Do not envy another man’s talent. His gift is often his burden.
-Genesifin
“Do you need help destroying them?” Brenol asked as they moved through the lugazzi. The task seemed insurmountable, for at least a hundred portals littered the region around the lake. He did not even know how to break down one.
Arman merely shook his head and sniffed. While the frozen surface gave little scent, traces of sweetness still clung to the sharp breeze and told him they were near. He glanced around with grim expression. The wildlife was even scarcer than he had expected. The dwindling sustenance of the waters and land seemed to drape Ziel in an eerie and cold silence. It pained him to think of the devastation that would play out if securing the portals did not draw assistance from the perideta. The lost sword still held the threat of impending doom over his heart.
“But there are so many…”
Arman tugged his mind away from his musings to face the man. The juile’s face was drawn and serious. “Bren, I’ve sent seal to the wolves. They know the portal territory better than any. They already have a plan.”
“Oh.”
A twig cracked behind them, and Arman stiffened, raising to his full height with a sudden and alarming power. Just as speedily, though, he lowered himself and let his dark hand sway from the dangerous folds of his robe.
A wolf emerged, winded but alert. His once jet-black coat was peppered gray with age, and he had a single white streak ranging from his left eye to the tip of his snout. His eyes were as hard and unfeeling as those of every wolf Brenol had ever met.
He growled in greeting to Arman, ignoring Brenol save to fix him with a stare from his left eye. “The wolf sealtors are collected. We should have enough supplies once the ignalli arrive. You’re certain?”
Arman nodded decisively. “This is the only way. Thank you, Heax. Your kind has been gracious in the matter. I know it will change things for you.”
The wolf let out a single bark, sounding much like a derisive laugh. “The icing’s already done that.”
“When will you begin?”
“At your direction,” Heax growled, remarkably at ease with following orders from a juile.
“Heax?” Arman asked. His face was severe, but his voice lacked emotion. “Will you open the portal if Bren chooses to return to Alatrice?”
The beast grunted, finally allowing both eyes to zero in upon the human. Brenol’s spine quivered alive. Without a word, he dipped his snout down in agreement.
Arman inhaled and faced Brenol. “If you intend to go, Heax can show you the portal.” The juile bowed with his usual grace and said simply, “I pray it will be bountiful, Brenol Tilted-Ash.”
Brenol’s face tightened, and his cheeks hollowed into a gaunt seriousness. His decision—one he had already thought complete—was soon upon him, and it now seemed far more complex than he had anticipated. The wrenching pain of losing Colette was unbearable, but to flee? To leave forever? To part from Arman? His head reeled with the possibilities now solidly before him.
“May bounty be ours,” Arman said, and swept from the clearing with speed.
~
Standing beside the large beast, Brenol shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
“Let’s move,” Heax said gruffly. He bounded forward without awaiting a response.
Brenol attempted to keep pace as they hastened through the trees, but the man could not match the sliding and effortless gait of the wolf, and when Heax eventually slowed ahead of him, Brenol was red-faced and breathing roughly.
Brenol covered the remaining distance to the beast but paused as the wolf padded into a clearing. His neck tingled in unease as he took in the scene; a pack of at least a dozen wolves milled about the small space.
Some treaded around the clearing, some rested upon their haunches. Trotting into the mix, Heax joined the party and seated himself quietly but expectantly. Brenol lingered indecisively at the edge of the trees, assessing the gathering before him.
A fierce, starkly white wolf let out a bark and, at this prompt, a man emerged from the forest. He was clothed in loose blue pants and a jacket and seemed unconcerned with the many creatures before him. His elongated face had clear, creamy skin and a serpentine smile, and his dark jade eyes flickered in amusement under a crop of raven hair. He moved with precision and agility.
Brenol’s stomach squirmed. This was not the first ignalli he had encountered, but this one was particularly unsettling.
“Torgot,” the white wolf said in greeting.
The ignalli pushed his tongue fractionally into his cheek as acknowledgment but did not speak.
“You brought the maralane tears?”
The ignalli smiled widely. “Of course.”
The clearing grew tense in anticipation, waiting for the strange man to act. Eventually the white wolf spoke curtly, his irritation evident. “Where?”
Torgot patted his bag. “The ignalli were entrusted with them. So we shall carry them.”
The wolf laughed. “Just give the tears to us, you fool.”
Torgot’s brow narrowed, and he stared into the bright green eyes.
The wolf met the gaze without anxiety, finally spreading his mouth into a sneering, awful smile. “Fine. I don’t care. Do our work for us.”
Heax growled in interruption and addressed the lead wolf. “The agreement was that the ignalli would only supply the tears. Arman won’t like this change of plan.” He stared hard at Torgot. “This man is not to be trusted.”
Torgot grinned.
The white wolf laughed dismissively. “I do not care what the juile says. Let the ignalli destroy the portals for us if they want to.”
“They were entrusted with nothing,” Heax persisted. “They merely took the tears when the maralane died.”
The other wolf remained unmoved. “We’ll look over the work after it’s been done. Enough, Heax.”
He threw his neck back and pointed his snout to the sky, howling loud and long. Soon the forest was flooded with the reverberating chords of lupine song as the party of wolves answered, though Heax did not join. The sound carried an eerie beauty but was unquestionably hair-raising.
When they quieted, the beasts did not speak to one another. They simply dispersed, trotting off in every direction. It was like watching seeds scattering in the wind. Soon, Torgot and Heax were the only two left in the clearing.
Heax scowled at the ignalli and approached Brenol. Torgot sidled over, unconcerned with the wolf’s displeasure.
“The ignalli will destroy the portals,” Heax told Brenol. “The wolves will check later to make sure they have completed the task.”
Brenol shifted his feet, unsure of what this meant for him. “Will you still take me to my portal?”
Torgot raised his eyebrows, elongating his face even further.
“He wants to go back through to his world,” Heax said to the ignalli without turning to face him.
“Then take him,” Torgot replied, peering at Brenol with an amused curiosity.
“I’m no longer a part of this.” Heax met Brenol’s gaze squarely. “You talk to Arman now. I am done.” Without further explanation, the wolf stood and padded off into the trees.
The ignalli had not ceased staring at Brenol. “By the time you find the juile, every portal will be mere rubble,” he said, grinning broadly and letting out a lazy laugh. “But I could bring you there.”
Brenol’s hands twitched at his sides. He was reluctant to trust this slippery creature.
“We will have to destroy the sixteen in this vicinity first, but then I could take you to the western portals.”
Unsure of what to do, and keenly experiencing his lack of options, Brenol frowned.
“Or you can wait here, pondering, while I turn your cave to ash.” His eyes danced, as if relishing Brenol’s discomfort. “It’s your choice. Do you want to come?”
Brenol finally nodded, finding speech difficult under the strange gaze.
Torgot smiled again, staring at the man with amusement before tossing up a hand in an indiscernible gesture. He opened his stride and curved his way through the forest as if he were made of putty. Brenol followed.
~
“You watch first. Then you help,” Torgot said. It did not seem to be a request.
Brenol trailed the ignalli with fascinated eyes. His mysterious figure sidled to the cave with the fearless and puffed confidence of a rooster, pausing just before the entrance. His dark green eyes danced as he opened the satchel that hung snugly across his shoulder and thin chest. A slight finger flick beckoned Brenol to draw near and observe. Brenol obeyed, although it gave him pause to be so close. Trustworthiness clung to Torgot’s person the way oil joined water.
Brenol leaned forward to glance in the bag and willfully had to hold back his hand. Within lay rows of delicate beads the size of robins’ eggs but the striking color of rubies. They were lined in rows and separated with soft, thin sheets of cream-colored cloth. There were at least a hundred, and they shone vibrantly up at him like gems waiting to be plucked from the wall of a cave.
“Maralane tears,” the ignalli said with a smooth grin. “Only a limited number left, but we’ve generously agreed to store them for the departed.”
Again Brenol felt his fingers itch. He drew them back determinedly. “What do they do?”
Torgot’s eyebrows vaulted up in delight. “You don’t know of them?” He laughed, but it was not a sound that set Brenol at ease. “Most have merely never seen them… They are made—excuse me, were made—by the maralane.” He permitted himself a sly grin. “They’re combustible in any location, including the water.”
“Why would the maralane need such a thing?”
Torgot gave a calculating sideways glance. “You’ve truly never heard of them?”
“Truly,” Brenol replied.
The ignalli jutted out his jaw but then released it in a knowing smirk. “They were one of the handful of tools created for protection. The tears were fairly impractical though, so it is unlikely the maralane would have used them in the end.”
“Protection from what?” Brenol asked incredulously. He recalled the terror, power, and strength of the lake-men. Ziel had not seemed to require any special weapons for security.
“The Tindel, should they seek to destroy the portals.” The amusement was plain upon his features.
The irony silenced Brenol.
Torgot strode into the cave. It was a shallow hole; one could almost touch the inside wall from the entrance. The ground was dry and stiff, but Brenol preferred that to the alternative. He knew the day’s exercise amid mud and ice would undoubtedly drench his clothing by evening. He shivered and stamped his legs around to move the blood in his chilled veins.
The ignalli patted together the dry brush and pine needles he had collected from the woods outside to form a small, but durable nest and plucked a single tear from his bag with long fingers. He delicately placed the ruby sphere in the heart of the nest. Torgot exited the hole, mounding dry materials into a straight line as he went, leaving behind what appeared to be a miniscule mountain range. Warm clouds of air heaved out from his lungs as he bent and squatted and shaped. Soon, both man and ignalli stood five strides out from the cave, and the wood seemed to huddle back in anticipation.
Such a small little thing, Brenol thought as he peered down at the tear. He held his tongue but wriggled in his boots with suspense.
Smiling, Torgot knelt with youthful agility down to the earth to strike his flint with deft fingers. With a single stroke, several orange sparks showered down and caught. The air was thick with moisture and the ground cold, but the line leaped to life with a boisterous cracking. No more than a minute elapsed before the pencil stroke of line had been licked away, and the hungry flame flew ravenously toward the nest.
Brenol had not noticed the ignalli draw back, but he suddenly felt a cool hand tugging at his arm. It was stronger than he would have supposed, and he gave the lanky figure a shrewd glance before obediently following. They hovered fifteen strides out, using a sturdy oak trunk as cover, and watched the sizzling flame take the brush.
At first, the ruby globe glittered with a lovely brilliance. Brenol drew his breath in with wonderment, for its resplendent shine was visible even at their distance. But only for a second. Suddenly, the tiny tear exploded, painting red and orange streaks in every direction and bursting forth from the cave in waves of white light. Heat hurled out upon the icy forest, and the land sagged into a sweat. Dark clouds billowed up like mushrooms and marred the horizon while the interior of the cave surged with flame. A heavy mass of smoke and ash pushed forcefully from the hollow as the entire structure collapsed in a soft puddle of rubble. Nothing more than a blackened patch of rock remained, steaming up into the gray sky. The air simmered in a hushed hiss—an eerie silence after the roar that had flooded Brenol’s ears but a moment previously.
Nothing can burn that quickly. Nothing, Brenol thought. He found he could not pry his eyes from the remains. It had taken but three minutes to turn a portal of stone and mystery to ash.
“Not for every occasion,” the ignalli remarked, evidently amused by Brenol’s astonished face.
“That was incredible,” he whispered. “Just incredible.”
Torgot bowed his head, as if Brenol was appreciating his own handicraft, and spoke smoothly, “Let us continue.”
The sun followed her course through the hazy gray sky, finally settling upon the horizon like a curled cat as they broke their fast and rested. Torgot and Brenol had moved tirelessly and had successfully burned the sixteen portals. The ground around Ziel was littered with scars from their path, and the air was rife with ash and the stink of burn. Brenol was sobered by the sight and smell of the blight left behind, and the doubts over his course—and Arman’s plan—bloomed.
Is this really the way?
The ignalli’s voice startled Brenol from his reverie. “Alatrice, you said? I know which portal to take you to. We go there next. It is very close.” His dark jade eyes ran over the man like silk across the skin.
Goose bumps crowded Brenol’s flesh under the gaze. He did not respond at first, merely rubbing his limbs with numb hands. Finally, he spoke, his voice issuing out in a cloud of warm air. “Do you think it’ll be open?”
A snaky smile spread across the slender white face. “I do.”
Brenol’s eyes widened. “Yes?” He tried to sound steady but knew his voice was betraying him with every hesitation.
“The maralane taught my people how to open them as well.”
“Oh.” Brenol’s stomach felt more water than flesh. He stood, brushed away the snow creeping in at his shins, and followed the peculiar man.
“The maralane made the portals,” Torgot said nonchalantly, sliding his eyes to take in Brenol’s response.
The man did not react. “Everyone knows as much.”
Torgot smiled widely. “Yes. But they did it to save themselves. When the world was young, they began spinning them. Sending out little tunnels to other worlds.”
“Save themselves?” Brenol asked.
“They knew they would die.”
Brenol shook his head, rejecting the notion. “No. They didn’t fight back like you say. I remember. They were so resigned. Preifest had the Genesifin. And he knew their kind would pass from the beginning.”
The ignalli smirked. “Acceptance was not always an attribute of the maralane. It came after being worn down by hook and line.”
The man scoffed, wondering if the ignalli was toying with him. “How do you know all this?”
Torgot met the man’s eyes with a cunning glance. “My world was the first they connected to. The ignalli were the first other-worlders to walk Massada.” He paused but then continued with a sly glance. “But perhaps you know better. Perhaps the maralane really only cared to save Massada. And kept portals open to save the world by drawing terrors from across the universe here.”
Brenol fell silent, unsure.
“It would seem your kind is the last to come through.” Torgot smirked again. “And perhaps the last to leave.” His brow rose in mocking amusement.
Brenol snapped back to the moment and his purpose. He grimly clamped his jaw shut and shuddered forward.
~
The tunnel extended deep into the heart of both worlds, and Brenol stood in it, breathing in the air that flowed back and forth like a current between them. It smelled of stone and water and soil. Brenol had trod far enough in to realize that the portal was in fact open, but he had held close enough to maintain an eye on the tall, elastic figure of Torgot at the entrance.
I could go back. I really could.
The thought burst upon him like the fragrance of piping hot cinnamon bread on a wintry day. It suddenly had more appeal than he had credited it. There were problems there, but they were different problems. Alatrice held a part of him, even if he had once abandoned it for something better.
“Colette,” he whispered, barely letting the sounds escape his lips.
She had been so much to him. So much. It seemed baseless to stay. Without her, his heart crumbled as readily as the caves meeting maralane tears. He was rubble without her.
His eyes flickered back and forth between the two paths. No matter the certitude within, something continued to tug a doubt into his mind.
You could still search for her.
“And then return to grieve at her grave when you find nothing?” Brenol scolded himself. “No, you fool. You know the truth, and nothing can bring her back.” He sighed and turned his eyes back to the alternating paths. “You need to make a choice now.”
“The shadows are approaching,” Torgot called.
Brenol opened his mouth and then stopped, irresolute. Finally, he ran his hand through his disheveled copper hair and yelled out to the ignalli, “Give me a few minutes, okay? I need to think.”
The dark figure bobbed his head and sloshed from the portal’s mouth into the wood.
The silence, despite the lapping water at his feet and the condensation slopping from the ceiling, crowded upon Brenol. He took a deep breath, but nothing could clear the mess of emotion, purpose, and grief that crushed in on him. He shivered uncontrollably in the evening chill, his entire body goose bumping and his legs going numb in the thigh-deep water.
Why do I hesitate? I thought I’d already chosen.
Yet, even in asking himself the question, he realized he knew the true answer. Lucid thought pierced in like a shaft of light through fog. He did not need several minutes. He did not even really require seconds. His longing was to escape pain, and Arman had been right: such a choice was anything but sound.
He sighed. It grew wearisome that the juile was always right.
So what does this mean?
He scoffed at himself. “Does it have to always mean something? Get up out of the mud.”
Brenol pushed his way back through the frigid water to the only life he had ever chosen.
As he exited into the light, he glanced back into the dark portal. It gleamed as if to entice with one last allurement.
For you Col, Brenol thought, adding with a whisper, “I want to be in the world where you lived, even if today you’re gone and tomorrow it will crumble.”
~
Torgot greeted him with a humored glance. “You’ve not left.”
“I’ve not.” Brenol felt no shame in the statement. Instead, the stone of his gut had softened ever so slightly. He breathed in surprise, thankful. It did not stop him from quivering in the cold, though. “And I won’t.”
Torgot exhibited no trace of shock. “Would you like to? Or shall I?” He extended out a white hand, elongated fingers curled over a single ruby tear.
Even knowing its power, it still looked more a child’s marble than a volcano to Brenol’s eyes. He had not been permitted to touch them before, and excitement bubbled up at the possibility of fitting the smooth globe between his fingers.
Brenol grinned and scooped the tear into his hands. His eyebrows raised. It was extremely dense. The heavy weight of the sphere dug sharply into the palm of his hand. It was impossible that the ignalli could be carrying an entire bag. Brenol raised his shocked eyes to reassess Torgot once more. The ignalli was as thin and serpentine as ever.
“How—” Brenol began.
Torgot merely laughed. “Things are not always as they seem.”
“I guess so,” he replied, feeling a sharp and fearful respect.
They set to constructing a makeshift bridge—as they had for all the other watery caves—scavenging around for the brush to pile atop it. After all was complete, Brenol’s breath was hot and heaving, but his steps were calm and deliberate as he approached the range of dry kindling. He sniffed the air as though seeking a sign but was met only with the deep-winter scent of snow and sleeping pine. His feet halted, and he squinted into the shadowy cavern, picturing the world to which it opened. The wind was eerily silent, and the tiny rattle of tinder box trembling in hand seemed an all-too-apt reminder of his weakness.
This will end it, his mind warned.
“So be it,” he said defiantly as he bent his creaking legs down to ignite the pine needles. They sparked up, and his eyes widened with pleasure. He whispered to the air, “I choose Colette even in death. I want to be where she once walked. And never forget her face, her breath, her smell.” The words filled him with a peaceful calm that had been missing for far too long.
Brenol watched the tiny flame and blew upon it softly until it flickered up joyfully. He stood erect and retreated with reluctance. The man had hardly joined Torgot—sinuous features ever mysterious and amused—under the cover of trees before the line was consumed by the hungry lick of fire. The cave exploded in light and heat. Water evaporated and steamed out like a sauna, and soon the portal sighed down into a heap of smoking black rubble.
And so it’s done.
Despite his new peace, Brenol suddenly felt haggard, depleted. The world encompassed him with the harsh reality of his pain and choice. He lifted his pack to his back and shrugged into the weight. The man peered wearily at Torgot but did not speak. His gaunt face expressed his inner hollowness with precision.
“I’m leaving.”
“And Arman?” the ignalli asked with an upturned hand.
Brenol’s chest caved fractionally. His voice poured out in a soft, low roll. “Please, just tell him I need space. Some time to think. I need to be alone.”
The ignalli raised his eyebrows, and for the first time, Brenol did not read amusement within the eyes beneath them. “You think it wise to be out alone in the brunt of this icing?” His voice was so taut that it twanged.
Brenol shrugged. “I have money, a few supplies. I can always find an inn.” He barely thought as he spoke. Every word seemed to cost him dearly in energy.
An uncustomary compassion marked Torgot’s face. He deliberated for a moment, frowned, and finally reached into his satchel to retrieve a thick wallet. He untied the leather-like string and opened its contents to Brenol’s vision. It was meticulously packed with dried fish and fruit, likely enough to sustain a man for two septspan if he rationed wisely. Torgot bound it again with care and laid it in Brenol’s palm.
“Flame and resolve,” he said in the manner of a phrase rolled regularly. “There are several townships of ignalli around the lugazzi. They will offer assistance should you remind them of this motto.”
The dark jade orbs met Brenol’s in an unflinching stare. Either he saw something there, or a new thought occurred to him, for the flash of amusement returned. The serpentine smile looped up, his unsettling eyes released the gaze, and his lanky figure bent its way through the wood without another word.
Brenol stared down dumbly at his hands—palms still as black as the day he had destroyed Chaul—until the chill of approaching night slapped him to the present. He surveyed the wallet in his fingers as though seeing it for the first time, stowed it away, and shuddered through the wind to seek shelter of some kind.
~
Arman, expecting Heax, waited with shifting feet in the lugazzi, amidst the wooded glade outside northern Stonia. It had been less than a septspan since the juile’s encounter with the wolf, yet the ground was somehow even stiffer with ice. Arman felt the harsh cold trickle up his boots like mercury creeping up a thermometer. His eyes narrowed as Torgot slipped through the trees toward him. He was quiet and fluid, and moved in a manner that betrayed nothing of his hidden strength.
“Torgot,” Arman said, bowing. “I pray it will be bountiful.”
The ignazzi dipped his head, and raised his face to reveal a wide smile. It was not an expression of joy, but of mocking merriment.
Arman did not speak, glancing around again for the wolf.
“The portals have been destroyed,” Torgot said. His voice was liquid and soft despite the cold.
Arman’s face tightened in concern. “Where is Heax?”
“He is not coming. He did not help.”
Arman’s onyx eyes flashed in surprise at the ignalli’s words. “What happened?”
Torgot shrugged his shoulders, making his tall frame appear even longer. “He did not appreciate the ignalli’s help.”
The juile’s face was stern. “The ignalli burned the caves then?”
“Every one.” Torgot’s eyes danced.
Arman fell silent for a moment. He did not display it, but the circumstances disturbed him. “What of my friend?” he asked finally. “What happened to Bren?”
The ignalli’s lips tugged up again in humor. “He left. He went into the portal.”
Arman froze. “You speak truly?”
Torgot pressed his thin lips together and met Arman’s gaze. “He returned to his world. Barely gave a breath of hesitation.”
The pain that thrust into the juile was no less than a spear into his side, yet he did not flinch. I never would have guessed, he thought. He had the strange sensation of toppling, although the world remained upright.
Would that we had parted differently.
The last moments with Brenol still clung to Arman’s mind with all the vividness of the present. The trees had huddled silently around, shrouded in their quiet white, hardly letting a whisper echo out through the clearing. The conference and plans to destroy the portals had fallen before the hushed forest like a secret mistakenly released before a crowd. At the time, his chest had choked with an eerie premonition, yet how could he have paused? He did not trust his emotions, for sentiments were often weak and prone to waver before decisions such as these. Portals could not simply be bricked back together.
I didn’t speak my fears to him. Nor my hopes…
He winced internally, cursing his silence. For over several moons, the surreal wisps of dreams had blown before him, hinting of the future as if there were still a future for Massada. They came in flashes as fast as the blink of an eye, were as tangible as smoke trailing up from a snuffed candle, and disappeared with as much haste. Visions of lush green. Pale Tindel hands touching his own olive. Colette. Laughter. A baby—so crucial somehow—birthed in the cold blue perideta. Snow. Death. Yet there had always been glimpses of Brenol, too. Ruddy face flushed in pleasure as he bent in labor among gardens of green. Shock of red hair as he turned and clicked in code to a small carrot-headed child.
But I didn’t tell him for a reason, he reminded himself, drawing his mind back to the logical. I know the visions must be false.
No, I have lost what little I held in seeing ahead. I’m merely dreaming now. And have been. Wishing for hope. Missing Colette.
It was a disquieting understanding, even if he had been gradually approaching this moment of recognition for moons. He did not believe in living in fantasy, and now the future—already hazy—loomed with an ominous uncertainty. My little piece of intuit has fallen from me like the invisibility that once wrapped my skin.
Yet the thought meant little before the loss of his friend.
Would that we had parted differently.
Brenol’s freckled face and sturdy frame filled his vision. The man’s features had grown gaunt from sleepless nights and an encumbered heart. The green eyes, too, were dark and hard, as though his insides were gradually turning to stone. His lips were drawn together, the flash of a smile a dream of the past…yet Arman had believed that the man would push through it all. Brenol was capable of more than most. His heart was still genuine, still good. He ever lived for benere.
It was no easy matter letting someone choose. Especially when they chose poorly.
I wish you much bounty, good friend, he prayed sincerely. May the Three hold you fast.
The juile straightened his frame and felt the wind whip at his long robes as if hungry for his person. There is much bounty still for him. For us all, he thought. The prospect steadied him. Much work, as well.
Arman swept his attention back to the ignalli. The man had not once unglued his vision from the juile. His eyes sparkled and danced, as if finding pleasure in the bizarre moment. Everything about the creature was deceptive: lanky figure hiding immense strength, laughing eyes under a motto of honor. From behind the safety of his own stoic features, Arman found the snaky smirk before him grating.
As if perceiving the juile’s thoughts, Torgot released a soft sigh from his nostrils. It clouded his long, creamy face for a brief moment, but even that hinted of diversion.
“And the portal?” Arman asked gruffly.
“Black and gone.”
Arman locked eyes with him. “And the others?”
A grin spread on Torgot’s face. His lips were a soft pink and his tongue flickered slightly as he spoke. “It’s done. The wolves went through yesterday and the day before to ensure all were secured.” He spoke the final word with a soft, sarcastic relish.
Out of habit, Arman ran his hand across the beads in his pocket, pondering. The tasks ahead had not altered, even with Brenol’s absence. He must seek the Tindel. He must attempt to relay the truth of the sword, and hope for mercy. He must work.
His path and Brenol’s now parted, but each certainly continued on. Blind as he was to it, there was a purpose, a bounty, still before him.
He bowed sharply, saying, “It has been bountiful. Please thank your people and the wolves for me. I shall make haste to the deserts.”
Torgot pursed his lips, but the corners of his mouth still held a simper. He bowed in turn and waited as Arman swished away.
I didn’t want Bren to die, Torgot thought. But some things are too amusing to not toy with.
“And a juile is always one of those things,” he whispered aloud to himself, and sidled his long form back through the trees.