Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (17 page)

Rhiain’s age dismayed Sara. She’d been fifteen when she fell violently in love with Julen. She smothered her feelings of guilt by reminding herself that Sylvanus’s life might depend on the information Julen was attempting to go glean from Rhiain.

“It sounds lonely,” Sara ventured. “To be a shandy.”

“It is,” Dyl told her. “I’m lucky. After I transformed my wife did too.”

Sara didn’t know how to phrase her next question. “Do you—?”

“Have children? Yes. In fact you met my eldest daughter at Shandy House. They’re all human. It was to help my family escape slavery that I changed to this form. My wife stayed human until they were grown. There are some shandies with young, but it is a hard road to pick for your child. Most avoid it.”

After that, Dyl fell silent for miles, and Sara asked no more questions.

When they stopped on a hilltop for a quick lunch of apples, raisins, bread—and rats for Rhiain—she approached Lance instead. “Lance?”

Lance stopped scratching the back of his neck. “How are you finding the journey? Are you sore?”

A glow of pleasure kindled in the pit of Sara’s stomach at the concern in his eyes. “I’m fine. Actually,” she confided, “I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

“You look it.” From any other man it would have been a chastisement, but heat darkened Lance’s eyes.

Sara flushed and touched her hair. “I’m a mess.”

Lance tugged on one of her windblown curls. “A pretty mess,” he said huskily. “You don’t need this.” He held up the pink ribbon she’d used to tie back her hair that morning.

“Yes, I do.” When she reached for it, he surprised her by playfully yanking it away.

On the third try, she jumped up and caught it, but in doing so lost her balance. Lance laughed as he steadied her, and Sara almost kissed him. Rhiain’s coughing laugh brought her back to an awareness of their surroundings. She looked up and saw Julen frowning at her.

Sara cleared her throat. Remembered her purpose. “When you were healing Felicia, which Goddess did you pray to?” The obvious answer was Loma, Goddess of Mercy, but the mention of sacrifice made her fear it was a darker goddess.

Lance’s brows drew together in suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”

Sara stumbled over her prepared answer. “When we reach the next town, I wish to purchase a pig, or a goat, to be sacrificed in payment for Felicia’s life.”

“That’s not necessary.” Lance turned away.

“It is necessary,” she said firmly. “The assassin mistook Felicia for me. It’s my debt, not hers.”

Lance’s expression softened. “Felicia has no debt.”

Tell me what Goddess you pray to
. “I still wish to offer a pig. As a gift of gratitude.” Sara gritted her teeth.

Lance looked impatient again; he all but growled at her. “The Goddess doesn’t need a pig any more than She needed your pearl necklace.”

He
had
prayed to Loma, then. It made sense. The Goddess of Mercy was the most likely to take pity on the wounded. And yet…what Lance had done was far beyond the ability of the priestesses of Loma in the Republic.

“Then what does She want?” Sara asked. “The debt—”

“There is no debt,” Lance snapped. “But if there were I doubt you’d be capable of paying it. A pig, bought from the market and paid for with money that you didn’t earn, or a necklace you can afford to replace ten times over, costs you, personally, nothing and therefore has
no value
to the Goddess.”

The contempt in Lance’s voice whipped heat into Sara’s cheeks. She recoiled and walked away.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, only that you have the information you need.
Sara forced herself to think critically. So a sacrifice had to be costly, but personally costly, not in a monetary way. What then—?

The refetti crawled out of her pocket and nuzzled at Sara’s hand. She paled as the realization hit her: a pet.

Or worse, a person.

No. She could not believe that of Lance. Of other Kandrithans, maybe, if they were the ones who’d massacred Lord Favonius’s family and retainers, but never of Lance.

She stroked the refetti’s red fur. Would she sacrifice it—for Felicia’s life? Yes, probably, but it would weigh on her.

But Lance had said there was no debt. Sara clung to that thought and the refetti in her arms.

* * *

Lance swore under his breath, fighting the urge to go after Sara and apologize. It wasn’t her fault she thought money could purchase everything. It would have been astonishing if someone of her rank raised in the Republic hadn’t thought that way—

And then the realization hit. She was still trying to find out about slave magic.

They’d crossed the border. As the Child of Peace she would live in Kandrith for years. If she persisted, she would inevitably find out how sacrifice truly worked. Lance was half-tempted to just tell her now and get it over with, but…her very persistence indicated that the knowledge was important to her father, and they were still quite close to the Gate. Best not to take chances.

With that in mind, he took Dyl aside and warned him to guard his tongue.

After he finished explaining, Dyl whined. “It is too bad she is a spy. I liked her. And you like her too.”

Lance said nothing.

Dyl studied him with yellow eyes. “I have known you for many years, but lately I have been worried about you.”

Lance stared at Dyl in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Your role as the Child of Peace and the constant pain and illness have been taking a toll on you. You’ve been growing inward, getting gruffer and more taciturn. It is one of the dangers faced by those who wear the Brown.”

“To become a wine sot,” Lance finished. “I’d never—”

“I did not say you would,” Dyl interrupted. “But when you cease to care for those around you, when life is only pain, then it is hard to find the strength to live through the next illness.”

Lance fell silent. His months in the Republic had always ground him down. When had his visits home stopped rejuvenating him?

“But today I’ve seen you smile and laugh more than you have since you were a boy. And so I am very sad for your sake that Sara is not all that she seems.” Dyl dipped his head.

Olwydd and Rhiain prowled over, sparing Lance from having to reply. He cleared his throat and warned them to watch what they told Sara too.

“But,” Rhiain said unhappily, clawing the dirt, “does that mean Julen is also a spy? I alrrready told him how I became a shandy.”

Lance felt cold. “What, exactly, did you say?” he demanded. “Did you explain the Rule of Paradox?”

Rhiain sheathed her claws. “No. Just that I asked the Goddess to change me—and she did.”

“Then I don’t believe they know all they wish to,” Lance said after a moment’s consideration. “But, in case they have puzzled out the secret, whoever’s on guard tonight will have to watch for Julen or Sara trying to sneak back to the Republic, as well as watch for Qiph assassins.”

That evening, Sara returned from washing up at a gurgling stream to find Julen and Lance standing toe-to-toe, arguing.

“…still daylight left,” Julen was saying. “There’s no need to spend the night here.”

Spend the night? Sara looked around blankly at the small clearing in the woods where they had halted for supper. The sun was slipping downward behind yet another hill, but was far from set. She’d enjoyed their meal around the campfire, but where would they sleep?

Lance’s expression set into stubborn lines. “We’re staying here. The shandies are tired and need to hunt.”

“Let them hunt,” Julen retorted. “
After
they’ve dropped us off at a decent Temple of Jut—or even one of your inns.”

“Do you see an inn?” Lance waved a hand at the pine trees. “We’ve been deliberately steering clear of towns to keep the assassin from finding us.”

Sara cleared her throat. “If there is no inn, could we not beg shelter from the owner of this land? Surely, four walls would be better protection against an assassin?” Not to mention that after so many unaccustomed hours on wolfback she wanted a long hot bath, not a few splashes in a cold stream.

“I’d like to see an assassin trrry to get past me,” Rhiain growled, flexing her claws.

Dyl cocked his ears, but said only, “The nearest house is that farm we passed an hour ago.”

Sara remembered the farm: a crude loghouse and several sheds. She doubted it had much in the way of amenities. She stifled a sigh: no bath tonight then.

“Lady Sarathena didn’t mean that hovel,” Julen said with exaggerated patience. “Take us to his lord’s house.”

“He has no lord,” Lance said sharply. “In Kandrith we have no lords, no equitains, no slaves. Everyone is the same.”

No rank at all? Sara tried to remember if she’d seen any nobles in Gatetown. The town had struck her as poor, though better than some of the slums in Temborium, but it had all been much the same, with no rich estates for contrast.

Did one need slaves in order to have nobles? Was the military might needed to put a collar around someone’s neck what made someone ‘noble’? Sara found the thought distasteful.

Julen looked skeptical. “And yet your father is king.”

“No,” Lance growled, “he’s the Kandrith, which is something different.”

“Different how?” Sara asked, but she was starting to believe him. Except for Loma’s fountain, there had been no sign of obvious wealth in Gatetown, no house bigger than its neighbors except for the inn and Freedom House.

And, she realized, none so poor that they begged on the streets either.

Lance returned to the original subject. “It’s a warm summer day. We’ll be perfectly fine outdoors.”

Julen sighed ostentatiously, but didn’t protest again.

“I will check our backtrail,” Dyl said.

“And I will stand guard,” Olwydd grated.

“My thanks,” Sara said politely.

“Do not thank me!” Olwydd’s red eyes flashed. “I do this for Kandrith, not for you,
noblewoman
. I despise you and your kind.” He stalked forward, claws tearing up gobs of gray dirt. “If war is declared, I will rend your belly myself and feast on—”

“Enough!” Lance interposed his body between Olwydd and Sara. He glared at the shandy fearlessly, though he had no sword. “If war is declared, Sara will be executed according to our law, not by you.”

Sara had the horrible suspicion he’d meant that to be reassuring.

* * *

Lance lay on his back, eyes wide open. Sara was awake and so he couldn’t sleep either.

In the banked glow of the campfire, he couldn’t see more than the outline of her body, but every time she shifted on her bed of pine branches his cursed imagination tormented him.

When he’d made his own bed of bracken next to hers he’d told himself that it was so he could make sure she didn’t disappear in the night, but in the dark, listening to her breathe four feet away, he faced the truth: He’d done it because he needed to be close to her.

And to prevent Julen from taking this spot.

Since they’d crossed into Kandrith, she seemed to have grown closer to the coxcomb. Lance couldn’t fathom why. Julen’s chief skill seemed to be complaining.

Though he couldn’t deny the bastard was handsome.

Goddess help him, was he
jealous?

He told himself, again, that Sara was a spy and a noblewoman, the daughter of the Primus himself. If there was ever an impossible woman for him, she was it. And still, when she shifted again, all he could think of was making love to her until they were both tired enough to sleep.

Sara sat up, and now he could make out her lovely profile limned by firelight. And, yes, her breasts. He wanted to howl.

Stealthily, she rose from her bed. Lance clenched his hands into fists against the need to follow her. She probably only needed to empty her bladder. Against his will, he looked across the fire and saw that Julen was gone too.

Even if she tried to run, the shandies would stop them. Except, he realized, Rhiain and Dyl were curled up by the fire. Which meant Olwydd stood on guard. Every nerve in Lance’s body went alert. Olwydd had made it plain he’d love an excuse to hurt her—and Lance had stupidly provided one, by telling the shandies Sara might try to break the Pact.

In the next moment he got up, following her on silent feet. What exactly he would do when he caught her, he didn’t think about.

* * *

The night wind was calling her.

Sara knew she was being foolish, that the Qiph assassin might still be out there somewhere, but the chance seemed small and she couldn’t lie there pretending to sleep for a moment longer. She rose quietly from the fragrant bed of pine and walked into the woods.

Sara loved the open sky of the prairies and the feeling that she could run beneath it forever. Kandrith’s forest drew her in a different way, promising glimpses of mysteries if she only went farther in. The moon peeked through the branches as if flirting with her. An owl hooted overhead. The wind stirred her hair and rustled the leaves, making them sound alive.

Restlessness seethed under her skin. Putting one hand on the rough bark of a sycamore, she lifted her face to the wind. The forest smelled green and dark, earthy. Welcoming. On impulse, she climbed onto the lowest branch and sat there, feet swinging, five feet off the ground.

The snap of a twig underfoot made her look down. Somehow she wasn’t surprised to see Lance standing beneath her, his face heavily shadowed.

“Where’s Julen?” Lance asked harshly.

Sara barely heard the question. Suddenly, she knew exactly what to do with all the wildness thrumming in her veins. “Lance.” As if dreaming, she jumped straight into his arms.

He caught her. After a second’s pause, his arms closed around her like steel bands, and his mouth ravaged hers. Sara kissed him back, her arms twining eagerly around his neck. Heat flared between them, a wildfire that charred all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this to ash.

She made no protest as his hands squeezed her derriere. Turning, he pressed her back against the textured bark of a tree. The feel of his erection between the notch in her thighs made her whimper with need. Mindlessly, she tried to squirm closer, hampered by their two layers of clothing.

His mouth left hers, but only to burn a trail of kisses down her neck. He pushed the sleeve of her dress down, baring her shoulder and kissing that too. She yanked up his shirt and found a patch of bare skin at the small of his back. It wasn’t enough. “Take it off,” she demanded huskily.

He ignored her, tugging at the shoulder ties holding up the top of her dress, but they were well-knotted.

“It’s your own fault,” Sara panted, taking his hand and molding it to her breast. “If I was still wearing my old dress…” She gasped as he plucked at her nipple, sending arrows of sensation downward.

“…I’d have flipped up your skirt and be inside you by now,” Lance finished on a growl. His mouth locked on Sara’s again, and he rocked his body against hers, creating a delicious friction.

Sara moaned, needing something more. What he was doing wasn’t quite enough. She wanted skin—

“Well, well, what have we here?” someone asked nastily. Olwydd. “The Child of Peace fornicating with her companion.”

Lance groaned and stopped kissing her.

Sara instantly missed the feel of his lips on hers. She tried to recapture them, but he evaded her, breathing harshly. “We have to stop. It’s Olwydd.”

Sara knew it was Olwydd. “Send him away.” Her body clamored for release, and she knew Lance’s did too.

But he lowered her to the ground and took a step away.

“You?” Olwydd sounded shocked. “I thought it was the other one, Rhiain’s rider. What were you doing—”

Lance ignored the question, his voice sharp. “Is Julen missing?”

The wildness began to fade from Sara’s blood. What did it mean that Julen was gone? Had the Qiph slit his throat, or had he abandoned her to return to the Republic? The last time they’d spoken, Julen had been very discouraged by their lack of progress. He’d reported that Rhiain claimed she’d simply asked the goddess to change her into a shandy, but since she’d been a mere child at the time, Julen suspected her mother had performed the sacrifice.

A pause and then Olwydd spoke sullenly, “When I returned from patroling, I found only Rhiain and Dyl at the campfire.”

Lance swore. He turned on Sara. “Did you distract me on purpose?”

“No!”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t believe her.

His disbelief was like a knife in her heart. How could he think that she’d faked her response to him? That she would have kissed any man the way she’d kissed him? Made those noises, let any man touch her intimately?

Sara closed her mouth on an impassioned plea for him to believe her.

She could remember her mother acting this way, so passionately in love with her husband that Sara ceased to exist for her whenever Sara’s father visited home. But the joyous reunion would always turn sooner or later to a stormy scene full of weeping and raging, until her mother drove him away. Then her mother would try to cling to Sara, smothering her until she fought to get away.

Sara knew she had the same destructive seeds inside her; her behavior at age fifteen proved it. She needed to contain the wildness inside her, or passion would consume her the same way it had her mother.

* * *

Rhiain found Julen an hour after dawn. His clothes were dirty, and he had thorn scratches on his hands and face. When asked, all he said was that he’d gone into the forest to relieve himself and become lost in the dark.

Sara bided her tongue until she could speak to him in private, when they paused for another lunch of the increasingly stale bread.

“You are not to leave without my permission,” she said in a furious undertone. “Try that again and I’ll—”

“I wasn’t trying to escape,” Julen interrupted. “I was trying to ascertain our direction by looking at the stars, so that I can find my way when it
is
time to leave.”

“And you got lost?”

“Yes,” Julen hissed.

Sara relaxed a little. He looked so mad she actually believed him. “When the time comes, we’ll have to be careful. They’ll be watching us both now. Any progress?” she asked hopefully. Lance, Dyl and Olwydd had been grimly silent since finding Julen, but Rhiain had seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, rolling on the ground laughing at his night-time adventure.

Julen shook his head.

Counting the days in her head, Sara imagined her father making speeches in the Senate to delay outright war with the Qiph while the newly arrived General Pallax accused him of stalling, or worse of murdering his rival, Lord Favonius…

They couldn’t afford to lose another day.

* * *

Sara cut her thumb with her belt knife—deliberately. Red blood welled at once along the shallow gash. “Ow!” She dropped the knife on the sod firebreak torn up by Olwydd’s claws and put her thumb to her mouth.

She needed a natural way to bring up magic and healing again, and Lance was avoiding her. She’d considered doing something more dramatic, like falling off Dyl’s back on a hill and breaking her arm, but had decided to try something simpler first.

The blatant appeal to his protective nature worked. Lance immediately left off feeding brush to the fire and crouched down beside her. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing,” Sara said truthfully, but she held out her hand. They were alone, except for the refetti asleep on a blanket a few feet away. After a supper of amarasave, pan-bread and roast rabbit, Dyl and Olwydd had gone off into the woods to hunt. At Sara’s low-voiced suggestion, Julen had gone for a walk and Rhiain had happily accompanied him.

Lance enfolded her fingers in his. His hand was almost twice the size of hers, but he tempered his strength, gently squeezing.

Only their hands were in contact, but Sara discovered she was greedy for his touch. She struggled to pay attention.

Face set in concentration, his lips moved in silent prayer. She felt a surge of warmth, saw a brief red glow and her skin healed. Even after what she’d seen him do to Felicia, it seemed wondrous. Sara rubbed her fingers across her thumbtip, but could not find the slightest roughness or seam. “It’s as if the cut never happened.”

But Lance was already stepping away.

Julen wouldn’t walk forever. She caught Lance’s sleeve and tried a sincere smile. “Thank you.”

“I don’t need thanks. Loma’s the one that did the healing. I merely wear the Brown.”

He truly meant it, Sara realized. The words that fell out of her mouth next were completely unplanned. “Then your leather vest must be bespelled, because the physickers I knew in the Republic desired thanks. No, they wanted adulation and a great deal of money—and half the time they did nothing.” Bitterness caked her throat like dust.

The best physickers merely collected potions from the scattered temples and resold them for a profit. But the ones who considered themselves artists combined them, often forming dangerous concoctions. She remembered the time a sleep potion mixed with mercia to relieve pain had made her mother stop breathing for a frightening moment. Sara had ordered the dogs set on that physicker to chase him off their estate.