The Land's Whisper Read online

  He scooped up one of the ripe orange spheres, closed up the barn, and strode back to his home. Now it was dark, and the moon hardly shed a sprinkling of light for him. He inhaled a few deep breaths of cool air before bolting himself in for the evening.

  Dinner consisted of the few bites he could scavenge from the rabbit and the corz, which he cooked and peeled and ate without relish. He drank a cup of milk and set to churning the remainder.

  His eyes gazed upon the smooth floorboards that his father had placed, the beams at the ceiling he had meticulously carved and set.

  “I wish you had abandoned this house,” he said under breath, as if his father’s ghost lingered beside his handiwork. “And never made me promise to stay.”

  Darse tidied the house for the night, shut off his lantern, and crawled onto his pallet. His muscles ached in their usual exhaustion, but that was not what wearied him most. He lay silently, hearing the wind sway through the trees outside, and eventually slept.

  ~

  Darse awoke with dawn and groaned to life. He milked and released Button, checked his steel, and collected eggs. The brood pecked about with mindless interest while he toted his pail back to the house.

  Darse halted in stride and sighed.

  How did I not see it before? he asked himself.

  A large T had been painted onto his door, a striking crimson atop the light pine. It looked as though it had been a hurried task; the letter slanted down and ran into the wall post, but its meaning was clear regardless.

  Scowling, Darse kicked the door open and set to cooking his breakfast.

  ~

  The morning afforded no break. Darse handled and harvested his fields until his back screamed, his skin slicked to a shine, and the sun struck its hottest. Then, retreating to the house, he dragged an armload of materials to the porch and set to sanding and painting his door.

  Evening came in haste, with the familiar sensation of time slipping past. The days were spent in endless toil, but he rarely made any progress, it seemed. He finished his chores and restored his tools to the shed. He watched the sun’s last trickles of light pass into night, and trudged into the house. Exhaustion pressed on his chest and shoulders as he set to heating water. Once warm, he removed the pot and added sila bark and granum root. The aroma was unpleasant and tangy, but he positioned himself before the fire and soaked his hands. The cuts from tending the corz vines were still red and stinging, even after a septspan. Darse sucked air through his teeth and waited for the burn to ease.

  He woke in the night, in a slump on the floor, and crawled to his pallet. The fire was cool, but his aching bones begged for sleep, so he ignored the chill and huddled into his blankets.

  He lay awake, his mind refusing to rest. In but a few hours, another day in Alatrice would begin.

  ~

  “Darsey! You’re still asleep?”

  Darse blinked and found himself surrounded by light. The morning was more than upon him. He groaned and rose to a sit. The sleepless hours of the night had stolen the fleeting moments of the day. He scrambled to his feet.

  A skinny whip of a boy peered at him with curious jade eyes. He had ruffled copper hair, loose and worn pants, and an old shirt that boasted at least four patches. The boy’s angular face tilted, as if he were on the verge of speaking but lacked the fitting words.

  “Bren, could you go tend to Button and the chickens? I’ve got to check the steel.” Darse spoke in a rush, the chores for the day mounting in his mind, but then he stopped, abruptly realizing the implications of Brenol’s presence. “I thought you weren’t going to be here for another septspan. Did the roofing at Carper’s not go well?” Darse scrutinized the youth with a careful eye.

  Brenol screwed his face up and thrust both hands into his trouser pockets.

  Darse raised an eyebrow, considering.

  “All right,” the man finally said with resignation. “Go. Tend. I’m already late, so it seems I have chosen as much for the day. I’ll get to my things presently. For now, I’ll make us coffee. You bring the milk.”

  Brenol nearly yelped at the promised luxury and zipped out the door hastily. Leisure was not a common gift; he would do all in his power not to lose it.

  Darse gathered up enough wood from his pile for a small fire, stoked a flame to life, collected water from the well, washed, and set a kettle to boil. He frowned, glancing at the sun rising in her course, but knew he could not change his mind now. He began ruminating on Brenol, but decidedly set even that aside until the boy returned, and moved on to the task before him.

  He plucked up a tiny canvas bag from his stores and settled himself upon the floor. The aroma of the sack tugged at the weariness in him, and he found that its mere promise soothed much. With an air of careful ritual, he spooned a precise measure of dark beans into his pan and listened to the pieces click together. Shaking the pan, he roasted the beans until they cracked in lovely song, then tipped the dish and settled the hot contents into the bowl of his mortar. Gently, he drove the pestle through the beans until the sharp scent filled the air. He continued to grind methodically, relishing the moment of relief, until the kettle sounded.

  The coffee had brewed, and Darse was straining it with a gentle hand when Brenol returned and handed off his pail of milk. Darse liberally scooped the thick cream from the top into each cup, and the two settled onto the burlap straw pillows on the wooden floor.

  “The hens aren’t laying much,” Brenol said, jutting his chin toward the basket he had collected.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why’s that?” the boy asked.

  “They haven’t been laying well for a moon.”

  “Huh,” Brenol replied. As if realizing he had not been privy to the dealings of the homestead, he peered about with an inquiring eye. His glance fell to the front door and the newly painted pine. Brenol gaped indignantly. “Did they letter you again?” he asked. “When?”

  Darse took a sip and allowed the flavor to linger on his tongue before answering. “Yes, and yesterday.”

  Brenol blew air out his lips as if through a straw. “That is the third time this orbit.”

  Darse nodded, choosing not to speak.

  “Why’s everyone so certain you’re a traitor?”

  Darse raised an eyebrow.

  Brenol screwed his face up in anger. “But what’ve you ever done?”

  Darse sighed heavily. The tension he carried was evident in his long face and sagging shoulders. “I’ve never done anything. And that is another reason to suspect me.” He met Brenol’s hot gaze. “Bren, I’ve never once in all my orbits left to serve the king. I’ve never once done anything but buy a pass. And my father paid my way through the heaviest tax orbits. And through war. I do not see anyone here who has not faced enlistment in their family. Except me.”

  Brenol considered his words and slumped in discontent. “But you haven’t done anything.”

  Darse shrugged. “Tell me about Carper’s roof.” He straightened his spine as the conversation shifted.

  Brenol scowled. “I worked. I did full days of labor. Sweating and slipping around up there.”

  Darse peered at the boy, whose ears were pink in shame. He waited patiently.

  “Ma,” Brenol said softly, looking sadly into his empty cup. “She came and took my wages.”

  Darse winced. “And?”

  “She did not buy my pass.”

  The man nodded but did not react; he had not expected it, but it was not a surprise.

  “Darse, she took my money too. She took it all—even the pouch I’d hidden in a tree. She found it all.” He slumped down, sullen. “And I have no pass.”

  “Did you ask her what she did with it?”

  Brenol glowered. “You know I did. And you know what she did. She acted as if she didn’t hear me.”

  Darse shook his head morosely. If she had cunning, she’d just sell him off. But it isn’t that simple.

  “What do you want to do?” the man finally asked.


  Brenol pouted. “What do you mean? What is there to do? I’m off to ‘live the highest honor’ and prepare to be the king’s man.”

  “Would you like a pass?” Darse replied.

  Brenol’s face loosened in sudden hope. “You have enough to help me?”

  Darse nodded. “Only by luck. I nearly gave it to someone else.”

  “I do. I do want it.” Brenol swallowed, realizing how narrowly he had escaped. “What poor kid is going this season?”

  “Mart, Treak’s son,” Darse said sadly.

  “He’s so young.” Brenol clucked his tongue. “But Treak? Why’d you want to help him?”

  Darse settled his cup on the wood and tilted his head, listening. “What’s that?”

  He glanced around, but the strange scratching noise had ceased. He stood, exited and circuited the house, and returned with a puzzled expression.

  “I really thought I’d heard something,” he said.

  Brenol just shrugged.

  Darse pointed to the cups. “You wash. I’m going to check the steel and head to the fields.” He pulled out his wallet and placed several worn papers into Brenol’s hand. It unnerved him to hold such wealth in just a few slips. Nearly a season of labor, but it granted a boy’s freedom. “Go get a pass. But then come back and help me. I’m drowning in work.”

  Brenol grinned, and his chest seemed to swell in gratitude. “Thanks, Darsey.” The boy scampered out without another word, leaving Darse in his usual solitude.

  ~

  Brenol returned at dusk, sweaty and sour. The sun had scorched his face and arms, and he winced as he brushed past Darse in the doorway. “No, I didn’t have my hat,” he said heatedly and slumped down on the floor.

  Darse did not respond, but merely ladled steamed corz into a bowl and offered it to the boy. He accepted it greedily, and in moments the pulpy contents were gone. Darse refilled the bowl and positioned himself beside him.

  “You got the pass?” Darse asked.

  Brenol’s eyes narrowed. “Nearly wouldn’t give it to me,” he said between bites. “I’m not of age and all.”

  Darse rubbed his face. “What changed the scrutar’s mind?” He could not imagine compassion was a sentiment that bubbled up naturally in the scrutar or any of his kind.

  “The line. He still had a bunch of whining kids to stamp before packing up his booth.” Brenol extracted the coveted slip and placed it on the ground between them. He met Darse’s gaze in seriousness. “Thanks, Darse.”

  Darse nodded, even though doubt tickled at him. He often brooded on whether it was good for the boy to remain, to endure this life here. Taxes, political intrigue, unending labor, a mother as forgiving as a snake bite. But the time had passed for such ruminations, at least for this orbit.

  “—Darse?”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I’ll go back to work at Carper’s tomorrow.”

  “Good,” the man replied.

  “Darse?”

  “What, Bren?” Darse asked wearily.

  “Could ya tell me a story? Maybe one about Massada?” Brenol licked the bowl clean.

  “Not tonight, Bren.”

  “You okay?”

  Darse nodded, even though he was unsure. “Yes, I just need some sleep.”

  Brenol collected his pass, hopped up, and handed Darse his dish. “I’ll see you in a few days, old man.”

  Darse smiled genuinely. “You see to that,” he said, and he watched Brenol trudge away in the cool dark.

  CHAPTER 2

  It seems as though the worlds themselves push forward his fate, and indeed they do.

  -Genesifin

  It was a dream. Darse recognized the odd flavor of it, but the world of sleep muddled his mind and swayed him around like a loose piece of flotsam in its waves.

  Darse opened his dream eyes. A soft breeze wafted across the grassy terrain, stirring the leaves of every bush and tree. The air was thick and smelled of nectar.

  Everything—his spine prickled from it—felt alive. He could almost sense the ground breathing. Life was under him. The land knew him, was thinking things about him, was watching him. He did not know how he knew this; it just was.

  Time seemed to shudder past, but the land remained the same: always aware. It was not evil, yet nothing about it was safe. It was entirely foreign, uncontrollable.

  Suddenly, the breeze rustled through again, stirring up sand and spitting it into his eyes. He tried to shield his vision, but the effort was futile.

  He felt the restlessness of the land. It jostled his nerves and left him agitated. Yes, the land was rousing.

  Then it spoke, a serpentine whisper in his ear, “Come.”

  “Where?” Darse asked cautiously.

  “I am Veronia. Come. I have long awaited you.”

  The man shook his head. “No invitation has been sent,” he said.

  “No? It is at your doorstep.”

  He did not understand. “What do you want?”

  “Bring the boy. Brenol.”

  Darse’s pulse accelerated into a thundering allegro. “What do you want with him?” he demanded.

  “Come.”

  The earth rumbled in impatience and quaked with power. Darse crumpled to all fours and hugged the ground, as if it would steady him, but he knew he was going to be swallowed by the land, and there was no escape.

  ~

  Darse jerked awake. He was hot, and his bedding clung to his skin uncomfortably. He elbowed himself up and wiped perspiration from his forehead as he craned over to peer out the window. Pitch black, not even close to dawn. Darse sighed as he lowered his body back onto the damp pallet, attempting to slow his racing heart.

  The dream rattled around in his mind, and he could do little to shake away the voice. It had been so foreign to him, so other. There was an urgency, an impatience there, and Darse sensed the danger keenly.

  This is nothing, he intoned to himself. Nothing. It’s my mind spinning its wheel.

  His heart, though, thundered on without heeding.

  “The portal is never going to open for you, old man,” he whispered. “Never.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, and he found himself frowning. He felt old, weary, exhausted. “It’s never going to open,” he repeated. “Stop dreaming about it.”

  Ever since Darse had been a boy, he had longed for Massada and the world of which his father had spoken. He ached to be part of something bigger than Alatrice, to belong to more than taxes and tariffs and farming and toil. Alone, he had often knelt above the hidden cellar door, caressing the worn, dirty mat that concealed it. He would abandon every task and thought to simply stare and wonder. Yet for too long had he felt like a child pressing his nose to a frosted window pane, yearning for summer. It was—had proven to be—a dream that would never actualize.

  Hope had only been capable of propelling him for so long, and now Darse shied from it. It had undone him too many times. To open the door—even to merely peer down—carried such hopelessness, disappointment, shame. Awe had soured into bitterness.

  It is a good thing it isn’t real. I have to keep Bren safe.

  Darse sighed; if only all his emotions were as simple as his desire to protect the boy. He did long to go. He had hungered for the opportunity his entire life, and the promise he had made to his father—to guard the portal and return to Massada at least once—burned in his chest with a driving impetus. He was weary of Alatrice and all the kingdom games. He ached to belong, to have a purpose.

  Still, there was Brenol.

  Could you really go, fool? And leave him?

  Darse furrowed his brow. His love for Brenol and his desire for a life outside of Alatrice twisted within him in an awkward contradiction. Brenol could never come. His mother would face investigation and severe punishment if the boy disappeared. And if this dream was somehow real, then Veronia was to be trusted as much as an asp in his sheets.

  “Why do I fret? This is all nonsense. Nothing is open.”

&n
bsp; Darse mused for hours, until dawn pooled the sky with early light. With morning, the thoughts of the night became whimsical, and the shadows in his mind dispersed. He felt disappointment grip him, and he knew the dream had allowed a trickle of hope to take root.

  “Time to stop my foolishness,” Darse said suddenly to himself. “This needs to end.”

  Even if the cost is high.

  He threw his blankets back and leapt from his pallet. The floor was wooden and bare, but its coolness was refreshing and familiar as it creaked to life beneath him. He jumped nimbly into the main room.

  A chill fingered his spine and his Adam’s apple hung heavy in his throat.

  A noise. It was familiar—he had noticed it previously with Brenol—but now he perceived its source. It issued from the cellar door.

  Down there? With the portal? He shook his head as if to dispel the sound.

  The noise ceased.

  Darse smiled sheepishly. I’m losing my wits. There’s no one behind that door.

  Not entirely convinced, though, he stepped hesitantly to a shelf, palmed a key from a small box, and returned. He pushed the worn oak table to the side and swept the ragged blue rug up so it lay in an awkward curl. The little lock rested in a nook of the floorboards, cunningly carved to be inconspicuous and flush with the floor. He fingered the key with a fearful longing before thrusting its cool silver into the lock.

  It was the same as it always had been: his heart thundering with anticipation. Darse sighed and nearly returned the key to the box—he had experienced this letdown too many times—yet his dream had planted a doubt. He knew he could not uproot the lie without seeing the depressing truth of the closed portal with his own eyes.

  He inhaled.

  The clicks of the lock sent a thrill through him, and he chided himself, “What am I? A child? There is nothing new here.”

  Darse had to yank the door open to combat the stiff, unused hinges, but then he released it with a pounding crash as he cowered back in shock. He stumbled and fell, and his wrists flared in pain from their sharp impact with the floor. He attempted to scamper backwards in a wild flailing motion.