I pushed. She gasped. I pushed. Oh, my God. A man was dead, and that was bad enough. But she had done precisely what the rogue had done to that servant. She’d made the man do—or rather fail to do—something that had made it possible for her to kill him. It had saved her life and protected her secret, but pushing was considered an act so immoral that a necropath could be forced to forfeit their vocation if discovered committing it.
“But you had to survive. It was the only way.”
Lisen heard the voice, growing stronger, no longer communicating with vague images and single syllable commands. It was her punishment, her penance, this possession by Jozan’s soul. She’d run away with it—with her—to avoid whoever she’d heard climbing up the stairs, and it—no, she, Lisen reminded herself—would remain with Lisen forever. There was no running from possession.
“Seffa. It’s not far. Father’s there and he can help.”
Deluded spirit. “No one can help,” Lisen told her.
No one, she realized. The hope of Garla had dissolved into the ether of possession. Ariel—her malcontent of a brother—would rule, while she, the untrained, uninitiated and certainly unprepared fool of a necropath would languish in some haven, if she were lucky. If not so lucky, she’d end up homeless and useless on some city’s streets begging for food, scrounging for shelter. She cried out wordlessly to the heavens and fell to her knees, dropping her head.
She noted absently that her tunic had nearly dried from the soaking she’d endured in last night’s storm, but it remained covered in blood—Jo’s blood—now turning to brown. It was all part of the nothing left to her. Bit by bit she would fade away, drifting deeper and deeper into delusions, comforted by her hallucinations, until the person she’d once been vanished, replaced by the desecration that was possession. It was nothing she’d been taught; what little left of reason in her mind deduced it.
Lisen gasped and looked up and around at the sound of footfalls, muffled by ground cover, heading in her direction. Her heart began to pound, and she found it impossible to breathe. Silence, she ordered herself. Then the shaking began, shaking she could not control, and with it came an even worse feeling. Still on her knees, she settled back on her heels and crouched over as her stomach finally wrenched up its meager contents. Heave upon heave convulsed through her, but, coughing and choking, she brought up only bile. When the cramping pain finally released her, she groped for breath, forgetting the need for silence, and then wiped her mouth.
“Are you all right?”
Lisen jumped from her knees to her feet in a heartbeat. She wanted to run, but her woozy head and heavy legs refused to cooperate. The madness had arrived, she decided, because the girl standing in front of her, the lovely apparition of a young woman, was Betsy. Or Jozan. She shook her head. She wasn’t sure. She just wasn’t sure. She could only hope that she wouldn’t start heaving again. “I’m fine,” she replied to the ghost.
“No. You’re not. You’re hurt.”
“Bala.” The Other, the other soul within, Jozan’s soul, rose up like the proverbial giant awakened, the voice clear, distinct, demanding to hug this young woman, this Bala, this sister.
“Please. Don’t be afraid.” The woman reached out, never touching, but prompting, inviting. “I saw you from up there.” She pointed behind her, and Lisen followed the gesture up to the tower of a castle rising above the forest into the sky.
“Seffa. Home.” The damn voice wouldn’t shut up.
“Let’s get you inside and see to your wound.”
Lisen shook her head at the girl’s mention of wounds. There was no cure for her injury, but this woman could never understand why.
“Please. You need help.”
Unable to speak, struck dumb by the whirling in her head the zeal of the Other’s possession stirred, Lisen simply nodded and allowed the blond woman so like Betsy and Jozan to take her hand and guide her up the small hill upon which the Tuane castle stood. She led Lisen through an outer gate, across a small courtyard and inside to a hall.
“Home, home.” The voice would not freakin’ shut up. And now, rather than the original word-thoughts that had first echoed through her mind as she ran through the woods, Lisen could hear it, could actually hear it. The madness crept closer and closer. Madness and grief and the curse of using a power she’d never known she had before she realized she was using it—before she’d taken a moment to think it through. Stupid. So stupid. They should have warned her. Somebody should have warned her. Not that anyone had left any time for warnings. Not that there’d been any time for anything at all except rushing away from the haven ahead of Ariel’s spies. Fat lot of good that did.
The young woman brought Lisen into a room, a large and comfortable room, where a fire burned at the opposite end. A man awaited them; Lisen assumed he was a servant.
“Tak, food. And warm ale,” the woman, this “Bala,” ordered as she drew Lisen in close to the fire. “And Father’s kit. I think she’s wounded.”
“No,” Lisen managed, her voice coarse from a night and part of a day of running and crying. “It’s not…not my blood.”
“Clean clothes, then, Tak.”
“Aye, my lord,” the servant said and left.
“Now. Sit down,” the woman ordered.
“Bala.” Lisen fought thinking of this woman by her name until properly introduced, but Jozan continued to insist.
“My father is the holder here, but he’s away. For the Empir’s funeral.”
Lisen’s eyes darted about the room, but possession prevented her from being able to focus on anything. The wall hangings all blurred together in a richness of colors—blues, reds, greens, golds—causing the fire’s flames to seem but a distant glow. “Yes, I heard,” Lisen managed somehow. “About the Empir, I mean.” She dared not look at the woman.
“Do I know you?”
“No,” Lisen answered too quickly, honing in for one brief second on the young noble’s brown eyes. “We’ve never met.”
“I must speak!” Jozan demanded.
“Shh. No,” Lisen replied.
“What?” the woman asked.
Lisen looked up. Had she hushed Jozan out loud? Damn possession. She could keep nothing straight. “Nothing,” she murmured, shaking and then dropping her head.
The woman nodded, then continued where she’d left off. “Well, I’m Bala. Bala Tuane. And you are?”
“Lisen. Lisen, from Solsta.”
“A hermit?”
“Hardly.” Lisen kept surveying the room. So familiar.
“There. We’ve met. So what are you doing so far from home, Lisen from Solsta?”
“Tell her. Tell her everything,” Jozan advised.
“No. Not everything,” Lisen countered silently.
“I accompanied your sister to Halorin.”
“Jo? Is she with you?”
Lisen laughed, a crazy cackle to her own ears. This woman would never understand the irony. “No. She’s not with me. She’s not…with anyone anymore. My lord….”
“What?”
The return of the servant interrupted them, gave Lisen a bit more time.
“My lord,” the servant said. “I’ve brought clean clothes, but may I suggest our guest bathe before redressing?”
“Perhaps she should eat first. She looks more in need of food than a bath,” the woman said.
“No. I couldn’t. I…I couldn’t.” Both Bala and the servant turned and stared at Lisen. Had they forgotten her?
The young noblewoman nodded, then, smiling at Lisen, she said, “Then prepare a bath, Tak. We’ll be in presently.”
Lisen sat, numb, drifting from one conscious space into another and then back again. She no longer cared who or where she was. Something needed doing, but she’d forgotten what.
“So, where were we?” the young woman asked. “Oh, you were about to tell me where Jo is.”
“She’s…oh, damn, she’s dead, my lord. I’m so sorry.” Lisen’s eyes filled with tears again, a g
lut of grief consuming her. Jozan observed and cried out as Bala absorbed the news. Her eyes grew wide, then she blinked, fighting to manage the truth.
“No, no.” The woman shook her head. “You must be mistaken. She was in Avaret, and she went to the Isle with the late Empir, and then Nalin sent word that she’d gone on some mission. No explanation. He promised he’d explain it to Father after Flandari’s rites.”
“Yes,” Lisen replied, each word a struggle. “A mission. But now Jozan’s dead, and the mission’s in ruins.”
“No. Not my sister.”
“My lord, I’m a necropath.” It’s not a lie, Lisen thought. I didn’t say I was a trained necropath. “I watched her die, murdered by one of Heir Ariel’s spies.”
It was Bala’s turn to look about furtively. A hard truth, the truth of death. Lisen hadn’t accepted it yet, and she’d been there.
“What….” Bala began, then cleared her throat and tried again. She fought the tears. “What happened?”
“This man surprised us in our room last night. I hid while your sister…” She paused, the memory coming at her from two sources, shook her head and continued. “…while your sister tried to deal with him. But he wouldn’t be dealt with, and he drew his knife. Your sister was unarmed. She didn’t stand a chance.”
After a heartbeat of silence, Bala spoke. “So it’s her blood on your tunic.”
“Yes.”
Bala reached out, touched the hem of Lisen’s tunic, held it between thumb and forefinger, closed her eyes and began to hum. Only one soft note, and Lisen struggled against the urge to stand and pull away. But the Other possessed her and would not allow it.
“Creator,” the girl murmured sadly. “Jozan.”
They sat for several moments, neither able to speak, Lisen’s mind churning with dialogue. “I want to touch her,” Jozan demanded.
“No.” Lisen had to shut the damn voice up.
“What would it hurt?” Jozan pleaded.
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Yes,” Lisen replied, exasperated.
“Of what? A little touch?”
“You’re a second soul in a body that already has a soul. If you speak….”
“What? If I speak, what?”
All Lisen knew was Jozan must not speak. If she did, Lisen would lose. But Lisen had already lost. To hell with it. Let her touch her sister. Lisen reached out in a gesture meant to comfort, but Bala wrenched her hand away.
“I’m sorry,” Lisen blurted out, jerking away involuntarily.
“No, no, I’m sorry,” Bala replied and looked into Lisen’s eyes. Too late Lisen realized what Bala would see there if she had any gifts at all, and as Eloise’s niece, gifts might be a given. Lisen closed her eyes. Too late.
“Jo?” Bala whispered.
“No.” She must not know, Lisen thought.
Bala shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. But you said you were a necropath, and I thought I saw….”
“Nothing. You saw nothing.” Even to Lisen’s confusion-muffled hearing it sounded defensive.
“Tell her!” Jozan wailed, but Lisen adamantly refused. Any acknowledgment would seal it.
At the sound of commotion coming from the hall beyond, Lisen looked up and her stomach tightened. What now? Then a man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with wavy white hair and sparse white beard, came into the doorway. He looked frail. Bala rose and ran to him.
“Father!” she exclaimed as she threw herself into his arms, wrapping her own around him.
“Father,” Jozan whispered in Lisen’s mind, sadness in the thought.
“What a greeting,” the old man said, jovial, clearly pleased to be home. “To what do I owe…?” He stopped mid question, all enthusiasm passing away like water washing away dirt as he caught sight of Lisen in the chair by the fire. “What’s happened?” he asked Lisen directly.
She stood up, ignoring every aching muscle. “My lord. You are Holder Tuane, correct?”
“Yes. And you?”
“I’m Lisen from Solsta Haven, but you may know me by another name.”
“Ariannas,” he whispered.
“What?” Bala said, looking first to her father and then to Lisen.
“Something’s happened. What?” the holder asked again, his voice gentle, welcoming.
“It’s Jo,” Bala started, but the holder hushed her, touching her lips with his fingertips. Lisen could see it in his eyes. He knew. Or had guessed. He’s Hermit Eloise’s brother. Of course he already knows.
“She’s dead, my lord,” Lisen replied with painful humility. “Murdered in my service.”
The holder gasped and nearly fell, but his daughter caught him and kept him standing.
“Go to him.” Jozan was relentless.
“I can’t,” Lisen insisted, knowing it was pointless to try to convince the stubborn soul holding her hostage otherwise.
“My lord, I was alone.” It was a struggle, maintaining her control, but a struggle Lisen must win, at least for a little while longer. “I didn’t know where to go. She’d told me her home was just up the river, and so I came here.”
“Nalin said he’d left a captain with you. Where was he?” the holder asked.
“I don’t know where he was.” Lisen dropped her head in shame. She’d failed Jo and she’d failed Jo’s father.
“That’s suspicious.”
“Korin?” Lisen asked. “Captain Rosarel, I mean? No. He couldn’t have been involved. I’d know it. He’s loyal to me.”
“And how can you know who is loyal to you, young one?” The holder extricated himself from his remaining daughter’s embrace and stepped into the room and towards Lisen. He reached her, stood eye to eye with her, his blue eyes hard but loving. Inside, Jozan whimpered, trying to stay quiet but unable to keep completely still. The holder reached out to Lisen and tentatively touched her chest. “Her blood. This is her blood, isn’t it? I thought at first that it was yours, but your injury isn’t physical, is it?”
Lisen pulled away from his gaze. He saw too much.
“Father, perhaps she should get cleaned up before we question her further.”
He turned back to Bala. “Yes. Yes.” He returned to Lisen. “Forgive me. I am…not myself.”
“Of course,” Lisen replied and was about to step away from him when she remembered the documents she’d hidden between her tunic and her chest. She pulled them out, unfolded them and saw that somehow she’d preserved them from the worst of the rain. “Here,” she said, passing them on to the holder, then turned to Bala who beckoned to her with a hand. Anything to escape the prying mind of the bereaved holder.
“Come,” Bala said, taking Lisen’s hand in her own. “Your bath should be ready by now, and then we can talk, if you’re up to it.”
These poor people, Lisen thought. The loss of a beloved child, a beloved sister. Lisen knew how they felt; she’d lost a few loved ones of her own.
Nalin reached Seffa in the early afternoon. He and the two captains had carefully wrapped the body and hired a wagon with a horse to pull it, tethering Nalin’s own mount to the back, and then he’d set out, alone. Captain Rosarel had headed up the opposite side of the river towards Erinina Haven, while Captain Palla had remained at the Riverside Inn awaiting word of any progress locating Ariannas. Nalin’s stomach had cramped up every time he thought about what awaited him at the end of this journey—facing Elsba with Jozan’s corpse—but he’d manage somehow; he had thus far, hadn’t he?
How much more? he wondered. The slow trot of the horse in front of him hadn’t distracted him from the stench of death which had followed him wherever he went. The body in the wagon bed behind him hadn’t begun to rot; it wasn’t that sort of stench. It was the destruction of people he loved, people he cared about, people who had put their trust, and apparently their lives, in his hands. And now, they were gone. Flandari, Jozan, perhaps the young Heir as well. He’d managed thus far, but he didn’t know i
f he could manage much more.
The sun beat down on him as he pulled up into the outer courtyard of the towered and turreted Tuane castle and finally stepped down from the wagon’s bench, apprehension twisting his gut. Ignoring it—for that was what he did best, ignore his own discomforts—he stepped towards the main entry. He’d failed Jozan. He’d certainly failed Elsba. And at this rate, he’d fail Flandari in the end as well. He never should have agreed to this folly, but Flandari had a way—no, had had a way—of making a request seem like an order and an order, like a request.
He reached the great door and was about to pound the knocker when it opened, a saddened Elsba on the other side.
“Nalin,” Elsba said. “I saw you coming. Come in, come in.”
“But…,” he said turning back towards the wagon. Elsba took his hand and pulled him in.
“The servants will see to it,” Elsba said.
Nalin halted and abruptly yanked his hand away, demanding the older man’s attention. “Elsba, it’s not an ‘it.’ It’s Jo. She’s dead. I’ve brought her home.”
Oddly, Elsba did not react, save for a barely perceptible flinch. “I know, Nalin,” he said with a sigh. “I know. The girl is here. She arrived before you.”
“Creators,” he said, now rushing past Elsba into the main hall, then looking about, his soul on fire. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
“Nalin,” Elsba said, following him and taking his arm. “Nalin, calm down. She is…distraught.”
“Is she hurt?”
“Not physically. But something’s not right with her, I’m not sure what. Come. Sit.”
Nalin hesitated, wanting to turn back to see to Jozan.
“The servants will take care of her, Nalin. Do come and sit.”
He nodded and followed Elsba to the chairs in front of the fireplace. It would be good to sit—for a little while.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SINGING IN THE BATH
Nightmares can frighten the crap out of you, Lisen thought as she lounged in the bath. Helpless in sleep, the dreamer can be drawn, dragged and quartered in a world only real in the mind. The mind can be vicious, breaking the dreamer. But, Lisen sighed, the nightmare’s over now. Soon Mommy will come with clean, warm jammies so I can go back to bed, the bad dream gone, and I’ll sleep until morning without any more fear.
Fractured (Lisen of Solsta Book 1) Page 21