Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (14 page)

Getting to her feet, Sara tried to lay her finger on what bothered her. Perhaps it was the number of unfriendly stares she’d attracted. Sara caught herself hunching her shoulders, as if making herself smaller would reduce their obvious antipathy.

Instinct quickened her steps. If she’d gone straight to the inn perhaps all might have been well, but the market table selling the odd triangular blades of wood distracted her. The way they’d been cut, with a good section of thick branch attached and two smaller branches growing out at right angles like handles they looked like—

“…worth more than that,” the middle-aged man argued with his customer. “Grandfather makes good plows.”

Plows growing from trees.
Magic.

And farther down, didn’t the branches on that other tree look rather like arrows?

Sara was moving to take a look when someone pushed her.

She stumbled forward, but managed to save herself from falling in the fountain. “Watch where you’re going!”

The bearded, blond man who’d pushed her stared back with hot eyes. “So sorry, most noble lady,” he said scornfully, “did I get dirt on your dress?”

Sara kept her lips clamped tight, suddenly aware of the ugly mood of the crowd. It felt like the whole town had come out to stare at her. To judge.

“Look at her dress—” one muttered.

“—flaunting herself.”

Sara’s skin crawled. People she’d never met were staring at her with hatred. Her silk dress shouted of wealth they would never have. Even the blue color set her apart.

Blue.
That was it. That was the missing element, what had set her teeth on edge. Save on the Watcher’s vest, she hadn’t seen a single scrap of blue anywhere in Gatetown. The dye must be too expensive.

Obscurely relieved to have figured it out, Sara edged toward the inn, some forty feet away.

The bearded man deliberately put his foot down on Sara’s hem. Fabric ripped.

To her immense relief, Lance suddenly appeared, pushing his way through the crowd with casual strength. “There you are,” he said loudly. He held out his hand to her, and Sara glued herself to his side.

He addressed the crowd. “Sara is the Child of Peace. She passed through the Gate today and was judged fit by the Watcher.”

Most of the crowd nodded and drifted back to the market, but a few lingered, including the bearded man. “I don’t care who she is, she can’t go around dressed like that.”

And Lance, instead of giving him the set-down he deserved, nodded in agreement. “I’ll see to it that she receives a change of clothes.”

Sara seethed inwardly, but kept her mouth shut as Lance hustled her back inside the inn.

“Change your clothes, then give me the blue dress and I’ll get rid of it,” Lance said.

Sara’s cheeks burned with humiliation. “I can’t change,” she said through gritted teeth. “I only brought three dresses through the Gate. The peach one is ruined, and the other two are like the one I’m wearing.” Obviously expensive, made of thin silk and low-cut.

Lance frowned. “I thought I saw a pink one peeking out of your bag.”

“That was Felicia’s.” Both the modest ones were.

“I’ll send a seamstress. Until then, stay in your room.”

Sara’s lips thinned, but she nodded curtly and went up the stairs. Having a new wardrobe made would give her and Julen an excuse to linger in Gatetown, but being restricted to her room made her feel like a naughty child sent to bed early.

* * *

hiding in the shadows of a big room, scent of people-sweat everywhere, smell that says don’t-be-seen, but above that the enticing scent of food…so many marvelous smells…rich stew with wonderful goat meat, crushed mint peppering the air, thick clotted cream, fried bread, and best of all lovely, greasy fat…

edging forward, wanting to taste, belly empty…creeping, ready to runrunrun if people shout

rumble of voices—almost there
—and then, out of nowhere, he heard his name, “Esam”.

A moment later his mind corrected what he’d heard into “Lee’s Sam,” but the mistake jolted him out of the haze he’d been living in, where all that mattered was if his belly was empty, or if he was cold or tired. He’d fallen into living like an animal, not a man, much less a Qiph warrior.

Nabeel would blister his ears for letting— Nabeel. In his memory, Esam saw his weapons master swept over the falls. Nabeel was dead, and he’d
forgotten
. Grief stung his throat, but he couldn’t cry. The spell prevented it.

How many days had passed since the failed attack at the waterfall? To his shame, Esam didn’t know. The sun had gone down then come up again, but it could have done so only twice or it could have been ten times.

Esam’s whole body shuddered. What if his name hadn’t jarred him out of his unthinking existence? How much time might have passed before he remembered himself?

He couldn’t let himself become lost again.

But what could he do? His companions were gone. Killed. He couldn’t return to Qi on his own; the magic wouldn’t permit him. The ashes of the dead had chained him to follow the Defiled One. Without the Pathfinder and the seven others on the Path he was doomed to stay like this forever. Unless…

Esam began to pray. “O Holy Ones, reshape me so that I may be your tool and kill the Defiled One myself.”

* * *

The dressmaker feared Sara.

Sara bent over backward to be polite and friendly, but the short round matron would barely meet her eyes. She offered several choices of fabric, but would give no opinion.

Left to flounder on her own, Sara rejected both the plaid and the deerskin, choosing several different shades of dyed wool instead. She ordered two made up as blouses and skirts, and one chiton-style dress like the inn staff wore, all with split skirts.

Finally, the woman left, mumbling something about having everything ready the next day. Sara collapsed on the bed and fought the urge to cry—or scream. After only an hour, the bedroom felt like a cage. She’d never been able to bear being cooped up.

Sara could remember endless hours of sitting at her mother’s bedside as a young child. The demands to be quiet and ladylike and good had driven her into screaming tantrums, until her mother had thrown up her hands and let Sara run wild.

Was this what it would be like once they reached Kandrith’s capital? Would she be shut up, imprisoned?

She would go mad.

For the rest of the day, Sara saw no one. She paced and tried to distract herself by factoring four-digit numbers in her head while her thoughts turned in circles between Lance, Felicia and the secret of slave magic.

A knock on the door had her calling hopefully, “Lance?” But when she opened it, she saw her supper tray, steaming on the floor. Apparently, she was to eat alone, too, like a leper.

Sara came within a hair of throwing the tray against the wall, but that would only confirm their view of her as a spoiled noblewoman.

With careful, exaggerated movements she made herself sit down and eat. It helped that, like the innkeeper and his wife, the food was Elysinian, the same simple fare Sara had eaten as a child. The smells made her homesick.

While tearing into the delicious herb-flavored flatbread, Sara saw her refetti scamper across the floor with something small and silver in his mouth. She plopped him on her lap. “What have you got there?”

To her surprise, he carried one of the dressmaker’s dropped pins. “Put that down. You’ll hurt yourself.” She offered him a drop of goat stew off the end of her finger.

He took the bait, dropping the pin, but put his paw down on it while his tongue rasped her finger. It tickled, and Sara found herself smiling. “I’m glad you’re here, refetti,” she confessed, aware of a lump in her throat. She missed Felicia terribly, and Lance’s absence felt like a slap. Was he angry with her about what had happened in the square?

There being nothing else to do, she went to bed early, the refetti curled by her neck.

By morning she had forgotten the pin.

“I hate this country,” Julen said, as he stormed into her room the next morning. She noticed that he was now wearing a Kandrithan-style beige tunic over his dark trousers.

Sara was so starved for company, she didn’t even protest his assumption that she would invite him in, just closed the door behind him. “What happened?”

Julen raked his fingers through his black curls. “Did you know there isn’t one temple of the God of Wine in this whole town? Instead they have something called a ‘tavern’ where every drink has to be paid for before you drink it. Not,” he added bitterly, “that they have any decent wine, just ale thick enough to make soup from.”

“No luck?” Sara asked him, sitting on the bed. The dressmaker had delivered three modest dresses. In an effort to boost her spirits, Sara had put on the most flattering of the three, a pale, apple-green chiton with wide split skirts.

“None.” Julen said through clenched teeth. “I bought everyone a drink to encourage tongues to wag, but once someone noticed I had no slave tattoo they clammed up. I stayed for another hour and pretended to get drunk so I would make the perfect target for the criminal element.”

She nodded to show she understood his thinking. “Whom you could then turn the tables on and blackmail into helping you.”

“Exactly. I even pissed in the alleyway, but no one jumped me. I didn’t encounter even one pickpocket,” he said, outraged. “This place is unnatural.”

Sara’s heart sank in her chest. “Do you still want me to fake an illness?”

He nodded.

Sara sighed. “Tell Lance I have a headache.” It wasn’t even a lie.

* * *

“Good, you haven’t left yet.”

Lance looked up from his late breakfast of bread, olives and oil to see Felicia standing by his table in the inn’s public room. She was out of breath as if she’d run all the way from Freedom House.

“I need to see Sara before you go.”

Lance thought that was unwise, but didn’t argue. “She’s in her room, lying down with a headache—or at least she’d better be,” he growled.

The thought of what had almost happened yesterday made him feel downright grim. The Child of Peace was his responsibility. He should have procured new clothes for her right away, but once word got out that One who Wore the Brown was in town Lance had been kept busy. It was mere chance he’d been on the street when the crowd turned nasty.

Felicia took two steps away, then about-faced. “Actually, there’s something I should say to you too.”

Lance raised his eyebrows and waited.

“I think I made a mistake when I warned you about Sara,” Felicia confessed in a rush. “I don’t think wanting to learn about magic is the only reason she’s been flirting with you. I think she’s attracted to you.” Felicia looked at him expectantly.

Lance didn’t know what she wanted him to do—leap up and declare his love?—but he stayed seated. “I find her attractive too,” he said, a mammoth understatement, and had another bite of fresh bread.

Felicia laughed. “You don’t understand. Men are obsessed with Sara’s beauty, but she doesn’t desire them in return. I don’t think she’s been interested in a man since she lost her head over Julen when she was fifteen.”

“Julen?” Lance repeated softly. The olive he held squished between his fingers. Pretty-faced Julen, whom Sara had chosen as her companion over her best friend? Julen, who seemed to feel free to come and go from Sara’s rooms at will?

So thick was his haze of jealousy that it took him a moment to realize Felicia was still talking:

“—thought we’d have to use jazoria to get her through her wedding night.”

“Jazoria?”

“It’s an aprhodisiac.”

“I know what it is,” Lance rasped, assailed by memories. Jazoria had been a favorite tool of Madam Lust. She’d given it to men who refused her and to women and other combinations for the amusement value. Fortunately, Lance had been too young to interest his mistress.

His father hadn’t.

He remembered his father crying afterward and begging forgiveness and the look on his mother’s face….

“I thought jazoria was only used on slaves,” Lance said.

Felicia huffed. “The night before we left, Lord Claudius slipped some jazoria in her wine. Sara said even
that
didn’t make him palatable. She jumped from his carriage to escape him. Her gown was plastered with mud when she—”

Lance well-remembered what Sara had looked like in her wet gown. He bared his teeth. “That little bastard gave her jazoria? I should have hit him harder.”

“Hit who?” Felicia asked.

Lance said nothing, but she figured it out.

“Were you the one who rescued her from Lord Claudius? She never even hinted that was you.” Felicia eyed him speculatively. “Very interesting.”

Lance felt a stab of irritation. He took it out on his breakfast, ripping off another hunk of bread and dipping it in oil and salt. “It doesn’t matter if we’re attracted to each other. What matters is that she’s Lady Sarathena Remillus of the Republic of Temboria, a slave owner.” A fact he mustn’t forget again.

Felicia’s green eyes sparked. “That’s not fair. She was born—”

Exasperation filled Lance. “Wasn’t it just yesterday that you risked your life to escape servitude to her?”

“I wasn’t escaping Sara, I was preventing myself from being sent back to Temborium without her protection. Let me tell you a story,” Felicia said, voice clipped. “There was a man, a cruel man, who wanted Sara for her beauty. He was powerful, and Lord Remillus dared not offend him. Lord Remillus protected Sara from the man’s lust—and offered me instead.”

The piece of bread Lance had just swallowed threatened to stick in his throat. Goddess. He didn’t want to hear this, but as a former slave himself he owed Felicia his attention.

Tears shone in her eyes, and her voice shook. “Sara found out and saved me. She refused to let him have me, either.”

Lance was glad for Felicia’s sake, but… “The fact that you were offered in the first place—”

“I’m not finished with the story,” Felicia said sharply.

Lance shut up.

“That evening we heard terrible screams from the guest quarters. The cruel man was taking his pleasure on one of his own slaves. I covered my ears. Sara listened. The next morning she went to her father and demanded that he buy Nir’s slave from him. Her father called her a fool and told her she could not save everybody. Sara said, ‘No, but I can save her. She suffered in my place.’

“Nir didn’t want to sell. The negotiations dragged on for months. Finally, Rochelle joined our household. She was in terrible condition and had no skills, but Sara took her on as her own personal maid, even when Rochelle bore Nir’s bastard. So don’t—
don’t!
—speak to me of how Sara is evil because she owns slaves. When you’re a slave, the kindness of your owner is the difference between servitude and hell.”

“I remember,” Lance whispered, shaken, but Felicia had already turned on her heel and started up the stairs.

He was still mired in thought, his breakfast forgotten, when a scream came from the second floor.

* * *

In the bedroom alcove behind the curtain, Esam laid the fruits of his labors out in front of him in a V-shape and tried hard not to doubt. Hours of scrounging had wrought pitiful results.

Instead of a ewer of fresh water there was a small puddle, unfortunately mixed with spit as he had had no vessel but his own mouth to carry it in. He bent now and slurped it up.

He waited, but nothing happened. No magical green fire burned at his feet.

Instead of milk from a mother he had a crumb of hard cheese—goat cheese. The taste made him cringe, but he’d been unable to steal any milk. He swallowed, waited. Still nothing.

The Y-shaped twig resembled a dowser’s rod, only smaller. He felt hopeful about that item. He picked it up carefully, straining his senses.

Nothing.

Esam despaired. The objects he’d gathered were just empty things with none of the power imbued by one who’d walked the Path.

On the verge of throwing down the twig, Esam paused. Were the Holy Ones angry with him? With shame, Esam remembered he had volunteered to hunt the Defiled One only so that he might stay a Warrior for another two years and not have to follow the Path. Had his scheming tainted the ritual?

He closed his eyes in fervent prayer, begging the Holy Ones’ forgiveness, then moved on to the men’s gifts.

Camel hair had been impossible in this place; he had a tuft of goat hair from a fence. It at least belonged to a herd animal, not a dog. He picked it up carefully—and felt a shimmer in the air that might have been magic. It gave him hope enough to continue.

Next came the pin. He jabbed it into the pad of his left paw until a drop of blood welled.

A small glow of magic rewarded him. It surrounded his lower body and tail, but it was white with only the faintest, sick tinge of green.

Praying harder, Esam laboriously traced a letter on his furry belly with a feather. He was no Scholar, but he could write his own name.

The glow ignited. The magical flames seemed pallid and sluggish, but Esam took heart.

A sudden noise from the other side of the curtained alcove made him twitch. A door scraped open, and he heard someone talking to the Defiled One. Another’s presence lessened his chances of success, but he dared not stop the ritual now and risk a magical backlash. Worse, he might lose the Holy Ones’ favor if they found his resolve weak.

For the slavechain, he’d stolen a bracelet from the Defiled One. He placed it around his neck.

The magic crept up to his throat, buzzing angrily against his skin, as if it wanted to devour him. He tensed in anticipation of the pain to come, but proceeded with the ritual.

Last of all came a jade stone he’d pried out of the Defiled One’s earring. It wasn’t a proper emerald, but it was the closest he’d been able to come to Pathfinder Eyes. With trembling paws, he pressed the stone to his forehead above his beady refetti eyes.

Magic wracked his body. The pain was worse this time, more vicious. Esam felt as if desert sands were scouring him from the inside. The agony went on and on, convulsing his body and tearing at his mind. Esam tried to scream, but no sound emerged. Something was wrong. It hadn’t felt like this last time. He was going to die—

* * *

The knock at the door surprised Sara in the act of pacing. Remembering that she was supposed to be languishing in bed with a sick headache, Sara mussed up the covers as if she’d just risen. “Who is it?” she called through the door in a dull voice.

“It’s Felicia.”

Sara jerked the door open, hope welling up.

Felicia stood in the hall, smiling diffidently. Her dark hair was dressed in a Kandrithan-style braid, but she was wearing the pink dress Sara had brought through the Gate for her—a peace offering? “Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course.” Sara jumped back.

After the door closed, an awkward silence fell. Sara feared to speak, afraid whatever she said would be misinterpreted.

“I came to apologize,” Felicia said, her gaze forthright.

Relief swept over Sara. When they’d quarreled as girls, she and Felicia had often gone about in stormy silence for hours until one or the other apologized and then they’d instantly reverted to being friends again. “No, it was my fault,” Sara said eagerly. “I never should have asked you to be my maid. It’s your company I desire, not your hair-dressing skills. I’m afraid,” she confessed. “I don’t want to be a hostage. Will you be my companion, my friend?”

Felicia took a deep breath. “No.”

Sara blinked rapidly, trying to hide her hurt. “Oh—”

“No crying,” Felicia said fiercely. She put her hand on Sara’s shoulder. “This is why I got angry at you yesterday, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say no to you if I wasn’t furious at you. But I have to say no.”

Why?
Sara didn’t ask, but her bewilderment must have been plain.

Felicia bit her lip, looking close to tears herself. “I don’t know if I can explain. I’ve lived my whole life in your shadow. It’s not your fault,” she added.

Sara’s stomach sank—she wasn’t so sure.

“It’s who we are,” Felicia continued, “who we were born. But now I’m free. And I’m afraid I’ll never stop being a cuorelle if I stay with you—even as your companion. It would be too easy to fall back into old habits. You’ve been my friend my whole life—don’t think I don’t know that—but…I need to make my own way for awhile.”

“You’re being too kind,” Sara told her. Shame made her avoid her friend’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, and you’re right. I have treated you and Rochelle like children. I haven’t been as good a friend as you deserve.”

“You’ve been a wonderful friend,” Felicia said. “I just need some time by myself. To figure out what I
can
be. Though based on yesterday, I’m not going to be a weaver,” she joked.

“I’m sure you’ll be good at whatever occupation you choose,” Sara said. “Just maybe, in a few months’ time, could you visit me? I have this terrible notion that Kandrith’s King is going to lock me up.” Sara smiled weakly, but the fear was real and cold.

Felicia didn’t immediately say, ‘of course,’ which made Sara tense. Had she pushed too hard? Was Felicia going to storm off again, this time forever?

Felicia started to pace, her expression troubled. “I’ve been—I mean, I
was
—your slave for so many years. I don’t know how long—” Her eyes widened suddenly, and she stopped. “Do you hear something?”

Sara stood still, listening. She could hear muffled noises and muttered talking from the public room below, but nothing—

And then she heard it, too: a horrible half-strangled moan that came from the curtained closet. And more. The unpleasant odor of burning hair filled the air.

There was something behind the curtain. As she watched, it rippled and bulged.

* * *

Esam’s skin felt raw, burned, as if the fur he’d worn as a refetti lurked inside out under his skin. He took a step forward and almost fell, his body unable to decide if he should walk on two legs or four.

When he pushed aside the curtain and lurched out of the closet, a woman screamed. The sound pierced his head like a sword and almost stopped all thought. His hearing remained that of a refetti’s, painfully sharp.