The Land's Whisper (16 page)

Brenol caught Darse’s expression and turned
from the man in his own silence. He longed to hide his power from
every pair of eyes, as though he could keep it forever if it was
only out of everyone else’s sight, awareness.
Nothing will take
it away. Nothing.

Brenol and Darse loaded their packs and
hoisted them upon their backs. Brenol caught his reflection in the
water and was surprised at the face that peered back at him.

I look angry. And hard.

It unnerved him. Brenol shook his head and
consciously relaxed his fingers, trying to forget that mirror
reflecting his awful greed as they strode west.

Tying worlds together is not a task undertaken
lightly.

-Genesifin

The two tramped across the grassy hillside.
Their footgear remained stowed, for the turf was easy, and they had
grown accustomed to sun and soil on their toes in their several
septspan with the visnati.

While the castle rose up in plain view, it
remained matroles off, and the hot midday sun drew sweat to glisten
on their skin. The free-flowing grasslands tapered off into smartly
manicured gardens and orchards, and even the wildflowers seemed to
bend to a tame docility the nearer they drew. The castle towered
higher with every foot forward, and despite his nurest connection,
Brenol felt the sting of vulnerability before the massive
structure.

The building itself was undeniably
exquisite. Spires and cupolas raised up to pierce the sky, and
banners flapped from open windows in a rippling of color. The
queltzar’s glassy and resplendent surface was hypnotic as the light
reflected and danced off.

“Almost like a mirage,” Darse said. Brenol
did not respond.

Their feet eventually met stone walkway, and
the castle mounted even larger before them. The crunch of tiny
pebbles underfoot failed to counteract the eerie silence which
surrounded them. It seemed unnatural that such a space would be so
devoid of life.

“I feel like I’m being watched,” Darse
whispered sideways. Again, Brenol did not speak. He knew how
accurate this observation was.

They stepped slowly to the tremendous
entryway. Two massive stone doors rested open, allowing free access
through, though each one seemed like it would require the force of
several men to move even a digit. Darse arched his neck up and
scanned the design in awe.

“Hello?” Darse called in tentatively. He
poked his neck through, glanced about, and finally shuffled inside.
His neck tingled in the empty silence, but there was nothing to do
but continue. Brenol followed a pace behind him.

The palace was as breathtaking inside as
out. Enormous columns, engraved with images of majestic trees, rose
up from marble floors. Light streamed in from the immense windows,
and they could hear the bubbling, melodious sound of a courtyard
fountain. Tapestries of gold and scarlet depicting elaborate scenes
clothed the walls, and banners hung from the rafters.

A snippet of a memory, obviously not his
own, flashed in Brenol’s mind. He paused, distracted.
Small girl
of eight orbits pattering through the hall, ducking behind pillars.
She held her breath. Her face was flushed and happy, and her plaits
were dark and lovely.
A sweep of foreign emotion plowed through
him, and he brimmed with tender affection. Everything about the
girl drowned him in love, and he was overwhelmed by her goodness
and perfection. Brenol blinked and the picture dissipated; a breath
longer and the terrisdan’s sentiments melted into nothing.

Veronia?
he asked silently.

Veronia? What was that?

The lack of response highlighted the odd
sensation that lingered: Brenol was jealous.

Darse glanced over to Brenol’s frozen frame.
“Bren? What’s on your mind?” His voice sounded tiny in the
cavernous space.

Brenol merely shook his head; through
Veronia’s connection, he had sensed someone approaching and turned
to face a wall in response. Darse raised a brow as a man emerged
from the very spot Brenol watched. The man slid out from behind a
thin tapestry, revealing a hallway behind him in the brief moment
before the fabric sighed back into place.

The man was enormous. He had natural height
and girth, but labor and sun had sculpted him into a bronzed giant.
He wore tan slacks with a belted tunic, and his feet padded softly
in beige moccasins. His arms were tattooed from elbow to wrist and
knuckle to fingertip, in a mess of pictures and foreign faces.

Once standing before them, he bowed silently
and then straightened to face Darse. His gray eyes were cold.

Darse shifted nervously. “Hello. We have
come to see Queen Isvelle.”

The man scrutinized the two. “I must relay a
message before you may see her.”

“Ordah sent us,” Darse replied, regretting
their decision to heed the unmet prophet more every moment.

The man scrutinized the two, dipped his head
in exit, and returned again through tapestry and wall.

Darse fidgeted anxiously as they waited.
Brenol stood quietly, but abruptly straightened and faced the main
doorway in expectation. Darse furrowed his brow in wonder.

A women entered. Despite the boy’s
foreknowledge, nothing could have prepared him for this being. He
sucked in his breath in an audible gasp.

She had long, straight, mahogany tresses
that fell down her back in shining cascades, an oval face freckled
and creased with middle-age, and perfectly pink lips. She looked no
more than forty orbits, but her rich blue eyes hinted at pain that
exceeded her age. Her frame was feminine and thin, hugged by a
thick crimson gown embroidered with flowing gold stitchery.

The woman’s features though, were not what
drew Brenol’s breath. Her skin emanated an alluring and gentle
light, as though she carried a lantern beneath organs and tissue.
Every bare speck of flesh beamed with the fair amber glow. Standing
before her, Brenol was undone.

The boy glanced at Darse, who stood solemnly
erect, and he marveled at the man’s seeming indifference. Her
beauty had caused Brenol—at least momentarily—to forget the nurest
power, Alatrice, Massada, his mother—yet Darse, although also
perceiving it, appeared unmoved.

The woman lifted an arm in open greeting.
“Welcome to Veronia. Joy and health. I am Isvelle, queen of this
terrisdan.” Her small lips rose up into a shapely smile to reveal
perfect, even rows of teeth. She considered them with quiet
expression. “Please, do tell me your names.”

Brenol spoke first, “My name is Bren… your
majesty.” He stared into her eyes and found his lips moving without
intent. “We came here through the cave. It had the water and then
the fire.” His cheeks burned pink. He pulled his gaze to the floor
and attempted to salvage an explanation that did not sound inane.
“The visnati helped us come down from Ziel.” He felt keenly unable
to articulate and converse with the Queen. It was a strange pairing
to the surging power he felt within himself.

She smiled, the gentle smile of a parent
amused by a child. It was without any trace of mockery.

Darse shuffled slightly, evidently
uncomfortable, but composed himself. “Your majesty, my name is
Darse Grey-Oak. We are from Alatrice.” He paused, not eager to
reveal his lineage, but then continued. “Orbits ago, my father left
me his house and a portal. My mother was from Massada. It was only
recently that I received seal to return.”

The Queen peered curiously at Darse. “From
the portals.” Her eyes turned and settled back upon Brenol. “How
did you come here, then? And why has Ordah sent you to me?”

Another picture jumped before his mind.
Young man with chestnut hair, no more than sixteen, arms wrapped
around weeping girl, soft words whispered into ear:
“
I will
always protect you.
” Again, the flicker of a picture shattered
his hold on the moment, and he flushed with a confusing mess of
emotion: envy, satisfaction, hope, love. Brenol put out an arm as
if to steady himself, took a shaky breath, and straightened his
frame.

Isvelle’s blue eyes widened. She stared at
him with sudden severity, and Brenol felt bare, powerless. He
became acutely aware of his shoeless feet, muddied clothes, tousled
red hair, dirty hands, and—presumably—filthy face. Shame flamed hot
within his chest as he recalled fleeing Alatrice in selfishness.
The grime on the outside only magnified the guilt of the
inside.

Suddenly, and without meaning to, he blurted
out, “I was called. And I’ve always been called.”

Brenol reddened and bit his cheek.
Where’d that come from?
He inhaled slowly and was surprised
to find his steadiness had returned. His pulse was even and calm,
and his mind echoed with clarity.
It is true. I know it’s true
somehow.

She gasped at his words and whispered
hoarsely, “How can this be?” Her face had paled, and the lovely
light that had beamed from her skin dimmed yellow.

She knows.
Brenol’s peace vanished as
his heart lurched in the exposure; it was only too evident she saw
this bizarre nurest connection he carried. She perceived and
despised it.

Darse was speechless before the bizarre
interplay.

“How can it be?” she whispered to herself.
Her light and radiance dimmed further, and her face grew ashen.
“Nothing. There is nothing to be done now. It is over… Ordah sent
you so I might know.” She stared off for what felt like forever,
and finally Darse remembered to breathe.

The Queen grimaced out a weak smile. Then
she swallowed and, gracefully stepping before Brenol, took both of
his hands. “You need not fear,” she choked out, glancing up to
Darse, “What is done is done.” Isvelle’s eyes lingered upon her
hands as she muttered, “You belong in Veronia, I suppose…”

“Wh—” began Darse, stopping as she seemed to
recover her composure. He waited for her to speak.

“I don’t know what to tell you, though. The
time of the Keepers is a dangerous one… How long can one live? How
long?” She paused, again muttering to herself. “There is no hope
then…” Her eyes were a misty storm.

“What is going on? What do you mean?”
Darse’s asked, but she only stared at him blankly. He fought
against a building frustration.

Isvelle waved one hand in front of her face
in an effort to veil her emotion, but nothing could dismiss the
distraught picture the two had witnessed. She squeezed Brenol’s
hand, apparently in an attempt to reassure the boy. It failed to
alleviate either party, and Brenol was left with a sore hand as her
graceful figure retreated.

Isvelle turned and extended a finger toward
an open doorway. Her voice was empty and devoid of life. “Please. I
know you must be hungry. Would you please dine? I’ll make
arrangements for your stay this evening. I would join you, but I
have other things I must attend to.”

Without another word she swept from the
room, leaving just a final image of jewels glistening upon
quivering hands.

~

The two mutely shuffled forward, each
reeling from the encounter, and entered the next room.

It was a comfortable size, about twenty
paces in each direction, and the walls glittered with queltzar and
banners hung in vibrant hues of reds, oranges, and yellows. Four
pillars squared the room, and ribbons laced the slender cylinders
in stripes of scarlet and gold. A wooden table, ornately carved
with flora and inlaid with gold, rested atop a thick maroon carpet
at one end of the room. Six chairs huddled around it, also etched
with complex designs. An immense fireplace glowed in the corner
with two padded seats nestled before it. The crackling blaze
provided a welcome comfort in the cooling air.

A young servant, with copper skin and
clothed in a simple tan tunic and black sandals, emerged with
silver basins and an ewer of warm water for washing. His wide oval
eyes examined the strangers, but he vanished through a side doorway
without speaking a word.

Brenol approached the basin with a darting
glance at Darse. The man peered back, and Brenol shied his eyes
away again. He did not want to see the bewildered hurt residing
there. The boy splashed his hands and face, scouring them until
they were red and clean.

Darse toweled his beard dry, shook his head.
“I’m ready to have this make sense,” he said softly. He looked to
Brenol for a response, but the boy merely finished scrubbing and
set to mindlessly picking at his nail beds.

They positioned themselves at the table and
waited in anticipation, although not necessarily in regards to the
fare.

The young servant returned, arms laden with
a tray heaped with food. He placed it before the two, and the aroma
drifted up in an irresistible billow. Brenol’s hands flew greedily
to work as he suddenly realized his aching stomach. Darse followed
suit, yet continually drew his blue eyes back to the youth.

More servers arrived to pile additional
trays before them. There was scalding soup with leeks, sliced
kert
, a dish of potatoes drenched in a creamy orange sauce,
two thick slabs of bread with oil for dipping, and a platter
cupping a baked pink fish. The flavors were foreign and odd, but it
filled wonderfully.

As their stomachs grew content, Brenol
casually nudged a bowl across to Darse. The man leaned forward to
peer in and drew his jaw back with a jerk.

Brenol smiled. “Smells that good?”

Darse allowed his lips to tug up slightly
and dipped his hand into the sodden mess. He selected one of the
white chunks, screwed his face in repugnance at the scent, and
tossed it at the boy. The piece splattered against Brenol’s chest
and rolled down his clothing, leaving a trail of dark damp.

Brenol choked. “Ugh, it’s awful! What is
that anyway?”

Darse laughed. “Curds.” He leaned forward to
exaggeratedly sniff the boy. “And I think cumin.”