Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (15 page)

His vision was also affected. The room looked strange and shrunken. Esam hunched, afraid he would hit his head on the looming ceiling. He wanted to run, but his too-long legs wouldn’t cooperate.

The woman screamed again, high and shrill. The need to shut her up, to do violence, made him snarl.

He was almost on top of the screamer before he realized there were two women. He stopped in confusion. Which one was the Defiled One?

Frantically, he tried to remember what the Defiled One had looked like. It embarrassed him now that he’d let her cuddle him, but the magic ritual had acted like a powerful lodestone, drawing her to him, so that he could only fully relax when they touched. The other Warriors in his party were supposed to have killed her; his role had been merely to find her.

He’d only seen the Defiled One with refetti eyes, in shades of black and white. He had an impression of a huge face, soft voice and gentle hands. The Defiled One’s hair had been dark, but was it the screamer’s black or the other woman’s mud-brown color?

His refetti self could have picked her out in the dark by scent alone. Esam sniffed, but his nose felt deadened and useless.

And in his human form the clamoring voices of the dead, which had led him to her on an arrow-straight line through field and across river, were silent.

“Get out!” shouted the brown-haired one.

She stood between him and the black-haired one, protecting her. The black-haired woman in the pink dress must be the Defiled One and the other her servant.

Esam reached for his knife, but found only bare skin at his hip.

* * *

Where did he come from?
Sara’s heart thundered as the naked Qiph warrior charged forward. He couldn’t have been hiding in her closet all night; he must have used magic.

And then Sara had no time to think. His elbow smashed into her shoulder, and she fell to the ground with bruising force.

Terrified he would leap on top of her, she scrambled toward the door on her left.

Felicia screamed again, but the sound was abruptly choked off just as Sara’s hand closed on the latch. Her head snapped up; the Qiph had cornered Felicia between the bedstead and the wall.

Vez’s Malice
, he’d mistaken Felicia for Sara.

Sara threw herself on his back. Like a wild thing, she clawed his neck and yanked his hair. But before she could do any damage he spun sideways and smashed her into the wall, scraping her off like a barnacle.

Dazed with pain, she slowly sat up and saw the Qiph fasten his hands around Felicia’s throat. Felicia pried at his fingers in vain.

Blinking, Sara looked around for a weapon. But that morning’s chambermaid had removed the chamber pot to be emptied and the lamp to be refilled with oil. Which left Sara with pillows, a tick mattress and a heavy chest of drawers. In desperation, she tried to push the dresser over to the Qiph warrior, and one of the drawers slid part way out, bruising her shoulder.

Sara yanked the offending drawer out and swung it at the assassin’s back with all her strength.

The heavy wood tore loose from her grip, glancing off the Qiph’s bare back before breaking against the wall.

It only gouged him, but he yelped in pain. Twisting around, he snarled at her, his face bestial with rage, but for a moment he loosened his grip. Felicia slumped to the floor, gasping

“Leave her alone,” Sara croaked.

His muscles tensed, but then his gaze seemed to clear, reason returning. He turned his bloody back on Sara. Reached again for Felicia.

It’s me you want
, she tried to say, but the words stuck in her throat. The headache that had lingered all morning surged in her temples. Useless tears sprang into her eyes as she tugged out the second drawer.

What good it would do she didn’t know, but she had to try—

The bedroom door flew open, and Lance charged inside.

* * *

Esam stared into the Defiled One’s green eyes, waiting for death to dull them. It would be soon now. Her hands fell away from his, her body going limp. Her hair lay in an inky spill across the floorboards, and her neck felt terribly frail and feminine under his fingers.

He’d killed two men in the hot blood of battle, but never a woman. Unless one intended to kidnap a bride, usually with the girl’s own conniving, women were left strictly alone during raids. Strangling a woman went against every instinct he had.

Esam had expected her to change at the end, for the human mask she wore to be ripped away, showing her Defilement. To see madness and hate in her eyes. Instead—
curse her
—her eyes showed only fear and bewilderment.

Green eyes, the same sacred color as the emeralds the Pathfinders wore…

Esam had to forcibly remind himself what the Pathfinders had said, what the voices of the dead and his own nose had told him whilst a refetti. She was Defiled and could not be permitted to live.

The sound of the door crashing open made Esam’s whole body flinch. He didn’t need to look up to know he was running out of time. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed harder.

Out of the corner of his eyes he glimpsed a fist, just before pain erupted in his left ear. Another fist drove into his kidney, and his hands opened. He curled up in a ball; his stomach threatened to empty itself.

The room tilted oddly as his vision flickered between human and refetti.

A giant loomed over him, and Esam squealed in fright. The Giant could break his neck with one stomp. He tried to roll to his feet, to run, but his legs were twice the length they should be—

Because he wasn’t a refetti. He must think, and act, like a man.

His hand closed around one of the broken bits of wood from the drawer. His vision doubled, making it hard to see his target. The Giant bent nearer. Praying to the Holy Ones, Esam lashed out.

The dagger-like wood fragment lodged in the Giant’s collarbone, just missing his throat. Blood welled, but the Giant brushed the splinter away as if it were an annoyance. He grabbed Esam and heaved him across the bed. Esam slid off the other side and onto the hard floor, cracking his head.

Painfully, Esam dragged himself upright again. Two legs, he had two legs… His head spun in a sickening, and familiar, fashion. Esam had been in enough fights to know that some blows to the head could be shaken off instantly and some, like this one, could cause problems for weeks.

Where was the Giant? Esam sniffed, but smelled nothing. Had he left? No, there he was by the Defiled One’s body.

Needing to be sure she was dead, Esam took a step forward—and the servant girl blocked his way. She said something, but the meaning was lost on Esam in his current state.

Horror and guilt stabbed Esam as he recognized her voice.
She
was the Defiled One. The black-haired girl served her. Why hadn’t he seen that the Holy Ones had used her eye color to tell him he was strangling the wrong woman?

The Defiled One rattled another drawer at him. Esam found himself focusing on the knob carved in the shape of a rosebud as memory stirred. Refetti memory.

The camp by the river. The Defiled One about to destroy the Pathfinder’s box. Then the miracle. The Giant taking the box instead, wrapping it carefully.

The box.
The Soul Box.
What had he been thinking, attacking the Defiled One without the box?

Heartsick, he dodged the drawer she threw at him and ran for the window. He had to find the box before it was too late.

But the Holy Ones ran out of patience as he went out the window. Magic twisted in his belly like a metal hook. When the ground outside rushed up and hit him, he was a refetti once more.

* * *

“Felicia!” Sara rushed forward as Lance lifted her friend onto the bed. She squeezed under his arm.

Felicia looked terrible. Red fingermarks ringed her neck, and the whole area had swollen. Air wheezed as Felicia struggled to breathe. Her hands caught at Sara’s, silently begging.

“Hold still,” Lance said. “Your windpipe has been crushed.”

How could he sound so calm? “Get a physicker,” Sara snapped at him, but in her heart of hearts she knew physickers with their tonics could do nothing for Felicia. “It’s going to be all right,” Sara lied, and squeezed her friend’s fingers.

“I wear the Brown,” Lance said brusquely. “Out of my way.”

She turned on him like a racha beast. “I
told
you to get help,” she said murderously.

Felicia gurgled horribly, her throat full of blood. Red rivulets ran down her chin, and she choked. Her movements grew panicky, she clawed at her own throat.

“Loma—Bas—” Sara prayed helplessly. It was like watching her mother die all over again.

With a growl, Lance bodily moved Sara aside. He laid his palms on Felicia’s neck. “Goddess have mercy,” he said softly.

And then several things happened all at once.

Sara noticed the noise first. For one incredulous second she thought Lance was humming, but the noise wasn’t coming from him, and it was less like humming than like hundreds of voices all holding the same low, vibrating note. The sound tingled on Sara’s skin, and at the same time she smelled wet earth and rain, wildflowers and green buds, things hatching, being born, sunshine on new grass—all the complex smells of springtime and new growth, crowded somehow into the stuffy inn room.

And then she
saw
Lance’s hands glow red-orange like an ember. Only they weren’t really Lance’s hands at all, but the outline of somebody else’s hands overtop of his. Callused hands that had known toil stroked Felicia’s throat.

And Felicia began to gulp air like a starving woman. The blood stopped trickling through her lips. Her eyes widened, but in wonder, not death. Her wheezing faded, her breathing eased. The swelling in her throat drained away, and the bruises that had begun to form disappeared. “Thank you,” she rasped.

“Don’t talk, I’m not done yet,” Lance said absently, his gaze focused on what he was doing.

Sara shivered in awe as he did what no priest or physicker in the Republic could have done—healed Felicia with his touch alone. When he lifted his hands, the red shadow vanished and the humming note stopped, though the smell of spring lingered a moment more.

“You healed her,” Julen said from the doorway. He sounded stunned.

Lance scowled at him. When had he come in? More importantly, where had he been while Felicia and Sara were under attack? A closer look answered the question: Julen’s hair and tunic were rumpled, his feet bare. The equally disheveled chambermaid peeking out from behind him, her freckled face alternating between curiosity and fear, settled the matter.

He’d been off having a tumble while someone tried to assassinate his employer.

Even though Lance had also assumed that the danger from the Qiph had passed after they entered Kandrith, he felt irrationally angry at Julen for failing to protect Sara.

“Is it true then that everyone in Slaveland is a priest?” Julen asked.

Lance sighed in exasperation. “I’m not a priest. I merely wear the Brown.”

“Merely?” Julen raised one black eyebrow. “Don’t be modest. Do you serve Bas, God of Miracles? I’ll wager you healed Captain Marcus too. The fall should have killed him.”

Lance didn’t bother to confirm or deny his guess, turning back to his patient instead. Sara had climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her former slave. Felicia had her eyes tight shut and clung to Sara in turn. “Felicia, are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No. I’m fine.” Felicia took a deep breath and sat up by herself, but her olive complexion looked sallow. Her hand touched her throat as if she couldn’t believe it really didn’t hurt anymore.

Sara looked at the chambermaid. “Bring Felicia a glass of water. No, make that a bowl of soup. And a warm stone.”

As soon as the maid left, Julen turned to Lance. “The assassin went out the window. We need to find him.”

He was right, but Lance suspected Julen was trying to get rid of him.

* * *

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Julen demanded as soon as the door shut behind Lance.

Sara recounted the morning’s events, backtracking several times in response to Julen’s questions. He seemed especially baffled by the Qiph warrior’s nudity and how he’d gotten into the closet when Sara hadn’t left the room all night.

“Was the assassin the missing Qiph boy from the earlier attack, the one who confronted you on the bridge?” Julen asked.

“No,” Sara said, just as Felicia said, “Maybe.”

“Think carefully,” Julen urged.

“I was in the carriage,” Felicia said. “I only saw that he was young and lean and had braids in his hair.”

Sara had seen the Qiph youth on the bridge quite well, but had mostly seen the back of the assassin’s head. She considered a moment longer, then shook her head. “No. It was a different man.”

Julen cursed.

Sara agreed silently. If a single Qiph survivor was following them, then their foe’s resources were limited. But a new Qiph meant more than one party was hunting Sara.

The maid arrived with the soup and hot stone for Felicia. Sara moved to the window while the maid arranged things and stared down at the ground. The jump ought to have broken the Qiph’s legs.

“I’ll lay twenty to one odds that nobody in town will be able to find the Qiph,” Julen said quietly.

Sara blinked. He thought the Kandrithans were in league with the assassin. “But Lance saved us.”

“Actually, he saved Felicia, but,” Julen conceded, “Lance himself may know nothing of his father’s alliance with the Qiph.”

Sara bit her lip, wanting to protest, but lacking proof. She changed the subject. “Did you learn anything from the maid?”

He shook his head. “We hadn’t reached the pillow talk stage.”

“You’ll have to try again in the next village,” Sara told him coolly. “We can’t linger here any longer.”

Julen opened his mouth, then closed it. “As you wish. Though the danger may be greater on the road.”

“We’ll leave as soon as possible then.” Sara was thoroughly sick of the inn’s confines. And besides… “I can hardly feign illness if Lance has the power to heal.”

* * *

No one had seen the Qiph assassin go out the window or walking down the street. Lance had spoken to what felt like the entire population of Gatetown, but had received only curious looks and headshakes in reply. The Watcher said no one had come through the Gate since Lance and Sara, though two men had entered the day before.

Lance found the assassin’s slipperiness extremely worrying. To make matters worse, he had to confess that the assassin had escaped and then endure Julen’s scorn. After ranting for several minutes about Kandrith’s lax security, Julen started in with the demands. He wanted a carriage with a fast team of horses, a dozen guards and a food taster, of all things.

Lance wanted Sara to be safe, too, but what Julen asked, he couldn’t grant. “No carriage, no guards.”

“This is outrageous,” Julen said. “I would remind you that your country is responsible for Lady Sarathena’s safety. If you’re too cheap—”

“It’s not a matter of money,” Lance put in. “There are no guards to hire.”

Julen’s nostrils flared in aristocratic affront. “Then assign some soldiers. You’re the son of the king.”

“Kandrith has no standing army. When we’re invaded,” he said bitterly, “everyone fights.”

Sara frowned. “But what do other people do when they travel? How do they protect themselves from brigands?”

“There are no brigands in Kandrith.” Lance could see that Julen didn’t believe him, and even Sara looked taken aback, but Lance had run out of patience. His shoulder hurt; there must still be a splinter in it. “And you can forget about a carriage. Nobody in Kandrith is wealthy enough to waste money on a carriage when one’s own two feet will do the same job.”

“You expect us to walk across Kandrith?” Julen sounded incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

Lance glared at him. “There’s nothing wrong with walking.”
It would do you good, you coxcomb.

“I insist that a conveyance be provided for Lady Sarathena,” Julen said coldly. “Walking is beneath her dignity and…”

You mean
your
dignity.
Lance ignored the rest of Julen’s rant.

“Enough,” Sara said firmly. “I’m sure Lance intends to hire horses.”

On the verge of saying no, Lance had an idea. “I may be able to obtain rides for us.”

Julen had his mouth open, no doubt to say something nasty, but Sara laid a hand on his arm, cutting him off. “Whatever you arrange will be fine.” She turned to her ex-slave. “Felicia, I know you don’t want to be my maid, but will you consider traveling with us, at least for some distance? The Qiph attacked you. He may try again.”

“If we let it be known that the Qiph attacked the wrong woman, Felicia will be safe in Freedom House,” Lance said.

“No,” Felicia said, “how the Qiph
killed
the right woman.” Her color improved as she warmed to her topic. “I would be dead if not for your magic. Have my limp body carried out of here, and the Qiph will think he’s succeeded and go home.”

Lance considered, then shook his head. “The innkeeper saw me charge upstairs, and he knows I wear the Brown. If the Qiph catches on to the trick, he’ll think Sara’s the decoy and go after you.”

“He’s a stranger here. Who will gossip with him?” Felicia argued. “He may not even speak the language. He didn’t say a word the entire time—” She faltered.

“The entire time he was strangling you,” Sara filled in. “No. I won’t let you endanger yourself.”

Felicia’s eyes flashed. “You’re not my mistress anymore. I can do what I want—”

To Lance’s surprise, Sara winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to treat you like a child. But please, Felicia, don’t do this.” Tears shone in her eyes. “You almost died.”

Felicia hesitated, no doubt remembering her close call.

Lance added his own weight to the argument. “I healed you. Here in Kandrith, it’s considered ungrateful to undo the work of those who wear the Brown.”

Felicia flushed at the rebuke, then gave a tight nod. “Very well,” she told Sara. “But only because you’ll be traveling with Lance.” She looked at him. “Keep her safe.”

Lance nodded. If he had his way, Sara would remain within arms’ length of him until they reached the Hall in a week’s time.

* * *

Sara already had tears in her eyes from saying goodbye to Felicia when she realized she’d forgotten her refetti.

Instinctively, she turned, then stopped. She hadn’t seen the refetti since she’d fed it stew the night before. The animal had probably escaped her room in the aftermath of the attack and was hiding in some corner.

If she insisted on returning to the inn for the refetti, she would endanger their entire party. She, Felicia and Lance had left the inn via the back door moments after Julen and the maid had exited through the front, the maid with a shawl covering her hair, but Sara’s peach silk dress peeking out beneath. By now, any spies should have discovered that the maid wasn’t Sara and be hurrying back to the inn, while Julen slipped away and joined them outside town.

Sara had only had the refetti a few days, but its loss, piled on top of the larger hole left by Felicia, made grief cut through her. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. The refetti would probably live well on inn scraps, and Felicia deserved her own life, not just an adjunct of Sara’s.

Sara didn’t say a word, but Lance sensed her sadness and squeezed her hand. Somehow that warmth made her feel less alone. Their fingers released reluctantly, sliding from palm to palm and then down to fingertip. Sara shivered in sudden awareness.

“Come on,” Lance said gruffly, but not before she saw his own pupils expand.

The wild girl that lived inside Sara liked how she affected him. She wanted to drag Lance behind the building, press her body against his and kiss him until she forgot everything and the sharp loss inside her melted away—

Foolish, foolish girl.

Sara followed Lance down the dusty street, past plain, humble houses. They’d reached the edge of town when Lance paused in front of a larger building with a yellow banner nailed to the door.

“Shandy House,” he said briefly. “If my friend is in town I may be able to arrange rides and protection for us.”

Was Shandy the name of a noble family? Sara felt a flutter of nervousness at the thought of meeting someone of rank dressed in Kandrithan clothes. But then the oddness of the double doors struck her; they measured twice as wide as most doors and half again as tall—big enough for a horse. Was this the Kandrithan version of a Temple of Jita? Sara felt her spirits lift. The idea of going for a gallop with the wind on her face appealed mightily.

Aunt Evina hadn’t approved of Sara’s riding, but, since Kandrith lacked carriages, Sara decided that safety overruled propriety.

Lance studied her a moment longer, his expression unreadable, then shook his head. “Easier just to show you,” he muttered. He pulled her inside with him.

The inside of Shandy House consisted of one big open room, with a large stone fireplace. A thick layer of straw lined the plank floor, but there were no stalls and no horses. A woven blanket lay on top of the straw in one corner—someone’s bedding?

“Ho there,” Lance called.

Sara held her questions as a middle-aged woman with a waist-long plait of dark-blond hair came in through the back door. From the water stains on her clothes and her reddened hands she’d been doing the washing. A two-year-old boy clung to her split skirts.

“Are any shandies in residence?” Lance asked. “I’m a friend of Dyl’s.”

Her questioning look turned into a smile. “Yes, Dyl’s in town. He and two others are off hunting this morning. They ought to be back in a couple of hours.”

The little blond boy sneaked a look at Sara. Remembering playing peek-a-boo with Sylvanus at that age, Sara made an exaggerated expression of surprise.

Lance was shaking his head. “We can’t wait, but if you’ll give Dyl my message, maybe they can catch up to us.”

“Of course.”

The boy peeked out again and giggled at Sara.

“Tell him Lance called and needs an escort for the Child of Peace. You may have heard of the woman attacked at the inn?”

The woman nodded, then seemed to take in the significance of Sara’s presence. Her eyes widened, and she pushed her son behind her.

Sara felt a rush of anger. What did the woman expect her to do? Pull out some manacles? She wasn’t a slaver.

No, but House Remillus did own slaves. Some of whom were even children. Was that so different?

Sara was still arguing with her conscience when they met up with Julen on the edge of town. After confirming that neither party had been followed, Lance set off across an unused pasture. About twenty sheep browsed against the fence in the southwest corner, but from the length of the grass they had recently been moved here.

Overgrown weeds, grass and flowers sprang back up after Lance’s passage; the tips brushed Sara’s thighs. The sun felt warm on her shoulders, and she smiled, relaxing.

“Doesn’t this place have any roads?” Julen grumbled, waving away a cloud of gnats.

“A few,” Lance said, “but no sense making the assassin’s job easier. Cross-country will be faster anyhow.” He set a brisk pace.

They’d walked close to half a mile and were nearing the edge of the field when Julen suddenly grabbed Sara’s arm.

“Back up carefully,” Julen breathed. “There’s a wild animal in the bushes.”

Alarmed, Sara looked at the line of brush that bisected the pasture, following a small creek. Something dark lurked within.

Lance shaded his eyes, then smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s not an animal. It’s a shandy. They must have finished hunting early.” He raised his voice. “Ho, Dyl!” He waved.

It didn’t sound like Shandy was a last name. “What are shandies?” Her voice sounded shaky.

Lance frowned at Julen’s hold on her, but said merely, “They’re people who’ve transformed into animals. Now be quiet. It isn’t polite to talk about it.”

A huge, black wolf with a muzzle full of sharp teeth that could probably rip Sara’s arm off at the shoulder emerged from the bush.

“This is madness,” Julen muttered. Still gripping her arm, he backed away.

“Wait.” Sara tore her gaze away from the menacing beast and looked to Lance. His complete lack of fear—and the unmauled sheep baaing in the corner—let Sara stand her ground, though her breathing roughened as the wolf came closer.