“How far south?” Arman asked. His voice was alert and urgent.
“At least into Selet. I think outside Trilau, but I only heard whisperings.”
Brenol accepted the candle passed into his hands and nodded his thanks, but as the man retreated, he suddenly had another thought. “Do they have any idea how long she’d been dead?”
The dark figure did not return but merely spoke out through the dark passage. His voice was weary and thin. “She was found yesterday morning. Four orbits old. She was still warm. They said her mother had to be pried from her blackened body.”
The man’s footsteps receded into the dark, echoing softly.
CHAPTER 14
Parrying death to ensure life for others: this is benere.
-Genesifin
Dawn came into the little room without promise of warmth. The sky streaked with the tangerine of new light, but within the hour, clouds concealed all color, and the sun was hidden behind dark pillows. Brenol broke the ice in the wash bowl to scour his face and neck, but then thought better of the enterprise and simply dressed with quivering limbs. Arman did not even approach the basin.
Breakfast was brief but hot, and the two pushed out into the town to resupply in haste.
“I suppose you shall have to smell me a bit longer,” Brenol said, gazing wistfully at the steam billowing up from the laundress’s home. He ached for a bath, but the hunt would not wait. “Perhaps in Selet?”
Arman issued a non-committal grunt. The noise did not evoke great confidence in his companion.
There were few rations from which to choose, but Arman was decisive and succinct, and they were en route before the morning had yawned awake.
Brenol kept the juile’s pace, pattering his fingers nervously at his side. The brief flash of joviality had drained entirely from him, and his face was now tight and serious. Ahead was the first real chance to again face malitas. He trembled inside, wordlessly renewing the questions that haunted him: Am I enough? Will I fail yet again?
He voiced nothing, but the circling turned his insides raw while bubbles of grief for Darse rose up, threatening to pop.
He forced himself to steady his breath, intoning as Deniel had in memories now his own: Benere is far more than emotion. Strangely, a cool calm fell over him, and he gripped it gratefully before it dissipated with the wind.
For Colette, he said to himself. For Massada.
For Darse.
~
Plune did not take long to cross. They circumvented the mountains as much as possible and moved along the rolling hills of the terrisdan’s center. The land’s eye observed them quietly as they traveled. The wordless tracking of the terrisdan reminded Brenol of a gentle old cat whose orbits had smoothed inquisitiveness to lethargy, curiosity to tranquil repose. As they approached the lugazzi, Brenol bent down and whispered genuine gratitude. He regretted having to exchange Plune for the harshness of Selet.
The lugazzi drew Arman’s appearance into vision, and Brenol peered up to see tight lines on the juile’s face. He did not comment. He knew the same creases of anxiety were etched upon his own.
After another hour, the pair spied Selet. Arman slowed his steps, and cocked his head slightly, trying to discern what his eyes were taking in.
“What is it, Ar?” Brenol asked.
“I cannot tell,” the juile replied softly. “I just don’t know.”
Soon Brenol himself sought to make sense of what lay in the distance. The rocky heights before them were singed with patches of black. As they neared, it appeared that ice was melting upon the ground, and steam billowed up in a grating sibilance.
“I don’t understand,” Arman said, puzzled. Brenol shook his head, bewildered himself, and the two crossed into rocky Selet.
Instead of bending in greeting, Brenol froze. Arman did too, but more in persisting confusion, for his form did not visually solidify.
Brenol brimmed with such terror that he could barely move. The eye of the land was upon him, yet the eye was certainly not Selet. It was a maddening sensation that pressed at his temples with searing agony.
Brenol reached out to the juile for balance and whispered hoarsely, “Arman! It’s in the terrisdan!”
Arman glanced around, understanding seeping in. Grief wrung the juile’s heart; Selet was his home, and his friend.
Brenol swept the blade from his back and deftly tugged aside its bindings in less time than it took to inhale. He raised the sword to thrust a blow into the ground, but halted in mid-movement as the voice of the land reached his ears. He nearly toppled as he righted his feet from the lurching stop.
The earth rumbled, again speaking to him.
Brenol’s green eyes flashed in hesitation.
Arman stared at him, then all about, uncomprehending.
The land groaned out still more. It reached Brenol’s ears in a soft hiss. “If you do it, you will destroy all of Massada. All life will die because of you. You. You will be the cause of the world’s end.”
“You don’t know anything,” Brenol said, yet his face blanched in doubt.
“The maralane were just the beginning. You will be the cause of the rest.”
Arman watched Brenol’s reactions with sinking heart. He saw enough to know their peril. “What lies does it speak?” he yelled. “Do not heed them! Quickly, strike, before it flees!”
The groan that came from the ground merely echoed the thoughts in his own head. “You are too weak. You cannot save this world. You are only capable of failure…”
The grief and regret Brenol had barely staved off now throttled him. He felt his marrow thin to water. All my fears… it knows them…
“Slay the juile,” snaked the unrelenting voice. “Slay him now. And I will take pity on your world.”
Brenol longed to cover his ears and flee. He looked about desperately.
“Give me the sword then! Now!” Arman demanded, robes flying under the force of his gesticulations.
Brenol was still, listening. His face turned ashen and haunted.
“What does it say?” Arman demanded. Brenol did not respond, and the juile bellowed in his face, “WHAT DOES IT SAY?”
A voice as small as a child’s came from the man’s trembling mouth. “If I give you the sword, it will flee and find Colette. And take our child.” His hands quivered. “How…how does it know her name? How?”
Arman felt a booming premonition in his gut—soon, all would be lost—but he knew what must be done. There was no other choice. None.
Would that I had known the kiss of a juile, he thought, smiling weakly. I saved my life for greater things.
“Bren. Brenol!” he shouted, trying to draw the man’s attention.
The red head looked up with eyes lost in despondency. Arman towered before him, full of purpose and resolve. His face was no longer creased in fear, but open and proud.
“Do not wait. Slay it quickly. It is the only way. It has been bountiful, my friend.” He smiled with his now-evened features, and his eyes glittered. He had never before looked so handsome, so alive.
“Wh—” began Brenol.
“Chaul!” Arman barked, ignoring Brenol. “Come to me. And do not leave.”
Comprehension dawned upon the man, and fear shook him awake with forceful fingers. He could not lose Arman. Not after Darse. His blood burned in new determination.
Chaul immediately felt the ease of submission sink into its person. It was so simple, so compelling, to heed the voice that used its name. It did not feel regret, just compulsion. Of course it would go to Arman. Of course it would not leave. Of course.
“Chaul, no!” Brenol’s voice boomed. It carried an authority that gave pause. “Chaul, stop. You shall not go. You shall stay in Selet. You shall not move.”
The spirit lingered, unsure as to which order drove him most. The conflicting commands slowly awakened it, pulling it from mindless stupor. Its emotions began to thaw, and rage and loathing bubbled up anew. It made to—
Brenol did
not tarry any longer. He buried the blade in the earth with more force than he thought he harbored, yelling in effort, until half of the shining white lay sheathed in rock. The ground let out a piercing scream that flooded the entire terrisdan. The awful wail pounded upon his ears and mind until Brenol could bear it no more.
“Come what may,” he said with crazed fervor. He stepped forward again, and using his sturdy frame and force of body, he heaved the hilt down into the soil with a twisting thrust. The screech died in the air, and an eerie tomb-like quiet throttled the land.
Brenol collapsed to the earth.
Arman rushed to the man and peered with awe upon the scene. The sword had been forced into near-solid rock. No part of the white blade could be seen—only the rubied shaft remained. He regarded the feat with astonishment.
Brenol’s body was a sunken heap in the damp frost. His face bent forward, and his coppery plaits draped him like a hood.
“Ar-Arman,” whispered the man.
The tone sent a chill through him. It was a voice that heard death calling.
“Bren,” he breathed, turning the man supine. Brenol groaned under the movement but smiled weakly at the juile.
“Where? Where are you hurt?”
Brenol shook his head, but in his frailty, it was a fractional movement.
“What is it?” the juile demanded again.
“The whistle. I… I just…” The man’s eyes lost focus and rolled back into his head as he sank into unconsciousness.
Arman lifted Brenol as though he were no more than a child and rose as if to flee, but stopped before even counting three steps. He glanced at the sword’s hilt still glittering atop the rocky earth. I cannot leave it. It is too dangerous…
He paused, deliberating. Brenol’s words continued to echo in his ears.
What whistle?
The juile settled the man to the ground with great care. He cautiously, but speedily, examined his belongings and person. Brenol carried little, but he did discover the Genesifin and an old love letter from Colette. The juile curled his lip up in cold revulsion. He wanted nothing more than to hurl the book from the scene but knew it would never stop the fate that Brenol had chosen. Arman pressed his fingers through the remaining clothing. He nearly missed it, but in the breast pocket lay a tiny silver whistle. His long fingers smoothed across the shiny surface as if they comprehended meaning that was still lost upon his mind.
Arman narrowed his brow in consideration. No, he had never seen it before, but he refused to waste invaluable time. He drew it to lips and blew through the small reed. A single, high-pitched note rang out into the air. It was sweet, and his heart clung to it with the hope of summer, yet nothing happened.
No time. I must move.
Arman pocketed the whistle, approached the sword, widened his stance, and pulled with his great frame. His thighs quivered and arms shook like jelly, yet the sword would not budge. Face dripping with exertion, he threw his hands to the side in the juile manner of frustration. It was only then that he saw her.
She stood no taller than his waist, small framed and as mottled as an old owl. Her face was lovely—even more attractive and human than Arista’s—and youthful, and her wings were soft and downy. A pair of strigiform gray eyes considered him and the situation.
“You are Arman,” she said. Her voice was light, but only because it issued from her tiny body. Arman sensed she was far from an insignificant creature.
“Yes.”
“You’ve pledged gortei.”
“Again, yes.”
“You bear Brenol’s summejere.” Her thin fingers pointed to his left inner chest pocket where the whistle lay. Wordlessly, his hand met the small whistle and drew it to the light. Before he could speak, he found that the frawnite had whisked the silver piece away and hidden it from sight. Arman gaped incredulously.
Her wings twitched as her eyes settled upon the man heaped atop the terrisdan soil. Already, the ground was beginning to blacken in the sear of the black fever’s passing. Likely, the entire countryside would soon be nothing but a singed dark.
Seeing his friend worked as a slap back to reality, and the drive for haste again raced through his veins. “I must move and get him help,” Arman said impatiently. “Who are you?”
“Pearl. I also am under gortei. Arman, let me.”
Arman eyed her speculatively. “Where would you take him?”
Pearl shook her head and pointed to the jeweled hilt. “No. Not Brenol. I shall take the sword.”
Relief loosened the juile’s drawn face. “Yes. You shall take it to the peri?”
She offered nothing, holding her lips primly together while her face narrowed in avian intensity.
Arman did not appreciate her reticence. “How do I know your intentions?”
Pearl’s head lifted proudly. Her svelte body seemed to grow as she spoke, and her mottled wings opened as if in flight. “I am no longer living. My gortei is more pure than in life,” she replied fiercely.
Arman peered at her, troubled. “You’re not concerned about Bren?”
Pearl smiled. Her lovely brown features opened. “He fulfilled his oath. There is nothing more.”
“To me, there is still a friend in need, frawnite.”
Pearl raised her eyes in amused surprise. She opened her hand in conciliation. “Brenol Tilted-Ash is in shock. He destroyed the malitas, and with it he likely destroyed himself.” Her owl eyes glinted with some indistinguishable emotion. “He was bound to the land and it to him with a rare cord.”
“But the cure?”
Her face grew severe. “The Three.”
Arman sighed. It was rarely so easy. A new thought occurred to him. “Do you go to unite the worlds?” Perhaps it is Pearl… Could she be the Lady of Purpose?
Pearl sliced her hand through the air to halt the incessant queries. “Arman! Do not keep me! I don’t know how long I have here. I must press my way before it’s too late. And you must see to Brenol. We must both move.”
The juile nodded and bowed hesitantly. “It has been bountiful,” he said, but he felt strangled by the hundreds of questions weighing on his tongue. Feeling a rush of air, he raised up his head and found that Pearl had vanished. The mysterious blade of their redemption was gone as well, leaving only a clean slice in the now-black rock.
~
Pearl laid a small hand upon the slumbering figure. The woman stirred, giving a low moan as she rose into consciousness. The warmth of her repose wrapped her, and sleep beckoned her to return. Just as she was lowering back into unconsciousness, Pearl again touched the lovely creature, calling her, “Colette. Colette, you must wake.”
Hearing her name, the lunitata pushed back the curtains of drowsiness, blinked with heavy lids, and lumbered up to a seated position. Her belly bulged with life, and her cheeks were pink from sleep.
Colette’s emerald eyes suddenly dropped their grogginess and fissured with fear. The lines circling her eyes creased sharply as she took in the frawnite. “What happened to him? Where’s Bren?”
The frawnite shook her head. “No. Brenol is with Arman. Rise. There’s still much to be done.” She yanked the heavy tapestry lining the window, and it fell in a dusty heap to the ground. Daylight streamed in, and the frawnite’s silver crop glistened.
Colette, hearing the words, sighed, and relief loosened her figure. “I’ve not slept without dreams in so long. I slept so well…” Her voice was wistful, but nevertheless she thrust the bedclothes from her legs and wiggled to the side of the pallet.
“What is it that you need? Who are you?” she asked patiently. Despite her cordiality, the unspoken question lingered in the air: Why are you in my home?
“Pearl, my name is Pearl. I’ve been chosen by Brenol. And while he didn’t know it at the time, he chose me for you. I’m here to help you.”
I slept without dreams…
The lunitata gazed at the frawnite. The slender face was angular like a bird’s but contained an endearing beauty. She w
as lovely and natural.
Colette turned her head as a flicker of curiosity flared up. There was a familiar quality to Pearl, as if she had seen her once in a dream. But she could not place the recognition.
“Help me?” Colette asked, suddenly hearing Pearl’s words. Her hands curled around her waist. The child, as if in response, kicked lightly.
“Yes. You must make haste. We travel as soon as you’re ready. To the Tindel.”
“Travel?” Colette shook her head, and her tousled blonde locks swished. “You must be mistaken. I cannot. I’m not more than a septspan from the lifing. The baby’ll come, and I must be here. I have a seal promising my nurse-maid’s arrival soon.”
Pearl lifted her small hand in disagreement, and her wings followed with an instinctual flex. “No. We must move. I know you are scared…” Her face softened in encouragement. “I’ve been a health maid to frawnites before, if that helps ease your worries.”
“But why?” asked Colette. Her mind felt muddled from the unexplainable slumber coupled with the heavy exhaustion of so many sleepless nights.
“The world is ending, Colette. You must save it. You must save the remnant. It is your cartess.”
Something struck a chord within the lunitata, something that had never before been placed in her heart. “My cartess?” she whispered to herself. “Can it really be?”
Pearl smiled gently at her. “Yes, we all have one.”
The tree? Can it really be? Even after all this time? While no answers surfaced, her intuit felt the thrum of truth that flowed in with the frawnite’s words. A trickle of hope sparked. Something was here for her, she just had no idea what that something was.
“But my child’s lifing?”
“Why could that not be part of this?” Pearl replied.
The lunitata gazed up at the silvery head, round eyes, and thin and angular face. Pearl peered back with an expression of assurance and faith. This creature believed in her. She truly believed in her.
Colette felt the power of resolve rise in her as easily as the waters in the early thaw. It hummed within her, awakening and fortifying. This was her purpose. She knew it, as one knows how to breathe and laugh and love.
The Forbidding Blue Page 18