The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  Ajar, it was faintly reminiscent of a boat hatch, but the gaping hole it guarded was anything but benign.

  The boy peered into the black void. Its dark throat swallowed every trickle of light. His own intestines quivered.

  The rich odors of deep soil swelled from the cavity, and Brenol cowered back. He breathed, hoping sense would relieve him from the cold terror that cinched his wits. Arman’s soft whisper shocked him to life. “Follow in just a moment, Bren. Wait for my cue. Darse, you stay up top to guard against any traps.”

  The juile lowered himself down in hushed, adept motions, and soon even the sound of his breath ceased as the darkness swallowed him.

  Although the biting silence never wavered, the blackness lessened as a gentle light suddenly glowed up from the hole. The step ladder was now visible. It was wooden and had begun to soften and rot from the moist earth and pitch. Brenol swallowed, steeled the deep hollow that had become his gut, and worked his way down carefully toward Arman’s call.

  Once Brenol reached the black soil, he widened his eyes exaggeratedly in an attempt to adjust his vision. It took several minutes before the glare of midday was reduced to memory.

  The room was small, likely six strides in both directions, and dank as a boathouse. Shelves lined the moist walls, lanterns dangled from mounted metal hooks, potions of aqua and chartreuse swam in jars, and vials and needles stared up from the work table.

  “He has been a busy little spider. I think we may have more than we anticipated in this kidnapping.”

  “What’d you find?” Brenol asked.

  Something nudged him. He grasped hold of the item, and it took visual form as it left Arman’s hand. It was a journal, a very meticulous one. Brenol leafed the pages and tried to make sense of the cluttered logs and words. Much of it was in a kind of shorthand, but there were also detailed descriptions in a neat pen. He moved closer to Arman’s lamp.

  “I don’t know what all—”

  “Do you not see the experiments, Bren?”

  He squinted again through the sheets, and a picture began taking shape. One entry left his chest cold and hard.

  Arman did not wait for Brenol to speak. “His mind is poison. He has been collecting nuresti. He thinks he can acquire their connection somehow. Utter poison. There are likely fifty of these logs.” He smacked his palm loudly against a tidy shelf laden with identical black notebooks. Dust rose and filled their nostrils in a putrid bouquet.

  “Where is he?” Brenol asked. His neck tingled like it had in Fingers’s barn. Collecting nuresti. Collecting me.

  “I don’t know. Help me carry the last of his logs up. We will see if they reveal anything more.”

  “Wait.” Brenol’s heart raced, but his mind was seemingly unclouded. “Did you look for any kind of secret place?”

  “Bren, we are in it.”

  “No. If this guy really is that smart and that crazy, he would’ve hidden anything leading to his next place. And maybe left a false trail too.”

  “Hmmmm.” Sounds of movement ensued. Brenol joined him in scouring, but he need not have: Arman was exceptional at this type of work. Within minutes, he was chuckling. “You were right, Bren. Here.”

  The table was thrown on its side, and glass shattered upon the wall and soil. Something foamed in the corner, but Arman remained unconcerned. He flipped up a tab on the heel of the table leg. It gave a light snap, and the papers within soon disappeared into the juile’s possession.

  “Let’s get out of this hole.”

  “Let’s,” Brenol agreed, clambering up.

  The sun and scents of day had never been more welcome. Brenol, blinded, squinted and breathed deeply of the freshness. The boy’s first instinct was to embrace Darse, but he refrained, feeling sheepish. “Next time, you go down to the den, and I’ll stand guard.”

  Darse did not respond. His yellow eyes were sober, and his fists were white at his sides.

  “Come. Let’s move inside,” said Arman. The tone of his voice reminded Brenol of all that had ossified him minutes previously: Jerem collected nuresti.

  In the house, Arman spread the mess of items upon the table and pilfered through them, absently clicking his thoughts out in code. Brenol deciphered snippets without thinking: “Water, water, water,” “neutral soil,” “where did he hide her,” “where,” and random juile curses.

  Darse delved into the journals as well and soon was equally appalled by the nuresti collector. Jerem had captured at least four nuresti, from what the journals revealed. Two had been terminated. There was no indication of Colette and her status, but the trend of nuresti capture-and-kill was more telling than the absence of information. It would be a miracle if she were not dead.

  “How did no one notice the nuresti disappearances?” Darse asked.

  “It was noticed,” Arman said. “At least by a few. Ordah, myself, Grantella, Weasten, the maralane. And caused no small anxiety at that… It has been a mystery for at least twelve orbits.”

  “Twelve? How many have gone missing?”

  “It is difficult to know exactly… The time gap between the death of the old and the birth and coming of age of a new nurest can be a significant period. Orbits. Plus, the nuresti are mysterious. They have been known to disappear for moons, seasons even. They travel frequently. And the wider community often does not expend effort in the nurest’s protection. If a cartontz were to disappear with his nurest, it could easily go unnoticed for seasons, even orbits.”

  “What?” Brenol asked.

  “Cartontz. They’re the select few who protect the nuresti. One usually travels and resides with each nurest. Sometimes the nurest chooses the cartontz, sometimes the cartontz chooses the nurest. It is a system of survival, perhaps even instituted by the terrisdan itself. It has been so since the nurest population dwindled.”

  “Why wouldn’t the people care about their nurest?” Brenol asked, but the known answer already bit like acid; he could not forget the looks of disquiet from the people of Veronia. It was not easy to live near one so powerful, so foreign. He had often found himself too bizarre for comfort, and he had trod with the power coursing through his own veins.

  “Other-ness. I believe you know that. Indifference. But most commonly they do not know who their nurest is.”

  “How?” Darse asked, eyebrows drawn nearly together.

  “Not every nurest is royalty. Colette just happened to be, and young enough to be noticed when she disappeared. Some terrisdans connect more frequently with royalty, but there is no order to their choices. The terrisdan connects with whom the terrisdan wishes.”

  “Huh,” said Brenol. Sometimes even skipping worlds to find one…

  “So how many do you think have disappeared?” Darse asked again.

  Arman fell quiet for several moments. It was difficult to discern his thoughts without seeing his face and posture, but when he spoke, his tone betrayed deep apprehension. “Fifteen, I believe.”

  “Cartontz, too?” Darse asked. The numbers staggered him. Thirty people.

  “Cartontz, too,” Arman replied. “I have long feared the person behind it. He would be calculating, careful, intelligent—a villain indeed.”

  “Ordah’s brother,” Brenol said, thinking aloud.

  “Ordah’s brother.”

  “And these papers?” Darse indicated the clutter disgorged from the table leg.

  “A mystery.”

  Brenol picked up several, fingering them for the twentieth time. “How so?”

  Arman sighed. It was the first sign of weariness either of them had heard from him. “It is a riddle I do not understand… Jerem wrote in his journals about attempting various locations—namely other terrisdans—to solve the transference problem. He thought moving around might affect his chances of stealing the nuresti power.” A small, curled notepad dropped onto the table. “He said in this that he believed the answer might be water or neutrality, perhaps both.”

  “He took Colette to Ziel? Or just the lugazzi?” Bre
nol asked.

  “Either. And I think you realize this is no small distance. He could be anywhere surrounding Ziel. Or between terrisdans. This is not a clue; I could have told you she was in Massada.”

  “What about the island?” Brenol asked.

  A sharp screech sounded as Arman shoved back his chair. “What do you speak of?”

  “You know. A piece of land surrounded by water.” The youth brushed one hand in a sweeping circle around the other one.

  “No. Where do you think the island is?” Arman’s voice was controlled but incredibly taut, like a snake coiled and ready to strike.

  “Oh. Ziel. I remember it from Darse’s map back at home… Somewhat north, a little east. Tiny, but there. I noticed it because I was trying to figure out what ki—”

  “This map is from your father, Darse?”

  Darse nodded, lips parted in bewilderment.

  “Draw it for me.”

  A pen and paper appeared before Brenol. He collected the materials with a doubting glance before crudely sketching from memory, thinking aloud as he formed the lines. “I don’t really remember the shape of the lake that well…but it was kind of like this. Here.” He tapped the rough image with an index finger.

  “You are certain?”

  Brenol paused. He closed his eyes and willed his mind back to that night, that night when Darse told him he was leaving. So long ago… But still, the memory was as clear as glass.

  “Yes,” he said decidedly. Then a thought struck him. “But maybe it has changed with time? Who knows how long ago that map—”

  “No. Massada has not altered in that way, at least not yet.” The papers flew together into a heap and were collected up into air.

  “But how do we know that—”

  Arman cut in with a resounding voice, “I’m no prophet, but Ordah is not the only one with intuit. This is it… I don’t know how or why, but this is where he went. Pack your things. We must hasten.”

  Before Brenol had even stirred, a strong hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Darse spoke softly in his calm manner, “Good one, Bren. Never noticed that—and I had the map for orbits.” His yellow eyes were proud, alight. They expressed more than any words.

  Arman’s baritone boomed in agreement from across the room. “You have likely saved her with this.”

  CHAPTER 23

  As a cartontz, he knows her face and his own purpose as simply as he inhales and exhales: without deliberation.

  -Genesifin

  Arman, Darse, and Brenol made ready with speed, not even attempting to return portiere and drapes to their original positions. Arman did throw the curled sod back over the hatch of the hellish underground laboratory, but solely to prevent any walking through the area from investigating. Jerem, should he ever return, would recognize the place had known visitors. There was little point in attempting to conceal it.

  “What about Ordah? Isn’t he supposed to meet us here?” asked Brenol.

  “I left a note,” Arman replied, continuing when he saw Brenol opening his mouth, “attached to the underside of the table. It’s a joke we have. He will know to look there. I told him to meet us at Ziel. I gave him instructions.”

  “Joke?”

  Arman spoke without inflection or emotion. “He says I am dumb and that is why I devote my time to studies. I say he is fat and devotes all his time to food. Hence, the table.”

  “Huh,” Brenol said. Juile humor. Just not funny.

  ~

  The group pushed their way through Callup’s western meadows, soon following the Crasai upriver toward Conch. It was a quick little waterway, and her roar filled their ears for matroles. They camped beside her with a low fire and reserved hearts. The perilous nature of the journey was taking hold of their insides and clamping down with a fearful disquiet. Jerem was slippery and lethal and must be caught without error. He would not hesitate to harm them; he certainly had not paused with any of his previous victims. It was a chilling thought and one that never abandoned them.

  Darse was the most affected. Dreams or no dreams, nuresti connections or not, they were walking into serious danger. He wished Brenol was a thousand matroles away, but he could do nothing. This current challenge was like a riptide meeting weary muscles at the end of a taxing swim. Staring at the flames, he felt himself tugged out into the open sea of fear, and the vulnerability was nauseating.

  The following morning they woke to a cold sun. She shone down on them palely, without warmth or fervor. It seemed a strident reminder of the icy terror that clenched their interiors. And they did not need reminding.

  They crossed into Conch, and Brenol sucked air fitfully through his teeth. He had not anticipated animosity, for their initial journey through the terrisdan had been unpleasant but practically ignored. Now, however, Conch’s eye was heavy on him and rife with aggravation. It played upon Brenol’s spine uncomfortably.

  “Conch?” Brenol asked, hoping the land did not perceive his pounding heart. “We’re back. May we please pass?”

  He crouched until his calves grew numb and thighs burned. He flicked a glance up to Darse, who considered him quietly.

  Finally, when Brenol had almost abandoned the pursuit, the boy sighed, and his shoulders relaxed. “Thank you,” he whispered and groaned his body erect, stamping life back into his lower limbs.

  Darse leaned in and rested his palm upon Brenol’s hand, questioning. Brenol smiled, and his voice was loose with relief. “It’s fine. Conch is a friend,” he said, not uttering the word that hung unspoken in the air: now.

  ~

  They trailed the Crasai upstream along its southern bank until the land began to ascend toward the towering cliffs of the west. They camped again and then the following day marched south to circumvent the range until they met the Choali.

  The Choali was a short-girthed river, but deep and deceptive. She had cut her snaking path for so many orbits that she was now depressed from the bank and flowed east as a ravine. Both banks were rough with slate and shale, and the southern side slanted in a deep descent of rock so smooth it looked like an iron sheet. The trees crowded the soil meeting the ravine wall and made travel challenging.

  The three trailed the winding route, waiting to spy the crossing Arman termed the Stone Belt. Eventually they were rewarded with its sight, but neither Brenol nor Darse felt it to be a fine prize. The Belt was a series of jagged rocks that thrust up from the dark water like terrible monuments. The monoliths themselves were a rusty gray, yet little of the hue was visible beneath the thick moss and lichen that clothed them.

  Arman led the three across, and they clung to the stones like frogs gripping tree faces. The foaming water churned against the rocks and shot up to sting skin and clothing. Their numb fingers fumbled for holds amidst the tufts of green, and their eyes were blinded by the frigid splash. The other side could not come fast enough, and when it did, Brenol and Darse panted on the bank with soaked and blue skin and disheartened spirits.

  The juile hastened their cold limbs forward through the forest without a complaint. Brenol could not confirm, but he thought it impossible for even Arman to out-step the splattering chestnut mud that caked his and Darse’s clothing and skin.

  ~

  That evening, Brenol welcomed sleep eagerly. His breathing slowed before the fire had begun to settle, and Darse eyed the boy thoughtfully, watching his chest rise and fall in its smooth, even rhythm. He brooded and finally moused his way over to Arman. The juile listened to the man’s hushed and cracked voice, himself occasionally stealing a glance at the boy in question.

  The fire popped as Arman silently chewed Darse’s words. It was not that the juile was surprised; Darse’s reticence had spoken volumes to him in the matroles and leagues of their travel. He had seen the sharp curve of the jaw as Darse had clamped down in fear and the piercing gold eyes glinting with a hardness only known to fathers.

  “What do you propose?” Arman asked finally.

  The fire’s frequent crackling appeared to
agitate Darse more. His eyes shot back to the flames with each new sound.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want him anywhere near Jerem. I’ve been burdened by worry ever since I tripped my way out of that cave. Veronia, Fingers, Jerem,” he said. He sighed in desperation and gazed across at the boy, who lay curled in peace. “I can’t let anything happen to him.”

  “Tell me, Darse. How did you and Bren find each other?”

  “I…” Darse paused, ruminating. He wondered if he should speak, but surely telling Arman in this entirely other world was no breach of integrity. He breathed and began. “Bren’s mother moved into town when he was still small. She was scorned for toting a child without a partner, and any could see she would barely meet the dues for the province once he became of age. Tariffs for children in our kingdom are especially strict.”

  “There are taxes for having children?” Arman asked, surprised.

  “Yes, and double for a boy.”

  Arman ruminated upon the fact silently.

  “No stranger fits into a small place at first, but she was especially controversial.” The sentence lingered before them as he struggled to find the appropriate words. “Everyone whispered about her mind.” Darse lifted up his palms in gesture. “I’ve rarely been concerned with the town gossip. My eye was always more on the portal than on my neighbors, but still something in me worried.”

  Darse drew a slow breath. “I could see after a time that the gossip was not entirely ridiculous. She was unsocial and removed. She functioned enough to work for her bread, but I doubted she was capable of much more.

  “Labor on Alatrice is grueling, and my time is stolen away by it. Even between seasons I work, making sure I have enough to live and buy my conscription pass. I didn’t have many spare moments, but that little boy kept worming away at my heart. I just couldn’t leave it. I don’t know why, but one rainy day I simply showed up dripping at her doorstep.”

  “Bren’s mother’s?”

  “Yes.” Darse shook his head at the memory. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “What did you do?” Arman asked.