As she approached the others, she observed the subtle indications of class, the divide between nobility and servitude. How did they perceive this? To an outsider like herself, the image of the captain nodding in uneasy deference to the holder’s authority reminded her that whatever rules had defined her life—whether the rules of her first ten years in the haven or those of her last seven on Earth—she must redefine them. Certainly the captain knew more, understood more, possessed more in the way of experience than the young noble, and yet he deferred to the holder, like the deference an American military officer might give a senator or a secretary in the President’s cabinet. And then again…. Damn, my life’s never gonna be the same.
“Good. You’re here,” the captain said to Lisen as she reached the waiting group. “Are you ready?”
“One moment.” Lisen turned to Titus. No lump formed in her throat, and she wondered why.
“May One Be,” Lisen whispered, lowering her gaze. Titus reached out and, with one finger at her chin, urged Lisen’s head back up.
“One Is, Lisen of Solsta.”
They stood there, the moment heavy with questions Lisen reasoned Hermit Titus couldn’t answer at all, much less any better than Eloise the Elusive had.
“My lord,” the captain said to Holder Corday and pulled him from the main group. Grateful for the diversion, Lisen turned an ear to them and eavesdropped on their conversation.
“Halorin in a fortnight,” she heard the holder say.
“Aye, my lord. A fortnight,” the captain replied.
Then something about an inn on the river’s side and finally a request for the holder to deliver a note from the captain to someone named Palla.
“Excuse me,” Lisen said, breaking in as soon as it appeared the two men had completed their business, “but if we’re to leave before first light, we’d better be going.” They all turned—Holder Corday, the captain, Heir Tuane, Titus, even Eloise—and looked at her. She pulled up to her full height, mindful of their scrutiny.
“Aye,” the captain replied and stepped to the grey horse, motioning to Lisen. “This is Shadow. The assassin rode her, but you’ll be better off on this one than on the Empir’s high-spirited stallion.”
“No doubt.” Despite all those riding lessons, Lisen knew her own restlessness after a sleepless night would project through the reins and the saddle to a sensitive horse. She looked towards the Empir’s black warhorse as it grazed the paddock for stray feed. She stepped forward and greeted the animal the captain had offered her. “A leg up please,” she requested of the captain.
“Aye, my Liege,” he whispered. For once, she didn’t care what he called her; his whisper made her skin tingle, as did the slight lingering over hard consonants which only increased his mystery. Betsy would have “died for” this one, despite the age difference. Lisen smiled, then raised her booted left foot into his interlocked fingers. In one graceful move, he lifted her from the ground and brought her up to a height from which she could throw her other leg over the animal’s back and settle into the saddle.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“I’ll check the stirrups.” She waited while he fiddled briefly, wishing there was a reason to keep him at it longer. “How do they feel?”
“All right, I suppose.” Lisen chose restraint. They’d have seven days together on the ride to Halorin. The heir of Minol would be with them, but Lisen doubted this Jozan would care what moves Lisen made on Captain Cutie as the days wore on. If I dare to make any moves, she thought. She despaired that she’d do what she always did—chicken out in the end.
“Then…Heir Tuane?” the captain asked.
“Ready.” The heir threw herself up onto the saddle of the sorrel with the grace of a seasoned rider. Lisen envied the heir her ease with all things noble. It left Lisen, the so-called Heir of Garla, feeling most uneasy.
“Lisen?” She looked down, and there stood Titus, patting her left knee. “Take this token for your journey.” He placed a small, mirror-like, dark grey stone in Lisen’s hand, one of his healing gems.
“No. I can’t take this,” she protested.
“A loan then, until you’re safely seated as Empir.”
Lisen stifled a laugh. She couldn’t even picture becoming Empir, but she turned her head away rather than be discourteous to Titus. “Forgive me,” she said as she turned back. “Thank you for the loan.” She pocketed the stone in the small leather pouch at her belt. “And I should give you this.” She pulled off the gold band they’d had her place on her left middle finger not much more than twenty-four hours earlier and reached down to hand it to Titus.
“No,” he said, closing Lisen’s fingers around the ring with both hands and pushing her hand back up. “It will help you to remember.”
“Remember?”
“Solsta.” Eloise had joined them, and it was she who spoke now. “Not the place, but the spirit.”
Lisen fought back unexpected tears. A new memory had emerged. This woman—this sooth with all her manipulations—had manipulated her own body into believing it had pouched a baby for nearly five months. She had done this, so Lisen had been told by other hermits, never by Eloise herself, to make it possible for her to nurse the abandoned baby during Lisen’s passage to independence. Now Lisen understood why, of all the hermits, it had been Eloise. The woman had known far in advance, had prepared in secret, and had been ready the moment the foundling had arrived.
Eloise had nurtured Lisen in other ways, too, guiding Lisen through the many passages of her young life. That explains my willingness at ten to go wherever Eloise suggested, Lisen thought.
Now Eloise stood here, looking up at Lisen, and the hermit’s expression told Lisen that nothing from now on would be easy.
“It will help you remember Solsta’s soul,” Eloise added.
Drawn back to the present, Lisen slipped the ring back on her finger. “Thank you,” she said, struggling with a rush of conflicting emotions. Eloise, the beloved nurturer. Eloise, the maniacal manipulator. Who was she really? Lisen doubted she would ever know.
“May One Be, Lisen of Solsta.” Eloise’s voice rang out rich and strong.
“One Is,” Lisen replied. Eloise reached up one hand, but angry, lost, disoriented, Lisen reached down, mouthed, “Damn you,” then pulled her hand away, and Eloise withdrew.
Lisen looked up to find the holder dictating final instructions to the captain and the heir. She smiled. The holder certainly despised relinquishing control. He caught her watching, finished up with his two deputies and stepped over to her.
“My lord,” she said and nodded.
“Never nod,” he corrected her.
“What?”
“Never nod. It’s unseemly in an Empir.”
“I’ll make sure to write that down.”
“Then make note of this as well. The captain and Heir Tuane are in charge for now, not you.”
“Of course they are. Do you think I’d—“
“Good,” he interrupted, and she listened sullenly as he went on. “They’ll consult you, but all decisions will be theirs. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” she shot back. She wanted to kick him in the pouch, or lower, if she could have reached that far. Just slip her foot from the stirrup and hit him hard. People who pumped themselves up on their own importance really pissed her off. But she held her breath, and the temptation passed.
“All right then. Off you go.” He gave her horse a slap on the rump, and she pulled in behind the other two as they headed out of the receiving yard and down the mountain path. Before they took the turn that would separate her from one of the only two homes she’d ever known, Lisen reined her horse to a halt and turned to look back. Circumstances had denied her this luxury two nights ago when she left a place she’d never, ever see again, yet her memories of Earth glowed so brightly that they eclipsed what little she could recall of the yard and the edifice she gaz
ed at now. With little memory of the place, saying farewell to Solsta left her only vaguely sad. Besides, she would always be able to return here. Not so Earth. So she looked back upon Solsta and allowed her mind to capture images, like little photographs, of what might be the last simple moments of her life.
Titus, honor-bound and without guile—whatever Lisen could remember of the best of a hermit’s life had come from him. He looked tiny in relief against the haven, the hint of dawn now beginning to outline its rise upon the mountain against the sky above. Lisen wondered. Had Titus always been so small?
Eloise, standing back, alone, removed, her interference exacting its own price.
And the holder, standing out in front, as entranced with this leave-taking as she was, caught with an expression of unbearable grief quickly amended, veiling his pain once more.
With a sigh, she faced forward once again, found the captain and the heir awaiting her at the bend. She urged her horse forward and followed them as they led her away from Solsta. Two departures in two days. Why the hell had she gone to the stupid beach in the first place? She’d probably regret that decision the rest of her life, here, in a world with no cars and no airplanes and no way to let someone know you were running late and why. She could only hope that one day she’d stop missing everything she’d left behind and learn not to hate it here.
In the grey of dawn, Nalin watched the horses disappear around the turn and couldn’t move. In mere hours he had transformed from the holder of Felane and protégé of the Empir into the guardian in absentia of Flandari’s Heir. The Empir has passed. Long life to the Empir.
His teeth began to chatter, and he wrapped his cloak around himself. Flandari was dead, all but a brief moment of time with her secret daughter stolen from her by an assassin’s poisoned blade. Flandari was dead, and now he must find the strength to keep her Heir alive and the secret of their conspiracy sealed in his heart and away from Ariel. And Lorain, he thought, eyebrows rising. Lorain Zanlot, the holder of Bedel, had a talent for gathering together the tiniest of clues into an explanation too close to truth for Nalin’s comfort. The Empir has passed. Long life to the Empir!
Jozan’s question echoed in his mind. “What if the girl doesn’t want you?” But that had been part of the plan, hadn’t it? That was what Flandari had envisioned. Want him or not, he was the girl’s only suitable choice, and she’d have to see the logic in that. The Empir has passed. Long life to the Empir.
He heard the sound of wheels rolling through dirt and turned as a wagon pulled by two ponies emerged from the barn. To the east, light hinted on the horizon. It was time to leave.
“My lord.”
He sighed and turned to see Hermit Eloise approaching. Alike in stature and features to her brother, who happened to be the holder of Minol and Jozan’s father, this woman seemed to embody the qualities with which the hermits were identified—strength of character, knowledge beyond that of those who lived in the world, and magical skills.
“Hermit Eloise.” He nodded, smiling at the irony of his just having scolded the Heir of Garla for doing precisely that, but this woman’s powerful presence demanded respect.
“I’ve been advised by those who minister,” the hermit said, “that they’ve wrapped the Empir in herbs and placed a preservation spell over her body.”
“Thank you,” he replied and started to turn away, then remembered something. “Uh…the haven should be prepared. Ariel will make a show of investigation, send someone here to gather statements.”
“No one here witnessed the murder,” Eloise responded. “Sallur and Titus can testify as to the cause of death, but to little else. Let him send whomever he pleases. Solsta welcomes all.”
“Even a reader?”
Eloise smiled, then spread out her arms encompassing the yard, the very haven itself. “Do you believe anyone here fears a reader?”
Nalin smiled back in spite of himself. “No, I suppose not. But before you leave with us, warn them to prepare for an onslaught. Ariel will accuse me, and eventually, he’ll find it odd that Jozan took off elsewhere without me.”
“Yes, he will.”
Nalin continued, to himself as much as to the woman in front of him. “He’ll look for reasons to charge me, though he’ll have trouble coming up with a motive. It’s not like I can inherit.”
The reedy sound of a pipe played solo by a master interrupted their conversation, and Nalin turned to face the sanctuary doors. The mournful tune signaled the bringing of the body and the first step of Flandari’s final journey home. The doors opened, and the piper stepped out onto the landing, moving to the side to allow passage of the bier borne by six hermits down the steps. They moved in slow reverence, and Nalin thanked the One for this small blessing in the midst of cursed chaos. Accompanied by the pipe, the six bore the Empir to the wagon, her body wrapped tightly in white cloth and draped in a looser fashion in dark grey. The Empir has passed. Long life to the Empir!
If only that were true. If only it were that simple. If only the eventual outcome would turn out to be just that. If only Ariel would abdicate in favor of his sister and save them all the task of bringing him down. If only. Nalin sighed and stared at the wrapped form one hermit now secured within the wagon. The rest looked on as well, their numbers swelled by those who had awakened to a morning filled with mourning. The entire haven seemed to have assembled.
“What would you have me do?” he mouthed silently to Flandari, but she would never answer. Rely on everything I’ve learned, everything she taught me. That’s what she would tell me. Make the girl Empir and perhaps she’ll choose me to be her spouse. From the moment the Empir had revealed her secret to him, he’d believed that all this was Flandari’s will, including his union with the Heir. I will be Empir-Spouse, he had told himself then and ever since. Duty-bound—honor-bound—to the will and whim of Ariannas, just as Flandari had bound him to herself.
The two sergeants of the Guard led the horses from the barn, four of them, including Nalin’s bay and the Empir’s black. Nalin pulled his gloves from his small satchel, and as he slipped them on, he turned back to Hermit Titus. “You’ll see to the proper disposition of the assassin’s body?”
“Aye, my lord. I’ll oversee the rites myself.”
Hermit Eloise jumped up onto the wagon beside its driver. One of the guards tied the Empir’s impatient steed to the back of the wagon and then threw herself up onto her own mount. Nalin sighed heavily. It’s time. There’d be too little of it before their arrival in Avaret with the awful news. There’d be no time at all to mourn. And Nalin would have to sit back and watch in silence as Ariel and his greedy Lorain celebrated the fulfillment of all their desires. He knew full well that Lorain would prove to be the more difficult foe. Ambition and intelligence. And more than anything else, she hungered for the power of an Empir-Spouse to an Empir she could control.
Empir-Spouse. It made Nalin pause. Was he really so very different from the holder of Bedel? He couldn’t tell. He lacked perspective.
“Pray for all our sakes, Hermit,” he said softly to the healer standing there beside him, and then he strode over to his horse and mounted. As he set out behind the wagon, he turned back to see Titus, hands pressed together beneath his chin, lower his head just once. When he raised it again, he smiled at Nalin despite the glint of tears within his eyes, and an ounce or so of Nalin’s burden lifted.
The Empir has passed. Long life to the Empir.
Holder Lorain Zanlot of Bedel stretched slowly in satisfaction. Beside her in the bed, as naked as she herself, lay the sleeping Heir-Empir of Garla. He had been a little awkward late last night, but not as awkward as a celibate boy should have been. So she wasn’t his first. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t hers either.
Her mind wandered and she wondered. She wondered about levies and taxes and how much the Emperi took in every year. She wondered about Tonkin, Bedel’s capital and her home, and who might be watching her here in Avaret. And she wondered about this boy, about this Ari
el here in her arms, and why he’d chosen last night of all nights to finally invite her into his bed. Everything has a reason.
The boy shifted in his sleep, rolling out of her arms and away from her, moaning as though locked in a dream, and she let him be. Instead she sat up, bringing her knees to her chest, and shook out the tingling arm upon which he’d lain. Damnable boy. A full year his elder, to her he was still a boy. Proud, stubborn, coddled in the arms of royal supremacy, growing more handsome every day. And, to her, the most important of all—malleable. She’d spent her entire four years as holder enticing him, praising him, seducing him, molding him. And now? Damned if she didn’t feel something akin to love for him. Certainly not in that mad way people could act; she hadn’t fallen into some waking stupor over him. But in the last year or so, she’d grown aware of affection, even of a sense of delight in his presence. Regardless, she would never allow it to compromise her own aspirations. She remained focused on one purpose and one purpose only—the power of Empir-Spouse through manipulation of her dear, dear Ariel. She touched his dark red curls lovingly. Yes, she cared for him, but she must never lose sight of his place in her plans.
He stirred and began muttering incoherently. Lorain paid no heed. He dreamed. Everyone dreamed. Let him be. Get back to your plans, she ordered herself. Because one day Flandari would die, and when she did, Lorain would stand ready to join with Flandari’s Heir. Flandari would never permit such a union while she still lived, but Lorain would coax Ariel along slowly while preventing the possibility of any other union for him.
She smiled and hugged her knees tightly. It would be a beautiful ceremony. She had planned that out, too.
“Mother?”
Lorain sat up straighter. Had she heard correctly? Had Ariel called out to his mother? Definitely, but it wasn’t the word that drew her—it was the tone of fear. And shock.
“But…but…,” he uttered.
Fractured (Lisen of Solsta Book 1) Page 9