The maralane shall not be Massada’s only loss.
-Genesifin
Brenol pointed his toes toward Limbartina and worked his way through Brovingbune, pondering the terrisdan’s silence. The eye was present but restful, peering at him with a strange and languid indifference. The landscape dipped gently up and down, and he followed the lower countryside outside the Trinalli Range to the west. His nose flared with the scents of sap and pine, for the woods engulfed him on all fronts, but he had opted for ducking below bough and limb instead of the heaving mountainous trek around the water. He found it was not an unpleasant journey, save the circumstances, and rejoiced in the sense of renewed purpose.
Now upon the move, Brenol decided that eventually he would wind his way to Caladia. His intention was to seek out Arista, the frawnite, and see what her people knew of the fever. It would mean a septspan or more of travel, but heading east might bring key information for when he did reconvene with his friends. Plus, perhaps she would even agree to travel with him. He experienced a keen—and realistic—sense of his need for help and the prospect held much appeal. It was not a perfect plan, yet any proposal seemed a better alternative to sitting in Gare growing soft.
He kept a solid pace and felt his body answer willingly enough. His lungs puffed clouds in the frigid air, and his eyes scanned every route and obstacle, taking in the dozen hues of green that saturated the woods.
Limbartina cannot be far off, he thought, but his clenched jaw indicated angst instead of relief.
Brenol lightly traced the lining of his coat pocket. Dresden’s seal rested there, but he no longer opened it or even handled it more than he needed. A raw and troubling sensation seemed to burn in the back of his throat whenever he did.
Igont must’ve misunderstood. We don’t always see things the same way the wolves do…
The air turned bitter, and the sun cowered behind clouds. His body stiffened in the moist cold, and he found himself walking more hunched than erect. Pushing further would be of little use, so the man set about collecting firewood and brush and locating a suitable camping ground. Brenol smiled at his fortune when he spied it: two boulders resting together with a slight overhang. They would serve as excellent coverage from much of the wind, and his fire would do the rest. He went through the motions automatically.
Thinking of his Colette, he warmed his hands and prepared dinner.
~
Colette stared at the paper. She had written, scribbled, crossed out, and rewritten the letter until it was just a jumble of words.
Do I really tell them of this dream?
What if it is only that—a dream?
She longed to reason away the dark images of her sleep, but both her gut and intuit whispered the truth to her—reality and nightmare were one. Colette peered down at her hands. They were splotched with ink and shook like she was aged.
But if I say it…
The voice in her mind suddenly turned harsh. It will turn real? Stupid woman! What’ll happen if you don’t say it and it is true?
The whiplash of her emotions and thoughts, coupled with the images that refused to ease from memory, were simply too much. Colette crumpled up the sheet and pushed herself from the desk. Tears streamed down her face, and she smeared them away with cool palms, leaving streaks of black ink upon cheek and nose.
I hate him, she thought, seething. I hate him.
She let out a yell of frustration and clenched her fists in a quivering fury. The anger burned hot in her blood and turned her restless. She screamed again, longing to escape her skin, her bones, her heart.
Colette stood abruptly, needing to occupy her limbs somehow, and sent her body to motion. The small room creaked under her urgent paces. Eventually, her laden frame returned to the desk. The white sheets of paper rested before her, waiting. Hesitantly, she sat and fingered one with a haunted gaze.
Colette breathed slowly, calling her mind back to Brenol. Drawing strength from his memory, she lifted her pen with a delicate grace and set the tip to the page. It bled for a moment in a round dot while she collected enough composure to start. Her inked fingerprints already marred the white sheet, but she did not reach for a new one.
Instead, she flicked her wrist with sudden precision.
Arman, she began.
~
The countryside spread out before Brenol in a flowing swell. It was beautiful, even in its wildness. The icing almost accentuated it. He did not smile, but nonetheless accepted the loveliness with a grateful breath, and kept moving.
The neutral land passed by under his sure strides and he nodded to himself, thrumming in anticipation. Already he could feel the sweep of energy tickle his skin as he approached the edge of the lugazzi. Selenia was still very much alive, and he eagerly hoped to again converse with the terrisdan.
Brenol inhaled and stepped forth from the lugazzi. He bent to the earth, cupping the soil gingerly as he always did, yet the response he received was unanticipated. The eye of the land jolted through him with a piercing stare.
Brenol rose in alarm, the dark soil falling from his fingers. His coppery hair whipped in the cool drafts, and every contour of his face was unmoving and severe. He sensed it—the land was as taut as a distended guitar string. The air itself was cold, hard, tense.
“Malitas,” the wind whispered.
The pines shook around Brenol, and several icicles crashed to the hard earth. His chest tightened, and he felt adrenaline course powerfully through his limbs, but he felt his mind steady. He peered down at the shattered ice and lowered himself again to a squat. His fingers traced the cold ground reassuringly, even though his heart thundered like a thousand hands beating the skin of a drum.
“Is it here?” Brenol asked. He leaned forward, straining to hear the nearly imperceptible words.
“No more,” it finally said.
A barrage of questions flooded his mind. “Where’d it go? What’d it do?” he demanded, as his head hammered with hot pulses of blood.
“Limbartina. Stole my people.” The words were hardly audible.
“What can I do?” Brenol asked, thinking out loud.
“Nothing,” the wind sighed. “Nothing.”
The gray world hushed around him, and Selenia would say nothing more.
~
The sword gleamed a stunning white within Sed’s hands. It was beautiful— lovelier than Arman would have ever guessed. The meticulously crafted metal flowed from the rubied hilt like running water. It flashed in the dim bethaida light and sent tiny rainbows scattering across the walls. Even the pale Tindellan hands grasping the weapon looked flushed compared to the striking alabaster of the blade. It rippled as Sed settled it upon a table, and Arman watched attentively as the clansman began to wrap it.
His thin fingers moved with the precision of familiarity, but still with the caution of a worker who knows his peril. He bound the blade with thick burlap straps, and finally the whole of the weapon was gracefully wrapped in sapphire velvet. Sed lifted the sword with a cautious hand and lowered the tip to the ground, offering the hilt to Arman. It no longer resembled a deadly weapon.
“You use no sheath?” the juile asked. He eyed the cloths with displeasure. Yes, he had been told the original guardians had brought the blade here unsheathed, but he had assumed that had been due to haste, nothing more.
Sed made a strange gesture with his left hand. “No sheath will house it.”
“Show me,” Arman said incredulously.
Obediently, the clansman returned the sword to the dais and unworked his previous labors. He stepped lightly aside to rummage in a nearby cupboard. He grasped a plain and sturdy case of blue and stood to face the juile.
“Only a gr—” Sed began but halted with a sharp inhale. He peered up at the juile and began again. “Only a fool forges a weapon with properties like this.”
Arman raised an eyebrow. The clansman had almost said greenlander.
Sed cautiously slid the blade into the blue sheath. Before even reaching the hilt, the blade shook and rattled like marbles in a tin can. The racket was wrenching.
The things that go unsaid in legends, Arman cursed inwardly.
“If it isn’t removed,” Sed added over the din, “it only grows louder.”
“I agree with you. ‘Only a fool.’” Arman shook his head, vexed. The forger must have been hot with self-importance—and simply blind to human nature—to only foresee his beautiful blade as a piece to be showcased.
Arman eyed the rough straps and bindings. “Will these hold?”
Sed nodded, yet his face was stiff with concern. “They do, but as it is very sharp, a misstep could be the end…” The light gray eyes narrowed, but the man’s voice was soft as he continued. “We shall provide the rest. Your heat and health have been restored, I’m told. You may leave at your discretion. I shall arrange a gertali—a Tindellan group who know the peri well—to accompany you to the edge of the desert.” His eyes spoke eloquently, but he still issued the warning, “It’s only too easy to lose one’s way on the blue.”
Arman dipped his head in a gesture of gratitude, but he could not help but suspect that Sed had motives for following him that were not entirely altruistic.
~
Colette’s lids fluttered as she swayed and fought in her sleep. She sought to run here, fly there, but the malicious eyes were ever upon her. She could never escape their gaze. No wings could take her far enough, no wind could sustain her long enough. He sought her, and both knew he would eventually overtake her.
With a start, she gasped awake and cried out. She embraced her belly as a contraction tightened like a band across her, but after a moment it released its hold. She exhaled with relief, yet found her heart unable to settle.
Darse’s golden eyes. They’re blackening… I feel like they’re hunting for me.
She shuddered and rose, for remaining idle would only empower such thoughts. She filled her kettle in the main of the house with water from the jug, placed it on her swing hook, and settled it above the fire. The kettle’s song soon awoke her from thought, and she let a small handful of leaves dance down into the steaming pot. The tea steeped, and the room filled with the fragrances of orange and mint.
“Easy now, Colette. Easy now,” she said to herself as she breathed in the fresh scents. “Easy.”
The lunitata measured out a steaming cupful and shuffled to the other room. She absently set the hot tea down to cool and settled herself at the desk. The small pencil was soon placed to paper and slowly, with a contrived aloofness, an image unfolded. Colette barely glanced at the finished piece before placing it atop a stack—the many faces of her dreams—on the corner of the smooth desk. She made as if to stand, but flinched in hesitation and turned her head back with a wary expression. She lifted the sketch and peered at it uneasily. It stared back—familiar as friend, familiar as enemy—as if alive.
With a shudder, she flipped the page face down and rose. Colette abandoned her untouched mug and strode out of the room. But then she halted her steps and returned to the desk with quivering hands and lips.
There was no hesitation now. She shredded the image of her mother’s soumme with frantic motions. Her tears splattered the floor below, and she slid against the wall to the ground.
Oh, Darse.
The pain was dark and rent her heart with a terrible power. She felt like her soul was empty of all but agony.
Oh, Darse.
She wept until her body was too exhausted to shed another tear.
It won’t end with him, she thought. I know it. And he’s learning… He will find anyone who knows of him. We are doomed.
~
The thrill of finding the sword, of bringing back Massada’s hope, filled Arman like a song. He did not smile or speak, but his soul held a lightness that he sought to whip away.
This isn’t the end, you fool, he thought, but still his heart fluttered along like a disobedient child flying from his chores.
“Would you like me to bind it to your back?”
Arman glanced down to Sed. All had occurred as the clansman had promised: his pack was laden with provisions and supplies; a group of weathered and shuffling men with sharp glances and warm blue clothing had gathered; and none had questioned him again, even if eyes had seared. He had even been given a replacement cloak much heavier than his gray, which boasted a better fit and a camouflaging blue hue. He knelt down to the ground and allowed the clansman to secure the sword atop his pack with cerulean bindings that covered both chest and back. It was not exceptionally heavy and rested comfortably, but he knew it would undeniably wear upon him; proximity with the weapon did not elicit ease.
Arman raised himself up and bent into a bow. “It has been bountiful, Sed.”
The Tindellan man hesitated as if unsure how to respond, but then dipped his own head respectfully and placed the pads of his fingertips to his cheek. It was a gesture the juile had never seen, and the meaning was mysterious. The fingers fell to Sed’s side after several seconds.
“You shall return it?” A slight fear edged his voice.
“I shall,” Arman replied with conviction.
Sed nodded, seeming strangely disappointed.
The clansmen all collected together as if called by an unspoken signal, and the ceiling door was lifted. The blinding wind sucked the very breath from Arman’s lips, and he wondered how he had stayed the perideta for as long as he had. The group hastened out by ladder and tunnel and secured the hole again; heat was not to be wasted. Once all were upon the crust, there was no dallying, and the six men pushed quickly through the snow on their path. Arman, at the back of the line, kept the swift pace but often had to squint with freezing eyes to catch the figures that shifted through the snowy blue like a mirage.
He trailed them with a full mind.
~
The inn at Gare bustled, already cluttered with bodies and din, as music, chatter, and the lively steps of dance filled the air. Harris the innkeeper patted his gut happily. He was not an overweight man but once had been, and the habit had outlived his extra pounds. His buttons clicked as they met his ringed fingers. He smiled at the sound.
He glanced around the tavern, calculating numbers and needs in his head. The icing was pinching his stores, but at least for the moment they held, and even more, the cold was driving travelers away from the woods and to his hearth. He liked the press of people in the room, the movement, the gossip, the cheer. It was good to be busy.
A wave of cold briefly stung his cheeks as the entrance opened and a slender youth slid through the slit of darkness. Harris squinted speculatively. The young man looked to be about fifteen orbits and seemed to be traveling alone. His complexion was red from the wind, and his features were thin and chiseled. Stunningly blue eyes shone brightly against the contrast of his mousey brown coat. It was not until the blue eyes stared into his own that Harris caught the golden seal sewn tightly upon the worn garment, resting at breast height.
“You’ve a seal for me, then?” Harris asked, trying to conceal amazement at the sealtor’s age.
“Who’re you?” the boy replied, maintaining a level face.
“Harris.” He was not affronted; the sealtors were meticulous about delivering only after establishing identities.
“Then no.” The young man lowered his voice, but his face remained impassive. “Is an Arman staying here?”
Irritation flowered at the name. “No, and I’ve had more trouble with him than a non-paying customer is permitted.”
The sealtor’s eyebrow raised in question.
“Several septspan ago a wolf came through looking for him. It sent my inn silent for two hours.”
“He waited?” the man asked. It was barely there, but his tone hinted of surprise.
“And ate. Gave the letter to the guy’s friend. Finally left. Friend left recently, too,” Harris humphed.
“Did this friend give any information regarding Arman or other seals arriving?”
Harris paused, trying to wash away desire from his open face. Ever since the young redheaded man had dragged himself into the inn, he had found it nearly impossible to overcome his curiosity. Then the wolf with his clear urgency. And now it could be so quickly sated…
Without further thought, Harris jerked his head in affirmation. “Yes, yes. I don’t know how I managed to let that sneak out of my mind. The friend, a young man named Brenol, didn’t say where Arman was but mentioned he’d collect any more seals here in several days.”
The sealtor’s blue eyes narrowed and turned hard as steel upon Harris. “How can I be sure you speak truly?”
Harris felt his chest pounding with fear; interrupting seals was considered a fineable crime, and it would certainly affect his business if customers could not ensure their mail’s safe arrival.
Too late to stop now, he thought as blood rushed to his temples.
Harris raised his voice and spoke in an awkward boom, “Because I own the place! Because I don’t lie!” Several faces turned to stare, but returned shortly to the music and din.
Doubt twitched across the sealtor’s face. Harris saw it and moved promptly. “The wolf obviously felt comfortable giving Brenol the first seal. And you know how they are.”
The sealtor frowned.
“You can simply leave it here and warm yourself for a few minutes if you like.” He opened his hand, indicating the desk, and then lifted his chin in the direction of the hearth. “The seat is free, even if the drinks aren’t.” He smiled widely and watched the youth’s indecision wash away in an overpowering tide of weariness.
The sealtor removed a small white letter from his satchel, placed it quietly upon the desk, and stared unblinkingly at the innkeeper. “For Arman only. I had special instructions.”
Harris nodded purposefully. The young man released his hand from the paper and trudged laboriously toward the glowing flames. He secured a seat and lowered himself down with an unconscious sigh.
Harris pocketed the paper and went about his business, although his insides felt more like a butterfly cage than a gut. He smiled and laughed and bantered, but all with a contrived flavor, always hawking his eyes back to the sealtor, who never flinched away from the burning fire. He sipped a warm drink bought by a local patron as if it were a finely crafted spirit, nursing it into the night.
It was shortly before closing time when the sealtor crept out to the darkness. He did not even glance up at Harris as he left—whether due to shame or exhaustion Harris was left to guess. The innkeeper went through the motions of locking doors, barring windows, and scrubbing tables. His staff trickled out, and he found himself before the dwindling brazier with hand upon pocket.
He breathed deeply, lifted the seal out, and examined the small item. It was white, creased into a tiny square, and lettered Arman across the center in an attractive, feminine hand. His cheeks rouged with a burst of shame.
Pilfering seals? Am I a postmal? This is ridiculous.
Harris almost returned it to his pocket when he remembered the wolf and the disruption it had caused. His soft face turned sullen.
It’s only fair, he thought, running his digits across the fine lettering.
Only fair.
Harris jutted his jaw determinedly and hastily floundered through breaking the seal and sliding the single page open. There was only one line, and it froze his insides faster than a wintry night. The lovely hand wrote:
Arman - Darse has been taken. He’s dead.
Harris fumbled the paper in his hands, and it fell to his feet. He stooped with trembling fingers, cursing his stupid curiosity.
Are you no more than a child, Harris? If this is a crooked affair, they’ll certainly find you. You’ve muddied your toes to the corn.
Harris cradled the paper close to his chest, staring at the flames. If any of his patrons had seen him, they would not have recognized him. His back hunched forward as he rocked with the light motion of the addled, and his heavily creased face seemed aged by an additional ten orbits.
Eventually, in sudden decision, the man flicked the paper into the dwindling fire. It caught at the edges, shrank, and glowed until nothing remained but black ash.
No one can know. I lost it, if any ask. No one can know.
He finished his duties with quivering hands and darting eyes and made his way to his chambers for the first of many sleepless nights.
~
Brenol would have soon realized there was foul play at hand, even had Selenia not hinted of it. The gray, cold sky betrayed nothing, but the air he drew in held an odd scent. He wrinkled his nose and peered at the brume above him speculatively. There was little to do but continue on, and he did so with both haste and hesitancy.
As he reached a hilltop, he gazed down on Limbartina and sought to assemble the images into sense. Suddenly, he drew in a sharp breath that hung in his throat. He was dumbfounded, speechless.
The entire town had been razed. Every single building, including the massive soladrome. Even the countryside showed the dark scars of fire. From his vantage point, each edifice was a crumbled white heap, looking only vaguely like the structure it once had been. He had never seen fire decimate so thoroughly before, and it took him some time before his limbs remembered how to move.
Whether from curiosity or shock, Brenol refused to turn aside. He fumbled down the hill stiffly and drew closer to the damage. The scent of old fire lingered, and he almost expected to see smoke rising up in steaming plumes, even though snow had fallen and the flames had long ago crumbled to gray ash.
He slowed as he entered the town. He walked the streets, although passage was often prevented due to the wreckage, and gaped mutely at the devastation. The houses that had lined the skirts of town were heaps of marred wood and ash. They had once been dappled with the colors of the rainbow—for the umburquin painted their homes in vibrant hues—yet no more. There was no chroma at all to the buildings, only a black and gray-white ash.
Brenol’s eyes shied from the charred bodies, staring with gaping holes where eyes once lay. Their mouths were open in silent screams, hands clenched in brittle fists. Other bodies were untouched by flames but streaked with dried and blackened blood. They rested in alleys, heaped in streets. Odor and flies teemed thickly around them despite the cold, but he knew he cowered back for more reason than that.
His feet drew him to the center, where the soladrome had once stood. It had been a massive structure: artfully designed, with balconies, alcoves, and pillars larger than a man’s girth. The golden dome had once been visible from every nook of the town, and for matroles of countryside as well. It was not a mere monument, either. It had been a center of healing, of hope. Hundreds of medical professionals had resided there. Hundreds of sick were tended. It had been a beacon of light for the terrisdans, especially in the cruel face of the black fever. Brenol bent and reached his hands into the rubble. Pieces of the structure crumbled in his palms and fell like sand to the ground. He grimaced and wiped the ash on his trousers.
As he circled the dome, he came to what once had been the gardens. He had walked through their green lushness with Colette orbits ago. He had filled his nostrils with lavender and honeysuckle. His hands had tingled in the sensation of her warm hand. The images of life flashed before his memory and made the death of the present moment more marked.
He moved through the rest of the town like a ghost, silent and numb. Shadows from the tombs of buildings grew longer, and Brenol blinked awake with the realization that night was approaching. He glanced around and knew with certainty that he did not wish to sleep anywhere in the fallen city, even should he be able to find shelter somewhere. He tightened his coat around him and strode east, seeking the cover of forest or rock. Anything would be better than this place of death.
Later, before his campfire, he shuddered and rocked. He wrapped himself up warmly and tried to eat but could barely force a bite down his throat without choking.
Brenol threw another branch into the crackling fire at his feet. His eyes burned with the nightmare.
There was no explanation, save Selenia’s. Malitas. It had come.
The truth violently wrenched his chest in knots: He would never be able to contend with such power. It was a fool’s game to think otherwise.
~
Arman shied from the cities and towns but took the worn and easy paths whenever possible. He had been absent for nearly four septspan and he felt the weight of time haunting his steps. He had left Brenol to hunt a monster on his own, and the knowledge was grim at best. He donned the cloak of invisibility the terrisdan offered as he swept through Brovingbune, and rushed as quickly as he was able. Only as he neared Gare did his tall form materialize and reveal the sharp ferocity dwelling in his onyx eyes.
Gare was as he had remembered it: small, lively, and prone to ignoring the rest of Massada. The single inn lit up against the velvety dark of night, and Arman hoped fervently that Brenol was still present. He shook the layer of damp white from his cobalt cloak, and it fell in soft heaps of slush. He pushed the heavy wooden door and slipped in without many noticing.
The room was alive with light and music. The din smothered his ears, and he fought to think clearly; he had spent most of the last few septspan in the silence of his thoughts. He flicked his fingers out and steeled his senses; he would—must—make do.
Arman’s eyes swept longingly across the room to the glowing hearth, but he forced himself to slow his steps and orient himself before seeking comfort. The innkeeper, Harris, his wiry figure full of fidgety angst, had been one of the few who had seen him slink in. He wore a green vest atop a white shirt, and a golden chain belted his copper-hued pants. He was hatless, and his face was bristly with several days’ neglect. Harris did not—or could not—peel his eyes away from the juile. Arman strode to him, brushing off the odd behavior as the usual prejudice against his kind.
“Excuse me,” Arman began. “Have you a man named Bren or Brenol staying here?” His voice sounded gruff after the long hours of travel and chill. He did not amend it.
Harris flinched. “No, no. Left a few days ago,” he said nervously.
Arman’s eyes narrowed, taking in the man. Is he concealing something?
“Anything else?”
The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders with a jerk. “Waited for some people and got tired of the whole thing. Moved east, I think.”
“What about a lunitata man named Dresden?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Not here.”
Something in his evasive manner released a trigger in the exhausted juile and he reacted without thinking. He plucked the vest with three fingers and drew Harris close. “What are you hiding?” Arman growled. His face was ferocious and unyielding.
“N-nothing! Nothing!” Harris squeaked, squirming in the juile’s hands like a worm on a hook.
“You’re hiding something.”
The innkeeper shook his head vehemently. “No. No, sir. Brenol was just more trouble than I like. Arman, too.”
“Tell me,” Arman growled.
“Letter for Arman from a wolf…and the man Brenol took it. Just caused a disturbance is all. Nothing more!”
Arman exhaled, his face revealing concern. “What’s your name? Did Bren leave immediately following the seal?”
The innkeeper sighed, as if finding relief in pursuing the subject. “Harris. Harris’s my name. And, no. Waited a good number of days. His leg was hurting him. Eventually he did—leave. Left in a hurry without two words outta his front teeth.”
The cold had begun to melt from Arman’s fingers, and the aroma of hot bread softened his insides with an ache. He released Harris, wondering for a moment if he had misread the man. The innkeeper, breathing easier now that he was free from the firm grasp, did not notice the hesitation. He smoothed his clothes with stocky fingers and puffed his belly out in his habit of clinking his brass buttons.
The empty routine suddenly lost flavor as the man’s eyes returned to the near-invisible creature. His face sagged again. He had long since wished the juile away.
“Do you have room for a single night?” Arman asked.
Harris nodded quickly. “Oh yes, of course. One night.” He paused, the businessman emerging as if by instinct, and he drew a calculating glance across the juile’s weathered face. “Pay is upfront.” This was the only sentence he said with conviction, and he afterward cowered back into himself.
The juile issued one last hard stare at the awkward man. Perhaps the blue has addled my senses, he mused, but felt the sharp edge of disbelief even in the thought. Something was strange about the innkeeper. He would have to watch to determine what.
Arman dipped his head and offered a soft apology, but Harris only noticed the clink of coins as they slid across under the juile’s hands.
“Please send over some dinner,” Arman added. He jutted his shoulder toward the hearth in indication and dragged his weary limbs toward the heat to thaw.
~
Caladia was a significant distance from Limbartina, and Brenol’s pace was slow. He pondered Limbartina with every footfall and spent an entire three days moving through Selenia before finally crossing into Conch. The land became stiff as concrete, and each step hammered into his bones. He remembered trekking through Conch before, and it had been unpleasant even in the warm glow of spring. He curled his back involuntarily and shook with every breath, trying not to think of the upcoming journey through Granoile. That would be a treacherous climb through dune and cliff, and the elements would surely only be intensified by the open stretches of sand.
Brenol felt like a rabbit chasing after a tornado. He was so small compared to the power of malitas. He had now seen the extent of the horror it was capable of, and he could barely cope with witnessing the destruction, let alone fighting it. Even so, his stout heart clung to the bleak hope that if he followed his plan, it would not be the end. He would hear news; he would find help. So despite the adverse conditions, he ground his teeth together and fought the impulse to surrender and flee from the journey. There was no alternative.
I wonder if Darse got the letter I left him at the sealtoz in Gare yet.
Perhaps I should have left one for Arman.
Or was it that I didn’t think Arman needed one? The thought turned the contours of his face rigid.
Not wanting to dwell on such musings, he pressed himself mercilessly until the Crasai drew him to a sudden halt. The river wound east with the sloppiness of a dying snake. It had once been a stronger waterway but had iced in many places and now moved with the pace of a crippled old woman. He unlaced his boots and rolled his pants to his thighs so they would not fall into the frozen water.
He launched a foot in and nearly bit his tongue as pain shot through his body. He sloshed forward hastily, not even bothering to gather his cuffs as they slipped. His legs blundered awkwardly and grew ever clumsier as they numbed. His toe met an upturned stone. He stumbled and caught himself but still was left soaking up to his waist and dripping crimson where the jagged rocks had sliced along his left palm. He shook with effort and could think of nothing save escaping the cold daggering into his skin. The crossing took less than five minutes, but his back convulsed by the end of it, and his lips were as blue as a bruise.
Stumbling forward onto the bank, he fought his seizing calves and mindlessly gathered firewood and attempted to light a blaze. It was terrible work, for he had lost his tinder box somewhere along the road, and he carried no spare flint. The wood was too damp from the recent snows, and he shook with uncontrollable tremors. There was little he could do, and he finally set to rubbing his legs and hoping movement alone might save him.
His eyes sagged wearily. Numbness climbed his legs, and while a corner in the back of his mind was alarmed, it was also a relief to not experience the excruciating jabs that had beset his legs.
Keep warming your legs. Keep doing it.
He breathed a soft cloud at the thought of such effort, knowing it was beyond him. Colette’s lovely face suddenly peered at him from out of a memory.
Her golden tresses clothed her shoulders like a shimmering veil, and her emerald eyes smiled playfully at him before she ducked behind an enormous oak. His own lips curled up in response as he swung around the opposite side to catch her. His smile dropped to an amused gape as his hands trailed the rough bark in his continuous circling. She was nowhere to be found.
A giggle from behind both startled and relieved him. Brenol spun his body around and scooped her up into his arms, holding her close. Their forms merged as their lips met. The kiss was tender, unrushed. He breathed her in and melted in the sweetness of her fragrance, the sugary taste of her lips.
He lit Colette back upon the mossy soil and felt the warmth of her pleasure beaming from both face and skin. Her smile was now gentle, but her eyes housed the luminous mystery he was ever seeking to unravel.
She placed a hand on his shoulder and toed herself up to whisper in his ear. “I have a secre—”
The memory was dashed away into ungraspable pieces as Brenol spied a spark. The wood pile beside him, which had been awkwardly heaped together in his haste, was now an orderly mound, with a soft gray moss lining the underside of its branches. Brenol could not think, but watched with languid eyes and mind. He wished the memory back, but it had fled. He could not even muster the mental facility to conjure up an image of his soumme’s face.
Another spark. The moss caught and danced to life faster than hair meeting a flame. It blazed up with a white smoke, slowly catching the twigs and then branches in its merry movement.
Brenol blinked, finally understanding, even through the fog of his mind.
“Arman,” he breathed. He had intended to say more, but his voice barely issued that one word, and even it was close to unintelligible.
His body twisted and rocked as its sodden clothing was stripped off by invisible hands and replaced with new pants. A thick blanket soon hugged his shoulders and covered even his copper head.
The juile sturdily set to work massaging the frozen and lifeless limbs. The feeling was like waking in a tomb: terrifying, and with the realization it was only going to get worse. Brenol tightened his lips and shuddered.
“It will take a little time to warm you. I cannot shock you with heat or it will go poorly.”
Brenol simply stared blankly ahead.
“I saw Limbartina,” the juile finally said. His voice puffed slightly in exertion, making small clouds appear in mid-air.
Brenol dipped his chin in response, but it went unnoticed amidst the convulsions racking him from head to heel.
“Met the innkeeper back in Gare, too. Harris. He was a nervous little man.” Arman paused his movements to stoke the flames and pull Brenol closer to the radiating heat. The invisible hands returned to their steady work of pressing life back into the man’s legs.
“I had an interesting journey myself, although mine did not involve wolves.” He waited, hoping Brenol would speak of his own accord. He thought if perhaps Brenol began using his mind, his body would follow in turn. Instead, the young man’s eyes held the glassy stare of retreat.
Arman frowned and collected the stone he had set to warm in the heart of the fire. After wrapping it carefully, he placed it in Brenol’s arms. The man curled around the bundle, still shaking.
After a few minutes, a sliver of sound escaped the blue lips. “Story.”
“A story?” Arman pulled Brenol’s legs up and wrapped them in a separate quilt. He drew the feet to him and opened up his robes to allow the icy appendages to warm on his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath as they met his warm core, yet said nothing and merely continued to massage. He gave no indication of fear or anxiety, and invisibility concealed his grim features.
The juile cleared his throat ceremoniously and began to speak. His voice rumbled, soothing and carrying a force that pulled Brenol’s tired mind with it. “Orbits and orbits ago, there lived an elderly woman. She had lived longer than any other human, but she was strong. Every day she would carry her bucket and collect her water from the stream that trickled behind her cottage, and every day she would walk three matroles to the pond—a small pool of water made from the streams that flowed down the mountain’s side—where she would catch fish and collect fruit for her daily fare.
“Many did not give a thought to this solitary old woman. They only saw age, a wrinkled face, death waiting. And so they avoided her with the same kind of thoughtless and silly determination that drives a toddler to only look at what shines. She gave little notice to them, for she had outgrown that way of thinking many orbits before, and continued about her way.
“One day, as she stretched out in the morning sun, awaiting her catch, the line grew taut, and she battled with her pole. She had the benefit, as I said before, of great strength, and she also used a thick wire, so despite the immense weight and pull of the fish, she eventually overcame it, and the creature burst forth from the screen of water and lay wheezing halfway upon the bank.
“The woman was shocked. There before her bare feet lay a maralane child. She was about four orbits old, and her unusually short tails and emaciated frame made her look even younger. The woman knelt down in sorrow, for had she known, she certainly would never have lifted this creature from the water.
“As if suddenly realizing that the moment was real, she jumped up and walked the child back into the water so that she could breathe freely. The woman held her loosely, tenderly, staring into the silvery eyes of the fish-child.
“‘How did you come to be in this pond, my dear? I thought your kind only lived in the deep of Ziel,’ she asked.
“The girl did not respond but merely gazed back with the foreignness of her kind. She did somehow recognize kindness in the old woman’s tone and demeanor, though, and finally permitted her to remove the massive hook and tend to her shoulder wound.
“The old woman tsked herself. ‘Had I known you were here, I would never have fished like this.’ The maralane still looked back without understanding. ‘I would never have tried to hurt you.’
“The two remained in company for a period before the maralane child simply dipped below the surface and was gone. The water looked as serene as it always had. The woman stared for many minutes, but was wise and later told no one of her experience.
“The old lady returned the next day, as she had for orbits and orbits, but this time scavenged for berries and spent the afternoon hunting clams. She did not even bring her fishing gear. By evening, the maralane had not appeared, and the woman returned home to prepare her dinner. The days passed as such, and soon the woman feared she had imagined the entire episode, but still she held her tongue to silence.
“Two seasons elapsed. On a walk to the market one day, she overheard a buzzing rumor. A maralane had been spied in the local pond. There was much excitement, and talk had turned to idiocy. Plans for capturing the creature were the lightest of the speech, but even that turned the woman’s face as hard as stone. She left the crowds without a word and soon returned with bundles and boxes and papers. She then sold all she owned. Her house, her land, her wares. Everything. With the money, she purchased a wagon and dragged it to the pond. That evening she toed out to the bank, which was empty now that the masses had dispersed for the night. There, she waited and waited, throwing pebbles into the clear for hours. In the darkness she shivered and her eyelids drooped, but still, in a bleary state of wakefulness, she continued to toss the tiny stones onto the screen.
“She drifted off for what felt like a moment, and at dawn, she awoke and found her efforts were not futile. The child stared at her unblinkingly, but with a softness. The woman clung to the moment with hope. She attempted to tell the girl her plans, but the child understood nothing. It was only after many signs that the girl allowed the woman to lift her from the water.
“The tiny maralane flopped desperately in her arms as she chokingly sought air, but the woman held her securely and carried her up to the wagon. An enormous wooden barrel, brimming with water, rested on the flat of its floor, and into this, the old lady lowered the child.
“The woman then dragged the wagon until weariness stretched into every muscle. She did not live deep into the terrisdan, but even with her unusual strength the trip was difficult on her aged bones. When the woman stopped to rest, she would go and look kindly at the girl, trying to speak soothing words to her, even if she could not understand them. The child was frightened but composed and somehow managed to hold a trust for the woman. She did not cry out, but waited patiently as the woman plodded the jolting matroles along the rutted lane to Ziel.
“She arrived at twilight, and the sky was alive with color. She lifted the girl from the barrel and carried her with determination, lowering her into the warm waters. The maralane flopped forward until she had reached a comfortable depth and turned to stare at the woman. The elderly woman quivered in exertion and lay with labored breath upon the sandy bank. The child did not motion or say a thing but slowly descended into the depths and did not return.
“The next morning, the woman awoke weak and brittle. She attempted to lug the wagon back, but her body could not endure the strain any longer, and the food she had brought with her had been stolen in the night. Several people passed her on the road, but she was too frail to even beg for scraps. They chose to ignore the obvious and moved by quickly.
“That night, she shivered and huddled in her blanket of leaves, eventually finding death. The Three met her as her soul rose from her body. She waited for them to speak, unsure of what They would say.
“‘Come, come with us. You have done well,’ Abriged said to her. His voice was rich and sank into her like warm butter into fresh bread.
“She stared back with wonder, concerned He had mistaken her for another. ‘What have I ever done?’ she asked.
“Ceriton now replied, ‘You have saved Massada from war.’ His face beamed with a brilliance that would make the sun marvel.
“The woman shook her head, bemused. ‘I did nothing.’
“Ceriton smiled kindly. ‘Child, you saved that maralane. Had you not, the world would have rippled into many poor decisions, and wars between the upper and lower worlds would have ended in massacre. You have saved Massada, although none shall ever know.’
“The woman gave a small smile, then bent her head in acceptance. ‘I will come.’
“They opened their arms and drew her into the next life, the peraedon. And she was never remembered or talked about on Massada again.”
Arman’s honeyed bass quieted, and Brenol stared into the seemingly empty space. “And that’s supposed to reveal great bounty?” he asked wryly. His voice was paper thin and crackled.
Arman gave an invisible smile at the words and felt his chest loosen in relief. “There is always a truth to be gleaned.”
“Glad you chose an uplifting story in my plight,” Brenol replied faintly.
Arman did not respond but stood and took the now-boiling water and began to prepare a tea with herbs he had carefully untucked from a wallet. Steam stretched to the sky as the leaves brewed.
A rich, full fragrance lingered in the air, reminding Brenol of chamomile and ginger. He breathed in the aroma and coughed; the air was still sharply cold, and his body was weak.
“Hold out your hands,” the juile coaxed gently.
Brenol obeyed, and soon a cup of extremely hot tea appeared within his palms. Its heat stung his fingers but traveled deliciously up his hands. He would have allowed the steam alone to warm his face until it cooled, but Arman pressed the cup to his lips. It scalded unpleasantly, yet the juile was not about to listen to complaints—even had Brenol been capable of resistance. The young man allowed the liquid to sear down his throat and warm his insides. The cup disappeared from his hands and was replaced, again brimming with amber heat.
“You can go more slowly with this one,” Arman said. He did not apologize, but his voice was understanding.
“How’d you find me?” Brenol finally asked, mostly as something to say as his mind jerked into life. He did not doubt the juile’s tracking abilities.
Arman replaced the stone with a newly warmed one and watched the man embrace it weakly. “I’ve been searching for you for longer than I would like to admit. So I will not.”
Brenol closed his eyes. Sleep could have taken him if he were not still in such pain.
“Where were you going?” the juile asked.
“Oh… Granoile.”
“Did you really think me dead?” There was a nonchalance about the question that turned Brenol’s lips down.
“I didn’t know… I just couldn’t wait any longer in Gare.”
“Arista is a good choice, although I doubt she would have left the terrisdan. They are a people of tradition.”
Brenol sipped slowly. “What’d you find with Carn?”
The juile fell silent for several moments. He had barely given himself a breath to grieve, and the darkness that now encircled seemed to sense this and tug at him with willful fingers. “He was murdered by malitas. He knew, too… He left a note.”
Brenol winced as he stretched his toes before the fire. It felt like thousands of pins were jabbing into his flesh. He wondered if the agony would ever end.
“Succinct, but telling,” Arman explained. “He said that malitas can enter only by invitation. Once in, it looks like the person, but the person is really no more. Signs of its presence are blackening around the fingernails and irises.”
The juile’s words drew a frown to Brenol’s face. It was as though a finger sat tapping incessantly upon his memory, but whether it was his brushes with shock and hypothermia or something else entirely, he could not grasp it. It floated away like a feather in the wind. “Why would people invite him into their bodies? That seems ridiculous.”
Arman sighed. “I imagine it isn’t as clearly expressed as that. Perhaps the spirit can misconstrue simple hospitality as an invitation.”
The tapping was stronger this time, but still the feather danced out of reach. “Guess we won’t be offering our campfire to anyone else in the near future.”
The two were silent for some time. Arman prepared and dished up servings of potato pancakes. They were filling and satisfying, and Brenol soon found himself more revived than he had thought possible. Gratitude, and more, surfaced as his mind and body strengthened.
“Arman?”
“Hmm?”
“What’re you leaving out?” Brenol glanced around at his friend’s various possessions. Most were a cerulean blue, and the juile never wore anything but the traditional black, gray, or white. “Where’ve you been?”
“Bren.” Arman’s voice was controlled and serious. “We will likely die in this. If not by malitas, then by a slip of our own hands. There is hope, but I will not shade the truth from you. Not anymore.”
Brenol pressed his lips together in thought. His mind felt surprisingly clear; his emotions, strong. It was like flexing and discovering one’s strength. All of his choices up until now, all of the nurest battles, every lesson taught by Arman. And Deniel. They all filled him with a reassurance and a breath of life. He inhaled it willingly and with relish. Memories of Colette opened up before him, but more than anything there remained a burning drive: he longed to protect her, his child, Massada. If there were no others to contend with this killer, he at least would move. He had given his gortei.
“Then we shall go in benere,” Brenol replied. He spoke with soft confidence.
Arman’s breath remained a steady and a hazy cloud, assuring Brenol of his presence even in the silence. Finally the juile spoke, “I must tell you of Heart Render now. It is every bit legend, and every bit real. The Tindel have cared for it…”
The juile unwound the tale of the white sword. The legend carried more truth than expected, and the young man listened, rapt. The fire never dwindled, for Arman was careful to maintain its heat; Brenol was no longer in peril, but he was weak. His body needed time to recover from shock, even if his mind was itching for the next task.
Brenol nodded solemnly when his friend completed his tale. The story of Arman’s journey across the perideta settled into his stomach and rolled around like an unripe fruit refusing to be digested.
“What is it?” Arman asked, interrupting Brenol’s thoughts.
“Two things.”
“Hmm?” replied Arman.
“You crossed a desert of ice and snow and danger and survived. I crossed a little stream and nearly perished.” His wry, still-croaking laugh brought a smile to Arman’s face.
“Well, desperation can make a person either very determined or very reckless. Sometimes it is hard to distinguish between the two, even after the matter. But there is a second thing?”
“Yes,” Brenol replied more grimly. “I’d never heard of the Tindel before…except in reference to the Queen of Tindel. Do you remember? From the Genesifin? It mentions a Lady of Purpose uniting the people, a queen.”
Arman did not respond, so Brenol continued his thought, “These Tindel… They don’t sound the kind to bow to anyone, especially a foreigner… So how could it possibly happen?”
And how could it ever be Colette? Brenol mused. Deniel must have been wrong. It just cannot be.
Arman handed the man another cup of tea and repositioned himself before the strong heat. His voice was steady and rumbled like distant thunder. “They are unlikely to bend for any of us, but I do not doubt the Genesifin. It has yet to prove false…but I would not worry. It is most likely beyond our time. The Lady could be many generations away, and we will be chasing greater bounty than this.”
The copper head nodded briefly, accepting the solid hand that reassuringly rested upon his shoulder, but his thoughts were not as acquiescent.
“You doubt?” Arman said, peering at the man. His voice was curious. “Why?”
Brenol sighed. It was not always easy to convey the experience of Deniel’s memories in speech, but nonetheless he tried. His words felt like putty that would not shape right. “Deniel. He went out in the waters. They told him something. They said Colette was the Lady of Purpose… At least that’s what I think happened. I saw a memory just after the moment.” Brenol flinched at the ridiculousness of the statement, but he felt the truth lingering there and could not abandon it so easily.
Arman’s reaction surprised him. He was forward and honest as always. “It matters not. Your path is before you, your promise laid out. Whatever she must do does not affect your way. You have pledged gortei. There is no undoing.”
Brenol sipped the tea and allowed the steam to hide his face. He was unsure how he ought to feel—or how he felt.
Suddenly, his features creased with distress. “Oh. I see it now.”
“See what, Bren?”
“Oh, Arman. It’s Dresden! The seal! Dresden wasn’t himself. He told the wolf—Igont—things that were very unusual. And Igont said the healer stank… And the seal itself was bizarre—mismatched imprints and wax. Even I could see as much.” Brenol gulped air as if it might ease the speech out more smoothly. “Arman, I didn’t realize, but then I came to Limbartina…” His voice trailed and hung in the air as though wishing for refutation, but there was none. There were only images of the dead marring his memory.
“I see,” the juile said quietly, though he felt the blow acutely. He refused to voice how much hope he had placed on obtaining the healer’s help.
“How does this thing know how to write and speak and walk but miss how to send seals?”
The juile flicked out his invisible fingers.
Brenol shivered, and Arman nudged his drink up. The man sipped absently, his expression still horrified. “What do we do now?”
“The same as before. We save Massada.”
Brenol set down his mug and breathed deeply. He held his stone and stared into the fire. “Let’s sleep,” he finally said wearily. He lowered his back to the hard soil.
The juile, after watching Brenol sink into sleep, curled invisibly before the comforting flames and allowed his own body rest.
~
Colette sat as the rain beat icily upon the roof. She was curled up in a chair, wrapped snugly in a soft afghan, and a steaming beverage rested in her cupped palm. The night was fully upon her.
The child within stirred, and Colette’s belly rippled in the movement of limbs. She winced in discomfort but caressed the place nevertheless. The babe was quite grown. It was likely a mere moon before the lifing.
Colette longed for Brenol’s return. Her letter to Arman had been met with silence, but Bel had assured her the sealtor had not returned. She dared not send seal to her mother… If she was wrong in these nightmares about Darse, it would be horrendous. No, she must wait for the juile. He was timely in his own regard.
The rain slowed and came down in gentle showers. Colette did not stir. She sipped her tea slowly, and its heat settled into her chest and gut and crept down to her limbs. The rain slackened further, and the soft pattering eased into an eerie quiet. The silence of the night, and of her many nights alone, resonated in the empty home. It was brittling to the bones. She would never voice it, but an underlying fear rested squarely in her chest, and it went deeper than any terror over any monster, any malitas—however the spirit made her tremble. It was the fear that she imagined all, and led everyone she loved into danger as a result.
She held the cup until all steam vanished and her nose stung with cold.
A booming on the door jolted her from her reverie, and the cold tea splashed across her belly and lap. She sat frozen, unsure as to her course. She stared at the barred door from where the sound issued and felt her breath rise in short, terrified jumps.
“Malitas,” she whispered, and her eyes darted around the room.
This refuge she had holed away in now seemed as safe as a hook, and she but a worm inviting predatory bites. There was nowhere to hide, but even if there were, she knew better than any that one could not escape him. His glance brought destruction.
Colette remained paralyzed in indecision, but after several moments she realized that the silence had resumed. Whoever had come to call had just as speedily taken his leave. She was loathe to open the door or peer out the canvased windows, so she merely hugged herself, shaking. There would be no repose, for even awake it seemed as though her imagination circled and twisted in nightmares.
I’m as empty as this house, she thought, and sat with vacant eyes and trembling hands through the second half of the night.