Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (24 page)

Edvard flinched. “I’m not a coward,” he said hotly. “I asked to
ride up front, with the Grasslanders, but Fitch refused. He said it would be a
waste of a horse.”

Rhiain didn’t know what to say. Fitch shouldn’t have said
something so cruel to his brother—even if it was the truth.

“I neverrr said you werrre a cowarrrd.”

“No, but you thought it. Don’t deny it.”

Rhiain flattened her ears. “So you’rrre allowed to call me a
monsterrr, but I’m not allowed to think?”

“I never called you a monster.”

Rhiain growled. “Yes, you did, to that legionnairrre.”

His mouth parted in surprise. “That was a lie, to make him
believe I was afraid of you.”

Her ears perked up. “So you aren’t? Even with these teeth and
claws?” She pulled back her lips and unsheathed her claws.

“Of course not.” His face flushed. “You’re beautiful.”

“Hunh,” Rhiain grunted, feeling pleased. “I’ll accept that you
lied, if you’ll believe me when I say I neverrr thought you werrre a
cowarrrd.”

Edvard smiled shyly. “Agreed.”

“—this way,” a man’s voice called from nearby.

Of necessity, they both shrank back into the shadows. Rhiain
eyed the opening to the hollow with relief. It looked narrower than she
remembered, not as easy to see inside.

Another voice floated their way: “...much longer?”

“...don’t want to go back empty-handed...latrine duty for a
month.”

Edvard’s hand suddenly tightened in her mane. Rhiain almost
nipped him. The voices weren’t
that
close.

And then she saw it, too. The opening
was
smaller. Wood creaked as the tree trunk twisted around them,
tightening a few inches. The smell of rot thickened.

“The Undying,” Edvard breathed. She could smell rank sweat on
his skin.

She nudged him with her nose, silently asking what he
meant.

White showed around the rims of his eyes. “I thought we’d be
safe. In the stories, it always takes all night for them to entomb you.”

Rhiain didn’t know who or what the Undying were, but the fur on
her back rose and her ears flattened.

Time dragged as they waited for the legionnaires to give up.
She and Edvard pressed together, shivering as the wood grew closer and closer,
shutting out the sunlight.

Finally, they couldn’t wait any longer. “Me first.” Edvard
slipped out of the hollow trunk. Rhiain started to squeeze through after. The
Undying sensed that its prey was escaping and closed faster. She grunted, stuck.
Her hind claws scrabbled.

A short legionnaire dashed forward, spear in hand.

Edvard lunged at him, stabbing him in the throat with the
crossbow bolt before he could call for reinforcements. The legionnaire fell,
choking on blood.

The cedar’s grip on her hips eased, as a root reached for the
fresh blood. Rhiain burst out, scraping her fur on both sides of the
opening.

Panting, Edvard shoved the dead legionnaire inside the Undying.
Without a word being said, they limped away.

From a safe distance of fifteen feet, they turned and looked
back. The half-rotted tree cast a long shadow, and the entrance was now no wider
than a crack. Faintly, Rhiain thought she heard wood creak and a voice groan,
“Blood...”

Shuddering, she turned away, toward Edvard. “Thanks,” she
gasped. “It was verrry brrrave of you to attack him with just an arrow.” Edvard had
the heart of a warrior. Of course, he was Fitch’s brother.

* * *

“Make way!”

Lance cursed quietly as three mounted legionnaires in shining
breastplates and red cloaks forced their way through the crowd on the arched
stone bridge.

He let out his breath when they rode past Willem’s wagon
without pausing, heading for the gate tower at the other end. Still, it would be
naïve to think the attack on the governor’s villa hadn’t caused their
urgency.

Two of the grain wagons and most of the freed slaves had
already slipped through Tolium and across the river. There remained only the
third wagon, driven by Willem, plus Sara, Lance, Relena and about a dozen other
women and children, carrying baskets.

The guard at the south gates had let them enter with barely a
glance because it was market day—Willem had planned well. But it had taken time
to roll through the city when the avenues were crowded with folk buying and
selling everything from lemons and squawking chickens to whole wagonloads of
grain.

Lance had breathed a sigh of relief when they passed out of the
city proper onto the arched stone bridge across the broad Tolus River, but
apparently he’d relaxed too soon.

The legionnaires reached the other end of the bridge and
ordered the gate closed. A loud outcry rose from the legitimate merchants and
travellers on the bridge, but soon a smaller gate opened up and traffic trickled
forward again. Lance stood on the wagon bed and shaded his eyes. The
legionnaires waved all the Temborians through, but questioned all the Gotians
and Elysinians before letting them proceed.

As long as none of the freed slaves panicked, they should be
fine. Lance, on the other hand, still had his slave brand.

And, peering over the stone balustrade, he saw that the drop to
the river below had to be at least forty feet—not good odds.

“Ideas?” he asked Willem, sitting again.

“Nothing we can do except keep going,” Willem said.

Grimly, Lance acknowledged Willem was right. They were neatly
trapped.

He wasn’t the only one to feel that way. One of their party, a
blonde mother with an infant in a sling and a toddler, stopped walking. Her eyes
wide with panic, she grabbed the toddler’s hand and headed back to Tolium.
Losing suction, the baby began to cry, attracting notice.

Lance stood up, then hesitated. The toddler would likely
remember him as the one who’d cut his arm, and would scream bloody murder if
Lance approached. Could he send Sara?

Fortunately, Relena neatly intercepted the blonde and scooped
up the toddler. “Escaping, was he? He takes after his father.” A subtle reminder
that the father had gone with the rebels and was waiting for his family to
rejoin him. Relena talked softly to the mother and crying baby, soothing both.
She stayed with them right up to the gate, baring wrist and shoulder when the
guards searched for slave brands.

The shorter legionnaire frowned at Relena. “Don’t I know you?
Aren’t you one of the governor’s slaves?”

Relena’s broad face stayed serene. “You must have me confused
with someone else. I am a free woman.”

The legionnaire fingered his sword-hilt and asked a few more
questions, but in the end let her pass.

Soon it was the wagon’s turn.

A square-chinned legionnaire prodded at the grain bags, making
sure no one hid underneath, while the short legionnaire examined Willem. Lance
held out his bone brand without being prompted.

The short legionnaire instantly became more alert. “Where is
your master, osseon?”

“I bought him a couple years back,” Willem said.

“Do you take me for a fool?” the legionnaire said. Excitement
glittered in his eyes. “He’s a prime specimen. Freeborn or not, no Gotian could
afford him. Where did you pick him up?”

“Lance belongs to me,” Sara said unexpectedly.

Lance held his breath, leery of what else she might say.

“You?” The short legionnaire squinted at her simple braid and
plain dress. “You don’t look like a noblewoman.”

She stared down her nose at him from the wagon box. “I am Lady
Sarathena Rem—-”

Lance discreetly kicked her ankle before she could complete her
name. He leaned forward and whispered to the legionnaire, “She’s travelling
incognito, but look at her skin colour. Look at her eyes. Let her pass, before
you get her angry, or she’ll see that you’re never promoted or posted to the
capital.”

The legionnaire, whose short stature and green eyes proclaimed
him an Elysinian, studied Sara uneasily. Her regal expression combined with her
very blue, very Temborian eyes, made him back down.

“Ah, my apologies.” He raised his voice to his colleagues. “Let
them pass.” He moved out of the way.

Willem lifted the reins, and the oxen plodded through the
gates. The three of them were silent until the bridge lay a mile behind and the
traffic had thinned out.

Then Willem stared speculatively at Sara. “I never noticed
before, but her eyes are real blue. In the right clothes she could pass as a
noblewoman, easy.”

Lance rubbed dried blood from his nostrils and didn’t meet
Willem’s eyes.

Willem tried again. “What was that name you called yourself?
Lady Sara-something?”

“Lady Sarathena Remillus.”

“Remillus? Like the Primus who was in and out of power a few
months back?”

“Yes,” Sara said.

Lance suppressed a groan. Sometimes he really wished she would
lie. But, disconnected from her soul, she didn’t seem to see the need for
it.

Willem seemed to be working his way up to being angry. “You’re
the former Primus’s daughter? A noblewoman?”

“Yes.”

“Sara was born a noblewoman, but she’s renounced that way of
life. It isn’t who she is now,” Lance told Willem. “She’s not going to betray
your cause.”

Willem set his jaw, unconvinced.

Lance looked him dead in the eye. “Are you going to tell
Fitch?”

“He’s my chief. He needs to know,” Willem said shortly.

Lance had been afraid of that. Even if Fitch didn’t start
doubting Sara’s loyalties, he would probably try to make use of her status,
either as a hostage or a spy. Lance almost would have preferred being captured
by the legionnaires.

* * *

“Lance,” Sara said after the supper meal of barley broth
that evening, “we need to talk to Loma.”

Lance looked up, blinking. He’d been staring into the orange
flames of the campfire, and he felt like there was sand in his eyes.

Two miles out of Tolium, they’d driven the wagons off the road
and into the shelter of the forest. Edvard and Rhiain had rejoined them,
Rhiain’s fur still wet from swimming the river. Lance had healed her. Sensitive
to the way she made the newly freed slaves nervous, Rhiain had left to hunt, and
after one look at him Relena had shooed everyone else away.

Lance ought to have been happy and relaxed. Instead he felt
dull-witted, stunned by fatigue. Even seeking his bed seemed like too much
work.

Sara’s words registered, and he frowned. “What? Why do we need
to talk to the Goddess?”

Instead of replying, she slashed her knife across her wrist.
Bright red blood spurted.

Swearing, Lance lunged forward and clamped his hand around her
already-slick wrist. “Stop it! How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t hurt
yourself.”

The Goddess filled him, creating a warmth in his hands like
holding them over a crackling fire on a miserable rainy day. The blood began to
slow—

Sara cut herself a second time, higher on the same arm. “Ask
Her if the baby is in danger.”

Cold fear filled him like water rising. The black shadow in the
corner of his mind stirred. He pushed it down with logic. “If there was anything
wrong with the baby, my touch would heal it right now.” The first cut closed,
golden brown skin knitting together.

“Ask.” She made a third cut.

Lance grabbed for the knife, but she held it out of reach.
“Stop it.”

“Not until you ask Her.” Sara’s blue gaze was pitiless.

Lance’s mouth dried with fear. He didn’t want to ask—which
meant she was right and he needed to.

He gulped in a breath. “Goddess of Mercy,” he prayed as the
third cut’s bleeding slowed, “is our baby in danger?”

“
Yes
.” Her presence began to
fade.

Sara made a fourth cut, deeper this time, lacerating her
skin.

Time to face the black thing hulking in his mind. “What is the
danger?”

Her answer devastated him.

“
Sara
is
soulless
,
but
her
body
has
forged
a
connection
to
the
baby’s
soul
.
The
soul
is
in
a
tug
-
of
-
war
between
them
.
Right
now
,
Sara’s
body
is
winning
.
If
the
connection
between
the
baby’s
body
and
soul
snaps
while
the
baby
is
still
in
the
womb
,
the
baby
will
die
.”

No
. Lance bowed his head as grief
sliced through him.
Their
baby
. Guilt bludgeoned him. He should have prevented
this. He Wore the Brown. He should’ve known Sara was pregnant, should’ve asked
the right questions when Wenda described the soul as “small as a mustard seed.”
But he’d wanted so bad for the woman he loved to come back to him.

“If the connection remains until the baby is born, what will
happen?” Sara asked.

“
The
soul
is
connected
to
both
bodies
only
because
the
baby
is
physically
part
of
Sara
.
When
he
is
born
,
one
of
the
connections
will
break
,
either
Sara’s
or
the
baby’s
,
whichever
is
weaker
.”