Arman smiled broadly, eyes twinkling, and his face evened into handsomeness. She loosened within; even now, in the hollow of the boat with the sweet air pressing and mob’s fury looming, Colette found herself staring at his face with fascination. The simple expression was like a door opening into his soul.
“It would be my pleasure, your grace.”
She sighed, letting out a soft thanks to which Arman bowed.
“I would have gone alone, but knowing you’re here… It…”
“I understand. And I know you are capable. It is your journey, but I am honored to assist you.”
Colette permitted herself a moment of relief while peering into the glittering charcoal eyes. She smiled, releasing a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”
~
It was well into the night when Colette lifted her paddles with weak arms and boarded them upon the hull’s floor. They had alternated in the labor, but her small frame was unused to such strain. She sucked air in greedily, but the humid cool failed to satisfy her need, and she was left gasping.
Arman looked to her with a raised brow. “Here? You think we are far enough in?”
A night breeze brushed across the screen. Goose bumps awakened on Colette’s bare arms—still slick with perspiration—but she gave little heed. The lunitata nodded with pursed lips, her cropped tufts of dark hair bouncing. Her face was a lovely bronze under the pale glow of Stronta; despite the oil, it beamed out softly.
This is a beauty not many have seen, Arman reflected. Most only see her face. But this woman of grace? Her will of benere? His lips quirked up into a tiny smile as he thought of Brenol. Yes, a beauty indeed.
Colette drew her gaze down from the glowing moon and settled it over the waters. Ziel glistened with a gentle movement but seemed to simultaneously hold an eerie stillness. She thought again of the maralane girl, the kiss, the whisper. A new fear struck her: What if they haven’t all died yet? What if the prophesy of falling lights was wrong?
She looked to Arman, and as though reading her thoughts, he nodded and replied with conviction, “They would have surfaced, even if they were weak. No, they truly have passed. The maralane are no more.”
Colette could feel the harsh storm of grief bubbling within but would not allow it control. She forced composure and tucked the maelstrom away for later. Not here. I came here for Veronia, for Massada, for us all.
She drew her cloak—long since removed during the tedious hours of labor—to her lap and shakily removed a small parcel from its deep pocket. The glass was cool within her fingers as she unwrapped it from its soft white cloth.
What am I supposed to do now? she wondered.
The opal eyes glinted in the moon’s glimmer, and she cupped it close to scrutinize it.
“Little hos,” she said. She drew in a sharp breath as it began to glow.
“What? It’s never done that before.” Colette’s wide eyes shot up to Arman.
He smiled again. “It seems you’ve lost the hatred you once carried.” Met with a confused stare, he continued. “Bren was concerned that you could not make the hos glow and spoke with me about it. I never told him why, but I guessed that the hos was enchanted to only light for those with pure intent. For how else could it be a secret from those who sought to harm?”
She breathed again, delighted with herself as well as the simple lighting of the toy. It glowed a beautiful teal and shot ribbons of light out upon the waters.
Colette gingerly cupped the hos and stared incredulously at the juile. “So he knew I couldn’t make it light up?” She thought back to the morning in Veronia—the only other time she had handled the piece. There seemed little Brenol did not see anymore. Colette held her vision upon the glass piece. She spoke again, quietly. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
Arman selected his words cautiously. “Bren has been burdened with fear. He didn’t know why it remained dead in your hands. I thought it best for him to focus on what he could control and do—not the hatred for Jerem that seared inside you… Although, in hindsight, perhaps mystery is harder to grapple with than truth.”
Colette found her heart warming as she thought of Brenol, and without even her breath upon it, the hos suddenly glowed a gold that shone like treasure from her palms. It continued to glimmer and grow more brilliant, until by instinct she knew what must be done.
The lunitata raised the hos up to her face and spoke softly to it. Streaks of teal shot out as her breath fell. “Please, take your serum to all the terrisdans. Heal them. Save Massada.” A soft tear streamed down her cheek, and her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “All of the terrisdans. All of them.” She drew the glass to her lips and kissed the figure gently.
Her intention to lob the piece into the open water was thwarted, for the glass maralane suddenly came to life. Colette gaped as the golden figure nodded her tiny braided head, flapped her tails, and jumped from the lunitata’s palms into the dark depths. The radiance of her glassy body could be seen as she careened down. Colette stared until the light was lost in the cover of the cold waters.
Colette suddenly seemed to wake from the magic and recall where she was. She drew her hands to her mouth in wonder and looked to Arman. His straight face was marked by sincere relief—a solace that soaked into both countenance and frame. He closed his lids for a brief moment and bathed in the soft light of Stronta. When he opened his eyes again, she saw that they were brimming with joy. She breathed in sharply; never had she witnessed such emotion from him.
“Thank you, Colette. Thank you for saving our world.”
The words filled her with warmth and a soaring joy. The light of her own countenance burst forth, and her lips parted in genuine elation. She bowed her head graciously. “In good accord, Arman.”
“I believe we are finished here,” he said easily.
She felt like dancing. “I would agree.”
Their laughter leaped out over the water with force and unrestrained delight.
~
It was but a breath after dawn when Arman quiveringly rowed their craft to shore. He stepped from the vessel—oars thrown into the water, no concern for tying her down—and strode purposefully away. It was unlike him to be reckless with anything, but his meaning was clear: this war was done, it was time for rest.
Colette, still fearful of vengeful hands finding her, avoided her own room. She stole into Brenol’s empty quarters and climbed into the soft folds of his blankets. The place smelled of him, and it comforted her as she sank into the welcome arms of sleep.
All will be well, she thought. And smiled.
~
Brenol abandoned the idea of discovering any trace of Colette, especially as the matroles between him and soladrome lessened. The day granted him sufficient light, but the ground was heavily trodden and scuffed by the parties that had quit town in dogged pursuit. So instead, he threw himself into hard travel. By early afternoon he dragged himself into Limbartina.
The area was hushed and somber, quiet after the stark chaos of the mob, but the people went about their usual tasks. Brenol acknowledged the miller and his son with a weary dip of the head before turning to his own quarters in the housing that circled the soladrome. He pushed back the canvas flap without ceremony and froze. A rounded mound in his bedding betrayed a sleeping intruder. Fury gripping his spine, he crept his way carefully to his cot.
Colette awoke to a knife point upon her back.
“Who are you?” Brenol growled.
Colette’s shoulders eased as she recognized the voice, and she rolled over to face him. Her cropped hair poked up in unruly cowlicks. Brenol gasped.
“Wait—Colette?”
Random patches of skin were still smeared with the concealing oil, but on the whole her face beamed out in brilliance. He gaped in confusion and tried to draw sense into his strained mind. She giggled like a child at his expression, and also because of her giddiness at the night’s success that still played its lovely song within her. She had chosen benere. The greed had no
t won.
Brenol sighed, nearly melting into a puddle from the relief. It was short-lived, though, for he remembered the fiery glances and unnerving speech of the hunting parties. “We have to get you out of here. Where’s the hos?” His eyes darted around desperately, seeing only his own meager possessions.
Colette shook her head. Notwithstanding her garb and haircut, her features were gentle and angular—entirely feminine. “I used it already.”
“Used it?” Brenol’s face drained to the color of milk.
How did she move so—
Brenol peered at her, and in the space of a breath, he felt his shoulders loosen. Her face was not drawn and sickly with the greed of a nurest addict, nor did she fidget in angst. No, if anything, her lunitata glow had grown brighter. She was more herself, more free, more beautiful—even with the awkwardly chopped hair and smudged face.
“Tell me,” he said, his expression now soft.
Colette slid over in the bed, offering him a seat. Brenol took it readily, curious for answers. His lips parted in rapt wonder as she told of the hos and how it had lit teal and then gold, how it had come to life at her bidding and kiss.
Finally, he leaned back, a queasy jumble of emotions. “How do you know that it worked?”
Colette’s lips compressed to a thin line. “I don’t. Not yet.” She sighed. “I did what I could and did not withhold life. If Veronia dies, or if any of the terrisdans die, we’ll have to face that as it comes.” Her eyes were unclouded and peaceful, even though she still clearly experienced grief at the thought.
Brenol played it through in his mind, turning the pieces over and over like a puzzle. He hesitated, as he wanted to ignore it for Colette’s sake, but found that the question weighed too heavily. “When you went out on the lake, did the marala—” Brenol stopped, for in that instant he saw her face plummet in desolation.
Oh. So it really is over, then, he thought. “They’re no more?” he asked gently.
“I’d hoped, when I’d gotten that flooding of intuit, that the hos would save the maralane too in the end. Bring them back. But it truly wasn’t for them.” She drew in a slow breath. “I saw the shower of stars. It was like you said. The skies wept light for them… Arman found me, and we went out together on Ziel. The maralane never came up. Arman confirmed that they were gone.”
Spying her hand trembling, he scooped it up in his and tenderly caressed it. “They’re more than a memory. They’ll be known as saviors of the world.”
“Yes,” she said softly, recalling the soft touch of the girl. The pain at the memory seemed too acute to examine presently; it would have to wait for the waters.
“Colette?” His fingers released her hand, and Colette’s emerald eyes met his abashed green. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I assumed you’d gone to Veronia.”
The princess’s face spread open in a smile, and laughter bubbled out of her freely—lovely music after so many hours of gnarling worry and agonizing thoughts. He sat back, more at ease, but still raised his brow at her questioningly.
“I should apologize as well. I did steal it for myself.” She blushed slightly but then laughed again and squeezed his hand in assurance. “In the end I chose something else, but I set out differently.”
Brenol considered her words. “Had you been planning to steal it for some time?”
Colette shrugged. “It had been on my mind… The nuresti hunger always lurks and waits.” She paused, as if tempted to wallow in shame, but then met his eyes with a straight resolve. “I knew it would happen eventually. The impulse had been building, and I kept choosing to be silent about it.”
Brenol’s eyes widened at her naked honesty. “But I still could’ve trusted you.”
“No,” she said with a determined shake of her head. “I don’t think you could. Just like none of the others could, and especially the nuresti.” She gestured to the canvas flap with a flick of her finger. “The hunt for my blood still rages because they fear exactly what’s hiding in each nurest. The greed. It’s nearly impossible to master alone.” Her eyes bored into him as though she could read his soul. “I’m not wrong—you knew the darkness to some degree?”
Brenol nodded grimly. He would never voice to her what he had been tempted with those orbits previously. Never.
“It’s so dark, so treacherous, so constant… How could any possibly emerge victorious?”
“You came out victorious,” Brenol replied.
The sentence held a magic to it, and at its sound Colette smiled broadly.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” she said. “Well, at least this time.” Her smile disappeared as she thought of Restar and Derpa. “I don’t know if the council will see it as we do, but if Massada is healed because I moved quickly, then there will be no place for arguments. Hopefully.”
A fear slid down his spine as a new thought occurred to him, setting his hair upright. Can this really be the end of the poison? I still have Pearl’s whistle. Could Colette be wrong? So much of the Genesifin hasn’t come to pass.
Brenol grimly pressed his lips together but then chose to let the moment be what it was. He did not want to mar Colette’s triumph with useless words. Just wait and see. Let today be for joy.
His eyes met hers and the lovely, lively spark that shone in them helped to settle the rest of his angst.
“I do hope all the terrisdans are healed,” Colette said sincerely. “Not just Veronia.”
“Yes. I think we all do.” Brenol paused, then continued offhandedly. “It’s such an impossible matter. The desire for the connection but the repugnance one feels towards oneself for desiring it. Is it even a good thing? Can it ever be good?”
Colette did not answer. It was still too great an addiction to cast off, and Veronia’s life was not guaranteed. She did not know if she would ever be removed enough to discern with an indifferent heart. For now, all she could do was live and choke for breath in the midst of the gripping and burning drive.
She looked up and decisively brushed away the uncertainties that still drained her. The longing for sleep had dissolved.
She stood, pulling Brenol up with both hands. “Come, I’m ravenous.”
CHAPTER 13
“To choose life, one cannot cling to the dead.”
-Genesifin
The day was not long, having only really begun for Colette and Arman after midday. The three friends ate heartily, although all remained watchful for the hordes still seeking Colette. They need not have feared. The meal passed with barely a second glance given to the handsome bronzed gentleman who accompanied Brenol and the invisible juile, and that look was merely one of feminine appraisal.
After dining, the group remained sitting, allowing the late afternoon sun to warm their features. Arman silently sipped his tea, his mind churning in both relief and grief. His thoughts were interrupted by Brenol.
“I still do not understand,” the man began. “It seems so clear that Colette used the hos in the right way. It came alive and jumped into the water at her direction. The maralane must have enchanted the piece to do as much… So why didn’t Preifest tell us? Why didn’t he tell us to wait until they had passed? Why did he make it seem as though only terrible things would come if the hos went into Ziel?”
The juile’s voice was low and somber. “Bren, what was it that Preifest wrote?”
“The exact words?” Brenol thought briefly. “Do not bring it to the water. It will only cause death.” He furrowed his brow.
Arman sighed. The sound bespoke pain. “I had wondered as much too, when Colette had said she must go to Ziel. But out on the water it finally made sense.”
“Yes?” Brenol asked.
“They didn’t want to waste it on themselves,” Colette said softly. She spoke not with the tone of new revelation. She had concluded this much on the lake as well.
Arman nodded, although the two could not see the gesture. “They were passing anyway, somehow. That is what Preifest said, what the Genesifin says. Jerem’s poison merely
hurried the process… I think to create the level of enchantment needed to heal the terrisdans is no small work. It would likely have been all they could manage. And if they had been in the water when the hos was released? The healing powers would have gone to them too, and the lands would not have received enough.”
“Then why not tell us as much?”
Colette wiped her glistening cheek. “To ensure that our world was saved.”
“Death truly would have followed,” Brenol said with sudden understanding. “But not theirs. They were just making sure we didn’t try to save them.”
“Their benere has been great indeed,” Arman said softly.
Colette nodded. Her hand crept over to Brenol’s. The warm pressure of his grip was a gentle consolation in the midst of her sorrow.
Arman’s invisible eyes rested upon the two, alternating between amusement and grief. Eventually, the juile spoke, “I must go to Ziel.”
“Today?” asked Brenol.
Colette nodded. “I must too.”
Brenol raised a coppery eyebrow.
“No reason to postpone,” Arman replied, rising, and the two heard the flapping of his robes as wind met his straightened frame.
The juile did not glance again to his companions but merely turned south and began the journey. Colette and Brenol fumbled up to follow his swift strides.
It was an easy trek beside the Davoc; their feet trailed the curving waterway while the rushing of the river thundered in their ears. Its monotony served to ease the blaring silence of their party, even if it could not assuage the pain in their hearts. While it had been Arman’s grief that had spurred their steps, Brenol could not deny the biting ache that clenched his ribs and spread into his gut as reality settled. The maralane would be but a memory for the rest of time.
The late afternoon breeze was icy and nipped their noses and ears to a stinging red while their lungs puffed out white and lifted from their lips like prayers. Arman’s faint figure became visible as the group entered the lugazzi, but all remained silent. As they drew nearer, the air swelled with a sweet humidity, and clouds crowded the skies to block the sun. The whole land suddenly darkened—as though all of Massada donned black in mourning.
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