“What do I need?”
“Let’s pack,” Pearl replied.
~
Pearl’s disappearance, however abrupt, did not leave Arman gaping long. He could not tarry in knotted angst, so he breathed out a prayer—May Pearl be who she says—and logically considered his options.
There were no healing facilities of renown in this section of Massada, and even had it not been days and days of travel away, Limbartina was no more. The closest town was likely Trilau, for to reach his home in Graft he would have to cross the Songra. He did not know its current state and did not want to retrace his steps should it prove unfordable. Trilau was easily a half day’s journey unencumbered, but lugging an unconscious man could make it three.
Trilau it is.
An odd taste filled his mouth—like bitter soap. He straightened, smoothed his robes, and swallowed the rising panic.
May she be who she says.
He composed himself after a breath and set to work in constructing a stretcher. It was crude, but within an hour he had secured Brenol’s form to the makeshift carrier and wrapped a heavy blanket around him to keep his heat steady. The stretcher proved too short, and the heels of Brenol’s boots dragged limply as Arman lifted the two boughs crafted as handgrips, but he refused to begin anew.
The sky was clear and the sun bright, but the juile’s face was grim. Soon, his back ached and his arms burned. Every step forward seemed an impossibility, an agony to endure. Arman had abandoned most of his possessions along the trail with a perfunctory upending of his pack, but the weight and angle of the stretcher rent his muscles and tore at his skin. He wrapped his hands too late and grimaced at the painful blisters that formed and eventually burst across palms and thumbs.
Every break, he forced water down the inert man’s throat and sucked in heavy gulps of air for himself. He did not permit much time for rest and returned to his labor with tight lips and clenched heart. His previous prayer was rarely far from his lips.
Nightfall came, and Arman poured another swallow of water down Brenol’s throat before allowing his own body to collapse in front of the enormous bonfire he had constructed. The heat was tremendous, but he harbored concern about keeping Brenol warm and was unsure if he would wake in the dead of night to tend to the fire after such exertion. He had intended to concoct a poultice for his hands, but he barely closed his lids before his body succumbed to unconsciousness.
~
Trilau would have been a beautiful sight had the land itself not been black and devoid of life. The pebble-dash gray and tan buildings were the same, but they contrasted with the onyx earth like dollops of cream on burned hotcakes. The air reeked of decay and death, and vegetation across the land had shriveled and turned a russet hue. A fire could have blazed for a septspan and still not have left such destruction.
Juile assisted Arman as soon as he encountered them outside of town, surrounding the two in transparent robes of gray, black, white. They hauled Brenol with somber faces while Arman plodded his way slowly beside them. He did not even take note as to who carried his friend and who offered him suspicious glances. The exhaustion upon mind and body was too severe.
The medical center lay in the northern section of town and was a simple edifice of usual juile construction. The dark scarlet portiere—marking it as a healing facility—had been replaced with a heavy tapestry to prevent the icy breezes from entering, but otherwise it was as Arman had remembered. Many hands led him, and he allowed the familiar juile movements to whisk them both through the building.
I must speak to the healer, he thought, but collapsed into sleep before he could utter a word.
~
It was only a few hours before Arman impelled himself to consciousness.
Arman pressed hard against the heavy weakness that soaked his chest and limbs and opened his eyes. The room was familiar, at least in its juile fashion, with cleanly swept wooden floors, high ceilings to suit the needs of tall bodies, white-washed walls, and a mosaic-tiled image upon the main wall. The teritra traditionally expressed the mantra of the house or some piece of significance as to the purpose of the edifice. The picture here was of a storm, focused upon the golden flash of lightning razing down to slice a tree through its center before crashing into the black earth.
Interesting choice, he mused; its meaning eluded him.
“You should rest longer,” a soft voice issued.
He craned his head sideways to spy a lovely figure. Her skin was a dark olive, and she peered at him with pressed lips and curious eyes. Her black hair was smoothed back into a braid wound into a circular bun at the back of her head. It accentuated her slender neck and round eyes. His heart clenched—her transparency reminded him of Selet’s end.
She would be fair fully visible, his mind mused, but he stopped himself abruptly.
“Tell me of the man I came with. Is he well?”
The juile woman laced her fingertips together briefly before she spoke. “He hasn’t woken, but he appears to be facing shock more than physical malady.” Her lips parted as if to continue but then closed quickly.
Arman raised his body to a sit with elbows and forearms. “Please,” he pleaded, “Do not hold back. What is it?”
The woman glanced to the floor in consideration. Slowly, her rich alto issued out. “His shock is severe. And his hands…” Her eyebrows raised in question as her dark eyes met Arman’s.
Arman’s brow furrowed. “His hands?”
She stared back incredulously. “You did not see it?”
A fear shot through him. He felt like the teritra mosaic tree razed awake with electricity. “What?”
“His hands…” She lifted her own to demonstrate, extending out her palms. “They’re as black as coal on the palms. Like he handled a fire.”
Arman remained silent, knowing all too well the source of the injury.
“I…I would not press…”
“But the land itself is screaming our guilt?”
She glanced down, blushing slightly. “There are many worried juile.”
He nodded. “I would be too, in your position. I am Arman.” He looked to her expectantly.
“Sara,” she replied.
“Sara, I don’t think I’ve the energy or ability to explain right now. Just know we are connected with the death of Selet, but we were not the cause. My friend, Bren, destroyed an evil that would have undone our entire world.”
She stared back, expression unreadable.
“Please help him,” he pleaded.
“I would regardless.”
Uneasiness tickled his neck. “But do you believe me?”
Her face remained impassive.
“Sara?” Why do I care so deeply what she thinks?
“I don’t know. But I’ll do what I can to heal him. The polina can decide the rest.”
Arman nodded. He understood her suspicions. Had he been investigating himself, he would have been far more severe. “Thank you.” He lowered himself back down upon his pallet and allowed his heavy lids to fall. He could feel the darkness closing down deliciously as the peace of sleep stole upon him.
“Selet is dead?” he heard her ask. It sounded so far away, but he rose again from exhaustion to open his eyes.
“Yes.”
“And all who live here?”
He reached out and touched her hand. The motion cost him dearly, but he did not regret it. Her fingers were surprisingly soft. Her eyes met his. They were tight with emotion.
“I do not know. But this is not the end.”
She dipped her head in a tiny nod and swept from the room. His fingers tingling with the memory of her hand, he sank into sleep.
~
Colette tugged the outer cape closer around her front, but it was a futile effort against the wind screaming across the barren plain. She was clothed in more than she had ever before worn, but it still was insufficient to block the ice creeping into her blood. Housing her legs were two warm skirts that covered heavy woolen trousers
atop thick, soft travel pants and tights, and her upper body was laden with sweaters, a heavy coat of her own, one of Brenol’s, a double-layered cloak, and the blue cape upon which Pearl had insisted. She wore heavy boots that warmed but weighed her down with every step. Her head poked out of the bulge of clothing like a mole peering out at the suspicious world above. Yet even still, the cold in her bones was deeper than any she had ever experienced. It was a chill that terrified her.
My baby’ll turn to ice soon.
The thought of her child drove her above all else. Massada could pass, Pearl could plead, but in the end her love for the babe within steeled her resolve.
I will not stop.
Her muscles protested with every movement. She was unused to such activity, and her body lumbered forth awkwardly between the heavy burden of her child and the atrophied state of her limbs. Colette paused and bent forward, her face tight with pain. A strand of blonde escaped her meticulously wound scarf. Her belly was taut and as hard as a stone. The pressure both surprised her and lunged at her with a jolting bite—enough so that she was forced to pause and breathe before continuing.
Where is Pearl? I cannot go much longer.
The two had pressed hastily through Veronia. There had been moments of tightness across her gut, but she had always been able to step onward. The frawnite had stopped to examine her but had certainly held her tongue if there had been any concern. Her gray eyes revealed nothing; she hid all behind avian features.
Am I to die here? I’ve been walking for days…
Nights had been bitter and cold, but the frawnite had shown her how to seek refuge behind snow drifts and to pitch her cloak as a tent. It was miserable, but she had survived this far.
“The Tindel are a hard people,” Pearl had told her as softly as a secret, as though the wind might carry her words to unwanted ears. “They live a hard life. And see outsiders as weak, soft. ‘Greenlanders’ they call Massadans, but to be fair, it is understandable. We’ve lived in decadence compared to the icy blue they’ve known.”
“But why do they choose to live there?”
“There was much that went into the initial decision. You’ll have to speak to them about it. But they did it more out of honor and love than out of pride and revulsion.”
Colette had pondered her words, finally asking, “What kind of people are they?”
“If you mean species, they’re human, although different now after surviving in the desert for generations. They live in clans, clustered across the western expanse, but as to numbers I cannot even begin to guess. They’re a pale people, but more robust than one would expect.”
“And temperament?”
“Unforgiving. Ritualistic. Honorable,” she had replied without hesitation.
“Do they know the Three?”
Pearl glanced sideways at her, startled. “All know the Three…” She considered and added, “But yes, they heed Their voices.”
Colette mused at her reaction and then asked, “Do the Three talk to you?”
“On occasion.” The frawnite shook her wings, freeing them of snow. “My life now is not one of time. I simply am, and I await the moment when I am needed. Eventually, I will not be needed, and then I shall pass to the paths every other creature takes when they die.”
“Which are?”
“We’ll see when it is time.”
The growing urgency to understand these foreigners pushed aside Colette’s usual curiosity. Instead, she focused anew on the Tindel. “What am I to do with them? Why do we even go?”
Pearl’s owl eyes had regarded her with shock. “Has Brenol never spoken to you about the Genesifin?”
“Not in great detail. I could tell it was a burden for him to think about. I didn’t press.”
“He was a fool to not prepare you.” Pearl’s mottled gray and white locks had moved only slightly in the growing wind, but the chill had nearly choked Colette in her steps. “Massadans shall not survive if they don’t unite with the Tindel. The icing of the terrisdans is only the beginning. This is the Change that has been foretold from the beginning of creation. It will not be many orbits before the freeze destroys all unprotected life.”
“And why would they help us?”
“They would not. But you’re to convince them otherwise.”
It was a truth that had chilled more than the keening wind.
“Why me?” Colette had asked weakly.
“I’m not a soul who can deem the reasons for another’s cartess…but I imagine it’s because in doing so, you will become more Colette.”
To become more me…
The frawnite had procured a map and seen her to the borders of Veronia, but after another day, her dappled feathers and silver eyes had simply disappeared. There were no parting words and no consoling promises for future encounters—not that those could have eased the sharp sting of loneliness that had crept upon her as she had stolen across the perilous blue.
Colette whimpered involuntarily as another contraction curled her spine forward in agony. She waited a minute—attempting to relax, for rigid cringes merely intensified it—and soon was rewarded with an easy breath. She straightened her frame and, pushing aside her pack and Heart Render with numb hands, sought to massage her lower back through the many layers of fabric. It ached as never before, with a pain disabling all clear thinking. Oh, how she longed for a hot bath, to feel her fingers and toes again, a steaming meal, warm Umburquin cinnamon tea, Brenol’s hand within hers…
Are you going to dream about comfort all day? You’re more than this, remember? You’ve a cartess. So move, Colette! Move!
Again, she plodded forward, until the sharp twist of pain yanked the very breath from her. This one continued far longer than the others, and she was left with a frantic hopelessness. She gazed back in the direction from which she had come. She had barely covered thirty strides in the last ten minutes. Soon she would be reduced to crawling.
I cannot do this much longer. I cannot…
Colette extracted the whistle and sounded it without hesitation. Nothing happened. It was then she recalled where she had seen the frawnite before: the brief flicker of an image orbits ago when she had stolen the hos. It had jolted her awake and reminded her of Brenol. The realization was merely a drop in the sea of mystery in which she stood.
“Pearl,” she yelled into the howl of the wind. “Pearl! Please, oh please. Help! Hel—” The words were lost as a contraction shrouded her again in searing pain. Colette’s green eyes scanned the icy azure expanse. Blue everywhere. Blue, blue, blue. Nothing but blue.
She’s not coming.
The realization bit sharply but simultaneously steadied her. She would have to do this alone, but she would do it. She knocked aside her fear as though sweeping the surface of a table clear of its items and determinedly set to work.
You will not die, Colette. You will not.
She glanced around and, spying two large snow drifts, scooted slowly toward them. She sighed when, between them, she met a semblance of shelter from the terrible wind, but the breath died on her lips as another contraction took her. Once the pain subsided, she wiped a tear from her face and slowly pitched her cloak as Pearl had taught her, opening up the cleverly designed folds and pinning the pieces with the sharp, silver shafts in her pack. It offered her a little more protection, and she climbed into the small space.
It felt an eternity as she removed the trousers, leaving only her thick skirts to fight the elements. She shook with the cold, but perceived little aside from the intense pressure bearing down on her pelvis. It was an uncontrollable torment. She could have screamed and writhed under its hand, but in her exhaustion she only let out a tiny whimper. Every impulse within her shouted push! but she had to force herself to hold back while completing the preparations.
She lay down her belongings, and her numb hands fumbled through the pack Pearl had organized. There were tightly rolled towels that shook under her trembling hands as she laid them out: one underneath her,
the other beside her. It was only then that she allowed herself to bear down.
The gush of warm fluid surprised her as it rushed down her legs and soaked the towel beneath and her inner skirt. For a moment, it was a pleasant relief of pressure, but then the contractions only intensified. Colette lost track of time, feeling, and energy. Her legs ached from squatting, but she was loathe to move or do anything that required additional effort. All carried on through a blur of pain and purpose. And still the blue raged.
Finally, she knew it was upon her. Her hands reached down to feel the warm, sticky head emerging. She was blinded by burning pain, but her wits were somehow present, and she gingerly followed the babe’s progress with fingertips as she bore down, grasping the child greedily when the shoulders appeared. She tenderly collected the squirming figure with a final, strained push and drew the slimy creature up in her hands, with her own legs collapsing to the ground in relief and exhaustion.
The little thing wailed with fervor, rhythmically drawing up and down as it took its first breaths in the bitter climate. Colette kissed the damp head, and fumbled quickly for a dry towel in which to wipe and wrap the squirming frame. She gently rubbed and massaged the purple-gray body clean, trying to warm and invigorate at the same time. She—yes, a girl—was lovely, absolutely lovely.
And angry.
Colette stripped the bulky sweater off hastily and pushed up the other garments so as to draw the babe close to her body where she could nestle in to breast and rest in her core warmth. She wrapped her coat around them both and sighed as the child attempted to smack out its first meal. It was something, if not entirely successful, and Colette found herself staring in awe at the tiny soul wrapped within her arms.
The girl had lush-green eyes with specks of gold near the pupils and narrowed eyebrows as though she were inspecting the world with caution. The babe’s hair was thin, but its exquisite red would make her father beam. As she held the infant close, Colette’s lips arched up in a small smile. Already, the faint glow of the lunitata shone out from the tiny creature. She was be a beauty, indeed.
The Forbidding Blue Page 19