The Forbidding Blue Page 3

  “She said as much, if not more, in her seal to me.”

  Brenol jerked his face up in astonishment. A cinnamon strand of hair escaped its band. “She sent you seal? When?”

  Arman held out a hand to the young man. Brenol leaned forward. In his palm laid a folded paper triangle with her fine penmanship visible in the slanted name. The note appeared minute in the elongated hand of the juile, like a single white lily atop a dark pond. Brenol did not take it. He lifted his hand and brushed the paper wistfully, as though it might connect him somehow with the writer.

  “Six days ago I received it.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Brenol said weakly.

  “The bounty is mine,” he replied simply. “You do not believe her?”

  Brenol started. It was not the question that jolted him, it was the tone. Arman was questioning Brenol’s doubts, not the validity of Colette’s assumptions. He straightened his spine, fully attentive.

  “Help me, Arman. Tell me what you know.” Both hope and angst knotted his stomach.

  The letter slipped away into the secret folds of Arman’s black robes. The juile stood and extended his hand out again to Brenol.

  “Come friend,” he said gently. “Let’s find Colette. Then we talk.”

  The sky was pregnant with light now, turning the land softer with its golden radiance. It glowed with the appearance of warmth, even if the chill lived in the bones of every terrisdan and creature. Brenol took the proffered hand and allowed the tall juile to lift up his stiff body. He shook his limbs with a new energy, turned from the sun, and strode purposefully back to his house.

  ~

  “Tell me again of the eyes, Colette,” Arman said. He sat statue-still, and his face was severe and grim.

  She winced, drawing forth the images to mind, and spoke softly, “Black pools, although sometimes there are splashes of color. It’s like this—just a moment.”

  She heaved her body to a stand and strode to the back room. The sound of shuffling pages at the writing desk ensued before she returned to the main of the house. Her fingers gripped a well-worn notebook bound in a soft green fabric. She flipped through the pages with a practiced movement. Brenol observed curiously; this was the first he had seen of the album.

  The pictures flapped by as she perused, but as she neared the center she slowed and leafed through more patiently, finally handing the open book to the juile. “I began to draw the dreams because they haunted my mind. I saw the eyes asleep, awake. They watch me in an eerie way.”

  Like they can see inside me, she thought, shuddering.

  She seated herself again and wrapped her chilled frame in a thick afghan. “I thought if I could write the dreams, draw them, speak about them—anything—that somehow they’d stop, or at least their meaning would become clear.”

  “And what happened?” Arman asked. He held the book but had yet to pull his eyes from the lunitata.

  Colette shook her head in disgust. “It only seemed to strengthen their power. I began to see more, hear more. The intensity was nauseating…”

  “But you didn’t stop?”

  She turned her head in gentle negation.

  “Why are these dreams starting now?” Arman asked, half to himself.

  Colette hugged her belly. “They’ve come for moons… They began once the babe started to move about in me.”

  Arman’s brow raised in surprise. “That is something. Something indeed.” He leaned forward, considering. “These dreams do not match the actual moments in present time.”

  “No,” Colette agreed. “But I cannot dispel the feeling that these events are actually taking place, even if at a different time. I can’t explain it.”

  “What a nurest sees does not always require an explanation. Sometimes it merely calls for attention,” Arman said. “Sharp attention.”

  Colette nodded wordlessly.

  “What is its name?” Arman asked after a time.

  She bit her lower lip, pondering. “He never says, or at least not consistently. His name changes with the color of his skin.”

  Arman held that thought. There was meaning there, however mysterious.

  Brenol interjected, “Is it an ‘it’ or a ‘him’?”

  Colette again shook her head. Her blond hair rippled then lay still. “Not a him, not a her, but it is a him or her when inside them.”

  Brenol’s spine felt icy.

  “It is a spiritual creature. Yes?” Arman queried.

  She nodded.

  “Have you seen it give the black fever to people? Or is the icar a consequence of his presence?”

  Colette was shaken by the question. There were few who had not seen the bodies, black as soot, and felt the fear that weakened knees and hearts. Without cure, without rhyme or reason—it was beyond a mere reminder of mortality. “The black fever?” she asked. “You think there’s a connection with it?”

  Arman’s body tensed, as if evading the question could dissolve the truth. For orbits he had sought answers, and here it was all present before him. The conjectures, the chasing, the fear—everything. The truth stared at him squarely, and he could not deny it. The juile inhaled slowly and lifted his chin in simple assent. “There is.”

  Brenol stood aghast. “But Arman, the black fever has been around for orbits. Orbits and orbits. Darse’s mother was the first one to have it. That’s generations. This spirit can’t have been around that long. That’s too much time to not be noticed.”

  The juile pursed his lips and looked alternately at the two. “I do not know. The disease has been increasing. I think that even if this creature did not have a place in the fever’s origin, it is certainly grasping and wielding the sickness now. There’s no other explanation.”

  Brenol quieted, attempting to examine the pieces. There was too much to see and too much still missing.

  “Did your dreams show any bodies that were the black hue that the fever leaves?”

  Colette shook her head, but stopped mid-movement. She cocked her chin to the side, mouth slightly ajar. “Yes. But not the full black of the fever. His skin was blackening like he was bruised all over. It was hideous.” She cringed at the memory, the horror gripping her afresh. “And the smell… It was like burning.”

  Arman did not react. He turned his attention to the book, paging through the rough sketches. None of the faces were alike, but the eyes, every one, were eerily dark. Colette had drawn them as though the pupils were black sunbursts, leaking into the lighter irises.

  Arman was silent, grim. He lifted the page and at the next picture, tapped on a face. “Tell me of this dream.”

  Colette closed her eyes, pulling through the moons of nightmares, but a sudden clarity lurched within her at the recollection. When she opened her eyes again, they were full of pain.

  “You knew this woman.” It was not a question, for she knew it beyond instinct. The dream had included Arman—at least his name.

  “Tell me.”

  “It disturbed me.”

  “Tell me.”

  Reluctantly, she unfolded the story of Holia, the woman housing the vicious spirit. “I know there are things I’m forgetting or not seeing right now. But there was a young woman there too. She begged to write to you. Screamed your name over and over. She said you were her brother.”

  “And the seal?”

  “Holia never let her write it. Your name disturbed her somehow.”

  “My name?” Arman’s eyebrows drew together tightly in thought. “My name.” His lips mouthed the words again silently.

  Colette gazed down at her palms. “I don’t know why.”

  “And the young woman? What did she look like?”

  “Dark complexion, black hair. Pictures dyed across most of her visible skin.”

  Arman nodded sadly in recognition.

  A cold thought seized Brenol. His voice was soft when he spoke. “Was it your sister?”

  The juile shook his head. “An old friend. Serena. We traveled many places together… She
knew something if she was trying to communicate to me…” He drew the fingertips of one hand over the nails of the other, and continued the strange motion in a steady cycle. It was like a slow combing of invisible thread. “What happened to her?”

  Colette pursed her lips as the bloodstained images streaked across her memory. She shook her head.

  “Colette, please.” Arman’s onyx eyes bore into her; he would not allow this to remain unspoken.

  She finally broke from his gaze and stared down at the floor, whispering the words. “Holia opened her throat.”

  Arman cupped his chin in hand. His eyes were fierce and thoughtful, with mystery and danger both residing in his gaze. He stared at the picture silently for many moments.

  Finally he spoke. “May I take this?”

  Colette opened her hands in consent, and Arman carefully began to tear the sheet from the book. Colette interrupted the process. “No. Take the whole thing. You may need it.”

  Arman nodded and secreted away the album into his robes. He turned his eyes down upon her kindly. “You’ve helped me greatly. Thank you, Colette… I know it has not been easy.”

  She granted him a grim smile in response. “What’re you going to do?” She tugged the blanket more squarely around her shoulders and shivered as if she were outdoors and exposed.

  “I am going to figure out what this is…” His voice lifted as a new thought suddenly occurred to him. “Colette, what is the longest that this being has remained in a person?”

  The lunitata closed her eyes and allowed the awful images to pour across her memory, her face pinched in discomfort. She swallowed hard, opening her eyes. They were glazed with horror. “I think several septspan is the longest I’ve seen between moving bodies. It either grows weary of the host or the signs of death push it to finding another.” She sighed. “But we also know the times of my dreams are not necessarily accurate.”

  He waved away her words. “Do the whites of the eyes ever go black too?”

  Colette’s chest caved in and her shoulders sagged. “I remember one. The body was far gone. And the eyes…” She pointed into Arman’s robes. “May I?”

  The juile plucked the book from his attire, and her thin finger reached across to flip to a section of the album. She found the image in a quick swipe. Her index finger landed squarely upon the page’s center with a tap.

  Brenol leaned forward. The eyes were horrible. Not a speck of color or white to them. Just a limitless sea of darkness. Even had the expression of the face been soft—it was not—the whole still would have been terrible. Arman nodded solemnly and returned the book to his pockets.

  “Arman?” Colette asked.

  The juile peered at the woman, her eyes wide and strained. He extended a hand to offer a brief, consoling touch. “Yes?”

  “Can it see me?”

  Arman retracted his hand, considering. “I cannot be sure,” he replied eventually. “But I think not.”

  “Why am I so certain in the dreams that it does?”

  “Perhaps it is how the land feels? And it is transferring this experience to you in the dream?” He flicked his fingers out in a gesture of unknowing.

  Something nagged at Brenol’s mind with an irritating persistence. “Arman, how long did you know there was something like this going on? How much did you know before Colette wrote to you?”

  The juile hesitated, his features grotesque as he deliberated his response. He spoke quietly. “I have known for some time. I have been trying to balance my perceptions with little information.”

  “How long?”

  Arman raised his glance and straightened in resolve. He gazed unflinchingly into Brenol’s eyes. “Shortly after Colette returned from the isle, but with more clarity during the ordeal of the terrisdan poisoning.”

  Brenol lowered his head in shock. “Why did you not tell me, friend?” The last word tasted bitter upon his tongue.

  Arman waved a hand through the air, slicing it like smoke. “For you to question my conjectures that I could not prove? While you needed to focus on the matter before you?” He paused, and spoke more gently, “I should have told you sooner than this, yes. But that was certainly not the time. For my delay, though, I apologize.”

  Brenol gazed at the juile. He was still hot with anger, but Colette’s hand found his.

  “Let it be, Zen,” she whispered, and he felt her voice ground him as only a lover’s can. It melted everything hard in him, and, uncomfortably, he found he was left only with fear—a wrenching terror for his family and the hovering darkness.

  She squeezed his hand gently, and slowly he was able to perceive Arman’s reasons. He inhaled and recalled the two events that forever both haunted him and drove him on—the maralane girl buried on the bank and the soladrome ceiling.

  The gortei, his mind echoed, and his empty hand clenched white. The heat and rumblings of an oath made long ago stirred. He allowed the moment to burn within and stoke the long-cold fire to life. This was not just about protecting Colette and his baby, despite his temptation to make it so. He nodded his head, filled anew with resolve.

  Brenol looked to his friend. “You had your reasons… Now, what do we do?”

  Arman smiled, and his face evened into beauty. “You are a good man, Bren. Let us hunt the fever.”

  Brenol paused, quickly calculating the days until next cold-weather sowing, but halted in mid-thought. The normalcy and routine of the moons and orbits had become his life, but they could not be any more, at least for the present. Much more was at stake than the season’s wares. They would make do. They would have to.

  “Do you plan to send seal to Darse?” Brenol asked, feeling a new disquiet. He was unsure how the man would take this mission. Darse had lived for so long with unwelcome glances and the burning question of his mother’s death.

  “Yes, but let’s wait until we know where we can meet him. He is further south and will not be able to make an appointment I have in place. We’ll send word along our route.” Arman nodded with assurance. “He’ll be a great help to us in this fight.”

  Colette’s face whitened to the pallor of milk. Brenol was everything to her now. Even the consolation of the nurest connection was no more.

  “Arman?” Colette asked in a hushed tremble.

  “Yes?”

  The lunitata drew her gaze up to meet the juile’s. Her emerald eyes were a wrenching mixture of terror and determination. “Why is it trying to find the sword?”

  Arman’s jaw tightened. “Sword?”

  The slight motion of the juile swept away any vacillation within Colette; she now knew with certainty that Heart Render was no mere nurse’s tale. Brenol filled with dread, a metallic taste flooding his mouth.

  “Where is it?” she whispered.

  Every nerve in the juile seemed taut and awake. “Hush, Colette. Do not speak of it to anyone.”

  Colette’s face screwed up in turmoil. “Why silence? There is too much peril to hold back now.”

  Arman shook his dark head. He would—or could—not answer.

  “And how do you know where this spirit will be?” she continued desperately. “Can it even be killed? Can such a monster be stopped? Will you try to find Heart Render?” Her voice sounded strained and thin, like twine burdened with much weight and frayed to strings.

  Silence hung in the party. For a moment, all were suspended in the tension.

  Finally, Arman bent his tall frame down, and his mouth curled up into a small, gentle smile. “Evil can always be destroyed. Good is too strong to be overcome for long. Do not fear, my grace. Good will win.”

  But at what cost, she asked herself. At what cost?

  ~

  It was well into the night, but neither Brenol nor Colette slept. Earlier, they had sent seal to a local midwife, requesting aid for when Colette neared the lifing of their child, and Brenol had taken inventory to ensure Colette’s stores would be sufficient. He silently assured himself that he would return long before the babe’s coming, but h
e also knew how easily complications arose. The man could harbor few delusions: he was striding face forward into peril, even if he did so with Arman. So both he and Colette churned with the knowledge of the morning’s departure, and each trembled with what the future might bring.

  Eventually, Colette spoke. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I will miss you, Bren. I wish we still had the aurenals.”

  Wordlessly, he drew her to him and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her tenderly and stroked her back. His affections had not dulled with time; time had intensified them. She sighed and allowed his warmth to envelop and soothe her.

  Just as she was nearing sleep, Brenol spoke. His gut swirled with uneasiness, and he could hear the tension in his voice. “Lette?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you ever still crave the power of the connection?”

  Colette, surprised, sharpened to alertness. “You mean the greed? Do I still wake up sweating and crazed?”

  Brenol nodded, and while she could not see the gesture, she felt it upon her head tucked against his chest.

  Colette considered, then replied slowly. “It is different now.”

  Brenol’s brow creased. He pulled back slightly and began to trace his fingers across her smooth cheeks. “How so?”

  “Well, do you?”

  “No,” Brenol answered. “Not since I met you.”

  “It is scary and vulnerable to live without the connection, and I don’t like it,” Colette began. She smiled softly in the darkness and continued. “But since I came to love you, the greed has dissipated. It is like you ground me and fill me, and the connection—although always appealing—can’t grip me in the same way. My cup is already brimming. I guess I don’t need to quench my thirst with something else.”

  Brenol swallowed hard and drew her close again. Hot emotion lingered in his chest, but he had no desire to mar the moment by voicing it. He held her securely and inhaled her fragrance. He willed the moment to memory, hoping he might carry it with him and draw strength from it.