Eyes in the Water (15 page)

He inhaled sharply as he saw the strange
seal—missed upon the initial receiving—and his eyes flashed up in
alarm. His hands left tiny sweat marks on the paper, but still he
slid the envelope over to Dierdre. The woman lifted it—cuticles as
black as night—in examination, ensured it was the same, and
strolled from the building without requesting her money back.

The seal master waddled to the end of his
desk and arched his neck to peer out the filthy window. Dierdre
moved like a large cat, quiet and fluid, on the path leading south
from the sealtoz, giving Gregory only a brief view of the woman as
she took the envelope and, with unwavering hands, shredded the
paper like cabbage. She collected the largest pieces that fell and
pocketed them securely before sliding her way down the lane with a
pleased step.

Gregory leaned back, confused and anxious.
Dierdre had never before exhibited such bizarre behavior.

Other family? She only has Carn…

And the seal…

And why did she look so triumphant?

Gregory lifted his hands in wonder but then
let both palms fall to his sides; he was a businessman, and this
was not his business. He paused for a brief minute, thinking about
Arman. He knew the juile.

I could send seal… I could tell him.
The thought held little appeal.
Maybe tomorrow. Or even the next
day. Yes, I’ll just think about it… Wouldn’t want to be a
nuisance.

He turned and lumbered back to his
ledger.

~

The afternoon trailed on in a chilly damp,
the air hanging so densely it was as if Colette and Darse walked
through a cloud; even the sound of their steps was padded by its
mysterious silence. The sun rested behind the brume, and the two
were left to seek heat in the forced movement of their limbs.

Darse observed Colette, who uttered not a
spare word or complaint. But her breath was ragged, and her soft
hair escaped its ribbon and sprung into unruly coffee-colored curls
in the humidity. Darse fretted over her need for rest, eying her
every motion with concern, and forced a halt for refreshment once
they reached Ziel. He could not deny that he was glad of the
respite himself.

Colette ducked away from his side and marched
wearily down to the water. He pressed behind her nimbly and
imagined that the sigh that escaped her lips was due to his
inescapable shadow. The princess otherwise ignored him and stooped
down, scooping water into her hands. The frosty clear nipped at her
fingers, and she shivered back, recoiling as if from a snake. Darse
knelt down and cupped his own drink to his lips. It was indeed
cold, much icier than he had anticipated, and he had grown up with
the lakes and rivers of Alatrice. He let it slice down his throat
and stepped back to survey the area.

The mountains splashed up around him in
striking swipes of purple and gray above the forests hugging the
shore. Darse’s eyes rose to take in their glory, and he breathed
with satisfaction. If it hadn’t been for his stinging lungs
grasping for oxygen in the lofty elevation, he would have thought
they rested in a bowl.

Yet the true astonishment came not so much
from the sights as from the
feel
of the place. The land
around Ziel filled him up—as simply as cup before pitcher—just as
it had that first day when he had tumbled out of the cave and out
into the clear. Even then, he had known an experience of peace, of
clarity, although he had been unable to describe it easily. Here,
winds tugged at his cloak, songs whispered from watery depths, and
the glistening movement of the nearly still water was strikingly
foreign. Before him, the alien and the known met in a beautiful and
alarming union. Ziel was rarely far from his mind and heart.

Colette hugged her arms against her body in a
futile attempt at warmth and turned, suddenly letting out a scream
that tore Darse from his thoughts.

“What? What is it?” he yelled. His glance
darted around the still, following her gaze until his gut plummeted
in horror. His tongue dried to the roof of his mouth, preventing
speech.

Within the rocky shallows lay a dozen, if not
more, maralane, now just translucent-white corpses of skin and
scale. It was surprising they had missed them until this point,
even if the scent of decay had not blossomed yet.

Darse, who had heard of the beached bodies,
peered at Colette to take in her response. He already feared for
her sanity; this might undo the last strands holding her to the
earth.

Colette, at first pale and terrified, dropped
the thin screech, and the space seemed eerie in the sudden silence.
A new look issued over her face—a curious expression Darse could
not name.

The lunitata hesitated, then stepped forward,
tucking a stray dark strand behind an ear. The cold waters no
longer daunted her, and she dipped her legs into the icy body. She
was soon immersed in the chill up to her thighs as she maneuvered
the dead from their floating coffins and onto the bank. Darse
unbooted and steeled himself before joining her in lugging out the
cold white bodies. When finished, eighteen corpses lay strewn upon
the sand and rocks. Four were but small children.

Colette brushed the translucent features of a
lake-child with a compassionate touch. As she wiped away the silt
and sediment, tears streamed down her own blanched face. The
rivulets turned to sobs and soon wails. The dam of long-held
emotion burst apart, no longer able to hold the rushing
torrent.

Darse removed himself to kindle and build up
a roaring fire. The heaving of the princess’s frame was unaffected
by the heat. He maintained his silence, afraid that any
interference would do more damage than good.

Eventually her wracking cries ceased, and her
face sagged in exhaustion. She stared out upon Ziel with sunken,
red eyes. The sun dipped lower, and still she did not move from her
post. Finally, her lips parted, and a soft breath carried her
almost inaudible words: “The whole is perishing. The whole. Not
just my Veronia.”

She clenched her fists together tightly, as
though anger would again double her over in tears, but then paused.
She examined her hands with a profound expression and relinquished
her hold, allowing the knuckles to return to their soft pink hue.
She blinked as though waking from deep slumber and narrowed her
eyes upon her open palms.

Jerem takes and takes,
she thought.
He took me, he took so many nuresti. Then he tried to take the
maralane. Did he?

Her eyes descended to the fish-child by her
feet. His arms looked fragile and atrophied. The gills at his side
were marred with infection, and a sickly brown growth extended in
and around them. The youth’s auburn hair was smeared across his
face, but she could nonetheless make out his angular features and
the oval shape of his eyes.

A voice, melodious and pleading, resounded in
her mind. She recalled her mother, stroking her hair and speaking
to her soon after she had been released from the soladrome and
returned to the castle.
“Colette, if you hate, the person you
despise will always own you.”
How her mother had tried to heal
that darkness within her! But Colette had lost too much to simply
forget all that Jerem had done to her. She had bottled it tightly
within, unwilling to heed her mother’s words.

Yet, sitting here, seeing the probable work
of the poison, Colette’s world seemed to clarify. If this had been
Jerem’s doing, they had lost their very lives to his evil. Nothing
could ever undo that atrocity. But if Colette held onto this dark
fury, wouldn’t he still have her? Wouldn’t Jerem be winning even in
death? The conclusion alarmed her.

Jerem shall not have me,
she vowed.
No more.

Her eyes raised to meet Darse’s.

“He shall not have me,” she said aloud.
“Never again.”

Darse looked wonderingly at her, and Colette
closed her eyes. She feared she would not be able to do it, but she
refused to cower; there had been too much time and life lost
already.

She grasped hold of her courage and whispered
words of forgiveness out into Ziel, finally letting the burden and
pain bleed from her.

The shadows she had wrapped herself in fell
from her person nearly as tangibly as a reptile’s molted skin. Her
features were still damp with tears, but that did not detract from
the beauty that sprang violently from her frame. Where she had once
been a flickering candle, a tiny beacon of light, she was now fully
radiant and alive. Colette was a lunitata indeed, and her face was
utterly magnificent.

Darse sighed, relieved to his toes. He smiled
gently at the transformation and thought,
She’s more herself
than I could have hoped.

Colette looked back gravely. “Never.”

~

Arriving in Limbartina, Brenol sought out
Arman immediately. It was well into the night, and he himself was
weary from travel, but he knew the juile would see their meeting as
more dire than sleep. He rapped at a door, hoping he had located
the correct quarters in the soladrome.

The door opened, and Brenol squinted inside
to the pitch black.

“Bren!” Arman said warmly. “Come in.”

Brenol allowed himself a brief smile before
stepping cautiously into the dark. The door closed behind him, and
he stood, completely blind. It was only a moment before the sound
of striking flint filled the quiet space and a lantern awoke. Arman
hung the metal orb upon a lantern hook, and the dim light turned
the room a soft, shaded gold. Brenol sighed faintly, pleased the
juile was invisible—the poison’s effects must not have been as
severe in Selenia—and blinked, taking in his surroundings.

The room was simple and small, housing a
pallet along one wall and a small table with an ewer against the
other. The usual sterile white tile was underfoot.

“How were your trav—?”

“I have the antidote,” Brenol blurted.

“Tell me,” Arman said, his voice immediately
urgent.

“Preifest. He had handed it to me, but I’d
forgotten with everything that happened. Especially when I met you,
and I went unconscious with those memories… Anyway, I have it, but
I don’t know how to use it.”

“Tell me,” Arman repeated adamantly.

Brenol relayed the code and his memory from
Deniel. “I only know that I cannot break it open out in Ziel. It
would destroy the maralane. It would be their end.” He shook his
head with determination. “We cannot do that to them. Not that I
even know whether it would work to save the terrisdans that
way.”

Arman ruminated silently. Brenol pulled the
hos from his pocket and extended it in offering. Arman’s invisible
hand softly plucked up the tiny piece and smoothed his fingers
across it. He was quiet for a long moment.

“What do we do?” Brenol asked.

Arman exhaled, returning the hos to Brenol’s
palm. “We have the umbus look at it. And hope they have
answers.”

The juile’s tone did not instill confidence.
Brenol stashed the hos back in his pocket. “What are you thinking
about?”

“More than I care to admit,” Arman replied
reluctantly.

Brenol frowned. “Arman. You can talk to
me.”

Arman studied the man before him. Brenol was
clearly exhausted. His frame leaned forward like a tree weathering
a heavy storm, and his hair was disheveled and dirty. His clothing
hung loosely from hard use and smelled sharply of travel and sweat
and campfire. The expression underlying his fatigue, though, was
full of power and purpose. His eyes were focused and clear and set
firmly within his somber face. The juile smiled, though Brenol
could not see it.

Suddenly, Arman rang with decision.
I will
tell Bren. I will tell him about the black fev—

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” Brenol said,
interrupting Arman’s near-resolution. He bent to his pack and
pilfered through until he located Darse’s item. He stood and again
extended out his hand to the juile.

Arman tensed at the sight of the
jekob
nut resting in Brenol’s palm. It drew him back to a memory he did
not care to relive, even if it had brought bounty in the end. He
eased a breath through his lungs to steady himself and wished he
had granted his weary body the mercy of more than a few hours of
sleep. He flicked his fingers out in surrender and drove his mind
beyond his present discomfort.

“Buying wares from Caladia?” he finally
asked. He stretched his arm out but paused and hovered over
Brenol’s hand, as if undecided whether to touch the smooth nut or
not.

Brenol shook his head. A strand of copper
escaped its band, and he pushed it behind his ear with an
indifferent flick. “No. Darse brought it. Arista sent it to
you.”

Arman’s expression turned austere. “Did he
say why?”

“Not a word. He thought it was fairly
important, though. Just unsure why she hadn’t sent it as seal if
she’d needed it to get to you quickly. I was left with the sense
that the whole thing was a bit strange.”

“Indeed.”

Indecision ended, and the scarlet nut
disappeared into the juile’s possession. Brenol’s palm returned to
his side, and his fingers resumed their silent tapping. The sharp
crack of shell splintered the air, and he stopped. Soon a shower of
strawberry-hued chunks fell to the white floor. Brenol leaned
forward in curiosity and raised his brow at the distinct sound of
paper being rolled open.

“Everything ok, Arman?” Brenol asked the
empty room. “There’s a note?”

Arman’s voice was tight and sharp. “Do not
speak of this message to anyone.”

Hastily, the juile stepped sideways to the
lantern. He extended the small paper until it kissed the tiny flame
and curled in a soft amber. The remaining ash flittered to the
floor.

“Arman?”

The juile softened his tone, but
imperativeness still edged his speech. “Arista saw something
disturbing she wanted to tell me about… I think it may be a piece
to something I have been pondering.”