Arman set his fentatta beside the triangle, and like ghosts, they left in silence.
~
Brenol and Arman swallowed their hot grief and set their feet to motion, working to cover ground and keep their ears open for any more signs of the fever. They moved north again, and days washed away like sand before a swell. The cold bit into them, and their stores dwindled. Occasionally, they were able to buy supplies and food as they passed through towns, but often the locals were hard pressed to feed their own, let alone sell to two bedraggled strangers.
The travelers spent most of their time plodding in silence, although Arman’s was mostly a result of Brenol’s. The redhead cloaked himself in shame and misery and could barely glance into the juile’s eyes before turning his to the ground. It carried on for days.
The two continued to alternate the bearing of Heart Render, but Arman pointedly insisted upon Brenol wearing it into towns. He knew the weight of failure was like a cinder block strung around the man’s neck, and Arman refused to contribute to it. Brenol would know of his trust, and he hoped all would end with victory in the man’s palms. Brenol, though, was blind to these unspoken reasons.
“It is your turn,” Arman huffed softly.
Brenol raised his eyes to meet the juile’s. “Will you promise me something?”
“Likely not.”
“But I need something of you, Arman.”
“What foolish thing have you wrestled into your head?” Arman asked heatedly.
The man frowned. “Even if I’m carrying it, will you take it and strike if we come upon Chaul again?”
“Hush, don’t use his name so loudly. I am still thinking through what power it has.”
Brenol persisted. “But will you?”
“No.”
His features drooped. “But I’ve failed. I couldn’t do it before. What if I fail again?” His chest slumped even as he walked.
Arman breathed heavily, and a cloud of smoke hissed from his lips. He did not slow his long stride for an instant.
“Arman? Are you listening?”
“I try not to hear idiocy,” the juile replied.
Brenol could not help himself. He laughed. It surprised him that the sound could issue from him in the midst of such dark and drowning emotion.
Arman slowed to a stop. “Bren?” The juile’s tone was now soft and gentle. It was not the tone of banter or dismissal. It was the voice of compassion.
The man paused and raised his dark jade orbs to gaze into Arman’s transparent black. The juile’s face was terrible, yet somehow tender too.
“Had my best friend stood before me in death,” Arman said. “I certainly might have done the same.”
Brenol’s chest tightened in grief. Silent tears fell upon his boots.
“I want to give you the chance to not have regrets. I imagine you want to end this evil just as much as I, but I think the closure you need comes with doing it yourself.” Arman waited silently for a few minutes before resuming. “Darse was one of the best. I meant every word I spoke when we buried him. I had more…but could not.”
Brenol choked.
“May he rise to even greater heights in the next,” Arman said gently, turning his feet back to motion. Brenol took a deep breath and fell in step beside him.
The two did not stop, their matched stride keeping them shoulder to shoulder. Matroles passed, wind screamed, and the two were united in silence, purpose, and grief.
~
The wind howled and shrieked as if under torture, rushing forcefully out across the plains and through the ravines. It had been treacherously cold that day, with air and snow blasting into the faces of Brenol and Arman, and now their already worn features were chapped and haggard. Exhaustion weighed in their veins like lead, and the cave they had discovered seemed too perfect to pass, especially as it had begun to rain, so they chose to halt early. It was a fortunate choice; twilight snuck upon them with haste, and the two were left under the darkening skies long before they would have expected. The rain grew heavier and pelted the land outside.
The cave was a shallow stony structure, jutting up along its edges and ceiling with rocky points, and the ground within was a smooth, dry, silvery clay. It provided protection from the elements, but they quickly realized the floor sucked heat like cement. Fortunately, someone had previously rolled in several logs and stumps, and the two were able to utilize the awkward pieces.
Brenol positioned himself uncomfortably upon pack and bough. Though sleep seemed unlikely, exhaustion proved too much. He fell into the realm of unconsciousness and did not stir.
He dreamed of the tree. Her tree.
It was slightly different than Deniel’s memory of it. The tree—Colette’s tree—lay shrouded in the darkness of night. A moon, closer and bigger than Veri, rested above her branches, arching down beams of light that caressed the golden rainbow leaves with the gentleness of a baby’s breath. A pool lay beside the thick trunk, black and glassy. It did not extend far, but he could perceive depth to it as moonlight reflected upon its obsidian surface. It was still. Everything was still.
The tree itself arched strangely down, as though burdened by its very limbs, and its branches hung loosely from its thick frame. There was no movement, but Brenol could feel its life, no matter how subdued. Or stricken.
He stepped forward and realized he was barefoot. The tufts of cool grass were refreshing between his toes, and the soft loam clung to his heels as he padded forward. He reached the tree and lay his large hands squarely upon the trunk. Even in the dark, it was a lovely aspen-alabaster and as smooth as a worn river stone. He slid his palms and fingertips down to the height of his waist. It was a soothing sensation, even though it seemed to draw a maelstrom of bubbling emotions up into his throat.
She is as sad as I, he realized.
It rent his heart anew.
“You know,” he finally whispered with comprehension. “You already know about Darse, don’t you?”
Brenol wrapped his arms around the thick trunk as if they could console and allowed the silence to encompass them. Time elapsed, slowly but steadily. The moon did not alter or carry on a course but hovered above in spite of the minutes and hours slipping away. Eventually, the man lowered himself to rest his back on her trunk and breathed in the mysterious air filled with the scents of sorrel and honeycomb.
“This is a dream,” he whispered into the air. “But it feels like more.”
He caressed the soft green moss that clung to the base of the trunk and protruding roots. “I wish I could make it all better for you, Colette. I wish I’d saved Darse…or at least stopped this thing when I could’ve.” His voice fell without echo, and he again allowed the silence to soak into him.
Soon, the tree bent forward in a silent motion, pressing a single branch down into the obsidian waters. Ripples broke out from the movement, and the bough lifted its dripping leaves from the surface. As the branch raised, it seemed lighter somehow, as though the liquid had lifted the tree’s burden slightly. It was not everything, but it was something.
Brenol’s body still sagged wearily, but a new puzzlement etched his features as well. He did not comprehend the meaning but felt the moment was pregnant with it.
Staring at the black pool, his tongue suddenly became parched beyond compare. It was as though he had not drank in days, septspan. He crouched and crawled forward, feeling the rich soil rubbing across his knees and palms, and dipped a hand into the dark clear. He raised it to his mouth and nearly shouted in surprise. It was as sweet and as warm as Ziel had once been. He lowered both hands in and slaked his thirst with relish. The water slid down deliciously and dripped from his chin. The ripples calmed as though he had never disturbed the waters, and he drew himself back to his seat at the tree’s base.
Brenol sighed and found it was not entirely in sadness.
A soft breeze issued up, barely noticeable save for the previous utter stillness, and brushed the leaves into a gentle dance. Brenol gazed up with parted
lips. It was exquisite. The tree still drooped as if in grief, but nothing could take away from its remarkable beauty. The leaves sparkled, gold one moment, rainbow the next, and all swayed softly under the tender touch of air. The darkness could not hide her magnificence. Nothing could.
“I miss you, my Lette,” Brenol said, almost inaudibly.
A sigh went through the branches as if in response, and somewhere in the breeze, he heard a small voice.
“There is still hope,” it whispered.
Brenol did not speak, letting the moment be. He lay with the tree for what seemed to be hours, allowing the closeness to ease and console what it could.
CHAPTER 13
The blue shall beckon.
-Genesifin
Colette stared out the frosty pane, not really looking upon anything. The world was a white blur, and the harsh winds refused to rest. Her icy fingers released the thick tapestry. It fell with a light thump upon the windows, and the air swept up like a brief exhalation. She shivered. Even being close to the glass for those few minutes had chilled her bones drastically.
She huddled back toward the fire and set a pot of water to boil. Soon, the strong aroma of teringar tea saturated the room, and she absently poured herself a mug before settling into a chair with a blanket.
“You’re so still today, little one,” she said softly. The babe within did not stir, even at her gentle prodding. “I envy your sleep.”
The flames jumped and crackled before her, but again, she did not really look upon them.
Her night filled her mind. The dreams had begun, as always, with malitas. The spirit had gripped her in her exhausted sleep as she watched the horrors it spun upon Massada and its people. She had woken soundlessly, shuddering, and eased back into the warm pallet—although loathe to allow unconsciousness to steal her again. From there, she had lain awake, but in a coma-like stillness.
It had lasted until dawn. She felt a peace seep over her, like sunlight creeping over a frosted garden, soothing the sagging ache of her heart and mind. The grief for Darse still burned, but it had a new flavor. It was no longer so acridly bitter, and she felt filled with a sad hope. It was as though the waters had come to her in the still, and though she had not whispered out her burdens, Colette felt like she could breathe now, even with the sorrow that remained.
And Bren… I feel…
She was almost afraid to think it, but the hope surged through her anyway.
He’s alive. He is.
She dipped her eyelids down and inhaled slowly, hoping she did not delude herself. She lay her hands upon her rounded stomach and sighed. “His love… Somehow, I felt it last night. Like he was with me, missing Darse too.”
She determinedly decided to cling to the small hope. “Bren is alive,” she whispered to the empty room. “He is.”
~
Brenol rose from his makeshift bed. He felt rested, yet remaining the entire night in the awkward position atop log and pack had left his back and neck in angry knots. He pushed at the sorest places and attempted to knead away the pain, but the massage was far from successful. He stretched, and it all came back to him as lucidly as any waking memory.
That dream…
Whether it had been real or imagined, it had worked something within him. He no longer felt ravaged by regret and grief. Yes, he ached for Darse, but there was more than just a terrible canyon of pain inside him now. He could breathe, he could think. Something had sprouted within. It was a hope, a lightness, and he accepted it with welcome relief, even though he imagined it could not endure for long.
He stepped closer to the fire that Arman had moments before sent crackling to life and warmed his fingertips and toes. His limbs began to thaw as the heat radiated out to him.
The water…
He could almost feel the warm, sweet liquid from the dream dripping down his chin. It had been more satisfying than nectar from a ripened summer peach. It had soothed his heart, his mind…
The reverie was interrupted by Arman. “Tonight, we’ll stay at an inn.”
Brenol immediately barked in laughter, which echoed painfully against the jagged walls of the cave. Arman’s tone had held such a juvenile petulance, and while it was rare that the juile spoke wryly, it amused Brenol nearly every time.
The copper-headed man pulled the log closer to the flames, seated himself anew, and lowered his voice so it would not resonate. His lips remained curled in a smirk. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Even a juile cannot sleep with your snores echoing,” Arman replied easily.
The juile rustled in movement, and a hot pancake slapped happily into Brenol’s lap. The man tossed it carefully between his hands while the steam rose in curtains, finally venturing a bite. It was bland but wonderfully hot.
“Sorry,” Brenol said with a full mouth. “Must have been my little chair… What’s your real reason?” he asked curiously.
The juile’s voice was soft and low when it came. “Your sleep has done you well…” The comment carried a questioning glance, even if hidden by invisibility.
Brenol barely had an answer for himself and was loathe to prod at his wounds. The swell of grief he had known just hours previously could easily crest again, regardless of dreams and night musings. He replied with a noncommittal, “Mmmm.”
Arman did not pry. responding instead to the earlier query. “Aside from needing supplies and sleep, I am tired of smelling you.”
Brenol laughed again. “And I, you, friend.”
Arman swished into a seat beside Brenol and noisily took his breakfast. The chewing stopped for a moment. “I’ve had enough tramping through our own fert as we march in circles. Let’s rest and use our heads. We can still beat this thing.”
“I’ve never heard you curse, Arman,” Brenol said, amused.
“There is a time under the skies for almost everything,” he replied.
“Even tramping around in fert?”
“I imagine so.”
~
The inn at the eastern reaches of Plune was small, at least relative to the size of the town. It was single story, older than death, and likely only boasted of one or two rooms for travelers. Brenol dipped his copper head past door and tapestry and shivered into the lonely common room, where a fire barely eked out enough heat to keep the empty mugs from frosting.
There were three customers in the place, situated at separate tables and hunched over their fare. They glanced up in turn at Brenol, then gradually brought their stares back to their glasses. They all wore heavy coats and fogged the air in front of their faces with breath.
Brenol stepped up to the bar. “What do you have that’s hot?”
The innkeeper glanced up indifferently. He was a plump figure with a round head from which protruded the blackest hair Brenol had ever seen. It came in thickly atop his head and covered his face in a beard that fell three digits off his chin. The bright blue of his eyes proved shocking when paired with the dark mane. He puckered his lips out, but more in habit than in thought.
“Cider,” he said in a surprisingly alto voice.
“Two, please.” Brenol pointed at the hearth, slid a few coins to the man, and scooted over to the fire.
“I can see your breath, Arman.”
“And I can see yours, Bren.”
Brenol smiled, still amused at the juile’s surliness, and waited for the drinks. It did not take long, and the beverages slid down happily. It was a thin draught and not exceptionally flavorful, but it did spark a nice warmth in Brenol’s chest that soon settled into his stomach.
The innkeeper shuffled over at the redhead’s wave with an additional two mugs. He eyed Arman’s empty seat suspiciously before placing the steaming drinks down with a clunk.
“Do you have a room for the night?” Brenol asked.
“Yes,” he began cautiously. “One cot or two?”
“Two,” Arman replied.
The innkeeper flinched at the voice but otherwise did not react. “It’s ready now. Do you
want supper?”
“Please,” Brenol said.
As he turned to head back to the bar, Arman’s voice cracked the silence. “Have there been any new deaths from the black fever?”
Every eye in the room fell coldly upon the pair. One man even slid his chair back in a screech to peer over at their table, and the sound ran through Brenol’s nerves.
The innkeeper halted in stride and spun around. His face was angry and tight. He flicked the fingers of his left hand through the air, and his voice was a near whisper. “Do not speak of such things here!”
He disappeared into the back kitchen, reappeared with hot stew and cold rolls, and bore his bright blue eyes hard into Brenol, who ignored him and began to eat. Eventually the man retreated, but he continued to glare in their general direction.
“I haven’t seen the tera in a long while,” Brenol said quietly, recalling the superstitious flick of the man’s fingers.
“You would more if you were juile. We seem to elicit angst,” Arman replied sourly.
Brenol’s lips twitched up briefly. “Are you sure it isn’t just you?”
Arman pointedly ignored him.
Dinner was unexpectedly good, and each requested seconds, but without the cold bread. The common room was both too quiet and too frigid for long discussion, and the two soon slid back from their chairs and shuffled their way to the bar. The innkeeper nodded, maneuvered out from his workstation, and led them past a heavy gray tapestry into a blindingly dark hallway that smelled of disuse. Brenol shuddered—the hall was only a hair warmer than the wintry white outside—and followed the flickering candle that turned shadows into strange pictures against the walls. The man stopped before a doorway covered with another worn gray tapestry.
“Do you have a bath house?” Arman asked.
The blue eyes flickered briefly down to Brenol’s soiled attire. “There’s a laundress across the way who provides such things. She opens at dawn.”
“And the fever?” Brenol asked gently.
The innkeeper nodded, and they could see his throat constrict despite the fleshy abundance around the muscles. He leaned forward and spoke with a hushed voice. “South. Yesterday. A child. She was found in the forest. She was as black as they come.”
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