“He’s at the pond.” The milk-white fingers pointed to the far wall, where the heavy black tapestry hung ominously.
“Thank you,” she said, sighing inwardly. Colette shied from the room with dogged habit, for the pond area was markedly alien. It made her spine tingle cold just thinking about it.
The little head nodded. She brought fingertips to cheek in Tindellan recognition and ducked again amidst the blue foliage. The others’ eyes traced after the lunitata like foam following a wave, eventually returning to their labors as she pressed through the mass of light blue.
The metal spherisol loomed before her as she shuffled through the garden. Her stride slowed as it filled her vision, and she tilted her head to the side. The sphere had never ceased to fascinate her. The hue, the vast size, the heat: all tugged at her as though she were linked to it in a remarkable way.
But why?
Pressing her fingers to her sides, she fought the impulse to touch it. Colette had been warned of the dangers—burns, blisters, skin blackening—but the lunitata nevertheless found it nearly irresistible. She felt like a child in a gallery of tiny glass objects; she could rarely walk the length of the gardens without temptation tickling her fingertips.
Today the instinct angered her. It was yet another reminder of her foreignness and how she did not belong. She would have kicked the globe in frustration but heard the close rustling of the harvesters and pushed herself onward. There was no need to add still more discord between their peoples.
The heat. It’s nearly unbearable.
Colette lifted the tight clothing away from her damp skin in a futile attempt to air her body. When released, it clung back to her stickily.
The tapestry tunnel soon loomed before her. She covered the remaining distance and labored against the coarse black fabric.
There were only two portiere between the pond and garden, and within a moment she heaved aside the remaining thick material and blinked in the strange light. It was dimmer here than in the gardens and certainly warmer. One orb—sphericali—charged with heat lay at the bottom of the pond’s bed, warming the waters to the temperatures that Ziel had once maintained. The second was a globe of light—spherilun—that had been suspended high above the water with thick metallic cables that stretched across the entire ceiling. The spherilun was a strange merging between the silver-black ball she had seen on the perideta and the blue sphere of radiance in the garden. It glowed with an even eerier cerulean beam, faint and almost pulsating.
It feels so other. So wrong…
The water itself was several hundred strides across, a sickly green-black hue, and was interrupted across its girth by a flat, metallic bridge-dock. Some plant life was cultivated along the edges, but mainly the bank was a mass of gray pebbles. They screeched under her steps, and she winced as if in pain. She wiped the sweat gathering on her forehead and smiled wryly. Everything about the room raised goose bumps upon her skin, despite the heat.
Colette closed her eyes for a moment, breathed, and turned her gaze in a roving quest for Gere. The space was deserted and she spotted him quickly. His short figure hunched upon the silver dock, where he busily sorted through a crop of kelp. His baskets and colanders littered the small walkway, and his white hair almost appeared gray from perspiration.
Colette sprung forward eagerly. Looking upon the clansman’s face was a gift. It reminded her of home and the smooth features of those she loved.
She sought to secure a stray curling lock behind her ears, but the humidity fought her. She shrugged to herself and lithely covered the remaining length.
Gere caught the sound of her movements and arched his neck sideways, breaking into a smile as he saw her. “Hello, dark one.” Sweat from the labor and heat beaded along his hairline.
She granted him a nod in greeting. The nickname had originally grated her insides raw, but she had grown to accept it, even from the malignant in the colony.
I take all now. As though I am fading within…
“No Mari today?” he asked genially, righting himself.
“No.”
“Were you harvesting the early blossoms?” he asked, but glancing at her clothing, he could see she was far too clean. As his gaze found her eyes, he paused.
“Are you growing tired of your shifts?” he asked with gentle concern. “We can move you to another section. Or do you want to work away from the gar—”
Something about her face suddenly killed the question on his lips. Colette normally cloaked her emotion with great skill. Today, though, there was a wildness, a desperation present that seemed beyond taming.
“What is it?” Gere asked.
She again brushed a hair back from her face and peered into his eyes with a look of near defiance. Her skin had paled during her time in the bethaida, but the lunitata glow remained striking.
“Gere, why’ve you never gone out on the peri?”
Gere’s lantern jaw tightened for a moment but then loosened after a quick glance at her taut frame. His faded gray eyes suddenly issued a gentle twinkle. “I imagine you didn’t travel to the ponds today to hear my story. But regardless,” he said, with a familiar Tindellan gesture of a pinkie raise, “there’s been no real reason. I could run atop the blue like a silly child seeking approval, but I’d remain the same. Would I not? I’d slink down here the next day, with a pocked and weathered face, only to never step upon the peri crust again… My place with my people is here. It is tilling, it is growing, it is harvesting, it is tending the fish.”
“They call you less than a man,” she said.
He did not bristle as expected but merely raised his chin incredulously. “I’d almost believe you were trying to make me angry.” But just as easily, the expression softened, and a smile spread across his white features. “I know they say as much. But I’d think they wouldn’t share it with you.”
“With me?”
Amusement sparkled again in the mist-gray eyes, but he did not respond.
“And those who don’t accept you for your smooth skin?”
He brushed his shoulder with a palm. “I care not.”
Colette paused to consider, sucking on her lower lip.
“What is it you really wish to know?” Gere asked. He gave her a knowing glance. “You despise the ponds.”
She arched an eyebrow up in wonder; she had never breathed a word of her repugnance. Her eyes lifted to gaze on the suspended metal sphere, the huge corded wiring, the eerie brilliance.
“Why does it emit such a strange light?”
Gere’s lips tugged back into a grin, although he attempted to hide it. He spoke hesitantly, yet with a mirth she could not pinpoint. “I don’t believe there are many who’d agree with me telling you this,” he said, raising a pinkie again. “But somehow I don’t think there’s any danger in it.”
He jutted an elbow in the direction of the hovering globe. “You have stumbled upon our greatest weakness, and the Tindel are not tolerant of deficiencies. There does not seem to be an answer, though.
“The spherisol on the whole have been an immense success. They enable life, they bring heat and sustenance. Hundreds, thousands, live because of them. But in all our history we’ve never been able to make life thrive.”
Gere dipped in a squat to pick up a sodden handful of kelp. Water seeped from his hand. “I’ve never seen the lush green of your world, but I understand that we lack much in comparison.” He held out the blue-gray slop before tossing it back into its basket.
“The light for the ponds has been the greatest trial. The earliest attempts to maintain fish were disastrous. The spherisols killed off every school, and the Tindel were forced to travel back over the peri to obtain more live fish for breeding. It has been a tedious process. The light reacts poorly with the water for some reason, so both the distance,” his hand pointed up to the towering ceiling, “and the dimness are necessary. As well as the need to separate the heat and light in here.” He shrugged, but the irritation could not be erased entirely f
rom his expression. “It’s been, and continues to be, a source of much frustration. We’re missing something—in here especially, but also in the gardens—yet perhaps that’s the fate and lot of those living underground.”
Colette peered about, chewing on this new information.
Gere reached out and touched her forearm. His hand was warm, comforting. Her loneliness lifted like a lake beneath a violent storm and threatened to crash out in a rush. Softly, she breathed in control and looked into his pale eyes.
He’s so kind.
In a breath, he drew her to him. It was a delicious feeling after so many days of isolation, and she felt almost powerless against the driving need for connection; her heart was parched. He inhaled her hair and ran his fingertips through the dark tresses.
“You needn’t be so alone, you know,” he whispered. “I love you. I have from the beginning. I could take care of you. I could be yours. You’d never have to return.” His arms engulfed her in a wash of comfort.
The longing that welled within terrified her. She wanted little else than to sink into his promises and forget her failures. She breathed slowly. He smelled of soil and sweat, but it was not altogether unpleasant.
It could all end…
“I would be a father to Mari,” he said, soft as mist in her ear.
Something in Colette snapped awake. “She has a father.”
She pushed his arms back forcefully, but her emerald eyes spoke different words to Gere. It was plain to him that she wanted love and was starving for it. He gently pressed her arms down and again pulled her close. She barely resisted against his light hold.
“You do not even know whether he is alive. The terrisdans are failing… Stay here with me.” His arms closed around her back, and she felt a security that had been missing for so long. “Am I truly so difficult to love?” he asked.
She withdrew from his warm chest and gazed into his smooth, pale face. All their misunderstandings seemed different as she peered at them from this angle—from his arms. He had been present to her, even if they had failed to comprehend each other.
Bren, her mind whispered, but the raw drive for affection continued to steer her.
Gere’s words carried such appeal. No, he certainly was not difficult to love. So much good resided in him, so much true benere. He was alive, free. None had been as kind to her here as Gere.
But could I? Isn’t love so much more? Her awakening heart throbbed, and she felt the beginnings of queasiness at her desire. Indecision blinded her.
Gere gazed at her tranquilly and casually released his embrace. He retreated a step, and Colette stirred with the impulse to advance forward into his arms. Her skin tingled where his fingers had just rested.
“Colette, please consider it. You’re all I want. I could make you happy. This could all end.”
She stepped back and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment before numbly shuffling her tired feet back across the muggy shore and through the tapestries. The gardens were but a wash of faded blue and she passed through without truly seeing them. Nothing was awake to her but the memory of Gere’s eyes, words, embrace. His tenderness weakened the knees beneath her.
Could I really just leave it all behind?
The thought was so easy, and nothing had been easy in ages.
But Bren?
It had been so long.
Is he even alive? Does he still love me?
A small voice inside her spoke, There’s nothing left for you in Massada. Only death. Do it for Mari. Think of Mari.
Colette blinked in shock to find herself at the garden’s exit. She hefted the tapestries aside and felt the cool air rush upon her. She dallied mindlessly through the passages and eventually ducked into a dark room along the corridors. Thankfully, it was empty. She slouched down to her heels and tucked her head into her slender arms. Her hands crept to her damp face, and she followed the softly weathered lines that had once been smoothness.
I am losing myself no matter what I choose, she thought as she wept.
~
“Is there any way to destroy only Chaul’s portal? And leave the others?” Brenol asked.
Arman halted his long stride to face the man. Brenol appeared diminutive to the juile, as though shrunken under an invisible weight.
“No,” Arman replied. “The maralane wove them mysteriously, and not even the wolves know how to stop the shifting of the doors.”
Brenol pondered silently.
“The portals are the only path for entry. And the one way to prevent another entry is to destroy them all. Chaul is most certainly not of this realm. He—it—must have been from some kind of immaterial world, some spirit domain.”
Brenol shuddered. One Chaul was enough for him—he couldn’t imagine an entire world.
The juile continued, “I do not necessarily think he was evil from the beginning. But if he could never return to his own world? And was stranded alone in foreignness? I don’t know what any of us would do under such circumstances.”
Brenol shook his head disbelievingly. “Say what you will. He was evil.”
Arman nodded. “I do not argue his choices. But now we have a choice.”
Brenol combed his fingers through the coppery mess upon his head. It was a haphazard mix of lengths since he had ruthlessly taken a knife to it the previous moon. His face was strained, and his dark jade eyes were hard. His entire countenance was limned with pain.
Arman scrutinized him with a piqued interest. He perceived something that he had not expected. “I’m surprised, Bren. After all this time, you still consider returning to your world?”
Brenol rubbed his freckled face into a white stretch. He averted his eyes, reluctant to meet the juile’s gaze. Finally, he stammered out a half-response. “I just’ve lost so much. I… I…”
Arman nodded in understanding, if not comprehension. Most would want to escape such a nightmare, but the juile still had not expected it from Brenol. He saw that Brenol could one day live again, even if the man was presently drowning in grief. Arman hesitated for a breath but then asked as if he could not prevent himself, “Do you think you could ever find another soumme?”
Brenol’s face soured. He could not speak for fear of losing control, so he merely shook his head. There would be no other. There could never be. Brenol knew Arman was not seeking to replace Colette with another; that was an outright impossibility for any soumme. But he could not even consider a union with another without a storm of revulsion overtaking him. It was Colette or no one.
“The tie of the soumme is strong. I understand. You are not the only one who has chosen solitude after so great a loss.”
Brenol stared at his black palms as if the answers lay there. Several minutes elapsed. He longed for the harsh twisting in his chest to ease, but he knew it never would. How could it? The longing for Colette would grip him until death took his hand and led him to the next.
“Not all of us get a Sara, Arman,” Brenol eventually said, in the hope he sounded jovial.
Arman’s eyes twinkled at the name, but he remained undeterred in his point. He stepped forward and caught Brenol’s eyes. “It is your choice, but I think you must choose speedily.”
The juile paused and added, “Be aware that I do not know if the portals would even open again for you. Ordah will not be helping you this time. He has made it clear he will not leave his seclusion.”
“The portals open for the wolves.” The sentence hung in the air as question.
“Hmmmm,” Arman replied noncommittally. “Perhaps you should talk to one.”
“You’re so set upon destroying them? What if that is our true method of escape?” He frowned, recalling what he had originally believed would save them: Colette as the Lady of Purpose. Brenol’s fists clenched until bone showed white. The Genesifin was wrong. Deniel was wrong. There is no Lady, he thought bitterly.
“You know I have not abandoned the Genesifin yet. There is still time for it to pass… No, I merely think it wise to cut off all path
s that could bring another malitas upon our world. Would you not agree?”
Destroy a path for evil, but destroy the last path for life as well, the man mused. He remained unconvinced.
“What’re you not telling me, Arman? I feel like I’m missing something. What’s really going on?”
Arman’s face stretched into a smile. Brenol found his own lips twitching up just to behold the handsome evenness that was the juile’s grin. Even after so many orbits, Brenol found the transformation incredible—and it had become so infrequent of late.
“It is good to have you returned to your reason, Bren.”
Brenol laughed despite himself. “What do you mean?”
“You’re thinking, perceiving. At least in this moment.”
Has it really been that long? Brenol wondered. “And?” he asked.
Arman rested his hands together in a cup-like gesture that Brenol had never before seen. “Should we destroy the portals, yes, it would be for us. We would prevent another evil from marring our world… But I have another motive as well. It is to make peace with the Tindel. It is my hope that if I bring tidings of the destroyed portals, that the truth of the missing sword will not be as damaging,” Arman said. “But we shall see.”
Brenol raised a questioning brow. “But why would that bring their favor?”
“That is a story in itself,” he began. “Orbits ago, the Tindel lived in Massada, in the lush lands. They were a people of the terrisdans and no different than any other human. It was shortly after foreigners began to arrive through the portals that an argument arose. The Tindel perceived the caves to be a grave risk, and truly they were. Some horrors came out—you heard the tales about the Children of Death. The Tindel would have destroyed the portals, but the structures were still under the protection of the maralane. The lake men were obstinate and would not allow any portal to be touched. Both sides claimed they stood for the protection of Massada, and neither budged.
“The conflict became so bitter that the Tindel eventually left the lake areas. They moved out to the edges of the terrisdans. Initially, it was rumored, that they trained for war, but whether that is true or not I cannot say. Regardless of original intent, the men eventually chose to remain out in the wilderness to prepare for whatever came through the portals. They believed they were responsible for saving Massada.
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