Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (37 page)

She inhaled smoke-tinged air and began to cough. Eyes watering, she searched for a house, or a tree growing next to the wall that she could climb. She rejected two trees as too spindly, but the third yard yielded a gnarled olive tree that might do.

No time to look for a better one.

The lowest branch was out of reach, so Sara approached the trunk. She sought hand and toeholds in the grooved bark, but the baby got in the way and her grip kept slipping. She either needed to grow taller or find help.

She knocked on the door of the nearest two houses, but no one answered.

The wind swirled, and she coughed in the thickening smoke. Flames shot out the windows of the building two houses down.

Time to retreat.

Sparks filled the air. One burned a hole in her cloak; she batted at another that touched her arm. She hunched over, coughing.

When she straightened again, Lance stood in front of her. “Sara.”

He took her arm, and her chest stopped spasming, though she still couldn’t find enough air. Lance was tall; he could help. “This way.” She pulled him off the street, into the backyard with the olive tree. “Help me climb over the wall.”

Obediently, he boosted her up. With one foot on his shoulder and her hand on the branch, she clambered onto the lowest branch. She peered through the network of limbs and dusty green leaves, plotting a route over the wall.

She climbed two branches higher, but stopped when she realized Lance remained on the ground, leaning against the trunk.

The fire had spread to the house closest to them now. What was he waiting for? “Climb.”

Lance lifted his face, blinking. He swayed slightly and Sara realized he was feverish. The first realization brought on a succession of others:

In his condition, it would be difficult for him to climb without falling.

If he broke a bone, he couldn’t heal himself.

But the fire was too close for him to escape any other way so he would have to risk climbing.

“Come up here,” she ordered.

His eyes stayed closed.

She climbed down a branch and carefully transferred her ungainly body until she was astride the broad limb, her skirts hiked up. “Lance!” she yelled. The flames consuming the thatched roof twenty feet away roared, drowning her out.

She plucked a handful of green olives and threw them. Two bounced off his chest, but one hit his chin. His brown eyes blinked open.

“Lance! You have to climb. Fire!” she added, in case he was too deliriouos to recognize the danger.

“Fire?” His eyes widened. He faced the gnarled trunk, digging his hands and toes into the grooved bark. He pulled himself three feet off the ground, then reached for the branch beside her. His arm swung and missed. He dropped to the ground.

The wind gusted again, swirling up a cloud of smoke and sparks. She turned her face into her sleeve, striving for air. “Lance!”

Using the tree trunk, he pulled himself to his feet. “Sara, you have to get out of here. Go. Save the babe.”

The babe? Indignation shook Sara. The baby only mattered because of him. Because
he
loved it.

She
only mattered because Lance loved her.

What was the point in saving the baby if Lance died? What was the point of enduring Nir’s cruelty if not for the future reward of being a family with Lance?

“No.” She shook her head. “I won’t leave without you. Climb or we all burn together.”

Their gazes met, and he swore.

The sparse grass had begun to burn when he jumped and caught the lowest branch, rocking it. Sara edged closer to the tree trunk, making room, but didn’t move higher yet.

The smoke stung her eyes and lungs, but she refused to look away. His arm muscles bunched, and he pulled his chin level with the branch, then hooked first one elbow, then a swinging foot over. Relief loosened her tight chest as he scrambled onto the creaking branch.

* * *

Lance struggled in the coils of a nightmare. At least he hoped it was just a fever dream. He blinked, but Sara didn’t vanish. Her solemn blue eyes watched him through the screen of leaves. For some reason she’d cut her hair even shorter than his mother’s.

Orange flames nipped from below, and he hastily pulled his feet up.

“Climb,” she ordered.

He obeyed, first standing on the branch, then stepping to a higher one. Sara climbed, too, and he positioned himself below her to catch her if need be.

Then Sara edged farther out on a branch until she touched the stone wall. He squinted at it, full of doubt. The top was still three feet over her head. A pregnant woman should not climb so high.

“It’s not safe,” he protested. “Come down.”

“There is no down,” she said. “Boost me up.”

Of course there was a—He glanced down and saw flames. The leaves around him were drying and curling in the heat, the lower branches starting to smoke. His heart slammed into a faster rhythm. He didn’t like this dream.

“Now, Lance.”

Cautiously, he slid his feet farther along the thinning branch. It wobbled, but didn’t break. Sara’s lighter weight allowed her to stand two branches above him, but hers was trembling, too.

Her fingers dug into the cracks in the masonry. She set her foot on his shoulder and used it as a step. The branch creaked under their double weight; Lance grasped at the boughs above. On an upward bounce, Sara pushed down hard and jumped. She got her arms over the top of the wall, but her body hung down.

A twig near Lance’s foot caught fire. A column of heat washed over him. He edged farther out along the branch, grabbed Sara’s foot and pushed. She scrambled awkwardly onto the top of the wall.

The smoke stung his throat and eyes. His back bowed as he coughed.

“Jump!” Sara yelled.

He gasped in a partial breath and jumped. His hands slapped down flat on the top of the wall and his body slammed against rough stone. He hung there for a moment, the stone cool against his cheek. Heat from the inferno below roasted his back and crisped the hairs on his legs.

His head pounded, and his vision swam with the combination of fever and smoke. His fingers began to slip. Any moment now he would fall into the hungry orange flames below.

Strange. He’d always assumed he’d die of an illness.

Fingers closed around his wrist. He saw Sara’s face above his, beautiful and unnaturally calm. “Climb.”

“I can’t.” He slipped another inch.

“Then we’ll both die, because I won’t let go,” she said simply.

Fear speared through him, chasing away the fever clouding his thinking. He couldn’t let Sara and the babe die. He dug his fingers and toes into the cracks between stones, scrabbling and clawing upward. Then, somehow, his foot was over, and they sat together on top of the wall beside the burning olive tree.

“Now down the other side,” Sara rasped between coughs. “You go first. Hang by your hands, then drop the rest of the way. You can catch me.”

Her words seemed to float by, but after the third or fourth repetition Lance understood. With her coaching, he turned onto his stomach, then slid over the edge. He only hung by his hands for a moment before his fingers slipped, and he bruised his tailbone on the earth.

At least the air here was cleaner. Lance lay back on the grass, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

“Lance!”

Looking up, he saw Sara’s feet dangling over the edge. He remembered that he was supposed to catch her. He stood up and she dropped into his arms, as neatly as if they practiced it every day. He grinned in pleasure at getting something right, even as her momentum sent him stumbling back a step. He fell on his arse again, Sara sprawled on top. Her breasts pressed against his chest.

Kissing her was the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment she kept her mouth closed, and hurt flooded his chest. Didn’t she want to kiss him? Didn’t she like him? But then she put one hand on his cheek and leaned down.

Her lips touched his so softly, and clung so sweetly...He smiled into her eyes and stroked her hair, fascinated by the short feathery cap, so different than before. “Pretty.” His eyelids drifted shut.

She shook his shoulder. “Lance, you have to get up.”

“Why?” He kept his eyes closed.

“We’re too close to the wall. The fire might spread.”

Lance didn’t want to move. He opened one eye. “If I get up, what will you give me?”

Her eyebrows rose. “What do you want?”

He rolled his eyes at her silliness. “Another kiss, of course.”

She considered for a moment. “I’ll kiss you, but only if you get up now.”

Lance hauled his aching body to his feet. He swayed back and forth, then placed his hands on her shoulder and looked at her expectantly.

She rocked up onto her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Her pregnant belly bumped him. He took a step backwards, off-balance. The sky revolved around him in a sickening way.

“I’m not well,” he confessed to Sara.

“Yes, I know. Let’s walk now.” She took his hand.

Lance followed happily. As fever dreams went this was very nice. Usually he dreamt about being burned alive or being alone in the dark and cold. Still, he wished his feet hadn’t grown quite so big. They looked like small boats attached to his legs, and they kept tripping him up. “Stupid feet,” he said.

“What?” Sara glanced back at him.

“Stupid feet,” Lance repeated.

Sara pondered this. “I don’t think any body part is intelligent on its own.”

Lance studied his body. “You’re right! Stupid fingers. Stupid knees. Stupid nose.” He would have kept cataloguing body parts, but just then a massive shiver racked his body. He halted. The sky revolved again.

Sara tugged on his hand. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to.” Lance sulked. “Where are we going?”

Sara stopped. “I’m going to the Legion camp. But I don’t think you should go there.”

“Yes, I sh-should,” Lance said, between chattering teeth.

“Why?”

Lance knew the answer to that one, which was good, because thinking was difficult right now. “Because I need to be with you.”

“Why?”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Don’t you want to be with me?”

Sara’s mouth parted in surprise. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then we should stay together.” Lance shivered again. “I need to lie down.” He suited action to word. The grass felt soft, but chilly. He shuddered. “Lie down with me,” he demanded.

Without a word, Sara lay down beside him. He moved them both onto their sides, with her spooned in front of him. She spread her cloak over them like a blanket. Warmer, his tense muscles relaxed, and he rested his hand on the mound of her belly. He fell asleep counting the baby’s small movements.

* * *

Sara didn’t sleep. There was something very pleasant about being held by Lance, something too rare to waste in slumber.

She wished Lance didn’t have a fever; she suspected it was affecting his ability to think. She tried to reason things through on her own.

Number one, she needed to return to Nir so she could remain a slave and not be war plunder.

Number two, Lance insisted on going with her.

What would happen to Lance if they walked into the Legion camp together?

He had an osseon slave brand. They would either enslave him or execute him as a runaway.

She didn’t think Lance wanted to be a slave. And she didn’t want him to be executed.

So maybe he shouldn’t come with her.

She could get up right now and steal away. But the thought of leaving Lance lying feverish in a field made her twitch, uneasy. She tried to examine the feeling more closely.

Lance had survived many illnesses; he would probably survive this fever, too, but...But the chances of his getting well were better if she could keep an eye on him.

Also, being with Lance made her feel...warm? Content? No, safe. Though it was a necessary part of her plan, she didn’t want to return to Nir and place herself in his power again. Having Lance nearby would give her the strength to stay the course.

So they should remain together. Which brought her back to the original problem.

Slaves weren’t safe in the Legion camp. Who were safe? Legionnaires were safe.

Therefore, Lance should become a legionnaire.

Problem solved, Sara closed her eyes and slept.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Halt!” A scruffy, black-haired legionnaire suddenly
stepped forward, barring their way with his spear.

Lance stumbled to a stop. He’d been concentrating on the
placement of his feet, and when he lifted his eyes both the legionnaire and the
stockade seemed to appear as if by magic. From the rawness of the earthen ditch
into which the palisade timbers had been driven, the stockade had been thrown up
only a day or two before.

“I need to go inside,” Sara said baldly.

The unfriendly look in the legionniare’s eyes turned to
puzzlement. “I know you. You’re Nir’s slave. Who’s this? A runaway?”

“No,” Sara said, before Lance could speak. “He’s a dedicant.
Lance, say these words: ‘I am a warrior. I have come to test my mettle against
the followers of the God of War.’“

“What?” Lance blinked. The black-haired legionnaire looked just
as confused as he himself felt. Lance’s head swam. Tolium no longer burned, but
smoke lingered in the air. He tasted ashes in the back of his throat.

“Say them,” Sara insisted, her blue eyes focused on him.

She was so beautiful. He’d loved running his fingers through
her long brown hair, but its new shortness showed off the delicacy of her neck
and skull, making her look very feminine. Warmth surged through Lance. He’d do
anything for her. “I’m a warrior,” he started, then stopped, his memory
failing.

“He can’t do that, can he?” the legionnaire demanded, outraged.
“I mean, he’s an osseon. I can see his bone brand.”

“He’s unchained,” Sara argued. “Any unchained man may petition
to become a dedicant. Lance say, ‘I have come to test my mettle.’”

“I have come to test my mettle,” Lance repeated obediently. He
squinted in the strong sunlight. It was both bright enough to hurt his head, but
still early enough in the morning that he was cold. Or perhaps that was the
fever?

‘“Against the followers of the God of War.’”

“Against the followers of the God of War.” Lance put his hand
to his throbbing head. Something about this seemed wrong, but in his woozy state
he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“Well, this’ll be easy. He can barely stand.” The legionnaire
swaggered forward and tossed his spear at Lance’s feet. “Pick it up.”

Lance stooped and almost fell as a wave of dizziness hit him.
The fever had left him weak as well as muddled.

“No,” Sara said firmly. “Combat isn’t the first test.”

“Oh? And what is?”

“Choosing a weapon.”

“I just gave him a weapon.”

Sara stared coolly at the legionnaire. “You were once a
dedicant. You know that’s not how it’s done.”

The legionnaire flushed under his patchy beard. He lifted his
hand to slap her, but just then a brawny man stepped forward. “She’s right.” His
blue eyes glittered with amusement.

“Centurion!” The scruffy legionnaire saluted hastily.

The square-jawed centurion smiled, showing a dimple. “Stay at
your post. I’ll take the dedicant to the Fourth Legion’s priest to be tested.
Lady, I suggest you go see Wettar.” For all the polite phrasing, Lance sensed it
was an order.

Sara nodded and vanished inside the stockade.

Lance took a step after her, but the centurion blocked him.
“Not a good idea. Her master is both high-ranking and jealous. Come with
me.”

Adrift, Lance followed him.

* * *

Dismay crossed Wettar’s face when Sara found him dicing
with two legionnaires over a bolt of silk. She still felt disconnected from her
own emotions, but she was getting better at recognizing them in others.

Wettar abandoned the game and dragged her inside Nir’s empty
tent. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I’m Nir’s slave,” Sara said. “Where else would I be?”

Wettar rubbed a hand over his bald head. “I don’t understand
you, girl. You haven’t become like Cassia, have you? Convinced that Nir beats
you because he loves you?”

Sara didn’t understand love, but she knew it shouldn’t involve
hurting people. “No.”

Wettar broke into a sweat. “Nir’s out of camp right now. You
can still sneak away. I won’t tell him you came by.”

Nir probably wasn’t in camp because he was still searching
Tolium for her.

A slow boil of anger stirred inside Sara. “You knew he planned
to take me as plunder. You knew and didn’t tell me.”

“I’m his servant, not yours,” Wettar snapped. “You seem to get
confused on that point sometimes. You forget that you’re no longer Lady
Sarathena Remillus.”

So Wettar knew her full name. Sara wondered briefly if he’d
known from the first, but quickly disregarded the question as irrelevant.

“I thought you were a good slave master, because you asked me
to save Cassia,” she told him. “But you were just afraid of being blamed for her
death once Nir’s temper cooled. You fear him.”

Wettar barked a laugh. “He is the high priest of the God of
War.
Everyone
fears him.” His face twisted. “Except
highborn twotches like you. He’s obsessed with you.”

The hairs lifted on Sara’s arms, despite the bright sunlight.
“And if he’d ridden into camp with me facedown across his horse as plunder,
you’d have let him do whatever he wanted to me, without a single protest.”

“It wouldn’t be my place,” Wettar said, but he averted his
gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “Since you’re here, you might as well start on
the washing.” He seized Nir’s dirty linen and thrust the pile at her.

Sara was reluctant to take the bundle. Laundry was done at a
small stream outside the stockade. Was he hoping Nir would catch her there and
claim her as plunder?

But if she disobeyed Wettar, he would have the right to beat
her.

Trapped, Sara accepted the laundry.

* * *

Rubies studded the breastplate of the priest of Nir,
and, from the squat older man’s paunch, he hadn’t swung a sword in battle for
years.

“...the temerity of an osseon
daring
to apply for dedicant training.” The priest spluttered.
“Outrageous.”

“I completely agree,” the centurion said soothingly. “Still, he
did observe the forms. He’ll have to be tested. It’s not like he’ll pass them,
is it?”

Lance’s head pounded, and it took far too much effort just to
stay on his feet, so he ignored the priest’s sneers and slurs.

To his surprise the blue-eyed centurion hung around—probably
more to laugh at the spectacle than to keep the priest honest, but Lance still
appreciated it.

While the priest bustled about, unrolling a leather cloth on
the grass and arranging weapons on it, Lance craned his head, searching for
Sara. He didn’t like being separated from her. His instincts urged him to track
her down—

“Choose,” the priest said, stepping back.

Bending over made Lance dizzy, so he crouched down beside the
cloth. He reached for the nearest dagger, and the priest opened his mouth. Lance
drew back his fingers. “I won’t make my choice until I have examined all the
weapons,” he said clearly.

Was that disappointment on the priest’s face? Lance hardly
cared. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under some blankets and sleep. With
Sara, preferably.

The test seemed a silly game, but Sara had asked it of him so,
sighing, he resumed his examination of the offered weapons. He hefted the dagger
in his palm. Something felt odd about the weight. On impulse he scratched the
blade; yellow gleamed underneath the gray paint.

He tossed it back on the blanket. “Made of bronze, not iron,”
he said shortly.

A crossbow was next. Lance had never fired one, and he examined
the mechanism closely. One cranked here and then a lever ought to have drawn
back the cord, but nothing happened.

Down it went. “It’s broken,” he said.

The priest ground his teeth. Lance began to enjoy himself a
little. He was in a lousy mood; why not share it?

The double-headed axe was dull. The bejeweled sword had a
nicked blade, and the spear’s shaft was half-rotted.

“These are all bad weapons,” Lance said.

The priest smirked, crossing his arms. “And yet you must
choose.”

Lance looked at the centurion. “Is there a forge around here
somewhere?”

The centurion raised one eyebrow, but nodded. “By the
stables.”

Lance looked the priest in the eye. “I’m still not ready to
make my choice.” He picked up the axe and the sword.

He expected the priest to object, but apparently this was still
allowed under the rules because the priest followed, fuming.

The forge rang with the sound of hammer and tongs. If not for
Lance’s headache, he might have appreciated hearing the rhythmic music of his
childhood. A clubfooted slave boy worked the bellows, his face smeared with ash
and red from the heat, while the blacksmith hammered at a sword.

At the priest’s irritated wave the blacksmith gave up his spot
at the anvil for Lance to work.

Lance started by prying up the useless gaudy rubies on the
pommel and carelessly tossing them aside. The slave boy scrabbled after them in
the hard-packed dirt, then reluctantly handed them over to the gimlet-eyed
priest.

A few knocks with the hammer straightened the crooked
cross-piece. The nick on the blade took longer. Lance started with the
whetstone, grinding at it, then used sand to scour away the rust. When he was
satisfied, he reheated the metal and then pounded it flat with his hammer, over
and over, until the nick was gone.

At least an hour had passed by then, and the priest was
sweating in the heat from the forge. Lance himself felt better, his fever
easing.

“Are you done yet?”

“No.” Lance paused for a dipperful of water, then rewrapped the
pommel in braided leather to provide a firm grip that wouldn’t grow slippery
with sweat. He studied the finished project with satisfaction.

“It looks well,” the priest said grudgingly. “Is that your
choice?”

Lance smiled at him. “Oh, no, I just couldn’t bear to see a
sword so mistreated.” He turned to the axe and sharpened it on the whetstone
until it could cut whiskers.

The priest shifted from foot to foot. “The axe, then?”

“I haven’t made my choice yet.” Lance slung the axe over his
shoulder and strode off. By the time he exited the stockade and entered the
forest he was leading a small cavalcade. The centurion had acquired two friends,
and a little brown-haired boy was tagging along, too. The boy carried a bucket,
but seemed in no hurry to fill it.

Lance took his sweet time finding a fallen branch of the right
thickness, then used the axe to cut it down to the right length for a
quarterstaff.

The priest hissed in outrage. “You can’t treat a war axe like
that!”

“It won’t be any duller when I finish than when I found it,”
Lance said tartly. He sat on a stump and began trimming away excess twigs.

He lost some of his audience, all but the centurion and the
little boy, who still looked entertained, and the priest, who humphed and
fidgeted.

“How long will this take?” the priest burst out, waving away a
cloud of gnats.

Lance eyed him coolly. “The wood still needs polishing. Several
hours ought to see the job done.”

The centurion coughed unconvincingly, blue eyes twinkling.

The priest drew himself up importantly. Since he was shorter
than both Lance and the centurion, the gesture was wasted. “You’ve wasted enough
of my time. I insist you make your choice now. Is the quarterstaff your choice?
Or the axe?”

Lance stood up. “Neither. I choose my hands.” He held them out
for the priest to see. They were large hands, callused, and had acquired a small
cut on one finger and a burn across one knuckle from his work today. “They’re
better than any weapon, because I can use them to do many things. As you have
seen.”

The priest bared his teeth in satisfaction. “Hands are not
allowed.”

Lance’s stomach curdled as if he’d eaten green apples. He’d
been having so much fun at the priest’s expense, he’d forgotten how serious the
consquences were. He needed to stay in camp, near Sara, and out of chains.

He’d out-clevered himself.
Fool
.

“But hands are permitted,” a little voice piped up. The
brown-haired boy frowned with all the seriousness of an eight-year-old.

The priest puffed out his chest like a pigeon. “I am a priest
of Nir,” he declared grandly. “Whoever told you hands were allowed shall receive
a penance from me.”

“My sponsor told me.”

“And? Who is your sponsor?”

A spark of rebellion lit the boy’s blue eyes. Lance decided he
liked the kid. “Primus Ambrosius Pallax.”

Lance choked, torn between amusement at the priest’s
swallowed-a-bone expression and the urge to swear. Because Primus Pallax knew
Lance’s face and name from the recent invasion of Kandrith. If they came face to
face, he’d be arrested as a spy.

The priest hemmed and hawed. “It’s very unorthodox, but perhaps
in one of the older texts...I’ll have to consult them.” He straightened and
glared at the boy. “In the meantime, don’t you have chores to do?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy squeaked and ran off.

“What happens if my choice isn’t accepted?” Lance asked the
centurion, low-voiced, as they hiked back to the stockade.

“There’s usually one good weapon among the choices—the plainest
knife. If you make the wrong choice, the priest breaks your inferior weapon in
front of you and you’re whipped and thrown out. Of course, with that brand on
your wrist, they’ll probably just chain you,” the brawny centurion said
cheerfully.

Better and better.

Lance hunched his shoulders and kept his head down as they
entered the Legion camp, hoping not to be recognized.

The priest led them back to the stone-slab altar of Nir and
ducked inside his tent to consult his holy text. A short time later he came back
out, scowling. “Hands are acceptable.”