The Land's Whisper (35 page)

Arman suddenly smiled, taking Darse aback;
it was ever a surprise to find such intensity paired with a jovial
side. The juile bowed to the two of them and said, “You shall not
be seeing me any longer. I trust it will still be bountiful.” He
winked playfully at Brenol, strode forward, and disappeared from
sight. No more transparency, no more Arman.

Although the two had been expecting it, it
was still startling. The juile had vanished entirely. His body was
gone. It was uncanny.

The visible two stared at each other
uncertainly. They could not help but feel they were again just a
pair. Both jumped when their invisible companion spoke.

“Now, we shall head south for a bit.”
Arman’s voice was strong and deep. It came from empty air, as did
the laughter that followed. “You act as though I did not prepare
you.”

Brenol laughed too, good-naturedly. “I doubt
anyone really gets used to it, though.” He pointed to the
indentations in the sand; Arman was not entirely lost to the visual
realm. “I’ll be an expert on juile footprints before you know
it.”

Arman cleared his throat. “
That
would
take many orbits of study. It is a science for juile trackers, and
only the juile can truly decipher their
pedasse
.”

Brenol opened his mouth.

“Footprints,” Arman replied, already
stepping lightly before them. “Pedasse are juile footprints.”

Darse began but paused when he noted that
Brenol was not following. The boy made no move to stride forward;
instead, he gently bent down and scooped a handful of white sand
into his palm and let it sieve out slowly between his fingers. He
touched the ground with a tenderness that surprised Darse, even
though it was familiar from previous terrisdans.

Brenol’s whisper was hardly audible.
“Granoile? I am Bren. May we pass?”

A silence gripped the open space, but it
felt packed with life. Darse’s breath hung suspended. His skin
tingled. The air was full of the buzzing electric life that
precedes a lighting strike. He recalled a tree outside his
homestead in Alatrice—splintered down the center with that sudden,
unleashed power. Darse’s jaw tightened, and he froze.

Finally, the ground hummed a light reply. No
words were uttered aloud—that the man could hear, at least—and
Darse’s golden gaze met Brenol’s. The boy gave a small smile and a
nod.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He stood, brushed
his hands upon trousers, and uttered silent thanks for truly being
free of Selet.

~

Their feet dragged them through the dense
terrain for long hours. Their eyes squinted through the glittering
panorama, but the land merely stretched out forever in a sea of
sand. They labored up steep dunes of gold, only to find higher ones
in the next sweep. The sand wore at their feet, sliding in the
crevices of their sandals to rub the skin raw and turn their
tempers. Arman was the only traveler seemingly unaffected, being
acclimated to travel in many terrains, but his sturdy and
impenetrable boots gave him a distinct advantage as well. The juile
led them vocally at times, but typically the two followed his
pedasse wordlessly.

As night approached, Darse and Brenol
attempted to shake the cold from their clothing, but the desert
cool crept into their marrow and curved their backs. They camped on
the mesa crest of a dune and curled around the warm kiss of their
camp fire.

The following morning brought a
teeth-chattering cold. Brenol grumbled as they stamped to life and
nibbled cold breakfasts. But by midday it was uncomfortably hot,
and they paused atop a dune to rest and sip from their water sacks.
Darse and Brenol slumped down in the hot sand, too tired at first
to even remove packs. They all munched lightly on juile cracker and
dried fish while gazing down into the valley.

There below, nestled beside the flowing
Branio, sat the village of Caladia. It was a colorful sight: houses
formed from the creamy river mud with roofs painted a vibrant
rainbow. The group was too high to distinguish much detail, but it
seemed a more populous town than either Darse or Brenol had seen in
Massada yet, even bigger than Trilau. Flocks of birds played above
the town, swooping and moving through the skies. It looked like an
oasis of lushness in the midst of unending void.

They clambered down the dune, attempting to
not curse the sand that swallowed their ankles and sent their
muscles groaning. Regardless, their spirits rose with every step
that took them closer to the Branio
,
and the air thickened
in their lungs
.
After several hours, the group found
themselves waterside in the cooling evening, just outside the town.
No bridge graced the waterway, and Brenol and Darse grudgingly
followed Arman’s voice out across the boulders and stones that
littered the Branio’s belly. Darse grappled to keep traction on the
wet rock but slipped in a hard crash to his knees. The fall
drenched him and jolted his bones, but he stood again and lumbered
his way through the remaining few strides.

On the eastern bank, they drank and filled
their water pouches, and Arman urged them forward without much
resistance; dinner and baths—hopefully both warm—offered enticement
to all.

Houses, single story and simply built,
multiplied as they walked. The rainbow-hued roofs were hidden from
ground view, and had Brenol not seen them from the dune heights, he
would have thought the houses unimaginative and dull.

Arman explained, “The frawnish paint their
roofs as art, but art for the stars and fellow flying creatures.
They see it as wasteful to allow the earth to view the beauty meant
for the heavens.”

“Wait…
fellow
flying creatures? What
are
the frawnish?” Darse looked more closely at the houses;
they seemed man-made.

Arman laughed. Brenol wished he were able to
see his smile. “I would point to the skies if you could see my
hand. Look south. No, no. Up.”

And there they were. Not birds, as they had
assumed. Winged persons.

Groups of children flocked together in the
skies, dipping in and out in a game of some nature. They appeared
to be about the size of eight orbit olds, but with giant wings
protruding from their backs. There was no single color to them, the
frawnish feathers swept out in an array of brown, black, gray,
white, red, blue, solid, speckled, striped, dappled.

“
Angali
!” Darse gasped.

“Angali?”

“No, no.” Darse sliced his hand through the
air. “Sorry. They reminded me for a moment of something I’d heard
stories about in Alatrice.”

“I see. I cannot compare them to your
creatures as I don’t know of them… But these are people of the sky.
Yes, they sleep and conduct business on the ground, but the sky is
practically a part of their souls.”

“What do they eat?” queried Darse.

“Fish, of course, fruit, nuts, some plants,
and
yerig.
”

“
Yerig?”
asked Brenol.

“Yes. It’s the main reason why they live
here. Large beetles. The yerig population is abundant in the desert
surrounding the Branio.”

Brenol stopped moving. “How big?”

A deep, guttural laugh issued from the
unseen frame. “I would hope that an insect is not going to turn
your toes after all this time…but to be truthful, they are venomous
and quite nasty when cornered.”

He didn’t answer my question,
Brenol
thought, but he decided against pursuing the topic further. Some
things were better left unknown.

“I take it insects are not a Massadan
dietary taboo?” Darse asked wryly.

Arman did not respond directly, but Darse
could detect a smile behind his speech. “The frawnish are a good
people, regardless of their palate. Prone to much emoting
though.”

“What does that mean?” Brenol asked.

“You can discern for yourselves,” he said,
and then added, “No, ahead. Straight.”

The two craned their necks. They squinted
for several minutes into the bright sunlight before glimpsing the
winged creature, and for yet another before its form grew distinct.
Arman had keen vision indeed.

“Don’t look so awed. I merely use my eyes,”
he responded as Darse and Brenol exchanged glances.

Arman,
Darse thought.
Only
Arman.

The frawnite flew close to the
ground—roughly as high as a man’s shoulders—and upon reaching them,
lit down as though taking a half-step from a hovering
staircase.

In close proximity, Darse was less inclined
to compare her to an angal, for her features and stature did not
match his preconceptions. She was thin—very thin, which likely
served her well in flight—with a petite frame as short as Brenol’s
and tight, compact muscles. Her wings were a jet and glistening
black, with base and coverts sprouting from her sides, slightly
above the hip. They jutted out sharply like a sparrow’s—easily a
wingspan of nine to ten strides—and were covered with lovely, downy
feathers. Her face was a small heart with symmetric and attractive
features that carried a markedly avian thread. She had chocolate
brown skin and coal black hair cropped short. She wore a fitted
green shirt and pants in soft muslin with comfortable moccasin
shoes. Her ears were lined with shiny amber studs that matched her
fiercely glinting eyes. No, this was no angal, but she was lovely
in her own regard.

The frawnite flashed her jaw toward Darse
and Brenol in a gesture of authority. Her eyes were terrible and
sharp. It was then Darse realized why she appeared so avian—aside
from the obvious. She had the same intense, sclera-less orbs: no
white, just amber-gold encircling black. Yet, somehow, it was
becoming.

She opened her lips to speak, but Arman’s
voice issued first. “Arista,” he said. “I pray it has been
bountiful.”

The jaw snapped back, harshness vanishing
with the speed of a flea, and her heart face spread into a smile.
Her teeth were short and even, matching her petite and feminine
mouth. “And in good measure for you, friend! I’ve sorely missed
you, Arman.” She laughed naturally and without pretense, throwing
her head back in joy.

“And I, you… My companions—Darse, Bren.”

She held both hands out, palms open to the
two in greeting, and then, as though remembering something, spoke
softly to the air, “Arman, would that I had known it was you. You
have seal. I’d have brought it…” Arista lifted her wings slightly,
tilted them, and ruffled her coverts. Her feathers reflected the
light, shining like water dancing down a stream.

“Urgent? Too urgent for us to enter?” Arman
sounded concerned.

More is being said than words,
thought Darse.

Arista’s primaries fluttered, causing a soft
pattering—apparently continuing some kind of silent
communication.

“You may speak plainly. They are
trustworthy.”

She nodded, even though her golden eyes
flicked suspiciously at them. “Ordah. A seal was dispatched less
than five days ago. Instructions for the carrier make it clear it’s
dire. He’s been searching for you.” Her somber face suddenly lit up
in laughter. “You don’t make it simple, either.”

“I’ve been known to be found, by the skilled
at least.”

Arista bowed her head with a slight smirk,
as though accepting a compliment. Her movements were both playful
and elegant.

Brenol was practically twitching, he so
longed for explanations. “Ordah? So what do we do? How do we get
his letter?”

The boy had not finished his thought before
Arista bolted off into a run, extended her exquisite spread,
jumped, and lifted from the sand in a great
thwamp.
She
maneuvered her way into the town, now high in the skies, arching
back and forth in flight like a gull.

Arman responded while Brenol looked on in
awed stupor. “She will bring it. Then we’ll decide what action to
take.”

“You didn’t say anything about flying people
when you said we were coming to find your friend,” Brenol said
wonderingly.

“You do not have such creatures? What of
these angali?”

“Can’t see ’em,” Brenol said, still staring
at the skies.

“Hmmmmm.” The idea seemed to please Arman.
Wings
and
invisibility were a duo with which to contend.
“How do they not collide in flight?”

Brenol grinned. “Your guess is as good as
mine.”

Darse’s yellow eyes scanned the expanse
where Arman stood. “How long have you known Arista?”

“Orbits. Sixteen, I believe.”

“Do they allow strangers into Caladia?” he
asked curiously.

“Yes, but few come. Most humans fear
them—there are tales told by every nurse to scare children from
wandering off. And so the strange terror is perpetuated.”

“Huh,” said Brenol. “Do any live outside the
city?”

“Not that I know of. But they are free to
come, go, stay, leave Caladia. There are, however, certain dictates
for remaining in Granoile. Those are rigid, but if dire need were
to arise, I doubt a frawnite would be denied.”

“What did you mean earlier about them being
emotional?”

Arman’s robes swished as if he were
gesturing to explain, but the movement was ineffectual. “Perhaps I
spoke prematurely, even if in truthfulness.”

Arista returned before any more information
could be wheedled out of Arman. Her flight was high, scooping the
skies with vast wings. As she neared, she zig-zagged her way across
the blue and dropped fast in a whiffle; her head hurtling toward
earth with legs stretched above and wings upside-down beneath her.
She fell with alarming speed, yet exhibited astounding control as
her wings arched to slow her flight, and she returned to the
upright position in time to land both moccasins softly upon the
warm sand. Every dark hair was still in place, and her clothes were
clean and neat. Nothing about her was disheveled, although her
chest heaved slightly from exertion. She smiled with a huff,
reached out her arm, opened her fist, and waited for Arman to
remove the neatly folded paper from her palm. It disappeared, and
her hand returned to her thin frame.