The feather and tree became blurry, and the world around her smeared until reality settled back into focus. She blinked in the harshness of the midday light.
“What did you realize?” he asked her gently. Deniel’s gaze was curious; he really did not know what she had seen.
Colette narrowed her eyes, almost afraid to believe the impossible.
“What did you see?” he nudged again.
“I am to be Queen of the whole world.”
She flushed in embarrassment and looked down. Surely, this was a silly dream. She had never even seen this tree before. Unease crept into her bones like a winter chill.
“Your cartess,” he whispered to himself. His eyes glinted with a fierce determination she had never before witnessed.
“What does it mean?” she finally asked. She felt every bit the child.
He smiled broadly. “That’s the fun part. We wait and see.”
Colette sighed. It was a nightmare that she had never escaped, and now her mistakes had caused Deniel’s death. He had saved her for a false promise.
Brenol waited patiently, wondering what washed through her clearly occupied mind.
Her voice quivered weakly. “But I have no such purpose. I am without cartess. No creature could be more cartess-less.” She crept up into her bed and curled her knees to her chest.
“How do you know that, Colette?”
She rolled over to face him while she spoke. Her face was haunted, and a brittleness lined every feature. She whispered in a hollow voice, “Do you know any more than that, Bren? Was there something he wasn’t saying?”
Hope rested in her eyes. All Brenol had to do was lie to keep it there, but he knew he could not. He loved her too much to betray her with falsehood. “No. Nothing.”
She did not erupt as Brenol expected. Instead, she sighed, and her breath escaped in a tiny whimper.
I killed him. Why’d he believe me? Why’d he think he needed to save me? Me, Queen? There has never been a queen over all. Never. I was a foolish child…
She pushed her thin legs off the bed and stood. “Yes, I know.”
I know what I’ve done, she thought, loneliness racking her guilt-ridden soul. She reached over and clutched Brenol’s hand with her own.
Brenol’s heart lurched slightly. Her hand was cool to the touch.
She did not speak any more that day.
~
Isvelle’s seal arrived as twilight began to creep across the land. The sun had tucked her fiery face behind the horizon, and shadows lengthened while the sky held onto the last light. Darse had been worrying over the queen’s delay, for her absence had an abnormal flavor to it. Why would she not hasten? He had held his tongue but still could not help wondering. The space between the two—mother and daughter—grew deeper with each passing day, at least in his imaginings.
Isvelle’s truancy was clarified by the thin envelope laid in his palm. He paid the sealtor with an absent clink of coins and broke past seal hurriedly.
“Oh,” he said softly.
He raised his gaze to allow the information to sink in and started in surprise. Colette herself stood at the side of the empty hall, watching him silently. She did not flinch at being discovered but remained where she was, following him with her sharp green eyes.
“Colette?”
She stalked forward slowly. Her motions had grown more fluid, and her conditioning was clearly working. “Something is wrong,” she said.
Seeing her hollow expression, Darse quickly waved his hand in negation. “She’s fine. She’s alive. Your mother was simply injured in travel. Several broken ribs before even reaching Garnoble. She was forced to return to Sleockna.”
“Oh.” Color began to return to her cheeks, but her features remained crestfallen.
“Are you all right?” Darse asked gently.
She nodded tersely and lifted a finger. Darse followed its direction to the waiting sealtor. “Do you have reply?”
“Oh.” He fumbled his fingers across his pockets in search of paper, but finding none, simply fished out his small wooden pencil and wrote in the space below Isvelle’s brief words.
I will bring her. I’ll send seal once we can go. -Darse
He folded the smooth sheet back along its original creases and extended it out to the sealtor. The man viewed him skeptically, making no move to take the note. “It is not a seal until stamped.”
“Is it necessary?”
The sealtor’s face contorted in exasperation until Colette interrupted with a burst of motion. She plucked up the note and approached the man. “You have spares, yes?”
He straightened in an air of professionalism. “Yes. Of course.”
“May I select?”
He swept a swift hand into his satchel and drew out a rectangular wooden box. It was about the span of a hand and at least three digits thick. She sat down to peruse the pieces, and Darse leaned forward in interest. Within lay at least fifty shiny seal markers, each about the size of a silver half-freg, with a tiny fingerboard upon the back with which to grasp. They clicked softly as metal kissed metal under her roving fingers.
“Here,” Colette said. She nearly touched the piece with her nose as she lowered her head in examination. She glanced up to the sealtor.
“I only have gray wax,” he said apologetically.
She nodded. He plucked out a thin cylinder the hue of smoke and slid it easily into a thimble with a slender, flat handle. The sealtor held the instrument over the flame of the candle he had procured during her selection and proceeded to melt the wax. Once it shone in its familiar gleam, he dribbled it deftly upon the letter flaps, and waited for Colette to press her choice into the cooling liquid. She pulled the piece up, revealing a delicate image of a rose, and gently returned it to its wooden home.
Darse handed further currency to the man and watched him collect his items and steal a last glance at the dark-haired beauty before striding purposefully from the hall.
“I’m going to take you back to Veronia, Colette. Once the healers say you are well enough. If you are okay with that,” Darse said as he turned back to the young woman.
The lunitata dipped her head in acknowledgement, her countenance somber. “The umbus want another septspan or two of strengthening.”
Darse nodded. “I want to wait for Ordah, too. I need to send Bren back through the portal, at least for a time.”
Colette did not offer a reply, other than a morose glance, and padded away in the silence of her thoughts.
CHAPTER 34
It is difficult to perceive danger amidst the wreckage of evil.
Yet to miss it would be absolutely fatal.
-Genesifin
Brenol smiled joyfully at the sight of Colette. He had not seen her much for several days. Though he had wondered about her reaction to the tidings of Isvelle, he had been unwilling to pry. Colette had so little to herself; he could wait until she was ready.
“Walk. Let’s walk,” Colette said.
He pulled back the tapestry and glanced out the small window. The mist had passed over that morning, and afternoon light spread out upon the courtyard like a welcoming blanket. The ground would be smooth and the breeze gentle. He nodded and trailed her through the cool, clean corridors to the gardens.
Outside, she did not utter a word. He felt all the loneliness from the last few days melting away by simply sharing in her presence. He glanced over to her and saw strain in her thin cheeks. He checked his pace to even with hers, and a simple realization came to him: he was beginning to understand and read this young woman, and with every piece gained, he longed for still more. Try as he might, he could not deny the depth of his feelings for Colette.
“You can ask,” he said gently.
Colette gave no indication of surprise. She turned her head and dropped his hand. Her face creased in concern. “Do you mind when I ask you about Deniel? I-I…”
Brenol thought briefly. Had the two been in love, Brenol might have felt differently, bu
t as their bond was more like siblings, he relished being near Colette when she probed his mind and memories. He shook his head and replied honestly. “No. Not at all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Really,” he said. “It doesn’t bother me.”
His face must have convinced her of the truth, for she exhaled in relief. “Ok. Thanks. Because Bren? I have something I can’t move out of my head. I-I just feel like I need to see something. Something important.” Colette’s nose scrunched up and her eyes became thin slits.
“What is it?” he asked with a smile. “I think we can figure it out.”
“Mmm.” Colette looked down, staring at the warm, turfed ground as she perused her memory. “You remember how you told me about Deniel’s memory of the house? Of the crates? And of him holding me and feeding me? Well, I have pieces of the other side of those memories—my own—but they are pretty muddled…
“I have this picture that I can’t seem to forget. It’s the inside of a box… I’m in it. And I wait for ages and ages, aching, so sleepy, but unable to move or speak. So sleepy. I’m alone and it’s hazy, like time is standing still but going on forever…” She looked up to Brenol briefly. “I keep thinking this cannot be a real memory. It must have been the drugs, but I cannot wipe those pictures in my mind. That box.” She shuddered, and the word echoed with the hatred of her confinement—real or imagined. “The box. But then Deniel came. He took me out. And he carried me—my legs were worthless. And he fed me…”
Colette’s eyes showed relief at being able to share her burden, but she longed to know she was no lunatic.
“The box,” Brenol mumbled, scanning through the memory of the strange house. Suddenly, Brenol’s insides lurched. His voice sharpened into a near-bark. “What did it look like?”
Her eyes flashed defensively.
“What?” he demanded again, unaware of anything but the dreaded possibility before him.
She took in Brenol’s trembling hands and taut features. She did not understand, but yet she did; this was as serious as she had imagined.
Colette exhaled, closed her eyes, and probed back into memory. “It was dark, but never cold. I saw—wait. No, I thought he had pulled me up, but it was more out. Do you understand? The opening was on the side, in front of me, not on the top end of the box… And it was metal, a dark metal. Black? Or gray? I don’t remember. Then Deniel said something… What did he say?” She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. I can’t remember. But he was really upset.”
She opened her emerald eyes. Brenol faced her, but when she looked back at him, it was as though he did not see her.
“I have to go. I have to find Arman. I just don’t know what to do.”
He stepped forward as though to leave, then stopped and faced her again. His face was stern with purpose. “What terrisdan were you in when this happened? Do you know?”
She thought a moment before shaking her head.
“Ok, Colette. Ok.”
He touched her shoulder, fingertips barely lighting upon her before he was gone.
Colette stood tall and alone, hearing the last word that had escaped his lips in a nearly inaudible murmur: cartess. It chilled the soft air around her, and the colors of the garden seemed to dull.
“And now he will leave,” she said to the shadows in her heart.
~
“Show me his things,” Brenol demanded again. He had been arguing for over an hour, and his patience was nearing its short end. He stamped his foot in frustration. His grip on manhood slipped from his fingers, and the child remaining reared up in tantrum.
This can’t wait! It can’t, his mind spurred on.
Brenol flushed with agitation. “This is very important. Now!”
The long arms of the umbu before him were motionless, yet his digits nervously fingered the floor, tracing the grooves and divots of the tiling. This was not the first time Brenol had witnessed the odd habit, but it had never before incensed him like it did currently.
Why won’t he explain himself?
“Now,” he said. The word dropped upon the tile like shattered ice. The umbu’s eyes widened.
I can’t wait any more. I won’t.
He made to move forward past the umbu but halted in stride. There was an almost palpable line of furtive mystery marking the entryway. He nearly backed from the room in fearful respect; ghosts would have hesitated before crossing the threshold and disturbing the room’s sanctity. Even whispers at its hallowed edges seemed like a desecration.
In that pause, a sturdy hand came to rest on his shoulder. Brenol gave a startled yelp and twirled around. Golden eyes met his own, and he released a sharp exhale.
“Can I ask you what you’re doing here?” Darse spoke softly, yet his smooth baritone was hinged with the tightness of a negotiator.
“I… I have to find Deniel’s things. I have to know. I have to see the map. I… Something is really wrong.” He shrank as the last words issued from his thin lips. The dim room seemed to echo in judgment over his forced entry. He felt his convictions sliding away and himself returning, and with that, he flushed a light pink. He saw with suddenly clear eyes the chasm that could have emerged between peoples due to his rashness.
Must I fail at everything?
He sighed, silently thanking Darse for his presence. He allowed himself to be ushered aside by his friend and then laid everything before him. “Jerem’s been boxing away the nuresti somehow. I didn’t understand Deniel’s memories before…but I think that those people might still be in there. I need to see his stuff and find his map.”
“Boxing away?”
“Yeah. He stashes them in cages.”
Darse’s face shaded in concern. “How could they still be alive, though?”
Brenol’s eyes filled with fire. “How does anything happen in this strange world?”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Brenol nodded but added, “I’ll only know if I go.”
Darse furrowed his brow at these words and hastily beckoned the umbu. They stepped to the side and spoke together in hushed voices, their faces grave and tight. The umbu pattered off in haste, leaving the two outside the mysterious chamber.
Brenol paced and fought back a wave of nausea. Did Deniel see the others and just take Colette? Could he really have left all those people?
Darse stood, cold with anticipation.
The first umbu returned with another who was clad in dark garments and robed in an air of importance. His face was as round as a globe, with a hook nose and severe, calculating eyes. Dark hair was neatly arranged upon the distinguished head in a combed part that accentuated his tiny and pointed chin. The odd umbu arm-walk was nearly dignified by his august demeanor. He acknowledged Darse and Brenol with a single dip of his head and flowed into the room. They leapt up and shadowed his heels.
The room was high-ceilinged and dimly lit, and it smelled of wax and smoke and decay. It was spacious and open, giving the sensation of a stale hollowness as one stood in its center. A few candles in sconces lit up the mosaic walls, and the images glittered in the movement of the flickering flames. Brenol barely breathed. He was so grateful Darse had stopped him before he had broken into this solemn place. It was rightly named: the House of the Dead.
The House of the Dead was not a tomb, for the umburquin held strict burning rituals for all the bodies of the deceased. It was, instead, a sanctuary for the dead’s items. Stores and stores of objects, packed and secreted away in dark vaulted cubbies, had not been exposed to light or sound for ages. The umburquin’s rites were scrupulous, hence the fragrant aroma of rot.
Brenol looked quizzically at the multiple ladders resting unobtrusively in two of the room’s corners before he felt his breath choke in his throat. He now saw it. Mosaics clothed the exterior, but the patterns on the walls were not merely decorative. The House was structured like a beehive, with cell upon cell packed and filled. He could see the faint outlines of squares and rectangles extending all the way up to t
he vaulted ceiling.
As the robed umbu moved, the room glowed alive: the candles flickered and jumped, a stale breeze fell flatly upon the entombed walls, whispers seemed to catch and echo although no one uttered a word. He leafed through a scarlet album resting upon a dais near the eastern wall. His arms bent awkwardly—too long for the work—as he squinted through the columns of names and numbers. He paused at a page, allowing his index finger to linger briefly on the parchment before erecting his short frame. He swayed over to the south wall, teased his fat digits into a slight curvature in the surface, a section at hip-height, and withdrew a large wooden drawer. He heaved the bulky container to the heart of the room, where the first umbu had laid an ancient, embroidered sheet.
Packed within the drawer were small, neatly labeled boxes—at least sixty in number. The umbu extracted one with care and whispered a hushed prayer with closed eyes before removing its lid. Brenol’s eyes widened as the items were lifted and placed upon the blanket in an orderly and respectful manner.
My—no, Brenol stopped himself. Deniel’s things.
The umbu nodded, and the youth gently picked up each piece and examined it in turn. A knife, a compass, spare flint. Brenol knew the items without ever having seen them with his eyes, and his fingers knew their folds and curves without ever having touched them. But it was none of these things he sought. He allowed his fingers to pass across their familiar surfaces, if only to find a small consolation within the maddeningly slow passage of time. He itched to dig through the box but fought himself back with short breaths. Finally, the umbu placed several papers upon the fabric. Brenol selected one with fumbling fingers and unfolded it in a hungry haste.
Where is it? I must know. The missing piece…
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling Deniel sweeping his finger across the map. His digits had lingered at the space, as if they caressed Colette’s face through the page.
I know the place, I just need to know the terrisdan…
His hand traced the paper until it fell upon Deniel’s rough scrawl across the bottom left edges: Selenia, eastern reaches.
The Land's Whisper Page 39
