A foreigner shall call the great of the lands. They shall come, obedient as never before.
-Genesifin
Brenol sent out seals across Massada. He requested keepers, cartontz, and kings alike to join him at Limbartina. The nuresti had never before met together in council, and likely would have refused under other circumstances, but Brenol had won an element of respect from them orbits ago. The black coffins of Jerem were not so easily forgotten, even by those who had not personally lived the horror. The rumors that Brenol was part nurest were argued and defended, and whether due to curiosity or fate, the keepers were tugged from their borders and soon trickled their way into Selenia. The royalty also came, but they proved neither as patient nor as prone to respect; Brenol’s legends meant little to them. Representatives from varying races were also invited, but many of these were missing; time and circumstance—and frawnish obstinacy—did not allow for every species to attend.
Colette, seemingly one of the last to arrive, entered into the midst of the chaos with bewildered eyes set in a solemn face. The group was nearly pawing the ground in their impatience to learn why they had been requested. Brenol had refused to convene until the majority of those summoned were present.
“Called. Like a serving boy with a platter,” muttered a short, balding man with a beard as thick and red as a setter’s coat. His eyes burned as he turned them upon Colette.
She let his words fall from her without effect and approached Brenol.
Brenol spied her and stared, taking in her new radiance with awe. The glow was lovely and fitting, as if somehow the light was a shining picture of the intricate goodness within her. He felt like he was gazing at her soul, and it was breathtaking.
“What is this?” she whispered to him, looking around her.
Brenol suddenly blinked, recalling the moment and the crowd around them. His expression grew austere and he shook his head, for there was no time to delve into the last few days, no matter how much he longed to. The mystery of her light would have to wait.
He led her to a chair and breathed into her ear, “I’m glad you’re here. And safe.”
Colette took her place as proffered and lifted her wondering eyes. The room surrounding them was a grand hall with vaulted ceilings and intricately painted murals running down the walls. Carpets and thick rugs clothed the tiled floors, and fires crackled kindly to combat the chill attempting to press its way inside. Colored banners flowed in silken rivers, and art splashed the space in a manner uncustomary to umburquin fashion; this was a place created and reserved for grand occasions and royal visits.
There were about forty seats set in three rows ringing an empty wooden dais. She was stunned to see so many, but at the same time, in that vast space, their party felt trifling. It was comprised mainly of humans, but an umburquin stood to the side, a lanky ignalli lounged nonchalantly, and several empty seats betrayed the presence of juile.
As Colette gazed about, she choked in a startled breath as she realized that she recognized several attendees. They were changed, but yes, she knew them. Colette had seen their hollow eyes after they had emerged from Jerem’s black boxes, heard their shrieks in the sterile hallways, felt their shrill sobbing in her veins. They had been more dead than alive—inside and out. It was a wonder to see them, but their still-sickly glances wrested her heart with pity.
Their faces were volatile and twisted with loathing. Jerem had ruined them both in life and from the grave. It was as her mother had said—Jerem owned them through their hate.
As if they haven’t experienced enough, she thought sadly.
She watched one elderly man specifically, and his expression suddenly tightened her gut with an even graver understanding. Every nurest present, every one, shared the guilty glance, the clenched features, the doubt in the eyes. These people experienced the same clawing greed for the nuresti connection. They would likely be tempted with just as much treachery as she. It was a sobering reality.
Brenol came, poised himself on the dais, raised his palms up, and begged for quiet. He shuffled his feet—this was a new experience for him—but his face remained purposeful and direct. “I know you’re not accustomed to meetings or being summoned, and I apologize for the inconvenience. But we must face what’s before us. And as we must make a choice, I want it to be together, as one.”
While the words themselves fell upon the room without igniting interest, Brenol himself caused all to pause. His whole person commanded attention, and even the royalty found a strange stirring within them at his presence.
Soon all fidgets and murmurings ceased, and the audience barely breathed as he unfolded the story of Jerem, the poison, and the hos.
“The umbus have examined the hos and tested it… While we must take care not to waste it, I think there is only one way to truly show you its power.”
At a brief flicking gesture of his hand, an elderly woman approached the dais nervously. Her hair was white and thinning, and her skin drooped loosely from her features. The woman’s eyes darted around, and she hugged her bandaged left arm to her chest.
Brenol gave her a reassuring nod and slowly removed the lengths of cloth wrapping the wounded limb. He was slow and careful, for her face had screwed up and exposed her teeth in a show of pain.
When he was done, exclamations and mutterings carried through the room. All could see the severe gash running up the length of her arm.
Brenol extracted the hos and with simple care touched the piece to the injured limb. She cringed but did not retract her arm. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.
The clear glass of the hos suddenly clouded. It swirled inside as though a storm churned through it, dark and chaotic. As the gray sweep whirled, the woman’s countenance abruptly altered. Her face sagged in relief, and her eyes softened from their hardened stare. She sighed in a near whimper, her shoulders loosening.
Every back arched forward to see, and when Brenol raised the hos from her arm, the woman’s skin was entirely whole. Not a scratch was present, not even a scar to mark the terrible wound that had been present but moments previously. Awed exhalations fell from many lips. The woman ran her right hand across the site, both amazed and relieved. She seemed almost in a trance as she stepped down and hobbled from the room.
Brenol stared grimly at the piece. The smoky cloud within began to settle, and the glass gradually returned to its original clarity. The enigmatic opal eyes shimmered at him.
He scanned the crowd. Every pair of eyes rested upon him, rapt.
“It’s a healing instrument. Mysterious and powerful. It was enchanted by the maralane, but their secrets are dying with them. We can’t ask them anything, for they’ve stopped surfacing except as corpses.”
“Can’t we send them a message?” a small voice quivered. It came from a thin whisper of a woman—the nurest of Callup.
“They don’t respond. I’ve tried. As have others.”
Tension blanketed the party, only the occasional whisper scratching at the silence.
Brenol’s voice again echoed out powerfully. “I’ll be plain. I don’t know how to best administer the treatment. The umburquin have seen these before, but never specifically to be used on a terrisdan. The ones they’ve seen in the past work just as this one you saw, charged by the holder’s intent. By contact, health is restored, yet there is a measured amount of enchantment to every piece. It cannot heal forever. We do not want to test it too much for fear we will not have enough power to heal the lands.”
Brenol inhaled, scanning the many eyes upon him. “So this is what lies before us. I don’t know if we’re going to have enough time to save the terrisdans. But this cannot be a decision that I, or any one person, makes. Massada belongs to us all.” Brenol took a deep breath. “And we’ll have to live with the consequences of our decision every day after.”
He gingerly placed the glass hos on the dais and stepped back. It appeared so tiny and fragile before the great hall, grand people, and grave disasters of Massada. The words of the dream-Preifest echoed in his ears: “Don’t kill us. Don’t kill us.”
Colette stared unblinkingly at the piece, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. She hardly breathed as the others leaned forward to see. In her mind she could picture placing the little figurine upon her beloved soil and Veronia answering back with a flooding wake of knowledge and bliss. She could have everything again. She truly could.
“What did the maralane say when they gave it to you?” asked an older cartontz gentleman. His rectangular face was set with purpose, and his gray hair was combed back in a clean sweep.
Brenol met his gaze. “The code isn’t entirely clear on how to best use it, but it does say it would be a mistake to put it into Ziel. I think it would destroy the maralane. It’s powerful and works in ways we cannot guess.”
“How could it heal a person or a terrisdan and cause death to the maralane?” the man persisted.
“I imagine the treatment is not suitable for them,” Brenol replied. “Or maybe there is an entirely different reason.” He lifted his palms up to indicate he lacked answers. “This hos is a mystery. We don’t know so much about it or how it even heals. It makes sense that we would follow the instructions of its creators.”
“But they never told you how to use it. You said the poison went into Ziel, right? Shouldn’t the antidote as well?”
Brenol cringed. He wondered now if it had been a mistake to call the council. “Are you not listening? It’s not an option, but even more, I don’t think the hos works like that. Tossing it in Ziel would merely be throwing away our one chance for healing.”
Inside the space of a breath, the room erupted in argument. Colette wiped her sweating palms and stood to leave the room and its consuming temptation. Brenol, coming down from the dais, stopped her with a calm hand upon her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he whispered. His eyes were gentle and kind. “Are you tired from travel?”
She did not respond, and Brenol, misreading the emotions in her eyes, lightly led her back to her seat. He kept a hand securely upon her back as though she might tumble over without it. Brenol was not blind to the raised eyebrows at this preferential treatment, but he was determined to find peace in helping both Massada and Colette.
He was brought out of his thoughts as the arguing halted and a sharp voice pierced the air.
“Well, what do you suggest?” The mocking voice issued from a spidery figure with black hair and dark, cunning eyes. Her face had a cloyingly sweet quality to it: attractive, but too thin and without genuine benere.
Brenol bowed his head in respect as he recognized the emblem of the royal house of Granoile on her silver gown. The queen held power over most of the terrisdan, but not even she could pretend to rule the frawnish.
He spoke evenly, “If I were to make the choice alone, I’d start with the sickest terrisdan. I’d bring the hos to Garnoble and Veronia, and intentionally touch it to the land. If it worked, I’d then circle Ziel. I would end with the healthiest… And if the enchantment does not endure?” He inhaled but refused to blink. “I’d wait and see what came.”
The group murmured and exchanged looks. “You’d not seek to save any one terrisdan in particular?” the queen asked, her eyes narrowing on Colette’s splotchy face.
“I would not.”
“But every terrisdan has been affected. It does seem that releasing the antidote into Ziel would be the most efficacious plan.”
Colette cringed, and her temptations dissipated before her mounting grief. The maralane child was still alive, still eking out her final days in the cool waters.
“Again, I don’t think the hos works that way. You have heard the term ‘antidote,’ but it is more like an instrument. It makes little sense to throw a shovel, a knife, a hammer into Ziel. You use tools.”
“But what if that is how this tool works?” she retorted.
“Wouldn’t the maralane have said as much? They gifted us with the chance to save the lands,” Brenol replied evenly. “I don’t want to be the hand that slides a knife back in exchange. It makes more sense to be discerning with this gift.”
Colette sighed, thankful for Brenol’s quick words. Yes, that is the right thing, she thought.
“If they can concoct a serum for the land, why can’t they make one for themselves?” a woman in the back called.
Brenol sagged. “I wish I could say.” And I wish I knew they had tried.
“We could always try Ziel to see what happens. They are already dying,” argued a burly man in tan. “Maybe they’re even already dead.”
Brenol shook his head and walked forward to the dais. “No.”
“If it is—”
Brenol slammed his fist to the podium. The wood boomed, and the hos trembled under the motion. “No! We will not save the upper world at the cost of the lower. I do not care what workings are already in place for them. We will not.” His strong frame quivered in fury and left no space for dissension. “Use your minds! Let’s not waste our one chance for Massada!”
Colette welled with a surprising pride and gasped slightly as she recognized submission in every pair of shocked eyes. They would follow him—whether they agreed or not.
“Let us take the day to think of what we’ll do. Tomorrow we’ll all have a chance to speak. And then decide.”
The group stood, eying the hos as they trickled out.
“Who will carry it until we make a choice?” a stocky, bearded man asked.
Why must there be so little trust? Brenol sighed within but met his gaze coolly. “We leave it here until we can agree. It’s neither mine nor yours. We must choose together.”
~
“Are you well? Were your travels difficult?” Brenol’s concern was etched in every line on his face.
“I am well. I… I am well,” Colette responded hesitantly. Images of her own raw feet—sliced and bruised during her aborted attempt to steal the hos—filled her mind and turned her silent.
Brenol studied Colette, confused. She certainly appeared better—her lunitata glow burst from her like a star in the night—yet her countenance was also full of melancholy and doubt. She could barely lift her eyes to his.
Could it be Veronia? he wondered. I hate these cursed connections! Now I see what Darse endured with me. He longed to brush the silky plaits from her cheek, to stroke her arms and whisper words of comfort to her aching soul. But he restrained himself.
“Are you sure?” he finally asked.
Colette began to nod but stopped. She met his eyes and said softly, “We buried eighteen maralane on our way here.”
Brenol frowned in immediate comprehension. It is grief. Colette grieves. And I believed her angst to be the nuresti connection? I should have trusted her, he realized shamefully. I should have assumed her goodness.
That must be why she is so full of light now, he mused. She grew like I did when I buried that maralane girl. Even recalling the memory brought an ache to his chest, and he decided not to pester Colette with questions. Mourning was burdensome enough without others prying at the wounds. Quietly, he placed a hand upon her forearm, hoping to offer a small consolation.
Colette nodded in appreciation, and he retracted his hand. With a deep breath, she again peered around the vacated room. “I hadn’t realized you were going to call a council.”
Brenol winced. “I hope it was a wise choice. I cannot say… I do wish more had come.”
“Is my mother coming?” Colette asked, suddenly concerned that Darse’s travels would prove pointless.
“No. Her seal gave leave for you to vote on her behalf. You speak for Veronia.”
Colette considered this quietly.
“Why did Darse need to leave?” Brenol finally asked.
Colette’s lips twitched, and the corners of her mouth rose. She looked more herself in that instant, and more lovely too. “He went to find love.”
Brenol gaped. “You’re kidding. I’ve always wondered… Arista? Is that why he lived out there with them?”
Colette’s laugh was strained but genuine. It lightened Brenol’s heart to hear. “No, he is leaving the winged with their own.”
“Who, then?” Brenol lowered his face, smiling even in his bewilderment.
“My mother.”
The pieces came together, and Brenol let out a ringing laugh. He finally perceived the curious glances and awkward interactions between the two with new clarity. “Yes. Of course it is. Of course he goes there. Of course.”
He did not begrudge Darse his timing in the least, for not everyone needed to forestall love for Massada. A fleeting desire filled his own longing heart—could I?—but he dismissed it just as quickly; his mind sank under the insistent weight of the hos, the maralane, the council. There was no room for romance in this madness.
Brenol silently wished bounty upon Darse, scooped up Colette’s hand with a smile, and turned his thoughts to the most currently pressing task: finding food.
~
The following day did not bring the resolution Brenol had hoped for. The party was restless and argumentative, finding fault and false motives in every corner. He would have acquiesced to nearly any unanimous plan—assuming it followed Preifest’s instructions—but the group dipped and danced as though they were altogether unconcerned with the pressing need for haste. Even if he had been willing to dump the hos into the lake, the party would not have agreed to it in the end, for they rolled over every course of action with bitterness and suspicion. The nuresti alone demonstrated some desire for speed, but their crippling fears and obsessions prevented them from agreeing upon terms. And so they waited. And debated.
After a particularly biting argument, the group agreed to a recess. Brenol had spent the morning watching the tormented Colette gnaw her lip to shreds. She stood, as if to escape through the back entrance, and he swiftly swept up beside her.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He smiled, even if his heart was far from cheerful.
She hesitated.
Brenol pounced upon the opportunity, for he had expected straight refusal. “Come! We’ve been listening to this drivel for too long.” His eyes met hers. They seemed pinched in pain. “Plus, I’m getting fat with this sedentary lifestyle.” He grabbed his non-existent gut and slouched slightly with puckered face.
Colette exhaled a surprised laugh. She nodded and gifted Brenol with a genuine smile, even if a tiny one.
His heart leaped, and he grabbed her hand to tug her along.
His steps ended in the kitchen, which was a-bustle with movement. It was meticulously run, and each umburquin had a section in which to operate. There was no shortage of cooks, as the soladrome required constant provisions for the caretakers and the ill, and the young man watched the dizzying scene for a moment before he spied the person he had been seeking.
Brenol wove through the press of movement, still gripping Colette’s hand, to a short umburquin with graying hair held back in a neat bun. Her friendly face was screwed up in focus as she measured spices to grind. She occasionally wiped her fingers clean upon the crisp white apron hugging her small frame.
“Seral?” he asked, smiling questioningly at her.
The umburquin turned half a step and pinched her lips together in a tight smirk. “I see it didn’t take you long to find me.” She brushed her hands absently as she took in the tall young man and petite lunitata. “What can I do for you?”
Brenol blushed slightly but maintained his composure. “A picnic lunch?”
Seral laughed, eying Colette. “In this wind?”
Colette’s eyes referred the question back to Brenol. He nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Can you manage it?”
She laughed again. It was a melodious sound, full of orbits and experience and playfulness. Her silvery eyes sparkled. “If you can, I shall try.”
Within minutes, Seral had wrapped up a simple luncheon. She passed the basket of items to Brenol with a smile. “Glad to help.”
He bent his head in thanks and pulled the quiet Colette in tow.
“Is it windy?” she asked. “I haven’t been outdoors yet today.”
“No,” he replied. “Seral just meant the craze of the talks.” He furrowed his brow. “I think, at least.”
The two wound their way across the gardens and back terraces. The northern patch of woods beckoned, and Brenol urged his companion on with a small squeeze of the hand. She remained thoughtful but periodically flashed a faint yet encouraging smile. The grass beneath them had long since grown stiff in hibernation, but once they entered the glade, the soil proved soft and springy beneath their restless feet. The air was thicker here, filling their nostrils with the musty scent of green life.
Brenol found a patch of moss and glanced to Colette. She nodded and settled herself into the soft cool. Her hands brushed the tender green around her as one would stroke a house cat.
Brenol unloaded the basket and was delighted to find the fare still warm and, even better, paired with a small bottle of cider. The two munched happily upon the fish sandwiches and took turns gulping the tangy brew.
Colette was the first to speak. “What would you do?”
Brenol shook his head firmly. “Nope. No talk of that. Not one word.”
Colette could not hide the sudden freedom she experienced. She breathed deeper, and her shoulders relaxed. “What would you speak of, then?” Her voice was lighter, if not especially happy.
“The inane?” he asked.
Her eyes glinted in assent. “All right.”
After a moment, he laughed. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Surely you have a story of yourself,” she replied with a smirk.
“So funny.” He pressed his lips together in feigned annoyance but then tilted his head in question. “What was your favorite game as a child?”
Colette thought a moment before bubbling up with laughter at the newfound memory. “I’d forgotten,” she explained. “I liked to name people.”
“Name them?”
She laughed again. The strained creases on her face smoothed slightly. “Deniel and I wouldn’t tell anyone, but we would give names to everyone in the castle. I think he had a more difficult time keeping them secret, though.”
Brenol raised his eyebrows.
“He actually called the nurse ‘NoseGoes’ in passing…” She covered her mouth with a graceful hand and giggled softly behind it. “And the cook, ‘Pug.’”
“NoseGoes?”
“Her nose was always dripping.” She laughed again without restraint.
It loosened the strings in his chest to hear her, and he found himself relaxing. He swept his vision up to the skies. The heavens were open, spotted only by the occasional cloud. “What would you name your children?” he asked easily. “Surely not Pug?”
Silence filled the glade, and he turned his glance from the lovely blue. Colette’s face sobered him. “What? I…”
She shook her head, giving him a small, conciliatory smile. “I don’t think… Jerem… I… I probably can’t have children,” she said softly. “The umbus told me when I first woke up that it could maybe happen. Maybe. But that I should not assume. Jerem… he…”
His gut felt like lead. I should’ve known. “Oh. I’m sorry, Col. I…”
She again shook her head. Her chocolaty plaits swished, framing her perfect face. “Why would you know?” Colette swept her hands across the turf. Her fingers swirled as though she were painting a picture in the green, a picture only she could see.
“I don’t suppose you can sing?” Her eyes came up to meet his startled glance.
“Sing?”
“Yeah. I want to lay here and hear a song.” Colette smiled. “Oblige me?”
Brenol squirmed. It had been orbits since he had sung for anyone. “Ok,” he acquiesced hesitantly.
She promptly responded by extending her legs, lying back upon the ground, and cushioning her head with hands. She peeked at him and gave a tiny nod of encouragement. He blushed but began to sing in a low rumble.
Fly dear baby toward my arms, swing so low and high,
Speed rosy infant o’er my way
Hasten ’cross the sky.
She came to me as child, she came as suckling sweet,
She soaked up my caresses and sighs
And I sang my babe to sleep.
At eventide she found me, and she was babe no more.
She stroked my head and heart and soul
’Til tears swelled sweet and sore.
Farewell my child of the skies, farewell my forever sweet.
Wash me in your caresses and sighs
And sing me ’til I sleep.
Yes, sing me ’til I sleep.
His voice swayed evenly in the still wood, circling them and the moment. As the words left his mouth, he became keenly aware of his poor song selection and blushed, but nonetheless, the slow melody dipped sweetly and swung until he was nearly lost in it himself. He tried not to stare at Colette but found that his gaze inevitably fell upon her beautiful face. She, thankfully, peered into the sky and settled her eyes on the high branches dancing in the soft wind. Her glance did not turn to him until he had issued out the last note. She sighed. Her smile was gentle, grateful.
“I liked that.”
He warmed inside. “Yeah?”
“Mmmm,” she answered. “A lullaby?”
The story hovered in his mind—the legend of a child gifted to a barren woman when a stranger passed through town—and he was thankful that the words made little sense to any unversed in Alatrician lore. He nodded quietly. “More or less.”
“Thank you.”
“In good accord,” he replied.
She smiled again with a soft contentment and beckoned him closer. Brenol scooted over until she had securely claimed his lap for her pillow and nestled in like a cat.
“Could you sing it again?” Colette peeked one eye open. “Just once more,” she added judiciously.
Brenol touched her forehead with the gentlest of caresses before reluctantly retracting his hand. “You know you’re just being greedy now.”
She laughed, and her voice was lovely and golden. “Be careful, or you’ll be punished with a second encore.”
Brenol dipped his head in mock apology. “Of course, my lady.”
He inhaled deeply and let the song pour out from him again, but this time as soft as a secret. Her breathing slowed, and her body eased into relaxed slumber. He hummed the melody twice more, afraid the silence might cause her to stir, until he knew she was safely tucked into the depths of sleep.
Brenol gazed down upon her with an open face, open heart. Had any seen him, they would have had little doubt as to his affections. The princess’s breath rose and fell, and with each inhale, his own breath aligned, as though even his lungs longed to be one with her.
My heart could almost spill over…
The understanding was not new, but with the thought, he accepted the pain that plainly scored his soul. Her revelation of likely infertility had stung him with an initial shock but then left him with a raw agony he had not expected. He gnawed his cheek absently; now his song choice made infinite sense.
Brenol sighed and found his vision blurring as he cradled the sleeping lunitata. Her entire body lay limp, and her face was soft in the peace of dreaming. He pondered how long it had been since she had last slept, truly slept.
I want to take care of her. Cherish her. Would she ever have me?
And children? he asked himself honestly. He wanted a future brimming with life, but could not see joy outside of a union with Colette. The implications rent Brenol’s heart raw, and he fought for composure lest he wake her.
The young man inhaled deeply. He knew the answer—and it was true, even if not entirely consoling. It matters not. She is the only one. I love her.
I will walk the path of being childless if I have to. If she will take me.
Colette is all that matters.
~
I wish I had wings, Arman thought, not for the first time.
His lungs stung from exertion, and his heart pounded at his temples. He darted his vision about the vista to take in the varying trails and paths, deliberating which proved quicker. Travel was hard on the body, and time was precious.
Complaints don’t make feet move faster, he reminded himself sternly. Impatience shook his core, but he could do little save drive his aching muscles onward.
He had begun his travels intending to seek out more representatives for the council and to utilize the chance—and guise—to meet with Arista and consult with her about her note in the jekob nut, but he had been derailed by fresh news of the black fever. Disturbing rumors of death and subsequent conflict had reached him as he had broken past the city limits of Limbartina, and he had changed course immediately. Dread for the future drove him. Not a breath had been spared, not a foot had been lifted needlessly.
It was only too likely that he would arrive to find the scene at Callup cleared away and lost to his investigation, but he would race time until then. Yes, he would race.
There were two small human villages, hardly large enough to be termed as such, that eked out an existence on the eastern front of Callup. He had seen neither Taro nor Veto but had known of their existence, and their poverty. They were a mere ten matroles apart yet maintained strict separation except for occasional trading: a long-held grudge over unrequited love, or something of the sort.
Three houses in Taro had been found bursting with bodies stricken with the black fever. Somehow, the deaths had been attributed to Veto. As the fever was mixed into the mess, Arman doubted everything he heard.
It makes little sense, Arman mused. Could one group truly inflict the infection upon another? He did not think this monster he had been perceiving could be a mere human. He tugged his cloak closer around him and leaned forward to combat the strong winds.
Darkness stole across the skies as the sun dipped, and he knew there was little he could do. Tomorrow he would reach the villages. He would have plenty to think about then. He built a fire, ate from his stores, and slept.
~
Dawn stretched up lazily only to find Arman already in motion. He had packed and breakfasted before light had even softened the skies. With the brief refreshment of the night’s rest, his mind felt clear, and he noted an odd instinctual urge to visit the accused village, Veto, first. He paused for the space of a breath but then flicked out his fingers and shifted direction. He rarely regretted listening to his instincts, so he said a prayer for bounty and continued on.
By early morning, Arman sat warming his transparent hands in the home of Farler, Veto’s chief, while surveying him with a careful eye. Farler was a short, middle-aged man, with black hair salting at his temples and beard. His face was severe and pensive, and his dark blue eyes spoke of a sharp intellect.
The house itself was small and worn, and people buzzed through as if drones moving in and out of a hive. Arman did not care for the intrusions; influence was limited with such interruption. Farler seemed not to mind in the least and met each villager with a nod or a word as was needed. They all regarded him with respect, listening attentively and leaving once dismissed.
Eventually, Farler turned to Arman, peering at the half-visible juile. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly. His voice was tense, and it was evident that the chief wished away this strange visitor. He had enough to face at present.
Arman dipped his chin in civil greeting and locked eyes with Farler. Arman again perceived Farler’s quick mind but saw the fear residing in his eyes as well. “I am Arman. I am passing through.”
“Then pass,” he said curtly.
The juile ignored him. “I go to Taro to see what has happened.”
Farler’s navy eyes narrowed, but the man did not speak.
“Will you come with me?”
A new spark glinted in the gaze; he was amused at the juile’s persistence. “You are mad,” Farler replied.
Arman flicked his long fingers as way of a shrug. “I will not dispute that in either direction.” His face was solemn. “But I would argue that your presence is needed there.”
“Mad,” Farler repeated, shaking his head. Any hint of diversion had been wiped cleanly from his face.
“Rumors have spread as far as Limbartina. Accusations are heavy.”
“We care not. Cona can direct her village as she wants, but none from here have traveled her way in moons.”
“Then come and explain as much,” Arman persisted.
“I’ll do nothing. As I have done nothing,” he growled.
Arman shook his head and straightened. The intensity of his brow made his face mismatched and unattractive. “I have not said you have. But you are a leader,” the juile said with fervor. “And this situation has the beginning ripples of something ghastly. Of war, possibly.” Arman’s hands went out in a gesture of appeal, but his expression remained determined. “You know better than most that leading is rarely about yourself. Think of your people… I have heard good things about you. Please. Think of the future and the lives in your power.”
Farler’s face remained set, but Arman saw the sharp eyes working.
“Why would you not?” he asked.
Farler turned his back to the juile. “I have heard enough. You many go.” His voice was hushed but final.
Arman nodded and left without another word. He hastened from the small village and raced southeast through the barren cold, eager to make Taro before afternoon.
~
The land around Taro was as bleak as that of Veto. It was a barren landscape where harsh weather battered crops and homes and lives. It was a wonder that any beings were able to sustain themselves this far east. The village itself was a diminutive community, boasting of no more than forty people, and the few dilapidated houses present huddled beside a small rise to help protect them from the bitter eastern gusts.
Arman twice caught a faint whistling sound, apparently a signal warning the people of his approaching presence, and proceeded cautiously. He was visible, and he knew that the village could not help but be uneasy after the recent events.
The village was composed of only about fifteen buildings. A few somber people lingered around the town center, speaking in subdued voices and looking up speculatively to the gray skies, but the area was largely deserted.
In the central courtyard, eleven bodies had been arranged in a straight row. The drab daily wear of the corpses had not been changed, but starkly white sheets rested under each body. He had heard of this eastern custom. The body would be carried in the sheet, and then the cloth would be wrapped around it like a cocoon, as if to provide a safe haven for sleep and repose.
A few villagers glanced curiously at him but just as simply returned to their quiet stances and hushed conversations. Arman hoped that the burial rites would provide reason enough for his strange presence. Perhaps if he was presumed to be an old friend, here to bid farewell to the dead, there would be less chance of interference or trouble for him.
He approached the dead, slowing as the details around him rushed upon his senses. The volume of white linen before the dismal wooden homes was a shock to the eyes, the hovering scent of burn was scoring to the nose. He swallowed and sought to not miss anything.
The juile knelt, his robes meeting the cold red earth. The motionless woman before him was past her prime but still should have had many orbits left to live. Her skin had darkened in patches, as though only parts of her had been roasted from the inside out. Her features were fine—even with the odd discoloration, he could see how lovely she had once been. The juile gently touched her cool cheek.
He sighed, unsure what to think, and stroked the woman’s long silver hair. Clumps of it came away from her head, and he let the soft tresses fall from his palm.
“May death’s reigns only lead you to greater heights, my lady,” Arman whispered softly.
He stood and glanced at each of the bodies in turn, memorizing their features and garb. They appeared to be typical fever victims, but every detail must be retained in his mind to dissect later, when he had gained additional knowledge.
Arman raised his eyes next to the houses. They were a handful of beaten wooden structures with small windows, each as nondescript as the last. Fortunately, the three he sought had sashes of mourning tied to the lintels. The dull black sashes, as large as flags, extended from the tops of the entryways to the hard, dark soil and waved about ominously in the wind.
He stepped cautiously forward and entered the first house. The juile’s face tightened at the picture. The room was well used but stamped with the threadbare quality of poverty. In the corner, a paltry cooking fire had once known life. Two blankets were stretched flat on the packed dirt floor, indicating where the inhabitants had slept, and a basket with an onion and two potatoes rested by the entryway.
He strode the meager space, examining and noting everything. As he returned to the exit, he finally saw it. A small bowl with a homemade orange pigment—now cracked and dried—sat on the ground, resting behind the open door. He swung the door closed and saw the letters that had been crudely painted on it.
VETO, it read.
Arman ran his finger slowly across the letters, perturbed. He allowed one last glance around before striding out into the cloudy afternoon to investigate the other two houses. He found the same markings on the back of both doors. The handwriting was unique, but the words and color were as one.
Arman’s lips pinched in severity. Veto did not do this.
He contemplated the possibilities and disliked them all.
Outside, a crowd had begun to assemble. They were the families of the village, rough and careworn, and although still decked in what was likely their only clothing, each had a silver scarf knotted at the arm, just below the shoulder: the personal mourning sashes. The strips of cloth were clean and pressed. They showed little sign of use—the fabric glistened like satin, and the dye was fresh and unfaded. They provided a striking contrast to the worn quality of everything else in the village.
Arman lingered at the edge of the gathering, deliberating as to his next move. Finally, he stepped forward to join the mourners, standing near the front. Several eyed him carefully, but none felt drawn to converse. He hoped to at least overhear their thoughts.
Several more villagers appeared, and the group stomped their feet to keep warm. Puffs of cloud rose softly from each mouth and still they waited, buffeted by the wind and staring up at the forbidding sky. Finally, a middle-aged woman, her face gaunt with grief, arrived. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple tail, and her eyes were gray and misty. She strode with authority, despite her evident distress, and all watched her with deference.
Arman surveyed her quietly, taking a moment to let his mind align the facts, and exhaled softly as sense filled him. It was evident that this woman was the chieftess Cona, and more, Cona had the same oval face, the same even cheek bones, the same straight-edged nose as one of the sheeted women taken by the fever. The dark-haired woman had been a relative, perhaps a sister.
Cona nodded somberly to a few and took her place in silence beside the rest. With the addition of her presence, an air of readiness rustled through the assembly. The villagers directed their gazes to the still bodies and waited silently, as if in a trance.
Arman had not planned to, but touched by the grief of the people, he slipped out his fentatta and drew it to his lips. The tiny instrument sang out with its clear voice, and every eye swerved in surprise to ponder him. He did not flinch at their staring but continued on, allowing his compassion to pour out—for those living and dead. The notes pierced the cold air in a sweet melody, and as the song swelled, the villagers directed their gazes again to the deceased. Many wept quietly. The tender strain wrapped them all, echoing the sorrow that reverberated in every heart.
In the blink of an eye, the moment was ripped apart. A shrill whistle of warning rang down from the rise, and every back stiffened. Arman pulled his pipe from his lips and observed the crowd. Fear and anger mingled upon their hard faces. The air swam with tense conversation.
“Why would they come here?” a woman mumbled.
“Veto’s back to attack again,” cried another voice.
“How many?”
Arman felt his limbs flood with a tight energy but did not move. He needed to see what would transpire.
Glances curved naturally to Cona, and eventually she stepped forward, holding out her hands. Despite the rising angst in their eyes, the villagers hushed.
“This is nonsense,” she said hoarsely. “I said it before, and I say it finally. Veto did not do this.” She slowly met the eyes of each as she glanced amongst her people. “I know what it looks like, but that could never be. Do not ruin our chance to honor those we love.” The corners of the woman’s lips turned down at this, and she looked old and weary. “For we have all lost.”
Whispers softly floated amongst the crowd.
“You’re sure?” a younger woman asked timidly. “They are coming.”
“I don’t care if Veto comes or not. It does not matter.” She swiped her hand down in a gesture of finality. “They did nothing.”
Arman’s muscles loosened as he surveyed the people. The anger that had stiffened each spine had dissipated. Grief marked the figures once more. Backs leaned forward and heads bent. The group returned to its silent vigil.
It was twenty minutes before Veto arrived. They came as a whole, all thirty-eight of them, marching in silence with grim faces. Each arm was also ringed with a pristine scarf, these ones dyed a soft sky blue.
Farler was among them, neither in the lead nor in tow, but as the group approached, he advanced to the front. The new arrivals paused several steps behind the Taro villagers, standing as a silent mass awaiting direction. Farler strode toward the chieftess. At first his face was grim and collected, but at the sight of her grief, his features gentled. He placed his hand delicately upon her forearm.
“Cona,” he said, and then paused. He inhaled slowly as his emotions began to build. “I am so sorry. For you. For all of Taro.” The man closed his eyes, pressing his lips together as he grappled for composure. It was a long, quiet moment. When he opened them, he met her gaze beseechingly. “May I?”
Indecision clouded her face.
“She would not have me in life. But please don’t deny me this now.” His face was humble and desperate.
Cona nodded, her tears now streaming unchecked, and opened a palm towards the bodies upon the white sheets.
“Thank you,” he said softly. He made as if to step forward, but then checked his stride and placed the basket he carried at Cona’s feet.
She looked confusedly at him, but Farler did not respond save by placing the item clenched in his hand—a single potato—in the center of the empty basket.
Farler advanced toward the bodies, his eyes searching until they rested on a woman with dark brown hair, the woman resembling Cona. His frame slumped, and he approached slowly, finally kneeling at her side. His rough hands smoothed the tresses at her temples, and he choked with grief as the hair fell from her head like ash. He bent forward and kissed her cheek, whispering words only for her.
The villagers of Veto then followed in a line, placing their gifts of food in the basket at Cona’s feet and stepping to stand among the people of Taro until the group was an indecipherable mix. Cona hardly noticed their movements, for her eyes were fixed upon Farler and the woman. Glistening tears streaked her face.
Arman resumed the working of his fentatta, and the song held everyone in its sorrowful magic. The pain was palpable, but the unity and truth of the moment made even the bitterness bearable. Arman himself experienced the power of it, and gratitude spilled through him. These villages would know peace; both leaders carried wisdom in the face of disaster and agony. He played for several minutes before tapering the sad tune to a close. A sigh parted many lips when the pipe was finally tucked away.
Farler again kissed the dead woman’s cheek and, with a swift maneuver of the wrist, freed his arm from his sky blue sash. The fabric flapped about in the wind as he secured it instead upon the woman’s arm.
As Farler stood and turned, his gaze fell upon Arman. Grief had sharpened the lines and edges of the chief’s face, and he met the juile’s gaze with weary resignation. And then, as simply as he came, he left. He nodded once to Cona and set his feet back toward Veto. The other villagers remained as they were, although some turned their heads to watch their chief depart.
Cona pressed her lips together in contemplation as she watched the man leave. She glanced down at the basket and wiped her face clean with open palms. Her features turned decisive in a breath.
“Farler!” Cona called. Her voice was still hoarse with emotion.
He paused and glanced back, his face long.
She strode to him, and while Arman could not hear, he observed the two in hushed conversation. Cona extended her arm, and the two touched hands briefly. Farler’s face softened, and he nodded. Farler again pointed his steps toward home. Cona returned to the gathering, grief raw upon her face.
She trod heavily to the front of the crowd, standing close to the brunette’s body, and faced the people. She made no move to speak for a time, and the only sound that filled the space was the howling of the wind and the flapping of the scarves as they danced about like flags from the villagers’ arms.
“Thank you,” she began. Her voice was weary, as though each word taxed her sorely. “Thank you for coming, Veto. I know, we all know, that your town is innocent.” She swallowed. “This was a tragedy for us all. Thank you for honoring our dead. Thank you.”
Cona stooped and kissed the cheek of her dead relative, resting her hand softly upon Farler’s sash for a quiet moment. She collected a section of sheet with tight fists and, at this signal, all stepped forward to grip the white edges and raise the bodies. Arman joined, assisting a small party hefting up a young man, and the various groups bore their loads to the south of the village.
The walk was slow and strenuous. Despite the numerous hands, the corpses were bulky and the sheets difficult to manage. Eventually, they all arrived at a fence-encircled field. They entered the gate, one group and sheet at a time, and ushered past stones and markers until they arrived at the upturned dark soil of the freshly dug graves.
Arman, with his group of six others, ringed the grave and slowly lowered the young man to its base. An older man, assumedly his father, gingerly climbed down beside the corpse to wrap him carefully in the extra folds of the sheet. The youth’s blackened face disappeared in the sea of white.
Sobbing filled the air, and the sharp scent of the iron-rich soil saturated Arman’s nostrils.
When all the bodies were laid and wrapped, the people stood silently for several moments, quiet in thought and grief.
Finally, their attention turned to the chieftess.
She swallowed, but then spoke clearly above the wind. “Your lives were bountiful. May death’s reins only lead you to greater heights.”
“To greater heights,” they all intoned and set to burying their loved ones.
~
Afterward, the villagers made ready to disperse. Arman excused himself quietly. While several noted his departure, none commented. The mysterious juile had earned their respect; he had honored their dead, and his music still echoed in their souls.
Striding swiftly, Arman burned through the ground of Callup. His mind churned through the unsettling events of Taro, but he could not linger. Perception and action were his only weapons. By nightfall he had passed into Granoile.
~
It took two more days of demanding movement before Arman caught sight of Caladia. He had paused briefly in the northern towns, requesting representatives to attend the council, but his mind had remained staunchly focused upon the frawnish. He sighed as he eased his aching limbs down the face of the final dune and trekked the last matroles to town.
A frawnish scout swooped through the skies above him, and although he was invisible, Arman knew it would not take long for the frawnite’s sharp eyes to spy his pedasse trailing his progress like an arrow. The scout did see, but instead of lighting down, the ebony-winged creature circled and coasted back to Caladia. Arman pondered its meaning. Not long after, a figure he knew well swept past the afternoon clouds and careened down to the earth. Arman smiled as she righted herself with a flick and landed lightly before him.
“Arista,” he said warmly.
“Arman,” she replied. She offered a strained smile, but her eyes were joyless. “I pray it will be bountiful,” Arman said with a low bow, although she only heard the movement.
“Bountiful indeed.”
“Tell me,” he said with sudden urgency.
Her face sagged in relief. “You got it then? My note?”
“Yes. The murdered children. The black fever in Ferita.”
“Do you know what it means?” Arista asked. She took in a breath, attempting to bottle her emotions; the freedom to finally speak after so long was an undoing sensation, and her grief for her friend was still raw and harsh.
His eyes narrowed in thought. “Something is happening. Someone, or some group, wants war. Hints of this keep sprouting up across Massada.” He recalled anew a discussion with Brenol from several orbits previously. They had been discerning motives for the maralane bringing Jerem to the isle.
War. Bren had said it looked like an attempt at war.
“It is happening in every corner,” Arman added grimly. “And has been for some time.”
Arista looked out across the sandy terrain. “Hetia saw the possibility immediately when he found the children.”
“I don’t understand it. But I think there…” he hesitated but then continued, “There might be a connection to the fever.”
Arista’s eyes snapped back to Arman’s location. Her face was strung with tension. “The fever?”
“Yes.”
“As if someone was purposefully giving the fever to others? To incite conflict?”
Arman flicked out his fingers, unsure, and began to stride forward. “Come,” he called back to her. “We must start walking, but I have much to discuss with you before we arrive.”
She jumped to join him. “You’re entering town?”
“I came to speak to your people about joining the council in Limbartina. I know Caladia received my seal, but I was going to beg a frawnite to return with me.”
“None will come,” she answered immediately.
He cast a sideways glance at her. “I knew as much. But I had to speak to you about what you saw. Memorize every detail. Think it through with you. It was the only way I could come and know you would not be scrutinized.”
Arista exhaled, comprehending. “Of course.”
Arman frowned. “Hetia has been watching you?”
She bobbed her head in affirmation. “But he thinks I’ve been silent. And as it has been some time, I don’t imagine he’d see anything in you coming. We’ll just need to be careful to avoid appearing secretive.”
Arman raised his face to peer at the skies. “Who was lookout?”
Arista shrugged. “Some fledgling. But you’re the only juile who comes out here, and they all know we are friends. He merely returned to fetch me.”
The juile nodded to himself.
“Arman?”
“Yes?” He paused in stride, hearing a strange strain in his companion’s voice.
“This is from the portals, isn’t it?”
Arman flinched invisibly. Arista had drawn the conclusion faster than even he had, and with far less information.
“Who else could wield such a disease?” she continued. “Who else would seek to stir war in every corner?” Arista thought back to the frozen wood and to all the children dangling from the trees. “How does the fever affect the person before they die? Can it make them do things they wouldn’t otherwise?” She pictured Ferita bouncing about like a puppet, stringing up nooses around the forest. She shuddered.
Arman reached out to gently touch the frawnite’s hand. Her delicate skin was still cool from flight. She sighed faintly at the contact, as if the consolation alone was enough to combat such terrors.
“I do not know, Arista. But I know I’ve come to the right place for help.”
She nodded, her eyes still wide and pondering.
“I will need to hurry. I must get back to Limbartina speedily.”
She looked at him incredulously. “What? Why? How could anything be more important than understanding and stopping the fever?”
“Perhaps not more important,” Arman replied frankly. “But it is nevertheless nipping at my heels.”
Arista shook her head. “You’re tending the boiling pot before you when the forest is ablaze behind you.”
Arman did not respond, for he perceived the terror underlying her words and refused to allow his own fear to swell. Instead, he paused, placed his hand momentarily upon her forearm, and spoke in a low rumble, “We will sort it out, Aris. We will.”
She remained silent, but her face and eyes betrayed her reluctance.
“I need your help,” he said candidly.
The frawnite sighed, resigned, and gave him a small grin. “You always have.”
Arman smiled and resumed his steps. “Come, please. Tell me all that happened. Every little thing you can recall.”