Caladia received my seal, but I was going to beg a frawnite to return with me.”
“None will come,” she answered immediately.
He cast a sideways glance at her. “I knew as much. But I had to speak to you about what you saw. Memorize every detail. Think it through with you. It was the only way I could come and know you would not be scrutinized.”
Arista exhaled, comprehending. “Of course.”
Arman frowned. “Hetia has been watching you?”
She bobbed her head in affirmation. “But he thinks I’ve been silent. And as it has been some time, I don’t imagine he’d see anything in you coming. We’ll just need to be careful to avoid appearing secretive.”
Arman raised his face to peer at the skies. “Who was lookout?”
Arista shrugged. “Some fledgling. But you’re the only juile who comes out here, and they all know we are friends. He merely returned to fetch me.”
The juile nodded to himself.
“Arman?”
“Yes?” He paused in stride, hearing a strange strain in his companion’s voice.
“This is from the portals, isn’t it?”
Arman flinched invisibly. Arista had drawn the conclusion faster than even he had, and with far less information.
“Who else could wield such a disease?” she continued. “Who else would seek to stir war in every corner?” Arista thought back to the frozen wood and to all the children dangling from the trees. “How does the fever affect the person before they die? Can it make them do things they wouldn’t otherwise?” She pictured Ferita bouncing about like a puppet, stringing up nooses around the forest. She shuddered.
Arman reached out to gently touch the frawnite’s hand. Her delicate skin was still cool from flight. She sighed faintly at the contact, as if the consolation alone was enough to combat such terrors.
“I do not know, Arista. But I know I’ve come to the right place for help.”
She nodded, her eyes still wide and pondering.
“I will need to hurry. I must get back to Limbartina speedily.”
She looked at him incredulously. “What? Why? How could anything be more important than understanding and stopping the fever?”
“Perhaps not more important,” Arman replied frankly. “But it is nevertheless nipping at my heels.”
Arista shook her head. “You’re tending the boiling pot before you when the forest is ablaze behind you.”
Arman did not respond, for he perceived the terror underlying her words and refused to allow his own fear to swell. Instead, he paused, placed his hand momentarily upon her forearm, and spoke in a low rumble, “We will sort it out, Aris. We will.”
She remained silent, but her face and eyes betrayed her reluctance.
“I need your help,” he said candidly.
The frawnite sighed, resigned, and gave him a small grin. “You always have.”
Arman smiled and resumed his steps. “Come, please. Tell me all that happened. Every little thing you can recall.”
CHAPTER 10
The world shall swirl in chaos, but chaos shall not prevail.
-Genesifin
Although more than a handful of days had passed, Brenol had barely found another moment to be alone with Colette. His head spun with the council and their incessant arguing, and his feet and hands itched to move, to do something. Guilt crept upon him; he keenly felt his failure in this blunder of calling council. It seemed he simply stumbled from one mistake to the next, regardless of intent. But what could he do now? The council could not be undone, and he would be forced to sit on his hands while the terrisdan soil succumbed to toxicity.
Even if there was a clear path, they’d never agree to do it, he thought ruefully.
He toyed with the whistle—never far from his restless fingers—but felt an overwhelming reluctance at the thought of summoning Pearl. Then doubts eroded his convictions, and he began to fear it was his own pride preventing him, but still his mind arrived at the same argument again and again.
What could she do, even if I were to call her?
Brenol withered further as he thought of Colette. The afternoon retreat had been lovely, but it remained apparent to him that she was not well. Whatever had happened at Ziel had done wonders, for she seemed more peaceful, yet she was also secretive and quiet. He feared that her mourning over the maralane was consuming her, but he was loath to insist she speak. He wanted her to feel freedom to discuss—or not discuss—with him as she pleased, so he remained silent.
As the days tumbled forward, Brenol grew even more doubtful. And Arman was not present to help sort through his thoughts or swoop in with a solution. He was still out trying to persuade the missing nuresti and terrisdan leaders to join the council. Brenol had thought it premature for Arman to leave after the first day’s meeting but once again found the juile right. The council was like a dog, never relinquishing the chase upon its tail until forcibly stopped. Some new force would perhaps be the only way to change its course.
So Brenol waited. And waited.
Would that I could chop off the cursed tail.
~
Colette ached to be free of the place. The council was repugnant in its anger and selfish grasping and terrified her because her own heart still beat with the nurest claim for power and love of terrisdan. She berated herself for not telling Brenol but nevertheless remained steadfast in her silence. Try as she did to rationalize, she knew deep within that her motives were not pure. It was not merely shame that made her hold her speech.
Between sessions, she took to walking the grounds to sort through her thoughts. Outside, she did not have to stare, trembling with desire, at the hos, and could escape the hard and curious glances of the group.
One afternoon, as the council wore her thin, she slipped from the circle and crept from the hall. She sighed in relief as her back passed the last pillar and the tapestry fell closed behind her.
Colette sucked in the evening air. Shadows stretched across the gardens and painted gray and black outlines along the walkways. Twilight was but a breath away. She eased a course down the winding stone and sniffed the nectary breeze. It was thick with the bursting aroma of Ziel.
Could a storm be—
Without warning, the scent yanked her from the present, back to the
morbid banks. She could feel the trickling sweat beading on her face and neck and back, the icy wind racking her frame, the ache of her quivering muscles as she lowered the dead fish-men into the soil. The maralane child’s kiss brushed her face, and her ear tickled as it met the soft whisper. Colette raised her hand to her cheek; the memory ushered in with such force that she almost expected to find her face wet and lungs bursting with the need for oxygen.
Her dark tresses whipped and blinded her as the wind knifed through the path, and the recollection began to recede. She shivered and stepped from the gravel walkway to lean her frail body against the soladrome walls. She slid her weight to the soil, tucking both knees to her chest and hugging them closely.
The maralane changed me. I know it. Bren can help me move past this terrible desire for the hos. He knew what it was like to be a nurest. Why don’t I just explain it to him?
She recalled the transformation that had occurred in her. The corpses had shaken her awake from hatred, but the lake-child, while melting her hardness, had left her raw. Her heart ached in loneliness.
Do I really plan to steal the hos and run back to Veronia? Am I that foolish?
She pushed her face to her knees, letting the warm cloud that escaped her lips heat her nose. She curled ever tighter against the cold until her musings merged into the strange world of dreams. When she woke, not a light remained in the skies, and the cold night bit at her toes and ears. She shivered, her muscles cramped and asleep.
“—much longer, do you?” a voice whispered.
Colette stilled her quivering and strained to listen.
“We have to at least try. How else will we get past Brenol? He’s been plucked by that insipid lunitata.” The tone was venomous.
Colette froze. She dared not move to glance around the corner, but she did not have to. Both voices were irritatingly familiar from the unending tedium in the hall.
“How long do we need to delay, then?” asked Restar.
Colette pictured his tentative fingers twisting and fidgeting before him. How he had found a royal seat in Plune was a mystery to her. He seemed more vulnerable than a spider beneath a sole.
“Surely not long. I was told Veronia was nearing the end—already dying between her fingers when she left. And that was over a moon past. Colonastra is the same. Bergin and Granallat are pressed but holding. The west has drunk more of Jerem’s vileness than the east,” Derpa said.
“I’m still not sure this should be the way, though,” replied Restar.
The Callupian queen granted him a sneering laugh. Colette could picture easily enough the snide smile widening on her clenched and bony face. “You’d dare to back out now? No. We wait until the west has died. Then we take the full measure of serum for the east. We’ll have more power and control. The westerners will be forced into tribute, to follow our ways. We will be the rulers of this next age.”
Restar pondered for a moment, but soon his words flowed out in angst. “What if we wait too long for our own lands? It seems a dangerous thi—”
“Hush. A worm has more sense than you do. You will do what we’ve agreed. Or there will be consequences.”
Silence ensued for a few moments, and then muffled voices traveled towards them.
“Not a word,” she hissed.
Their footsteps meandered off toward the soladrome’s garden entrance, and Colette burned fiercely. Veronia. My Veronia. I won’t let you die. My Veronia. The numbness in her muscles had vanished in the power of her rage.
I know what I must do.
I know.
~
“Colette?” Brenol found her in the dining hall in the soladrome, curled forward before an empty table. It was well into the night, and he had almost not noticed her in the dimmed corner.
“Yes?” She angled her face toward him, but her eyes were focused elsewhere.
He lowered himself down to take a seat across from her, although he yearned to be closer. A heavy sigh left his lips—much weighed upon him. He fingered the silver whistle through the fabric of his pocket. It did not seem time to call Pearl, but it never did.
What could she possibly do? he wondered again. Watch the world die with me?
“I don’t know what’s right anymore,” Brenol began. “What do you think we should do?”
Startled, she was glad he could not read her mind. Her thoughts had been wrapped around the hos. The unguarded hos.
Colette mustered her focus and settled her vision squarely on Brenol. The gauntness of his face startled her.
He isn’t sleeping, she realized, finding the truth sobering. He doesn’t have a solution. He can’t help me. The thought only sent her weak will spiraling further.
Brenol waited upon her with patient expectation.
“I don’t have any answers for you,” Colette said softly. She turned her eyes down to her hands.
Brenol leaned nearer, concerned. “Are you well?”
“Leave me, Bren. I want to be alone right now.”
The man exhaled softly, feeling slighted. He began to rise but then paused as he examined her face. There was an element in her expressions that jolted him. It reminded him of a time—not as long past as he would have liked—when he would have been willing to let Colette meet death, all so he might retain the powerful nuresti connection. He felt his cheeks flush.
Not wanting to believe his perception was accurate, he asked, “What is bothering you, Colette?”
She glanced over at him, her features creased with tension and her hands rolled tightly into fists. “It is just a lot. That’s all. The maralane…”
Brenol sighed, relieved that he had discerned poorly. “You’re still thinking of the maralane?” he asked.
Colette smiled weakly at him and then clamped her jaw shut. Already, she could feel sweat slicking her hands and neck as greed rumbled to life within her. Her mind swam with the image of the hos, and the terrible inner voice practically sang her forward in purpose.
Brenol berated himself. Why do I always assume she is battling with nuresti greed when she is simply mourning? She is better than me. Why do I continually doubt her?
“We will know when they have passed,” he said softly. “The Genesifin says so. The heavens will shower light.” He met her eyes with compassion; they swirled with a mess of emotion. “It will be good to at least know.”
Colette shook her head slowly. “Leave me alone, Bren,” she said, the words leaving her lips like a secret.
He rose and peered down at the lunitata. “Please let me help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”
She drew her arms around herself tightly, turning her frame away from him. It was plain she wished him gone.
“You don’t know what I need,” she said bitterly. The pounding desire burned through her veins, and she hardly even perceived what she said.
Brenol swallowed, surprised. She’s right, Brenol thought. I don’t. I can’t do anything for her. His mouth could not form any more words. She doesn’t want my help or my consolation. She doesn’t want me.
I’m a fool. I’ve blinded myself with emotion.
He abandoned the hall with a stomach wrung raw. When he arrived in his room, he flung his articles at the walls in frustration. Clothing and papers soon lay strewn across the white tile.
I don’t even know her anymore, he thought.
And she certainly doesn’t want me to.
A grimace stretched itself across his features. You think this is really love? You can’t love a stranger.
He clenched his hands until they were the hue of bone. You can’t love a stranger.
CHAPTER 11
Malitas, no matter how obscured by the other trials of the time, must never be deemed insignificant.
-Genesifin
Rough hands jerked Brenol from unconsciousness and threw his sleep-heavy body to the tile with a stinging jolt. His elbow smarted from the impact, and the cold shocked his warm skin. Harsh words reverberated in his ears.
“Your precious pr
incess has stolen the hos.”
My princess? Brenol shook his head to dispel the confusion of slumber and looked up at the uninvited guest.
Belane, a stocky man from Granoile, stood before him with a scowl. He seemed unconcerned with the sprawled Brenol and cast his eyes around the room, taking in the strewn belongings. From his stout paunch rose a deep grunt of disgust.
“What are you talking about?” Brenol asked. He rubbed his face, as if he expected the moment to fade like a dream.
“Colette. She took it.”
Brenol gaped, finally understanding. Colette! No! Was it possible?
Belane shook his head at the man, muttering, “We’re doomed if she gets far.”
If. The word danced needles upon Brenol’s spine, for death was carried in his tone. They’re going to kill her if they find her. The reality splashed him alert, and he rose with a jump.
Belane glowered and thrust a coarse finger in Brenol’s face. “Where’s your confidence now?” he spat, eyebrows narrowed. “I hope you know what she’s chosen. And what we have to choose now. You’d better not’ve been a part of this.”
Belane threw his hands up, flung the canvas door flap open, and carried his fury in grandiose exhalations out into the dawn. “She’s not in there,” he bellowed. His words were answered by the roar of a mob.
Brenol’s skin raised with goose bumps as the flap fell back into place; the gray morning chill had crept in with icy hands. He dressed in haste and fought back the stammering emotion that throttled his throat.
He felt it deeply—a dread lingered in the very fabric of his cells: Today is a day of death. He choked in a breath and refused to let fear paralyze his racing heart.
Outside, he searched for Arman, but the juile had still not returned. He paced and scoured the hallways of the soladrome and the outer housing units but knew Colette was not there; the chaos would have been calmed long before had she been within the city limits. The song of fear thrummed louder, and he lost the ability to mute it.
I knew last night that she was struggling, but I thought it was because she was mourning, he brooded, yet even in thinking it he shuddered at his blunder. The reality of the nuresti was one he knew too keenly, but he had naively chosen to ignore it. It was close to impossible that Colette—or any of the keepers—would not succumb to such measures. He himself had experienced the gripping enticement, the luring power. He knew it more intimately than he cared to recollect. He shook his head at his foolishness. He had left temptation at the fingertips of every nurest. It was a wonder that none had taken it before this.
Eyes in the Water Page 16