Brinlin Isle

by Robin Stephen

  Chapter 3

  Marim wasn’t prone to feelings of regret. If she had been, she’d never have survived the War of Diodsfall, never have learned to bear the terrible guilt over her part in it. Still, as she sat in her room two days after she’d discovered Embriem had the hunger as well, she couldn’t help but wish she could go back to the moment she walked onto Captain Tommin’s ship, full of hope and optimism, and begin again.

  In retrospect, Marim saw how easy it would be to get along with the sailors, to avoid spooking them, to be more careful when Captain Tommin asked her to have a look at the guideglobe. All her great mistakes were this way. Looking back, she could see how easily her younger, more naïve self could have avoided the pitfalls. And then, if she hadn’t alienated the sailors, they never would have put her off here. She never would have met Embriem. He never would have asked her to save his son.

  Tassin was all but lost. He mostly slept now, sometimes writhing and muttering. She could still do a little to help him, to take the edge off his suffering. But she’d stopped trying to prevent the inevitable. How long would he linger? One more day? Two?

  That morning, after visiting Tassin and doing what she could, she’d returned to her room and packed. She was aware Embriem might ask her to leave at any time. When that happened, she supposed she’d be forced to throw herself on the hospitality of the cloister.

  It was a distasteful thought, but Marim had little recourse. Perhaps the sisters of Delari would let her help in the infirmary. Perhaps she could make herself useful until either Captain Tommin returned or another vessel agreed to take her home.

  And then? She’d have to go back to Deramor, tail between her legs, the weakest Tessilar having failed even in her simple objective of seeing the world. She couldn’t go back to the academy. She would have to return to the cheesery. She would accept Kix for what he was. She, too, would stop trying to be what she was not. She would learn to occupy the quiet, simple life her grandparents led.

  Her tablets were spread out across the desk, her spellbook open beside them. She’d given up writing on them last night when she’d detected a hint of exasperation in the responses of the patient Professor Liam to her ceaseless queries. After speaking with Embriem, she could be certain. There were no tessili on Cynnes Tarth. There was no brillbane here. Which meant there was nothing left to talk about.

  Still, she stared at the tablets. The first two were wiped clean of her correspondence with Professor Liam and the staff at the tableturie. The third had not changed since she’d arrived. At its top, in Marim’s own hand, the question still sat there: “Made it to Cynnes Tarth. Have met a boy dying of the hunger. How is this possible?”

  Annoyance surged through her. What was the point of Coll making such a show of giving her a tablet if he wasn’t even going to check it now and then? Perhaps it wasn’t working. He was still only a boy, after all. It took artifact makers years of study before they could reliably produce objects of such complexity. Although Coll’s tablet looked like the other two, he claimed to have made it himself.

  The anger, made restless by her gloomy thoughts, tightened in Marim’s chest. She reached for the tablet, intending to chuck it out the window or throw it in the grate to be burned with the next fire. But before her fingers touched the leather, words began to appear.

  They drew themselves letter by letter. Marim pictured Coll as he must look now, sitting at his desk in Tessili Academy, stylus gripped in his left hand, brow furrowed in concentration as he scored the words into the leather. Wip would be watching him work, or gnawing on a brillbane husk, or darting about the room, her matte bronze hide giving off a muted gleam in the lamplight.

  Marim felt a lurch of homesickness strong enough to take her breath away. She lowered herself into the desk chair and closed her eyes, willing herself to wait until Coll had finished writing.

  Around her, the house was still. Tassin would be downstairs, drifting in pain-filled slumber. Embriem wasn’t allowing himself to eat more than usual, so he’d already lost a shocking amount of weight. He also wasn’t allowing her to use any of her magic to bolster him. Marim suspected he would not outlive his son by long.

  It didn’t seem right, didn’t seem possible. There had to be an answer, some detail she’d overlooked, some fact she didn’t know. The anger uncoiled and bloomed through her, filling her with heat and frustration and a sense of helpless longing. Why, why, was she always too weak, too slow, too useless to do the right thing?

  Unable to keep her eyes shut any longer, Marim let herself look for Coll’s response. She’d expected a long reply, perhaps some speculation, or requests for details.

  Instead, he had stopped after writing only one sentence. It was not an answer to her query, but a single question scrawled in his familiar, sloppy hand.

  Marim stared at it, surprise overtaking all her other emotions and forcing them to stillness. Coll had answered her very serious question with eight words that seemed not at all connected to Tassin’s troubles. “Have you been down to the warmlake yet?”

  But Marim knew Coll better than to take this response at face value.

  She had not been down to the warmlake. She’d hardly left this house.

  Galvanized, she pushed out of her chair, grabbed her cloak, and headed for the door.

  ✣

  As a boy, Embriem had often fancied himself somewhat underfed. He’d wake up and have his breakfast, which would have been eggs and porridge and often some meat as well. He would then take his pack and follow the goras down to the warmlake, where he would watch the animals as they grazed. His lunch would be a small wheel of cheese, some bread, and a flask of watered wine, often with a sausage or a pie or some other extra treat.

  It had never seemed like enough. Many days, Embriem felt hungry for hours before and after lunch. It had made it rather difficult to concentrate on the book his mother had given him, the one he was supposed to learn to read from.

  In reality, though, the hungry phase had been brief. Embriem had grown out of it after reaching his full height. He’d still get hungry, just not the way he had for a while.

  But now, looking back, he realized he’d never known hunger before. Not then. Not ever.

  Now, Embriem was hungry. He was hungry with a desperation that took his breath away. It couldn’t be sated. Eating barely dulled the pain.

  He felt something else, too. Along with the hunger came an inexplicable but intense desire to go to the warmlake. As the hunger churned through him, he seemed to see the bending reeds in his mind’s eye, hear the clatter of their stalks and the cries and plops of the brinlins as they dropped into the water. He thought of Chalsia, his dead wife, and all the times they’d been down there together, she with her washing, him pretending to read.

  He wanted to go. He wanted to walk to the edge of the water and settle into the tall, sweet grass. He wanted to lie back on the slope above the water, and surrender.

  Embriem was tired. He was so very tired of fighting.

  But Tassin still held on. The boy seemed nothing more than a skeleton – a network of bones with skin stretched tight over the top. He lay on the couch in the reception hall, his chest rising and falling with ragged breath.

  It was time to end it. He couldn’t deny this any longer. If Embriem’s own suffering was this intense, he could only imagine what his son felt every time he struggled into consciousness.

  Still, it was difficult. It was difficult to go into his office, to pull open his desk drawer, pick up a piece of his stationary, uncap the ink pot, and dip the fine pen his mother had given Chalsia when she’d graduated from her position as trenner and become a full scribe.

  The pen almost made him change his mind. He remembered Chalsia that day, her glowing happiness. All her life, she’d been fascinated by words and letters, learning and ideas. But her parents had been poor. She’d been the oldest of several children. She was needed at home. There was no time for her to attend the cloister school.

  Embriem had taugh
t her to read. He’d done it while learning himself, the two of them sitting together on the slope above the warmlake while Chalsia’s washing dried, laid out on the reeds. It had taken them years to get through the thick learning book, but it hadn’t mattered. He’d treasured every moment of their time together.

  Now, was he really going to do this? Was he going to kill their son? Tassin was the only piece left of the woman he had loved in this entire world.

  Tears fell onto the paper, soaking into the thick pulp. Embriem wanted to throw the pen across the room, smash the ink pot on the floor. The hunger gnawed at him, clouding his mind.

  Out in the hall, he heard the front door open and close. Curious, he turned towards the door. But there was no sound of footsteps, no voices.

  With reluctance, he turned back to the paper. It was the right thing. Chalsia would not disagree. There was no cure for Tassin, no way out. He was suffering and would only continue to suffer. It was cowardly and selfish to delay the inevitable.

  Embriem’s hand was shaking. He set nib to paper and blotched the first stroke.

  He didn’t care. He scrawled two words, “Bring them.” Then, in a hasty scramble, he signed his name.

  Sitting back, he felt breathless. It was the right thing. It had to be. The church could ease Tassin’s pain and deliver him, consecrated, over Tristis’ threshold. Though it was a crime for one man to end the life of another, the rector could prescribe death as an act of mercy. His sisters could deliver it without pain, without fear, and with the goddess’ blessing.

  Embriem tossed the pen onto the desk, careless of the ink he spattered. He folded the paper, sealed it, and charged into the hall to find Baret, knowing if he waited a single second longer than necessary, he would lose courage and change his mind.

  He found the servant in the back garden, weeding a bed of dewbells. Embriem hurried up to him and spoke without preamble, without explanation. “I need you to take a message to the rector at once.”

  As Baret set aside his dirt stained gloves, dusted off his breeches, and extended a hand for the letter, Embriem nearly snatched the paper away. He wanted to tear the sheet to shreds, return to the house, and find his son sitting up and smiling.

  But that could not be. He shoved the letter into Baret’s hands and turned away. He fled back towards the house, his vision obscured by fog and tears.

  ✣

  The fog was thick and warm and so annoying. Not even able to see the next bend in the road, Marim walked at a swift pace, her skirts growing damp as she went. The air seemed alive. She could feel the sighing touch of mist on her face, like a blind person taking the feel of her features.

  Kix was delighted to be away from the house. He wheeled above her, flitting through the fog on his brilliant wings. She couldn’t keep track of him in the thick air. She felt a vague worry he’d fly too high and get lost, though she knew that was impossible. Even her tessila, damaged as he was, had an uncanny ability to keep track of her.

  She walked swiftly, following the slope down and down. The fog made everything silent. She thought with a curl of unease that she could pass within arm’s reach of another person in this place and never know he was there.

  She’d left the house in a rushing scramble, pausing only to ask Baret for directions. She reached a crossroads and picked the route that kept heading down. A few moments later, she passed a woman on the path. She was a thick figure who appeared out of the fog all in an instant. For a heart-stopping moment, Marim thought she was some massive beast. Her figure loomed, wide and formless. Sour fear spread out from Marim’s belly.

  Then, the fog shifted. She realized the woman was walking partially stooped, bearing a bulky bundle of reeds upon her back.

  Swallowing her surprise, Marim said hello. The woman grunted in response and kept plodding up the path.

  Marim continued. The high collar of her blouse grew damp and confining. She glanced around, decided she was unlikely to encounter anyone else, and unbuttoned. She folded the collar back from her scarred throat, walking a little faster.

  By the time she reached the warmlake, the fog was suffocating in its warmth. The air was so thick and gray down by the water, only the change in terrain made her aware she was approaching the shore. She’d been walking on a path scored through high, dew-drenched grasses, which ended in a spit of sand. She paused, staring around, then walked ahead, taking one slow step at a time.

  And finally, she saw the warmlake.

  It was just a lake. She couldn’t see much of it, due to the fog. The water lapped where the sand ended, little ripples catching the strange low light. Marim stooped and put her fingers in the water, then snatched them out again, startled. She’d known the warmlake would be warm. She wasn’t a fool. But she’d thought warm in the sense of not cold.

  This water was borderline hot. Though not anywhere hot enough to burn her, it was like the warmth of a cup of tea that has been left to sit for a quarter of an hour or so.

  Marim put her hand back in the water, feeling foolish for startling herself. She heard a strange series of plunks, like pebbles dropping into the water. Then Kix gave a cry. He’d been flying up in the fog, but now he plummeted towards her and dove straight into the water. As he did so, Marim noticed the sinuous shapes beneath the surface. They were converging on her hand from every direction.

  A small shriek escaped Marim as she snatched her hand out of the water again. She fell to her knees on the sand, staring down into the lake. The water was clear. She could see the mass of small bodies beneath the surface. They flowed together like a school of minnows. But they were not fish.

  Marim’s heart clenched with panic. She couldn’t see her tessila. He had to be in there somewhere, caught in that crush of seething bodies. “Kix,” she cried, knowing it was hopeless. She tried to feel for him along their bond. Some of the other Tessilari spoke of being fully aware of their tessila’s every nuanced emotion, but that was not the case with Marim and Kix. She was aware of him generally. She could only feel his emotions when they were pronounced or intense or simple.

  But right now, kneeling on the shore of this strange lake, she couldn’t seem to feel him at all.

  Was he going to drown himself? Suicide was not uncommon among the tessili who had suffered at the hands of the academy. But why now? If he’d have wanted this, he’d had plenty of opportunity on the voyage across the sea.

  Marim sat very still, trying to feel what Kix was feeling, trying to pick up on any signal that his life was failing. If he died, she would die. Someone would find her body here, laid out on the sand like an abandoned puppet.

  “Well,” she said to herself, “at least I wouldn’t have to see Embriem lose his son.”

  She waited, growing resigned as the moments passed. She watched the shapes underneath the water, the way they coiled and flowed around one another. They were strange creatures. About the same size as Kix, they were covered in soft scales that came in every color of the rainbow. They had narrow, sinuous bodies. If Marim hadn’t known better, she’d have thought they were wingless tessili, trapped within the water by some strange spell.

  The minutes dragged by. Marim didn’t know how long she sat there, waiting to die. She was becoming impatient with the prospect when she heard a sound behind her – the scuff of a boot on sand.

  She turned, coming to her feet in an awkward stumble. A man stood behind her, little more than an outline in the fog. He had broad shoulders and a thick head of hair, but she couldn’t make out his face.

  He spoke in a cautious tone. “Are you all right, miss?”

  ✣

  When Cockram thought of the Tessilari, he always imagined them a fierce-looking people. He envisioned the men firm, fit, and casually powerful. The women, he was certain, would be equally impressive, with tall, slender figures, piercing eyes, and enigmatic expressions.

  The girl on the sand spit didn’t fit his expectation. She was small, for one thing, and nothing about her carriage struck him as particularly
prepossessing. His first feeling upon seeing her was one of a disappointment. This was hardly a worthy adversary.

  She was kneeling by the water as he approached. He stood in the fog for a while, watching her back. She stayed there, immobile, until he came closer.

  When she was kneeling, half hidden by the fog, he marked her straight back and her short hair. He felt a strange little thrill at the prospect of facing someone who could wield magics.

  But when he scuffed his boot, startling her, she scrambled to her feet and spun around. As she faced him, he saw she was young and uncertain. The short haircut struck him as daring, but her eyes were wide and frightened. There was sand stuck to her skirts.

  He might not have noticed her neck, except her hands flew to the throat of her blouse the moment she saw him. She made as if to raise the collar. Then, as if realizing she was drawing attention to something she wanted to hide, she stopped. Her hands fell to her sides, motionless. She seemed then to register his question. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”

  Cockram took a step closer, squinting through the fog. It was hard to see on a day like this, but her neck seemed scarred, the skin covered in a webbing of marred tissue. He felt a strange thrill of horror. It was as if she’d been restrained somehow, chained up by a collar around her throat. Was she a criminal, then? Did that explain her presence here? Perhaps she’d broken free of her prison and fled Masidon only to get dumped off here when Captain Tommin discovered her true nature.

  Cockram took another step forward. There was a look of strain on the woman’s face, a ready tension in her body. He’d heard tales: strange stories that came ashore with the sailors. He’d heard tell of female Tessilari who had been enslaved and turned into deadly assassins. Could she be one of those? She didn’t look much able to kill him, but he supposed that would make her an especially effective weapon.

  Cockram shifted his gaze, looking out into the fog over the warmlake. In the week since Captain Tommin’s ship had put in and then left almost immediately, using the magic of its guideglobe to fight its way out of harbor against the wind and the tide, gossip of every imaginable variety had surrounded the event. There was gossip about the ship, gossip about the captain, and gossip about the young lady who had been left behind. Several people had glimpsed her walking through town alone, and others had seen her with Embriem. There were rumors she’d been sent for, rumors she was some strange, lost relation, Tassin’s final hope. A healer, multiple sources confirmed, perhaps with some secret cure.

  No one else seemed to guess what Cockram suspected, that the girl was a vessel for corruption. He himself could not even be sure he’d understood Captain Tommin correctly. So, he’d waited, simply letting it be known among his contacts that he’d like to be told if the newcomer ventured into town.

  Now, his patience had paid off. With the girl before him at last, he could assess her for himself.

  He tried to put her at ease. “It’s not usually this thick, you know.” He gestured at the fog, making his tone as casual as if they were old friends who’d happened to meet on the road. “The fog is always changing, as you’ve no doubt noted. It likes to keep us on our toes.”

  His friendly words had little effect. The girl’s posture suggested she wanted to take another step backwards, but she could not because of the lake. When she spoke, her voice was cautious and cold. “What do you want?”

  Cockram considered the question. What did he want? He wanted what he’d always wanted, which was to keep Cynnes Tarth safe, keep it pure. Delari herself knew he’d already sacrificed much to that end. Was this girl a threat? He didn’t know for sure, but it seemed likely. If she had a tessila, that was one mark against her already. But one mark wasn’t enough. And besides, he had no hard evidence she was anything more threatening than a foreigner.

  He decided to push. Putting on his most charming smile, he looked out over the water. “I’ve always been very interested in the Tessilari.”

  The girl flinched as if he’d struck her. He’d been beginning to think he’d been wrong, that he’d misunderstood the captain’s insinuations. Suppose this girl called herself a healer because she knew how to pick a few herbs and make them into a salve, or brew tea that could settle a stomach? Suppose she didn’t call herself a physician because she had no proper training, but she’d needed some way to persuade the captain to take her on board his ship?

  Sensing vulnerability, Cockram moved ahead one more step. He was close to the girl now, close enough he could have reached out a hand and set it on her shoulder. Could she swim? If not, there was possibility in this moment. He could take care of her right here, right now, and no one the wiser. He’d often thought the Directive a little too conservative, the process of collecting marks cumbersome and slow.

  The moment seemed to stretch and lengthen. The fog surrounded the two of them, separating them from the world and its usual consequences. If only she would do or say something, reveal her true nature, he could be certain of what he must do.

  But she said nothing, did nothing. She only stood there, her expression somewhat distant, as if something else occupied her attention.

  There was a strange, thin cry on the heavy air. A speck of yellow appeared, flying up from the surface of the lake, streaming water. Beating brilliant wings, it flew in a spiral around Marim’s body, landed on her shoulder, and hissed.

  The tessila was tiny, its body no larger than Cockram’s thumb. Yet as it reared back on its hind legs and skewered him with its sharp gaze, he did not doubt it would attack him if he made one false move.

  Still, Cockram felt a stirring of satisfaction. There was no mistaking what she was now. This creature defined her. Aside from the wings, it was not so different from the brinlins that lived in the reeds and swam in the shallows of the warmlake: the creatures that had cost him his sister. If Adni had paid for her affinity for brinlins with her life, so too must this Tessilar die.

  With her tessila’s arrival, the girl revived. Color flooded back into her face. Her cheeks bloomed, giving her previous bland appearance a look of vibrancy. “You mustn’t mind Kix,” she said. “He’s harmless.”

  But there was something in her tone, some underlying smugness that didn’t quite fit with the words. Cockram got the sudden, uncomfortable impression she’d read his mind.

  Cockram studied the creature. It gazed right back, and hissed again.

  Harmless, the girl had said. Cockram very much doubted that.