Eyes in the Water (19 page)

She laughed again. It was a melodious sound,
full of orbits and experience and playfulness. Her silvery eyes
sparkled. “If you can, I shall try.”

Within minutes, Seral had wrapped up a simple
luncheon. She passed the basket of items to Brenol with a smile.
“Glad to help.”

He bent his head in thanks and pulled the
quiet Colette in tow.

“Is it windy?” she asked. “I haven’t been
outdoors yet today.”

“No,” he replied. “Seral just meant the craze
of the talks.” He furrowed his brow. “I think, at least.”

The two wound their way across the gardens
and back terraces. The northern patch of woods beckoned, and Brenol
urged his companion on with a small squeeze of the hand. She
remained thoughtful but periodically flashed a faint yet
encouraging smile. The grass beneath them had long since grown
stiff in hibernation, but once they entered the glade, the soil
proved soft and springy beneath their restless feet. The air was
thicker here, filling their nostrils with the musty scent of green
life.

Brenol found a patch of moss and glanced to
Colette. She nodded and settled herself into the soft cool. Her
hands brushed the tender green around her as one would stroke a
house cat.

Brenol unloaded the basket and was delighted
to find the fare still warm and, even better, paired with a small
bottle of cider. The two munched happily upon the fish sandwiches
and took turns gulping the tangy brew.

Colette was the first to speak. “What would
you
do?”

Brenol shook his head firmly. “Nope. No talk
of that. Not one word.”

Colette could not hide the sudden freedom she
experienced. She breathed deeper, and her shoulders relaxed. “What
would you speak of, then?” Her voice was lighter, if not especially
happy.

“The inane?” he asked.

Her eyes glinted in assent. “All right.”

After a moment, he laughed. “I can’t think of
anything.”

“Surely you have a story of yourself,” she
replied with a smirk.

“So funny.” He pressed his lips together in
feigned annoyance but then tilted his head in question. “What was
your favorite game as a child?”

Colette thought a moment before bubbling up
with laughter at the newfound memory. “I’d forgotten,” she
explained. “I liked to name people.”

“Name them?”

She laughed again. The strained creases on
her face smoothed slightly. “Deniel and I wouldn’t tell anyone, but
we would give names to everyone in the castle. I think he had a
more difficult time keeping them secret, though.”

Brenol raised his eyebrows.

“He actually called the nurse ‘NoseGoes’ in
passing…” She covered her mouth with a graceful hand and giggled
softly behind it. “And the cook, ‘Pug.’”

“NoseGoes?”

“Her nose was always dripping.” She laughed
again without restraint.

It loosened the strings in his chest to hear
her, and he found himself relaxing. He swept his vision up to the
skies. The heavens were open, spotted only by the occasional cloud.
“What would you name your children?” he asked easily. “Surely not
Pug?”

Silence filled the glade, and he turned his
glance from the lovely blue. Colette’s face sobered him. “What?
I…”

She shook her head, giving him a small,
conciliatory smile. “I don’t think… Jerem… I… I probably can’t have
children,” she said softly. “The umbus told me when I first woke up
that it could maybe happen. Maybe. But that I should not assume.
Jerem… he…”

His gut felt like lead.
I should’ve
known.
“Oh. I’m sorry, Col. I…”

She again shook her head. Her chocolaty
plaits swished, framing her perfect face. “Why would you know?”
Colette swept her hands across the turf. Her fingers swirled as
though she were painting a picture in the green, a picture only she
could see.

“I don’t suppose you can sing?” Her eyes came
up to meet his startled glance.

“Sing?”

“Yeah. I want to lay here and hear a song.”
Colette smiled. “Oblige me?”

Brenol squirmed. It had been orbits since he
had sung for anyone. “Ok,” he acquiesced hesitantly.

She promptly responded by extending her legs,
lying back upon the ground, and cushioning her head with hands. She
peeked at him and gave a tiny nod of encouragement. He blushed but
began to sing in a low rumble.

Fly dear baby toward my arms, swing so low and
high,

Speed rosy infant o’er my way

Hasten ’cross the sky.

She came to me as child, she came as suckling
sweet,

She soaked up my caresses and sighs

And I sang my babe to sleep.

At eventide she found me, and she was babe no
more.

She stroked my head and heart and soul

’
Til tears swelled sweet and sore.

Farewell my child of the skies, farewell my forever
sweet.

Wash me in your caresses and sighs

And sing me ’til I sleep.

Yes, sing me ’til I sleep.

His voice swayed evenly in the still wood,
circling them and the moment. As the words left his mouth, he
became keenly aware of his poor song selection and blushed, but
nonetheless, the slow melody dipped sweetly and swung until he was
nearly lost in it himself. He tried not to stare at Colette but
found that his gaze inevitably fell upon her beautiful face. She,
thankfully, peered into the sky and settled her eyes on the high
branches dancing in the soft wind. Her glance did not turn to him
until he had issued out the last note. She sighed. Her smile was
gentle, grateful.

“I liked that.”

He warmed inside. “Yeah?”

“Mmmm,” she answered. “A lullaby?”

The story hovered in his mind—the legend of a
child gifted to a barren woman when a stranger passed through
town—and he was thankful that the words made little sense to any
unversed in Alatrician lore. He nodded quietly. “More or less.”

“Thank you.”

“In good accord,” he replied.

She smiled again with a soft contentment and
beckoned him closer. Brenol scooted over until she had securely
claimed his lap for her pillow and nestled in like a cat.

“Could you sing it again?” Colette peeked one
eye open. “Just
once
more,” she added judiciously.

Brenol touched her forehead with the gentlest
of caresses before reluctantly retracting his hand. “You know
you’re just being greedy now.”

She laughed, and her voice was lovely and
golden. “Be careful, or you’ll be punished with a second
encore.”

Brenol dipped his head in mock apology. “Of
course, my lady.”

He inhaled deeply and let the song pour out
from him again, but this time as soft as a secret. Her breathing
slowed, and her body eased into relaxed slumber. He hummed the
melody twice more, afraid the silence might cause her to stir,
until he knew she was safely tucked into the depths of sleep.

Brenol gazed down upon her with an open face,
open heart. Had any seen him, they would have had little doubt as
to his affections. The princess’s breath rose and fell, and with
each inhale, his own breath aligned, as though even his lungs
longed to be one with her.

My heart could almost spill over…

The understanding was not new, but with the
thought, he accepted the pain that plainly scored his soul. Her
revelation of likely infertility had stung him with an initial
shock but then left him with a raw agony he had not expected. He
gnawed his cheek absently; now his song choice made infinite
sense.

Brenol sighed and found his vision blurring
as he cradled the sleeping lunitata
.
Her entire body lay
limp, and her face was soft in the peace of dreaming. He pondered
how long it had been since she had last slept, truly slept.

I want to take care of her. Cherish her.
Would she ever have me?

And children?
he asked himself
honestly. He wanted a future brimming with life, but could not see
joy outside of a union with Colette. The implications rent Brenol’s
heart raw, and he fought for composure lest he wake her
.

The young man inhaled deeply. He knew the
answer—and it was true, even if not entirely consoling.
It
matters not. She is the only one. I love her.

I will walk the path of being childless if I
have to. If she will take me.

Colette is all that matters.

~

I wish I had wings,
Arman thought, not
for the first time.

His lungs stung from exertion, and his heart
pounded at his temples. He darted his vision about the vista to
take in the varying trails and paths, deliberating which proved
quicker. Travel was hard on the body, and time was precious.

Complaints don’t make feet move
faster,
he reminded himself sternly. Impatience shook his core,
but he could do little save drive his aching muscles onward.

He had begun his travels intending to seek
out more representatives for the council and to utilize the
chance—and guise—to meet with Arista and consult with her about her
note in the jekob nut, but he had been derailed by fresh news of
the black fever. Disturbing rumors of death and subsequent conflict
had reached him as he had broken past the city limits of
Limbartina, and he had changed course immediately. Dread for the
future drove him. Not a breath had been spared, not a foot had been
lifted needlessly.

It was only too likely that he would arrive
to find the scene at Callup cleared away and lost to his
investigation, but he would race time until then. Yes, he would
race.

There were two small human villages, hardly
large enough to be termed as such, that eked out an existence on
the eastern front of Callup. He had seen neither Taro nor Veto but
had known of their existence, and their poverty. They were a mere
ten matroles apart yet maintained strict separation except for
occasional trading: a long-held grudge over unrequited love, or
something of the sort.

Three houses in Taro had been found bursting
with bodies stricken with the black fever. Somehow, the deaths had
been attributed to Veto. As the fever was mixed into the mess,
Arman doubted everything he heard.

It makes little sense,
Arman mused.
Could one group truly inflict the infection upon another?
He
did not think this monster he had been perceiving could be a mere
human. He tugged his cloak closer around him and leaned forward to
combat the strong winds.

Darkness stole across the skies as the sun
dipped, and he knew there was little he could do. Tomorrow he would
reach the villages. He would have plenty to think about then. He
built a fire, ate from his stores, and slept.

~

Dawn stretched up lazily only to find Arman
already in motion. He had packed and breakfasted before light had
even softened the skies. With the brief refreshment of the night’s
rest, his mind felt clear, and he noted an odd instinctual urge to
visit the accused village, Veto, first. He paused for the space of
a breath but then flicked out his fingers and shifted direction. He
rarely regretted listening to his instincts, so he said a prayer
for bounty and continued on.

By early morning, Arman sat warming his
transparent hands in the home of Farler, Veto’s chief, while
surveying him with a careful eye. Farler was a short, middle-aged
man, with black hair salting at his temples and beard. His face was
severe and pensive, and his dark blue eyes spoke of a sharp
intellect.

The house itself was small and worn, and
people buzzed through as if drones moving in and out of a hive.
Arman did not care for the intrusions; influence was limited with
such interruption. Farler seemed not to mind in the least and met
each villager with a nod or a word as was needed. They all regarded
him with respect, listening attentively and leaving once
dismissed.

Eventually, Farler turned to Arman, peering
at the half-visible juile. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly.
His voice was tense, and it was evident that the chief wished away
this strange visitor. He had enough to face at present.

Arman dipped his chin in civil greeting and
locked eyes with Farler. Arman again perceived Farler’s quick mind
but saw the fear residing in his eyes as well. “I am Arman. I am
passing through.”

“Then pass,” he said curtly.

The juile ignored him. “I go to Taro to see
what has happened.”

Farler’s navy eyes narrowed, but the man did
not speak.

“Will you come with me?”

A new spark glinted in the gaze; he was
amused at the juile’s persistence. “You are mad,” Farler
replied.

Arman flicked his long fingers as way of a
shrug. “I will not dispute that in either direction.” His face was
solemn. “But I would argue that your presence is needed there.”

“Mad,” Farler repeated, shaking his head. Any
hint of diversion had been wiped cleanly from his face.

“Rumors have spread as far as Limbartina.
Accusations are heavy.”

“We care not. Cona can direct her village as
she wants, but none from here have traveled her way in moons.”

“Then come and explain as much,” Arman
persisted.

“I’ll do nothing. As I have
done
nothing,” he growled.

Arman shook his head and straightened. The
intensity of his brow made his face mismatched and unattractive. “I
have not said you have. But you are a leader,” the juile said with
fervor. “And this situation has the beginning ripples of something
ghastly. Of war, possibly.” Arman’s hands went out in a gesture of
appeal, but his expression remained determined. “You know better
than most that leading is rarely about yourself. Think of your
people… I have heard good things about you. Please. Think of the
future and the lives in your power.”

Farler’s face remained set, but Arman saw the
sharp eyes working.

“Why would you not?” he asked.

Farler turned his back to the juile. “I have
heard enough. You many go.” His voice was hushed but final.