His pouch cramped, signaling its willingness to welcome the new life, and looking back he realized he’d felt this for some time, all the while dismissing it. He had ignored these feelings which now seemed painfully obvious, thinking…no, he didn’t know what he’d thought. Because she had assured him they had done nothing in the Farii, he had based every interpretation of life signs in her and himself on that assurance. Damn. If he’d known the truth about what had transpired between them up on the mesa, then he would have realized the nature of her distress, of that he was certain.
All of these so-called realizations brought him no closer to the decision to which he must commit and then act on. His father had carried him because he and his mother, a captain of the Guard on the Rim, had determined that her life was not the life to which a child should be exposed. She had remained at Pass Garrison, welcoming her son whenever he’d wished to visit her, but his passion centered on his father and the desert where he’d grown up. What would his father think of him, now that he was about to make a similar decision? And not for a mere captain, either. For the Heir-Empir of Garla.
He stood up and undid his belt, setting it and his sword aside. Then he untied his leggings and let them fall. He pulled his arms out of his undergarment and lowered them to expose the fur on his belly and the pouch opening there. Let it come.
The Heir moaned and uncurled.
“Lisen,” he said once again as he knelt down beside her. When she didn’t respond, he lifted the blanket off her, slipped her tunic up over her head, tugged her leggings down, and then gently pulled her arms from her undergarment so he could bring it down to rest with her leggings at her knees. His lack of reticence at this intimate act surprised him. The Bonding. Then he lay down beside her, belly to belly, pouch to pouch and waited for the miracle to unfold.
The waiting was painful. His pouch demanded release, but beyond that, his mind refused to lie still, occupying itself with multitudes of future variables. First, he knew she wouldn’t remember what transpired here tonight, so the most important question was should he tell her? No, the question was when to tell her. She may have lied about what had happened in the Farii, probably to spare him shame at whatever he’d done with her at the time, but no matter why she’d lied, nothing could justify his lying about this. But when to tell the truth?
The moment had to be right. So much lay before her, so much counted on her focusing all her energy on the objective. Even not carrying, the knowledge of the existence of a new life from her body would distract her, and her mind must not be diverted by anything. It would be best, he decided, that she know nothing of this child until she’d settled things with her brother. Only then would he tell her—if she failed to come to it on her own before that, of course. He would tell her, and once he had, he would follow her lead no matter what she chose to do. But right now, at this moment, he believed as strongly as he had ever believed anything that she must remain ignorant.
He remembered how his father had spoken in awe of the transfer, of the moment when the child, far too tiny to survive outside the body, would nevertheless struggle to free itself of the mother’s small womb and then make its way to the pouch only inches away. It followed the belly fur of its pouching parent to the slit opening, the mouth of the pouch, and there it would crawl in and snuggle up to one of the teats waiting there for its nourishment. Something miraculous was about to happen, Korin realized, and his joy at the prospect mingled disjointedly with his fear of failing both this child and his Liege.
The Heir’s body spasmed slightly, a sign that she was beginning to expel the fetus. How did one guide the thing? You weren’t supposed to help it. It needed to make its own way, or it would fail to gain the strength required to survive. They had drilled that into him since childhood—guidance, not assistance—but he had no idea what that meant. Its obvious and closest goal was the mother’s pouch, and under normal circumstances, someone—a healer in Garla or an Elder in Thristas—would have advised him on how to encourage the babe to its father instead. But they were alone. I can figure this out, he assured himself.
Had he thought about it, he wouldn’t have placed himself between the fire and Lisen’s body. It left him with almost no light to illuminate what he needed to see. He lay there, his confidence waning, believing that perhaps he had set himself a foolish and impossible mission, when the solution came to him. He must urge the tiny bit of life from the furry path to her pouch onto the fur on his own belly.
With his body responding to her laboring in ways he couldn’t control, he closed his eye in surrender to the demands of the moment. The logic and reason which normally guided his actions evaporated, and all he could do was allow himself to bond with the process, just as the two of them had bonded some forty nights ago. Light and sight were irrelevant now; he’d know what to do and when to do it. That settled, he gave himself over to the inner guide.
He lay there for some time, feeling Lisen’s body pulsating beside him, hearing her grunt in her deep sleep while he awaited a sign, a sign he would know when it came, not before. And as he lay there, his thoughts wandered back to the Farii. He could remember nothing, save for his confession of love, from after the manta’s bite to the next morning when he’d awakened to her sitting beside him, her oiled hair a bit mussed, her eyes shining in the rising sunlight. What had she said afterwards? He’d asked what had happened, and she’d replied…she’d replied…? Finally he remembered. She’d said that nothing had happened, that he’d mumbled a few things and then she’d moved away.
And then she asked about Mantar’s Child. At some point, she claimed, I’d used those words. In Garlan, no less. I dismissed it. No point in explaining it to her since “nothing had happened.” Maker and Destroyer, could it be?
He lay there, his heart beating fast, unaccustomed fear—or, perhaps, awe—rising within him. This child he was about to pouch was a result of the Farii, conceived by two nations, for the good of The People. Well, the last part was still in question, but the rest….
No, it’s just superstition, a game people play to ease the burden of life in the desert. He forced himself to return to his memories.
He should have known that something, not nothing, had happened. Afterwards, when he’d changed out of his kashir, he’d noticed the slight variation in the knots from how they’d been tied by his attendants. He’d passed it off to having perhaps tried to undress himself in order to take her and then her tying them up again later. He hadn’t allowed himself to believe that a hermit, this hermit, could lie to him. But she had. Damn. And why? Shame? Fear? What?
“Ah….” She moaned aloud and he studied her face in the muted firelight but found she still slept.
Why did you lie to me? he thought, and the answer alighted upon his brain like feathers in wisps of weightless insight. Not her shame. Not her fear. She’d wanted to spare him. He’d overcome her somehow in his unwitting state, and she’d gifted him with ignorance. He stared at her. Is that what you did? he asked silently. Between the birthing spasms, she appeared calm and at peace.
Another groan escaped her, her back arched, and he recognized the moment he’d awaited. He reached down very gently to the triangle of hair between her legs and allowed his hand to acquaint itself with the feel of it. His whole body trembled, and he finally surrendered entirely. His fingers sought a hint of motion, and soon what he sought presented itself to him. The merest change in temperature and the slightest alteration of the fur overlying the mound, and the tiny babe emerged from its safe place in the womb.
He gasped. Now came the moment of balance, the moment of the shift in that balance, of little encouraging nudges. His fingers searched and found the furless, sightless, defenseless, anything-but-aimless entity, and he offered an alternative. Soon he felt the tiny tug on his own fur, and he rolled very slowly onto his back, willing it to come with him.
He lay there, his only eye closed, basking in the wonder, reveling in the life making its way to his own safe place and in the miracle that
had brought him to this. He would cradle this life, feelings he had never expected overwhelming him. He would celebrate it, and then he would set all thoughts of it aside, insofar as he was able. For until Ariannas Ilazer had overcome her brother and taken her place on Garla’s throne, she must be spared this distraction.
“I love you,” he whispered in Lisen’s ear, holding her close in the light and the warmth of the fire. Just as she’d withheld the fullness of their Farii experience, he would keep what had occurred here from her. Until she’s ready.
When they both awoke very late the next morning—he, tenderly aware of the small mouth on one of the two teats in his pouch; she, much rested after a long night’s sleep—they packed up, resuming their journey as though nothing had happened, and rode onward towards Avaret and whatever destiny awaited them there.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ARIEL’S TRUTH
Opseth sat in her office, eyes closed in contemplation, and wondered at the signs which had kept sleep out of her reach all night, signs she believed signaled the necropath moving closer. And yet, much more. Something far removed from the journey itself. Whatever it was, though, it had passed. While she’d lain there in bed, her mind tossing about in a restless fog, she had been unable to focus on the immediacy of the moment, and now it was gone, unreachable. Only her frustration remained.
She leaned forward in her chair and shook her head slowly. The power of this girl seemed unstoppable, while Opseth’s prospects for reading her grew less and less promising. What did this herald for the Empir who had hired Opseth to find the girl and neutralize her somehow? Opseth chose not to think about that.
The sooth. All hope centered on the sooth now. She had sent a note to the Empir, requesting another visit with the hermit he held in custody, but that had been nearly a week ago, and she’d heard nothing from him at all. She could write again, but one mustn’t rush an Empir, especially an Empir as temperamental as Ariel Ilazer. She could wait a few more days. But if he wanted her to defend him from the hermits, and from the necropath heading now in his direction, he must allow her back in to see the sooth before the opening of Council. Somehow she had to find a way to communicate the urgency of this to him. Yes, a few days. No more.
Elsba sat back in the chair at the desk he maintained in a degree of chaos that provided him comfort, and he shook his head. Too long. He’d been here in Avaret much too long, and now it was too late to go home; Council would convene before he could return. And here he thought he’d put this duty behind him. He’d handed it over to Jozan to serve in his place, but now Jozan was gone.
The hole in his heart, where his first daughter’s memories resided, constricted. So little time for grief, so little time for anything save preparations for young Lisen’s challenge to her brother and then the waiting for the preparations to bear fruit. Elsba’s constitution allowed him to do little more than sit and wait. Not much more at the moment for Nalin and Bala to do, but at least they could escape on their daily rides out into the country. Elsba rode this chair at his desk, the couch here in his office, and his bed when the other steeds equal to his strength proved overwhelming. Growing old demanded more courage of him than confronting the young tyrant in the Keep; aging wasn’t for the timid.
He jumped at two bold knocks on his door, and before he could respond, the door flew open, revealing Lorain Zanlot, looking her usual ravishing. Elsba appreciated beauty—all beauty—and Lorain, with the warm cascade of her full brown hair falling in bold curls halfway down her back and the blue eyes that were her Zanlot legacy, certainly met Elsba’s criteria for beauty. The ugliness of her soul, however, infiltrated the illusion of the physical, making all her beauty nothing more than a useless gesture.
“Oh, you’re here,” Lorain stated flatly.
“I never left,” Elsba replied. “But I thought you knew that.”
“I did, of course, but I can’t constantly remember everything I know.”
Elsba doubted that, but perhaps the emotional toll of pouching played tricks with the woman’s memory. What was she now, eighteen? She seemed older, more jaded than her years. No surprise. She’d been plotting to woo Ariel since before her ascension as Bedel’s holder and her arrival here in Avaret.
“What do you want, Lorain?”
“I was looking for Nalin. Do you know where he is?”
“Out riding with my daughter?” Elsba didn’t want to sound too sure of this. “Could I pass a message on for you?”
“No. I need to talk to him myself.”
The silence that settled on the room provided Elsba with an opportunity to observe Lorain and her attire, and what he saw confirmed what Nalin had told him yesterday. The woman harbored an Ilazer Heir within her pouch. Elsba wished he could congratulate her, trip up her confidence in her ability to hide the thing until Ariel chose to reveal it, but Elsba allowed silence to reign and let Lorain choose to break it.
“If you must know, it’s your sister,” Lorain admitted. “I’ve tried to get the Empir to see reason and allow you to visit with the hermit, but every time I broach the subject, he grows more obstinate about it.”
“The Ilazers tend to be a stubborn lot,” Elsba replied, hiding his surprise at a confession Lorain never would have made had her wits not been softened by the child growing in her belly.
Lorain stared at Elsba without her eyes focusing on him, and then she shook her head. “Well, that was it. I was going to have Nalin let you know, but now you know. Good day.” If she expected him to rise at her departure, he’d have to disappoint her. His joints were particularly irksome today.
“Lorain, before you leave, one thing,” Elsba stated, pulling his disused rapier of wry honesty from his arsenal of well-honed deep jabs.
“Yes.” Caution drew the word out, and Elsba smiled.
“You’re an intelligent woman. With all that intelligence, has it never occurred to you that if our Empir could murder his own mother, he could rid himself of anyone who’d grown bothersome to him?”
Elsba watched as Lorain struggled to find words. Her eyes grew distant then refocused on him. “Elsba, there is absolutely no reason to think that our Liege was involved in any way in his mother’s death. I do have access to information that only a few on the inside have, and all the evidence points to the servant and the servant alone.”
“If you say so,” Elsba replied and withdrew the metaphoric dagger. He hadn’t placed it near as deeply as he could have. She may bleed a bit, but she’d recover; her relationship with Ariel might not, though.
Lorain stared briefly at him; then, with apparently nothing left to say, she turned and flounced out.
Elsba let out a breath and pondered the door Lorain had closed behind her. How odd, he thought. Lorain was usually so controlled, each word and action so well calculated. He shouldn’t have found her that easy to ruffle. The pouching was telling on her. Elsba remembered how he had felt with Bala. Firjo had carried Jozan, but he had insisted on taking his turn with their second child. Miraculous but still draining. However, a Lorain diminished by the demands of the carrying remained a formidable foe. They must never forget that fact.
He allowed the smile he had contained during her visit to rise, lifting his lips and reflecting his spirit. He wasn’t well, and he knew it. Bala played the part of a busy young person well, but Elsba knew that she worried. And for good reason. What she hadn’t yet come to fully understand was his need to give meaning to his other daughter’s death in the time left to him. He would rather die sooner than later if it meant he could protect Flandari’s memory and see her true Heir on the throne. Besides, the young ones needed the balance of his experience, and he was happy to share it. Let Lorain and Ariel swoop down upon them; he would fight with all his might until no might was left in him.
He shook his head and began shuffling through his papers. Somewhere on his desk lay a letter he’d begun that once again requested a visit with his sister. Perhaps it was time to try once more.
The door blew open a
gain, this time pushed by the gale he loved as Bala. Behind her, Nalin followed, and the two, fresh and messed from their ride, giggled as they entered, Nalin closing the door behind them.
“Oh. Father,” Bala said, surprised.
“I do crawl out of bed occasionally.” Elsba smiled at the duo in front of him. Bala could have been happy with Nalin. He hoped young Lisen could find happiness there. It seemed to have been Flandari’s plan all along—bringing her acolyte and Heir together to join. Bala knew this, yet he saw desire in his daughter’s eyes when she looked at Nalin.
“Well, of course you do,” Bala said as she sat down on the couch and removed her riding gloves.
“Elsba.” Nalin smiled as he sat down beside Bala. “You look well.”
“I’ve just had a visit from our favorite pouched holder,” Elsba replied, feeling the grin spread across his face.
“Lorain?” Nalin asked, and Elsba nodded.
“She claimed she was looking for you.”
“Claimed?”
“She seemed genuinely confused as to why she’d knocked on my door.” Elsba raised a hand and shook his head. “No. Not confused exactly. I think she knew exactly why she’d ended up here. Let me put it this way. She wasn’t herself. She told me I still couldn’t see my sister, but she lacked her usual wit and ended up saying a few things I don’t think she intended to say, about Eloise and such. All I could do was smile at her because it was so clear she was pouched.”
“I told you,” Nalin replied.
“I also challenged what she knows or doesn’t know about Flandari’s murder.”
Nalin raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“I couldn’t tell,” Elsba said. “She seemed surprised, and if she were not pouched and therefore vaguely vulnerable—well, as vulnerable as Lorain can be even pouched—I’d think it an act. Truthfully, it was my sense she’s had her suspicions and that my words merely focused her on them.”
Tainted (Lisen of Solsta Book 2) Page 23
