The Forbidding Blue Page 4

  Before they both fell into sleep, he whispered into her ear. “I love you. And always will.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Fate cannot be unmade.

  -Genesifin

  Arman directed their steps north, indicating to his companion that they headed for the northwestern section of lugazzi by Ziel. Both became quiet and contained and threw themselves into travel. It took two solid days to sweep across Veronia, but by midday of the third they crossed Veronia’s border and the lugazzi and advanced into Garnoble. The terrisdan welcomed Brenol with a quiet glance, as if groggy from an afternoon slumber, and swiftly cloaked Arman in its scenery. A kiss of breeze and the smooth stride of the juile left his robes flapping in a whisper. It was the only hint of his presence. That, and his pedasse.

  “Do you have any ideas?” Brenol finally asked. His voice sounded strange after spending so long in silence.

  “Always,” Arman replied.

  Brenol’s face remained grim, unamused. “About what we do. Catching him. Killing him. It.”

  “We hunt the black fever for now, seeking information. I think it will be much easier now than it has been. This being is losing its initial caution. It is killing and leaving trails of bodies, and not just from the fever. It thinks it is above our awareness and beyond our power to stop.”

  A cold stone rested in Brenol’s stomach. “Is it?”

  The pedasse halted, and a warm pressure met Brenol’s shoulder. “We will find a way.”

  “This came through the portals, didn’t it?” Brenol asked.

  Arman inhaled. “It would seem so.”

  Brenol shook his head. “The maralane were fools.”

  “The maralane were not infallible,” Arman conceded. “But I doubt they were as short-sighted as you think.”

  Brenol felt his face curling into a scowl. Yes, he was grateful that he had been able to pass through the portals, but drawing creatures into another world was a perilous game. Anything could come. Anything had come.

  Eventually he spoke, “Arman? Will you tell me what you know about Heart Render? The stories seem so ridiculous, but you and Col talk of it as though it’s real. I half long for its existence, but I’m terrified that such a thing could actually be.”

  “You are not the only one, friend.”

  Brenol raised his eyebrows and slid his hand to his pocket. He knew Arman well, and his slight evasion did not go unnoticed.

  You did not answer, old friend, he clicked in code.

  A deep sigh issued at Brenol’s right. It surprised him; he had thought Arman had resumed his stride.

  I cannot speak. I have sworn my secrecy, Arman clicked in reply, adding aloud, “I should not even say as much to you.”

  Brenol paused, deliberating. Finally, he spoke with a slow and decided confidence, “If we’re to go on together in this, we must be straightforward, Arman. Colette was right. This isn’t the time to keep silent and try to do it by yourself. Death is likely the game we toy with.”

  “I cannot speak! Do not ask it of me!” Arman snapped.

  Brenol could not see them, but he could easily picture the blazing eyes behind the voice so charged with power.

  “If and when it becomes a peril, I shall not withhold. But until then, I am sworn.”

  Brenol quietly relented—less from agreement than knowing the iron will of his companion—and the two continued. The matroles swept by under the monotonous dread of their thoughts and the swift pace of the juile.

  ~

  Brenol kicked the few remaining embers with his sturdy boots, pushing the dark soil over anything that could spark. It had been a quiet beginning to a new day—waking alone, breakfasting alone—but something of the morning and his solitude had reordered him.

  He gazed upward at the sky. It was a gray spread that foretold of cold lingering long after the early mists had taken leave. Yet the loveliness of the glade steadied him. The silence steadied him. Sleeping under the stars the last several nights had gradually steadied him. It all reminded him of who he was, and of Deniel too. He breathed in deeply and felt the cool air sting his lungs.

  It’s like I have been asleep. Or forgotten myself in my comfort.

  The branches of the trees swung under the lilt of morning gusts, and the leafless limbs—frosty white blanketing the deep ocher—tilted and jumped in a bobbing waltz of reflection and light, each intricate part ennobling the beauty of the whole. The breeze whooshed through, and for a moment the entire glen could have been alive—at least that subdued and hushed life of early winter.

  Brenol straightened his spine and stood tall, but even still, he was an ant beneath the massive giants thrusting to the heavens. His lips curled contentedly at the edges. The sun peeked through the brume down to his littleness, and he felt alive and bursting with ambition.

  He glanced around expectantly, but then shrugged both shoulders and set to stowing the remaining gear in his pack. It was in these moments that their old third was missed sorely; Darse did not take his leave in the black of night and he was always visible. He would have been a welcome companion for the morning, yet the silence had acted powerfully in grounding Brenol back to the man he knew he was.

  It’s funny how daily life can make me forget who I am so easily.

  He clicked his beads in his hand softly, allowing the cadence and movement to further awaken his mind. He glanced around to locate any misplaced possession. It was then that he spied it.

  “Arman,” Brenol mumbled to himself in disbelief. “Why did he bring that wretched book?”

  The Genesifin.

  The white tome lay plainly upon a mossy stump, vibrant against the lichen and green. It was a wonder he had not seen it until now, even with the ashy frost covering most of the land—but perhaps he had not wanted to.

  Brenol had not lifted the white volume for orbits. He had seen it enough, read it enough, felt it enough in the past. Yes, it had proven fruitful in helping him understand Massada, but the passing of the maralane had sated his taste for the book and then some. He had tucked it away in an unlikely little corner of his house to be forgotten and, with any bounty, to rot.

  But Arman knew it was important. Important enough to pilfer through my things to find. And bring.

  Brenol tentatively reached out with the tips of his fingers and allowed them to grace the smooth cover. His digits remembered the sensation. It was like finding an artifact from childhood: worn, touched, known. Something within stirred in the familiarity of the movement.

  My cartess…

  He flipped it open with a flick of the wrist, and his eyes settled on the passage: To fully live is to know yourself, without fear or grasping.

  He closed the book, pondering. The cud was just as tasteless as when he had first chewed it. He sighed, removed his boots, cuffed his pants, and strode down to the river. Frost bit at his toes, but he set his chin defiantly and refused to be deterred. When he reached the waters, they were frigid enough to draw forth a soft moan, but he forced his fingers to page the book open. Brenol soaked in the secret code glittering across the pages.

  The Child of Malitas will come. It will be blight to creature and land…

  A foreigner shall call the peoples of the land, and they shall be obedient as never before seen…

  The maralane shall pass, and their kind will be but a memory…

  The Change shall come. Death will thrive. One shall stand as witness to the Final Breath…

  The Lady of Purpose shall unite the peoples…

  Tindella it will be called: an honor to those who saved the remnant…

  Brenol closed the book, retracted his numb feet, and moved up the rocky bank to his pack and boots. He brushed the dirt that clung to his damp toes and mindlessly attempted to rub life back into them.

  Could Colette truly be this Lady? Deniel had no doubts…

  He shivered against the wind’s rush and felt all his thoughts tumble. Fate, Colette, prophesy, evil—it was as if all the pieces were leaves swooping and weaving a
bout in the air under the breeze’s fancy. He could catch one and scrutinize it, but it would never give him a full image of a tree.

  Brenol shoved the album back into his jacket and made an ineffectual effort to collect his escaping hair.

  He took a deep breath, willing back his previously centered mind.

  It doesn’t matter, he thought decidedly. Whether she’s a part of this or not, I’m still under oath… Colette needs me to live my fate—my cartess. I have to at least try. Or who will save us from this evil?

  Dream eyes of dark evil flashed through his memory. Colette had drawn well, and they truly did look harrowing. Again, something tickled in his mind, but nothing surfaced, and he was forced to let it go.

  After glancing about one final time without much expectation, he shod his feet, shook off the idleness of the morning, and turned his tingling toes north. Arman would find him. There was no use lingering.

  Indeed, the juile joined him by mid-morning.

  Brenol offered a cold breakfast in palm, and it disappeared with sounds of approval. Brenol smiled; Arman protected the whole of Massada but lacked the presence of mind to feed himself.

  “There have been recent fever deaths, not more than fifteen or twenty matroles north. Still in Garnoble.”

  “Did you go already?”

  Arman laughed. “No. I have no wings, unfortunately. But if we move hard, we will get there with time to see.”

  “What—” Brenol began, but was interrupted.

  “I do not know more. But there was such a disturbance that it has rippled south quickly. We may not be far from the trail.”

  “And your appointment you spoke of?”

  “Ah, yes. I have sent a message to Dresden. You remember the healer from your time in Selenia? I’ve requested he meet us outside of Brovingbune as soon as he can manage. From there, we shall send seal to Darse.”

  Brenol glanced over to the vicinity of Arman’s sturdy voice. He was flooded with gratitude, for the juile knew him, knew Massada, and all would be well. Never had there been a more competent creature. The creases of anxiety that had been anchored into Brenol’s face over the last few septspan unfolded. He inhaled with a new ease and nearly laughed; peace had come with the onset of battle.

  A strong pat met Brenol’s back. It was unexpected and nearly caused him to topple onto his nose. Arman chuckled in his low bass. “It is good to be with you too, friend. Very bountiful.”

  “Bountiful indeed.”

  “I am glad the morning has brought you to yourself,” he added kindly. His voice carried a quiet curiosity, as if a question resided in the simple statement.

  Brenol nodded. “I’ve lived with my thoughts and without action too long. It’s good to be moving.”

  “Let us hope you feel the same by evening,” Arman replied, and the soft swishing of his robes turned to a rough flapping as he sprang away.

  Brenol watched the pedasse surge ahead in a line and leaped forward to follow.

  Me too, he thought, chasing them.

  CHAPTER 4

  When malitas rears, not one shall be unaffected.

  -Genesifin

  Arman and Brenol entered the upper belt of Garnoble by late afternoon. The cold, flat land was wooded and clothed with patches of soiled snow and dusty footpaths. Arman was transparent but visible, for the northern tracts of terrisdan also showed signs of having wilted under Jerem’s poison. Brenol cringed as he strode the weak earth. It was like staring at a lifeless limb after a friend’s stroke; the companion was still there, but never to be the same again.

  They arrived in the town of Haty several matroles later, and Brenol’s muscles groaned with the hard stiffness of overuse. The pace had been severe, but the possibility of meeting a cold trail had turned pain inconsequential. Now that the end was in sight, the thought of hot water and food almost made him forget his determined purpose, but Brenol was not about to broach the subject. He merely hoped his stench would drive the juile to an inn and bath by nightfall.

  They pressed in and found the town bursting with life. And rank with fear.

  Humans bustled about rapidly with their eyes darting. Children were either clutched upon bosoms or gripped and tugged by their wrists as mothers skirted through the streets. The few souls who lingered in the thoroughfare carried hard faces creased deep with angst. Their speech deadened to silence when the travelers entered, and the two were greeted with bitter and fierce glances.

  Brenol’s spine tingled vulnerably—and not from the penetrating cold.

  “These people are close to crazed. What happened here?” Brenol asked in a low voice. He planted his feet wider in a solid stance and allowed his hand to hover over the hilt of his belted knife. He had witnessed it before on Alatrice and never cared to see it again: Terror drove crowds to obscene behavior.

  “Nothing good,” Arman replied.

  “I’m not feeling great about all this.”

  Arman’s cheeks pinched in response; he sensed the restlessness of the town’s distress, and perhaps even more keenly than Brenol. New faces were suspicious, but a juile was a rarity in any season.

  A woman crossed before them. Her face was gaunt with grief, and her arms were locked across her chest as she knuckled her coat in a protective embrace about her.

  “My lady,” Arman said gently.

  The brunette halted and drew her agitated eyes toward him. Their glances met, and a flicker of interest sparked, but the dread that drove her won out, and she swept down the lane with renewed haste. She did not look back.

  “I don’t know how much anyone is going to tell us,” Brenol said warily.

  “Indeed. The polina?” Arman suggested. His face revealed nothing, but the young man perceived an energy there—horror and excitement mingling within in a complicated flurry.

  He knows we’re getting close, Brenol realized.

  The juile did not await an answer but simply led the way. His tall form wove through the bister streets, gracefully avoiding obstacles, people, snow, dust. The town was more extensive than Brenol had expected, and by the time they reached its center, he was close to dizzy.

  Arman’s heels slowed. The building before them was rough and aging but tended. It was constructed of wood and mortar and tile—typical of northwestern Garnoble—and was likely the largest edifice in town. It was two storied and the color of chocolate left to melt in the sun. The sections for windows, while originally open and free, now housed both glass and shutters—sealed tightly against the cold—and shone with a newness from which the rest of the building shrunk back. The doors were thick and wooden and rested open, assumedly due to the heavy flow of traffic. Hushed discussions carried a low sibilant hum as maroon-suited men entered and exited.

  Arman made as if to mount the steps but pulled back with a new thought. He stepped aside and met Brenol’s eye. A long finger tapped an ear and then extended across the courtyard; eavesdropping might prove the most fruitful course of action.

  Brenol nodded and sidled away casually to a shaded region by a side door. He bent his sore body down and softly rummaged through his pack, waiting for any piece of information to surface.

  “—long. Right?” asked a portly figure scuttling out the single door. He was followed by a slender pole of a man with sharp eyes that immediately locked onto Brenol. Brenol looked down, but it was too late. He knew those piercing eyes would not rest.

  “Who are you?”

  Brenol sighed—amazed his subterfuge had barely lasted three seconds—and stood. A drinking sack and rope from his bag lay scattered at his feet. “Bren. I’m of Veronia.”

  “Why do you travel through here? This isn’t the avenue to Ziel.” His breath clouded before his rectangular and fierce face.

  “There’s no wrong way to travel the terrisdans,” Brenol replied coolly.

  Hatred and speculation filled the hard features. “Now is not the time to taunt polina.”

  Brenol bowed his head in a conciliatory gesture but thrust his shoulders apa
rt to emphasize his size. He hoped he appeared stronger than he felt. “There was no taunting implied.”

  The heavyset man tugged at the taller as a child might. “Come. Let’s go. We have work to do.”

  The lips went up into an involuntary snarl, but the stickish man allowed himself to be led from the doorway, even if his head continued to snap back and glare. Brenol breathed in relief, astonished at the whirlwind upending Haty. His breath choked in his throat as a strong hand gripped his own elbow from behind.

  “Come, let’s move to the western sections of town.”

  “The Three! You nearly made my heart stop, Arman.”

  The juile’s face flickered in amusement, but the expression vanished as he motioned forward. He sliced through the street, and Brenol groped his belongings up and followed. He squirmed slightly; polina were everywhere.

  Do not show fear, Arman clicked, and with a swoop of the hand signaled for Brenol to hurry.

  The young man inhaled deeply and straightened his posture.

  For Colette. For Massada, he thought. Her lovely golden tresses swept across his mind like a ribbon in the wind. Centered, he pushed his attention to the moment.

  The cluster of houses on the western outskirts was tucked away serenely in the trees. They fit so perfectly amongst trunk and bough that it almost seemed that the houses had grown up with the flora itself. The seven scattered around in this manner were small, single-story edifices. Circular holes for windows poked out like eyes and allowed light to stream in but were small enough to cover during the cool of night. The facades were painted the hues of the forest—tans, beiges, greens, and browns. Moss and vines had also been woven and grafted across the structures, further camouflaging the neighborhood.

  One house buzzed with greater activity than the rest. A dozen men in maroon darted in and out of the beige doorway, squatted in the yard, pilfered through the wood box. Some milled about in the absent manner of law enforcement, conversing in tight, professional voices. They were a startling contrast to the earthy homes shrouded in branch and snow.

  Arman wasted no time, and Brenol followed at the juile’s heels. Arman acknowledged a red trio standing guard with a quick flick of his finger as he maneuvered toward the house. Looks of bewilderment flashed upon every face, but no one attempted to stop them; the juile held a stern authority that few could ever oppose. Brenol pressed the corners of his quirking mouth down and forced his eyes away as he resumed his stride. At the entrance, Arman lifted his robes fractionally and slid past the splintered door frame.