Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (45 page)

Now
. Sara threw the blanket-wrapped bundle at his face, and then lunged forward with the knife shard.

His hands came up to catch the “baby” and found only cloth. Reflexively, Nir batted the bundle aside and unsheathed his sword, but not before Sara sank the shard into his side. She angled it up under his rib cage, driving it as deep as it would go.

And then Nir’s blade swept out and opened her throat. Wet blood drenched her chest, a red waterfall. She fell to her knees.

Nir’s curses rang in her ears. Fatally wounding her had been an accident, a warrior’s trained response to an attack.

Her gaze sought out Lance six feet away. He could heal her even in his sleep. She tried to crawl to him, but her vision darkened and her arms turned to mush. She collapsed on her face.

She didn’t want to die. She’d promised Lance she wouldn’t leave him.

She loved him so much; it was a fierce burning inside her. Instinctively, she knew Nir would kill Lance and the baby in a mindless rage. She would be together with Lance in the lands of the dead, protected from Mek by the Goddess of Mercy. But they wouldn’t be a family, because the baby wouldn’t be with them. He would slip away into gray limbo.

It was wrong. The soul wasn’t hers to keep.

Sara closed her eyes and did the last thing she could for her child: gifted him back his soul.

Sheltered by Lance’s side and arm, the babe began to cry.

* * *

Wake
or
all
is
lost
.

The Goddess’s vibrant voice and the sound of a baby crying yanked Lance back to consciousness.

Pain slammed into his head, nausea and dizziness colliding in a stomach-clenching whirl, but he forced his eyes open. And saw Nir ranting and shaking Sara. Her head flopped like a doll’s, blood fountaining everywhere, her eyes vacant, life dimming.

No
. Not again.

Lance reached for her, a convulsive effort that sent a spike of agony through his head. He touched an ankle, but not hers. Nir blocked his way.
Goddess
,
no
,
he
was
going
to
lose
her
—

The Goddess showed him a memory: healing Spring Colt through the conduit of Winter Grass. As soon as he realized what she was telling him, Lance struck his head on the log floor. Stars exploded behind his eyes, his consciousness slipped, but it worked: the Goddess poured her blessed healing through Nir and into Sara.

* * *

Sara opened her eyes. She felt absolutely calm, the storm of emotion passed. All the guilt, grief, terror and love she’d experienced were wiped away.

She’d expected to die. Since she still lived, Lance must have woken and healed her, though he appeared to have passed out again.

A gaunt man with iron-gray hair held her shoulders. “Sarathena?”

A baby cried weakly.

The gaunt man turned toward the sound, then stopped, his mouth opening on a gasp. His hand touched a blood-stained spot on his side. Grimacing, he removed his breastplate and tunic and prodded his bare, unmarked skin. “Where’s the stab wound you gave me? What did your lover do to me?”

Though she hadn’t seen it happen, Sara worked out the answer. “Lance healed the knife shard inside you.”

His face grayed. “But that means...”

“Every time you move, it will slice at your innards,” Sara finished.

“Then you’ve killed me. I’ll die within a week.” He shifted his weight, then sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Vez’s malice.”

You
called
,
my
priest
?

Though the god was clearly speaking to the gaunt man, the voice echoed inside Sara’s head, too. She wondered what the god wanted her to hear.

“I’m dying,” the gaunt man said.

Yes
.
Your
organs
already
bleed
inside
you
.
I
can
make
you
strong
again
.
You
can
crush
the
girl
and
her
lover
and
their
whiny
brat
.

“You can heal me?” the gaunt man asked.

No
.
Your
body
must
die
.
But
you
can
sacrifice
you
soul
to
become
My
servant
,
a
blue
devil
.

The gaunt swordsman curled his lip. “A bodiless thing? I’d rather die. I’ll go to the Hall of the Warrior and spend my days fighting, fucking and feasting.”

But
you’re
no
longer
Nir’s
follower
.
You
abandoned
Him
and
His
halls
. Vez laughed; the sound grated in Sara’s ears.

The swordsman snarled in response, then gasped again, clutching his side.

I
am
your
only
choice
.
Give
yourself
to
me
.
Let
us
rule
together
.

The swordsman hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Begone. I was a fool to ever listen to you. Sarathena, come here. You’re going to cut the shard out and then your lover can heal me again.”

He tried to hand her his dagger. Sara just looked at it.

He hissed. “I know that you gave up your soul for your brat. And now you don’t care about anything, who lives or dies, the baby, the father, yourself. None of them matter to you. Nor do you hate me.”

Droplets of sweat formed on his forehead as he eased himself down to his knees. “You’ll help your enemy, because you don’t care.”

What he said was true. Sara didn’t care. But she could still remember a little of what Sara-who-had-a-soul had felt. The emotions didn’t touch her anymore, and the memories would fade soon, but right now she still remembered. And so, when he—Nir—closed her fingers around the dagger, she didn’t use it to probe for the broken off shard. Instead she stabbed him in the heart.

He seized her, and she held him while he gargled and bled so that he wouldn’t touch Lance and be healed.

Once she was certain he was dead, Sara let his body collapse where it would. Then she sat in the hollow log with the dead man and the crying baby and the unconscious man, watching the shadows lengthen on the wall.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Let him up,” Fitch said, striding forward.

Rhiain and Edvard cautiously backed up. The battle had stopped, but neither side had laid down their weapons. Under Primus Pallax’s shouted orders, the legionnaires had retreated into neat ranks.

The Primus’s helmet had fallen off when Edvard tackled him. He had short dark hair, not yet touched with gray, and even disarmed and surrounded he gave off an air of absolute authority. “Who are you?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

“I’m Fitch, grandson of Chief Deglas. And you’re Ambrosius Pallax, my prisoner.” A fierce grin blazed through the sweat and gore of battle painted on his face.

Primus Pallax lifted one heavy brow. “I may be your prisoner, but your men are surrounded and outnumbered by mine.”

Rhiain bristled. “I can tearrr out yourrr thrrroat in a blink.”

“Hush.” Fitch put his hand on her shoulder, but kept his gaze trained on his opponent. “Leave the negotiating to me.”

Negotiating? Rhiain flicked her ears. She’d expected Fitch to challenge the Primus to single combat, not talk.

“You’ve lost control of Gotia,” Fitch said. “From this day forward it is a free and independent country. You will withdraw your Legions. All Republicans with estates may leave with their lives and what can be carried on their backs...”

Rhiain relaxed. Fitch was just laying out the terms of surrender.

But then Primus Pallax countered with his own offer. “Gotia will remain a province of the Republic of Temboria. I can call up four more Legions just like these.” He waved a hand at his troops. “I can burn your Undying Forest and crush you at will.”

“You may find the mouthful harder to chew than you think, old man,” Fitch sneered. “Gotia will not suffer rule by foreigners.”

“I’ll allow you and your rebels to withdraw to your forest or the Grasslands with your lives in return for your oath to stop fomenting rebellion,” Primus Pallax offered.

Rhiain flexed her claw, hackles rising. A growl rumbled through Edvard’s body. Neither of the two war leaders glanced at them, gazes locked.

“Unacceptable,” Fitch said, thrusting his jaw forward. “Gotia is my homeland—”

“And is it these Grasslanders’ homeland, too?” Pallax asked sarcastically.

“I have promised them riches and plunder. I do not go back on my word.” Fitch’s expression hardened.

“From what I’ve heard, they’ve plundered plenty already. House Jarkonus’s stolen dowry ought to keep them in luxury for years. I’d say you’ve made good on your promise.” Primus Pallax narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “A solution occurs to me. You don’t want Gotia to be ruled by foreigners. Right now I’m short a governor for the province.” A sour smile. “Since you killed the last two, nobody in Temborium wants the title. I need someone strong to hold Gotia, and someone who understands the Grasslanders.” Pause. “The God of War clearly favours you.”

Fitch tensed. “What are you offering?”

“Governorship over this province. You’ll have to marry Garius’s daughter, of course. House Jarkonus owns extensive property all across Gotia. His lands will become your lands, inherited by your sons or parceled out to your followers as you prefer...”

Edvard nudged her shoulder, eyes worried.

Rhiain waited for the jealousy she’d felt at the Temple of Beauty to flare up, but it never came. She leaned back against Edvard’s warm flank, considering. Once the thought of Fitch marrying would have distressed her, but now...She’d finally accepted that Fitch would never be a shandy. It was as he’d said: Gotia needed a leader, and they wouldn’t follow a shandy. So it was only natural he take a human wife.

“And what do you want in return?” Fitch asked.

Pallax studied him shrewdly. “As I said, someone to keep the Grasslanders from raiding. But mostly peace. I have other irons in the fire. Frankly, I don’t want to waste time putting down a rebellion here.”

Rhiain’s heart stuttered. By other irons did he mean a planned invasion of Kandrith?

“You’ll have to pay tax, of course. And the other Republican lords will keep their property—or receive full price for it.”

“I left Lord Garius’s villa broken and his fields smoking. With what shall I pay this tax?”

Primus Pallax shrugged. “That’s your responsibility. You’ll have land—farm it.”

“I’m no farmer! I’m a warrior.”

Primus Pallax raised an eyebrow.

“Ah,” Fitch said, “of course.” He chuckled.

Rhiain’s ears flattened. She didn’t understand, but from the way Edvard’s claws had sunk two inches into the the ground, she had the feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the joke.

“In that case, I accept,” Fitch said.

“Lord Fitch of House...?”

“Deglas.”

There were more details to be hammered out, including reparations to the residents of the burned Tolium, but in essence the deal had been struck. An hour later, the two men clasped hands and elbows.

Primus Pallax returned to his honour guard and gave the order for the Legions to withdraw.

As soon as they were out of earshot Rhiain asked, “How will you pay the tax?”

Fitch playfully flicked her nose. “Don’t worry. Soon I’ll have others to plow my fields and reap my grain for me.” He hailed Raven Claw and Cold Frost, his boyhood friends, and initiated a jubilant round of backslaps. One of them produced a flask of wine, and Fitch started discussing plans to move into Lord Garius’s estate.

Rhiain sought out Edvard where he stood a little apart. “Have you told him? Or does he know?” To her eye, Edvard’s identity was obvious, but in the heat of the battle, Fitch had just accepted the presence of a second shandy without questioning who it was.

“Not yet,” Edvard said tersely.

Rhiain sympathized with his desire to wait and not spoil the victory with a quarrel. Together they watched Fitch clasp Spring Colt’s arm. “You’ll be well-rewarded for following me.”

Spring Colt smiled blindingly. “But not with land. I am no farmer.”

Fitch elbowed him. “Neither am I!” The two roared with laughter, as if already drunk.

“Can you explain the joke to me?” Rhiain asked Edvard. “I don’t understand it.”

“That’s because it’s not funny.” Edvard growled.

“What do you mean?” she asked, nudging his shoulder.

“It’s the God of Warrr’s code. Warrriors don’t till fields. It’s
beneath
them,” he sneered. “Warrriors rrraid other villages and capturrre prisonerrrs and make them till the fields for them.”

Rhiain was still puzzled. Fitch was going to raid a village? She nipped Edvard in frustration. “Tell me.”

“Slaves, Rhiain. He’s going to chain up all the slaves Lance frrreed and make them laborrr forrr him.”

“He wouldn’t!” Rhiain protested.

“Ask him,” Edvard growled, a lower reverberation than her own. “I’m going to warrrn Rrrelena and the others.” He loped into the trees.

Rhiain didn’t follow. She wouldn’t believe it until she heard Fitch say it with her own ears.

Willem was trying to catch Fitch’s attention, probably to report on casualties. Fitch ignored him in favour of celebrating with his Grasslander friends.

Rhiain didn’t have the patience to wait. She pushed her way into their circle. “Is it trrrue that you intend to re-enslave those we frrreed?”

“Yes. A rather neat solution, isn’t it?” His smile lit his face, and a lock of golden hair fell boyishly about his face, but this time Rhiain didn’t soften.

Her hackles rose. “You can’t do this. They’re Gotians, too.”

“Pah. Western Gotians, from other tribes, not true Gotians,” Fitch corrected her.

“It makes no differrrence,” Rhiain insisted.

Fitch scowled in annoyance. “I would’ve expected this from Loma’s priest, but I thought you were a warrior, Rhiain. We fought and bled, we’ve earned land and comforts.”

“Land, yes. But not slaves to worrrk it forrr you.”

Fitch’s expression chilled. “Don’t think you can dictate to me, Rhiain.” Standing, he drew his sword.

She bared her teeth, her blood leaping in response to his aggression, but she didn’t attack. Rhiain had sparred with Fitch. She knew how quick he was—but she was quicker. She held back because, despite everything, she didn’t want to hurt him. She retreated another step, her heart sore. “Don’t do this.”

“Rhiain’s right,” Willem said unexpectedly. His brown eyes looked sad in his homely, scarred face. “They may be from the western tribes, but they fought for you.”

“Badly!” Fitch objected.

“I had my doubts when you assigned them to me, but they trained hard. They fought and died for you, for the freedom you promised them.”

“I never promised them anything,” Fitch denied. “The priest might have, but not I.”

“You can’t treat them this way,” Willem said. “It’s dishonourable.”

Fitch backhanded Willem, sending him sprawling against a tree. He stood over the shorter man. “Are you defying me?”

A long hesitation. Rhiain thought Willem would give in. He bowed his head, then sat up and looked Fitch in the eye. “I gave you my allegiance because your grandfather Deglas was a great chief and because of your prowess in battle. As a warrior you have no equal, but I’ve come to realize being a great warrior doesn’t make one a great chief. A chief works for his people’s good, not to gain power and riches for himself.”

Fitch’s face tightened with fury. “If you wish to challenge me for leadership, stand up and draw your sword, old man. I’ll make mincemeat out of you.”

Willem was competent with a sword, but he was a better bowman. And a better leader. Rhiain wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. Lance had. Lance had never liked Fitch, but she’d been blinded by his good looks and dazzling smile. Shame curdled her stomach as she remembered how she’d soaked up his flattery.

“I said, draw your sword!” Fitch struck Willem with the flat of the blade.

Growling, Rhiain jumped in front of Willem. “No!”

Behind her, Willem stood. “Rhiain...”

“Change to a shandy,” she urged him. “If Edvard can do it, so can you.”

Fitch’s brows pinched together in puzzlement, and then fury reddened his face. “Edvard? The other shandy was my brother? How dare he? I’ll kill him before I let him sully our name.”

Rhiain ignored his ranting, concentrating on Willem. “You’ve heard Lance’s stories. It’s easy,” she encouraged. “Just pray to Loma.”

For a moment Willem hesitated on the cusp—and then he shook his head. Tears stood out in his eyes. “It won’t work.”

“Yes, it will!” Rhiain interrupted.

“It’s not enough,” Willem said. “The Primus’s agreement is with Fitch. Even if I managed to kill him, the Legions would be on us like fleas on a hound.”

“But...” There had to be something they could do.

“Tell Glenys I’m sorry,” Willem said. “Tell her I have to do this, for her and for Jenas, for what Jenas died for.”

His son was dead? Rhiain’s ears flattened.

Willem raised his voice to address Fitch. “You can have your governorship and your fancy villa and become one of them, but you won’t take the forest. Eastern Gotia will be free.”

“You think to negotiate with me?” Fitch laughed. “Or do you think your precious ‘Undying’ will protect you? Pallax is right, this whole place needs to burn down.”

“The forest has sheltered me my whole life, it’s time for me to protect it,” Willem said calmly. His face lifted to the sky. “Loma! I gift you my life.”

What was he doing? Dread soured Rhiain’s throat like bitter wine. A Lifegift wasn’t necessary to become a shandy, only a sacrifice—

The voice of the Goddess reverberated through the air:
I
accept
your
gift
.

Willem’s body dropped to the ground, boneless.

Dead.

Fitch made a questioning sound. His hand reached out to his lieutenant. There might have been regret in his eyes. “Willem?”

But before he could touch the body, it seemed to collapse, no
melt
. In seconds a puddle had formed, quickly growing into a rill and then a small stream. The water tickled Rhiain’s feet, and she jumped back with a yelp.

She ended up on the opposite bank from Fitch. He and his Grasslanders watched the stream grow from the southern side while a growing audience of Gotians, including the freed slaves, gathered on the north side. Edvard came and stood shoulder to shoulder with her. She leaned into his warmth.

Before their eyes, the stream widened into a river, boiling and frothing. And then it began to sink, carving a channel in the soft earth, creating stream banks that would normally be formed over years in mere minutes.

Fitch ordered Spring Colt and another of his Grasslanders to ride in either direction and see how far the river extended.

“What’s happening?” Relena asked, coming to stand by Rhiain. Her voice sounded raspy.

Rhiain waited for her to finish coughing. “It’s Willem’s Lifegift.” She related what had happened. “He said to tell his wife he did it so Jenas wouldn’t die in vain, so that Gotians would be frrree.

“I’ll tell her,” Relena said. “No. We’ll tell the story to all our children. It will become part of Gotia’s history,” she promised. “I thought Willem was the same as Fitch, but he sacrificed himself for us. Willem the Archer.”

“No,” Rhiain corrected her. “Saint Willem.”

Edvard broke the silence. “Rrrelena, will you heal Rhiain? She needs to crrross soon, if she’s to rrreturn to her home.”

She could go home now, Rhiain realized with a shock. The rebellion no longer needed her, and Fitch never had.

“Of course.” Relena laid her hand on Rhiain’s shoulder and Rhiain’s battle scratches and cuts immediately healed. A sense of warmth lingered even after Relena removed her hands.

“You Wear the Brown now?” Rhiain asked curiously. “The Goddess heals through you?”

“Yes.” Relena smiled, and the peace and wonder on her broad face made Rhiain envious. Until Relena coughed again.

Rhiain winced at the nasty, hacking sound. She couldn’t imagine choosing such a terrible sacrifice when Lance already Wore the Brown. Unless—She turned to Edvard. “But does that mean you didn’t frrree Lance? Is he still in the Legion camp?” She tried not to sound accusing.