Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (9 page)

“I will,” Marcus vowed.

She gave him a bare nod, then enfolded Lance in a fierce hug.
“And you, my stubborn son. I know you’ll set a wonderful example for these
rebels. You embody the spirit, the very soul, of Kandrith. Your father always
said you were the best of us all.”

Lance’s throat ached with grief. He missed his father, and he
would miss his mother even more. Bereft of speech, he tightened his arms around
her.

After a moment, she pulled back and touched his cheek. “You
must be strong in the days to come.”

Alarm shot through Lance. “What else did Cadwallader tell
you?”

His mother refused to say, which was its own answer.

* * *

A knock on the chamber door.

Sara waited.

A second knock.

Exhaling loudly, Lance crossed the room and opened the door.
“Yes?”

“Your bath.” Sara watched as two men carried a hip bath
sloshing with water into the room. A maid followed with a steaming kettle.

Lance’s mouth fell open. Then he shook his head and gave a
brief laugh. “I’d forgotten. My thanks.”

Once the servants retreated, Lance turned back to Sara. There
was something in his eyes...She felt as if he truly saw her for the first time
that evening. He’d spent most of the afternoon talking with his mother and
sister, then more briefly with Rhiain and the fat man. Not until dark fell did
they retire to their room where Lance had paced until the knock came on the
door.

“You can have the first bath,” Lance said.

Obediently, Sara unfastened her bodice and stripped off her
blouse and split skirts.

Lance inhaled and spun around. “Would you like privacy to
bathe?”

Sara paused. She’d thought Lance always left the area when she
bathed because he was a man and that was the rule. “I do not require privacy.”
When she was Lady Sarathena Remillus her maids had always helped her with her
bath. She pushed down her drawers and stepped out of them, naked.

“No, I guess you don’t.” Lance’s cheeks burned red.

Did he find the room hot? Without her clothes, Sara felt cool.
The fine hairs on her arms stood up, and her nipples contracted.

“Goddess have mercy.” Beads of sweat broke out on Lance’s
forehead. “Why don’t you get into the tub?”

Sara thought. “I have no reason not to get into the tub.”

“Just get in.”

She stepped into the tub. The warm water rose to mid-chest when
she sat down. She reached for the washcloth, but Lance took it out of her hand.
He dipped the cloth in the water then rubbed soap onto it.

“Lift your hair off your neck.” His voice sounded husky.

Sara complied. It took both of her arms to keep the curly mass
out of the water.

Lance rubbed soap along her neck and shoulders; Sara could feel
his fingertips through the washcloth. The firm pressure made her muscles
relax.

“Lean forward.”

She rose up onto her knees and leaned forward, exposing all of
her back above the waterline. She heard him breathe in deeply before inscribing
more soapy circles on her back. The washcloth glided along her skin in a
pleasurable way, before he sluiced the skin off with warm water.

“Now your arms.”

Sara released her hair; it tumbled down, the ends floating on
the water. Lance picked up her left arm and carefully stroked the washcloth up
and down the smooth flesh. He rinsed that one, too, then moved on to her right
arm.

When it was clean, he draped the washcloth over the edge of the
tub and poured in more hot water from the kettle.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?”

“Yes,” Sara said, surprising herself.
Like
was a slippery word that she didn’t truly understand. But her
preference was clear in her mind.

“Why?” He stilled, not even breathing.

Sara thought. Why should it matter who washed her hair when she
didn’t care if it were clean or dirty?

“Because it feels nicer when I touch you?” Lance suggested.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to regret this, but... would you feel the same if
Bertramus were the one touching you?”

It took Sara a moment to remember who Bertramus was: the fat
man. “If he touched me, I would disembowel him.”

Lance cleared his throat. “Perhaps that wasn’t the right
question. If it were Julen?”

Sara thought about it. She remembered who Julen was. Lance had
stopped her from stabbing him. “I would still disembowel him, but I’d ask you if
you wanted to heal him afterwards.”

Lance made the laughing sound, a rumble in his throat.
“Good.”

Sara turned her head to see him watching her, his lips turned
up at the corners. She reached out and traced the curve of his lips under his
mustache. “This means something.”

He stilled. “Yes. It’s called a smile. People smile when
they’re happy. What about you? What do you feel?”

She began to catalogue the different sensations. “I feel warm
and—”

He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “No, Sara. I didn’t
mean physically.”

She waited for him to explain, but he sighed instead. “Close
your eyes.” He tipped warm water from a cup over her head, then soaped up her
hair. His fingers massaged every inch of her scalp before he rinsed away the
perfumed lather. She leaned into his touch, arching her back slightly.

“All done. You’d better wash the rest yourself.”

Sara picked up the washcloth, then studied him. A single line
creased his forehead. “Why is it better for me to finish?” she asked him.

He tensed. “Because I don’t want you to disembowel me.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Maybe you should,” he muttered. Then louder, “It’s wrong for
me to touch you intimately—your breasts or between your legs—while you’re
disconnected from your soul. I don’t want you to feel angry or embarrassed when
your soul fully returns.”

Embarrassment
and
anger
were just words to her; she didn’t understand
them, but...”You’ve touched those places before.”

“Yes. When we made love.” His eyes met hers.

The memory had an unexpected effect on her body. Her nipples,
which had grown lax in the warm water, stiffened again. Interesting. “My breasts
remember your touch.”

Lance looked at her breasts, and his pupils dilated, which
increased the effect on Sara’s body. He groaned and turned his head away.
“They—you—are very tempting, but I mean it, Sara. I won’t touch you intimately
until you tell me you love me—and mean it.”

He handed her the washcloth.

She silently finished cleaning herself, but she did not see why
he couldn’t touch her body now. She wanted him to. Her brow wrinkled briefly
before smoothing out again.

* * *

“—born a cuoreon, but I earned off my slavechain ten
years ago and am now a successful merchant. Bertramus of Tolium, at your
service. I carry the House token of my former Master as proof of his
regard.”

Still hidden in the shadow of the Gate, Lance felt reluctant
admiration for Bertramus. He sounded relaxed, even amiable, despite the armed
reception that had greeted him on the other side of the twisting, narrow Gate
through the Red Saints.

The legionnaire grunted. “And does she have a House token,
too?”

“My wife was born free,” Bertramus said smoothly.

Wife? That hadn’t been part of the plan. Lance took two steps
forward, his shoulders brushing the rocky sides of the gorge, before forcing
himself to swallow back his outrage. Once said, the words couldn’t be retracted
without raising suspicion. Lance just hoped Sara played along. He strained his
ears, but heard only Rhiain grumbling at the tightness of the passage five feet
behind him. From Sara, silence.

“Seems like an odd place to bring your wife,” the legionnaire
said.

Bertramus chuckled. The smug sound raised Lance’s hackles.
“Push back your hood, my dear.”

Lance crept forward until he stood just inside the Gate. He
watched as Sara complied. Her brown hair tumbled down over her shoulders and
back.

The legionnaire inhaled sharply. The tall man’s helmet shadowed
his face, but the clasp holding his red cloak to his shoulders showed the rank
of captain. Lance just prayed the man wasn’t some lordling who’d recognized
Sara, but one who had merely been struck by her beauty.

Bertramus ran a finger down her cheek and cooed, “Only a fool
would leave his new wife home alone.”

Lance winced, half-expecting Sara to break Bertramus’s nose .
Lance tugged twice on the rope that connected him to Rhiain to signal his intent
to exit the Gate, then stooped and pushed his way out. The heavy pack on his
back banged against the walls.

He emerged from the Gate, blinking, and was relieved to see
Sara standing placidly by Bertramus.

“Hold!” A second legionnaire stepped forward. The man was
short, but the sword he pointed at Lance was sharp.

Lance stopped, hands in plain view, head humbly bowed. Out of
the corner of his eye, he observed the earthwork and palisade wall the
legionniares had erected a short distance away.

Hiram had told Wenda that General Pallax had sent a cohort of
eighty men to guard the Gate, but it disheartened Lance to see how quickly their
camp had gone up and how formidable the walls looked.

“Please don’t damage my osseon,” Bertramus said.

The legionnaire captain rubbed his bristly chin. Lance couldn’t
tell if he was suspicious or just bored. “You took a Bone Slave into Slaveland
and back? Why didn’t he run off?”

Another odious chuckle. “Yes, the Slavelanders told Lance he
was a free man and were quite perplexed when he freely chose to serve me. His
wife and child reside in my villa,” Bertramus explained kindly. “I know many who
won’t have a first-generation male slave in their household, preferring sanguons
and cuoreons, but in my experience once they sire a brat, they turn meek as
milk. And they’re much cheaper.”

Lance clenched his teeth. He suspected Bertramus was expressing
his true views. How could someone who’d been born into slavery himself ever own
slaves? Lance didn’t understand it.

The captain, on the other hand, nodded agreement. “And the
purpose of your trip?”

“Trade, of course! Slaveland is desperate for many items.”
Bertramus leaned forward confidingly. “I know what you’re thinking, that such a
poor land hasn’t the gold to make a long journey worthwhile, and you’d be right!
But they have something else of value, a most wondrous creature, trained to
perform tricks and please audiences everywhere. I will be able to resell it for
a fortune.” He raised his voice. “Lance! Bring out the racha-leopard.”

Lance lifted the rope in his hand and made a show of tugging
gently. He wished, again, that Dyl hadn’t declined to go on this journey. Rhiain
was strong and loyal, but she was also inexperienced. And large. And impossible
to pass off as a hunting dog. Perhaps he should have made his case to Dyl in
person, but Rhiain had been so happy to volunteer that he hadn’t wanted to imply
he doubted her abilities.

Bertramus’s ruse stood a high chance of getting them all
killed.

The eight other legionnaires standing guard tensed as Rhiain’s
great maned head poked out of the Gate.

“Worry not!” Bertramus hastily inserted himself between the
legionnaires and his “trade item.” “Her claws have been blunted, and she’s
quite, quite tame—bottle-fed from a cub.”

As Rhiain squeezed more and more of her bulk out of the Gate,
the assembled legionnaires looked more and more uneasy. “Captain?” one asked
plaintively.

The captain swore and backed up a step. “Shield wall! Spears
out!”

Bertramus dropped to his knees. “I beg of you! All my profit is
tied up in this animal. I’ll be ruined—”

Rhiain emerged from the Gate, her tawny fur coated with
dust.

Lance lifted the end of the limp rope. “Sit.”

Rhiain sat on her haunches and began innocently washing her
face as if she didn’t notice the wall of spears bristling at her.

Lance released a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sure Rhiain
would be able to resist sneering at them.

“Where’s her chain?” the captain asked doubtfully.

Lance’s stomach lurched. Bertramus had wanted to chain
Rhiain—but Lance had overruled him. He hadn’t wanted to impede Rhiain in case
she had to leap into action.

“She doesn’t need one,” Bertramus said confidently. “She’s been
restrained with the rope since she was a cub. The rope held her then, so she’s
convinced it will hold her now. It’s all in the training.”

The merchant’s smoothness impressed Lance. He began to see why
this Chief Fitch had chosen Bertramus as an envoy.

“If you want to risk being eaten in the middle of the night,
that’s your concern,” the captain said. “Be on your way, then.” He waved a
hand.

The shield wall stayed up.

“Walk,” Lance said for the benefit of their audience. He lifted
the end of the rope, and Rhiain gracefully came to her feet, stretching her
back. Lance led her past the shield wall and the palisade, the rope slack
between them. Tension coiled in his muscles. Almost time for the next act of
their little play.

He waited until they were out of crossbow range then fumbled
the rope. As rehearsed, Rhiain kept walking, dragging the rope behind. Lance
took a step forward and bent to pick it up—only to have her skip away another
few steps, as if playing a game.

The third time Lance lunged forward and deliberately fell on
his hands and knees in the dust while the rope whipped merrily out of reach.

“Hnngh, hnngh,” Rhiain laughed.

Lance swore and shook his fist as he took off his pack and rose
to his feet.

Bertramus got in on the act. “Catch her, you fool! Or I’ll have
you whipped!”

Lance aimed a black look at his supposed “owner,” a silent
warning not to go too far. Lance wouldn’t stand still while some legionnaire
stripped the skin off his back—and neither would Rhiain. Or Sara.