The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  Reality and memory crashed upon her with force. She moaned, and the sound seemed like a whisper from the grave, low and weak. Her frail hands shakily gathered the blankets up to her face, and she curled her body into a tight ball.

  Brenol frowned. “Colette… I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you that.”

  Colette’s pale face narrowed and hardened. “How did you know that name?” she snapped. “Who are you?” Her eyes flashed dangerously.

  Brenol could barely speak. She was so cold. He fumbled again through an apology.

  Why can’t I just tell her? She should know about Deniel…about what he did for her in the cave.

  Tears rolled down her face in a silent fountain. She forced her body up to a sit. Her limbs betrayed their disuse, but her fear and obstinacy bulled through any physical limitation. Colette turned to the bedside window and pushed the thick canvas flap aside. She grasped the sill from her seat and stared out the single pane, eyeing the approaching dusk.

  Slivers of silver clouds smeared across the darkening sky while a patch of pink still loomed in the horizon. The cool, held back by the canvas drop, now seeped into the room, and Brenol clutched his arms—bare, save for the goose bumps.

  Just tell her. Just tell her. She needs to know.

  He shook—not entirely from the cold—and spoke. It came out awkwardly but truthfully. He told her all, save her own actions in the cave. No one needed to know that. No one.

  A minute elapsed before she acknowledged him, but when she did, Brenol almost wished she had not. “Den’s memories are in your head?” Her face was sharp and narrow, ready to attack.

  Brenol stood, dumbfounded.

  “Answer me!” she spat.

  His words came out slowly, afraid. “Yes. But only some of them,” he added guiltily.

  Her anger was palpable: her fingers clutched violently in thin air, her shoulders curled forward with neck retracted, her upper lip curved into a snarl. “My brother and my friendship and my memories—in you! I hate you! Get away!” Loathing drenched her face as her venomous tongue continued. “Nothing’s mine anymore. Jerem took it all, even Den. And now you have the pieces? I hate you.” Her eyes were hard as flint, daring him to fight.

  Brenol flushed from the injustice, but then his thoughts rearranged and offered him an unusual composure. He knew suddenly that this was not about him. I’ve done nothing to her. Nothing. The realization calmed him, and he peered at her with pity. She really has lost everything. There’s nothing I can say that’ll fix it. Nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I can’t undo the awful stuff that’s happened.”

  He turned and reluctantly shuffled from the room, feet as cumbersome as bags of wet sand. After closing the door, he heard her release a desperate shout of incomprehensible anger, followed by uncontrollable sobbing.

  His stomach knotted. He had never known love could tax a soul so raw.

  ~

  Brenol returned the following day. And the next.

  She permitted him to stay with her for a few moments, sometimes minutes, and then would order him to leave. This continued for many days. All the while, his flashes became more regular. He rarely had headaches from them anymore, and if they did come, they passed quickly and without any loss of consciousness. His understanding of what had happened to Colette grew steadily, deepening his compassion for and patience with her. She had lived a hell from which even the darkest of souls should be spared.

  At first, Brenol had feared these memories were overpowering him, transforming him into Deniel, but as the urgency and pain eased, the fear of losing himself also dissipated. Instead, he anticipated the pictures with a hungry eye, for Deniel’s experiences granted him a perception and insight he never could have otherwise gained. Deniel’s life sobered him—awakening him from a long-held childishness—while somehow also restoring him with hope and purpose. Whether because of Deniel or Colette, the craving for Veronia no longer hounded him. He wondered whether the nuresti connection was still present, but he contemplated it more in curiosity than under a boiling greed. He was suddenly filled with pride and newfound self-respect.

  He was blind to it, but others observed it keenly; Brenol was now no longer a mix of adult and child. He was fully a man.

  CHAPTER 32

  The hands of the corrupt carry destruction; their evil spreads like ripples in water.

  To calm its force is a feat for heroes.

  -Genesifin

  Half a moon elapsed, and Colette slowly acclimated more to his presence. She allowed him to sit with her for longer stretches, yet silence persisted through the duration. Brenol’s remaining time was spent walking the grounds. The dark brown earth meeting the golden skies had a calming curve that allowed him a breath of solace as each day passed. The terrisdan Selenia was a quiet one, but its eye nonetheless bore upon Brenol, and he found the open air proved best for gazing back.

  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 o
f 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.