Tainted (Lisen of Solsta Book 2)

by D. Hart St. Martin

  “No.”

  “What if I never understand them?”

  “Then you were never meant to.”

  Lisen nodded, considered it all, still failed to understand, but nodded again anyway. “I don’t know what to say. Where I’m from, we say ‘May One Be’ when we part, but that’s a hermit thing, and I know how Thristans are with hermit things.”

  “One Is, Lisen.” Hozia smiled, and Lisen stared at the Elder in stunned silence. “And don’t believe everything Korin tells you about The People.”

  Lisen nodded dumbly, turned, then left. Garla definitely underestimated these people, and apparently Korin did, too. That had knocked the proverbial breath out of her.

  Outside, the sun was setting, and Korin smiled softly at her as she approached him where he stood with the horses. “Did Hozia tell you what you wanted to hear?”

  She stepped to her horse and allowed him to give her a leg up before she answered. Her mother’s sword had been wrapped in cloth and strapped behind her saddle, and its presence renewed her sense of destiny. “No, but I think she told me what I needed to hear.”

  “Good.” He threw himself up onto his horse, and with a cluck and a kick, he set out, trusting that Lisen would pull out behind him. She wondered what he’d do if she refused to move, how long it would take before he realized she wasn’t there, then decided against teasing him. It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to get back to Garla. So she pulled in behind him, looking down at the reins and her left hand which held them.

  “Korin?” she said.

  “What?”

  She found herself talking once again to the braided queue of his raven hair swinging to and fro across his back. “I need to stop at Rossla on the way. I have unfinished business there.”

  “We don’t have time,” he answered gruffly.

  “It’s on the way. We’ll make the time,” she insisted.

  His shoulders stiffened, then relaxed. “You’re right. It’s on the way.”

  Their journey home had begun.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HURRY HOME

  A night’s travel on horseback behind them, Lisen and Korin had abandoned the barren browns of the desert and had ascended single file into the grey mountains early the next morning. They had rested for a few hours, traveled for several more, then had finally devoted an entire night in the Pass to sleep. It had taken a total of a day and a half through the rocky and mostly barren pass, but at last they’d emerged from the Rim, cold and hungry, and begun their descent. Soon, the glow of Rossla in the afternoon sun greeted them from a distance, and only then did Lisen feel as though she had left Thristas behind and found Garla again. She sensed Korin’s apprehension intensify the nearer to Rossla they rode, but she wanted her ring. Hadn’t the voice said she’d carry her calling for all to see? Not that the haven was her calling, or ever had been, but it was the only so-called calling she could think of.

  “What if they can’t accommodate us?” Korin asked as he pulled up, allowing her to join him in anticipation of them riding side by side on the now-wider path. They were the first words he’d spoken in hours on this mostly silent journey.

  “They won’t need to. I only need a couple of minutes, and then we can ride on, make camp farther on, alone.”

  She stared out at Rossla’s turreted and cone-capped towers. This may have been her second arrival at this monolithic edifice, but the first time she’d arrived here barely conscious, possessed, incapable of appreciating anything more than Korin’s arms carrying her when she couldn’t carry herself. This time, her breath caught at the sight of this center of the hermit world; they didn’t refer to it reverentially as the “Grand Haven” without reason.

  Here, the mentors in all the disciplines resided. Here, the newly called arrived to learn at the will of the masters. Towards here every novice must eventually set out in pilgrimage before making their Final Commitment. And here, she might have honed her craft of guiding the dying for a full year or more, had life as a hermit ever been an option. But no, she thought. No life centered around the old poverty-chastity-and-obedience thing for me.

  “Are you all right?” Korin’s voice called her back to the moment. She’d lost track of him as she’d dallied through her thoughts.

  “What?” she asked absently as she straddled the inner and outer worlds that comprised her life.

  “You seem preoccupied.”

  “No. Not really.” She shrugged. “Just with my future is all.”

  “So your stomach is better?”

  “Yes. The headaches still come and go, but at least I don’t feel like vomiting all the time anymore.”

  “Good.”

  She waited for more. He always seemed to have something to say regarding the state of her health or the state of her mind or both, but he stared off into the distance and made no further comment. After a moment, she kicked her horse and moved on.

  “Well, let’s get this done,” she pronounced, and she heard him pull out behind her.

  Within the hour, they arrived at the great, carved-wooden gate that served as the main entrance to Rossla, and Lisen slid off her horse, tossing her reins up to Korin who rose in his stirrups, as though he were about to follow her.

  “No,” she said. “There’s no need for you to go inside. I shouldn’t be long.”

  With that, she left him there and marched up to the gatehouse. She reminded herself that she must remember who she was, that she was not an orphan in a sea of hermits. She was the Heir-Empir, Flandari’s Heir, the Heir of the woman who had forfeited everything, and it was now Lisen’s duty to give purpose to her death and to the sacrifices of the others who had done what they could to clear the way for her. It wasn’t going to be easy. If she’d learned nothing else in the last couple of months, she’d learned that life kept throwing impediments at you to block your way, but if you kept moving forward, you’d find a way around them, or over them, or through them, or, even, under them. Purpose changed everything.

  So, with purpose, she banged at the gate with the brass knocker, a remnant of much older days. She heard shuffling inside the gatehouse, and soon a voice answered.

  “Who requests entry?” the voice from within demanded. This was all formality only. The office of gatekeeper was purely ceremonial these days, and although a gatekeeper could technically deny entrance, it was an option no longer employed.

  “Lisen of Solsta,” she replied. “Here to see Hermit Teran.”

  The gate opened, and Lisen stepped through. A hermit in his forties or fifties greeted her with a somber expression.

  “He’s expecting you, has been for weeks,” the gatekeeper said. “Try the sanctuary. It’s where he spends recreation.”

  “Thank you,” Lisen said and headed across the receiving yard to the great open doors of the magnificent sanctuary. Flowers bloomed everywhere surrounding the yard, and many of the trees had fully leaved since she’d seen them last. When I left, she thought, it was still winter. Now it’s more than spring.

  She took the steps two at a time up and into the sanctuary, and once there she stood motionless for a few moments to absorb the grandeur of the place. For a community which claimed humility, frugality, self-reflection and the prudent use of inner power as its primary motivators, this haven seemed incongruous.

  The ceiling in this room—if one could call it a “room”—rose at least three stories, if not higher. Huge windows on all four sides seemed capable of allowing the sun’s light in from every angle throughout the day. The wooden benches, hand-carved with scenes from Garla’s many myths, formed concentric circles radiating out from the middle of the room, with four aisles dividing them north, south, east and west. Beyond that, however, this great room bore no adornment, and that, along with its echoing silence, provided the sort of atmosphere likely conducive to productive meditation.

  In the middle of a back bench sat the tall necropath. Lisen figured he had to have heard her enter; her footsteps had seemed incredibly loud to her. H
e turned slowly to look at her, and his face registered no hint of recognition. No smile, no twinkle in the eyes, nothing to indicate he’d ever seen her before. She knew she looked paler than usual from her time hidden in the gloom of the mesa and that her hair in its braid down her back still bore its black ribbon and the red jewel she’d earned and finally accepted from the Farii, but had she really changed that much?

  “Lisen of Solsta,” he said softly and rose. He made his way down the long bench and out into the aisle to come to her.

  “Master,” she whispered.

  When he reached her, he took her arm and guided her out of the sanctuary and into the hall. There he paused and looked at her.

  “You’ve come for your ring.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Then I suppose I must return it to you.” He pulled his hands from his sleeves, and there, on his left middle finger just above his own ring, sat hers. She reached out a hand to take it from him, but he pulled back. “You must promise one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I’m no sooth,” he replied, “but I do not see you pursuing your calling as a hermit.”

  “Truthfully, I doubt I was ever called. I grew up an orphan at Solsta. My life there prepared me to respect my gifts, but it was never the life for me.”

  “It’s a hard thing for a necropath to go out into the world. So many temptations.”

  Lisen shivered. If he only knew…. “So, you want me to promise not to use my powers.”

  The hermit shook his head. “No, I cannot ask that of you. I can advise you to be wise with them, however.”

  “I will try.”

  “Here is the promise I need from you. Return this ring to Solsta. If you are not to be a hermit, it belongs there, not with you.”

  “I will. When I can.”

  Hermit Teran pulled the ring off and reached out to hand it to her. She snatched it from him, feeling a little like needy-greedy Gollum, and immediately slipped it on her own left middle finger. It settled into place as though it had never been gone, and she breathed a single sigh.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “Thank you for everything.” And before he could respond, she turned and left the way she’d come, moving quietly through the sanctuary and out into the late afternoon’s light. She strode across the receiving yard and through the gate, and when she reached her horse, Korin looked down at her.

  “What?” she asked, irritated at his stare and not sure why.

  “That was quick,” he said.

  “Yes, it was, wasn’t it. Let’s go.” She mounted, but just as she did so, another pain jabbed through her temples. Damn. She pushed the heel of her right hand into her forehead; sometimes that helped.

  “Another headache?”

  “It’ll pass,” she replied and kicked her horse into a trot. A fortnight or more yet on the road, including the respite they planned to take along the way. Impatience drove her. Impatience to get to Avaret. Impatience to be done with this at last. She wanted no more delays.

  She heard Korin trot up beside her, and she turned to look at him. He nodded, then urged his horse into a canter, passing her. She gave her mount another kick, and they were off down the wide trail descending into the rolling green terrain of Garla proper.

  Avaret, she thought. So close, yet still so far away. What I wouldn’t give for a helicopter right about now.

  Opseth had retired to her study after dinner, once again drew the dark, heavy curtains to block any residual daylight, and waited. She had experimented with various times of day, and early evening and the depths of night had turned out to be the best times for reaching out to the necropath in order to insinuate herself into the girl’s mind. And what a fertile and powerful mind it was. Only a few days ago, when Opseth had been planting in her garden, her hands covered in dirt, she’d sensed the essence of a push from the girl. Not as strong as the first time a few months ago, but rippling the ether anyway. It had sent her running to this same room, but by the time she’d properly prepared herself, the ether had settled down again.

  Opseth knew she had to find the girl—whether for the Empir or for herself, it didn’t matter. She had to locate her and, perhaps, entice her to turn the guidance of her powers over to an equally skilled but far more practiced teacher—Opseth herself. Once, she had hoped the Empir could be trained, but he lacked discipline and desire. But this girl, opening up to knowledge and strength, could be turned. She had left the safety of the hermits, had run to protect herself, but the necessities of such a course had brought her back into contact with the world she had renounced.

  It had been no different for Opseth. She had returned to Solsta from her training at Rossla changed, aware that the Creators had blessed her with a gift which she shouldn’t limit to the hermits. She had heard the call of a more desperate need and had responded, leaving Solsta and its rigid rules behind, and she had never regretted her decision. She lived well now because people, well-placed people, knew she never made promises she couldn’t keep and that their secret needs would remain secret with her. But this necropath presented intriguing possibilities, not the least of which involved Opseth’s current employer.

  Master and apprentice aligned against an Empir, she thought. Opseth reveled in the prospect of what the two of them could accomplish in “guiding” the ruler of Garla.

  But that was a dream, a hope floating about out there. In reality she knew two things. First, the distance between herself and the necropath was diminishing; the girl was coming home. And second, she needed to see the sooth again, try once more to wiggle her way into the hermit’s fiercely protected mind. Anything she could learn there would be useful in a multitude of ways.

  Over the last few weeks, Nalin had discovered solace on the back of a horse. He would take the best horse from the Council’s stable behind the old palace and venture out on pathways he had never known before. Often he would leave Avaret behind and climb into the hills beyond the city’s boundaries on the strong bay, spending hour upon hour wandering through forest and meadow, and yet he could remember nothing of what had transpired once he’d returned to Avaret. Such was the price of preoccupation.

  This morning he’d once again lost himself in the mindlessness of rumination. In just about two weeks he’d know if Rosarel had kept his word. By now, he and the Heir should have ridden into Garla, making their way towards Avaret. Nalin could picture them again because the terrain and the environment in which they traveled were familiar to him. It hadn’t been so easy while they were lost to him in Thristas. He couldn’t imagine what they wore, what they did, where they went. But finally he could visualize them again. If Rosarel’s kept his word and they’re really on their way.

  After a few hours of aimless meandering, Nalin once again made his way back to Avaret. He allowed the horse one last run before they reached the cobble-stoned streets of the city, while two little words that had begun singing to him in the back of his mind caught the rhythm of the bay’s canter. Hurry home, hurry home. The words matched not only the rhythm of the horse’s gait, but the cadence of his heart as well. Hurry home, hurry home.

  He reached the stable, passed the steed over to the stable hand there, and made for the palace. For some reason today, the front entrance to the building called out to him. The back door was much closer to the stable, but the unaccustomed sensation of intuition drew him to the front instead. Once he arrived there and the guard had opened the door for him, he ran right into the physical manifestation of his feeling, and he and she both gasped at one another before Nalin could speak.

  “Lorain,” he said, shocked to find the holder of Bedel rushing out of the old palace, no doubt returning in haste to the protection of her lover’s lair across the plaza.

  “Nalin.”

  He hadn’t seen her in a long time, and he couldn’t help but sense something different about her. He looked into her eyes, and she shrugged, the moment as awkward for her as it was for him. He noted that her tunic revealed nothing of her po
uch and was, in fact, rather conservative for a person who usually flaunted her sensuality. Then he saw it. She had good reason to hide her enticements. Her flat belly had expanded, only slightly, but he could see what the unusual excess of material tried to obscure. She was pouched.

  He looked up, veiling his shock behind a small smile and a nod. She was no fool, and she’d likely discern his discovery in his face no matter how hard he tried to disguise it. But it didn’t matter. Now he knew. She was carrying Ariel’s Heir. This could prove to be a major complication to his plans. Damn.

  “Nalin?”

  “Yes, Lorain,” he managed. “I trust you’re well?” He felt stupid, tongue-tied.

  “Yes, quite,” she replied. “And you?”

  “A little bored perhaps, but well.”

  “I thought you would have returned to Casille by now.”

  He doubted she had ever thought that. She maintained too many spies to not be kept fully informed of his whereabouts. “No. No. I promised Elsba I’d stay, help him out in Bala’s absence and keep an eye out for any developments regarding his sister.”

  “How loyal of you, Nalin. But unnecessary. The hermit refuses to talk, and until she does, there will be no ‘developments,’ as you say.”

  “Yes, well, I did promise Elsba.” They stood, staring at one another, two opposing compass points, their relationship immutable and forever dependent because of that very opposition.

  “Of course, you did,” Lorain replied at last, smiling broadly. “If you’ll excuse me….” She stepped around him and through the door, but then paused and turned. “Does your mother miss you, Nalin?”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t been home since at least early February by my reckoning. That’s what, nearly three months? Doesn’t she miss you?” But before he could answer, she held up a hand. “No. No. Don’t answer that.”

  She whirled around and flew down the steps, and he stood there, transfixed. What the Destroyer had that been about? A ploy to unbalance him, to point out that she knew he hadn’t gone home after Flandari’s rites, that his long absence until Evennight had taken him elsewhere, but the ever-scheming Lorain would never state it boldly. Unless, of course, it favored the flow of her plans. And yet, she was still not quite herself. Nalin didn’t care what anyone said; carrying changed a person—that little thing sucking away where you couldn’t see it, could barely touch it, for months as it grew.