Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (17 page)

Willem chewed. Swallowed. “Can’t. Chief Fitch has forbidden you
to leave the camp.”

“But surely if you accompany me—?”

Willem shook his head, looking regretful

Arrogant
ass
. Fitch, not Willem. Lance ground his molars.
“Can you ask the sentries not to shoot Rhiain—the big yellow and brown racha—on
sight and to fetch me instead?”

Willem raised his eyebrows. “I’ll warn ‘em. Don’t know if I can
keep them from shooting, mind.”

* * *

“Stop. This isn’t going to work,” Edvard announced. Sara
drew back on the stallion’s reins. “If we ride into camp like this, the sentries
will shoot Rhiain.”

“Does that mean we’rrre almost therrre?” Rhiain asked, slowing.
The tall firs and cedars surrounding them looked no different to her eye from
the forest they’d spent yesterday and most of the morning tramping through. She
sniffed the air and caught the faint scent of woodsmoke.
People
.

Edvard ignored her question. He frowned as if thinking hard.
“We need to prove that you’re not a wild beast.”

“How?” Rhiain asked. Suspicion filled her. “I’m not wearrring a
drrress!”

Edvard choked back a laugh. “I never said you should.”

Her ears flattened. She hadn’t meant to be so amusing.

“Actually, I had something else in mind.” He smiled
tentatively. “I was thinking...perhaps I could ride on your back,” he finished
in a nervous rush.

The sentries wouldn’t want to fire and risk hitting him. “You
may, but I’m not going to prrretend to be a brrrainless horrrse.” She bared her
teeth at the stallion, which, instead of being properly afraid, kept trying to
nip her.

A wide grin split Edvard’s face, making him seem younger. “How
old arrre you?” she asked. She hadn’t been around many youngsters beside Dyl’s
brood of grandchildren and wasn’t very good at telling age. At first she’d
placed Edvard around fourteen because of his gangly limbs and bony shoulders,
but his serious manner had made her revise her guess to nineteen or twenty. But
now that he was smiling, the deep lines bracketing his mouth faded. Lines of
pain, she realized.

“I’m seventeen.” Edvard clumsily dismounted from behind Sara,
almost falling as his weak leg refused to take his weight. He rode so well,
she’d forgotten about his disability.

“That is my age, too,” Rhiain told him.

“Really?” His brown eyes widened. “I thought you were
older.”

Pleased, Rhiain tossed her mane. “Go ahead, get on.”

Impeded by his leg, he scrambled onto her back, then didn’t
seem to know what to do with his hands. Rhiain sighed. “Hang on.” She began to
lope through the trees. In three strides he had his hands entwined in her mane.
Rhian fought back a purr.

The first warning Rhiain had that they’d been seen was an arrow
whistling by five feet over her head. “Halt!”

Her muscles quivered with the urge to run. But the arrow had
been aimed deliberately high.

“Don’t bare your teeth,” Edvard whispered. “And make yourself
look smaller if you can.”

She dropped into a crouch, stifling a snarl.

He raised his voice. “Don’t shoot, it’s me!”

“Edvard!” a man called from a platform attached thirty-feet up
one of the giant firs. “Your brother’s been looking for you.” He peered over the
edge, and Rhiain saw he had a patchy beard and skinny arms.

“Ho, Jenas.” Edvard waved. “Can you let us pass?”

“I don’t know.” Jenas’s voice quavered. “Father said not to
shoot the yellow cat, but it snapped that legionnaire’s neck like nothing.
What’re you doing on its back?”

“I’m not a cat,” Rhiain rumbled, standing. “I’m a shandy.”

“Tell it not come any nearer or I’ll shoot!”

Rhiain flattened her ears in annoyance, first at being spoken
over and second at being called an “it.”

Edvard patted her neck. “There’s no danger, Jenas. She’s
tame.”

Rhiain bared her teeth. Tame! As if she was a pig or cow. She
had half a mind to throw the boy off and teach the other boy in the tree a
lesson. Only the knowledge that arrows flew faster than she could move kept her
in place. Though at least Edvard was smart enough to see she was female.

“Come on, Jenas,” Edvard coaxed. “If she was wild, I’d be dead
already. Let us by.”

“Tell that to the legionnaire.” Jenas seemed unconvinced.
“There are children in camp. Mother would make boots of my hide if I let you in
without permission.”

“We’ll wait while you go ask,” Edvard said.

Jenas hesitated up in the tree, obviously reluctant to make
himself vulnerable by climbing down.

Sara nosed her horse forward. “Have you seen a tall,
broad-shouldered man named Lance? Is he in your camp?”

“Why, yes...”

Sara didn’t wait to hear any more, just rode straight past
Jenas.

“Hey! You can’t just—Nir’s sword,” Jenas swore.

“She’ll fetch someone,” Edvard said confidently.

Rhiain stared after Sara with misgiving. Edvard didn’t
understand about Sara. Her lack of soul made her unpredictable. Almost crazed.
Lance had asked Rhiain to look after Sara. “Couldn’t we—?” she started.

“No,” Edvard said, with surprising firmness. “Unless you want
to look like a porcupine, we need to wait right here.”

* * *

Sara craned her neck, searching for Lance. Her stomach
felt tight and hollow, even though she wasn’t hungry. Half a day and a night had
passed since she’d last seen Lance. A night wasted sleeping. She’d wanted to
keep going, but Rhiain had threatened to eat her horse if she tried.

Surprisingly, neither she nor her warhorse attracted attention
as they rode into camp. Sara sent her mount trotting down the row between the
large domed tents and found all eyes trained on a trial of bravery.

One of the forest giants lay on the ground, its diameter the
height of a man. Warriors first ran along the slippery top, then jumped down
into a circle of antlers. If they missed, they fell on the sharp tines and came
away bleeding.

“Mek, Mek, Mek,” they chanted. After each contestant another
antler was added to the pile.

Most of the young men were Grasslanders in buckskin, stripped
to the waist, their chests shining with sweat. A few paler-skinned Gotians in
green kilts mixed in.

Scanning for tall men, Sara glimpsed one with sandy hair. He
ran lightly across the top of the log, hands held out for balance. Sara reined
in and watched him leap off the end. He easily cleared the upthrusting antlers,
but when he turned she saw he was not only clean-shaven but golden-haired. Not
Lance. She resumed searching the crowd.

Flushed with success, the tall man approached her. “And who’s
this beauty?” He stepped directly into her path. “Are you a new priestess of
Desire? Did Jazor send you with a message?”

“No, and no.” Sara steered the horse to the side, but the tall
man stepped into her path again, grinning. Why did it make him happy to hear her
say no?

“You should go to the Temple. You’re beautiful enough to give
Jazor a run for her money.”

Sara dismissed the compliment. She knew she was beautiful. Why
did men always feel the need to belabor the obvious? “I’m looking for
Lance.”

He gave a shout of laughter. “Look no farther, I have a long
lance to slide into your sweet sheath.” He strutted forward.

Some of the other men chuckled and rolled their hips. The
Grasslanders grunted and made slapping noises. None of them were Lance.

While she was distracted, the tall man grabbed for her reins.
The gray nipped at him, but he dodged, laughing again. Sara had no idea what he
found funny nor did she care. He didn’t know where Lance was; therefore he
wasn’t important. “Move.”

He grinned. “No.”

The warhorse was tired of dancing around. Sara nudged with her
knees, and the gray lowered his head and trotted straight toward him. One
thousand pounds of horseflesh had a lot of momentum.

The tall man danced out of the way. “I bet you’re a wildcat in
bed. I’ve met this Lance of yours, and he’s too meek to satisfy you.”

Sara reined her horse around. He knew Lance.

“Come with me.” He stepped close and slid his hand up her
calf.

Sara allowed the touch in order to seek more information.
“Where is Lance?”

“Somewhere in camp, but we don’t need him. Come to my bed.” His
hand crept higher.

Sara drew her belt-knife. “Move your hand or I’ll disembowel
you.”

His smile grew wider. “Have you disemboweled many men,
racha?”

Sara looked around for Rhiain, but he seemed to be addressing
her. “Just one,” she said truthfully.

He threw back his head and laughed, removing his hand. “And
what was this sad excuse for a warrior’s name?”

“Bertramus of Tolium.”

The tall man stopped smiling. He turned and glared at someone
behind him. Sara turned, too, and her chest lightened at the sight of Lance
striding through the silent crowd.

The tall man stepped in front of Sara and confronted Lance.
“Liar. You said a legionnaire killed Bertramus.”

* * *

Lance closed his eyes on a tide of relief and said a
short prayer of thanks to Loma. Sara was here and safe, and even seemed to have
acquired a horse. He
did
wish that she hadn’t just
confessed killing Bertramus to Fitch, but he wasn’t angry. It was his own fault
for not telling her to—

Fitch struck Lance full across the face.

Lance rocked back, but kept his feet. His cheek burned.

“Liar.” Fitch lifted his hand again.

Lance caught his wrist and held it in an iron grip. “No. One
blow I will allow you for the loss of your cousin, but that is all.”

Fitch jerked his wrist free.

Lance met Fitch’s murderous gaze with studied calm. “I didn’t
lie to you. I told you Bertramus died after I’d been captured by some
legionnaires. Which is true. While I was separated from Sara, Bertramus tried to
rape her. She defended herself, and he died before I could heal him. Bertramus
claimed to be a cousin of yours, so I didn’t want to shame you by telling you
the whole story in public.”

Fitch sneered, unimpressed. “You deliberately deceived me and
broke Nir’s code of honour. I should have expected as much from a priest of
Loma.”

Lance sneered back. “I am no follower of Nir—nor do I wish to
become one. As for honour, I was a slave. A slave does what he must to survive
and protect his own, and if that means lying, that’s what he does. If you were
chained, you would soon do the same.”

“I would die first,” Fitch declared proudly.

“Many do.” To Lance’s way of thinking, refusing to surrender
and thus being killed was its own kind of cowardice, because then you were dead
and didn’t have to watch as your family was chained, your wife and sister
raped.

“Willem!” Fitch bellowed.

The scarred man moved to the forefront of the silent crowd.

“You vouched for this honourless cur. Take him out of my sight.
From now on, he’s your responsibility. He causes any trouble, it’s your
neck.”

Willem nodded and laid his hand on Lance’s wrist.

Lance balked. “I’m not leaving without Sara. I will take her
punishment.”

Fitch quirked an eyebrow. “Punishment for what? Oh, for
stabbing Bertramus? You hold the blame for that, not her.” He unerringly found
Lance’s soft spot and dug in. “You left your woman unprotected. Besides, any
warrior of Nir so incompetent as to let himself be killed by a woman deserves to
die.” He leered, and Lance tensed. “The lass may go wherever she pleases.”

“I wish to go with Lance,” Sara said, face blank.

“A shame,” Fitch murmured, running his gaze up and down her
body. “When you want a real man, find me.”

Lance’s fists clenched with the need to black Fitch’s eye. Pain
radiated from his broken finger.

“This way,” Willem said hastily.

Lance took a deep breath before following. Sara’s skittish
horse took two sideways steps, then fell in behind. “Where’s Rhiain?” he asked
as soon as they were clear of Fitch.

“Waiting in the woods. A man with a bow won’t let her
pass.”

Lance nodded; he’d expected as much. As long as she hadn’t been
shot, they were doing well. “Can we—”

“No,” Willem said before he could ask. “I’ll deal with it once
you’re safely back at my fire.”

Lance clenched his jaw, but nodded. The situation was rapidly
becoming intolerable. As an envoy he was a joke. He was half tempted to mount up
behind Sara and ride out.

No sooner had they arrived than Willem’s wife threw herself in
his arms, weeping.

“Glenys? What’s the matter?” Willem demanded, looking around
for an enemy, his hand on his sword.

Lance made a show of tethering Sara’s horse and helping her
down. He felt uncomfortable at being present during such a private
conversation.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong,” Willem begged.

Glenys’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I saw Spring
Colt walking around as if he’d never been wounded at all.”

Willem frowned, perplexed. “Spring Colt won his battle with
Mek? That’s good news.”

Lance scowled at this reminder of his failure. Spring Colt’s
miraculous recovery should have established Lance’s reputation in camp. Instead
he’d had to hide his involvement as if it were dirty or shameful. Though it
sounded like Glenys had made the connection.

“You don’t understand. His arm was all but severed at the
shoulder, and he had gangrene. Spring Colt was as good as dead before he—” she
pointed at Lance “—went to visit him. And then,” she continued tragically,
clutching her husband’s shirt. “I washed the clothes you wore to the battle, and
they were cut to ribbons and covered in blood! Your blood, not someone else’s
like I thought. You almost died!” Another wail.

Willem patted her awkwardly on the back. “Yes, well, I didn’t.
Thanks to Lance here.”