I can’t die like this, Darse raged.
Yet his efforts could only be sustained for so long, and time slid away, ungraspable. Things grew hazy. He felt his limbs slackening as his life left him, and an eerie languid apathy spread through him.
Then his head was lifted with a snap. He drew in a gasp that stung as if he had inhaled acid. His body was still limp, but gradually he felt life trickle back into his mind. The weakness within him was unbearable. Every cell ached.
“Invite me,” Barrie whispered in his ear.
“What?” Darse choked out, and then found his face being hammered again into the icy death. He had little to fight with this time, and his body turned soft within seconds.
“Invite me,” Barrie said again. His voice was pinched with fury, and his eyes were as hard as flint. He lifted the man and threw him supine, tossing his weakened frame as though he were but a scarecrow.
Darse heaved and racked for a minute. His entire body was drenched from the snow and perspiration of the fight. He knew there was little time left before death claimed him. Barrie bent down to fling him into the suffocating cold again when Darse cried out in panic.
“No, no,” he managed to cough. “Come… with me.” Darse drew in several pained breaths, and watched the stranger with terror, wondering what he could possibly mean.
A wicked grin spread smoothly upon the round face, and the man’s demeanor became one of eased pleasure. “Thank you, Darse,” he said. His voice was triumphantly smug.
Darse pained his way through every breath as he lay sprawled upon the frozen earth, focusing on drawing in and out through the rawness yet never taking his eyes from the stranger.
“Etiquette is one of the most ridiculous elements of your kind,” Barrie said, sneering. “I cannot pass without permission, yet most eventually invite me to do so. It is like you enjoy my domination.”
The smile suddenly sagged from Barrie’s features, and a shudder ran from shoulder to toe. And then the body slumped, dropping into a heap of bones and flesh less than two arm spans from Darse. Not a digit of Barrie was animate; he was empty.
Darse had little time to react before a searing pain rushed through him. He fought against it, but its power was unimaginable. He could not even scream, for the sensation was so jarringly intense. Lightning scored across his insides and up his spine and centralized in his brain.
He heard a voice. It was sinister, gleeful, and tore through his soul like a knife through a sheet.
I am Chaul, it said.
Then he knew no more.
~
Colette’s screams awakened her from her nap. Her bedclothes clung to her thrashing legs, and tears streamed hotly down her splotched cheeks. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, trying to smear away the images that taunted them. It was no use. They were unfading.
The evil, triumphant eyes. How they had danced.
She wailed again, shaking in horror.
Her friend and father was no more.
CHAPTER 10
The maralane shall not be Massada’s only loss.
-Genesifin
Brenol pointed his toes toward Limbartina and worked his way through Brovingbune, pondering the terrisdan’s silence. The eye was present but restful, peering at him with a strange and languid indifference. The landscape dipped gently up and down, and he followed the lower countryside outside the Trinalli Range to the west. His nose flared with the scents of sap and pine, for the woods engulfed him on all fronts, but he had opted for ducking below bough and limb instead of the heaving mountainous trek around the water. He found it was not an unpleasant journey, save the circumstances, and rejoiced in the sense of renewed purpose.
Now upon the move, Brenol decided that eventually he would wind his way to Caladia. His intention was to seek out Arista, the frawnite, and see what her people knew of the fever. It would mean a septspan or more of travel, but heading east might bring key information for when he did reconvene with his friends. Plus, perhaps she would even agree to travel with him. He experienced a keen—and realistic—sense of his need for help and the prospect held much appeal. It was not a perfect plan, yet any proposal seemed a better alternative to sitting in Gare growing soft.
He kept a solid pace and felt his body answer willingly enough. His lungs puffed clouds in the frigid air, and his eyes scanned every route and obstacle, taking in the dozen hues of green that saturated the woods.
Limbartina cannot be far off, he thought, but his clenched jaw indicated angst instead of relief.
Brenol lightly traced the lining of his coat pocket. Dresden’s seal rested there, but he no longer opened it or even handled it more than he needed. A raw and troubling sensation seemed to burn in the back of his throat whenever he did.
Igont must’ve misunderstood. We don’t always see things the same way the wolves do…
The air turned bitter, and the sun cowered behind clouds. His body stiffened in the moist cold, and he found himself walking more hunched than erect. Pushing further would be of little use, so the man set about collecting firewood and brush and locating a suitable camping ground. Brenol smiled at his fortune when he spied it: two boulders resting together with a slight overhang. They would serve as excellent coverage from much of the wind, and his fire would do the rest. He went through the motions automatically.
Thinking of his Colette, he warmed his hands and prepared dinner.
~
Colette stared at the paper. She had written, scribbled, crossed out, and rewritten the letter until it was just a jumble of words.
Do I really tell them of this dream?
What if it is only that—a dream?
She longed to reason away the dark images of her sleep, but both her gut and intuit whispered the truth to her—reality and nightmare were one. Colette peered down at her hands. They were splotched with ink and shook like she was aged.
But if I say it…
The voice in her mind suddenly turned harsh. It will turn real? Stupid woman! What’ll happen if you don’t say it and it is true?
The whiplash of her emotions and thoughts, coupled with the images that refused to ease from memory, were simply too much. Colette crumpled up the sheet and pushed herself from the desk. Tears streamed down her face, and she smeared them away with cool palms, leaving streaks of black ink upon cheek and nose.
I hate him, she thought, seething. I hate him.
She let out a yell of frustration and clenched her fists in a quivering fury. The anger burned hot in her blood and turned her restless. She screamed again, longing to escape her skin, her bones, her heart.
Colette stood abruptly, needing to occupy her limbs somehow, and sent her body to motion. The small room creaked under her urgent paces. Eventually, her laden frame returned to the desk. The white sheets of paper rested before her, waiting. Hesitantly, she sat and fingered one with a haunted gaze.
Colette breathed slowly, calling her mind back to Brenol. Drawing strength from his memory, she lifted her pen with a delicate grace and set the tip to the page. It bled for a moment in a round dot while she collected enough composure to start. Her inked fingerprints already marred the white sheet, but she did not reach for a new one.
Instead, she flicked her wrist with sudden precision.
Arman, she began.
~
The countryside spread out before Brenol in a flowing swell. It was beautiful, even in its wildness. The icing almost accentuated it. He did not smile, but nonetheless accepted the loveliness with a grateful breath, and kept moving.
The neutral land passed by under his sure strides and he nodded to himself, thrumming in anticipation. Already he could feel the sweep of energy tickle his skin as he approached the edge of the lugazzi. Selenia was still very much alive, and he eagerly hoped to again converse with the terrisdan.
Brenol inhaled and stepped forth from the lugazzi. He bent to the earth, cupping the soil gingerly as he always did, yet the response he received was unanticipated. The eye o
f the land jolted through him with a piercing stare.
Brenol rose in alarm, the dark soil falling from his fingers. His coppery hair whipped in the cool drafts, and every contour of his face was unmoving and severe. He sensed it—the land was as taut as a distended guitar string. The air itself was cold, hard, tense.
“Malitas,” the wind whispered.
The pines shook around Brenol, and several icicles crashed to the hard earth. His chest tightened, and he felt adrenaline course powerfully through his limbs, but he felt his mind steady. He peered down at the shattered ice and lowered himself again to a squat. His fingers traced the cold ground reassuringly, even though his heart thundered like a thousand hands beating the skin of a drum.
“Is it here?” Brenol asked. He leaned forward, straining to hear the nearly imperceptible words.
“No more,” it finally said.
A barrage of questions flooded his mind. “Where’d it go? What’d it do?” he demanded, as his head hammered with hot pulses of blood.
“Limbartina. Stole my people.” The words were hardly audible.
“What can I do?” Brenol asked, thinking out loud.
“Nothing,” the wind sighed. “Nothing.”
The gray world hushed around him, and Selenia would say nothing more.
~
The sword gleamed a stunning white within Sed’s hands. It was beautiful— lovelier than Arman would have ever guessed. The meticulously crafted metal flowed from the rubied hilt like running water. It flashed in the dim bethaida light and sent tiny rainbows scattering across the walls. Even the pale Tindellan hands grasping the weapon looked flushed compared to the striking alabaster of the blade. It rippled as Sed settled it upon a table, and Arman watched attentively as the clansman began to wrap it.
His thin fingers moved with the precision of familiarity, but still with the caution of a worker who knows his peril. He bound the blade with thick burlap straps, and finally the whole of the weapon was gracefully wrapped in sapphire velvet. Sed lifted the sword with a cautious hand and lowered the tip to the ground, offering the hilt to Arman. It no longer resembled a deadly weapon.
“You use no sheath?” the juile asked. He eyed the cloths with displeasure. Yes, he had been told the original guardians had brought the blade here unsheathed, but he had assumed that had been due to haste, nothing more.
Sed made a strange gesture with his left hand. “No sheath will house it.”
“Show me,” Arman said incredulously.
Obediently, the clansman returned the sword to the dais and unworked his previous labors. He stepped lightly aside to rummage in a nearby cupboard. He grasped a plain and sturdy case of blue and stood to face the juile.
“Only a gr—” Sed began but halted with a sharp inhale. He peered up at the juile and began again. “Only a fool forges a weapon with properties like this.”
Arman raised an eyebrow. The clansman had almost said greenlander.
Sed cautiously slid the blade into the blue sheath. Before even reaching the hilt, the blade shook and rattled like marbles in a tin can. The racket was wrenching.
The things that go unsaid in legends, Arman cursed inwardly.
“If it isn’t removed,” Sed added over the din, “it only grows louder.”
“I agree with you. ‘Only a fool.’” Arman shook his head, vexed. The forger must have been hot with self-importance—and simply blind to human nature—to only foresee his beautiful blade as a piece to be showcased.
Arman eyed the rough straps and bindings. “Will these hold?”
Sed nodded, yet his face was stiff with concern. “They do, but as it is very sharp, a misstep could be the end…” The light gray eyes narrowed, but the man’s voice was soft as he continued. “We shall provide the rest. Your heat and health have been restored, I’m told. You may leave at your discretion. I shall arrange a gertali—a Tindellan group who know the peri well—to accompany you to the edge of the desert.” His eyes spoke eloquently, but he still issued the warning, “It’s only too easy to lose one’s way on the blue.”
Arman dipped his head in a gesture of gratitude, but he could not help but suspect that Sed had motives for following him that were not entirely altruistic.
~
Colette’s lids fluttered as she swayed and fought in her sleep. She sought to run here, fly there, but the malicious eyes were ever upon her. She could never escape their gaze. No wings could take her far enough, no wind could sustain her long enough. He sought her, and both knew he would eventually overtake her.
With a start, she gasped awake and cried out. She embraced her belly as a contraction tightened like a band across her, but after a moment it released its hold. She exhaled with relief, yet found her heart unable to settle.
Darse’s golden eyes. They’re blackening… I feel like they’re hunting for me.
She shuddered and rose, for remaining idle would only empower such thoughts. She filled her kettle in the main of the house with water from the jug, placed it on her swing hook, and settled it above the fire. The kettle’s song soon awoke her from thought, and she let a small handful of leaves dance down into the steaming pot. The tea steeped, and the room filled with the fragrances of orange and mint.
“Easy now, Colette. Easy now,” she said to herself as she breathed in the fresh scents. “Easy.”
The lunitata measured out a steaming cupful and shuffled to the other room. She absently set the hot tea down to cool and settled herself at the desk. The small pencil was soon placed to paper and slowly, with a contrived aloofness, an image unfolded. Colette barely glanced at the finished piece before placing it atop a stack—the many faces of her dreams—on the corner of the smooth desk. She made as if to stand, but flinched in hesitation and turned her head back with a wary expression. She lifted the sketch and peered at it uneasily. It stared back—familiar as friend, familiar as enemy—as if alive.
With a shudder, she flipped the page face down and rose. Colette abandoned her untouched mug and strode out of the room. But then she halted her steps and returned to the desk with quivering hands and lips.
There was no hesitation now. She shredded the image of her mother’s soumme with frantic motions. Her tears splattered the floor below, and she slid against the wall to the ground.
Oh, Darse.
The pain was dark and rent her heart with a terrible power. She felt like her soul was empty of all but agony.
Oh, Darse.
She wept until her body was too exhausted to shed another tear.
It won’t end with him, she thought. I know it. And he’s learning… He will find anyone who knows of him. We are doomed.
~
The thrill of finding the sword, of bringing back Massada’s hope, filled Arman like a song. He did not smile or speak, but his soul held a lightness that he sought to whip away.
This isn’t the end, you fool, he thought, but still his heart fluttered along like a disobedient child flying from his chores.
“Would you like me to bind it to your back?”
Arman glanced down to Sed. All had occurred as the clansman had promised: his pack was laden with provisions and supplies; a group of weathered and shuffling men with sharp glances and warm blue clothing had gathered; and none had questioned him again, even if eyes had seared. He had even been given a replacement cloak much heavier than his gray, which boasted a better fit and a camouflaging blue hue. He knelt down to the ground and allowed the clansman to secure the sword atop his pack with cerulean bindings that covered both chest and back. It was not exceptionally heavy and rested comfortably, but he knew it would undeniably wear upon him; proximity with the weapon did not elicit ease.
Arman raised himself up and bent into a bow. “It has been bountiful, Sed.”
The Tindellan man hesitated as if unsure how to respond, but then dipped his own head respectfully and placed the pads of his fingertips to his cheek. It was a gesture the juile had never seen, and the meaning was mysterious. The fingers fell to Sed
’s side after several seconds.
“You shall return it?” A slight fear edged his voice.
“I shall,” Arman replied with conviction.
Sed nodded, seeming strangely disappointed.
The clansmen all collected together as if called by an unspoken signal, and the ceiling door was lifted. The blinding wind sucked the very breath from Arman’s lips, and he wondered how he had stayed the perideta for as long as he had. The group hastened out by ladder and tunnel and secured the hole again; heat was not to be wasted. Once all were upon the crust, there was no dallying, and the six men pushed quickly through the snow on their path. Arman, at the back of the line, kept the swift pace but often had to squint with freezing eyes to catch the figures that shifted through the snowy blue like a mirage.
He trailed them with a full mind.
~
The inn at Gare bustled, already cluttered with bodies and din, as music, chatter, and the lively steps of dance filled the air. Harris the innkeeper patted his gut happily. He was not an overweight man but once had been, and the habit had outlived his extra pounds. His buttons clicked as they met his ringed fingers. He smiled at the sound.
He glanced around the tavern, calculating numbers and needs in his head. The icing was pinching his stores, but at least for the moment they held, and even more, the cold was driving travelers away from the woods and to his hearth. He liked the press of people in the room, the movement, the gossip, the cheer. It was good to be busy.
A wave of cold briefly stung his cheeks as the entrance opened and a slender youth slid through the slit of darkness. Harris squinted speculatively. The young man looked to be about fifteen orbits and seemed to be traveling alone. His complexion was red from the wind, and his features were thin and chiseled. Stunningly blue eyes shone brightly against the contrast of his mousey brown coat. It was not until the blue eyes stared into his own that Harris caught the golden seal sewn tightly upon the worn garment, resting at breast height.
“You’ve a seal for me, then?” Harris asked, trying to conceal amazement at the sealtor’s age.
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