I can do anything, absolutely anything, Brenol marveled. A blissful surge of esteem swelled up and through him from Veronia. He stood taller.
Darse clenched his jaw in silence as his feet scraped over rocks and soil. What is he hiding? A mix of his old, irrational fears jolted through him. Could it be real? Have I again been deluding myself? Darse felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to carry Brenol back over the border, but he knew that was truly no option. He could not force Brenol to leave Veronia any more than he had been able to keep him on Alatrice, and the sharp sensation of powerlessness was sickening. He clung to his last scraps of willpower and vowed through the emptiness: Nothing will touch him. Nothing.
Brenol caught Darse’s expression and turned from the man in his own silence. He longed to hide his power from every pair of eyes, as though he could keep it forever if it was only out of everyone else’s sight, awareness. Nothing will take it away. Nothing.
Brenol and Darse loaded their packs and hoisted them upon their backs. Brenol caught his reflection in the water and was surprised at the face that peered back at him.
I look angry. And hard.
It unnerved him. Brenol shook his head and consciously relaxed his fingers, trying to forget that mirror reflecting his awful greed as they strode west.
CHAPTER 8
Tying worlds together is not a task undertaken lightly.
-Genesifin
The two tramped across the grassy hillside. Their footgear remained stowed, for the turf was easy, and they had grown accustomed to sun and soil on their toes in their several septspan with the visnati.
While the castle rose up in plain view, it remained matroles off, and the hot midday sun drew sweat to glisten on their skin. The free-flowing grasslands tapered off into smartly manicured gardens and orchards, and even the wildflowers seemed to bend to a tame docility the nearer they drew. The castle towered higher with every foot forward, and despite his nurest connection, Brenol felt the sting of vulnerability before the massive structure.
The building itself was undeniably exquisite. Spires and cupolas raised up to pierce the sky, and banners flapped from open windows in a rippling of color. The queltzar’s glassy and resplendent surface was hypnotic as the light reflected and danced off.
“Almost like a mirage,” Darse said. Brenol did not respond.
Their feet eventually met stone walkway, and the castle mounted even larger before them. The crunch of tiny pebbles underfoot failed to counteract the eerie silence which surrounded them. It seemed unnatural that such a space would be so devoid of life.
“I feel like I’m being watched,” Darse whispered sideways. Again, Brenol did not speak. He knew how accurate this observation was.
They stepped slowly to the tremendous entryway. Two massive stone doors rested open, allowing free access through, though each one seemed like it would require the force of several men to move even a digit. Darse arched his neck up and scanned the design in awe.
“Hello?” Darse called in tentatively. He poked his neck through, glanced about, and finally shuffled inside. His neck tingled in the empty silence, but there was nothing to do but continue. Brenol followed a pace behind him.
The palace was as breathtaking inside as out. Enormous columns, engraved with images of majestic trees, rose up from marble floors. Light streamed in from the immense windows, and they could hear the bubbling, melodious sound of a courtyard fountain. Tapestries of gold and scarlet depicting elaborate scenes clothed the walls, and banners hung from the rafters.
A snippet of a memory, obviously not his own, flashed in Brenol’s mind. He paused, distracted. Small girl of eight orbits pattering through the hall, ducking behind pillars. She held her breath. Her face was flushed and happy, and her plaits were dark and lovely. A sweep of foreign emotion plowed through him, and he brimmed with tender affection. Everything about the girl drowned him in love, and he was overwhelmed by her goodness and perfection. Brenol blinked and the picture dissipated; a breath longer and the terrisdan’s sentiments melted into nothing.
Veronia? he asked silently.
Veronia? What was that?
The lack of response highlighted the odd sensation that lingered: Brenol was jealous.
Darse glanced over to Brenol’s frozen frame. “Bren? What’s on your mind?” His voice sounded tiny in the cavernous space.
Brenol merely shook his head; through Veronia’s connection, he had sensed someone approaching and turned to face a wall in response. Darse raised a brow as a man emerged from the very spot Brenol watched. The man slid out from behind a thin tapestry, revealing a hallway behind him in the brief moment before the fabric sighed back into place.
The man was enormous. He had natural height and girth, but labor and sun had sculpted him into a bronzed giant. He wore tan slacks with a belted tunic, and his feet padded softly in beige moccasins. His arms were tattooed from elbow to wrist and knuckle to fingertip, in a mess of pictures and foreign faces.
Once standing before them, he bowed silently and then straightened to face Darse. His gray eyes were cold.
Darse shifted nervously. “Hello. We have come to see Queen Isvelle.”
The man scrutinized the two. “I must relay a message before you may see her.”
“Ordah sent us,” Darse replied, regretting their decision to heed the unmet prophet more every moment.
The man scrutinized the two, dipped his head in exit, and returned again through tapestry and wall.
Darse fidgeted anxiously as they waited. Brenol stood quietly, but abruptly straightened and faced the main doorway in expectation. Darse furrowed his brow in wonder.
A women entered. Despite the boy’s foreknowledge, nothing could have prepared him for this being. He sucked in his breath in an audible gasp.
She had long, straight, mahogany tresses that fell down her back in shining cascades, an oval face freckled and creased with middle-age, and perfectly pink lips. She looked no more than forty orbits, but her rich blue eyes hinted at pain that exceeded her age. Her frame was feminine and thin, hugged by a thick crimson gown embroidered with flowing gold stitchery.
The woman’s features though, were not what drew Brenol’s breath. Her skin emanated an alluring and gentle light, as though she carried a lantern beneath organs and tissue. Every bare speck of flesh beamed with the fair amber glow. Standing before her, Brenol was undone.
The boy glanced at Darse, who stood solemnly erect, and he marveled at the man’s seeming indifference. Her beauty had caused Brenol—at least momentarily—to forget the nurest power, Alatrice, Massada, his mother—yet Darse, although also perceiving it, appeared unmoved.
The woman lifted an arm in open greeting. “Welcome to Veronia. Joy and health. I am Isvelle, queen of this terrisdan.” Her small lips rose up into a shapely smile to reveal perfect, even rows of teeth. She considered them with quiet expression. “Please, do tell me your names.”
Brenol spoke first, “My name is Bren… your majesty.” He stared into her eyes and found his lips moving without intent. “We came here through the cave. It had the water and then the fire.” His cheeks burned pink. He pulled his gaze to the floor and attempted to salvage an explanation that did not sound inane. “The visnati helped us come down from Ziel.” He felt keenly unable to articulate and converse with the Queen. It was a strange pairing to the surging power he felt within himself.
She smiled, the gentle smile of a parent amused by a child. It was without any trace of mockery.
Darse shuffled slightly, evidently uncomfortable, but composed himself. “Your majesty, my name is Darse Grey-Oak. We are from Alatrice.” He paused, not eager to reveal his lineage, but then continued. “Orbits ago, my father left me his house and a portal. My mother was from Massada. It was only recently that I received seal to return.”
The Queen peered curiously at Darse. “From the portals.” Her eyes turned and settled back upon Brenol. “How did you come here, then? And why has Ordah sent you to me?”
Another picture jumped before his mind. Young man with chestnut hair, no more than sixteen, arms wrapped around weeping girl, soft words whispered into ear: “I will always protect you.” Again, the flicker of a picture shattered his hold on the moment, and he flushed with a confusing mess of emotion: envy, satisfaction, hope, love. Brenol put out an arm as if to steady himself, took a shaky breath, and straightened his frame.
Isvelle’s blue eyes widened. She stared at him with sudden severity, and Brenol felt bare, powerless. He became acutely aware of his shoeless feet, muddied clothes, tousled red hair, dirty hands, and—presumably—filthy face. Shame flamed hot within his chest as he recalled fleeing Alatrice in selfishness. The grime on the outside only magnified the guilt of the inside.
Suddenly, and without meaning to, he blurted out, “I was called. And I’ve always been called.”
Brenol reddened and bit his cheek. Where’d that come from? He inhaled slowly and was surprised to find his steadiness had returned. His pulse was even and calm, and his mind echoed with clarity. It is true. I know it’s true somehow.
She gasped at his words and whispered hoarsely, “How can this be?” Her face had paled, and the lovely light that had beamed from her skin dimmed yellow.
She knows. Brenol’s peace vanished as his heart lurched in the exposure; it was only too evident she saw this bizarre nurest connection he carried. She perceived and despised it.
Darse was speechless before the bizarre interplay.
“How can it be?” she whispered to herself. Her light and radiance dimmed further, and her face grew ashen. “Nothing. There is nothing to be done now. It is over… Ordah sent you so I might know.” She stared off for what felt like forever, and finally Darse remembered to breathe.
The Queen grimaced out a weak smile. Then she swallowed and, gracefully stepping before Brenol, took both of his hands. “You need not fear,” she choked out, glancing up to Darse, “What is done is done.” Isvelle’s eyes lingered upon her hands as she muttered, “You belong in Veronia, I suppose…”
“Wh—” began Darse, stopping as she seemed to recover her composure. He waited for her to speak.
“I don’t know what to tell you, though. The time of the Keepers is a dangerous one… How long can one live? How long?” She paused, again muttering to herself. “There is no hope then…” Her eyes were a misty storm.
“What is going on? What do you mean?” Darse’s asked, but she only stared at him blankly. He fought against a building frustration.
Isvelle waved one hand in front of her face in an effort to veil her emotion, but nothing could dismiss the distraught picture the two had witnessed. She squeezed Brenol’s hand, apparently in an attempt to reassure the boy. It failed to alleviate either party, and Brenol was left with a sore hand as her graceful figure retreated.
Isvelle turned and extended a finger toward an open doorway. Her voice was empty and devoid of life. “Please. I know you must be hungry. Would you please dine? I’ll make arrangements for your stay this evening. I would join you, but I have other things I must attend to.”
Without another word she swept from the room, leaving just a final image of jewels glistening upon quivering hands.
~
The two mutely shuffled forward, each reeling from the encounter, and entered the next room.
It was a comfortable size, about twenty paces in each direction, and the walls glittered with queltzar and banners hung in vibrant hues of reds, oranges, and yellows. Four pillars squared the room, and ribbons laced the slender cylinders in stripes of scarlet and gold. A wooden table, ornately carved with flora and inlaid with gold, rested atop a thick maroon carpet at one end of the room. Six chairs huddled around it, also etched with complex designs. An immense fireplace glowed in the corner with two padded seats nestled before it. The crackling blaze provided a welcome comfort in the cooling air.
A young servant, with copper skin and clothed in a simple tan tunic and black sandals, emerged with silver basins and an ewer of warm water for washing. His wide oval eyes examined the strangers, but he vanished through a side doorway without speaking a word.
Brenol approached the basin with a darting glance at Darse. The man peered back, and Brenol shied his eyes away again. He did not want to see the bewildered hurt residing there. The boy splashed his hands and face, scouring them until they were red and clean.
Darse toweled his beard dry, shook his head. “I’m ready to have this make sense,” he said softly. He looked to Brenol for a response, but the boy merely finished scrubbing and set to mindlessly picking at his nail beds.
They positioned themselves at the table and waited in anticipation, although not necessarily in regards to the fare.
The young servant returned, arms laden with a tray heaped with food. He placed it before the two, and the aroma drifted up in an irresistible billow. Brenol’s hands flew greedily to work as he suddenly realized his aching stomach. Darse followed suit, yet continually drew his blue eyes back to the youth.
More servers arrived to pile additional trays before them. There was scalding soup with leeks, sliced kert, a dish of potatoes drenched in a creamy orange sauce, two thick slabs of bread with oil for dipping, and a platter cupping a baked pink fish. The flavors were foreign and odd, but it filled wonderfully.
As their stomachs grew content, Brenol casually nudged a bowl across to Darse. The man leaned forward to peer in and drew his jaw back with a jerk.
Brenol smiled. “Smells that good?”
Darse allowed his lips to tug up slightly and dipped his hand into the sodden mess. He selected one of the white chunks, screwed his face in repugnance at the scent, and tossed it at the boy. The piece splattered against Brenol’s chest and rolled down his clothing, leaving a trail of dark damp.
Brenol choked. “Ugh, it’s awful! What is that anyway?”
Darse laughed. “Curds.” He leaned forward to exaggeratedly sniff the boy. “And I think cumin.”
Brenol’s lips curled back in distaste, but he laughed nonetheless. “I’m done. Done, done, done.” He stood, dabbed at his shirt without much success, and pushed out his chair. He strode to the inviting fire and positioned himself in one of the seats. Despite the banter, he could not disguise his growing unease. He required no nurest connection to notice Darse’s looks or perceive his tone throughout dinner. Darse was not likely to endure any more reticence.
“Bren?”
“Yes?” His voice did not convey innocence.
“It is time to tell an old man what he is missing. Between you and Isvelle, I am dizzy enough to topple.” His bass voice was gentle but entirely firm. There would be no more evasion.
He sighed, “Darse…it isn’t like I am trying to keep you out in particular. I, uh, just don’t really get it…” He wrung his fingers together. Veronia’s eye hovered hotly upon his neck.
“Bren.”
The boy peered up from his hands and met Darse’s eyes. He started; instead of seeing the prying greed that he had anticipated, he saw his friend Darse. The clear, deep-sea eyes of Darse. They were open, concerned.
“Bren, it’s time to let it go. What’s going on?” His voice was steady and gentle.
“Well…so this is going to sound strange.”
Darse looked around him incredulously, palms uplifted, as if to illustrate that their lives were anything but ordinary. He met the boy’s gaze again. “Try anyway,” he suggested.
Brenol sighed. The words came awkwardly at first, like spurts from a well’s spigot, but finally poured out in relief. He told him everything—the voice, his experience in the cave, talking with Garnoble, the nurest connection with Veronia. Any intention at withholding information washed away as each secret successively met the light. Veronia whipped him with a wash of disapproval, but he clung with tight fingers to the peace he found with his friend.
Darse rubbed his chin and let out a heavy exhale. “You sure have a lot to figure out for a person of fourteen orbits.” He gazed thoughtfully at his thum
bs. “All right.” He met Brenol’s gaze squarely. “I have something to tell you as well…”
Brenol drew his jaw back in surprise as Darse poured out his own secret about his dream and the voice calling for Brenol—and about the terror he had experienced.
“I wanted to protect you, even from fear. So I never said anything at home…and then, well, I began to think it was nothing while we were in Garnoble.”
“Darse…” Brenol began. His face was blanched and serious. “I…I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have taken that key.”
The man nodded solemnly. There were many things that should not have been.
“But Darse?”
“Yeah?”
“I just know. I know the voice isn’t going to hurt me. I know you must think it’s a trick or something because it’s in my head, but it won’t. I just know it.”
“We don’t know anything about this voice, Bren. Not a thing.”
“The Queen does.” Brenol replied, but his tone acknowledged the weakness of the argument.
“She didn’t seem pleased to discover your ability.”
Brenol nodded reluctantly. “Well, I’ll tell you everything from now on.” He gasped slightly as Veronia pounded his interior with anger and irritation. It eased, and he inhaled slowly. “I’m not scared…it is really just amazing.”
Darse shook his head in bewilderment.
“I don’t want to give it up. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I…I’ve never felt so capable, so strong, so smart… I feel alive.”
Darse took in a deep breath and muttered, “That’s what I’m worried about.” His concerned eyes hovered over Brenol. “We’ll figure it out though, Bren, we’ll figure it all out.”
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