Eyes in the Water (4 page)

Then he swam.

His strong body stretched easily through the
water, even with the awkward pack strapped to his back. The fish
glimmered in the depths, and Brenol caught brief glimpses of fins,
but he could not pick out the dance of their school in the murky
darkness.

Arm over arm. Kick, kick, kick. The tunnel
seemed to go on forever. Had he possessed any extra energy, he
would have groaned, but instead he ignored his protesting muscles
and pressed on.

It’s so much darker this time. And it feels
like the tunnel’s going to go on forever. It just never ends.

There were so many discrepancies between the
present trip and the past that his mind cartwheeled anxiously.
This is not the same swim I made four orbits ago.

After hours of effort, Brenol was spent. His
lungs heaved, and he wondered if his body could endure another
stroke, but his legs and arms continued to drive him forward
monotonously.

Suddenly, his fingers scraped painfully
against dirt. There had been no fire this time, no blinding sear to
end the marathon. The water merely shallowed, and he emerged from
the cave like a disgorged bug. Shivering as a touch of wind met his
quivering muscles, he crawled weak-legged up the bank and collapsed
beneath a tree to sleep.

~

Colette stirred. Her ears pricked at a sound
in the corridor, and her body went rigid. She could not perceive
who it was, nor what the person was doing. Her nurest
connection—her tie to the land—was glaringly absent, and she felt
the limitations of ordinary senses with acute distaste.

The lunitata rose to a sit and peered around
in the dim light, waiting. Her chamber was lit by the faintest glow
of a lantern. She did not care if it was a waste of fuel. Her only
concern was being able to see if she woke, for the terror of her
inner blindness—the lack of terrisdan connection and sight—had
turned her vulnerable and crazed.

No one rapped at her door, and the hall fell
silent. If she had been united with Veronia, she would have known
everything. She would have perceived the person’s dress, gait,
height, and weight. She could have seen his movements, marked his
possessions. And had there been trouble, Veronia would have helped
her.

“Veronia, what’s wrong with you?” she
whispered faintly. She was met with only silence. The entire space
of her mind was her own, and she felt the lack down to her
toes.

Do I even care?
Colette wondered.
Or is it only about the power?

Perturbed, she pondered all that the
connection gave her: knowledge beyond compare, skill without ever
applying herself, a flood of affection and assurance, unwavering
confidence, and belief in her own goodness. How she longed for it
all again! She had been capable of anything! With the connection
she felt alive and free, and without it she was helpless and
lost.

Colette sighed, wishing the world was far
different, but in the space of that very exhalation, she perceived
a ravenous hunger approaching. She eased back into bed, her limbs
beginning to slick with sweat. A rumble grew in her, and hot greed
poured through her veins.

I need the connection,
her body
wailed.
I need the power.

The young woman whimpered as desire flooded
her, and she curled on her side as small as she could, hugging her
knees to chest.

She shivered despite the burning heat
consuming her, and she clenched her fists until her nails pierced
her palms.

“No, I do love Veronia. I do,” she said
defiantly to the empty room.

Colette inhaled slowly, but the greed only
intensified, like fire kissing an accelerant.

After several minutes her eyes went hard.

I will do anything to get it back,
she
swore.
Anything.

Nothing will stop me.

~

Brenol awoke with a start. His dreams had
been horrifying. Maralane washing up like pale, bloated whales on
sandy shores, storms ransacking Massada, grown men weeping,
terrible black eyes staring at him. He shook his head as if to
physically expunge the imprinted images and opened his eyes.

Massada!

He was here! It had not been his imagination.
It had all been real—at least the waterway and tunnel and
beach.

But everything was so different this time.
Could this be a sign of Massada’s weakness?

He pushed the thought aside and rose to
stretch his legs and shaky arms. His body ached from his swim. He
was caked with mud and leaves, and much of his skin had taken on
the fox-red hue of Ziel’s clay bank. Brenol shivered in the early
dawn light and watched as his breath frosted the air before his
face. He rubbed his cool limbs while his stomach groaned in
revolt.

“Hold on, hold on,” he muttered, as though
his own body was a stock animal braying for its feed. He squatted
and groped into his soaked pack, pulling out a pair of dripping
sandals and some carefully wrapped cheese and oat cakes. The edges
had begun to dampen, but on the whole they had survived the journey
unscathed. He consumed more than he would have liked from his
stores for he could not restrain his starving hands. The cold bit,
but the food helped to get his natural heat flowing again. His
fingers absently combed through his crop of red hair. Leaves and
small twigs fluttered out.

I am a mess,
he thought, not
uncheerfully.

He rubbed his face, wishing for steaming
coffee, and opened his gaze to the world around him. The water
permeated the air with a pungent sweetness, and he filled his lungs
with the morning mists. The trees, in the naked barrenness of late
autumn or early winter, were typical to the lake areas: brechant,
contrium, sewl, and many he only knew by sight. Branches and
bracken barred many passages, and the ground was littered with dead
fall, nuts, seeds, cones, and rocks. It was indeed Massada,
although Ziel seemed indefinably different. He rubbed his hair
again absently as he mused. A small piece of bark fell from his
head to the soil.

Brenol stopped contemplating the unknown and
allowed his lips to spread into a toothy grin. He threw his body
back into a sprawl, and despite the damp red earth seeping further
into his chilled clothing, he savored the reunion.

Home. I’m home.

I don’t care if I have the entire bank in my
hair. I’m home.

He lay and closed his eyes. He felt a soft
warmth creep upon him and the light behind his lids brighten as the
sun peeked out. His insides swelled with hope. Raising his vision
to the heavens, he sighed in thanksgiving. The skies were awakening
with the dawn’s purple-pink explosion, and clouds streaked across
the easel of color like smears of white paint.

Home. Finally.

Clambering to his feet, he permitted himself
to tarry, just for a few brief moments, knowing that he would need
his entire self fortified to face what awaited.

His eyes returned to the cave from which he
had scrambled. So many orbits previously, before a cave similar to
this one, Ordah’s words had echoed through his bones.
Blood
shall bring new life.
Brenol was still no closer to untangling
that mystery, and he felt the twinge of anticipation a runner does
as he approaches the block. Through his shirt pocket, he traced the
outline of the whistle he had received from Pearl.

One thought led to another, and Brenol
grinned; he would soon see Darse again. And Arman. And Colette.

Colette!

He lunged forward into the shallows and
pulled the aurenal from his pocket. It shone as though it had been
polished that morning. He clicked it open anxiously, but he did not
hear the voice of the princess.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “If I don’t hear
from you, I will head to Veronia. I’m not sure, but I think I’m on
the northern banks of Ziel.”

He took a deep breath. Regardless of what
came next, he was home.

When the balance of strength and weakness lurches,
the genuine character of all is revealed.

-Genesifin

Brenol had just pointed his heels west when he was
stopped short by a disquieting tingle on his neck. He turned to
scan the area for the cause and halted in alarm as his eyes fell
upon Ziel. Hundreds of dark, emotionless eyes peered out from the
murky waters. Hair and brows varied, but the alien expression upon
each face elicited goosebumps down his spine.

I feel like prey at the water hole when they
do that.

He fought a shudder and instead bowed his
head in greeting. The maralane social niceties—what he knew of
them, at least—came back to him without deliberation.

This place—it is all returning to me
somehow.

And it was. But at the same time, he felt
older, stronger. His blood and thoughts seemed to course with new
life and the pulse of the land. His heart thrummed with pleasure,
despite the circumstances.

“You are Brenol?”

He was addressed by a lake-man with a strong
but thin frame, square jaw, and aqua fronds binding his seaweed and
sepia locks. The green eyes pounded into Brenol. He was no
different than any other maralane Brenol had encountered: intense
to the tips of his fingers.

Brenol nodded, and the screen of water
swallowed the teeming people. Every single one. They descended
without a blink or gesture, with not even a sound to mark their
departure. Tiny concentric circles were the only hint that the
translucent bodies had ever been. It was eerie to again find
himself alone, or at least seemingly alone. He tarried, assuming
this heralded the promised meeting with Preifest.

Brenol reflected silently as the minutes
swept by. He felt a glimmer of surprise that he had been so readily
recognized; he was certainly no longer the fourteen-orbit-old bean
pole. They must have been waiting for him, watching for him. For
orbits. It was unnerving.

He collected and retied his dirty mess of red
hair with the small band he carried. His fingers tapped absently in
code upon his hip.

Finally, Preifest emerged, his stunning
amethyst eyes unblinking. They were the same eyes, but their owner
was not the same maralane. Preifest, the once stalwart and vital
figure, was now a frail creature: reduced frame, scales peeling off
in a sickly iridescence, gaunt and hollow face, once clear skin now
a yellowy cream. He had shriveled like a flower at the close of
season.

“Preifest,” Brenol whispered. He bowed his
head in respect, his heart stricken with the sting of compassion.
Such a creature to have diminished like this. What has
happened?

“Brenol,” he said in a cracked voice. “You
have grown.”

You have shrunk,
Brenol thought
grimly.

“And the Genesifin?” Preifest looked greedily
to Brenol’s pockets, as though the book might restore good fortune
to the lake.

Brenol patted his damp coat. “Do you want
it?”

Preifest shook his head, although his hungry
lilac eyes said differently. “It is good that we meet again,
Brenol. It has been long. Many orbits.”

He’s dying. And we’re talking like this?

“You do not want to discuss your time at
home. I understand,” he said respectfully.

A pang shot through Brenol’s heart.
How
did he—?

“Let us speak.”

“Yes?” Brenol suddenly felt weaker than
Preifest’s body looked.

“You have read the Genesifin?”

Brenol nodded. “And the juile code.”

Preifest chuckled, a sound that reminded
Brenol of a fish flopping around in want of water. “It has always
been our code, not the juile’s. It was secret until we shared it
with a people many orbits ago. A gift for a service offered.”

“Who? What people?” Brenol’s asked. The
picture fascinated him. The maralane were not ones to lightly
request help.

Preifest bristled. “They no longer live in
the terrisdans.”

“Oh. What did they do?”

Preifest’s webbed fingers lifted in the
water, the maralane equivalent of a shoulder shrug. “It has little
relevance to our meeting here, but a few tunneled the isle for us.
You saw it yourself.”

“Wh—”

“They were never allowed to speak of it, but
both sides entered into the task with hope for something more, some
day in the future. As a gift, they were given the right to use and
teach the code. It was but a small concession for all they
completed.”

Brenol leaned forward in interest. The
tunnels had been meticulously constructed and ordered. He had
wondered about them for orbits. “And the juile learned the code
too?” he asked.

The leader smiled weakly. “Juile manage to
learn many things to which they are not granted access.”

Brenol returned the expression, thinking of
Arman. The juile instinctively knew where to find information,
however privileged—and trouble.

Preifest’s face sobered, and he continued.
“The maralane leader of the time, Clirest, had hopes of somehow
uniting the upper and lower worlds.”

“But how? Why would tunneling under the isle
help that?” Brenol asked.

Preifest nodded. “He was a prophet. The Three
spoke to him. The tunnels would somehow unite the world… For
whatever reason, it was fated.”

Brenol furrowed his brow, considering the
all-too-apparent lack of fulfillment of the prophecy.

“Since then, the isle was deemed too
dangerous for any on land to know about. Too much power rests
there. And so, it has sat rotting in secrecy, along with our
pride.”

Brenol’s head lifted in surprise. He opened
his mouth but then pressed his lips together, trying to make sense
of it all.

The purple eyes met his squarely. “Brenol,
we’re all mortal. The prick of death shall touch us whether we are
in water or on land. And it’s in this that I’ve been deceived.”

Preifest’s chest sank slightly, and he slowed
his speech. “I prevented the union of our kinds. I did it. I did
not think the upper world capable of benere in the face of such
power… I-I… I cannot ask for forgiveness from every creature of the
upper world, so I merely ask it of you. I’ve not seen the upper
world, nor treated it, as I ought. Your kind has been far more
gracious and compassionate these last few seasons than I could have
foreseen. I led my people in separation. Yours has chosen benere in
spite of that.”