Knowing the future does not ensure ease in its accomplishment.
-Genesifin
Several septspan elapsed before Arman and Brenol were deemed innocent. The prisoners had recounted their story until it seemed more tale than truth, but in the end, the investigators found no holes. Sara’s influence with the inquiry had been critical, and her biting defense chastened those judging. Arman’s reputation had also been key. He was known for wild scrapes and meddling in the business of other terrisdans, but was nonetheless regarded as honest and a juile of upright character.
No formal apology was given following the verdict, and the two were simply released from the confinement center without ceremony. A day guard arrived for his morning shift, unlocked the cell door, opened it, and motioned for Arman to exit.
“You’re free,” he said gruffly. “Your friend is waiting outside.”
Arman rumbled within at the injustice, yet he understood only too well. The town was likely blushing to its ears in shame. It was not a mark of civility to nearly murder innocents in a healing ward. He doubted any would speak loudly of him or Brenol while the memory of the mob still lingered in their minds.
He rose and followed the guard out the building. It was a bewildering experience to suddenly walk about in freedom.
Brenol stood waiting. He had spent nearly a moon total in confinement, and his appearance betrayed as much. He no longer wore juile robes, but his own attire hung limply on him as if he had donned another man’s—a larger man’s—garb. The days and nights upon the empty soil of Selet haunted his eyes. It was unnerving to see.
“Bren,” Arman said.
“Ar,” the man replied softly.
The juile wordlessly placed a hand upon his shoulder. He peered at his friend with concern but allowed the man the privacy of silence.
“Greetings, Arman,” a melodic voice said from behind him.
Arman smiled in recognition and turned. “Sara.” He bowed deeply. “I pray it will be bountiful.”
She returned the gesture. “Bountiful indeed.”
“Thank you again for all you have done,” Arman said. “You have given us more than our mere liberty.”
Sara nodded. “In good accord. I like to be part of the excitement anyway,” she added with glittering eyes.
Arman laughed at the obvious lie; he knew Sara well enough now to realize how little she craved commotion. That first night, and every day since, she had acted solely out of benere. “I don’t know if I believe you.”
The juile woman flicked her fingers out and handed a heavy canvas bag to him. “I collected a few things for you when I heard you would be released. I assume you will be traveling?”
Arman dipped his head in gratitude, accepting the gift. “Yes. Will you walk with us to the edge of town?”
Again, Sara nodded, and the three wound their way through the streets. Few would meet Arman’s eyes, and the morning was tense with the town’s imposed silence.
Brenol, ignoring all, trudged forward darkly. The void of the land was a maddening ache, and he longed to be rid of it. He resented the inquiry and their slow release, but even in this he was torn; he knew his guilt as plainly as the black of his palms.
There had been but one tether holding him to sanity—Colette—and his feet burned with eagerness to fly to her. He knew her time must have come for the lifing, and every breath he took was laden with a new question.
Was she well? What was the babe? What does it look like?
His insides swirled in a tempest of emotions, and he had trouble making sense of them all.
“What are you thinking?” Sara asked Brenol gently as they reached the outskirts of town.
Brenol faced her with sharp eyes and a scowl. She gazed back silently. Finally, he sighed and returned his vision to the ground. “My soumme,” he replied.
“You will go to her in Veronia?” Sara asked.
Brenol’s face tightened, becoming even more solemn at the dreaded thought of plodding for days across the blackened soil. “To them,” he corrected quietly and stepped away, leaving the two juile to their farewells.
“You will not come with us?” Arman inquired as he watched Brenol.
Sara raised her eyebrows and faced him. “You ask?”
“I cannot see the lunavidola holding its traditions any longer,” Arman said.
“No,” she agreed. “But we both know that this is not the moment for us.”
Arman smiled, and his face aligned into handsome evenness. “You suggest there will be a moment.”
The juile woman laughed. “Yes, I do.”
Arman affectionately traced his fingers across the side of her face. It was the first time he had allowed himself the luxury, and he marveled at the smooth curve of her cheek. Her expression softened, and she leaned into the touch. He drew his hand down to hers and squeezed it gently.
“But you are worried, juile,” Sara said with concern. The word, which had once sounded an insult, now slid off her tongue tenderly.
He nodded. “Bren… I have never seen him like this,” he explained. “And I wonder about the terrisdans.”
Sara peered out to the distancing figure. “You will help him. And his soumme.” She paused. “Perhaps even to grieve the land.” She sighed as her chest constricted in her own bereavement.
Arman stilled. Why do I feel so certain of my failure in this? he wondered.
Sara drew her eyes up to his after a moment. He had pressed his lips together, and his face was now long and austere. “What? Is there something else that upsets you?” she asked.
Arman flicked out his fingers. He did not want to smear this parting with dark premonitions, so he let the fears slide away to be attended to later.
Instead, he smiled generously to her and bowed. “It has been bountiful, Sara.”
She returned the gesture in a graceful sweep. “Bountiful, indeed.”
~
Colette learned the chimes of the bethaida swiftly; they marked time and action for the clansmen as there was no sun to identify the hours naturally. Morning rise, meals, afternoon silence, night. The Tindel followed the tolls with precision. The clansmen seemed to be a unified whole, working as a living machine and moving together in an ordered manner.
Colette had a quick and discerning mind, but the bells remained close to the only piece she understood about the people. The Tindel were harsh when she least expected, and their customs were confusing and foreign. Isolation became her daily fare, and the future appeared bleak indeed. The clansmen pointedly shunned her, and when her presence was impossible to avoid, they acted as if they despised her.
I cannot give up, she reminded herself. Keep trying.
The toll for evening meal rose and met the echoing answer of the other bells carrying the message through every hall and corridor.
Colette sighed.
If I were not so hungry, I’d just quit going to the hall.
She rose and inhaled purposefully. She knew every day, every moment must be a decision for Massada, and she clung tightly to that reality. Quitting was not an option. Her discomfort could never—she hoped—be enough to make her renounce her goal.
I do it for life, she reminded herself. I know Pearl spoke truth. I felt it in my bones. The world is failing. I must keep trying. This is for us all.
Colette tucked Mari safely into the sling and brushed past the thin sheet marking her doorway. She strode through the hallways and ducked into the dining room.
The hall was long, but the ceilings did not sweep up in the spacious rises of the garden areas. Instead, it seemed dim and dark and crowding, and she felt the ground overhead press in on her. Her nostrils flared at the toppling fragrance of sweat and bodies and bizarre cooking herbs, and her face flushed from the heat of such movement and life. She pinched her lips together and refused to cower back, despite all that her instincts screamed. She parted her lips and sought to dispel the dizziness with slow inhalations.
For Bren.
Colette collected her tray and limp assortment of food with a rumbling stomach and wound through the crowd. She glanced about the hall in search of an empty space, but the area was bursting with white faces. She sighed, kissed Mari’s head, and wandered the length of the room. Silent eyes traced her steps, and several clansmen positioned themselves anew so as to not leave gaps beside them. She felt her face burn with both humiliation and indignation. She exhaled and attempted to ignore them, wishing to be anywhere in Massada but here. Finally, not finding a spare seat, she returned to the entrance of the hall.
Colette deliberated. If she requested to sit at a table, she would be granted a space, but they would all move up in show, and her shame at their exhibitions was terrible indeed. Her stomach rumbled desperately.
Enough of this, she thought. Tonight I just eat. She left the hall and strode back to her quarters.
By the time she neared her room, she was regretting her choice. This was clearly not the path to unity, sulking off to eat in a corner. She almost turned about but, in a breath, froze. Her sheet hung motionless in the doorway, but voices came from just a few strides into her room.
“But wouldn’t the healers have found anything when she first got here?”
A grunt was followed with a gruff reply. “I don’t trust her. She’s a liar.”
Colette’s fingers curled hard around her dinner tray, and she swept into the room with fire in her eyes. Two startled men with strikingly white hair stared at her. The taller one carried a pointed chin that jutted into the air, and the shorter man’s face was pinched in a frown. She recognized neither.
“What are you doing here?” Colette asked. Her voice held severity, but her insides quivered.
Surprise flickered briefly across the shorter man’s face before it was replaced with a nasty smirk. He peered at her tray. “Can’t even eat like us, can you?” he asked.
Colette’s lips pulled back in fury. “Get out. You should not be here.”
“Nor should you,” the other retorted.
The taller man sneered and pointed toward the lunitata’s sling. “Is that it? The monster’s brood?” He took a step closer, and Colette instinctively curled her left arm protectively across Mari’s slumbering figure.
“Out!” she said, stamping her foot.
The two moved in unison, stepping to either side of Colette, and alarm flooded her. With sudden decision, she threw the tray at the closer man. Soup and pale blue vegetables sprayed his face and clothing, and dishes clattered to the floor. Rage painted his dripping features.
Mari woke at the din and began to wail.
The drenched man leaned in towards her with deathly silence. His breath fell hotly on her cheeks, and her hands trembled in her vulnerability.
He did not speak but drew his thumb to his damp face, collected a drop with an exaggerated motion, and licked it off. The gesture apparently carried meaning, for triumphant hatred sparked in his eyes before he kicked away a bowl at his feet and strode from the room. The other man laughed, perceiving a shared joke, and followed without a word.
Colette exhaled in relief, yet her hands would not calm their shaking. Mari’s shrieks swelled ever louder, and the lunitata began to sway the babe about in gentle motion, but her mind was far from the present. Her heart thundered, pulsing powerfully in her chest.
“What am I doing here?” she whispered to herself. “Pearl is a fool.”
She shook her head softly. “What am I doing here?”
~
It took many days for Arman and Brenol to travel across Selet, Stonia, and the lugazzi, and the juile’s continuous transparency revealed much. He passed through lugazzi and terrisdan alike without any alteration. There was no concealment to be found, nor the freedom to live in the world of the seen. Selet was no more, and the other terrisdans had been weakened severely by the blow—whether it sourced from Chaul or Brenol’s hand, they could only guess. Whatever properties the lands had once harbored were now draining like blood from a severed artery.
When they finally reached Veronia, Brenol shuddered, for it greeted him with the same vacuous stare as it had previously, and although he preferred it to Selet’s terrible absence, the experience remained jarring.
Nonetheless, Brenol crouched down and scooped up the terrisdan soil into a hand. “Hello, old friend,” he whispered.
He sifted the dirt between fingers and tarried, more due to habit than hope. He inhaled the scents of the land and softly returned the soil to the earth. He patted the ground and smoothed the pile with a sweep of his palm.
There had been no reply, but he had known there would not be one. Veronia was too far gone.
Despite the circumstances, when Brenol straightened he appeared more like himself. His red crop was swept back in a clean knot at the neck, and his face held color and life from movement and travel. His jade eyes carried a hope, and being back in Veronia spurred his spirits awake; he knew Colette was close.
That spark, that hope, gave Arman pause. The juile knew Colette could heal much that ailed the man, but a bizarre dread filled him at this thought. As it lacked meaning, there was nothing to do but continue on, yet Arman did so with trepidation while Brenol leapt forward in eagerness.
Later that night, huddled around the campfire, Arman stared into the cherry flames. His face was tight, and seeing it, Brenol furrowed his brow.
“What are you thinking about, Arman?”
“Isvelle,” he replied softly.
Brenol’s stomach dropped. He had pushed aside thoughts of the lunitata, hoping that Colette would know how best to tell her mother the terrible news of Darse.
Arman’s eyes raised to meet Brenol’s. “We cannot tarry too long before going to her.” He shook his head sadly. “And I do not wish to relay these grave events in a seal. She deserves more than that.”
Brenol nodded and turned his gaze to the flames. “Colette will know what to say. And we will bring the baby. That will help.”
Arman did not speak. He knew little could ease the pain the woman would soon feel. With how long they had been held in Selet, unable to communicate, she undoubtedly already feared as much.
~
The following day, the two arrived at Brenol’s farm. The place was eerily quiet, with snow blanketing the entirety and blocking off the lane. The gate had not provided entry in some time, and as they neared, it was evident the front door had not moved either.
Brenol’s face turned ashen. He stumbled through the banks of ice and white and frantically worked the snow from the entryway’s path with bare hands. Arman was swiftly at his side, and the two cleared the space enough to draw the door open. Both remained unnaturally silent.
Brenol burst in and immediately felt the dusty staleness of the air. His face creased in tension as he tracked mud and snow throughout the dim house. His eyes were as a madman’s—darting, uncertain, unpredictable, charged.
The place was empty and clearly had been for septspan.
A small note lay unopened on their table. Brenol picked it up, his numb fingers dropping it in his haste to open the letter. He collected it, noted his soumme’s name upon the front, and broke the seal.
Brenol held the letter out to Arman, dumbfounded. “It’s Isvelle. She’s searching for Darse. The sealtor had orders to leave this for Colette…” The man’s face was stricken. “Where is she? Where is the…” Brenol’s sentence hung in the air, unable to be completed.
Arman took the letter and strode about, meticulously observing the rooms with his keen eyes. “There was no violence here. Nothing disturbed that I can see. Look through your things. Can you tell me if anything is missing? Did she pack a bag?”
Brenol nodded and ran to their bedroom with new hope. He tore through their chest, littering the floor in the process. Standing, he wrinkled his brow.
“Not much,” he called. “Some warm clothes, I think…but some of mine are gone too.”
“Bren?” Arman called, waiting for the man to emerge. “Was there not a looking glass here?” He pointed to the place on the wall in indication.
The man nodded, unsure of the significance of the vacant space. Colette loved the piece. It was unlikely she would have moved it without purpose.
A whisper within suddenly shot icy fear through Brenol’s veins. There were many times malitas hid its violence. Many.
Arman narrowed his brows in thought. “It could indicate anything,” he said. He met Brenol’s eyes. “Regardless, we will find her. She is likely with a neighbor getting help with the child.”
Brenol’s face shifted from desperation to determination in a breath. “Yes, of course. We’ll ask and find out where she is.”
Arman placed a hand on Brenol’s chest to stop him as the man made to leave. “We cannot go tonight, Bren. The light is nearly gone. But dawn—we will start at dawn.”
Brenol paused, deliberating, half-crazed. “Dawn,” repeated Brenol, but the word rose as if in question.
He peered down at his hands. His fists were clenched tightly around the infant outfit he had found in the chest. Colette had painstakingly knit the tiny robe herself yet had not taken it. He opened his grip, and the white fabric was a striking sight upon his black palms.
The juile consciously held his fingers back from the string of beads in his pocket. He did not want the man to hear his thoughts.
~
There was no reprieve for Arman and Brenol the following morning, and soon the days blurred together into a mess of desperation and dismay. Colette was not to be found anywhere, and the local farmers had not seen her in moons. Brenol’s face grew darker with every neighbor visited, and his speech ceased almost entirely.
Grief over the missing princess tugged incessantly at the juile, but he would not permit it to have a hold—at least not yet. He doubted Brenol’s ability to withstand her death, and he knew he must be certain before even hinting of as much.
They began separating during the day so as to inquire at more homesteads, for it required much time to trek the distances between the scattered residences, yet they still discovered little.
On the third day, as they diverged, Arman paused to watch the man duck under a bough and slog his way through heaps of snow. Brenol’s back was hunched and tight.
The juile licked his lips in thought and turned to hike the steep trail in the opposite direction. He was to visit the farms on the rim above the valley.
After several hours, Arman had only managed to visit two, and with little success. Neither family had seen Colette, and each had demonstrated immense displeasure over a juile traipsing across their property.
Arman flicked his fingers out at the superstitious hand sign of the tera and moved to the next farm. He had three more in the area to visit before he would return to Brenol. He pushed himself forward and after an hour arrived at a white-washed fence, with a single-story farm and barn to match. He paused at the gate and called.
Not hearing any answer, the juile approached and rapped lightly at the door. The wood was splintering, but otherwise the place appeared in regular repair. A woman emerged and hugged her arms as she met the frigid afternoon air. Her silver hair was parted down the center and knotted back austerely. Her face was wrinkled and weary, and she peered at Arman without spirit.
“Hella?”
Arman bowed. “I pray it will be bountiful,” he said in greeting.
“What may I offer ya?” she responded. The words were flat from exhaustion.
“I will not interrupt you long,” the juile explained. “I am looking for Colette. The lunitata. She and Brenol live out along the western slope of the valley.” He extended his hand in indication. “Do you know her? Have you seen her?”
The woman nodded. “I know a her, but my soumme knew tha two better than me.”
Arman’s spine straightened at the statement. “Yes?”
“Bel. He was friends with ’em.”
“Was?”
The graying head sagged. “Bel fell. Was fixin’ the roof. Now jus’ lays, quiet.”
“My sympathy is yours,” Arman replied gently.
She nodded, but a stranger’s condolences meant little.
“I must ask,” Arman said. “Did you have any word of Colette? Of her traveling? Or possibly hear of a woman with child traveling? It was likely within the last several moons.”
The woman shook her head but then paused as a thought grazed her mind.
“What is it?”
She met his gaze. “Only thing that reminds me of is that fever case a bit ago.” She bent her head in respect for the dead. “Poor thing was as black as a lump a coal. Close to lifin’.”
Arman froze, startled. “I had not been aware that the fever had reached this part of Veronia. Do you know when this was?”
She shook her head.
At a sound from within, she glanced back into the house. She turned back to the juile. “I need ta go.”
“Wait,” Arman said. His voice was strained and desperate, despite himself. “Please. Can you remember anything else? What she looked like? Where she was? What the people said?” He held out a hand, as if begging for bread. “Or what Bel thought at the time?”
The woman’s face softened as she perceived the juile’s grief. “Was it C’lette?”
Arman opened his palms. “I do not know…but I must. I must know.”
She closed her eyes in recollection, and her breath clouded in front of her face as she focused. Arman felt every nerve within him strain in wait. Without opening her eyes, she spoke, “Not one knew who she was. Jus’ a lil’ thing. But with a babe. Bel had been upset about it. I remember him worryin’.” She met his eyes with a new compassion. “I recall now… He’d thought it was C’lette.” She paused, nodding, and then continued. “But I left before hearin’ anything else. I had ta go visit my sister. Took my daughter. We were gone a good two moons. I didn’t see him ‘til after the accident.”
“Where is the woman buried?” Arman asked. His voice sounded hollow and thin.
“That ol’ graveyard down at the edge a’ the valley.” She eyed him with new pity at this statement. “For the no-names.”
“Can you think of anyone who would know more?”
She shook her head assuredly. “Na. That’s why she’s there. No one knew her.”
“But can Bel communicate at all? Please, may I speak with him?”
The woman filled the doorway with sudden energy. “He can’t and he won’t. Enough,” she ended with finality.
The juile felt his stomach sour with dread. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
“Hope ya find what you’re lookin’ for,” the woman added, as if to offset the harshness of her previous words.
Arman bowed. “It has been bountiful,” he replied.
She peered at him, not knowing how to respond, and slipped back into the warmth. The door shut solidly behind her.
It could not be. No.
Still, Arman had difficulty shaking free of the possibility.
Could Chaul truly have found Colette? Is that how he knew her name?
Arman paused for a moment to suck air into his lungs.
Keep seeking. You know nothing yet, juile. Keep looking.
And if these next houses reveal nothing too?
Arman pondered the pressing reality. Then look elsewhere. She can’t have disappeared.
The juile peered back to the whitewashed home. He knew this exchange would remain secret from Brenol until he could unearth more. Brenol was in no position to weather additional grief and uncertainty.
~
Later that evening, the two huddled close to the fire to warm their hands as they dined. Arman was silent and grim.
“We have spoken to nearly everyone in the valley,” Brenol began.
“Yes.”
Brenol shook his head obstinately. “She isn’t here. I know.”
Arman raised his brow, both at the sudden spurt of spirit and at the conclusion.
“You will call me a fool, but I think she went to the Tindel.” Brenol held up his hand to quiet the juile, even though Arman made no effort to speak. “What if she really is the Lady of Purpose? What if she left to go to them?” The man stared at the floor as if ashamed to meet Arman’s gaze. “To help Massada?”
Arman reached for his beads, but did not let them slide together in sound. “I do not think you understand the perideta, Bren… It is a place of…” Arman stopped and considered his words. “It is a place too harsh for life. A woman with child could not cross it. And why would she?”
Brenol reddened and pursed his lips together stubbornly. “She went.”
Arman exhaled slowly. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
The man peered up desperately to the juile. “Can’t we go see?”
Arman shook his head immediately. “I cannot go to the desert yet… I am not certain Pearl returned Heart Render. I must find out more about the frawnite’s movements before approaching them.”
“Why?”
“Because what if Pearl has not? They will ask questions! Do you not think this could be dangerous? The Tindel have sworn to protect the weapon at any cost. And there is a very real possibility that I have lost it. Lost it, Bren.”
“But isn’t Colette’s life important to you? I don’t care about the Tindel! Colette’s life matters! And she is somewhere! She is!” the man yelled hotly.
“You have no eyes if you believe me unfeeling for Colette. I will seek her to the end, even at the cost of my very life… But as for the Tindel?” Arman paused to consider. He was shaken by this new direction—it was a perilous game to meddle with the clans—but he longed to hold onto hope as well, however foolish it appeared.
Perhaps all is as Bren says, the juile thought. And Pearl did return the wretched blade.
Choose hope, his core urged further. Things might not be as terrible as you fear.
Arman inhaled and finally spoke. “I will do as much for you.” He met Brenol’s gaze before adding softly, “And for me.” Bel’s soumme’s face danced before his memory. The juile pushed the image away.
“I will go to Isvelle first,” Arman said firmly. “I think you should come with me, but you must stop at Sleockna. I do not want you out at the edges of the terrisdan.”
“Why?”
Arman shook his head. “I don’t think you are yet strong enough for the journey.”
Brenol sighed, whether in acceptance or defeat was difficult to discern. “When?”
“Let us head to Isvelle tomorrow. She has been waiting for news long enough.”
The man frowned. He did not want to convey the awful tidings of Darse, nor stir alive his own grief. “Will you go immediately from there to the Tindel?”
Arman nodded. “Yes. I will,” he said. “I will write to them first and arrange a meeting, but I will go to the Tindel from there.”
And pray that Pearl and Colette are where we hope, the juile thought.
~
Arman and Brenol began at dawn, after collecting a few items that might prove useful and closing up the ghosted house. They commenced their journey in silence.
Arman grew more solemn as the morning continued. He did not know the queen well but regarded her highly, and he had been pleased for both her and Darse when their relationship had blossomed. He did not relish bringing her such sad tidings, and he felt his own grief more acutely with each foot forward.
Brenol trudged beside him, similarly full of dread at the task before them.
But their walk was cut short.
Mid-morning, a small party appeared on the horizon. Arman was first to realize who advanced, and shortly after, Brenol issued a labored sigh.
It was Isvelle, accompanied by four servants. She rode on Colette’s pony, the tiny black beast marching slowly, while the rest maintained pace on foot. The hardy animal deceptively appeared much too small to carry her—the queen’s feet almost trailed across the ground as it plodded forward—but it was a sturdy creature and could maintain such loads if not rushed.
Identifying the two men, Isvelle dismounted and rushed toward them. Her party collected the pony and followed at a respectful distance.
The memory of the mound of stones ascending above Darse’s gravesite filled Brenol’s mind, and he stared down at his feet with a parched mouth, trying to collect himself. When he raised his eyes, Arman stood facing the lunitata. Her face was grim and haunted, fear written upon every feature. She was paler than he had ever seen her, and the beautiful glow of her people was subdued and dim.
Arman held out a transparent palm, inviting her to take it. She did, but quaveringly.
“Arman?” she asked. “Tell me.”
He did not permit his own storm of emotions to surface. He drew her to his chest, wrapping the small woman in the warmth of his long arms, and held her for a long minute. When they both pulled back, her face was damp and stricken.
“Tell me,” she repeated.
“He is no more, Isvelle. I am so sorry.”
Her features grew still, as though emotion had suddenly frozen within her. “Tell me how.”
“It is a long story, which I will share eventually. But the shortest explanation is that the fever found him.”
She closed her eyes, and two silver streams ran down her lovely face. When she looked back to the juile, her shoulders sagged forward with despondency. It was as if she had finally lost hold against suffering’s erosion.
“Where is Colette?” she asked eventually.
Arman’s jaw tightened. “We are still looking for her. It’s possible that she went west. I am traveling there shortly.”
She exhaled, drained to her depths. “But the baby? Do you know how the lifing went?” Her questions issued out without spirit. “Why would Colette be traveling with the child?”
“We were not here for the lifing,” Arman replied quietly. “And as for the rest, I am not certain. But I will find answers. I will, Isvelle.”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks slowly and fixed her eyes on the juile’s for a long moment. The gaze was without hope.
Arman did not speak but watched with sympathy as the lunitata turned back toward her party.
The queen’s affliction stirred Brenol’s compassion awake, and he finally came to himself. He wiped his damp face clean. “Isvelle,” he called.
She paused but did not turn, waiting for him to come.
Brenol swept up to her, his heart full. “I am so sorry. I know Darse loved you. So much.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment but began her slow stride anew.
“I loved him too. He was my best friend.”
Isvelle turned her head to look into his eyes. She seemed empty, devoid of anything but weariness. “Thank you,” she finally whispered. The words seemed to cost her dearly.
A desire to console her flooded through him. The sensation felt unusual, cutting as it did through his own fear and bereavement and angst. “Can I help you?” he asked genuinely.
“Find Colette,” Isvelle said softly.
“You don’t even have to ask for that,” he replied. “I know I will find her.”
“Then I ask only that you let me be. I…I need to be alone.”
Brenol paled, but did not respond.
She moved from him, her frame slumped. A servant helped her mount the black pony. She did not look back, and they watched her long brown hair whip in the breeze as the group began conveying its way along the path from which they had come.
Seeing Brenol’s expression, Arman placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulders. “Grief takes each person in a different way. Perhaps later she will be able to accept your offer of friendship in this.”
Brenol nodded, but in a breath, his face became determined and hard. “It doesn’t matter. I have other things I must do. I will find her. She is alive, and I know it. I will find her.”
Arman exhaled slowly. Seeing the conviction in the man’s face stirred hope awake in the juile. He felt the whisper of a future filling his heart, and he grasped hold of it, longing for it to be truth.
I must hope. Bren must be right. She must be alive.
~
Jurl met Harta in the sweep of blue. The perideta surrounded them with its usual fury, beating agony upon extremities and face. The clansman clenched his jaw but simultaneously found the experience exhilarating. The desert had a way of molding a man and then upending him so that he came to crave the pain. Jurl had known many for whom it had become nearly an addiction. The perideta was a peculiar experience indeed.
The two Tindel communicated with hand movements until they had settled behind the cover of a snow drift. It was the height of two men, all but frozen through, and provided a fair amount of protection from the western blasts. Regardless, the temperatures were punishing.
For just a moment, the two dropped the flaps of their face coverings. They each dipped their heads in recognition and ritual and then secured the strips anew. The elements had been given but a moment to meet their open skin, but still both cringed under the stinging bite.
“Tell me of the greenlander,” Jurl said. His voice carried just above the dissonant purr of the wind so that none other than his companion would be able to hear—not that any would be likely to tarry long enough to eavesdrop in the perilous wasteland.
Harta met his gaze. “Colette is well. She was a princess on the green.” The clanswoman stamped her feet to warm them and sliced a hand across her shoulder in gesture. “As for her purpose? I know not. She continues to feign ignorance regarding our original division with Massada—which we both know cannot be possible. But her demeanor speaks truth.”
The leader screwed his face up in deliberation. “And she came from Arman?”
“Colette certainly knows him. Got Heart Render from a frawnite who received it from him.”
Jurl’s light gray eyes hardened. They seemed to morph from smoke to stone in that brief moment. “Massada can only be playing with us,” he said severely. “That is the only explanation.”
“How can you know?” Harta asked hesitantly. She did not want to believe that the lunitata had deluded her as much as Jurl was proposing.
The leader tightened his lips at her doubt, but the expression was hidden beneath his facial coverings. “Arman has sent seals—left them in the boxes along the outskirts of the terrisdans. He is asking about her. And if we have seen her. She is apparently lost.”
Harta’s eyes widened. “But how can that be? How would she have gotten the sword from him if she were not working with him? Why would he not be concerned over its loss?”
Jurl shook his head and stomped around to circulate his blood. “This can only be a maralane plot. They are toying with us and sent us this girl. She is a derision in herself! As though we would negotiate with her! Look at her soumme! I will not allow our peoples to be part of this madness. We live to sustain life; they, to indulge.”
Harta paused, considering his words. The lunitata still hovered in her mind: an enigma for whom she had begun to feel a strange fondness. “What, then, do you wish?” She shuffled around, this time more due to a restless agitation than to combat the climate.
“Let her stay. But we will not play Massada’s games. They will know nothing of what happens here. We will be as silent as snow.”
Harta dipped her head in acquiescence, yet her heart remained unsure. She herself had no answer to the bizarre situation, and the pieces seemed askew. She loosened the flap from her features in the ritual dip, nodded to the clan leader’s grim face, and concealed her worried expression again with an adept knot.
“Watch her closely. Perhaps the woman will reveal something,” Jurl added.
Harta clicked her tongue, and the two parted ways. She swept across the land back to Iret, pondering.
When Harta arrived, she had found a semblance of peace with the impossibilities. She was Tindellan, and the Tindel were used to waiting through the unthinkable. She would bide the time and see what surfaced.
It was their way. It was her way.