The Land's Whisper Page 30

  “I do not ask, Ordah. I tell. You will speak with Preifest, and you will secure our way across to the isle. While your vast intuit may be lacking, my weak sight has come. He went there somehow, and if we are to track him, we must follow.”

  “But why can I not see in all of this?” Ordah asked bitterly.

  “We all know the power of sight is not leashable.” Arman glanced briefly at Darse before turning back to the prophet. “But also, perhaps the water holds more power than we had once thought.”

  Ordah winced.

  “Or perhaps you have chosen blindness?” Arman asked pointedly.

  A spark rose for a second in Ordah’s dark, oval eyes. Brenol flinched. “I never once turned my power from him! To hide him!”

  Arman’s glance again silenced. “Then why start? Enough. Go.”

  Ordah stood tall, towering over their party. While the intent was intimidation, the effect was lacking. “You don’t know what you ask, juile.”

  “You don’t know what you’re hiding with this foolishness, Ordah. I don’t know why the maralane seek to keep us away, but in doing so they are corrupting all of Massada.” Arman shook his head in frustration. “This is not the fruit of healthy minds. You’re playing a very dangerous game.”

  The prophet’s face paled, and his frame slumped. It was as if Arman’s words had hit a mark and reverberated through the man like echoes pounding through a cave. He did not speak but slunk off in the heavy darkness, following the shore line to where—presumably—he would meet with the leader of the maralane.

  Brenol let out a sigh. “He seems hard to figure out.”

  Arman laughed. It was booming after the quiet of their whispered conflict. “I would not even try. But he is good, despite all of this.” The smile flashed splendidly, then was quickly tucked away.

  “He is good?” Brenol asked, gazing into the darkness of the trees.

  “There is much we’re missing, I think. If I am reading him correctly, he genuinely did not know Jerem is out on the isle. But aside from that? I don’t know. It could be that Ordah does not want the maralane to know it is his brother. Or maybe he doesn’t want the world to know of the isle. Regardless, he was suggesting we look elsewhere.”

  “Why is the maralane’s opinion so important?” asked Darse.

  “I do not know. But his relationship with them is mysterious. I never expected the sharp blade that is Ordah to be dulled by another’s opinion…but I know not what the full motives are. There is something else growing here… We will see before the end, I imagine.” He smiled.

  Brenol was convinced the simple expression on the juile would never lose its novelty.

  Darse returned to huddle near the fire. He heard the two continue their conversation in code but allowed his thoughts to overshadow all. He stirred and circled the flames, only to return to his original position. His yellow eyes peered into the cool dark, staring beyond time and space.

  It was more than guilt, Darse thought. I saw it… There was concern. He fears for the maralane? I saw it. I know I saw it. He straightened, kicked at the embers, and lay down to wrestle meaning from shadowy dreams.

  ~

  Light poured down on Brenol’s eyes, and he woke. He looked tensely over to the lake. The maralane were present, but no more than fifteen to the hundreds of the previous day, and they appeared unarmed. There was an air of business, a brisk nonchalance they carried, as though the whole endeavor was a mundane favor to the unimportant upper-world. Yesterday’s fury could have been a figment of the imagination, for they acted as though nothing could be of less consequence.

  Strangely, it angered Brenol. He rolled his fists up tightly as his ears burned. Fish-people can’t make up their minds, he thought. We’re only trying to help.

  Arman extended his hand out in a conciliatory motion, and his face held a wry amusement. He clicked in code, Do not be deceived. They do not want us here. A bargain was made.

  Ordah? Brenol responded.

  Yes. Compliance was forced.

  Brenol again peered out upon Ziel. He watched them for several minutes in silence, searching the rows of faces for clues. The maralane closest to the shore—a male of likely twenty orbits—maintained a position beside a simple wooden row boat. He waited impassively for the group to board, yet as Brenol explored the pale features, he suddenly noted the constricted frame, the taut muscles around the wet jaw, the narrowed eyes that limned of fury instead of indifference.

  More is happening here than I can guess, he thought.

  What is going on, Arman? Brenol clicked.

  Arman did not respond. He did not know.

  The campsite was packed in haste, and the group proceeded to load onto the vessel. Where it had been acquired was a mystery, but it had seen many days of water, sun, and storm. It reeked of fish and putrid sweet water. Brenol stifled a gag, amazed that the lovely nectar could evolve into such rankness.

  Arman was the last to board and made to step in, but a sharp spear shot up to suddenly bar the way. Had he been rushing, he likely would have met the fierce tip, but instead, the juile pulled back, robes swishing as if in a gentle dance. Arman’s face lifted in diversion, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “May I ask what the difficulty is?”

  The maralane’s features held a contrived indifference. “You have not been given passage.”

  Arman’s eyebrows flew upward though his dark eyes were still aglow with humor. Brenol wished he could see him fully. The transparency outside of Selet did not do justice to the presence and power of his person.

  “No invisibles.” A smirk played out nastily upon the maralane face. It was unsettling on the usually serious features.

  Arman and Ordah exchanged glances, and the juile stepped lithely away from the water’s edge. Brenol stood, ready to argue, but was immediately met with an onslaught of clicks.

  Give them their victory. Find Colette. She is why we came.

  …and be careful. Jerem is vicious. He cannot live, but I would have you bring him back for questioning and judgment.

  Watch Ordah. He is an unforeseen element, the surprise. We cannot know what—

  —the maralane. I fear their motives and movements.

  Be on guard. I will cross if I can—

  Brenol pricked his ear out to catch as much of Arman’s pocket fiddlings as possible. Finally though, the sound of the water slapping against the boat washed away the comforting clicks. Brenol stared back with profound discomposure, watching the juile on the shore, transparent against the wooded backdrop but with all the presence of a king. He dipped his dark head in salute, turned his heel, and glided into the forest. Brenol’s stomach lurched as Arman’s robes were folded into the sea of green.

  ~

  “Why do you seek the isle?” the maralane male asked softly. His body glided gracefully in the water as he escorted the boat, as if pushing the craft were as easy as brushing leaves from his path, and his upper torso gleamed with strength. He did not hold a weapon, but also did not require one; all he need muster was a swift hand strike to upend the boat. The passengers were entirely at his mercy.

  “What’s your name?” Darse asked.

  The maralane peered up at him derisively. “Hamest.”

  “I am Darse,” he said, then introduced Brenol.

  “Why do you seek the isle?” Hamest asked again, curtly.

  “We’re looking for Colette and Jerem.”

  “I know your reason. I do not know your motives.” At this he tore his green fish-eyes into Brenol with smarting mockery. “Why do you seek her? You will never return to Veronia with power now.”

  Brenol had to gasp for breath at the surprise blow. They know. They all know. They see that I long for it, even now. His mind ached with desire and revulsion. He cowered back in himself, tasting the corruption with renewed bitterness. His face and neck slicked quickly to sheen just remembering the intensity of his desire.

  Darse himself was stunned. How could they know? How does everyone know?

&n
bsp; It took the man a moment before he was brought back to himself and what he knew to be true. Arman’s voice sounded in Darse’s head, clear and sure: “He has chosen right.” The words comforted, even if they could not calm his rising anger.

  “Not everything has personal gain,” Darse said finally, through clenched teeth.

  “I’ve failed to see that except in the underworld.”

  “It’s easy to say when only one of us lives below.”

  “Or perhaps it makes me the wiser.”

  The ragged sneer smeared across Hamest’s face all but throttled Darse’s self-control. He stood in the boat, blind to the peril as his blood coursed alive with rage.

  Yet before Darse could formulate words, Ordah barked at him, “Sit down Darse! Don’t be a fool!” And then in a hushed voice, tender even, he said to the maralane, “Enough. Enough, Hamest.” He could have been a hen clucking to her brood, his concern was so rapt.

  Darse returned to his seat in the boat, a snarl upon his face. The maralane clamped his jaw tightly shut, and Brenol breathed again. But the lake-man’s taunts bore into him, digging deeper with the movement of every wave.

  Swish-ka, Swashhh. Swish-ka, Swashhh. Never return to power. Never return to power. Swish-ka, Swashhh. Brenol shuddered, even beneath the reassuring hand of Darse. This nightmare will never leave me, he thought. Never.

  Darse fumed, devastated at the effect of Hamest’s words upon Brenol. And the compassion Ordah has for these maralane! As though they were the ones in need of comfort! Disgust settled in, and he ground his jaw unconsciously.

  The two perceived little of the remaining journey, lost in their respective thoughts. They did not notice the eddies emerging from the lake-garden farmers as they tilled their watery green, the fresh nectar scents of the water, the schools of fish corralled in flashes of color by the herding lake-men, the blues and greens of the water drawing clear, and the depths of the underworld opening up before them. It was a sight few from the upper-world had ever witnessed, and Darse and Brenol never did join that elite group.

  Ordah was silent and watchful but collected enough to take in the symphony of sensations, the rainbow of color. The beauty was incomparable. He breathed and sat back. He allowed the moment to be what it was and to soothe his heart against all that was so, so terribly wrong.

  ~

  Several hours elapsed, although the sun beating hotly on their necks and blinding their eyes made it seem longer. Darse lifted the sticking shirt from his chest in a vain attempt to air his damp skin, but it only tightened the moist material against his back. As he again mopped his brow, an image flickered before his vision. He squinted out at the water, attempting to grasp hold of what must have only been his mind’s longing for land.

  He sagged again into his seat in a rumpled heap, but before his eyes had shied away from the glaring screen entirely, he caught it again, and with greater clarity. The isle had been there, for a mere blink of a moment, and had filled his vision with a vivid picture of color and beauty before disappearing into the vastness of empty water.

  “What is it?” Brenol asked.

  Darse realized that a cry of surprise had escaped his lips in those brief seconds. He lifted an index finger but then used his whole hand in a sweeping motion to indicate the space before them. “I saw it.”

  “Saw what?” Ordah asked.

  Darse fought the immediate irritation he felt at the prophet’s voice. “The island. It was…it was just a moment, but as real as the wood on this boat. Like catching an image in a broken mirror—a shard really—that is moving. I saw it for just a second…as though I was at just the right angle…” His voice trailed, but his eyes remained glued to the open waters. He began to feel foolish as the minutes dragged forward and he had not spied it again.

  Brenol did not respond, merely wiping the back of his burning neck and returning to his scowling brood. Ordah, however, regarded Darse with keen eyes, and Darse prickled in goosebumps despite the heat.

  Suddenly, all was interrupted with a jarring heave from the lake-man. The rickety craft sped from his thrust like a skipping stone jumping one, two, three, and four across the silvery screen. The party gripped the sides until splinters embedded their way into hands, and the boat slid up onto shore in a jouncing smack.

  They had arrived.

  The trio rubbed their whiplashed necks and sloshed out with wobbling legs. They scanned the land and dark water, but it was evident that their maralane companion had left them. They utilized the fraying rope knotted upon the forward to lug their vessel aground and tie her soundly to a tree. The group was sandy and hot, and their insides gnarled with apprehension. Ordah pointed to a rocky nook and what looked to be a shaded overhang, and they trudged out from the dark, dense sand toward the jutting stones.

  Darse allowed Ordah to pull ahead several strides before tugging back on Brenol’s sleeve. His own intentions fluttered back and forth, but the despair he now faced in the youth’s eyes grounded his purpose.

  Darse whispered, gently but firmly, “It’s time to realize you’re better than all this nuresti foolishness. You’ve not given in, don’t you see? Don’t let Fishman back there blind you. You’re more man than boy. Open your eyes.” He released him, gazed into Brenol’s reluctant and freckled face, sighed, and trod after Ordah. It was a strange experience to now be pushing Brenol forward instead of grasping him back in fear, but the compulsion felt solid and right.

  Brenol did not move. He surged with hope for a second before it darted from his grasp like a minnow between fingers.

  The truth was there…wasn’t it? And it was so…like a breath of air.

  Could it be? Could I trust that?

  He cast an uneasy glance at his interior, but the craving for the terrisdan power still roared in greed. The temptation to abandon Colette and all they had done lay so close, so enticing, that it felt almost tangible. He shook his head, muttering under his breath to himself.

  Darse doesn’t know. Who could want these things? Who would even think—desire—to leave a girl to die? He doesn’t know how many times I’ve almost left him, and when he was most vulnerable. He would hate me.

  He lowered his face, trembling with this knowledge: I’m not to be trusted.

  CHAPTER 26

  A cartontz serves, a cartontz sacrifices.

  One is an inhale, the other an exhale to the breath of love.

  -Genesifin

  The afternoon and the following day were passed in carefully mapping out the island. It was a small circle of land, not more than four or five matroles in diameter. Trees akin to palms grew up in spurts along the black sanded coast while a thick, torrid jungle crowded the center of the isle, formidable to cross. A slate-gray mount surged up at the isle’s heart. It was no more than half a matrole from base to tip and met the sky with a defiant stab.

  The remaining land was far more open and clothed in bushes of myrtle and jade. Rainbowed fruit was abundant, and edible black nuts from the cranelle trees littered the ground. Had the shadow of a murderer not lingered over their shoulders, the island would have seemed a paradise.

  There were only possible hints of habitation—several broken branches that could have been from trafficking through—and certainly enough food to sustain several people, but nothing to clearly indicate his presence. It was infuriating…and terrifying. Jerem could be anywhere. Watching them, waiting for them. Furthermore, Ordah was as sour and surly as every rumor had promised. He sulked about the isle and brooded with unmatched nastiness, evidently perturbed at Jerem’s absence.

  The plan, under Ordah’s orders, was to continue to search and wait. The prophet argued it was best to do so individually, so as to have eyes in many places at once. Darse cared little for the vulnerability of separation, but reluctantly followed the man’s direction. If anything, it meant he was able to spend less time with Ordah.

  Each wondered how long this would endure.

  ~

  They continued to chisel their way through the
island, but Jerem proved to be as subtle as a ghost. Or simply not there. The island was small, and to be eluding them entirely seemed simply unfeasible. Every day they abided by Ordah’s set regimen of scouring the grounds, but it grew more and more vexing as the only signs they discovered were of their own making. And at a certain point, any traces—if truly present—had surely been trod upon unnoticed by their own clumsy heels.

  “So tell me more about the terrisdans,” Darse said. It was afternoon, and the two were walking together quietly after completing their scour of the isle.

  Brenol glanced around to ensure no eyes were upon his movements and ducked through a mess of foliage. “Selet is in love with you.”

  “I knew it,” he replied, although he was hardly in the mood for banter.

  Brenol raised his head and smiled weakly at his friend. “What do you want to know?”

  “Is it that hard to talk about?”

  “I just don’t understand it entirely.” Brenol studied his hands and then absently crouched down to sift soil between them, as if the motion might elicit insight into his memory. Finally he arched his face up to gaze into Darse’s golden orbs. “Each place is so different. Conch, Selet, Granoile, Garnoble. I feel the terrisdan eye on me with every breath. And cringe with every blunder I see around me… It’s like being the only one who knows how to act before a king—and possibly an unpredictable and childish king at that.” He rose and brushed the soil from his fingers, leaving streaks of rusty brown across his tan pants.

  Darse frowned in thought. Brenol’s voice had a maturity to it, a new current rippling in its depths. The youth had ruminated upon this experience more than Darse had expected.

  “Why did Selet hate us so much?” Darse finally asked. “Did it remember my father?”

  “No. At least it never told me as much.” Brenol shrugged a single shoulder. “As for why? I think Selet hates everyone.” A wry smile drew across the boy’s lips, and his eyes sparkled with momentary amusement. “Maybe like our prophet?”

  Darse issued a half grin, still lost in his channel of thought.