He reveals more in what he doesn’t say than in what he does…
“What’s it about?” Hazel interrupted.
Colette smiled. “You may look if you like.”
The child shook her head, shocked, but her eyes remained glued to the lunitata with a voracious curiosity. Colette’s bemused face opened up in clarity as she realized her error. The Tindel were highly secretive about their mail. She laughed and surrendered to the knowledge that she would still be learning their social norms even when her back was curved and her hair had grown white.
“Arman says the new bethaidas are doing well. He gives it another few seasons, possibly more, before they’re habitable. They’re working out the ventilation and sewage systems, but he is pleased with the progress.”
Hazel nodded happily and returned to Mari. The toddler reached for the older girl’s hand and led her toward the corner where she had arranged her toys. The two giggled and played, leaving Colette to her musings. She sat down upon the table and again perused the letter. It seemed straightforward, but she could not shake the feeling that she was missing something.
Arman…what are you hinting at? What?
A loneliness that usually only came at morning bell collided into her like a cinderblock meeting her chest. It nearly stole her breath it was so real, so unexpected. She sat, brushed away a few tears, inhaled deeply, and turned back to the letter. After reading it through to the point of memorization, Colette found she was even more unsure. Perhaps Arman did only send news.
Then why am I quivering like a cat in a river?
Her fingers pressed the smooth paper back into its original precise triangle. In the mundane action, her intuit sparked alive. The truth caused her heart to tremble and turned her limbs to ice. It was not Arman trying to whisper something to her. It was herself. Her thin hands shook, and she pressed them against her body in a vain attempt to calm away the sensation.
It’s nothing, she rationalized. Nothing.
She thrust back from her chair and paced the room. The girls paid little notice and continued their play. She began to tidy the immaculate space with determination—sweeping, picking up, scrubbing her tea table, refolding her few items of clothing that were already neat and ordered.
“What are you worried about?” Deniel’s voice resounded from her past. His smile flashed before her eye. The picture of the tree, the golden rainbow of leaves, the garden of light, the peace. It all enveloped her, and she held the memory open like a clam shell.
She examined it cautiously, more from habit than angst. She had lived her life fighting this memory, longing to forget, fearing it had been the cause of Deniel’s death… But in the end it had come to pass. Even still, the thought drew her mouth open into a stupefied gape. She was queen. Queen. Just as Deniel had shown her.
How did he know so much? He was a mere child too.
Ever since that eventful day in the gardens with the Tindellan leaders, she had sought to find reason in this old memory, but the reality was plain: her intuit was truthful. It had been right from the start.
She smiled. Deniel—her brother in nearly every regard—really had known, but so had she.
“Trust it, Colette,” she heard Deniel whisper in memory, and again he asked, “What are you worried about?”
She nodded to herself and allowed the peace to wash in like a strong, steady current. It had been ages since she had drawn herself interiorly back to the tree, but the experience was the same, and she found that her ability had not lapsed.
The fragrances were as intoxicating as before. She inhaled the lushness around her and wiggled her toes upon the soft moss. The tree was lovely, perhaps more than ever before. It had grown fuller, and the smattering of colors had broadened into hundreds of hues to give it a richness that was simply breathtaking. It was an older tree now, but no sign of illness marred its sturdy trunk, and its roots were thicker and burrowed into the rich soil in bows and twists. Her hands went up to graze the tips of the lowest leaves. They moved under her touch like wind chimes. Memories flashed through her mind.
Again, she smiled.
Wait for the wind, she told herself, contenting her heart with staring at the gently swaying rainbow of gold.
This time it was not a simple breeze. No, the gust that rushed through was more akin to a gale, but Colette clung tightly to her peace. Soon, the wind abated, but still there was nothing. She waited longer. Another wailing blast pounded through the branches and shook the tree with force. She closed her eyes and cowered under its stinging power, but still, nothing altered.
She continued to stand, to wait.
At last, a faint whisper of a breeze came up and swirled around her like a gentle eddy. It was as soft as a fairy’s touch, barely breathing upon the leaves and branches. The kiss of air lifted up tiny purple flowers from the earth, and the blossoms twirled around her and amongst the rainbow of leaves. They danced in the air as though they would never light down again. The sky was a vista of enchantment.
The wisp of wind slowed, and the flowers sashayed down to the earth, as if in exhale. As petals grazed her face in their fall, the whisper of wind spoke. It was hardly audible, but the words were unmistakable: “Brenol is still alive. He has never left.”
~
Brenol was weary with cold and allowed his lids to dip into the peace of unconsciousness. Sleep was a relief to him during the day, but when the sun set, he only wanted to gaze at the fire and be still. Somehow in the night he felt Colette’s presence, and he did not want to miss it in slumber. But that evening, Brenol did not fight the darkness.
He opened his dream eyes and did not regret that sleep had taken him, for he saw Colette’s tree. It was the same, yet even more alive and full than it had been in Deniel’s memory and in that dream of long ago. It was lovely. The gold glinted sharply and played in a delightful game of color as the leaves caught the prancing shafts of light.
It was warm here, and the scents of life and growth were like water to the parched. He had not smelled such goodness in so long. He had not breathed this easily in orbits.
He approached the tree trembling, afraid it was a mirage. He sighed as his hands met the trunk. It was real. The bark was as smooth as ivory under his palms and just as white. He allowed his cheek to slide across its surface and choked back emotion as his arms embraced the thick trunk. He did not want to waste tears on this moment of paradise; it would slip away too soon.
Eventually, he faced about and allowed his legs to sink under him so that he sat in the grooved hollow at the base of the tree. He closed his eyes in comfort and pressed his fingertips through the rich loam. It stuck to his hands and smeared them black-brown, for here in this dream, his palms were as pink as the rest of his skin. He breathed in the life and soaked in the sights of the swaying leaves. It was more beauty than he thought he could handle. He ached in its goodness.
A soft breeze flowed through the branches, and his ears twitched at its melody. There was something about it, something about the cadence. He stilled his mind and heart and waited with anticipation.
Before he could grasp the words, the blanket of the dream was ripped away. His body shivered violently before the dimming fire, and he breathed in the weariness of his world.
There had been a time of life and heat and love once, but that time had died long ago. Long ago. He sighed and stoked the embers back to health, but even still his bones rattled in the cold.
I have no more tears, he thought. Even my dreams are lies.
CHAPTER 29
Patience heralds a purposeful mind.
-Genesifin
The next morning, a seal to Arman went out with the gertali. It was likely to spend two septspan in transit before meeting his eyes. Colette’s hands had shaken when she parted with it, pressing the paper to her lips in wrenching hope, but she had to trust that her intuit knew. It had grasped her fate from the beginning, and now she must lay her faith in its strength. It was not a task she found natural.
And now I wait?
Do I really just sit here?
The bethaida was dependent upon her for many things now, but she was free to leave if she chose. Regardless, as simply as she drew breath, Colette knew that she would stay. Her intuit all but purred with the knowledge. The grounds eluded her, yet she knew would remain. She must trust herself, even now.
Until when? Colette’s mind hammered.
Colette swiped a hand hastily through the air in front of her as if it could wash away thoughts and arguments. “I stay until I know I’m not supposed to stay. Enough.”
So the lunitata went back to her daily work. Her entire being longed to jump from her life—and very skin—but she silently continued, telling no one about the dream, the seal, Brenol. It would be ludicrous to assume the clan could believe her in this. She herself could hardly pass a breath without tickling in doubt.
So her lips remained motionless while anticipation gripped, and her heart ached forward to the unknown.
~
Arman swept the Tindellan cloak around his stiff limbs. This was not the first time he had felt gratitude for the thick and voluminous layer. The terrisdans iced more every day, and the wind sliced through his bones as though already competing with the perideta’s gusts. The juile breathed in the sharp cold that bit his insides with savage teeth, but his transparent face gave no hint of discomfort.
He allowed his dark gaze to pass silently over the cliffs and scree below him. He towered above the lonely ranges of Conch. It was no longer a loose terrain, but an icy mess of stiff ground. His eyes hovered and waited, yet all that lay before him was ice and sand and stone.
He sighed. It was the first trace of weariness he had shown on this trip, although he had certainly felt it keenly throughout. He drew his body back against the rock face and sucked in the chill air, thankful for the brief protection from icy blasts. He shuffled before some collected wood, knelt, and sent his dark hands methodically to work. His tinder box whispered out a spark upon the precious dry brush—now meticulously toted like a wallet of freg—and the juile blew soft air upon the infant flame until it burst into a crackling dance that consumed and licked the darkening white wood. He came out of his reverie in surprise, realizing his work accomplished. His thoughts had been entirely elsewhere.
Arman had just come from Granoile, and the bitterness of the journey still clung to his palate. It had been fruitless, utterly fruitless. His diplomacy to the dying green world continually met with more resistance than he would have thought feasible. The people of Massada were reluctant to leave the faltering land for the underground, even if staying meant inevitable death.
The frawnish were no exception.
They could barely take flight in the biting winds, but the fierceness of their glances had been close to murderous. It was evident in all negotiations: these creatures might have legs and arms, but their souls were more avian than human. They would not be encased in the earth. They could not be caged and still live.
So Arman had merely extended an open invitation—a plea, really—and left.
Their race will fail, he brooded with every step taken in his return. And we’ll barely hold a palmful of knowledge about their kind.
He thought he had not expected anything more, but the hollow feeling in his chest told him he had deluded himself; he had hoped for a remnant to join him.
The flame’s heat tingled his fingers back to life, and he set water boiling for tea. Soon, the brewing beverage soothed his nostrils and chest with a tickling orange sweetness. He removed the leaves but made no move to pour.
He sat for the better part of an hour, and finally he saw a movement in the sky. A lone figure swooped up the face of the cliff, struggling in the wind with awkward motions, until finally it landed and stepped before the warm fire.
“I expected you earlier,” Arman said softly.
The frawnite only heaved in air. Her dark wings quivered like a kitten lost in a storm, but her eyes did not waver. Their sharp and avian stare surprised him.
I am blind to her purpose here, he realized.
“I bring you a seal,” Arista finally said, once her chest no longer convulsed. Her wings surrounded the fire as though she were cupping it to her person. She made no effort to produce any letter.
Arman did not react. It was undoubtedly from the Tindel, for it was a seal sent to his last location. It did not concern him. There was more to this encounter than the mail.
He swished across to the steaming pot, covered his hand carefully with his cloak, and poured the aromatic drink into the waiting tin cups. He extended one out to Arista, who dipped her head in gratitude and drew the warm metal to her mouth. Her tiny lips looked blue in the darkness, and Arman feared it was no trick of the light.
“I did not see you in Granoile.” he said.
Her eyes pierced him strangely. “They’d never allow such an encounter.”
“They? I had thought the frawnish to be free.” His dark fingers twitched, in want of an activity. His left hand automatically slid into the folds of his robe, where it toyed silently with his beads, but the familiarity of the smooth stones did little to calm the disquiet of his mind.
Arista’s feathers ruffled in agitation. “I already bent my wings to you when I was ordered to stay away. I am free, but I am no traitor. We shall not move to the underworld. It would be our death.”
“You certainly don’t evade death in your choice,” he replied, but seeing her glance he added, “But I do understand. I’d not expected the winged to leave the skies easily.”
His words appeared to tame her, at least partially, and she settled back to the fire and her drink.
“Why did you come, Arista?”
A small smile played apologetically upon the sides of her mouth. It could have been mistaken for a grimace had Arman not known her so well and understood the great duress that smothered her.
He waited for a moment, allowing the popping of the fire to serenade the night. “Our friendship need not require goodbyes, Arista.” He stared into her gaunt, pale face. It suddenly streamed with tears and emotion.
“But I wanted it,” she said quietly.
“You have been a good friend to me. Like a sister.”
She bit her lip in an effort to control her cries and issued a small nod.
“You should not have left Granoile for me, if things are truly as you suggest.” His eyes narrowed in concern.
“I’m free…” The small smile returned, this time mischievous. “It’s not the first time I have disobeyed orders for you.”
Arman laughed generously, recalling how the frawnite had once rescued him, pushing beyond her borders and even defying explicit direction from Caladia. She had always been there for him. His laughter eased, but his entire face assumed an arresting contentment. “That is certainly true. And my poor body thanks you again for your choice.”
Arista bowed her dark head in acknowledgement. Her diminutive hand reached over and slipped into the large palm of the juile. Her face went straight as she stared into the fire. “I had hoped we would one day be soummen.”
Arman breathed in sharply, fighting the impulse to retract his hand, and took in her features. She did not flinch, staring back with an unhesitating boldness. A chaos of thought barraged his mind.
Finally, he began. “Arista, you know—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “Of Sara, of our lines, of the impossibilities. I know.” Her voice was now soft, as though she only spoke to herself. “But I had hoped.”
The juile drew his long arms around the tiny frawnite and encompassed her in an embrace. They sat before the fire for the remainder of the night, whispering many things, recounting memories, and resting in the solitude of the cliff. Huddled together, they soaked up the consolation, however brief. Just before dawn, Arista slipped a seal into his hand. She brushed her lips upon his cheek and dropped from the rock face into a swooping dive.
For a moment the juile felt a sharp stab of regret. He let the emoti
on flow through him unobstructed, although his transparent face remained grim and unchanging.
He sighed, realizing he would never see Arista again.
~
It was not until morning’s light had brightened the entire sky that Arman shook off his thoughts of the frawnite and remembered the seal. It met his hand with sharp edges as he reached into the warmth of his clothing.
He stared at the small square with a numb indifference. This—everything—barely seemed to matter anymore.
Wake up, Arman. Wake up.
He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes for a moment, and collected his thoughts. In the stillness of his heart, he heard a voice. It said, “All will be well. The prophesy is yet to be completed.”
He sighed. “Yes, yes, I know.”
The juile breathed deeply and found himself and his purpose restored, even if the world around was not what he would have chosen. When he opened his eyes, he saw the note afresh. It was carefully sealed, and his name was penned upon it in Colette’s neat hand. His face tightened as a pinch of insight trickled through his veins.
Something about this letter…
He broke the seal with a deft swipe and unfolded the smooth paper. A single line of words graced the page: Bren is here. Find him.
CHAPTER 30
Gortei is a fearful promise; to give to the end is formidable indeed.
-Genesifin
The perideta snapped at Brenol, and the blue sea pressed upon his vision and mind. He wore additional clothing gifted by Arman—and was grateful for as much—but nothing could fully stave off the perideta’s extreme temperatures. Regardless, he was resolved to not allow any discomfort to deter him, and he turned his mind to focusing on Colette’s memory. His swift stride carried him across the land for many days without falter. He merely pushed his way through the monochrome freeze with a determined chin and stubborn face.
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