The Forbidding Blue Page 8

  Brenol straightened in attention. “Yes, I did. It is a sealtor? Why didn’t you simply send him up? Or take the seal?”

  The boy paled and pressed his lips together until they turned white. “He wouldn’t. He growled.”

  Oh, thought Brenol, the scene now clear. “A wolf?”

  The boy bobbed his head vehemently. Brenol sighed again, eased his legs from the pallet, and worked to a stand with deliberate caution. The wood was hard and unforgiving against the tender swell of ankle. He hobbled slowly after the reed of a child, making sure to grab his purse in case a return reply proved necessary.

  Brenol limped weakly down into the tavern. It smelled heavily of hops and mead, and the wafting scent of freshly baked rolls streamed from the kitchen and softened the room with mouth-watering fragrance. But the atmosphere in the pub was otherwise entirely different than from when he had entered earlier that evening. The din was minimal and lively music now silent, with the sense of a bow having come off its string with an irking tweeak. Most eyes in the room rested upon—or twitched back and forth from—a single creature resting on his haunches before the blazing hearth. Hands did not raise tankards or glasses, they lifted to hide their whispering lips. The place was thick with disquiet.

  Brenol sighed and swallowed the strange queasiness that rose in his throat as he towed his weak leg forward.

  The wolf was black save its feet, which were a mottled gray. Rain water puddled beneath him, and he stank as only wet dogs do.

  When Brenol approached, the dark creature snapped his head sideways and bore into him with terrible, piercing eyes the hue of egg yolk. A cruel smile tore open his mouth, and fangs hung in sharp, glistening mockery. He did not speak, but merely stared with unforgiving ferocity.

  “I am Bren.” He dipped his red head in greeting. “I’m told you have a seal for Arman?”

  The wolf barked derisively. “Why then would it concern you?”

  Something sparked in Brenol, drawing an edge to his tone. “He did let you know he might not be waiting personally. Leave the seal and be done with it.”

  The sneer reappeared along with an amused glint in the sharp, yellow eyes. “Arman values privacy. And you’re a mere wounded pup.”

  Brenol flared with anger but paused as he considered the circumstances. The juile would have been murderous had his seals been left for the town to peruse. He bent with a grimace and lowered his voice so only the wolf’s ears might catch his words. “You speak truly. I travel with him. He asked me to come and wait for a companion…” Brenol hesitated, but only allowed the indecision to flash upon his features for a moment. “Dresden… to learn of the black fever. Do you bring word about this?”

  The pricked black ears settled back again. The wolf, appeased, dipped his head into the tightly secured pouch around his neck. After a swift flick, a seal dropped to Brenol’s feet. The wolf rose and turned his back to the flames, seated himself anew, and allowed the steam to rise from his still-dripping fur. The yellow eyes stared ahead without glancing at the human’s reaction. Murmurs fell around the pair.

  Brenol bent to the worn floors, his face screwed up in pain. He retrieved the seal and found it surprisingly dry and undamaged, although it did smell of fur and sweat. He broke the wax and pored over the page with astonishment.

  “Is this really all he says?” Brenol asked, his voice carrying further then he had intended. He released a breath and spoke lower, scanning the crowd of eyes that hovered upon them both. “Did he say anything to you at all?” It was impossible to believe that Dresden would have replied as such to any message Arman sent.

  The black fur bristled in memory. His growl rumbled with power and tight control. “I spoke with Dresden in an empty tavern. He was entirely unoccupied. And said, ‘Tell Arman I’m much too busy.’”

  Brenol’s chin jutted out in disbelief. “This was Dresden?”

  “The fool himself.”

  The words, the heat, the wolf, and the pain in his foot flooded his head and swirled his vision sideways. Brenol groped for a chair to steady himself against the spots in his eyes. The seat wobbled dangerously on its uneven legs, but held. Brenol took a breath, and his mind cleared enough to realize what he needed: time. He hoped he could secure it.

  “Are you hungry?” Brenol asked.

  The lupine yellow eyes jumped in surprise. They searched his face suspiciously. “You’re offering to take a meal with me?”

  Brenol nodded but pointed to the fire. “I’d like a little space from the heat, though. It’s turning me dizzy.”

  The wolf’s face expressed clear incredulity. “I’ve never been asked to eat with a human.” Whether he said it to himself, Brenol, or simply in wonder, the world was left to guess. Finally, the black head dipped in acceptance, and Brenol surveyed the room. A table in the back corner was unoccupied and seemed to have enough floor space for the large animal to rest. Before limping back, he yelled out his order to the barman, who grunted strangely and raised his eyebrows.

  “What’s your name?” Brenol asked, once settled.

  “Igont.”

  “How long have you been a sealtor?”

  The wolf growled in reply, baring a few teeth. He cared little for human niceties.

  Brenol laid his hands together and sought the right thoughts, questions. He found none, so he simply allowed silence to cushion the encounter. Soon food arrived, and he watched the wolf devour the thick stew and bread placed upon the floor. Brenol sipped his steaming cider, but while the liquid gave him a warm chest, it failed to loose his tongue.

  Finally, the wolf peered up at Brenol, and while still wild, his fierce expression had softened. His bass rumble was subdued and roughly reassuring, as a purr from a cougar might be. “He had white hair, dark eyes, was tall. All addressed him as Dresden. I’d never met him before, but I’d be surprised to have been tricked. I trailed him for some time before being assured he was the healer.”

  Brenol leaned forward in bemusement. “That’s him, I think. He’s changed much in the last few orbits, I guess.” He ran his fingers through his coppery hair.

  “Didn’t care much about being clean either,” the wolf replied with disgust.

  Brenol’s face clouded. “How so?”

  “Claws—fingernails—were dark like he didn’t wash them. And he hadn’t bathed, unless rolling in a fire pit is the same.”

  “He was covered in ash?” Brenol asked, confused.

  The wolf shook his head with a swift movement. “Just smelled like he had.”

  The mystery felt close, but the all-too-present tug of pain and drink kept his mind from grasping hold of any answer. After several minutes, Brenol held out several coins in his palm, unsure what to do with them.

  Igont bowed his head in thanks. “You have a reply for anyone?”

  “No, I’ll just wait for Arman. And a friend. Thank you.”

  Igont dipped his head again. “Dinner was enough. You may keep your money.” He smiled—or sneered—widely and strode from the table. Arms and legs shied away as if magnetically pulled as the black creature wound his way through the tavern. Before exiting, the beast arched his spine and shook its onyx fur free of any remaining water. People flinched back from the spray, letting out a variety of dismayed exclamations. Igont’s mocking grin to the innkeeper completed the gesture.

  The young man glanced down again to the pages crinkled in his grasp. He narrowed his eyes in speculation and turned the envelope aslant to catch the hearth’s light. Brenol’s face screwed up in puzzlement; the wax and imprint were markedly wrong. He was surprised he had not noticed earlier. Colored wax and the seal of the lugazzi… It was as though a foreigner had dug through a seal box and haphazardly selected his items by whim.

  “Bren, you’re just brimming with nonsense,” he said aloud. A trio of men at a nearby table raised their brows at him.

  Brenol shrugged his shoulders wearily. The healer said himself he didn’t have time. That’s all that this was. He didn’t have time to fid
dle through the proper imprints.

  A knot of disbelief tightened in his gut—the system of seals was a cultural piece learned early and by all—but exhaustion won out over the nagging feeling. The bright room blared, and the two dozen scrutinizing eyes flooded him with a sudden sensation of vulnerability. He thrust the letter into his pocket, selected and dropped a coin to the table with a clatter, and labored up the creaking steps. The din and music resumed full force by the time he was half way up.

  ~

  Do I continue?

  Arman did not need to respond to this thought, for there was only one answer. He could return now, having reached the halfway mark of his supplies, but to what end? There was nothing waiting in the terrisdans now but an unthinkable villain. Any home he had would not be home for long. No, he must press forward until he was no more.

  I pledged gortei to Massada long ago. I will not abandon my vow here when it matters.

  Arman thought back to the day he had made the pledge. It had been raining and uncomfortable, with water clinging to his robes and soiling their ends. He had been a mere youth of twelve orbits, and full of the hubris of his infancy.

  He stood shivering under the carterette tree, facing the sweeping plains, although his family home remained in his vision. The words, though new, issued from his lips as though they had longed for this very moment. They felt right, and good. It was a strange pairing to the cold deluge around him.

  Arman barely completed his oath when his father stormed outside, grasped hold of his chin, and yanked the youth’s mismatched face up to his wrinkled one in an awkward stretch. It hurt.

  “Gortei is no small thing, you insolent undefst. You truly think this is your path? You think Massada is in such need of your protection? You’re to be a guardian?” A sneer covered his father’s scarred face with a greater hideousness than any natural disfigurement could have caused. His dark eyes were like Arman’s own, coal and onyx layered, and they bore into his with the ferociousness of a wolf and the intensity of his own people.

  Arman stared at his father, shocked. How could he have known? The youth had whispered the words. A person three strides away would have found his speech indiscernible. There was no logical explanation.

  “I am what I am,” Arman finally replied, trying to shake his face free from the firm grip. Rain streamed down his features and stung his eyes, but the looming figure did not relent. The struggle only tightened his hold.

  “Who are you to Massada? Your own people don’t even know who you are.”

  Arman took the last statement in silence, breathing over each aspect like it was a puzzle in class. Yet, behind his father’s gaze he spied something else, something buried—a secret. He nearly laughed when he saw it for what it was.

  “It matters not, Sart.”

  Something in Arman’s tone—beyond the use of his father’s name—gave the older juile pause, for as quick as a lexingbird he released his son and strode away, back through the portiere, likely to dry his pride before the fire.

  Yet Arman did not budge, overcome with a peculiar inner stirring. Something was happening. Drenched and gaping he waited, feeling the moment pregnant and near-bursting. He did not wish to blink lest the sensation evaporate.

  Then suddenly, a new emotion sprouted and replaced the former ache of childhood. There was still fear, yes, but underneath its cloudy hold was something distinct: an unadulterated and simple confidence.

  He knew with assurance that he was more than simply a son, simply a student, simply a juile. He was a guardian with gortei. That meant something.

  And not afraid to make the vows, Sart.

  They will know, the youth thought assuredly, but then flicked his fingers out indifferently. It mattered not if they did or not. It was the right choice to make regardless.

  Arman had not known it in words then, but later he had marked that moment as the birth of his prescience, his intuit.

  It had been so long ago. Arman’s features twisted slightly at the memory. Sart had not lived for many orbits after, and neither had lifted a finger to bridge the gap between them. It had seemed far too wide and far too bleak. Sart could never accept the truth: his own son had kicked fear back enough to take the vows that had haunted his own steps. And now he carried too much shame to follow after his offspring like a mindless ant in formation.

  If he had not been so afraid, he could have seen I was no threat.

  Regardless, my gortei is all that matters now.

  Arman lifted his head and stared out upon the blue. He could no longer feel his limbs, and his belly was likely icy to the touch. It hurt to blink, and his lips blistered in the screaming wind. His breath was ragged in his lungs.

  So move.

  ~

  Brenol’s furlough at Gare continued, the days ebbing by slowly. His now-healed foot fidgeted restlessly as though to make up for its stationary time. Not a word—written or otherwise—arrived from either of his companions, and he stewed in impatience. Each morning, the young man arose expecting a change—for how could it not?—and each evening his nerves jittered with restless uncertainty. It would seem this was to be his daily fare, and he could hardly palate it.

  During the daylight hours the vacant pub clutched a quiet anticipation toward the midday meal and then again before the evening’s entertainment, like the room itself seemed to inhale with suspense before bursting into vivacious song. Brenol preferred these silent interludes, and when he was not ambling through town or pestering the sealtoz, he would secure a seat a comfortable distance from the hearth and gaze into the flames, his brooding unhindered. He ached for Colette, was anxious for his child, felt apprehension over Darse’s silence, and found his mind distressed for Arman. This final piece alone wrenched his insides.

  Brenol watched the moons brighten in the evenings as Stronta donned her early autumn gown of gold, but it was an uncanny sight above the already wintered landscape. The absence of leaves rustling and the frosted limbs bereft of their red and orange only served to remind Brenol of how very wrong things were.

  ~

  Colette awoke drenched in her own salty sweat, even though she quivered with cold. Her house was not open to the elements, but the fire had fallen so low that even its embers had shed their glow. She arched her body around until she could push herself up with her forearm and then threw the sticky sheets from her person. Her nostrils flared; the room stank with fear.

  I cannot escape.

  The dreams now overtook her nightly, and even her naps led her to the black and hellish orbs. She unceasingly attempted to fight sleep, but her pregnancy had weakened any ability to withstand exhaustion, and she would jolt awake from her endeavors with a fresh new vision—even at a stand.

  Colette washed and moved to the main room so she might peer at herself in the looking glass. A stranger stared back at her, with deeply etched dark lines and violet-gray circles under the eyes. Anyone with vision could see this face was haunted by something. She watched, oddly fascinated, and allowed the cool water to trickle down her chin and neck before toweling dry. With an abrupt surge of frustration, she threw the towel at the reflection and abandoned the image with a scowl.

  He didn’t kill in my dream today, Colette noted as she dressed, but with a degree of ambivalence. Far from turning callous, she merely understood it would come like the eventuality of sunset. Whether he killed today or tomorrow, he was always ravenous for more. The evil living in those eyes was insatiable.

  But I thought I recognized the place…

  The child within kicked and distracted her from her musings. She swept her hands down to explore the skin of her belly. “You’re getting bigger, little one. But not yet. You still have time. Let’s wait for your da. Yes?”

  The tiny feet pushed against her skin, and her stomach jumped with the pressure. It was painless but still sent butterflies of anxiety through her.

  Hurry Bren. We are waiting for you…

  ~

  The bough was a pitiful sight, but the jui
le stumbled forward to kneel before it as though in homage. He placed a jerking hand upon the wood and breathed out a prayer of thanks. There would be no greater treasure this day. He paused and glanced around. He could not make sense of the massive branch resting in the middle of the perideta, but after a quick survey that showed only the ever-present blue, he ceased to care. He had been days without a fire, and his body quaked with cold whenever he paused for rest—let alone to halt for sleep. He wondered if his bones would know how to sit still after the continuous rattling.

  He paused, pondering, despite the perilous cold clawing at him, for his thoughts were sluggish and his mind torn. He longed to light the fire now, but he still had several hours of travel before the onset of night. If he stayed, he would lose time—but tarrying in front of a fire carried such allure.

  With a breath, he set to securing the bough to his pack with rope and several sound knots. By the end of the endeavor, he was chilled and numb all through, but he began his trek anew, trailing the limb after his pedasse. Lines from the branches and twigs curved behind him in the azure snow.

  Tonight I shall know heat for a moment at least.

  The thought heartened him, and the juile jumped forward with renewed alacrity. The icy wind pushed back petulantly, but Arman held tight to his motivation. He knew that if his resolve failed, he failed. He clenched his fists with purpose and determination. His stores would likely run dry, his body would seize up in the cold, but he knew his will for Massada could carry him through it. He would feed it with all he had.

  I won’t die tonight. Not tonight.

  ~

  The day had begun early, and Isvelle had been much occupied. She gave the sealtor a quick glance and shook her head in response to his question. “No, Darse is present. He’s in his rooms right now,” she answered. “He won’t be leaving for Ziel for a few days.”

  The youth slipped several seals into her outstretched palm but held one back. He fingered the small square in his gloved hands, hesitant as to his course. He met her glance shyly. “Would you like me to leave the seal for Prince Darse, or should I wait ’til he wakes?”