A figure eased its way slowly across the blue horizon. It moved in a strange fashion, pausing often and slouching, as if to examine each rock upon its path. As the Tindellan neared Arman’s blaze, the juile observed him with dark intensity.
“You’re late,” Arman huffed.
The clansman ignored the accusation and positioned himself before the blaze, settling atop an uneven stump that rocked under the slightest movement. He was bundled in layers of clothing, but the relief of the fire’s heat was evident in the soft sigh from his lips and the sagging of his tensed shoulders.
“Do you have word of her?” Arman pressed.
The clansman narrowed his eyes and met the juile’s gaze. “I’ve not heard a thing… But I am interested in why you seek her upon the blue so suddenly.”
Arman drew his jaw in severely as his stomach plummeted. “She is a friend,” he replied quietly.
I was wrong to hope, he thought with despair. Wrong.
The clansman continued to stare at him. “And no other reason?”
Arman took a breath, determinedly reining in his grief for the lunitata, and steered his mind to the conversation. “What do you mean?”
The clansman held out his hands to the caressing flames. “It simply seems odd that you should seek anyone in the peri. Most don’t even know we exist. What are you not telling me?” He paused, peering steadily at Arman with his strikingly light eyes. “How goes the hunt for malitas? Where is the sword?”
The juile bit back a curse and worked the beads between his fingers. His insides suddenly seethed with fury at Pearl, but more at himself for trusting her. He did not think the frawnite possible of abuse with the weapon, but she was thwarting any efforts he attempted toward peace. And where do I even begin to search for her?
Arman ignored him. “Will you send seal if you do hear of Colette?” he asked.
“You did not answer. Where is the sword?” the man repeated.
Arman frowned, unsure how to evade the terrible question. “Do you think I set out to destroy the spirit without help? That no one else would wield it for me?”
The clansman did not speak, but merely stared blankly at the juile, as if awaiting a confession.
“I will ask again,” Arman said resolutely. “Will you send seal if you hear of Colette?”
The clansman granted a brief grunt, and Arman was forced to accept it as agreement.
Maybe I should just tell him, Arman thought, but he felt an acute lack of courage. The tumble of hot wrath from the Tindellan people would be far too much for Massada to bear, especially when the green was already crumbling under their feet.
But maybe they would understand. I had no choice but to trust Pearl’s gortei.
The juile peered across at the pale man, searching for an element of softness. The rough features were grim, and the eyes were narrowed in condescension. The clansman pulled out his bag and rummaged through for some hard bread. He broke off a bite with his back molars and gnawed the black fare like a goat working his cud. The movement only accentuated the running ridges of the wind’s kiss.
At least try, Arman thought.
“There has been a problem with a terrisdan,” the juile began.
The clansman halted his chewing and glared at Arman. One cheek bulged with the mass of food. “Do not even begin to ask for help,” he said severely. “You have already gotten it with your sword.”
Arman frowned, still considering revealing his error with Pearl, but the clansman interrupted his thoughts with a voice of venom.
“Do not beg for another meeting either, you portal-lover.” His eyes tore into the juile with a threatening fire. “No seals, nothing.” He jabbed at the air between them with a strikingly white finger. “You’re wasting our time.”
Arman shuddered interiorly. No, the conversation could go no further, despite his desperation.
Suddenly no longer regarding temperature or approaching night, the juile plucked up his pack and turned his back to the campsite. He clamped his lips in tightly gripped emotion and swept the raw countryside with swift strides. His steps did not slow or falter, even when the skies opened up in torrents.
~
Colette raised her eyes to the sound of a gentle jingle outside the sheet partition of her quarters. She rose, face leaning forward in question, and parted the light covering with a sweep of her palm.
Gere, the man who had led her through the maze of tunnels to the council, stood before her. His mist-gray eyes were genial, and his smooth features were relaxed.
“Gere? That is your name, right?”
He nodded, pleased. “Are you well, Colette?”
Colette’s lips parted in surprise. “Yes.” She stood, unsure for a moment, and finally asked, “May I invite you in?” She opened an arm into the room as welcome.
Gere strode in easily.
Her quarters were simple and bare. In one corner rested two pallets with blankets, while the rest of the space lay open, save a small metal table that simply accentuated the scarcity of belongings.
“She’s asleep?” Gere asked in a hushed voice and arched his neck forward to peer at the bundle on the nearest pallet.
“Yes,” Colette replied.
With a grinning glance toward the babe, he situated himself at the small metal table. “May I ring for the berida?” he asked.
The lunitata agreed, perplexed at his presence and seeming confidence in her space. The clansman clambered up, stepped out of the room, and rang a little bell in the hallway. He left the sheet partly open for the server and returned to his seat.
“I did not ask, but perhaps I should have. Will you drink the caffa?”
Colette nodded, suddenly warming to the man and his uncommon thoughtfulness. “Yes. I like it. It is strong, but nice.”
His eyes hovered over the naked room with concern. “You have been here a little time, but do you have all you need?” He drummed his fingers lightly upon the metal surface.
“Yes, thank you.”
Gere paused the motion to raise his fingertips in a brief touch to his cheek. Again, his eyes fell to Mari. “She is growing,” he said.
Colette nodded, peering at the girl.
“Full of life and light,” he said. “Ah,” he added as the brew arrived. The serving girl placed the tray on the table and slipped out without a sound, only nodding to Gere when he tucked a white token into her hand.
The two sipped silently for several minutes. Colette itched to know Gere’s purpose, but he appeared content to observe Mari quietly. He poured them both fresh, steaming cups once theirs were empty.
Finally, Colette spoke, “What is it that you do here, Gere?”
The gray eyes settled upon the lunitata. They were collected, calm. “I largely manage the ponds. But I tend the gardens too.”
Colette’s face clouded briefly before she smoothed the emotion from her features; she disliked the ponds. “I have been taking shifts in the gardens over the last moon. I haven’t seen you.”
“Ah,” Gere said with a grin. “I’ve been busy with the apprentices recently. I’ve not spent much time there. Just teaching the new hands how to care for the water and fish right now.” He took a sip. “Do you enjoy your shifts?”
Colette simply nodded, attempting to collect her thoughts appropriately. She did not dislike the gardens, but they were so alien that they often left her unsettled and homesick.
Gere cocked his head to the side. “Would you prefer another occupation?”
His continuing kindness began to affect her. There had been so few soft words bestowed upon her in this hard land. She could feel the emotions stirring inside, threatening to break free. Determinedly, Colette swallowed and peered about the room, refusing to meet his eye. “No. I like the gardens.”
Gere did not press but merely drained his cup, slid his middle finger across the base, and licked it. “Thank you for sharing your afternoon.” He collected the cups and pot and returned them with several clinks to the metal tray. “May I
come again?”
Colette suddenly grew suspicious, and the flurrying emotion hardened. “Why?”
Gere smiled, perceiving her vacillating temperament. “The Tindel want to know if you are an enemy.” He laughed. “But really, I come less as a spy and more because you seem to need a friend.”
Softened, she drew the corners of her mouth up in weak gratitude. “Yes, I do.”
Gere merely nodded, plucked up the tray, and swept past the sheet.
Colette had only the roil of emotion within to remind her he had even been present. It was a small act of kindness, but in visiting her, he had given her a breath of air. She was starving for companionship, and he was the only one in the colony, besides Harta, to acknowledge her.
“Yes, I do,” she whispered to herself, soothing down the inner storm. She rose and joined Mari on the pallet.
~
Gere did not come every day, but he visited on occasion. Mari fell to adoration swiftly. Gere would scoot around Colette’s quarters on all fours laughing and singing and flushed, and the little girl, several moons old now, would howl in delight. Colette stopped raising her brow when she heard the gentle jingle. Yes, she assumed he reported back about her to the clan, but he still treated her like a person. Not everything about his kindness could be contrived—she was sure of it—and his friendship was enough to enable her to survive.
Hold on, Bren. Their standoff must end someday. I will come back to you, she thought, and continued to eke out each passing day in the dim halls of the bethaida.
~
Brenol left Veronia and spent moons chasing shadows, seeking trails of Colette where there were none. He had no plan in his mad pursuit, but he could hardly help himself. Everything in him sought to find his soumme.
Walking the terrisdans was an unsettling experience. Signs of approaching disaster marred every hill, valley, and vale for winter clutched the terrisdans with a renewed and spiteful bite. Vegetation was present, but food sources were nonetheless diminishing. Brenol cringed with every new observation, wondering how much was a result from his driving Heart Render through the soil. Yes, he had sought only to end Chaul, but the deadly stroke had brought consequences that were far from simple.
He felt the impending ruin acutely with his strange connection. The lands’ eyes were half-lidded, and the earth below the man felt stiff and lacking. The terrisdans, aside from Selet, were alive, but they never rose to converse, as if each voice was lodged permanently in a muted scream. It curled Brenol’s spine in discomfort. He felt the catastrophe of his choice with each silent footfall, and his guilt only grew.
Arman eventually knew that he could not postpone any longer. He sent the man a seal, met him days later in the lugazzi, and insisted they travel. He had given no explanation, just directive.
Brenol did not know what to make of the juile, but he felt his own lack of direction keenly, so he clambered after Arman’s pedasse as they maneuvered through snow and underbrush.
Arman, from the outset, was unnaturally quiet. The gentle sweep of the juile’s robes was the only sound that issued from him. Even at nightfall, he merely turned his dark eyes to the earth and rolled up in his blankets. Normally, Brenol would have all but shaken the moon from its course to draw speech from the juile, but his soul felt heavy and unsuited for even the most basic tasks, so he wearily accepted Arman’s reticence and curled up like an abandoned child.
As they advanced, Brenol’s grief seemed only to mount. It burned and grew and clutched his chest in a powerful squeeze. He often opened his mouth in question, but each time his sorrow bubbled up and he could not speak. Darse. His soumme. Their child.
So on they trekked.
Several days elapsed before Brenol finally found himself capable of addressing the unspoken. “When will you tell me why we’re headed to Veronia?”
The juile continued steadily.
Brenol sighed. “She’s not there, Ar. We have to look elsewhere.”
Arman fell into stride alongside the man. He looked at him with the same expression that had haunted his face for moons. Those who knew the juile well could discern it: it was the face of grief.
Arman wet his lips as if to speak but then turned his eyes forward again, unable to produce a sound.
“What’re you thinking?” Brenol asked wearily. His own face was stretched and worn.
The young man’s tone drew Arman’s onyx eyes again upon him, and his long features were grotesque in their concern. “Are you well?”
Brenol shrugged. “I’m well, Arman. Don’t worry about me.”
The juile pressed his thin lips together.
“What’re you thinking?” Brenol repeated. It was irritating to be evaded, but even more than that, it was unnerving to witness Arman’s odd behavior.
A pained glance stole the question from Brenol’s throat, and he watched as the transparent figure rubbed his face tiredly. “We’re almost there.”
Brenol sighed and matched his steps, which gratefully had eased into an easier gait. The man no longer had to choke in lungfuls of air to sprint after Arman, but he knew it would be much farther than the juile suggested. He had lived these forests, plains, and valleys and knew them well.
After an hour, the trees opened up to the valley, and Brenol took in its scenery. The place felt only eerily familiar as it was covered in a deep layer of strikingly white powder. The Perti Range jutted up in snowy thrusts to the south, and a new layer of white dusted the bowl of the meadow. The forest edged the vast circle like a towering army of guardians clothed in the cold of winter. It would be a solid six or seven matroles more to the house, but Arman drew his heels to a stop and met Brenol’s bewildered gaze.
“I’m sorry, Bren. I didn’t know how to tell you. I…”
Brenol felt his nerves tense in alertness. “What is it?”
“It’s Colette.”
“You said you hadn’t been able to track her down with the Tindel…” The sentence trailed in the air like a question.
The juile reached forward to grasp Brenol’s gloved hand. The uncustomary offering of consolation chilled Brenol to the bone.
“Bren, she’s gone.” Arman shook his head with emotion. “After we left, no one saw her for moons. Her nurse didn’t see her. Not once. She had received seals from Colette to confirm her visit in advance, but even that had been moons before… I know you had hoped on the clansmen…but the Tindel swear she never came… Bren?” Arman’s eyes were softly compassionate, and his lids dipped down as if to hide the world from them. “There was a woman taken by the fever after we left.”
Brenol’s mouth opened in a silent gape. He felt the terrible icy snake of terror slither around his gut.
Arman’s voice sounded thin in the frigid air. “She was with child and close to lifing.”
Hot tears stung Brenol’s eyes and rushed down his cold cheeks before he could even attempt to fight them. He brushed off Arman’s hand. “But how could we know it was her?” Brenol asked defiantly. “How could we?”
“Bren, wouldn’t we have found out more if she had been around? She was more than conspicuous…a lunitata with child? We would have heard if she’d lifed anywhere in the terrisdans. Or traveled anywhere. She would have sent seal. She would not seek to hide from us.”
Brenol’s chest hurt in a sudden, rigid tightness. He had feared this truth, but hearing it aloud twisted the knife almost unbearably.
“Why are we here?” he asked. Brenol turned his eyes to the southeastern rim of forest and felt his lips curl back in revulsion.
“I didn’t bring you here to trick you.”
“Didn’t you?” Brenol snapped.
Arman straightened his neck as if swallowing something unpalatable. “I came to bid farewell to a good friend, a woman of benere. I brought you that you might have the opportunity as well. You may choose what you will.”
At this, the juile quit Brenol’s side and strode to the break where forest met the lip of the land before curving down into a smooth ro
ll. Brenol watched the even steps caress the top of the land like a baker’s knife icing a cake. He, though, stood with arms stiff at his sides. After a distance, the juile slowed and examined the area. Finally, Arman’s figure stilled, standing as sentinel among the markers and the dead; the juile had found whatever he sought.
Brenol burned with a sudden hatred for the place. Most families buried their deceased in lots on their own land, but this was a place where any might be laid. This graveyard was home mostly to criminals, beggars, strangers, the unwanted. He longed to hold onto the hope that she was still alive, but now, in this bitter moment, his eyes streamed because of what he knew must be true. She was no more. And now her body rested amongst the outcasts because he had not accepted as much.
“But you were loved, Col. You were,” he whispered weakly.
An hour passed, and eventually Arman stirred. His clothing rippled, and he knelt for a moment before standing aright with the composure of completion. He peered across the terrain at Brenol and then turned west without another glance. The dark figure laced his steps along the line of the forest; Arman was ever a creature of concealment.
When Brenol was certain he was alone, he toed his way through the numbing cold, trailing the pedasse in the snow. The cemetery was as he remembered it, having regularly crossed this way to the towns to barter and supply. Never had he stopped. Never had he foreseen a time when he would.
Arman’s pedasse wound through the area but cluttered one section specifically. Brenol approached with heaving breaths and stopped frequently to dry his streaking vision.
There it was. A stone, gray as a storm, rested before a plot. It was smooth and flat and would have made a lovely seat by a tree, or a paver to tread upon in a garden. It had been cleared of any snow or debris so that its markings were unobscured. Resting atop its sweeping surface was an object he knew well. It was the glass hos Colette had unleashed in Ziel. How Arman had retrieved it was a mystery in itself.
Grief hot and wild burst from Brenol. He choked on his tears, retched on his knees, and shook in his snow-drenched garments. The time seemed to flow through his hands like a ribbon escaping with the wind, but he was paralyzed by the torment of loss, and soon by the pain of the elements. With bones rattling, he curled around the marker and ran his fingers across the engravings. His cracked lips muttered the words, over and over, over and over. Woman and Infant, Victims of the Icar.
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