The Forbidding Blue

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  “Who’re you?” the boy replied, maintaining a level face.

  “Harris.” He was not affronted; the sealtors were meticulous about delivering only after establishing identities.

  “Then no.” The young man lowered his voice, but his face remained impassive. “Is an Arman staying here?”

  Irritation flowered at the name. “No, and I’ve had more trouble with him than a non-paying customer is permitted.”

  The sealtor’s eyebrow raised in question.

  “Several septspan ago a wolf came through looking for him. It sent my inn silent for two hours.”

  “He waited?” the man asked. It was barely there, but his tone hinted of surprise.

  “And ate. Gave the letter to the guy’s friend. Finally left. Friend left recently, too,” Harris humphed.

  “Did this friend give any information regarding Arman or other seals arriving?”

  Harris paused, trying to wash away desire from his open face. Ever since the young redheaded man had dragged himself into the inn, he had found it nearly impossible to overcome his curiosity. Then the wolf with his clear urgency. And now it could be so quickly sated…

  Without further thought, Harris jerked his head in affirmation. “Yes, yes. I don’t know how I managed to let that sneak out of my mind. The friend, a young man named Brenol, didn’t say where Arman was but mentioned he’d collect any more seals here in several days.”

  The sealtor’s blue eyes narrowed and turned hard as steel upon Harris. “How can I be sure you speak truly?”

  Harris felt his chest pounding with fear; interrupting seals was considered a fineable crime, and it would certainly affect his business if customers could not ensure their mail’s safe arrival.

  Too late to stop now, he thought as blood rushed to his temples.

  Harris raised his voice and spoke in an awkward boom, “Because I own the place! Because I don’t lie!” Several faces turned to stare, but returned shortly to the music and din.

  Doubt twitched across the sealtor’s face. Harris saw it and moved promptly. “The wolf obviously felt comfortable giving Brenol the first seal. And you know how they are.”

  The sealtor frowned.

  “You can simply leave it here and warm yourself for a few minutes if you like.” He opened his hand, indicating the desk, and then lifted his chin in the direction of the hearth. “The seat is free, even if the drinks aren’t.” He smiled widely and watched the youth’s indecision wash away in an overpowering tide of weariness.

  The sealtor removed a small white letter from his satchel, placed it quietly upon the desk, and stared unblinkingly at the innkeeper. “For Arman only. I had special instructions.”

  Harris nodded purposefully. The young man released his hand from the paper and trudged laboriously toward the glowing flames. He secured a seat and lowered himself down with an unconscious sigh.

  Harris pocketed the paper and went about his business, although his insides felt more like a butterfly cage than a gut. He smiled and laughed and bantered, but all with a contrived flavor, always hawking his eyes back to the sealtor, who never flinched away from the burning fire. He sipped a warm drink bought by a local patron as if it were a finely crafted spirit, nursing it into the night.

  It was shortly before closing time when the sealtor crept out to the darkness. He did not even glance up at Harris as he left—whether due to shame or exhaustion Harris was left to guess. The innkeeper went through the motions of locking doors, barring windows, and scrubbing tables. His staff trickled out, and he found himself before the dwindling brazier with hand upon pocket.

  He breathed deeply, lifted the seal out, and examined the small item. It was white, creased into a tiny square, and lettered Arman across the center in an attractive, feminine hand. His cheeks rouged with a burst of shame.

  Pilfering seals? Am I a postmal? This is ridiculous.

  Harris almost returned it to his pocket when he remembered the wolf and the disruption it had caused. His soft face turned sullen.

  It’s only fair, he thought, running his digits across the fine lettering.

  Only fair.

  Harris jutted his jaw determinedly and hastily floundered through breaking the seal and sliding the single page open. There was only one line, and it froze his insides faster than a wintry night. The lovely hand wrote:

  Arman - Darse has been taken. He’s dead.

  Harris fumbled the paper in his hands, and it fell to his feet. He stooped with trembling fingers, cursing his stupid curiosity.

  Are you no more than a child, Harris? If this is a crooked affair, they’ll certainly find you. You’ve muddied your toes to the corn.

  Harris cradled the paper close to his chest, staring at the flames. If any of his patrons had seen him, they would not have recognized him. His back hunched forward as he rocked with the light motion of the addled, and his heavily creased face seemed aged by an additional ten orbits.

  Eventually, in sudden decision, the man flicked the paper into the dwindling fire. It caught at the edges, shrank, and glowed until nothing remained but black ash.

  No one can know. I lost it, if any ask. No one can know.

  He finished his duties with quivering hands and darting eyes and made his way to his chambers for the first of many sleepless nights.

  ~

  Brenol would have soon realized there was foul play at hand, even had Selenia not hinted of it. The gray, cold sky betrayed nothing, but the air he drew in held an odd scent. He wrinkled his nose and peered at the brume above him speculatively. There was little to do but continue on, and he did so with both haste and hesitancy.

  As he reached a hilltop, he gazed down on Limbartina and sought to assemble the images into sense. Suddenly, he drew in a sharp breath that hung in his throat. He was dumbfounded, speechless.

  The entire town had been razed. Every single building, including the massive soladrome. Even the countryside showed the dark scars of fire. From his vantage point, each edifice was a crumbled white heap, looking only vaguely like the structure it once had been. He had never seen fire decimate so thoroughly before, and it took him some time before his limbs remembered how to move.

  Whether from curiosity or shock, Brenol refused to turn aside. He fumbled down the hill stiffly and drew closer to the damage. The scent of old fire lingered, and he almost expected to see smoke rising up in steaming plumes, even though snow had fallen and the flames had long ago crumbled to gray ash.

  He slowed as he entered the town. He walked the streets, although passage was often prevented due to the wreckage, and gaped mutely at the devastation. The houses that had lined the skirts of town were heaps of marred wood and ash. They had once been dappled with the colors of the rainbow—for the umburquin painted their homes in vibrant hues—yet no more. There was no chroma at all to the buildings, only a black and gray-white ash.

  Brenol’s eyes shied from the charred bodies, staring with gaping holes where eyes once lay. Their mouths were open in silent screams, hands clenched in brittle fists. Other bodies were untouched by flames but streaked with dried and blackened blood. They rested in alleys, heaped in streets. Odor and flies teemed thickly around them despite the cold, but he knew he cowered back for more reason than that.

  His feet drew him to the center, where the soladrome had once stood. It had been a massive structure: artfully designed, with balconies, alcoves, and pillars larger than a man’s girth. The golden dome had once been visible from every nook of the town, and for matroles of countryside as well. It was not a mere monument, either. It had been a center of healing, of hope. Hundreds of medical professionals had resided there. Hundreds of sick were tended. It had been a beacon of light for the terrisdans, especially in the cruel face of the black fever. Brenol bent and reached his hands into the rubble. Pieces of the structure crumbled in his palms and fell like sand to the ground. He grimaced and wiped the ash on his trousers.

  As he circled the dome, he came to what once had been the gardens. He had w
alked through their green lushness with Colette orbits ago. He had filled his nostrils with lavender and honeysuckle. His hands had tingled in the sensation of her warm hand. The images of life flashed before his memory and made the death of the present moment more marked.

  He moved through the rest of the town like a ghost, silent and numb. Shadows from the tombs of buildings grew longer, and Brenol blinked awake with the realization that night was approaching. He glanced around and knew with certainty that he did not wish to sleep anywhere in the fallen city, even should he be able to find shelter somewhere. He tightened his coat around him and strode east, seeking the cover of forest or rock. Anything would be better than this place of death.

  Later, before his campfire, he shuddered and rocked. He wrapped himself up warmly and tried to eat but could barely force a bite down his throat without choking.

  Brenol threw another branch into the crackling fire at his feet. His eyes burned with the nightmare.

  There was no explanation, save Selenia’s. Malitas. It had come.

  The truth violently wrenched his chest in knots: He would never be able to contend with such power. It was a fool’s game to think otherwise.

  ~

  Arman shied from the cities and towns but took the worn and easy paths whenever possible. He had been absent for nearly four septspan and he felt the weight of time haunting his steps. He had left Brenol to hunt a monster on his own, and the knowledge was grim at best. He donned the cloak of invisibility the terrisdan offered as he swept through Brovingbune, and rushed as quickly as he was able. Only as he neared Gare did his tall form materialize and reveal the sharp ferocity dwelling in his onyx eyes.

  Gare was as he had remembered it: small, lively, and prone to ignoring the rest of Massada. The single inn lit up against the velvety dark of night, and Arman hoped fervently that Brenol was still present. He shook the layer of damp white from his cobalt cloak, and it fell in soft heaps of slush. He pushed the heavy wooden door and slipped in without many noticing.

  The room was alive with light and music. The din smothered his ears, and he fought to think clearly; he had spent most of the last few septspan in the silence of his thoughts. He flicked his fingers out and steeled his senses; he would—must—make do.

  Arman’s eyes swept longingly across the room to the glowing hearth, but he forced himself to slow his steps and orient himself before seeking comfort. The innkeeper, Harris, his wiry figure full of fidgety angst, had been one of the few who had seen him slink in. He wore a green vest atop a white shirt, and a golden chain belted his copper-hued pants. He was hatless, and his face was bristly with several days’ neglect. Harris did not—or could not—peel his eyes away from the juile. Arman strode to him, brushing off the odd behavior as the usual prejudice against his kind.

  “Excuse me,” Arman began. “Have you a man named Bren or Brenol staying here?” His voice sounded gruff after the long hours of travel and chill. He did not amend it.

  Harris flinched. “No, no. Left a few days ago,” he said nervously.

  Arman’s eyes narrowed, taking in the man. Is he concealing something?

  “Anything else?”

  The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders with a jerk. “Waited for some people and got tired of the whole thing. Moved east, I think.”

  “What about a lunitata man named Dresden?”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Not here.”

  Something in his evasive manner released a trigger in the exhausted juile and he reacted without thinking. He plucked the vest with three fingers and drew Harris close. “What are you hiding?” Arman growled. His face was ferocious and unyielding.

  “N-nothing! Nothing!” Harris squeaked, squirming in the juile’s hands like a worm on a hook.

  “You’re hiding something.”

  The innkeeper shook his head vehemently. “No. No, sir. Brenol was just more trouble than I like. Arman, too.”

  “Tell me,” Arman growled.

  “Letter for Arman from a wolf…and the man Brenol took it. Just caused a disturbance is all. Nothing more!”

  Arman exhaled, his face revealing concern. “What’s your name? Did Bren leave immediately following the seal?”

  The innkeeper sighed, as if finding relief in pursuing the subject. “Harris. Harris’s my name. And, no. Waited a good number of days. His leg was hurting him. Eventually he did—leave. Left in a hurry without two words outta his front teeth.”

  The cold had begun to melt from Arman’s fingers, and the aroma of hot bread softened his insides with an ache. He released Harris, wondering for a moment if he had misread the man. The innkeeper, breathing easier now that he was free from the firm grasp, did not notice the hesitation. He smoothed his clothes with stocky fingers and puffed his belly out in his habit of clinking his brass buttons.

  The empty routine suddenly lost flavor as the man’s eyes returned to the near-invisible creature. His face sagged again. He had long since wished the juile away.

  “Do you have room for a single night?” Arman asked.

  Harris nodded quickly. “Oh yes, of course. One night.” He paused, the businessman emerging as if by instinct, and he drew a calculating glance across the juile’s weathered face. “Pay is upfront.” This was the only sentence he said with conviction, and he afterward cowered back into himself.

  The juile issued one last hard stare at the awkward man. Perhaps the blue has addled my senses, he mused, but felt the sharp edge of disbelief even in the thought. Something was strange about the innkeeper. He would have to watch to determine what.

  Arman dipped his head and offered a soft apology, but Harris only noticed the clink of coins as they slid across under the juile’s hands.

  “Please send over some dinner,” Arman added. He jutted his shoulder toward the hearth in indication and dragged his weary limbs toward the heat to thaw.

  ~

  Caladia was a significant distance from Limbartina, and Brenol’s pace was slow. He pondered Limbartina with every footfall and spent an entire three days moving through Selenia before finally crossing into Conch. The land became stiff as concrete, and each step hammered into his bones. He remembered trekking through Conch before, and it had been unpleasant even in the warm glow of spring. He curled his back involuntarily and shook with every breath, trying not to think of the upcoming journey through Granoile. That would be a treacherous climb through dune and cliff, and the elements would surely only be intensified by the open stretches of sand.

  Brenol felt like a rabbit chasing after a tornado. He was so small compared to the power of malitas. He had now seen the extent of the horror it was capable of, and he could barely cope with witnessing the destruction, let alone fighting it. Even so, his stout heart clung to the bleak hope that if he followed his plan, it would not be the end. He would hear news; he would find help. So despite the adverse conditions, he ground his teeth together and fought the impulse to surrender and flee from the journey. There was no alternative.

  I wonder if Darse got the letter I left him at the sealtoz in Gare yet.

  Perhaps I should have left one for Arman.

  Or was it that I didn’t think Arman needed one? The thought turned the contours of his face rigid.

  Not wanting to dwell on such musings, he pressed himself mercilessly until the Crasai drew him to a sudden halt. The river wound east with the sloppiness of a dying snake. It had once been a stronger waterway but had iced in many places and now moved with the pace of a crippled old woman. He unlaced his boots and rolled his pants to his thighs so they would not fall into the frozen water.

  He launched a foot in and nearly bit his tongue as pain shot through his body. He sloshed forward hastily, not even bothering to gather his cuffs as they slipped. His legs blundered awkwardly and grew ever clumsier as they numbed. His toe met an upturned stone. He stumbled and caught himself but still was left soaking up to his waist and dripping crimson where the jagged rocks had sliced along his left palm. He shook with effort and could think of nothi
ng save escaping the cold daggering into his skin. The crossing took less than five minutes, but his back convulsed by the end of it, and his lips were as blue as a bruise.

  Stumbling forward onto the bank, he fought his seizing calves and mindlessly gathered firewood and attempted to light a blaze. It was terrible work, for he had lost his tinder box somewhere along the road, and he carried no spare flint. The wood was too damp from the recent snows, and he shook with uncontrollable tremors. There was little he could do, and he finally set to rubbing his legs and hoping movement alone might save him.

  His eyes sagged wearily. Numbness climbed his legs, and while a corner in the back of his mind was alarmed, it was also a relief to not experience the excruciating jabs that had beset his legs.

  Keep warming your legs. Keep doing it.

  He breathed a soft cloud at the thought of such effort, knowing it was beyond him. Colette’s lovely face suddenly peered at him from out of a memory.

  Her golden tresses clothed her shoulders like a shimmering veil, and her emerald eyes smiled playfully at him before she ducked behind an enormous oak. His own lips curled up in response as he swung around the opposite side to catch her. His smile dropped to an amused gape as his hands trailed the rough bark in his continuous circling. She was nowhere to be found.

  A giggle from behind both startled and relieved him. Brenol spun his body around and scooped her up into his arms, holding her close. Their forms merged as their lips met. The kiss was tender, unrushed. He breathed her in and melted in the sweetness of her fragrance, the sugary taste of her lips.

  He lit Colette back upon the mossy soil and felt the warmth of her pleasure beaming from both face and skin. Her smile was now gentle, but her eyes housed the luminous mystery he was ever seeking to unravel.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder and toed herself up to whisper in his ear. “I have a secre—”

  The memory was dashed away into ungraspable pieces as Brenol spied a spark. The wood pile beside him, which had been awkwardly heaped together in his haste, was now an orderly mound, with a soft gray moss lining the underside of its branches. Brenol could not think, but watched with languid eyes and mind. He wished the memory back, but it had fled. He could not even muster the mental facility to conjure up an image of his soumme’s face.