Tainted (Lisen of Solsta Book 2)

by D. Hart St. Martin

  “You have power, too, but not enough to keep me out indefinitely. I will get in because I’m not bound by a hermit’s vows. I will find the key to everything you know, and then I’ll know it, too.”

  “Yes, I understand your status as a rogue,” Eloise stated flatly. The woman stood in front of her, above her, while Eloise remained committed to the bench.

  Opseth turned away, headed toward the sconce. “Did I express my condolences for your loss when I was here last?” She spoke with her back to Eloise. She grabbed the torch, then turned around. “Oh, I suppose I didn’t. My sympathies. I hear your niece was much loved.” She took the two steps to the door, pounded on it and yelled out, “I’m done now!”

  Eloise nodded to herself. Apparently an exploratory mission only—this time. Then the watcher was gone, leaving Eloise alone, the door locked firmly behind her, and Eloise rediscovered the gift of breath. She, too, had explored and had found an arsenal of magic in the watcher’s stronghold. Well, she had known it would be difficult, but her survival was in more jeopardy than she had originally assumed.

  She stood up, and when her head began to spin, she reached out one hand to the wet, mold-saturated wall of stone to keep her balance. She must survive. She would survive. Without her, Lisen would be broken by this watcher before she could ever challenge her brother. She must survive. She sat down on the bench. Two months. Only two months. She could get through that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THRISTAS RISING

  Dawn on the desert. Was there any time, any place as entrancing, as mystifying, as humbling as this moment when the sands were as cool as they would ever be and the soul celebrated its union with Mantar, Maker and Destroyer of all? Korin couldn’t believe anything greater than this existed.

  The Heir of Garla rode beside him, and they would continue to ride into the day until they reached Mesa Terses, only another hour or so away. Then they could rest, in his quarters. The young woman here beside him didn’t know about his quarters within the mesa. In fact, she didn’t know much, but soon that would have to change. He’d lived an implied lie most of his life; time to expose the truth.

  “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” she said.

  He turned to her and saw her eyes, the color of the ocean under a warm sun, glowing in the broadening light of coming day. It occurred to him once again—the malla augmenting his mind and senses—that the Maker had offered him an incredible opportunity. At last, an Empir who will understand the desert. If he didn’t bungle the opportunity.

  “Indeed,” he commented and then waited as she continued to absorb the glory. The more she came to on her own—the less he forced on her—the greater the gain for them all.

  “Simple, majestic.” She spoke with awe.

  “Serving on the Rim, I came to know it well.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He quieted the urge to tell her now. He would, in time, explain his reasons for his deceptions all these years, but first, he had to convince her of the wonder of this place. Malleable, open to the new, giving herself over to his training, could she be the Empir to free the desert?

  No fantasies. He must maintain the discipline. His. Hers. For now, no hopes, no dreams. Their survival here depended on it.

  “What will happen once we arrive?” she asked.

  “I have quarters there, from a time when I was assigned as an envoy.”

  “You mean as a spy, don’t you?” she snapped.

  He didn’t like her tone. He’d heard her talk back like this under the pressure of their training sessions, but never in normal conversation. He wondered what fueled the sudden spitefulness but chose not to react to it. He simply nodded and replied, “Well, yes, but these people are too wise to be spied on. So I altered my mission, learned all I could, but openly. They accepted me and allowed me to keep my quarters when I left. For whenever I might return.”

  “And now you return,” she commented, and he saw questions in her eyes. She claimed she couldn’t read a person’s thoughts, but her powers of perception and analysis would have served her well if she had become a member of the Guard.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’ll leave you in my little cave while I go seek out the Elders. I’ll tell them our story, request their acceptance into the Tribe, and we will move on from there.”

  “I thought you’d already—”

  “I never made it all the way out here. I ran into a friend and ended up at Pass Garrison.” He lied because this truth was not open to revelation. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. By the time they’re prepared to decide whether or not to officially accept us, we’ll be leaving anyway.”

  She nodded. “Do you think they’ll accept me?” she asked, her tone softer.

  “Given enough time they would, but the month or two we’ll be there won’t be anywhere near enough.”

  She said nothing more. It was a hermit thing, he suspected, this ability to take the moment at its word. It allowed her to leave the past behind, to withdraw from theories best abandoned. He marveled yet again at the potential that lay within her.

  Within the hour, as anticipated, they arrived at Mesa Terses, retrieved their baggage from their horses, then passed the horses on to the wrangler at the mesa’s base. Then Korin led Lisen up the narrow tunnel. He held her hand, and she allowed him to guide her in the dark of the tight passage.

  He listened closely to her breathing, the revealer of all in the absence of sight, but he heard nothing indicative of fear or distrust as they made their way up inside the mesa. She either possessed incredible self-control or had truly surrendered to her fate. He reminded himself that he should make no assumptions, that anything he came up with only simplified the reality of a very complex young woman. The one assumption he did allow himself to make was that this Heir to Garla, like anyone, would do exactly what she was meant to do, what she was capable of doing, nothing more and nothing less.

  They reached the first living level, and the dim light of one torch on the wall broke the darkness in which they’d made their ascent from the desert’s floor. He turned to look at her and caught her blinking, taking in what must, to her eyes, seem a strange world of passageways and chambers hewn from the rough rock.

  “My place is here.” And he pulled back the curtain from the entry and waited for her as she entered slowly. Then he grabbed one of the unlit torches from the bucket beneath the lit one, set it ablaze and carried it into the small chamber where Lisen awaited him. With the advent of light, she looked around the little cave—at its one pallet on the floor, the covered basket in one corner, the woven hanging of a sunset on the wall above the pallet—and she dropped her satchel on the ground, turned and looked at him with a sly smile.

  “We’ll be sharing a blanket?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she nodded towards the humble bedding, as neat as the day he’d left here. Someone had been keeping his chamber clean, and absently he wondered who though he thought he knew.

  “For appearance sake, we’ll share the pallet. Nothing more,” he pronounced firmly. He felt her watching him as he set down the bag he carried in one hand and the swords he’d brought with them in the other—both his and the royal sword he’d kept for Lisen while she’d been healing. “I will be back,” he told her and then he slipped out into the passage without another word. He had to find one of the Elders, preferably either Hozia or, better still, Tronin. He headed up through the passageway, towards the mesa’s crown, where the Elders’ Chamber had been carved from the rock centuries ago.

  He was tired. He hadn’t realized how very tired until now. Why, he didn’t know. He’d been involved in more ambitious and longer-lasting missions than this one in his few years in the Guard. He’d made ritual entry into the Tribe under more difficult circumstances than this, and he had the scars to prove it.

  He rubbed his forehead and felt the supreme weariness of bone and sinew. He’d suffered a catastrophic loss in Halorin, and the strap around his head reminded him of that now. The wound was healing well, and
he had survived worse. Yet, as hard as he tried, he could not step beyond the loss of sight. He had the other eye. He was adjusting. But he would forevermore bear a disadvantage in any fight, and no amount of adjustment could ever completely obliterate that fact.

  He shook his head as he continued his ascent. Regrets were pointless. He’d missed the move that had stolen half his sight, but he would miss others if he allowed remorse over what had happened in the past to distract him from the present.

  He slipped through the curtain at the door to enter the Elders’ Chamber. Tradition demanded that he honor those who served here in this place with the ritual bowing, from the waist—first left, then right, then center. Then he stepped to the middle of the room, to the middle of the meeting place of those who led the Tribe. A lone figure sat on the stone bench which circled the wall, carved from the rock, and he rose as Korin bowed directly to him.

  “Elder Tronin,” Korin said in Thristan, and after all these years, his mind returned to it with ease.

  “Korin Rosarel. Word reached me only a few moments ago that you’d returned. I did not believe it. Yet, here you are.”

  Tronin was the eldest of the Elders. He had, in fact, been an Elder for nearly as long as Korin could recall, and little about him had changed over the years, save for the color of his hair which had finally surrendered its deep brown to the encroachment of aging’s grey.

  “Yet, here I am,” Korin replied.

  “I thought you’d made the Guard your home, just like your mother.”

  “I thought I had, too.”

  “You rode in with a companion. Where is she?” The old man studied Korin closely, and, knowing the Elder would miss nothing, Korin fought the urge to squirm. He had not stood in the presence of one worthy of reverence in a very long time. “No. First tell me. What happened to your eye?”

  “A recent injury. The other one still works.”

  “And your companion?”

  “She still has both her eyes.” Korin smiled and Tronin laughed.

  “Humor out of tragedy. You’ve matured, Young One. Come. Sit with me.” Tronin rose, came to Korin, then led him back to the bench where Korin sat down with him. “Now tell me. Why have you returned to us?”

  “Because there’s a new Empir, and I cannot serve him.”

  “Ah, yes. Ariel. We hear bad things already.”

  “And you’ll hear more, I fear.”

  “And your companion?”

  Korin had avoided it once; he couldn’t slip out of an answer again. “My companion is a recent recruit. I was her trainer, and when I chose to leave, we couldn’t bear to part. Hence, she came with me.”

  “Ah.”

  “We hope to join soon.” Korin spun the lie hoping that the Elder wouldn’t see the flaws within the weave.

  “Well then, you’ve come at a good time.”

  “How so?” Korin asked, some misplaced memory hinting on the edge of revelation. It felt anything but pleasant.

  “Have you forgotten? Evenday’s nine days away.”

  Korin masked his reaction. Damn, he had forgotten. On Spring’s Evenday, or, more accurately, Evennight, the Tribe celebrated fertility—of their meager crops, of their trade of malla and other products Garlans desired, of their livestock or what there was of it, and, most importantly, of the People. They called upon those who had recently joined or who anticipated joining to present themselves to Mantar for the Choosing. Their symbolic gesture and the subsequent mating of the couple singled out would hopefully ensure the Tribe’s fertility for another year. A bulging pouch within a couple of months and a baby by autumn’s Evenday gave hope for the entire year. Korin’s loyal-guard stomach twisted at the implications.

  “I’m not sure we’re ready for that yet.” It took everything he had to maintain his calm. “We only first shared our feelings a few weeks ago.”

  “But how better to test her willingness to become one with us?”

  “It’s not a case of testing her, Elder.”

  “You hesitate, but you know how it works. If the time is right for you, Mantar will bless you. If it is not right, you will not be chosen.”

  The blood coursing through Korin’s veins insisted he run, but he fought it, choosing instead a course of self-condemnation. How could he have forgotten? He knew exactly what time of year it was. As they’d traveled in the dark, he’d thanked Mantar that the desert floor had not yet turned so hot it never cooled down at night. How had he forgotten that in spring on Evenight the Tribe expected all the young couples of the mesa to expose themselves to the potential of Mantar’s kiss, to the Bond of the Farii? If he had remembered, he would have come up with a very different story, a story that would have made it possible for him to tell the Elder no. And how was he supposed to explain all this to Lisen? To the Heir-Empir for whom he was responsible?

  “Korin,” Elder Tronin said, interrupting Korin’s thoughts, “you come to us after years away and ask us to trust not only you but your Garlan friend as well. But when asked to assure us with participation in a ritual, an invitation that you should welcome, you grow coy, refuse to accept.”

  “Forgive me for failing to be clear. I have not refused to accept. I cannot accept until I’ve discussed it with her.”

  “All right then, but be sure she understands how much depends on this.”

  “I will do my best, Elder.” He rose and backed away, bowing as he exited through the curtained doorway. He grabbed the torch he’d left burning in the sconce at the chamber’s door, and once free of the chamber, he stopped in the passageway, leaning up against the wall. His breath came in fast spurts, a sign of his distress. He’d brought her here, had assured her she’d be safe. Now, somehow, he’d have to find a way to convince her to participate in a ritual which could place her at risk, and her life might not be the highest price. Damn. Even new recruits could assess risk better than this.

  He slowed his breathing, restoring calm. It was done now. No going back. If she said no, they’d have to leave. The Tribe would never accept them without this. He’d placed too much confidence in his plan, and instead of heading over to Pass Garrison to procure some malla, he should have come here, as he’d told Holder Corday he would. If he had, he never would have escorted the Heir into this flirtation with disaster because he would have known, would have remembered the time of year and what came to pass at this time of year. He would have camped out with her in the mountains until the Tribe’s hunger for fertility was satisfied and then brought her into the desert, telling her some convincing story explaining the delay. Now…well now, the truth was the only way. All of this truth, he decided.

  He started down the passageway again and immediately found himself confronted by a figure in the shadows.

  “Korin.”

  He recognized the voice. Deeper, older, but still he knew. “Ondra.”

  “Korin-the-Garlan-guard-Rosarel,” she said, and this time she stepped into the light of his torch. She’d grown up since he’d last seen her seven years ago. She stood before him, long and lean, and she grinned. Her golden hair, considered odd by Thristan standards, glowed in the flickering torch light. “You’ve been gone too long, Korin.”

  “Too long?” He couldn’t imagine what she meant. They’d been playmates as children, good friends as they grew up, but was she implying that she’d missed him? He doubted that.

  “Too long to reclaim me,” she explained. “I’m with Rika now. We joined three months ago.”

  “Congratulations.” Rika had also been his friend, but when Korin had left Thristas, he’d never expected to return, at least not until he’d grown too old to continue serving in the Guard. That two of his childhood companions had come together seemed irrelevant, yet for a reason that eluded him, Ondra had sought him out. “But if you’ll excuse me, I have a situation that needs attending.” He had to get back to the Heir, find a way to break the news. This delay made him nervous.

  “Oh, by all means, see to your situation.”

  “What�
��s wrong with you, Ondra?” he asked.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she countered.

  “Someone told you I was back, and you rushed up here to see me.”

  She laughed, and he remembered that her lusty laugh had always made him smile. “You think I climbed all the way up here for you?” She laughed again. “I’m here to discuss Evenday with Elder Tronin. You always were a fool, Korin. A self-important fool. I told you. I’m with Rika now.”

  “Then I will leave you to your discussion,” Korin said and started to step past her. She stopped him with the palm of her hand to the opening of his pouch, and he discovered that she could still thrill him.

  “I do love the eye patch, though. It suits you,” she whispered in his ear, then dropped her hand and let him go.

  He moved too quickly down the tunnel. He knew she knew that she had breached his walls. He pulled up after he’d gotten far enough away that she couldn’t see him anymore and leaned against the tunnel’s stony face. He rubbed his forehead where the strap chafed, took a deep breath and then pushed off from the wall to head back down to confront the Heir.

  He found her asleep when he returned to his chamber. He wished he could let her rest and not begin this discussion until later, but Tronin would be waiting for an answer. He sat down cross-legged on the floor beside the thin mattress of straw on which she slept and touched her shoulder lightly.

  “Lisen,” he whispered. She stirred. “Lisen?” This time he spoke a bit louder, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Yes?” She rubbed her eyes and rose up far enough to lean back on her elbows. “What is it?”

  “We have a situation.”

  “A ‘situation’?” she asked, squinting at him. “Would you care to elaborate on that?” She sat fully up, aware now, he believed, that this would be a difficult conversation.