Protector of Thristas: A Lisen of Solsta Novel

by D. Hart St. Martin

  With firm steps, he bore down on the castle’s main entrance, entered, and nodding to the servant there, he took the stairs one foot, one stair at a time. His riding leathers had absorbed the sweat of his hard ride, but once he’d assessed Bala’s condition, he could change before settling in to lie with her through the pouching. His heart beat against his chest, a product of his body’s reaction to Bala’s pregnancy, but it would pass. Eventually. Once the baby had pouched.

  He strode into the bedchamber he shared with her, the chamber where Elsba had passed sixteen years ago and where doubtless his own Bala had been conceived and pouched as well. A room with history, he thought as he stepped over to the bed.

  Linell looked up at him, worry painting creases on her young face. He put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m here now.”

  “She’s still awake, but barely,” Linell whispered.

  “I heard that,” Bala said and tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. Hibernation did not agree with her, she claimed, nor she with it. And to prove her point, she always held on for as long as possible before allowing herself to go out.

  “You go,” Nalin said to Linell. “Find something to do with your brother.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “She needs a healer.”

  “Lin, this is a simple thing. And private. Besides, we managed twice without a healer’s help, and you have much to learn before you can call yourself a healer.”

  With a pained sigh, Linell kissed her mother’s hand and rose from the bed. She glared at her father, then softened her expression. “We’ll be waiting.”

  Nalin nodded. “I’m sure you will.” He embraced her for a moment, and finally she pulled away and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Creators,” Nalin muttered. “I hope we don’t need a healer.”

  “We won’t.” Bala reached a hand up to him, and he sat down beside her. “You know how I hate this.”

  “All too well.”

  She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering, fighting against the irresistible urge. “Let’s just…be…done…”

  And she slept.

  He got up, pulled off his leathers and found a comfortable tunic. Once he’d put that on, he returned to the bed, and after removing his prosthesis, he lay down facing his beloved, the woman who was going to pouch their third child. Maybe it had been a foolish decision, increasing their family by one more, and yet they’d both felt the family would be incomplete if they didn’t.

  Bala inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply. Soon she’d be fully engulfed in hibernation, and he would stand guard. With Linell, their first transfer, he’d turned to his mother for advice on how to urge the pink worm into his pouch. It was unwise to help the little thing, unrecognizable save for a protrusion at the top, presumably its head, and two little arms with two very tiny hands and their barely perceptible, stumpy fingers. No, his mother had insisted, the baby would be too weak to survive if he reached out to help it. But what about shifting it from Bala’s fur-covered belly to his own? Kirana Sakal, spouse to Stephen Corday, had laughed at that. “I am told,” she’d said, since there was no way she could actually know, “that pressing close to meld the fur and then urging in the correct direction work best.”

  And it had. After a small hitch, Linell had deposited herself easily into Nalin’s pouch, and he’d gloried for the next four-and-a-half months in the life swelling his belly.

  Alabar had proved easier, of course, because there’d been no need to switch the little mite from one parent to the other.

  Now, here they were again, and he found himself wishing he could have pouched this one. It was impossible, of course. Too many duties loomed in the months between now and the baby’s outcoming day, including a long and arduous journey to Thristas with Lisen for Rinli’s investiture as Protector of Thristas.

  Not to mention the additional trip he’d have to make to Avaret early in July to offer his input regarding the ceremony itself.

  And the fact he’d have to remain available when Lisen went to Tonkin for Elor’s investiture in early August.

  And the month or so preparing before Council convened in November.

  It was quite a list. So, before they’d even conceived, Bala had agreed with tenderness to carry this child.

  Bala stretched out on her back, a sign that the baby was making its way out. This spasming would likely continue for an hour or two although they did say that the more children a mother had sent to the pouch, the less time it was likely to take. He kissed her on the cheek, smelled the sweat on her skin, reveled in her trust in him. Despite her abhorrence of hibernation, she had never once questioned whether or not he’d stay. Not this time, and not with Lin or Al. He wouldn’t leave, and she knew it.

  He lay there, his mind unable to settle. She was asleep, and he was awake, and he had only his own thoughts to turn to. For some reason, his musing turned to pouchings he’d not attended.

  Elor’s came first into his head—why, he had no idea. Lorain had only had a healer, no loving spouse, to attend her. Apparently, Lisen’s brother had rejected Lorain in the days before the event, sending her back to her quarters in the old palace. He’d insisted on keeping his wits directed on his ascension to the throne. Not to mention the search for a necropath—Lisen—whom he believed posed a threat because she knew he’d assassinated his mother to gain that throne. What he hadn’t known—and Nalin chuckled a little at this—was the necropath he’d sought was his heretofore unknown twin sister, “pretender” to the throne and Flandari’s declared Heir. And therein lay the irony; by the time Elor emerged, his father was dead, and three months later, Nalin had executed his mother for treason.

  Stop. Therein lies painful memory.

  He turned to Rinli’s pouching. Lisen had told him what she knew of it. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant. A cloistered life at Solsta until she was only ten had left her enlightenment regarding procreation to come from a distant world called “Urth.” There, they produced babies more like four-foots than two-foots here in Garla. She’d mated with Korin in the Thristan Farii unaware that she was at her most fertile, and no one, especially she herself, had realized she’d conceived, despite daily bouts with nausea and a sense of heaviness, all of which she’d dismissed as the work of the watcher Ariel had set on her.

  And then she and Korin had headed back into Garla. To his credit, Rosarel had suffered the effects of a snake’s toxin during the fertility ritual and had no memory of their mating. So when he’d watched her slipping into hibernation during their extended stay at a series of caves the Thristans called the Khared, he’d realized the truth. With Lisen preparing to confront her brother and perhaps even having to face him in a life-or-death struggle, Korin had pouched the child himself and said nothing. He hadn’t wanted her to be distracted. This had all led to a series of events that had ultimately kept Lisen ignorant of her own daughter’s existence until six months after the child’s emergence.

  Bala stretched again, this time accompanied by a light moan. Soon.

  Nothing that epic had played out for Nalin and Bala. Their decision to have Nalin pouch their first child while he was at his best physically had almost proven disastrous. Applying his mother’s advice to lie close to Bala as the baby emerged, he’d nearly lost the babe that became Linell between them in the bed sheets. He’d found her, of course, his heart pounding as he searched with his hand. Then came the dilemma of whether or not to help the baby up onto his belly fur from the bed. He finally had succumbed to that much assistance, and she’d completed the rest of her journey without incident. He and Bala had laughed about it later when he’d eventually admitted to his clumsiness, but coming that close to losing their child was not a thing Nalin could joke much about.

  Another tremor from his spouse, and Nalin tensed, alert. Her spasms had grown close together quickly; perhaps what they said about multiple pouchings was true. He pushed himself far enough away so he could observe a
nd waited. Bala spasmed again, moaned a little louder, and Nalin steeled himself for not intervening. Both times before he’d fought the need to do something; at least, now he knew how he’d feel and could prepare for it.

  Nalin’s pouch contracted. It wanted what it could not have, and desires consumed him. He knew these desires, knew them well. He’d survived them without surrendering to them once before; he could certainly do it again. The spirit of life possessed him, demanded action, but he denied it. Bala spasmed again, his pouch responded, and he moaned with his spouse this time. Some likened it to mating, but he…disagreed. Ah. Mating was momentary; pouching, as permanent as death and as inescapable.

  Oh, Creators. His body and his thoughts slipped away from him. A physical weakness consumed him, placing him in a transfer state linked to hibernation. He could still move and act. If he had to, he could get up and move around. But he wanted none of it. Here, with his spouse, the baby making its way out—this was everything; this was all.

  Bala continued to spasm, and finally Nalin could see the little one emerging onto the fur over Bala’s mound. Pink and perfect.

  Wait…what? Pink, yes, but hints of red. Blood? Creators. He propped himself up and turned to look at the floor by his side of the bed. They’d always set clean towels there, in case. In case of what, Nalin never understood, but although he didn’t believe this was their purpose, he picked one up and gently wiped the baby off, careful not to dislodge it. Then he reached down and wiped Bala’s mound. He pulled the towel back out and saw a little blood, but was it enough for concern? Should he call for a servant to send to Erinina Haven for a healer?

  No. He’d wait. He didn’t want to sully the moment. This was their time—his and hers. Besides, no one could get to the haven and back again in less than a few hours, and by then, it would be over.

  He set the towel back on the floor and turned to cheer the little one on. It had felt like a miracle the first time, and to his surprise, the process had amazed him even more the second time. Now, he was in ecstasy. He lay back and savored the moment as it finally reached the opening of Bala’s pouch, and like magic, her pouch spasmed one last time, opening up. His spasmed ever so slightly in response, but this would be the last. The bit of wiggly pink, with a strength in its arms that was easy to underestimate, slipped inside, and Bala’s pouch swallowed it. Nalin gasped in joy.

  He picked up the towel and, using a clean section, gave Bala’s mound another wipe. Nothing. The towel remained as white as turbaum. He sighed in relief, returned the towel to the floor, wrapped his arms around his sleeping spouse and allowed himself to join her. Right before he succumbed to slumber, he thought fondly of the moments to come once she awakened. This time, they could tell the children all was well, and their sibling would emerge in early November. After everything needing to be done was done. Nalin sighed once more. It was going to be a busy summer. A busy fall, as well. Then his eyes closed and he thought no more.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PRAISE THE MAKER

  Having completed his assigned task for the night, Tinlo Randa joined the rest of the Tribe heading up through the tunnels and corridors to reach the top of the mesa. There they would greet the rising sun and begin the celebration of Longday, Elii, the return of the dark. At the trapdoor, he encountered the usual obstruction of milling bodies waiting to mount the steps leading to the mesa’s crown. He looked around, saw Madlen and eased his way towards her.

  “Blessed Elii,” he whispered in her ear when he reached her.

  She started; then realizing who stood beside her, she responded, “Blessed Elii.”

  He wanted to put his arm around her, claim her as his own, but he knew better than anyone else how securely that path was closed to him. After all, hadn’t it taken weeks for her to forgive him for questioning Rinli’s prophetic status? She worshiped the half-Garlan Captain Rosarel, and she’d convinced herself she loved his child by the Garlan ruler. Mantar’s Child, poo.

  “Too bad Rinli can’t be here,” he offered, seeking a measure of her trust.

  “She’s never here for Elii or Kolii.”

  “Of course. But she will be soon, right?”

  “So we’ve been told.”

  Tinlo recognized the care Madlen took when speaking of her more-than-friend. He didn’t understand their relationship. If they’d mated in the way that only women could—and he had no idea what that was—both young women kept it between themselves and didn’t share a hint of it. He’d tried to read Madlen’s intent regarding Rinli, to no avail. Open about everything else, Madlen remained uncharacteristically silent and solemn on the subject. Even so, Tinlo had not yet resigned himself to only friendship with her.

  They moved forward, nearly at the drop-down steps to the trapdoor. They ascended the ladder, he first, she second, and emerged in the veiled light of predawn. Madlen moved off to the right and settled near the back of the Tribe. Tinlo followed to stand beside her. He wasn’t about to walk away when the opportunity to stay with her when she wouldn’t dare push him away presented itself.

  Elder Folzon stepped up to stand before them all, his back to the east, the source of the new day. “The day is long,” he said.

  “Praise the Maker,” the Tribe responded.

  “The night is short.”

  “Praise the Maker.”

  “The sun retreats.”

  “Praise the Maker.”

  “Tonight we welcome back the dark.”

  “Praise the Maker.”

  Always the same. It was the only ritual of the year that was so rigidly defined. Even tonight, when they would return to welcome the night’s resurgence, their celebration would be respectful but unscripted. Tinlo suspected the early-dawn celebration of Elii, beginning as it did after a long night’s work, was intentionally simple, allowing The People to perform when all they wanted to do was eat, then sleep.

  Tinlo didn’t sleep well that day. In fact, he barely slept at all. An obsession for Madlen tossed his thoughts around and allowed him no rest. Madlen held his heart, and he couldn’t stop hoping that a shift in her feelings from Rinli to himself was a possibility. But did he hope in vain? Madlen’s tenacity was immeasurable. By all accounts, she’d claimed Rinli as her own the moment the Child had emerged from the half-Garlan’s pouch, and she’d never let go since.

  He struggled for hours but always came back to the inescapable truth that he’d lost Madlen long before he’d sought her out. And when the bell chimed throughout the mesa—an airy bell signaling the coming of the night—Tinlo rose, pulled on his robe and headed out to join the others on their way up to the mesa’s crown again.

  Elii, the time of new beginnings. The Tribe welcomed the night and the opportunities the dark opened up to them. Tinlo didn’t understand what he’d learned of the Garlans—how they worshipped the light and looked upon their Longday as the first sign of endings rather than beginnings.

  He climbed through the trapdoor, saw Madlen with her family in the twilight but chose to position himself on the opposite side of the gathering Tribe. I shouldn’t have come, he thought as he stood with people who were willing to look past what seemed excruciatingly obvious to him, that they would soon hand a sixteen-year-out Garlan unfettered access to their world. How could they move on, night after night, oblivious to this fact? He’d sought out rebels to fight against the lie of the freedom that the so-called treaty promised but had found none.

  Praise the slow evolution of days into nights? No.

  Rid Thristas of Rinli the Garlan? Now that gave Tinlo a reason to celebrate.

  Lisen pulled one boot on and then the other, stamping each booted foot on the floor, ostensibly to ensure that her feet had settled in properly, but she knew—and she knew full well that Korin sitting at the table in their bedchamber with her knew as well—that the stomping was an attempt to relieve her frustration. She and Rinli were to ride together again today.

  “Korin?” She sat leaning her elbows on her upper knees.

  “Yes?�
�� He cocked his head towards her. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

  “I don’t know. Hoping for some wise words, I guess.”

  He shrugged. “I think I’ve said everything there is to say. Honesty. Now there’s a wise word.”

  She squinted her eyes at him. “Do you know what that would mean?”

  “She desperately wants to know you. For reasons I’ve never understood, she hungers for truth about you. Neither of our other children do, and yet, she absolutely requires it.” Again, the shrug. “Tell her who you are, where you came from, what you’ve done.”

  “That’s insane. That means telling her about Earth, my life on the run with you and Jozan.” She paused, her mind filled with the sweetness of her memories of her first friend in Garla. “The slaughter in the Khared.” She shivered, remembering her rage, her blindness, the warm stench of fresh blood.

  “It all stands between you. She knows it happened, but she needs to know how it felt, how you felt, how you feel about it now.”

  Lisen shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Korin came to her, dropped down in front of where she sat, his love for her radiating from every cell of him, her love for him filling her with strength. “You and I don’t talk of these things. It’s not my nature to pry, and it’s not yours to volunteer. But this child, our child, she’s lost and looking for an anchor. I was sufficient for that when she was younger, but you’re the one who must provide that for her now.”

  “Must she know everything?” Lisen fought back the tears, feeling foolish.

  “If you mean the brutal details, no, she doesn’t need to know those. But you do need to speak to all the truths.”

  “Including Ariel?”

  Silence dropped between them with the thud of a great lump of rock landing in the middle of the room, and there it sat. When Korin rose and stepped away without making any attempt to move it, Lisen stood up from her chair and started for the door.