The Forbidding Blue Page 6

  “Bountiful indeed,” Brenol replied, and the juile left with the silence of a snuffed candle.

  May the Three protect you… he found himself thinking.

  He smiled wryly. Am I suddenly becoming religious?

  The smirk disappeared as a new thought answered back: It will take the divine to save us from this mess.

  The walls seemed to darken, and he squinted at the closed door, longing to rush out and call Arman back. He swallowed hard, but then shook his head in derision.

  “Enough, Bren, enough,” he said to himself firmly. He flicked out his fingers like a juile and abandoned the sentiment. It would lead nowhere useful.

  ~

  Dawn peeked through the cracks that ran along the too-small tapestry shrouding the window. Brenol eyed the slits of light with a somber heart. Reluctance paralyzed his arms and legs. He knew he must rise eventually, but delaying the inevitable carried immense attraction. So instead, he lay and recounted the night in his mind, again and again.

  Finally, he stretched, resolved to the fact that sleep would certainly not visit his racing mind, and made ready. He splashed his face in the cold basin by the pallets and dressed in his warmest linens. With a flick of his wrist, he swept the tapestry aside and allowed the light and freeze of the gloomy day to settle into the dusty room. The sun was awake, but the mist of morning clung like pestilence to the earth.

  “Bountiful indeed,” he grumbled to himself, and loaded his pack up with a grunt. There could be no more delay this day.

  ~

  Brenol stared up at the forbidding skies to where the sun should have been. Had he been still, he likely would have sighed, but his chest already heaved under the effort of keeping the rough pace. He ached with every step forward, yet it remained the only way to keep warmth flowing in his body. The day had soured into a growling slate that threatened any kind of weather, save favorable. Even if the sky did not catch him, it would certainly find one of his companions.

  He glowered, frustrated by the inevitable.

  Brenol had paid and left the inn after a rushed—and regrettable—milky porridge. He had slipped a seal for Darse with an additional coin into the soft hands of a sealtor, who issued a brusque nod of acceptance and a promise of discretion. Brenol had bitten back his skepticism—the carrier was no more than thirteen—opting to trust the local chief-of-seal’s choice. Then, he had fled town like a fugitive, with breakfast roiling and lungs stinging against the cold.

  Once in the open, he had directed his steps as northeast as the terrain allowed and instinctively knew his tread was no longer upon terrisdan soil within a few hours. His spine relaxed in the ease that one feels only in solitude as he breathed the sharp air of the lugazzi. The land was far more open here, and the bleak colors of earth mingled with snow to dirty the bland hillsides. The world seemed as devoid of life as a tomb, and stillness lingered across the plain.

  He halted his northward trek and pushed on due east, following the lugazzi and its natural path. By late afternoon the following day, he had reached the Pleoner. She plunged south in an icy fervor and filled his ears with her unruly roars. The icing had certainly not stalled the watery routes, but it had made the Pleoner entirely perilous to cross. Her temperature alone was enough to turn a body white and lifeless in minutes. Brenol pressed his lips together grimly as he watched the river. The violence of her pounding rapids seemed to still all other thoughts.

  A stray bird soared through the cold brume, squawking a song to an unseen companion. The sound startled Brenol to attention, and he set heels moving again. He fought for each chilling breath, slowing his pace as he battled to pass through the bushes, vines, and derant that clung like spider webs and ripped at his coat. After a dozen snags, Brenol ceased his meticulous untangling and just pressed through. When he reached the river mouth, his tattered coat and clawed face looked more like he had sought to bathe a cat than to travel the lugazzi. He sighed and hoped both lodging and new apparel would be available at the crossing.

  CHAPTER 6

  The pace will quicken; hearts will tremble.

  -Genesifin

  Arman passed through Granallat as though he were a frawnite skimming the land. The terrisdan soil swept by in monotonous flat scapes and unabating wind, and the cold clung tenaciously to his person, but he refused to allow his mind to dwell on such material facts. Instead, he reserved the core of his focus to hammer away at the mystery of malitas.

  The juile paused briefly for a drink and some dried fruit, eyeing the clouding horizon suspiciously. He smoothed the beads between his long fingers and sought to ignore the rush of blood beating against his temples. The sensation of the worn wood refused to calm the thundering.

  Carn must be the answer. He must be.

  The certainty that surged in him was vivifying. It was intuit—at least he hoped—and not mere grief seeking relief. He flung himself with renewed vigor through the wild countryside. It was nightfall when he set sights upon Aron.

  Arman remembered the place well, and although he had not returned for orbits, it appeared for the most part unchanged. He slid through the outskirts with a silent tread and rested his eyes upon the town in a desperate hunger. Only a few lanterns still burned in the handful of houses that clustered together, and the town center was encased in the shade of night. Celestial lights were likewise hidden; the cloud cover was thick and dropping dense layers of snow upon soil, tree, and edifice.

  He stole forward and headed north past the main of town. He found himself filled him with a peace he had not experienced in some time. Partly it was the sense of concealment, but largely he could feel the tingling in his blood; he knew the trail before him was genuine. He crept through, thankful that human eyes were unlikely to perceive his transparent and sure movements. Involving others would be too complicated. Working alone was best for the present.

  He neared a home, and the little comfort he had carried spilled from him like water through fingers. Carn’s house was plainly occupied. The walkway had been cleared several hours previously, so that only a digit of snow blanketed the entryway, and a small line of white smoke lifted out lazily from the chimney. He crept forward and peered in through a small pane by the door. The fireplace held a tiny orange flame. The embers glowed softly, occasionally kicking up a small spark, but the fire had long since carried a strong blaze. Arman stood, drawing in sharp cold breaths while he deliberated.

  He did not tarry long.

  The juile pressed the door at its hinges and slowly worked the wood open so as not to elicit sound. With the agility of a child, he slid his body through, glanced quickly about, and secured the door anew.

  He skipped over ordinary items and began to review the furniture he remembered as belonging to his friend. The benches, chairs, tables, artwork—each he examined with acute attention. The light was beyond dim, but Arman was confident he was not missing anything. Whatever he was looking for was either not here or in the other rooms.

  Arman neared the closed doorway—it had been Dierdre and Carn’s bedroom—and paused. A brief flicker of dying embers had cast light across the room, and a small dark patch upon the pine floor had become evident. He bent and ran his hand over the section of flooring. The light had diminished again, but he did not require full sun to know what he had seen.

  But whose blood? It could mean anything…

  The juile pressed his lips together in thought. The house around him was well-maintained. The order and lack of dust had confirmed as much while he had rummaged. And when Dierdre had lived, the house had been immaculate.

  A stain like this would have had to set for days in order to remain.

  Arman tarried, considering a morning return, when a memory, vague as a dream, rose like a bubble in a still pond. A letter. He had been reading a seal from Dierdre many orbits ago. An offhand comment of a new desk. Snow wood. That was what she had called it. It had been a present, mentioned casually with a joke. He had smiled.

  The desk was in the far corner, init
ially passed over by the juile as a piece belonging to the new tenant. Its ivory wood was creamy and beautiful even in the faint light. Arman cursed his oversight as he swept across the length of the room.

  As a child, Arman had once taken lessons for the lusset. It had been a rough endeavor, and one that had not lasted long, but the instrument’s construction had fascinated him. Often, instead of practicing, he would spend the span unstringing the piece and peering into the holes. His hands would glide across its delicate back, and he would note the merging colors of the maroon-gold wood with a relish only a child knows. Arman’s fingers tickled at the memory—deliciously smooth. This desk was the same. It had been constructed with an art and hand that did not always unite in carpentry. Arman allowed himself a brief moment of appreciation before firmly tugging his mind to the task.

  He teased his hungry fingers through the scattered contents of the piece but then set his main attention to running his hands across all the surfaces. Nothing was evident from the front or sides, so, as agile as a goat, he tucked his body down into a squat and examined the underside. It was as cunningly crafted as the rest, and as he ran his palms across the body, it felt like current between his fingers. Then the sensation halted. Something had been wedged between the united boards until it was almost unnoticeable.

  Almost.

  The juile removed a small file-like tool from his robes and quietly maneuvered the object out with a sawing motion. It fell with a sigh to the floor. Just a tiny white square. Arman’s dark fingers grasped the little paper, pocketed it, and completed his examination. There was nothing else. He raised his frame slowly—forcing his bones to adjust noiselessly—and lithely stole from the house.

  ~

  Gregory rubbed his fleshy eyes in stupor. He had been running, running, running, trying to get somewhere. But where? There had been drums…

  It took him several seconds to realize he was in bed, with darkness still draping Granallat. The pounding from his dreams continued, but as the hazy sensation of sleep morphed into vivid reality, he scowled. He flung the blankets off and labored out of his bed. The floor was cold, but his feet barely noticed the jolt for all the anger that coursed through him at the moment.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Could this not wait for morning?

  He lit a candle, found his shoes, and heaved his hefty frame down the stairwell to the main of the sealtoz. The front door resounded again. His fury skipped a beat for a moment; the door racked as though it might splinter from the force. Whoever called this night was no ant.

  Gregory raised his candle up to the window and drew the heavy tapestry back several digits. He forced his eyes away from the reflection and focused on the darkness outside. He choked in a startled breath and nearly dropped his flame: A juile stared at him with a terrible intensity, a fierce determination. Hardly visible between the cloak of night and the transparency of his kind, he was the very picture of a specter. His robes—gray as stone—hugged him tightly despite the wind. The eyes, though. Their darkness bore into him powerfully, and he cowered back several steps, trembling like a leaf before a gale.

  “Gregory, let me in!” a voice boomed over the howling gusts. “It’s me, Arman.”

  Gregory, still coursing with adrenaline, lifted his shaking candle and held it again to the pane. The juile stood staring at him impatiently. Gregory pulled the canvas back further, tilted the light, and arched it until it shone in quivering relief upon a face that he had once known, orbits and orbits ago. He sighed, and his jowls loosened. He hesitantly unlatched the door and welcomed in the towering figure.

  Arman entered hastily, and gusts from the plain tore in with him, snuffing out the candle with the quickness of a thief. Gregory mumbled to himself as he tripped his way to the desk where his ledger and supplies lay. Blind as he was, the drawer was meticulously organized, and his hand retrieved the tinder box without fumbling. He strode the length of the room, boards creaking beneath each step, and set to lighting a fire.

  “I pray it will be bountiful, Gregory,” a voice behind him spoke softly. It was controlled and unreadable.

  The man slid his eyes back to Arman, still unsure of the nature of this call. The juile was an exceptionally eccentric acquaintance, and at this hour of the night his whims could be anything.

  “Bountiful indeed,” Gregory replied, finally resting back on his haunches as the small flame crackled and licked up the easy fuel, settling down into a stronger blaze with the thick logs. He bent slightly forward, blew delicately, and coaxed it awake with care. Heat rose happily out to the chilled room, and Gregory reluctantly labored his way to his feet.

  “What is it, Ar—”

  Gregory stuttered to a stop, finally seeing Arman in better light. The juile was not simply menacing. No, he appeared a shade away from murderous. His hair was bedraggled and windswept above sharp eyes filled with a dark fire he had never seen before in a creature. His robes lay heavy and drenched, and precipitation from his garments pooled onto the floorboards. Gregory, terror softening his insides, did not know how to proceed.

  “Tell me of Carn, of Dierdre.”

  A soft oh escaped Gregory’s lips, and his gut clenched at the memory. He had worked so hard to push it away, to forget—and to no avail. He had ignored it for a time, but still it had remained, like a limp that refused to heal. It was a wonder he had not realized Arman’s purpose earlier.

  “Tell me. Please.” Arman’s tone had gentled, but Gregory could not bring himself to peer up into the terrible onyx orbs.

  The man set to gnawing upon his nails, and his eyes darted between the fire and his hands. “I…”

  “It is ok. Tell me.”

  The juile swept across the room to a worn chair and deposited it before the chief-of-seal. He lowered him with firm pressure upon the shoulder until the man was seated.

  Gregory sagged as if under immense weight and finally dragged his eyes up to gaze upon Arman, guilt lining his haunted face. He fumbled through an explanation of his encounter with the two, the strange behavior of Dierdre retrieving the seal, and his own silence about the incident—even after Dierdre had been found as black as coal outside town and Carn slaughtered in his very house.

  “There is more.”

  Arman arched his eyebrows.

  “Carn was sending seal to you. And Dierdre spoke as though you were family. I… I thought it odd, but I don’t like to spread gossip. I-I’m a businessman.” His large shoulders curled forward.

  “You are a man, though, Gregory. You should have sent seal to me, especially after their deaths were discovered.” His voice was hushed, but the truth was a bitter draught regardless.

  Gregory did not speak but eventually bobbed his round head in agreement. Shame spilled from him like water from a leaking ewer. “How…how did you know to come ask me?”

  The juile’s face flickered in amusement, but in the dim light his companion observed nothing. Arman smoothed his features and ignored the question. He thought it best to allow mystery’s cloak to shroud him; Gregory need not know his was the third establishment—each occupant coming to the door with eyes as wide as the chief-of-seal’s—the juile had awakened this night seeking information. This interview had more than made up for the fruitlessness of the other conversations.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” Arman asked pointedly, although he could see the man was both spent and broken.

  Gregory shook his head. His neck jiggled in the effort.

  “Thank you,” Arman said simply. The juile stepped quietly to the fire and allowed the warmth to work upon his sodden garments.

  Several minutes passed. The silence nipped at Gregory’s nerves. He shuffled his feet, tore at his cuticles, and turned to Arman, yet the juile ignored him pointedly. He stood to break the moment and waddled to the desk area at the front of the sealtoz, replacing his tinder box in the carefully ordered drawer.

  In his absence, Arman moved to a squat, his tall frame still reaching high, and allowed the object
in his hands to gather light from the fire. He exhibited great care to conceal it within his fingers lest Gregory catch sight in his return. Unfolding the small square, he read again what he had deciphered in the dim glow of embers just several hours previously:

  Arman,

  It’s taken Dierdre. She is dead, yet animate.

  Black irises, cuticles.

  Can enter only by invitation.

  I fear it is time for HR. It seeks it too.

  -Carn

  CHAPTER 7

  Evil can never fully overcome benere, however bleak circumstances may seem.

  -Genesifin

  Brenol stepped warily aboard the river ferry. The craft had likely seen more orbits than he had lived, and the blinding rain did not help to ease his mind. He wiped the moisture from his eyes and shivered.

  The owner and captain, though, regarded the elements as nothing and strode the weathered planks with indifferent confidence. He wore a slick gray jacket that repelled the rain but left his salt and peppered head entirely exposed. Precipitation clung to his dripping face and neck, but he seemed not to notice. He swung around and led Brenol forward, smiling up at the foreboding sky with a wild grin. Several of his yellowing teeth were missing, leaving gaping holes that created a crazed expression. The man’s demeanor was not entirely relieving, but his cheer soothed Brenol enough to seat himself upon a bench along the starboard. The craft rocked and swayed, and the rain continued to pelt, but the ferryman set himself to work, unconcerned.

  Brenol watched his labors, for the strength of his river-toughened arms was altogether fascinating. He led the pulley system with a flex of his hands and set his jaw tightly as he maneuvered with the turning crank located at its center. The system appeared difficult to manage, but the man navigated it with deceptive ease.

  The gentle creak of the ropes lulled Brenol into thought, and the icy rain pelting his face conjured up long-forgotten memories.

  “Tell me a story,” a voice rang in his mind.