Isvelle looked curiously at the tiny note clutched in his hands. “Oh, no. He’ll rise shortly. You can just leave it here.” She indicated a small side table with an elegant flick of a finger.
The boy recalled the man who had paid him—tall, strong, thick crop of red hair—and his insistence upon secrecy and urgency. Already the sealtor had tarried longer than he ought to have—a visit to a friend along the way had cost him two days. He felt his tardiness with shame.
“It’s no bother,” the youth replied, straightening his spine, but the furrow in his brow seemed to indicate discomfort.
Isvelle granted him an affable smile. “The oath of sealtors protects the privacy even of soummen?” She laughed gently, and the lively ring hung in the air. Her gaze was soft and understanding. “Really, it’s fine. You may leave it here. He can look at it when he wakes.”
The sealtor nodded, and the creases eased from his young face. The queen was disarmingly lovely. He bowed low, placed the smooth seal where she had indicated, and shuffled out the side door.
He must have a hard chief of seal, she thought absently. She grazed the little note with the tips of her fingers.
In a few moons I will have seal from Colette. About the baby.
A genuine smile spread across her features, and light poured out from her skin. She plucked up the seal to take it to Darse, but just then he entered the room, and her glow strengthened. “Good morning,” she said, dangling the letter behind her playfully.
“Good morning,” Darse replied genially. He was decked in his loose gardening clothes and peered at her curiously. “A seal?”
“No,” Isvelle said, grinning. “A kiss.”
“Ah, taxation from royalty. It hounds me from every world,” he said with a smirk.
He approached, and embraced her tightly. Their lips merged, and she relaxed into his sure arms. The kiss endured for a sweet moment until, with a swift swipe, Darse snatched the seal from the queen’s hand and crowed in triumph.
“But you should know, dear lady,” he said with a sweeping bow and flourish of an arm, “that although I pay your lofty tariffs, I will never be beaten into submission.”
Isvelle laughed, mirth plain upon her countenance.
The sound filled Darse with warmth and pleasure. For a moment, he paused and merely stared at her, his own face beaming. “I think I like you, lovely Isvelle,” he said tenderly, his lips curving up into a soft smile. He tucked the seal into his pocket for later and drew close to her again. He smoothed her brown tresses behind her ear and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“I’ve suddenly changed my mind,” he said. “No greenhouse today. I want to spend some time with you before I go on my trip.”
Isvelle smiled, pleased. She would have to rearrange some meetings, but Darse would be gone soon. It was better to be together now.
“What do you think about a picnic?” he whispered, kissing her ear.
“Well, I don’t know. There is so much to do here,” she began hesitantly, but then abruptly dropped the pretense and gazed happily into his eyes. “Of course. Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere,” he said.
Isvelle raised a brow.
“An indoor picnic,” he explained, kissing her ear again. “I will fetch a blanket and have Denos bring the food. You get to pick the room, though.”
Isvelle did not have to deliberate. “The artistra.”
Darse smiled; he had expected as much. It was the most breathtaking room in the castle, bursting with sculpture, paintings, tapestries, and light. She spent as much time as possible there, soaking in its beauty.
He offered her his hand, and they laced fingers. “But no more taxes,” he added sternly.
Isvelle laughed again. “I only do what is best for the kingdom.”
Darse dipped his head, as if conceding. “For the kingdom, then.”
~
Would that I had known, Arman sighed. I would have brought Arista.
About a hundred and twenty gartere above hovered a rounded house in a cloudy white haze. It was no larger than a single-roomed structure, domed and suspended in air, with neither rope nor ladder tethering it to the earth. It did not shock him; Arman was used to experiencing the bizarre in foreign lands. He was merely grateful to have spied it. Had it been painted the hue of the desert, he most certainly would have passed it by entirely. Even being the only visible object in his zenith, he had nearly overlooked it thanks to how the sky-ice merge had soured his senses.
“And they took the sword to hide upon the moon,” he murmured in recitation.
It is like the Tindel ridicule us with this house in the air. They made a “moon” to mock us and our legends.
Unless, he mused, the original guardians of Heart Render knew of this “moon” when they made the myth. While the idea remained a possibility, he deemed it unlikely.
No. The Tindel could have made their fortress look like anything. This is a mockery of us and our supposed incompetence.
He circled beneath, taking in the dwelling from every angle, and finally confirmed his original deduction: nothing on land could assist his ascent to the heights. His sharp eyes saw neither beams nor stones constructing the edifice. It was a material he had never before seen or touched. It was not a stark white, but more the cream tone of an egg shell, and as smooth as one too.
There was something about it that made him want to run his fingers across the flowing opaline surface. There was an intricacy to its shape, its alabaster curves rippling like water. Like that lusset from his youth.
He sighed. He was of the land, it was of the sky.
“Hello?” Arman called. His dry voice was a hushed crackle, but still it rumbled through the seeming emptiness like thunder in a vale. Silence ensued, but he had not expected anyone to answer.
“And so it is. Safeguarded on the moon,” he whispered.
It had been two days since his last full meal, twelve since he had left the terrisdans, and his lips had tasted their final sip of water yesterday. He had begun to melt snow and ice chips in his mouth, but the process was slow and far from slaking. It was implausible he would be able to make the return journey, let alone locate Arista and drive them both out here to this barren blue. If he could even get her to leave her borders.
Would that I had known.
Arman waited standing, and allowed the moment to soak into him. He did not want to make any decision in haste or emotion, even if time was sweeping past him like scenery before a man falling from an aerie.
“Would that I had known,” Arman said softly.
A small voice piped in his ear, “Would you?”
Arman looked around but, seeing nothing, guessed it to be the slippery slope of the azure expanse. He had noted the bizarre flavor of lunacy at moments during the trek. The perideta worked like a snarling echo in his mind, the blue remaining even when he sought relief behind closed lids.
“I would have brought Arista with me,” he replied.
“Would you?” it asked again.
Arman smiled faintly, amused. “And what would you?”
“Use my mind.”
The response wiped the grin from the juile’s face. “Who are you?”
Silence.
“Who are you?” His voice boomed out on the barren monochrome, full of power he did not possess.
“The gatekeeper,” the voice finally whispered in his ear. “Gatekeeper of the moon.”
Arman drew his fingertips to his transparent lips without noticing. They lingered as his eyes widened and wits set to work. His stiff legs dropped beneath him absently, until he was both stationary and sitting. The icy ground penetrated into the already frozen body, but he gave no indication of perceiving the physical discomfort.
Arman was lost to all but the mystery in his mind.
The blue folded around his gray figure like a shroud.
~
Two days after finding the sky-dwelling, Arman was close to death. He could taste the fl
avor of decay already upon his tongue. His mind was slowing to a torpid waste, and the ammonia smell of muscle eating itself had soured his nostrils for at least a septspan. The hours and minutes mounting to the present had filled him with a disjointed desperation, but as he faced his dwindling mortality in its ugliness, he was far too tired to express anything. Massada was in danger, but he could do nothing.
I wish I had told Bren.
Love swelled in his heart, but no tears surfaced. He had neither water to spare nor energy to expend. He merely accepted the emotion for what it was—connection with a kindred soul—and was grateful. Brenol had been more than mere pupil to him. Brenol was a friend, perhaps his best—and he had lived through many.
Maybe he will be able to do something regardless, he thought, although realistic doubt marred the hope. No one else had perceived the evil that was sweeping the terrisdans, save Carn when it had found him in his very home. Arman had hoped to destroy malitas before the knowledge became public, and now his own stubborn independence would result in a dire fate for himself and Massada. How could Brenol seek the sword he knew nothing about? His own tongue had been too silent, following its too-confident master. It was his failure.
Perhaps Sart was right, he thought without emotion. Perhaps.
The cold encompassed him, and Arman extended out supine. The snow had ceased its fall, and the desert was a still picture of frozen silence. He did not notice the perilous freeze sneaking up into his numb core. He no longer even shook from the conditions. He found relief in his last moments being ones of peace, stillness.
The end has come.
He opened his eyes weakly, staring out into the cerulean world. He coughed and sputtered but managed to whisper a few words to mark his passing. “I lived for benere. Would that I had done still more.”
He shut his eyes again, accepted the inescapable tide of blue that met him there, and waited for death to take him.
CHAPTER 9
Balance within must ever be sought.
-Genesifin
Arman awoke but did not flicker a muscle or lift an eyelid. His sharp ears pricked at the movement of some creature or person nearby, and his nostrils stung as they met the blaring aroma of sweat. The musk was so full and pungent that it took several moments before he registered the underlying scents of nutmeg and earth. His mind swayed under a strange perception: The soil is deep.
Arman opened his eyes fractionally so he might peer through narrow slits but then closed them again, dizzied by the effort. Directly above him had been smooth streaks of red-brown, the hue of stria crabs after the close of hitze.
His hands felt warm. His whole body did. And he rested in something soft and pleasant to the touch…
His mind struggled to remember, like it was pushing through thick spider webs that caught and clung with each maneuver. It was too much. He forced himself to halt and drew his focus instead to breathing calmly, hoping to gather himself for the effort.
In that moment of imposed peace, the images flashed brightly through his mind and startled his senses. If any had been gazing upon him, they would have seen his face tighten and body constrict.
He saw the white moon-house—alabaster and cream, smooth as shell. How he had sighed with relief as his hands had coursed over it. It had been more than just the lovely sensation beneath fingers; it was as though his lusset practice had prepared him for the pearl house, even if it made little sense to work backwards in time like this. Arman had brushed the thought away and relished in the satin waves sliding under his hands.
He had done it.
The puzzle had nearly killed him and left him addled, but that was the purpose. The house could only be unlocked as such. The Tindel could not trust a man’s benere until he was near his end.
But now he was here. And he knew Heart Render must be as well.
The questions… There had been questions… The clansmen had surrounded him and asked him so many questions…
And then…and then…
His mind reeled as he sought to grasp the threads of memory that were as thin as wisps of infant hair. It was too great a task; his mind had been excessively encumbered for an intolerable span, and his body even more so. Realizing this, Arman felt stung by regret and his own limitations and finally allowed himself to sink back into unconsciousness.
~
Colette stiffened as her front door thundered alive with pounding. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking safety from whatever sought her. It was daylight, but she knew evil did not always hide in night’s corners.
“C’lette?” a deep voice called in concern. “Are ya in there? Are ya?”
The lunitata sighed in palpable relief and silently chided herself over her fancies. She shuffled across the room and unbolted the door. Her tired face was creased from continual angst, but she offered the man a warm smile. “How are you, Bel?”
Bel was a burly figure, with a graying red mane and unruly beard. His gentle hazel eyes observed her with relief. “Better now that I’ve seen ya. Your babe is gettin’ big.” He nodded to Colette’s bulging belly.
“Come in?” she asked, gesturing.
He shook off a soft layer of snow, stepped inside, and blushed self-consciously. He glanced around the room sheepishly. “Where’s Bren?”
Colette offered him another smile but failed to achieve any picture of joy. “He’s traveling, but I expect him back presently. Is everything alright?” She doubted he would hike the matroles between their homes simply to inquire after Brenol.
Bel winced. “No… The fever’s here. In the valley.”
Colette paled, reaching out to the man for balance.
His still-cool hand cradled her arm supportively. “Is it the babe?” he asked, leaning over her in concern.
She shook her head. “No, no. I…I just worry about the fever. Please, go on.” She straightened and allowed his hand to fall.
Bel nodded, but his eyes hovered over her closely. “Bodies were found a couple days ago… One of them was a woman close to lifin’. They told me she was so black no one knew who she was.”
“You thought it was me?”
“Mmmm,” he mumbled in affirmation, gazing at her with gentle eyes.
“Thank you for checking… I can’t believe it was here.” Colette saw her muddled dreams with a new clarity—she had recognized the place. She shuddered from top to toe.
Bel’s brow furrowed in concern. “I didn’t mean to scare ya. I’m so sorry. It’s probably moved on as it always does…” The man held out his worn hands in cupped offering. “I dunno how long Bren’ll be away, but if ya need a thing please let me fetch it for ya in town. Ya don’t need to be wanderin’ around with the…” Bel stopped, loathe to draw any more fear out with his speech.
Colette smiled genuinely. “Bel, yes. Thank you. That’s generous of you. Would you carry seals—when I need—to the sealtoz for me?”
Bel’s face opened in eager joy. “Be my pleasure, C’lette.”
The man remained for tea, collected his coat and hat, and took his leave.
Colette waited in the silence, grateful for the boarded doors and windows. Her hands quivered in the dim lantern light, and the full terror of the malitas’s presence washed over her.
I won’t leave… Whether it’s looking for me or not… I can’t leave again.
~
Brenol closed his eyes and inhaled purposefully. It did little to calm him. He was rife with frustration and anger. He had waited. And waited. And waited. He had sent two seals inquiring after Arman, but each had been returned to him undelivered, for neither sealtor could find the juile in Granallat.
He had also written anew to Darse, wondering if there had been a problem with the previous letter’s delivery. Isvelle informed the sealtor that Darse had left on a journey, and the carrier had returned to Brenol with the unopened note. He could only conclude that Darse had received the original message and was on his way, yet still the man remained absent. It was all very strange. And anxiety
inducing.
Furthermore, Brenol felt beyond useless as he lay idle, whittling away both freg and days in the little lugazzi town, and Colette was nearing her time with each passing septspan. He ached to be with her and to care for her and longed to hold his child at the lifing. He could have known peace had his choice to honor his gortei been fruitful, but sitting here taskless only clawed his insides into greater angst.
I’m split in two—and am senseless because of it.
He had toyed with the idea of leaving to track down Dresden, for surely the man was not as Igont had portrayed, yet indecision haunted him. He had not given up hope of Arman returning before the turn of the moons, or of Darse arriving.
Where is Darse?
It was uncharacteristic of the man. Darse was quick to set his heels forward whenever he was needed. He would be tarrying like this.
“Do you want another ale?”
Brenol snapped his face up, not attempting to hide his scowl. A young woman peered down at him quizzically. Her eyes were dark and kind, and her dress hugged her plump figure in flattering ways. She met his frown with a smile. Her glance held more than a trace of flattery.
Brenol shook his head and felt his banded locks whip against his neck.
“A bowl of stew?”
“Nothing,” he said curtly and thrust his chair back. He scooped up his cloak and swept it around him fluidly before marching testily out the main door. It swung open under his forceful hand, and wind shot through his copper hair, even with his hood tightly secured. Brenol shivered but worked his muscles alive as he moved through the town.
After an hour, the movement had helped to clear his head. He regretted his surliness to the server but still felt the keen sting of irritation at his situation. Soiled snow piled around him, and he mindlessly wove through bough, bush, and rock as if he had a destination in mind. He breathed the harsh cold until his lungs stung and nose ran. Finally, he jerked to a stop and snarled.
“How is it, old girl, that you always find me when I try to get away from you?”
The Forbidding Blue Page 9