Colette spun the process around in her mind, pondering the spheres passing the seasons, taking in heat and light above ground, then pouring it out in the secret world beneath the crust. “How do you bring the sun power from the spherisols above to the ones below?”
“Each is opened twice a season, and the pods are removed and switched.”
“And the heat? Is that a natural result that comes with the spheres?”
Harta laughed. Her face gentled slightly, and the fierceness took on a look of maturity instead of perilous fury. “You may be soft, but you certainly aren’t dimwitted.” She held out a hand to indicate the spherisol. “The first designs didn’t heat. The Tindel created separate ones that conducted heat, and for a long time there were two in every garden: light and heat. The constructions have evolved with each season, and we are continually seeking to develop new energy techniques. We still use the heat globes—sphericali—for the clans. Each colony usually has three or four, although the largest clan has nine.”
Colette gazed around at the variety of life, appreciating the orbits of work and sacrifice that had made it possible. It was incredible. Life had found a path. The ice had not stopped them. “I’m impressed,” she said finally.
Harta stood tall at the statement. She again lifted her hand with fingers extended. Colette responded; their finger pads kissed and eyes locked.
“You surprise me, Colette of the green,” Harta said, allowing her fingers to fall.
Colette remained silent, staring out into the pale blue field. It was not the upper world of sun and flower and breeze, but maybe it did not need to be. Perhaps this was enough…
Her lips parted, and she inhaled a soft breath, finding somewhere within a new acceptance of the awful downfall of Massada. Perhaps the icing would not be the end. Perhaps she could change. Perhaps this people would help.
Perhaps.
CHAPTER 16
There are consequences to every action, whether completed in benere or evil.
-Genesifin
Arman was awake, but any hale person in the vicinity would have been. The building shook with the thunderous roar of the mob, and his candle, though in a stand, flickered as if held by a fidgeting child. Arman’s sober face peered out through the slit between wall and tapestry. The night was alive, the dark town awake with fire and fury and din.
The juile settled the canvas back and returned to Brenol’s side. The man was damp with perspiration and twitched as he muttered garbled speech. Arman toweled Brenol’s neck and face and toyed with his pocketed beads.
I am here with you, old friend, his fingers clicked. He gently lit a hand on the man’s shoulder.
I wish I could promise you more, he thought, his gaze grazing back to the covered window. But at least we both lived for benere.
Again he mopped Brenol’s head and listened to the man moan.
The moment was interrupted by the hall portiere flapping open in a rush. Sara, the healer, entered, and Arman straightened.
The juile woman was flushed, her comely face concerned and serious. She met Arman’s gaze and spoke swiftly. “There isn’t much time. They are—”
Her words were drowned out by a sudden roar of shouts. The walls shook, and a spare candle resting on the table rolled to the floor.
Sara swallowed. Arman could see the tightness in her neck and the sharp fear in her eyes.
“They’re coming soon. They’ve almost been granted approval. They’re going to imprison you for an inquiry.”
Arman peered back calmly. “You are worried.”
Sara cocked her head. “Arman, you are a fool if you think this mob is planning to let you move to confinement unscathed.”
Arman exhaled slowly and returned his hand to Brenol. “I had not thought to live to morning,” he replied honestly. “Rioters are not usually capable of hearing reason.”
The juile woman’s face loosened, and she looked inquisitively at Arman. He met her gaze with composure, even if his eyes housed a gentle melancholy.
Her lips parted briefly in thought. Again, the house thundered in the mob’s wake. Both flinched at the jolting roar.
Suddenly her eyes sparked in a fiery determination. “No,” she said fiercely.
“No?”
“No,” she repeated.
“What do you propose?” Arman asked.
Sara shot an index finger to Brenol. “Can you—” she began, but stopped. “No. You must. Pick him up. Quickly. We will go out the back.”
Arman nodded, feeling adrenaline and new hope swell him to readiness, and he hefted Brenol over his shoulder. Arman sucked in sharp breaths as he maneuvered past the room’s portiere. He followed her figure through the hall but halted at the stairs.
“Sara?”
She turned, perturbed at his pause. “What? We must move!”
“Do you know you will die with us if this fails?” His voice was slow and steady, despite the shouts from outside and the burden upon his frame.
“Move, juile!” she hissed at him. “I know very well what I’ve chosen. I’ll regret it only if you stop to drink tea and discuss it. Now come!” She flew down the steps and Arman followed swiftly, however lumbering. She led him to a room on the ground floor and closed the canvas behind them.
“Robe him,” Sara ordered, thrusting a set of simple gray robes into his hands. She exited, and Arman set to work dressing Brenol. The man did not stir, and the juile prayed silently that he would not thrash or scream in his delirium.
Once finished, Arman waited, feeling each minute that passed with an acute prick. The shouting rose and fell around the building like a symphony of discord. Finally, Sara returned.
“There is no door on this side of the ward. But still, juile are milling and roving everywhere. We must use the window, but we need time.”
“And then?” Arman asked curiously.
“We go to the confinement center.”
Arman nodded. This woman was brave and willing to save their lives, but certainly not traitorous. She knew nothing of their guilt or innocence. It was only right that she would take them to the prison for the inquiry.
“Here,” Sara said, handing him a water sack. “I will open the cellar.” She shifted a soiled basket of linens aside and hauled up a heavy floor door that opened into pitch black. A musty odor of cider and salt and soil rose into the room. She touched Arman’s elbow and motioned for him to descend.
Arman again lifted Brenol with a grunt and cautiously stepped forward.
“I’ll cover the entry,” she said.
Arman paused, despite the strain, and met her eyes. He wondered if he would ever discover the layers of meaning that rested there.
“I trust you,” he said simply and continued down to become one with the gloom. Sara tarried only long enough for his feet to meet the soil before closing the two in darkness.
~
Two days elapsed, and still Sara did not return. Arman wearily continued to pour small sips of water into Brenol’s mouth. The man did not thrash, but he regularly muttered under his breath.
Still, Arman attempted to soothe. “Bren, you’ve killed Chaul. It is over.”
As expected, Brenol did not react.
~
The cellar door opened that evening. It was a slow movement, but to Arman, it was as jolting as lightning. Light streamed down and his heart burst to life. His limbs, stagnant from disuse, surged with adrenaline and power.
“Arman?” a feminine voice called softly. The juile exhaled in relief.
“Here,” he began, but his voice was rough from disuse. He cleared his throat. “Here, Sara.”
She descended to help him, and while the room above gave only faint light, Arman found his eyes blinking after the days in the unchanging dark.
“I’m sorry I was not able to return for so long,” Sara whispered.
The juile rose to a stand. “It is well. We are alive.” He allowed his heart to settle. “I heard them searching the house,” he added.
&
nbsp; “It is not over, certainly,” Sara said in a hushed voice. “They are looking for you. But the mob has dispersed. I think it is safe to take you to confinement now.”
They both positioned themselves at Brenol’s sides and hauled him up the steps. Arman’s eyes shied at the candle, but he focused on the floor as the two settled Brenol to a pallet.
After a moment, Arman’s vision adjusted, and he looked over at her. His face fell. “Oh, Sara. What did they do to you?”
She smiled wryly, but the motion drew a grimace. Her dark eyes shone calmly despite the harsh bruising across the left side of her face. On impulse, he reached out, but he paused before his fingertips graced the tender skin. His hand fell back to his side.
“There will be time for explanation later. Have you eaten?”
“Yes,” he replied. The apples and soft grain from the cellar had been far from satisfying, but he knew she asked mostly to gauge his current strength.
“Do you think we can bathe him first?” Arman asked.
Sara shook her head. “No time.” She peered down regretfully at Brenol. “But I will attend to him and get him fresh clothes at the confinement center.”
Arman nodded. He would have to trust her in this to the end.
“We still should use the window, I think. A door might yet be watched.”
Sara extinguished the flickering candle, and the room became black. She exited silently and a moment later patted the window’s tapestry lightly from the outside. Arman opened the flap and worked to maneuver the limp body out to her. He intended to climb out and help collect him, but Sara herself hoisted the man from the sill and held him until Arman could slide out and assist.
“I am a healer. I move bodies,” she said, reading his expression.
Arman did not reply, and they again situated themselves on either side of Brenol and shouldered him through the dark streets.
The air was cold and tense, yet to Arman, it was a marked and delicious change from the urine-drenched air of the cellar. They shuffled forward, a dark moving mass, taking the longer route outside of the city center so as to avoid being spotted. The two paused occasionally, yet both felt the danger nipping at their necks and urged themselves on silently.
Their breaths clouded before them in gentle puffs, but Sara suddenly inhaled sharply. Arman did not speak, just trailed her gaze. No one was visible, but now directed, he finally heard a sound. A person was approaching on a side road. Sara had keen ears.
Quickly, she pointed to a doorway and breathed a hasty directive. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to return. But go to the prison. Follow this road—it leads you directly there. Do not make me regret helping you.”
Their eyes locked briefly before Arman ducked behind the tapestry with Brenol. He waited, tense and tired and sagging under the strain. After several long minutes, he peered out. The street was empty.
The juile drew himself tall—confidence often discouraged suspicion—and began the trek anew. He made his way toward the confinement center, refusing to acknowledge the niggling temptation to simply flee, and somehow, he finally arrived.
Arman lowered Brenol to a heap on the ground and rapped hard upon the door. The sound seemed to splinter the air, and he shuddered as if in premonition. A looking square slid open, and a face appeared with a questioning expression.
“I am Arman,” he said plainly. “I’ve come for the inquiry.”
~
Brenol opened his eyes with the jarring sensation of the world being awry. He did not moan or mutter but felt an uncontrollable craving to claw at his skin. All seemed so wrong. The sensation crowded his senses, and several minutes elapsed before he was able to take in his surroundings.
He lay on a pallet in loose gray robes. He had been bathed recently, for his nostrils opened at the scents of soap and oil. The room itself was small—barely three strides across—and sparse, furnished with nothing but his pallet and a chamber pot in the corner.
Brenol elbowed his torso up and reeled. His perceptions of the world felt so wrong, but not because of what he could see or hear or smell or touch.
Where am I?
Brenol’s head pulsed, and he cradled it tenderly and moaned. He lowered himself back into his simple bedding and closed his eyes, willing the world away. It was then, as he surrendered and felt his body slacken, that his mind connected and all of his memories burned through him.
Selet was dead.
He had killed Chaul. Yes, it had happened. The images razed with flaring potency. He had thrown every last mite of strength into driving that sword down, into finally ending this horror. Brenol had already lost Darse. He could not lose Arman, Colette, their child. No, he had known there was no other time. No other way.
And it had scorched! Oh, how his hands had burned! It had felt as though his very skin were melting into the hilt of that cursed weapon. But he had done it. He had destroyed the spirit.
Understanding filled him. The bizarre emptiness he felt. It was the absence of the terrisdan. The inert eye. He felt the lack in the acute way a soldier feels the phantom pain of his missing limb. It was wrong and utterly maddening.
He peered down in desperation at his palms. They were as black as coal. As black as death. As black as Selet’s silence. This was no dream from which to awaken.
Brenol’s headache intensified, and he lay in the dim light, cradling his temples. Then, he recalled those slithering words of malitas. It had said the world would die should he truly sink the blade into the land. All would perish.
He did not know if the spirit had spoken truth or falsehood, but here in his cell with the throbbing pain of Selet’s dead eye and his palms painted in his guilt, he could only sink into despair.
“I’ve killed the world,” he mumbled over and over. “I’ve killed us all.”
And again when he fell into the delirium of sleep, he still muttered the words.
~
Someone outside spoke with the guard. Their voices were muffled, but Arman’s ears perked at the sound. He recognized the tone and cadence and found his cheeks flush at the swirl of his insides. He hastily rose to a stand.
The door opened, and Sara slid through with a basket held in the crook of her slender arm. She wore white robes, and her black hair was braided tightly down the back of her neck.
“I pray it will be bountiful.” She bent her frame in greeting.
“Bountiful indeed,” Arman replied with a bow.
“You’re well?” Her efficient eyes took in each movement, or lack thereof, assessing his health.
“I am. Thank you, Sara.”
“In good accord,” she replied.
“Please. How is Bren?” Arman asked. There was no disguising his concern.
Sara inhaled slowly. “He is well, but clearly in distress. He is agitated, restless.” She met the juile’s gaze directly. “He screams in his sleep. They are always words of guilt.”
Arman closed his eyes, breathing deeply. His face was gaunt and long and looked ashy despite his olive skin. Finally, he opened them again and peered across at her. “Can we be moved together?”
Sara pondered before answering. “I will ask.” She shook her head. “But I do not think it likely. The juile are frenzied. You were right; Selet is dead.”
Arman swallowed. The grief of this truth had not ceased ripping at his heart.
Sara took in his expression without comment. She pulled out a linen, which she laid upon the floor, and began to unload her basket. “I have brought you tea and supper. Have you been warm enough?”
“Yes. Thank you. I was told you sent the extra blankets.”
Sara dipped her head. “In good accord,” she replied, extending her hand out to the makeshift picnic.
Arman lowered himself to the sheet and raised his brows in surprise as she situated her long figure across from him. “You will stay?”
Sara’s eyes glinted softly in amusement. “I cannot have you eating all my food.”
Arman did not respond, finding
himself oddly without words. They began to dine silently. It was simple fare—bread and olives and a mild orange tea—but oddly satisfying in the quiet space.
Once they had finished, Sara wrapped the remnants in a napkin and placed the package on the linen for Arman to have later. She set an additional parcel wrapped in a blue cloth beside it. Nodding to herself, she stood and brushed her white robes free of bread crumbs. Arman rose too, observing her quietly.
She bowed generously. “It has been bountiful.”
Arman returned the bow. “Bountiful indeed.”
Sara turned to go, but paused as Arman reached out and grasped her hand with a gentle touch. She faced him with a questioning look.
“When did you decide we were innocent?” he asked.
Sara did not smile, but her eyes were clear. “Why do you surmise as much?”
Releasing her hand, Arman flicked his finger toward the entryway. “You did not even glance around before stepping in. I would think you would be more cautious if you believed us murderers.”
Sara frowned. “You do not know me, Arman.”
He dipped his head in apology. “You are correct. I do not.”
The juile woman opened her hand. It was a graceful expression, but he could not discern its meaning. “I will come again tomorrow.”
“Wait,” he said, his face narrowing in severity. “Please. I ask of you. Take a voice with the inquiry. I see it in their eyes, even if not yours. They do not believe me when I tell them the events. They question and question. And want someone to blame for this horror.”
Sara’s face clouded.
Arman persisted with new fire. “Despite what the fool of a man breathes in his sleep, he saved the world. Saved it. And to meet his end for such a task? For his soumme and child to walk alone for his choice of benere? Is that how juile now treat heroes?” His voice turned bitter. “The world really is at its end if so, but not by Brenol’s hands—by theirs.”
“But how can I know you speak truly?”
“You cannot. But I do.”
Sara sighed, peering at the juile and pondering. “I will speak with them. I cannot even guess their response, but I will speak.” She paused, then added softly, “For Selet’s sake.”
The Forbidding Blue Page 22