Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (3 page)

“I’ve got a buyer lined up for the farm,” Julen told her after
another pause. “Since it seems you won’t be needing my diplomatic talents, I’ve
persuaded Iorweth I’ll make a much better merchant than a farmer. Less mud. And,
frankly, I want out of this village. I’m tired at being glared at by Iorweth’s
first husband’s friends. They make Iorweth tense, too, muttering behind her back
about her sleeping with the enemy. We’ll both be able to start fresh in a new
place.” He waited for three heartbeats, then continued, “We plan to move to
Gatetown. I’ve an idea I might be able to bring a colt through the Gate.
Kandrith is in desperate need of new breeding stock...”

The man called Julen talked while the baby drooled on her fist.
Sara answered if he asked a question. Every thousand heartbeats, she checked
Lance to make sure his skin was warm and that he breathed.

After her eighth check, a black-haired woman entered the house,
bringing with her a gust of wind and a spatter of rain.

Julen quickly stood. “Oh good, you’re back,” he said. He took a
step forward, then stopped. “We have visitors.”

“So I heard.” She removed her gray woolen cloak and hung it on
a peg.

“Iorweth, you remember Lady Sarathena and Lance?”

“Of course.”

If the woman remembered her, then Sara should know her. Sara
studied her more closely. Sara did remember a black-haired woman named Iorweth,
but that woman had been fat. Ah, yes. Last time the baby had still been inside
her.

Iorweth felt Lance’s forehead, tutted over his swollen stomach,
then took the baby from Julen and sat at the table. She opened her dress, baring
one breast so the baby could nurse.

Julen told Iorweth about finding Lance.

“What’s wrong with her?” Iorweth asked, when the baby had
fallen asleep.

She was looking at Julen, so Sara didn’t answer.

“Iorweth, please don’t.” Julen turned his head from her to
Sara. “I think she’s had a rough time of it. She’s not herself.”

That was true. Sara knew she was different from the Sara Julen
had known before. That Sara had had a soul.

Chapter Three

“Feeling better now?” Julen asked Lance, with a tight smile that failed to disguise his anger. He’d cornered Lance on his return from the privy.

“Yes,” Lance said.
Here
it
comes
. He’d been expecting the confrontation for awhile now.

Two days had passed since Lance clawed his way back to consciousness and found himself a guest in the other man’s home. Since then Julen had grown increasingly clipped with him. Now that his infected scratches had begun to heal and his tumour had shrunk to only half its former size, Julen had apparently decided it was time to take him to task.

“You bastard!” Anger turned Julen’s eyes greener. “What in Vez’s Malice did you do to Sara?”

How to answer that? Lance didn’t know where to start.

“It’s all over the village,” Julen said, his breathing rough with anger. “How you cut off her head. I can guess what happened. You tried to heal her afterward and bungled it. And now she’s simple.”

Julen slammed him up against the outside wall of the small stone house—and Lance let the slighter man do it. Because deep down he thought he deserved to be punished. Even if Sara hadn’t been injured the way Julen thought.

“She trusted you.” Julen spat out the words.

Lance closed his eyes.

More than trusted, she’d loved him.

The pain from that knowledge cut so deep he welcomed the purely physical agony of the elbow Julen dug into his gut.

After he’d had enough self-punishment, he opened his eyes—and saw Sara about to drive a knife into Julen’s back. “Sara, no! Stop!”

Julen spun around and saw the knife. His mouth dropped open. “Sara?”

Her eyes remained blank, and she kept the knife pointed towards Julen.

“She doesn’t understand.” Lance stepped between them. “Sara, put down the knife. Julen is just angry. He’s not going to hurt me.”

“He was hurting you,” Sara said dispassionately.

Lance corrected himself. “He wasn’t going to hurt me
much
.”

A snort from Julen. “Care to wager on that?”

Lance glared at him. “Do you
want
her to stab you? Sara, put down the knife. Go back inside. Everything’s fine.”

Eyes still blank, Sara dropped her belt knife on the ground and walked indoors. Lance watched her hips sway, his heart aching. She still moved with the same wild grace of the woman he’d fallen in love with.

His gut insisted his Sara was hidden in there somewhere, if he could just draw her forth—but that was false thinking.

Julen let out a breath. “She wouldn’t really have—?”

“Gutted you like a pig? Oh, yes.”

Julen looked unsettled, but only for a moment. “She doesn’t remember me.”

Lance disagreed. “No, she remembers you—or rather she would if she made the effort.” Strong memories were based on emotions, and Sara had none. At least that was Lance’s theory.

Julen looked at him blankly.

He and Julen had never gotten along well. Julen had actively spied for the Republic of Temboria when he first entered Kandrith as part of Lady Sarathena Remillus’s entourage. Only a twist of fate had seen Julen married to a Kandrithan woman. Nevertheless, Julen was genuinely fond of Sara. Lance owed Julen an explanation. “Her mind isn’t damaged. She can think just fine—sometimes I think she does so more clearly than I do.”

Julen made a scoffing noise.

Lance gave up tact for bluntness. “It isn’t her mind that’s gone, it’s her soul.”

Julen stared at him as if he’d just said the sky was yellow. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

Julen probably thought he was being figurative. Lance only wished he were. He spelled it out as clearly as he could: “Sara no longer has a soul. She gave it up to save my life.”

Pause. “How is that possible?”

Lance methodically laid out the whole story. How Sara’s father, Primus Remillus, had invaded Kandrith. Under the terms of the Hostage Pact, Sara, as the Child of Peace, had been beheaded. How Lance had healed her and the two of them had flown to the Republic to rescue his sister, Wenda, the other Child of Peace, from Primus Remillus.

Julen took the news that his former employer had been an acolyte of Vez, God of Malice, without too much surprise, though he winced when Lance related how the man had chained up his own daughter. But Lance’s description of how the Primus had sacrificed his body and soul to Vez to become an all-powerful blue devil made Julen shake his head in disbelief.

Lance backtracked. “You understand how sacrifices work?”

“Kandrithan slave magic? Yes, I know the Paradox Rule. You sacrificed your good health for the ability to heal. Listeners sacrifice their hearing to hear only truth. There’s even a man in the village, a Finder, who can point the direction of anything under the sun, but gets dizzy and can’t walk a straight line himself.”

“And you understand that if a sacrifice is negated—if, say, another who Wears the Brown healed me of my tumour, then everyone I’d ever healed would instantly fall sick again?” Or die.

Julen nodded.

“In a sacrifice, one gives up something to Loma the Goddess of Mercy and receives something of equal value. Gifts are a little different. Gifts are given with no expectation of a return. My father used his Lifegift to banish a blue devil from Kandrith.”

Julen gestured for him to continue.

Lance didn’t want to go on. He wanted to go back in time and stop it all from happening. “After the Primus became a blue devil, he attacked us. Blue devils are bodiless, little short of all-powerful, and impossible for anyone but an experienced Kandrith to fight.” Lance shuddered in remembrance. “It was toying with us, torturing us, or we would all be dead. Sara stopped it. She gifted it her soul and negated its sacrifice. It couldn’t exist, after that.”

Julen swallowed, looking nauseous. “And Sara’s soul?”

Lance shrugged, the movement disguising his pain. “Is gone, I don’t know where.” And getting the same one back would negate Sara’s sacrifice... He, Wenda, Marcus and Esam would all be dead. And the war likely lost, all of Kandrith re-enslaved.

“So Sara will stay as she is, forever?”

“No,” Lance said forcefully. “It’s my hope—belief—that Sara will grow a new soul, just as a baby does.”
Goddess
of
Mercy
,
hear
my
plea
...

Even though Sara had almost stabbed Julen, Lance couldn’t help asking, “Have you noticed any spark in the times you’ve spoken to her? You’ve known her for much longer than I have. I thought she might respond to you.”

He’d hoped seeing Julen would trigger some emotion. He held his breath. The only person in Kandrith who’d known Sara for longer was her former slave, Felicia. Lance had searched for her in vain in Gatetown. The newly freed often took new names as a way to shed their past.

“Sorry.” Julen grimaced. “I’ve had more intelligent conversations with a jug of wine.”

Lance’s heart grew as heavy as a mountain. He fought against the feeling, reminding himself that Julen provoking a response had merely been a possibility. It wasn’t part of his long-term strategy.

Julen frowned. “Though she does seem concerned about you. She insisted on giving you water and food when you lay sick, and she tried to protect you just now.”

Lance shook his head. “No. I’d like to believe she still has feelings for me, but those are just instructions I made her memorize for the times I fell ill on the journey. ‘If this happens, do that.’” He began to walk back into the house.

“How can you be sure?” Julen asked, as they passed through the doorway. “I mean, she’s still choosing to listen to you.”

Julen was following chains of logic Lance had traced so many times the links had worn thin.

Lance sat at the small kitchen table. Sara stood a few feet away, staring at a blank wall. “That’s not as significant as you think. Watch. Sara?” He pried up a splinter from the table. “Take this and prick your finger.”

Sara poked her finger with the splinter. They all watched as a small drop of blood welled.
Red
,
for
Heart’s
Blood
.

“Did that hurt, Sara?” Lance asked gently.

“Yes.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“You asked me to.”

“You don’t have to do what I say.” His throat ached. “What anyone says. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Julen?”

Julen shot him a revolted look, but complied with the unspoken request. “Prick your finger again, Sara.”

Sara pricked it again.

“God of Death,” Julen said, his face paling.

Lance took the splinter from Sara and tossed it out the window. He healed her finger while she stood passively.

How long had she been on her feet? “Sit down, Sara.” The first week he’d been polite about his requests but had soon learned that “Why don’t you sit down, Sara?” was always met with silence. As were most questions beginning with why.

Julen looked askance at him. “It’s like taking care of a newborn.”

“Yes,” Lance agreed, though privately he thought it was worse. Babies had moods: happy, sleepy, upset. The world fascinated them. Babies required a lot of care and attention and plain old work, but they mirrored back joy and love to their parents. Sara, in her current state, was like a whirlpool. She sucked down everything he gave.

He counseled himself to patience. It had been only eight weeks. Improvement would come. He believed that. His Goddess was the Goddess of Mercy.

“Taking care of Meghan for more than an afternoon exhausts me,” Julen said. “You’ve been looking after Sara like this, just by yourself, for what? Close to two months now? You must be worn to the bone.”

Anger stirred in Lance’s chest. “What would you have me do? I couldn’t leave her in the Republic.” Wenda had urged him to. His sister was not going to be pleased when she discovered Lance had disobeyed her.

“Of course not,” Julen said. “But, my friend, you need a rest.”

“I’m not tired.” At least in comparison to yesterday. If Lance waited until he felt completely well, he would never get anything done.

“I didn’t mean sleep,” Julen said, “though you still look a bit gray to me. I meant a respite from Sara. Looking after her for a week would drive me mad, but I expect I can handle an afternoon.”

A respite sounded wonderful, but... On the verge of refusing, Lance realized he was resisting the plan because he wanted it too much. He had to stop punishing himself, or he’d succeed too well one day, and then who would care for Sara?

“I’ve been meaning to make a round of the village, see if anyone’s in need of healing.” If anyone was in dire need he’d have healed them from his own sickbed, but he’d discovered over the years that people often had little things with which they didn’t want to “bother” One who Wore the Brown: an old woman’s bruised hip, eyes that had to squint to see, a nagging cough. Lance didn’t like to leave a place until he’d verified everyone’s health, because months might pass before another who Wore the Brown came through and little ills sometimes developed into fatal ones.

Julen rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Fine, go out and heal, but
then
take some time to yourself. The blacksmith’s wife makes good ale.”

Yes, Julen would know that.

“Sit and relax for an hour of two in the sun,” Julen continued. “I’ll keep Sara safe.”

Lance hesitated only a moment more. What Julen didn’t understand was that Lance enjoyed healing. The presence of the Goddess always left him feeling uplifted. He felt vaguely unsatisfied if he didn’t heal at least once a day—something that had made his time serving in the Republic as the Child of Peace to keep Kandrith’s side of the Hostage Pact even more unpleasant. Unfortunately, taking Sara with him created problems. She unnerved people. Even if she said nothing, they always sensed something wasn’t quite right about her.

And when he healed Sara it seemed as if the Goddess departed more swiftly... Lance closed that thought off, refusing to consider what it might mean.

“Sara.” He said her name, but found her attention already focused on him. “I have to go out. I want you to stay here with Julen.” Lance pointed to Julen just in case she’d forgotten his name. “Can you do that for me?”

“I can.”

Was it his imagination, or had she hesitated?

Her face lacked all expression. It had been his imagination. While Lance was determined not to give up on Sara, he’d also sworn to be unflinchingly truthful to himself about her condition. False hopes were worse than none, for they led to a cycle of disappointment and despair. He couldn’t afford that kind of wear and tear on his emotions when months might pass without results.

He would wait years for Sara, if necessary.

Lance nodded to Julen and left. Going out the door disturbed him. It felt too much like escaping from prison.

* * *

“How much longer will they be staying with us?” the dark-haired woman asked loudly. She lay on the pallet, breast-feeding the baby.

Sara continued to watch the door for Lance’s return, counting her heartbeats. Nine thousand four hundred and thirty-one.

The curly-haired man shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Just one more day, I think. Lance is almost recovered, and Rhiain has volunteered to travel with them.”

“He’s not the problem.” The dark-haired woman stared at Sara. “All she does all day is sit there like a lump. Never once has she lifted a finger to help.”

The man paused in the act of emptying a bucket of water into a basin, his forehead creased. “Sara is our guest.”

“She’s a spoiled noblewoman—” The woman broke off as the door opened.

Sara stopped counting. Lance stood in the frame.

“Would you like us to leave?” he asked. “I know the house is crowded with this many people in it.”

The woman flushed. “One who Wears the Brown is always welcome here. You saved both my life and Meghan’s, and you’ve done much for the village.”

“Whereas all Sara has done is give up her soul to save our leader and prevent a blue devil from taking over Kandrith. A service hardly worth mentioning.” Lance’s hands clenched into fists.