Eyes in the Water (18 page)

Brenol stared grimly at the piece. The smoky
cloud within began to settle, and the glass gradually returned to
its original clarity. The enigmatic opal eyes shimmered at him.

He scanned the crowd. Every pair of eyes
rested upon him, rapt.

“It’s a healing instrument. Mysterious and
powerful. It was enchanted by the maralane, but their secrets are
dying with them. We can’t ask them anything, for they’ve stopped
surfacing except as corpses.”

“Can’t we send them a message?” a small voice
quivered. It came from a thin whisper of a woman—the nurest of
Callup.

“They don’t respond. I’ve tried. As have
others.”

Tension blanketed the party, only the
occasional whisper scratching at the silence.

Brenol’s voice again echoed out powerfully.
“I’ll be plain. I don’t know how to best administer the treatment.
The umburquin have seen these before, but never specifically to be
used on a terrisdan. The ones they’ve seen in the past work just as
this one you saw, charged by the holder’s intent. By contact,
health is restored, yet there is a measured amount of enchantment
to every piece. It cannot heal forever. We do not want to test it
too much for fear we will not have enough power to heal the
lands.”

Brenol inhaled, scanning the many eyes upon
him. “So this is what lies before us. I don’t know if we’re going
to have enough time to save the terrisdans. But this cannot be a
decision that I, or any one person, makes. Massada belongs to us
all.” Brenol took a deep breath. “And we’ll have to live with the
consequences of our decision every day after.”

He gingerly placed the glass hos on the dais
and stepped back. It appeared so tiny and fragile before the great
hall, grand people, and grave disasters of Massada. The words of
the dream-Preifest echoed in his ears:
“Don’t kill us. Don’t
kill us.”

Colette stared unblinkingly at the piece, her
hands gripping the arms of her chair. She hardly breathed as the
others leaned forward to see. In her mind she could picture placing
the little figurine upon her beloved soil and Veronia answering
back with a flooding wake of knowledge and bliss. She could have
everything again. She truly could.

“What did the maralane say when they gave it
to you?” asked an older cartontz gentleman. His rectangular face
was set with purpose, and his gray hair was combed back in a clean
sweep.

Brenol met his gaze. “The code isn’t entirely
clear on how to best use it, but it does say it would be a mistake
to put it into Ziel. I think it would destroy the maralane. It’s
powerful and works in ways we cannot guess.”

“How could it heal a person or a terrisdan
and cause death to the maralane?” the man persisted.

“I imagine the treatment is not suitable for
them,” Brenol replied. “Or maybe there is an entirely different
reason.” He lifted his palms up to indicate he lacked answers.
“This hos is a mystery. We don’t know so much about it or how it
even heals. It makes sense that we would follow the instructions of
its creators.”

“But they never told you how to use it. You
said the poison went into Ziel, right? Shouldn’t the antidote as
well?”

Brenol cringed. He wondered now if it had
been a mistake to call the council. “Are you not listening? It’s
not an option, but even more, I don’t think the hos works like
that. Tossing it in Ziel would merely be throwing away our one
chance for healing.”

Inside the space of a breath, the room
erupted in argument. Colette wiped her sweating palms and stood to
leave the room and its consuming temptation. Brenol, coming down
from the dais, stopped her with a calm hand upon her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he whispered. His eyes
were gentle and kind. “Are you tired from travel?”

She did not respond, and Brenol, misreading
the emotions in her eyes, lightly led her back to her seat. He kept
a hand securely upon her back as though she might tumble over
without it. Brenol was not blind to the raised eyebrows at this
preferential treatment, but he was determined to find peace in
helping both Massada and Colette.

He was brought out of his thoughts as the
arguing halted and a sharp voice pierced the air.

“Well, what do you suggest?” The mocking
voice issued from a spidery figure with black hair and dark,
cunning eyes. Her face had a cloyingly sweet quality to it:
attractive, but too thin and without genuine benere.

Brenol bowed his head in respect as he
recognized the emblem of the royal house of Granoile on her silver
gown. The queen held power over most of the terrisdan, but not even
she could pretend to rule the frawnish.

He spoke evenly, “If I were to make the
choice alone, I’d start with the sickest terrisdan. I’d bring the
hos to Garnoble and Veronia, and intentionally touch it to the
land. If it worked, I’d then circle Ziel. I would end with the
healthiest… And if the enchantment does not endure?” He inhaled but
refused to blink. “I’d wait and see what came.”

The group murmured and exchanged looks.
“You’d not seek to save any one terrisdan in particular?” the queen
asked, her eyes narrowing on Colette’s splotchy face.

“I would not.”

“But every terrisdan has been affected. It
does seem that releasing the antidote into Ziel would be the most
efficacious plan.”

Colette cringed, and her temptations
dissipated before her mounting grief. The maralane child was still
alive, still eking out her final days in the cool waters.

“Again, I don’t think the hos works that way.
You have heard the term ‘antidote,’ but it is more like an
instrument. It makes little sense to throw a shovel, a knife, a
hammer into Ziel. You
use
tools.”

“But what if that is how this tool works?”
she retorted.

“Wouldn’t the maralane have said as much?
They gifted us with the chance to save the lands,” Brenol replied
evenly. “I don’t want to be the hand that slides a knife back in
exchange. It makes more sense to be discerning with this gift.”

Colette sighed, thankful for Brenol’s quick
words.
Yes, that is the right thing,
she thought.

“If they can concoct a serum for the land,
why can’t they make one for themselves?” a woman in the back
called.

Brenol sagged. “I wish I could say.”
And I
wish I knew they had tried.

“We could always try Ziel to see what
happens. They are already dying,” argued a burly man in tan. “Maybe
they’re even already dead.”

Brenol shook his head and walked forward to
the dais. “No.”

“If it is—”

Brenol slammed his fist to the podium. The
wood boomed, and the hos trembled under the motion. “No! We will
not save the upper world at the cost of the lower. I do not care
what workings are already in place for them.
We will not
.”
His strong frame quivered in fury and left no space for dissension.
“Use your minds! Let’s not waste our one chance for Massada!”

Colette welled with a surprising pride and
gasped slightly as she recognized submission in every pair of
shocked eyes. They would follow him—whether they agreed or not.

“Let us take the day to think of what we’ll
do. Tomorrow we’ll all have a chance to speak. And then
decide.”

The group stood, eying the hos as they
trickled out.

“Who will carry it until we make a choice?” a
stocky, bearded man asked.

Why must there be so little trust?
Brenol sighed within but met his gaze coolly. “We leave it here
until we can agree. It’s neither mine nor yours. We must choose
together.”

~

“Are you well? Were your travels difficult?”
Brenol’s concern was etched in every line on his face.

“I am well. I… I am well,” Colette responded
hesitantly. Images of her own raw feet—sliced and bruised during
her aborted attempt to steal the hos—filled her mind and turned her
silent.

Brenol studied Colette, confused. She
certainly appeared better—her lunitata glow burst from her like a
star in the night—yet her countenance was also full of melancholy
and doubt. She could barely lift her eyes to his.

Could it be Veronia?
he wondered.
I
hate these cursed connections! Now I see what Darse endured with
me.
He longed to brush the silky plaits from her cheek, to
stroke her arms and whisper words of comfort to her aching soul.
But he restrained himself.

“Are you sure?” he finally asked.

Colette began to nod but stopped. She met his
eyes and said softly, “We buried eighteen maralane on our way
here.”

Brenol frowned in immediate comprehension.
It is grief. Colette grieves. And I believed her angst to be the
nuresti connection? I should have trusted her,
he realized
shamefully.
I should have assumed her goodness.

That must be why she is so full of light
now,
he mused.
She grew like I did when I buried that
maralane girl.
Even recalling the memory brought an ache to his
chest, and he decided not to pester Colette with questions.
Mourning was burdensome enough without others prying at the wounds.
Quietly, he placed a hand upon her forearm, hoping to offer a small
consolation.

Colette nodded in appreciation, and he
retracted his hand. With a deep breath, she again peered around the
vacated room. “I hadn’t realized you were going to call a
council.”

Brenol winced. “I hope it was a wise choice.
I cannot say… I do wish more had come.”

“Is my mother coming?” Colette asked,
suddenly concerned that Darse’s travels would prove pointless.

“No. Her seal gave leave for you to vote on
her behalf. You speak for Veronia.”

Colette considered this quietly.

“Why did Darse need to leave?” Brenol finally
asked.

Colette’s lips twitched, and the corners of
her mouth rose. She looked more herself in that instant, and more
lovely too. “He went to find love.”

Brenol gaped. “You’re kidding. I’ve always
wondered… Arista? Is that why he lived out there with them?”

Colette’s laugh was strained but genuine. It
lightened Brenol’s heart to hear. “No, he is leaving the winged
with their own.”

“Who, then?” Brenol lowered his face, smiling
even in his bewilderment.

“My mother.”

The pieces came together, and Brenol let out
a ringing laugh. He finally perceived the curious glances and
awkward interactions between the two with new clarity. “Yes. Of
course it is. Of course he goes there. Of course.”

He did not begrudge Darse his timing in the
least, for not everyone needed to forestall love for Massada. A
fleeting desire filled his own longing heart—c
ould I?—
but he
dismissed it just as quickly; his mind sank under the insistent
weight of the hos
,
the maralane, the council. There was no
room for romance in this madness.

Brenol silently wished bounty upon Darse,
scooped up Colette’s hand with a smile, and turned his thoughts to
the most currently pressing task: finding food.

~

The following day did not bring the
resolution Brenol had hoped for. The party was restless and
argumentative, finding fault and false motives in every corner. He
would have acquiesced to nearly any unanimous plan—assuming it
followed Preifest’s instructions—but the group dipped and danced as
though they were altogether unconcerned with the pressing need for
haste. Even if he had been willing to dump the hos into the lake,
the party would not have agreed to it in the end, for they rolled
over every course of action with bitterness and suspicion. The
nuresti alone demonstrated some desire for speed, but their
crippling fears and obsessions prevented them from agreeing upon
terms. And so they waited. And debated.

After a particularly biting argument, the
group agreed to a recess. Brenol had spent the morning watching the
tormented Colette gnaw her lip to shreds. She stood, as if to
escape through the back entrance, and he swiftly swept up beside
her.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He smiled,
even if his heart was far from cheerful.

She hesitated.

Brenol pounced upon the opportunity, for he
had expected straight refusal. “Come! We’ve been listening to this
drivel for too long.” His eyes met hers. They seemed pinched in
pain. “Plus, I’m getting fat with this sedentary lifestyle.” He
grabbed his non-existent gut and slouched slightly with puckered
face.

Colette exhaled a surprised laugh. She nodded
and gifted Brenol with a genuine smile, even if a tiny one.

His heart leaped, and he grabbed her hand to
tug her along.

His steps ended in the kitchen, which was
a-bustle with movement. It was meticulously run, and each umburquin
had a section in which to operate. There was no shortage of cooks,
as the soladrome required constant provisions for the caretakers
and the ill, and the young man watched the dizzying scene for a
moment before he spied the person he had been seeking.

Brenol wove through the press of movement,
still gripping Colette’s hand, to a short umburquin with graying
hair held back in a neat bun. Her friendly face was screwed up in
focus as she measured spices to grind. She occasionally wiped her
fingers clean upon the crisp white apron hugging her small
frame.

“Seral?” he asked, smiling questioningly at
her.

The umburquin turned half a step and pinched
her lips together in a tight smirk. “I see it didn’t take you long
to find me.” She brushed her hands absently as she took in the tall
young man and petite lunitata
.
“What can I do for you?”

Brenol blushed slightly but maintained his
composure. “A picnic lunch?”

Seral laughed, eying Colette. “In this
wind?”

Colette’s eyes referred the question back to
Brenol. He nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Can you manage
it?”