The Land's Whisper (40 page)

The male maralane scoffed, but the power in
his derision had atrophied.

Arman knocked the breath out of them,
thought Darse. The realization that the prophet made the very
waters tremble made him question his previous dismissal of the man.
Who is this Ordah? Who is he?

Then, without a sound, Ziel’s people
submerged, disappearing in a foreign rhythm and order. Here one,
there one—the pattern, or lack of one, distinctly alien. Concentric
circles rippled Ziel’s screen, but the waters were still in a
matter of moments.

Brenol shuddered, his mind full of memories
of raptili
,
and Darse sighed deeply.

Arman looked at Darse curiously. “You were
anxious? You never gave a hint of it. I am surprised.”

Darse smiled wryly. “Guess I manage to do it
when it matters… Where we come from it is considered a skill to
hide our minds—we call it a face for games.”

Arman nodded his head. “We call it
bluffing.”

Brenol laughed despite the
circumstances.

~

They milled about that day, and finally in
the night Ordah joined their party. The three had been sitting
around a small fire, speaking in hushed voices, when the figure
slipped into the circle from the thicket of trees. Arman barely
glanced up; he had heard the man’s stealthy movements. The other
two, however, felt their hearts jerk to life at the sudden
apparition.

Ordah was tall, only slightly shorter than
Arman, with dark, unruly hair. He had a strong square jaw, thick
brows, and steely eyes.

The eyes. Brenol stared for several moments
before he could pinpoint just where he had seen them before. They
were the eyes of the pazor-bull that had wandered through their
farmland territory the spring before the drought—two orbits ago,
maybe three. That dog had seemed docile enough, licking scraps from
friendly hands and panting with a big toothed grin, but its happy
glance had morphed to lethal power when a local dog—Derelt Cedar’s
brown mutt—meandered by. Once those teeth clamped down there was no
opening them. The ground drenched crimson as the poor mutt
convulsed into limpness, and still those pazor-bull eyes never
wavered in their merciless, intense resolve. Brenol had edged away
as the victor began to feed, despite his boyish fascination. He had
found himself reviewing the images again and again with a newfound
appreciation for the fierce instinct of the creature. And fear. He
never went near another pazor-bull again.

But here was someone he could not avoid.

Ordah did not dally with introductions. His
voice was gruff and assuming. “Frawnish?” he asked.

Arman frowned. “No. They don’t leave the
terrisdan without approval. And approval has not been given for
over eight orbits.
Eight.
” His voice was low enough to be a
growl, and Brenol heard an edge that he had not expected;
somewhere, a line was being drawn with bones and fingernails.

“Then what?” Ordah asked. “How did Jerem get
out there? Are we sure he is out there?”

“I am certain.”

“I will not trespass their waters and bother
these people because of your conjectures!”

Arman, although wispy in his transparent
state, narrowed his glance at the prophet, and his face tightened
in anger. The man whimpered, a soft noise in the back of his
throat, and sank his head down in a guilty surrender. He barely
whispered when he spoke, but his voice had a beaten docility.
“Arman, do not ask this of me. I cannot give you my reasons, but do
not ask.”

“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?

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.