Fractured (Lisen of Solsta Book 1)

by D. Hart St. Martin

  “Lisen, honey. It’s time to get up. You’re going to be late.”

  It was Mom, yelling up the stairs. Lisen rolled over and tried to hide under the covers, but the memory of the dream shocked her fully awake. She sat up, eyes open to the hint of morning light sneaking through her well-shaded windows, and shivered. Wait until Betsy hears about this one, she thought.

  “Lisen, get down here!”

  “In a minute, Mom,” Lisen hollered back.

  She got out of bed, tried to find something on the floor worth wearing, discarding several items badly in need of laundering, finally discovering her favorite black sweater. She marveled at her breasts as she pulled off the raggedy T-shirt she’d slept in and pulled on the sweater. Boobs. I have boobs, she thought. It was a dream. After pulling on a pair of black tights, she grabbed her black and red miniskirt, admiring the rose-centered-pentagram tattoo on her lower back before pulling the skirt on. Then she checked herself out in the mirror on the closet door. She seemed unaffected by the dream-vision, just Lisen Holt again, bright copper hair in a ponytail—no sign of the wear and tear of weeks running and hiding and….

  And killing, she thought with a shiver. She was finding it difficult to shake the dream off, but the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs helped.

  “Lisen!”

  Lisen jumped back from the mirror with a gasp. As though she had materialized from the ether, Betsy stood at the open door, beckoning her. Lisen couldn’t recall hearing the door open.

  “You scared me,” Lisen said and playfully slapped Betsy’s arm.

  “You scare too easy,” Betsy commented.

  “What are you doing here?” Lisen asked.

  “Follow me.” Betsy turned and headed down the hall towards the stairs. Lisen had to trot to catch up.

  “I had this dream,” she said as Betsy started down the stairs. Betsy slowed down but didn’t stop.

  “And?”

  “I mean, I could write a book about it. If I don’t forget it all. I was in this magical land called Garla. I had these incredible psychic powers. And I was the ‘Empir,’ sorta like a queen or something. But I had to go through all sorts of stuff to become ‘Empir,’ like learning how to fight with a sword and a knife and running around and hiding from people. You were in it, or at least someone like you.” She didn’t add that that someone had gotten herself killed.

  “Sounds interesting,” Betsy replied offhandedly as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Lisen right behind her, both arriving in the kitchen where Daisy Holt was cooking the most elaborate breakfast Lisen had ever seen—pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy. All the aromas ran together, but all Lisen could smell was a fragrant flavored coffee she’d never smelled before.

  Lisen stopped at the kitchen door. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just her and Betsy, her mom and her dad. A bunch of her friends from school were there, even Rusty. And Ms. Amos, a teacher who’d mentored Lisen through trig last year. Now, that was really strange. They all stood around the kitchen island, talking about her. About me.

  “Hi, I’m here,” she said, wiggling her fingers in greeting. “Hello? Hi, it’s me…Lisen. I’m here now.” No one turned to look at her. “Hey, guys. I’m right here. Mom, I got a tattoo. Lied about my age…” She’d been sure her mom would react to that, but only Betsy turned to look at her.

  “They can’t hear you.”

  Lisen turned from Betsy and listened to what everyone was saying. “Do they have any idea what might have happened?” “What did the police say?” “Are they sure it was just an accident?” “She was such a great swimmer.”

  Lisen had trouble separating the words to keep the questions together. Her mom and dad looked sad but resigned. This was real. And not a month after the fact. This was a few days later, maybe a week. Everyone was dressed up, in subdued colors.

  “They’ve just come back from your memorial,” Betsy explained.

  “But I’m not dead,” Lisen whispered as she slid down the wall to land sitting on the floor. She continued to watch, the dialogue growing distant, incomprehensible, but the sense of mutual support between them all, these friends and faux relatives, shone like a full moon on a barren landscape. They grieved yet retained their hope, undoubtedly because Daisy and Simon Holt had set the tone; thanks to Eloise, the Holts knew she wasn’t really dead. My father’s wearing a tie, she realized. He never wears a tie.

  “I’m not dead.” This time she spoke to the group, begging them to hear her, but no one reacted. “I’m not dead,” she said softly, her voice breaking, her eyes filling with the tears she’d withheld so long, perhaps too long. “I’m not dead.” This time she could only mouth the words as she looked up at her mother, the mother who had given her everything that too-important-to-give-a-damn woman who had abandoned her to Solsta Haven had failed to provide. “Mom?” she mouthed, sobs pumping her lungs, all the wet and nasty stuff crying always did to her manifesting even though she finally knew this was the dream, not the other way around. “Daddy?”

  They couldn’t hear her, but they all heard the knock at the door. Her father excused himself and went to answer the door.

  As she considered this oddity, Lisen brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, holding them tightly to her body. She felt cold, inconsolable, desolate…dead. Her sobbing alternated with silent, breath-holding wails. She cried and cried, wishing she could hide from the hurt, keep it out, feel safe again.

  “I’m here,” Betsy said from beside and above her, and as Lisen’s old friend leaned down to reach out a hand, Lisen realized that Betsy waited with the others, not here with her. So who’s…? Lisen’s eyes followed the helping hand up the arm to the face that smiled, benevolent trouble still hinting at the eyes.

  “Jozan?” Lisen says, amazed, the kitchen scene slipping farther and farther from sight, everything stretching away as though she’s watching it through a lens zooming out, until she can no longer see much of anything, only darkness and Jozan.

  “You can’t know this, but you’ve been at this for three days,” Jozan says, pulling Lisen up as she speaks. “And now you’ve finally left your Betsy and come to me.”

  “It’s over?” Lisen asks. Somehow it doesn’t feel over.

  “No. No. Grief is never over. But there’s still our farewell, and you’re ready now.”

  Ready? Ready? Lisen doesn’t feel ready, but she doubts she ever really will. It’s time.

  Nalin opened his eyes to another dawn, to the beginning of the fourth day of waiting for a miracle that might never arrive. He sat up on the cot, muscles and joints protesting the humble accommodations. He’d been offered a visitor’s cell, but he couldn’t leave the girl alone in the infirmary.

  She lay right where he’d left her the night before, on the cot beside his—sleeping or comatose, he didn’t know. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed, and he had no reason to believe anything would be different today. On the road she had eaten sporadically, when the comra wore off and he could convince her to take a few bites of an apple or a bit of bread. When they’d first arrived here at Rossla, she’d been able to speak, but then she had lapsed into the state she remained in now, eating nothing, mute, staring at a world Nalin couldn’t see. He’d explained what had happened to Rossla’s necropath, revealing only those facts which related to the possession itself. If the necropath—Hermit Teran, the Master of Necropathy here at Rossla—discovered more in the link, his vow would keep him silent, whereas Nalin had no idea what rules applied to what a necropath learned outside the bonding.

  Within a few moments, Hermit Teran would arrive for his morning visit, sit down beside this girl who was a stranger to him and link with her in an effort to determine if it was finally time. Teran had tried to explain to Nalin something about the possessing soul first being contained within the confines of the trance. Hermit Teran had also warned Nalin that lacking training, Lisen was not likely to return to them intact. That was the only part Nalin had understood. It would
mean he’d failed the woman who had entrusted him with the task of making her hermit daughter into Empir. Worse, it would mean that although he might lose his life to Ariel, Lisen would have lost far more—everything that made her Lisen of Solsta. Better to die than that.

  The girl’s coma worried him more than anything at the moment, though. No one here had sedated her, and he’d given her no comra since their arrival. Hermit Teran had assured him this was normal, that she had gone inward to prepare for the loosening and eventual dispossession. But Nalin didn’t dare hope; he was sure she was slipping away permanently. Her skin had grown nearly translucent, except around the eyes where darkened circles made her look as though she’d gotten the worst of a fight. Hermit Teran could interpret the girl’s condition however he wished; Nalin knew Lisen was slipping away.

  He reached over and touched one of her hands. So cold! She seemed dead already, and he checked her chest in the pale light, praying he’d see it rise and fall. He sighed with relief; she still breathed.

  He took her left hand in both of his—flaccid, yielding, without warmth—and he ached for the promise unfulfilled. He ached for the girl more, though, and prayed to the Creators to show mercy on her. He traced her palm, then her fingers, and noticed that upon the middle finger she still wore the gold hermit band. That would have to go before she ventured into the desert. If she were able to venture into the desert. The Thristans hated all things magical and would never welcome the presence of a hermit in their midst. What else might make her vulnerable? Everything, it seemed to him at the moment. He and Rosarel would have to discuss this upon the captain’s return.

  Suddenly, without warning, the girl yelled out, and with tears flooding down her cheeks, she abruptly pulled her hand away from Nalin’s, sat up and backed away from him. She slipped off the other side of her cot and landed on the floor, sitting up. Nalin gasped, startled by movement after so many days of stillness, and she stared at him from across the bed, without recognition, tears flowing, her light green eyes glassy.

  “Who are you?” she croaked, her voice barely audible. She panted heavily.

  Nalin attempted to stand. He wanted to get to her, calm her somehow, but she scooted backwards, bare feet scuffling on stone, until her back hit the wall.

  “Please,” she begged. “Don’t…touch me.” Her eyes darted wildly about, her entire body tensed in anticipation of the attack he presumed she expected from him.

  “It’s all right,” he said softly, sitting down again, both his hands up, palms towards her, a gesture meant to assure her his hands were as close to her as they’d get.

  “No, no. Not all right.” She was talking very fast now, raving really, in that strange language he’d barely noticed until Rosarel had pointed it out to him. “Nothing’s all right. All right? I’m not one. I’m two, and there’s no way in hell that’s all right. I want to go home, but there’s no home for me. No home for either of me. Don’t you understand?’

  “Lisen, please….”

  “It’s time, Nal.”

  That was too clear, Nalin realized. “Jo?”

  “Get the necropath.”

  “But, Jo….”

  “I can’t hold on much longer.” The person Nalin believed was his old friend spoke through Lisen’s gritted teeth. “Get the damn necropath.”

  Nalin jumped up as though ordered and turned to leave.

  “Nal?”

  He halted but did not turn back.

  “She’s not a pawn, Nal. She’s a person.”

  He wasn’t sure what Jozan was trying to tell him. “Lisen?”

  “Yes, Lisen. Open up your heart for once in your life.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll try.” Then he stepped out the door without another word. With a hint of hope tinged with heavy regret, he suspected that those would be the last words he’d ever share with Jozan because, by the time he returned to see the girl, Jozan would be gone. As he closed the door, he heard the girl’s incoherent babbling resume.

  He looked up and down the corridor. The bell had rung ending meditation and calling the hermits to breakfast, so he set off towards the dining hall. Hermits dined in a silence accentuated only by the daily readings appropriate to the season and the clicking of wooden spoons against wooden bowls. Still, no one looked up from the rows of long tables and benches as he entered. He stood just inside the door and began searching for the necropath, his eyes sweeping the room. At least a hundred of them had gathered here, more, certainly, than at Solsta. He didn’t have to search long. Hermit Teran looked up, saw Nalin, rose from his place at the end of one of the tables and came to him. He took Nalin by the arm and led him from the room.

  “Is it time?” the hermit asked.

  “Yes,” Nalin replied. “At least that’s what she said.” Nalin didn’t care which “she” the necropath assumed had said it. That was irrelevant now.

  “Finally.” And Hermit Teran headed off down the hall, Nalin following after. When they reached the door to the infirmary, the necropath stopped and turned, confronting Nalin. “You must wait elsewhere.”

  “I’m staying here with her.”

  “No. You must go. I’ll send someone to find you when it’s finished.”

  Nalin stood, stupefied, as the necropath opened the door, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. I’m a holder, damn it. How dare he? There’s more at stake than…. I should have insisted on him telling me how committed he was to his vows of confidentiality. But, no…. Instead, powerless, he’d been exiled from the infirmary. Now it was up to this master, the girl and the wayward soul of his old friend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  HEALING IN THE LETTING GO

  The door slammed shut behind Nalin, and Lisen—still crying on the floor—began babbling through her tears and runny nose. She spoke to the empty room and to the one, the one inside, the one always looking backward, always backward, never forward.

  “Expecting to leave?,” Lisen demanded to know of her infernally eternal companion. “Forget it. We’re stuck with each other.” Lisen turned her head back and forth, looking for…looking for…for…. She didn’t know what she was looking for. “Left it behind. All behind. The fifth Cylon. Beethoven’s Ninth. The rest of the Harry Potter movies.” The words spewed out faster than light. “I never got to say ‘good-bye.’ Should have said ‘good-bye.’ Not just ‘later.’ I left for the beach and never said good-bye.” She shook her head—nothing around to look for, nothing but dreams and fantasies.

  “I won’t go back. I can never go back. Enchantment and a lie, but no beginning. Disenchantment and another lie, and no ending.” She began to cry. “No ‘farewell’ for Lisen Holt. You got to say good-bye to your friend.”

  “Are you finished?” Jozan asked.

  Lisen scooted back into the corner of the room, away from the bed—nowhere else to go—and thought, “You can understand all that?”

  “Of course. I just get thoughts with meaning.”

  “It’s easier,” Lisen said out loud. “I don’t have to think as hard in English. But I have to stop. That’s over and I have this destiny to fulfill and a thousand things to do before that. That other life is gone.

  “No.” She shook her head. “No. It’s not gone. I’m full of all this stuff, all these memories. But I’m here now, and I have to be this…this…freaking Empir because my brother is a prick. Have to take over from him. Don’t know how. I’m no fighter. Killed that guy in Halorin but that was nothing. Just instinct….” She finally paused for breath. “And that awful thing.

  “Jesus, I pushed him.” Lisen said, her voice now hushed. “I pushed him. Don’t remember much from before, but I do know that pushing is bad.”

  “It’s a hard lesson,” Jozan thought.

  “What’s that?” Lisen asked silently.

  “That sometimes the only way to win is to descend to the level of your opponent.”

  “But it’s wrong.” Lisen brought her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
She wore a sleeping gown but couldn’t remember changing into it. Someone undressed me, she thought, panicked. Did they see my tattoo?

  “Not while I was watching,” Jozan replied. “And don’t change the subject.”

  “What subject?”

  “Sinking to the level of your brother?”

  “You said ‘opponent,’” Lisen reminded Jozan.

  “Your brother is your opponent,” Jozan countered.

  “But how could I possibly…?”

  “You may not have a choice,” Jozan replied reluctantly.

  I can’t, Lisen thought. I’m just a kid. Kids in the ’hood kill people, not a kid from Woodland Hills. It’s too much. Dead people, lost people, kingdoms or whatever to be ruled. If I don’t let Jozan go, I’ll be free of all that. I’ll stay here, at Rossla, content in my catatonia, fed, taken care of, watched over. Soon it’ll be too late, and I’ll be free.

  “That’s not freedom,” Jozan argued. “Besides, I already told Nalin it’s time. The necropath is coming. You have things to do, and so do I.”

  “No,” Lisen protested aloud. “I was going to graduate next year, go to college, maybe become a doctor like my mom. Get out on my own, find out who I am. Maybe go totally Goth. Dye my hair black, get a few more tattoos.” She paused. “Like that’s going to happen now.

  “You have to defeat your brother.”

  “No. No.” Lisen shook her head in defiant denial. “I can’t. I can’t. He destroys without caring. That’s what everybody says.”

  “And everybody’s right,” Jozan replied.

  “And you tell me I have to become that to win? There must….” Lisen’s words drifted into nothingness.

  “…be a better way?” Jozan asked. “Maybe. Maybe you’ll figure it out. I hope you do. But if you don’t, why die a hero if that’s all you accomplish? Better to survive with the villain inside you, awake and aware, than to lose your life and the battle to a villain whose arena you refuse to compete in.”