The Land's Whisper Read Online Free Page B

his steel, and collected
eggs. The brood pecked about with mindless interest while he toted
his pail back to the house.
    Darse halted in stride and sighed.
    How did I not see it before? he asked
himself.
    A large T had been painted onto his door, a
striking crimson atop the light pine. It looked as though it had
been a hurried task; the letter slanted down and ran into the wall
post, but its meaning was clear regardless.
    Scowling, Darse kicked the door open and set
to cooking his breakfast.
    ~
    The morning afforded no break. Darse handled
and harvested his fields until his back screamed, his skin slicked
to a shine, and the sun struck its hottest. Then, retreating to the
house, he dragged an armload of materials to the porch and set to
sanding and painting his door.
    Evening came in haste, with the familiar
sensation of time slipping past. The days were spent in endless
toil, but he rarely made any progress, it seemed. He finished his
chores and restored his tools to the shed. He watched the sun’s
last trickles of light pass into night, and trudged into the house.
Exhaustion pressed on his chest and shoulders as he set to heating
water. Once warm, he removed the pot and added sila bark and granum root. The aroma was unpleasant and tangy, but he
positioned himself before the fire and soaked his hands. The cuts
from tending the corz vines were still red and stinging, even after
a septspan. Darse sucked air through his teeth and waited for the
burn to ease.
    He woke in the night, in a slump on the
floor, and crawled to his pallet. The fire was cool, but his aching
bones begged for sleep, so he ignored the chill and huddled into
his blankets.
    He lay awake, his mind refusing to rest. In
but a few hours, another day in Alatrice would begin.
    ~
    “Darsey! You’re still asleep?”
    Darse blinked and found himself surrounded
by light. The morning was more than upon him. He groaned and rose
to a sit. The sleepless hours of the night had stolen the fleeting
moments of the day. He scrambled to his feet.
    A skinny whip of a boy peered at him with
curious jade eyes. He had ruffled copper hair, loose and worn
pants, and an old shirt that boasted at least four patches. The
boy’s angular face tilted, as if he were on the verge of speaking
but lacked the fitting words.
    “Bren, could you go tend to Button and the
chickens? I’ve got to check the steel . ” Darse spoke in a
rush, the chores for the day mounting in his mind, but then he
stopped, abruptly realizing the implications of Brenol’s presence.
“I thought you weren’t going to be here for another septspan. Did
the roofing at Carper’s not go well?” Darse scrutinized the youth
with a careful eye.
    Brenol screwed his face up and thrust both
hands into his trouser pockets.
    Darse raised an eyebrow, considering.
    “All right,” the man finally said with
resignation. “Go. Tend. I’m already late, so it seems I have chosen
as much for the day. I’ll get to my things presently. For now, I’ll
make us coffee. You bring the milk.”
    Brenol nearly yelped at the promised luxury
and zipped out the door hastily. Leisure was not a common gift; he
would do all in his power not to lose it.
    Darse gathered up enough wood from his pile
for a small fire, stoked a flame to life, collected water from the
well, washed, and set a kettle to boil. He frowned, glancing at the
sun rising in her course, but knew he could not change his mind
now. He began ruminating on Brenol, but decidedly set even that
aside until the boy returned, and moved on to the task before
him.
    He plucked up a tiny canvas bag from his
stores and settled himself upon the floor. The aroma of the sack
tugged at the weariness in him, and he found that its mere promise
soothed much. With an air of careful ritual, he spooned a precise
measure of dark beans into his pan and listened to the pieces click
together. Shaking the pan, he roasted the beans until they cracked
in lovely song, then tipped the dish and settled the