The Land's Whisper Read online

  “What do you do when you feel this tug?” Gartoung asked.

  The boy turned away. He had thought—but no, Brenol could never tell Gartoung the horrible desires that hounded him. He could never reveal that at least a handful of times he had woken and stolen from the fire, truly intending to flee back to Veronia. That this very night even, he had stopped himself only by gripping a random tree in his path, as though his clenched teeth and fierce fingers could stave off the insatiable craving for the nuresti power.

  I can’t tell anyone, Brenol thought. He knew none would accept him if they knew how close he came to abandoning Darse and leaving Colette to her fate—or how often.

  Nearly every day.

  “What can I do?” the juile asked.

  Brenol turned to face him. He smiled, but he could not hide his exhaustion. “I’m okay. I think once Darse gets better…”

  The sentence lingered in the air as the two pondered the troubling situation. The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m going back to go sleep. Thank you, Gartoung.”

  “In good accord,” he replied, watching as Brenol crept back slowly to his bed roll.

  ~

  Gartoung visited Darse the next day, and again the man relived the events. And again the following afternoon. Brenol found the monotony of the days—and the moments contained within—maddening. He was just as much a prisoner as Darse, only tied by loyalty instead of injury; a bitter plight regardless of the circumstances.

  How many times does Darse have to live it? Just let him forget it, he seethed, but he held his tongue. In truth, even his young eyes could perceive something happening.

  Over a day it was not much, but within a septspan Darse had begun to eat again. Another, and he slept without screeching out and grasping the dark with clammy hands. Another, and he did not fidget when Brenol looked at him. His now-whole leg no longer twitched in angst, and when Gartoung called on him to speak, the man parroted out the tale, no longer bellowing in horror. He was not fully well, but he would live.

  ~

  Gartoung squatted upon his heels as he had so many times before, waiting for Darse to speak of the darkness. Yet this time, the juile’s dark brown eyes firmly held Darse’s golden gaze.

  “Darse, it is time.”

  Like a switch, Gartoung’s tone generated a new response in the man. His chest sunk in, back bent forward, and head slumped. Brenol stared.

  Gartoung spoke again, “You can say it, friend.”

  “No.”

  “Please,” Gartoung replied.

  Darse slowly nodded, and surprisingly did not fight. The golden eyes glanced up, defeated and shamed. He dragged his gaze to the floor, and with a voice hardly audible, whispered into the neck of his shirt, “It was like he raped my mind.”

  Unleashing his tongue was like the shattering a long held dam; the depth of his violation expressed, all he had been holding back now flooded out in violent haste. Darse curled his back and pulled his knees to his burly chest, weeping as no person ever should. He rocked back and forth in a crazed roll, heaving without control. He wept and wept, until, worn out, he collapsed supine, his whole body quivering.

  Brenol became vaguely aware of the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and slowly unclamped his teeth from his tongue. His face trembled under the blazing fury that possessed him, and a rigid hate calcified in his heart and drove him into thoughts he never dreamed he would have.

  Fingers will die if I have any life left in me, he vowed. He will die.

  ~

  It was late afternoon the next day when Gartoung ushered the two to the river, Cela. The tall figure swept through the trees with a grace and ease that Brenol forever found compelling, and he led them the short distance to the water’s edge. He quietly peered out on the coruscating rush, which jumped happily upon rock and around curve.

  The sound was not overpowering like the roar of the Garz, but melodious and refreshing. Brenol itched to shed his clothes and allow the river to wash away all the darkness, all the nightmares, but the moment seemed heavy with meaning, and so he stood sinking into clay, waiting for the juile to speak.

  Gartoung removed his sandals, smiled gently at Brenol as though he understood perfectly, and then dipped his feet into the clear. He continued wading until the water tugged at his long robes and caused them to billow in a wet flow behind him. The juile seemed unconcerned, even dipping down into a kneel so that the hungry current rushed upon his waist.

  He looked into the deep, as though searching beyond it to something greater, and spoke, “Darse’s experience with the Memory-Stealer, and making him relive it again and again and again.” He closed his eyes, which were already brimming. “Brenol’s guilt and bitterness.”

  The two stared.

  Nothing changed in the water, but the man did. His face loosened and calmed, and when he surged up aright, he stood straighter than Brenol had ever seen him stand, and Gartoung was already a soaringly tall man. He had been made whole somehow, and it was evident in every feature, every corner of his countenance.

  Gartoung smiled, radiating peace, and stepped lightly from the cascade. His robes clung to his legs, but he slipped his sandals back on his wet feet and then turned to Darse and Brenol with inviting eyes. They gleamed of goodness, of rest. “You may choose the healing of the water whenever you are ready.”

  “I…” Darse stopped, and then nodded.

  Brenol felt a hot darkness rumble within, and it scared him. “Why do I need it?”

  A crease appeared in Gartoung’s olive brow; he cared greatly for the boy. “You are weighed by much, Brenol Tilted-Ash. Much.” Brenol felt bare before his dark gaze. “There is freedom in giving it to the water.”

  Gartoung slipped a hand into the folds of his robe and extracted several bulky items. Brenol stepped forward to survey them and sighed in comprehension. For days he had spied the juile intently bent over random materials, but pieces had been secreted away whenever he had approached. Gartoung now held out two pairs of sandals, nearly identical to his own rough footwear.

  Brenol and Darse plucked them up—Brenol with curiosity and Darse with skepticism—and turned the pieces over in their hands. They were smoothed pieces of bark with narrow strips of rope the consistency of cow hide. They were secured with a small knot at the tip of the bark, laced through to hold the piece between large and smaller toes, and crossed in several places with enough strap left to wrap around an ankle several times.

  “Thank you,” Brenol said. He glanced at his worn and callused feet, then at the juile’s. It seemed a near impossibility he would ever make sense of the maze of loops and straps. Gartoung’s swarthy toes wiggled amidst the lacing as if in answer.

  “In good accord,” he replied.

  Darse nodded as well—a head dip of gratitude—and Gartoung flashed him a smile.

  The juile then inhaled with relish, scooped up his sodden robes, and strode into the forest without concern as to whether his companions followed.

  The two trailed after his soft steps, hugging their new sandals to their chests, neither speaking a word.

  ~

  Three days later, the two had still shyly skirted the river. Darse had felt a keen embarrassment and wanted to delay the inevitable while Brenol had nursed and fed his anger without relent. Yet now they prepared to leave. Gartoung had made this much clear: Darse had recovered as far as their current situation would allow; time and peace would manage the rest. The two devised an eastern trek, during which they would meet and cross the Barn and arrive finally in Trilau in two or more days. From there, the journey to Graft would take another few days, but Gartoung promised the crossing of the Songra would be simple, for its current was swimmable at this point in the season.

  While Darse finished his breakfast, Gartoung spoke to Brenol in the protection of the trees. His voice was low, audible only to his companion. “Be careful. Watch Darse. He may need you to force him to tell of it more.”

  The prospect held little appeal. “But he seems
better now,” Brenol said, yet even in speaking the words knew otherwise: there was a shadow hanging over Darse. He had healed dramatically in their near moon with Gartoung, but it was like there was a darkness still worming about in the tender spaces of his soul.

  Brenol sighed and asked resignedly, “When will I know he’s all right?”

  Gartoung thought before responding. “When he no longer wishes the man dead.”

  Brenol’s face opened in incredulity, especially as he recalled his oath made several days previously.

  “The waters—Darse may heal there in ways he never could elsewhere, and faster. Encourage him.” The man’s dark eyes pleaded but were met with an icy resistance in the boy’s. “Forgiveness is a sign of freedom, Brenol Tilted-Ash.” Gartoung bowed wistfully to the youth and added, “It has been bountiful.” The words were clearly rote, but the juile spoke them genuinely.

  Brenol glanced to his feet, drawing in a breath to speak, but when he raised his eyes, he found the wood empty. Brenol had not even been able to hint at his gratitude, let alone say farewell. The boy slumped, wishing for more.

  Darse emerged through the trees. “Gartoung?” he asked, but then answered his own question, “Like smoke from a fading wick.”

  The words conjured up a smile. “You’re embarrassing, Darse,” Brenol said.

  “I have learned much from you,” Darse replied with a mocking bow.

  “Hmph.”

  “I’m sure glad we got out of Veronia,” Darse said, after a time. He shot a glance at Brenol, a dry smile upon his lips.

  Brenol’s face sobered. He eyed the man sincerely. “I’m sure glad you’re ok, Darsey.”

  “Me too. Me too.” He shook his head back and forth, muttering, “If it isn’t one mind trick, it’s another. Massada is a play yard for ’em.”

  The youth’s stomach twisted, shame flooding through him. Darse’s suffering was selfless, but his own? He knew that inner monster only too well. All he burned for was power.

  Brenol sucked in air cautiously through his teeth and felt the nausea dissipate, but in its place, for the first time, he recognized a trace of homesickness. Adventures were exciting in books and told around the fire, but to walk and breathe them was another matter. They were cold and miserable and straining. Even horrifying.

  Brenol shouldered their single pack, and they picked their way through the woods that had housed them for what felt like a lifetime.

  CHAPTER 18

  Malitas shall never stop. It seeks evil the way the living seek breath.

  -Genesifin

  Darse and Brenol settled upon a gentle pace to break back into the journey, especially in light of their new footwear. It proved to be a wise resolution. The land between Tonkyon and the Barn was a tangled mess of rock and forest, making the distance they had to cover seem much greater than it really was. Brenol attempted to gauge Darse’s health and stamina without making it too obvious he was doing so.

  The day wore on endlessly. Each withheld his thoughts as they scanned the land for the bizarre, hoping desperately to reach the Barn without incident. Their necks tingled as Selet’s eye bore hotly upon them—even Darse could not deny its keen prick—and the thick foliage crowded them with memories of their initial encounter with Fingers.

  A river had never been such a welcome sight.

  The water was every bit as wild as they had been told. It thundered mightily northeast, and the two opted to pull back into the woods to camp for the night away from its roar. The following day they traipsed the dusty trail that miraculously wound alongside the waterway. Neither spoke, for it would have required shouting over the rushing din, but there was little to say anyway, and the two reached the crossing to Bompaul by evening.

  The stone bridge was unmanned, and the two trudged over, halting momentarily in the center to marvel at the power flowing under their feet. Once across, Brenol turned down the path towards the town, but he stopped as Darse’s hand clasped his forearm with a sudden pressure.

  “Darse?” Brenol asked. He eyed the man with concern.

  Darse opened his mouth, searching for words. When none came, he exhaled in shame and cast his golden orbs to the ground.

  “Want to camp tonight?” Brenol asked gently.

  He nodded, his face sagging but grateful.

  ~

  That night, the flames licked up merrily as the two huddled close to the warm blaze. All was quiet, save for the popping of the wood and the distant roar of the Barn. Darse avoided his companion’s green gaze and finally settled into his blankets with a clenched relief. Brenol kept watch for several hours before setting aside his thoughts and succumbing to exhaustion.

  The chilly night air eventually overpowered the fire. Darse, awake, peered at the paltry blaze. His whole body shivered, but he did not rouse himself to stoke the embers back to life. He closed his eyes tightly and willed the sun to hide forever.

  ~

  Brenol decided they should circumvent Bompaul, even though Darse seemed more keen on the town with the day’s new light, in favor of heading straight to Trilau. The road to Trilau was well-tended, and they eased down it with a reserved thankfulness. Fellow travelers walked beside them, all sharing Gartoung’s olive complexion and style of dress. Robes of gray, black, and white swished past purposefully, and dark eyes peered curiously at them. Foreigners appeared to be an uncommon sight in the heart of Selet.

  They arrived on the outskirts of Trilau by late afternoon and found it bustling with movement and life. It was large, at least by Massadan standards, and seemed bursting. The people were as compelling to Brenol as Gartoung had been. Their dark complexions were beautiful, ranging from olives to creamy browns. Their movement had a tempo: bodies darting, women swaying, men sashaying. The juile had somehow made motion an art. Even their sounds created a symphony. Splash through the puddle! Heckle on the street! Clink, clink, clink in the pockets! Swish, sally, swish with the robes! He had encountered the alluring power of the maralane, but this was arresting in a new way.

  The two shambled into the main of the town, filing past buildings and food booths. Darse was quiet but relatively content and allowed Brenol to lead. The colors of the stands first attracted the two, but then their grumbling stomachs did the rest. The boy dug around in the pack for their money—they had only the shares that remained from Brenol’s pack—and purchased an apparent staple: filleted fish plopped into the center of a hot bun, edible tails included. The two palmed their dinners, munching and walking slowly, on the hunt for an inn.

  It did not take long. The inn was built in juile fashion: two story pebble-dash with flowing portiere in polychrome reds, oranges, and yellows. Windows lay naked and open for the fragrant air, and herbs filled the beds below their awnings. It was a free-standing structure, nothing formal or grandiose, but it whispered to the wayfarer of beauty and relief from travels.

  It did not break its promise.

  Darse and Brenol were given baths, a room with two cots, and an additional supper, which was not turned away. The room was simple, with swept earthen floors, comfortable, and surprisingly warm. A plain-faced juile brought fresh water and arranged heavy tapestries against the open window to prevent dusk’s cool from creeping in.

  That night, Brenol lay staring into the dark. The sounds of the house washed over him: pattering of feet, dishes clanking, sturdy thwamp-thwamp of the door tapestries falling back into place after tall bodies pushed past. His mind grappled with the problem of Darse.

  He seems better…almost.

  When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Gartoung calling him from the river. He plowed through the woods searching for the juile, but suddenly Crayton leaped out of the undergrowth to wrap his wiry fingers around Brenol’s neck and choke out his life.

  ~

  After some deliberation, the two opted to walk Trilau for the morning—with the intent of re-supplying—before taking their leave, and they found the town even more lively than it had been the prior evening. Stands bursting with c
rops, tools, wares, and breakfasts lined the market. The inn had already provided a hearty meal, leaving the two with an appetite only of curiosity. They ambled and watched the juile maneuver about in their synchronized music. Urchins now joined the throng, and their movements became the accented allegro in the wash of robed song.

  The two soon found themselves in a public square. A strange statue, a large bronze eye, stood in the center of a clear, stone-paved area, with juile rushing by and booths cornering the streets. The eye rarely caused pause among the crowd, but many hands smoothed its surface in passing. The gesture carried the air of ritual and esteemed respect.

  A carved stone dais also rested in the square. At first, it seemed simply a hindrance to the thoroughfare, but it was soon utilized. A child, looking to be about ten orbits, stepped upon it and began reading from a score of loose papers he held in hand. His voice did not match his mousy figure: it was seasoned and poised and carried out into the street with power. He articulated with an educated air. The two checked their steps at once to listen with intrigued expression.

  Brenol laughed after a moment. “The news?”

  Darse said nothing, but his blanched face was as effective as a gag. Brenol snapped to attention, straining now to actually listen to the words.

  The voice echoed out, “—population. The attack occurred during visnati VelsFest in Coltair, with the fire taking the tents and then raging through the town. Fifty-two are dead from the fire, and twenty-four are critically injured. Motives are still undetermined, but there have been speculations made regarding attempted genocide. The unidentified assailant was killed during the attack, falling under one of the tent fires. Sources say he was about fourteen caltran, thirty-eight braens. Brown hair and eyes, brown apparel. Any relevant information on the man or murders should be reported to the local polina. Any visnati outside the district are asked to return to Garnoble as soon as possible, or to contact the board.” The boy rotated his head slightly—a professional tilt evidencing a change of topic—and began the next piece. “Two children missing in…”