The Forbidding Blue

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  No formal apology was given following the verdict, and the two were simply released from the confinement center without ceremony. A day guard arrived for his morning shift, unlocked the cell door, opened it, and motioned for Arman to exit.

  “You’re free,” he said gruffly. “Your friend is waiting outside.”

  Arman rumbled within at the injustice, yet he understood only too well. The town was likely blushing to its ears in shame. It was not a mark of civility to nearly murder innocents in a healing ward. He doubted any would speak loudly of him or Brenol while the memory of the mob still lingered in their minds.

  He rose and followed the guard out the building. It was a bewildering experience to suddenly walk about in freedom.

  Brenol stood waiting. He had spent nearly a moon total in confinement, and his appearance betrayed as much. He no longer wore juile robes, but his own attire hung limply on him as if he had donned another man’s—a larger man’s—garb. The days and nights upon the empty soil of Selet haunted his eyes. It was unnerving to see.

  “Bren,” Arman said.

  “Ar,” the man replied softly.

  The juile wordlessly placed a hand upon his shoulder. He peered at his friend with concern but allowed the man the privacy of silence.

  “Greetings, Arman,” a melodic voice said from behind him.

  Arman smiled in recognition and turned. “Sara.” He bowed deeply. “I pray it will be bountiful.”

  She returned the gesture. “Bountiful indeed.”

  “Thank you again for all you have done,” Arman said. “You have given us more than our mere liberty.”

  Sara nodded. “In good accord. I like to be part of the excitement anyway,” she added with glittering eyes.

  Arman laughed at the obvious lie; he knew Sara well enough now to realize how little she craved commotion. That first night, and every day since, she had acted solely out of benere. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  The juile woman flicked her fingers out and handed a heavy canvas bag to him. “I collected a few things for you when I heard you would be released. I assume you will be traveling?”

  Arman dipped his head in gratitude, accepting the gift. “Yes. Will you walk with us to the edge of town?”

  Again, Sara nodded, and the three wound their way through the streets. Few would meet Arman’s eyes, and the morning was tense with the town’s imposed silence.

  Brenol, ignoring all, trudged forward darkly. The void of the land was a maddening ache, and he longed to be rid of it. He resented the inquiry and their slow release, but even in this he was torn; he knew his guilt as plainly as the black of his palms.

  There had been but one tether holding him to sanity—Colette—and his feet burned with eagerness to fly to her. He knew her time must have come for the lifing, and every breath he took was laden with a new question.

  Was she well? What was the babe? What does it look like?

  His insides swirled in a tempest of emotions, and he had trouble making sense of them all.

  “What are you thinking?” Sara asked Brenol gently as they reached the outskirts of town.

  Brenol faced her with sharp eyes and a scowl. She gazed back silently. Finally, he sighed and returned his vision to the ground. “My soumme,” he replied.

  “You will go to her in Veronia?” Sara asked.

  Brenol’s face tightened, becoming even more solemn at the dreaded thought of plodding for days across the blackened soil. “To them,” he corrected quietly and stepped away, leaving the two juile to their farewells.

  “You will not come with us?” Arman inquired as he watched Brenol.

  Sara raised her eyebrows and faced him. “You ask?”

  “I cannot see the lunavidola holding its traditions any longer,” Arman said.

  “No,” she agreed. “But we both know that this is not the moment for us.”

  Arman smiled, and his face aligned into handsome evenness. “You suggest there will be a moment.”

  The juile woman laughed. “Yes, I do.”

  Arman affectionately traced his fingers across the side of her face. It was the first time he had allowed himself the luxury, and he marveled at the smooth curve of her cheek. Her expression softened, and she leaned into the touch. He drew his hand down to hers and squeezed it gently.

  “But you are worried, juile,” Sara said with concern. The word, which had once sounded an insult, now slid off her tongue tenderly.

  He nodded. “Bren… I have never seen him like this,” he explained. “And I wonder about the terrisdans.”

  Sara peered out to the distancing figure. “You will help him. And his soumme.” She paused. “Perhaps even to grieve the land.” She sighed as her chest constricted in her own bereavement.

  Arman stilled. Why do I feel so certain of my failure in this? he wondered.

  Sara drew her eyes up to his after a moment. He had pressed his lips together, and his face was now long and austere. “What? Is there something else that upsets you?” she asked.

  Arman flicked out his fingers. He did not want to smear this parting with dark premonitions, so he let the fears slide away to be attended to later.

  Instead, he smiled generously to her and bowed. “It has been bountiful, Sara.”

  She returned the gesture in a graceful sweep. “Bountiful, indeed.”

  ~

  Colette learned the chimes of the bethaida swiftly; they marked time and action for the clansmen as there was no sun to identify the hours naturally. Morning rise, meals, afternoon silence, night. The Tindel followed the tolls with precision. The clansmen seemed to be a unified whole, working as a living machine and moving together in an ordered manner.

  Colette had a quick and discerning mind, but the bells remained close to the only piece she understood about the people. The Tindel were harsh when she least expected, and their customs were confusing and foreign. Isolation became her daily fare, and the future appeared bleak indeed. The clansmen pointedly shunned her, and when her presence was impossible to avoid, they acted as if they despised her.

  I cannot give up, she reminded herself. Keep trying.

  The toll for evening meal rose and met the echoing answer of the other bells carrying the message through every hall and corridor.

  Colette sighed.

  If I were not so hungry, I’d just quit going to the hall.

  She rose and inhaled purposefully. She knew every day, every moment must be a decision for Massada, and she clung tightly to that reality. Quitting was not an option. Her discomfort could never—she hoped—be enough to make her renounce her goal.

  I do it for life, she reminded herself. I know Pearl spoke truth. I felt it in my bones. The world is failing. I must keep trying. This is for us all.

  Colette tucked Mari safely into the sling and brushed past the thin sheet marking her doorway. She strode through the hallways and ducked into the dining room.

  The hall was long, but the ceilings did not sweep up in the spacious rises of the garden areas. Instead, it seemed dim and dark and crowding, and she felt the ground overhead press in on her. Her nostrils flared at the toppling fragrance of sweat and bodies and bizarre cooking herbs, and her face flushed from the heat of such movement and life. She pinched her lips together and refused to cower back, despite all that her instincts screamed. She parted her lips and sought to dispel the dizziness with slow inhalations.

  For Bren.

  Colette collected her tray and limp assortment of food with a rumbling stomach and wound through the crowd. She glanced about the hall in search of an empty space, but the area was bursting with white faces. She sighed, kissed Mari’s head, and wandered the length of the room. Silent eyes traced her steps, and several clansmen positioned themselves anew so as to not leave gaps beside them. She felt her face burn with both humiliation and indignation. She exhaled and attempted to ignore them, wishing to be anywhere in Massada but here. Finally, not finding a spare seat, she returned to the entrance of the hall.

 
; Colette deliberated. If she requested to sit at a table, she would be granted a space, but they would all move up in show, and her shame at their exhibitions was terrible indeed. Her stomach rumbled desperately.

  Enough of this, she thought. Tonight I just eat. She left the hall and strode back to her quarters.

  By the time she neared her room, she was regretting her choice. This was clearly not the path to unity, sulking off to eat in a corner. She almost turned about but, in a breath, froze. Her sheet hung motionless in the doorway, but voices came from just a few strides into her room.

  “But wouldn’t the healers have found anything when she first got here?”

  A grunt was followed with a gruff reply. “I don’t trust her. She’s a liar.”

  Colette’s fingers curled hard around her dinner tray, and she swept into the room with fire in her eyes. Two startled men with strikingly white hair stared at her. The taller one carried a pointed chin that jutted into the air, and the shorter man’s face was pinched in a frown. She recognized neither.

  “What are you doing here?” Colette asked. Her voice held severity, but her insides quivered.

  Surprise flickered briefly across the shorter man’s face before it was replaced with a nasty smirk. He peered at her tray. “Can’t even eat like us, can you?” he asked.

  Colette’s lips pulled back in fury. “Get out. You should not be here.”

  “Nor should you,” the other retorted.

  The taller man sneered and pointed toward the lunitata’s sling. “Is that it? The monster’s brood?” He took a step closer, and Colette instinctively curled her left arm protectively across Mari’s slumbering figure.

  “Out!” she said, stamping her foot.

  The two moved in unison, stepping to either side of Colette, and alarm flooded her. With sudden decision, she threw the tray at the closer man. Soup and pale blue vegetables sprayed his face and clothing, and dishes clattered to the floor. Rage painted his dripping features.

  Mari woke at the din and began to wail.

  The drenched man leaned in towards her with deathly silence. His breath fell hotly on her cheeks, and her hands trembled in her vulnerability.

  He did not speak but drew his thumb to his damp face, collected a drop with an exaggerated motion, and licked it off. The gesture apparently carried meaning, for triumphant hatred sparked in his eyes before he kicked away a bowl at his feet and strode from the room. The other man laughed, perceiving a shared joke, and followed without a word.

  Colette exhaled in relief, yet her hands would not calm their shaking. Mari’s shrieks swelled ever louder, and the lunitata began to sway the babe about in gentle motion, but her mind was far from the present. Her heart thundered, pulsing powerfully in her chest.

  “What am I doing here?” she whispered to herself. “Pearl is a fool.”

  She shook her head softly. “What am I doing here?”

  ~

  It took many days for Arman and Brenol to travel across Selet, Stonia, and the lugazzi, and the juile’s continuous transparency revealed much. He passed through lugazzi and terrisdan alike without any alteration. There was no concealment to be found, nor the freedom to live in the world of the seen. Selet was no more, and the other terrisdans had been weakened severely by the blow—whether it sourced from Chaul or Brenol’s hand, they could only guess. Whatever properties the lands had once harbored were now draining like blood from a severed artery.

  When they finally reached Veronia, Brenol shuddered, for it greeted him with the same vacuous stare as it had previously, and although he preferred it to Selet’s terrible absence, the experience remained jarring.

  Nonetheless, Brenol crouched down and scooped up the terrisdan soil into a hand. “Hello, old friend,” he whispered.

  He sifted the dirt between fingers and tarried, more due to habit than hope. He inhaled the scents of the land and softly returned the soil to the earth. He patted the ground and smoothed the pile with a sweep of his palm.

  There had been no reply, but he had known there would not be one. Veronia was too far gone.

  Despite the circumstances, when Brenol straightened he appeared more like himself. His red crop was swept back in a clean knot at the neck, and his face held color and life from movement and travel. His jade eyes carried a hope, and being back in Veronia spurred his spirits awake; he knew Colette was close.

  That spark, that hope, gave Arman pause. The juile knew Colette could heal much that ailed the man, but a bizarre dread filled him at this thought. As it lacked meaning, there was nothing to do but continue on, yet Arman did so with trepidation while Brenol leapt forward in eagerness.

  Later that night, huddled around the campfire, Arman stared into the cherry flames. His face was tight, and seeing it, Brenol furrowed his brow.

  “What are you thinking about, Arman?”

  “Isvelle,” he replied softly.

  Brenol’s stomach dropped. He had pushed aside thoughts of the lunitata, hoping that Colette would know how best to tell her mother the terrible news of Darse.

  Arman’s eyes raised to meet Brenol’s. “We cannot tarry too long before going to her.” He shook his head sadly. “And I do not wish to relay these grave events in a seal. She deserves more than that.”

  Brenol nodded and turned his gaze to the flames. “Colette will know what to say. And we will bring the baby. That will help.”

  Arman did not speak. He knew little could ease the pain the woman would soon feel. With how long they had been held in Selet, unable to communicate, she undoubtedly already feared as much.

  ~

  The following day, the two arrived at Brenol’s farm. The place was eerily quiet, with snow blanketing the entirety and blocking off the lane. The gate had not provided entry in some time, and as they neared, it was evident the front door had not moved either.

  Brenol’s face turned ashen. He stumbled through the banks of ice and white and frantically worked the snow from the entryway’s path with bare hands. Arman was swiftly at his side, and the two cleared the space enough to draw the door open. Both remained unnaturally silent.

  Brenol burst in and immediately felt the dusty staleness of the air. His face creased in tension as he tracked mud and snow throughout the dim house. His eyes were as a madman’s—darting, uncertain, unpredictable, charged.

  The place was empty and clearly had been for septspan.

  A small note lay unopened on their table. Brenol picked it up, his numb fingers dropping it in his haste to open the letter. He collected it, noted his soumme’s name upon the front, and broke the seal.

  Brenol held the letter out to Arman, dumbfounded. “It’s Isvelle. She’s searching for Darse. The sealtor had orders to leave this for Colette…” The man’s face was stricken. “Where is she? Where is the…” Brenol’s sentence hung in the air, unable to be completed.

  Arman took the letter and strode about, meticulously observing the rooms with his keen eyes. “There was no violence here. Nothing disturbed that I can see. Look through your things. Can you tell me if anything is missing? Did she pack a bag?”

  Brenol nodded and ran to their bedroom with new hope. He tore through their chest, littering the floor in the process. Standing, he wrinkled his brow.

  “Not much,” he called. “Some warm clothes, I think…but some of mine are gone too.”

  “Bren?” Arman called, waiting for the man to emerge. “Was there not a looking glass here?” He pointed to the place on the wall in indication.

  The man nodded, unsure of the significance of the vacant space. Colette loved the piece. It was unlikely she would have moved it without purpose.

  A whisper within suddenly shot icy fear through Brenol’s veins. There were many times malitas hid its violence. Many.

  Arman narrowed his brows in thought. “It could indicate anything,” he said. He met Brenol’s eyes. “Regardless, we will find her. She is likely with a neighbor getting help with the child.”

  Brenol’s face shifted from de
speration to determination in a breath. “Yes, of course. We’ll ask and find out where she is.”

  Arman placed a hand on Brenol’s chest to stop him as the man made to leave. “We cannot go tonight, Bren. The light is nearly gone. But dawn—we will start at dawn.”

  Brenol paused, deliberating, half-crazed. “Dawn,” repeated Brenol, but the word rose as if in question.

  He peered down at his hands. His fists were clenched tightly around the infant outfit he had found in the chest. Colette had painstakingly knit the tiny robe herself yet had not taken it. He opened his grip, and the white fabric was a striking sight upon his black palms.

  The juile consciously held his fingers back from the string of beads in his pocket. He did not want the man to hear his thoughts.

  ~

  There was no reprieve for Arman and Brenol the following morning, and soon the days blurred together into a mess of desperation and dismay. Colette was not to be found anywhere, and the local farmers had not seen her in moons. Brenol’s face grew darker with every neighbor visited, and his speech ceased almost entirely.

  Grief over the missing princess tugged incessantly at the juile, but he would not permit it to have a hold—at least not yet. He doubted Brenol’s ability to withstand her death, and he knew he must be certain before even hinting of as much.

  They began separating during the day so as to inquire at more homesteads, for it required much time to trek the distances between the scattered residences, yet they still discovered little.

  On the third day, as they diverged, Arman paused to watch the man duck under a bough and slog his way through heaps of snow. Brenol’s back was hunched and tight.

  The juile licked his lips in thought and turned to hike the steep trail in the opposite direction. He was to visit the farms on the rim above the valley.

  After several hours, Arman had only managed to visit two, and with little success. Neither family had seen Colette, and each had demonstrated immense displeasure over a juile traipsing across their property.

  Arman flicked his fingers out at the superstitious hand sign of the tera and moved to the next farm. He had three more in the area to visit before he would return to Brenol. He pushed himself forward and after an hour arrived at a white-washed fence, with a single-story farm and barn to match. He paused at the gate and called.