Hozia spoke in Thristan, and Lisen assumed she was telling the others what they’d said. The Elder next to Korin—Elder Barok, if Lisen remembered correctly—replied with a tone of irritation or, even, derision, and then he scowled at Lisen. The female Elder directly across from him, whose name Lisen could not recall, glared at Lisen as well. This was not turning out quite as she’d expected.
“The People,” Hozia began, and Lisen nodded to acknowledge her understanding of the gravity of Hozia’s words. “The People observe four high rituals through the year. Come summer’s Longday, we praise Mantar the Maker in the form of the rising and setting sun. Come autumn’s Evenday, we welcome all the children of the Tribe who have emerged in the last year. Come winter’s Longnight, we acknowledge the Destroyer, the bringer of darkness and death, for out of death comes life. All of these high rituals have names which you will learn, but for now, the Farii will guide you.”
Lisen listened, committed to the learning. Apparently she had absorbed some of Simon Holt’s curiosity about other cultures.
“The Farii,” Hozia continued, “celebrates beginnings and the creation of life. All life. Plants, animals, the People. Korin can explain the elements of the ceremony later. The Elders want to be sure you understand one thing.”
“And that would be?” Lisen asked, growing frustrated with being treated like a child. More like a stupid Garlan, she thought. She might be ignorant of Thristan ways, but she wasn’t brainless.
Hozia cleared her throat. “The couple commits to themselves, to one another and to the Tribe. They commit to completing the ritual if they are chosen.”
Lisen’s pouch constricted, and she shifted positions, wondering what that meant. “I understand,” she lied. But it wasn’t really a lie, now was it? Because she was committed; she just wasn’t entirely sure what she was committing to.
“Do you?” Korin asked.
Damn him, she thought, turned to her right, scowled at him, and then replied firmly, “Yes, I do.”
“If you and Korin are who and what he claims you are,” Hozia said, drawing Lisen’s attention back to her, “you will willingly immerse yourselves in the glory of the Choosing and in the sharing that will follow should Mantar call you to fertilize the Tribe.”
“I am willing,” Lisen replied solemnly.
Hozia nodded, gifted Lisen with a sly smile, then turned to Korin. She spoke in Thristan to him, and he replied back in Thristan as well. Lisen assumed Hozia had now confirmed Korin’s willingness.
The Elder rose, and Korin nudged Lisen to rise with him.
“We are pleased,” Hozia proclaimed, and all the other Elders nodded in assent. Apparently this was a ritual statement and required no translation for them to understand. Korin responded in Thristan, then gave Lisen a little push to precede him through the curtain and out the chamber.
They emerged in the antechamber, no couple there to greet them. Apparently, the Elders had scheduled them last, probably because they didn’t know how long it would take to either accept or reject the unknown Garlan presence amongst them. And Lisen knew full well this was not acceptance of her as a member of the Tribe. In the short time they intended to spend here, true acceptance might never come, but at least they’d accepted her as a suitable participant in their “high ritual.”
Korin said nothing as he led her back to his tiny quarters in the rock. She sensed the weight of the moment and held her tongue despite the many questions dancing in her mind. Her thoughts felt jumbled, and she feared a relapse into madness. Could that happen, even after dispossession? Hermit Teran had failed to warn her if it could. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. And perhaps, she thought, it doesn’t happen and you’re just freaking out. She smiled to herself. Earth terms sometimes did that to her—reminded her of happy or silly moments. “Freaking out” brought no specific moment to mind; it simply made her smile.
They arrived at the lower levels and soon stepped into Korin’s cave. He slipped out of his kashir. “We need to get some dinner.” Lisen nodded and with just a little difficulty managed to extricate herself from the complicated garment. Korin turned to leave.
“Wait,” Lisen said.
He stopped, took a deep breath, then turned back to her. “What?”
“I need to know what I just agreed to.”
“You said you understood. You assured me you understood.”
She crossed her arms, signaling her resolve. “I understand that mating is involved. What I don’t understand is how it works. How likely are we to be ‘chosen’?”
Korin sighed. “I’ve been told there are eight couples this year, so our chances are one in eight.”
“How are we chosen?”
“Let’s eat dinner before it’s gone. Then I’ll explain everything I know.”
He turned and left, and she followed him to their dining hall. Ondra and Rika were already there, laughing and joking with the others. Ondra looked up when Korin and Lisen entered.
“Ah, our little Garlan flower,” she said. Lisen smiled in a manner which on Earth would have been easily interpreted as sarcastic, but Ondra smiled back as though Lisen had graced her with genuine gentility. “Korin, I hear you and your flower passed.”
Korin spooned what looked like refried beans into two bowls, handed Lisen one and sat down next to Ondra. Lisen joined him there.
“Was there ever any doubt?” he asked.
“I suppose not.” Ondra leaned in to look past Korin straight at Lisen. “Congratulations, little one.”
“Thank you,” Lisen replied. “I would appreciate it, however, if you would stop speaking to me like I’m a child. I may not be as old as you, but I am now two years past my majority.”
“Korin, your girl has a sting.”
Korin set his spoon down in his bowl and turned slowly to Ondra. “And you’d be wise to avoid her venom. It’s deadlier than you might think. She may not look it, but she killed a man in Garla.”
With a gesture and a few words in Thristan, Ondra dismissed him, then stood up and started to leave. “Rika!” Her spouse jumped up and followed her out the door. They left their dirty bowls behind, so when Lisen and Korin had finished eating and went to leave, he took their bowls with him to the basin and washed them with his own. Then the two of them returned to Korin’s cave.
“What was that about?” Lisen asked as Korin drew the curtain and closed them in. “Because it wasn’t about anything that was actually said. Even I could tell that.”
Korin sat down on the pallet and pulled his sandals off. “Ondra, Rika and I were once all friends. I think I told you that.” Lisen nodded, and he continued. “Ondra’s not the forgiving sort, and…well…the way she sees it, I left her for the Guard. Then, right after she joins with Rika, I return. In her mind, it’s just more betrayal, I suppose. And then there’s you, my ‘little one,’ and the Farii.”
“‘Little one.’ I’ll little-one her.”
“Hush.”
Lisen sat down on the pallet next to Korin. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Out with what?” He slid up to the top of the pallet and started to lie down.
“Everything you know.”
Korin stopped midway to his pillow. “Oh, that what.” He sighed. “The ritual begins with a traditional cleansing. The women of the Tribe who have proven their fertility will take care of you. Then they will braid your hair.”
“With its single black ribbon?” Lisen interjected.
“No, more likely they’ll add a few colored ribbons. You will have earned them simply by reaching that point in the ceremony. After that they will dress you in a special kashir. They will then accompany you and the other female candidates to the ceremonial chamber. You don’t really want to hear all of this, do you?”
“I want to know what to expect,” Lisen replied. She leaned up against the rocky wall, pulled her knees up to her chest and prepared to listen for a while. Korin joined her against the wall and continued with the details that he knew—the male
candidates tended to by the fertile men and also brought to the chamber, the breaking of the fast for everyone but them, the dancing and the chanting, and finally the climb out onto the mesa’s crown with all the others. Korin grew vague at that point. There were rumors but little verifiable information about what happened up there to the candidates. A snake bit one of them, and he or she and his or her companion remained behind while the others descended back into the mesa. Then came the sex.
Korin didn’t call it that, of course. He said, “And then begins the Farii.” But Lisen knew it was love-making in the highest spiritual sense and wondered to herself what would happen if they were chosen.
“We will discuss this further,” Korin said in the most formal tone he’d used with her since they’d left Rossla, “but not right now.”
“How we’ll handle it if we’re chosen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, make it fast,” Lisen replied, “because this all happens in just two evenings’ time.”
“I need more information. Once I have it, we can talk.” He lay down, presumably done with talking for now, and rolled over with his back to her.
She, however, could not lie down, not yet. Fantasy overtook her, and she rode on daydream’s bliss. She and her hottie alone together and encouraged to make love? She trembled at the chilling thrill of that thought. But then came another kind of chill. She may be eighteen—the age she’d promised herself she’d wait for—but only barely. She still had bouts of questionable sanity; what little wisdom she possessed told her to follow Korin’s lead, that his thinking would be much, much clearer. Yet the fantasy stole her reason, and she lay down beside him on the pallet, pulled up the single blanket and slipped into slumber on the wings of fleeting fable and the image of two bodies moving in slow motion on hot desert soil.
Ariel struggled with a multitude of quandaries. The Tuanes and their demands to meet with the holder’s sister. The hermit—that same sister—and her knowledge or lack of same of his involvement in his mother’s assassination. Opseth and her insistence on meeting with the hermit. What a popular woman that damnable hermit had become. And then there was the necropath, lost somewhere out there in the dark. He turned from his desk in his grand office and looked out the window to the park. Out there, in the dark. He had to find the necropath. Eloise knew more than she admitted, and perhaps it was time to allow Opseth to probe more deeply into the hermit’s mind for the answers he required.
Before or after I let Elsba in to see her? If he let Elsba in to see her. Yet another quandary. What sorts of decisions had confronted his mother during her reign? Certainly nothing nearly so complicated as what he faced, and most certainly not before her throning. Such was the cost of action; it always demanded further action in support.
And, as always, there was Lorain. Thank the Creators her presence no longer troubled him. A week past the pouching, and last night he had finally given in and invited her back. Into his bed. For a bit of frolic.
He smiled, remembering. She had conquered him like a warrior, and he had begged for mercy. He could not imagine opening up so fully to anyone. Except for her. He trusted her with but a hint of hesitation, and last night he had surrendered, laying himself open and vulnerable to her unquestionable charms. They had spent today apart, and he had missed her terribly, wondering all day what kept her so busy elsewhere. But in a few moments they would reconnect for dinner. Again he smiled, anticipating.
He wished he could ask her for help in keeping his part in the assassination a secret, but he knew he must never confirm her suspicions. As long as he denied it, or refused to admit to it, she could safely ignore her misgivings. He could, however, discuss the advisability of letting Elsba see his sister. And he could, undoubtedly, get Lorain’s opinion on when and how to bring Opseth back in to question the hermit. Perhaps Lorain had news on the necropath as well. Perhaps that’s what had kept her busy all day long. He rubbed his hands together in happy anticipation, then placed them flat upon the large desk to push himself up out of his chair. He’d had enough of the details of his throning; it must be time for dinner.
He walked around his desk and headed out the door to the hallway. He made his way past the stairs and into the Grand Hall where all the tables and benches stood stacked against the walls, his footsteps on the stone floor echoing in the unadorned, mostly empty space. Although the throne itself currently sat in the Council Chamber, they would move it here for his throning, not much more than a month away.
He paused and looked up at the balcony above. It occurred to him that perhaps that balcony allowed too great a glimpse into his private life, something for further consideration later. Not now. Now, he and his Heir’s pouching parent would share a meal, share their day and later, share his bed.
He stepped into the small nook off the larger dining area and found Lorain already seated. She rose and smiled broadly at him. She might, indeed, be happy to see him, but, more likely, she had some sort of news and that excited him.
“Lorain,” he said as he stepped over, reached out his hand to her, then kissed her on the cheek. He pulled away quickly as there were servants everywhere who loved to talk. He moved around the small table and took his seat at the opposite end. She sat down only after he did. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No more than a moment, my Liege,” she replied.
“Good,” he said, then turned to the servant by the door that led through the formal dining area to the kitchen. “You may serve us now.” The servant nodded and left. “So,” he continued to Lorain, leaning in towards her, “you look like you’re overflowing with something important.”
“I am, my Liege. I am indeed.”
“So, tell me.”
“It’s not good news. It is the news of nothing save for the something that can come from nothing.”
“Creators, Lorain. Enough of all the riddles. You know how much I hate them.”
She cleared her throat, sat up a bit straighter and went on. “My spy has just returned from Rossla where the hermits denied having had any visitors at all.”
“But Rossla has people coming and going all the time, doesn’t it?” Ariel asked.
“Precisely. Especially this time of year, what with Evenday and all. Yet, not one of the hermits Mazok spoke to would admit to anyone coming to the haven in the last month.”
“Rossla,” Ariel mused aloud, “the center of hermit activity in Garla, the training place for all of their questionable magic, without any new arrivals for a month? They must be protecting one of their own. Now do you understand why I want to rid Garla of them?”
“It still seems an unwise move given the number of noble relatives in the havens, my Liege. Perhaps we should concentrate on the necropath for now. My instincts tell me that either she’s there, or was there, but now is gone.”
He slammed his fist down on the table. “Damn it, Lorain. Don’t you see? We send a contingent of the Guard into the Haven, root every last hermit out and find the girl that way.”
“And if she’s not there?”
“Then there are only two other havens to empty out.” As he spoke, two servants entered with their dinner, and he sat back from the table, breathing heavily from his outburst. Lorain still didn’t understand. Somehow he had to make her understand. The hermits were the problem. They had the power to dethrone him—or at least, one of them did. And, if they figured that out before he was able to disrupt them and their collective concentration, they could easily put one of their own up in his place.
But the baby, he thought. The baby and its safe pouching are a sign. His line was thriving. The Creators intended that the Ilazers continue ruling. Why else provide him with an Heir so early on? Of course. It made sublime sense. The Creators were telling him that all his actions thus far pleased them. Yes, yes. That was good. His breathing slowed, his thoughts calmed, and his entire body relaxed.
“My Liege?”
He looked up, startled. “Yes?” he responded to a briefly forgotten Lorain.
“Are you going to eat?”
He looked down at his full, untouched plate of food—a well-sauced leg of lamb and a spiced baked apple. He raised his head again and smiled at her—tenderly, he thought. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”
“Well, think on this,” she said. “Nalin has disappeared as well.”
“Perhaps he’s with the necropath,” Ariel said as he took a knife to the meat to rip it off the bone.
“Perhaps.” Lorain fiddled with her food, and he fought the urge to snap at her. “But,” she continued as she set her knife down, “it’s also possible that he was with her at Rossla but that they now have parted ways.”
“Well, we can’t know that now, can we.” She was slipping into nonsense. Nalin would surface eventually. His absence was a bit worrisome, but the necropath posed the real threat. Without her, Nalin had nothing. “Why are you so concerned about Nalin?” he asked.
“He’s our only link to the necropath.”
“And he is nothing without her. Besides he’s not the only link to the necropath. There’s that captain—Rosarel, isn’t it? And let’s not forget the sooth downstairs in the dungeon. I’m about ready to set Opseth on her. She knows how to question hermits.”
“Oh, yes, the watcher. And speaking of hermits, what did you decide to do with the healer?”
“Who?”
“The healer who assisted in my pouching,” she replied a bit too sharply to Ariel’s mind, but he ignored it.
“He’s downstairs, too. I’ll let him go once your pouching becomes public knowledge.”
She nodded and returned to her food, apparently everything needing saying already said. As he ate, his mind wandered in the silence. The necropath knew. She knew it all, he was sure. Opseth had dismissed the worst of his fears, but she was a fool if she believed there was any way to control the necropath other than killing her. But first they had to find her. Oh, and Opseth claimed to have that under some semblance of control as well, and yet no one he could get an answer from, including Opseth, actually knew where she might be. The sooth was the key. He knew the sooth was the key.
Tainted (Lisen of Solsta Book 2) Page 9