~
Brenol began the journey to Limbartina with heavy heels. Spence had bidden farewell in the lugazzi, and the parting was a bitter close to an already sour meeting on Ziel. The visnat’s demeanor had been stiff and cool, with Brenol again left guessing as to the reasons. The youth boxed away his tense grief and maneuvered through the countryside alone, thankful he had minded the route on the previous day. The afternoon dragged on as he kicked dirt and rocks up in agitation and the sun beat hotly upon his neck. He wondered absently if hitze was almost here.
“The Genesifin,” Brenol mumbled to himself, feeling the pocketed book rub against his leg with each step. When he had first handled it, he had longed to scour the pages and caress the smooth binding, but now he fought the compulsion to abandon it to time and decay.
The boy nudged the ground with a toe, contemplating the hole necessary.
“Are you a fool, Bren?” he said, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wonder.”
The youth threw up his hands in surrender and plopped himself upon a smooth rock planted under three rising ash trees. It held enough protection from the sun to allow a faint relief, and he worked the book from his pocket. He sought to clean his soiled hands before handling the pages but eventually relinquished the fruitless endeavor. He inhaled deeply and opened it.
The first pages were blank and nearly blinding in their brightness. He turned the sheets until he encountered words, and soon his upper lip curled in displeasure. He flipped through the remaining pages, stopping occasionally to scan new sections. There were no words of fate. There was no sense, no enlightenment. His scowl only intensified.
“I may bury this yet,” he murmured.
~
Hours later, Brenol had not relinquished his place in the trio of trees. He felt the foolishness of remaining as the fiery sun rounded her course into the west, but he could not urge his heels to any action aside from pacing. The glowing orb finally dipped down in the sky, and the youth turned to her with exhausted desperation. She hung for a few lovely moments, thrusting blinding orange shafts out across the sky before settling down behind the horizon and exploding the heavens with the pink of twilight.
Darkness crept forward, yet still Brenol remained. The cool air provided gentle relief after the crowding heat. He breathed slowly and clicked his palmed beads together in an attempt to compose his thoughts. It seemed to only lengthen the argument in his head.
Arman’s face suddenly filled his mind, and the glance from the juile was rich with meaning.
“I know,” he finally whispered to himself. “I just don’t want to.”
As if the juile shared his company, Brenol pricked his ears to the echo of Arman’s words from what seemed orbits and orbits ago: “You will indeed refuse to give in… It is what Massadans call benere.”
Brenol released a tiny laugh. “You always know what to say, don’t you, Arman?”
He splayed out upon the soft heather and found that both mind and body had settled. He breathed deeply and drank in the stars as they emerged, calling those he knew by name in a gentle whisper as if they were old friends. The breeze was light and tickled his bare feet with cool and kissed his forehead with freshness. He peered up until his eyes could not endure the heaviness any longer and then sank into the sleep of a soul at peace.
~
Brenol met the new day with surprising alacrity and bounded back to Limbartina with purpose, if not relish. Upon finding Darse, he concealed nothing from him.
“So what will you do?” the man finally asked. The Genesifin lay open in the cup of his hand, as much a mystery to him as to the boy.
Brenol regarded his hands with a somber determination. Finally, he found his voice. “I’m going to return…to Alatrice, that is. I’m going back. I need to make sure Ma is safe, yes. But,” Brenol paused to slap the white album with a subdued, almost wistful, vigor. “I need to delve into this thing.”
Darse assessed Brenol curiously, seeing the last remnants of the impetuous boy who would push the worlds apart to grasp at his whims being swept away. Here, at some point, Brenol had begun to pause and consider what was truly right.
Nonetheless, Darse’s face wrinkled. “Ordah has not responded to my seals. He may have agreed to come, but he is missing.”
Brenol shook his head, his face morose. “He met me on the road. He recited some mantra or something and told me the portal would open. It’s in the stars, it would seem.”
Darse sighed, relieved to the center of his bones. He had torn across this bizarre world to gain this simple act, and finally it was granted in all casualness. He breathed with gratitude. Thank goodness. Finally.
“And you, Darsey?” Brenol asked. “You going to find a nice Massadan lady?”
Darse raised an eyebrow, and his golden eyes glinted in humor. “I’m staying, at least.”
The genial expression suddenly and surprisingly rent Brenol to the core. He pushed his lips together, hoping to cork the emotions bubbling within.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said. Alatrice was not home without Darse.
The man smiled easily. “You know, I think I’ll miss you, too. Sell my stuff if you have to for your conscription pass.” He winked playfully, and then moved forward and embraced Brenol roughly. “But I’ll keep an eye on things for you. I really will. I’ll look after her ’til you get back… And I hope it’s soon.”
Things are so simple with Darse. No disguises. No games, Brenol thought, aching. My friend.
The youth’s laugh came out more like a croak. “No more good-byes after this. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Darse replied.
After a moment, Darse raised his eyes to meet the youth’s green. Concern was plain in the older man’s gaze. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
Brenol parted his lips to answer, but then paused and grew pensive. He inhaled slowly and, magically, a genuine smile stretched generously across his face. “You know, Darsey. I am. I feel right, even if reading this mess of silliness back on a farm and paying taxes and growing crops is not what I want.” He nodded. “Yeah, I am ok.”
Darse eyed the book suspiciously. “Do you think there’s a code to it?” He curved the binding so that the pages flapped forward in a wave. He stopped and peered at the random page, shaking his head in disbelief at the phrase beneath his index finger. “‘To love is to serve.’ Now, I don’t disagree with it, but I just don’t see how the fate of Massada is resting on it.” Perplexed, he shook his head. “Proverb after proverb,” he muttered. “It’s just a bunch of religious nonsense.”
“There has to be,” Brenol replied. “Without a code? This would just be udertz.”
Darse’s mouth pinched in surprise, and his golden eyes danced in amusement. “See? You know much Massadan code already. I think you’ll do just fine.” He laughed. “Yes, I think you’ll do just fine Bren.”
~
How they squirm, the spirit mused. How they squirm.
Its pale gray eyes blandly took in the babe before it. His infant lungs bellowed in hunger pangs, and he kicked in frustration. The blankets bunched into a tangle until his tiny limbs were nearly immobile.
It pressed the blankets forward over the miniature head until both din and movement finally ceased. It sighed in bored relief.
It licked its lips to moisten them—always thirsty here—and left the crib’s side. Its breasts swelled, and a sharp prick twisted on both nipples as milk soaked through its clothing. It smelled too human, and the sensation was altogether disgusting.
I am sloshing in this woman’s filth.
A mass of red hair toppled from its scalp, frizzy but comely. It twirled a strand around an index finger lazily.
I have to get a different host.
It walked from the cottage with the lithe gait of youth.
Even if it takes me orbits, I will find a way to bring war, it thought, skipping along to the village. I will.
It chortled to itself. They are as dumb as gnats.
CHAPTER 3
7
The battle against malitas is never fought alone;
the entire world revolts against its terrible presence.
-Genesifin
Brenol paced the soladrome. While he had previously spent his exploratory efforts outdoors so as to be out with the land, tonight he turned his heels down the sterile hallways and dim corridors. He couldn’t sleep.
An unease had stolen into his insides like a concealed intruder. Initially, he had believed it to be angst over his near departure from Massada, yet the more he walked the more apparent it became that this was something far different. He could not put a finger on what, but it certainly had its finger upon him.
So he walked. And paced.
Most of the dome was reserved for use as the healing ward, but as he soon came to see, there were vast halls and eclectic rooms lying in wait for use—their intended purpose unclear to him. He ghosted through the sundry places without much thought as his tiny lantern creaked under the movement of his restless gait. The new sights did little to distract from the mysterious souring of his stomach, yet still he padded from one to the next, with a vacant surprise at discovering all the additional space.
After much time, and almost certainly the creeping up of dawn, Brenol found himself on the fourth and top floor along yet another corridor, peering in each doorway with a casual curiosity. Glancing into one and finding it much larger than he anticipated, he promptly strode in. It was a gathering hall of sorts, with colorful banners ribboning from the high ceilings and paintings and maps dressing the walls. Surely at midday it would be magnificent.
Brenol clicked around the room, but soon his interest dwindled under the twisting of his gut.
What’s this feeling anyway? It can’t be about going back…
He doubted for a moment as Colette’s profile filled his memory yet dismissed the notion again. I’m sure it’s not her…but what else could it be? The boy sighed and exited, following the hallway down to the last room.
He glanced about. A dim disappointment pricked him as he realized this was the end. There were no additional entryways, and he was nearly certain he had covered all the other soladrome ground.
The space itself was small, about the size of a sitting room, and decorated in cream tones. Along the top band of the room, where ceiling and wall met, plaster swept like rolling waves in a form of sculpture he had never before seen. The milky strip depicted scenes of galloping horses with manes whipping, maralane tails peeking out from the water, children hanging from trees, and kings and queens at table, and an entire panel was devoted to a string of events involving a strangely eerie sword.
As he absentmindedly took in the reliefs, his eyes strayed down, and a smile played at the edges of his lips. A door, as creamy as the wall, lay flush and nearly invisible. It was smaller than most, perhaps crafted for the umburquin. He teased his fingers across the smooth panel and found the latching system. He paused, recalling the House of the Dead, but his roiling stomach pushed him past care. He slid through with only a slight duck of the head.
The dawn had indeed come.
The stairway before him was lighted by some unseen window that rendered his lantern unnecessary. He set down the small sphere only to pluck it up again; he did not want to forget it should he continue down other mysterious passageways. The steps were wooden and tiny, as though made for a child, and ascended beside a simple wooden banister. He ran his hand across it. It had the soft and grainy feel of wood that has been touched by hundreds of hands. The sensation was comforting.
Brenol poked his head into the heart of the stairway and peered up. The steps curled up like a snake around a branch, and his interest surged. He mounted the stairs in multiples and wound his way to the top. It did not take long before he stood in front of a glass trapdoor—the source of light within the stairwell. Eventually his fingers discerned the latch, and he pushed it open and emerged into blinding day.
As he toed his way out, he mindlessly dropped his lantern to the floor.
Oh.
It was enough to yank the breath from a man. He was still inside, yet his eyes told him otherwise. The room was enormous, circular, and ingenious. The walls were constructed of clean, clear glass, flowing smoothly into the arched ceiling—also glass—tinted gold. He extended a hand as if to run his fingers across the clear bubble.
Oh.
It seemed as though the entire world lay open to his eyes. He had not realized the soladrome was as high as it was, but being nearly atop the dome he could see for leagues. The mountains of the south planted their strong bodies in purples and greens, the Davoc flowed below him and wound its path toward what he knew would be Ziel, the plains swept up, and hills arched in gentle rolls to the north.
Limbartina, the town below, was itself a visual feast. The morning was young, but already Brenol could spy shopkeepers and healers bustling through the avenues and working men and umburquin shuffling about their business between the short, compact houses. Steam rose from one of the small buildings, two children chased each other in a yard, a vineyard sparkled with night’s dew.
Brenol squinted his eyes in wonder at the glass itself. He had never before seen glass like the golden arch that capped the soladrome. He could make little sense of the craft, so he merely allowed himself to feel awe without question. He stalked the length of the walls. There was no feeling of isolation to this place, for it was open and free. Light streamed in and splashed the room with a soft yellow glow; it made it feel like a dream world. The floors were wooden—a noticeable change after the unending sea of white tile—and were meticulously cared for and stained a light pine. There was no furniture or art in the room to disrupt its magnificence.
Brenol paused in his circuit, staring out upon the distant southern mountains. The wizened dark green peaks were jagged but rolling, harsh yet enticing.
There is something about them…
Suddenly, his unease blossomed, and a harrowing dread overtook him. It sprouted up without warning or source. Insight smashed through his understanding and pulsed with icy fervor.
Massada is in danger.
He sought to clutch his fingers to something, anything stable, but there was nothing in the empty room. It was as if he hung suspended from a precipice with only a single, fragile thread holding his body back from the plummet.
How can this be? Is it true?
His palms dampened, and his clean shirt stuck fast to his young chest. His heart beat ferociously, leaving little ambiguity in both mind and senses: this was fact. He had been granted perception before as a nurest, but this upended him in an entirely new manner.
Regardless of how he had come to know, it was upon him. And it was an ugly thing, indeed.
But what is it?
He stared through the clear. The peaks had not changed in their beauty and the room still glowed in a lovely haze, but to Brenol, all had dimmed. His only experience remained the obscure blight gripping the world, and it tore at him like a wild animal.
What is it? What?
No answer came save that of the weight of truth pushing upon his chest. He breathed in short spurts. Finally, when he could no longer endure any more, with a strange resolve, he whispered out toward the lands, “I will protect you Massada. I promise to guard you with my life.”
The fear and the constriction eased, and the beauty of the room heightened again. It was as though the serenity had never left, yet the certainty of the experience was as sharp as a spear upon his memory.
“What was that?” he asked softly.
The dome around him filled with the echoes of laughter, as if a great hoard were laughing at him. He turned fast on his heels and swung around. There was no one, but then…
A regiment materialized around him. The crowd filled the space, every eye resting upon his small frame. Men, giants, maralane, and more. They all stood—even maralane—and bore into him with appraising stares. They pressed closer, and Brenol cowered back, falling to his hands and rear. He darted his eyes frantically
around but found escape impossible; they had encircled him. The entire room was filled with color and flesh and sound.
“You need not fear,” spoke a melodic voice. Brenol eased his wary eyes over, taking in a female frawnite. Her mottled gray hair was cropped short and framed her youthful brown face, giving her an almost human look. Her wings curled up behind her, clothed in a downy decadence of spotted silver.
“Wha-What’s going on?”
“You have pledged gortei,” she replied simply.
Brenol stared at her, his eyes sliding alternately to the masses moving about restlessly around her.
She surveyed him curiously. “You know nothing?”
He shook his head.
“You have pledged to protect Massada. That is an oath for life, for death. It carries ’til the end of Massada’s days.”
Brenol blinked, slowly processing the meaning of her words. “You’re…dead?”
She smiled. “You are not the imbecile you’d have had me believe.” She nodded and her silvery hair jumped at the movement. “Yes. We are the walking dead of Massada.”
“What does this mean?” He did not like to think of the hoard before him as undead.
“You shall protect Massada. Could there be anything else?”
He eyed the people—men, women, and children of every size—pressing in and making the giant space seem small. They attended him with diverse expressions.
“Why are you all here?”
She took his arm and raised him to a stand, then cupped his face in the palms of her tiny hands. She peered into his green eyes with her gray owl ones, as though she could unearth his secrets with a simple glance. The frawnite now appeared more avian, with the calculating look of a bird of prey. Finally, she released him.
“It doesn’t happen to every soul pledging gortei. Just to those who will face something grave. We are your guides, in a way.”
Brenol licked his lips—his promise now stuck fast in his parched mouth—and he felt vulnerable down to the tips of his toes. Something grave? How could anything be worse than Jerem?
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