Love is not exempt from pain, distance, emotion, death.
-Genesifin
Arman tugged his blue cloak securely around his person and scanned the area. He was south of the Bergin Range in the lower ground nearing the perideta, and the peaks seemed to hover menacingly along the vista, with rigid tips like accusing fingers. The sky echoed their harsh slate hue with a dull gray and a rumble that could only mean approaching storms. To the west, the onset of the desert was discernible in a hazy, unnerving blue. Trees were sparse here, for they struggled to survive so close to the perideta, and the bleak openness of the countryside encouraged thoughts of vulnerability.
The juile stoked the fire again and allowed its scorching heat to rise up. The air was thin and rife with the fragrance of electricity. Snow fell gently to the earth, but the sky above blackened, and he knew he would not remain dry for long. He huddled close to the flames and kept his eyes upon the panorama. His chest thundered as though it discerned an unforeseen danger, yet he had no alternative but to wait.
A figure eased its way slowly across the blue horizon. It moved in a strange fashion, pausing often and slouching, as if to examine each rock upon its path. As the Tindellan neared Arman’s blaze, the juile observed him with dark intensity.
“You’re late,” Arman huffed.
The clansman ignored the accusation and positioned himself before the blaze, settling atop an uneven stump that rocked under the slightest movement. He was bundled in layers of clothing, but the relief of the fire’s heat was evident in the soft sigh from his lips and the sagging of his tensed shoulders.
“Do you have word of her?” Arman pressed.
The clansman narrowed his eyes and met the juile’s gaze. “I’ve not heard a thing… But I am interested in why you seek her upon the blue so suddenly.”
Arman drew his jaw in severely as his stomach plummeted. “She is a friend,” he replied quietly.
I was wrong to hope, he thought with despair. Wrong.
The clansman continued to stare at him. “And no other reason?”
Arman took a breath, determinedly reining in his grief for the lunitata, and steered his mind to the conversation. “What do you mean?”
The clansman held out his hands to the caressing flames. “It simply seems odd that you should seek anyone in the peri. Most don’t even know we exist. What are you not telling me?” He paused, peering steadily at Arman with his strikingly light eyes. “How goes the hunt for malitas? Where is the sword?”
The juile bit back a curse and worked the beads between his fingers. His insides suddenly seethed with fury at Pearl, but more at himself for trusting her. He did not think the frawnite possible of abuse with the weapon, but she was thwarting any efforts he attempted toward peace. And where do I even begin to search for her?
Arman ignored him. “Will you send seal if you do hear of Colette?” he asked.
“You did not answer. Where is the sword?” the man repeated.
Arman frowned, unsure how to evade the terrible question. “Do you think I set out to destroy the spirit without help? That no one else would wield it for me?”
The clansman did not speak, but merely stared blankly at the juile, as if awaiting a confession.
“I will ask again,” Arman said resolutely. “Will you send seal if you hear of Colette?”
The clansman granted a brief grunt, and Arman was forced to accept it as agreement.
Maybe I should just tell him, Arman thought, but he felt an acute lack of courage. The tumble of hot wrath from the Tindellan people would be far too much for Massada to bear, especially when the green was already crumbling under their feet.
But maybe they would understand. I had no choice but to trust Pearl’s gortei.
The juile peered across at the pale man, searching for an element of softness. The rough features were grim, and the eyes were narrowed in condescension. The clansman pulled out his bag and rummaged through for some hard bread. He broke off a bite with his back molars and gnawed the black fare like a goat working his cud. The movement only accentuated the running ridges of the wind’s kiss.
At least try, Arman thought.
“There has been a problem with a terrisdan,” the juile began.
The clansman halted his chewing and glared at Arman. One cheek bulged with the mass of food. “Do not even begin to ask for help,” he said severely. “You have already gotten it with your sword.”
Arman frowned, still considering revealing his error with Pearl, but the clansman interrupted his thoughts with a voice of venom.
“Do not beg for another meeting either, you portal-lover.” His eyes tore into the juile with a threatening fire. “No seals, nothing.” He jabbed at the air between them with a strikingly white finger. “You’re wasting our time.”
Arman shuddered interiorly. No, the conversation could go no further, despite his desperation.
Suddenly no longer regarding temperature or approaching night, the juile plucked up his pack and turned his back to the campsite. He clamped his lips in tightly gripped emotion and swept the raw countryside with swift strides. His steps did not slow or falter, even when the skies opened up in torrents.
~
Colette raised her eyes to the sound of a gentle jingle outside the sheet partition of her quarters. She rose, face leaning forward in question, and parted the light covering with a sweep of her palm.
Gere, the man who had led her through the maze of tunnels to the council, stood before her. His mist-gray eyes were genial, and his smooth features were relaxed.
“Gere? That is your name, right?”
He nodded, pleased. “Are you well, Colette?”
Colette’s lips parted in surprise. “Yes.” She stood, unsure for a moment, and finally asked, “May I invite you in?” She opened an arm into the room as welcome.
Gere strode in easily.
Her quarters were simple and bare. In one corner rested two pallets with blankets, while the rest of the space lay open, save a small metal table that simply accentuated the scarcity of belongings.
“She’s asleep?” Gere asked in a hushed voice and arched his neck forward to peer at the bundle on the nearest pallet.
“Yes,” Colette replied.
With a grinning glance toward the babe, he situated himself at the small metal table. “May I ring for the berida?” he asked.
The lunitata agreed, perplexed at his presence and seeming confidence in her space. The clansman clambered up, stepped out of the room, and rang a little bell in the hallway. He left the sheet partly open for the server and returned to his seat.
“I did not ask, but perhaps I should have. Will you drink the caffa?”
Colette nodded, suddenly warming to the man and his uncommon thoughtfulness. “Yes. I like it. It is strong, but nice.”
His eyes hovered over the naked room with concern. “You have been here a little time, but do you have all you need?” He drummed his fingers lightly upon the metal surface.
“Yes, thank you.”
Gere paused the motion to raise his fingertips in a brief touch to his cheek. Again, his eyes fell to Mari. “She is growing,” he said.
Colette nodded, peering at the girl.
“Full of life and light,” he said. “Ah,” he added as the brew arrived. The serving girl placed the tray on the table and slipped out without a sound, only nodding to Gere when he tucked a white token into her hand.
The two sipped silently for several minutes. Colette itched to know Gere’s purpose, but he appeared content to observe Mari quietly. He poured them both fresh, steaming cups once theirs were empty.
Finally, Colette spoke, “What is it that you do here, Gere?”
The gray eyes settled upon the lunitata. They were collected, calm. “I largely manage the ponds. But I tend the gardens too.”
Colette’s face clouded briefly before she smoothed the emotion from her features; she disliked the ponds. “I have been taking shifts in the gardens over the last moon. I haven’t seen you.”
“Ah,” Gere said with a grin. “I’ve been busy with the apprentices recently. I’ve not spent much time there. Just teaching the new hands how to care for the water and fish right now.” He took a sip. “Do you enjoy your shifts?”
Colette simply nodded, attempting to collect her thoughts appropriately. She did not dislike the gardens, but they were so alien that they often left her unsettled and homesick.
Gere cocked his head to the side. “Would you prefer another occupation?”
His continuing kindness began to affect her. There had been so few soft words bestowed upon her in this hard land. She could feel the emotions stirring inside, threatening to break free. Determinedly, Colette swallowed and peered about the room, refusing to meet his eye. “No. I like the gardens.”
Gere did not press but merely drained his cup, slid his middle finger across the base, and licked it. “Thank you for sharing your afternoon.” He collected the cups and pot and returned them with several clinks to the metal tray. “May I come again?”
Colette suddenly grew suspicious, and the flurrying emotion hardened. “Why?”
Gere smiled, perceiving her vacillating temperament. “The Tindel want to know if you are an enemy.” He laughed. “But really, I come less as a spy and more because you seem to need a friend.”
Softened, she drew the corners of her mouth up in weak gratitude. “Yes, I do.”
Gere merely nodded, plucked up the tray, and swept past the sheet.
Colette had only the roil of emotion within to remind her he had even been present. It was a small act of kindness, but in visiting her, he had given her a breath of air. She was starving for companionship, and he was the only one in the colony, besides Harta, to acknowledge her.
“Yes, I do,” she whispered to herself, soothing down the inner storm. She rose and joined Mari on the pallet.
~
Gere did not come every day, but he visited on occasion. Mari fell to adoration swiftly. Gere would scoot around Colette’s quarters on all fours laughing and singing and flushed, and the little girl, several moons old now, would howl in delight. Colette stopped raising her brow when she heard the gentle jingle. Yes, she assumed he reported back about her to the clan, but he still treated her like a person. Not everything about his kindness could be contrived—she was sure of it—and his friendship was enough to enable her to survive.
Hold on, Bren. Their standoff must end someday. I will come back to you, she thought, and continued to eke out each passing day in the dim halls of the bethaida.
~
Brenol left Veronia and spent moons chasing shadows, seeking trails of Colette where there were none. He had no plan in his mad pursuit, but he could hardly help himself. Everything in him sought to find his soumme.
Walking the terrisdans was an unsettling experience. Signs of approaching disaster marred every hill, valley, and vale for winter clutched the terrisdans with a renewed and spiteful bite. Vegetation was present, but food sources were nonetheless diminishing. Brenol cringed with every new observation, wondering how much was a result from his driving Heart Render through the soil. Yes, he had sought only to end Chaul, but the deadly stroke had brought consequences that were far from simple.
He felt the impending ruin acutely with his strange connection. The lands’ eyes were half-lidded, and the earth below the man felt stiff and lacking. The terrisdans, aside from Selet, were alive, but they never rose to converse, as if each voice was lodged permanently in a muted scream. It curled Brenol’s spine in discomfort. He felt the catastrophe of his choice with each silent footfall, and his guilt only grew.
Arman eventually knew that he could not postpone any longer. He sent the man a seal, met him days later in the lugazzi, and insisted they travel. He had given no explanation, just directive.
Brenol did not know what to make of the juile, but he felt his own lack of direction keenly, so he clambered after Arman’s pedasse as they maneuvered through snow and underbrush.
Arman, from the outset, was unnaturally quiet. The gentle sweep of the juile’s robes was the only sound that issued from him. Even at nightfall, he merely turned his dark eyes to the earth and rolled up in his blankets. Normally, Brenol would have all but shaken the moon from its course to draw speech from the juile, but his soul felt heavy and unsuited for even the most basic tasks, so he wearily accepted Arman’s reticence and curled up like an abandoned child.
As they advanced, Brenol’s grief seemed only to mount. It burned and grew and clutched his chest in a powerful squeeze. He often opened his mouth in question, but each time his sorrow bubbled up and he could not speak. Darse. His soumme. Their child.
So on they trekked.
Several days elapsed before Brenol finally found himself capable of addressing the unspoken. “When will you tell me why we’re headed to Veronia?”
The juile continued steadily.
Brenol sighed. “She’s not there, Ar. We have to look elsewhere.”
Arman fell into stride alongside the man. He looked at him with the same expression that had haunted his face for moons. Those who knew the juile well could discern it: it was the face of grief.
Arman wet his lips as if to speak but then turned his eyes forward again, unable to produce a sound.
“What’re you thinking?” Brenol asked wearily. His own face was stretched and worn.
The young man’s tone drew Arman’s onyx eyes again upon him, and his long features were grotesque in their concern. “Are you well?”
Brenol shrugged. “I’m well, Arman. Don’t worry about me.”
The juile pressed his thin lips together.
“What’re you thinking?” Brenol repeated. It was irritating to be evaded, but even more than that, it was unnerving to witness Arman’s odd behavior.
A pained glance stole the question from Brenol’s throat, and he watched as the transparent figure rubbed his face tiredly. “We’re almost there.”
Brenol sighed and matched his steps, which gratefully had eased into an easier gait. The man no longer had to choke in lungfuls of air to sprint after Arman, but he knew it would be much farther than the juile suggested. He had lived these forests, plains, and valleys and knew them well.
After an hour, the trees opened up to the valley, and Brenol took in its scenery. The place felt only eerily familiar as it was covered in a deep layer of strikingly white powder. The Perti Range jutted up in snowy thrusts to the south, and a new layer of white dusted the bowl of the meadow. The forest edged the vast circle like a towering army of guardians clothed in the cold of winter. It would be a solid six or seven matroles more to the house, but Arman drew his heels to a stop and met Brenol’s bewildered gaze.
“I’m sorry, Bren. I didn’t know how to tell you. I…”
Brenol felt his nerves tense in alertness. “What is it?”
“It’s Colette.”
“You said you hadn’t been able to track her down with the Tindel…” The sentence trailed in the air like a question.
The juile reached forward to grasp Brenol’s gloved hand. The uncustomary offering of consolation chilled Brenol to the bone.
“Bren, she’s gone.” Arman shook his head with emotion. “After we left, no one saw her for moons. Her nurse didn’t see her. Not once. She had received seals from Colette to confirm her visit in advance, but even that had been moons before… I know you had hoped on the clansmen…but the Tindel swear she never came… Bren?” Arman’s eyes were softly compassionate, and his lids dipped down as if to hide the world from them. “There was a woman taken by the fever after we left.”
Brenol’s mouth opened in a silent gape. He felt the terrible icy snake of terror slither around his gut.
Arman’s voice sounded thin in the frigid air. “She was with child and close to lifing.”
Hot tears stung Brenol’s eyes and rushed down his cold cheeks before he could even attempt to fight them. He brushed off Arman’s hand. “But how could we know it was her?” Brenol asked defiantly. “How could we?”
“Bren, wouldn’t we have found out more if she had been around? She was more than conspicuous…a lunitata with child? We would have heard if she’d lifed anywhere in the terrisdans. Or traveled anywhere. She would have sent seal. She would not seek to hide from us.”
Brenol’s chest hurt in a sudden, rigid tightness. He had feared this truth, but hearing it aloud twisted the knife almost unbearably.
“Why are we here?” he asked. Brenol turned his eyes to the southeastern rim of forest and felt his lips curl back in revulsion.
“I didn’t bring you here to trick you.”
“Didn’t you?” Brenol snapped.
Arman straightened his neck as if swallowing something unpalatable. “I came to bid farewell to a good friend, a woman of benere. I brought you that you might have the opportunity as well. You may choose what you will.”
At this, the juile quit Brenol’s side and strode to the break where forest met the lip of the land before curving down into a smooth roll. Brenol watched the even steps caress the top of the land like a baker’s knife icing a cake. He, though, stood with arms stiff at his sides. After a distance, the juile slowed and examined the area. Finally, Arman’s figure stilled, standing as sentinel among the markers and the dead; the juile had found whatever he sought.
Brenol burned with a sudden hatred for the place. Most families buried their deceased in lots on their own land, but this was a place where any might be laid. This graveyard was home mostly to criminals, beggars, strangers, the unwanted. He longed to hold onto the hope that she was still alive, but now, in this bitter moment, his eyes streamed because of what he knew must be true. She was no more. And now her body rested amongst the outcasts because he had not accepted as much.
“But you were loved, Col. You were,” he whispered weakly.
An hour passed, and eventually Arman stirred. His clothing rippled, and he knelt for a moment before standing aright with the composure of completion. He peered across the terrain at Brenol and then turned west without another glance. The dark figure laced his steps along the line of the forest; Arman was ever a creature of concealment.
When Brenol was certain he was alone, he toed his way through the numbing cold, trailing the pedasse in the snow. The cemetery was as he remembered it, having regularly crossed this way to the towns to barter and supply. Never had he stopped. Never had he foreseen a time when he would.
Arman’s pedasse wound through the area but cluttered one section specifically. Brenol approached with heaving breaths and stopped frequently to dry his streaking vision.
There it was. A stone, gray as a storm, rested before a plot. It was smooth and flat and would have made a lovely seat by a tree, or a paver to tread upon in a garden. It had been cleared of any snow or debris so that its markings were unobscured. Resting atop its sweeping surface was an object he knew well. It was the glass hos Colette had unleashed in Ziel. How Arman had retrieved it was a mystery in itself.
Grief hot and wild burst from Brenol. He choked on his tears, retched on his knees, and shook in his snow-drenched garments. The time seemed to flow through his hands like a ribbon escaping with the wind, but he was paralyzed by the torment of loss, and soon by the pain of the elements. With bones rattling, he curled around the marker and ran his fingers across the engravings. His cracked lips muttered the words, over and over, over and over. Woman and Infant, Victims of the Icar.
“Are ya okay, sir?”
Brenol raised his face from the icy stone to stare at the woman standing several strides outside the lot. She was sturdy and young, with a gentle face and concerned brow. Auburn hair peeked out from her scarf-wrapped head, and her eyes were round and velvety brown.
“Oh my.”
She maneuvered her steps through the markers, careful to avoid stepping on the plots beneath, and knelt before Brenol. She surveyed him with a grim expression. “We’re gonna need to get ya home.”
She held his chin securely with gloved hand and forced his gaze to meet hers. Oddly, he did not utter a protest but stared back blankly. Finally, he realized the kind eyes waited for his response, and he flicked his head in a fractional nod. It was enough.
As quick as a breath, the woman was behind him, scooping under his arms with the insides of her elbows and using a squat to thrust them both erect. He was a sodden heap, but she swept under his arm and stoutly supported him with her wiry strength.
“Where’re we goin’?” she huffed as she directed him out of the graveyard. “Ya gotta name?”
“Bren.” His voice was a frail wisp of sound, but with the loosening of his speech, his mind returned. Reality lurched before his shock-dazed eyes, and he found a sudden clarity in the lengthening shadows. He must have been there for hours. He attempted to shake his legs, but his limbs were like icicles.
“Easy there. Not so quick,” she said softly, keeping her arm snugly around his waist.
“I…I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Yea, best to get home to some warm supper. Where ya live?” She peered at him with a curious, sideways glance. “I feel like I’ve seen ya before.”
“West. Across the valley. I…I can walk.”
“Across?” Her brow furrowed and lips mouthed his name silently. “You’re Bren?”
“I am Bren,” he answered hollowly.
An expression of pity, mixed with sudden comprehension, filled the woman’s face. “Ya found her then?” she asked, glancing briefly back to the graveyard. “Ma told me about the juile who’d come by. Askin’ ‘bout C’lette…an’ the woman with the fever.”
Brenol felt as empty as a broken ewer. He had no more emotion to spill. He nodded slowly.
“I’m so sorry,” she said gently. “May she rise to greater heights in the next.”
Brenol did not respond.
“So, you’re across the valley.” She scrunched her nose in consideration. “That’s a two hour go in this snow… I could take ya home with me, but mine’s a bit of a climb. What do ya think?”
“West. I’m going west.”
“All right. If ya want a heel, you’ll get a heel,” she intoned and set a pace.
They moved slowly at first, with awkward holds and trips and bumps, but after the first matrole they fell into a rhythm. By the third he could walk on his own, and by the fourth Arman met them. The juile took in the pair with evident relief.
“Are you well?”
Bren nodded silently but accepted the juile’s arm.
“I am Arman. Thank you for assisting my friend.” He peered at the woman, feeling a tingle of familiarity.
The woman dipped her head in acknowledgment. Her cheeks were rosy from the movement and cold. “In good accord. I’m Jona.”
Arman smiled, but the gesture remained tight at the edges. “Please finish the route with us. I have a hot meal ready,” he encouraged, but she was shaking her head before he had even finished.
“Na, na. I’ve got my own to look after. But I’m glad to see ya both’ll be fine.”
“Where do you live?” Arman asked, glancing around the valley of white, still pondering her face.
“Hills just above the tree line.” Jona pointed back in the direction from which they had come. “I run the place with my ma. After my da’s accident.”
Arman nodded, finally understanding.
“Who’s your dad?” Brenol asked. He had known the people in this area once. Cared for them. It had been a different lifetime. Jona met his eyes with surprise; Brenol had not uttered a word the entire trek.
“Bel.”
Brenol retreated back from the sharp pain in his chest. Bel had been a friend. He had known them well. Brenol could not question further. He could not know what had befallen Bel. He already carried too much grief.
Instead, he inhaled with deliberate slowness. “Thank you, Jona. I’m in your debt.”
She laughed, although the mirth was subdued. “Not a freg.”
Jona then waved and arced around to follow the steady line of prints back through the valley. She moved speedily now that she was alone, and her movements were sure and unfaltering. Twilight did not seem to slow her bounding steps.
The two watched her for the space of twenty strides before Arman gripped Brenol and hastily set them moving. Brenol’s entire body ached, and he longed for sleep, but he forced himself on.
“I thought you had gone north,” Arman said softly.
Brenol blinked, surprised. “You did? What made you come back?”
“Fear that I was wrong,” the juile replied.
“But you’re never wrong.” Brenol said bitterly, feeling his own blunders with the keenness of a bare sole meeting broken glass.
Arman’s brow tightened.
“What is it?” Brenol asked.
The juile shook his head and steadied his arm under the man’s.
After a time, twilight dissipated, and the rich black of night deepened. Stars and Veri emerged, and the snow itself helped to illumine their path as it reflected the faint lights. Their breaths clouded in short puffs, and all was intensely quiet, save their footfalls through the crunching snow and ice.
Finally, Brenol spoke. “I want to move her. I want to move them. I don’t want to leave them in that cemetery.”
The juile’s eyes welled but did not spill. “I would find great bounty in helping you.”
They trod further, and Brenol again spoke. “Ar?”
“Mmm?”
“But wh—” The man paused, sucked in air until composed, and continued. “What about the Genesifin? And the Lady of Purpose?”
Arman’s face hardened in the darkness. “I don’t yet doubt in the Genesifin. But I think we’ve both been wrong about the Lady. You thought her Colette, and I, at one time, Pearl… I cannot see Pearl being evil, but I also cannot guess her purposes with the sword. That frawnite has done nothing but make the rift between us and the Tindel grow. And I can find no traces of her wherever I search.”
Brenol’s face clouded with grief, and the last—yes, he had still clung to one—piece of hope for his soumme snapped like a twig beneath a heel. He swallowed, straightened as if finding control, then doubled over and vomited forcefully upon the snow. He wiped his chin but found his stomach again attempting to disgorge its contents. He could not imagine that anything remained, but his racking frame seemed to disagree. He sank down in a slumped tangle, feeling his clothes soak up the putrid mess.
When his heaving ceased, the juile knelt down and hefted the grown man to a stand. Brenol wobbled a bit but held. His troubled jade eyes finally met Arman’s.
“Why’d Chaul despise us so much?” asked Brenol. “Why’d he want to destroy us?”
The question froze Arman mid-movement. He straightened and stared at his friend. “Why do you ask?”
The man looked across the valley, back in the direction of the cemetery. “How do we know it will never happen again? Did Col—” he paused, swallowed, and began again. “Did they all die for nothing?”
“There is meaning,” Arman said softly. “Even in the presence of suffering.”
“I don’t feel meaning. I don’t feel bounty,” Brenol said bitterly. “I’m tired of burying everyone I love.”
“Me too, friend,” Arman replied.
“All because of those cursed portals.”
In an instant, the juile was whipped back in his memory to the edge of the terrisdan, with grief tugging his gut, and the fire hardly kissing out enough heat to ward off the cold from the forbidding blue in the horizon. The harsh words of the Tindellan clansman echoed in his ears: Portal-lover.
He called me a portal-lover.
The juile heard his beads clicking under his own fingers before even realizing he was moving them: Is that the answer? After all this time?
He shook his head, dumbfounded. It is so simple I didn’t see it, he thought.
He let the beads fall from his fingertips and swept a hand around Brenol and led him the final steps to the house. His mind remained transfixed on Brenol’s words: All because of those cursed portals.
Yes, the portals are the key, Arman thought. They must be destroyed.
Perhaps then, the Tindel will remember mercy. Perhaps.
~
Mari sat giggling upon the floor. Her laughter rang through the corridor as the handful of young Tindel played about her.
“Look, Mari! Look here!” shouted one as she produced and shook a set of smooth metallic spoons secured together on a ring. It clanked loudly, and the babe’s mouth opened wide into a gap-toothed smile. Her pasture-green eyes danced happily as the others sought her glance.
Colette sighed, thankful for their attentions. Mari was growing with the haste of a zinnia, and a break, even for the span of an exhalation, was readily appreciated.
She settled herself upon her pallet and observed as her feet begin to twist and fidget as though independent of her body. Colette offered them a wry smile; her body and mind alike were plagued. The question continually breezed into her ear, as if whispered from Massada and carried across the perideta to haunt her: How long? How long?
The Tindel followed their own calendar marking the perideta sun, but an obvious alignment—at least to a clansman—traced the Massadan seasons, for any Tindellan could rattle off the time of the green. Colette’s understanding, however, was obscured by the dim bethaida passages, and no clansman had proved eager to become her tutor. Regardless, she knew that the time since her arrival was no mere handful of days. Septspan, moons, seasons. The minutes and hours extended on into a monotonous oblivion not dissimilar to the perideta blue. She wondered if her mind would unravel in the blur of time as so many others’ had in the desert above.
Colette’s lips curled up slightly as the children roared in laughter. The commotion did not bother her. She spent too much time in silence and solitude. Septspan, moons, seasons, yet still she had not won the hearts of the Tindel—at least the adults. Their youth had been hers from the moment Mari had opened her vibrant eyes upon them. Whether it was the novelty of the rich color in her hair and face, the lunitata glow, or simply that she was an outsider, children flocked to the infant as if she were a summer’s day.
If only the rest would follow… I’ve tried and tried. And failed and failed.
Surely Pearl hadn’t intended for me to rot here for so long…
Her heart lurched as she thought back to Brenol. Mari had grown so much. She could sit on her own, laugh and smile, point, and scoot with arms and a curved leg to get around. And her father had never even seen her. He did not know she was alive. He potentially did not even know where they were, for she had not written any note or given hint of her departure when Pearl had collected her. It left her chest hard, a continual sensation of never having enough air.
There was no opportunity to send seals. The Tindel were the only ones who crossed the perideta, and they refused time and again to carry letters to her soumme. She had asked, even begged, but to no avail. Her pleas were useless.
Every day, Colette had laid herself down in the darkness of her quilts, agonizing over Brenol but knowing she must complete this task. Yet every day she was reminded of its very futility. If only she could release that last breath of a dream, she could walk away from this failure, but hope held like a burr snagged up in her heel.
If only Bren knew. Oh, I hope he knows I’m well. Surely Bel and Pearl told him…
She attempted to not let her mind stray to what he might do if he thought her dead. It was a path that only tied her gut and paled her already whitening face.
He must know. He must.
But still, she could never be certain, and the Tindel were no closer to assisting Massada than they were on the day she had lifed Mari on the open perideta. While over the days and moons the clans had grown to accept her presence, they dawdled—and often fought with outright refusal—over saving the creatures of the green whom they had never met, never seen. She saw that an appeal would lead only to greater frustration. This was a hard people.
And proud, she lamented.
The Tindel were free with basic information about how they lived, but when pressed to replicate or demonstrate their designs, they met her inquiries with stony stares and retreating faces.
What am I missing?
When do I just turn away?
Why am I the villain to them?
Colette brooded and promised herself she would leave, but it was a lie. If Pearl—and the Tindel—were correct, the icing would only worsen. There likely was little green left upon the world she associated with meadows and trees. No plant life, no fish, no shelter. If not now, then soon. There was only one hope, and that was the unification of all peoples.
But every step had been met with bitter resistance. She frowned as her mind sank back to an exchange that had occurred about a moon after the original council. She had thought individual petition would prove to be the answer.
How wrong had she been.
“Please, we cannot wait longer,” she begged Irin.
The eyes that met hers were faded in color but remarkably hard. “You know nothing, dark one.”
She ignored the insult with a dismissing shake of her head. Irin narrowed his eyes as though taking it as further affront.
“Could you allow some to come live out here with the clans? You could see that Massadans are no differen—”
The glare from the clansman tapered her words to a close. He peered at her with such controlled venom that she almost cowered back. Every instinct for preservation commanded her to run.
He sneered at the evident fear he elicited. “No different?” he asked. He puckered his lips deliberately and spit across her face.
Colette’s hand reached up in surprise, and she peered down on the moistened fingers. She gaped as she groped up to wipe the remaining warm mess from her scored features.
“You yourself don’t even believe that,” he said and spat next upon her shoes.
Irin pivoted to leave but hesitated and bore in upon her with an awful closeness. “Just know, dark one, that your manipulations and lies prove how right we are. And your curse of a child? She is the spawn of filth.”
Colette was drawn back to the present by Mari’s soft babble. The girl’s green eyes had wandered from the play circle and rested upon her, as though she knew the silent contemplations of her mother. Her eyes were so full of life and color, as if youth and age somehow met within her little frame, and wisdom peered out in a pensive silence.
It’s like she knows what I must do. Colette let her arms drop from her face. Would that you could tell me, little one. For I’m so lost and alone here…
Companionship remained lacking, although she glimpsed it at times during her shifts in the gardens. She worked almost daily there, toting along Mari and setting her hands to whatever task they assigned her. Then there were Harta and Gere. They would each speak to her of Tindellan ways in their own manner, and she would breathe in the relief of conversation—breaking up a string of lonely days—yet without fail, a strange line of unfamiliarity would seep between them, and the consolation would rip away to leave her in crushing solitude. It did not matter, though—she could not help but return for more: a scrap to a ravenous mouth is still food, even if it tastes of early tainting.
Colette stood abruptly, brushing aside her musings, and all the youthful eyes before her raised expectantly.
“I’m going to the gardens. Would you like to keep playing, or should I bring Mari with me?”
The group vehemently claimed the child, and Colette smiled at their kindness. It would be a relief to talk to Gere alone anyway.
“I’ll return shortly,” she said, and watched the small pale heads bob in understanding.
She dipped out of the room and strode through the winding corridors. It had taken her moons to master the passageways, but she now floated through without much thought. Occasionally, the map in her mind twisted around, yet she usually managed to hide the instance under her graceful steps, with no Tindel ever the wiser. To exhibit weakness to this people was foolish. They merely grew haughtier.
Colette slid her slender form behind the thick portiere and crept through the darkness until the tapestries opened up into eerie blue light. The garden air was warm and thick. She brushed a straying dark lock back from her face as she swept the room with her eyes. It was enormous, and her voice could only carry so far in the mugginess. Regardless, she called his name. It sounded like a mouse squeak in the middle of a jungle.
A dozen small, pale heads popped out from the blue crops. She did not recognize them. This was the afternoon shift, and every face was that of a child.
A particularly impish girl rose. Her thin muscles hugged her tiny bones, yet her vivacious eyes counteracted the sickly countenance.
Colette peered at the child. “Hello,” she said cautiously.
“Hello, Colette,” the girl replied.
Colette was unsurprised. All knew her; she was the only person with dark hair or tanned skin who walked the bethaida. She hesitated, but then asked anyway, “What’s your name?”
The girl did not respond, save to stare at the lunitata blankly.
Colette silently remonstrated herself—you know the Tindellan ways—and then asked simply, “Do you know where Gere is?”
“He’s at the pond.” The milk-white fingers pointed to the far wall, where the heavy black tapestry hung ominously.
“Thank you,” she said, sighing inwardly. Colette shied from the room with dogged habit, for the pond area was markedly alien. It made her spine tingle cold just thinking about it.
The little head nodded. She brought fingertips to cheek in Tindellan recognition and ducked again amidst the blue foliage. The others’ eyes traced after the lunitata like foam following a wave, eventually returning to their labors as she pressed through the mass of light blue.
The metal spherisol loomed before her as she shuffled through the garden. Her stride slowed as it filled her vision, and she tilted her head to the side. The sphere had never ceased to fascinate her. The hue, the vast size, the heat: all tugged at her as though she were linked to it in a remarkable way.
But why?
Pressing her fingers to her sides, she fought the impulse to touch it. Colette had been warned of the dangers—burns, blisters, skin blackening—but the lunitata nevertheless found it nearly irresistible. She felt like a child in a gallery of tiny glass objects; she could rarely walk the length of the gardens without temptation tickling her fingertips.
Today the instinct angered her. It was yet another reminder of her foreignness and how she did not belong. She would have kicked the globe in frustration but heard the close rustling of the harvesters and pushed herself onward. There was no need to add still more discord between their peoples.
The heat. It’s nearly unbearable.
Colette lifted the tight clothing away from her damp skin in a futile attempt to air her body. When released, it clung back to her stickily.
The tapestry tunnel soon loomed before her. She covered the remaining distance and labored against the coarse black fabric.
There were only two portiere between the pond and garden, and within a moment she heaved aside the remaining thick material and blinked in the strange light. It was dimmer here than in the gardens and certainly warmer. One orb—sphericali—charged with heat lay at the bottom of the pond’s bed, warming the waters to the temperatures that Ziel had once maintained. The second was a globe of light—spherilun—that had been suspended high above the water with thick metallic cables that stretched across the entire ceiling. The spherilun was a strange merging between the silver-black ball she had seen on the perideta and the blue sphere of radiance in the garden. It glowed with an even eerier cerulean beam, faint and almost pulsating.
It feels so other. So wrong…
The water itself was several hundred strides across, a sickly green-black hue, and was interrupted across its girth by a flat, metallic bridge-dock. Some plant life was cultivated along the edges, but mainly the bank was a mass of gray pebbles. They screeched under her steps, and she winced as if in pain. She wiped the sweat gathering on her forehead and smiled wryly. Everything about the room raised goose bumps upon her skin, despite the heat.
Colette closed her eyes for a moment, breathed, and turned her gaze in a roving quest for Gere. The space was deserted and she spotted him quickly. His short figure hunched upon the silver dock, where he busily sorted through a crop of kelp. His baskets and colanders littered the small walkway, and his white hair almost appeared gray from perspiration.
Colette sprung forward eagerly. Looking upon the clansman’s face was a gift. It reminded her of home and the smooth features of those she loved.
She sought to secure a stray curling lock behind her ears, but the humidity fought her. She shrugged to herself and lithely covered the remaining length.
Gere caught the sound of her movements and arched his neck sideways, breaking into a smile as he saw her. “Hello, dark one.” Sweat from the labor and heat beaded along his hairline.
She granted him a nod in greeting. The nickname had originally grated her insides raw, but she had grown to accept it, even from the malignant in the colony.
I take all now. As though I am fading within…
“No Mari today?” he asked genially, righting himself.
“No.”
“Were you harvesting the early blossoms?” he asked, but glancing at her clothing, he could see she was far too clean. As his gaze found her eyes, he paused.
“Are you growing tired of your shifts?” he asked with gentle concern. “We can move you to another section. Or do you want to work away from the gar—”
Something about her face suddenly killed the question on his lips. Colette normally cloaked her emotion with great skill. Today, though, there was a wildness, a desperation present that seemed beyond taming.
“What is it?” Gere asked.
She again brushed a hair back from her face and peered into his eyes with a look of near defiance. Her skin had paled during her time in the bethaida, but the lunitata glow remained striking.
“Gere, why’ve you never gone out on the peri?”
Gere’s lantern jaw tightened for a moment but then loosened after a quick glance at her taut frame. His faded gray eyes suddenly issued a gentle twinkle. “I imagine you didn’t travel to the ponds today to hear my story. But regardless,” he said, with a familiar Tindellan gesture of a pinkie raise, “there’s been no real reason. I could run atop the blue like a silly child seeking approval, but I’d remain the same. Would I not? I’d slink down here the next day, with a pocked and weathered face, only to never step upon the peri crust again… My place with my people is here. It is tilling, it is growing, it is harvesting, it is tending the fish.”
“They call you less than a man,” she said.
He did not bristle as expected but merely raised his chin incredulously. “I’d almost believe you were trying to make me angry.” But just as easily, the expression softened, and a smile spread across his white features. “I know they say as much. But I’d think they wouldn’t share it with you.”
“With me?”
Amusement sparkled again in the mist-gray eyes, but he did not respond.
“And those who don’t accept you for your smooth skin?”
He brushed his shoulder with a palm. “I care not.”
Colette paused to consider, sucking on her lower lip.
“What is it you really wish to know?” Gere asked. He gave her a knowing glance. “You despise the ponds.”
She arched an eyebrow up in wonder; she had never breathed a word of her repugnance. Her eyes lifted to gaze on the suspended metal sphere, the huge corded wiring, the eerie brilliance.
“Why does it emit such a strange light?”
Gere’s lips tugged back into a grin, although he attempted to hide it. He spoke hesitantly, yet with a mirth she could not pinpoint. “I don’t believe there are many who’d agree with me telling you this,” he said, raising a pinkie again. “But somehow I don’t think there’s any danger in it.”
He jutted an elbow in the direction of the hovering globe. “You have stumbled upon our greatest weakness, and the Tindel are not tolerant of deficiencies. There does not seem to be an answer, though.
“The spherisol on the whole have been an immense success. They enable life, they bring heat and sustenance. Hundreds, thousands, live because of them. But in all our history we’ve never been able to make life thrive.”
Gere dipped in a squat to pick up a sodden handful of kelp. Water seeped from his hand. “I’ve never seen the lush green of your world, but I understand that we lack much in comparison.” He held out the blue-gray slop before tossing it back into its basket.
“The light for the ponds has been the greatest trial. The earliest attempts to maintain fish were disastrous. The spherisols killed off every school, and the Tindel were forced to travel back over the peri to obtain more live fish for breeding. It has been a tedious process. The light reacts poorly with the water for some reason, so both the distance,” his hand pointed up to the towering ceiling, “and the dimness are necessary. As well as the need to separate the heat and light in here.” He shrugged, but the irritation could not be erased entirely from his expression. “It’s been, and continues to be, a source of much frustration. We’re missing something—in here especially, but also in the gardens—yet perhaps that’s the fate and lot of those living underground.”
Colette peered about, chewing on this new information.
Gere reached out and touched her forearm. His hand was warm, comforting. Her loneliness lifted like a lake beneath a violent storm and threatened to crash out in a rush. Softly, she breathed in control and looked into his pale eyes.
He’s so kind.
In a breath, he drew her to him. It was a delicious feeling after so many days of isolation, and she felt almost powerless against the driving need for connection; her heart was parched. He inhaled her hair and ran his fingertips through the dark tresses.
“You needn’t be so alone, you know,” he whispered. “I love you. I have from the beginning. I could take care of you. I could be yours. You’d never have to return.” His arms engulfed her in a wash of comfort.
The longing that welled within terrified her. She wanted little else than to sink into his promises and forget her failures. She breathed slowly. He smelled of soil and sweat, but it was not altogether unpleasant.
It could all end…
“I would be a father to Mari,” he said, soft as mist in her ear.
Something in Colette snapped awake. “She has a father.”
She pushed his arms back forcefully, but her emerald eyes spoke different words to Gere. It was plain to him that she wanted love and was starving for it. He gently pressed her arms down and again pulled her close. She barely resisted against his light hold.
“You do not even know whether he is alive. The terrisdans are failing… Stay here with me.” His arms closed around her back, and she felt a security that had been missing for so long. “Am I truly so difficult to love?” he asked.
She withdrew from his warm chest and gazed into his smooth, pale face. All their misunderstandings seemed different as she peered at them from this angle—from his arms. He had been present to her, even if they had failed to comprehend each other.
Bren, her mind whispered, but the raw drive for affection continued to steer her.
Gere’s words carried such appeal. No, he certainly was not difficult to love. So much good resided in him, so much true benere. He was alive, free. None had been as kind to her here as Gere.
But could I? Isn’t love so much more? Her awakening heart throbbed, and she felt the beginnings of queasiness at her desire. Indecision blinded her.
Gere gazed at her tranquilly and casually released his embrace. He retreated a step, and Colette stirred with the impulse to advance forward into his arms. Her skin tingled where his fingers had just rested.
“Colette, please consider it. You’re all I want. I could make you happy. This could all end.”
She stepped back and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment before numbly shuffling her tired feet back across the muggy shore and through the tapestries. The gardens were but a wash of faded blue and she passed through without truly seeing them. Nothing was awake to her but the memory of Gere’s eyes, words, embrace. His tenderness weakened the knees beneath her.
Could I really just leave it all behind?
The thought was so easy, and nothing had been easy in ages.
But Bren?
It had been so long.
Is he even alive? Does he still love me?
A small voice inside her spoke, There’s nothing left for you in Massada. Only death. Do it for Mari. Think of Mari.
Colette blinked in shock to find herself at the garden’s exit. She hefted the tapestries aside and felt the cool air rush upon her. She dallied mindlessly through the passages and eventually ducked into a dark room along the corridors. Thankfully, it was empty. She slouched down to her heels and tucked her head into her slender arms. Her hands crept to her damp face, and she followed the softly weathered lines that had once been smoothness.
I am losing myself no matter what I choose, she thought as she wept.
~
“Is there any way to destroy only Chaul’s portal? And leave the others?” Brenol asked.
Arman halted his long stride to face the man. Brenol appeared diminutive to the juile, as though shrunken under an invisible weight.
“No,” Arman replied. “The maralane wove them mysteriously, and not even the wolves know how to stop the shifting of the doors.”
Brenol pondered silently.
“The portals are the only path for entry. And the one way to prevent another entry is to destroy them all. Chaul is most certainly not of this realm. He—it—must have been from some kind of immaterial world, some spirit domain.”
Brenol shuddered. One Chaul was enough for him—he couldn’t imagine an entire world.
The juile continued, “I do not necessarily think he was evil from the beginning. But if he could never return to his own world? And was stranded alone in foreignness? I don’t know what any of us would do under such circumstances.”
Brenol shook his head disbelievingly. “Say what you will. He was evil.”
Arman nodded. “I do not argue his choices. But now we have a choice.”
Brenol combed his fingers through the coppery mess upon his head. It was a haphazard mix of lengths since he had ruthlessly taken a knife to it the previous moon. His face was strained, and his dark jade eyes were hard. His entire countenance was limned with pain.
Arman scrutinized him with a piqued interest. He perceived something that he had not expected. “I’m surprised, Bren. After all this time, you still consider returning to your world?”
Brenol rubbed his freckled face into a white stretch. He averted his eyes, reluctant to meet the juile’s gaze. Finally, he stammered out a half-response. “I just’ve lost so much. I… I…”
Arman nodded in understanding, if not comprehension. Most would want to escape such a nightmare, but the juile still had not expected it from Brenol. He saw that Brenol could one day live again, even if the man was presently drowning in grief. Arman hesitated for a breath but then asked as if he could not prevent himself, “Do you think you could ever find another soumme?”
Brenol’s face soured. He could not speak for fear of losing control, so he merely shook his head. There would be no other. There could never be. Brenol knew Arman was not seeking to replace Colette with another; that was an outright impossibility for any soumme. But he could not even consider a union with another without a storm of revulsion overtaking him. It was Colette or no one.
“The tie of the soumme is strong. I understand. You are not the only one who has chosen solitude after so great a loss.”
Brenol stared at his black palms as if the answers lay there. Several minutes elapsed. He longed for the harsh twisting in his chest to ease, but he knew it never would. How could it? The longing for Colette would grip him until death took his hand and led him to the next.
“Not all of us get a Sara, Arman,” Brenol eventually said, in the hope he sounded jovial.
Arman’s eyes twinkled at the name, but he remained undeterred in his point. He stepped forward and caught Brenol’s eyes. “It is your choice, but I think you must choose speedily.”
The juile paused and added, “Be aware that I do not know if the portals would even open again for you. Ordah will not be helping you this time. He has made it clear he will not leave his seclusion.”
“The portals open for the wolves.” The sentence hung in the air as question.
“Hmmmm,” Arman replied noncommittally. “Perhaps you should talk to one.”
“You’re so set upon destroying them? What if that is our true method of escape?” He frowned, recalling what he had originally believed would save them: Colette as the Lady of Purpose. Brenol’s fists clenched until bone showed white. The Genesifin was wrong. Deniel was wrong. There is no Lady, he thought bitterly.
“You know I have not abandoned the Genesifin yet. There is still time for it to pass… No, I merely think it wise to cut off all paths that could bring another malitas upon our world. Would you not agree?”
Destroy a path for evil, but destroy the last path for life as well, the man mused. He remained unconvinced.
“What’re you not telling me, Arman? I feel like I’m missing something. What’s really going on?”
Arman’s face stretched into a smile. Brenol found his own lips twitching up just to behold the handsome evenness that was the juile’s grin. Even after so many orbits, Brenol found the transformation incredible—and it had become so infrequent of late.
“It is good to have you returned to your reason, Bren.”
Brenol laughed despite himself. “What do you mean?”
“You’re thinking, perceiving. At least in this moment.”
Has it really been that long? Brenol wondered. “And?” he asked.
Arman rested his hands together in a cup-like gesture that Brenol had never before seen. “Should we destroy the portals, yes, it would be for us. We would prevent another evil from marring our world… But I have another motive as well. It is to make peace with the Tindel. It is my hope that if I bring tidings of the destroyed portals, that the truth of the missing sword will not be as damaging,” Arman said. “But we shall see.”
Brenol raised a questioning brow. “But why would that bring their favor?”
“That is a story in itself,” he began. “Orbits ago, the Tindel lived in Massada, in the lush lands. They were a people of the terrisdans and no different than any other human. It was shortly after foreigners began to arrive through the portals that an argument arose. The Tindel perceived the caves to be a grave risk, and truly they were. Some horrors came out—you heard the tales about the Children of Death. The Tindel would have destroyed the portals, but the structures were still under the protection of the maralane. The lake men were obstinate and would not allow any portal to be touched. Both sides claimed they stood for the protection of Massada, and neither budged.
“The conflict became so bitter that the Tindel eventually left the lake areas. They moved out to the edges of the terrisdans. Initially, it was rumored, that they trained for war, but whether that is true or not I cannot say. Regardless of original intent, the men eventually chose to remain out in the wilderness to prepare for whatever came through the portals. They believed they were responsible for saving Massada.
“The weather in the deserts was not as harsh then, although it certainly was no paradise, and they found a beauty in its ferocity. They decided as a people to explore the peri, and moved entirely from the terrisdans. They dwindled down to but a few of the hardiest, yet soon they flourished up again. They discovered methods of survival in the climate, so even as the deserts grew colder, they adapted. Strength and endurance were their line, and hardship seemed to hone greater stamina and power. They became their own kind, living out in the blue ice, and over time even their skin and hair showed the wear of the darkness and land.”
Brenol’s face sagged. “And they’ll never help us if the portals remain?”
“It is a guess, but a likely one.” Arman dipped his chin into a slight nod. “They think of themselves as separate now. Almost above human… I cannot know for certain what they wish, but perhaps such a step by us would bend their hearts. And they could show us their ways.”
“If the world really is turning to ice, why would living in an endless winter be better than escaping out the portals?” Brenol asked insistently.
“There is still hope here, Bren. I don’t think that abandoning our home for something unknown is the right answer. What would we do if we tumbled into an immaterial world? What would stop us from becoming as ruthless as Chaul?”
“But I still don’t understand why the Tindel would only help if the portals are destroyed.”
Arman’s face tightened. “They are hard, Bren.”
“Hard?”
Arman met Brenol’s gaze with an unforgiving directness. “Hard. I tried to hope beyond what I knew of them and still seek Colette out in the blue, but truly I was blinded by my grief… Bren, even had Colette escaped Chaul as you had once hoped, I don’t think she would have survived the peri.”
Brenol’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Bren, the deserts are brutal. The land would likely have done the work, but I don’t even know what would have happened if she had managed the trek. A woman whose life was bound to the portals? Whose very babe within was from a foreigner’s line?”
Brenol tensed at the mention of the child. He again saw Colette whispering to him in the trees. “I have a secret,” she said. The joy of her revelation seemed an entire lifetime ago, as if it had never have occurred.
My Colette, my baby… Our miracle…
“And these are the people we want to help us?” Brenol asked with abrupt disgust. “That is more madness than anything.”
“Perhaps you are right. But do not forget their service already to Massada. They protected the sword for orbits. Their diligence meant we were able to rid ourselves of malitas.”
Brenol’s mind clouded with images of the wretched blade, of Chaul-Darse, and of how he had failed to strike when he could likely have saved Colette.
“But look around you, Bren.” Arman raised his arms about them to indicate the woods clothed in their white shroud of winter. “This is not a passing phase. And it is happening swiftly, too swiftly to learn and adapt… So while I cannot know, I choose to hope that, underneath their rigidity, there is mercy in them somewhere. Somewhere. If we know how to unlock it.”
The sharp scent of snow powered through Brenol’s nostrils as if to affirm Arman’s words about the sweeping tide of cold. He closed his eyes, but the pain of seeing his soumme behind his lids was too great.
“Give me some time…” Brenol said absently. He resumed his steps for lack of anything else to do, and they headed the remaining strides to their lodgings. He tapped his boots against the building’s side and shouldered the door open. Even inside the inn, they could both hear the winds howl across the iced terrisdan.
“I know it cannot be long… I… I just need a little space to think.”
Arman’s hand went to his friend’s shoulder. The other remained buried in his robes, and the juile fingers clicked out a message: You shall always have a home here.
Brenol gave a brief dip of the head as acknowledgment and waited for the swish of his footsteps to leave him.