The Land's Whisper (43 page)

“And hopefully still ignorant of our
blundering presence.”

“Yeah.” Brenol’s face paled slightly in
remembrance of the dark lair. He had no desire to repeat the
burrowings. “Yeah,” he repeated.

“But could there be an underground here?”
Darse asked. “Wouldn’t it get flooded?” Yet even as he asked, he
surveyed the island with fresh eyes. The land itself sloped up from
the shore, and the giant jutting rock at its heart hinted at
possibilities he had not considered. His face grayed
considerably.

“I’ll look,” Ordah said firmly and began to
tread lightly around in simple examination. He paused, and returned
with a dark scowl. “As I said before, if you find anything, come
get me.”

“I’d been so busy looking in trees, I forgot
he was no bird. He’s a rat,” Brenol said.

Darse’s eyes darted toward the prophet, but
Ordah appeared to be beyond aural range. “Careful,” he whispered to
Brenol. “I don’t know how far their respect goes toward
animals.”

In a flash Brenol recalled visnati hands
fingering weapons. He wondered if Darse even had a flicker of that
memory left. The boy nodded grimly, not wanting to question Darse
on the topic, and followed the man to the south side of the
isle.

The land curved around, and the two pushed
past frond and bough. The sun provided steady warmth though it was
not yet midday—when the group usually cowered back in the shade to
perspire. Brenol breathed in the humid air and thought of home. He
missed it.

“Now that you’re here, Darsey…do you think
you’ll stay? Assuming we could even find a way back to Alatrice
eventually.”

Darse was surprised—not at the question
itself, but by his response. He had not considered returning to
Alatrice, not once. All his plans and thoughts had focused upon the
mission, Brenol’s safety, Brenol’s mother, and his future in
Massada. There was no home for him on Alatrice, save Brenol.

“I’ll stay,” Darse said decidedly. He waited
a moment before sliding a sideways glace over to the boy. “What
will you do?”

Darse held his breath, for his insides were
knotted in conflict. He
wanted
Brenol in Massada but still
felt bound to honor his mother for the time being. That day he had
chosen to love Brenol had meant more than caring for a child. Darse
felt an unspoken responsibility toward the broken woman who lived
with Brenol, too.

Brenol’s neck pulled back half a digit in
wonder. His eyebrows raised exaggeratedly. “You ask? You did not
ask when we first arrived.”

And if he’s still tied to Veronia? Do you
want him here then?
Darse pressed his lips together in
discomfort, for he felt that he would lug Brenol back bound to
Alatrice if the nurest connection remained. Darse shrugged,
although it was evident much roved through his mind.

“I understand, Darse. I know I have to go
back eventually. Just not yet.” He bent as if to pick up a stone
but rested on heels and haunches instead. And then, as easily as
Arman’s invisible hands had in Callup, Brenol lifted up some vines
and grassy growth and peeled them away like a scab. He stared down.
The hatch at his hands was like an evil eye, a pupil of the
underworld.

Darse exhaled slowly. He peered down at the
oval door. It was an iron plate resting in stone, and its hinges
were orange with rust. “It doesn’t really look like this door was
meant to be concealed. This looks more like natural cover and
time.”

The man brushed the surface with his palms
to remove sediment. An imprinted image became visible: a tail fin
one might witness as a fish returned to the deep after a leap
through the air.

“I’ve seen this before,” he whispered.

“What?” Brenol asked.

“On the invitation to return to Massada. The
one the wolf brought. It was the seal.”

“Is it the seal of the maralane?”

“I’ve no idea. But I think the seals have
more meaning here than they do at home.”

Brenol paused to consider. “Why would the
maralane invite you?”

Darse had no answers, but the iron beneath
his hands would not allow him to forget the moment’s peril. “Wait
here.” He held up a finger and began to stride away but then turned
back to whisper urgently, “Put that back!”

Brenol, without objection, softly released
the viney spread back down over the hole and waited. After many
long minutes, Darse returned with the prophet. The three looked at
each other and the hatch with faces grim, lips pursed.

“Sloppy. It’s a wonder we didn’t see it
before,” Ordah commented.

Darse raised an eyebrow. “Jerem didn’t set
this door. This is clearly not the work of anyone within the last
two moons.”

Ordah’s jaw tightened and his eyes rested
upon the rust, the age, the viney growth. “No. It is not. And that
means there are likely other entrances too.”

“Has a love for the dirt,” Brenol whispered,
looking to Ordah for an explanation.

The prophet ignored the underlying question,
consumed with his own pawing wrath. “I go first. I have some
understanding of him and his ways. If you see him, do not hesitate
to attack. He
will
kill you.”

“Shouldn’t we at least try to bring him out
alive?” Darse asked. His memory flashed back to drugged Fingers,
face puffed and heaving in slumbered effort. Killing held little
pleasure for him, regardless of the evil. His fingers twitched on
the hilt of his knife.

“The maralane would not let Jerem’s tiny toe
soil their waters again,” he replied. “Jerem will be dead on beach
or boat within minutes once we scare him from this rabbit
hole.”

A brother’s love,
Brenol mused wryly.
He watched as Ordah inspected his vest and then bent to heave the
rusty plate open. He paused as if recalling something and dug
through his pockets. He pulled out a slip of fabric and swiftly
ripped it into three.

“Here,” Ordah whispered, extending two of
the small taupe cloths cupped in his hand. Brenol recognized them
from Ordah’s nighttime use. “It’ll help you see.”

Darse retrieved his with tight lips and a
nod.

“Just hold it out and it will glow a
bit.”

The taste in the boy’s mouth was salty,
sticky—like burned beans. He could feel the darkness drowning his
skin already, and he had not even left the day’s breezes. Brenol
pushed his emotions back, took his own small cloth, drew his knife,
and waited for directions.

Maybe Ordah will get to him first.
It
was a comforting thought, but not enough to dry his clammy hands or
calm his nerves.

Darse nodded, pulling Brenol back by the
shoulder. “You stay. You said it yourself before—it’s my turn this
time.”

“Darse—” Brenol began.

The man’s face silenced the boy. He spoke in
a hushed imperative, “You’ll likely get your turn. Don’t push me
this time
.”

Ordah’s eyes glinted with harsh purpose as
he descended into the abyss of night. Darse followed, lowering
himself down the stone ladder. His golden eyes gleamed like a
feline in the dark before he disappeared entirely.

A whisper issued up, “Stay on guard! There
have to be other entrances.”

Brenol tucked the fabric square into his
pocket and reeled back from the all-too-familiar scent of earth and
stone and rust.

It was an unpleasant experience waiting. He
crouched beside the hole but could not find a comfortable distance.
He was either so close that he could only imagine dark limbs
flashing out to grasp and drag him under, or he was too far and
fearing for his companions beneath the dark pupil. Brenol
eventually settled three strides from the eye and sought to calm
his nerves by softly clinking out his thoughts on beads.

His pocket tapped,
I wish you were here,
Arman. Darse is down there… He is always looking out for me.
Always.
The clicks stopped as he sought to control his shaking
hands.

~

Half an hour later the two emerged, dirty
and somber. Ordah’s eyes bulged from his square and soiled face
like an enraged bull’s. “There is a system of caverns down there.
Dozens.”

“How is that even possible?” Brenol
asked.

Darse’s face looked morose and disturbed.
“The island is apparently more rock than earth. It all looks like
that
down there.” He lifted his chin to indicate the giant
stony mount rising to their north.

“And there are a lot?”

“Countless. It seems as though the whole
center of the isle is made of passages chiseled through solid
rock.”

“Is there flooding?” asked Brenol
uncomfortably.

“No. Whoever designed them did it well. I
even saw some kind of piping for drainage,” Ordah answered softly.
He seemed strangely unsettled.

“Any way to tell which direction he is?
Colette?”

Darse was shaking his head before Brenol
even finished his questions.

“What do we do, then?”

Ordah gripped his fists in a white,
controlled fury. “That little
tick
has burrowed himself down
there, feeding off that child. He’s a disgrace!” His voice slowed
and dropped to a low and lethal growl. “I will find him. I will
hunt him. And it will be ended. I will end it. He
will
die.”
Ordah padded off softly: the deceitful tread of a hunter in
pursuit.

Brenol watched the prophet leave. “Why is he
so surprised about all of this?”

“I think he feels betrayed by the maralane.
They didn’t prepare him for an entire world hidden underneath his
feet. This is something else. This is some long-held secret… Who
even knows what this tunneling is about.”

“Yeah,” Brenol said absently, noticing his
still-trembling fingers. He inhaled slowly, perceiving
simultaneously that Darse did the same. “What’s wrong? The tunnels?
Ordah?”

Darse’s eyes fell to ground.

“Darse?”

“Bren,” he said finally. “I…I just don’t
like it. There’s no possibility we can manage to surprise Jerem
without all of us going down there and mapping out the place
together. The longer it takes, the more likely it is that he’s
going to catch us. Scents, dirt in a strange place, tracks, noise,
a rock upturned, a string torn from our clothes, anything. Surprise
is all we’ve got. And it’s his lair, his advantage.”

“What about waiting him out up here?” Brenol
asked.

“Like Ordah would sit around knitting a
blanket up here? Plus, we don’t know his schedule for emerging for
food. It could be a moon out here, and then easily we miss him.
While Colette is tortured below and we tan and rot?”

“We need help.”

Darse gave a pained nod. He had felt as much
from the beginning. “We aren’t going to get any,” he said
somberly.

“It seems strange that we’re the only ones
around who’re willing to find her and face Jerem.”

Darse grunted in agreement. He wished for
anyone more adept than himself, fingering his hilt with
despair.

Brenol met Darse’s gaze. “You don’t want me
to go down.” As the words left his lips, a surge of revolt filled
him. To stay offered little relief and unquestionable regret.
I
want to go down. I actually want to save her,
he thought. The
realization galvanized him.
Maybe I am not a monster.
Maybe.

Darse smiled ruefully. “No, I don’t. I don’t
want you worming around down there, blind and close to a murderer.
But I don’t want you peering down that hole waiting, just for Jerem
to pop up elsewhere and grab you from behind. I don’t want you on
this island.”

“You’re going to have to think of new ways
to encourage, Darsey,” Brenol said wryly.

“You’ve already made your decision. I can’t
stop you from standing in the danger that we’re drowning in.”
Darse’s features loosened slightly. “Bren, I want you to go into
this aware. From the first moment we came to Massada, we have been
swept up in the otherness of this place. Nuresti this, terrisdan
that. Fingers, Ordah, Jerem. Honestly, I have no hope of protecting
you. And these knives…I can handle one for skinning and butchering,
but I do not know how well I can do against a real attacker.”

Brenol held his gaze steadily, and even his
heart beat with a gentle and sure rhythm. “I’m right here, Darse.
You’ve protected me all along. You’ll return me when this is
done—somehow. And to be fair to the place, not everything has been
a whirlwind. The visnati, Trilau, the Songra
,
Arman…
Arman,
Darse.”

Darse dipped his head in agreement, filled
to the brim with both thanksgiving for the juile and bitterness at
their untimely separation.
He guarded Bren as no one else could.
If only…

The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply,
recalling again the juile’s words to him: “
He is no child. You
must let him—no, encourage him to—be who he is: independent,
strong, willful… You cannot force him to the side for the sake of
safety. Forcing is not love. No, you can only make choices for
yourself.”
Even in his memory, the olive-skinned face stared at
him with the intensity that marked Arman’s person.

Brenol placed a surprisingly sure hand on
his older friend. “Darse. I’ll be ok. I will.” Brenol nodded his
head, full of conviction. “I’ll think. I’ll be careful. But we’ll
go together.”

Somehow talking in this way turned his
unsure foal legs straight and strong. His purpose was clear. He
would do it because he must. No underground world must stop him, no
temptation, fear, or greed either. Nothing must deter him.

Darse nodded. There was a girl. And now that
was all that mattered.

The lugazzi,
in its vacancy, reveals much
about the terrisdans.

-Genesifin

The tunnels now became their lives. It was
baffling how the underground world could have been created. The
system of roads—for it almost appeared to be a grid—was roughly
three or four strides beneath the land’s surface and cut through
straight rock. This was not the work of one, but of hundreds.
Countless hands, backs, tools. And time.