Fractured (Lisen of Solsta Book 1)

by D. Hart St. Martin

  If she slid out from under the cot on the side opposite where the man stood, her way to the door would be clear and she could make her escape. She could then run downstairs and out into the street where she might find the captain. Or, at the very least, disappear somehow. She lifted the blanket to confirm that the way between her and the door remained open, and as she did so, she heard Jozan groan. Lisen understood but could not comply; she had to survive. There would be no perfect time, and accepting this, she rolled out from under the cot, jumped to her feet and made for the door.

  Where the man met her and blocked her passage, forcing her to pull up short. In his hand, he held up the Order of Ascension Decree, and on his face, he wore a satisfied grin. I’m screwed.

  “Now, let me see,” the man said as Lisen’s heart pounded at her chest wall and her bowels twisted. “You must be….” He perused the Decree, then returned to her in a flash. “You must be Ariannas.”

  She swallowed but said nothing.

  “You understand, of course, that I cannot allow you to live.”

  Every muscle normally at her disposal, every cognitive thought usually within her grasp, abandoned her. She no longer expected to survive, but she did wish to prove herself a worthy opponent. That, however, would require movement, which seemed denied to her at the moment.

  “You’re a quiet thing,” he said and began to advance slowly, one step at a time, forcing her to back up farther into the room at the same rate. At his third step, she nearly tripped over Jozan but managed to recover. She caught him off guard in the process, which gave her enough time to shift the knife in her hand into a better position—hilt at the joining of thumb and hand, blade serving as an extension of that same hand, just as the captain had shown her this morning. What she would do with the thing she had no idea. Her mind had gone soft; her thoughts, inaccessible. Center, she commanded herself, center, and she took one quick deep breath to try to reclaim her balance.

  Then, in a moment of redeemed clarity, she locked eyes with the man. His were brown and filled with malignant intent, but she could feel what he felt, sense what he thought. Somehow she’d achieved a link with his mind. This sent her into a state of elation, and she felt strong, invincible. She had no idea what had fueled this, but she would be a fool to ignore it, to not use it to her advantage. If she could disarm him, weaken his ability to function, she just might survive. She had to try. What was it the captain had told her? “Below the ribs.” He definitely said, “Below the ribs. And try not to nick the point on a rib. Below the ribs on the left and up hard to reach the heart.” Was that it? She could only hope she remembered it right.

  “Hold,” she thought with as much force as she could summon. “Hold!”

  He blinked and she had him. She grew slightly woozy, her body trembling with mind-curdling ecstasy. The push held her breathless, and she held him, disarming him. Now, to keep him. In a movement purely instinctual, she threw herself forward, wrapped her left arm up and around the man’s shoulders and, with her right hand, jammed the knife in where Korin had shown her. At first she feared she had hit the rib but then realized that it was merely flesh standing guard as it was intended to do. Once she understood how much pressure the breaking of skin required, the point of her knife found its mark, and the man gasped, his eyes wide at how easily she’d overcome him. “She’s just a girl, just a hermit, untrained.”

  “Not a hermit,” she whispered in his ear. “Something else. Something more.”

  He crumpled in her arms, and she allowed him to fall, let him go as he did so. He was dying; there was too much blood for it to be otherwise. She backed away, bringing the knife with her, breathing hard and fast, exertion and ecstasy both taking their toll. In the back of her mind, a small voice told her to help him, but she didn’t dare. She released the bloody knife, heard it clatter to the floor, and then noticed the blood on her hand. This man’s blood. The blood of the man she’d killed. She shook her head. He deserves nothing.

  Lisen turned, stepped over Jozan’s feet and dropped to her knees. Jozan needs me. She deserves whatever I can do for her. Blood had pooled around Jozan in an impossible amount, and she breathed, but barely. Lisen’s own breath came in quick little gasps; she had to calm herself or she’d never manage to connect. She breathed in, forcing herself to take a count of five as she did so; then she breathed out to the same count of five. She’d learned this from that yoga class her mother—no, Daisy Holt—had made her take. She repeated the cycle a couple more times and then took Jozan’s limp hand, closed her eyes and slipped into a restless trance.

  Breathe. Center. Breathe. Center.

  “Jozan?” She reached out tentatively to the heir’s soul. Nothing. “Jo?”

  “Lisen?”

  Bitter tears bit at Lisen’s eyes. “Oh, Jo.”

  “I’m dying, aren’t I.” A statement, not a question. Jozan knew.

  “I think so,” Lisen answered. There was no way to lie, not one mind to the other.

  “I should’ve been more careful.”

  “We both should’ve been more careful.” Lisen’s guilt wormed through her gut; Jozan would have been with her father and sister right now, enjoying that place up the river called Seffa, if Lisen hadn’t been abandoned at Solsta, if Empir Flandari hadn’t listened to that stupid sooth. Had Eloise sent her own niece to her death? She had to have known. Or, maybe not. Lisen knew necropaths faced limitations; perhaps sooths did, too.

  “Always flaunting the rules,” Jozan’s mind moaned. “Damn.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Lisen answered. “You did ask for the password.”

  “The password,” Jozan whispered. Lisen opened her eyes to see a wan smile on Jozan’s lips and a look of surrender in her eyes. “Knife thrust.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Lisen repeated, this time aloud.

  Jozan seized suddenly and then went still. Lisen closed her eyes again, regained her control and then followed the physical link of hand to hand into the depths of Jozan’s soul. It thrashed about in rage and despair. This was only Lisen’s third passing, the first being but a vague memory from a long time ago, while the Empir’s had been calm, a link Lisen had entered without any personal connection, without any sense of involvement. This one was different. With the ecstasy of the push, the rush of the kill, the euphoria of the victory still throbbing through her veins and leaving her shaking, no amount of breathing, no attempt at submergence in the task before her could still the thrill.

  She clenched her jaw and clamped down on her feelings, backing the physical into submission, silencing her mind’s cries so that she could fulfill this duty. All that mattered was Jozan, Jozan and her passing.

  She reached out to Jozan’s soul in turmoil and extended that same soothing influence which was working now for her. It demanded a stronger connection, and even though a little voice cautioned her this wasn’t safe, this was Jozan. Jozan who’d stood by her. Jozan, her first comrade in her new life. Jozan, so much like Betsy that Lisen truly felt as though she were losing her best friend—again. She embraced the soul of her friend and brought it closer to her own, even as that little voice tried to tell her it wasn’t safe. Still, in their companion fears and chaotic psyches, she allowed their souls to link as one, and Lisen welcomed the connection.

  Mated in tragedy, they became one, and Lisen began the task of guiding Jozan through famar. Once they neared the completion of the journey, Lisen would figure out how to extricate herself and allow Jozan to go. This close a bond was dangerous, or so the voice continued to warn her. But how else to soothe the entity now in her possession than to hold it as close as possible? How else to repay the sacrifice? Only a few brief moments—that was all—and then it would be over; no one need ever know.

  She rocked back and forth, not realizing she’d brought Jozan’s body into her arms just as she’d invited the soul into her embrace. She rocked and hummed a little lullaby, all the while oblivious to the physical realm and her actions within it. Jozan remained a to
rrent of confusion, and Lisen struggled to bring peace in the midst of conflict. So much to do, so far to go. But Lisen would not, could not fail.

  She jumped, eyes flying open, the physical intruding. Footsteps, not the captain’s, coming up the stairs, and the door stood open, a dangerous invitation. What if this spy had a partner? What if…? Lisen released Jozan’s body—allowing it to slip to the floor—and sprung erect. So drained she could barely focus on the wall in front of her, much less on an opponent, she knew she couldn’t fight again and expect to win. Running was her only option. The decree and the other documents lay strewn about the floor. She took only long enough to gather them all together and fold them sloppily into a manageable bunch, and then she made for the window. She already knew the roof of the building next door awaited her, a roof only a few feet below the floor on which she stood. She slipped out and landed there, saw the Riverside’s outside stairs a few feet away and took that route to avoid discovery. She had no idea where she was going, but as she ran, the Other who had tagged along guided her footsteps to the river and then up in the direction of the water’s source. Jozan’s soul was taking her home.

  Opseth’s eyes popped open, the dream, or whatever it may have been, still with her. She rose quickly from bed so as not to awaken Reger and padded down the hall to her private room. There she sat down and contemplated what she’d seen in the dream. Death, mayhem, and somehow it all centered around the necropath. Then, near the end, a familiar feeling, though unaccustomed when initiated by another.

  “Ah, little hermit. Enough power for the push? Much stronger than I thought.” She grinned. A worthy opponent at last. Or, perhaps, not opponent, but…? In time, in time.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  KORIN’S SACRIFICE

  Korin tried to keep things simple, and here was the simple. See Ariannas seated on the throne of Garla. Whatever else happened, that goal remained. The woman must be the next Empir of Garla, simple as that. Simple, indeed.

  He marched through the streets of Halorin, the slip of paper passed to him this morning by the innkeeper in his hand, considering what he was about to do. Palla had come. His friend had found a way to leave Avaret and come. Korin couldn’t tell him much, but he could enlist his aid, and that would be enough for now. Korin wished that when he’d invited Palla to meet him in Halorin, he would have also asked his friend to bring his malla, but he’d written his note in haste during the rush of getting away from Solsta Haven, and he’d left its contents brief and purposely vague. The malla, which he’d left behind in Avaret, had been forgotten in his note as well and would have to wait for him in his quarters until he returned to Avaret to claim it.

  Korin smiled. It would be good to see Palla again. Lenk Palla, who despised the first name given to him by a father he also despised, who allowed no one to call him by that name, ever. Loyal beyond reckoning, to friend as well as Empir, Palla might balk at first, but he didn’t like Ariel any more than Korin did. Korin didn’t think it would be too difficult to win his friend over, even if Korin couldn’t tell him everything. Palla had written to tell Korin to meet him in an old barn, a place where travelers often stabled their horses for a night or a week. An “hour past sunset,” he’d written on that note Korin now held in his hand, and Korin knew they’d both arrive early.

  Distracted by the coming reunion with Palla, at first he didn’t hear a sound that should have set off alarms in every atom of his body. He should have known immediately that there was someone behind him. He should have felt it and known he must act, but he’d allowed anticipation to override his good senses. Hence, he didn’t know he was being followed until the fool behind him tripped, making a noise loud enough to break through Korin’s reverie and alert him to the other’s presence.

  Korin didn’t stop. He showed no sign of having heard it. Instead, he kept walking as he planned what he must do. The footfalls behind him were so obvious he wondered how he’d missed them before. It wasn’t Palla trying to sneak up on him because Palla would have called out once he’d stumbled. No, this was someone intending harm, a spy sent by Ariel—or worse, by Holder Zanlot—to find out why the heir of Minol had not returned with the others from the Isle. Damn. What had made him believe they’d eluded detection? He dared not halt and confront this agent of the opposition until he had a plan and a place for its deployment. Thus, he continued to head for the stable while he foraged his mind for a strategy.

  First, he couldn’t count on Palla showing up in time to help. Korin knew he must prepare to handle this on his own.

  Second, stables tended to be messy, filled with all sorts of tools and gear, with stalls and their gates and the inevitable horses. Close quarters for a fight, but he’d fought in close quarters before.

  Third, no matter what happened, he knew his strengths. He relished a fight, welcomed it when need be. He’d experienced too little activity in the last week; training, at least for the trainer, was not activity.

  He walked down the short alley, listening as the one behind him slowed to match his pace. He’d lead this one into the stable, and there he’d turn and confront. He walked casually, carefree and calm, luring his prey, seducing it into believing he remained ignorant.

  He reached the stable—one familiar to him from past journeys through Halorin but not the one he’d chosen for them this time as it was a bit far from the Riverside—and he stepped through the slightly ajar door. Inside he found a smithy at work on shooing a horse tethered to a center pole, a couple of lanterns lit against the impending night hanging from the ceiling. He smiled at the smithy who looked up and smiled back.

  “Can I help you?” the smithy asked.

  “Yes,” Korin whispered, drew his knife and then ordered, “get out.” With a nod, the smithy dropped the iron he’d been forming into a shoe into the fire, and then the man disappeared out the back.

  Korin stood just inside the door, waiting, hardly breathing, and after a brief delay, the door squeaked open far enough for one person to slip through. Korin remained still as what turned out to be a well-dressed woman took two steps in, but luckily not far enough in to catch sight of him. He seized her from behind and placed the cold steel of his knife at her throat.

  “Drop your weapon,” he ordered, and she complied. “Now. Who are you, and why are you following me?”

  “I’m a friend of Heir Tuane’s. I was hoping you could tell me where I could find her.”

  He smiled to himself while tightening his hold on her. She might have made a fine spy if she’d possessed an ounce of finesse.

  “You’re lying.” He could sense her thinking, plotting, planning. He shifted to distract her. “Or maybe it’s not entirely a lie. Maybe you’re curious about what Heir Tuane is doing here in Halorin, but not because you’re her friend. You’re just someone’s lackey following orders.”

  “Well, that puts us both at the same disadvantage, now, doesn’t it. Because whatever it is you and Tuane are up to, she’s in charge, and you’re just a lackey following her orders.”

  “Strange as this may seem to you,” he replied, enunciating each word with calculated restraint, “following orders is a thing I’ve learned to enjoy and I do it well. Six years in the Guard does that to a person.”

  “But as a captain, you’re used to giving orders more often than taking them.”

  He laughed. She was going about this all wrong, but how could she know that? He had more control over his life than she could possibly fathom.

  “As a captain, I—”

  The horse suddenly pulled at its tether and distracted Korin. His hold on the woman loosened, and she slipped from his arms. Damn. Caught off guard, he’d failed to sense this coming, and he started towards her, thinking she’d run.

  But, no, she surprised him again. Instead of retreating, she turned to face him, a wicked weapon now in hand—the glowing hot iron the smithy had abandoned in the fire. If she connected with that, it would cause more harm than he was prepared to deal with, and it would smart like the Des
troyer as well.

  He settled into a defensive posture, knees bent for swift evasion, arms loose for any contingency. He sensed her desperation and considered how he could take advantage of that.

  Then the horse shifted once more, bumping into him, and his foot slipped ever so slightly. The woman used the second he took to recover to her advantage, striking out with the strength of one bent on survival, dealing him a heavy blow to the left side of his face.

  He didn’t register pain at first. He’d been hit hard enough to feel something, but he just didn’t. Puzzling, he thought, and then he realized something terrible had happened to him and that he’d better act now before his brain learned what it was. He lunged, marshaling all of his power to focus his attack on the fuzzy form seemingly weaving back and forth in front of him. He’d fought through injury before and he’d won; this woman would never prevail. His well-honed instincts took over, and he stabbed deep, up and into the woman’s left side, piercing her heart on the first thrust. As she slumped over and fell, struggling for her last breath, he withdrew the knife and felt the warm sticky blood begin pumping out of the wound like an undammed river in flux. Then he dropped to his knees, the pain settling upon him like hot lead. He couldn’t see a thing to his left, and as he drifted into the haze and eventual darkness of oblivion, he wondered absently why.

  “Korin. Korin!”

  And then the shaking.

  “Huh?” Korin couldn’t focus, but he recognized the voice. “Palla?” His own voice sounded weak. What had happened? He struggled to remember.

  “Thank the Creator. You run off on your own and look where you end up—flat on your back. At least your opponent got the worst of it.”