To be as one with the world, one must first be as one within.
This is the first mastery, and the last.
-Genesifin
The pool was now a paltry, unlit spit of water, but it remained Brenol’s only link to Massada and all he loved. It haunted his dreams and accosted him with desire. Though he waited for the concealing hand of darkness, Brenol had crept to Darse’s abandoned home and the subterranean pool every single night since he had returned to Alatrice.
Tonight was no different. The young man hauled the cellar door open with large hands and breathed in the sugary cool. Even after the passage of four orbits, the place still poured over him with a reassuring calm, easing away the trials of the days and septspan and moons. He paused and drank it in before descending into the dark chill.
Brenol lowered the door behind him with both the strength of his age and the agility of a long-practiced motion and stepped down to the water’s edge. The canal remained, so he knew the portal was open, but it was not the same tunnel he had first seen. The lights had dimmed and eventually extinguished, and the magic of the place seemed hazy, like smoke billowing from the wick of a recently extinguished candle. Yet still he came. Nothing could deter him from returning to the cellar to breathe and seek solace.
His face had matured and lengthened over the orbits, and muscular arms and legs had replaced the lean limbs of adolescence. The coppery crop was now maintained in a straight slice just past his shoulders, mimicking the style of the Veronians. He wore it secured with a small band tied at the nape of the neck, though wisps escaped as they met the humidity of the pool. The dark jade eyes still sparked with interest, although now they seemed to house more mystery—and perhaps pain—than those of the other young men of Alatrice.
Brenol tapped his fingers lightly against his thigh, coding out his thoughts. He had ceased to reach for Arman’s beaded string long ago, after meeting so many raised eyebrows, yet loath to allow any piece of Massada to slip away from him, he had instead simply carried the pursuit on in silence.
Steeling himself, he unshod his feet and waded out into the frigid water until his chest was wet and dark. He quivered in the cool yet lowered his head under the screen. Just dipping his toes into the pool was never enough.
Brenol inhaled sharply as he surfaced, his lips already purpled. The water had chilled with each passing orbit, though he could not discern why. Long ago, Isvelle’s servant Gerard had called Lake Ziel the heart of Massada. It pumped life and warmth amidst the world of ice that surrounded the terrisdans. But if the heart was growing cold—what then?
He shivered despite himself, thinking of Colette. The aurenal worked, although Colette was forced to trek to the Pearia every time she wished to use it. It meant every message was a gem. The first few moons after his return, communication was frequent. Colette, taking her pony, journeyed the space to the river regularly and would often spend several days waterside, speaking easily about her life and Veronia. But within the season, the young woman grew quiet, and messages now arrived only every three or four septspan. She refused to breathe a word about the happenings in Massada, even when pressed. If he persisted with questions, the aurenal would be silent for a time, and when her voice returned, it was only to share pleasantries.
How he had thrown himself into his labors after such encounters! He had no control, and he felt it down to the tips of his toes. Work had become a consolation. There, he could drive his body to the point of exhaustion, even if he could never forget his discouragement.
Brenol wondered what could be stealing her speech. He feared for her and yearned to know what troubled her, and not simply because of his own spurned heart. He loved her and longed to make her world right. At the same time, the enigma of his gortei, his oath of protection, was an ever-present reality. It loomed upon his future, hovering like a vulture patiently biding its time, observing its approaching feast. He felt the burden of the gortei with each breath taken. His life was not his own.
Brenol rose quivering from the pool, yet lingered up to his shins in the icy water. He unpocketed the aurenal and with adept hands flipped the clasp and cupped the silver instrument to his ear. He inhaled in anticipation. It was never a surety that a message would be waiting.
A soft voice escaped the piece. “Bren…it’s time. Come. Please.” She paused and then continued with uncharacteristic distress, “I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s only getting worse. Please come back.” The message concluded as simply as it had begun, but her strained tone tarried in the passage for the space of a breath.
What could be wrong? She’s refused to answer my questions for orbits. He felt bitterness wash over him. Even now she speaks in riddles.
But another voice whispered to him in the lowest depths of his soul, reminding him that it was not Colette that consumed him with anger.
Failure. You are a failure, it said.
The serpentine voice echoed in him as though he were but an empty vessel. His hands dropped, dripping, and his body slumped.
What can I ever do to help? he thought in despair. How can I return now? I don’t understand the Genesifin. Orbits…and still I sit on that book like an uncomprehending fool.
How often had he stared at the Genesifin? How many verses had he memorized in secrecy and solitude?
Suddenly, another worry slapped him: I don’t know how to tell my mother.
Without thought, he replied back with hollow voice, “What do I say to my mother?”
As soon as the words were spoken, his face flushed with regret. He could not retract anything spoken into the piece, and now his childish fears were plain. He snapped the aurenal shut.
Have you not grown at all these last four orbits? Are you not a man now?
He peered down at his hands as if their size might convince him. The demanding life of homesteading showed. The long handling of tools and livestock marked the palms, knuckles, and finger pads with hard calluses.
Suddenly he chuckled. “Four orbits and I still can’t get it right,” he muttered softly. “Darsey was right. It isn’t about me.”
He considered the situation anew, and his gut wrenched with the sudden realization of the precariousness Colette must be facing. She had never once requested his return. Not once. She had barely spoken for orbits, and now her pleading voice was small and weak. She needed him.
“My cartess,” he found himself whispering.
Of course I’ll go. I’ll fly.
But he made no move to depart. Instead, he stared out into the canal as his mind grappled with time, emotion, place; jumping worlds and lives was not a simple action.
Four and a half orbits. The days had eked by with the dull monotony of a clock ticking. He had come back from Massada a different person: more man than boy, pensive and silent, restless with love, and so out of place he felt he wore someone else’s boots. His mother had never spoken about the change—or his absence—but she assessed him with a bizarre, shrewd detachment, her eyes constantly hovering over him. He had counted the days, hours, and minutes, fondling the cinereous stone he had scooped up from the shores of Ziel. Every corner and crevice had been worn smooth between his fingers, imbued with his musings. Four and a half orbits.
And still, the Genesifin remained a mystery.
He had nearly committed the book to memory. He sometimes felt like a cow with its cud—chewing, chewing, chewing—wondering if he would ever swallow the knowledge and comprehend it. Insight was there somewhere, for it had to be, yet the mystery remained obscure. He saw nothing more than page after page of proverbs and lessons. Nothing about fate or the workings of the worlds to be discovered in its lines, no magic. Only allusions and clichés. He was weary of this cud. He ached for his friends—Arman, Colette, Darse. He ached to belong. He ached to be part of an adventure again. He ached for his home.
Then why do I wait? Why drip here in the dark?
He knew the reason, though. He could still feel the maralane’s reptili eyes hot upon him, and he feared returning cloaked in the shame of his failure to decipher the book of fate.
Deniel would’ve known… Wouldn’t he?
He turned the thought over in his mind but in truth did not know. He no longer held Deniel up on a pedestal. No, as the orbits had passed, the mysterious man had sunk into Brenol until the youth knew there could never be a possibility of separation again. Deniel’s memories felt more like his own than another’s, and in a way, Deniel was him. Brenol was who he was because of Deniel. It never caused him angst, for Brenol cherished the man’s memories. They offered him a tie to Colette that he could never have had otherwise. With them, he could look at the princess and see her as a whole—both the innocent girl and the woman she had become following her nightmarish captivity.
Her tree…
Brenol played the memory over again, its corners as smooth from wear as his pocketed stone. He had pondered and treasured the scene for orbits. It had come in a flash several moons after his return to Alatrice. He could not see how, but Deniel had been in her consciousness, and the power flowing from the man was astonishing. He had been able to maneuver his mind as simply as if he were flicking his little finger.
“My tree?” she asked.
Deniel whispered into her mind, opening her intuit as gently as the sun unfurls a blossom. She smiled. Her eyes danced in wonderment.
She stood under her tree and waited. He waited too. Her tree was lovely: the leaves, the colors, the scents. It was a symphony of beauty. It blazed his heart up with an even greater drive to keep her safe.
I will protect her, he vowed. My sister.
A feather, dark as obsidian, floated down, and Colette lifted it curiously, full of innocence. He watched her face until he realized intuit had been attained and then withdrew from her mind.
He waited. It seemed an eternity.
“What did you see?” he finally asked. Anticipation danced through him.
She opened her eyes, blinking in the light. “I am to be Queen of the whole world.”
It hit him with the force of an arrow bursting through a bull’s-eye.
And yet, it was like he had always known.
Yes, it is truth. Everything in his nurest and prescient senses affirmed it.
He took a breath, allowing all the pieces to align. His fingers flicked around his own tree and carefully tapped out the lines and connections and pointed to the symmetry. It all made so much sense now. All his intuit, his determination, Colette. The drive to leave his own terrisdan for another. Everything.
I will protect her, he reaffirmed silently.
Brenol had awoken on the floor with his head throbbing and nausea gripping his ribs—an occasional consequence of the memory transference—but he had not cared. No, he wept only at the pain of departing from the memory’s beautiful folds. It had been so vivid, so perfect.
Deniel’s affection for Colette had always been fraternal. He was older and had grown up with her. There had never been a question of romance, but the cartontz impulse to guard the girl had flowed in every vein and directed every breath. Brenol had acquired this latter drive along with Deniel’s memories, but he had always blazed with more. The tree lingered in Brenol’s thoughts and dreams and stoked his already present love for Colette into a tremendous fire. He had tried to love the Genesifin, but in the end, his love was really only for Colette.
All was Colette.
Absentmindedly, Brenol pulled out the small white manuscript he had forgotten to leave hidden at home. Though dripping wet, its pages showed no signs of damage. In the dark, it radiated light, casting beams across the surface of the black waters and cavern walls.
Strange. I’ve never actually brought this down here with me…
He rotated the book in his hands, childishly amused as he manipulated the lights, but when he nonchalantly opened it, all innocent musings ceased. His breath caught in his throat with a croak.
There, amidst the mysterious verbiage, upon the pages that he both treasured and loathed, lay the code he knew dearly. The code of the juile, as brightly aglow as the constellations followed by hope-filled sailors, was stamped across the very text. Sense had been hiding not behind but upon the words and sentences he had grappled with daily. Pages and pages of coded light. Pages and pages. Only to be seen here, in the waters. It was simple—so, so simple.
How’ve I never thought to read it here?
He would have smacked himself had the mystery not yanked him from every other thought and inclination.
He delved in.
~
Preifest had been right. It was all here. It was the Genesifin. It was the beginning and the end. He shuddered, finally seeing how fate would grip the people and lands of Massada. No control, no power, they were just blind and sealed to their doom. The world would change. The maralane would die. The cold and icy surroundings would encroach on the terrisdans. Many peoples would suffer. While the writings did not detail everything, it was clear that this destiny—and growing winter—had been at work for generations.
It was nearly dawn when Brenol decided to return home. He closed the Genesifin reluctantly and pushed his frozen limbs weakly through the water until he remembered the aurenal.
I need to tell Colette, he thought, sliding the case out again. And before she leaves the river.
He had unlatched it and opened his mouth to speak when he was greeted by Colette’s musical voice. It was strained, but gentle and understanding. “Tell her it is time. Tell her you know your place and you must take it. Tell her you know it’s not easy, but growing and loving never are. It’s time to let go, but your love will always be with her. Tell her you’re not thinking of yourself, but of your loyalty to a promise. You may return, you may not…but she is not unloved or alone.”
His face flushed. He had caught glimpses of this woman during their time in Selenia. She had still been much a child then—as was he—but when that regal strength had shown through, it had left him stammering. So despite the strange reticence he had experienced from her here on Alatrice, he could see that the Colette from his past had only grown wiser and stronger. He forgave all in that instant, amazed at the mature woman whose mind was awake and seeing.
She’s so good.
He had no comparably elegant words to share, so he spoke simply into the silver case: “I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.” He clapped it shut with pruned fingers and sloshed up the steps.
His heart glowed alive with excitement as the words resounded in his mind: I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.
And yes, my gortei. Even Colette hints at it, though she doesn’t know what it means.
The forces of fate were gearing vigorously to life. He must move with haste.
~
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Brenol gazed at his mother, who stared back at him with a clamped jaw and narrowed eyes. Mousy brown hair hung limply against her face.
“I cannot say,” he replied, fidgeting. He towered over her, and could have easily plucked the wispy woman up into his arms, but she somehow still made him feel like a grammar school sprout.
“Is this about the traitor?”
“He has a name,” Brenol replied.
“Is it about him?”
Brenol sighed. “Somewhat,” he added reluctantly.
“Is that all you have to say?” Her voice was not angry.
The young man’s eyes widened in surprise. “You expected this,” he said. How?
His mother’s features slackened suddenly, and she peered at him with uncharacteristic understanding. “Bren, you’re my child. I see. You have a hole.”
Brenol raised his brow.
Her face twitched as she fought anxiously for the words. “Since you came back. And Darse left. There’s been a hole.”
The young man regarded his mother quietly.
She tugged at her sleeves. “You’re more adult than before—more grown—and I don’t know, but there’s something you’ve been waiting on… I-I didn’t know what.” Her fingers found a loose string and twirled it between thumb and finger over and over again. “And the itch has been growing—to leave, to move…something.” Her amber eyes locked onto his, and her thin lips pinched together while she waited for his response. When it did not come, she discarded the string with an exaggerated swipe of the hand and spoke with a strength he had never before heard from her. “I’m not going to cage you. You’re not my pet.”
The word made him grimace, his memory shooting back to Darse’s horrific experience with Fingers, but still he was stunned. Her lucidity, her insights, her words. It had taken him eighteen orbits to glimpse it behind all the angst and awkward behavior, but there was more to this broken woman than he could imagine. Brenol stared in disbelief.
The fullness of her words suddenly struck him.
She’s letting me go.
It was without charge, without explanation. It was more love than he had ever expected from her—or ever before received. He stared into her eyes and sensed the world around him continuing despite his efforts to stand still. This was his first moment of connection with her, and he felt the bitter irony that it was also his last. Eventually he choked out the words that Colette had shared through the aurenal. Flowing from his lips, though, they seemed inane and meager.
How can one actually say goodbye to one’s mother?
The experience was too sour, too bitter. Without meaning to, he blurted out, “Come. Come with me.”
Her face jumped in suspicion. “You want me to come?”
Brenol nodded, surprised himself, for he did want her to come. He would take care of her, and she could be with him. The idea, however, had barely germinated before being uprooted.
“No, no.” She shook her head emphatically. Her hands danced in agitation, and she began to wander around the small room in jerky strides. “I-I-I just… No.” She swung her head back violently and stared venomously at her son. “You mean nothing to me. Just like your traitor friend. Be gone.”
Brenol frowned, wishing things could somehow be different. His mother was not whole—would likely never be—and there was little he could do to mend the strange brokenness within her. He could force her to accompany him, but a foreign world would only aggravate whatever ailed her; the mere mention of leaving had caused her anxiety to rise. His remaining here also would be of little use. She had refused his help from the beginning and would do so to the close.
He bobbed his head in agreement, hoping to calm her, though he still stung with regret for a future that could never be.
“Ma, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Brenol approached and met her, forcing her body to a still. He cupped her hands in his large palms and dipped his head to meet her eye to eye. She shook free but remained before him as he spoke.
“I do love you. You’ll be fine here. You always have been, right?” He smiled gently, and her thin head bobbed back in fitful agreement.
“Go join your traitor friend,” she said without emotion.
Brenol winced. “It isn’t like that.”
“I don’t care if it is or isn’t,” she replied steadily.
Brenol sighed. Delaying his departure was not serving either, so he attempted to embrace her for the final time. Her arms batted him back, and again he released her.
The young man dipped down to kiss the crown of her head lightly, and her brown tresses stuck to his salty lips. He wiped his face clean and strode out the door. He wondered if he would ever retrace those steps again.
She waited for the sound of his heels to recede and then returned to her washing.
~
Brenol rapped lightly on the weathered door. The sound seemed to echo through the small residence. He glanced around restlessly, wondering where he could find Mager if she was not here, and then sighed quietly as he caught the sounds of muttering from within.
A creamy brown face topped with shortly cropped hair the hue of snow poked out. Two bushy white eyebrows raised in question, but the woman made no move to speak.
“Mager,” Brenol began. “I—”
The woman held up a wrinkled hand. “Be gone. I’ve got nothing baked. You can be on your way.”
Brenol smiled, amused despite the rebuttal, and felt his impatience dissipate. “I haven’t pestered you for food for orbits,” he teased her.
Mager’s pink lips pursed tightly. “Yes, but now you’re twice the size you used to be. You’re probably here to make up for all the lost meals.”
Brenol dipped his head, as if in acquiescence. “I am always hungry. But I came with another purpose. I brought you a gift.”
Mager’s face lit with joy, like a child discovering it was a holiday, then shifted swiftly into a suspicious, sidelong gaze. She crept the door forward a few digits but did not make a move to exit. “A gift?”
“A gift,” he repeated, smiling enticingly.
Mager hesitated, and the man could see both uneasiness and curiosity in her wide brown eyes. She allowed herself one step, and that was enough for Brenol. He collected her hand and tugged her gently forward.
“Come, come,” Brenol said.
At his touch, all hesitation vanished. She brightened and took his arm, as if he were a suitor calling upon her, and Brenol led the little woman around to the back of her house. Her steps were springy, and a smile tugged at Brenol’s lips. Mager had always been a tad eccentric.
The woman whistled as she spied the fence. There, roped to her splintering fence, were Brenol’s two cows. Daisy, the dark brown heifer heavy with calf, ignored their presence and bent greedily for the tufts of grass by her hooves. Clover, though, raised her large, black head to peer genially at the two. Her eyes were a velvety chocolate brown and carried a sweetness, even if they lacked any spark of wit.
Mager, while refusing to relinquish Brenol’s arm, pulled her chin back and turned to face him distrustfully. “Your gift is to clear my lawn?”
Brenol patted the thin arm. “I need a favor from you.”
“That much is obvious,” she said with a guffaw. She waited with interested expectation.
Brenol inhaled, allowing the rehearsed words to flow from his lips. “I’m going away on a trip, probably for a long time. And I want you to have my ladies.” He extended a finger to the nearest. “Daisy will be lifing in the next moon with her first, and Clover, the black one, is a solid milker. Should you need to, the calf will likely make a fine price at Smalter’s Fest, and then you’d have two good dairy cows.”
Brenol peered at Mager. Her demeanor was still reserved, but he perceived a smile in her eyes. “The favor, though…” he began.
“The favor, indeed,” Mager repeated with a laugh. The aging woman squeezed Brenol’s arm slightly, again reminding him of a gleeful child.
“I need you to look after Ma. Bring her some milk every day. You’ll have more than you need. And if you sell any, maybe buy her some food every now and then.” He straightened and met her gaze squarely. “I’m giving you more than I am asking. We both know that.”
Mager shook her head. “Why not sell them, then? You’d get more money for her that way.”
Brenol’s face grew somber. “I can’t give her the money, and you know it.” He sighed. “And I can’t trust anyone else to give her the money as she needs it. No, this is better. You are both helped, and I know you will honor our agreement. You watched over Darse’s cow, Button, when we were gone that time.”
Mager smiled, revealing a long line of crooked teeth. “That’s only because I was thirsty.”
Brenol laughed. “I think there was more to it than that. But regardless, I trust you, and there are not many people I can say that of. Would you please help me? Would you look after her?”
The old woman patted his arm with gentle understanding. “You aren’t coming back, are you?”
Brenol flinched, but answered anyway. “No. I’m not.”
“Will you be needing your chickens, then?” she asked with a full-toothed grin.
Brenol chuckled, surprised at her reaction. “They’re yours if you agree.”
Mager retracted her arm, then placed her hand out flat, palm up. Brenol set his hand palm down on top of hers. After the brief touch, the two nodded and retracted their hands.
“There is one other thing,” Brenol said after a moment.
Mager sighed. “Now to buy the loaf.”
Brenol laughed. “No, no. I just want you to make sure no one goes in Darse’s house. I’ll board it up, but I don’t want anyone in there.”
“Why?” she asked with sudden curiously.
He pressed his lips together, searching for an excuse. “It is what Darse would have wanted. I need to honor that,” he finally said.
Mager surveyed the man for a few moments, then finally nodded. “I’ll do what I can… Do you mind me using his land, though?”
“It’s yours,” Brenol said, relieved.
Suddenly, Brenol lurched forward as Mager slapped him excitedly on the back. She offered a surprising amount of force for such a slight person.
“Gah!” she yelped gleefully. She rubbed her palms together slowly, her face eager. “Milk for my old bones! This is even better than nipping from Darse’s stores.”
Brenol laughed, thinking of his friend. Darse had always known when the woman had been foraging through his food, but he had spared her any harsh words. “Thank you, Mager. I appreciate it.”
She narrowed her glance for a moment. “I still didn’t bake anything for you. I’m clean out.” Her face extended again into a smooth smile, unable to hide her pleasure over their dealings. “Clean out.”
~
The stairs were still damp. It had only been a handful of hours since he had emerged with the knowledge that he was returning to Massada. He removed his sandals carefully and stowed them in his pack. The bag did not contain much, just enough to ensure that he wouldn’t again find himself unshod and hungry on the banks of Ziel.
Sloshing his way in, he shivered and jumped as he adjusted to the water and darkness. After a few minutes, the pricks of ice receded, and his skin was cool to the touch. He gazed forward, seeing dim lights along the canal—a crude tallow ensconced every twenty paces or so. He began to shudder but stopped himself, opting to find hope in them instead of fear.
Then he swam.
His strong body stretched easily through the water, even with the awkward pack strapped to his back. The fish glimmered in the depths, and Brenol caught brief glimpses of fins, but he could not pick out the dance of their school in the murky darkness.
Arm over arm. Kick, kick, kick. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Had he possessed any extra energy, he would have groaned, but instead he ignored his protesting muscles and pressed on.
It’s so much darker this time. And it feels like the tunnel’s going to go on forever. It just never ends.
There were so many discrepancies between the present trip and the past that his mind cartwheeled anxiously. This is not the same swim I made four orbits ago.
After hours of effort, Brenol was spent. His lungs heaved, and he wondered if his body could endure another stroke, but his legs and arms continued to drive him forward monotonously.
Suddenly, his fingers scraped painfully against dirt. There had been no fire this time, no blinding sear to end the marathon. The water merely shallowed, and he emerged from the cave like a disgorged bug. Shivering as a touch of wind met his quivering muscles, he crawled weak-legged up the bank and collapsed beneath a tree to sleep.
~
Colette stirred. Her ears pricked at a sound in the corridor, and her body went rigid. She could not perceive who it was, nor what the person was doing. Her nurest connection—her tie to the land—was glaringly absent, and she felt the limitations of ordinary senses with acute distaste.
The lunitata rose to a sit and peered around in the dim light, waiting. Her chamber was lit by the faintest glow of a lantern. She did not care if it was a waste of fuel. Her only concern was being able to see if she woke, for the terror of her inner blindness—the lack of terrisdan connection and sight—had turned her vulnerable and crazed.
No one rapped at her door, and the hall fell silent. If she had been united with Veronia, she would have known everything. She would have perceived the person’s dress, gait, height, and weight. She could have seen his movements, marked his possessions. And had there been trouble, Veronia would have helped her.
“Veronia, what’s wrong with you?” she whispered faintly. She was met with only silence. The entire space of her mind was her own, and she felt the lack down to her toes.
Do I even care? Colette wondered. Or is it only about the power?
Perturbed, she pondered all that the connection gave her: knowledge beyond compare, skill without ever applying herself, a flood of affection and assurance, unwavering confidence, and belief in her own goodness. How she longed for it all again! She had been capable of anything! With the connection she felt alive and free, and without it she was helpless and lost.
Colette sighed, wishing the world was far different, but in the space of that very exhalation, she perceived a ravenous hunger approaching. She eased back into bed, her limbs beginning to slick with sweat. A rumble grew in her, and hot greed poured through her veins.
I need the connection, her body wailed. I need the power.
The young woman whimpered as desire flooded her, and she curled on her side as small as she could, hugging her knees to chest.
She shivered despite the burning heat consuming her, and she clenched her fists until her nails pierced her palms.
“No, I do love Veronia. I do,” she said defiantly to the empty room.
Colette inhaled slowly, but the greed only intensified, like fire kissing an accelerant.
After several minutes her eyes went hard.
I will do anything to get it back, she swore. Anything.
Nothing will stop me.
~
Brenol awoke with a start. His dreams had been horrifying. Maralane washing up like pale, bloated whales on sandy shores, storms ransacking Massada, grown men weeping, terrible black eyes staring at him. He shook his head as if to physically expunge the imprinted images and opened his eyes.
Massada!
He was here! It had not been his imagination. It had all been real—at least the waterway and tunnel and beach.
But everything was so different this time. Could this be a sign of Massada’s weakness?
He pushed the thought aside and rose to stretch his legs and shaky arms. His body ached from his swim. He was caked with mud and leaves, and much of his skin had taken on the fox-red hue of Ziel’s clay bank. Brenol shivered in the early dawn light and watched as his breath frosted the air before his face. He rubbed his cool limbs while his stomach groaned in revolt.
“Hold on, hold on,” he muttered, as though his own body was a stock animal braying for its feed. He squatted and groped into his soaked pack, pulling out a pair of dripping sandals and some carefully wrapped cheese and oat cakes. The edges had begun to dampen, but on the whole they had survived the journey unscathed. He consumed more than he would have liked from his stores for he could not restrain his starving hands. The cold bit, but the food helped to get his natural heat flowing again. His fingers absently combed through his crop of red hair. Leaves and small twigs fluttered out.
I am a mess, he thought, not uncheerfully.
He rubbed his face, wishing for steaming coffee, and opened his gaze to the world around him. The water permeated the air with a pungent sweetness, and he filled his lungs with the morning mists. The trees, in the naked barrenness of late autumn or early winter, were typical to the lake areas: brechant, contrium, sewl, and many he only knew by sight. Branches and bracken barred many passages, and the ground was littered with dead fall, nuts, seeds, cones, and rocks. It was indeed Massada, although Ziel seemed indefinably different. He rubbed his hair again absently as he mused. A small piece of bark fell from his head to the soil.
Brenol stopped contemplating the unknown and allowed his lips to spread into a toothy grin. He threw his body back into a sprawl, and despite the damp red earth seeping further into his chilled clothing, he savored the reunion.
Home. I’m home.
I don’t care if I have the entire bank in my hair. I’m home.
He lay and closed his eyes. He felt a soft warmth creep upon him and the light behind his lids brighten as the sun peeked out. His insides swelled with hope. Raising his vision to the heavens, he sighed in thanksgiving. The skies were awakening with the dawn’s purple-pink explosion, and clouds streaked across the easel of color like smears of white paint.
Home. Finally.
Clambering to his feet, he permitted himself to tarry, just for a few brief moments, knowing that he would need his entire self fortified to face what awaited.
His eyes returned to the cave from which he had scrambled. So many orbits previously, before a cave similar to this one, Ordah’s words had echoed through his bones. Blood shall bring new life. Brenol was still no closer to untangling that mystery, and he felt the twinge of anticipation a runner does as he approaches the block. Through his shirt pocket, he traced the outline of the whistle he had received from Pearl.
One thought led to another, and Brenol grinned; he would soon see Darse again. And Arman. And Colette.
Colette!
He lunged forward into the shallows and pulled the aurenal from his pocket. It shone as though it had been polished that morning. He clicked it open anxiously, but he did not hear the voice of the princess.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “If I don’t hear from you, I will head to Veronia. I’m not sure, but I think I’m on the northern banks of Ziel.”
He took a deep breath. Regardless of what came next, he was home.