Patience heralds a purposeful mind.
-Genesifin
The next morning, a seal to Arman went out with the gertali. It was likely to spend two septspan in transit before meeting his eyes. Colette’s hands had shaken when she parted with it, pressing the paper to her lips in wrenching hope, but she had to trust that her intuit knew. It had grasped her fate from the beginning, and now she must lay her faith in its strength. It was not a task she found natural.
And now I wait?
Do I really just sit here?
The bethaida was dependent upon her for many things now, but she was free to leave if she chose. Regardless, as simply as she drew breath, Colette knew that she would stay. Her intuit all but purred with the knowledge. The grounds eluded her, yet she knew would remain. She must trust herself, even now.
Until when? Colette’s mind hammered.
Colette swiped a hand hastily through the air in front of her as if it could wash away thoughts and arguments. “I stay until I know I’m not supposed to stay. Enough.”
So the lunitata went back to her daily work. Her entire being longed to jump from her life—and very skin—but she silently continued, telling no one about the dream, the seal, Brenol. It would be ludicrous to assume the clan could believe her in this. She herself could hardly pass a breath without tickling in doubt.
So her lips remained motionless while anticipation gripped, and her heart ached forward to the unknown.
~
Arman swept the Tindellan cloak around his stiff limbs. This was not the first time he had felt gratitude for the thick and voluminous layer. The terrisdans iced more every day, and the wind sliced through his bones as though already competing with the perideta’s gusts. The juile breathed in the sharp cold that bit his insides with savage teeth, but his transparent face gave no hint of discomfort.
He allowed his dark gaze to pass silently over the cliffs and scree below him. He towered above the lonely ranges of Conch. It was no longer a loose terrain, but an icy mess of stiff ground. His eyes hovered and waited, yet all that lay before him was ice and sand and stone.
He sighed. It was the first trace of weariness he had shown on this trip, although he had certainly felt it keenly throughout. He drew his body back against the rock face and sucked in the chill air, thankful for the brief protection from icy blasts. He shuffled before some collected wood, knelt, and sent his dark hands methodically to work. His tinder box whispered out a spark upon the precious dry brush—now meticulously toted like a wallet of freg—and the juile blew soft air upon the infant flame until it burst into a crackling dance that consumed and licked the darkening white wood. He came out of his reverie in surprise, realizing his work accomplished. His thoughts had been entirely elsewhere.
Arman had just come from Granoile, and the bitterness of the journey still clung to his palate. It had been fruitless, utterly fruitless. His diplomacy to the dying green world continually met with more resistance than he would have thought feasible. The people of Massada were reluctant to leave the faltering land for the underground, even if staying meant inevitable death.
The frawnish were no exception.
They could barely take flight in the biting winds, but the fierceness of their glances had been close to murderous. It was evident in all negotiations: these creatures might have legs and arms, but their souls were more avian than human. They would not be encased in the earth. They could not be caged and still live.
So Arman had merely extended an open invitation—a plea, really—and left.
Their race will fail, he brooded with every step taken in his return. And we’ll barely hold a palmful of knowledge about their kind.
He thought he had not expected anything more, but the hollow feeling in his chest told him he had deluded himself; he had hoped for a remnant to join him.
The flame’s heat tingled his fingers back to life, and he set water boiling for tea. Soon, the brewing beverage soothed his nostrils and chest with a tickling orange sweetness. He removed the leaves but made no move to pour.
He sat for the better part of an hour, and finally he saw a movement in the sky. A lone figure swooped up the face of the cliff, struggling in the wind with awkward motions, until finally it landed and stepped before the warm fire.
“I expected you earlier,” Arman said softly.
The frawnite only heaved in air. Her dark wings quivered like a kitten lost in a storm, but her eyes did not waver. Their sharp and avian stare surprised him.
I am blind to her purpose here, he realized.
“I bring you a seal,” Arista finally said, once her chest no longer convulsed. Her wings surrounded the fire as though she were cupping it to her person. She made no effort to produce any letter.
Arman did not react. It was undoubtedly from the Tindel, for it was a seal sent to his last location. It did not concern him. There was more to this encounter than the mail.
He swished across to the steaming pot, covered his hand carefully with his cloak, and poured the aromatic drink into the waiting tin cups. He extended one out to Arista, who dipped her head in gratitude and drew the warm metal to her mouth. Her tiny lips looked blue in the darkness, and Arman feared it was no trick of the light.
“I did not see you in Granoile.” he said.
Her eyes pierced him strangely. “They’d never allow such an encounter.”
“They? I had thought the frawnish to be free.” His dark fingers twitched, in want of an activity. His left hand automatically slid into the folds of his robe, where it toyed silently with his beads, but the familiarity of the smooth stones did little to calm the disquiet of his mind.
Arista’s feathers ruffled in agitation. “I already bent my wings to you when I was ordered to stay away. I am free, but I am no traitor. We shall not move to the underworld. It would be our death.”
“You certainly don’t evade death in your choice,” he replied, but seeing her glance he added, “But I do understand. I’d not expected the winged to leave the skies easily.”
His words appeared to tame her, at least partially, and she settled back to the fire and her drink.
“Why did you come, Arista?”
A small smile played apologetically upon the sides of her mouth. It could have been mistaken for a grimace had Arman not known her so well and understood the great duress that smothered her.
He waited for a moment, allowing the popping of the fire to serenade the night. “Our friendship need not require goodbyes, Arista.” He stared into her gaunt, pale face. It suddenly streamed with tears and emotion.
“But I wanted it,” she said quietly.
“You have been a good friend to me. Like a sister.”
She bit her lip in an effort to control her cries and issued a small nod.
“You should not have left Granoile for me, if things are truly as you suggest.” His eyes narrowed in concern.
“I’m free…” The small smile returned, this time mischievous. “It’s not the first time I have disobeyed orders for you.”
Arman laughed generously, recalling how the frawnite had once rescued him, pushing beyond her borders and even defying explicit direction from Caladia. She had always been there for him. His laughter eased, but his entire face assumed an arresting contentment. “That is certainly true. And my poor body thanks you again for your choice.”
Arista bowed her dark head in acknowledgement. Her diminutive hand reached over and slipped into the large palm of the juile. Her face went straight as she stared into the fire. “I had hoped we would one day be soummen.”
Arman breathed in sharply, fighting the impulse to retract his hand, and took in her features. She did not flinch, staring back with an unhesitating boldness. A chaos of thought barraged his mind.
Finally, he began. “Arista, you know—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “Of Sara, of our lines, of the impossibilities. I know.” Her voice was now soft, as though she only spoke to herself. “But I had hoped.”
The juile drew his long arms around the tiny frawnite and encompassed her in an embrace. They sat before the fire for the remainder of the night, whispering many things, recounting memories, and resting in the solitude of the cliff. Huddled together, they soaked up the consolation, however brief. Just before dawn, Arista slipped a seal into his hand. She brushed her lips upon his cheek and dropped from the rock face into a swooping dive.
For a moment the juile felt a sharp stab of regret. He let the emotion flow through him unobstructed, although his transparent face remained grim and unchanging.
He sighed, realizing he would never see Arista again.
~
It was not until morning’s light had brightened the entire sky that Arman shook off his thoughts of the frawnite and remembered the seal. It met his hand with sharp edges as he reached into the warmth of his clothing.
He stared at the small square with a numb indifference. This—everything—barely seemed to matter anymore.
Wake up, Arman. Wake up.
He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes for a moment, and collected his thoughts. In the stillness of his heart, he heard a voice. It said, “All will be well. The prophesy is yet to be completed.”
He sighed. “Yes, yes, I know.”
The juile breathed deeply and found himself and his purpose restored, even if the world around was not what he would have chosen. When he opened his eyes, he saw the note afresh. It was carefully sealed, and his name was penned upon it in Colette’s neat hand. His face tightened as a pinch of insight trickled through his veins.
Something about this letter…
He broke the seal with a deft swipe and unfolded the smooth paper. A single line of words graced the page: Bren is here. Find him.