The Land's Whisper Page 16

  Brenol replied with a grunt of agreement.

  At least we’re almost out of Veronia, Darse thought, but while the promise brought relief, he was also filled with trepidation for all that the future held. Brenol’s prophesy rang through his head, lingering and replaying: Death will be a close companion.

  Darse shuddered but shouldered his pack. What choice do I have? I am swept away by the fates and workings of this mad land.

  It was true. There was no escape for them now, even had they wanted it.

  ~

  They will feel my wrath over this, it thought.

  The spirit could barely glance down upon its flesh without shuddering. The warm lake water had ballooned the dead maralane’s body into a bloated ball of white rot. Chunks of skin and scale had begun to string out and trail behind its body, attracting little fish to nibble and prey. Its nose had loosened and been tugged away by the same, and for that it had at least a measure of gratitude—it could no longer smell the wretched stench of its own cadaver.

  Yet there was little to be done. No maralane would welcome him now.

  Seeing me will only reveal the truth to them. They’ll know this is no disease. They’re smarter than the rest. And Massada cannot know, it thought.

  Massada is mine.

  Slowly, the spirit worked its way back from the isle. It had been a wonder—and mistake—that it had even accomplished getting there with Jerem and his prisoners. Although it was amusing to see that little spider working his sickly webs…

  It spread the sagging flesh of its face into a smile. There will be no small amount of discord in the unraveling of Jerem’s presence there.

  Perhaps it will be enough to start a war. The thought filled it with a gloating elation.

  Its smile fell though, tainted, as a fish darted up boldly to rip a mouthful of skin from his chin.

  I hate this place.

  Enough.

  It released its hold on the body and watched the mess of flesh rise like a bubble and bob upon the surface of the water.

  Flotsam for their thought, I suppose.

  The spirit wrenched at the discomfort of being bodiless. The concreteness of this world gave it a ripping sensation when it was without one. And it is so much harder to find a body in this state, it thought.

  It hovered around the lugazzi, eying the people as a concealed predator surveying its hunt.

  Massada is mine.

  A beautiful girl caught its attention. She was young, nearly a woman, and her healthy form swayed under her gait with an agile rhythm. She would certainly last longer than those it had recently taken.

  I want her, it thought, and drew close.

  ~

  The two tromped northeast, abandoning the rocky riverbank and pressing forward toward the looming mountains. They were unused to travel, and their feet and calves cried out while shoulders ached from the laden packs. They rested often, especially as the plain graded up, and in the afternoon dined on their stores of dried fish.

  “We could stop for the night,” Darse said, even though there were several hours of daylight remaining.

  Brenol chose not to respond. His resolve to leave Veronia thinned like a fraying rope with every matrole forged. The discomforts of travel had worn away much of the previous night’s fear, and the connection seemed no more unnatural than sunlight, wind, soil. The mere memory of his decision took on the perception of nightmare. It felt wrong, so wrong. He rose and walked wearily on, with angst roiling in his gut. Darse followed.

  The remainder of the day passed in a dream. The two were quiet in their musings, and the land was remembered more for the blisters it formed on their feet than any great landmarks. They eventually camped beside a cluster of rocks and built up a strong fire to combat the night air. Even Brenol slept hard, despite his churning mind.

  Their bodies ached through another day of travel. By dinner they arrived at Broning, a little town nestled at the base of the Perti Range. The peaks jutted up magnificently, clothed in the deep green of forests. They strode through the town, watching people bustle about with purpose, indifferent to the mountains that filled the skies in the northwest.

  It did not take long to locate the inn, as it was at the center of town and full of life. They stepped through the doors just as twilight was turning the massive peaks into dark giants and streaking the sky with hues of navy and slate. The lights within welcomed, and a brazier glowed with a promise of warm comfort. The air was thick with voices and the clang of dishes; it surged with an exuberance as though musicians had recently vacated the stage and speech was suddenly free again. The aromas of dinner rose and all but gripped Darse by his shirt, yet Brenol barely noticed; he felt the stares of the crowd with an acute revulsion.

  They’re so different, Brenol thought.

  The boy suddenly recalled Gerard’s words from the castle, and the smug expression the man had harbored when speaking about nuresti. “Different” was precisely the word used.

  I’m not so different, he rationalized, risking a smile to an elderly man with a froth-covered upper lip. The man stared back without response.

  “Dinner,” Darse mouthed over the crowd’s roar, pointing toward the bar. Brenol waited with drooping limbs while Darse pressed his way to the bartender and shouted instructions. The squat man motioned to the far doorway and belted out a few words before Darse returned and led the way to their room.

  The fare arrived shortly after their feet had crossed the threshold, and the two dined on fried fish with bread and beer—on their two pallets as these were the only furniture in the room—before they had even found a chance to peel off their shoes.

  Once fed, they shook free of their footwear and crumpled into exhausted heaps. Sometime in the night Darse awoke to turn off the lantern and then swiftly crawled back to his blankets.

  CHAPTER 12

  Only in service can one claim another as one’s own.

  -Genesifin

  Daylight, and with it an assortment of aches and pains, roused them, and they dressed gingerly before bravely attacking the morning’s greasy fare delivered to their door. The bar was stripped of the night’s exuberance, yet several prying glances met them as they entered. Darse and Brenol ignored them and any conversation as their coffee set to work. They paid for the meal and then followed a reedy boy through the town until he led them to the river’s rocky shore.

  The urchin lifted a finger at one of the four rafts secured along the bank. “Hula. That’s tha’ one.” He eyed the two strangers as they traced his gesture to the craft.

  She was a small pole raft, narrow and built for no more than two souls. Though she appeared recently constructed, her wood was so worn it must have been plucked from the debris of a storm. Long, thin rails rested across her splintering belly, while a diverse rainbow of chipped paint adorned her logs, and a curious smell clung to the wood. Hula was written upon one russet wooden rib in black paint.

  Darse dipped into his pocket and tinkled through the coins before finally selecting a copper piece and handing it to the child. The boy palmed the greno happily but made no move to shift his gaze or unroot his spindly legs.

  Brenol, still battling his internal war, gave the boy a menacing look. “You’re done. Go on now.”

  Darse raised his brow but did not comment. He watched the child race with surprisingly fleet feet back down the path to the town’s heart before loading his pack cautiously upon the raft. Wordlessly, he untied her, waited for Brenol to board his things and person, pushed her out to deeper water, and clambered up in a sodden mess. He shivered slightly as the breeze met his dripping frame, but the bright sun gave him hope he would be dry shortly.

  Darse eyed his friend as he righted the pole. He pushed Hula further into the clear by the force of rail to river bottom until she finally caught the smooth current and swept down the center of the lane. The raft was easy to maneuver, once Darse had a few minutes of practice with the pole, and the rippling river ushered them forward at a manageable pace. Bre
nol wistfully stared back toward the heart of Veronia, knowing all too soon that they would meet the lugazzi.

  Inest wound east, and as they left the base of Broning’s Peak, the Perti Range still grazed their vision to the north, driving up fiercely into the deep blue sky. The mountains looked ominous and threatening in their lofty heights. Darse devoured the untamable, wild beauty with intrigued eyes.

  “Brenol,” a voice rang suddenly in the boy’s ear.

  Brenol’s stomach lurched. It was the voice he had grown to love, to crave, to loathe. He was flooded by desire but also felt his guilt clawing at him.

  What do I do? he asked himself. His body quivered in the great impasse. Brenol glanced to Darse, who remained focused on the mountains to their left, flexing only to respond to the river’s gentle movements with a dip of his pole.

  Veronia. You haven’t spoken in so— Wait. Stop. This has to stop, he thought in shame. He could not deny it, though: He longed to hear the voice, to know Veronia’s thoughts.

  “You will go?”

  Yes… No! Just stop. I won’t do this anymore.

  The picture of the girl again played before his vision. She haunted him with every breath he took, reminding him of the darkness inside. Veronia’s affection for the child plowed through him and stole his breath. As it dissipated, he was left with the darker emotions that originated only from himself.

  How can I be such a monster?

  “Remember your dreams. I tried to show you. Something is wrong.”

  Brenol’s mind reluctantly—but almost lovingly—sifted through images and pictures, but between the nurest connection and the haziness of the dream world, he felt the meaning of the images being washed away, like grains of sand by the tide. There was no way to recapture it.

  “You must help us, Brenol. All of Massada.”

  A barrage of new pictures flooded his mind. His hands flew to his head as the scenes crashed in painfully. The images were too quick to grasp, but they left a wrenching sensation of the obscene. Only one lingered long enough to sink into his mind’s sight: a young woman taking a knife determinedly to her dark hair. Veronia—and in turn, Brenol—swelled with pride.

  What does it mean Veronia? Why did you show me this? What is it about?

  “There is an evil. And a Change.”

  I have to leave. You are wrecking me.

  “You do not understand.”

  And Colette! I have to break free to help her…to help myself!

  “Yes. You must go. You must save her. But there is more.”

  Stop!

  “If you will not help, then who?”

  You don’t even care about Colette! You just choose whoever’s convenient for you, he yelled accusingly in his mind.

  Hot ire rumbled and poured into him. “Like you? From another world?” The voice brimmed with bitterness. “You know nothing of what I have done for her.”

  Brenol shook his head, bewildered. You never speak of her… I don’t know what you want. His thoughts seemed like tiny flickers in the face of Veronia’s volcano of fury: insignificant and unheeded.

  “She is the most important.”

  Most? How? Why?

  Brenol met silence. Most important? he asked. Most? How is she so special? Why do you never speak of her? Why?

  As quickly as the connection had flooded him, it left, and he was alone.

  He opened his eyes and, despite seeing, was utterly blind. Desolation blackened his soul. He did not know if he could ever live again. They had crossed into the neutral land between terrisdans, the lugazzi, and no map was needed to tell him so. He had no connection, no power. Ordinariness slapped his insides with its vapid flavor, and the vulnerability of mortality stung fiercely. He was without knowledge, without skill. He was alone and weak. He felt crippled, rent.

  And yet…walking hand in hand with this terror he discovered relief. His mind was entirely his own: no invaders, no voices—just Brenol.

  He breathed freely, stupidly.

  Brenol started in his seat as he glanced up, for Darse was peering at him with his strikingly blue eyes. They were concerned but careful and drew a lump in Brenol’s throat.

  “We are in the lugazzi now?”

  Brenol nodded.

  “What was it like, Bren?” Darse asked cautiously.

  Brenol smiled, hoping to put his friend at ease, for the realization of what the man had been enduring suddenly came into nauseating focus. The smile looked as awkward as it felt. “Which part?” he asked. His voice sounded so small.

  Darse raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin.

  “I…I…” Brenol sighed.

  Darse leaned in and placed his hand on Brenol’s own. It was strong and warm and solid. It felt good after all the cold mystery within his mind. It grounded him and eased the knotted tension in his shoulders. He realized in the midst of the connection, it was as though he had forgotten love even existed.

  “Take your time. You don’t need to rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Brenol smiled again, this time in earnest, and it came out upon his freckled face much more naturally. His wrinkles of concentration disappeared.

  “Thanks.” He breathed and slowly took in the world like a newborn.

  ~

  Brenol finally found his speech some time later. “Amazing and terrifying…” he said, shaking his coppery head. “I don’t know how the nuresti live with that kind of connection from childhood. It’s…it’s… just a lot.”

  Darse’s eyebrows furrowed. And wrong. It consumed him.

  “When I crossed the border, it was like fireworks exploded in my head. Pictures and information were just there. And I knew anything I needed to know. When I had to do something new, I didn’t have to practice. I just knew how to do it. It was like I controlled the world almost. I felt so good.” He looked sheepish, a little guilty. “I forgot what it felt like to live without it—it was so amazing.”

  “And terrifying?” Darse nudged.

  “The feelings. It was a lot. They just kind of shook me and I could hardly think…” He noticed his fists tightening and fought to consciously loosen them. “Plus nothing seemed to fit together. I trusted Veronia, but I couldn’t always get clear answers. Like the princess. And Deniel. It just doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head in frustration. It was agony to long for something that tormented him at the same time.

  The edge of Darse’s mouth turned down. Even now? He still trusts it? Is he so naive?

  Darse worked to smooth his face.

  “Right now I can remember the pictures I saw—just like memories—but they aren’t as clear as the connection. All I ever had to do was sort through it in my mind… That kind of ability… To be special without trying… It was amazing. Amazing…” Brenol’s voice trailed off in wistful reverie.

  Darse broke the silence after several minutes. “Now that you’re out, do you see anything more clearly?” He wondered if the hope was as thick in his voice as it was in his heart. We can never go back. Never. I won’t let him. It will destroy him.

  “No… I mean… Well, I miss it,” Brenol said faintly. His head slumped down with a hint of shame.

  The man’s chest loosened and he sighed softly. Like an addict. He longs, but hates his desire… Maybe time will help… maybe. He did not feel assured.

  Brenol raised his face to peer at Darse. It was sincere and scared. “What do I do, Darse?”

  Darse’s heart swelled. He suddenly perceived how difficult it must be for Brenol to reconcile all that was playing out within him. He really is good. Always trying to do the right thing. “Let’s figure it out as we go.”

  Darse smiled, pushing away the fear and suspicion. He did not want Brenol to be burdened by his own turmoil, and they had much ahead of them anyway. Darse embraced the boy awkwardly, careful in the small craft. It teetered a bit but maintained balance.

  We will figure out how to stay level in this world ourselves, he thought. We must.

  CHAPTER 13

&nb
sp; The Three made all. Every terrisdan is the work of their fingertips.

  -Genesifin

  Inest altered and Darse and Brenol left the lugazzi and advanced through Stonia. Her current turned rough, and the river snaked tortuously so that constant maneuvering was required to keep Hula from meeting the rocky banks. Their arms ached from guiding the raft with the awkward pole, but it was faster than walking, and that alone was cause for perseverance.

  Presently, the river pulled away from the northern range, granting the two a greater scope of vision. The mountain bases jolted up in steep, rocky gray expanses, but their impassibility contrasted with the almost whimsical appearance of their rounded crowns that swept the skyline, looking like green dollops of cream. The afternoon sky burned a hazy pink in the cloudless sky. Brenol felt the grandeur keenly in his rediscovered and vulnerable smallness; the world continued whether he was here or there. It was humbling but concurrently exhilarating.

  “What made you say you’d help the Queen?” Brenol asked after a pensive silence.

  Darse looked up. He knew the boy meant more than simply the promise of the portal.

  “What made you?” Darse returned.

  Brenol blushed. They spent the remainder of the afternoon in silence.

  ~

  The two decided to stop for lunch, and Darse poled Hula to the shallows before both hopped out and tugged her toward the shore. They emerged dripping, but grateful to stretch and move about, and set to collecting wood for a fire. As Brenol stooped to pick up some kindling, his neck prickled. He straightened and glanced about, but there were no signs of life.

  It took a moment, but then the boy nodded with comprehension. It was the once-familiar twinge of having an eye ever upon his person. Now that his feet touched soil, he realized he had sensed the terrisdan’s eye on the river, although in a more muted manner.

  Darse noticed nothing, continuing to load his arms with branches.