The Land's Whisper (24 page)

They loaded up and began the trek to the
border. There was no road, but something akin to a path led east
through the thick of the wood. It would do.

“Warm morning,” Darse remarked, wiping his
brow with the corner of a sleeve.

Brenol pointedly ignored the comment; it
reminded him too closely of his previous night, sweating as he
burned with greed. “I wonder what has everyone biting their nails
over Selet,” he said.

“I’m hoping we don’t find out,” replied
Darse with a shrug. “But I certainly wish my da had chosen a nicer
terrisdan to make memories with.”

Brenol and Darse’s eyes connected, and the
man paused. There, in the boy’s dark jade orbs, a fierce
determination shone out that caused Darse’s lips to part. The
youth’s face was straight; expression, stony.

“We will find a way through it,” Brenol said
simply, his eyes more forceful than his words.

Darse nodded, finding his insides cold with
premonition.

~

The morning was uneventful, but it served to
separate Brenol from thoughts he sought to bury. The two passed
through the Stonia woods and by mid-afternoon headed across the
border. The lugazzi was a thin patch, but Brenol could immediately
sense the neutrality of the land. There was no eye upon him here.
He breathed freer, and an ease came over the youth that was
noticeable because of its abrupt arrival.

“What’s going on?” asked Darse.

Brenol allowed himself a small smile.
“Lugazzi
,
Darse.”

“Is it really that evident?” he asked
incredulously.

The boy’s face stretched into a grin. It
felt strange, but right. “Remember when you forgot about those
boiled eggs?”

Darse grimaced.

“No one who walked into your house could
pretend it smelled good.”

“It’s a smell?”

“No. But it’s that obvious: stinky eggs, no
stinky eggs; eye, no eye.”

Darse frowned. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“Can be,” Brenol affirmed, shrugging his
shoulders.

They began to walk. After several minutes,
Brenol’s ease was replaced by a strange emptiness. He had grown to
appreciate the relationship between creature and terrisdan. It was
odd to have the land under his feet be vacant of emotion,
presence.

“I remember my dream with Veronia,” Darse
said slowly. “I don’t really think any part of it was all that
nice.”

Brenol’s freckles came together as he
smiled, much more naturally this time. “It can be good, it can be
bad. I think I prefer to be with the land instead of the lugazzi,
if I have the choice.”

Darse shook his head and muttered.

Brenol did not maintain that sentiment for
long.

~

The lugazzi ended after about a matrole and
a half, and Selet began. The woods formed a formidable line, like a
barricade, between neutral and new land. They were thick, but not
impenetrable, and the two approached with a strange caution.

Darse grasped the boy’s arm, and Brenol
looked back to the man questioningly. “Don’t mention my father once
we’re in. Okay?”

Brenol nodded brusquely. “I was worried I’d
have to warn you as much.”

The youth pushed through first, but Darse
was close upon his heels. Once in, Brenol stooped tentatively and
brushed the earth with his hands. The loam was rich and soft and
left moist clumps sticking to his palms. “Selet?” he called. “I am
Bren. May we cross?”

The air was thick with humidity. The teeming
gnats and mosquitoes issued a suspenseful buzz that lingered in
their ears. It was the only noise in the wood, save the labored
breathing of the two. They waited.

No response came, at least none of which
Brenol was aware. Darse shot him a questioning glance, and Brenol
shook his head.

“Selet?” he tried again.

“Are you sure we are fully past the
lugazzi?” Darse asked, though even he knew the answer. It just
felt
different in there. One step in and any could sense a
looming presence, and not necessarily a pleasant one.

Brenol snorted. “Well, let’s get going. Not
much else we can do.” He shouldered his pack and consulted the map.
He tapped it with a finger and stepped forward with purpose. Darse
trailed closely.

Within minutes, the soft loam transitioned
into a hardened clay and then a rocklike surface that somehow still
sustained life. The air was humid, but bearable, and the trees
clustered closely together and made passage more a maze than a
thoroughfare. Toes were stubbed, feet tripped by rocks and roots,
and faces and limbs scratched raw by boughs and bushes. It seemed
to Brenol he could not pass five minutes without pricking his
fingers on the thorny briar-like bushes huddling menacingly on the
forest floor. He drew each finger in turn to his mouth, cursing
inwardly, and time trickled by in a stuffy haze.

The two did not speak it, but whenever their
eyes met, the understanding was clear: they both detested this
place.

The map, at least, proved to be a great
fortune. It was extraordinarily detailed and saved them several
times from wandering down false paths that would eventually lead
south. The sense of
otherness
still tickled their necks, but
the scrap of paper helped to cheer away many of the phantoms
lurking in the back of their minds. They camped and then continued
on the following day, thankfully without major mishaps.

It was in the early evening, yet still
light, when the far-off roar of water pricked their ears awake. It
was disorienting after the matroles and matroles of silent wood.
They rejoiced in their luck; their progress was better than they
had anticipated. Their hopes mounted, and the ferryman’s advice and
warnings seemed fearful and uninformed. After a brief discussion,
they opted to camp beside the water and find a way across the Garz
in the morning.

“Sleep,” said Darse longingly as they pushed
through the last paces of forest. “I could just collapse into
sleep.”

Brenol did not respond. He shared the
sentiment but was consumed by brooding thoughts—and not regarding
Veronia, for a change. The hard travel had intensified his
awareness of the strange experience it was to tramp across the
land. Selet’s eye caused an unrest he could not name, and as the
day progressed, the land’s gaze had grown hotter and more
malicious. Brenol felt ready to topple.

As the roar grew louder, the forest thinned
and the Garz came into view. The relief of open air gave way
immediately to uneasiness. It was a stronger river than the
Inest
,
wider and undoubtedly deeper. It rushed and crashed
through the forest with spectacular force. Fording, not to mention
navigation, would be impossible. Their eyes grazed the stretch of
water in search of a ferry or at least a suitable campsite.
Suddenly, the two spotted a crackling fire and what appeared to be
a group of people situated about a matrole north. Although they
were ready for rest, curiosity won, and the pair dragged their
heels up through the scattered trees toward the light.

Darse realized on drawing nearer that there
were really only two people; it was the wagon resting beside them
that had made him think there had been a third, and possibly
fourth. The first was an older man with a gray-white beard and
dappled hair to match. His deep bass issued from a robust, belted
belly. He spoke in a thick accent to his companion, an aging stick
of a woman. As Darse and Brenol stepped forward, the two halted
their conversation and eyed the strangers suspiciously.

Darse immediately regretted his decision to
approach. The fire had been so warm and inviting he had not given
thought to caution. His reasoning still felt as muffled as the
forest air. He sputtered through an introduction.

The fire bounced across their stony features
as the couple gazed with silent animosity.

Brenol edged backwards and, as if in
confirmation, the ginger-haired woman spit derisively upon the damp
grass.

Darse nodded tensely and hastily turned and
strode away from the strangers. Brenol scampered behind him.

“What was that?” Darse asked, more to
himself than to the boy.

Brenol hugged his cold frame. Exhaustion had
unraveled his ability to think, and guessing only strained his
already anxious insides.

They moved north until the fire was only a
flicker on the horizon and began to make their own camp ready.
Darse battled the sodden wood to a cheering red life and curled
before it like a bedraggled cat. As the warmth seeped back into his
bones, his mind cleared, and the encounter appeared less hostile
and more awkward. He shook his head at himself; the cultural
differences of this place upset his balance.

“Should we worry about those two?” Brenol
asked.

“I doubt either one of us could handle a
night watch,” he replied honestly.

Brenol nodded.

Darse turned his bleary eyes to Brenol’s
strained face. “Are you really that worried?” he asked.

“No,” the boy replied, but his tone
contradicted him.

I just feel like something is strange
about this place,
Brenol thought, craving reassurance.
This
land isn’t right.

“Let’s get some sleep. The sooner we find
Arman, the sooner we can move out of here.”

Darse did not notice, but the ground and air
almost twitched at the words, as if finding offense. The movement
stirred further unease in the boy.

The embers were darkened by the time Brenol
finally fell into unconsciousness.

~

Brenol jerked awake to Darse’s jostling the
fire to new life.

I didn’t wake up last night,
he
realized in relief.
I didn’t wake up and burn to go back to the
connection.

It was dawn, and while the sun still hid
beneath the horizon, tangerine streaked the blue sky like color
trailing a painter’s brush. The dark canopy of stenciled trees
highlighted the glorious backdrop, and Brenol’s breath rose and
fell in a soft wonder.

One minute I’m shaking, the next I’m
staring around like it’s paradise. This place isn’t right,
he
thought, yet with a lighter heart, for the beauty—coupled with a
night of uninterrupted sleep—had alleviated much of his angst. He
stretched out of his morning stiffness, breathed in the piney
freshness, and warmed his toes before the crackling blaze.

As his eyes peered into the fire, his
thoughts lingered upon the nuresti connection. The uncanny
moments—when desire all but stole his person back to
Veronia—nagged, but with a determined shake of the head, Brenol
pushed the memories away.

I’m in control now
, he rationalized.
Maybe that greed is over now. Just stop worrying.

They breakfasted, packed, and began anew.
The exquisite dawn was soon just a flicker of a memory.

The two trailed the river north in the hopes
of discovering a ferry or crossable section, but even the ground
was close to impassable. The air was free and open, a markedly
welcome change from the thick damp, but that proved the only
pleasant aspect of the day. As in the main forest, there were no
paths, and the two were forced to scramble like mice over large
outcroppings of black rock that jutted up and blocked the way. The
map was surprisingly unhelpful, and they were loath to turn aside
to find an easier thoroughfare lest they miss the crossing. In the
end, they were left with dejected spirits, scraped knees, and
precious hours lost in tedious effort. It was mid-afternoon when
they spied an arch rising smoothly before the horizon.

Brenol blinked in disbelief. “A bridge?
I…for some reason I’d forgotten all about them.” He shook his head,
feeling foolish.

The bridge ahead curved into the pale sky
like a dark, slumbering cat.

Darse lifted his hands feebly in a makeshift
shrug. He shifted his heavy pack, seeking to rest the weight in a
place free from chafe. He sighed as his efforts met little
success.

They trudged forward and their eyes fixed
upon the enigmatic yet familiar structure. The bridge was neither
old nor new but appeared in good repair. Cold steps of gray rock
rose from both sides of the bank to meet an ebony-like wood
extending out into an arched walkway. Its simplicity contrasted
dramatically with the harsh land. It was almost too ordinary to be
trusted.

A furtive figure appeared atop the smooth
rise, slender, tall, and decked in billowing white robes and cloak.
He moved to the stone steps and waited their arrival while peering
out at them through thinly slitted dark eyes. When the two finally
drew their heels to a halt before him, he courteously removed his
hood, revealing a handsome head full of smooth, dark curls
extending to his shoulders. The man did not smile or extend a
greeting.

The roar of the river could not mask the
teeth wrenching silence.

Brenol slid a glance sideways to Darse, who
stood with jaw clenched but appeared otherwise composed.

“May we—” Darse began.

“Four
freg
to cross,” the stranger
interrupted. His voice was deep, and loud enough to carry over the
water’s rush. He took in their dirty faces and once handsome
clothes—now bedraggled and torn. “Each,” he added bluntly. His
olive face revealed no trace of emotion.

Darse bent over wearily and shuffled through
his pack until he found the small wallet loaded with stamps and
currency from Isvelle. He warily placed the papers in the
stranger’s extended hand, waiting for something dramatic to break
the scene. The man said nothing but moved aside gracefully,
permitting them to pass. The only sound was from his white cloak,
which flapped about his sandaled feet.

Halfway across, Brenol glanced back, his
neck twitching under the sense of being watched. The lone figure
was indeed gazing fixedly upon them, his narrowed eyes taking in
every movement, but he did not stray from the stone steps.