The Land's Whisper (34 page)

“Oh. Do you have one?” Brenol asked,
slightly sheepish. He could not imagine Arman holding a woman’s
hand.

“No. I will have to wait for the next
lunavidola.”

Brenol mouthed the word silently. “When will
that be?”

“Eight orbits. Watch your stride here.”

For a moment the only sound was the gentle
swish-swash-swish
of his robes. Brenol had stopped in his
tracks, astounded. Darse continued on silently. He was curious
himself, though he wished Brenol knew when to cease.

“Eight?” Brenol erupted. He bounded forward
to catch up with the two.

“Yes. Eight.”

“Why?”

Arman’s eyebrows sprouted up, and his eyes
narrowed. “Bren, is it customary on your world to question
another’s ways so tactlessly?” His expression softened slightly as
Brenol’s demeanor fell, crushed. “You are young. It is good to have
curiosity. Please attend to your manner.”

Brenol nodded, wide-eyed.

“It is every eight orbits. It is just our
way. I will wait for the next lunavidola.” The juile’s manner
indicated that there was no reason to question the custom—here,
now, or ever.

“Are you upset?” Brenol asked tentatively,
unable to help himself.

“No. I am needed elsewhere. I will make the
next one. It is the way.” He smiled down on him. Again the effect
was remarkable. His handsome face beamed with charisma and charm.
“For now, we head to Caladia to see what the frawnish have heard.”
He laughed. “I have every intention of taking what is bountiful on
this journey.”

Darse’s eyes flickered up at these words.
“What is that expression? We’ve heard it several times since we
arrived in Selet.”

Arman nodded. “Yes, it is our way. Every
moment there is something to be gleaned. Our people believe it is
not to be lost or wasted. It is the striving of every juile: learn
in every situation. Find what is bountiful.”

Darse pondered the words. “I like that… Have
your people always believed this?”

“Always. Some say, although I think it more
legend that fact, that the Three wrote it upon juile’s bones.”

“Will you tell me about the gods here?”
Darse inquired after a moment. “I’ve been wondering about
them.”

Brenol flinched; Darse had spent many
evenings among the visnati questioning them about the Massadan
Three. The gods of Alatrice were far more austere, and Darse had
clung to the visnati’s words with a hopeful tenacity. It was
unnerving that their time there had been wiped so cleanly from his
friend’s memory.

“The Three. Abriged, Tofinaol, Ceriton. The
Eye, the Hand, the Mouth,” explained Arman. “Each is greater than
its mere parts, but the name expresses something about the
person.”

“Did they all three create the world? Or
just one?”

“They do all as one, even if separately,”
Arman replied easily.

Darse’s brow furrowed. He found the
non-answer grating.

“Perhaps you saw the image of Abriged in
Trilau?” Arman said. “It was a large eye in the center of the city.
The juile have an especial affinity toward the Eye. He sees
all.”

Brenol’s mind swam. Standing before that
grand statue of bronze had been a lurching moment. His hand had
itched with the compulsion to touch it…but he had refused the grief
within to surface. It had seemed that the two motions could not
coexist. To stretch his hand forward and touch the Eye would be a
moment of stripping, of becoming bare. It would only have shocked
the dam of sealed emotion apart.

“How do you know the Three are real?” Brenol
finally asked.

Arman’s face was indiscernible. “Many ways.
The maralane have told us much. I have my own experience. And there
have always been a few connected souls. Some even converse face to
face, and have written about their encounters.”

“But how do you know what they claim is
true?” Brenol persisted.

Arman peered out across the terrisdan. “If I
cannot believe my fellow Massadans, and those who have lived just
as I do now, how can I trust even my own judgment?” He returned his
gaze to Brenol. “Yes, I use my mind, and I never stop seeking
truth, but I also cannot reject answers simply because they seem at
first to be exceptional.”

Brenol grew thoughtful and plodded forward.
Darse smiled silently to himself. He was unsure about the deities
of the land, but he found his pride and affection for the boy
blooming as it always did when Brenol allowed new things to shape
him.

He will be great,
Darse mused. The
thought surprised and sobered him.
Indeed, he will be
great.

~

Brenol awoke with his muscles groaning in
rebellion. The hard earth he had grown used to, but it was the pace
of Arman’s long stride that had not dealt kindly. He stiffly
stretched to a sit and watched the juile tend to the fire and what
was evidently breakfast. The steaming food wafted out a peculiar
scent, something akin to cabbage and hot mash, and despite the
hunger pangs in his belly he could only muster a few mouthfuls.
They left the camp site and moved on, stopping only briefly to rest
and refresh themselves. The three traveled through the bleak
countryside for the next two days.

In Arman’s company, Selet’s eye altered. The
terrisdan now gazed at Brenol like a cat resting in the sun, with
lids half open. There remained a lethal spark hidden and ready to
flare into action—be it sinking fangs or a lulling purr—but the eye
nonetheless became tolerable. The boy felt his spine unclench and
his chest loosen and his lips all but sing gratitude for the juile.
Brenol could only guess as to the reasons, but he remained
thankful.

A friendship hastily sprouted between Arman
and the boy. The two talked easily and naturally, and Brenol’s
youthful candor drew out the juile’s blunt honesty. With anyone
else this could have been devastating, for Arman was brutally
quick, but Brenol delighted in Arman’s connections and marveled at
how his companion could deduce so much from so little. The juile’s
keen observance and intellect enabled him to very nearly read the
thoughts in Brenol’s head. They made an unlikely, but fitting,
pair. It soon seemed they had known each other much longer than a
handful of days.

Rather than feeling excluded, Darse was
relieved to be left alone with his thoughts—even if he had the
uncanny feeling Arman knew precisely what those were.

Arman utilized every hour and was avid about
Brenol gleaning any instruction available. He exhibited an unspoken
pride in Brenol’s interest in his people and doggedly taught Brenol
lessons on the history and rituals of the juile. Volumes could have
been created on the dense and rigid culture, but they also had many
days of walking. Suffice it to say, Brenol became more than
commonly educated on the people of Selet.

~

“Why is there only a single nurest per
terrisdan now?” Brenol asked Arman during this interlude.

The juile cocked his head to the side but
continued to scan the vista ahead. “Ask your true question, Bren,”
he responded.

“That is my question.” Brenol said, voice
pinched in aggravation.

“All right.” Arman cast his knowing eyes at
the copper head. “You will not retain your power if we recover
Colette.” His voice was even, and his stride did not falter.

Brenol stared back aghast. “How…?”

The juile’s eyebrows jumped up faster than a
finger from a hot pan. “Bren, you have it written on you like a
scroll, unrolled and bare. I merely have to read it.” He smiled
compassionately. “It
is
understandable. I do not know many
who would be able to conquer the desire for the nuresti power.”

Brenol blushed. It was startling to have his
darkest emotions be so obvious. He glanced quickly at Darse.
How
can I still be craving it after all that he went through? After the
deaths of so many visnati?
Images of the farming men crowded
his blurring vision, but he cowered back from the grief, avoiding
it as if it were an evil creature.

Arman went on, “The age of the Keepers is
not one of nuresti. It is the time of the nurest. Singular. I have
never heard of a situation such as this, but I doubt you will
return to Veronia with any kind of connection. Be prepared. Find
peace in it…or leave Colette a captive.”

They walked silently for many minutes. Darse
observed the two. He saw Brenol battling with the same emotions
with which he had begun the journey. He would sigh, even shake his
fists, and gnash his teeth in a rigid grind. Arman remained silent
in his flowing strides.

Brenol finally spoke, and the sounds escaped
his lips in a thin whisper, “I hate that I don’t want to save her.”
The words were more than he had ever thought he could voice, and
the shaming images of his near-abandonment of Darse crowded his
mind.

Arman ground to a halt and faced the boy.
“That is why you’re here,” he said. The juile extended his arms
out, indicating the barren wilderness surrounding their small
group. His expression softened. “You will indeed refuse to exchange
power for a girl’s life…” His lips hinted at a small smile. “It is
what Massadans call benere: true goodness. I have pride in your
benere.” The dark eyes were gentle, and his voice was deep and
sincere. He bent his head in a bow to Brenol. “It is bountiful to
know you.”

Brenol flushed pink and found his chest
loosen slightly. Finally, after drawing in a breath, he stammered
out in the appropriate juile fashion, “Bountiful, indeed.”

They continued walking until nightfall.

Darse held tightly to a new realization:
I am grateful for Arman.

~

That night, the trio huddled around their
warm fire, and after a simple dinner, Darse hastily collapsed into
unconsciousness. Brenol’s mind refused to settle, though, and the
boy swept his gaze from Arman to the blaze and back again. The
juile faced sideways from the flames, and the orange glow patterned
across his profile and made the blackness surrounding them seem
even darker. Brenol arched forward to catch a better view and
discerned the juile’s purpose for the strange angle: he wrote in a
compact book and required light for the effort.

Brenol had seen the tiny volume just once
before, but had yet to inquire over it. Arman had removed himself
slightly, plucked the black-bound mystery from some hidden fold of
his robe, returned it with a flick, and rummaged in his pocket with
a
click, click-click
. Tonight, Brenol’s curiosity turned him
so edgy he felt like a toy on springs
,
yet Arman’s eyes
never wavered from the pages.

The juile’s voice startled him when it came.
“You are inquisitive. Come.” Arman’s obsidian eyes glittered in
amusement as they swung casually to the copper head.

Brenol crawled from his blanket to the
juile’s side
.
Arman extended his palm and offered the book
to the boy. It was very small, roughly half the size of Brenol’s
hand, and bound together with an exquisitely crafted black material
as smooth as a porpoise’s hide. Brenol’s fingers slid across the
soothing binding as he cradled it close, his mouth open in wonder.
He pushed gently at the spine until it fountained out to the center
of the book. The pages flapped with the delicate sigh of tissue
paper. Precise and miniscule symbols, dots, and markings were
scattered over the sheets.

Brenol’s heart sparked in pleasure.

Arman nodded.

I don’t know how he does it,
Brenol
thought,
but he knows me better than I know myself.
He
grinned at the juile, then returned to poring over the tiny
writings.

“It’s amazing,” Brenol breathed. Even the
faint movement of air from his lungs lifted a page slightly. He
laughed softly in wonder. The youth drew his gaze up, slowly
returning the smooth volume. He fought his hungry fingers and
released their awed grip. “Would…would you teach me?”

Arman smiled. His face evened out in
attractiveness, and the pitch black eyes sparkled. Brenol laughed,
ever delighted at the transforming effect of that smile.

“It would bring me much bounty.”

Arman bent forward, tapped the symbols with
the back of his pen, and began to teach Brenol the juile writing
code.

The land sees all, but few see the land.

-Genesifin

After the fourth day, the party arrived at
the lugazzi between terrisdans. Brenol stepped forward, his entire
body quivering in relief; the eye of Selet was no more. The
reprieve was so cathartic he fought to not weep, taking in huge
gulps of dry air and hiding his face from his companions.

When he had found composure, he spun his
heels around and nearly choked. Arman was—as he had explained he
would be—eerily faint. While visible to the eye, he appeared more
immaterial than tangible. It was as though he were a transparency
hung over the concrete world of creation. One could discern his
presence, but it seemed a trick of the light at times. Brenol
forgot Selet’s eye and all else he had been pondering.

“Can you hear me?” the boy asked.

Arman raised his eyebrows. “I have not lost
my faculties.”

Brenol started. To see someone so immaterial
and yet hear his booming voice was jolting to the senses. His mind
fought to make logic out of it all.

The juile allowed a flicker of a grin at
Brenol’s expression, but the motion was followed with a grimace. It
would seem he was uncomfortable with this strange middle ground as
well. “Soon I will be entirely invisible, and then you will be
spared my rough features.”

Brenol wisely refrained from comment.

The lugazzi soon met Granoile; one only need
glance down to see it. There was a line at which the gravel ended
and the sand began. It was a dense terrain and appeared as
treacherous as trudging upon the ocean floor.