He attempted to sit up as he cradled his throbbing head, but it was not the injury that kept his heart thundering; he knew he still lay in Conch. Despite his disorientation, he was determined to do what he must to get back to the lugazzi.
He did not have the chance.
“I am the last,” Conch whispered weakly in the breeze. “The last terrisdan.”
Brenol wondered how he had not noticed the frailty in the voice earlier. The blinding fear and shame which had previously been throttling him suddenly drained away, and compassion ushered into its place. He brushed the soil beneath him, recalling the terror that often accompanied approaching death.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here with you.”
“You will tell her?”
“I will tell her,” he said, finding tears washing down his cold cheeks. “Whoever she is, I’ll find her for you.”
The land sighed, and its eye fell rigid and inert.
“Old friend,” Brenol whispered hoarsely, feeling the lack of Conch’s presence in every bone. “Farewell.”
He choked at his next attempts at words, dipped his shaggy head, and wept without inhibition.
The terrisdans were no more.
~
Over several moons, Colette observed and attended the berida network in which servers moved and worked in the bethaida. The habitations were divided into various sections, and the children rotated through them, with the exceptionally skilled servers caring for the Tindellan elite. The entire system was ordered and precise. Training, payment, accounting. Everything was committed to memory and then tallied before the roster at the close of shift, and the children flew about as if well-oiled cogs in a time piece. The berida was not overly complex, and she found she grasped the workings of it all after two septspan.
It took much longer to memorize the secrets crannies of the bethaida, but that was what was truly fascinating. The servers knew the hallways and twists of corridors better than any, and they scurried about with purpose. Tunnels that had been tapestried off and forgotten were utilized by the swift little legs, and abandoned rooms became places of covert games and laughter whenever free time could be snatched.
Not all the children were eager for Colette to know their ways. They regarded her suspiciously with their thin, pale faces—their looks eerie reflections of those she had seen on the faces of their elders. Colette did not force anything but continued to learn and befriend those who would accept her.
And many proved willing. Her heart discovered solace in the strange companionship she had found. It made the icy strangeness of the adults seem a silly game, for she was acquiring the love of their children. They were often drawn to the “dark one” out of curiosity, but Colette’s genuine kindness and interest helped win their hearts.
Mari did the rest.
One afternoon, Colette brought Mari with her to the fifth sector. The toddler sat quietly on her hip as she slipped through the corridors and slowly slid down dark passages. Mari regarded it all with a somber interest.
Colette paused and closed her eyes. She sifted through her memory to place the exact location where Hazel had ducked to reveal a private tunnel. She followed the image behind tapestry and through darkness.
Colette emerged and entered the small space. It was no larger than a simple bedroom for an average Tindel, with smooth clay floors and two sconces. One was utilized and its lantern gave off a dull glow. In the center of the room sat a handful of youth, circled and playing opit: a game involving dice, a small ball, and a whittled fish. Their startled eyes darted up with alarm for a moment, but then Hazel smiled widely and raced to greet the two. One haughty boy opened his mouth to object, but his words died in his throat at the sight of the child.
Mari wiggled out of her mother’s arms and laughingly ran to the center of the circle. She took each hand in turn and kissed it with utter innocence before sitting down upon whatever was left of their game. She smiled and gazed at them with her sparkling green eyes.
There were many hushed whispers. “The green one.” “The gift.” “Her hair!”
Their expressions were full of awe, but also joy, as the toddler moved about them with ease and simplicity. She was not a creature of guile, just love and laughter.
Mari is the key to this people, Colette thought, smiling. She saves them, but with unassuming gentleness. She found tears welling in her eyes. Her heart flooded with gratitude: her daughter, this place, this chance, this moment, her cartess.
I will live fully. I will, she promised.
Her nights might remain in the ghost world forever, but her days would be full of life.
~
Arman scrutinized the hovel’s exterior. He clicked the link of beads within his pocket in ordered code—what is he thinking living out here?—and approached with soft footfalls.
The home—if it could be termed as much—was little more than a heap of mismatched planks nailed together. Apparently no eye had been given toward efficiency, and cracks as wide as the width of his thumb remained, allowing the wintry blasts of the wilderness to slice through without mercy. The door was a slab of canvas, thick enough to not bend with the wind but falling several digits too high from the earth.
He is a fool, Arman thought, but then he cocked his head, and his mouth spread into a wry, pitying smile. No, this was deliberate. He chose this.
“Ordah?” he called.
A sputtering cough was the only reply. Arman swiftly pressed past the door flap and entered the miniscule space.
It was no more than three strides across and nearly bare. In one corner, a fireplace had been mortared together with smooth, white stones. It had been crafted with greater care than the surrounding edifice, yet it remained cold and without the song of crackling heat. An emaciated figure lay curled before the empty hearth on a mess of straw. His withered body, shivering beneath a thin blanket, racked with coughing.
Arman bent to the shrunken man and placed a hand upon his forehead. It was cool to the touch. “You old fool,” he said softly.
Ordah merely gazed back wearily.
The juile rose and exited to search for sticks and kindling and reentered to build up a warm blaze. He found a pot, collected some water, and set it to boil. He ducked out again, toting a bowl, and returned with it brimming with a clumpy assortment of straw and mud. He set this aside momentarily and prepared tea, eventually assisting Ordah to a seated position and handing him a mug.
“You punish yourself far worse than Massada ever would have,” Arman said matter-of-factly. He collected the bowl of mud and began to scoop slops of the mixture into the slits and holes of the shack with his fingertips.
“What do you know of my motives?” Ordah snapped. His voice was cracked and weak.
Arman paused to turn and peer at the shriveled prophet. The man’s cheeks were ashy and gaunt, and the steely eyes were sunken in and—save the current sweep of anger—fireless.
“Nothing,” Arman replied simply. “Nothing at all.”
Like a candle thrown into a dark lake, the spark of ire in Ordah died without a sputter. “Thank you for coming,” he said hoarsely.
Arman nodded and returned to his labors.
“Tell me of the Tindel,” Ordah said quietly.
“They are helping. They have been burrowing under the terrisdans. Their skills are extraordinary. What would take any Massadan orbits to carve out underground, they manage in a mere moon. They have not been idle out in the peri. They know much.”
“And Colette?”
The juile set down the bucket and wiped his hand on his robe. It was a strange sight to see the streak of soil painting his otherwise immaculate robes. He squatted before the wasted figure. Ordah’s lips parted.
“Ordah, have you not seen any of this?” Arman asked genuinely.
The man sighed and turned his eyes to the ground. “My sight died with the maralane.”
Arman did not flinch; he was unsurprised. “But you came out here long before they passed. You had
power before you chose to wander into the wild and make your own grave.”
Ordah sighed again. His mouth turned sideways in a scowl. “You’re worse than a prophet, Arman.”
For a moment, the edges of the juile’s mouth flickered as though they might spread in mirth, but instead, concern overtook his features. Silence filled the tiny space, and Arman’s eyes remained fixed upon the seated man.
“I never did anything about Jerem,” Ordah finally whispered. His thin chest labored in and out with his feeble breaths. “I knew what he had done to our parents as a child…but I didn’t do anything.”
Arman waited patiently. He refilled the man’s cup and allowed him to continue in his own time.
“I hated him, even as a boy. We were brothers, but that meant nothing to either of us. He was cruel, and so I’d fight him with the only means I had: my tongue.” Ordah hacked violently but continued once he had found his breath. “It was rumored I’d gotten the family intuit, so I used to taunt him. I told him he would become Vicog, the villain, and steal souls. I even hinted that I knew how he would die.” Ordah met the juile’s eyes.
“What did you say?” Arman asked.
“He would die by a nurest.”
Arman’s face opened in understanding. “Your sight was at work even before you knew.”
“Yes.”
Arman shook his head sadly. “You think you began his path of evil then?”
Ordah dipped his chin once in assent.
“And later?” Arman asked.
Ordah shook his head slowly. “No. Massada is wrong. I didn’t hide my intuit from seeing his horror. But isn’t my previous fault greater?”
Arman placed his hand gently upon the prophet’s forearm. “If you could not harness the power to see Jerem when he had Colette and the other nuresti, how could you control it as a child to know what folly you spoke?”
Ordah did not respond.
The juile shook his head. “No. I think that in this you are innocent. You were a rash child who needed discipline, but the tornado of evil that Jerem brought can never be said to be your fault. He made his own choices.”
“And my parents?” he asked gruffly.
Arman sighed. “Must mistakes always imply guilt? You were a child. You were scared and did not speak, but who can say that any would have even believed you? You were a child,” he repeated.
Arman paused, continuing only after the prophet remained silent. “Ordah, I do not doubt the Hand’s purpose. There was a reason why Tofinaol granted your intuit as a child and withheld it later. I do not understand, but the Three do not move blindly. I think you can rest in the assurance that you are not responsible for the demise of the world. Even Chaul could not accomplish as much when flagrantly trying.”
Ordah did not answer, but his shoulders loosened and his chest dipped down. He lowered himself to his straw bedding with a cough, and the juile stoked the fire to a steady heat.
“You won’t leave tonight?” Ordah asked with closed eyes.
“I will stay with you,” Arman answered.
“Thank you, old friend.”
“In good accord,” the juile replied.
The night was bitter, but Arman rose every few hours to awaken the fire to a heartier blaze. The eerie stillness in the tiny room filled him with a knowing dread, but he did not want to acknowledge the truth before dawn broke the sky. He trained his eyes from the still and empty body beside him and continued to warm the shack as if he tended for an invalid.
Eventually, morning light poured through the cracks and holes he had not filled, and the juile peered over at Ordah, cold and white in death beside him.
“Old friend,” Arman whispered solemnly. “Would that you had chosen a different end.”
He kissed the cool forehead with an affection that surprised him, and his face streamed with the heavy emotion that hung in his chest. It was as though Ordah had become the fissure through which all his other grief might escape. He let the swell flow until his insides again knew balance.
“Your life was bountiful,” he intoned. “May death’s reins only lead you to greater heights.”
The juile rose, collected his things, and bent to straighten the ring that was loose upon the prophet’s emaciated hand. “Know peace. Know peace.”
He drew in a breath, composing himself, then carefully set to turning the hovel into a blazing pyre.
~
Following the Tindellan feast of Pur, Colette moved her attentions to the kitchens. The cooks befriended her more quickly than she had anticipated, largely because she was quiet and obediently did all they directed her to do. She learned their recipes, food preparations, storage techniques, and drying methods. It was ideal work, as she was allowed to bring Mari, and was soon expected to do so.
The child walked the kitchens with wide eyes and a toothy grin, speaking the cooks’ names proudly while Colette moved about under their bidding. The girl was doted on more than Colette preferred, but still she felt the goodness of the cookery filling her life as the berida had.
It provided a different sort of camaraderie, yet the work and conversation pushed away idle thoughts, and she found that the Tindel were becoming something new in her mind. Their harsh foreign quality dulled, and she began to perceive a strong, robust people who knew the value of labor and honor. While much could never be reconciled within her, the more Colette allowed herself to see their goodness, the more her heart could appreciate their differences and perhaps even see them as beautiful.
After the cookery, Colette moved through various work fields with simplicity and openness, seeking only to learn and help and find friendship. It suited her, and she was pleased to discover it suited the people. Instead of undermining her newly acquired authority, she found that her interest in their ways only endeared her to them. They were accepting her, but more—she was truly becoming theirs. Colette, without intending to, was gradually becoming queen. It was different than she had anticipated, but she found the reality to be better. Relationship and respect ruled instead of fear and force.
Yet still the dreams continued.
Brenol forever huddled through her nights, staring into the flames with morose eyes and overgrown hair. His face was covered with a thick coppery beard, and his figure was wiry thin. For a long time, she had tried to call to him, to speak his name, but he never responded. Once, he had looked up as if almost expecting to see her, but the hope had faded from his features in an instant, and he was left more downcast than she had ever before seen. She had woken sobbing. It was silly, but she stopped trying to reach him after that. Never again did she want to see that hopeless, haunted look play upon Brenol’s face, even if he was only a dream.
Moons passed, and the news of the bethaidas in Massada was promising. The gertali and builders had finished the initial tunneling much more quickly than they had expected. The land was not as thickly frozen as it was in the perideta. It granted them more time, and their scattered seals rang with hope: they could likely save much of Massada.
Danger still plagued the terrisdans, though, and Colette was mercilessly shown this again and again as tidings of her people were brought back to the bethaida. The creatures living upon the land had little, and many acted savagely when faced with starvation and suffering. Terror tickled at her neck as rumors whispered down the corridors—greenlanders had begun to eat animals and were but a breath away from cannibalism. Whether it be true or not, there was little she could do but pray—and that she did fervently.
Colette’s work as aide and intern halted abruptly after a few humans agreed to cross the perideta and live amongst the Tindel. The clansmen accepted them in their own manner, and Colette assumed the task of acclimating and transitioning these few.
It was strange to see dark-haired, ruddy-complexioned people in Iret, and she found their ways grating and rude. She sometimes wondered if she was more Tindellan than Massadan now, but in the end she always heard Arman’s plain voice: It matters not. He grounded her even in his ab
sence, and his steady bass resonated precisely in her mind. It was a comfort.
After a particularly trying day, Colette ambled back from the dining hall with Mari. The girl sang happily as they walked hand in hand, her tinny voice echoing a simple Tindellan rhyme down the corridors. Mari could not yet carry a tune, and her earnest warbles drew a smile to Colette’s face and helped to ease her mind.
“Want to see if Hazel is around this evening?” Colette ventured.
The rosy cheeks lifted and red curls bobbed emphatically.
The two rounded the corner and found the very girl herself.
“Hazee!” Mari squealed and ran to the girl, who scooped the child into a large hug. She was ever the wiry reed, and lifting a toddler only made her look smaller.
Hazel smiled broadly, set Mari back down upon the ground awkwardly, and turned exuberantly to Colette.
“You have a seal!” she exclaimed. She held the small triangle in the center of her hand. The light blue paper, with a thickness that betrayed at least two pages, held the firm block writing of Arman across the top. Hazel nearly shook in eagerness.
“Thank you, Hazel,” Colette said sincerely.
She plucked the seal from the child’s hand and beckoned her back to her room. Along the way, Hazel danced with joy, and Colette could not help but share the sentiment. It had been moons since she had seen Arman, and correspondence had been all but impossible. The most she had received was a sentence relayed by mouth, twice. It felt surreal to have an actual letter in her possession. She stroked the seal with her fingers and relished the sensation of the imprinted wax.
After she had let the canvas doorway flap closed behind her, Colette broke the seal with ardor and hastily scoured the letter. Arman was well. The juile had seen her mother, who sent words of love and eagerly awaited meeting Mari. The construction of the bethaidas was much work, and the Tindel were glad for his help. He spoke of the progress of the tunnels, the new underground healing stations, the land. The terrisdans themselves were no more, and the icing was intensifying. He did not know how long the people could survive upon the surface without sustenance… He traveled Massada enlisting help and proclaiming the new bethaidas to all who would hear. There was some resistance and some hope, but that was to be expected. The letter continued…
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