The Land's Whisper (57 page)

Brenol clicked around the room, but soon his
interest dwindled under the twisting of his gut.

What’s this feeling anyway? It can’t be
about going back…

He doubted for a moment as Colette’s profile
filled his memory yet dismissed the notion again.
I’m sure it’s
not her…but what else could it be?
The boy sighed and exited,
following the hallway down to the last room.

He glanced about. A dim disappointment
pricked him as he realized this was the end. There were no
additional entryways, and he was nearly certain he had covered all
the other soladrome ground.

The space itself was small, about the size
of a sitting room, and decorated in cream tones. Along the top band
of the room, where ceiling and wall met, plaster swept like rolling
waves in a form of sculpture he had never before seen. The milky
strip depicted scenes of galloping horses with manes whipping,
maralane tails peeking out from the water, children hanging from
trees, and kings and queens at table, and an entire panel was
devoted to a string of events involving a strangely eerie
sword.

As he absentmindedly took in the reliefs,
his eyes strayed down, and a smile played at the edges of his lips.
A door, as creamy as the wall, lay flush and nearly invisible. It
was smaller than most, perhaps crafted for the umburquin. He teased
his fingers across the smooth panel and found the latching system.
He paused, recalling the House of the Dead, but his roiling stomach
pushed him past care. He slid through with only a slight duck of
the head.

The dawn had indeed come.

The stairway before him was lighted by some
unseen window that rendered his lantern unnecessary. He set down
the small sphere only to pluck it up again; he did not want to
forget it should he continue down other mysterious passageways. The
steps were wooden and tiny, as though made for a child, and
ascended beside a simple wooden banister. He ran his hand across
it. It had the soft and grainy feel of wood that has been touched
by hundreds of hands. The sensation was comforting.

Brenol poked his head into the heart of the
stairway and peered up. The steps curled up like a snake around a
branch, and his interest surged. He mounted the stairs in multiples
and wound his way to the top. It did not take long before he stood
in front of a glass trapdoor—the source of light within the
stairwell. Eventually his fingers discerned the latch, and he
pushed it open and emerged into blinding day.

As he toed his way out, he mindlessly
dropped his lantern to the floor.

Oh.

It was enough to yank the breath from a man.
He was still inside, yet his eyes told him otherwise. The room was
enormous, circular, and ingenious. The walls were constructed of
clean, clear glass, flowing smoothly into the arched ceiling—also
glass—tinted gold. He extended a hand as if to run his fingers
across the clear bubble.

Oh.

It seemed as though the entire world lay
open to his eyes. He had not realized the soladrome was as high as
it was, but being nearly atop the dome he could see for leagues.
The mountains of the south planted their strong bodies in purples
and greens, the Davoc flowed below him and wound its path toward
what he knew would be Ziel, the plains swept up, and hills arched
in gentle rolls to the north.

Limbartina, the town below, was itself a
visual feast. The morning was young, but already Brenol could spy
shopkeepers and healers bustling through the avenues and working
men and umburquin shuffling about their business between the short,
compact houses. Steam rose from one of the small buildings, two
children chased each other in a yard, a vineyard sparkled with
night’s dew.

Brenol squinted his eyes in wonder at the
glass itself. He had never before seen glass like the golden arch
that capped the soladrome. He could make little sense of the craft,
so he merely allowed himself to feel awe without question. He
stalked the length of the walls. There was no feeling of isolation
to this place, for it was open and free. Light streamed in and
splashed the room with a soft yellow glow; it made it feel like a
dream world. The floors were wooden—a noticeable change after the
unending sea of white tile—and were meticulously cared for and
stained a light pine. There was no furniture or art in the room to
disrupt its magnificence.

Brenol paused in his circuit, staring out
upon the distant southern mountains. The wizened dark green peaks
were jagged but rolling, harsh yet enticing.

There is something about them…

Suddenly, his unease blossomed, and a
harrowing dread overtook him. It sprouted up without warning or
source. Insight smashed through his understanding and pulsed with
icy fervor.

Massada is in danger.

He sought to clutch his fingers to
something, anything stable, but there was nothing in the empty
room. It was as if he hung suspended from a precipice with only a
single, fragile thread holding his body back from the plummet.

How can this be? Is it true?

His palms dampened, and his clean shirt
stuck fast to his young chest. His heart beat ferociously, leaving
little ambiguity in both mind and senses: this was fact. He had
been granted perception before as a nurest, but this upended him in
an entirely new manner.

Regardless of how he had come to know, it
was upon him. And it was an ugly thing, indeed.

But what is it?

He stared through the clear. The peaks had
not changed in their beauty and the room still glowed in a lovely
haze, but to Brenol, all had dimmed. His only experience remained
the obscure blight gripping the world, and it tore at him like a
wild animal.

What is it? What?

No answer came save that of the weight of
truth pushing upon his chest. He breathed in short spurts. Finally,
when he could no longer endure any more, with a strange resolve, he
whispered out toward the lands, “I will protect you Massada. I
promise to guard you with my life.”

The fear and the constriction eased, and the
beauty of the room heightened again. It was as though the serenity
had never left, yet the certainty of the experience was as sharp as
a spear upon his memory.

“What
was
that?” he asked softly.

The dome around him filled with the echoes
of laughter, as if a great hoard were laughing at him. He turned
fast on his heels and swung around. There was no one, but then…

A regiment materialized around him. The
crowd filled the space, every eye resting upon his small frame.
Men, giants, maralane, and more. They all stood—even maralane—and
bore into him with appraising stares. They pressed closer, and
Brenol cowered back, falling to his hands and rear. He darted his
eyes frantically around but found escape impossible; they had
encircled him. The entire room was filled with color and flesh and
sound.

“You need not fear,” spoke a melodic voice.
Brenol eased his wary eyes over, taking in a female frawnite. Her
mottled gray hair was cropped short and framed her youthful brown
face, giving her an almost human look. Her wings curled up behind
her, clothed in a downy decadence of spotted silver.

“Wha-What’s going on?”

“You have pledged gortei
,
” she
replied simply.

Brenol stared at her, his eyes sliding
alternately to the masses moving about restlessly around her.

She surveyed him curiously. “You know
nothing?”

He shook his head.

“You have pledged to protect Massada. That
is an oath for life, for death. It carries ’til the end of
Massada’s days.”

Brenol blinked, slowly processing the
meaning of her words. “You’re…dead?”

She smiled. “You are not the imbecile you’d
have had me believe.” She nodded and her silvery hair jumped at the
movement. “Yes. We are the walking dead of Massada.”

“What does this mean?” He did not like to
think of the hoard before him as undead.

“You shall protect Massada. Could there be
anything else?”

He eyed the people—men, women, and children
of every size—pressing in and making the giant space seem small.
They attended him with diverse expressions.

“Why are you all here?”

She took his arm and raised him to a stand,
then cupped his face in the palms of her tiny hands. She peered
into his green eyes with her gray owl ones, as though she could
unearth his secrets with a simple glance. The frawnite now appeared
more avian, with the calculating look of a bird of prey. Finally,
she released him.

“It doesn’t happen to every soul pledging
gortei. Just to those who will face something grave. We are your
guides, in a way.”

Brenol licked his lips—his promise now stuck
fast in his parched mouth—and he felt vulnerable down to the tips
of his toes.
Something grave? How could anything be worse than
Jerem?

I couldn’t even fight Jerem…

“Will you appear again?” Brenol asked
pleadingly. “To help?”

“Perhaps, but unlikely.”

Brenol’s stomach fell.

A murmuring among the people lifted his
eyes. The frawnite nodded, gleaning its meaning. She focused her
large gray eyes upon his young face again. “It seems you have been
granted a visit. You may call upon one of us in your moment of
need, but you must choose now who it will be. Pick wisely.”

Brenol pressed his lips together and looked
around with new eyes.

The crowd parted and he walked among them.
They stood silently as he passed, following him with intense eyes.
He was unsure what he should even be looking for, let alone
selecting. He felt lost before the sea of souls. His feet
eventually led him back to the mottled-gray frawnite.

“Have you selected?” she asked.

“I don’t know what I will need,” he
responded lamely.

“As is the nature of life.” Her look was
amused. Somehow, it reminded him of Arman.

“I choose you.”

She bowed graciously. In a blink, the
regiment was gone, and she alone remained. Brenol gaped at the
emptiness and breathed deeply in relief.

“My name is Pearl,” she said. “You may call
upon me anytime, but it is advised you wait until it is dire. I may
be granted a single visit, but perhaps more. I am pleased to assist
you, Brenol Tilted-Ash.” She bent her body into a deep bow.

“Thank you,” he responded, returning the
gesture. “How do I find whatever it is that’s wrong here?” A new
thought dawned upon him. “Does this mean I am not supposed to
return to Alatrice?”

Pearl gave a knowing nod. “The danger may
not need to be faced for many orbits. But a gortei is a pledge for
life. Just remember your life is in the service of
this
land. Whether you go, stay, sit, you must fulfill your oath or you
will live to regret it—in this life and the next.”

Her talk of death made his spine tingle
uncomfortably. She bowed again, as if preparing to leave
,
but Brenol interrupted her. “What’s the difference between cartess
and gortei?”

Pearl’s silver eyes examined him. “All have
cartess. Cartess is a fate flowing in your blood. It is written
upon your fingertips and courses through your being. It is your
purpose in this life, and the only way in which you will fully
live. Gortei is rarer. It is a pledge, a choice. It is the giving
of whatever life path you might have had for the sake of the world
around you. Gortei is a forfeit of freedom. It is honorable, but
truly formidable.”

Brenol breathed.
Have I really just given
away my life?
he wondered, yet even in the fearful realization,
he found that his dread never touched upon regret. His gortei was
made without full knowledge, but it would stand; he would choose it
again.

“How? How do I call you?”

Pearl smiled, extending out a finger to draw
his attention. In his own hands, unnoticed until this moment, lay a
tiny whistle, silver as her hair, thin as a pencil, and smaller
than his palm. There were no finger holes, just a miniscule reed to
mark the mouthpiece. He lifted it in examination. “How long will it
take you to come?”

Brenol glanced up expectantly, but the room
was empty. A pressing loneliness filled him, acute after the surge
of revelation. The teeming horde had been overwhelming, but somehow
preferable to this moment of utter solitude. No one was here to
help him. It was only him and the land’s eye. Him, the boy-man.

“Pearl,” he said, forming her name with a
roll of his tongue. “Pearl.”

He caressed the smooth instrument. He
hesitated, then lifted it to his lips to feel the cool luster upon
them before pocketing the piece.

Brenol paused for one last look at Selenia
through the luminous glass and then wound his way back to the main
floors and rooms of the soladrome. He quietly crept into his own
small quarters and crawled into bed, his chest and head aching with
exhaustion.

He slept until Darse roused him. He followed
Darse to breakfast but held his secret behind closed lips. There
would be a time to speak of this, but the moment was much too
green. He fought his flagging fatigue and prepared for the upcoming
travels.

Time cannot be pried apart. It is a force which
itself pries.

-Genesifin

“I have something for you,” Colette
said.

It was mid-morning, and the sun’s soft amber
light covered her like a shawl. She placed a piece of fruit in his
hand and uncurled her wet fingers from it. Two bite marks marred
the flesh, and the juices dripped in a sticky river down his hand.
The meaning of the gift was lost. Regardless, he drew it to his
mouth and savored the sweet bite and ambrosial scent that rose and
clung to the moment.

Colette’s laugh rang through the glade. “Oh,
not that.
This.
” Anticipation danced upon her lovely face,
and her dark hair sparkled in the sun.