Eyes in the Water Read online

  But another voice whispered to him in the lowest depths of his soul, reminding him that it was not Colette that consumed him with anger.

  Failure. You are a failure, it said.

  The serpentine voice echoed in him as though he were but an empty vessel. His hands dropped, dripping, and his body slumped.

  What can I ever do to help? he thought in despair. How can I return now? I don’t understand the Genesifin. Orbits…and still I sit on that book like an uncomprehending fool.

  How often had he stared at the Genesifin? How many verses had he memorized in secrecy and solitude?

  Suddenly, another worry slapped him: I don’t know how to tell my mother.

  Without thought, he replied back with hollow voice, “What do I say to my mother?”

  As soon as the words were spoken, his face flushed with regret. He could not retract anything spoken into the piece, and now his childish fears were plain. He snapped the aurenal shut.

  Have you not grown at all these last four orbits? Are you not a man now?

  He peered down at his hands as if their size might convince him. The demanding life of homesteading showed. The long handling of tools and livestock marked the palms, knuckles, and finger pads with hard calluses.

  Suddenly he chuckled. “Four orbits and I still can’t get it right,” he muttered softly. “Darsey was right. It isn’t about me.”

  He considered the situation anew, and his gut wrenched with the sudden realization of the precariousness Colette must be facing. She had never once requested his return. Not once. She had barely spoken for orbits, and now her pleading voice was small and weak. She needed him.

  “My cartess,” he found himself whispering.

  Of course I’ll go. I’ll fly.

  But he made no move to depart. Instead, he stared out into the canal as his mind grappled with time, emotion, place; jumping worlds and lives was not a simple action.

  Four and a half orbits. The days had eked by with the dull monotony of a clock ticking. He had come back from Massada a different person: more man than boy, pensive and silent, restless with love, and so out of place he felt he wore someone else’s boots. His mother had never spoken about the change—or his absence—but she assessed him with a bizarre, shrewd detachment, her eyes constantly hovering over him. He had counted the days, hours, and minutes, fondling the cinereous stone he had scooped up from the shores of Ziel. Every corner and crevice had been worn smooth between his fingers, imbued with his musings. Four and a half orbits.

  And still, the Genesifin remained a mystery.

  He had nearly committed the book to memory. He sometimes felt like a cow with its cud—chewing, chewing, chewing—wondering if he would ever swallow the knowledge and comprehend it. Insight was there somewhere, for it had to be, yet the mystery remained obscure. He saw nothing more than page after page of proverbs and lessons. Nothing about fate or the workings of the worlds to be discovered in its lines, no magic. Only allusions and clichés. He was weary of this cud. He ached for his friends—Arman, Colette, Darse. He ached to belong. He ached to be part of an adventure again. He ached for his home.

  Then why do I wait? Why drip here in the dark?

  He knew the reason, though. He could still feel the maralane’s reptili eyes hot upon him, and he feared returning cloaked in the shame of his failure to decipher the book of fate.

  Deniel would’ve known… Wouldn’t he?

  He turned the thought over in his mind but in truth did not know. He no longer held Deniel up on a pedestal. No, as the orbits had passed, the mysterious man had sunk into Brenol until the youth knew there could never be a possibility of separation again. Deniel’s memories felt more like his own than another’s, and in a way, Deniel was him. Brenol was who he was because of Deniel. It never caused him angst, for Brenol cherished the man’s memories. They offered him a tie to Colette that he could never have had otherwise. With them, he could look at the princess and see her as a whole—both the innocent girl and the woman she had become following her nightmarish captivity.

  Her tree…

  Brenol played the memory over again, its corners as smooth from wear as his pocketed stone. He had pondered and treasured the scene for orbits. It had come in a flash several moons after his return to Alatrice. He could not see how, but Deniel had been in her consciousness, and the power flowing from the man was astonishing. He had been able to maneuver his mind as simply as if he were flicking his little finger.

  “My tree?” she asked.

  Deniel whispered into her mind, opening her intuit as gently as the sun unfurls a blossom. She smiled. Her eyes danced in wonderment.

  She stood under her tree and waited. He waited too. Her tree was lovely: the leaves, the colors, the scents. It was a symphony of beauty. It blazed his heart up with an even greater drive to keep her safe.

  I will protect her, he vowed. My sister.

  A feather, dark as obsidian, floated down, and Colette lifted it curiously, full of innocence. He watched her face until he realized intuit had been attained and then withdrew from her mind.

  He waited. It seemed an eternity.

  “What did you see?” he finally asked. Anticipation danced through him.

  She opened her eyes, blinking in the light. “I am to be Queen of the whole world.”

  It hit him with the force of an arrow bursting through a bull’s-eye.

  And yet, it was like he had always known.

  Yes, it is truth. Everything in his nurest and prescient senses affirmed it.

  He took a breath, allowing all the pieces to align. His fingers flicked around his own tree and carefully tapped out the lines and connections and pointed to the symmetry. It all made so much sense now. All his intuit, his determination, Colette. The drive to leave his own terrisdan for another. Everything.

  I will protect her, he reaffirmed silently.

  Brenol had awoken on the floor with his head throbbing and nausea gripping his ribs—an occasional consequence of the memory transference—but he had not cared. No, he wept only at the pain of departing from the memory’s beautiful folds. It had been so vivid, so perfect.

  Deniel’s affection for Colette had always been fraternal. He was older and had grown up with her. There had never been a question of romance, but the cartontz impulse to guard the girl had flowed in every vein and directed every breath. Brenol had acquired this latter drive along with Deniel’s memories, but he had always blazed with more. The tree lingered in Brenol’s thoughts and dreams and stoked his already present love for Colette into a tremendous fire. He had tried to love the Genesifin, but in the end, his love was really only for Colette.

  All was Colette.

  Absentmindedly, Brenol pulled out the small white manuscript he had forgotten to leave hidden at home. Though dripping wet, its pages showed no signs of damage. In the dark, it radiated light, casting beams across the surface of the black waters and cavern walls.

  Strange. I’ve never actually brought this down here with me…

  He rotated the book in his hands, childishly amused as he manipulated the lights, but when he nonchalantly opened it, all innocent musings ceased. His breath caught in his throat with a croak.

  There, amidst the mysterious verbiage, upon the pages that he both treasured and loathed, lay the code he knew dearly. The code of the juile, as brightly aglow as the constellations followed by hope-filled sailors, was stamped across the very text. Sense had been hiding not behind but upon the words and sentences he had grappled with daily. Pages and pages of coded light. Pages and pages. Only to be seen here, in the waters. It was simple—so, so simple.

  How’ve I never thought to read it here?

  He would have smacked himself had the mystery not yanked him from every other thought and inclination.

  He delved in.

  ~

  Preifest had been right. It was all here. It was the Genesifin. It was the beginning and the end. He shuddered, finally seeing how fate would grip the people and lands of M
assada. No control, no power, they were just blind and sealed to their doom. The world would change. The maralane would die. The cold and icy surroundings would encroach on the terrisdans. Many peoples would suffer. While the writings did not detail everything, it was clear that this destiny—and growing winter—had been at work for generations.

  It was nearly dawn when Brenol decided to return home. He closed the Genesifin reluctantly and pushed his frozen limbs weakly through the water until he remembered the aurenal.

  I need to tell Colette, he thought, sliding the case out again. And before she leaves the river.

  He had unlatched it and opened his mouth to speak when he was greeted by Colette’s musical voice. It was strained, but gentle and understanding. “Tell her it is time. Tell her you know your place and you must take it. Tell her you know it’s not easy, but growing and loving never are. It’s time to let go, but your love will always be with her. Tell her you’re not thinking of yourself, but of your loyalty to a promise. You may return, you may not…but she is not unloved or alone.”

  His face flushed. He had caught glimpses of this woman during their time in Selenia. She had still been much a child then—as was he—but when that regal strength had shown through, it had left him stammering. So despite the strange reticence he had experienced from her here on Alatrice, he could see that the Colette from his past had only grown wiser and stronger. He forgave all in that instant, amazed at the mature woman whose mind was awake and seeing.

  She’s so good.

  He had no comparably elegant words to share, so he spoke simply into the silver case: “I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.” He clapped it shut with pruned fingers and sloshed up the steps.

  His heart glowed alive with excitement as the words resounded in his mind: I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.

  And yes, my gortei. Even Colette hints at it, though she doesn’t know what it means.

  The forces of fate were gearing vigorously to life. He must move with haste.

  ~

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Brenol gazed at his mother, who stared back at him with a clamped jaw and narrowed eyes. Mousy brown hair hung limply against her face.

  “I cannot say,” he replied, fidgeting. He towered over her, and could have easily plucked the wispy woman up into his arms, but she somehow still made him feel like a grammar school sprout.

  “Is this about the traitor?”

  “He has a name,” Brenol replied.

  “Is it about him?”

  Brenol sighed. “Somewhat,” he added reluctantly.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Her voice was not angry.

  The young man’s eyes widened in surprise. “You expected this,” he said. How?

  His mother’s features slackened suddenly, and she peered at him with uncharacteristic understanding. “Bren, you’re my child. I see. You have a hole.”

  Brenol raised his brow.

  Her face twitched as she fought anxiously for the words. “Since you came back. And Darse left. There’s been a hole.”

  The young man regarded his mother quietly.

  She tugged at her sleeves. “You’re more adult than before—more grown—and I don’t know, but there’s something you’ve been waiting on… I-I didn’t know what.” Her fingers found a loose string and twirled it between thumb and finger over and over again. “And the itch has been growing—to leave, to move…something.” Her amber eyes locked onto his, and her thin lips pinched together while she waited for his response. When it did not come, she discarded the string with an exaggerated swipe of the hand and spoke with a strength he had never before heard from her. “I’m not going to cage you. You’re not my pet.”

  The word made him grimace, his memory shooting back to Darse’s horrific experience with Fingers, but still he was stunned. Her lucidity, her insights, her words. It had taken him eighteen orbits to glimpse it behind all the angst and awkward behavior, but there was more to this broken woman than he could imagine. Brenol stared in disbelief.

  The fullness of her words suddenly struck him.

  She’s letting me go.

  It was without charge, without explanation. It was more love than he had ever expected from her—or ever before received. He stared into her eyes and sensed the world around him continuing despite his efforts to stand still. This was his first moment of connection with her, and he felt the bitter irony that it was also his last. Eventually he choked out the words that Colette had shared through the aurenal. Flowing from his lips, though, they seemed inane and meager.

  How can one actually say goodbye to one’s mother?

  The experience was too sour, too bitter. Without meaning to, he blurted out, “Come. Come with me.”

  Her face jumped in suspicion. “You want me to come?”

  Brenol nodded, surprised himself, for he did want her to come. He would take care of her, and she could be with him. The idea, however, had barely germinated before being uprooted.

  “No, no.” She shook her head emphatically. Her hands danced in agitation, and she began to wander around the small room in jerky strides. “I-I-I just… No.” She swung her head back violently and stared venomously at her son. “You mean nothing to me. Just like your traitor friend. Be gone.”

  Brenol frowned, wishing things could somehow be different. His mother was not whole—would likely never be—and there was little he could do to mend the strange brokenness within her. He could force her to accompany him, but a foreign world would only aggravate whatever ailed her; the mere mention of leaving had caused her anxiety to rise. His remaining here also would be of little use. She had refused his help from the beginning and would do so to the close.

  He bobbed his head in agreement, hoping to calm her, though he still stung with regret for a future that could never be.

  “Ma, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Brenol approached and met her, forcing her body to a still. He cupped her hands in his large palms and dipped his head to meet her eye to eye. She shook free but remained before him as he spoke.

  “I do love you. You’ll be fine here. You always have been, right?” He smiled gently, and her thin head bobbed back in fitful agreement.

  “Go join your traitor friend,” she said without emotion.

  Brenol winced. “It isn’t like that.”

  “I don’t care if it is or isn’t,” she replied steadily.

  Brenol sighed. Delaying his departure was not serving either, so he attempted to embrace her for the final time. Her arms batted him back, and again he released her.

  The young man dipped down to kiss the crown of her head lightly, and her brown tresses stuck to his salty lips. He wiped his face clean and strode out the door. He wondered if he would ever retrace those steps again.

  She waited for the sound of his heels to recede and then returned to her washing.

  ~

  Brenol rapped lightly on the weathered door. The sound seemed to echo through the small residence. He glanced around restlessly, wondering where he could find Mager if she was not here, and then sighed quietly as he caught the sounds of muttering from within.

  A creamy brown face topped with shortly cropped hair the hue of snow poked out. Two bushy white eyebrows raised in question, but the woman made no move to speak.

  “Mager,” Brenol began. “I—”

  The woman held up a wrinkled hand. “Be gone. I’ve got nothing baked. You can be on your way.”

  Brenol smiled, amused despite the rebuttal, and felt his impatience dissipate. “I haven’t pestered you for food for orbits,” he teased her.

  Mager’s pink lips pursed tightly. “Yes, but now you’re twice the size you used to be. You’re probably here to make up for all the lost meals.”

  Brenol dipped his head, as if in acquiescence. “I am always hungry. But I came with another purpose. I brought you a gift.”

  Mager’s face lit with joy, like a child discovering it was a holiday, then shifted swiftly into a suspicious, sidelong gaze.
She crept the door forward a few digits but did not make a move to exit. “A gift?”

  “A gift,” he repeated, smiling enticingly.

  Mager hesitated, and the man could see both uneasiness and curiosity in her wide brown eyes. She allowed herself one step, and that was enough for Brenol. He collected her hand and tugged her gently forward.

  “Come, come,” Brenol said.

  At his touch, all hesitation vanished. She brightened and took his arm, as if he were a suitor calling upon her, and Brenol led the little woman around to the back of her house. Her steps were springy, and a smile tugged at Brenol’s lips. Mager had always been a tad eccentric.

  The woman whistled as she spied the fence. There, roped to her splintering fence, were Brenol’s two cows. Daisy, the dark brown heifer heavy with calf, ignored their presence and bent greedily for the tufts of grass by her hooves. Clover, though, raised her large, black head to peer genially at the two. Her eyes were a velvety chocolate brown and carried a sweetness, even if they lacked any spark of wit.

  Mager, while refusing to relinquish Brenol’s arm, pulled her chin back and turned to face him distrustfully. “Your gift is to clear my lawn?”

  Brenol patted the thin arm. “I need a favor from you.”

  “That much is obvious,” she said with a guffaw. She waited with interested expectation.

  Brenol inhaled, allowing the rehearsed words to flow from his lips. “I’m going away on a trip, probably for a long time. And I want you to have my ladies.” He extended a finger to the nearest. “Daisy will be lifing in the next moon with her first, and Clover, the black one, is a solid milker. Should you need to, the calf will likely make a fine price at Smalter’s Fest, and then you’d have two good dairy cows.”

  Brenol peered at Mager. Her demeanor was still reserved, but he perceived a smile in her eyes. “The favor, though…” he began.

  “The favor, indeed,” Mager repeated with a laugh. The aging woman squeezed Brenol’s arm slightly, again reminding him of a gleeful child.

  “I need you to look after Ma. Bring her some milk every day. You’ll have more than you need. And if you sell any, maybe buy her some food every now and then.” He straightened and met her gaze squarely. “I’m giving you more than I am asking. We both know that.”