The Land's Whisper (18 page)

Brenol shook his head in anger. “No! It
isn’t like that. There’s more than just feelings. I get a sense of
who the land is. I
know
Veronia.” His palms ran hot and his
cheeks reddened.

“Well, what does that knowledge tell you of
what’s happening, then?” Darse demanded.

Brenol’s stomach sank, and his anger
dissolved.
Why won’t Veronia just tell me? What am I
missing?
His dark jade eyes fell to the floor. “I…I don’t know.
I just…”

Seeing the copper head dip snuffed the anger
out of Darse. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder in
reassurance.

Brenol sighed under the gesture and felt the
unyielding presence of his friend calm him and issue in an element
of comfort.

“I will help you,” Darse spoke evenly. “We
will figure it out…” He took a deep breath and then let out a grim
laugh. “Well, we certainly know why Isvelle was not so keen on
discovering you’d become a nurest. You are a bright red flag
announcing her daughter’s death.” He shook his head dismally. “What
was Ordah thinking?”

He breathes the foreign air but walks the soil with
knowing.

-Genesifin

Why am I here,
Darse mused.
Why?

He peered around Sleockna’s castle garden,
awash with feelings of helplessness. He inhaled, and his nose stung
as it met the alien scent of the
carlatta
vines. At this
section of the walkway, their pungent webs clothed the stone walls,
and trees shot up in massive, looming forms. There were no vibrant
colors, just overbearing and foreign vegetation. He was weary of it
all. There was no control in Massada, and even the seemingly safe
experience of Garnoble had been stripped cleanly from his mind. He
carried no delusions any longer; this place was
other.

Days had merged together into a monotonous
blur, without the purpose and relationship he had known among the
visnati. The time passed in a pattern of meals and meandering,
while Isvelle pointedly avoided them. He had covered the castle
grounds and vicinity for several matroles in every direction, as if
plodding through the land would somehow renew purpose and restore
meaning.

I’m rotting. And Bren is sinking into this
wretched soil.

It could not be denied; Brenol was strangely
attached to the land. It seemed he would sooner slice off his arm
than sever the connection with Veronia. When they ambled, the boy
would often divulge things to Darse, remarking on rocks, trees,
animals—his speech was carefree as a child’s. Darse loathed the
evidence of the connection, yet was fascinated by it. The man fell
into silence when the boy’s chatter extended into the bizarre.

Darse loved Brenol too much to ignore what
was happening, and everything in his blood burned in agitation. The
connection was not right, though he could not pinpoint how. He
ached to be rid of Veronia and out from this awkward situation with
the Queen. The high domed skies of the terrisdan closed in upon him
more every day.

Why did I listen to Ordah? I knew Veronia
was dangerous. I should have…I should have…
Darse’s mind
churned with the possibilities of what should have been. He swept
around another corner on the path, growling at finding more
carlatta vines. Their scent offended his nostrils as he hastened
past.

Bren will never leave.

And I’ll never get him back in time.

More and more, Darse could see it in the
boy’s eyes, detect it in his tone. Brenol had lost sight of
anything that was not Veronia. He clung to his power with tenacious
fingers and eyed others with suspicion. His youthful innocence was
dissipating, and he was acquiring the same odd characteristics of
the land: he was becoming
other.

Darse was simply at the mercy of this
place.

~

Darse is out again,
Bren thought as
he woke in the quiet morning. His spine loosened in relief, for he
was weary of the man’s hovering eyes and fear-filled grimaces.
Brenol saw Darse clearly in his mind—
solid figure roving the
stone path, surrounded by soaring oaks, face clenched in
consternation—
and closed his eyes as his person flooded with
Veronia’s mood—
irritation and distrust.
As the scenes and
sensations drained, he was left with their hollow memory.

Darse worries too much.

The boy rose and arched his back in a
stretch. His lavish quarters were more than furnished comfortably.
He had never before lived amongst such costly things. He crossed
the room to where his clothing lay delicately folded just inside
the door. As he lifted them, the scent of soap rose up, and he
sighed gratefully. They had been patched with precision
—an aging
woman, wrinkled fingers stitching together the fraying hems,
smiling toward a child, speaking in hushed tones in the
evening.

He pulled the garments on and inhaled the
pleasant fragrance. It felt good to be clean, fed, warm. It felt
good to be here.

Still, a persistent voice—this time his
own—whispered to him:
Then why don’t you think everything is
ok?

“Quiet, you.”

Brenol flushed, glad no one was with him. He
probed the connection, wondering if it was normal to have
difficulties with so many voices and sentiments. He could not
retrieve any solid answer.

“Still, it’s fine,” he added defiantly. He
bent before the wash basin and rinsed his face and hands. The water
trickled down his chin and neck. An image flashed before
him—
blue towel resting beside window—
and he strode four
steps to collect it and dry himself.

Is it,
his mind asked.
Is
it?

Brenol sighed. He was in constant
tension—although he would never reveal as much to Darse. He spoke
to Veronia regularly, but it was a far different experience than it
had been with Garnoble. With Garnoble, the ebb and flow of
conversation had been natural, free. Yet here? The connection was
invasive and controlling, giving and taking without consent. The
surge of foreign emotion was upending, and the striking power he
experienced was addicting. He either felt like he was drowning or
flying, but nothing between.

Yet still, the flying was incredible.

He watched the images flash through his
mind, closed his eyes as he burned with strange sentiments. There
were no words to give to the experience. Involuntarily, he
shuddered as the pieces slipped away. It was not a sensation one
acclimated to with ease.

But oh, the flying was incredible.

~

Another day.
Darse sucked in the cool
morning air, but his lungs felt pinched and constricted. Exhaustion
pressed heavily upon chest, eyes, and shoulders. He rarely slept,
it seemed, for nightmares choked each moment of repose. He shivered
as he recalled the few minutes he had found just before dawn:
blackened fingers had snaked up from the ground in an attempt to
choke him, while hands clutched Brenol and dragged him into the
earth in horrible silence. As the land had swallowed Brenol, the
boy had watched with indifferent, jade eyes. He had never made a
sound.

How long? How long?

He trod the gardens for the duration of the
morning. His stomach growled in protest, but Darse cared little in
his tired delirium. He simply wanted to move his feet; at least in
this he had control.

As the sun climbed, he finally sighed in
resignation. “All right, old man. I’ll feed you.”

He glanced around to get his bearings but
realized he was in a section previously unexplored. Exhaustion and
hunger both forgotten, he kicked his feet forward.

The paths were comprised of tiny pebbles fit
expertly into mosaics, and they wound through the greenery like
streams. His steps clicked nicely against the stones, and the
uneven sensation beneath his heels was oddly comforting. He swirled
his way into the inner garden, where the hedgerows towered up to
the height of two men and trees thickly clothed the circle from
prying eyes. Bright pink azaleas flushed the area with color, and
he breathed in their unusual fragrance.

He came to a sudden stop as he took in the
scene before him. The Queen lay in a heap on the ground, dirty and
unresponsive, and from her appearance could easily have been as
such for hours. Her once-proud head drooped upon her chest, and she
breathed unevenly. Her slender arms hung limply beside her, and
lusterless gems adorned milk white fingers. Papers were strewn
across the ground, and her blood-red gown billowed out from her
ashen frame.

Darse did not speak. He barely thought. With
haste, he scooped the papers up into a crumple with one fist and
gathered her trembling, inert body into his arms. Small pebbles
from her clothing fell onto the path in a light shower. He bent his
knees—about to spring forward into a sprint toward the castle—when
the limp creature stiffened to life in his arms.

A firm but small voice came from the now
rigid woman. “Enough.”

Darse nearly dropped her in shock. He
righted her with haste and hoped the scarlet on his cheeks would
swiftly cool.

She smoothed her frock, and Darse sought to
calm his heart. Her hands were a small reassurance to him, though,
for while her face was austere, they shook uncontrollably.

“I am sorry, madam. I…I thought you were
ill. I would never have…if I had known…”

“It is not customary in our world to handle
other people without their consent.” Her tone and face were severe
in anger.

He slumped, mortified. “I had no intention
of…handling you… I-I thought you ill,” he stammered. This world,
the queen—they all had a way of unbalancing his usual
steadiness.

“I am not used to others in my private
garden.” Isvelle looked at him with knowing eyes. With a swipe of
her hand, her anger disappeared. “It does not matter anyway,” she
said, face and voice now strangely indifferent. “But yes, this
section of the garden is for royal use.” Her small hands came up
and held her thin waist as she took a deep breath, like she was
grasping her body to steady it.

Darse reeled at the seesaw of emotion.
This woman is a mystery. No sense to me,
he thought.

As if reading his mind, she addressed him,
“I am not so far beyond comprehension, Darse. Here, you may read
this. It concerns the both of us.”

She reached down to collect the crushed
sheets that had fallen from Darse’s fingers. Her gentle hand
touched his as she placed the soiled papers in his palm. Darse felt
a small thrill but ignored it and thrust his eyes upon the
seal.

Isvelle studied him intently as he read, and
it dizzied him. Darse willed the words into focus.

The seal was in a bold print and style he
had seen before: Ordah. The discourse was irrelevant to anything
concerning him until he reached the second page, which was nearly
soaked through in tears and smelled of must and salt. He would have
thought it impossible to weep to the point of aroma. He glanced up
at her wonderingly before continuing.

The ink was clear, despite the saturation,
and the words jolted him. Ordah was certain. The Three had spoken
to him. She was still alive. Colette was alive.

He raised his hand to his face, incredulous,
for his cheeks were damp from tears. The fate of the girl had
weighed more heavily upon him than he had ever realized.

I’d thought I just hated being a herald
of her death,
Darse thought.

He inhaled and let the knowledge wash
through him. Slowly, a new hope dawned in him: perhaps Brenol would
lose the connection, or they would be allowed to leave.

He reined his focus back and read on. Ordah
was unclear as to where she was. He urged Isvelle to send the two
foreigners to meet Arman in Selet. From there, the party would
discover something; this much at least was evident. The rest would
become clear as they progressed.

Darse tasted the acrid flavor of irritation,
and he scowled.
Ordah telling us where we should go fetch.
Again.

He raised his eyes carefully from the page
to the queen’s beautiful and blotched face. Isvelle returned his
gaze with large, almond-shaped eyes. Something in the survey
unsettled her, for she immediately narrowed her expression into an
impassive blankness.

They stood in awkward silence, full of their
own secrets. Darse suddenly felt a sense of acute revulsion, and
weariness hammered into him with renewed force.

The foreignness of this place is too
much. And Ordah—
he ground his teeth in a bitter clench—
I
just need someone to be straightforward.

“Isvelle, where is your daughter? What
happened to her?” He noted the impatience in his tone but found he
cared little.

The Queen’s face spread into a small
smile-grimace. Her slender hands moved up to her face, where they
rubbed as if wishing to smear each feature out. Her arms then
dropped to her sides—so loose and limp that they appeared almost
independent from her body.

“She would have been nineteen this next
season…” Isvelle said weakly. “My soumme
,
Jasiq, died six
orbits ago…” Her bright blue eyes rose and stared through the
garden, glazed and unseeing.

“When Colette was taken, all the worlds in
the universe could not contain Jasiq’s fury. He scoured the kingdom
and every terrisdan his feet could trod. It became an obsession he
couldn’t turn from… He loved her very much.”

After a moment, her voice began again,
hollow and dead. “He was found in Cornice. He had been left to rot
in an empty field, nothing for matroles in any direction. Wolves
who were posting seal smelled him and had his body returned…

“As for Colette? My daughter? My little
girl?” Her face suddenly flushed with passion, and her voice
cracked with fury. “Why was she stolen? Why? I’ve no idea. None.
We’d taken her to a festival for her eleventh orbit day. That
night, we stayed at a lugazzi inn. I awoke to discover her missing
and our guards murdered. No note, no trail. Nothing. It was like
she never existed.”