The Land's Whisper (15 page)

This is a new feat. I imagine I might be
able to trap anyone in this form.

This world will know war. It will.

An evil smile spread foully upon the boy’s
features, and its eyes, already streaked in black, glittered in
diversion.

This shall amuse me for a time at least.

Success cannot be measured in the moment.

-Genesifin

On the second day, Brenol and Darse traced
their progress on the crude lines of Colvin’s map as they continued
down Pearia
.
The river carried them lazily downstream, and
soon they entered into the territory of Veronia.

That was when it happened.

Brenol felt an immediate change crash over
him like a rogue wave. A rush of knowledge assailed him in
mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-swallow. Suddenly, he knew things that
he should not have, nor could have, any way of knowing. Pictures
raced by like scenery—
grasslands swaying in the breeze, violet
peaks kissed by the afternoon sun, children scurrying through a
meadow waist-high with crimson wildflowers—
and snippets of
information—
the speed of their raft, the names of trees at
waterside, fish darting beneath him and their schooling
pattern
—rushed upon him. He blinked as his mind sought to
absorb it all.

His nostrils quivered like a horse meeting
danger, and his heart thrummed with adrenaline; the collision was
not solely information. Waves of emotion flowed in with the
bombarding current. They were distinctly not his own, but as they
charged through, he felt powerless to repel them. They simply swept
up to become his own. Rage, joy, sorrow, jealousy, amusement,
terror, agony, happiness. He nearly screamed and tore at his skin
under the maddening explosion of sensation but found he was nearly
paralyzed. He was at its mercy—whatever it was—entirely.

Brenol choked and stared around in shock.
Darse leaned back on the raft’s base, angling for a more
comfortable position. The man gazed forward down Pearia, dipping
his fingers gently in the coursing water, humming an old tune from
Alatrice.

This was clearly no shared experience.

Images continued to barrel through his
mind—
a stag leaping through a wood, a girl’s emerald eyes
sparkling in delight, a face whispering in the darkness—
but
suddenly the initial experience of helplessness washed away, and he
found he could breathe again. He sucked up the air before him like
a man bursting out from a time too long under water. The sensation
of enslaved constraint was but a memory, and in its place was
something incredible: he surged with a sense of unparalleled
power.

Brenol had never been more riveted. It was
as if he had been given access to another’s brain, able to peruse
and discover at his leisure. He advanced into different spaces in
his mind, examining the new world. Places, creatures, skills. He
searched through it all as easily as a child pages through a
picture book, stopping to peer upon what he fancies in the moment.
There was nothing terrifying about the experience. It gave him only
joy. The intensity of the high was unparalleled; he felt as though
he had never lived until this moment. And it had all come quicker
than a spark shooting from a flint stone.

His soul swelled with confidence. He felt
strong, capable, knowledgeable, experienced. Not a doubt tickled
his mind. He soared with an unwavering assurance that he was good
and anything he set out to do would succeed.

I know everything,
he thought.

A voice,
the
voice from the cave,
sprang upon him. It did not resound in his ears as before, but it
was also not the wisp of sound he had heard in Garnoble. It was
simply within his mind, clearly and naturally.
“
You came,
”
it said.

A current of relief swept into Brenol with
the voice, as if the voice were the very source of the emotion.

Came? Who are you? What is going on?
Brenol asked in his mind.

“
You came. I am
Veronia.
”
Again, relief was braided in with the
words.

Brenol peered across at Darse to assess his
reaction. The boy was accustomed to his dealings with the land
being hidden, but the magnitude and presence of this encounter
seemed blaring. Still, the man remained ignorant, gazing off in his
own thoughts.

Why can I hear and feel you? Darse
can’t.

“
He is not my
Keeper.
”

Keeper?

“
He is not my
nurest.
”

Nurest? I don’t know what…I think you have
me confused with someone else.

“
I do not.
” The voice was
firm. A trickle of irritation swept out from Veronia and swam into
Brenol.

The boy puzzled over the masses of new
information and experiences, finally returning to the core idea:
Could it be? Is this the nuresti connection?

He had wondered but a moment before the
answer was upon him:
Yes.

It fit with an unbreakable certitude,
flowing through him and crushing every misgiving. The boldness of
his understanding was foreign and new, and it only amplified the
sensation of power that coursed through veins and marrow.

Yet how can this be? Colvin said nuresti
connections went from birth to death.

He flipped the concept over and over, trying
to uncover its depths. In his search, a string of faces suddenly
flowed before his mind’s eye. There were many, so many. They were
the family line of Veronian nuresti. They had known the power,
walked with the terrisdan, lived in this heightened state of
perception, ballooned in the confidence of its assurance. Yet the
pictures failed to answer his numerous questions, and he pushed at
the shadows in his mind, waiting for them to give. Nothing. He
could only flip through and scan their blank physiognomy.

What does this mean? Veronia?

There was no reply.

Why am I a nurest suddenly?

Nothing.

How?

Brenol sought answers yet met darkness in
his mind—pockets of unknowns. He realized that even as a nurest,
there were to be limits and walls. His knowledge could never be
absolute. His jaw jutted back and he immediately cowered away from
these silent and empty places; it reminded him all too much of his
usual human weakness, and to go back to what he had known and how
he had lived previously was unthinkable.

He could not, he
would
not.

Brenol wet his lips and tried anew. He
tentatively leaned into his mind to probe what lay available to
him—anything at all. The connection and power pulsed as if in
answer, and he leapt forward with a reckless abandon.

This is my new life. This.

He spent hours delving into the knowledge
open to his grasp, fascinated. He did not mind the sharp twists of
emotion that swelled with Veronia’s connection and eventually found
he did not even desire to resist them. Whether he chose to
recognize it or not, the lust for power had already thrust itself
deeply into his heart like a fixed and unyielding taproot.

~

The afternoon sun bore down and scored
through Darse’s musings. The man gently scooped a handful of water
from the raft’s side to splash his face and another to drench his
hair. Dripping, he glanced over to Brenol. The boy looked
strange—his face a mask of unusual expressions: eyes bulged out in
a vacant stare, lips spread open as if about to speak, and neck
arched forward in a tight curl. Even the youth’s skin was blotched
pink as though under immense strain.

“Bren. You all right?”

Brenol’s fists clenched whitely around his
oar, but he gave no indication he intended to row. Several moments
elapsed before he perceived Darse’s voice. He blinked as if
awakening and glanced down at the gripped handle.

“Bren?”

“Oh. Yeah, fine.” The words slipped from
Brenol’s tongue with a startling independence; he had not intended
to say them.

I should tell him. I should tell him.
This is so strange…and he’s my best friend.
Despite these
thoughts, Brenol experienced a distinct pull from Veronia, as
though it craved his secrecy.

He began to resist, until a new thought
occurred to him:
What if the connection goes away? What if
Veronia takes it away if I say something?

Hastily, he clamped his lips shut and thrust
his hands forward into a rough sweep with his oar. He felt willing
to do almost anything to keep the connection, and with it the
power. He tried to rationalize, but his mind jittered in his
desperation.

I don’t want to scare Darse.
I
will wait. I’ll understand more later…yes, later…

Mechanically, he swung his oar around and
pushed water behind him. He mysteriously knew that he had brushed
the fin of a
cartaff
fish, although he had felt nothing. In
his mind he watched the scales shine as the fish darted off
unscathed into the depths to join its school.

Yesterday, he had not known that
cartaff
even existed.

“Fine, Darsey. Just thinking.”

A rumble of approval rolled through him from
Veronia, filling his whole person with assurance. His soul sang in
exhilaration, and the sweeping confidence he felt was incredible.
Never had he felt so capable, so
good.
He exhaled in
satisfaction and returned to probing his power.

Later, as they made camp, Brenol busied
himself silently. He curled up in a feint of sleep at the first
sign of darkness but lay awake through most of the night,
exploring.

Darse wondered at the boy but shrugged the
odd behavior off as a result of their departure from the visnati.
He brooded upon what awaited them in Veronia and with Ordah before
finally surrendering and sighing into sleep.

~

Their travels continued, and Brenol remained
silent and withdrawn.

Eventually, a large castle appeared in the
western landscape—a blur from afar slowly growing into a looming
mass of stone. It was unlike anything Brenol had ever seen on
Alatrice. His home, as far as he had witnessed, consisted of fields
and crops, cabins and homesteads, but here before him, a powerful
fortress of gleaming rock thrust up from the soil like a mountain.
Its immensity alone was cause for awe; it was easily the area of a
hundred houses, with both fields and gardens surrounding it in an
open embrace.

The gray stone that comprised the structure
was also unlike anything on Alatrice. It was somehow soft, not cold
or foreboding. The castle glittered in the afternoon sun as if it
were clothed in mosaic tesserae. Gray one minute, rainbow the
following.

“Sleockna Castle. We’re still matroles off,
I think,” Darse marveled.

“Yeah. It is big.” Brenol stared, seeing
more than the distant vision—
long hallways, marble columns,
tapestries of gold, servants in tan tunics.
Brenol perused the
connection, learning much about the people and their histories as
well as the land’s layout and form. He also realized Darse was
correct; they were at least several hours of walking away.

“I wonder what kind of material that is.
Some strange Massadan rock,” Darse said to himself. Their little
boat felt so paltry before the enormity that loomed in the horizon.
Doubt tickled his gut and he thought,
What are we doing
here?

Brenol responded without thinking.
“
Queltzar
.” Once the word had passed his lips, he wished it
back. Queltzar
,
he fumed.
How am I going to explain
that?

Darse’s head dropped slightly in amazement.
He peered quizzically at him. “What was that, Bren?”

“Just talking to myself… Sleockna is huge.”
He turned his back to Darse in contrived nonchalance.

Darse raised his eyebrows. “That it is.”

Brenol cringed. While he could not see
Darse’s expression, the man’s tone was plain. Brenol would not be
able to hide his secret for long.

“Is there anything you want to talk about
Bren?” Darse probed gently.

“No.” Brenol answered abruptly, but as he
swept around to face the man, he saw the pained glance. “Not yet,
at least.” He held up a conciliatory palm. “I will though. I-I
will. I swear.” Brenol felt disapproval well up from Veronia. It
sent his insides spinning, and he panted for air as the emotion
flowed through.

“Bren?” Darse asked. His hands swiftly moved
to support the boy lest he topple. “What happened?”

The boy blinked in recovery, shaking his
head. He straightened, and Darse’s hands fell away. “I…Hey,
shouldn’t we bring her ashore?”

Darse’s next words did not pass his lips,
for he saw Brenol was indeed correct; a beach where they could land
their vessel was nearly upon them. The two rapidly maneuvered the
raft from the current, hopped off, and dragged her until she
grounded. With clinging attire and dripping limbs, they hauled the
craft up on the bank and lugged her past the sandy bar, finally
resting her where she was safe, should the waters rise. Brenol
found the task effortless—the connection with Veronia flashed
knowledge and images to him, allowing his unseasoned hands to
perform unfamiliar motions with ease.

I can do anything, absolutely
anything,
Brenol marveled. A blissful surge of esteem swelled
up and through him from Veronia. He stood taller.

Darse clenched his jaw in silence as his
feet scraped over rocks and soil.
What is he hiding?
A mix
of his old, irrational fears jolted through him.
Could it be
real? Have I again been deluding myself?
Darse felt an almost
overwhelming compulsion to carry Brenol back over the border, but
he knew that was truly no option. He could not force Brenol to
leave Veronia any more than he had been able to keep him on
Alatrice, and the sharp sensation of powerlessness was sickening.
He clung to his last scraps of willpower and vowed through the
emptiness:
Nothing will touch him.
Nothing.