Eyes in the Water (10 page)

No, I must find Heart Render. I must destroy
that stupid sword, else it destroys me.

It laughed. It was a guttural hack that spoke
of illness.

Not that they even know I am here. The
fools. The gnats. I loathe Massada.

I miss my world,
it thought, pausing
in recollection. Abruptly, the spirit snarled at a surfacing
memory. The other spirits had mocked it. They had dismissed it,
calling it cruel, weak, thoughtless. Hot fury poured through its
mind.

Who is frail now? I see what I need to do.
And I will do it.

It sat at the desk in a slump, bent over in
both infirmity and thought. Its fingers rubbed the image and words.
It was the same motion it had used dozens of times, although the
hand was rarely the same.

The parchment was torn and handled, but the
spirit folded it with care and tucked the aging page into its
pocket.

Again, a moment of grief tugged at it. It had
been so long since it had known home.

These wretched portals only go one way.

The sadness—ever a bizarre sensation to mix
emotion with the concrete—brought on a reeling nausea, but the
spirit refused to surrender to its waves. Instead, it curled its
lip in an angry sneer and fed the bleak hatred that burned in its
core.

They shall all answer for bringing me here.
I am Chaul. I am no regular mortal.

It sniffed in disgust, glancing up at the
image in the mirror. Its skin was blackening as if a bruise ran
under the entirety of its epidermis, and it could smell the putrid
scent of seared flesh. The spirit puckered its lips in
irritation.

This fool barely lasted a day. It will be
unfortunate if I cannot find another host because of his weakness.
I will have to hide my parchment until I have ensured a suitable
body.

It pushed itself up from the desk, smiling
anyway.

If I cannot go back, Massada shall know
pain.

And war.

~

Brenol stood waiting for the princess. The
castle was only slightly warmer than the night he had wandered in
from, and the hallway drafts sent fingers of ice slicing along his
bones. He sighed. It would take both time and food to knead heat
back into his sore body. He stamped his feet to keep the blood
flowing, even if it ushered through with a prickling pain, and
watched the flickering of the sconces as another breath clouded
before his nose. He shivered and rubbed his fatigued face.

But Brenol forgot his discomfort as Colette’s
graceful frame rounded the corner. She was even more beautiful than
he had remembered: dark, silken hair, almond-shaped eyes of deep
green, milky complexion with fair and even features. She was still
slender, but no longer the emaciated figure she had been in the
soladrome. Her lunitata glow was subdued and dim, but he imagined
this was likely due to the late hour. No, she was lovely in every
regard.

His heart melted and his stomach lurched.
Brenol gave a small smile.

This isn’t the time. Not the time,
he
intoned desperately until the direness of their situation steadied
him.
No, not the time.
His pulse slowed and his mind
calmed.

“I didn’t think to see you for another day or
more,” she said with evident appreciation.

“It’s good to see you, Colette.” He felt
blood rush to his cheeks and was thankful that the cold had
undoubtedly already made them rosy and raw.

She nodded, and her lips curled up faintly.
“And you.”

“What’s wrong?” Brenol asked gently. “I—” he
said and stopped, for he found his tongue tighten in reserve. He
did not, could not, mention how the terrisdan soil felt—as cool in
his hands as a decaying corpse.

And the eye,
he thought, shuddering
and fighting the roil in his gut. Even now, he sensed Veronia’s
glance, but only brief patches of lucidity lingered between the
lengthening stretches of terrible vacuity.

Colette’s features creased, and Brenol
perceived what he had originally missed: a ferocious and powerful
wildness. It was startling to see in a figure of such beauty and
delicacy. Colette smoothed her face. If he had blinked a moment
sooner, he would have missed the transformation.

She looked like a rabid animal, fighting in
every direction…

Suddenly he felt new reason to hold his
silence; there was something dark in Colette, and though she sought
to hide it, its shadows lingered and pressed coldly upon him.
Perhaps it was only her mysterious nurest tie, but perhaps it was
more.

“Veronia is sick,” Colette said. “Or
something horrible. I don’t know. But there’s something terribly
wrong.”

“How long? When did it start?”

“Gradually,” she replied, pondering. “All was
fine for several moons after you left. But then…” She blushed, as
if embarrassed at the land’s demise. “Then the connection began to
falter.” Her shoulders slumped heavily, and she drew her pleading
and hopeful gaze up to Brenol.

The young man nodded, understanding the
circumstances only too well. He tried to conjure up compassionate
and wise words but found none. His limbs ached and mind swam, so he
spoke simply, “I must rest. Then tomorrow we’ll travel to Arman. If
you can, of course.” Brenol gazed at her questioningly. The
tenderness in his heart was brimming but still contained; he was
certain she had not guessed his affections.

“Yes. Of course. I’ll arrange for supplies.
To?” She stood taller, as though this little action was already
securing the health of her terrisdan.

“Limbartina. Selenia.”

She arched her eyebrows in surprise—
and
anger?—
but did not utter a word. She plucked Brenol’s hand from
his side and squeezed it, lifting it to cup her cheek within his
cool palm. “Thank you, Bren.”

She released his hand and allowed her lips to
quirk up slightly. “Your hair is longer,” she said, teasingly
flicking his ponytail.

“Yours too,” he replied.

She glanced down to her shoulder, where the
glistening dark fell like a blanket, but returned her gaze to meet
his.

He drew in an exaggerated breath; he found
her presence dizzying and feared that he stood with his mouth
agape.

“Ok. Rest, Bren,” she said, misunderstanding
his reaction. She granted him a nod and left without a glance,
unaware of his flushed cheeks and longing eyes.

~

Brenol slept fitfully, his mind aching to
draw connections between all the facts, for the depth of his
exhaustion prevented him from achieving either lucid thought or
rest. His dreams became fragmented and merged with the delirium of
insomnia until finally he grew so agitated that he threw the
blankets from his pallet in disgust. He rubbed his bleary eyes
until there were streaks behind his lids.

He clambered up and felt his stomach rumble.
Ignoring the pangs, he bent to bathe in the nearby basin. He shook
his face in a futile attempt to warm and invigorate, but as neither
were achieved, he stood dripping and shivering in the darkness.

Child’s play thing. Hos. Maralane. Deniel.
Preifest. What is the connection?

He dressed in the clothes he had left heaped
on the floor, despite protests from his nostrils, and stepped into
the dark hallway. There on a sideboard, a thoughtful servant had
placed freshly laundered terrisdan attire. Brenol passed on the
Veronian sandals—he already regretted the pair he had brought—and
instead plucked up some dark boots and stockings along with the
folded clothing and ducked back through his doorway. He relished
the feel of the Massadan material and scents, and even more the
casual casting of his fetid garments into the fireplace. While
there was no flame to lick them away, the action itself granted him
an assurance that his ties with Alatrice were cut. Even if things
were not right, he was home.

He slipped from his room and walked the
darkened halls. He meandered for several minutes before scurrying
footsteps behind tapestries told him he was not alone in his
slumber-less state.

A small blond head, made up almost entirely
of curls, poked out from behind a drapery and took in his presence
with popping turquoise eyes. She let out a surprised squawk and,
horrified at her own commotion, ducked away in haste. Slowly, she
reemerged, flushed and hesitant. Eventually she dug up enough
gumption to whisper out, “W-would ya like some breakfast, sir?”

Brenol crouched down to her height and smiled
genially. “I would indeed. There is rarely a time I would not.” He
winked. “But what are you doing awake this early?”

The girl’s timidity melted away at his
friendliness. “I’m with Mama. She said I could come this morning.
An’ help.” Her chest puffed out in satisfaction. “’s not that
early. Only two hours ’til dawn. I’m a big girl.”

“I can see that now,” he said solemnly, with
a dip of his head. “I apologize.”

She giggled, and her yellow curls disappeared
in a flash behind the blue folds. Brenol waited patiently and was
rewarded several moments later with the apparition of a woman
bedecked in a white apron and carrying a curious expression. She
led Brenol into a serving room nearby. Her own golden curls sought
to sneak their way out of their sensible bun. He smiled at the
likeness between mother and daughter and stoked the fire while tea
brewed.

Breakfast was luxurious, at least by Brenol’s
standards: oatmeal, fish, fresh rolls, and a cinnamon cake that was
doughy and soft within but nicely crisped at the crust. All was
delicious. After the meal, Brenol found that his brain was able to
flex and move with greater ease. He took his coffee to the
fireplace and stared into the flames, allowing his mind to
stretch.

Something about his posture and the cradling
of his mug drew up a memory of Darse. The man had been staring
vacantly into his cooking fire in Alatrice, consumed by private
musings. Brenol had asked about his thoughts, but the question had
been brushed aside. It was evident to Brenol now, only after
encountering this other world, that Darse’s mind must have lingered
long and regularly over Massada—the site of his past and his
hoped-for future.

Fondness kindled, Brenol sat smiling, and as
if Darse himself were there, he heard the low grumble of reason in
his mind:
Delve into it, Bren. You have your mind, you have the
memories. Delve.

Brenol sighed and shuddered; he did not
relish the dig. The experience was akin to furrowing down into a
closed wound to remove souring green puss. Yes, necessary, and yes,
relieving when completed, but far from a bowl of berries and
cream.

He laid his lids down reluctantly but went to
work.

Brenol skimmed many memories before laying
hold of the one that had been silently tugging. He exhaled, steeled
himself, and clenched his jaw. He trembled forward with the force
of his mind, and the memory wrapped him in as it had during his
time with Arman.

Brenol was surrounded by flowers, a field of
them. They were white, lily-like clusters, but smaller and without
the cloyingly sweet scent. Bunches heaped upon stalks that reached
the height of his thigh and even his hip. It was exquisite. Like
walking in a painting.

Deniel was nearby. It was one of the rare
times the man had stopped and rested in the last orbits filled with
his pursuit of rescuing his kidnapped charge. He floated through
the field, allowing his fingers to tickle the flowers’ tips as he
strode. Brenol remembered the sensation from a previous memory:
smooth, soft, calming. There had been so much beauty for Deniel in
this moment. It had been undoing and fortifying all at once.

Brenol left Deniel, though, and moved to the
journal lying a stone’s throw from the man. It was open.

Would it be there?
Brenol knelt and
desperately sought to move pages that would not flip. Memories
could not be altered, even if they could be relived.

Calm, Bren
, he told himself.
Just wait
and see.

So Brenol lingered and studied the scene.
There was little occurring around him, but he attended regardless.
He felt assured that the effort was not in vain, for this memory
rang with importance. He knew it in the way he knew the voice of
the land. It was instinct and gift braided together in intuition.
While intuit was scary at times, here it was simple. He only had to
wait.

The winds swept upon the white blossoms,
swaying them like an ocean swell. Deniel stood in wonder.

The pages flipped joyfully in the wind,
flapping in merry claps. As the breeze settled, the whipping reeds
calmed, and the pages came to a still. Deniel’s scrawl upon the
white page was clear and precise: Colette—Lady of Purpose.

Somehow, Deniel knew. How?

Colette is important,
he thought, but at
this, he was ripped from himself into Deniel’s mind.

Flash!

Deniel rose from the moonlit waters,
drenched and warm but shaking with new revelations. The waters had
been pregnant with words tonight, speaking to him of his
cartess.

Yes, she is to be Queen… And yes, she must
be saved.

No more nuresti, no more cartontz.

She will be Queen of all Tindel, the Lady of
Purpose.

If I find her.

Brenol opened his eyes, thankful he was
seated. He felt a swirling queasiness, and although the return to
reality was not as jarring as it had been with Arman, it still was
unpleasant. The delve into memory had drained his already exhausted
mind, and now he was left with a sagging hollowness and even more
to discern.

Could this be true?

It seemed ridiculous to doubt Deniel. The man
shared his own mind. But still, Brenol had not experienced the
revelations from the waters, just the intense after-moments. He
wondered how Deniel could be so certain.

Colette didn’t believe she’d be queen of
all. She said as much four orbits ago. And it had been her
revelation… Could Colette’s mistake have led Deniel into a false
belief?
Brenol wanted to trust Deniel, but it seemed too great
a leap to accept without consideration. He sighed and sank back in
his chair.