He stared at Ziel sullenly. He had skipped the path to avoid people but had managed to unintentionally find his way to the waters.
I don’t know why I always feel resistant with Ziel… I feel so uncomfortable laying everything bare. Even if it makes it right in the end.
A low mist hung suspended over the water, and the trees at the lake’s edge extended out sparkling limbs as if frozen mid-step in their wintry dance. The air had a lightly sweet scent, barely discernable through the bland smell of snow and cold. All around him was the hushed silence of hibernation, when no living thing stirs out of burrow, house, or hole.
“You are a fair sight. I’ll admit that much.”
Brenol stood, staring out at the waters and recalling the first time he had seen them under Darse’s house. How long ago it had been, yet he could almost smell the bursting life, feel the warmth emanating from the little channel.
He breathed deeply and finally allowed himself to ask the question that had been slowly wearing away at him like erosion on a hill.
What do I do if Arman is no longer coming?
The thought made his chest tighten, but Brenol knew he could not shy away any longer.
Do I go home?
This thought was dismissed immediately, despite his intense longing for Colette. There would be no Massada if he ignored malitas for long. And Colette’s glance could only hold relief and pride in him for a time before her feelings were tainted by disappointment.
I could go search for Arman and Darse.
But if I miss them while traveling, then it’s time wasted. Time wasted that could be spent investigating malitas.
“All right, you red-headed fool, what?”
He knew the answer but for some reason could only accept it standing here, at Ziel. He needed to do this—for himself and for Massada. It was the only way.
It’s time. Darse and Arman will show up when they will.
The thought brought a smattering of emotions, but foremost was peace. He had idled too long when lives were at stake, and now he felt a surging drive within him to leap forward. While it chilled his insides to think of pushing into this by himself, he had made his oath alone—and he could carry it out alone. Waiting in Gare was no longer an option. It was time to move.
I’ll chase the fever again.
His dark jade eyes swept from the lake to his shivering hands. The corners of his mouth quirked up, for in his fingers lay a stout bough completely stripped of bark. Chunks and shavings littered his boots and the space around them. He had not even realized his nervous hands had been tasking as such.
He threw the branch to the earth and straightened.
Amusement washed away from his face as he again muttered the words of gortei. The oath sent him coursing with terrible ambition, and he repeated the prophesy that had spilled from his mouth so long ago, “Death will be a close companion before we are done.”
~
Darse ambled slowly through the thicket, breathing in the wintry fragrances while his ears buzzed with the rumbling life of the Pearia. He had followed her blue path for the better part of the morning after having slept on her banks the previous night. He whistled contentedly and allowed the swooping azure skies to wrap him in freedom. It was good to be walking again, good to be on his annual trek.
He had lived in Massada for orbits now but still gravitated to Ziel like a flower orienting its blossoming face to the sun. His heart could not last long without seeing her, breathing her life. Ever since he heard the song coming from deep within—that first day of sodden clothes and clay-caked shores—he could do little to resist its call. Every orbit, he found his way back to her. Every orbit.
I feel so free just knowing I’m on my way.
Darse closed his eyes and tilted his head northward, as if he could already detect Ziel’s presence and scents. The sun’s rays streamed gently upon his weathered features. His face, roughened during his life as a homesteader, had not altered since he had come to Massada, save to reflect peace. The sentiment was now chiseled in with the natural curves of jaw and cheek and stamped upon every animation.
A green jay sang sweetly to a companion in another tree. It was a shrill tune, but the tinny notes swelled through the open air as if in invitation. Soon the other took up the song with a deeper throat, and the two voices soared into a lovely pairing. Darse found his heart swell to a crescendo.
The song ended, and the woods seemed to sigh, in contentment as well as disappointment. Darse understood all too well.
Will I ever stop craving beauty?
When the sun reached its zenith, Darse tramped along the riverbed until he found a suitable resting area. He un-shouldered his pack, removed a simple pole, and lazily reached for the sweet resin of the hulio tree he carried in wax paper. He smacked happily and crossed his ankles as he stretched out his long limbs. They creaked and popped in the cold, but Darse paid little mind.
The fish were scarce, and he grew numb in the wait, but eventually he was rewarded with one, and the second followed surprisingly quickly. He scooped up the last with the fluidity of a skill long-known, and swiftly cleaned them both atop a snow drift with his small penknife.
He sighed in peace, absently marking the days it would take to travel to Ziel.
Four, maybe five, he thought. I think I’ll take eight.
Darse cupped the slippery flesh and saluted the Pearia with a grin. He plucked up his gear and tramped to a clearing in the wood. Within minutes, he had a little blaze that he fed with twigs until it was strong and promising. Deftly, he thrust a thick log into the flame, careful to give it air, and leaned back on his haunches with appreciation. He glanced around the vicinity but, not seeing a coantal, bent and rummaged through his pack until he discovered a spongy gray leaf he had reserved previously. It was not large enough for both fish, so he wrapped the bigger of the two in its ashy folds and laid it directly in the fire. The other he skewered and set spinning between his fingers atop the flames. He began to sweat in his many layers, but he lost notice when the scents lifted and appetite gripped his ribs.
The coantal-wrapped fish was ready first, and he kicked it free of the fire. The other required more patience, but he was rewarded for his efforts. It fell apart in his fingers and flaked in chunks, hot and steaming.
Tasty. But I do miss meat.
The thought amused him. He was far from nostalgic about Alatrice, but there were certain aspects he craved on occasion. Meat was a major one, as it was culturally taboo to consume land animals in Massada. Dairy was another. Sheep’s milk and cheese were available at the castle, but he missed his dairy cow.
He shrugged and blew upon the steaming flesh. If he must fast from dietary comforts to live and belong here, then so be it. Isvelle alone was worth it.
My soumme, he mused as he popped a piece into his mouth.
“Bounty forgotten,” he muttered as he recalled the last days at the castle. “I forgot that silly seal.” The note had gone unnoticed when he had changed from his working clothes to spend the morning with Isvelle, and after, he had been engrossed in preparing for his trip. He shrugged, for there was little else to do, and resolved to write to Isvelle at the next sealtoz, should the matter actually be dire.
She distracts me with each breath, he thought happily.
Even after three orbits, Darse was still euphoric. Reality and daily living had yet to gnaw away at the wonder he experienced beside Isvelle. He knew she was not perfect, but he chose to live as if she were—and the avalanche of his love only seemed to barrel forward with greater power the more he allowed it. It was thrilling, terrifying, awakening.
He finished half of the skewered fish and set it carefully upon a tin plate from his sack. He plucked the still scalding coantal packet from the ground, tossing it back and forth like a hot potato. Eventually, it made its way securely to his dish, where he peeled back the leaf from the hot flesh.
Steam billowed up in the merciless air. He fingered hot bites to his lips, and it all but melt
ed on his tongue. He had intended to eat his fare with bread, but after gorging himself on the two fish, he was only ready for a nap.
Darse wrapped the uneaten portions carefully and stowed the packet in the snow. At least the icing is helpful at times, he thought contentedly.
His rough fingers clumsily pulled out a blanket, and he curled under it with pleasure. The rock beneath him was freezing and hard, but his siesta was unhindered. He slept for several hours, and by the end, he was covered in two digits of snow.
Eventually his eyes opened to the afternoon sun. He shook the blanket of white from his stiff frame and stood to stretch. His body was fit and firm, but the passage of time was nonetheless playing upon his joints and bones. He grimaced slightly and sighed.
Well, it is better than dying young.
The thought surprised him, but more so the direction in which his mind steered next: Like my mother…
It was a bleak place in his heart, and one he rarely chose to visit. The mystery of Marietta’s death seemed even more obscure here in Massada than in Alatrice. He was not simply without a mother here.
All grow silent if I mention her name. Fear clings to them like leeches. She was the first…and so they wonder… So I wonder…
Darse had seen the results of the black fever—few had not—and it had knotted his insides as hopelessly as a child with a spool of thread. It had been but a septspan after he and Isvelle had taken the oaths of soumme, and joy had shone from his face almost as brilliantly as the glow of a lunitata, but the encounter had soured and silenced their elation. The dark fate of his mother had stared up cruelly from the stranger’s limp, fragile corpse.
The body was so black. Like it was charred, although the tissue was still soft… I couldn’t even tell it was a woman, save the golden hair that fell from her corpse like it was unattached.
Darse stowed the cooled fish safely away in his pack; his appetite had departed. He mindlessly loaded the rest of his belongings and stamped his feet to life. He gazed around, making sure he had collected all, and spoke softly into the air, “I wish I’d known you. I wish I could know what happened so many orbits ago.”
The words fell without echo upon the blanketed wood, and the silence that had shrouded the afternoon suddenly seemed blaring. There were no songbirds here, there were no forest rustlings of small creatures. The wood seemed more devoid of life than he had cared to notice. It had been but several hours of travel from the green jays, and he wished them back.
“Is death even here?” he whispered, but regretted voicing the thought immediately. The trees swayed back against the push of wind as if gasping at his words.
Leave these thoughts and walk, Darse, he thought to himself. He inhaled deeply, and the scents of snow and pine flooded his nostrils. You’ve much ahead of you. You have a soumme, a life, Bren. The new baby coming. And a trip. Ziel always revives you.
You cannot know what’ll come. And you can’t change it anyway, old man.
His lips twitched up slightly until he allowed them to curl into a smile. It did not feel entirely natural, but it still felt good. “Yes, to Ziel.”
He tramped on, even if unease accompanied each stride.
~
Colette bent in pain as she awakened. Her body groaned with the tension of her stretched skin and the growing child ever pressing upon nerves and joints. She eased cautiously to her side and allowed her belly to rest against the pallet. The discomfort lessened, and in half a breath she saw the dark images that had plagued her dreams.
He—it—was hunting again.
She shuddered and rose, panic choking her heart. It was too much. It had been too real.
The man had been wandering the woods, with eyes like pits of death with anger and loathing spilling out upon all creation. He was looking for someone, anyone really, for his body was beginning to blacken.
A new host.
Even aside from Bel’s news that the fever was near, deep within her ran a chord humming of approaching danger. She knew the danger was close, too close this time. It was a prickling sensation in her gut, a hollow feeling in her chest. There was no running, for death was smiling at her exposed and naked back.
Arman said it couldn’t really see me, she tried to rationalize. This feeling is nothing more than a feeling.
She rose and walked about, pondering whether she could bear to put the terrible images to paper. Her meanderings conveyed her to the looking glass. Her vows, her reflection, the present, the past—all seemed to rest before her.
In a trembling motion, she pulled down the piece, and her fingers traced across the stones and tiles of the frame. Colette inhaled, drawing strength from the memory of the gift, and made to restore it to the wall, yet as she did so her hand knocked it awkwardly, and the piece fell to the floor in a shattering of glass and gems.
Colette pressed both palms to her face and rubbed her weary eyes. As she opened them, the world momentarily streaked with dots from the pressure. She drew her shaking hands to her chest: a gesture of having nothing more. Her chin quivered and she let the weeping take control. The lunitata convulsed and choked under the force of emotion.
It was coming, and it could not be stopped.
Bren, her heart burned. Please come back.
Please protect me.
~
The night was bitter. So bitter that Darse pondered returning to Veronia. The wind shrieked and sliced through the wood and no tree could offer enough protection from its blistering bite. He shivered and arched his back forward, cupping his body around the meager flame he had kindled to life hours previously. It flickered and dipped under the harsh and screaming breath but choked out a tenuous heat.
His thoughts turned to Brenol. They had not seen each other in some time. Seals passed whenever sealtors were available, but their lives had overtaken them in the whirlwind that comes with establishing new families. The joy, the solitude, the privacy, the eking out one’s own way. He did not begrudge Brenol the new space but now felt a keen stab of loneliness for his friend.
Colette’s baby will make all well again. A faint smile played on his lips, thinking of the growing life.
Yes. The babe will draw us all back together.
Darse collected his blankets and lay supine, allowing his eyes to soak up the heavens. The sky was blessedly clear, and the stars and moons cast their radiant light upon the chilled world. Stronta hung low in the velvety sky, allowing her counterpart the center stage. Veri lingered strongly upon the zenith, and her waning globe towered over him with foreign magnificence. He reached out his hand like a child to touch her white body but only pushed through the cloud of his ragged breath. He allowed his chilled hand to drop, but kept his eyes upon her, soaking her in like a sponge. The moment was enough to steel his resolve, and he quivered into slumber under the soft luster.
~
Arman awoke, and the whole of his memory settled in effortlessly. He filled his lungs, opened his eyes, and finally understood: he was in a bethaida. On a mere handful of occasions he had encountered the Tindel, but never before had he been permitted into the clan’s homes, yet he knew with certainty that the ochre-red domed walls and clay floors were nothing less. The air was fresher than he would have expected this far underground, as though he stood but a few steps into an open cave, but he was unsurprised—the Tindel had a determination tougher than iron. They could live upside-down if they drove their stubborn wills to do as much.
Arman raised himself to a sit on the hard pallet. His body ached from having come so near the precipice of death but he marveled at feeling relatively hale despite it all. And warm. He felt warm. He noted the hot blood traveling through his veins and saturating his feet in comfort. He allowed his eyelids to rest for a moment as he relished the sensation. He had thought he would never again know heat.
Arman opened his eyes in the dim room and found a small child, likely around eight orbits, about two strides before him, staring interestedly with a strikingly white face and faded amber eyes. T
he boy had tufts of unruly hair the color of pale straw that poked out in every which way and eyebrows so faint they were almost clear.
“Hello,” the juile said kindly.
The boy, without a drop of fear, repeated the greeting. Curiosity nearly dripped from his eager face.
“You—” Arman began.
The urchin interrupted, “I can barely see you.”
Arman granted the boy an impish smile. He appreciated the openness of the young. “I am juile. And I will tell you a secret… There are even some places where I cannot be seen at all.” He allowed the last word to trail off mysteriously.
The child’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward with a finger extended, as he might to poke and examine a caterpillar. Arman laughed and extended his arm. The child prodded the transparent hand with gentle nudges and swept his own hand beneath the juile’s, delighted to still see his digits under the transparent limb.
“Like water,” the boy whispered, impressed.
Arman had opened his mouth to respond when a Tindellan man marched into the room. He threw the boy a fierce glance that caused him to scamper off hastily through a low arching doorway. The man was thin but muscular, with skin the hue of cream and hair some shade between white and light tan. He kept it trimmed close both atop his head and upon his slender face. His clothes were an ordinary brown but well-crafted and close fitting. A silver patch was stitched upon his breast: circular, with an embossed white sword at its center. His skin was grossly weathered, covered with severe cracks and pocks, but he exhibited no sign of self-consciousness.
He showed little but suspicion.
“Who are you?” he asked gruffly, puffing his chest out in self-importance.
Arman stood but remained slightly bent, as the ceiling was exceptionally low. If the Tindellan man was intimidated, he gave no sign to indicate it.
“Arman,” he said, bowing gracefully.
The name caused the weathered lines to crease further, and the clansman’s light gray eyes peered up seriously into the juile’s. “Arman…” he spoke the name as if grasping for a memory. “You are a guardian…” The sentence trailed off and ended like a question.
The Forbidding Blue Page 10