The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  I can’t give it up. I just can’t, Brenol repeated to himself.

  His mind answered back, taunting, And what of your promise to Colvin?

  The memory of the vow pressed into the boy, and he gripped the sides of his armchair. His youthful knuckles turned milk-white.

  I can’t. I just can’t.

  ~

  “Forgive my intrusion.”

  The two jumped and turned in their seats. A middle-aged man stood before them bedecked in tan pants. His chest was bare and robust, curving into a rounded gut. His left pectoral was pierced with a series of descending silver rings, and the largest centered on the nipple. His brown hair was smoothed back evenly, and his almond-shaped eyes were a cat-like green. The man’s nose protruded sharply, giving his chin the appearance of being entirely too small for his face. Both his expression and stance evinced professional disinterest. “Queen Isvelle,” he bowed his head slightly, “has arranged for rooms for you both.” The servant’s bright eyes rested upon them, anticipating a response.

  “Of course,” Darse replied.

  They hastily rose and followed the man through the winding castle. He swept along with a confident gait, heavy body rocking with his quick strides.

  “What’s your name?” Brenol asked.

  The man flashed a handsome smile, cat eyes suddenly alight. “Gerard.”

  Gerard glanced at Darse, whose face had tightened at the abrupt change in demeanor. “It is our custom to respect privacy until invited,” Gerard explained, and dipped his head with the flavor of a cultural gesture. Darse returned the nod politely, although his inexperience with Massadan social cues made him feel off balance.

  “What do you do?” Brenol asked.

  “I’m the Queen’s personal attendant.”

  Brenol wrinkled his nose. “But what do you do?”

  Gerard laughed easily. “Whatever she asks. I serve her.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I do. It is one of the most honored positions in the land.” His rounded belly jumped as he laughed. “You talk more than most foreigners.”

  “Are there a lot of them?” Brenol asked curiously.

  “We have a handful every moon, coming to talk with the Queen, and of course the ambassadors…” A bemused expression flicked across Gerard’s face before he scrutinized them both with a sideways glance. “Where are you from?”

  Brenol shifted his feet. “Alatrice.”

  “I don’t know it… What terrisdan is it in? Or is that a newer lugazzi town?”

  Brenol shook his head.

  The cat-like eyes widened. “Did you cross the deserts?”

  “No. We came through a doo—”

  “A portal,” interrupted Darse. “We’re from a different world.”

  Gerard exhaled sharply and regarded them with wary expression. “It has been a long time since any have come through. I’d almost believed the maralane had stopped it, finally.”

  “You want them closed?” Brenol asked.

  Gerard surveyed the boy incredulously. “I do not intend to offend. You appear far safer than many who have come through. But would you appreciate caves that drew other-worlders into your home?” He shook his head. “I don’t mean humans. I mean monsters. Would you like that? To have creatures clawing out to come live amongst you?”

  Brenol paled in sudden understanding. Anything could come through. Absolutely anything. He wet his lips. “Like a nightmare that could become real at any moment.”

  “Yes,” Gerard agreed soberly. “And long ago, there were some.”

  Brenol’s lips parted in question.

  “Hush. It is night. We don’t speak of the Children of Death but in broad daylight.”

  The boy swallowed. “Why aren’t the portals closed, then?”

  Gerard grimaced. “The maralane are adamant…”

  They continued trailing the servant. The tension of the previous topic hung between them, and Darse still itched with questions. Finally, he interrupted the silence.

  “Please, what deserts were you talking about?” Darse asked.

  “Ah,” Gerard said. “From what we know, Massada is a world of ice. If you crossed the entire place, you’d see there’s only this small pocket where you can live—the terrisdans.”

  “A single patch of warmth? Just one on an entire planet?”

  Gerard pinched his lips in amusement. “You are warm, are you not? Why shouldn’t it be the same for the terrisdans? They’re alive like you or I…” He turned a corner but tarried so their steps might catch his. “Really, Massada is a world of winter. The terrisdans are the only habitable section. It’s the warmest by Ziel, and the farther you go out, the colder it becomes.”

  “So Ziel is like the heart?” Brenol asked.

  Gerard nodded with the air of knowing the metaphor well. “Ziel doesn’t freeze. I’m told it becomes warmer the deeper it gets, and the maralane live in the hottest parts. I guess their bodies don’t make heat as well as other creatures. They can come to the surface for stretches but need the warmth from the depths to thrive.”

  “What are the ice deserts like?” asked Darse. He was surprised his father had never mentioned them.

  “Lifeless. No one can survive, from what I know. There are few who manage even on the terrisdan borders.”

  Brenol’s mind opened to scenes of ice and snow that he knew were the edges of Veronia. It was mysterious, barren, harsh. The world resembled nothing of what he had already seen of Massada.

  A new thought occurred to Brenol. “What are the other terrisdans like?” he asked. “Not Garnoble, but the others.”

  Gerard raised his brow but then let it fall. “Some are rocky, some mountainous, some barren, some lush.”

  “No. I mean their personalities.” Brenol flushed. He feared Gerard could see his heart and all that it contained.

  “As far as being alive…” He paused in stride and the line of silver rings on his chest glinted in the light of the hallway’s sconces. He regarded Brenol. “The lands are very individual—as different as any person is from another. But this was more evident in the beginning when the lands held a connection with every man living in their boundaries.” He shook his head as if recalling his purpose and set his feet to motion again. “But that was the dawn of creation. Not a lot of nuresti running around these days.”

  Brenol’s spine tingled at the smug expression that spread across Gerard’s face. Even with the power of the connection, he felt a keen vulnerability before the large man. “You don’t like the nuresti?”

  “They are… removed from us.” Gerard stopped outside a simple wooden door. “I think it is likely a combination of both us and them,” he mused. “Too strange an experience for either us or them to feel at ease together.”

  Brenol thought of Gina, Colvin’s sister. No one remembers her, Colvin had said. Finally, the boy found his voice again. “But what changed it all? Where’d they go?”

  “Lugazzi.”

  “But why? Why would they want to leave the connection?” Brenol asked, incredulously. How could you not crave this knowledge? This confidence? This power? In his mind he watched as men migrated across hill, mountain, and valley. They did not return. A melancholy surged within from Veronia, and he nearly collapsed under the staggering potency of it.

  Gerard puffed his cheeks out in thought. “It’s funny to put something like this to words. Like I’m teaching you what it’s like to breathe… You really don’t know any of this?”

  Brenol shook his head.

  Gerard continued. “Well, I suppose it was freedom really. They wanted to live without having the terrisdan inside their heads. So,” he lifted his palms in a sweep, “to the neutral lands.”

  He tapped the door before him lightly with his index finger. “This one,” he said in indication and then pointed to the one directly across the hall. “And here. Your rooms.”

  “Thank you,” Darse said.

  Gerard dipped his head, and a ring of pink skin on the tip of h
is crown lowered into view. “In good accord,” he replied.

  “But wouldn’t they miss the terrisdans?”

  Darse closed his eyes slightly in exasperation. He was ready to sleep and let the matter air in his mind.

  Gerard rubbed his chin in consideration. “I think this also is a matter of love. Nuresti together is one thing, but a keeper and commoner as soumme? No, it doesn’t work. A soumme union is not likely to survive when one half holds such power. I think the gap is just too wide for that level of intimacy.”

  “Keeper?” Darse asked sharply, recalling Isvelle’s words.

  “Yes. It’s another term for a nurest. The main idea is there’s only one nurest per terrisdan. They’re a rare breed. Born into the connection and no other will come until the death of the previous nurest. Even should that nurest leave to live out every one of his days in the lugazzi. The terrisdans just know somehow and wait.”

  It doesn’t make sense. Why Bren? Darse thought. He wasn’t born with it. How? It seemed as though each question gave rise to more and, like an avalanche, would only end in a swooping mass of terrible destruction.

  “When did Veronia’s last keeper die?” Darse asked, half lost in his own thoughts.

  Gerard’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his nose pointed out like an accusing finger. “She hasn’t.” His green gaze glinted with fear. “At least, we don’t know that she has… The keeper is the Queen’s daughter. Princess Colette.”

  ~

  Gerard made his exit while Darse and Brenol stole into the first room and spoke in tense and hushed voices.

  “Did Veronia tell you anything about this?” Darse asked.

  “Nothing. I have only silence about her. It doesn’t make sense… Why would Veronia keep it from me?” Brenol asked. Wariness turned him dizzy, for his misgivings and desire were impossible to reconcile.

  Darse erupted in exasperation. “Bren. Open your eyes! We don’t know anything about this land and what its intentions and motives are. We don’t know a single thing about this place! You can’t begin to tell me that it’s safe simply because you feel good about it.”

  Brenol shook his head in anger. “No! It isn’t like that. There’s more than just feelings. I get a sense of who the land is. I know Veronia.” His palms ran hot and his cheeks reddened.

  “Well, what does that knowledge tell you of what’s happening, then?” Darse demanded.

  Brenol’s stomach sank, and his anger dissolved. Why won’t Veronia just tell me? What am I missing? His dark jade eyes fell to the floor. “I…I don’t know. I just…”

  Seeing the copper head dip snuffed the anger out of Darse. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder in reassurance.

  Brenol sighed under the gesture and felt the unyielding presence of his friend calm him and issue in an element of comfort.

  “I will help you,” Darse spoke evenly. “We will figure it out…” He took a deep breath and then let out a grim laugh. “Well, we certainly know why Isvelle was not so keen on discovering you’d become a nurest. You are a bright red flag announcing her daughter’s death.” He shook his head dismally. “What was Ordah thinking?”

  CHAPTER 9

  He breathes the foreign air but walks the soil with knowing.

  -Genesifin

  Why am I here, Darse mused. Why?

  He peered around Sleockna’s castle garden, awash with feelings of helplessness. He inhaled, and his nose stung as it met the alien scent of the carlatta vines. At this section of the walkway, their pungent webs clothed the stone walls, and trees shot up in massive, looming forms. There were no vibrant colors, just overbearing and foreign vegetation. He was weary of it all. There was no control in Massada, and even the seemingly safe experience of Garnoble had been stripped cleanly from his mind. He carried no delusions any longer; this place was other.

  Days had merged together into a monotonous blur, without the purpose and relationship he had known among the visnati. The time passed in a pattern of meals and meandering, while Isvelle pointedly avoided them. He had covered the castle grounds and vicinity for several matroles in every direction, as if plodding through the land would somehow renew purpose and restore meaning.

  I’m rotting. And Bren is sinking into this wretched soil.

  It could not be denied; Brenol was strangely attached to the land. It seemed he would sooner slice off his arm than sever the connection with Veronia. When they ambled, the boy would often divulge things to Darse, remarking on rocks, trees, animals—his speech was carefree as a child’s. Darse loathed the evidence of the connection, yet was fascinated by it. The man fell into silence when the boy’s chatter extended into the bizarre.

  Darse loved Brenol too much to ignore what was happening, and everything in his blood burned in agitation. The connection was not right, though he could not pinpoint how. He ached to be rid of Veronia and out from this awkward situation with the Queen. The high domed skies of the terrisdan closed in upon him more every day.

  Why did I listen to Ordah? I knew Veronia was dangerous. I should have…I should have… Darse’s mind churned with the possibilities of what should have been. He swept around another corner on the path, growling at finding more carlatta vines. Their scent offended his nostrils as he hastened past.

  Bren will never leave.

  And I’ll never get him back in time.

  More and more, Darse could see it in the boy’s eyes, detect it in his tone. Brenol had lost sight of anything that was not Veronia. He clung to his power with tenacious fingers and eyed others with suspicion. His youthful innocence was dissipating, and he was acquiring the same odd characteristics of the land: he was becoming other.

  Darse was simply at the mercy of this place.

  ~

  Darse is out again, Bren thought as he woke in the quiet morning. His spine loosened in relief, for he was weary of the man’s hovering eyes and fear-filled grimaces. Brenol saw Darse clearly in his mind—solid figure roving the stone path, surrounded by soaring oaks, face clenched in consternation—and closed his eyes as his person flooded with Veronia’s mood—irritation and distrust. As the scenes and sensations drained, he was left with their hollow memory.

  Darse worries too much.

  The boy rose and arched his back in a stretch. His lavish quarters were more than furnished comfortably. He had never before lived amongst such costly things. He crossed the room to where his clothing lay delicately folded just inside the door. As he lifted them, the scent of soap rose up, and he sighed gratefully. They had been patched with precision—an aging woman, wrinkled fingers stitching together the fraying hems, smiling toward a child, speaking in hushed tones in the evening.

  He pulled the garments on and inhaled the pleasant fragrance. It felt good to be clean, fed, warm. It felt good to be here.

  Still, a persistent voice—this time his own—whispered to him: Then why don’t you think everything is ok?

  “Quiet, you.”

  Brenol flushed, glad no one was with him. He probed the connection, wondering if it was normal to have difficulties with so many voices and sentiments. He could not retrieve any solid answer.

  “Still, it’s fine,” he added defiantly. He bent before the wash basin and rinsed his face and hands. The water trickled down his chin and neck. An image flashed before him—blue towel resting beside window—and he strode four steps to collect it and dry himself.

  Is it, his mind asked. Is it?

  Brenol sighed. He was in constant tension—although he would never reveal as much to Darse. He spoke to Veronia regularly, but it was a far different experience than it had been with Garnoble. With Garnoble, the ebb and flow of conversation had been natural, free. Yet here? The connection was invasive and controlling, giving and taking without consent. The surge of foreign emotion was upending, and the striking power he experienced was addicting. He either felt like he was drowning or flying, but nothing between.

  Yet still, the flying was incredible.

  He watched the images flash
through his mind, closed his eyes as he burned with strange sentiments. There were no words to give to the experience. Involuntarily, he shuddered as the pieces slipped away. It was not a sensation one acclimated to with ease.

  But oh, the flying was incredible.

  ~

  Another day. Darse sucked in the cool morning air, but his lungs felt pinched and constricted. Exhaustion pressed heavily upon chest, eyes, and shoulders. He rarely slept, it seemed, for nightmares choked each moment of repose. He shivered as he recalled the few minutes he had found just before dawn: blackened fingers had snaked up from the ground in an attempt to choke him, while hands clutched Brenol and dragged him into the earth in horrible silence. As the land had swallowed Brenol, the boy had watched with indifferent, jade eyes. He had never made a sound.

  How long? How long?

  He trod the gardens for the duration of the morning. His stomach growled in protest, but Darse cared little in his tired delirium. He simply wanted to move his feet; at least in this he had control.

  As the sun climbed, he finally sighed in resignation. “All right, old man. I’ll feed you.”

  He glanced around to get his bearings but realized he was in a section previously unexplored. Exhaustion and hunger both forgotten, he kicked his feet forward.

  The paths were comprised of tiny pebbles fit expertly into mosaics, and they wound through the greenery like streams. His steps clicked nicely against the stones, and the uneven sensation beneath his heels was oddly comforting. He swirled his way into the inner garden, where the hedgerows towered up to the height of two men and trees thickly clothed the circle from prying eyes. Bright pink azaleas flushed the area with color, and he breathed in their unusual fragrance.

  He came to a sudden stop as he took in the scene before him. The Queen lay in a heap on the ground, dirty and unresponsive, and from her appearance could easily have been as such for hours. Her once-proud head drooped upon her chest, and she breathed unevenly. Her slender arms hung limply beside her, and lusterless gems adorned milk white fingers. Papers were strewn across the ground, and her blood-red gown billowed out from her ashen frame.