It had been the same face that had forbidden Arman to join him. Why? Even Brenol could not say entirely, but the thought of any person sharing in the moment when he first saw Colette again seemed a breach of privacy.
Arman had warned him grimly before he had left. As always, the juile’s words were few and the full meaning obscure. They had resounded in his mind as his feet crunched across terrisdan and through snow. “Bren, it has been long. Remember you both have changed.”
The words had rubbed him raw—what exactly did he mean?—but acceptance had finally encased him as he stepped out upon the blue.
I still choose her. I choose love.
In the end, it would be as simple as that. If she chose him or if she denied him, he would remain faithful. And that truth wrapped him in greater peace than any blanket. It did not stop the anticipation, though, and how that whip drove him!
His feet ached, unaccustomed to such hard travel, and he rubbed them nightly with Arman’s ointment when he pitched his tent in the shadows of snowdrifts. The wind would howl and beat on the structure as if hungry for his blood, often preventing him from sleep or even startling him awake. But his mind was ever locked upon Colette.
My soumme, he thought again and again. My soumme.
~
By the seventh day within the blue, Brenol was spent. He stopped for a brief rest, but when he pondered rising and continuing his trek, his body refused to stir. Sighing, he knew he had only one answer: fire. He was loath to use the lumber he had loaded upon his back in Veronia, however encumbering, but he knew his sorry body needed relief. He heeded Arman’s words—the peri would get worse—but felt his mind growing sluggish and his limbs falling numb and knew there could be no alternative.
Brenol clumsily built a small fire and hunched over it hungrily. Inevitably, his mind filled with the thoughts that had nipped his heels every step of the journey.
Will her hair be dark again?
Why’d she never return?
Did she find a place there?
How did our child die?
The last question tore at his heart with particular bitterness. Brenol had not permitted Arman to speak of the babe, bitterly demanding his silence on the matter from the offset. While it was pointless to delay the news of the tragedy, Brenol could not help but insist upon it. Yes, he had lived with the pain for orbits, but learning that there was possible hope for Colette’s life somehow made the infant’s end utterly crushing. He wanted to forestall that grief as long as possible.
It was our miracle. The miracle we thought could never be.
He sucked the frigid air into his chest and pressed his lips together. His eyes flashed with obstinacy.
I will not let this end my joy. Colette is alive.
He found the pain within and locked it away, closing off the darkness to where it was only a dull ache he could not see. It was for another day. This day was for Colette.
The fire lifted before him, and he drew courage as he focused his tired mind upon his soumme. There was still hope. There was still life. And he would find it.
The following morning broke upon Brenol like a giant clay jar crashing forcefully over his head. There was no hint of anything save the perideta, and his body felt fragile and useless. The fire from the night was now a sodden heap of rubble. It had been snuffed out by the snow shortly after he had collapsed in exhaustion. He gazed at the remains with a sickening sourness in his gut. While he no longer had to lug the painful load, he was now entirely at the mercy of the perideta. And that was not a comfortable place to be.
Brenol winced as he drew his body to a stand. His limbs were icy, and pain seared down every nerve.
“Aren’t you used to it by now?” Brenol asked his body stubbornly. It did not reply, save in aches.
The man pressed his cracked lips together, closed his eyes, and breathed. He opened them to kiss the small object in his hand: the summejere. Arman had tucked the tiny whistle in his palm when he had spoken those words of grace: She is alive. The whistle, that for so long had been both an eerie comfort and a nagging curse, now lay in his grasp as a piece of hope. There was still a future. There was still a union. There was still much…if he could ever reach her.
He stamped his feet, willing life in them, and began again.
The days and nights blended together, and his sorry frame plodded ever onward toward his soumme.
~
By the next septspan, Brenol found himself in a perilous state. The air choked the breath in his lungs, the slick ground sent him reeling on its rock-hard surface, and the wind iced the damp clothes that clung to his body. Even he could see the end was nearing. There was little left in him, despite every ounce of his being stubbornly resolving to go forward. The body could not endure, even if his soul might.
I shouldn’t have refused Arman’s help to cross. I was a fool.
I barely let him tell me the news before running to the blue.
I’d just wanted…
He sank beside a drift and closed his eyes softly. When he opened them again, he saw the snow blowing across his vision. He felt as though he were in a painting, and the artist was brushing a sweep of coruscating white-azure across the canvas. It moved without time, in the slowness that had stilled his mind and insides, and he smiled. It was exquisite.
“I love you, Col,” he whispered. He wished he could say the words to her himself, but perhaps she would know anyway. He could hope.
He lifted up the tiny summejere to his lips and kissed it wistfully. She had touched it so recently. She had run her lovely fingertips across its edges and slopes. She had given it to Arman. She must know. Of course she knew he loved her.
He stripped his gloves from his hands and grasped the silver instrument with awkward digits. I cannot hold her hand, so I will hold what she held.
But stiffened from the cold, his numb fingers fumbled and dropped the small piece into the snow. Brenol sighed heavily. It would be too much effort to dig, even though he saw the small hole it had left as trail.
He sat, staring at the circle with glazed eyes, but after some time he realized he could not stand to pass from the world without it. He leaned forward and dug with slow, strange movements until the whistle came up into his lap along with a scoop of powder.
Brenol smiled, though it appeared more as grimace. He hugged the whistle closely and then rested it against his cheek. His face lacked sensation, and he exhaled deeply in surrender.
“I’ve got a secret,” Colette whispered.
The cherished memory flitted before him like a butterfly on a summer’s day. Her hair had been blonde, and it was only after she told him of the child quickening in her womb that he had finally understood.
My Colette, he ached.
Without willing it, he suddenly found the piece within his mouth.
I never did play it, he thought wonderingly. It was cold from the snow, but warmth was of little import any longer. I’ll blow her a song of love, he decided. His mind felt dizzy, but still he breathed and let the instrument sound.
The summejere grew hot on his tongue, and it fell from his mouth as his jaw gaped open in wonder.
Pearl stood before him, gazing down with a smile.
CHAPTER 31
Death and life are ever within a teetering balance.
-Genesifin
The frawnite was adept, and the man was restored and whisked to his feet in less than a day. She stoked to life several deep purple fires that surrounded him in a ring. The fuel was unusual to Brenol, but he cared only for the sizzling and emanating heat that gently seeped into him. Pearl barely spoke, but her round owl eyes danced joyfully as she dried, fed, and warmed him. Brenol, weak and frozen, breathed slowly and watched her move. All of his resentment toward the frawnite melted in the simplicity of being near her. She was a fascinating creature, one he wished he could have known. There was immense comfort in her presence, as if one could soak up the vivacity and benere that radiated from her person. She absolutely emanated l
ife.
And she’s dead, he thought with amusement.
“The fires—they aren’t as hot as I’d expect.”
She bobbed her head in agreement. “You can’t heat too quickly without it killing you. This is the fire of Stronta.”
“The moon?”
She smiled but did not answer. Brenol, too exhausted to pursue the conversation, abandoned his string of questions. He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep.
~
“Drink this,” Pearl said, awakening the man with a gentle nudge.
Brenol opened his eyes and found that his body ached but felt comfortably warm. He exhaled in a shocked huff; even with the frawnite here, he had expected to die. He gazed at her in bewilderment.
“We’ll be able to get you moving again soon,” Pearl said, reading his expression. She handed him a tin mug brimming with a dark, rich liquid. Its steam billowed up in his face, and he heeded her obediently. It scalded slightly, but not painfully, and was a rich blend with traces of cocoa and mint. He drained the glass with relish and found the last tingle of numbness vanish from his limbs. His eyes widened as the stimulant sent his mind jumping.
“Thank you,” Brenol said. He did not merely mean the beverage.
Pearl bent her head and smiled. Her silvery hair danced in the sunlight, and her brown features beamed. “In good accord.” She offered Brenol her arm, and he clumsily found his way to his feet, although with far less pain than he had anticipated.
“Did you know all along that this was how things would come to pass?” he asked.
Pearl’s face glowed in contentment. “I only know what is before me at the moment, what my task is for now. And I do it.”
“What is your task now?”
“To go to the Three. My gortei has been fulfilled.” Her face appeared close to bursting with all the joy that was spilling from her.
Brenol narrowed his eyes upon the frawnite. All of this had been such an unusual and extravagant road… He stared down upon his coal-black hands. They quivered as he tried and failed to make sense of it all.
Pearl filled his black palm with her own tiny hand and squeezed reassuringly, as if she realized his thoughts. After a moment, she released him gently, smiled, and unfurled her wings. The mottled feathers flexed and spread into an immense span, like a runner stretching before a prolonged run.
“Now?” he asked, surprised.
“Brenol, you are almost there. Just stay the course. You will see.”
Her laughter echoed out across the blue, and for once the perideta seemed small and domitable. Her eyes sparkled silver as her melodious laughter bubbled out, unable to be contained. His ears clung to the sound. She bent her knees and thrust her small frame up with a jump. A vast push of air beat down beneath her as she took to the air. The powerful wings flapped for a moment, but within four or five strokes the alate figure disappeared.
Brenol stared but quickly gathered himself; the cold would still snatch him if he dawdled in awe all afternoon. He glanced upon the expanse of azure and grit his teeth in a renewed desperation. He would get to Colette. He would.
~
The gertali circled him before he had time to draw a second breath. They were quick and well camouflaged, and their cobalt robes swayed in a mirage of movement upon the open perideta. Brenol stood stoically, waiting for their advance while considering each figure with a perceptive eye. They moved with a fluidity and grace despite their thick clothing, the rough terrain, and the terrible chill. Every face was protected with a sapphire scarf, and the weathered brows that stood out from the sea of blue were all exceptionally pale.
One man spoke in a low, gruff tone, expertly framed to carry just over the screaming wind. “Are you bearing any weapons?”
Brenol shook his head.
“You’ve come to join us?” another asked. His voice was similarly deep, but worn from extended exposure to the desert.
Brenol met the second man’s eyes. They were a light gray, like steam rising from boiling water. “I’ve come to see Colette.”
Hesitation flickered briefly upon the brows of the party. A movement that Brenol could not read issued between them in some kind of unspoken communication. Brenol straightened his back, and his courage surged in purpose.
“We will take you,” the first said. His eyes were sharply observant, and he shot Brenol a mysterious glance. “It is still another day’s travel.”
With a graceful movement, the clansman shifted and slid his pack to the hard, snowy crust. He plucked a thin brown garment from its opening and offered it out in his wrapped hands. “The peri will take you if you walk without more warmth.”
Brenol bent his head in appreciation and took the piece from the clansman.
“It’s a wonder you’ve not perished as it is.”
Brenol found a small smile peeking up upon the edges of his lips. There was no way to explain Pearl without sounding addled. He shrugged and conceded, “It is. I’ve been more worried about finding Colette, though.”
Derision and pride slicked through the pale eyes. “It would have worried you by nightfall.”
Brenol bristled within at their haughtiness. He had kept little company for seasons, and their abrasive behavior pressed hard upon his nerves. He clamped his jaw shut, breathed in a thought of Colette, and held his tongue. Brenol raised the garment before his eyes in swift appraisal and silently began to strip.
The crowd inhaled sharply; it was rash to remove clothing in the open without fire or shelter. Brenol slid the soft fabric over his skin and returned his other apparel atop. The wind had sliced upon his bare skin during those few moments of exposure, but already he felt the fine craft of the Tindellan clothing. It multiplied whatever heat he produced and served to mend any injury his impetuous actions had caused.
He bent his head to express gratitude. “Thank you. These are fine indeed.”
The Tindellan man was clearly stunned. He ran his blue-gloved hand to his covered cheek in gesture and then let it slide down. “Come, we’ve tarried too long. We must move our blood before the peri takes it.”
The group rustled to life, and Brenol pressed forward to match their pace. They flew across the blue with a stride both strong and enduring. They were a people of the ice. While he himself was too weak to imitate their movements, he managed to hinder their speed only slightly, and the party moved through the perideta in sunset, twilight, and the shimmering blue-dark.
~
Standing in the bethaida, Brenol inhaled deeply of the warm air. It was oddly thin but full of the scents of soil, clay, soap. And human bodies. The pungent smell of perspiration made his nostrils quiver, but it did not make him reel as Jerem’s scent had. It merely drew his eyes wider.
The walls were as smooth as river currents and the deep red-brown of a glistening bay. The foreignness of the place caused him to gnaw the inside of his lower lip, yet not entirely due to apprehension. This world was simply very different.
He glided his hands across the flowing wall, and in doing so, his worn sleeves rubbed the surface. He suddenly recalled the image he had seen peering back at him from Ziel a few septspan previously: a disheveled creature, weathered and emaciated, with a face clothed in a shock of red beard. He must now be bedraggled beyond recognition, and while he could not be certain, he probably smelled.
Brenol lifted up his arm to investigate the raggedy layers with a hesitant sniff, but he had lived too long in his own odors and solitary company to be able to discern much. He itched for a bath and to be free of his horrid clothing, but there was no time for that. Now, he could only wait for his Colette, or for the woman he hoped was still his Colette.
He stood silently in what could only be the dining hall. Starkly white people passed without engaging him, but their eyes rested with a knowing curiosity. It was as if they could see into his mind and know his thoughts. An elderly woman scooting by with a relaxed gait locked a deliberate gaze upon him. Her faded amber eyes probed with an intensity and interest that
suddenly turned his questioning to understanding.
They know me. They recognize me.
He had grown accustomed to silence and time to ponder, but he had no time to meditate on this revelation, for Colette entered the room from a distant corridor.
She was still beautiful, though certainly changed. Her dark hair was pinned back in a utilitarian fashion, yet it remained becoming. Her features were narrower, and her jaw rested in a habitual clench as though she lived in perpetual angst, but her movements were the same. She still moved with a lithe grace, and her face beamed with the lovely radiance of the lunitata. He could only stare and hope that his lungs would remember how to breathe again.
She walked tall, her eyes scanning the pale people until they finally settled upon him. Her hand jumped to her mouth, but as though suddenly aware of others’ eyes, she quietly lowered it and walked the length of space between them. He would have run to her, but his body was frozen in anticipation. He wondered how he even remained standing.
Colette’s feet slowed and then stopped as she finally found herself face to face with her soumme, but also the mysterious figure from her dreams. His hair was rough and wild, his palms were a startling black, and his frame was tight and thin. His gaunt face was covered by a thick red beard, and now rippled with the cording of the wind’s kiss, but his eyes were sincere and soft. They toppled her insides; she was unsure of what to make of him.
Brenol stared back, reconciling the ghost in his mind with the woman before him. Colette’s face was corded and warped with the lines that grazed most Tindellan features, and her frame was thinner. Regardless, he found he loved her more than ever before. He soaked in her beauty and presence hungrily.
Suddenly, in a miniscule quirk of her hand—a gesture forgotten in the folds of the past—Brenol saw more than the strength she radiated.
She’s terrified, he realized. His heart warmed for her; she was in a strange place indeed. The rising compassion seemed to awaken his muscles and loosen his tongue.
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