Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (26 page)

Lance’s mouth fell open. Half-dead? Just because they couldn’t
conceive?

“Few choose to do so,” Fitch added. “Women can’t fight as well
as men.”

“Say that to Rhiain and she’ll bite your head off. She’s
female.”

Fitch dismissed this point. “Female, perhaps, but not a
woman.”

“No, because she sacrificed her body to become a shandy. The
Goddess of Mercy doesn’t care whether the body is male or female. Three of the
Red Saints were women.”

Fitch stilled, an arrested expression on his face. Had Lance
finally gotten through?

He slapped Lance on the back. “Thanks, my good man. I must
speak to Rhiain.” Fitch strode off, all but chortling.

Lance stared after him, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

* * *

“She’s no Qiph. What are you doing with an Elysinian
slave girl?” the slaver asked Esam.

Sara paused in her slow stroll up and down the Qiph platform in
the slave market. She was Temborian not Elysinian, but Esam had instructed her
to leave the negotiating to him, so she held her tongue.

The slaver was a handsome man with pale gray eyes and a wealth
of dark hair on both his head and chest. He wore a maroon toga banded with
yellow; Sara didn’t recognize the House colours.

“That’s none of your business, Blorius,” Esam said, body
stiff.

“Well, let’s have a look at the contract.” Blorius plucked up
the rolled sheaf of papers from Esam’s hand and scanned them. Rings weighted
down his fingers; they were barbed iron things that looked more like weapons
than jewelry. Designed to hit and leave a mark on skin.

“You don’t ask much, do you?” The slaver’s thick lips twisted.
“You’ll never find a customer willing to pay with this many restrictions. ‘Term
of slavery to end with her pregnancy’? What nonsense! Who will buy a slave who
will only be good for five months?”

“Or sooner if she miscarries,” Esam pointed out. “Go away,
Blorius. I seek a very specialized buyer for her and you are not him.”

Blorius arched an eyebrow. “She’s been here five days and no
one’s made an offer yet. You can’t afford to run me off.”

Esam glowered at him, but it was true. Sara had been on display
for five days now, and she was losing patience. She’d told Esam this morning he
had two more days before she took matters into her own hands.

‘“Highly educated, especially in mathematics,’” Blorius read.
“You’re trying to sell a woman as a tutor? Esam, Esam, you have much to
learn.”

Esam ground his teeth.

“Still, her price is low, and she
is
pretty.”

“Beautiful,” Esam snapped.

“Perhaps, but who can tell in that rag you have her wearing?
Ugh. It’s like a tent. Still, I might be willing to take her off your hands, if
you cross out some of these ridiculous restrictions...”

“Out of the question.” Esam folded his arms. “You know Qiph
contracts are nonnegotiaable. What’s going on, Blorius?”

The slaver heaved a theatrical sigh. “As it so happens I have
an important buyer coming tonight. He has a standing order for
brunettes—beautiful, blue-eyed brunettes. He almost never buys them, but if I
don’t offer any he’ll be offended and I’ll lose the rest of his business. All I
have right now are blondes and a delightfully voluptuous redhead. There are very
few Elysinians in stock because most have earned out their slavechains.”

Esam glanced at Sara.

She nodded.

“Her contract stays as written and will be registered with the
Temple of Justice.”

A long haggling session followed. At its end, Sara’s contract
was transferred temporarily to Blorius, but Esam retained a “share” and would
get her back if Blorius’s buyer declined her.

Unsmiling, Esam gripped her hand hard and bid her farewell.

Without a backward look, Sara followed Blorius and his two
attending sanguons down eight streets to his house.

The spacious villa’s white pillars and maroon-tiled roof
wouldn’t have looked out of place in Temborium. The only sign that Blorius was a
slaver were the dogs patrolling the walled outer courtyard and the half-dozen
hardened ex-legionnaires standing around.

Once inside Blorius clapped his hands, calling for his servant.
A fat woman with a painted face hurried in and bowed.

“I’ve found our brunette,” he told her. “But as you can see, we
have much work to do before tonight.” He curled his lip and stabbed a finger at
Sara’s sturdy Kandrithan-style dress with its split skirts and modest neckline.
“Starting with that. Take it off and burn it.”

* * *

Rhiain nervously flexed her claws in the damp forest
floor. At first she’d been disappointed when Fitch hadn’t stayed after
introducing her, but now she was glad. She feared she was making a hash of
things.

A score of men and women watched her in silence. All of them
stood a prudent distance away, backed up against the massive fallen tree whose
other side served the horse pen. Except for Edvard, Goddess bless him. He sat
almost at her feet, listening attentively to her story. “—and the first
opportunity I got, I became a shandy,” she finished. “You can do it, too.”

Her audience glanced uncertainly from one to another, then
stared back at her, doubt written on their faces.

“That’s all?” a grandfatherly man with a drooping mustache
asked. “We just ask Loma to make us into cats?”

“You don’t have to choose cat-forrrm. Therrre arrre wolf
shandies, and other kinds, too. But rrrachas are betterrr fighterrrs,” Rhiain
said, squirming a little at the half lie. Rachas were better warriors, but
wolves were better hunters.

Not that any of this crowd of what Fitch had dubbed “useless
mouths” looked like an attractive mate, but...

“Well, I suppose, it wouldn’t be so bad to be a talking beast
for a few hours,” the grandfather said. “Why don’t you change back into a girl
and show us how to do it?”

Dismay dampened Rhiain’s confidence like cold rain. She hadn’t
explained properly. “I can’t.”

The men and women stared at her.
All
those
eyes
...

“I can’t turrrn back into a girrrl. I’ll be a cat forrreverrr.
That’s my sacrrrifice.”

They began to shake their heads, the scent of fear rising off
them.

“You mean, you’re trapped in that form?” a young woman asked,
horror widening her eyes. “That’s terrible.”

“I’d much ratherrr be a shandy, than a girrrl.” Rhiain bared
her teeth. “See, how strrrong I am? Nothing can hurrrt me.” Well, crossbow
bolts, but...

The girl sidled away. Even the grandfather shook his head. “I
want to fight, but no. That’s too much to ask.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll make the sacrifice,” Edvard said loudly. He
scrambled awkwardly to his feet, but stood tall, his arms wide, head tipped
back, addressing the treetops or maybe the heavens. “Goddess of Mercy accept my
sacrifice!”

Rhiain remembered little of her own change, just heat and fury
and the blood of the slaver as she clawed and bit him. She cocked her head in
curiosity, ears flattened, as Edvard’s ringing declaration transmuted into a
roar of triumph.

His white-gold hair sprouted into a mane around his neck. His
skin furred over, brown and tawny gold like hers, but patterned in stripes not
spots, and his nose reshaped itself into a muzzle. He dropped onto his hands and
knees. The seams of his clothes burst as his body swelled with muscle, massing
twice as big as a man.

Half their audience broke and ran back around the fallen tree
trunk to the main rebel camp.

Rhiain raced forward to sniff at him, delighted. By the time
she reached him his transformation was complete. A racha stood before her
shoulder to shoulder, shaking his mane proudly, tawny eyes bright as gold
coins.

Joy blazed in her heart like a sun. “You did it!” She had a
companion finally, someone her age to race and wrestle with. And since Edvard
had chosen to be a cat then it became that much more likely that if Fitch were
to turn shandy, he would pick the same form.

“I did it!” Edvard roared, his words distorted by his new
mouthful of sharp teeth.

For some reason this struck Rhiain as funny. She coughed a
laugh.

Two more people sidled away.

“How do you feel?” Rhiain asked.

“Strrrong. Powerrrful.” His eyes shone.

“As powerrrful as me?” she mock-growled.

His rump wiggled. “Morrre.”

“Let’s see about that!” She pounced. Her teeth fastened in his
scruff, not hard enough to hurt, and she kept her claws sheathed. They wrestled,
rolling over and over, then springing apart.

Edvard leaped forward—

And then his hindleg collapsed under him. “No!” Edvard roared
in fury. Self-loathing twisted his muzzle, pain filled his amber eyes. “Why
didn’t it worrrk? I’m supposed to be healed. I can’t still be crrrippled! I
can’t!”

Rhiain’s ears popped. The other cat shandy vanished, and
suddenly Edvard’s human body huddled naked on the hill. He cried out, and she
first smelled, then saw, rich red blood trickling down his back.

He’d nulled his sacrifice, which meant he’d never been a
shandy. His frail human body had taken the full force of her tackle. Her teeth
hadn’t punctured the cat shandy’s tough hide, but human skin was much
thinner.

How badly was he hurt? “Edvarrrd?” Anxiously, she nudged him
with her nose, but he just screamed and curled up into a ball.

“Get on my back. I’ll take you to Lance,” she urged. Lance had
planned to attend her talk, but a fierce headache had laid him low.

Edvard ignored her, shudders racking his thin body.

Rhiain mewled helplessly. Where had everyone gone? Why wasn’t
anyone here to help? For the first time she regretted her lack of hands. She
couldn’t lift him without hurting him further.

She licked his cheek.

“Go away!” he screamed. “I hate you!”

Rhiain’s neck fur ruffled; she took a step back in confusion.
Was he not dying, after all? Why was he angry?

But then she knew how she would have felt if the same things
had happened to her. Guilt shredded her innards.

This
is
my
fault
.
I
should
have
warned
him
,
explained
it
better
.
I
should’ve
known
sacrificing
a
crippled
body
wouldn’t
be
equal
to
having
a
healthy
shandy
body
.

She ran for Lance, unable to bear the accusation in Edvard’s
eyes. Lance could heal his body, at least, even if he could do nothing for the
wounds of the soul.

* * *

Ten hours later, bathed, oiled, painted and perfumed,
Sara waited silently on the other side of the curtain while Blorius conferred
with the fat woman. Though only a servant, her dyed-black hair was elaborately
arranged and cosmetics enhanced her full lips and green eyes. Her lush body had
fallen to fat, but Sara judged that she had once been beautiful.

“Well, will she do?” Blorius demanded.

“See for yourself.” The head servant swept back the curtain,
revealing Sara. As coached, Sara lay half-reclined on the couch with her back
arched and her chest thrust out.

Her brown hair had been freshly washed and curled. The long
strands draped over her back like a cloak. Her gown was made of thin blue silk.
It had a high waist and a plunging neckline. The two triangles of cloth encasing
her breasts tied together at her nape, and laid bare the rest of her back.

“Bas, God of Miracles,” Blorius breathed. “She’ll strike him
blind. We may actually have found a match. You know how long he’s been looking
for someone like her? He’ll shower us in money.”

“Don’t count your coins yet,” the fat woman warned. “There’s
one part that doesn’t match the description.”

“What? The gown? It’s supposed to be ‘Remillus blue,’” Blorius
fretted. “Should it be a darker hue?”

Sara glanced down at her gown. If anything the shade was a
touch dark for Remillus blue, but it was close.

“The gown’s fine,” the fat woman said. “It’s her age. The
description says a maid of sixteen. She’s twenty if she’s a day, and no
maid.”

“Vez’s Malice!” Blorius kicked a ewer over. He glowered at
Sara. “It sounds like you’ll be going back to Esam, after all.”

Sara wasn’t so sure. “This description. When was it first
circulated?”

“You dare speak without permission!” Blorius raised his hand to
hit her.

Sara waited calmly.

He frowned and lowered his fist. “You’re an odd one. I think
the description’s been out five or six years.” He looked to the fat woman. She
nodded confirmation.

A beautiful maid of sixteen with blue eyes and brunette hair,
dressed in Remillus blue.

Five years ago, Sara had been sixteen.

She concluded there was a strong likelihood that the
description was based on her: Lady Sarathena Remillus.

How odd.

* * *

Edvard eased himself down onto the grass beside Rhiain.
She tensed. Had he come to yell at her, too?

Fitch had been angry that none of the ex-slaves had chosen to
become shandies and fight. He’d saved most of his cursing for them, calling them
cowards, but every word had felt like a lash on her skin. She’d failed him. And
Fitch didn’t even know the worst, that his brother had almost died. No one had
been brave enough to tell him. Certainly not she.

Was Edvard planning to tell his brother?

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, staring at his hands. Was he
remembering what it had felt like to have claws?

“No, I’m sorrry,” she whined. “I did it all wrrrong. I
should’ve explained betterrr.”