The Land's Whisper (50 page)

One afternoon, on his way back from tramping
the country, he halted at the sound of a familiar voice.

“I have been looking for you, Bren.”

The youth’s heart nearly sang. “Arman! It is
good to hear your voice… I am always looking for you, you know.” He
smiled at his own joke.

“It failed to be funny the first two hundred
times I heard it. I seriously doubt you will ever make any
progress.” Despite the words, his voice was genial. Brenol pictured
the handsome grin.

“Darse told you I left?” Arman asked.

“Yeah. You went to find out about how Jerem
had crossed Ziel?”

“I just finished speaking with the maralane
and Ordah.”

Brenol raised his eyebrows, cocking his head
in the direction of Arman’s voice. “I’ve been wondering where Ordah
disappeared to. He’s with the maralane?”

“Oh yes.”

Brenol leaned in with interest. “What
happened?”

“After Ordah met with Preifest, the maralane
leader, he agreed to reveal to a select group of us aspects
regarding the situation. It would seem a maralane did in fact
assist Jerem out to the isle.”

“Wasn’t that obvious?”

“It was a source of confusion. The
motivation behind such a deed? Why the maralane would hide it? And
the isle itself?” He paused, adding softly, “How we even knew to go
out there?”

“And?”

The juile rustled in an unseen motion. “The
maralane who helped is dead.”

“They killed him?”

“No, I am told the lake-man died from other
reasons. The black fever.”

“Black fever? Like Darse’s mom?”

“Yes. The same.”

“Why were they so against telling us that
he’d taken Jerem out there? Wouldn’t they want Jerem off their
island?” Brenol asked.

“I think initially they were more concerned
with the upper world’s reaction to the situation.”

“How so?”

“A maralane helping a murderer? Bringing
Jerem to a secret place so he could dissect nuresti? Preifest would
not want to sow discord, even if he does not feel threatened by us…
It would seem there is much happening here.”

Brenol waited silently for a moment but
finally nudged Arman with a question. “What do you mean?”

Arman inhaled deeply, as if emerging from an
ocean of thought. “No one can discern the lake-man’s motivations. A
maralane is not typically enticed by anything from the upper world.
Power from such a world apart fails to be seductive. There is no
logic to it.”

“And they don’t know anything?”

“Not a word is said.” Arman spoke with
obvious puzzlement. He had spent no little time grappling with the
enigma. “The maralane only request our silence in the matter, as
well as in regards to the isle.”

Brenol’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Why
was Ordah reluctant to go out there?”

“He likely knew what the maralane did—that
one of their own had betrayed them. That, and Ordah wanted to hide
the whole situation. Out on the island, the truth of his
brother—and Ordah’s own blindness—were hidden, tucked away.”

Brenol nodded silently.

Arman spoke, direct as always. “Bren, just
ask. What is it you want to say?”

“Well…” Brenol told him of the transferred
memories. “I hadn’t really thought about it ’til now, but Deniel
knew he had power in the water. Something about Ziel allowed him
power—perhaps even more than anywhere else.”

“That is something. A significant
something.”

“Is that what the maralane are trying to
hide? Why their island is so secret? Because there is power out
there?”

Arman pondered for a moment. “That could be
one reason for withholding information from us, and for keeping me
from going out there… But it still doesn’t explain why a
maralane
would bring Jerem out there. There is no reason for
it. None.”

Brenol furrowed his brow. “Unless he was
trying to start a war.”

Arman was silent. There was a troubling
sense of truth to the statement.

Brenol interrupted his thoughts. “How is it
that Deniel gave me his memories? And killed Jerem? Can nuresti do
this?”

Arman spoke slowly, carefully, as if testing
out the truth of his words second by second. “Bren, the mystery of
the nuresti is vast and deep… It goes deeper than even the soil
itself, just like there is more mystery to you than bones and skin.
I have studied the nuresti, as I have told you before…” His voice
quickened as he came to more familiar ponderings. “There have been
two times that I know of in which a nurest has been able to kill
with the power of his mind. It is never a clean experience. No,
never clean. The power of death came at the cost of his own life
each time, but the nurest seemed to know it would be so. It was the
only option he had.”

Brenol breathed slowly and repeated, “The
only option.”

“Was it not so in the cave?” Arman asked
genuinely.

“No, it was. It makes sense… Yes. Darse was
untied. Deniel knew that there could be escape once Darse woke.
There was no purpose in waiting through my torture. He had to save
Colette at any cost.” The words echoed in his mind.
At any
cost.

Brenol kicked some dirt from his shoes. It
had been stormy the previous day, and muddy clods stuck fast to toe
and heel.
My mind is more cluttered than a visnat’s garden. This
still isn’t right…
The pieces simply refused to align neatly
for him.

“Wait… This is different,” Arman
whispered.

“Yes?”

“Deniel was a nurest?” Arman asked.

Brenol nodded. The memories of the man
whipping through Plune were astounding. He had not known nuresti
could harness the connection as he had. Even when the rippling wash
of terrisdan emotion had plowed through the man, it never once
crippled him. Instead, it had only spurred him to greater and more
intense action.

“But yet you say he followed Colette as her
cartontz
,
her protector.”

“Yes?”

Arman spoke slowly. “It is yet another
riddle. This does not happen. Nuresti may choose to leave for the
privacy of the lugazzi, but never has one chosen to serve another
nurest like this.”

Brenol bristled. “She’s special,” he replied
curtly.

“I did not deny as much, nor do I argue the
honorable nature of it, Bren. But I still think we are not seeing
the picture in its entirety. Something is missing.”

Brenol blushed, chastened.

“And more than just your socks,” Arman
inserted, easing the moment.

Brenol lifted a booted foot with an
incredulous eye. “How can you tell?” The boy laughed. “The
launderers lost them.”

The relief in his laughter seemed to loosen
Brenol’s mind enough to pull out a random thought. “Hey, how long
after taking Jerem did that maralane get the fever?”

“What do you mean?” Arman asked, sharply
attentive.

“Dying people have strange motives,” Brenol
said with a shrug. “They get desperate.”

Arman gasped, perceiving a truth he had
never thought to discover. “Bounty forgotten, I was blind to it.
Looking so closely at one thing, I missed it entirely.”

“Blind to what?” Brenol asked impatiently.
“The maralane who brought Jerem over?”

“No. Not him.” His voice was faraway.

“Arman, what is it? Tell me what you’re
thinking.”

“No. I must go. I must find out more.”

“It’s just a guess, you know,” Brenol
pleaded.

The juile did not respond but clicked softly
to himself in his habitual pocket musings. It was answer
enough.

“
The maralane are dying? How can this
be?
”

~

Darse pushed his tray away and eased back in
his seat with tea in hand. It was a dark brew that saturated the
air around him with a biting freshness. He sipped slowly and
allowed its searing effects to open his eyes and rouse his limbs
for the day. His mind awakened, and he found himself perusing all
that had taken place since their arrival in Massada.

“Pardon,” a voice said.

Darse blinked, and the world came into
focus. A middle-aged man gazed down at him with soft brown eyes. He
had a curling crop of auburn hair that crept out from the sides of
his dark blue hat like unruly melon vines. His face was rectangular
and thin; his frame, slender but fit. He was decked entirely in
navy blue, save the black boots that rose to his knees and the
coppery buttons lining his jacket.

“Yes?” Darse lifted the mug to his lips but
pulled it away in surprise. The contents were cold and bitter. He
glanced about him and found the dining hall deserted. His musings
had carried him well past mid-morning.

“May I ask your name?” The man’s thin lips
puckered together in anticipation.

“Darse. Darse Grey-Oak.”

“Thank you for the confirmation.” The man
placed a small envelope upon the table with one hand while opening
his jacket at the neck with the other. A circular patch was
revealed beneath the folds, just below the clavicle. The image
Darse recognized as the sealtors’ emblem, a pelican wing, shone out
in a flashy gold. He nodded, grateful to have a human deliverer
this time.

Darse reached for the letter, chest already
drumming in anticipation. “If you wait, I may have a reply.”

The sealtor barely bobbed his head before
Darse tore through the lavender seal and extracted the two folded
sheets. The sealtor stepped back several paces and focused his
attention elsewhere; the privacy of seals was braided into his
profession.

The first letter was labeled for Colette. He
tucked it gingerly into his pocket before opening the other. It
read:

Darse,

I find myself without words. I pray I will discover
some presently.

I’m coming. The sealtor I sent will arrive quickly,
but travel will take me another ten days at least. But I am
coming.

Thank you for sending seal. And thank you for
finding her. I’ve had faith in you.

-Isvelle

Darse patted the pocketed seal absently and
inhaled softly in relief before raising his gaze to the sealtor. “I
won’t be replying. Here,” he said, handing over several freg.

The man nodded, auburn curls bouncing
wildly. He stalked from the room with long strides and was
gone.

Still staring at the empty doorway, Darse
raised the cold mug again to his lips before drawing it away with
repugnance. He set the cup down, attempting to still his thundering
heart.

He muttered softly to himself, “She is
coming.”

~

Brenol’s visits to Colette continued. Days
fell away like petals from a wilting daisy, but still he met
restraint and cold indifference whenever he called on her room.

One day, however, something different
occurred. He entered to find her sitting up in bed, solemn-faced
and gazing straight at him. He had the impression she had been
waiting for him, for her emerald eyes settled upon his person like
an accusing finger, raising prickling goosebumps on his arms. The
impulse to flee from the glance rose up but was brushed away by his
intrigue. He inhaled and strode fully into the room. Brenol smiled
slightly as he met the gentle aroma of honey; it clung to her
person like to a bee’s comb, and he found the scent calming despite
her continual animosity.

Closer, he was able to detect the strain
that constricted her features and the dark circles painting her
eyes.

“I am ready to hear it,” she said. Her face
was expectant, intent.

Brenol was stunned by the statement itself,
but also by her tone. He had expected harshness, yet her voice held
no trace.

“To hear it?” he asked.

“I want to know what happened to me. Jerem
didn’t steal my memories for whatever reason, but I still don’t
know why he kept me for so long. Deniel knew. I know he knew.
You…you know too, yes?” Her quick eyes bore into him, missing
nothing.

“I told you much of it.”

“But you know more.” It was not a
question.

She will hate me even more for seeing all
this, knowing these dreadful things.

He nodded but squirmed within. His voice
sounded dry and hollow when it finally emerged into the empty air.
“Fragments, but the main idea.”

“Please? I-I won’t yell at you.” She looked
down, embarrassed.

Brenol opened his mouth to protest but
closed it with resigned firmness.
She deserves to know. She
should
know…even if I don’t want to tell her.

Brenol flipped through Deniel’s memories,
wondering where to even start. His stomach twisted as he recalled
one of the more gruesome images: a hand print bruised on the girl’s
upper thigh. Deniel, at the sight, had clenched his fists until his
fingertips had drawn blood upon both palms. She had merely looked
up at him innocently; the drugs had barely loosened their hold. She
had been a mere child.

Twice he had almost rescued her. And each
time it had unraveled to disaster. Twice.

Brenol slowly settled himself down into the
chair beside Colette’s bed. Despite its comfort, he was far from
easy. He pored his eyes over her exquisite face, tearing them away
a second later to stare mindlessly out the window. He did not want
to have to witness the horror on such perfect features when he told
of the terrible things that were the story of her life.

And so he began.

~

Colette paled to an ashy gray. Her lips
trembled as if they wanted to speak, but no sound escaped. She
pulled the bed’s pillow to her chest and wrapped her arms around it
fiercely, finally burying her face in the soft cushion. The young
woman practically dripped with shame.

A soft whisper came from the pillow. “I
understand now. I think I remember some of…” Her voice trailed
away.

“Can I tell you a story?” Brenol asked.

Green eyes poked out from the cloud of
white.

“I’m kind of embarrassed by it,” Brenol said
reluctantly. “But I think it might help.”