Tainted (Lisen of Solsta Book 2)

by D. Hart St. Martin

  Beside him, Lisen’s breath caught. Nothing in her limited realm of experience in the haven could have prepared her for this. If she had even once expressed horror or fear, he would have understood, but she hadn’t. She had embraced the Farii with apparent enthusiasm.

  Of course, she’d asked too many questions, but she’d never asked if there were a way to avoid this. She had accepted her role as his potential spouse and everything that came with it. She had given her all to gaining the acceptance of the Tribe and to her training in the jalil. Was it the discipline of a hermit that allowed her to separate herself from fear? That didn’t smell right to him. Something else moved within her, and that something—that unpredictable something—had come to entrance him.

  The manta kept returning to their side of the semicircle. It would slither away, then very quickly sidle back, looking at him, then at Lisen. Was the snake actually considering them? Why would Mantar choose a half-Thristan man and a full-Garlan woman over Ondra and Rika or any of these other Thristan warriors? Not a one of them carried the roundness which abundant water had produced in himself and the Heir. They’d lost some of it in their week and a half here, but they remained water-fat and certainly anything but suitable candidates.

  And then…the manta chose.

  Me?

  Korin knew in the single heartbeat before it launched. He saw it in the eyes. They narrowed in on his single eye and froze there. With animal prey, that stare momentarily paralyzed and was followed quickly by the strike. He sensed the attention of everyone else focused on the serpent and its quarry. They all knew now as well. He wanted to turn and remind Lisen of their agreement, but not until the others had left them, and by then it might be too late. Why? Why would Mantar choose the least worthy of all of them? And as all this ran through his mind, still the manta stared.

  “You care,” Korin heard in his mind. “You care about her.”

  His “no” came out more of a moan.

  “You care and desire. You’re the one.”

  After an eternity of waiting in the course of one breath, the manta moved in a whoosh. It rose up with smooth fluidity and launched itself at Korin’s chest. Korin gasped as the fangs broke through kashir and undershift, connected with skin and embedded themselves in the flesh there. He turned to his right, to Lisen, who stared at him, her light eyes igniting, her entire being catching fire before him. The others rose to take their leave; he knew this only as a passing thought while his attention centered on the two pricks on his chest and on their burning. Far away a voice spoke. Female, he thought. Not Lisen. This one speaks in Thristan. Ondra.

  “A curse on you, you Garlan traitor, and on your Garlan enchanter as well.” Ondra’s voice was quickly hushed, and the finality of the sound of the slamming trapdoor in the distance silenced all but the presence of the one left behind with him.

  The venom swirled swiftly through his veins making it harder and harder to focus on this woman who, with her glowing, braided hair, grew to resemble more and more one of his own the longer he stared. She moved, reached out, and he saw the serpent in her hands. Illusion, he thought. The venom plays its tricks. Soon he-as-Korin would all but disappear, replaced by Mantar in the guise of Maker, his mission to fertilize the earth in the form of the woman before him. She would retreat, defeat his purpose. They’d agreed, hadn’t they? The venom might weaken him, but she would maintain the promise they’d sworn to one another.

  He gazed on her, felt her presence more acutely than he’d felt anyone’s presence before. She approached him. Why would she…approach…him? So close, he could see the freckles lightly dusted across her nose. So close, her exposed pouch called out to him. So close, he could smell her…desire. Damn, he couldn’t think.

  “I love you,” he murmured in desperation and realized, as he spoke, it was true. This crazy, funny hermit, now Heir-Empir, had secretly plucked the soul from his heart. His thoughts squirmed like pilet, the tiny worms that thrived in the sand. Warm flesh neared his flesh, and then consciousness failed.

  Lorain pushed her way past the guard at the old palace entry, turned to her right, grabbed a torch from the wall and strode so swiftly that she almost ran the few steps down to her quarters. Damn him! Damn him! She had actually believed Ariel was about to propose when he scooted in closer to her at the table and let his voice go all soft and seductive. It was time, wasn’t it? A joining to follow his throning at the next Council session? She slammed the door to her chamber shut behind her, set the torch in a wall sconce and plopped down in the first chair she came to.

  The gall, she thought. She pulled the ring off her middle finger and flung it across the room. A lovely little ring, worth almost nothing, signifying even less. “It belonged to my mother,” he’d said. As though that somehow made it special. No, it just made it another one of those things he couldn’t wait to get rid of. Look at what he’d done to that antechamber upstairs, appropriating works of art from various areas downstairs, places where many of those pieces had hung or stood on display for generations, all for his personal pleasure—not for appreciation of the art itself, but for the simple fact that he could. What a child. What a damn child!

  She felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks. I’m crying. She stood up and stomped into her bedchamber. She grabbed the first piece of cloth she could find—a used towel that had probably lain on the floor for days if not weeks—and blew her nose. I don’t cry. Must be the damn pouching.

  She touched her pouch, seeking confirmation of that theory, which of course she didn’t find. Barely a bulge, nothing really. But every time the thing suckled, she grew so aroused she could barely stand it. It wasn’t suckling right now, but it wouldn’t be long before it began again. In the meantime, she was crying, and she never cried. Ariel may have given her a cast-off piece of jewelry instead of asking her to join with him, but she should be reveling in her anger, not succumbing to tears and sniffling.

  She stood up straight and looked into her mirror. She pouted at her reflection. Puffy eyes. She took a few deep breaths, patted the swollen tissue around her eyes to urge the puffiness to settle down, then straightened her tunic and fluffed her hair. This was frivolous and uncalled for. She would not allow his inappropriate behavior to affect her. Her place was assured. She patted her pouch. The tiny suckling thing there would not fail her.

  She returned to her office, found the ring where it had landed behind her desk, picked it up and put it on. It was a token; that’s how she would think of it. A hint of things to come. A gold ring with a simple light blue-green stone—Ariel had called it a seastone—and she believed he was right. Then she grabbed the torch and left her quarters, and as she reached the old palace entry, she returned the torch to its accustomed sconce. She stepped out, but the guard behind her stopped her.

  “My lord, may I escort you back?”

  She paused. This young woman had just offered her more kindness than Ariel ever had, or ever would, all in a few words. She turned back.

  “No need, Sergeant,” Lorain replied. “You mustn’t leave your post.”

  The guard nodded, and Lorain headed back out across the plaza, returning to where she belonged, to the bed she shared with the Empir of Garla.

  The night of all nights, Eloise thought. Evennight when everything shifts. Here in Garla, spring’s Evennight celebrated the return of warmth and light and plenty. In Thristas, it was different. She knew a little about the Thristan ritual—the Farii, she believed they called it. She’d seen it in her visions though she’d never intruded on the intimacy, only its consequences. Whether Lisen and the captain would deal with the outcome together or apart still remained a mystery, but the probability that they would face it rather than running from it was fairly well set. Eloise knew she could leave it be. The future had finally settled into inevitability.

  Across the plaza, her brother and her niece along with Holder Corday shared a quiet holiday. She knew this only because Nalin’s invitation to the dinner had come this morning before he’d retir
ed to his own quarters to rest from the long ride back from Rossla. What Eloise had been able to see had been hazy, but the holder’s anticipation of a celebratory night had risen out of the family-induced fog, allowing her to know the remnants of her family were here and safe.

  Upstairs in the Keep, the man who thought himself Empir had just finished presenting Lorain Zanlot with a disappointing present, not the proposal she had expected. There would be no union for them. Consumed with the plotting intended to forever secure him a throne that would never be his, Ariel would put off too long making an offer that he could never fulfill.

  He thought himself clever, with his pouched lover and the watcher he could set on his enemies, but those two were the clever ones. His cunning lay in his ability to attract two such wise women who did all they could to keep him contentedly in check. And in a very few moments, the watcher would arrive for Eloise’s part in this night’s festivities. She could never see herself well—in fact, not really at all—but she would keep the watcher focused here on Avaret and away from out there in the desert.

  Eloise sat very still, breathed deeply, slowly, buried all these and any related thoughts under a veil of disorder and chaos. The longer she could keep the watcher working on her, the longer Lisen remained safe.

  At the sound of the key in the lock, Eloise sat up straighter on her little wooden bench and steeled herself. She’d suffered the pain of the news the woman had brought on her first visit—the news of Jozan’s murder—and figured that only a few more such surprises were available for manipulation and didn’t seem likely any time soon. Right now, her brother and niece were safely sharing an Evennight meal with Corday and presumably in no immediate danger.

  The door to her cell creaked open, a victim to the damp like herself. The woman, Opseth, stood just outside, dropped the key to the cell into a pocket in her tunic and entered with a torch in one hand and a small stool in the other. It was a bold gesture. If Eloise had been so inclined, she could have attempted to wrest the key from her, but she was not so inclined, and doubtless this Opseth knew that all too well. Eloise did not rise.

  “Hermit Eloise,” Opseth said, “good to see you well.”

  Eloise refused to surrender to her fury. Once she gave in, the watcher would have her, heart and soul. So she smiled and said, “With no thanks to my lodgings.”

  “Ah,” Opseth replied, setting the stool down just beyond arm’s distance from where Eloise sat. “That is something over which I have no control.”

  “I imagine there is little that falls into that category. You seem like a woman with everything under control.”

  “I do my best.” She sat down on the stool. “Now, let us see what is in that mind of yours. Our Empir has need of information that he and I both believe you possess.” She closed her eyes.

  Now would be the time, Eloise thought. She’s let down her guard, physically. But how far could I get? She let thoughts of freedom dominate all others in her mind as she prepared for Opseth’s mental onslaught.

  The rogue watcher attacked with dominance and strength. At first Eloise felt as though she’d been thrown back by the force of the blow, but she managed to push back and regain some ground little by little. They struggled like two antlered bucks over a fertile doe, but in this case the doe was the necropath, and Opseth wanted her name, her location, even the nature of her importance to the Empir’s destiny.

  The watcher stopped. She continued to hold Eloise at bay, but she simply ceased trying to force her way in any further. Eloise knew the woman hadn’t given up, that only her first method of attack had proven, for the moment, unproductive. Eloise firmed up her wall of confusion and waited. The respite, as expected, was short-lived.

  This time, the rogue began systematically seeking out the breach, the gap, however small, that would gain her access to what lay beneath. Eloise had sealed all the cracks she’d found, but what about the small, unrecognized one she’d surely missed? What about the seals themselves? No doubts, she told herself and held firm.

  Opseth worked like a sniffing dog, seeking, seeking, forever seeking. She denied defeat; the hound on the hunt for prey would not allow it. If an opening existed, she would find it, and Eloise closed her eyes and tried to add more layers to her shield. She also prepared to jettison all knowledge, leave her mind a blank if necessary. That would be the last desperate move in a game with many less desperate moves yet left to play before it.

  For nearly an hour, Ariel’s watcher snuffled through the grass that symbolized Eloise’s defenses but never got the scent. In the end, she spat on the floor and got up from the stool. Eloise opened her eyes, still not daring to breathe normally.

  “You’re strong,” Opseth said, “I’ll give you that.” She sighed. “Not that I didn’t already know it. Our Empir will be disappointed, but he doesn’t understand the delicacy of these matters. I know more about your little friend than I’ve told him. I believe I know, in general of course, where she is. And I will tell him, but you have the key to the entirety of this matter. I’d rather I knew what you knew before I tell him what I know.”

  Eloise attempted a smile but felt it melt from her lips. The damn watcher had used more power than she’d realized, and it had taken every weapon she had to fend her off.

  “I will be back,” Opseth continued. “And in the meantime, I will continue to work on your weak little friend. She’ll likely succumb long before you do.” She pulled the key from her pocket, stepped over to the door, unlocked it, grabbed the torch, and after setting the stool down outside, she closed the door behind her and locked it.

  Eloise sat for a long time absorbing the watcher’s last words. Lisen was strong, stronger than the woman realized. But that was not the most important gem of wisdom gleaned from this experience. The woman was going to focus her energy on Lisen and leave Eloise behind. That mustn’t happen. But how to stop it?

  A headache began to bloom. Too much shielding and now far too much reflection. She hardly slept, thanks to the pitiful accommodations, but sleep she must or she would never be able to continue. She wondered if, perhaps, she should have retreated from these events before ever attempting to manipulate them. Maybe the hermit sooths were right when they vowed never to interfere.

  She waved a hand, dismissing the thought. So long ago now. An eternity really. She must accept the present for what it was, the irrevocable act nearly consummated now. She might hold some dominion over future events, but the past was forever inviolate.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE MORNING AFTER

  Lisen stood, arms crossed over her chest to combat the chill, the embroidered kashir billowing in the predawn breeze, and stared out to the east where the barest glow hinted at the horizon. Between her and that horizon stood the other mesas of Thristas where, she imagined, couples like herself and Korin would soon rise and return to their tribes to offer the hope of fertility.

  Soon, she thought. Soon, it would be morning. Soon, Korin would emerge from his stupor. Soon, she’d know what he remembered, and then she’d decide what to do.

  She had agreed if he were chosen—no, she’d promised if he were chosen—that she would move away, far away from him, in order to maintain the physical distance dictated by their rankings in the hierarchy that was Garla. But this wasn’t Garla. And she didn’t give a damn about hierarchy. She was Lisen, the Valley Girl, eighteen years out and done with being dictated to. She smiled, her arms keeping her trembling mind, body and soul in check, and the dry air whipped its way around her.

  Last night, she’d watched the manta choose Korin, and then she’d watched as he’d succumbed to its venom, all the while envying him for the loosening of his inhibitions produced by the snake’s toxin. After all the others had left—Ondra cursing Korin in Thristan, Lisen assumed, as she departed—the manta had attempted to slither off, but Lisen had reached out and grabbed it. She had offered herself in surrender to the Farii, choosing to follow her captain on the inward journey. At least that’s what she had hoped as
she held the snake to her exposed neck and chest.

  In the end, though, she hadn’t journeyed nearly as deep as he had. Perhaps the snake had purged itself of most of its poison before injecting her. Perhaps her damn gifts had protected her from the venom’s worst effects. Perhaps she was just not as affected by this particular toxin. It didn’t matter. She had remained unremittingly aware while Korin had appeared to lose all sense of self. But not before….

  The wind swelled around her as the memories flowed through her mind in wisps and tendrils, the glow in the east ever expanding.

  She had felt something from the serpent’s sting. Within seconds of bringing the snake up to her neck and feeling its fangs relieve themselves into her veins, an overwhelming sense of calm and readiness had flowed into her, and the world around her had begun to vibrate. Her skin had tingled, and even the slightest movement of air had sent chills up and down her spine. Still, she would have withheld herself from him had he not spoken.

  “I love you,” he’d said. Or maybe she’d dreamed it. He’d reached out to her. Had she dreamed that, too? She would have turned away, truly. Yet he’d reached out again, and she’d ceased resisting.

  At first, Korin had said nothing as she had slipped out of the kashir and then the undershift. He’d watched and had said nothing. But when she’d sat down again in front of him, naked and afraid, yet fearing nothing, he had touched the tight little mouth of her pouch and said, “I am the Maker come to sow the field.” She’d squirmed at his touch. “I am the Destroyer, the end of innocence.” And then she had realized why what he’d said, how he’d said it, seemed so strange. It was the tone. His voice had gone all deep and rough, not Korin’s voice at all. That, and the fact it was in Garlan, though that probably wasn’t all that strange.