The Land's Whisper Page 29

  Darse shook his head. “I stood there staring at her. She stared back with this empty look. It was like she was hollow inside. Finally I realized I wanted to at least try to help her with the few extra coins I had saved. I pulled out my leather pocket. In it I kept my money, but I also had a small picture. It was just a little slip with an image my mother had drawn. My father had kept it and given it to me. I used to look at it every day.”

  “What was the image?”

  “A little redheaded girl. She was surrounded by blue like she was walking across the ocean, and her eyes were so green.” He shrugged. “I don’t know who it was, maybe a friend or family member, but it was nice to have a piece of my mother like that. I stared at that little scrap every day. It is a wonder I could even see the colors by that point… So anyway, I opened up my pocket, and the picture slipped out. The wind swept it forward into the house and to her feet. It was a little wet from the rain but undamaged. She bent to pick it up and didn’t even hesitate. She ripped it like it was fuel for kindling.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. She didn’t look at me. She just left me at the doorway and went right back to sewing up a pair of trousers she had for a job. I could have shaken the woman, but I suddenly realized she was even more lost than I had believed. And it made my concern for Bren even greater.”

  “Was he in danger?”

  Darse stared at the fire. It was answer enough.

  “Why did you decide it had to be you to watch over him?”

  Darse nodded his head but paired the gesture with a shrug. “Can one really explain love so easily? The boy needed me. Yes, no one expected anything of me, but choosing right is more than meeting expectations. I chose that day to love the boy. And…our lives followed.” Darse shook his head in wonder; their lives really had changed drastically from that day and hour.

  There was silence.

  “I have no idea what you’re thinking. I can’t see you.”

  Arman placed a hand on Darse’s arm. The pressure drew an involuntary sigh. The warmth from the invisible digits was soothing, reassuring. He realized with a sudden insight that the burden was not his alone to carry; Arman loved Brenol too.

  “Darse. I do not see many choices, to be truthful. Bren has made his decision, and we must respect that… You do have an obligation to him, and to his mother, but to stop Bren would be to steal his freedom…to steal his purpose.”

  Darse swallowed hard. “He’s still so young, though…”

  “Yes, he is young. But he’s full of life. You cannot expect him to grow and become a man unless you allow him to make his own way. We cannot tie him up and leave him somewhere. There has to be the freedom to choose both right and wrong—safety and danger. And Darse?”

  “Yes?” Darse said wearily.

  “He has chosen right. He has not given in to the addiction, to the power. And do not for a second believe that to be easy. No, he has chosen goodness at great personal cost.”

  Darse nodded, and proud tears stained his cheeks as this truth reverberated in his core. Brenol was becoming a man. But more—he must let him. Yes, Bren has made the right choice. He has. Although Arman’s words were an alleviation, they did not stop the hot fear from hollowing out his chest.

  “There is much before us, friend,” Arman rumbled gently. “And much upon your heart. Why not take a walk?”

  “In this darkness?”

  The juile did not answer; he rarely wasted words.

  Strolling about was the last thing Darse felt inclined to do, yet his mind hammered away until, eventually, he roused himself to a stand and set out from the fire with a soft stretch of his legs. They seemed to know where he must go, even if he did not, and he ambled through the dense foliage, hoping Conch snakes did not bite. Within minutes, he found himself before the Choali.

  It took him aback.

  Must I? Again?

  Darse glanced up to the heavens, now open under the thinning forest at the water’s edge, and the soft light of Veri beamed down amidst the smattering of glistening stars. Not a cloud hovered to mar the vision, and he could almost taste the exquisite beauty. His breathing slowed in contentment.

  All right.

  He carefully toed his way along the rocky bank to a sand bar not more than fifty strides north. He peeled his clothes off slowly and knelt down in her shallow banks. She caressed him with her cool currents, and the nip of the night tickled his bare chest. He pushed his fingertips through her smooth cascades and fought to release the last vestiges of resistance.

  Finally, he whispered out across the moving waters. “I have to let go of Bren… I’m so scared he’ll get hurt… That I will fail him…

  “Bren’s mother. I don’t know what to do about her… I hate her, but I fear for her life…

  “The dream of the tree… I saw all that goodness destroyed for no reason. And I couldn’t do anything…

  “Jerem, the hole in his yard. I was so scared waiting for Bren and Arman to emerge…”

  His words continued, and the waters cleansed. Tears choked their way out as liberty poured in, and the burden swept away like palmed feathers meeting the wind’s kiss. He knelt in the flow until his body became more prune than skin, and sensation was lost to the night cool.

  Dawn was not far off when he re-clothed, crept back to camp, and curled into his blankets.

  CHAPTER 24

  Simplicity is a mark of wisdom; a cartontz knows as much.

  -Genesifin

  It took two days to reach Ziel, and before they passed into the lugazzi, Brenol lit upon his heels and set his hand on the soil. “Thank you,” he whispered, his tone almost tender. The boy turned ahead to the neutral ground and did not look back. Upon crossing, Arman’s transparent figure came into view.

  “No. Arman,” Brenol said incredulously. “How do you stay so clean?”

  Arman surveyed the youth nonchalantly. “How do you get so dirty?” His long face spread into his attractive and even smile. The boy almost wept, it was so good to see.

  “Not many Massadans walk with the respect you have for the terrisdans,” Arman said, flicking a long finger in the direction of Conch.

  Brenol shrugged, although he sensed the juile’s comment was more a question than a statement. Brenol found it nearly impossible to set words to the experience—the feel of the land’s eye upon him, the comfort and alarm of it tickling his neck, the relief and disappointment to walk the lugazzi—and he doubted he ever would.

  “Well, what’s the plan?” the boy finally asked. “Do we borrow a boat from the maralane? Or wait for Ordah?”

  Arman shook his head and lowered his hand, indicating the need for low voices. “The maralane do not simply share their territory. It will take some fine negotiating before we will be allowed to pass into their waters.”

  Darse thrust his hands into his pockets. “How did Jerem get over then? Is there a way to get past the maralane?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Arman,” Brenol said impatiently.

  Arman breathed out heavily. “I do not know, Bren. I do not know. I have moved the pieces and parts of this situation around in my mind for many steps. For days. And yes, I know he is somewhere around Ziel, and I feel it like a stone in my stomach that he is out on that island with her, but under no circumstance could he have gotten there. It is an impossibility. Who would help him? No maralane would. And Ordah’s vision is painfully lacking.” His tone was short, as though he were furious at himself for a mystery unsolved.

  “I wonder if the location prevents Ordah from seeing Jerem,” Darse said quietly. “Especially if the water does bring the special properties that Jerem’s after.”

  Arman turned and peered at the man appraisingly. “That is a thought… Let us keep moving. We are almost to the place where we shall call for a meeting.”

  Arman’s estimate was far from what Brenol would have considered close, for the next several hours consisted of tedious climbing. The group strained their way thr
ough the rocky terrain clothed in megaliths and stony outcroppings, and both Darse and Brenol rasped in the thin air. Finally, as the scents of evening began to suggest nightfall, the trio crested a rise and were rewarded with a vision of Ziel.

  They clambered down after the juile with alacrity, and after a spell they stood before the vast body. Arman led them around the shoreline to a peaceful nook protected by tree and rock, and Brenol breathed in the rich aromas of fresh soil and Ziel’s nectar as he watched the sun dip down behind the mountains.

  Arman distributed some cold rations and roused a fire to life. Brenol allowed the heat to soothe his aching muscles as he watched the juile begin his next task.

  Arman stole into a thick of trees, singling out a gray-blue trunk with leaves as fragile as ashes. He dug the tips of his fingers into the bark and peeled it as one would an orange. He collected at least eight long strips of the spongy gray, pulled up a tight fistful of sandy grass from his feet, and finally burrowed his olive fingers around in the moist brown clay until he had uncovered a brick-red nut about the size of a man’s heel. He carried his treasures back to the light of the fire. Brenol forgot his worn body and arched forward to observe.

  Arman’s voice shook his nerves to life when he finally spoke, despite its muted rumble. “It is a knock on the door.”

  “Huh?” Brenol responded.

  The juile’s nimble fingers dipped back and forth as they teased and wove the gray bark loosely, but durably, around the red nut. He pushed the strands of grass in so that they cupped the nut from below. It resembled a caged nest. “Every culture has an etiquette. The maralane are no exception. Yes, I could just slap my hand upon the water and wait for a response, but it would have the same effect as a stranger walking through your front door and taking a seat in your favorite chair. Assuming. Rude.” He lifted his intense eyes for a moment to meet Brenol’s. “And most creatures from the upper world do not understand it. They forget that the water is a world that does not allow for trespass. The maralane are a different race but not as unintelligible as many believe.”

  Brenol nodded to Arman in understanding; he saw a parallel immediately. The etiquette of creature to terrisdan was also a tricky enterprise.

  “How does it work?” Darse asked, leaning in.

  “The brechant nut burns, but not hot enough to consume the bark from the coantal tree. The light shines through the waters to those watching. They will emerge when they see, or at least when it is appropriate for them—I am no expert on maralane culture. We just make our lamp and wait.”

  Arman shuffled out onto a mossy boulder that edged the lake. He strung the nut basket from a branch hanging low over the waters. He left but soon returned to extend another bough, dripping with the blaze of campfire, to the basket, until the grass nest within ignited. Darse and Brenol waited without much anticipation.

  Pop! Pop! Pbbbthhhuuup! Pop!

  The two blinked, stunned as the nut roused into a fiery red globe, glinting and fizzing. It was more alive than the firework stick Darse had purchased for Brenol one autumn. Brenol’s mouth rounded into a child-like grin, but then dropped in open-jawed awe. The nut had only begun its demonstration. It now danced and jumped about in the confines of the spongy basket, rocketing out streams of crimson light in all directions and leaving smears of color in their night-soaked vision. Scarlet flames beamed down to the lake, pushed the waters aside, and dipped into the depths like a knife passing through jelly.

  Darse turned to Arman and asked wryly, “Just make our lamp and wait?”

  Arman’s face erupted in a smile. “I enjoy surprise.”

  Brenol laughed, “No. You enjoy astonishment at your tricks.”

  He flicked his fingers out in the juile equivalent of a shoulder shrug, yet his face was mirthful. “I do have bountiful tricks.”

  Brenol’s laugh echoed out again, sliding over the waters like a skipping stone. He bobbed his red head in agreement and silently marveled at the light shower.

  ~

  The lamp burned for several hours, although the fantastic shafts endured for only the first. After that, it became a steady glow: a crimson-orange orb, alive like an ember, creating a lovely luster against the dark backdrop of night. Brenol and Darse had ceased craning their attention out upon the still waters long ago, sinking instead into the soft sounds of the evening and their blankets.

  Arman, though, marked the cold, white hand that silently grasped the dying brechant nut and smothered it under the black waters. The only movement the juile made—a slight frown—went unnoticed by his sleeping companions.

  CHAPTER 25

  Events cascade together, but comprehension will be lost in the maze of evil.

  -Genesifin

  “You may not pass,” the maralane growled.

  Arman did not argue. He stood while the wind whipped at his gray robes, a stoic figure before the furious milky-clear army of maralane. His silence only incensed them.

  “You will not win this, Arman. Not now, not ever. You ask what cannot be granted. Ever.” The lake-man quivered in rage.

  Arman still did not rejoin.

  Brenol waited, nerves stretched. He had woken to Ziel no longer placid and benign. At dawn the maralane had emerged, bitter and dripping, with webbed fingers grasping tools of death, resting atop the waters in wait. His subconscious had roused him despite the hour, unraveling Arman’s clicking in the folds of his dreams.

  Danger! Wake! Do not speak. Wait, Arman’s beads had said.

  Brenol had righted, shedding his blankets with the movement, and had remained standing for what could only have been hours. His body and mind ached from the tension, and his belly growled for attention. Brenol’s eyes met the steely black pupils of the maralane, and they stared back with a foreign fury.

  “I will talk with Preifest,” Arman said finally.

  A male maralane rolled his head back, sturdy neck bulging in ire. “You will not!”

  “Your isle is no secret, at least not any longer.”

  “You dare accuse maralane of deception? Of betrayal? We have no connection with the upper-world. No maralane would help you—anyone—out upon our waters.” He flinched as if in doubt but still spit his mocking words. “You are a fool, Arman. A fool.”

  “Then we shall wait for Ordah.”

  The name sent a silent and motionless wave across the lake. Where rebuke once lay, hesitation now marked faces, hands, and weapons. The defiant spark in each dark eye was suddenly tinged with a doubt. No words were whispered, no motion made, but it was an undeniable effect. The name had the force of a hurricane.

  Arman spoke softly but unmistakably, “I give you a day. Ordah arrives soon, but even if he did not, I would not underestimate the juile.”

  The male maralane scoffed, but the power in his derision had atrophied.

  Arman knocked the breath out of them, thought Darse. The realization that the prophet made the very waters tremble made him question his previous dismissal of the man. Who is this Ordah? Who is he?

  Then, without a sound, Ziel’s people submerged, disappearing in a foreign rhythm and order. Here one, there one—the pattern, or lack of one, distinctly alien. Concentric circles rippled Ziel’s screen, but the waters were still in a matter of moments.

  Brenol shuddered, his mind full of memories of raptili, and Darse sighed deeply.

  Arman looked at Darse curiously. “You were anxious? You never gave a hint of it. I am surprised.”

  Darse smiled wryly. “Guess I manage to do it when it matters… Where we come from it is considered a skill to hide our minds—we call it a face for games.”

  Arman nodded his head. “We call it bluffing.”

  Brenol laughed despite the circumstances.

  ~

  They milled about that day, and finally in the night Ordah joined their party. The three had been sitting around a small fire, speaking in hushed voices, when the figure slipped into the circle from the thicket of trees. Arman barely glanced up; he had heard the man’s s
tealthy movements. The other two, however, felt their hearts jerk to life at the sudden apparition.

  Ordah was tall, only slightly shorter than Arman, with dark, unruly hair. He had a strong square jaw, thick brows, and steely eyes.

  The eyes. Brenol stared for several moments before he could pinpoint just where he had seen them before. They were the eyes of the pazor-bull that had wandered through their farmland territory the spring before the drought—two orbits ago, maybe three. That dog had seemed docile enough, licking scraps from friendly hands and panting with a big toothed grin, but its happy glance had morphed to lethal power when a local dog—Derelt Cedar’s brown mutt—meandered by. Once those teeth clamped down there was no opening them. The ground drenched crimson as the poor mutt convulsed into limpness, and still those pazor-bull eyes never wavered in their merciless, intense resolve. Brenol had edged away as the victor began to feed, despite his boyish fascination. He had found himself reviewing the images again and again with a newfound appreciation for the fierce instinct of the creature. And fear. He never went near another pazor-bull again.

  But here was someone he could not avoid.

  Ordah did not dally with introductions. His voice was gruff and assuming. “Frawnish?” he asked.

  Arman frowned. “No. They don’t leave the terrisdan without approval. And approval has not been given for over eight orbits. Eight.” His voice was low enough to be a growl, and Brenol heard an edge that he had not expected; somewhere, a line was being drawn with bones and fingernails.

  “Then what?” Ordah asked. “How did Jerem get out there? Are we sure he is out there?”

  “I am certain.”

  “I will not trespass their waters and bother these people because of your conjectures!”

  Arman, although wispy in his transparent state, narrowed his glance at the prophet, and his face tightened in anger. The man whimpered, a soft noise in the back of his throat, and sank his head down in a guilty surrender. He barely whispered when he spoke, but his voice had a beaten docility. “Arman, do not ask this of me. I cannot give you my reasons, but do not ask.”