She straightened up, adjusted the hood on her robe and made her way back to the entrance. She wouldn’t stay long with Rinli’s things because her father would worry. She’d taken Korin’s advice; she told him every day now that she loved him and welcomed his smile. But Rinli was gone, and no smile, no matter its source, could ever fill the void in Madlen’s soul.
“I think I’ve done nothing but hurt the people I love.” Lisen lay with her head on Korin’s supine lap and looked up into the sky. After reaching their penultimate stop on the way back to Avaret, they’d shared a simple dinner, just the two of them. Korin had managed to snare a rabbit; Lisen hadn’t asked how. And with the moon lighting up the night, they were alone together, and Lisen felt maudlin.
Korin rubbed her head gently. “That’s not true.”
He’d pronounced her wound healing with no sign of infection he could see, and they shared the moments two parents share when a child is lost to them.
“How can you say that?” Lisen asked softly. “Your daughter is gone because I insisted on using her as a pawn in brokering a peace.”
“You didn’t kill Rinli. The manta killed Rinli. The elders killed Rinli. Rinli’s pride killed Rinli. But never think for one moment in your life that anything you ever did took her from us. My best memories of her are on those journeys between Garla and Thristas together. I don’t have memories with our other children that can approach those I have with Rin.”
“But you might have had more memories with them if you hadn’t had to spend so much time away.”
Korin sighed, and Lisen’s head rose and fell in sweet rhythm with it. “Regret nothing, that’s what I say. It gets you through the darkest night and doesn’t ruin your brightest day.”
“Even now?” she asked. “You regret nothing?”
“I didn’t say I regret nothing. Merely advice.”
Lisen thought a moment, considered the stack of regrets she’d collected through her life. “They’re piling up on me, those regrets.”
“Then rid yourself of them.”
“How?”
“Confess.”
Lisen snorted a laugh. “To whom?”
“I’m here.”
“No. You’re in the middle of all of them somewhere.”
“Then one. Just confess one tonight and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Give me a minute.” She paused, seeking an innocuous bit of remorse. “Oh, I know. I broke my promise and took advantage of you in the Farii.”
“Are you sorry? I know I’m not. My regret is that I can’t remember a minute of it.”
Lisen reached her hand up to his face and rubbed the beard on his chin.
“How about one more?” Korin asked.
Lisen closed her eyes to the blinding cacophony of stars. “All right.” She thought a moment, then offered up pain. “I killed a man with the push in Halorin, but I still couldn’t save Jozan.”
“Jozan was dead the second she opened that door,” Korin replied after a breath of hesitation. “You would have been, too, but you used the gift the Creators gave you and survived.”
“Tell me one.”
“One?”
“One of yours,” Lisen said.
“Let me think.” A pause. “I never should have left you and Jozan alone.”
“Then the two spies would have taken the three of us on together. You would have been so busy protecting me that you would have failed to protect yourself, and we all would have died.”
They both lay there, Lisen contemplating the difficulty of self-forgiveness and the ease with which she’d given Korin what she couldn’t give herself.
“You know,” Korin said so softly Lisen heard him more through her head on his belly than with her ears, “I was a fool not to trust you. A Thristan fool.”
“A Thristan fool who defended his daughter’s use of her gift.” That silenced him, and Lisen wished she’d said nothing. Once again, she was causing pain. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? For mentioning the reason we’re here? For reminding me that Rinli is dead? For—”
She rolled up on her side towards him and put her hand on his lips. “Hush. Who’s blaming himself now?”
“I couldn’t save her.”
Lisen heard his voice crack. “Ah, my sweet Korin, how easy hurting is. And how hard it is to properly grieve.”
“How does one ‘properly grieve’?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But I think it’s easy to avoid grief in favor of any other feeling.”
“Have I told you I love you, Lisen of Solsta? I love the Empir. I love the hermit. I love the girl I first met and the woman lying here with me now.”
And there’s another distracting feeling, she thought to herself. Let him have it. Grief will come in soon enough.
They lay there silent for a while longer, and then Korin slipped out from underneath Lisen’s head and snuggled in next to her under the blanket.
“I’d like to leave early tomorrow,” Lisen said.
“All right, but why?”
“The earlier we start, the earlier we get home.”
“But we won’t reach Avaret tomorrow,” Korin reminded her.
Lisen blew a breath out. “I know that. But we’ll reach it earlier the next day if we leave early both mornings.”
“I can’t fight that logic. Now sleep.”
She snuggled in tight in his embrace, grateful that her side barely hurt at all. Like every other crisis she’d endured, she would survive this. She always did.
“All right,” Lisen said as they entered the park from the east, riding two horses and leading the other three toward the Keep, “I think this is the last. You know the watcher—Opseth?—well, Eloise and I stole her mind from her. Neutralized her. I couldn’t allow her to continue interfering.”
Korin turned and stared at his spouse. He thought they’d covered all the confessions during the last two days of their ride to the capital, and yet, Lisen had managed to shock him. He thought back to that night and how, while Lisen was acting against her brother’s watcher, he’d probably been right about where they were now, on a horse galloping towards the desert, taking the child in his pouch away from what he perceived as her wickedness.
“And then?” he asked, remaining quietly calm, since he’d promised freedom from judgment when they’d begun this process two evenings ago.
“I sent her with Eloise to Solsta and told Eloise I never wanted to see either of them again.”
“Does the watcher still live?” he asked as they made their way through the park and its focused, organized gardens, an abrupt contrast to the wild growth they’d ridden through for the last two weeks.
“No. She passed this last May.”
“And you never saw her again.”
“What was the point? She was a blank.”
“And Eloise? You haven’t seen her yet, have you.”
“Creators, Korin, I never told you. She passed in November right after you and Rin left. Bala wrote me and asked for a favor, so I went to her.”
“And?”
“I wouldn’t say that we came to a ‘peace,’ but it was peaceful.”
Before he could answer, they’d reached the stable where a large group of family and staff surrounded them, welcoming them home. They wouldn’t rejoice so loudly once they learned what had happened, but for a brief moment, Korin allowed himself to revel with them in their joy. Nas and Insenlo jumped up and down with Linell and Alabar. Corday, who stood to the side, had brought his family to Avaret.
Then Korin squinted up at two figures just stepping out of the Keep onto the portico and recognized Kopol with Hermit Titus beside her making their way down the path to the stable. Titus headed directly to Lisen, but she waved him off. Kopol, stepping up beside Titus, reached up to help Lisen down.
With Kopol seeing to Lisen’s needs, Korin jumped off his horse and rallied Nas and Sen to himself, his eye on Lisen as she got to the ground. She appeared small, winded and weak, and Korin real
ized she’d been playing strong for his benefit, to lessen his worry.
And then the holder stepped towards Lisen, and Korin saw a look on the noble’s face, a look that asked the terrible question with an answer they hadn’t had to share with anyone yet. But why hadn’t Kopol told Corday yet? As Lisen shook her head slowly in answer to her Will’s unspoken query, Korin noted that Kopol still wore the traveling clothes she’d worn with them. She’d just returned to Avaret from Solsta with Titus and hadn’t had a chance to report before he and Lisen had arrived.
“Where’s Rin?” Nasera asked as the entire group moved out towards the Keep. Korin held his two ruffians back and was grateful he had because here it was, the dreaded question from the lips of Rinli’s brother. He stopped on the path, holding the children back with a hand on each of their shoulders. They stopped and looked up at Korin, Insenlo’s eyes so like her mother’s and sister’s that it nearly stole all speech from his throat.
“What is it?” Sen asked.
“She’s gone. Your sister is dead.” Oh, the cost of those words, but he refused to coat it in syrup to make it easier to swallow.
Nasera’s eyes opened wide in shock. “What happened?”
“Let’s get inside. I need to tend to your mother. We can all talk about it later, and then we’ll tell you everything.”
“They killed her, didn’t they,” Insenlo stated, her eleven years of life unrecognizable in her adult conclusion.
“Yes. Now, let’s go.” And he urged them forward, his own steps begging to drag, but not now. Not yet. Not ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE EMPTY SHROUD
“Thisss isss my child.”
Lisen looks around. She stands in the Pit, Rinli beside her, hovering in her shadow. They are alone.
“Mother?”
“Here.” What a blessing to have these moments, but how is it they seem unfamiliar to memory? No matter. She and her child claim their place facing Mantar.
“Until a parent givesss all, a child cannot live.”
Lisen knows the voice, and she accepts its intent. It is time.
“Lisen?”
She opened her eyes to Korin sitting beside her on the bed. “Good morning,” she said, her crackling voice not yet ready for the day.
“I’ve brought you breakfast.”
For three days she’d languished in this damn bed, the first two in pain from the thorough cleansing Titus had performed on her wound and tossing with the subsequent fevers. But yesterday, the pain and symptoms of infection had subsided, and light had returned to her life.
“Take me outside.”
“What?”
“I want to sit in the sunshine.”
“It’s cold out there.”
“So, I’ll bundle up. I need sun, Korin. Please?” She could have made it an order. But I wouldn’t.
“Breakfast first.”
“No, breakfast outside. In the sun.”
She didn’t intend to eat breakfast wherever she was; she had other plans. Korin would never understand, but if she could give Rinli back to him, he might find it in himself to forgive her. Some day.
“All right, all right.” He went to her wardrobe and started pulling things out for her to wear. She rose from the bed, a little wobbly on her feet, but that would pass.
“Stop it. I’m no invalid.” She put her hand on his shoulder and urged him back from the tall, wooden closet. “I rode all the way back from Thristas, remember?”
“And nearly died for your efforts.”
“I was nowhere near death and you know it. Now give me a minute, and then I’ll let you help me down the stairs.”
“I’ll get a servant to come get your breakfast. Where do you want to sit?”
“The sitting garden.” Her tone was light, but as soon as Korin left her alone, she realized she wasn’t nearly as ready for this excursion outside as she’d thought. No matter. A mission beckoned.
She leaned against the wardrobe for a few hard-sought breaths, then started to pull off her nightshift. She managed to get out of her shift and even slipped a tunic over her head, lifting her left arm slowly to put it through the sleeve and then pulling it down over her body. Leggings were next. It was January, and she couldn’t go out into the morning air with naked legs. She pulled out a pair made of soft, warm cloth and got them up using only her right arm. By the time she’d tied them around her waist and was contemplating which shoes to wear, Korin had returned.
“I was going to tell you Titus isn’t pleased with this idea, but now that you’re dressed…”
“Titus be damned. He’s not the one who’s been imprisoned in this room for days. To the garden.” She pointed to the door with a broad gesture. It was imperative Korin not read her intent.
“I’ll have a servant follow us down with—”
“Don’t worry about breakfast,” she said as she slipped her feet into a simple pair of slippers. She rose and reached her spouse without difficulty. “I’ll eat later. I need sun. And the smell of cold keeping the growing things at attention.” She put her arm through his, and as they stepped from the room, he grabbed a heavy robe from the chair by the door.
They failed at a clean escape. Just as they arrived downstairs at the door to the portico, Titus caught up with them. She and Korin stopped to face him.
“My Liege,” he said, “I advise against this.”
“I need fresh air,” Lisen insisted.
“You also need a blanket.”
“See what Korin’s carrying?” she replied, pointing to the robe draped over Korin’s other arm. “It’s for me, and I’ll put it on as soon as we get where we’re going. Too hard to walk in it.”
Titus sighed. “Then at least take a few sips of this before you go out.” He offered her a cup with something foul-smelling in it.
“I hate that stuff.”
“It’s helping you heal, my Liege. One good swallow, that’s all I ask.”
It was Lisen’s turn to sigh. “All right.” She released Korin’s arm and took the cup in both hands, and holding her breath, she took one gulp. It tasted worse than it smelled—like something dredged up from a fungus-infested pond. She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand while she gave the cup back to Titus with the other.
“Thank you, my Liege.”
She grabbed Korin’s free arm and was about to head out the door when Titus spoke up again.
“Be careful. I understand that you’re restless, but don’t let that restlessness be your undoing. You already had one relapse upon your return. You don’t want to have another.”
“No, no, of course not,” she replied, placing a hand on his arm. “I’ll make sure Korin sets me in the sun, and I’ll wrap up good and warm.” She had no intention of giving her care one thought. One goal called her. Mantar wanted her. It was time to make up for all the pain and sorrow she’d caused others throughout her life.
In the sitting garden, Korin cocooned her in the robe and then kissed her on the forehead. “You look so much better this morning.”
“I feel it, too.”
“Now, let me settle in and we can—”
“No, no. I want to meditate for a few moments. Have you had your breakfast?” When he shook his head, she continued. “You go back and have something to eat. I’ll be fine.”
He raised that right eyebrow of his, the one not hidden by the patch. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. Go.”
It was all so simple. She didn’t even have to push him. It was only a minor manipulation, one he would forgive her for in time. He touched her head with a calloused hand; then, with a nod, he turned and left her. And when he was no longer in sight, she sat back and closed her eyes.
‘Until a parent givesss all,’ she thought, ‘a child cannot live.’ Mantar, take me and let my child live. I’ve committed horrible acts in the name of duty. Let my last act save my Rinli.
Her head began to swirl, and she felt her breathing grow more and more shallow. She’
d shared dying breaths with others and had expected to recognize the signs, but this rattled her with magnificence and filled her with awe.
Mantar! Rinli.
A presence joined her, not Mantar, more familiar than that. Her soul expanded out of her body, and she knew her daughter lived. And so she surrendered to the end and breathed her last.
Madlen knelt in the sand in front of the space she’d recognized as the place of Rinli’s leaving because of the shroud. The empty shroud. Someone had taken Madlen’s beloved and carried her away, and Madlen wanted to know who. And how. And, most importantly, why. Because the desert couldn’t have reclaimed her in only twenty short days. It could have committed serious damage, but something should remain. And yet, nothing.
She’d walked all this way this morning, having finally summoned up the courage to face the full pain of her loss, but now she felt as empty as this shroud. Someone had denied her the fullness of a farewell. And her anger refused to settle.
Tears overflowed, and she screamed at the rising sun. No words, just a scream from deep within her. Not only had Tinlo and the Elders taken Rinli from her, someone had taken her body away as well. No. No!
“Noooo!”
The negation echoed back at her from the mesa. She stared at the shroud one moment more, then grabbed it and bundled it up, sticking it under her robe. If nothing remained save this, then she would have it.
She rose, keeping hold of the hidden shroud, and turned back to her home, the place of her outcoming and Rinli’s as well, a place she’d once loved but could now only fear. Yet, it was home. And she’d stay. Where else could she go? And so she returned, a lonely woman-child in search of solace she’d already decided she’d never find again.
Empty, not even the shroud. There was a shroud, wasn’t there? she asks herself. Of course, there was. I remember. But the shallow hole Korin dug to offer Rinli up to the desert lies empty, nothing left but memory, and memory is fickle.
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