The creature in white paused after several minutes, and the two slid to a halt behind her. She pointed a tiny finger in the direction of an oddity: a single-story house—one of the few the two had spied in juile country. But it was still bedecked in the same gray pebble-dash with colorful drapes sweeping back and forth within the door frame. The house was simple and solid, and evidenced a sure hand guarding its upkeep. The girl muttered something unintelligible and bowed. She was gone like a flame before a breath.
CHAPTER 20
The world writhes; an unseen evil sinks its teeth still deeper.
-Genesifin
Darse and Brenol stepped forward to approach the house, and, like a magician’s trick, a man appeared standing in the frame, with portiere flapping against his body. He resembled juile on the whole, yet a taste of something foreign clung from top to toe. He was a towering creature, easily a hand’s span higher than the average juile, and his erect posture gave the impression of even greater height.
Darse and Brenol approached slowly, both eying the figure with concern. As they drew nearer, he stepped fully from the doorway and loomed over them—and what felt to be Massada entire. Now within two strides, they saw the man more clearly. His body was fit but not muscular; his skin, olive; complexion, baby-smooth. He had dark, tolerably greasy hair that curled up in a wave of unruliness, although its length was no more than five digits long. His eyes were sunken in and characteristically juile: so dark that the pupil and iris were almost impossible to distinguish from the other. His nose was long and pointed and slightly too large for his face, while his lips were thin and pursed. His austere face was not handsome, but also not unpleasant.
“I am Arman,” he said plainly and without nuance.
“Uh, Bren…and this is Darse,” Brenol said, pointing in turn.
Arman bowed his head to them politely. “I pray it will be bountiful.”
Darse returned the bow and Brenol hastened in awkward mimicry. The juile did not react; it would seem he did not expect anything less.
Arman surveyed the two, awaiting their story. He was apparently not prone to wasting words.
It was Darse who finally spoke. “We were told you might be willing to help us. We have a task that Queen Isvelle and Ordah have sent us on.”
Arman’s thick, dark eyebrows rose at the mention of the latter’s name. “What is this task?”
“We are looking for Isvelle’s daughter. Her name is Colette.”
The dark eyes bore into Darse. Their penetrating perception was unsettling. “So Colette is still alive?” His lips pursed in thought. “That is unexpected… What does he suggest?”
“He didn’t say. He just said to come to you for help.” Darse wanted to squirm under the odd gaze. I feel like a fool, he thought. Arman seemed about as hospitable as a wet cat.
“Am I to follow orders from a prophet?” the juile muttered, the final word spraying from his tongue as if he were spitting out a bug. His left hand moved into his robe, where he absentmindedly toyed with a clicking device. For several intense minutes, the short snaps patterned off in a foreign cadence. Brenol pictured the dark fingers tinkering with a pocketed abacus like he used at school, yet the rhythm seemed to indicate more than mere fiddling.
“Ordah, Ordah. He forgets others do not have his foresight,” Arman finally said. He inhaled deeply and exhaled with a slow hiss. “Or maybe it is just easier for him to pretend as such.”
At this, Arman flashed a stunning smile. It evened out his face, making his large nose fit perfectly among his other features. His eyes softened, suddenly aglow with diversion. One could even argue that the smile made him handsome, at least for that brief and beautiful moment.
“All right, Bren and Darse. I will help you.” He dipped his chin as if in acknowledgement to himself. “I am surprised at the timing, but Ordah has his reasons…or he imagines he does.” The arresting smile again transformed his features. Brenol gaped; it was fascinating that a mere grin could alter a person so markedly.
Darse would have been charmed had he not been numbed to everything but a blossoming ire. “A reason for his timing?” he mumbled. He grappled with his thoughts, but the words spilled out before he could even make sense of them. “Are you saying he knew all along—these last eight orbits that she was missing—that she really was alive?” His voice warbled with emotion. He thought of Isvelle back in Veronia; she was half insane because of all these games.
Arman’s smile vanished like a meerkat into a hole, and his nose again protruded grossly from his face. His searching eyes probed with a keen intensity. At last the juile released a sigh that told of a puzzle being completed. Darse squirmed, feeling that Arman now perceived more than he would have liked.
The juile spoke gently, “No, no. That is not my meaning. I do not think Ordah would ever behave as such. I mean only that it is odd to face this in light of the coming lunavidola. He knows I would not leave unless it were dire… But again, he has his reasons.” The meerkat smile popped out anew, handsome and playful.
“The plan, then?” asked Brenol. Somehow he knew it was not going to be sleep. He sighed before he even heard the answer.
The meerkat disappeared. “We travel.”
~
Arman pointed their party east, with the aim of gaining assistance from an old friend in Granoile, and they began their trek.
Walking out of Selet was unexpectedly astounding. The land thinned of its vegetation and settled into barrenness. The sun beat down and beaded their skin in perspiration, yet the late afternoon skies lit up with the colors and radiance of the lunavidola, or at least the preludes of it. According to Arman, this was the first glimpse of the panorama of colors that would paint the heavens for ten days, becoming even starker and more vibrant in a stunning and rhythmic dance. For now, they surveyed a pale pastel wash behind dancing lights—more reminiscent of rainbow fireflies flitting about than an ordered symphony of beams and movement. But Arman promised that within the next day, zenith and horizon alike would morph into astounding beauty. It was extraordinary for any juile not to be present during this event.
“Why is that?” Brenol asked.
Arman strode forcefully, eyes stretched forward toward their destination. His garments flapped gently. “It is the time for those without soummen to find one.”
“Oh. Do you have one?” Brenol asked, slightly sheepish. He could not imagine Arman holding a woman’s hand.
“No. I will have to wait for the next lunavidola.”
Brenol mouthed the word silently. “When will that be?”
“Eight orbits. Watch your stride here.”
For a moment the only sound was the gentle swish-swash-swish of his robes. Brenol had stopped in his tracks, astounded. Darse continued on silently. He was curious himself, though he wished Brenol knew when to cease.
“Eight?” Brenol erupted. He bounded forward to catch up with the two.
“Yes. Eight.”
“Why?”
Arman’s eyebrows sprouted up, and his eyes narrowed. “Bren, is it customary on your world to question another’s ways so tactlessly?” His expression softened slightly as Brenol’s demeanor fell, crushed. “You are young. It is good to have curiosity. Please attend to your manner.”
Brenol nodded, wide-eyed.
“It is every eight orbits. It is just our way. I will wait for the next lunavidola.” The juile’s manner indicated that there was no reason to question the custom—here, now, or ever.
“Are you upset?” Brenol asked tentatively, unable to help himself.
“No. I am needed elsewhere. I will make the next one. It is the way.” He smiled down on him. Again the effect was remarkable. His handsome face beamed with charisma and charm. “For now, we head to Caladia to see what the frawnish have heard.” He laughed. “I have every intention of taking what is bountiful on this journey.”
Darse’s eyes flickered up at these words. “What is that expression? We’ve heard it several times since we arrived in
Selet.”
Arman nodded. “Yes, it is our way. Every moment there is something to be gleaned. Our people believe it is not to be lost or wasted. It is the striving of every juile: learn in every situation. Find what is bountiful.”
Darse pondered the words. “I like that… Have your people always believed this?”
“Always. Some say, although I think it more legend that fact, that the Three wrote it upon juile’s bones.”
“Will you tell me about the gods here?” Darse inquired after a moment. “I’ve been wondering about them.”
Brenol flinched; Darse had spent many evenings among the visnati questioning them about the Massadan Three. The gods of Alatrice were far more austere, and Darse had clung to the visnati’s words with a hopeful tenacity. It was unnerving that their time there had been wiped so cleanly from his friend’s memory.
“The Three. Abriged, Tofinaol, Ceriton. The Eye, the Hand, the Mouth,” explained Arman. “Each is greater than its mere parts, but the name expresses something about the person.”
“Did they all three create the world? Or just one?”
“They do all as one, even if separately,” Arman replied easily.
Darse’s brow furrowed. He found the non-answer grating.
“Perhaps you saw the image of Abriged in Trilau?” Arman said. “It was a large eye in the center of the city. The juile have an especial affinity toward the Eye. He sees all.”
Brenol’s mind swam. Standing before that grand statue of bronze had been a lurching moment. His hand had itched with the compulsion to touch it…but he had refused the grief within to surface. It had seemed that the two motions could not coexist. To stretch his hand forward and touch the Eye would be a moment of stripping, of becoming bare. It would only have shocked the dam of sealed emotion apart.
“How do you know the Three are real?” Brenol finally asked.
Arman’s face was indiscernible. “Many ways. The maralane have told us much. I have my own experience. And there have always been a few connected souls. Some even converse face to face, and have written about their encounters.”
“But how do you know what they claim is true?” Brenol persisted.
Arman peered out across the terrisdan. “If I cannot believe my fellow Massadans, and those who have lived just as I do now, how can I trust even my own judgment?” He returned his gaze to Brenol. “Yes, I use my mind, and I never stop seeking truth, but I also cannot reject answers simply because they seem at first to be exceptional.”
Brenol grew thoughtful and plodded forward. Darse smiled silently to himself. He was unsure about the deities of the land, but he found his pride and affection for the boy blooming as it always did when Brenol allowed new things to shape him.
He will be great, Darse mused. The thought surprised and sobered him. Indeed, he will be great.
~
Brenol awoke with his muscles groaning in rebellion. The hard earth he had grown used to, but it was the pace of Arman’s long stride that had not dealt kindly. He stiffly stretched to a sit and watched the juile tend to the fire and what was evidently breakfast. The steaming food wafted out a peculiar scent, something akin to cabbage and hot mash, and despite the hunger pangs in his belly he could only muster a few mouthfuls. They left the camp site and moved on, stopping only briefly to rest and refresh themselves. The three traveled through the bleak countryside for the next two days.
In Arman’s company, Selet’s eye altered. The terrisdan now gazed at Brenol like a cat resting in the sun, with lids half open. There remained a lethal spark hidden and ready to flare into action—be it sinking fangs or a lulling purr—but the eye nonetheless became tolerable. The boy felt his spine unclench and his chest loosen and his lips all but sing gratitude for the juile. Brenol could only guess as to the reasons, but he remained thankful.
A friendship hastily sprouted between Arman and the boy. The two talked easily and naturally, and Brenol’s youthful candor drew out the juile’s blunt honesty. With anyone else this could have been devastating, for Arman was brutally quick, but Brenol delighted in Arman’s connections and marveled at how his companion could deduce so much from so little. The juile’s keen observance and intellect enabled him to very nearly read the thoughts in Brenol’s head. They made an unlikely, but fitting, pair. It soon seemed they had known each other much longer than a handful of days.
Rather than feeling excluded, Darse was relieved to be left alone with his thoughts—even if he had the uncanny feeling Arman knew precisely what those were.
Arman utilized every hour and was avid about Brenol gleaning any instruction available. He exhibited an unspoken pride in Brenol’s interest in his people and doggedly taught Brenol lessons on the history and rituals of the juile. Volumes could have been created on the dense and rigid culture, but they also had many days of walking. Suffice it to say, Brenol became more than commonly educated on the people of Selet.
~
“Why is there only a single nurest per terrisdan now?” Brenol asked Arman during this interlude.
The juile cocked his head to the side but continued to scan the vista ahead. “Ask your true question, Bren,” he responded.
“That is my question.” Brenol said, voice pinched in aggravation.
“All right.” Arman cast his knowing eyes at the copper head. “You will not retain your power if we recover Colette.” His voice was even, and his stride did not falter.
Brenol stared back aghast. “How…?”
The juile’s eyebrows jumped up faster than a finger from a hot pan. “Bren, you have it written on you like a scroll, unrolled and bare. I merely have to read it.” He smiled compassionately. “It is understandable. I do not know many who would be able to conquer the desire for the nuresti power.”
Brenol blushed. It was startling to have his darkest emotions be so obvious. He glanced quickly at Darse. How can I still be craving it after all that he went through? After the deaths of so many visnati? Images of the farming men crowded his blurring vision, but he cowered back from the grief, avoiding it as if it were an evil creature.
Arman went on, “The age of the Keepers is not one of nuresti. It is the time of the nurest. Singular. I have never heard of a situation such as this, but I doubt you will return to Veronia with any kind of connection. Be prepared. Find peace in it…or leave Colette a captive.”
They walked silently for many minutes. Darse observed the two. He saw Brenol battling with the same emotions with which he had begun the journey. He would sigh, even shake his fists, and gnash his teeth in a rigid grind. Arman remained silent in his flowing strides.
Brenol finally spoke, and the sounds escaped his lips in a thin whisper, “I hate that I don’t want to save her.” The words were more than he had ever thought he could voice, and the shaming images of his near-abandonment of Darse crowded his mind.
Arman ground to a halt and faced the boy. “That is why you’re here,” he said. The juile extended his arms out, indicating the barren wilderness surrounding their small group. His expression softened. “You will indeed refuse to exchange power for a girl’s life…” His lips hinted at a small smile. “It is what Massadans call benere: true goodness. I have pride in your benere.” The dark eyes were gentle, and his voice was deep and sincere. He bent his head in a bow to Brenol. “It is bountiful to know you.”
Brenol flushed pink and found his chest loosen slightly. Finally, after drawing in a breath, he stammered out in the appropriate juile fashion, “Bountiful, indeed.”
They continued walking until nightfall.
Darse held tightly to a new realization: I am grateful for Arman.
~
That night, the trio huddled around their warm fire, and after a simple dinner, Darse hastily collapsed into unconsciousness. Brenol’s mind refused to settle, though, and the boy swept his gaze from Arman to the blaze and back again. The juile faced sideways from the flames, and the orange glow patterned across his profile and made the blackness surrounding them seem even
darker. Brenol arched forward to catch a better view and discerned the juile’s purpose for the strange angle: he wrote in a compact book and required light for the effort.
Brenol had seen the tiny volume just once before, but had yet to inquire over it. Arman had removed himself slightly, plucked the black-bound mystery from some hidden fold of his robe, returned it with a flick, and rummaged in his pocket with a click, click-click. Tonight, Brenol’s curiosity turned him so edgy he felt like a toy on springs, yet Arman’s eyes never wavered from the pages.
The juile’s voice startled him when it came. “You are inquisitive. Come.” Arman’s obsidian eyes glittered in amusement as they swung casually to the copper head.
Brenol crawled from his blanket to the juile’s side. Arman extended his palm and offered the book to the boy. It was very small, roughly half the size of Brenol’s hand, and bound together with an exquisitely crafted black material as smooth as a porpoise’s hide. Brenol’s fingers slid across the soothing binding as he cradled it close, his mouth open in wonder. He pushed gently at the spine until it fountained out to the center of the book. The pages flapped with the delicate sigh of tissue paper. Precise and miniscule symbols, dots, and markings were scattered over the sheets.
Brenol’s heart sparked in pleasure.
Arman nodded.
I don’t know how he does it, Brenol thought, but he knows me better than I know myself. He grinned at the juile, then returned to poring over the tiny writings.
“It’s amazing,” Brenol breathed. Even the faint movement of air from his lungs lifted a page slightly. He laughed softly in wonder. The youth drew his gaze up, slowly returning the smooth volume. He fought his hungry fingers and released their awed grip. “Would…would you teach me?”
Arman smiled. His face evened out in attractiveness, and the pitch black eyes sparkled. Brenol laughed, ever delighted at the transforming effect of that smile.
“It would bring me much bounty.”
Arman bent forward, tapped the symbols with the back of his pen, and began to teach Brenol the juile writing code.
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