Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (19 page)

“My thanks.” Sara laid her head next to Dyl’s great black muzzle. “You
are
the fastest. It was a privilege to be allowed on your back.”

Lance offered his thanks to Olwydd, who sneered back.

Julen turned his charm on Rhiain. “But must all of you go? I will miss you.” He smiled warmly.

Rhiain wavered. “Perrrhaps…”

“Your mother will be missing you,” Dyl said gently.

Rhiain’s golden eyes flashed, but then her head drooped. “I must go. But perrrhaps we will meet again?” She rubbed her great head against Julen’s side, almost knocking him over.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Julen said gallantly.

Dyl and Rhiain began to run together back toward Gatetown. Olwydd had already departed in a slightly different direction. In moments, the three of them were alone.

The shandies had carried them cross-country through field and forest alike so Sara was relieved to see a path to follow.

They began to walk. A hawk wheeled against the overcast sky.

The hills, which yesterday had seemed starkly beautiful, Sara now realized had been designed by the God of Malice. The backs of her legs soon ached. Sara locked her complaints behind her jaw. Lance had treated her with gentle solicitude this morning, and she would not risk his good opinion by acting like one of the spoiled nobles he hated. Besides, surely she could last until Julen tired and did her complaining for her? Except Julen’s breaths weren’t coming in ragged pants like hers.

And then she made a wonderful discovery. When Lance offered her a hand up a particularly steep section, a small tingle ran through her, and her legs stopped screaming for mercy. “You healed me.” She blinked in wonder.

Lance shrugged. “The benefits of traveling with One who Wears the Brown. I’ll heal Julen next.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine,” Sara said brightly.

Lance’s lips twitched.

They passed exactly one farm that day. Lance stopped to heal an old farmer of the corns on his feet and the farmer’s daughter-in-law fed them bread and cheese, surprisingly fresh and delicious. Julen tried to hire the farmer’s mule and cart, but he shook his head regretfully. “Wish I could help, but I’ll be needing Old Poky to pull stumps tomorrow. Don’t know what we’ll do when he dies. Maybe I’ll turn shandy and take his place!”

Julen looked on the verge of losing his temper, but Sara put a hand on his arm. “We’re in no hurry.” The farther they went, the farther Julen would have to travel to reach the Gate.

By afternoon the next day, she would have paid all her money for the cart and mule. And not because of sore feet and muscles either. Lance caught a fever.

Sara became aware something was wrong when Lance stumbled over one of the exposed tree roots that was providing a stairs of sorts up a particularly steep section of hillside. So far, she and Julen had been doing all the stumbling, but the teasing comment on her lips died when she saw Lance’s face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes looked glazed. “Lance? Are you well?”

It seemed to take a moment for him to hear her question. “No,” he said heavily. “I have a fever. We should start looking for shelter.” He craned his neck as if expecting to see a house among all the trees.

Sara had no such hopes. “The last house we saw was two hours back.” Or rather, they’d seen smoke rising in the direction of a fork in the trail. She’d wanted, badly, to ask to stop there for the night, but had forborne because it had only been midafternoon. “Should we go back?”

Lance swayed slightly. “Don’t know. You decide.”

This abdication of leadership alarmed Sara even more. She looked to Julen, who’d taken advantage of their pause to sit on a large granite rock.

“I advise going on.”

Sara nodded. “That’s my inclination as well.” She was tired; the idea of covering the same ground twice appalled her.

So they started walking again, much slower. Lance stumbled a second time, and Sara took his hand to steady him. She scanned for a fence or rising smoke. After an hour passed without any sign of human habitation, she began to fear she’d made the wrong decision.

Lance tripped over his own feet and almost pulled Sara down with him. “Time for a break,” she gasped.

Lance shook his head. “Need shelter.” Despite the muggy day, he was shivering.

“He’s right,” Julen said. “We need to press on, before he loses consciousness. Because if he falls down we’ll never get him up again.”

Sara glared at Julen. “Don’t just stand there, help me.”

Julen moved to support Lance’s weight on the other side. Lance plodded gamely on, but from his silence and haggard expression, his fever was worsening.

“So, Lance,” Julen said, “are you the oldest son?”

“Yes,” Lance said.

Sara listened in astonishment while Julen made casual conversation. But after Julen learned that Lance had only one sibling, that he was six years older than Wenda and that he owned no property, Julen segued into the harder questions. “Is that because priests of Loma can’t own property?”

Sara sucked in a breath, ready to reprimand Julen for taking advantage of Lance’s helplessness, but stopped herself in time. This wasn’t about being fair. They needed to know.

“Not a priest,” Lance mumbled.

“Oh? An acolyte then?”

“She’s my Goddess,” Lance said unhelpfully.

Julen grimaced and tried again. “How did she become your goddess?”

Lance stared at him in bleary incomprehension. “She’s the Goddess of Slaves.”

“Loma is the Goddess of Slaves?”

“Yes.” Lance gave an exaggerated nod.

“And Mercy?”

“Yes.”

“What did you sacrifice to gain the ability to heal?”

Sara held her breath as Lance opened his mouth. But then he stopped walking and peered at Julen’s face. “I don’t like you,” Lance said clearly.

After that, he wouldn’t answer any of Julen’s questions. “Buzz, buzz, buzz. You’re like a fly. Shoo.” He waved a hand, almost hitting Julen in the face.

“
You
ask him,” Julen said in frustration. “Judging by the way he looked at you last night, he likes you well enough.”

Sara snorted. “Likes my body, you mean.”

Julen tilted his head in acknowledgement, but Lance stopped short. “No.”

“No, what?” Sara asked, tugging at his arm.

“I like you,” Lance said earnestly. “Not just your body.”

Sara humored him. “Oh, yes? What else do you like?”

“Your kindness. Your courage. The way you laughed at the waterfall.”

Sara couldn’t speak. She turned her head aside so Julen wouldn’t see the tears that pricked her eyes. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

A few minutes later, they had a seeming bit of luck. The worn, dirt path turned into a flag-stoned road wide enough for a cart. Even the streets of Gatetown hadn’t been as well-made, and she’d assumed that Kandrith didn’t have any roads to match those in the Republic.

“Lance? Do you know where we are?”

The use of his name roused Lance from his stupor. “What?”

“We’ve reached a road.” Hope colored Sara’s voice. “We must be close to a town.”

He raised his drooping head, then shook it. “No.”

Disappointment stabbed. “But,” Sara persisted, “no one would pave a road if it didn’t go anywhere. There
must
be a town.”

Lance shook his head again. “No town. Grief road.”

Sara waited, but Lance lapsed back into silence.

Julen made an exasperated sound. “He’s obviously out of his head from the fever.”

But a few miles later when they crested a hill, the beautiful road ended abruptly at a burned-out shell of a house. Sara shivered. The doorway gaped hungrily, and it lay open to the sky like a cracked egg. All that truly remained were a few charred timbers and one stone wall with a chimney.

Lance pulled free of them and knelt by the side of the road. Two flat stones marked graves. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered. His cheeks burned with color.

“What happened?” Sara asked softly. “Did you know the people who lived here?”

Lance either ignored her question, or didn’t hear it. “Too late. Too late again.”

Sara frowned, perplexed. The air smelled clean and woodsy with no taint of smoke, and grass grew inside the house. She would have guessed the fire had taken place years ago. The refetti jumped out of her pocket and sniffed around, seemingly fascinated.

Julen eyed the structure. “We could camp here.”

“There’s no roof,” Sara pointed out.

Julen shrugged. “It’s not raining. The stone wall will provide a windbreak. We can cut some pine branches and make a lean-to just as well here as elsewhere.”

Sara eyed the dark gray clouds dubiously. The threat of rain hung in the air. On the other hand, she was tired. Her gaze strayed to Lance, still on his knees. She wasn’t sure they’d be able to get Lance up again and moving. “As you wish.”

But when they urged Lance inside he balked in the soot-blackened doorway. “No!”

Whether it was a matter of fear or ill luck or feverish imaginings, Sara did not know, but Lance wouldn’t budge. “Enough,” she told Julen. “We’ll just have to keep going.”

She regretted the loss of the road bitterly in the next hour. Kandrith seemed insane to her.

At a small rivulet of water they halted to refill their water bags. Lance drank some, but flinched when Sara tried to wipe his face, his body racked with chills.

“Hoofbeats!” Julen cried suddenly. He began waving his arms and yelling. “Ho, there!”

Despite Lance’s assurance that Kandrith lacked bandits, Sara drew her belt knife when a horseman crested the hill on a shaggy black-and-white farmhorse with hooves like dinner plates. They thundered down the hill, throwing clods of dirt, and stopped a dozen paces away.

The rider, a young man with straw-colored hair, flung himself from his mount and left the reins flapping. “Does one of you wear the Brown?” he called.

Dumbfounded, Sara indicated Lance. “How did you know?”

“The Finder pointed the way for me.” The man barely glanced at her. “Healer, my name is Huw. Can you ride? My wife needs you. The baby’s stopped kicking—something’s wrong—you have to come!”

Lance started to stand.

Sara pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m sorry,” she told Huw, “but he’s very ill.”

Although he’d spoken of having a wife, up close Huw had the thin shoulders of a boy. His clothes looked homespun and shabby, and his feet were bare. He stared at her as if she were crazed. “It doesn’t matter if he’s sick. Iorweth and the baby need him
now
.” He appealed to Julen. “You’ve got to help me get him up on the horse.”

“As it happens, we’re in the market for a horse,” Julen said smoothly. “I can offer you a princely price.” He slung Lance’s arm over his shoulder.

Huw looked confused by the offer. “No.”

Heaving together, they pulled Lance to his feet. He swayed alarmingly. Sara bit her lip to keep from protesting as they all but threw him into the saddle. She wasn’t surprised when Lance promptly vomited on the other side of the mare, making it shy.

“You’re going to fall off and break your neck,” Sara said sharply.

“I’ll keep him on,” Huw said, placing his hands on the horse’s back.

“You’re just going to leave us here?” Sara blurted out in dismay.

“No. That won’t work.” Lance’s face was gray, but he seemed more clear-headed. “Sara, you come with me.”

“But my wife—”

“Sara’s the Child of Peace. Has to come. Does the horse know the way?”

“Yes, but…”

Lance overruled him. “Julen, put Sara up in front of me.”

Huw protested, but Julen boosted her up. The farmhorse seemed twice as wide as any other animal Sara had ever ridden. The refetti squirmed a little, peeking his nose out of her pocket, but had curled up again by that time she picked up the reins.

“Wait. Shouldn’t I be behind you to steady your balance?” Sara asked.

“No. If I fall, I’d just drag you down with me. Don’t let me drift off. Slap me if you have to.” Lance shook his head, as if fighting to clear it. “How far?” he asked Huw.

“Four miles, up and down all the way. It’ll take us two hours to walk it.” Lines scored Huw’s forehead, but he slapped the mare’s flanks. “Giddyap!”

The farmhorse snorted, clearly unused to such treatment, but deigned to break into a trot. The stride jarred Sara’s teeth. Riding Dyl had spoiled her.

Fearing that the trotting would bother Lance’s stomach, Sara urged the mare to break into a canter. A single drop of rain fell on her hand, a warning.

The woods began to grow more thickly, sycamores reaching out to join twiggy hands over the path. The horse bore them up and down endless hills as the sun sank in the west.

Although their horse bore a double load, the mare was still running well when twilight fell. The way ahead became a shifting mass of shadows. A dangerous mass that could conceal downed logs or false forks in the trail.

“We should slow down.” Sara pulled back on the reins.

“No.” Lance paused to swallow. “A woman’s life is at stake. I won’t be late again and see another Grief Road built, I won’t.”

“What is a grief road?” Sara asked, as they pounded down another hill. Branches whipped at her arms. An owl hooted somewhere to the left. She felt more drops of rain.

“An excuse for suicide,” Lance said harshly.

“I don’t understand.”

Lance’s explanation came between jolting strides. “If someone’s family dies the survivor often gives his Lifegift to build a road. Cursed, stupid custom. It lets the mourner feel he’s done something worthwhile. What he’s really doing is committing suicide.”

“Lifegift?” Sara asked. “What’s that?” She held her breath, hoping this time he would answer even while she felt guilty about taking advantage of his illness.

“You give your life—” Lance started to say, but just then lightning flickered across the sky. A low rumble of thunder announced the rain. No longer scattered droplets, but torrents.

Sara put up the hood of her coak and held it together, but within moments their clothes were soaked through. The path turned to mud and small rivulets began to snake down the hill, turning the footing treacherous.

Thunder cracked; a rabbit bounded across the path practically under their horse’s hooves. The mare broke stride to avoid it—and stepped in an animal burrow.

Sara heard the cannon bone break.

Everything seemed to slow as the horse staggered. Sara pitched forward, cursing. Lance’s weight slammed into her and they all three started to fall—

And then the miracle happened. Lance’s hands glowed red where they rested on the horse’s neck, channeling heat and magic. The Goddess song rang in Sara’s head, a higher tone this time, like the clear note of a bell.

And the mare recovered her footing. Put weight on both front legs and a moment later was trotting again as if the bone had never broken in the first place.

Sara hardly dared breathe. Had she been mistaken? Had the horse only stumbled? But no. She’d heard the snap, felt the plunge.

After what Lance had done to heal Felicia, Sara had thought she was starting to understand Kandrithan magic, but this took her breath away all over again.

Abruptly, she realized that Lance’s presence on the mare’s back was healing her tired muscles, as he had healed Sara’s fatigue yesterday. Sara blinked. No,
as he was healing her now.
Her thighs should be aching.

Behind her, Lance was silent. He swayed, and she had to call his name sharply and jog his elbow to keep him in the saddle.

Five minutes later, their destination came into view, a small stone house with a thatched roof on the edge of a small hamlet. It shone in the dark, bright with lantern-light, while the rest of the village slept.

* * *

Lance tried to dismount and fell instead. The horse was too tired to shy. He heard Sara croon to it as she led it into its stall. Bile splashed his throat, but long practice kept it down. Willpower got his legs back under him and took him the few steps from the barn to the house.

Some of those who wore the Brown lived in towns and had patients brought to them when they themselves were sick, but Lance had always thought that wrong. A healer should go to those who needed him.

“Huw?” a woman said anxiously.

Lance ducked his head under the doorframe and saw that the house contained only a single room, a fireplace and a table on one side, a bed on the other.

A pregnant woman in a nightgown lay on the straw-stuffed mattress, her black hair in sweaty tangles across her pillow. She was close to term, about eight months along, Lance estimated. Her illness was obvious, no guesswork needed. He’d seen such before, a time or three. Her hands and feet were hugely swollen, and bloating distorted her face. Her eyes were closed.

A middle-aged woman wearing a red vest looked at him with vast relief. “Praise the Goddess, Huw found a healer! I thought I was ready, but, I couldn’t—” She looked ashamed.