Guard yourself in every small action. Evil only leads to evil; benere to benere.
-Genesifin
Chaul raced across the land, flying through the terrisdans. A fear lodged in it that could not be undone. Could this be? Could that really be Heart Render?
I should not have fled. I should have taken the sword. I should have destroyed them, the spirit thought, but it knew fear had turned it weak and left it skittish, like a trout beneath an osprey’s shadow.
How do they even know what I am? I have not allowed any to know me. I have wiped my trail with their blood. No, it cannot be.
Yet somehow, it was. The spirit could see as much.
It scoured the terrisdans for a host, irritated at the sensation of being without a body. It was a discomfort in such a material world. Chaul ached for the place that once had been its home, before the portal had brought it through. It longed for the others—the iritaul, the spiritual.
There is no point pining. The portals go in, not out.
So now?
How do I win against them with their sword?
Chaul’s quick mind groped toward an answer. Pleasure bubbled up as it drew near an idea. The land. Their precious land.
It would be strange to be in a terrisdan, but they would never suspect it. And even if they did, it would punish them… Oh, it would punish them.
The spirit considered what course to take, and finally arrived at its decision. I will trick the land, it thought. I will cross the border as a child.
Chaul lowered toward the ground and saw a girl playing by herself in the soil. Her light hair shone in the morning sun and flashed as she moved. She stacked colored wooden cups into towers while singing a song. The tune was irritating. It was tinny and child-like, so human.
It whispered in her thoughts, Invite me.
Her doll face looked up inquisitively, scanning around. She returned to her song after a moment, content as before.
Invite me, it whispered to her again.
Her tiny eyebrows raised in wonder as she glanced about the dirty clearing again. Little pudgy digits rubbed her toddler forehead.
Chaul churned, irritated. It was so much harder to find a host this way.
Ask me to come, the spirit whispered.
Her face brightened, and she laughed, knocking over the cups. “Wanna come play?” she asked the air.
~
Brenol could not raise his eyes to Arman. He could hardly breathe. It felt like the universe held his chest in its grip and was slowly tightening, crushing until he would no longer even be.
Arman knelt at Brenol’s side. He placed a hand to the man’s forearm. “Bren, we cannot linger long. We must bury him.”
Brenol shook off the arm in heat, but his inner fire sputtered out promptly. He peered across to Darse’s still body, then slowly about the campsite. It was a filthy muddling of snow and tracks and bracken. To lay his friend anywhere in this horrible ugliness seemed intolerable.
“Not here,” he answered quietly.
“Where?” Arman asked.
Brenol was silent. Finally, he looked to the juile. “I don’t think…” The man’s voice trailed in despair.
Arman nodded and straightened to a stand. He strode about with determination, but his olive hands trembled in their loose fists. After a brief circuit, he returned.
“There is a softer piece of land, just around those trees.” Arman pointed in indication. “It will know sun but is sheltered from much by the stone mound just south of it.” His voice softened. “I think we can mark it easily so we may return when we please.”
Brenol slumped silently.
“Bren?”
The man nodded.
“Come.”
Brenol touched the dead man gently upon the cheek. It was gaunt and surprisingly warm. The smell of burned flesh seared through his nostrils. “Darse,” he whispered in a choke. “Darse.”
“Please, Bren. We must.” Arman moved to Darse’s head.
Brenol dipped his chin in compliance and slowly worked his body aright. He moved to Darse’s feet to assist the juile. He collected the limp limbs, and the two hoisted the load up with a grunt. Darse’s dark eyes peered glassily out, and much of his salting hair fell away softly as the juile brushed against his head with chest and arms.
Brenol dropped his burden and turned aside to vomit out what little rested in his gut. He heaved and racked, even when nothing more remained.
Arman waited, but eventually just dragged the heavy body in a chest clutch, allowing the feet to trail in the snow and soil. He panted and sweated before arriving upon the chosen spot, where he finally lowered the blackening body to the ground. He touched Darse’s temple delicately and watched more hair sigh away.
When Brenol joined him, Arman was burrowing a shallow trench using a few flat stones and thick slabs of bark. He had not made significant progress.
“We won’t be able to dig a hole deep enough,” Brenol said softly.
Arman jerked his head in a labored nod. “No. I realized that once I started.” He threw the chunk of wood in his hands aside, for even that had just snapped during his efforts.
“I will stay with him,” Brenol said, peering down at Darse. “You could go find a shovel.”
Arman shook his head emphatically and straightened from his work. “No. We must do this now. Now.” His eyes blazed with conviction. “The spirit knows us, or is a fool. We must move before the world meets its end.”
Brenol swallowed and recalled Pearl’s words; yes, a gortei was a formidable oath. He could not forestall this task. He could not pretend reality away, no matter the anguish.
“We will dig as far down as we can, bury him, and then stack the stones atop. It will keep the body safe. Later, we will have the extravagance of time and can move him to Veri if that is what you want. But now? Now we do what we must.”
Brenol shuddered but set to work.
~
The stones rose up in varying hues of slate and white to form a rounded mesa over the grave. The two had not marked the plot, deeming it unnecessary in the end; none would question the purpose of the mound, and it could be easily found again. Arman merely formed a triangle of rocks—a sign for the Three—to lay respectfully before the bed.
Now that it was complete, Brenol stared ahead blankly and wished back the task. The bleary distraction of labor had numbed him from the ripping agony within. He wondered if he would ever breathe normally again.
Arman reached into his soiled robes and slipped out his fentatta. He set the piece to lips without preamble, and its music carried out softly like birdsong. It was a morose tune, but lovely, that soared high and dipped low until Brenol’s face was a river of streaming tears. Darse would have loved it; he had ever been moved by beauty.
The juile knelt before the mound and placed a dark hand upon the cold pile. Brenol crept forward and joined him.
“Darse,” Arman began. His voice was laden with emotion but issued out with a flowing strength. “Orbits ago, you stepped in front of my house. I had no idea who you were or why you had come, yet it was but a breath before I saw benere bursting out of you. It wasn’t a weak goodness. It was hard and focused and alive. You were willing to battle all in this world to protect a girl you’d never met… There are few that walked as you did. You sought the right and the good, even at your own peril.”
Arman drew in a slow breath and gazed at the mound of stones. “You’ve made the rest of us better. You made me better… And I thank you.” He dipped his head. “Would that this had been different,” he said softly. He prostrated himself flat in mourning, face resting in the soil.
After a long silence, Brenol spoke. His voice was cracked and raw. The words emerged reluctantly at first, but soon they tumbled out with emotion. “Darsey. Oh, Darse. You… You were my friend, my good friend. You’ve always been there. Always.”
Brenol paused, breathing. After a few minutes, he began anew, hoarse and soft. “Do you remember that time back on Alatrice? It was only a moon or so after that whole thing with Muzzie. I was so blind to anything but my loneliness and anger. I went out to Plantar’s Field and just stayed there. I’d had every intention of running and leaving Ma to trouble. But I kept thinking about you and couldn’t move past that wretched field. You were like a tether on me, calling me back. Calling me back to be better than that.
“It only took one night before the wild drakies found and treed me. I was near dead with thirst by the third day and rattling from the cold. Up there like a bird without wings. I don’t know how you knew, but you did. You showed up ragged and tired, with a hind’s quarter draped over your shoulder. You threw it to the ground and beat those mean beasts back from the tree with stones. You’d even brought your hunting knife, but they didn’t bother us once they’d set to the meat.
“Oh Darse, I couldn’t stop shaking. You climbed up in that tree with me and handed me an old warm shirt you’d brought. It was soft and smelled like you. And then you told me a story about your da. And let me drink from your pouch ’til I was nearly sick. And we watched the drakies rip that cut apart and snap at each other the way they do. Only after the last one had trotted off—I still remember him with fur as black as coal—did you climb down and help me out… It was then I knew for sure. You weren’t just my friend. You were my da, blood or not. You were my da.”
Brenol paused, unable to speak between the heaving sobs. Finally, with streaming face, he whispered, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you this time. I wish I had been. So much. You’ve given me everything, and I wasn’t even there to say goodbye… I would have traded places with you if I’d been able. You were the best of men. The best in all the worlds. The best.”
Brenol leaned forward to kiss one of the stones. His insides ached as he had never thought possible. “So goodbye, old friend. I’ll never forget you. Never.”
Eventually, Brenol raised himself to a seat, but Arman remained prostrate. His frame had not moved. Witnessing the juile intensified his own grief but also somehow granted his heart the courage to muster action. Brenol reached out and took the juile’s hand.
Arman drew himself from the ground and nodded. His face was grim and haunted.
Together, they stood, and both intoned with whispers, “May death’s reins only lead you to greater heights in the next.”
Arman set his fentatta beside the triangle, and like ghosts, they left in silence.
~
Brenol and Arman swallowed their hot grief and set their feet to motion, working to cover ground and keep their ears open for any more signs of the fever. They moved north again, and days washed away like sand before a swell. The cold bit into them, and their stores dwindled. Occasionally, they were able to buy supplies and food as they passed through towns, but often the locals were hard pressed to feed their own, let alone sell to two bedraggled strangers.
The travelers spent most of their time plodding in silence, although Arman’s was mostly a result of Brenol’s. The redhead cloaked himself in shame and misery and could barely glance into the juile’s eyes before turning his to the ground. It carried on for days.
The two continued to alternate the bearing of Heart Render, but Arman pointedly insisted upon Brenol wearing it into towns. He knew the weight of failure was like a cinder block strung around the man’s neck, and Arman refused to contribute to it. Brenol would know of his trust, and he hoped all would end with victory in the man’s palms. Brenol, though, was blind to these unspoken reasons.
“It is your turn,” Arman huffed softly.
Brenol raised his eyes to meet the juile’s. “Will you promise me something?”
“Likely not.”
“But I need something of you, Arman.”
“What foolish thing have you wrestled into your head?” Arman asked heatedly.
The man frowned. “Even if I’m carrying it, will you take it and strike if we come upon Chaul again?”
“Hush, don’t use his name so loudly. I am still thinking through what power it has.”
Brenol persisted. “But will you?”
“No.”
His features drooped. “But I’ve failed. I couldn’t do it before. What if I fail again?” His chest slumped even as he walked.
Arman breathed heavily, and a cloud of smoke hissed from his lips. He did not slow his long stride for an instant.
“Arman? Are you listening?”
“I try not to hear idiocy,” the juile replied.
Brenol could not help himself. He laughed. It surprised him that the sound could issue from him in the midst of such dark and drowning emotion.
Arman slowed to a stop. “Bren?” The juile’s tone was now soft and gentle. It was not the tone of banter or dismissal. It was the voice of compassion.
The man paused and raised his dark jade orbs to gaze into Arman’s transparent black. The juile’s face was terrible, yet somehow tender too.
“Had my best friend stood before me in death,” Arman said. “I certainly might have done the same.”
Brenol’s chest tightened in grief. Silent tears fell upon his boots.
“I want to give you the chance to not have regrets. I imagine you want to end this evil just as much as I, but I think the closure you need comes with doing it yourself.” Arman waited silently for a few minutes before resuming. “Darse was one of the best. I meant every word I spoke when we buried him. I had more…but could not.”
Brenol choked.
“May he rise to even greater heights in the next,” Arman said gently, turning his feet back to motion. Brenol took a deep breath and fell in step beside him.
The two did not stop, their matched stride keeping them shoulder to shoulder. Matroles passed, wind screamed, and the two were united in silence, purpose, and grief.
~
The wind howled and shrieked as if under torture, rushing forcefully out across the plains and through the ravines. It had been treacherously cold that day, with air and snow blasting into the faces of Brenol and Arman, and now their already worn features were chapped and haggard. Exhaustion weighed in their veins like lead, and the cave they had discovered seemed too perfect to pass, especially as it had begun to rain, so they chose to halt early. It was a fortunate choice; twilight snuck upon them with haste, and the two were left under the darkening skies long before they would have expected. The rain grew heavier and pelted the land outside.
The cave was a shallow stony structure, jutting up along its edges and ceiling with rocky points, and the ground within was a smooth, dry, silvery clay. It provided protection from the elements, but they quickly realized the floor sucked heat like cement. Fortunately, someone had previously rolled in several logs and stumps, and the two were able to utilize the awkward pieces.
Brenol positioned himself uncomfortably upon pack and bough. Though sleep seemed unlikely, exhaustion proved too much. He fell into the realm of unconsciousness and did not stir.
He dreamed of the tree. Her tree.
It was slightly different than Deniel’s memory of it. The tree—Colette’s tree—lay shrouded in the darkness of night. A moon, closer and bigger than Veri, rested above her branches, arching down beams of light that caressed the golden rainbow leaves with the gentleness of a baby’s breath. A pool lay beside the thick trunk, black and glassy. It did not extend far, but he could perceive depth to it as moonlight reflected upon its obsidian surface. It was still. Everything was still.
The tree itself arched strangely down, as though burdened by its very limbs, and its branches hung loosely from its thick frame. There was no movement, but Brenol could feel its life, no matter how subdued. Or stricken.
He stepped forward and realized he was barefoot. The tufts of cool grass were refreshing between his toes, and the soft loam clung to his heels as he padded forward. He reached the tree and lay his large hands squarely upon the trunk. Even in the dark, it was a lovely aspen-alabaster and as smooth as a worn river stone. He slid his palms and fingertips down to the height of his waist. It was a soothing sensation, even though it seemed to draw a maelstrom of bubbling emotions up into his throat.
She is as sad as I, he realized.
It rent his heart anew.
“You know,” he finally whispered with comprehension. “You already know about Darse, don’t you?”
Brenol wrapped his arms around the thick trunk as if they could console and allowed the silence to encompass them. Time elapsed, slowly but steadily. The moon did not alter or carry on a course but hovered above in spite of the minutes and hours slipping away. Eventually, the man lowered himself to rest his back on her trunk and breathed in the mysterious air filled with the scents of sorrel and honeycomb.
“This is a dream,” he whispered into the air. “But it feels like more.”
He caressed the soft green moss that clung to the base of the trunk and protruding roots. “I wish I could make it all better for you, Colette. I wish I’d saved Darse…or at least stopped this thing when I could’ve.” His voice fell without echo, and he again allowed the silence to soak into him.
Soon, the tree bent forward in a silent motion, pressing a single branch down into the obsidian waters. Ripples broke out from the movement, and the bough lifted its dripping leaves from the surface. As the branch raised, it seemed lighter somehow, as though the liquid had lifted the tree’s burden slightly. It was not everything, but it was something.
Brenol’s body still sagged wearily, but a new puzzlement etched his features as well. He did not comprehend the meaning but felt the moment was pregnant with it.
Staring at the black pool, his tongue suddenly became parched beyond compare. It was as though he had not drank in days, septspan. He crouched and crawled forward, feeling the rich soil rubbing across his knees and palms, and dipped a hand into the dark clear. He raised it to his mouth and nearly shouted in surprise. It was as sweet and as warm as Ziel had once been. He lowered both hands in and slaked his thirst with relish. The water slid down deliciously and dripped from his chin. The ripples calmed as though he had never disturbed the waters, and he drew himself back to his seat at the tree’s base.
Brenol sighed and found it was not entirely in sadness.
A soft breeze issued up, barely noticeable save for the previous utter stillness, and brushed the leaves into a gentle dance. Brenol gazed up with parted lips. It was exquisite. The tree still drooped as if in grief, but nothing could take away from its remarkable beauty. The leaves sparkled, gold one moment, rainbow the next, and all swayed softly under the tender touch of air. The darkness could not hide her magnificence. Nothing could.
“I miss you, my Lette,” Brenol said, almost inaudibly.
A sigh went through the branches as if in response, and somewhere in the breeze, he heard a small voice.
“There is still hope,” it whispered.
Brenol did not speak, letting the moment be. He lay with the tree for what seemed to be hours, allowing the closeness to ease and console what it could.