Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (2 page)

“Wenda told everrryone what you did, the sacrrrifice you made. I wanted to say how grrrateful we all arrre.”

Sara kept bandaging.

When she finished, the shandy stood up. “I’m sorrry, but I can’t stay any longerrr. The man who spearrred me, my prrrisoner—I have to rrrecapture him beforrre the rrrain wipes away his trrrail. If he escapes, the Rrrepublic will invade Kandrrrith again. I can’t let that happen. I prrromised I’d guarrrd him and instead I—” The shandy hung its great head for a moment. “I have to make it rrright. Do you underrrstand?”

“No.” Lance was more important than a prisoner.

“Lance will underrrstand. If I pass a village, I’ll send help.”

The big cat returned to where it had bled, sniffed the grass, then bounded upstream.

Sara fed the fire and counted her pulse. Every thousand heartbeats, she checked Lance to make sure his skin was warm and that he breathed.

Lance had instructed her to continue down the road if he died, to seek first Julen and then Lance’s sister. She usually did what Lance said, but didn’t think she would this time.

Other people were like dim shadows, easy to ignore. They moved and talked, but possessed no meaning. Sara didn’t trouble to remember their names. Lance mattered. His voice resonated in her ear. She heard everything he said. To her perception, he seemed sharper, as if outlined in light.

He tethered her to life.

If he died, she would sit here until she wasted away.

Chapter Two

A muscular man burst out of the trees, snatched up the
spear she’d dropped and shouted, “Don’t move!”

From her place next to the fire, Sara looked up. She catalogued
his face—olive skin, dark hair, blue eyes, bumpy nose, clean-shaven—and noted
his legionnaires’ uniform, then resumed her counting.

He wasn’t Lance, so he couldn’t be important.

“Show me your hands!” the man bellowed, rushing closer.

Sara ignored him. Two hundred and thirty two, two hundred and
thirty-three—

The legionnaire spared Lance one glance, then ignored him and
prodded her arm with his spear. “I said, ‘Show me your hands.’”

Her flesh dented under the pressure, the point almost breaking
the skin. He was attacking her. That meant she should hurt him back until he
stopped or retreated. Sara stood up and drew back her leg to kick.

Unexpectedly, he laughed, and the point of the spear dipped
toward the ground. “Diwo smile on me, it is you.”

Sara hesitated.

“Lady Sarathena Remillus.” He laughed until water leaked from
his eyes. “Finally, the Goddess of Luck has taken pity on me. I’ll take you with
me to Temborium. How great a reward will the Primus give for the safe return of
his daughter, do you think?”

The question made no sense. “Primus Pallax doesn’t have a
daughter.”

He stopped laughing. “Vez’s Malice. Your father isn’t Primus
anymore?”

“No.”

He was silent for a moment. “I shouldn’t be surprised. We all
expected General Pallax to take a run at the Primacy. I suppose he killed your
father.”

That wasn’t a question so Sara didn’t tell him how her father
really died.

“Still, you’ll be worth something to House Remillus.” He
circled her, assessing her from all sides.

Sara waited, still undecided as to whether he was a threat.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No.”

“Too much to hope for.” His brow lowered. “Maybe... Do you have
an uncle?”

Her mother had had a brother, who was a minor priest of Cepi,
God of Small Favours. “Yes.”

“Good. I expect he’ll be happy enough to find someone willing
to marry damaged goods—sorry, sweet, but you are.”

Sara didn’t think she was either damaged or sweet.

He lifted an eyebrow. “No argument? Someone knocked the
arrogance out of you since we last met.”

Sara didn’t tax her brain trying to remember him. She’d met
hundreds of legionnaires in her years in the Republic.

Another pause. “Let’s move out.” He gestured to the woods with
his spear.

Did that constitute a threat? Sara gave him one more chance.
“I’m not leaving Lance.”

“Lance?” The legionnaire looked down. “Is that the sick man’s
name? Do you share his bed?”

Sara usually had her own pallet, but she shared Lance’s on
chilly nights. Lance would hold her against his warm chest, his breath stirring
her hair, and she would go to sleep listening to his heartbeat. “Sometimes.”

The legionnaire’s lip lifted on one side. “Don’t worry, after a
night in my bed you’ll forget all about the barbarian.” He slapped her
buttocks.

Ah. He
was
attacking. Quick as a
striking snake, Sara snapped out her leg and kicked him in the testicles. He
choked and folded in half, clutching his groin. He dropped the spear in the
stream.

Sara fished for it, but he knocked her hand aside. “Vicious
twotch.” He scooped up the spear before it could float away and pointed it
toward her despite his crouched position. “You’re going to pay for that later.”
Slowly, he straightened, teeth bared. “Now, let’s go.” He watched her carefully.
If she tried to kick him again, he would dodge.

Lance had told her to stop fighting if she was outmatched and
wait for a better opportunity.

But Lance was unconscious. If she left with the legionnaire,
Lance wouldn’t know where she’d gone. What if a better opportunity never came?
If she followed this man out of Kandrith, she might never see Lance again.

What if he died without someone to care for him?

The thought was like the wrong number in a long mathematical
sequence. Jarring. Unbearable.

Sara planted her bottom on the muddy bank. “I won’t go.”

“Oh, yes, you will. I’ll drag you by the hair if I have
to.”

Could he drag her by the hair? Wouldn’t her hair break under
the weight of her body? At the very least, dragging her would slow him down.
Sara stayed seated.

“Nir’s Sword,” the man swore. He grabbed a handful of her hair
and yanked. “Up!”

Sara went limp. He dragged her up the bank and over forest
ground rough with broken sticks and stones. Pain radiated from her scalp. She
could feel individual hairs being yanked out by the roots—-each a separate sharp
pull. Fascinating.

After five feet, the legionnaire dropped her beside a willow
tree. His lungs heaved, breath coming fast. He poked her leg with the spear. A
white spot appeared, then turned pink again. “Up, you lazy twotch.”

Sara stayed where she was. Obdurate.

He jabbed her again, drawing blood. The stinging from her scalp
was already fadng, but the spear wound throbbed. Perhaps because it was deeper?
So many types of pain, all interesting.

Lance wouldn’t like it. But he would heal her. And that was
even better.

If
she stayed with Lance.

The man’s cheeks flushed, and he bared his teeth. “Get up now,
or I’ll shove this through your heart.” He jiggled the spear.

Lance couldn’t heal the dead. Sara rolled to her feet in a
single smooth motion. Warm blood trickled down her calf.

“That’s better.” The legionnaire stopped showing her his
teeth.

Sara watched his movements. She had a small belt knife, but the
spear gave him a longer reach. She needed to get it away from him or lure him
closer and take him by surprise. “We should bring food with us.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re stalling, but it’s a good idea. Grab
the sack.”

He kept pace beside her as she retrieved Lance’s travel pack.
His stomach growled.

“You’re hungry.” Sara set some bread on a nearby log and sawed
off two slices with a long knife. She held the knife loosely in her hand as if
forgotten.

When he reached for a slice, she struck. She drove the knife
down through the back on his hand, deep into the wood.

He screamed and tried to pluck it out.

She drew her belt knife and pinned his left wrist to the log,
too. While he shrieked and cursed, she picked up the spear, then prodded him in
the back. “Stop trying to free yourself.”

He stilled.

She began counting her pulse again. She hadn’t quite reached
three thousand beats when the shandy burst through the line of pine trees
screening the stream.

The cat shandy stumbled to a halt, breathing ragged. “Sarrra,
arrre you well? I came as fast as I could once I rrrealized his trrrail looped
arrround. What happened?”

Before she could answer a horse and cart drew up on the road. A
middle-aged woman and a black-haired man climbed down.

“I asked the villagerrrs to come,” the shandy said.

The man had longer legs and reached the campsite first. “What’s
going on? Is that your escaped prisoner?”

“Yes,” the cat shandy said. It and the man began to talk to
each other. Sara put down the spear and returned to Lance’s side. His forehead
felt cold and clammy to her touch.

The middle-aged woman came and crouched at Sara’s side,
examining Lance. She clicked his tongue. “He’s in sorry shape.” She stood up and
addressed the man and the shandy. “I suggest you tie up your prisoner so we can
get the Kandrith’s brother in the wagon.”

“Will he—?” The man didn’t finish his sentence, but the woman
still answered.

“It’s in Loma’s hands.”

The man bound the prisoner’s wrists a few inches apart with a
belt then yanked out the knives. The prisoner’s red-rimmed eyes watched Sara as
she cleaned off her knife and returned it to her belt.

The cat shandy growled. “Don’t even think it.”

He flinched.

Think what? Sara didn’t understand, nor did she care enough to
ask.

“Rhiain, your prisoner’s bleeding. If you want him to last the
journey, best heal him. Or kill him here and now.” The middle-aged woman stared
at the legionnaire.

He lifted one corner of his lip. “Old woman—”

The cat shandy cuffed him. He fell to one knee, but its claws
were sheathed. He wasn’t hurt.

“Tempting, but the Kandrrrith grrranted him his life,” the cat
shandy said.

While the cat shandy nudged her prisoner over to Lance for
healing, the curly-haired man approached her. “Lady Sarathena?”

Lady Sarathena Remillus was her old name. She stared at
him.

“Don’t you remember me? It’s Julen.”

Julen. Sara searched her memories. A man by that name had
worked for her father. This man’s green eyes and curly black hair matched her
memories of Julen, but when he’d worked for House Remillus he’d always been
clean-shaven and worn elegant clothes. This man had a beard and wore shapeless
trousers with brown patches on the knees. Still, she supposed it must be him
since he knew her name.

“I remember,” Sara said.

“Save the talk for later,” the middle-aged woman said. She
removed the blanket covering Lance and folded it into quarters. “We need to get
him into the wagon.”

The cat shandy pushed her prisoner aside. His brow wrinkled, he
stared at his healed hands.

Julen peered down at Lance’s swollen stomach. “Loma’s Mercy,
what’s he been eating? A horse every morning for breakfast?” He looked at Sara
so she answered.

“No. He had oatmeal this morning, then vomited it up along with
some blood.”

The woman clucked her tongue.

Julen pursed his lips and shook his head. “Well, let’s get him
in the cart.” He grabbed Lance under the arms while Sara and the woman each took
a leg. The three of them could barely get Lance off the ground. “On the count of
three, heave,” Julen said when they reached the cart. “One, two, three!”

They strained together, but Lance’s buttocks hit the edge of
the cart, and he spilled over the edge, landing on his stomach.

Lance convulsed and woke screaming. He curled into a ball on
his side and wheezed.

“Lance?” Julen reached for him, but stopped short.

Lance’s breathing remained harsh, but after a moment he focused
on their faces. “Valda. Julen. Sara, you found him. Well done.”

“Delighted to see you, too,” Julen said. “Are you going to die
in my cart?”

Lance laid his hand on top of his stomach and bared his teeth.
“That depends. Are you done trying to kill me?”

“We’ll take it slow,” the woman said. “Sara, you sit with
Lance.”

Sara obeyed. Lance laid his head on her lap.

Once they were moving, Lance shut his eyes again. Sara steadied
him against the jostling of the cart while Julen led the horse.

When they arrived at the village, doors opened and six
villagers streamed out. They asked questions, but directed them at the
middle-aged woman so Sara paid no heed.

“He can’t stay in my house. My daughter and her brood are due
to visit tomorrow,” the woman said.

“He’s welcome, but not her with those Devil Eyes,” a short man
said.

“They can both stay with us,” Julen said.

The men carried Lance into a small house and laid him on a
pallet next to a cradle. While Julen started a fire, the women covered Lance
with a second red-and-white plaid blanket and removed his sandals. Sara took
note. Ought she have done that the other times he’d passed out?

“Where’s Iorweth?” the woman asked.

“Helping her cousin. She’ll be back soon.” Julen gestured to
the cradle. “Meghan likes to nap afternoons, then keep us awake at night.”

The woman huffed out a breath then started to leave.

Julen put his hand on her shoulder. “Wait. What should I do
about him?”

“Care for him like you would anyone else who was ill. He’s in
Loma’s hands. He is Her priest.” She left.

Julen stared at Sara. She stared back.

He cleared his throat. “I can hardly believe you’re here. May I
say how glad I am that you’re alive?”

That was a question. She should answer, but it didn’t make
sense. “You just said it.”

Julen paused with his mouth open, then laughed—a strange noise
Lance claimed people made if something was “funny.” “So I did. I’m happy to see
that you didn’t get your head chopped off.”

Sara’s head
had
been chopped off,
but Julen hadn’t asked her a question so she said nothing.

“You wouldn’t believe the rumours we’ve heard out here in the
sticks.” Julen watched her closely.

She scanned the one-room cottage, but didn’t see any sticks.
Logs for the fire, yes, sticks, no.

A pause. “Please sit down.” Julen pointed at a kitchen
chair.

Sara sat.

“Gah!” The noise came from the wooden cradle.

Julen bent over it and picked up a baby with brown eyes and a
full head of dark hair. He sat down across from Sara with the baby on his lap.
Her tiny head rested in the crook of his arm. “This is my daughter, Meghan.
Remember how I told you I would soon have Iorweth wrapped around my finger?
Well, Meghan wrapped me around hers instead.” His lips turned up.

Sara watched as the baby tried to jam her entire fist into her
mouth. Sara didn’t think her own fist would fit in her mouth.

“Iorweth and I would never have married except for the
unfortunate accident that killed her husband—and, yes, I admit some
responsibility, but it
was
an accident. She’s not in
love with me any more than I am with her, but we both love Meghan and that’s
enough. At least for now,” he added under his breath. He kissed the top of the
baby’s head, then cleared his throat. “Would you like to hold her?”

Sara considered the squirming bundle. “No.”