Another spark. The moss caught and danced to life faster than hair meeting a flame. It blazed up with a white smoke, slowly catching the twigs and then branches in its merry movement.
Brenol blinked, finally understanding, even through the fog of his mind.
“Arman,” he breathed. He had intended to say more, but his voice barely issued that one word, and even it was close to unintelligible.
His body twisted and rocked as its sodden clothing was stripped off by invisible hands and replaced with new pants. A thick blanket soon hugged his shoulders and covered even his copper head.
The juile sturdily set to work massaging the frozen and lifeless limbs. The feeling was like waking in a tomb: terrifying, and with the realization it was only going to get worse. Brenol tightened his lips and shuddered.
“It will take a little time to warm you. I cannot shock you with heat or it will go poorly.”
Brenol simply stared blankly ahead.
“I saw Limbartina,” the juile finally said. His voice puffed slightly in exertion, making small clouds appear in mid-air.
Brenol dipped his chin in response, but it went unnoticed amidst the convulsions racking him from head to heel.
“Met the innkeeper back in Gare, too. Harris. He was a nervous little man.” Arman paused his movements to stoke the flames and pull Brenol closer to the radiating heat. The invisible hands returned to their steady work of pressing life back into the man’s legs.
“I had an interesting journey myself, although mine did not involve wolves.” He waited, hoping Brenol would speak of his own accord. He thought if perhaps Brenol began using his mind, his body would follow in turn. Instead, the young man’s eyes held the glassy stare of retreat.
Arman frowned and collected the stone he had set to warm in the heart of the fire. After wrapping it carefully, he placed it in Brenol’s arms. The man curled around the bundle, still shaking.
After a few minutes, a sliver of sound escaped the blue lips. “Story.”
“A story?” Arman pulled Brenol’s legs up and wrapped them in a separate quilt. He drew the feet to him and opened up his robes to allow the icy appendages to warm on his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath as they met his warm core, yet said nothing and merely continued to massage. He gave no indication of fear or anxiety, and invisibility concealed his grim features.
The juile cleared his throat ceremoniously and began to speak. His voice rumbled, soothing and carrying a force that pulled Brenol’s tired mind with it. “Orbits and orbits ago, there lived an elderly woman. She had lived longer than any other human, but she was strong. Every day she would carry her bucket and collect her water from the stream that trickled behind her cottage, and every day she would walk three matroles to the pond—a small pool of water made from the streams that flowed down the mountain’s side—where she would catch fish and collect fruit for her daily fare.
“Many did not give a thought to this solitary old woman. They only saw age, a wrinkled face, death waiting. And so they avoided her with the same kind of thoughtless and silly determination that drives a toddler to only look at what shines. She gave little notice to them, for she had outgrown that way of thinking many orbits before, and continued about her way.
“One day, as she stretched out in the morning sun, awaiting her catch, the line grew taut, and she battled with her pole. She had the benefit, as I said before, of great strength, and she also used a thick wire, so despite the immense weight and pull of the fish, she eventually overcame it, and the creature burst forth from the screen of water and lay wheezing halfway upon the bank.
“The woman was shocked. There before her bare feet lay a maralane child. She was about four orbits old, and her unusually short tails and emaciated frame made her look even younger. The woman knelt down in sorrow, for had she known, she certainly would never have lifted this creature from the water.
“As if suddenly realizing that the moment was real, she jumped up and walked the child back into the water so that she could breathe freely. The woman held her loosely, tenderly, staring into the silvery eyes of the fish-child.
“‘How did you come to be in this pond, my dear? I thought your kind only lived in the deep of Ziel,’ she asked.
“The girl did not respond but merely gazed back with the foreignness of her kind. She did somehow recognize kindness in the old woman’s tone and demeanor, though, and finally permitted her to remove the massive hook and tend to her shoulder wound.
“The old woman tsked herself. ‘Had I known you were here, I would never have fished like this.’ The maralane still looked back without understanding. ‘I would never have tried to hurt you.’
“The two remained in company for a period before the maralane child simply dipped below the surface and was gone. The water looked as serene as it always had. The woman stared for many minutes, but was wise and later told no one of her experience.
“The old lady returned the next day, as she had for orbits and orbits, but this time scavenged for berries and spent the afternoon hunting clams. She did not even bring her fishing gear. By evening, the maralane had not appeared, and the woman returned home to prepare her dinner. The days passed as such, and soon the woman feared she had imagined the entire episode, but still she held her tongue to silence.
“Two seasons elapsed. On a walk to the market one day, she overheard a buzzing rumor. A maralane had been spied in the local pond. There was much excitement, and talk had turned to idiocy. Plans for capturing the creature were the lightest of the speech, but even that turned the woman’s face as hard as stone. She left the crowds without a word and soon returned with bundles and boxes and papers. She then sold all she owned. Her house, her land, her wares. Everything. With the money, she purchased a wagon and dragged it to the pond. That evening she toed out to the bank, which was empty now that the masses had dispersed for the night. There, she waited and waited, throwing pebbles into the clear for hours. In the darkness she shivered and her eyelids drooped, but still, in a bleary state of wakefulness, she continued to toss the tiny stones onto the screen.
“She drifted off for what felt like a moment, and at dawn, she awoke and found her efforts were not futile. The child stared at her unblinkingly, but with a softness. The woman clung to the moment with hope. She attempted to tell the girl her plans, but the child understood nothing. It was only after many signs that the girl allowed the woman to lift her from the water.
“The tiny maralane flopped desperately in her arms as she chokingly sought air, but the woman held her securely and carried her up to the wagon. An enormous wooden barrel, brimming with water, rested on the flat of its floor, and into this, the old lady lowered the child.
“The woman then dragged the wagon until weariness stretched into every muscle. She did not live deep into the terrisdan, but even with her unusual strength the trip was difficult on her aged bones. When the woman stopped to rest, she would go and look kindly at the girl, trying to speak soothing words to her, even if she could not understand them. The child was frightened but composed and somehow managed to hold a trust for the woman. She did not cry out, but waited patiently as the woman plodded the jolting matroles along the rutted lane to Ziel.
“She arrived at twilight, and the sky was alive with color. She lifted the girl from the barrel and carried her with determination, lowering her into the warm waters. The maralane flopped forward until she had reached a comfortable depth and turned to stare at the woman. The elderly woman quivered in exertion and lay with labored breath upon the sandy bank. The child did not motion or say a thing but slowly descended into the depths and did not return.
“The next morning, the woman awoke weak and brittle. She attempted to lug the wagon back, but her body could not endure the strain any longer, and the food she had brought with her had been stolen in the night. Several people passed her on the road, but she was too frail to even beg for scraps. They chose to ignore the obvious and moved by quickly.
“That night, she shivered an
d huddled in her blanket of leaves, eventually finding death. The Three met her as her soul rose from her body. She waited for them to speak, unsure of what They would say.
“‘Come, come with us. You have done well,’ Abriged said to her. His voice was rich and sank into her like warm butter into fresh bread.
“She stared back with wonder, concerned He had mistaken her for another. ‘What have I ever done?’ she asked.
“Ceriton now replied, ‘You have saved Massada from war.’ His face beamed with a brilliance that would make the sun marvel.
“The woman shook her head, bemused. ‘I did nothing.’
“Ceriton smiled kindly. ‘Child, you saved that maralane. Had you not, the world would have rippled into many poor decisions, and wars between the upper and lower worlds would have ended in massacre. You have saved Massada, although none shall ever know.’
“The woman gave a small smile, then bent her head in acceptance. ‘I will come.’
“They opened their arms and drew her into the next life, the peraedon. And she was never remembered or talked about on Massada again.”
Arman’s honeyed bass quieted, and Brenol stared into the seemingly empty space. “And that’s supposed to reveal great bounty?” he asked wryly. His voice was paper thin and crackled.
Arman gave an invisible smile at the words and felt his chest loosen in relief. “There is always a truth to be gleaned.”
“Glad you chose an uplifting story in my plight,” Brenol replied faintly.
Arman did not respond but stood and took the now-boiling water and began to prepare a tea with herbs he had carefully untucked from a wallet. Steam stretched to the sky as the leaves brewed.
A rich, full fragrance lingered in the air, reminding Brenol of chamomile and ginger. He breathed in the aroma and coughed; the air was still sharply cold, and his body was weak.
“Hold out your hands,” the juile coaxed gently.
Brenol obeyed, and soon a cup of extremely hot tea appeared within his palms. Its heat stung his fingers but traveled deliciously up his hands. He would have allowed the steam alone to warm his face until it cooled, but Arman pressed the cup to his lips. It scalded unpleasantly, yet the juile was not about to listen to complaints—even had Brenol been capable of resistance. The young man allowed the liquid to sear down his throat and warm his insides. The cup disappeared from his hands and was replaced, again brimming with amber heat.
“You can go more slowly with this one,” Arman said. He did not apologize, but his voice was understanding.
“How’d you find me?” Brenol finally asked, mostly as something to say as his mind jerked into life. He did not doubt the juile’s tracking abilities.
Arman replaced the stone with a newly warmed one and watched the man embrace it weakly. “I’ve been searching for you for longer than I would like to admit. So I will not.”
Brenol closed his eyes. Sleep could have taken him if he were not still in such pain.
“Where were you going?” the juile asked.
“Oh… Granoile.”
“Did you really think me dead?” There was a nonchalance about the question that turned Brenol’s lips down.
“I didn’t know… I just couldn’t wait any longer in Gare.”
“Arista is a good choice, although I doubt she would have left the terrisdan. They are a people of tradition.”
Brenol sipped slowly. “What’d you find with Carn?”
The juile fell silent for several moments. He had barely given himself a breath to grieve, and the darkness that now encircled seemed to sense this and tug at him with willful fingers. “He was murdered by malitas. He knew, too… He left a note.”
Brenol winced as he stretched his toes before the fire. It felt like thousands of pins were jabbing into his flesh. He wondered if the agony would ever end.
“Succinct, but telling,” Arman explained. “He said that malitas can enter only by invitation. Once in, it looks like the person, but the person is really no more. Signs of its presence are blackening around the fingernails and irises.”
The juile’s words drew a frown to Brenol’s face. It was as though a finger sat tapping incessantly upon his memory, but whether it was his brushes with shock and hypothermia or something else entirely, he could not grasp it. It floated away like a feather in the wind. “Why would people invite him into their bodies? That seems ridiculous.”
Arman sighed. “I imagine it isn’t as clearly expressed as that. Perhaps the spirit can misconstrue simple hospitality as an invitation.”
The tapping was stronger this time, but still the feather danced out of reach. “Guess we won’t be offering our campfire to anyone else in the near future.”
The two were silent for some time. Arman prepared and dished up servings of potato pancakes. They were filling and satisfying, and Brenol soon found himself more revived than he had thought possible. Gratitude, and more, surfaced as his mind and body strengthened.
“Arman?”
“Hmm?”
“What’re you leaving out?” Brenol glanced around at his friend’s various possessions. Most were a cerulean blue, and the juile never wore anything but the traditional black, gray, or white. “Where’ve you been?”
“Bren.” Arman’s voice was controlled and serious. “We will likely die in this. If not by malitas, then by a slip of our own hands. There is hope, but I will not shade the truth from you. Not anymore.”
Brenol pressed his lips together in thought. His mind felt surprisingly clear; his emotions, strong. It was like flexing and discovering one’s strength. All of his choices up until now, all of the nurest battles, every lesson taught by Arman. And Deniel. They all filled him with a reassurance and a breath of life. He inhaled it willingly and with relish. Memories of Colette opened up before him, but more than anything there remained a burning drive: he longed to protect her, his child, Massada. If there were no others to contend with this killer, he at least would move. He had given his gortei.
“Then we shall go in benere,” Brenol replied. He spoke with soft confidence.
Arman’s breath remained a steady and a hazy cloud, assuring Brenol of his presence even in the silence. Finally the juile spoke, “I must tell you of Heart Render now. It is every bit legend, and every bit real. The Tindel have cared for it…”
The juile unwound the tale of the white sword. The legend carried more truth than expected, and the young man listened, rapt. The fire never dwindled, for Arman was careful to maintain its heat; Brenol was no longer in peril, but he was weak. His body needed time to recover from shock, even if his mind was itching for the next task.
Brenol nodded solemnly when his friend completed his tale. The story of Arman’s journey across the perideta settled into his stomach and rolled around like an unripe fruit refusing to be digested.
“What is it?” Arman asked, interrupting Brenol’s thoughts.
“Two things.”
“Hmm?” replied Arman.
“You crossed a desert of ice and snow and danger and survived. I crossed a little stream and nearly perished.” His wry, still-croaking laugh brought a smile to Arman’s face.
“Well, desperation can make a person either very determined or very reckless. Sometimes it is hard to distinguish between the two, even after the matter. But there is a second thing?”
“Yes,” Brenol replied more grimly. “I’d never heard of the Tindel before…except in reference to the Queen of Tindel. Do you remember? From the Genesifin? It mentions a Lady of Purpose uniting the people, a queen.”
Arman did not respond, so Brenol continued his thought, “These Tindel… They don’t sound the kind to bow to anyone, especially a foreigner… So how could it possibly happen?”
And how could it ever be Colette? Brenol mused. Deniel must have been wrong. It just cannot be.
Arman handed the man another cup of tea and repositioned himself before the strong heat. His voice was steady and rumbled like distant thunder. “They are unlikely to bend fo
r any of us, but I do not doubt the Genesifin. It has yet to prove false…but I would not worry. It is most likely beyond our time. The Lady could be many generations away, and we will be chasing greater bounty than this.”
The copper head nodded briefly, accepting the solid hand that reassuringly rested upon his shoulder, but his thoughts were not as acquiescent.
“You doubt?” Arman said, peering at the man. His voice was curious. “Why?”
Brenol sighed. It was not always easy to convey the experience of Deniel’s memories in speech, but nonetheless he tried. His words felt like putty that would not shape right. “Deniel. He went out in the waters. They told him something. They said Colette was the Lady of Purpose… At least that’s what I think happened. I saw a memory just after the moment.” Brenol flinched at the ridiculousness of the statement, but he felt the truth lingering there and could not abandon it so easily.
Arman’s reaction surprised him. He was forward and honest as always. “It matters not. Your path is before you, your promise laid out. Whatever she must do does not affect your way. You have pledged gortei. There is no undoing.”
Brenol sipped the tea and allowed the steam to hide his face. He was unsure how he ought to feel—or how he felt.
Suddenly, his features creased with distress. “Oh. I see it now.”
“See what, Bren?”
“Oh, Arman. It’s Dresden! The seal! Dresden wasn’t himself. He told the wolf—Igont—things that were very unusual. And Igont said the healer stank… And the seal itself was bizarre—mismatched imprints and wax. Even I could see as much.” Brenol gulped air as if it might ease the speech out more smoothly. “Arman, I didn’t realize, but then I came to Limbartina…” His voice trailed and hung in the air as though wishing for refutation, but there was none. There were only images of the dead marring his memory.
“I see,” the juile said quietly, though he felt the blow acutely. He refused to voice how much hope he had placed on obtaining the healer’s help.
The Forbidding Blue Page 14