To battle evil, one must first accept and conquer the evil within.
-Genesifin
“You must ask,” the spirit said with a sneer.
“I will not,” Carn replied heavily to his soumme, who was not his soumme.
“I think you will.”
Carn peered at her with pinched eyes. Dierdre, his bride, looked the same. She had the same square face, with pinched features and stick-straight blond hair. She had never been fair, save the beauty he had grown to see and love within her. And love her he did. Or had. For now that inner loveliness had vanished. There was the physiognomy of the one he adored, but malice currently reigned in the eyes that had previously been soft and gentle.
She sneered. “I will keep hurting her.”
Carn’s face soured in scorn. “She’s no more. I’ll not further your aims by allowing you to take me too.”
Dierdre scowled with rage, for he had spoken truth.
These foul incarnate creatures are unpredictable. I detest their stupid attempts to fight me, the spirit thought. All bugs. They are all bugs.
Carn contemplated Dierdre’s eyes, the dark pools that had once boasted a hue of light amber. There were still patches of color, but the black shot out from the pupil like the dark streaks left from a fire’s kiss. Over the last few hours with her, it had progressed. Soon there would be only darkness.
Like she was being burned from within…
Dierdre’s lips pressed together, and suddenly her face opened in a new thought. “I imagine there must be something you desire.” She spread her features into a cunning and evil grin, which disappeared almost as quickly as it emerged. “You will die regardless, but if you acquiesce, I will make certain allowances.” Dierdre’s eyes flashed perilously.
Carn pondered the words but found he could not see past that awful loathing in those eyes.
She really is gone.
He had known it, but facing the stark truth squarely was like a brick to his gut. Carn gasped in pain. And now his own mortality was leaking away with each passing moment. It was only a matter of time.
I must do something, he thought, his mind scrambling.
Finally, he nodded to her, shoulders slumped down in defeat. Dierdre smiled widely. The loathing within the gesture sent goose bumps down his spine.
“I knew we could manage this problem somehow. What is it you want?”
Carn lifted his chin and looked up into her eyes. “I want to write a letter to my son. I want to say goodbye.”
Dierdre’s lip curled in disgust. These creatures and their young.
“Fine. Do it.” She indicated the ivory desk in the corner with a flip of her index finger. Her cuticles, and the beginnings of the nail bed, were the startling hue of soot. Carn noted this with blank expression and followed directions meekly, settling down to the paper and pen before him.
Dierdre stood over him.
This will not do, Carn thought. He leaned forward with a quavering hand and scrawled My Son across the top. He bent over and shook with sobs. It was only partly contrived.
Dierdre backed away in disgust. “Write your letter. I will read it when you are done.”
Her feet padded softly out of the room. The movements were bizarre; his soumme had always been agile, but now her grace was more akin to the quiet stalk of a predator.
Carn lifted a second sheet, made several quick notations, creased it into a tiny square, and began to work its folds into the underside of the desk until it was lodged securely.
Please, Three, let this work.
He spent the next few minutes penning a letter to a son he did not have. He was nearing the end of the page when hot breath touched his neck and caused his spine to recoil.
“Are you done, dearest soumme?” Dierdre whispered.
“Almost,” Carn replied softly, his mouth dry.
“Give it to me,” she demanded, swiping the paper from under him. Her eyes took in the simple lines, and her lips pinched in disgust. She thrust the page into his face. “Seal it.”
He had not finished, but he did not argue. Slowly, he melted the purple wax and dripped it onto the envelope flap. He extracted a seal from the white desk and stamped it upon the warm lavender. It imprinted the familial crest, but with the flora reserved for death announcements. Carn scribbled the outside with both name and location before drawing the letter to his chest and clutching it with trembling fingers.
Dierdre peered at him suspiciously. “Arman?”
“It’s his name. It’s a common name.”
She pursed her lips in further speculation. “Your son lives in Selet?”
He nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his fate approaching. The lies tasted bitter, even if they were in defiance of this strange entity. “Yes. Selet. He took a juile as soumme. I’ve not seen him in thirteen orbits.”
She laughed mockingly. “Do not seek my pity, you fool… Ask me in, now.”
Carn shook his head vehemently. “No. No. Not until I see the seal gone.”
An enraged growl rumbled in the woman’s throat. She yanked him roughly from the desk by the collar of his shirt and stared into his gray eyes, her hot breath reeking across his face. Carn quivered under the remarkably powerful grip.
“You will ask me now.”
He gazed at Dierdre with weak and glassy eyes. “Do you think that your torture will suddenly work on me now? You’ve already seen how far it gets you.”
Her lips tightened and cheeks retracted in a swift movement of contempt. Dierdre released his body like it was a sack of manure, and he toppled down face first into the floorboards. His entire body screamed in pain, for he was already a sore mess of burns and lacerations. It took a minute before Carn could muster any motion from his old limbs. His tongue met the metallic taste of blood, and he hesitantly spit out a chip of tooth. The splash of blood upon the floor was a vibrant red against the worn pine.
“Get up. Cover your wounds with a coat. We’ll move, then.”
Carn dressed and dragged himself the five-minute walk to the local sealtoz. It was a small bricked structure with a rooming house above for the chief of seal. An outdated canvas hung loosely from the eaves, inviting all to a fair that had taken place two moons previously. Carn allowed the dirty, rough fabric to graze his face as they passed beneath. It was such a physical experience, and every moment of the concrete now seemed precious.
The single room was full of workers sorting seal, and the chief of seal, Gregory, stood behind a counter consulting a ledger. He was a thick man, with bulging arms covered with black hair and a round face housing narrow and calculating gray eyes. His cheeks were pocked but well shaven, and his jowls hung as loosely as a turkey’s. The workers bustled forward to make room and nodded cordially to the couple; they were both known and respected in the community.
Carn fished out a few coins from his pocket, pausing as he heard their clink and felt the cool metal in his fingers, and handed one to the man. Dierdre set the letter beside it with the softness of a leaf dropping. Gregory looked up from his ledger, and his fleshy cheeks smiled in greeting.
The chief of seal drew the letter forward and opened his mouth slightly as his eyes caught the address. “Selet, it is,” he said with a casual glance to the man. A question nearly formed upon his lips, but he let his curiosity slide away.
Professionalism, Gregory reminded himself.
“When will this be sent out, Gregory?” Carn asked with forced lightness.
The chief of seal pushed his lips out in thought. “By nightfall. The sealtors are on break for another hour, but several wolves are in the area and heading through Stonia. They could leave earlier, but one never knows with wolves.” Gregory snorted slightly.
Carn nodded. “Thank you, Gregory. Always knowing your business.”
The man grinned. “Arman will get your letter before you can warm your feet.”
Carn smiled grimly and squeezed past the waiting customers, ducking below the old sign. Dierdre led him by his elbow, and he felt every bone within his body sag. It was coming. He had only a few moments left, though he planned on fighting to the last breath. He would die, and this was it.
But maybe this can be the end of this monster. Maybe…
He would rest his hopes in Arman.
~
Not more than an hour later, Dierdre re-entered the sealtoz and swatted away the canvas like it was a pestering insect. Her eyes were barely amber, with streaks of black singe overtaking both irises. She smiled apologetically to Gregory and approached the counter.
“I don’t suppose that the seal to Arman has gone out yet?”
Gregory lifted his bulging hands in surprise. “Actually, no. Decide to add something? A parcel?”
She shook her head amiably, but there was a strange flavor to the motion. Gregory tilted his head fractionally as he examined the woman.
“No, no. My soumme decided he didn’t want me to send it after all. Carn is funny sometimes, especially about family.”
Gregory peered across the counter, his features expressionless upon his meaty cheek bones. Finally, he nodded and bent down to pilfer through a box.
He inhaled sharply as he saw the strange seal—missed upon the initial receiving—and his eyes flashed up in alarm. His hands left tiny sweat marks on the paper, but still he slid the envelope over to Dierdre. The woman lifted it—cuticles as black as night—in examination, ensured it was the same, and strolled from the building without requesting her money back.
The seal master waddled to the end of his desk and arched his neck to peer out the filthy window. Dierdre moved like a large cat, quiet and fluid, on the path leading south from the sealtoz, giving Gregory only a brief view of the woman as she took the envelope and, with unwavering hands, shredded the paper like cabbage. She collected the largest pieces that fell and pocketed them securely before sliding her way down the lane with a pleased step.
Gregory leaned back, confused and anxious. Dierdre had never before exhibited such bizarre behavior.
Other family? She only has Carn…
And the seal…
And why did she look so triumphant?
Gregory lifted his hands in wonder but then let both palms fall to his sides; he was a businessman, and this was not his business. He paused for a brief minute, thinking about Arman. He knew the juile.
I could send seal… I could tell him. The thought held little appeal. Maybe tomorrow. Or even the next day. Yes, I’ll just think about it… Wouldn’t want to be a nuisance.
He turned and lumbered back to his ledger.
~
The afternoon trailed on in a chilly damp, the air hanging so densely it was as if Colette and Darse walked through a cloud; even the sound of their steps was padded by its mysterious silence. The sun rested behind the brume, and the two were left to seek heat in the forced movement of their limbs.
Darse observed Colette, who uttered not a spare word or complaint. But her breath was ragged, and her soft hair escaped its ribbon and sprung into unruly coffee-colored curls in the humidity. Darse fretted over her need for rest, eying her every motion with concern, and forced a halt for refreshment once they reached Ziel. He could not deny that he was glad of the respite himself.
Colette ducked away from his side and marched wearily down to the water. He pressed behind her nimbly and imagined that the sigh that escaped her lips was due to his inescapable shadow. The princess otherwise ignored him and stooped down, scooping water into her hands. The frosty clear nipped at her fingers, and she shivered back, recoiling as if from a snake. Darse knelt down and cupped his own drink to his lips. It was indeed cold, much icier than he had anticipated, and he had grown up with the lakes and rivers of Alatrice. He let it slice down his throat and stepped back to survey the area.
The mountains splashed up around him in striking swipes of purple and gray above the forests hugging the shore. Darse’s eyes rose to take in their glory, and he breathed with satisfaction. If it hadn’t been for his stinging lungs grasping for oxygen in the lofty elevation, he would have thought they rested in a bowl.
Yet the true astonishment came not so much from the sights as from the feel of the place. The land around Ziel filled him up—as simply as cup before pitcher—just as it had that first day when he had tumbled out of the cave and out into the clear. Even then, he had known an experience of peace, of clarity, although he had been unable to describe it easily. Here, winds tugged at his cloak, songs whispered from watery depths, and the glistening movement of the nearly still water was strikingly foreign. Before him, the alien and the known met in a beautiful and alarming union. Ziel was rarely far from his mind and heart.
Colette hugged her arms against her body in a futile attempt at warmth and turned, suddenly letting out a scream that tore Darse from his thoughts.
“What? What is it?” he yelled. His glance darted around the still, following her gaze until his gut plummeted in horror. His tongue dried to the roof of his mouth, preventing speech.
Within the rocky shallows lay a dozen, if not more, maralane, now just translucent-white corpses of skin and scale. It was surprising they had missed them until this point, even if the scent of decay had not blossomed yet.
Darse, who had heard of the beached bodies, peered at Colette to take in her response. He already feared for her sanity; this might undo the last strands holding her to the earth.
Colette, at first pale and terrified, dropped the thin screech, and the space seemed eerie in the sudden silence. A new look issued over her face—a curious expression Darse could not name.
The lunitata hesitated, then stepped forward, tucking a stray dark strand behind an ear. The cold waters no longer daunted her, and she dipped her legs into the icy body. She was soon immersed in the chill up to her thighs as she maneuvered the dead from their floating coffins and onto the bank. Darse unbooted and steeled himself before joining her in lugging out the cold white bodies. When finished, eighteen corpses lay strewn upon the sand and rocks. Four were but small children.
Colette brushed the translucent features of a lake-child with a compassionate touch. As she wiped away the silt and sediment, tears streamed down her own blanched face. The rivulets turned to sobs and soon wails. The dam of long-held emotion burst apart, no longer able to hold the rushing torrent.
Darse removed himself to kindle and build up a roaring fire. The heaving of the princess’s frame was unaffected by the heat. He maintained his silence, afraid that any interference would do more damage than good.
Eventually her wracking cries ceased, and her face sagged in exhaustion. She stared out upon Ziel with sunken, red eyes. The sun dipped lower, and still she did not move from her post. Finally, her lips parted, and a soft breath carried her almost inaudible words: “The whole is perishing. The whole. Not just my Veronia.”
She clenched her fists together tightly, as though anger would again double her over in tears, but then paused. She examined her hands with a profound expression and relinquished her hold, allowing the knuckles to return to their soft pink hue. She blinked as though waking from deep slumber and narrowed her eyes upon her open palms.
Jerem takes and takes, she thought. He took me, he took so many nuresti. Then he tried to take the maralane. Did he?
Her eyes descended to the fish-child by her feet. His arms looked fragile and atrophied. The gills at his side were marred with infection, and a sickly brown growth extended in and around them. The youth’s auburn hair was smeared across his face, but she could nonetheless make out his angular features and the oval shape of his eyes.
A voice, melodious and pleading, resounded in her mind. She recalled her mother, stroking her hair and speaking to her soon after she had been released from the soladrome and returned to the castle. “Colette, if you hate, the person you despise will always own you.” How her mother had tried to heal that darkness within her! But Colette had lost too much to simply forget all that Jerem had done to her. She had bottled it tightly within, unwilling to heed her mother’s words.
Yet, sitting here, seeing the probable work of the poison, Colette’s world seemed to clarify. If this had been Jerem’s doing, they had lost their very lives to his evil. Nothing could ever undo that atrocity. But if Colette held onto this dark fury, wouldn’t he still have her? Wouldn’t Jerem be winning even in death? The conclusion alarmed her.
Jerem shall not have me, she vowed. No more.
Her eyes raised to meet Darse’s.
“He shall not have me,” she said aloud. “Never again.”
Darse looked wonderingly at her, and Colette closed her eyes. She feared she would not be able to do it, but she refused to cower; there had been too much time and life lost already.
She grasped hold of her courage and whispered words of forgiveness out into Ziel, finally letting the burden and pain bleed from her.
The shadows she had wrapped herself in fell from her person nearly as tangibly as a reptile’s molted skin. Her features were still damp with tears, but that did not detract from the beauty that sprang violently from her frame. Where she had once been a flickering candle, a tiny beacon of light, she was now fully radiant and alive. Colette was a lunitata indeed, and her face was utterly magnificent.
Darse sighed, relieved to his toes. He smiled gently at the transformation and thought, She’s more herself than I could have hoped.
Colette looked back gravely. “Never.”
~
Arriving in Limbartina, Brenol sought out Arman immediately. It was well into the night, and he himself was weary from travel, but he knew the juile would see their meeting as more dire than sleep. He rapped at a door, hoping he had located the correct quarters in the soladrome.
The door opened, and Brenol squinted inside to the pitch black.
“Bren!” Arman said warmly. “Come in.”
Brenol allowed himself a brief smile before stepping cautiously into the dark. The door closed behind him, and he stood, completely blind. It was only a moment before the sound of striking flint filled the quiet space and a lantern awoke. Arman hung the metal orb upon a lantern hook, and the dim light turned the room a soft, shaded gold. Brenol sighed faintly, pleased the juile was invisible—the poison’s effects must not have been as severe in Selenia—and blinked, taking in his surroundings.
The room was simple and small, housing a pallet along one wall and a small table with an ewer against the other. The usual sterile white tile was underfoot.
“How were your trav—?”
“I have the antidote,” Brenol blurted.
“Tell me,” Arman said, his voice immediately urgent.
“Preifest. He had handed it to me, but I’d forgotten with everything that happened. Especially when I met you, and I went unconscious with those memories… Anyway, I have it, but I don’t know how to use it.”
“Tell me,” Arman repeated adamantly.
Brenol relayed the code and his memory from Deniel. “I only know that I cannot break it open out in Ziel. It would destroy the maralane. It would be their end.” He shook his head with determination. “We cannot do that to them. Not that I even know whether it would work to save the terrisdans that way.”
Arman ruminated silently. Brenol pulled the hos from his pocket and extended it in offering. Arman’s invisible hand softly plucked up the tiny piece and smoothed his fingers across it. He was quiet for a long moment.
“What do we do?” Brenol asked.
Arman exhaled, returning the hos to Brenol’s palm. “We have the umbus look at it. And hope they have answers.”
The juile’s tone did not instill confidence. Brenol stashed the hos back in his pocket. “What are you thinking about?”
“More than I care to admit,” Arman replied reluctantly.
Brenol frowned. “Arman. You can talk to me.”
Arman studied the man before him. Brenol was clearly exhausted. His frame leaned forward like a tree weathering a heavy storm, and his hair was disheveled and dirty. His clothing hung loosely from hard use and smelled sharply of travel and sweat and campfire. The expression underlying his fatigue, though, was full of power and purpose. His eyes were focused and clear and set firmly within his somber face. The juile smiled, though Brenol could not see it.
Suddenly, Arman rang with decision. I will tell Bren. I will tell him about the black fev—
“Oh! I nearly forgot,” Brenol said, interrupting Arman’s near-resolution. He bent to his pack and pilfered through until he located Darse’s item. He stood and again extended out his hand to the juile.
Arman tensed at the sight of the jekob nut resting in Brenol’s palm. It drew him back to a memory he did not care to relive, even if it had brought bounty in the end. He eased a breath through his lungs to steady himself and wished he had granted his weary body the mercy of more than a few hours of sleep. He flicked his fingers out in surrender and drove his mind beyond his present discomfort.
“Buying wares from Caladia?” he finally asked. He stretched his arm out but paused and hovered over Brenol’s hand, as if undecided whether to touch the smooth nut or not.
Brenol shook his head. A strand of copper escaped its band, and he pushed it behind his ear with an indifferent flick. “No. Darse brought it. Arista sent it to you.”
Arman’s expression turned austere. “Did he say why?”
“Not a word. He thought it was fairly important, though. Just unsure why she hadn’t sent it as seal if she’d needed it to get to you quickly. I was left with the sense that the whole thing was a bit strange.”
“Indeed.”
Indecision ended, and the scarlet nut disappeared into the juile’s possession. Brenol’s palm returned to his side, and his fingers resumed their silent tapping. The sharp crack of shell splintered the air, and he stopped. Soon a shower of strawberry-hued chunks fell to the white floor. Brenol leaned forward in curiosity and raised his brow at the distinct sound of paper being rolled open.
“Everything ok, Arman?” Brenol asked the empty room. “There’s a note?”
Arman’s voice was tight and sharp. “Do not speak of this message to anyone.”
Hastily, the juile stepped sideways to the lantern. He extended the small paper until it kissed the tiny flame and curled in a soft amber. The remaining ash flittered to the floor.
“Arman?”
The juile softened his tone, but imperativeness still edged his speech. “Arista saw something disturbing she wanted to tell me about… I think it may be a piece to something I have been pondering.”
Three help us, Arman thought, again unsure if he ought to tell Brenol.
“Why the secrecy?” Brenol asked. “Does it have to do with the poisons?”
Arman wanted to laugh, more due to pain than mirth. “I wish it did, Bren. I wish it did.”