Eyes in the Water by Monica Lee Kennedy Page A

and
then shut it again.
    “Is it truly that terrible?” Arman asked. His
handsome grin returned.
    The young man allowed himself his own brief
smile and finally spoke. “I promised an oath of gortei when I was
last here.” A hot flush hit his cheeks.
    “Yes?” Diversion sparkled in the coal-black
eyes.
    “Yes,” he repeated.
    The juile laughed, the deep rumble spilling
from his lips. “Good. It is an honor to have you to care for my
land. I thank you.” He dipped his dark head in respect and, despite
the smile, betrayed no trace of mockery. He meant every word, as he
always did.
    Brenol did not have the patience to decipher
Arman’s amusement. Instead, he raised the clean white book and
slapped it with his left hand. The noise was meager compared to the
gesture. “What does this mean?” he asked curtly.
    The juile flicked out his fingers again. He
extended a hand, and Brenol passed the book readily. Arman smoothed
his long digits across the white album for several moments without
breaking open the cover.
    After a spell, the juile stood, brushed the
grass from his gray attire, and strode toward the river. “And you
said it was in juile code too?”
    Brenol nodded, but Arman did not glance back
to see the man’s response. He was merely thinking aloud. The juile
lifted his robes and waded in several strides. A monument of
swarthy skin and dark hair, lost to the world of sun and breeze and
forest, he showed no concern regarding the cold waters licking his
clothing.
    Brenol lay in the cool afternoon light and
occasionally glanced over at the towering steeple in the water.
Hours passed, and finally Brenol awoke in a muddled fog to find
Arman crouched before him, eyes hooded with mystery.
    He yawned. “You read it all?”
    The look Brenol received was both answer and
slap awake.
    “What is it?”
    “Bren, this is not simply a jump to the next
age.”
    He sat to attention. He felt some power
spinning inside him, like an arrow about to stop, pointing him in
the direction where he should thrust his entire being.
    “If you are this foreigner, you carry much of
the fate of our world in your hands. This Change, the Final
Breath—these are not merely stories to tell at eventide.”
    Brenol’s chest sunk slightly, and the inner
arrow swung wildly within him. “It’s something I’m still trying to
swallow.”
    Arman gave him a quizzical glance—idioms
forever intrigued him—and asked, “What would Deniel see in this?”
He lifted the book and tapped it twice with a clear index
finger.
    “I have often asked that question.”
    “Bren.”
    “Yes?” The young man met the intense gaze of
the juile .
    “Search your mind. He gave his to you for a
reason.”
    The thought startled him— handing over a
mind like a bite of bread? —but he closed his eyes, delving into
the mystery of the man’s memory. I know so much of him, yet so
little. He perused through the mess of pictures and scenes and
sighed. He had sifted through them for orbits. There was nothing
new to unearth.
    “Push into it, Bren. Push.” Arman’s voice was
steady and soft, yet as imperative as a hypnotist’s.
    Brenol thought back to the cave, to the look
that had comprised more than any language could transcribe, and
finally to Deniel’s death. He hesitated—of all the places to visit
again, he would not choose this one—and pursed his lips in
determination.
    Here we go.
    And he pushed, falling into picture and
sensation. The memory opened for him like a screen of water finally
releasing its long-held surface tension.
    He gaped, shocked. Silently, fearfully, he
walked the length of the cave. It was the same place, cramped and
rank with Jerem’s scent, but utterly disconcerting to experience
afresh. The happenings were as real as the first time, but he felt
intangible and ghostly before the concrete figures around him.
    Jerem spoke to the boy—himself many orbits
ago—in the corner. “I see we have a guest, Colette. Did you invite
him,