Balance within must ever be sought.
-Genesifin
Arman awoke but did not flicker a muscle or lift an eyelid. His sharp ears pricked at the movement of some creature or person nearby, and his nostrils stung as they met the blaring aroma of sweat. The musk was so full and pungent that it took several moments before he registered the underlying scents of nutmeg and earth. His mind swayed under a strange perception: The soil is deep.
Arman opened his eyes fractionally so he might peer through narrow slits but then closed them again, dizzied by the effort. Directly above him had been smooth streaks of red-brown, the hue of stria crabs after the close of hitze.
His hands felt warm. His whole body did. And he rested in something soft and pleasant to the touch…
His mind struggled to remember, like it was pushing through thick spider webs that caught and clung with each maneuver. It was too much. He forced himself to halt and drew his focus instead to breathing calmly, hoping to gather himself for the effort.
In that moment of imposed peace, the images flashed brightly through his mind and startled his senses. If any had been gazing upon him, they would have seen his face tighten and body constrict.
He saw the white moon-house—alabaster and cream, smooth as shell. How he had sighed with relief as his hands had coursed over it. It had been more than just the lovely sensation beneath fingers; it was as though his lusset practice had prepared him for the pearl house, even if it made little sense to work backwards in time like this. Arman had brushed the thought away and relished in the satin waves sliding under his hands.
He had done it.
The puzzle had nearly killed him and left him addled, but that was the purpose. The house could only be unlocked as such. The Tindel could not trust a man’s benere until he was near his end.
But now he was here. And he knew Heart Render must be as well.
The questions… There had been questions… The clansmen had surrounded him and asked him so many questions…
And then…and then…
His mind reeled as he sought to grasp the threads of memory that were as thin as wisps of infant hair. It was too great a task; his mind had been excessively encumbered for an intolerable span, and his body even more so. Realizing this, Arman felt stung by regret and his own limitations and finally allowed himself to sink back into unconsciousness.
~
Colette stiffened as her front door thundered alive with pounding. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking safety from whatever sought her. It was daylight, but she knew evil did not always hide in night’s corners.
“C’lette?” a deep voice called in concern. “Are ya in there? Are ya?”
The lunitata sighed in palpable relief and silently chided herself over her fancies. She shuffled across the room and unbolted the door. Her tired face was creased from continual angst, but she offered the man a warm smile. “How are you, Bel?”
Bel was a burly figure, with a graying red mane and unruly beard. His gentle hazel eyes observed her with relief. “Better now that I’ve seen ya. Your babe is gettin’ big.” He nodded to Colette’s bulging belly.
“Come in?” she asked, gesturing.
He shook off a soft layer of snow, stepped inside, and blushed self-consciously. He glanced around the room sheepishly. “Where’s Bren?”
Colette offered him another smile but failed to achieve any picture of joy. “He’s traveling, but I expect him back presently. Is everything alright?” She doubted he would hike the matroles between their homes simply to inquire after Brenol.
Bel winced. “No… The fever’s here. In the valley.”
Colette paled, reaching out to the man for balance.
His still-cool hand cradled her arm supportively. “Is it the babe?” he asked, leaning over her in concern.
She shook her head. “No, no. I…I just worry about the fever. Please, go on.” She straightened and allowed his hand to fall.
Bel nodded, but his eyes hovered over her closely. “Bodies were found a couple days ago… One of them was a woman close to lifin’. They told me she was so black no one knew who she was.”
“You thought it was me?”
“Mmmm,” he mumbled in affirmation, gazing at her with gentle eyes.
“Thank you for checking… I can’t believe it was here.” Colette saw her muddled dreams with a new clarity—she had recognized the place. She shuddered from top to toe.
Bel’s brow furrowed in concern. “I didn’t mean to scare ya. I’m so sorry. It’s probably moved on as it always does…” The man held out his worn hands in cupped offering. “I dunno how long Bren’ll be away, but if ya need a thing please let me fetch it for ya in town. Ya don’t need to be wanderin’ around with the…” Bel stopped, loathe to draw any more fear out with his speech.
Colette smiled genuinely. “Bel, yes. Thank you. That’s generous of you. Would you carry seals—when I need—to the sealtoz for me?”
Bel’s face opened in eager joy. “Be my pleasure, C’lette.”
The man remained for tea, collected his coat and hat, and took his leave.
Colette waited in the silence, grateful for the boarded doors and windows. Her hands quivered in the dim lantern light, and the full terror of the malitas’s presence washed over her.
I won’t leave… Whether it’s looking for me or not… I can’t leave again.
~
Brenol closed his eyes and inhaled purposefully. It did little to calm him. He was rife with frustration and anger. He had waited. And waited. And waited. He had sent two seals inquiring after Arman, but each had been returned to him undelivered, for neither sealtor could find the juile in Granallat.
He had also written anew to Darse, wondering if there had been a problem with the previous letter’s delivery. Isvelle informed the sealtor that Darse had left on a journey, and the carrier had returned to Brenol with the unopened note. He could only conclude that Darse had received the original message and was on his way, yet still the man remained absent. It was all very strange. And anxiety inducing.
Furthermore, Brenol felt beyond useless as he lay idle, whittling away both freg and days in the little lugazzi town, and Colette was nearing her time with each passing septspan. He ached to be with her and to care for her and longed to hold his child at the lifing. He could have known peace had his choice to honor his gortei been fruitful, but sitting here taskless only clawed his insides into greater angst.
I’m split in two—and am senseless because of it.
He had toyed with the idea of leaving to track down Dresden, for surely the man was not as Igont had portrayed, yet indecision haunted him. He had not given up hope of Arman returning before the turn of the moons, or of Darse arriving.
Where is Darse?
It was uncharacteristic of the man. Darse was quick to set his heels forward whenever he was needed. He would be tarrying like this.
“Do you want another ale?”
Brenol snapped his face up, not attempting to hide his scowl. A young woman peered down at him quizzically. Her eyes were dark and kind, and her dress hugged her plump figure in flattering ways. She met his frown with a smile. Her glance held more than a trace of flattery.
Brenol shook his head and felt his banded locks whip against his neck.
“A bowl of stew?”
“Nothing,” he said curtly and thrust his chair back. He scooped up his cloak and swept it around him fluidly before marching testily out the main door. It swung open under his forceful hand, and wind shot through his copper hair, even with his hood tightly secured. Brenol shivered but worked his muscles alive as he moved through the town.
After an hour, the movement had helped to clear his head. He regretted his surliness to the server but still felt the keen sting of irritation at his situation. Soiled snow piled around him, and he mindlessly wove through bough, bush, and rock as if he had a destination in mind. He breathed the harsh cold until his lungs stung and nose ran. Finally, he jerked to a stop and snarled.
“How is it, old girl, that you always find me when I try to get away from you?”
He stared at Ziel sullenly. He had skipped the path to avoid people but had managed to unintentionally find his way to the waters.
I don’t know why I always feel resistant with Ziel… I feel so uncomfortable laying everything bare. Even if it makes it right in the end.
A low mist hung suspended over the water, and the trees at the lake’s edge extended out sparkling limbs as if frozen mid-step in their wintry dance. The air had a lightly sweet scent, barely discernable through the bland smell of snow and cold. All around him was the hushed silence of hibernation, when no living thing stirs out of burrow, house, or hole.
“You are a fair sight. I’ll admit that much.”
Brenol stood, staring out at the waters and recalling the first time he had seen them under Darse’s house. How long ago it had been, yet he could almost smell the bursting life, feel the warmth emanating from the little channel.
He breathed deeply and finally allowed himself to ask the question that had been slowly wearing away at him like erosion on a hill.
What do I do if Arman is no longer coming?
The thought made his chest tighten, but Brenol knew he could not shy away any longer.
Do I go home?
This thought was dismissed immediately, despite his intense longing for Colette. There would be no Massada if he ignored malitas for long. And Colette’s glance could only hold relief and pride in him for a time before her feelings were tainted by disappointment.
I could go search for Arman and Darse.
But if I miss them while traveling, then it’s time wasted. Time wasted that could be spent investigating malitas.
“All right, you red-headed fool, what?”
He knew the answer but for some reason could only accept it standing here, at Ziel. He needed to do this—for himself and for Massada. It was the only way.
It’s time. Darse and Arman will show up when they will.
The thought brought a smattering of emotions, but foremost was peace. He had idled too long when lives were at stake, and now he felt a surging drive within him to leap forward. While it chilled his insides to think of pushing into this by himself, he had made his oath alone—and he could carry it out alone. Waiting in Gare was no longer an option. It was time to move.
I’ll chase the fever again.
His dark jade eyes swept from the lake to his shivering hands. The corners of his mouth quirked up, for in his fingers lay a stout bough completely stripped of bark. Chunks and shavings littered his boots and the space around them. He had not even realized his nervous hands had been tasking as such.
He threw the branch to the earth and straightened.
Amusement washed away from his face as he again muttered the words of gortei. The oath sent him coursing with terrible ambition, and he repeated the prophesy that had spilled from his mouth so long ago, “Death will be a close companion before we are done.”
~
Darse ambled slowly through the thicket, breathing in the wintry fragrances while his ears buzzed with the rumbling life of the Pearia. He had followed her blue path for the better part of the morning after having slept on her banks the previous night. He whistled contentedly and allowed the swooping azure skies to wrap him in freedom. It was good to be walking again, good to be on his annual trek.
He had lived in Massada for orbits now but still gravitated to Ziel like a flower orienting its blossoming face to the sun. His heart could not last long without seeing her, breathing her life. Ever since he heard the song coming from deep within—that first day of sodden clothes and clay-caked shores—he could do little to resist its call. Every orbit, he found his way back to her. Every orbit.
I feel so free just knowing I’m on my way.
Darse closed his eyes and tilted his head northward, as if he could already detect Ziel’s presence and scents. The sun’s rays streamed gently upon his weathered features. His face, roughened during his life as a homesteader, had not altered since he had come to Massada, save to reflect peace. The sentiment was now chiseled in with the natural curves of jaw and cheek and stamped upon every animation.
A green jay sang sweetly to a companion in another tree. It was a shrill tune, but the tinny notes swelled through the open air as if in invitation. Soon the other took up the song with a deeper throat, and the two voices soared into a lovely pairing. Darse found his heart swell to a crescendo.
The song ended, and the woods seemed to sigh, in contentment as well as disappointment. Darse understood all too well.
Will I ever stop craving beauty?
When the sun reached its zenith, Darse tramped along the riverbed until he found a suitable resting area. He un-shouldered his pack, removed a simple pole, and lazily reached for the sweet resin of the hulio tree he carried in wax paper. He smacked happily and crossed his ankles as he stretched out his long limbs. They creaked and popped in the cold, but Darse paid little mind.
The fish were scarce, and he grew numb in the wait, but eventually he was rewarded with one, and the second followed surprisingly quickly. He scooped up the last with the fluidity of a skill long-known, and swiftly cleaned them both atop a snow drift with his small penknife.
He sighed in peace, absently marking the days it would take to travel to Ziel.
Four, maybe five, he thought. I think I’ll take eight.
Darse cupped the slippery flesh and saluted the Pearia with a grin. He plucked up his gear and tramped to a clearing in the wood. Within minutes, he had a little blaze that he fed with twigs until it was strong and promising. Deftly, he thrust a thick log into the flame, careful to give it air, and leaned back on his haunches with appreciation. He glanced around the vicinity but, not seeing a coantal, bent and rummaged through his pack until he discovered a spongy gray leaf he had reserved previously. It was not large enough for both fish, so he wrapped the bigger of the two in its ashy folds and laid it directly in the fire. The other he skewered and set spinning between his fingers atop the flames. He began to sweat in his many layers, but he lost notice when the scents lifted and appetite gripped his ribs.
The coantal-wrapped fish was ready first, and he kicked it free of the fire. The other required more patience, but he was rewarded for his efforts. It fell apart in his fingers and flaked in chunks, hot and steaming.
Tasty. But I do miss meat.
The thought amused him. He was far from nostalgic about Alatrice, but there were certain aspects he craved on occasion. Meat was a major one, as it was culturally taboo to consume land animals in Massada. Dairy was another. Sheep’s milk and cheese were available at the castle, but he missed his dairy cow.
He shrugged and blew upon the steaming flesh. If he must fast from dietary comforts to live and belong here, then so be it. Isvelle alone was worth it.
My soumme, he mused as he popped a piece into his mouth.
“Bounty forgotten,” he muttered as he recalled the last days at the castle. “I forgot that silly seal.” The note had gone unnoticed when he had changed from his working clothes to spend the morning with Isvelle, and after, he had been engrossed in preparing for his trip. He shrugged, for there was little else to do, and resolved to write to Isvelle at the next sealtoz, should the matter actually be dire.
She distracts me with each breath, he thought happily.
Even after three orbits, Darse was still euphoric. Reality and daily living had yet to gnaw away at the wonder he experienced beside Isvelle. He knew she was not perfect, but he chose to live as if she were—and the avalanche of his love only seemed to barrel forward with greater power the more he allowed it. It was thrilling, terrifying, awakening.
He finished half of the skewered fish and set it carefully upon a tin plate from his sack. He plucked the still scalding coantal packet from the ground, tossing it back and forth like a hot potato. Eventually, it made its way securely to his dish, where he peeled back the leaf from the hot flesh.
Steam billowed up in the merciless air. He fingered hot bites to his lips, and it all but melted on his tongue. He had intended to eat his fare with bread, but after gorging himself on the two fish, he was only ready for a nap.
Darse wrapped the uneaten portions carefully and stowed the packet in the snow. At least the icing is helpful at times, he thought contentedly.
His rough fingers clumsily pulled out a blanket, and he curled under it with pleasure. The rock beneath him was freezing and hard, but his siesta was unhindered. He slept for several hours, and by the end, he was covered in two digits of snow.
Eventually his eyes opened to the afternoon sun. He shook the blanket of white from his stiff frame and stood to stretch. His body was fit and firm, but the passage of time was nonetheless playing upon his joints and bones. He grimaced slightly and sighed.
Well, it is better than dying young.
The thought surprised him, but more so the direction in which his mind steered next: Like my mother…
It was a bleak place in his heart, and one he rarely chose to visit. The mystery of Marietta’s death seemed even more obscure here in Massada than in Alatrice. He was not simply without a mother here.
All grow silent if I mention her name. Fear clings to them like leeches. She was the first…and so they wonder… So I wonder…
Darse had seen the results of the black fever—few had not—and it had knotted his insides as hopelessly as a child with a spool of thread. It had been but a septspan after he and Isvelle had taken the oaths of soumme, and joy had shone from his face almost as brilliantly as the glow of a lunitata, but the encounter had soured and silenced their elation. The dark fate of his mother had stared up cruelly from the stranger’s limp, fragile corpse.
The body was so black. Like it was charred, although the tissue was still soft… I couldn’t even tell it was a woman, save the golden hair that fell from her corpse like it was unattached.
Darse stowed the cooled fish safely away in his pack; his appetite had departed. He mindlessly loaded the rest of his belongings and stamped his feet to life. He gazed around, making sure he had collected all, and spoke softly into the air, “I wish I’d known you. I wish I could know what happened so many orbits ago.”
The words fell without echo upon the blanketed wood, and the silence that had shrouded the afternoon suddenly seemed blaring. There were no songbirds here, there were no forest rustlings of small creatures. The wood seemed more devoid of life than he had cared to notice. It had been but several hours of travel from the green jays, and he wished them back.
“Is death even here?” he whispered, but regretted voicing the thought immediately. The trees swayed back against the push of wind as if gasping at his words.
Leave these thoughts and walk, Darse, he thought to himself. He inhaled deeply, and the scents of snow and pine flooded his nostrils. You’ve much ahead of you. You have a soumme, a life, Bren. The new baby coming. And a trip. Ziel always revives you.
You cannot know what’ll come. And you can’t change it anyway, old man.
His lips twitched up slightly until he allowed them to curl into a smile. It did not feel entirely natural, but it still felt good. “Yes, to Ziel.”
He tramped on, even if unease accompanied each stride.
~
Colette bent in pain as she awakened. Her body groaned with the tension of her stretched skin and the growing child ever pressing upon nerves and joints. She eased cautiously to her side and allowed her belly to rest against the pallet. The discomfort lessened, and in half a breath she saw the dark images that had plagued her dreams.
He—it—was hunting again.
She shuddered and rose, panic choking her heart. It was too much. It had been too real.
The man had been wandering the woods, with eyes like pits of death with anger and loathing spilling out upon all creation. He was looking for someone, anyone really, for his body was beginning to blacken.
A new host.
Even aside from Bel’s news that the fever was near, deep within her ran a chord humming of approaching danger. She knew the danger was close, too close this time. It was a prickling sensation in her gut, a hollow feeling in her chest. There was no running, for death was smiling at her exposed and naked back.
Arman said it couldn’t really see me, she tried to rationalize. This feeling is nothing more than a feeling.
She rose and walked about, pondering whether she could bear to put the terrible images to paper. Her meanderings conveyed her to the looking glass. Her vows, her reflection, the present, the past—all seemed to rest before her.
In a trembling motion, she pulled down the piece, and her fingers traced across the stones and tiles of the frame. Colette inhaled, drawing strength from the memory of the gift, and made to restore it to the wall, yet as she did so her hand knocked it awkwardly, and the piece fell to the floor in a shattering of glass and gems.
Colette pressed both palms to her face and rubbed her weary eyes. As she opened them, the world momentarily streaked with dots from the pressure. She drew her shaking hands to her chest: a gesture of having nothing more. Her chin quivered and she let the weeping take control. The lunitata convulsed and choked under the force of emotion.
It was coming, and it could not be stopped.
Bren, her heart burned. Please come back.
Please protect me.
~
The night was bitter. So bitter that Darse pondered returning to Veronia. The wind shrieked and sliced through the wood and no tree could offer enough protection from its blistering bite. He shivered and arched his back forward, cupping his body around the meager flame he had kindled to life hours previously. It flickered and dipped under the harsh and screaming breath but choked out a tenuous heat.
His thoughts turned to Brenol. They had not seen each other in some time. Seals passed whenever sealtors were available, but their lives had overtaken them in the whirlwind that comes with establishing new families. The joy, the solitude, the privacy, the eking out one’s own way. He did not begrudge Brenol the new space but now felt a keen stab of loneliness for his friend.
Colette’s baby will make all well again. A faint smile played on his lips, thinking of the growing life.
Yes. The babe will draw us all back together.
Darse collected his blankets and lay supine, allowing his eyes to soak up the heavens. The sky was blessedly clear, and the stars and moons cast their radiant light upon the chilled world. Stronta hung low in the velvety sky, allowing her counterpart the center stage. Veri lingered strongly upon the zenith, and her waning globe towered over him with foreign magnificence. He reached out his hand like a child to touch her white body but only pushed through the cloud of his ragged breath. He allowed his chilled hand to drop, but kept his eyes upon her, soaking her in like a sponge. The moment was enough to steel his resolve, and he quivered into slumber under the soft luster.
~
Arman awoke, and the whole of his memory settled in effortlessly. He filled his lungs, opened his eyes, and finally understood: he was in a bethaida. On a mere handful of occasions he had encountered the Tindel, but never before had he been permitted into the clan’s homes, yet he knew with certainty that the ochre-red domed walls and clay floors were nothing less. The air was fresher than he would have expected this far underground, as though he stood but a few steps into an open cave, but he was unsurprised—the Tindel had a determination tougher than iron. They could live upside-down if they drove their stubborn wills to do as much.
Arman raised himself to a sit on the hard pallet. His body ached from having come so near the precipice of death but he marveled at feeling relatively hale despite it all. And warm. He felt warm. He noted the hot blood traveling through his veins and saturating his feet in comfort. He allowed his eyelids to rest for a moment as he relished the sensation. He had thought he would never again know heat.
Arman opened his eyes in the dim room and found a small child, likely around eight orbits, about two strides before him, staring interestedly with a strikingly white face and faded amber eyes. The boy had tufts of unruly hair the color of pale straw that poked out in every which way and eyebrows so faint they were almost clear.
“Hello,” the juile said kindly.
The boy, without a drop of fear, repeated the greeting. Curiosity nearly dripped from his eager face.
“You—” Arman began.
The urchin interrupted, “I can barely see you.”
Arman granted the boy an impish smile. He appreciated the openness of the young. “I am juile. And I will tell you a secret… There are even some places where I cannot be seen at all.” He allowed the last word to trail off mysteriously.
The child’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward with a finger extended, as he might to poke and examine a caterpillar. Arman laughed and extended his arm. The child prodded the transparent hand with gentle nudges and swept his own hand beneath the juile’s, delighted to still see his digits under the transparent limb.
“Like water,” the boy whispered, impressed.
Arman had opened his mouth to respond when a Tindellan man marched into the room. He threw the boy a fierce glance that caused him to scamper off hastily through a low arching doorway. The man was thin but muscular, with skin the hue of cream and hair some shade between white and light tan. He kept it trimmed close both atop his head and upon his slender face. His clothes were an ordinary brown but well-crafted and close fitting. A silver patch was stitched upon his breast: circular, with an embossed white sword at its center. His skin was grossly weathered, covered with severe cracks and pocks, but he exhibited no sign of self-consciousness.
He showed little but suspicion.
“Who are you?” he asked gruffly, puffing his chest out in self-importance.
Arman stood but remained slightly bent, as the ceiling was exceptionally low. If the Tindellan man was intimidated, he gave no sign to indicate it.
“Arman,” he said, bowing gracefully.
The name caused the weathered lines to crease further, and the clansman’s light gray eyes peered up seriously into the juile’s. “Arman…” he spoke the name as if grasping for a memory. “You are a guardian…” The sentence trailed off and ended like a question.
This is the delicate part, Arman thought. The rest was labor. This is the dance.
The juile inhaled carefully. “Yes. I was told of the sword. The line of secrecy has been kept by the few who hope to preserve our world…” He peered into the smoky eyes before him. “You have guarded it well. And generously. Now Massada needs your help. We will crumble without it.” Arman watched the results with interest. Here was a Tindellan with power, yet he still breathed easier as he absorbed the juile’s praise.
The man opened his stance, ready to listen. “Tell me again. What has happened?”
Arman vaguely recalled the whirlwind of Tindellan questions after he had passed the gatekeeper’s test. Those moments felt hazy to him, as if part of a dream, so he decided to simply begin anew. “There is a spirit. It is murdering people across the terrisdans. The sword is our only hope for defense,” Arman explained. “The black fever is its sign. Where the fever has been, so has the spirit. It is called malitas.”
The Tindellan man’s eyes widened. “Malitas?”
“It is real and present,” Arman replied grimly.
“Malitas…” Abruptly, the clansman soured. His face tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Where did this thing come from?”
“I cannot be certain,” Arman said slowly.
“But you guess,” he retorted curtly.
“Yes, you are right. I do guess.” The juile’s face was grave, but calm.
The clansman scowled. “And what do you intend to do about that?”
“What I have said from the beginning. I will collect the sword and destroy the evil, if I am able,” Arman answered evenly.
“How can I know you are worthy to take it?”
“Might I ask your name?” Arman asked.
The clansman tightened his jaw and pressed his lips together; social mores were far different in the desert.
“Is it customary to answer question with question?” the Tindellan asked. Distaste lay plainly upon his pale features.
And here I trod on heels…
Arman dipped his dark head in apology. “I have angered you. I had no intent.”
The words did little to mollify the blanched man. Instead, they almost incensed his rage. “You cannot come here. This is not your place. Your name means nothing here.”
The last words stoked an old fire alive within the juile. Too many times his father had spoken similarly, and his ignorance had been just as great. Arman stretched his figure, despite the limitations of the ceiling, and extended his body out in all directions. His arm span and cloak opened up like a gray mast, and the room appeared diminutive beneath his menacing bulk. The clansman did not flinch, but his eyes flickered in a show of hesitation.
“Your gatekeeper thought differently as I wilted out in the perideta,” his voice boomed while his dark eyes flashed with power. “I proved myself out in the blue, even if it nearly wasted every breath within me. And left all the living back in Massada to rot.” Arman sucked in air with exaggerated ire. “You will release the sword to me. And you will do it speedily. I am done with your tests, Tindellan.”
“Arman,” the clansman began. “That’s not how we move here.”
Arman glowered. “It is not?” The juile’s lips pinched in a purse, and he pointed a long, transparent finger at the man. “You are supposed to be a guardian. A guardian. Not letting Massada waste away. You are called to protect—no matter where the danger originates from.”
Indecision marked the clansman’s features. “But the gatekeeper is the first step. Next you must speak to the council. And then we alert the bethaidas…” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly flushed a soft pink. He was evidently unused to revealing so much to a stranger.
Arman lowered his body and drew in his arms, though the tension in the room failed to dissipate. If anything, the memory of the looming figure haunted more than the actual experience. He straightened his mismatched face and turned his body utterly still. Even the folds of his robes and cloak lay without movement. “Tell me, has anyone else ever come out here for the sword?”
Again, the light eyes flickered. “No.”
“And proven his benere to the gatekeeper?”
“It is what has been established as the w—”
He neared the shorter man, crowding his face with his own. “Has anyone?”
“Bu—”
Arman growled. It was like the lethal growl of warning before a dog attacks. The Tindellan had no experience with canines, but the sound was unmistakable.
“No,” he replied quietly.
“Your name.” It was not a request.
“Sed.”
“Sed, if you delay me much longer, the fall of Massada shall rest upon your head. And that is a grave guilt for a guardian… Your people may not have grown soft physically, but their minds have regressed to larvae if they cannot see this for what it is. The time is now. It is not tomorrow.”
The clansman flushed again, and with the expression, Arman knew reason had finally prevailed.
“Take me to it,” Arman said, his bass billowing out like a war drum. “I do not want a tour of the desert, either. Just take me to the person who can give me the sword.”
The light gray eyes shot up. They were no longer tight with anger, but remained strong and composed. He straightened his thin frame, still a head shorter than the average Massadan. The pocked and weathered face had a foreign fierceness to it.
“There is no other. I am the keeper of Heart Render.”
~
Morning light poked Darse awake, and his stiff limbs cried out in revolt. He was unused to the elements, and he suddenly felt every bit of his age in his bones.
“Next time, I wait ’til summer,” he moaned, yet the unspoken hovered in his mind—but when will summer come again?
He wriggled and stretched until his legs creaked to life, and he set about restoring the fire, for it was now no more than a black heap of ash and rubble. The pop and snap as fire licked the wood served to revive his spirits, and he warmed his breakfast with a hum. Kicking the coantal leaf again from the flames, he bent to open the packet and pinch the steaming flesh into his mouth. He could barely taste it for it was so hot, but it singed deliciously as it slid down his throat. A noise drew his eyes up and he peered into the trees as he absently licked a finger.
A stranger approached.
He sidled over easily, raising a hand in greeting. He was a stocky man with a soft gut and bulging chest. His chin was littered with the stubble of a week’s growth, and his pouty lips smoothed into a smile of crooked and creamy teeth. Light brown hair sprouted out from his head like wheat grass, and Darse could only imagine that the man’s arms, legs, chest, and back were clothed in the same soft fur.
Darse lifted his hands in greeting—fish and all—and smiled amiably. Company held appeal after the previous evening spent thrashing with his own thoughts.
“You’re welcome to the fire,” Darse said, extending a hand out toward the soothing flames.
The man bent his round head in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he replied.
He snapped his fingers, hopped to a nearby log, and rolled and positioned it about two arm spans from Darse. He settled himself atop it and arched his body toward the heat.
Darse observed the simple sequence in surprise; the elegance and grace of the stranger’s motions did not match his short form.
“Are you from Garnoble?” he asked as he surveyed Darse.
“No. I live in Veronia currently.” Darse raised his eyes to meet the man’s. At first he had perceived them as merely sunken, but they were more like two black pits. It was as if pupil and iris had merged together into a dark night. It was strangely unsettling, yet he could not pinpoint why.
He must be some race I’ve yet to meet, he rationalized, attempting to calm the lurch that had soured his stomach.
“I’m making a trip to Ziel. You traveling?”
The stranger smiled. “Sure. I roam the whole land. I don’t tarry in any one terrisdan for long.”
Darse extended his breakfast to the man. It was declined with a swift swipe of the hand, so he set it down gingerly on a rock. He rubbed his hands together—more from an odd nervousness than chill—before the crackling flames.
“I’m Darse,” he finally said. He raised his eyes reluctantly up to gaze again into the startling dark spheres. “What’s your name?”
The toothy cream grin extended out. “Some have called me Barrie.”
“Barrie,” Darse repeated softly, wishing the acid flavor on his tongue would recede.
“May I join you, Darse?” Barrie asked with the tilt of his head. His eyes were deep and eager.
Darse’s brow furrowed at the question. He pointed to the popping blaze. “I already said you were welcome to the fire.” He eyed Barrie suspiciously. There was something askew, but he could not determine what, save the colorless eyes.
Those eyes… They’re like old grave markers, Darse thought, recalling the stones of the cemetery that had streaked black over time.
Barrie lifted a palm into the air. “So you did.” His crooked grin emerged again, but it did little to loosen Darse’s nerves.
What’s wrong with me? thought Darse.
Another warning voice toned within, though, echoing from head to toe: The real question is what is wrong with him…
“You sure you aren’t hungry?” Darse asked. His voice sounded as thin as paper. He wondered how his face appeared. He lowered his hand and scooped up the cooled fish, hesitating as if to pack it away. His insides screamed for flight while his mind darted about seeking to discover the hidden danger.
Barrie puckered out his lips in deliberation. “Well, sure.” He patted his soft gut, laughing, and reached his large hand out to the offering. Darse nearly dropped the fish in surprise, for Barrie’s fingernails and cuticles were as stained as the charred firewood.
“Are your fingers all right?” he asked hesitantly.
“Oh, just a little dirt,” Barrie replied with a toothy grin. “I’ll get rid of it soon enough.”
Darse stood, under the pretense of stretching his long legs, but really began eyeing the ground to see what possessions he had left. He walked around Barrie and the fire, faintly registering the crackle of the flames licking into the pocked wood. The odor of burning wood rose up from the brazier and into the cold air. He normally found pleasure in the scent. Today it curled his stomach.
I don’t know why. But I don’t care anymore. I have to get away. I have to.
Darse glanced up from his pacing feet to see the two glassy black eyes staring at him. Barrie continued to eat, chewing his food in an indifferent circular motion, much like a mindless goat with her cud.
“I’m going to get on my way now. The day is passing,” Darse said softly. He added a conciliatory grin but knew his features must be stretched in awkward tension instead of friendliness.
Barrie’s face clouded and he paused his chewing. “Where are you going?” The voice was veined with cold.
“Ziel. I’m later than I’d like to be… But enjoy the fire,” Darse added with contrived casualness.
“No.” The word was a plea, but it contained a hardness that should not have been present. “I would like to talk to you more. May I join you?” Barrie’s round face leaned forward and tightened. The dark fingernails gripped the fish until the coantal leaf tore under the pressure.
Darse shook his head. “I really prefer to be alone on this trip. I’m sorry.” He bowed cordially and shouldered the pack. He turned and strode from the fire with deliberately natural steps, although his heart thundered and his fingers tingled. Darse felt like he could fly like a frawnite under the angst that coursed through every nerve.
I’m almost away. Almost away.
He could sense the cold, black eyes upon him but refused to turn. His legs itched to surge forward, yet he made them stay the pace.
One step at a time. One step…
The flood of heat at his temples lessened as he made ground, but it nonetheless felt as though he crept away from a tsunami, still surging to life behind him.
Darse let out a soft sigh as he neared a thicket of trees clustered together in a snowy huddle; he was roughly fifty strides away at this point. He slid his head sideways to glance back, and stopped, gaping.
Barrie was not there.
Darse darted his eyes through bough and bush, feeling the drumming of his heart increase. Sweat beaded and ran down his face, and his palms turned as slick as ice.
Surrendering his attempts to locate the stranger, Darse sprang forward, not even trying to hide his panic. He sprinted until his lungs and legs burned, and finally, he bent to a forced halt, panting.
A voice suddenly snaked in his ear. “Have you ever watched a cat hunt a rat?”
Darse vaulted back in shock. Barrie stood next to him, leaning leisurely against a tree and manicuring his blackened nails with a penknife. He lazily paused and peered up at Darse. Darse, heaving, felt his tongue stick dryly in his mouth.
“Have you, Darse?” Barrie asked. He cocked his head to the side and smiled broadly. It was an evil grin, without any attempt of concealment. “Darse?”
Darse shook his head, unsure of what to say or do. His hand neared the hilt of his knife as he pondered what course to take.
Barrie, in the speed of a wink, planted the penknife deep into the trunk of the tree. It stuck out like an arrow in a bull’s eye.
“I saw it twice. Interesting, as much as these things can be.” He shrugged and sidled closer. “The cat stalks. He slides and creeps forward, nearing. He observes the rat. Sees how it moves. He enjoys the game.” Barrie’s eyes bore into Darse’s. “The rat will squeak and run, but really it is no use. The cat is dominant.”
Barrie began to circle him. Darse felt every hair on his body raise. His hand grasped his weapon, but did not yet unsheathe it.
“Even when the rat is in its grasp, the cat still plays with it. It seems like the movement under its paws brings it amusement.”
Barrie swept upon Darse and struck him across the skull powerfully. Darse crumpled under the smashing blow, and the world around him seemed to sway in and out of focus. He groaned as pain blossomed under his senses.
Barrie’s whispered voice boomed like thunder through his ears and mind. “As if the squirming tail under him were more delicious than the actual meal.”
Silence ensued, and Darse finally opened his eyes. He cradled his head, blinking. His hand crept to his waist and when he looked down, his face fell. His belt no longer carried his knife. It had been taken.
“Oh no,” he whispered with dread.
Darse arched his head gingerly around in several directions, but all was still and silent. There was no one with him.
He rose shakily, trying a timid step, and then shot forward with speed. He moved with the haste terror grants and had covered a vast section of ground before again, he met with a blow from the side. He toppled to his knees with a sickening groan. His head throbbed in pain, and his vision blackened and showed spots.
“As if the hunger was not just for food,” Barrie said in ear. His voice was soft, lethal.
Darse felt his stomach roil. He groaned and blinked. After a moment he was able to look up. Again, he found himself alone.
Tentatively, he drew himself to a stand. He eyed the area about him but could not calm his trembling limbs. Slowly, Darse fought the fear, focusing his thoughts toward defense.
Use your mind, old man. Use your mind.
Darse inhaled deeply. He abandoned his pack to the ground and widened his stance. He cautiously strode forward, making each step deliberate and defensive. While he did not pass the distance very quickly, his courage began to swell, and his anger ignited. He was determined to not be a victim any longer. His breath evened, even with his head ballooning in pain. He tenderly cradled it while vigilantly maintaining watch.
An hour later, he regretted the loosing of his pack. He was thirsty and exhausted, and now without flint or freg. He sighed, deliberating. All his options appeared foolish. To return to the scene—and possibly Barrie’s area of residence—was unwise, but to wander about in the icing without supplies?
He furrowed his brow, yet eventually opted to continue. There was a small town roughly four or five hours away, if he recalled correctly. It was a considerable distance, but he could obtain polina assistance there, and perhaps beg a meal from someone.
Despite the pain, his confidence mounted with the established plan, and he progressed through the wood in better spirits. After another hour of hiking, Darse came upon a homestead. It was a small building, with white-washed planks and blanketed windows. A crudely crafted rail-fence belted it and the nearby field. The land had been cleared but was evidently now unused, resting under a layer of crusted snow.
The earlier attack had left him feeling vulnerable, and the thought of help perked his steps. Darse peered around eagerly, but paused before passing into the gate. It was rarely wise to walk unannounced onto another’s land. He called out. “Hello?”
He waited, and his spirits drained in despair. No one.
“Hello?” Darse called again.
“Hello,” a familiar and hushed voice behind him responded.
Darse leaped in surprise but still managed to pivot and swing an arm. Barrie batted the blow away as if it were but a moth, smiling cruelly.
Then, with a blinding swiftness, Barrie thrust Darse face down onto the blanket of white. Darse’s nostrils filled with cold, and his lungs revolted under the merciless and suffocating ice. He flung his hands out to raise his body, but a sharp weight—Barrie’s knee—pressed upon his spine while a sturdy hand forced his nose and mouth into the crusty and airless white.
He struggled but could not bend beneath the astonishing strength of his attacker. He choked in pain and waved his arms madly. His legs were unable to rise, and the sharp pressure on his back was as unyielding as an ancient oak.
It was no use. This was to be the end.
His vision flooded with his life, with Isvelle, Brenol, Colette, hopes for the new baby. There was a longing there—as if something were incomplete—and he pushed with a new vehemence.
I can’t die like this, Darse raged.
Yet his efforts could only be sustained for so long, and time slid away, ungraspable. Things grew hazy. He felt his limbs slackening as his life left him, and an eerie languid apathy spread through him.
Then his head was lifted with a snap. He drew in a gasp that stung as if he had inhaled acid. His body was still limp, but gradually he felt life trickle back into his mind. The weakness within him was unbearable. Every cell ached.
“Invite me,” Barrie whispered in his ear.
“What?” Darse choked out, and then found his face being hammered again into the icy death. He had little to fight with this time, and his body turned soft within seconds.
“Invite me,” Barrie said again. His voice was pinched with fury, and his eyes were as hard as flint. He lifted the man and threw him supine, tossing his weakened frame as though he were but a scarecrow.
Darse heaved and racked for a minute. His entire body was drenched from the snow and perspiration of the fight. He knew there was little time left before death claimed him. Barrie bent down to fling him into the suffocating cold again when Darse cried out in panic.
“No, no,” he managed to cough. “Come… with me.” Darse drew in several pained breaths, and watched the stranger with terror, wondering what he could possibly mean.
A wicked grin spread smoothly upon the round face, and the man’s demeanor became one of eased pleasure. “Thank you, Darse,” he said. His voice was triumphantly smug.
Darse pained his way through every breath as he lay sprawled upon the frozen earth, focusing on drawing in and out through the rawness yet never taking his eyes from the stranger.
“Etiquette is one of the most ridiculous elements of your kind,” Barrie said, sneering. “I cannot pass without permission, yet most eventually invite me to do so. It is like you enjoy my domination.”
The smile suddenly sagged from Barrie’s features, and a shudder ran from shoulder to toe. And then the body slumped, dropping into a heap of bones and flesh less than two arm spans from Darse. Not a digit of Barrie was animate; he was empty.
Darse had little time to react before a searing pain rushed through him. He fought against it, but its power was unimaginable. He could not even scream, for the sensation was so jarringly intense. Lightning scored across his insides and up his spine and centralized in his brain.
He heard a voice. It was sinister, gleeful, and tore through his soul like a knife through a sheet.
I am Chaul, it said.
Then he knew no more.
~
Colette’s screams awakened her from her nap. Her bedclothes clung to her thrashing legs, and tears streamed hotly down her splotched cheeks. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, trying to smear away the images that taunted them. It was no use. They were unfading.
The evil, triumphant eyes. How they had danced.
She wailed again, shaking in horror.
Her friend and father was no more.