The blue shall beckon.
-Genesifin
Colette stared out the frosty pane, not really looking upon anything. The world was a white blur, and the harsh winds refused to rest. Her icy fingers released the thick tapestry. It fell with a light thump upon the windows, and the air swept up like a brief exhalation. She shivered. Even being close to the glass for those few minutes had chilled her bones drastically.
She huddled back toward the fire and set a pot of water to boil. Soon, the strong aroma of teringar tea saturated the room, and she absently poured herself a mug before settling into a chair with a blanket.
“You’re so still today, little one,” she said softly. The babe within did not stir, even at her gentle prodding. “I envy your sleep.”
The flames jumped and crackled before her, but again, she did not really look upon them.
Her night filled her mind. The dreams had begun, as always, with malitas. The spirit had gripped her in her exhausted sleep as she watched the horrors it spun upon Massada and its people. She had woken soundlessly, shuddering, and eased back into the warm pallet—although loathe to allow unconsciousness to steal her again. From there, she had lain awake, but in a coma-like stillness.
It had lasted until dawn. She felt a peace seep over her, like sunlight creeping over a frosted garden, soothing the sagging ache of her heart and mind. The grief for Darse still burned, but it had a new flavor. It was no longer so acridly bitter, and she felt filled with a sad hope. It was as though the waters had come to her in the still, and though she had not whispered out her burdens, Colette felt like she could breathe now, even with the sorrow that remained.
And Bren… I feel…
She was almost afraid to think it, but the hope surged through her anyway.
He’s alive. He is.
She dipped her eyelids down and inhaled slowly, hoping she did not delude herself. She lay her hands upon her rounded stomach and sighed. “His love… Somehow, I felt it last night. Like he was with me, missing Darse too.”
She determinedly decided to cling to the small hope. “Bren is alive,” she whispered to the empty room. “He is.”
~
Brenol rose from his makeshift bed. He felt rested, yet remaining the entire night in the awkward position atop log and pack had left his back and neck in angry knots. He pushed at the sorest places and attempted to knead away the pain, but the massage was far from successful. He stretched, and it all came back to him as lucidly as any waking memory.
That dream…
Whether it had been real or imagined, it had worked something within him. He no longer felt ravaged by regret and grief. Yes, he ached for Darse, but there was more than just a terrible canyon of pain inside him now. He could breathe, he could think. Something had sprouted within. It was a hope, a lightness, and he accepted it with welcome relief, even though he imagined it could not endure for long.
He stepped closer to the fire that Arman had moments before sent crackling to life and warmed his fingertips and toes. His limbs began to thaw as the heat radiated out to him.
The water…
He could almost feel the warm, sweet liquid from the dream dripping down his chin. It had been more satisfying than nectar from a ripened summer peach. It had soothed his heart, his mind…
The reverie was interrupted by Arman. “Tonight, we’ll stay at an inn.”
Brenol immediately barked in laughter, which echoed painfully against the jagged walls of the cave. Arman’s tone had held such a juvenile petulance, and while it was rare that the juile spoke wryly, it amused Brenol nearly every time.
The copper-headed man pulled the log closer to the flames, seated himself anew, and lowered his voice so it would not resonate. His lips remained curled in a smirk. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Even a juile cannot sleep with your snores echoing,” Arman replied easily.
The juile rustled in movement, and a hot pancake slapped happily into Brenol’s lap. The man tossed it carefully between his hands while the steam rose in curtains, finally venturing a bite. It was bland but wonderfully hot.
“Sorry,” Brenol said with a full mouth. “Must have been my little chair… What’s your real reason?” he asked curiously.
The juile’s voice was soft and low when it came. “Your sleep has done you well…” The comment carried a questioning glance, even if hidden by invisibility.
Brenol barely had an answer for himself and was loathe to prod at his wounds. The swell of grief he had known just hours previously could easily crest again, regardless of dreams and night musings. He replied with a noncommittal, “Mmmm.”
Arman did not pry. responding instead to the earlier query. “Aside from needing supplies and sleep, I am tired of smelling you.”
Brenol laughed again. “And I, you, friend.”
Arman swished into a seat beside Brenol and noisily took his breakfast. The chewing stopped for a moment. “I’ve had enough tramping through our own fert as we march in circles. Let’s rest and use our heads. We can still beat this thing.”
“I’ve never heard you curse, Arman,” Brenol said, amused.
“There is a time under the skies for almost everything,” he replied.
“Even tramping around in fert?”
“I imagine so.”
~
The inn at the eastern reaches of Plune was small, at least relative to the size of the town. It was single story, older than death, and likely only boasted of one or two rooms for travelers. Brenol dipped his copper head past door and tapestry and shivered into the lonely common room, where a fire barely eked out enough heat to keep the empty mugs from frosting.
There were three customers in the place, situated at separate tables and hunched over their fare. They glanced up in turn at Brenol, then gradually brought their stares back to their glasses. They all wore heavy coats and fogged the air in front of their faces with breath.
Brenol stepped up to the bar. “What do you have that’s hot?”
The innkeeper glanced up indifferently. He was a plump figure with a round head from which protruded the blackest hair Brenol had ever seen. It came in thickly atop his head and covered his face in a beard that fell three digits off his chin. The bright blue of his eyes proved shocking when paired with the dark mane. He puckered his lips out, but more in habit than in thought.
“Cider,” he said in a surprisingly alto voice.
“Two, please.” Brenol pointed at the hearth, slid a few coins to the man, and scooted over to the fire.
“I can see your breath, Arman.”
“And I can see yours, Bren.”
Brenol smiled, still amused at the juile’s surliness, and waited for the drinks. It did not take long, and the beverages slid down happily. It was a thin draught and not exceptionally flavorful, but it did spark a nice warmth in Brenol’s chest that soon settled into his stomach.
The innkeeper shuffled over at the redhead’s wave with an additional two mugs. He eyed Arman’s empty seat suspiciously before placing the steaming drinks down with a clunk.
“Do you have a room for the night?” Brenol asked.
“Yes,” he began cautiously. “One cot or two?”
“Two,” Arman replied.
The innkeeper flinched at the voice but otherwise did not react. “It’s ready now. Do you want supper?”
“Please,” Brenol said.
As he turned to head back to the bar, Arman’s voice cracked the silence. “Have there been any new deaths from the black fever?”
Every eye in the room fell coldly upon the pair. One man even slid his chair back in a screech to peer over at their table, and the sound ran through Brenol’s nerves.
The innkeeper halted in stride and spun around. His face was angry and tight. He flicked the fingers of his left hand through the air, and his voice was a near whisper. “Do not speak of such things here!”
He disappeared into the back kitchen, reappeared with hot stew and cold rolls, and bore his bright blue eyes hard into Brenol, who ignored him and began to eat. Eventually the man retreated, but he continued to glare in their general direction.
“I haven’t seen the tera in a long while,” Brenol said quietly, recalling the superstitious flick of the man’s fingers.
“You would more if you were juile. We seem to elicit angst,” Arman replied sourly.
Brenol’s lips twitched up briefly. “Are you sure it isn’t just you?”
Arman pointedly ignored him.
Dinner was unexpectedly good, and each requested seconds, but without the cold bread. The common room was both too quiet and too frigid for long discussion, and the two soon slid back from their chairs and shuffled their way to the bar. The innkeeper nodded, maneuvered out from his workstation, and led them past a heavy gray tapestry into a blindingly dark hallway that smelled of disuse. Brenol shuddered—the hall was only a hair warmer than the wintry white outside—and followed the flickering candle that turned shadows into strange pictures against the walls. The man stopped before a doorway covered with another worn gray tapestry.
“Do you have a bath house?” Arman asked.
The blue eyes flickered briefly down to Brenol’s soiled attire. “There’s a laundress across the way who provides such things. She opens at dawn.”
“And the fever?” Brenol asked gently.
The innkeeper nodded, and they could see his throat constrict despite the fleshy abundance around the muscles. He leaned forward and spoke with a hushed voice. “South. Yesterday. A child. She was found in the forest. She was as black as they come.”
“How far south?” Arman asked. His voice was alert and urgent.
“At least into Selet. I think outside Trilau, but I only heard whisperings.”
Brenol accepted the candle passed into his hands and nodded his thanks, but as the man retreated, he suddenly had another thought. “Do they have any idea how long she’d been dead?”
The dark figure did not return but merely spoke out through the dark passage. His voice was weary and thin. “She was found yesterday morning. Four orbits old. She was still warm. They said her mother had to be pried from her blackened body.”
The man’s footsteps receded into the dark, echoing softly.