Eyes in the Water Read online

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  Mager shook her head. “Why not sell them, then? You’d get more money for her that way.”

  Brenol’s face grew somber. “I can’t give her the money, and you know it.” He sighed. “And I can’t trust anyone else to give her the money as she needs it. No, this is better. You are both helped, and I know you will honor our agreement. You watched over Darse’s cow, Button, when we were gone that time.”

  Mager smiled, revealing a long line of crooked teeth. “That’s only because I was thirsty.”

  Brenol laughed. “I think there was more to it than that. But regardless, I trust you, and there are not many people I can say that of. Would you please help me? Would you look after her?”

  The old woman patted his arm with gentle understanding. “You aren’t coming back, are you?”

  Brenol flinched, but answered anyway. “No. I’m not.”

  “Will you be needing your chickens, then?” she asked with a full-toothed grin.

  Brenol chuckled, surprised at her reaction. “They’re yours if you agree.”

  Mager retracted her arm, then placed her hand out flat, palm up. Brenol set his hand palm down on top of hers. After the brief touch, the two nodded and retracted their hands.

  “There is one other thing,” Brenol said after a moment.

  Mager sighed. “Now to buy the loaf.”

  Brenol laughed. “No, no. I just want you to make sure no one goes in Darse’s house. I’ll board it up, but I don’t want anyone in there.”

  “Why?” she asked with sudden curiously.

  He pressed his lips together, searching for an excuse. “It is what Darse would have wanted. I need to honor that,” he finally said.

  Mager surveyed the man for a few moments, then finally nodded. “I’ll do what I can… Do you mind me using his land, though?”

  “It’s yours,” Brenol said, relieved.

  Suddenly, Brenol lurched forward as Mager slapped him excitedly on the back. She offered a surprising amount of force for such a slight person.

  “Gah!” she yelped gleefully. She rubbed her palms together slowly, her face eager. “Milk for my old bones! This is even better than nipping from Darse’s stores.”

  Brenol laughed, thinking of his friend. Darse had always known when the woman had been foraging through his food, but he had spared her any harsh words. “Thank you, Mager. I appreciate it.”

  She narrowed her glance for a moment. “I still didn’t bake anything for you. I’m clean out.” Her face extended again into a smooth smile, unable to hide her pleasure over their dealings. “Clean out.”

  ~

  The stairs were still damp. It had only been a handful of hours since he had emerged with the knowledge that he was returning to Massada. He removed his sandals carefully and stowed them in his pack. The bag did not contain much, just enough to ensure that he wouldn’t again find himself unshod and hungry on the banks of Ziel.

  Sloshing his way in, he shivered and jumped as he adjusted to the water and darkness. After a few minutes, the pricks of ice receded, and his skin was cool to the touch. He gazed forward, seeing dim lights along the canal—a crude tallow ensconced every twenty paces or so. He began to shudder but stopped himself, opting to find hope in them instead of fear.

  Then he swam.

  His strong body stretched easily through the water, even with the awkward pack strapped to his back. The fish glimmered in the depths, and Brenol caught brief glimpses of fins, but he could not pick out the dance of their school in the murky darkness.

  Arm over arm. Kick, kick, kick. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Had he possessed any extra energy, he would have groaned, but instead he ignored his protesting muscles and pressed on.

  It’s so much darker this time. And it feels like the tunnel’s going to go on forever. It just never ends.

  There were so many discrepancies between the present trip and the past that his mind cartwheeled anxiously. This is not the same swim I made four orbits ago.

  After hours of effort, Brenol was spent. His lungs heaved, and he wondered if his body could endure another stroke, but his legs and arms continued to drive him forward monotonously.

  Suddenly, his fingers scraped painfully against dirt. There had been no fire this time, no blinding sear to end the marathon. The water merely shallowed, and he emerged from the cave like a disgorged bug. Shivering as a touch of wind met his quivering muscles, he crawled weak-legged up the bank and collapsed beneath a tree to sleep.

  ~

  Colette stirred. Her ears pricked at a sound in the corridor, and her body went rigid. She could not perceive who it was, nor what the person was doing. Her nurest connection—her tie to the land—was glaringly absent, and she felt the limitations of ordinary senses with acute distaste.

  The lunitata rose to a sit and peered around in the dim light, waiting. Her chamber was lit by the faintest glow of a lantern. She did not care if it was a waste of fuel. Her only concern was being able to see if she woke, for the terror of her inner blindness—the lack of terrisdan connection and sight—had turned her vulnerable and crazed.

  No one rapped at her door, and the hall fell silent. If she had been united with Veronia, she would have known everything. She would have perceived the person’s dress, gait, height, and weight. She could have seen his movements, marked his possessions. And had there been trouble, Veronia would have helped her.

  “Veronia, what’s wrong with you?” she whispered faintly. She was met with only silence. The entire space of her mind was her own, and she felt the lack down to her toes.

  Do I even care? Colette wondered. Or is it only about the power?

  Perturbed, she pondered all that the connection gave her: knowledge beyond compare, skill without ever applying herself, a flood of affection and assurance, unwavering confidence, and belief in her own goodness. How she longed for it all again! She had been capable of anything! With the connection she felt alive and free, and without it she was helpless and lost.

  Colette sighed, wishing the world was far different, but in the space of that very exhalation, she perceived a ravenous hunger approaching. She eased back into bed, her limbs beginning to slick with sweat. A rumble grew in her, and hot greed poured through her veins.

  I need the connection, her body wailed. I need the power.

  The young woman whimpered as desire flooded her, and she curled on her side as small as she could, hugging her knees to chest.

  She shivered despite the burning heat consuming her, and she clenched her fists until her nails pierced her palms.

  “No, I do love Veronia. I do,” she said defiantly to the empty room.

  Colette inhaled slowly, but the greed only intensified, like fire kissing an accelerant.

  After several minutes her eyes went hard.

  I will do anything to get it back, she swore. Anything.

  Nothing will stop me.

  ~

  Brenol awoke with a start. His dreams had been horrifying. Maralane washing up like pale, bloated whales on sandy shores, storms ransacking Massada, grown men weeping, terrible black eyes staring at him. He shook his head as if to physically expunge the imprinted images and opened his eyes.

  Massada!

  He was here! It had not been his imagination. It had all been real—at least the waterway and tunnel and beach.

  But everything was so different this time. Could this be a sign of Massada’s weakness?

  He pushed the thought aside and rose to stretch his legs and shaky arms. His body ached from his swim. He was caked with mud and leaves, and much of his skin had taken on the fox-red hue of Ziel’s clay bank. Brenol shivered in the early dawn light and watched as his breath frosted the air before his face. He rubbed his cool limbs while his stomach groaned in revolt.

  “Hold on, hold on,” he muttered, as though his own body was a stock animal braying for its feed. He squatted and groped into his soaked pack, pulling out a pair of dripping sandals and some carefully wrapped cheese and oat cakes. The edges had be
gun to dampen, but on the whole they had survived the journey unscathed. He consumed more than he would have liked from his stores for he could not restrain his starving hands. The cold bit, but the food helped to get his natural heat flowing again. His fingers absently combed through his crop of red hair. Leaves and small twigs fluttered out.

  I am a mess, he thought, not uncheerfully.

  He rubbed his face, wishing for steaming coffee, and opened his gaze to the world around him. The water permeated the air with a pungent sweetness, and he filled his lungs with the morning mists. The trees, in the naked barrenness of late autumn or early winter, were typical to the lake areas: brechant, contrium, sewl, and many he only knew by sight. Branches and bracken barred many passages, and the ground was littered with dead fall, nuts, seeds, cones, and rocks. It was indeed Massada, although Ziel seemed indefinably different. He rubbed his hair again absently as he mused. A small piece of bark fell from his head to the soil.

  Brenol stopped contemplating the unknown and allowed his lips to spread into a toothy grin. He threw his body back into a sprawl, and despite the damp red earth seeping further into his chilled clothing, he savored the reunion.

  Home. I’m home.

  I don’t care if I have the entire bank in my hair. I’m home.

  He lay and closed his eyes. He felt a soft warmth creep upon him and the light behind his lids brighten as the sun peeked out. His insides swelled with hope. Raising his vision to the heavens, he sighed in thanksgiving. The skies were awakening with the dawn’s purple-pink explosion, and clouds streaked across the easel of color like smears of white paint.

  Home. Finally.

  Clambering to his feet, he permitted himself to tarry, just for a few brief moments, knowing that he would need his entire self fortified to face what awaited.

  His eyes returned to the cave from which he had scrambled. So many orbits previously, before a cave similar to this one, Ordah’s words had echoed through his bones. Blood shall bring new life. Brenol was still no closer to untangling that mystery, and he felt the twinge of anticipation a runner does as he approaches the block. Through his shirt pocket, he traced the outline of the whistle he had received from Pearl.

  One thought led to another, and Brenol grinned; he would soon see Darse again. And Arman. And Colette.

  Colette!

  He lunged forward into the shallows and pulled the aurenal from his pocket. It shone as though it had been polished that morning. He clicked it open anxiously, but he did not hear the voice of the princess.

  “I’m here,” he whispered. “If I don’t hear from you, I will head to Veronia. I’m not sure, but I think I’m on the northern banks of Ziel.”

  He took a deep breath. Regardless of what came next, he was home.

  CHAPTER 3

  When the balance of strength and weakness lurches, the genuine character of all is revealed.

  -Genesifin

  Brenol had just pointed his heels west when he was stopped short by a disquieting tingle on his neck. He turned to scan the area for the cause and halted in alarm as his eyes fell upon Ziel. Hundreds of dark, emotionless eyes peered out from the murky waters. Hair and brows varied, but the alien expression upon each face elicited goosebumps down his spine.

  I feel like prey at the water hole when they do that.

  He fought a shudder and instead bowed his head in greeting. The maralane social niceties—what he knew of them, at least—came back to him without deliberation.

  This place—it is all returning to me somehow.

  And it was. But at the same time, he felt older, stronger. His blood and thoughts seemed to course with new life and the pulse of the land. His heart thrummed with pleasure, despite the circumstances.

  “You are Brenol?”

  He was addressed by a lake-man with a strong but thin frame, square jaw, and aqua fronds binding his seaweed and sepia locks. The green eyes pounded into Brenol. He was no different than any other maralane Brenol had encountered: intense to the tips of his fingers.

  Brenol nodded, and the screen of water swallowed the teeming people. Every single one. They descended without a blink or gesture, with not even a sound to mark their departure. Tiny concentric circles were the only hint that the translucent bodies had ever been. It was eerie to again find himself alone, or at least seemingly alone. He tarried, assuming this heralded the promised meeting with Preifest.

  Brenol reflected silently as the minutes swept by. He felt a glimmer of surprise that he had been so readily recognized; he was certainly no longer the fourteen-orbit-old bean pole. They must have been waiting for him, watching for him. For orbits. It was unnerving.

  He collected and retied his dirty mess of red hair with the small band he carried. His fingers tapped absently in code upon his hip.

  Finally, Preifest emerged, his stunning amethyst eyes unblinking. They were the same eyes, but their owner was not the same maralane. Preifest, the once stalwart and vital figure, was now a frail creature: reduced frame, scales peeling off in a sickly iridescence, gaunt and hollow face, once clear skin now a yellowy cream. He had shriveled like a flower at the close of season.

  “Preifest,” Brenol whispered. He bowed his head in respect, his heart stricken with the sting of compassion. Such a creature to have diminished like this. What has happened?

  “Brenol,” he said in a cracked voice. “You have grown.”

  You have shrunk, Brenol thought grimly.

  “And the Genesifin?” Preifest looked greedily to Brenol’s pockets, as though the book might restore good fortune to the lake.

  Brenol patted his damp coat. “Do you want it?”

  Preifest shook his head, although his hungry lilac eyes said differently. “It is good that we meet again, Brenol. It has been long. Many orbits.”

  He’s dying. And we’re talking like this?

  “You do not want to discuss your time at home. I understand,” he said respectfully.

  A pang shot through Brenol’s heart. How did he—?

  “Let us speak.”

  “Yes?” Brenol suddenly felt weaker than Preifest’s body looked.

  “You have read the Genesifin?”

  Brenol nodded. “And the juile code.”

  Preifest chuckled, a sound that reminded Brenol of a fish flopping around in want of water. “It has always been our code, not the juile’s. It was secret until we shared it with a people many orbits ago. A gift for a service offered.”

  “Who? What people?” Brenol’s asked. The picture fascinated him. The maralane were not ones to lightly request help.

  Preifest bristled. “They no longer live in the terrisdans.”

  “Oh. What did they do?”

  Preifest’s webbed fingers lifted in the water, the maralane equivalent of a shoulder shrug. “It has little relevance to our meeting here, but a few tunneled the isle for us. You saw it yourself.”

  “Wh—”

  “They were never allowed to speak of it, but both sides entered into the task with hope for something more, some day in the future. As a gift, they were given the right to use and teach the code. It was but a small concession for all they completed.”

  Brenol leaned forward in interest. The tunnels had been meticulously constructed and ordered. He had wondered about them for orbits. “And the juile learned the code too?” he asked.

  The leader smiled weakly. “Juile manage to learn many things to which they are not granted access.”

  Brenol returned the expression, thinking of Arman. The juile instinctively knew where to find information, however privileged—and trouble.

  Preifest’s face sobered, and he continued. “The maralane leader of the time, Clirest, had hopes of somehow uniting the upper and lower worlds.”

  “But how? Why would tunneling under the isle help that?” Brenol asked.

  Preifest nodded. “He was a prophet. The Three spoke to him. The tunnels would somehow unite the world… For whatever reason, it was fated.”

  Brenol furrowed h
is brow, considering the all-too-apparent lack of fulfillment of the prophecy.

  “Since then, the isle was deemed too dangerous for any on land to know about. Too much power rests there. And so, it has sat rotting in secrecy, along with our pride.”

  Brenol’s head lifted in surprise. He opened his mouth but then pressed his lips together, trying to make sense of it all.

  The purple eyes met his squarely. “Brenol, we’re all mortal. The prick of death shall touch us whether we are in water or on land. And it’s in this that I’ve been deceived.”

  Preifest’s chest sank slightly, and he slowed his speech. “I prevented the union of our kinds. I did it. I did not think the upper world capable of benere in the face of such power… I-I… I cannot ask for forgiveness from every creature of the upper world, so I merely ask it of you. I’ve not seen the upper world, nor treated it, as I ought. Your kind has been far more gracious and compassionate these last few seasons than I could have foreseen. I led my people in separation. Yours has chosen benere in spite of that.”

  The burden of guilt weighed visibly on the shriveled figure. It rent Brenol’s heart. The young man eased down slowly—still sore from his swim—to rest his haunches upon his heels, so his own eyes might be more level with Preifest’s. As a gesture of kindness, he extended his hand out, palm up. “I forgive you. And accept your apology for all the upper world. May it be in good accord.”

  The gentleness of Brenol’s response made Preifest’s face glow alive in surprise. “Brenol, I do not know if I will ever be able to predict you.”

  “Nor I you, Preifest.”

  They both smiled.

  Brenol paused. Should I ask? I don’t know if I’ll ever have another chance… What if—

  “What is it, Brenol?” Preifest prodded gently.

  “I… It’s just… How’s this happening? And why? Why are the maralane dying? Can’t something be done?”

  The elderly lake-man lowered his lids as he considered his words. “It is no disease. Nor is it a thing to be solved… This is merely the fruit dropping and withering away.”