Eyes in the Water (7 page)

“It doesn’t say much…or perhaps I should
simply say it doesn’t allow for much hope.” Brenol sighed. “It
speaks of the passing of the maralane and some other creatures and
says that a new age will come about because of what it calls the
Change. There will be a Final Breath.” He shuddered, although he
could discern no reason for it. “And that—the Final Breath—seems to
really be the end, but it is not. Oh, it also mentions some
creature I don’t know: ‘Child of malitas.’ I don’t know what it—or
anything—means. It is a muddle in my mind.”

“Malitas?” Arman asked sharply. He paused,
his mind churning.
Could this be what I have feared? What I
think is happening across Massada?
“That’s disturbing.”

“Why?”

“You remember the concept of benere?” Arman
asked. “The pursuit of wholeness, goodness? Malitas is the night to
benere’s day: the seeking of ruin, chaos, corruption. A child of
this? It would be evil enfleshed.”

Brenol’s memory flooded with the gripping
sensation he had known in the soladrome: there was a darkness upon
Massada, and he must do everything to save the land from it. The
deluge of images and emotions—the bond of the gortei
,
the
whistle, Pearl’s owl-like eyes and dappled gray feathers, the
hoard’s eyes staring expectantly at him—blinded him to his present
surroundings.

“What is it, Bren?”

The young man inhaled slowly and gave the
juile a sideways glance. “I don’t know why I’m reluctant to tell
you. It’s silly.” He glanced down at his dirty fingernails before
meeting his friend’s eyes.

“Hmm?” There was an unreadable expression on
Arman’s intense face.

Brenol opened his mouth as if to speak and
then shut it again.

“Is it truly that terrible?” Arman asked. His
handsome grin returned.

The young man allowed himself his own brief
smile and finally spoke. “I promised an oath of gortei when I was
last here.” A hot flush hit his cheeks.

“Yes?” Diversion sparkled in the coal-black
eyes.

“Yes,” he repeated.

The juile laughed, the deep rumble spilling
from his lips. “Good. It is an honor to have you to care for my
land. I thank you.” He dipped his dark head in respect and, despite
the smile, betrayed no trace of mockery. He meant every word, as he
always did.

Brenol did not have the patience to decipher
Arman’s amusement. Instead, he raised the clean white book and
slapped it with his left hand. The noise was meager compared to the
gesture. “What does this mean?” he asked curtly.

The juile flicked out his fingers again. He
extended a hand, and Brenol passed the book readily. Arman smoothed
his long digits across the white album for several moments without
breaking open the cover.

After a spell, the juile stood, brushed the
grass from his gray attire, and strode toward the river. “And you
said it was in juile code too?”

Brenol nodded, but Arman did not glance back
to see the man’s response. He was merely thinking aloud. The juile
lifted his robes and waded in several strides. A monument of
swarthy skin and dark hair, lost to the world of sun and breeze and
forest, he showed no concern regarding the cold waters licking his
clothing.

Brenol lay in the cool afternoon light and
occasionally glanced over at the towering steeple in the water.
Hours passed, and finally Brenol awoke in a muddled fog to find
Arman crouched before him, eyes hooded with mystery.

He yawned. “You read it all?”

The look Brenol received was both answer and
slap awake.

“What is it?”

“Bren, this is not simply a jump to the next
age.”

He sat to attention. He felt some power
spinning inside him, like an arrow about to stop, pointing him in
the direction where he should thrust his entire being.

“If you are this foreigner, you carry much of
the fate of our world in your hands. This Change, the Final
Breath—these are not merely stories to tell at eventide.”

Brenol’s chest sunk slightly, and the inner
arrow swung wildly within him. “It’s something I’m still trying to
swallow.”

Arman gave him a quizzical glance—idioms
forever intrigued him—and asked, “What would Deniel see in this?”
He lifted the book and tapped it twice with a clear index
finger.

“I have often asked that question.”

“Bren.”

“Yes?” The young man met the intense gaze of
the juile
.

“Search your mind. He gave his to you for a
reason.”

The thought startled him—
handing over a
mind like a bite of bread?
—but he closed his eyes, delving into
the mystery of the man’s memory.
I know so much of him, yet so
little.
He perused through the mess of pictures and scenes and
sighed. He had sifted through them for orbits. There was nothing
new to unearth.

“Push into it, Bren. Push.” Arman’s voice was
steady and soft, yet as imperative as a hypnotist’s.

Brenol thought back to the cave, to the look
that had comprised more than any language could transcribe, and
finally to Deniel’s death. He hesitated—of all the places to visit
again, he would not choose this one—and pursed his lips in
determination.

Here we go.

And he pushed, falling into picture and
sensation. The memory opened for him like a screen of water finally
releasing its long-held surface tension.

He gaped, shocked. Silently, fearfully, he
walked the length of the cave. It was the same place, cramped and
rank with Jerem’s scent, but utterly disconcerting to experience
afresh. The happenings were as real as the first time, but he felt
intangible and ghostly before the concrete figures around him.

Jerem spoke to the boy—himself many orbits
ago—in the corner. “I see we have a guest, Colette. Did you invite
him, Deniel?” He paused to drive a rough foot swiftly into Deniel’s
side. The young man did not flinch, but Brenol did.

Brenol padded carefully over to Deniel. He
hesitated, but then with a determined nod gently lit his hand upon
the man’s back. There was no reaction. While he had not entirely
expected one, Brenol still exhaled in relief. The memory remained
but a memory, even if he was permitted to walk in its folds.

He glanced at Colette. A fire sparked awake
in him. He hated seeing her like this, and he was powerless to
change her circumstances yet again.

The scene unraveled just as it had when he
had lived it as Brenol and then, later, as Deniel.
Of all the
memories I have to relive so many times
, he thought ruefully. He
scanned the space, but it was the nightmare it had always
been.

Nothing. Nothing here.

He rose from the memory, the experience akin
to awakening from a dream. Brenol opened his eyes to find the
juile’s obsidian eyes intensely upon him.

“Anything?”

Brenol shook his head. “But the method was
effective.” He blinked, hoping to subdue the reeling sensation.
Memories of memories within memories. His stomach flopped.

“A different one, perhaps?”

Brenol inhaled slowly. “I suppose. But I
don’t know which. I have dozens and dozens…and I don’t think I’ll
be able to do this to each one.” He glanced around, scooped up a
cool stone from the ground, and held it to his forehead. It was
relieving, even if it could not fully calm his spinning
insides.

“Any with other people?”

“No. Just Colette.”

Arman paused, rubbing his fingers together in
consideration. “Maybe
she
is the most important. The missing
piece.” His voice was an absent rumble: a roaming mind made
audible.

Brenol’s body grew taut, as a dog coming to
point. “What did you say?”

“Maybe Colette is the missing aspect.”

“Before that. Why did you say she was the
most important?” Brenol’s heart thundered in his ears.

“Perhaps she is the most important.” Arman’s
quick mind clicked. “So you’ve heard that phrase associated with
her before? Where?”

“Maybe?” Brenol closed his eyes, delving. It
took him several moments before he was able to place it. “Veronia
said it long ago. Back when I was a nurest. Before I’d met her. I
said something about Veronia not even caring about her, and it said
she was the most important. Wouldn’t say much to me after that… I
couldn’t figure out what those words meant, so I eventually let it
go. Forgot them, even. I guess I concluded that the land felt that
way because of the connection.”

“But yet, you don’t believe that.”

“Not really. Veronia is not one to speak
without intention.”

Arman released his long legs from their tight
crouch and extended them, as though their freedom might enable
inspiration. “What did Deniel think—about Colette?”

Brenol shrugged. “He thought her pretty
significant. He was her cartontz. Plus she was basically a sister
to him. I think it all combined to a near obsession when it came to
protecting her.”

“Yes. And the abandoning of his own terrisdan
to serve another nurest is puzzling itself. Mastering the desire
for the connection’s power is battle enough without adding service
to another nurest onto it.”

“Mmm,” Brenol mumbled in assent. “There was
another thing…”
The queenship…the tree…the feather…

“Yes?”

The young man laughed, realizing his love for
Colette’s tree was more than likely clouding his ability to see the
truth. She had been but a child when she had thought she would be
queen over the whole world. And Deniel had not actually seen or
heard anything himself. No, it could not be a reality. “Nothing. My
mind is not making sense to me right now.”

Arman raised a transparent eyebrow but did
not pursue it further. “And Jerem?”

The hair on Brenol’s arms prickled. “What do
you mean?”

“Was his obsession with her only because of
her connection?”

“Oh.” It was as though Arman had unlocked the
door, even if it remained shut. He groped forward in this strange
new torrent of thought. “Both of them seemed to know something
about Colette. Jerem boxed up the other nuresti to save for later,
but she was his experiment and object for orbits on end. He was
fixated on her. And Deniel could not get past his cartess. Cartess
this, cartess that. He said it was to protect her…but there was
more. Because there was always some kind of insinuation that in
saving her—”

Arman interrupted, “He saved Massada?”

“Yeah,” Brenol breathed.

“Do you know the memory now?”

The image of Colette’s tree blossomed again
in his mind. Even the glimpse robbed him of his breath.

“Yes. But I—”

Flash!

Deniel crouched in a tree, concealed within
its boughs and leaves. He was fully alert. He could hear every
sound, every whisper tickling through the wood, every creeping
thing in the night.

I will know. I must. It is my cartess,
he
thought.

Time passed. Hours. His legs ached, his
bones grew cold and stiff. Yet still, he refused to move.
My
cartess
, he thought, willing his muscles to endure without
breaking into shivers. The strain grew unbearable, each moment a
concerted effort to remain motionless.

Is this the wrong place? Was my information
wrong?
he wondered. But he remained. He refused to let anxiety
steal his hope.

More time passed.

And then, in the hour before dawn, Deniel
heard someone approach.

He thinks he hides his walk well, but I hear
his pride leagues away,
the young man thought.

Ugh. The stink.

Deniel knew it was Jerem simply from that
awful scent. It was earthy—a deep down earth, too—but with a heavy
spice. The mixture itself was not unpleasant, but it heralded its
owner, who was.

I know you’ve done something with her,
Deniel thought
. I know it. You’ve been too many places at
key times. Yes, we’ll see what web the busy spider spins.

It was not long before another approached. A
stocky, greasy man shuffled in from the bushes, decked suspiciously
in black and fidgeting as only the guilty do.

“
Jerem?” he whispered into the
darkness.

“
Hush. You might as well trumpet your
presence to the polina.” Jerem’s voice was dangerous and icy; it
would take little to unleash whatever corrupt designs loomed in his
heart. “What do you have for me?”

There was movement below, and Deniel could
not discern their faces through the greenery, but he heard Jerem’s
murmur of pleasure.

“
Is there an antidote?” Jerem
asked.

“
I did not make—you never said to make
one,” the shorter man whispered.

Jerem growled triumphantly. “Tell me how it
affects the maralane.”

“
It is slow—” the man started
hesitantly.

“
What?” Jerem asked, still distracted by
his grasped treasure.

“
The poison takes a long time to affect
them,” he replied nervously. “It destroys their side gills, but it
isn’t a fast process.”

Jerem’s voice was tainted with a controlled
fury as he spoke, “How long?”

“
Stop!” the stranger squeaked. “Please! I
only tested it on the one. Maybe if you had me test
another—”

“
I will ask you again,” Jerem said slowly.
“How long?”

A sudden fear sliced through Deniel’s
chest.
He is—

The young man tried to look down to see what
was occurring, but the branches obscured his sight.

The shorter man moaned below. It was a cry
of a man who realizes his peril too late. “I—” he whispered,
clearly in pain.

A sharp whisper hissed through the leaves.
“You will tell me. And you will tell me quickly. That was just a
small cut. This blade can go deeper.”

The stranger groaned again, but words did
not come.

“
Tell me!” Jerem spat vehemently.