The Land's Whisper (55 page)

And so it did.

Darse marched in loudly, the mud from his
shoes splattering the white tile. “You have a message waiting for
you,” he said. The man’s scruffy face was pinched in
bemusement.

“Me? From who?” Brenol’s own voice sounded
far away. He felt a twitch in his fingers as if the peace were
tumbling from them.

“I don’t know. I’m interested myself. I’d
wondered…” Darse paused with a stiff frown before shaking away the
idea. “No, it couldn’t,” he said softly to himself under the cover
of breath.

Brenol’s curiosity piqued, he pointed toward
the exit questioningly. Darse nodded. “The green receiving hall,”
he added.

The sound of his own footsteps clicking
across the tile jolted any bit of remaining reverie, but
regardless, the boy hesitated, inhaled purposefully, and finally
pressed forward past the simple wooden door. He crossed the
corridor and wound past several quarters until he stood outside the
hall in question. It was a room utilized for private and small
receptions. Brenol pushed the door open and swept his eyes around
the humble chamber.

A person stood waiting with his back to
Brenol, his diminutive frame clothed in navy from neck to ankle.
Brenol’s heart leaped within him.

Could it? Could it be?

As the boy’s gasp met his ear, the visnat
turned. It was Spence, with hair combed back, black boots, a
brass-buttoned blue suit, and a braided gray beard. He allowed a
minute smile to curve the corners of his mouth and waited for
Brenol to speak.

Brenol did not utter a word. No, he could
not. He wept.

The sorrow for the visnati had been buried
and dormant—an ever-present knot, deep and cold in his chest—and
now, finally, it had found a fissure from which to break forth.
Brenol’s knees buckled, and he choked on his sobs, falling to the
floor. He knelt for many minutes, his breath too ragged to allow
for communication.

The grief burning hotly in his chest was
compounded by terrible guilt:
Does he know how I failed and
couldn’t stop Fingers? That I never tried to talk to the polina? I
waited…and the visnati died.

His crying eased. While he was cold with
fear, he knew he must speak. His grief had left him rent, but ready
to unburden. Too long had he carried the weight of his
failings.

“I didn’t stop him,” Brenol finally
whispered, his face toward the floor.

“What?”

“He attacked us first,” Brenol replied
softly.

“What do you mean?” the visnat asked
cautiously.

Brenol’s face streamed. “The attacker. The
one who killed the visnati. We met him in Selet. He stole Darse’s
memories and that’s how he knew about you. We escaped, but I didn’t
try to tell the polina for so long. And…and then he did that to the
visnati… It was revenge, because I killed a man.”

Spence gaped, astonished.

Brenol felt paralyzed with shame, and it was
only when an image, the Massadan gesture of apology, surfaced in
his mind that he could find his breath again.

Slowly, he stretched his body prostrate.

The boy kissed his fingertips and crept his
right hand across the smooth tile, stopping short of Spence’s boots
before breaking past his hesitation and grazing one—a kiss to the
toe. Brenol turned his palm up and allowed it to rest upon the cool
white a few digits from the visnat’s foot. He waited, not raising
his head, with suspended breath for either a booted blow or
forgiving acceptance.

It was a humble gesture, and roused the
visnat out of his shock. The crushing pardon was not used for
common blunders, and from this other-worlder, it carried an added
weight of humility.

Spence dropped to his knees, taking Brenol’s
hand into his own small and rough pair and kissing it with the
gentleness of a bee to a flower. “I…,” he choked, pausing until he
could control himself. “You’re a friend. You’re not the cause… You
never would have…” Spence inhaled slowly, collecting himself.
“Let’s not speak on it again.”

And with that, he released Brenol, creaked
his legs to a stand, and brushed his hands upon his trousers as if
wiping away the situation and all its ugliness.

Brenol rose as well but could not leave the
topic entirely. “How? And did they…” He did not know if he could
voice the names of the visnati he had known.

Spence’s eyes tightened to a squint.
Finally, he nodded gravely. “Most. My best friends. I missed the
festival. Everyone else was there. The fires… Rook, Murph. And you
knew Colvin. I’d just wanted a little time alone that night… And
now I’ve more than I can endure.”

Lines of grief etched the visnat’s face. He
had lived a hundred orbits in the season since Fingers had swept
away so many of his tiny town. After a moment, he straightened his
posture and spoke in a new tone. “I come on business, Bren.”

Brenol’s eyebrows raised.

“The maralane want to meet with you. You’ve
been granted an invitation.” Spence’s tone was inscrutable.

Brenol asked incredulously, “With me? Why
me?”

The visnat offered a weak smile and lifted
his arms in a hint of a shrug. “Maralane do what they want, and we
all sit and wonder.”

The boy pondered briefly but cocked his head
in question as another thought occurred to him. “How did you become
their messenger?”

Spence’s gentle eyes revealed nothing.
“Pitied me is all.”

Brenol did not believe him entirely. He was
not sure what to make of the arrangement, or this meeting.

“Darse,” Spence began, but flushed with an
unnatural abashment. “He…he really doesn’t remember me, does
he?”

Brenol’s insides knotted. “Did he say
anything to you?”

Spence shook his head, plainly unnerved.
“Only seemed surprised that you had a visitor. Asked me who I was…
I didn’t know what to say… Pretty strange, those eyes.”

“Yeah,” Brenol agreed.

“Bren?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t tell him,” Spence said severely.

Brenol regarded the visnat for a long
moment. “No, I won’t.”

Spence gave an almost imperceptible sigh
before delving into the business plans before them.

~

And so Brenol found himself at Ziel,
awaiting a rendezvous with the leader of the maralane—the renowned
creature Preifest. He grew more and more skeptical as to the nature
of this visit, especially as he surveyed the site. Brenol planted
his feet firmly on the beams beneath him but found his trembling
insides could not match the stance.

He stood at the tip of a wooden track
extending out over Ziel for a quarter matrole. The strip itself was
narrow—not more than a single stride wide—with interrupted sections
of smooth metal railing along the left side. It was unlike the dock
the visnati had used to visit the maralane, although even that had
felt precarious at the time. No, this dock was strategic. Any man
brought here experienced his vulnerability to whatever the
underwater world had contrived. Brenol could not prevent his
fingers from clutching the railing behind him, the one meager
consolation, as he squinted through the dawn’s bursting light.

He had left Darse the day before—the day
following his meeting with Spence—nearly empty handed and
apprehensively curious. It was less than half a day of travel, and
leisurely at that, but Darse had been reluctant to allow the boy to
journey alone. Spence, however, had been adamant; the maralane
promised Brenol’s safety but would revolt at another’s trespass. So
the older man remained to watch over Colette and brood.

Brenol and Spence had ambled by the waters,
primarily consumed by private thoughts. They spent the evening in
comfortable accommodations at a local inn, where Brenol sleeplessly
awaited the unusual engagement. Spence roused him before dawn, just
as exhaustion had begun to even his breath, and led the bleary-eyed
youth to Ziel.

Why me,
Brenol’s mind continually
intoned, becoming a mantra accompanying each foot fall toward the
lake.

Why me?

Why me?

And what could this be about?

And on he waited.

The morning sun finally drenched the sky and
opened the heavens up in a bath of light. Birds lifted their song
over the blue and chattered with shrill calls. Brenol stomped his
feet restlessly and searched the water. The water glinted terribly,
but at least the day’s heat was young.

Suddenly, he blinked hard and shuddered, for
the still of Ziel changed within a breath. A hundred maralane or
more began to emerge, slick and foreign, staring at him with
strange eyes. He could not take in any individual lake-man, just
the teeming army en masse. He gripped the railing behind him with
damp palms.

The silence broke all at once. The group
lifted their legs, extended tail fins to the surface, and slapped
the water in a synchronized movement of scales. Each smack across
the surface brought about a crash that pierced Brenol’s ears and
jolted his nerves. He did jump, although he tried to conceal it
from the dozens and dozens of eyes that never wavered from his
person. The waters around the pulsating crowd rushed and threatened
to erupt upon the rickety dock, yet somehow they did not; the
control of their waters was an art well mastered.

The din halted as abruptly as it began. The
maralane sank slowly back into the waters with unblinking eyes,
like reptili descending under the black screen. A single lake-man
remained. He tarried just long enough to blow a smooth,
oyster-white horn. It was a forlorn sound, deep and long and low.
The note carried for the space of several breaths before the
maralane man followed the army, continuing its low and eerie blast
into the waters as he sank below the surface.

The whole underworld is watching,
waiting,
Brenol thought. His angst was agitated further by the
knowledge that this effect had certainly been their intent.

Two maralane now emerged. Of the two, one
was obviously the leader, Preifest. He was a markedly older
maralane, with face and scales rough and worn, yet without any
trace of feebleness or frailty. His serious brow was topped by
locks tied back with the traditional lake-bed flora. His ash-white
face housed a smooth chin, curving forward like a crescent moon.
Preifest’s eyes sunk slightly back from his forehead and cheeks,
but their purple irises caused them to stand out regardless.

Absorbed, Brenol forgot all his disquiet.
Preifest had an irresistible quality difficult to pinpoint. His
person embodied the mystery of the maralane while emanating an
unassuming control of himself, others, his surroundings. This
lake-man was a leader. His command was authoritative and natural.
One could not help but follow him with one’s eyes.

To the leader’s left was a strong-bodied
male. He remained submerged to the chin, never speaking, and his
eyes took in every movement and word, as though he was patiently
waiting for his prey to flush. It was chilling.

The youth nearly leapt at the sound of
Preifest’s voice. It was smaller than expected, the result of vocal
chords rarely used above water, but it was nonetheless stalwart and
sure. “It is unusual to have called you here today, but it is time.
We have reached the beginning and the end. This is the time of the
Genesifin.”

His translucent webbed fingers traced the
surface of the water. The wood before and the water behind him
stilled to an eerie quiet. Even the birds ceased their racket, as
if the entire world held its breath in wait.

“It is the beginning and the end,” he
repeated. His tone was odd, without inflection.

Brenol waited silently, tensed.
The
end?
He sucked in the humid air and tried to throw off the
weighty blanket of anticipation. His jaw clenched despite the
effort.

“I have something for you.” Preifest’s pale
arm extended out to the head beside him. The maralane lithely drew
his upper body to the surface and suspended himself as easily as
though standing upon a stool. With this, an object came partially
into view, held securely in muscled arms. Even in the lake-man’s
grip, Brenol drew in a sharp breath at the sight. It was a book,
luminously white. The contrast of the brilliant binding against the
murky dark water was staggering in itself; the great deference
given the tiny manuscript was even more intriguing. It was extended
with care to the crouching youth, and the pale hand hesitated
briefly before finally releasing its hold.

Brenol shook off the uncanny sensation that
ballooned under their intense gaze and straightened to examine the
dripping item. The book was no larger than the span of his hand,
and its binding was tight and made of some unfamiliar material. It
was smoother than leather but just as flexible
and—seemingly—durable. He gingerly fingered the hard coverings,
eager to peruse its contents.

Preifest’s expression remained blank. “This
is the Genesifin.”

The second maralane again submerged to a
floating head, silent and still. Brenol was sorely tempted to laugh
but bit his tongue to recall himself back to the solemn moment.

“The Genesifin… We have fulfilled our part.
It is now a burden for the shoulders of the upper world.” Almost
imperceptibly, two lines tightened across his drawn features, as
though loosing this chain was more a torture than a release. They
disappeared in an instant.

“Do you not have any questions?” Preifest
asked.

Too many to count,
Brenol thought.
His voice, when it came, was louder than he expected, perhaps only
because it contrasted with the hushed baritone of Preifest. “Why do
you give it to
me?
I’m not even from Massada.”

“You were the sign to mark the time:
foreigner, rescuer, ilk of nuresti. These are you.” It was not a
question.

He reeled at the statement. The experience
of his own person felt far too ordinary. He shook his head in
negation; he knew he was no legend.