The Land's Whisper (53 page)

“What?” he demanded again, unaware of
anything but the dreaded possibility before him.

She took in Brenol’s trembling hands and
taut features. She did not understand, but yet she did; this was as
serious as she had imagined.

Colette exhaled, closed her eyes, and probed
back into memory. “It was dark, but never cold. I saw—wait. No, I
thought he had pulled me up, but it was more out. Do you
understand? The opening was on the side, in front of me, not on the
top end of the box… And it was metal, a dark metal. Black? Or gray?
I don’t remember. Then Deniel said something… What did he say?” She
wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. I can’t remember. But he was really
upset.”

She opened her emerald eyes. Brenol faced
her, but when she looked back at him, it was as though he did not
see her.

“I have to go. I have to find Arman. I just
don’t know what to do.”

He stepped forward as though to leave, then
stopped and faced her again. His face was stern with purpose. “What
terrisdan were you in when this happened? Do you know?”

She thought a moment before shaking her
head.

“Ok, Colette. Ok.”

He touched her shoulder, fingertips barely
lighting upon her before he was gone.

Colette stood tall and alone, hearing the
last word that had escaped his lips in a nearly inaudible murmur:
cartess
. It chilled the soft air around her, and the colors
of the garden seemed to dull.

“And now he will leave,” she said to the
shadows in her heart.

~

“Show me his things,” Brenol demanded again.
He had been arguing for over an hour, and his patience was nearing
its short end. He stamped his foot in frustration. His grip on
manhood slipped from his fingers, and the child remaining reared up
in tantrum.

This can’t wait! It can’t,
his mind
spurred on.

Brenol flushed with agitation. “This is very
important. Now!”

The long arms of the umbu before him were
motionless, yet his digits nervously fingered the floor, tracing
the grooves and divots of the tiling. This was not the first time
Brenol had witnessed the odd habit, but it had never before
incensed him like it did currently.

Why won’t he explain himself?

“Now,” he said. The word dropped upon the
tile like shattered ice. The umbu’s eyes widened.

I can’t wait any more. I won’t.

He made to move forward past the umbu but
halted in stride. There was an almost palpable line of furtive
mystery marking the entryway. He nearly backed from the room in
fearful respect; ghosts would have hesitated before crossing the
threshold and disturbing the room’s sanctity. Even whispers at its
hallowed edges seemed like a desecration.

In that pause, a sturdy hand came to rest on
his shoulder. Brenol gave a startled yelp and twirled around.
Golden eyes met his own, and he released a sharp exhale.

“Can I ask you what you’re doing here?”
Darse spoke softly, yet his smooth baritone was hinged with the
tightness of a negotiator.

“I… I have to find Deniel’s things. I have
to know. I have to see the map. I… Something is really wrong.” He
shrank as the last words issued from his thin lips. The dim room
seemed to echo in judgment over his forced entry. He felt his
convictions sliding away and himself returning, and with that, he
flushed a light pink. He saw with suddenly clear eyes the chasm
that could have emerged between peoples due to his rashness.

Must I fail at everything?

He sighed, silently thanking Darse for his
presence. He allowed himself to be ushered aside by his friend and
then laid everything before him. “Jerem’s been boxing away the
nuresti somehow. I didn’t understand Deniel’s memories before…but I
think that those people might still be in there. I need to see his
stuff and find his map.”

“Boxing away?”

“Yeah. He stashes them in cages.”

Darse’s face shaded in concern. “How could
they still be alive, though?”

Brenol’s eyes filled with fire. “How does
anything happen in this strange world?”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Brenol nodded but added, “I’ll only
know if I go.”

Darse furrowed his brow at these words and
hastily beckoned the umbu. They stepped to the side and spoke
together in hushed voices, their faces grave and tight. The umbu
pattered off in haste, leaving the two outside the mysterious
chamber.

Brenol paced and fought back a wave of
nausea.
Did Deniel see the others and just take Colette? Could
he really have left all those people?

Darse stood, cold with anticipation.

The first umbu returned with another who was
clad in dark garments and robed in an air of importance. His face
was as round as a globe, with a hook nose and severe, calculating
eyes. Dark hair was neatly arranged upon the distinguished head in
a combed part that accentuated his tiny and pointed chin. The odd
umbu arm-walk was nearly dignified by his august demeanor. He
acknowledged Darse and Brenol with a single dip of his head and
flowed into the room. They leapt up and shadowed his heels.

The room was high-ceilinged and dimly lit,
and it smelled of wax and smoke and decay. It was spacious and
open, giving the sensation of a stale hollowness as one stood in
its center. A few candles in sconces lit up the mosaic walls, and
the images glittered in the movement of the flickering flames.
Brenol barely breathed. He was so grateful Darse had stopped him
before he had broken into this solemn place. It was rightly named:
the House of the Dead.

The House of the Dead was not a tomb, for
the umburquin held strict burning rituals for all the bodies of the
deceased. It was, instead, a sanctuary for the dead’s items. Stores
and stores of objects, packed and secreted away in dark vaulted
cubbies, had not been exposed to light or sound for ages. The
umburquin’s rites were scrupulous, hence the fragrant aroma of
rot.

Brenol looked quizzically at the multiple
ladders resting unobtrusively in two of the room’s corners before
he felt his breath choke in his throat. He now saw it. Mosaics
clothed the exterior, but the patterns on the walls were not merely
decorative. The House was structured like a beehive, with cell upon
cell packed and filled. He could see the faint outlines of squares
and rectangles extending all the way up to the vaulted ceiling.

As the robed umbu moved, the room glowed
alive: the candles flickered and jumped, a stale breeze fell flatly
upon the entombed walls, whispers seemed to catch and echo although
no one uttered a word. He leafed through a scarlet album resting
upon a dais near the eastern wall. His arms bent awkwardly—too long
for the work—as he squinted through the columns of names and
numbers. He paused at a page, allowing his index finger to linger
briefly on the parchment before erecting his short frame. He swayed
over to the south wall, teased his fat digits into a slight
curvature in the surface, a section at hip-height, and withdrew a
large wooden drawer. He heaved the bulky container to the heart of
the room, where the first umbu had laid an ancient, embroidered
sheet.

Packed within the drawer were small, neatly
labeled boxes—at least sixty in number. The umbu extracted one with
care and whispered a hushed prayer with closed eyes before removing
its lid. Brenol’s eyes widened as the items were lifted and placed
upon the blanket in an orderly and respectful manner.

My—no,
Brenol stopped himself.
Deniel’s things.

The umbu nodded, and the youth gently picked
up each piece and examined it in turn. A knife, a compass, spare
flint. Brenol knew the items without ever having seen them with his
eyes, and his fingers knew their folds and curves without ever
having touched them. But it was none of these things he sought. He
allowed his fingers to pass across their familiar surfaces, if only
to find a small consolation within the maddeningly slow passage of
time. He itched to dig through the box but fought himself back with
short breaths. Finally, the umbu placed several papers upon the
fabric. Brenol selected one with fumbling fingers and unfolded it
in a hungry haste.

Where is it? I must know. The missing
piece…

He closed his eyes briefly, recalling Deniel
sweeping his finger across the map. His digits had lingered at the
space, as if they caressed Colette’s face through the page.

I know the place, I just need to know the
terrisdan…

His hand traced the paper until it fell upon
Deniel’s rough scrawl across the bottom left edges:
Selenia,
eastern reaches.

“Bren?” The question rang out as though it
had been repeated several times.

“Yeah,” he replied with a soft exhale.

“Where is it? Where on the map? Do you
know?” Darse bent over, studying Brenol more than the well-worn
page.

Brenol hesitated. He knew precisely where
the house lay, yet guiltily longed to withhold the information to
ensure his own journey. Brenol peered up, and Darse’s golden eyes
gave him pause. The man was careworn and creased. His face long and
gray, tight and thin. Nevertheless, Brenol shook off his
scruples.

“When do we leave?” Brenol’s fingers
unknowingly clenched the paper.

“Bren.” Darse’s voice carried a stern
edge.

“But Darse…” the boy whined.

Brenol’s eyes pleaded in desperation. He
felt such longing to finally accomplish something. All seemed to
culminate in this moment. He had been forced to walk away from
Veronia and the power that electrified him. He would never get it
back, he was certain of it. He had failed in saving Darse. He had
failed in saving Colette. He would always be second to Deniel in
Colette’s heart. He had done nothing…but here, here was another
alternative.

I can be the hero. I can save them. This is
the time. Now.

Brenol could not help but picture Colette
beaming, Darse’s proud face, Massada rejoicing. His deflated heart
grasped at this irresistible desire. He pressed his eyes up to meet
Darse’s but found his voice could only issue out a single word.
“Please.”

Darse took a single step back. His jaw
clenched and his eyes narrowed, but then, as though a string had
been cut, everything sagged and went loose in him. The anger died
from the sharp eyes and he simply stood, watching Brenol.

I get it. It’s so difficult to let
go,
Darse thought.
He doesn’t know he’s more than all
this—he thinks he’s only as good as what he manages to win
here.

After a minute, he asked in a low voice.
“Bren, is this about you or about people who need to be saved?
There’s no way you can move fast enough. We need to send people who
can save the nuresti. A wolf sealtor can be sent out as soon as you
reveal the location.”

Brenol rattled with fury and frustration. He
knew he must yield, for haste mattered most, yet perceiving as much
only incensed him further.
Everything! I give up everything.
He did not speak, but his clenched fists and stormy eyes told
enough.

“Bren, you
chose
to let go of
Veronia. You chose the right thing. You chose it…and you
did
fight Fingers. And you
did
help find Colette. You cannot be
the perfect hero in everything. But even if you were, it still
wouldn’t mean anything.”

Darse held up his hand as Brenol began to
interrupt in protest. “No. One can be a pretty awful person but
still rescue others. And one can be a pretty good person and never
accomplish much, at least to the naked eye.” He sliced his index
finger through the air between them, jabbing Brenol’s chest softly.
“There’s more in there than this. Remember. You
chose
to
give up Veronia for Colette…before you even knew her.”

The battle ended in the boy. The triumphant
cries of jubilee drooped to nothing. The beaming Colette vanished.
Brenol was left with himself. He remembered choosing to leave, but
he remembered the sickening greed that had stewed within him as
well. He remembered contending with Crayton and Fingers but also
collapsing in the shed, leaving his friend to figure out the rest.
He remembered stalking away with the intent to flee to Veronia and
the guilt-ridden return each time. Yes, he saw himself. It was a
cross between shame and pride, love and loathing. To simultaneously
see the good and the wretched within oneself is a delicate and
complex experience. He did not particularly enjoy it.

Nonetheless, he extended out and very
carefully placed a forefinger where the house from Deniel’s memory
rested.

“There,” he said. “There. This is where the
nuresti are.” He searched the eyes of the umbus to register their
comprehension. “Enter from the rotting box outside—it’s a staircase
of sorts. Another secret passage is below. Look for the scuffs and
the rug hiding it… The wall of metal boxes—that’s it. The nuresti
are there. Six or so. Maybe more, maybe none… Open carefully…”

Brenol buried his face in his hands. “Oh
please let them still be alive. Oh, please.”

Every race is unique, each terrisdan has a
voice.

-Genesifin

The juile library was tucked away in an
unlikely corner of Conch. A hollow tree acted as door, revealing
fifteen steps descending smoothly into the earth and opening into a
rough bolt-hole the size of a generous closet. In rare instances,
it had been used for protection, but in recent orbits it had served
mostly as a stash for important documents.

Arman sifted through the stores of
parchment. He had come to peruse the scrolls with prophetic words,
hoping to glean something new about the maralane. Yes, he had
already read them, but often knowing just a single fact, such as
that the lake men were perishing, would open his eyes to new
meaning in the text. His invisible fingers slid over lines until he
discarded one paper for the next. His mind never stopped roving
over the possibilities, applying new pieces to see how they fit in
the puzzle. If it did not come today, it would tomorrow, or the
next; his mind was a powerful tool, and he wielded it with severe
proficiency.