Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (8 page)

“I will.” Sara stared at Bertramus with no expression.

Bertramus blinked uncertainly.

Lance sighed. Unfortunately, he judged the other man the type to dismiss women as lesser creatures. He would likely backslide and have to learn the hard way.

* * *

“You look weary. Would you like to ride up in front of me?” the fat man asked. He kicked his horse’s flanks with his heels so that the white mare ambled closer to Sara.

“No,” Sara said. This was the fourth time he had offered.

“I can’t help but notice that your man isn’t taking as good a care of you as he should. This saddens me. You have a rare beauty and should be treated like a queen. If there’s any way I can help you, please let me know.”

Sara usually ignored the fat man’s words, but she pondered this offer for the next two hundred steps. “There is one thing you can do.”

“Yes?” His lips curved up, and he stared down the bodice of her new green dress.

“You could break my arm.”

His mouth dropped open. “Wh—what?”

She considered his pudgy arms, unsure if he had the strength. “Or perhaps my finger.”

His round face flushed pink. “Are you mad? No!”

The fat man was weak, but his horse had to be strong to carry him. Sara moved behind the mare and twisted her tail until she kicked Sara’s shin.

Sara had anticipated the crunch of breaking bone, but it didn’t come. Nor was the pain as intense as when she’d plummeted to the courtyard. On the other hand, since her mind wasn’t overwhelmed with pain messages, it allowed her to concentrate on what she did feel.

Her fingers found only a few drops of blood beading her skin, but Sara could feel blood collecting underneath, swelling into a bruise. The wound throbbed in time with her heart.

Experimentally, Sara stepped forward. The leg continued to hold her, but the extra weight did add little jolts of pain—

“Sara!” Almost too soon, Lance rushed to her side.

The fat man started babbling. “It’s not my fault! She made the horse kick her.”

Lance dropped to his knees in the grass and pushed her skirt up so that he could lay his hands on her bruise.

Sara concentrated on each sensation: Lance’s callused fingertips lightly pressing, the widening of his pupils as the Goddess filled him, the healing warmth flowing under her skin, the scent of wildflowers.

The pain eased, then drained away to nothing. The Goddess left.

But Lance didn’t release her. His brows drew together. “Is what he says true, Sara? Did you deliberately goad the horse into kicking you?”

“Yes.”

“See? Before that she asked me to break her arm.”

Sara didn’t spare a glance at the fat man, watching Lance.

His facial muscles moved in a complicated way. “Sara, do you like pain?”

Sara thought about the question. Liking indicated a preference. “I find pain interesting,” she admitted.

Lance’s body gave a short jerk.

“There’s something wrong with her,” the fat man said shrilly. “She’s—”

Lance’s head whipped around. “Get out of here. Now.”

The fat man booted his horse’s sides. The mare broke into a trot.

Lance put his hands to his forehead and bowed his neck. “Goddess, what am I going to do?”

Loma didn’t respond, but Rhiain did, which confused Sara.

“What’s wrong?” the shandy asked.

Lance didn’t look up. “Cadwallader says Sara’s soul is disconnected from her body. She thinks pain is interesting. That fat lecher is right. Something is wrong with her. And I don’t know how to fix it.” The last words were muffled.

Rhiain snorted. “I think you’rrre wrrrong.”

Lance lifted his head. “What?”

“I don’t think Sara hurrrt herrrself because she likes pain, even if pain doesn’t botherrr herrr as much as it should.”

“Then why—?” Lance looked first at Rhiain, then over to Sara.

“I did it so you would heal me,” Sara told him.

The skin around his eyes wrinkled. “So you like being healed.”

Sara was silent, unsure if that was a question.

Rhian blew air out of her nostrils. “No. She watches you all the time—just like I used to watch Gaius.” Rhiain looked at the ground. “I’d trrry so harrrd to think of something I could do orrr say to impress him. I would’ve gladly let a horrse kick me, if it meant he paid attention to me.”

“Is that true, Sara?” Lance’s voice sounded softer. “Do you want my attention?”

“Yes.”

Liquid sheened the surface of Lance’s eyeballs. “You don’t need to hurt yourself to get my attention, Sara.” More face wrinkling. “Not anymore. I promise.”

* * *

“You sound hoarrrse,” Rhiain remarked at camp that evening after they’d eaten and gathered around the bright, crackling fire.

Lance cleared his throat. It was true. He’d spent the afternoon talking to Sara while they walked up and down hills. She’d soaked up every word—but still only responded when asked a direct question. Lance was determined not to feel disappointed. Her desire for his attention was a step forward, and his plan was working: she hadn’t hurt herself again.

“You should grrroom her.” Rhiain licked her own shoulder.

Lance blinked at the mental picture that conjured up. While both he and Sara could probably stand a bath, he didn’t want Sara stripping down to wash up in the stream with Bertramus about. The merchant had been uncharacteristically silent all afternoon, as if offended by something Lance had said or done.

Lance couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Baths will have to wait until tomorrow when we reach Gatetown,” he told Rhiain.

“Bathe in waterrr?” Rhiain flattened her ears. “I meant, you should brush her furrr.”

Rhiain’s cat-like reaction to the idea of a bath amused Lance. “Well, Sara? Shall I brush your hair?”

“I don’t know.”

Across the fire, Bertramus sniffed, no doubt outraged by the idea of a man waiting on a woman. That made up Lance’s mind. He fetched the brush from the bottom of his pack and had Sara sit while he knelt behind her. After a day toiling up and down hills, wispy straggles of hair had escaped her braid.

First he removed the tie, then unplaited the braid with his hands. Freed, it fell to her mid-back. The hair felt thick and healthy, but some of the inevitable road dust had dulled the rich brown.

From habit he began to brush it with brisk efficiency, but slowed when his strokes hit a tangle. He couldn’t trust Sara to tell him if it hurt, so he had to be very careful not to pull. And there was no reason to rush, was there? He took his time, being thorough, admiring the way the firelight cast shifting flickers of gold among the wavy strands.

And then Sara leaned back into his touch. Lance suddenly became aware that she was sitting between his spread thighs, close enough that he could feel her warmth.

An answering heat rose in return. He wanted to pull her closer, flush against his hardening body. Kiss the nape of her neck and cup her breasts, while she moaned and arched her back—

But they weren’t alone, and Sara was more likely to ask him why he was kissing her neck than do any of that. Because she wasn’t herself yet.

Her
soul
is
disconnected
from
her
body
.

What had Cadwallader meant? Frustrated, Lance eased his aroused body away from Sara’s tempting one—only to have her scoot right back up against him. He swallowed. “Sara?”

She turned her head. “Yes?” Her eyes were calm blue pools, echoing none of the desire thrumming through him. But then she hadn’t screamed when she stuck her hand in boiling water either.

Disconnected.

His pulse jumped. Maybe his task was to connect body and soul.

“What do you feel when I brush your hair?” What had made her lean back against him, seeking his touch?

“My scalp tingles.”

“Does it hurt?”

She shook her head.

Do
you
like
it
? But that was the wrong question. “Does it feel pleasant?”

“Yes.”

Triumph surged through Lance, but he had to be sure. “And is pleasure as interesting as pain?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

Praise Loma. Lance closed his eyes, feeling a rush of hope. He resumed brushing her hair even though his arm muscles protested.

He had a way to reach her now, a bridge he could build between her body and the tiny spark of her soul.

Chapter Seven

Rhiain boldly entered Gatetown, loping between
timber-and-thatch cottages. Having no desire to either terrify little children
or be pricked with arrows, she’d learned to approach most towns with caution,
but Gatetown was the home of Shandy House. The people here merely moved aside
for her. One cheerful boy smiled and waved.

When her destination came into sight, Rhiain slowed, suddenly
wondering if her mother might be in residence. Second thoughts struck. What
would her mother say when she found out Rhiain had been careless enough to let a
prisoner spear her?

Rhiain paused in the dusty street. If she hadn’t promised Lance
she’d deliver a message to Dyl, she might’ve turned around. Instead she sniffed
the air, relieved when she didn’t catch the musky leopard scent of her mother.
Dyl’s wolf scent teased her nostrils. Fresh.

Encouraged, she padded up to the barn-like front door of Shandy
House and gave a polite rumble to announce her presence.

The bottom half banged open, and Dyl’s youngest granddaughter,
Leora, spilled out. “Rhiain!” the six-year-old girl yelled. She fearlessly ran
up to Rhiain, yellow braids bouncing. “Can I ride on your back?”

“Hmmm.” Rhiain pretended to think about it. “I suppose.”

Small hands grabbed her mane, and Leora swung herself up onto
Rhiain’s broad back.

Rhiain stalked forward, careful not to let Leora fall. “I’m
looking for you grrrandfather. Is he inside?”

“Oh, yes. Mama’s making dumplings today, and you know how he
loves dumplings.” A giggle. “He says we’ll never get rid of him if Mama keeps
cooking like this.”

Rhiain made a mental note to say she’d just hunted. She’d
chosen to become a shandy at Leora’s age. The human food she remembered had been
watery, tasteless gruel, nothing like the rich taste of fresh meat. She didn’t
miss cooked food at all, but Dyl had chosen to Change after he turned thirty,
and he still hankered after certain dishes.

Leora’s mother waved at them through the window, but didn’t
come out. Rhiain did a slow circuit of Shandy House and quickly attracted other
little riders. Soon three of them bounced on her back. “Faster, faster!” the
smallest boy urged her.

“No, Daniel,” Leora told him. “Grandpa says it’s not safe to go
fast.”

“When I grow up, I’m going to run the fastest,” the boy said.
“I’m going to be a shandy like Grandpa.”

“A wolf shandy?” Rhiain felt a pang. There were getting to be
quite a crew of wolf shandies. Both of the newest-Changed, from the invasion two
months ago, had chosen wolf form. If he didn’t change his mind, Daniel would
make six.

There were only two cat shandies, Rhiain and her mother, and
they didn’t even look like the same species. Rhiain was a racha, mostly. She’d
found out afterward that only male rachas were supposed to have manes, though
hers was more like a woman’s hair, the same tawny colour as her fur. Her mother
had modeled her form on the smaller leopard. She had spots and could hide
well.

Rhiain had liked being unique when she was a girl, but now it
felt...lonesome.

Lance intended to ask Dyl to accompany him on the dangerous
trip into the Republic of Temboria. If Dyl accepted, then he would be the one to
set an example for the Gotians. A wolf example.

Resentment surged through her. How was she ever going to find a
mate if there were no other cat shandies?

It wasn’t fair.

And so, instead of passing on Lance’s request that Dyl travel
with him, she found herself telling Dyl that she would be accompanying Lance and
Sara to the Republic.

* * *

Lance sent Rhiain ahead to Shandy House instead of going
in person because he was footsore, tired and filthy. He needed a bath.

And so did Sara.

The mere thought of Sara in conjunction with a bath spiked his
internal temperature as they entered the inn’s shady courtyard. He tried to
distract himself by wondering which of the two Grandfather trees flanking the
path, their branches burdened with fruit, was the Lifegift of the innkeeper’s
elderly mother—the lemons or the olives?

It didn’t work. Bath. Sara. Naked skin...

Part of him wished Rhiain had never put the idea into his head,
but her suggestion had merit. Even if he restricted himself to gently washing
Sara’s hair and soaping up her back and arms, there was a lot of pleasure in
simple touch that he could use to connect her soul to her body. His own
discomfort would be worth it if she stopped hurting herself.

Despite his good intentions, he had to clear his throat. Twice.
“Spiro—”

Bertramus shouldered forward. “Innkeeper, I’ll have your best
room, the corner suite like last time. And have that sweet little maid of yours
bring some supper up.” He winked.

Spiro’s expression became flatly unfriendly: the chambermaid
was his daughter.

But the innkeeper’s frown lightened to relief when he saw
Lance. “Praise Loma, you’re here.”

Lance laid aside all thoughts of a bath, certain that someone
must be deathly ill.

But Spiro’s next words disabused him. “The Kandrith wishes to
see you at once.”

“Wenda’s here?” Lance asked, startled.

“Yes, out by the fountain. The Mover brought her here this
afternoon after Hiram Farspoke her. We weren’t sure he would be able to reach
her, but—”

“Hiram sacrificed his speech to become a Farspeaker?” Lance
recognized the name of the Gatekeeper, and his tension twisted higher. “When?
What’s happened?”

Spiro’s mouth turned grim. “Hiram says eighty legionnaires set
up camp one hundred feet from the Gate. They’re arresting anyone suspected of
being an escaped slave.”

Kandrith was more than a small country; it was a haven for
escaped slaves. A beacon of light. And now Primus Pallax wanted to snuff them
out like a candle.

“Wenda will stop him,” Lance said. He had confidence in her
ability, but dread settled in his gut like undigested meat at the thought of
what further sacrifices she might need to make.

He patted Spiro’s shoulder, then headed for the fountain in the
square.

Behind him, Bertramus started bleating about how he needed a
room and a hot meal.

Sara trailed Lance like a living shadow.

They found Wenda standing slightly above the crowd on the wide
stone bench surrounding the fountain. Except for the vivid contrast of her red
robes Wenda might have been part of the white marble tableau: a father and
child, backs bent before the overseer with a whip, and, one tier up, Loma, the
Goddess of Mercy.

Flanked by both her mother and Marcus, Wenda addressed the
crowd of Gatetown men and woman, plus two wolf shandies. The men clutched
makeshift weapons, and the shandies growled.

“I’m certain you could overcome eighty legionnaires, but—”

“Just let us at them!” A stout man shook his hoe.

Marcus, standing at Wenda’s right, looked far less certain of
this victory of hoes over swords. “Listen to the Kandrith!” he bellowed in his
captain’s voice.

Lance noticed a few resentful looks—everyone knew Marcus had
been a legionnaire—but the crowd fell silent.

“Primus Pallax is trying to provoke an attack,” Wenda said. “If
we do so, the peace he’s sworn to keep will have been broken by us and he will
bring in an entire Legion.”

“So we’re just supposed to swallow this pigswill?” another man
demanded.

“Never!” Wenda said fiercely, her blind gaze impassioned. “I’m
going to teach Primus Pallax that Kandrith can’t be defeated, because we have
the Goddess of Mercy on our side!”

The statue of Loma wept, waters splashing into the
fountain.

Lance turned cold. Wenda meant to sacrifice something to the
Goddess. She already had it planned out.

What would it be? Another limb? He tried to work out what
sacrifice could defeat eighty legionnaires, and kept coming up short. Horror
touched him. Surely, Wenda couldn’t be planning to use her Lifegift already?

Marcus didn’t understand the danger, but Lance’s mother
did—they’d gone through it all before when Lance’s father was Kandrith. Her eyes
met Lance’s in grim communication. They would fight this. Lance shouldered his
way forward.

“Lance is here,” Marcus informed his blind wife.

Wenda raised her hands to the crowd. “I need to speak to my
brother. I will call on you should your help be needed.” Marcus helped her down
off the bench.

The crowd dispersed slowly as, filled by Loma’s tears, the
waters in the lower fountain tier rose.

“What are you planning?” Lance’s mother demanded, her knuckles
turning white.

Wenda ignored her. “Lance, I’ll need you to free the captive
slaves. Hiram says they’ve penned up two women and a child—after shooting the
husband. Can you do it?”

Lance spoke slowly, “If they’re playing by the rules and only
capturing escaped slaves, Sara can pose as my owner. Bertramus, too, can walk
free.” Perhaps Dyl could pose as Lady Sarathena Remillus’s guard dog? If he was
willing to come. Rhiain hadn’t brought an answer yet. “We’ll do it,” he vowed.
He didn’t mention the high risk of failure. Wenda understood.

“My thanks.” Wenda nodded. “Once the prisoners are safe in
Kandrith, I’ll take care of the blockade.”

“What do you intend?” Lance’s mother said sharply.

“The Republic cannot be allowed to barricade the Gate,” Wenda
said calmly. “We must either make many Gates—”

“I don’t like that idea. Each Gate is a vulnerability,” Marcus
said.

“Or we need a moving Gate. One that always exits here, in
Gatetown, before the Watcher and the Guardian. Once we demonstrate to the
legionnaires that the new gate can’t be guarded, they’ll leave and report their
failure to Pallax.”

“A moving gate? How is that possible?” Marcus asked,
frowning.

“The Goddess of Mercy will aid me,” Wenda said gently.

As the lower tier of the fountain finished filling with water,
the slavechain lifted. The freed father and child figures swiveled.

Lance felt numb, like the moment after a fatal blow when it
didn’t yet hurt, but you could see the blood welling. His father had ruled for
nine years before giving his Lifegift. Wenda had only been on the throne two
months. How could it have come to this point already?

But he knew the answer. The Hostage Pact had protected
Kandrith, and Lance had broken it, first to save Sara’s life, and then more
selfishly by failing to insist he become the new Child of Peace. They’d had
Claudius Pallax, Primus Pallax’s only son, in their hands. If they’d kept him in
Kandrith as the Child of Peace and sent Lance to the Republic, the Hostage Pact
could have been restored. Only this time Lance would have had to remain in the
Republic until Wenda’s children were born and grew old enough to take his place.
The Goddess’s gift of healing would have been wasted. And so, when Wenda had
offered Lance a way out, he’d taken it. Now they both had to live with the
consequences.

“It doesn’t have to be your sacrifice,” Lance’s mother argued,
clenching her fists. “Hiram is the Gatekeeper. He may be willing—”

“I can’t ask this of him,” Wenda said. “It’s a job for the
Kandrith.”

“He wears Heart’s Blood—”

“You wear Heart’s Blood, and I don’t see you volunteering!”

A terrible silence descended like an axe blade. Lance became
aware of the trickling of the water draining from the fountain’s lower tier. He
knew what his mother would say before she spoke.

“You’re right. I do wear Heart’s Blood.” His mother traced the
edge of the red leather vest she wore.

Lance closed his eyes, unable to watch as all the colour
drained from Wenda’s face. “I didn’t mean it.” Her voice trembled. “I’m
Kandrith. It’s my responsibility.”

“Hush.” His mother appeared weirdly calm. “It’s only been two
months since I lost your father. You and Lance are all I have left of him. Don’t
ask me to stand by while you sacrifice your life, too.”

“Wenda’s life?” Marcus said sharply. “What are you talking
about?”

They all ignored him. “Someone else—” Wenda started
desperately.

“Is me. And you’re too much the Kandrith to stop me. You’ll do
what’s best for the country,” their mother said confidently.

“Is it because you’re no longer the Protector?” Wenda asked
brokenly. “I know we’ve been fighting lately, but I never meant you to feel
unwanted. Kandrith needs you. I need you.”

“You’ll muddle along without me. Being Protector was...a habit
for me. It’s something I was good at, not something I ever enjoyed.”

Lance winced. It had never occurred to him that his mother
hadn’t liked being Protector, perhaps because she was so efficient at it. She’d
been an efficient farmwife, too, but he remembered her humming as she carded
wool and laughing at the ducks’ antics when fed. He’d passed off her growing
lack of humour to his father’s decline. He’d never thought to ask if she was
unhappy.

“You’ve given so much to Kandrith. You deserve to retire to a
cottage,” Wenda tried again.

“And what? Dandle the grandchildren you won’t give me because
you’re dead?”

Wenda bit her lip.

A bittersweet smile. “Just before we left, Cadwallader took me
aside and told me that I would have grandchildren. He remembers them. I’m sure
he knew what choice I would make today.” She held out her hands to both Lance
and Wenda. “Give your children a kiss from your father and me and remember that
we loved you.”

His mother hugged his weeping sister, whispering how proud she
was of Wenda and how much she loved her. Lance embraced them both. A weight
settled on his heart, but he didn’t try to talk his mother out of her decision.
Kandrith needed Wenda. And his mother had never changed her mind for anyone but
his father.

After a long time, Lance’s mother transferred her weeping
daughter into the hands of her husband. She skewered Marcus with a glare. “She
loves you. Be worthy of her.”