Colette stood with new knowing. She needed no deliberation. So much good could issue from this compromise. Both peoples could be served, both could find a consolation to ease long-harbored fears.
“I see wisdom in your words,” she finally replied. Even if there’s suspicion in your hearts. “I will accept your title.”
The line rippled with a current of relief. Her heart softened considerably to them; they truly believed she would have withheld Mari’s hand from their gardens, or even used the power for other gains. It was pitiful. They were so strong, but their hearts had hardened like their warped skin.
“We shall learn from each other as we go,” Colette said gently. “I will not abuse what is for us all. Do not fear.”
Harta’s lips curled up in a tiny smile. It was becoming, and Colette was struck by the grace of her femininity—the rare times it peeked out from the tough shell. The clanswoman lifted her fingertips to the air. The others shifted uncomfortably, but eventually each followed her example. Colette graciously accepted the gesture, walking to every hand and lighting her fingertips to each in a brief touch. The gentle ritual, though solemnly undertaken, did not erase the strange and unsure expressions behind the pale eyes.
“We have shared heat in marking. May our peoples be one,” Harta said softly. All, without question, heard.
CHAPTER 27
A prophet’s peace is rarely lasting.
-Genesifin
The rumor of Colette’s new title rippled through the bethaida with the subtlety of a tsunami. It seemed to yank even the most indifferent into the ranks of the curious as whispers of the foreign queen washed through their home.
They were not fearful, or at least they proved loathe to display any such weakness, but rather fascinated as to how she would now behave. Their pale eyes observed her as she walked, dined, spoke. It was as though she had suddenly become a very interesting, very important bug.
The leaders had warned her that the following moons, and possibly orbits, would be a time of transition. It would only be natural for the clans to have mixed feelings about this new arrangement, even if all reveled in the miracle of the spherisols. They had urged her to return to her shifts in the gardens, claiming it would calm many suspicions, and they in turn would seek to help the people adjust. She assented and resumed her work, but perceived little effect.
For some unknown reason, she felt irritated at the trailing eyes of the bethaida clansmen. Resentment began to sprout up within her like a mushroom; she would kick it easily away, but in the morning it would be there again. She was weary of every moment being a period of waiting, of continually craving friendship and connection and joy. She longed for a deep change, but could not guess what that would even look like.
Her drive to flee the perideta, which had subsided temporarily in the face of the garden’s miracle, awakened anew. Her new room—allotted as royal concession—seemed vast and hollow, and she paced more than she rested within its spacious walls. She wearied of the Tindellan chimes and felt more alone than ever. The alienation worked as a starting block, and she itched to sprint forward from Iret. She imagined she could aid the gertali in the terrisdans somehow. Somehow. Anything was better than this unending isolation.
But news of her intentions stirred further agitation among the clan.
One evening, Harta appeared in her doorway. She jingled the bell and gave a soft two clicks of the tongue before slipping in past the dark canvas. Her eyes met Colette’s immediately. A storm appeared to be brewing in the clanswoman.
“Why do you go to the terrisdans?” she asked quietly. “The tunnels are not habitable yet. You will be living in a harsh land with few supplies.” Her face creased deeply in consternation. “Why risk yourself? And the child?”
“I know these things,” Colette replied briskly. “Mari, please put your things into the bag.”
The little girl smiled and slowly began to settle her trinkets into the sack on the floor. She formed a line with them in the base of the case, talking playfully to each piece in turn.
“The Tindel are afraid,” Harta said.
Colette let the cloak drop from her hands and faced the clanswoman. The simplicity of the statement caught her attention more than the truth of it. She did not doubt their discomfort, but it seemed as though Harta was suggesting something more.
“What are you saying?”
“Take Gere. Stay. Make lunitata babies and unite our lines. Too much rides upon you and your one little girl, and now you are taking her away. You are not one of us. But you could be.” Her face pleaded as much as her words. There was a desperation even in this strong woman.
Colette exhaled wearily. Harta speaks my own thoughts… She opened her hand towards the table and waited for the clanswoman to sit. She touched her guest’s shoulder in Tindellan fashion and lowered herself slowly into her own seat.
“Mari, please go ring the bell.”
The child nodded and happily bounded into the hallway. Her vibrant red curls bounced with every movement. The bell calling the berida pealed repeatedly until her mother raised her voice just above the din. “Mari! That’s enough, sweetie. Goodness.”
The girl emerged from the hallway with a wide grin, pleased. Her toddler cheeks dimpled, and she laughed merrily as she returned to her things and nonsense chatter.
Tea arrived shortly, carried by a young girl with a long nose and curious eyes. Her skin was as blanched as milk, and her clothes were neat. Colette gave the child a smile, but the girl merely blinked in response. The tray clinked upon the metal table, and she slunk out silently after Colette handed her a small token. The lunitata waited for the light steps to trail away before she spoke.
“I know that is the simple way. I know… and maybe that’s how it will turn eventually. But, Harta, I just cannot explain it. I need more time to let go of Bren.”
And what do I make of my oath? I promised to be with him for my whole life, for his whole life. He may have left, but doesn’t he still live? My soumme…
“It seems like the right choice, but it cannot be… For now,” the lunitata added to mollify.
Colette lifted the pungent tea to her lips and felt the heat and strength flow down her throat. While she had grown more accustomed to the beverage since her first day, it still worked upon her like a sharp smack. She was usually grateful, and this was no exception.
“We don’t even know if it’s my offspring,” Colette continued. “I can’t make the spherisols change, so more than likely it’s because of her father. He was from another world.” The past tense of the verb stuck in her mouth with a sharp bitterness. Colette breathed and let it wash away.
Harta stared at the shiny table. Her thick fingers drummed upon it without sound, and she rubbed the smooth surface beneath her palms. “I trust you, Colette. I hope that we understand each other now, after nearly two orbits.” She glanced at Mari. Her eyes only held tenderness for the young creature.
Finally, Harta’s gaze returned to Colette. “But I think you’re being rash.” Her tone dipped into a silky contralto. “You hurt… We all hurt. But please, think before you fly. You’ll not destroy our alliance with this move, but now is the time to make it strong. Give them no room for fear. Unite us, Colette. Unite us.”
Harta’s words flowed around Colette’s heart like a ribbon. My cartess, it whispered. It danced and waved and billowed in a flawless logic, yet it sliced at her insides as though its edges were razors. Colette sipped in silence, not knowing what to say.
“You know my piece. You know Gere’s heart.” Harta laughed softly. “The whole of Tindel knows his heart. You need only nod and the man would cut off his leg… or any other man, really. You’re desirable, Colette. You’re queen. You hold Mari. You have the power to make our world green, possibly forever. Your line will mark a place with us until the end. Many clansmen see this with eager eyes.”
Colette gave a nod of her head but did not indicate the truth: her insides were revolting. She recalled all too eas
ily the looks of repugnance given to her “portal child” and the initial remarks naming the girl a monster. Gere was one matter, but these pawing hordes, seeking her simply for her fertility or her daughter’s gift… It was nauseating. They wanted to don her as easily as they would a coat, and this fate would be marked for Mari too. This was not love, this was not life.
The tea obviously finished, the lunitata dipped her smallest finger into the empty cup and raised it to her mouth. Harta nodded absently as she sat in thought, but then stopped abruptly. She held out her arm to prevent Colette’s movements. “You’ve used the wrong finger.”
Colette gazed into Harta’s eyes and saw kindness and the same flicker of femininity that had peeked through in the gardens. Colette raised her eyebrows in question.
“You no longer dip your smallest finger. You are royalty. I’m considerably lower than you.”
Colette scrunched her face in confusion. “I was told to always use this, regardless. And never to use the thumb.” There had been no social etiquette lesson given, even when she had requested.
“Tindel conclude meals or drinks as one. We all take the last drop or crumb together. The intent is unity, even if there is a social stamping to it.” Harta dipped her right pinkie into the damp cup. She raised it to her lips, licking it. “The smallest finger is used when one’s companion is higher in rank or power.”
Harta then dipped her ring finger and lifted it up for Colette to see. An amber drop slid down the thick finger. She drew it to her tongue. “The third is for peers.”
She did the same for the middle finger. “Second is for those below you.” Colette nodded; she had seen this gesture most of the time in her shared meals. Now that the meaning was evident, she was glad she had not known. It would have only alienated her further during her loneliest moments.
Harta’s expression softened as she dipped in her index finger. It came up dry, but still she completed the movement to her mouth. “First is family.”
I’ve never seen that one, Colette thought wryly.
“There’s often a mingling of these, though. Your grandmother is your elder, but beloved.” She dipped in both her index and pinkie.
Her eyes danced briefly. “But there can be all kinds of complications, so it is best to keep it to two so as not to exceed oneself. I knew a man who once dipped his hand to his plate and like a fool tried to suck all his fingers at once.” She chuckled softly.
“And the thumb?” Colette asked timidly. The memories still stung. It had happened several times, the first being with the strange men she had found in her quarters, and she recalled the subsequent incidents with the vividness that pain imprints. The looks of disdain that accompanied the dips of the thumb. She had walked away like a child mocked in an adult’s circle: humiliated, small, and without any hope of comprehending their meaning.
“Well, it truly depends upon which hand,” Harta replied cautiously. “The left is for royalty. It’s obvious to most when it’s made, for all the other gestures happen with the right. It has not been used by the Tindel in many orbits, unless perhaps in jest… This will obviously change now.” She stared steadily at her companion, as if implying more than she spoke.
“But the right?”
Harta pressed her lips together in scorn. “Only the basest would use it. It is a foul gesture…”
“What does it mean?” Colette asked in a near whisper.
Harta hesitated, but then became resolute. She spoke steadily, “It is equivalent to saying you are a stillborn.”
“Oh.”
“You know how vile that is, do you not?”
Colette nodded. She was not blind. It was more than the disturbing loss of a baby. The Tindel reacted fanatically to the passing of their young and women prone to miscarriage were scorned. Birthing a stillborn was one of the heaviest infractions a Tindellan woman could commit, regardless of control or intent. Life and survival were crucial on the perideta; their loss was disastrous.
Colette exhaled as she again recalled the faces, the dips of the thumb as they sneered at her. Strangely, she felt the sweet caress of indifference. They had been childish, and it touched her no further.
Harta’s face grew severe and focused. “Watch their thumbs. They will switch them if they dare, but know it’s in your power to cut them off if you see it.” She lifted up her right thumb, motioned a swift swipe with the other hand, and tucked the thumb behind her palm. “You are queen. Do not let them turn you into a mockery.”
She stood, bent forward, and dipped her right index finger and left thumb together into her empty cup. She licked her fingers as she stared unhesitatingly into Colette’s eyes, and then she slipped from the room.
~
Arman’s knowing smile exasperated Colette. “Am I never a surprise to you?” she asked with a flourish. Brenol had spoken of this trait often, usually with keen appreciation. To her, it still felt odd to have another person know her own mind better than she knew it herself.
Arman’s tender eyes watched the lovely lunitata as she retrieved each item from her pack and replaced it in its familiar spot. The room was relatively bare, but with each new possession restored, an obvious peace nestled into her countenance.
“Colette, I merely have eyes.”
“When did you know?”
“I saw it in you after you had walked the gardens, though you had remained conflicted. I did not think it wise for you to fly, but it was your choice to make.” And you only would have grasped it more stubbornly had I pushed you any sooner, he thought.
His expression was so kind, it could not help but mollify. She grinned in return and continued her unpacking. Mari chattered happily in the corner, forming her trinket line and marching the objects forward slowly as each crept up in succession. She giggled, curled her face into a scowl, and wagged her finger at a bird figurine. He quickly joined the ranks.
Arman smiled lightly, but inside it felt like a grimace. An ache twisted in his chest like a growing pain. He loved Mari, he loved Colette. Plus, the thought of parting with this last genuine tie to Brenol—however brief or enduring the separation proved to be—was crushing, and the pain was only increasing as his departure neared. He watched Colette slide about the room with her easy gait and allowed his heart a moment of stinging despondency before reining in his senses. It mattered not if this was easy for him. It was the path of benere. There was nothing for Colette in the terrisdans, at least right now. Their routes split, and his eyes must blaze before him, not trail behind.
“Why do you go back?”
Arman met her gaze stoically, but he wondered if she perceived his turmoil. Her question was not new to him. He had wrestled with it for many nights, yet it served little purpose to admit as much. He merely flicked his fingers out nonchalantly. “I have things I must do. I want to help the Massadans. And the bethaidas there will need more than those here. It is no simple feat to create an underground home for humans, the alate, wolves, and more.”
“Is it even possible?” she asked curiously.
“We will try.”
“Let me know when you need my help. I will come.”
He smiled. “I know.”
A serious look straightened Colette’s features as she lifted a small, creased paper from her bag. “Will you carry a seal for my mother? And speak of my love? She weighs heavy on my heart and thoughts.”
“Of course,” he said, slipping the sealed triangle into his gray folds.
Colette continued to unpack, but her movements now seemed distracted and aimless.
Arman’s eyes swept across to Mari playing happily upon the ochre floor. “And what of Mari?” The simple question was heavy with underlying complexity.
“What of her?” Colette responded almost curtly.
Arman’s glance sparkled with amusement; so often she reminded him of Brenol, yet she had a streak of temper that even his copper head could not match. “What do the Tindel propose?”
“Much.” Colette exhaled a soft, mirthless la
ugh. “They want to take her across the peri to each bethaida. But I’m not sure if I care to have them parade my daughter across the blue.”
“Are you concerned for her safety?”
“No. She’s too much an asset for them. They’ll probably carry her in a heated litter, wrapped in Tindellan gortas, and feed her grapes and chocolate along the way.”
Arman chuckled at the image. “Then what is on your mind?”
Colette willed herself to breathe steadily as she felt Arman’s gaze penetrating past skin and flesh. Finally, she faced the juile, and an uncharacteristic bashfulness flushed her cheeks and neck. “Arman? May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Not yet…”
“Yes?”
“But over time…do you think it would be wrong to take another soumme?”
Arman’s face was uneven and awkward in pondering. Eventually he met her gaze. “What is your heart saying to you?”
Colette turned her attention inward and studied her emotions carefully. The silence and his patient glance both seemed to tug awake an understanding in her. She sighed. “I…I don’t think I could know peace if I did.”
“Tell me,” the juile said. His voice was gentle.
“I promised him faithfulness.” She nodded, sagging slightly, but with a sense of acceptance. “I don’t know why I ask you. I guess I know my answer… I don’t think I could endure the rest of my days if I wasn’t true to my oath.”
Colette pictured Brenol, and an ache flooded through her. She missed him terribly. Flying to Gere—a truly good man—seemed so natural and appealing, as though it would heal the chasm of pain, but as she peered down inside her depths, her stomach stirred in unease. “I…I think I would itch down to my bones.” She smiled faintly, but her face still appeared limp with reluctance. “But I don’t like it. It isn’t easy this way.”
“Colette, I don’t think you said the words of the soummal oath because they were easy.”
The Forbidding Blue Page 37