Not hearing any answer, the juile approached and rapped lightly at the door. The wood was splintering, but otherwise the place appeared in regular repair. A woman emerged and hugged her arms as she met the frigid afternoon air. Her silver hair was parted down the center and knotted back austerely. Her face was wrinkled and weary, and she peered at Arman without spirit.
“Hella?”
Arman bowed. “I pray it will be bountiful,” he said in greeting.
“What may I offer ya?” she responded. The words were flat from exhaustion.
“I will not interrupt you long,” the juile explained. “I am looking for Colette. The lunitata. She and Brenol live out along the western slope of the valley.” He extended his hand in indication. “Do you know her? Have you seen her?”
The woman nodded. “I know a her, but my soumme knew tha two better than me.”
Arman’s spine straightened at the statement. “Yes?”
“Bel. He was friends with ’em.”
“Was?”
The graying head sagged. “Bel fell. Was fixin’ the roof. Now jus’ lays, quiet.”
“My sympathy is yours,” Arman replied gently.
She nodded, but a stranger’s condolences meant little.
“I must ask,” Arman said. “Did you have any word of Colette? Of her traveling? Or possibly hear of a woman with child traveling? It was likely within the last several moons.”
The woman shook her head but then paused as a thought grazed her mind.
“What is it?”
She met his gaze. “Only thing that reminds me of is that fever case a bit ago.” She bent her head in respect for the dead. “Poor thing was as black as a lump a coal. Close to lifin’.”
Arman froze, startled. “I had not been aware that the fever had reached this part of Veronia. Do you know when this was?”
She shook her head.
At a sound from within, she glanced back into the house. She turned back to the juile. “I need ta go.”
“Wait,” Arman said. His voice was strained and desperate, despite himself. “Please. Can you remember anything else? What she looked like? Where she was? What the people said?” He held out a hand, as if begging for bread. “Or what Bel thought at the time?”
The woman’s face softened as she perceived the juile’s grief. “Was it C’lette?”
Arman opened his palms. “I do not know…but I must. I must know.”
She closed her eyes in recollection, and her breath clouded in front of her face as she focused. Arman felt every nerve within him strain in wait. Without opening her eyes, she spoke, “Not one knew who she was. Jus’ a lil’ thing. But with a babe. Bel had been upset about it. I remember him worryin’.” She met his eyes with a new compassion. “I recall now… He’d thought it was C’lette.” She paused, nodding, and then continued. “But I left before hearin’ anything else. I had ta go visit my sister. Took my daughter. We were gone a good two moons. I didn’t see him ‘til after the accident.”
“Where is the woman buried?” Arman asked. His voice sounded hollow and thin.
“That ol’ graveyard down at the edge a’ the valley.” She eyed him with new pity at this statement. “For the no-names.”
“Can you think of anyone who would know more?”
She shook her head assuredly. “Na. That’s why she’s there. No one knew her.”
“But can Bel communicate at all? Please, may I speak with him?”
The woman filled the doorway with sudden energy. “He can’t and he won’t. Enough,” she ended with finality.
The juile felt his stomach sour with dread. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
“Hope ya find what you’re lookin’ for,” the woman added, as if to offset the harshness of her previous words.
Arman bowed. “It has been bountiful,” he replied.
She peered at him, not knowing how to respond, and slipped back into the warmth. The door shut solidly behind her.
It could not be. No.
Still, Arman had difficulty shaking free of the possibility.
Could Chaul truly have found Colette? Is that how he knew her name?
Arman paused for a moment to suck air into his lungs.
Keep seeking. You know nothing yet, juile. Keep looking.
And if these next houses reveal nothing too?
Arman pondered the pressing reality. Then look elsewhere. She can’t have disappeared.
The juile peered back to the whitewashed home. He knew this exchange would remain secret from Brenol until he could unearth more. Brenol was in no position to weather additional grief and uncertainty.
~
Later that evening, the two huddled close to the fire to warm their hands as they dined. Arman was silent and grim.
“We have spoken to nearly everyone in the valley,” Brenol began.
“Yes.”
Brenol shook his head obstinately. “She isn’t here. I know.”
Arman raised his brow, both at the sudden spurt of spirit and at the conclusion.
“You will call me a fool, but I think she went to the Tindel.” Brenol held up his hand to quiet the juile, even though Arman made no effort to speak. “What if she really is the Lady of Purpose? What if she left to go to them?” The man stared at the floor as if ashamed to meet Arman’s gaze. “To help Massada?”
Arman reached for his beads, but did not let them slide together in sound. “I do not think you understand the perideta, Bren… It is a place of…” Arman stopped and considered his words. “It is a place too harsh for life. A woman with child could not cross it. And why would she?”
Brenol reddened and pursed his lips together stubbornly. “She went.”
Arman exhaled slowly. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
The man peered up desperately to the juile. “Can’t we go see?”
Arman shook his head immediately. “I cannot go to the desert yet… I am not certain Pearl returned Heart Render. I must find out more about the frawnite’s movements before approaching them.”
“Why?”
“Because what if Pearl has not? They will ask questions! Do you not think this could be dangerous? The Tindel have sworn to protect the weapon at any cost. And there is a very real possibility that I have lost it. Lost it, Bren.”
“But isn’t Colette’s life important to you? I don’t care about the Tindel! Colette’s life matters! And she is somewhere! She is!” the man yelled hotly.
“You have no eyes if you believe me unfeeling for Colette. I will seek her to the end, even at the cost of my very life… But as for the Tindel?” Arman paused to consider. He was shaken by this new direction—it was a perilous game to meddle with the clans—but he longed to hold onto hope as well, however foolish it appeared.
Perhaps all is as Bren says, the juile thought. And Pearl did return the wretched blade.
Choose hope, his core urged further. Things might not be as terrible as you fear.
Arman inhaled and finally spoke. “I will do as much for you.” He met Brenol’s gaze before adding softly, “And for me.” Bel’s soumme’s face danced before his memory. The juile pushed the image away.
“I will go to Isvelle first,” Arman said firmly. “I think you should come with me, but you must stop at Sleockna. I do not want you out at the edges of the terrisdan.”
“Why?”
Arman shook his head. “I don’t think you are yet strong enough for the journey.”
Brenol sighed, whether in acceptance or defeat was difficult to discern. “When?”
“Let us head to Isvelle tomorrow. She has been waiting for news long enough.”
The man frowned. He did not want to convey the awful tidings of Darse, nor stir alive his own grief. “Will you go immediately from there to the Tindel?”
Arman nodded. “Yes. I will,” he said. “I will write to them first and arrange a meeting, but I will go to the Tindel from there.”
And pray that Pearl and Colette are where we hope, the j
uile thought.
~
Arman and Brenol began at dawn, after collecting a few items that might prove useful and closing up the ghosted house. They commenced their journey in silence.
Arman grew more solemn as the morning continued. He did not know the queen well but regarded her highly, and he had been pleased for both her and Darse when their relationship had blossomed. He did not relish bringing her such sad tidings, and he felt his own grief more acutely with each foot forward.
Brenol trudged beside him, similarly full of dread at the task before them.
But their walk was cut short.
Mid-morning, a small party appeared on the horizon. Arman was first to realize who advanced, and shortly after, Brenol issued a labored sigh.
It was Isvelle, accompanied by four servants. She rode on Colette’s pony, the tiny black beast marching slowly, while the rest maintained pace on foot. The hardy animal deceptively appeared much too small to carry her—the queen’s feet almost trailed across the ground as it plodded forward—but it was a sturdy creature and could maintain such loads if not rushed.
Identifying the two men, Isvelle dismounted and rushed toward them. Her party collected the pony and followed at a respectful distance.
The memory of the mound of stones ascending above Darse’s gravesite filled Brenol’s mind, and he stared down at his feet with a parched mouth, trying to collect himself. When he raised his eyes, Arman stood facing the lunitata. Her face was grim and haunted, fear written upon every feature. She was paler than he had ever seen her, and the beautiful glow of her people was subdued and dim.
Arman held out a transparent palm, inviting her to take it. She did, but quaveringly.
“Arman?” she asked. “Tell me.”
He did not permit his own storm of emotions to surface. He drew her to his chest, wrapping the small woman in the warmth of his long arms, and held her for a long minute. When they both pulled back, her face was damp and stricken.
“Tell me,” she repeated.
“He is no more, Isvelle. I am so sorry.”
Her features grew still, as though emotion had suddenly frozen within her. “Tell me how.”
“It is a long story, which I will share eventually. But the shortest explanation is that the fever found him.”
She closed her eyes, and two silver streams ran down her lovely face. When she looked back to the juile, her shoulders sagged forward with despondency. It was as if she had finally lost hold against suffering’s erosion.
“Where is Colette?” she asked eventually.
Arman’s jaw tightened. “We are still looking for her. It’s possible that she went west. I am traveling there shortly.”
She exhaled, drained to her depths. “But the baby? Do you know how the lifing went?” Her questions issued out without spirit. “Why would Colette be traveling with the child?”
“We were not here for the lifing,” Arman replied quietly. “And as for the rest, I am not certain. But I will find answers. I will, Isvelle.”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks slowly and fixed her eyes on the juile’s for a long moment. The gaze was without hope.
Arman did not speak but watched with sympathy as the lunitata turned back toward her party.
The queen’s affliction stirred Brenol’s compassion awake, and he finally came to himself. He wiped his damp face clean. “Isvelle,” he called.
She paused but did not turn, waiting for him to come.
Brenol swept up to her, his heart full. “I am so sorry. I know Darse loved you. So much.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment but began her slow stride anew.
“I loved him too. He was my best friend.”
Isvelle turned her head to look into his eyes. She seemed empty, devoid of anything but weariness. “Thank you,” she finally whispered. The words seemed to cost her dearly.
A desire to console her flooded through him. The sensation felt unusual, cutting as it did through his own fear and bereavement and angst. “Can I help you?” he asked genuinely.
“Find Colette,” Isvelle said softly.
“You don’t even have to ask for that,” he replied. “I know I will find her.”
“Then I ask only that you let me be. I…I need to be alone.”
Brenol paled, but did not respond.
She moved from him, her frame slumped. A servant helped her mount the black pony. She did not look back, and they watched her long brown hair whip in the breeze as the group began conveying its way along the path from which they had come.
Seeing Brenol’s expression, Arman placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulders. “Grief takes each person in a different way. Perhaps later she will be able to accept your offer of friendship in this.”
Brenol nodded, but in a breath, his face became determined and hard. “It doesn’t matter. I have other things I must do. I will find her. She is alive, and I know it. I will find her.”
Arman exhaled slowly. Seeing the conviction in the man’s face stirred hope awake in the juile. He felt the whisper of a future filling his heart, and he grasped hold of it, longing for it to be truth.
I must hope. Bren must be right. She must be alive.
~
Jurl met Harta in the sweep of blue. The perideta surrounded them with its usual fury, beating agony upon extremities and face. The clansman clenched his jaw but simultaneously found the experience exhilarating. The desert had a way of molding a man and then upending him so that he came to crave the pain. Jurl had known many for whom it had become nearly an addiction. The perideta was a peculiar experience indeed.
The two Tindel communicated with hand movements until they had settled behind the cover of a snow drift. It was the height of two men, all but frozen through, and provided a fair amount of protection from the western blasts. Regardless, the temperatures were punishing.
For just a moment, the two dropped the flaps of their face coverings. They each dipped their heads in recognition and ritual and then secured the strips anew. The elements had been given but a moment to meet their open skin, but still both cringed under the stinging bite.
“Tell me of the greenlander,” Jurl said. His voice carried just above the dissonant purr of the wind so that none other than his companion would be able to hear—not that any would be likely to tarry long enough to eavesdrop in the perilous wasteland.
Harta met his gaze. “Colette is well. She was a princess on the green.” The clanswoman stamped her feet to warm them and sliced a hand across her shoulder in gesture. “As for her purpose? I know not. She continues to feign ignorance regarding our original division with Massada—which we both know cannot be possible. But her demeanor speaks truth.”
The leader screwed his face up in deliberation. “And she came from Arman?”
“Colette certainly knows him. Got Heart Render from a frawnite who received it from him.”
Jurl’s light gray eyes hardened. They seemed to morph from smoke to stone in that brief moment. “Massada can only be playing with us,” he said severely. “That is the only explanation.”
“How can you know?” Harta asked hesitantly. She did not want to believe that the lunitata had deluded her as much as Jurl was proposing.
The leader tightened his lips at her doubt, but the expression was hidden beneath his facial coverings. “Arman has sent seals—left them in the boxes along the outskirts of the terrisdans. He is asking about her. And if we have seen her. She is apparently lost.”
Harta’s eyes widened. “But how can that be? How would she have gotten the sword from him if she were not working with him? Why would he not be concerned over its loss?”
Jurl shook his head and stomped around to circulate his blood. “This can only be a maralane plot. They are toying with us and sent us this girl. She is a derision in herself! As though we would negotiate with her! Look at her soumme! I will not allow our peoples to be part of this madness. We live to sustain life; they, to indulge.”
Harta paused, cons
idering his words. The lunitata still hovered in her mind: an enigma for whom she had begun to feel a strange fondness. “What, then, do you wish?” She shuffled around, this time more due to a restless agitation than to combat the climate.
“Let her stay. But we will not play Massada’s games. They will know nothing of what happens here. We will be as silent as snow.”
Harta dipped her head in acquiescence, yet her heart remained unsure. She herself had no answer to the bizarre situation, and the pieces seemed askew. She loosened the flap from her features in the ritual dip, nodded to the clan leader’s grim face, and concealed her worried expression again with an adept knot.
“Watch her closely. Perhaps the woman will reveal something,” Jurl added.
Harta clicked her tongue, and the two parted ways. She swept across the land back to Iret, pondering.
When Harta arrived, she had found a semblance of peace with the impossibilities. She was Tindellan, and the Tindel were used to waiting through the unthinkable. She would bide the time and see what surfaced.
It was their way. It was her way.
CHAPTER 19
Love is not exempt from pain, distance, emotion, death.
-Genesifin
Arman tugged his blue cloak securely around his person and scanned the area. He was south of the Bergin Range in the lower ground nearing the perideta, and the peaks seemed to hover menacingly along the vista, with rigid tips like accusing fingers. The sky echoed their harsh slate hue with a dull gray and a rumble that could only mean approaching storms. To the west, the onset of the desert was discernible in a hazy, unnerving blue. Trees were sparse here, for they struggled to survive so close to the perideta, and the bleak openness of the countryside encouraged thoughts of vulnerability.
The juile stoked the fire again and allowed its scorching heat to rise up. The air was thin and rife with the fragrance of electricity. Snow fell gently to the earth, but the sky above blackened, and he knew he would not remain dry for long. He huddled close to the flames and kept his eyes upon the panorama. His chest thundered as though it discerned an unforeseen danger, yet he had no alternative but to wait.
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