“Lisen,” she snapped back. She nearly added “Holt” but stopped herself in time.
“Creators,” the Empir whispered, but then a spasm wrenched her.
“You must leave,” Lisen said to the noble. “Now.”
“My Liege?” the noble appealed to the Empir.
“Vengeance.” The hoarse whisper pierced the air, and the noble shook with the implications. He recovered, nodded, kissed the Empir’s hand and left, his cape swirling out behind him.
The door closed and latched, and Lisen tensed. This is like Star Wars. No. More like The Lord of the Rings. And about as real. Yet…it was…real. She looked down at the woman on the cot, saw that Titus and the others had done all they could for the wounded woman. They’d explored her injury and then quickly bandaged it. The Empir wore only a thin nightshift, her clothes tossed into a heap in the far corner. But the wound they had sought, found and treated was not the source of the Empir’s destruction. That was the ural, and it could not be fought.
“My Liege,” Lisen said very softly. A few more moments remained before she must link. How she knew this, she had no idea, but it seemed right somehow.
The Empir reached up and grabbed Lisen’s robe at the neck, and Lisen blinked at the weakened woman’s speed.
“Lisen,” she whispered, her voice much stronger than Lisen would have expected in one so near to dying.
“Yes, my Liege?”
“It was…an easy pouching.”
“What?” Clearly delirium had taken over.
“We planned well, your father and I. We began…two years after…my ascension.” She let go of Lisen’s shift and dropped back, her eyes no longer focusing on the room in which she lay. “My cycle came….” Her breathing grew more labored, uneven, with the curling wetness that even Lisen Holt knew signaled how near the end was. “We loved…and conceived.”
Lisen reached down to take the woman’s hand. She was talking nonsense, caught up in some ancient memory.
“No!” The Empir recoiled from her touch and blindly waved her hand until she brushed Lisen’s arm and gripped it. “Hear me! I conceived!” She coughed and coughed, barely able to talk now. Lisen didn’t know how she continued. “And then, the pouching. I carried you both, nearly six months of bliss. Blisssss….” She faded. “Then the seer arrived with her predictions.”
Now. Lisen reached up with one hand to her opposite arm to take the hand the Empir still held there. The light in the woman’s eyes flickered and went dark, and Lisen breathed deeply twice and reached in as Titus had instructed. She felt the Empir’s heart beat its last and her lungs expel the end of their air.
Sliding. It was just like sliding down a snowy hill on a sled. Only swifter, warmer, and far more treacherous, for you never knew where you were going. The Other, the dying one, determined the destination, and the necropath’s duty was to remain flexible—vigilant but flexible. At least that’s what she thought she remembered. And one more thing. Never…ever…push.
“The seer took you from me.”
What? Did they speak? Did the dying speak? Or think in speech-like patterns, since that was what this really was.
“It’s the delirium,” Lisen thought back, uncertain of protocol, either hermit or royal. “It will pass.”
“You are Ariannas. The seer, Eloise. She brought you here.”
Lisen’s eyes flew open involuntarily, and she forced them closed again. What did that mean, “Ariannas”?
“And I let her bring you here because I trusted her. But then she sent you to that other world without permission. That changed you.”
Lisen felt as though she were being examined from the inside out, like some cop was frisking her soul.
“I’ll never know, will I? Never know what that did to you.”
“It kept me safe,” Lisen tried to explain. “At least that’s what she told me.” But the more she thought about it, the less she believed it.
“Tell no one, do you understand? None of it. Only those you trust.”
Lisen sensed that the Empir thought her time on Earth had weakened her. “As you command,” she thought, then shook her head, and dismissing her shock, she plunged back into the passing, hoping she hadn’t severed the link.
“You are my Heir,” the Empir thought. Clearly the link had held. “You must understand. I came to find you, to bring you home.”
The Heir? “But….”
“I’ll never know you.”
“You are…?”
“Your mother.”
“But, why…?”
“To save you from your brother.”
“Mother?” But Daisy Holt was Lisen’s mother, not this…this noble lady. And yet, an entire life lived in need of truth could not be denied.
“Beware.”
“Beware of what?” What is she talking about? Lisen asked herself.
“Beware Ariel Ilazer.”
“Your son?” Doubt and disbelief infused Lisen’s thought.
“Your brother.”
And my brother, Lisen thought without directing it to the Empir.
“Yes,” the Empir continued. “Rasendir Mirta was bought.”
“The servant?” At a sense of affirmation, Lisen continued. “Not bought, my Liege. Pushed.”
“No…!” Lisen felt the Empir’s rage at the idea that the servant had been forced to act against her will. “I cannot protect you.”
“Then who…?”
“Nalin. Trust Nalin. And anyone he trusts.”
Lisen fought to hold the bond, but the Empir began slipping away. “Mother! Wait!” Lisen wanted more time, needed more time, but before she could ask more questions, the Empir’s soul did what all souls must do and moved on alone through famar, lost to the living forever.
Lisen opened her eyes, tears flowing, and stared at the pale face forever frozen in time, in memory. She didn’t know this woman, this ruler of Garla. Isolated at Solsta the first half of her life, Lisen knew almost nothing about rulers and their legacies. All she could really recall from before was Empir Flandari’s promise of protection under which all hermits served, an Emperi custom since a time long forgotten.
Lisen set the Empir’s lifeless hand on her lifeless chest, pulling the other one from her side to join it. Then she leaned down, and in what she knew to be the traditional end of the passing, she kissed the Empir on the forehead. She lingered there, her mind swirling. She wondered how it would have been to kiss this woman each night before bed. She wondered how it would have felt to come home to her welcome after a visit to friends instead of to Daisy Holt’s. And, she wondered how having a name and a place in this world would change her, especially this name and this…place.
She rose from the cot, stepped over to the pile of clothes in the corner and squatted down in front of it. She lifted the white undergarment, ripped down the front to hasten its removal. She touched the material to her cheek. In this world, she’d never felt anything so smooth or so soft. What was it made of? Blood had stiffened it where the dagger had torn through it, but elsewhere, its cool comfort remained, smelling something like roses. Below that lay the tunic, also torn top to bottom, deep green in color, made of linen and embroidered with gold. She set it aside and moved on to the leathers which should have protected this ruler of rulers, this mother of hers, but it hadn’t. She stared at the hole in the side. Such a small opening to cause so much damage. Her little finger barely fit through it. Lastly, her fingertips brushed over the wool cloak where it lay. This had been worn farthest from the skin, farthest away from the woman, so she let it be and instead brought the undergarment back up to her cheek. She rose and turned to look at the woman in the bed.
As she did so, something shiny caught her eye, buried beneath the cloak. She reached down towards it, dropping the white undergarment, then pulling the cloak aside. A gilded scabbard, its sword sheathed, had caught the light. She slid her fingertips across the fine gold of the scabbard. The metal was cold and unforgiving. She lifted the weapon from the pile, felt the weight
of it, its perfect balance, even sheathed. Slowly she withdrew it from its casing, the whine of metal scraping metal mesmerizing her, enticing her—a sound familiar from all those swashbuckling movies she’d always loved so much. Once freed, the blade flickered in the candlelight, and with each flicker, the weapon spoke to her. Lisen relived battles she’d never known. Ancient duels and skirmishes—wars and scuffles. Conflicts between opposing nobles. Claims for lands. Swords clashing. This sword clashing with its comrades in steel. Injury and death.
She blinked to free herself from the sword’s soulless memories, but the images waged on unchecked, as did the noisy tumult. She couldn’t see faces, discern expressions, but she felt the sword’s strength as it carried out its fate. She blinked again. So recently freed of the possession of the passing, she’d brought this on herself, unsheathing this sword while her mind and soul remained vulnerable. She regained enough control to replace it in its scabbard and found the will to carry on.
She wrapped her arms around the weapon, looked again upon the shell remaining on the cot, and recognized the now-obvious reason for the familiarity of the face. It was her own—matured and drawn—but the likeness remained.
A whole lifetime stolen from her. An entire life ripped away by one freaking prog-nos-ti-cation. Another lifetime offered up. And stolen from her as well. Then, finally, the initial life restored to her at the plunge of a blade wielded by a meticulously manipulated lackey. She hugged the sword and scabbard close and turned to head out to the hall. If this were her destiny, then life in L.A. and all she’d learned there must have had its purpose, too. She wasn’t going to take crap from anybody anymore, especially not from Eloise the Slippery, and she would have an explanation. Now.
CHAPTER FIVE
ONE PLAN BEARS FRUIT;
ANOTHER TAKES ROOT
The underground passageway stank of mold and rot. A lone candle, set on a small table in the middle of the room, flickered through the damp but couldn’t dispel the gloom. Heir-Empir Ariel Ilazer sat across from Opseth Geranda engaged in an exercise of such proportions that all else withered into the trivial. Ariel stared at the rogue necropath who hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, had barely even breathed for the last hour, and he wondered at such discipline. He couldn’t imagine holding a link under any circumstances, for any duration, especially with someone miles away. Yet there Opseth sat, still as a preying cat, connected to a mind across Miyora Bay, and Ariel hoped that something was actually happening. He needed to twitch, to pace, to move his muscles, but Opseth had warned him to stay still if he wanted to witness the pushing of the assassin.
Assassin. What a sweet word. He and Opseth had planned this for years and finally it was time. The servant had succumbed so easily to Opseth’s seduction, and the anaca—which Ariel had procured from the supplier of his own wits-deadening malla—had further broken down her resistance. The servant had gone to Opseth without hesitation upon learning of the Empir’s impending departure for Solsta. Opseth, in turn, had supplied her with the poison, and she had sailed off with the Empir for the retreat, a retreat from which Ariel’s mother would never return, not alive anyway.
Then he and Opseth had retreated to this abandoned underground tunnel deep in the bowels of Avaret Keep to await the servant’s signal that Empir Flandari and her party had arrived at the Isle and were disembarking. At first, Opseth had objected to risking hermit exposure, but in the end, they’d agreed that with Flandari traveling less and less, this might be their only opportunity to act while the protection of Avaret and the Keep couldn’t save her. Besides, a healer would be useless against the poison. And the very best part? Solsta possessed no necropath, and Ariel reveled in the fact that his mother would make that final passage alone.
How simple it had all proven to be. The one who pushed only needed to contact the subject’s hidden mind, and the subject would never know until it was too late. Ariel sighed silently. If it worked…if it worked…he would be Empir, and the woman who had abhorred him all of his life would be dead.
Ariel stared at the woman across the table and wondered what it felt like to watch, what it felt like to push. Opseth had tested him once, told him he had a gift, but he’d been only fourteen at the time and had backed away. But, over time, Opseth had shown him the promises of the link, the power of it and its passion, and Ariel had given himself over to the potential. For now, though, he merely observed, awaiting a sign, the sign agreed upon, so that he might experience for the first time the thrill of the push. Opseth had insisted on Ariel remaining separate until the last moment—“not a place for a beginner to be,” she’d said—but she’d promised Ariel the taste of the victory for himself. So, Ariel silently awaited the sign in spite of his tension.
One finger rose from Opseth’s right hand, and Ariel’s breath caught. It was time. He took a deep breath, then a second, and reached out, carefully placing his smooth, pampered fingers over the woman’s callused hands on the table. Then he closed his eyes and reached with his mind to the swirling energy that was Opseth’s mind at work. They’d practiced this many times in preparation for this moment, and with practice came skill, and with skill, success.
Yesssssss…. Confirmation. Opseth had warned him she’d have nothing to spare for his pleasure, that Ariel would have to hold on for the duration and allow her to work. He found himself in mental possession of a dagger and the hand that wielded it. He experienced the initial resistance of the flesh. And, finally, he recognized the surrender of skin and sinew to the weapon.
Pop! And the moment ended. Opseth flung him wide of the repercussions, and Ariel’s eyes flew open, his heart pounding, his breath coming in heaves. Amazing, he thought.
Now came even more difficult waiting. Opseth had warned him these might be the longest moments of all. Having coached the servant to destroy all trace of outside involvement, including herself, Opseth had to remain with her until all the dangerous clues had been eliminated. The poison would be discovered; they could not avoid that. But they had perfected the plan to prevent any verifiable suspicion from falling on anyone beyond the servant herself.
And so Ariel waited, at least a half hour, watching the middle-aged woman whose mind functioned at breath-stealing levels while the body remained still. Not a hint crossed her face, and Ariel wondered what took so long. He grew bored, and his eyes meandered across the oppressive walls, the candlelight creating shadows of what may or may not be actual creeping creatures. He shivered, then jumped as Opseth released a small gasp. He stared at her closely, absently rubbing the bit of reddish beard on his chin that had finally surfaced in the last month or so. The woman’s face changed with such subtlety, only the barest downturn of the lips, that Ariel doubted he’d have caught it had he not been concentrating so hard. Clearly something was finally happening, and he wanted to know what. Yet he dared not speak and threaten Opseth’s focus. Not now when they were so close.
But were they? Opseth’s frown—what did it mean? Please, Creators, no failure. He’d sensed the dagger reaching its mark, of that he was certain. But what of the servant? Had she betrayed them and refused to swallow the remainder of the ural? A person could lose his mind with all the damn waiting.
“My lord?”
Ariel looked into the now-open eyes of his watcher, the one who could push, the woman to whom he’d paid every spare solur and solurotte he could save since he was fourteen. After all this time, it had added up to a huge sum, nearly a thousand solurs.
“Is it done?” Ariel blurted out.
Opseth smiled. “It is done.”
“My mother’s dead?”
“The dagger, coated with ural, went in to the hilt.”
“I felt it, Master Opseth, but…is…she…dead?”
“If she’s not dead, my lord,” the woman replied, “then it’s by some miracle of which I have no knowledge.”
Ariel stood up from the chair in the dank little hall in the deep reaches of what was now his Keep. “Creators, I’m the Empir.” He looked up at t
he dripping ceiling. “I am the Empir!”
“Shh,” Opseth said. “There is a problem.”
“My mother is dead, and I’m the Empir. There are no problems.”
“There is a problem.”
Ariel plopped back down in his chair. “I knew it. You frowned. The servant didn’t finish off the ural, did she?”
“Oh, she did, and she is dead, but a necropath got to her first. Apparently they reached the haven before she died.”
“I thought Solsta didn’t have a necropath,” he asked, confused. They’d researched everything so carefully, and this—the fact Solsta Haven lacked a necropath—well, everyone knew that.
“Apparently we were misinformed.”
“So what does it mean? Did the servant confess to the necropath who wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place?” How could Opseth sit there like that, as though it didn’t matter how what they’d just achieved was perceived?
“No, no. Calm down. I managed to maintain control, but the damn hermit sensed me. I tried to steal the memory back, but someone pulled the necropath away before I could.”
“How much does the necropath know?”
“That the servant was pushed, that’s all.”
Ariel jumped up, knocking his chair down in his haste. “But that’s enough! That’s all they’ll need to come after me.”
“With what proof, my lord? Or should I say, ‘my Liege’? Remember. You’re Empir now. You rule the courts, and your word is law. Who could possibly accept the word of a necropath, of all people, over the word of the Empir?”
“I suppose,” Ariel muttered, unconvinced.
“I’ll go home and stay there until after the celebration of your ascension. If you need me sooner, that’s where you can find me.”
“If the necropath tells Nalin, he’s bound to make a claim to the Council.” The tunnel began closing in on Ariel, and he couldn’t breathe.
“We always knew he’d suspect you no matter how clean the deed. This gives him but one additional, insignificant piece of evidence which he may or may not use, but it won’t help him win his case.”
Fractured (Lisen of Solsta Book 1) Page 6