“I’d rather you slit my throat than leave me without thumbs,” Gaius said bitterly.
A pang went through Rhiain. Should she have—? But just then the Listener said, “A lie.” His eyes were wide open, and his back was pressed against the side wall.
Rhiain’s guilt eased.
Drawn by the noise, Bors poked his head into the throne room. Marcus waved him forward. “Help me take him to the block.”
The two of them manhandled Gaius over to the basalt executioner’s block and manacled both of his hands. Marcus went to the wall and selected a small axe. “Spread his fingers.”
Gaius clenched both hands into fists, and Bors struggled to straighten out the right one.
Though Gaius had just tried to decapitate her, pity stirred in Rhiain’s heart at the sweaty pallor of his face. He stank of desperation.
“Does it have to be both thumbs?” Rhiain asked Sara. “Must he lose his ability to hold his sword? He’ll lose his livelihood.” More than that. A warrior was what Gaius was at heart, an essential part of his identity.
Just as with her.
Rhiain suddenly understood why she’d ignored the signs that Gaius only regarded her as a beast and began to build dreams around him. She wanted her mate to be a warrior-turned-shandy, who would stand shoulder to shoulder with her, who fought not just when necessity demanded, but for the joy of it.
Sara blinked. “He cannot go free unless he can no longer climb the Red Saints.”
“Go free?” Marcus echoed. “That’s for the Kandrith to say, not you.”
“Wait.” Wenda frowned. “That’s why you want to cut off his thumbs? So he can’t climb?”
Sara nodded placidly.
Oh. That was actually quite clever. Lance had told her that Sara-without-a-soul wasn’t stupid, but this was the first time Rhiain had seen it.
Wenda’s back straightened. “Gaius, which hand do you hold your sword with?”
“I won’t tell you.” Gaius kept his hands fisted and tried to kick Bors.
“Truth.”
“He’s right-handed,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes.
Gaius fought harder, jabbing Marcus with his elbows and kicking Bors’s shin.
“Stop that and pay attention,” Wenda snapped. “Depending on your answer, you may win your freedom and your ability to hold a sword. Can you climb the Red Saints without your left thumb?”
Gaius stopped fighting. He chose his words with care. “It was an extremely difficult climb. I almost fell three times. I would not want to attempt it with a crippled hand.”
“Truth.”
Rhiain chuffed in relief. Lance beamed at Sara like a proud parent.
Wenda’s face also relaxed. “If you accept Sara’s judgment, then you may return to the Republic of Temboria minus your left thumb. Lance will heal the wound so you needn’t fear infection will set in. Otherwise, you will be imprisoned indefinitely.”
Gaius breathed harshly in and out, then laid his left hand flat on the black block. “Do it.”
Chapter Six
Lance braced himself for the coming argument with his sister. “A woman in Black Creek broke her leg. Sara and I will leave at first light, then continue from Black Creek on to Gatetown.”
Wenda sat up straighter on her throne. “There’s no need for Sara to go. I swear I’ll take good care of her.”
And keep her away from rooftops?
“That’s very kind of you, but Sara goes with me,” Lance said firmly. He continued as if she’d agreed. “Rhiain has volunteered to let me ride on her back until my knee heals so we should make good time.
“Lance...” Wenda blew out an exasperated breath. “You know you can’t take Sara with you to Gotia. Even if she were whole and well, it would be dangerous beyond belief, but in her current condition? No.”
The last sounded dangerously close to an order. Lance crossed his arms. Wenda might be Kandrith, but she was still his little sister. She didn’t know everything. “Sara, what would you do if I left you here and travelled to the Republic?”
“I’d follow you.” Sara’s eyes remained placid lakes.
“If you ordered her to stay...” Wenda trailed off.
Lance didn’t need to say anything.
Wenda set her chin. “Cadwallader, what do you say?”
Lance glanced around in surprise, but didn’t spot the Kandrith Seer. Aside from a few glimpses of silver-gray robes, he hadn’t set eyes on Cadwallader since returning.
His stomach clenched. That wasn’t good.
“He left after Lance entered the room,” Marcus informed his blind wife.
“He’s avoiding me,” Lance said grimly.
Wenda grimaced. “You know what that means.”
“Yes.”
Cadwallader had sacrificed his past in order to see the future. As a child Lance had had many conversations with the Seer and had learned that, for the most part, the future was set, but it could change, often in response to the Seer’s own warning. Cadwallader called this taking another “fork.” Very rarely, a particular future would flicker between two “forks.” The constant changing of his memories gave Cadwallader a fierce headache, and he avoided the person responsible.
Wenda chewed her lip. “We spoke about your mission yesterday. He saw it succeeding. He sounded fine to me. Marcus, did you notice anything?”
“Cadwallader’s always odd. I don’t know him well enough to determine what’s unusual for him.”
“Did he rub his temples or frown as if he had a headache?” Wenda asked.
“No.”
“Something else in my future must be uncertain,” Lance said. Like his survival.
Wenda’s lips tightened, but she refrained from saying the obvious.
“It’s not Lance he’s avoiding, it’s her,” Lance’s mother announced as she entered the throne room. “Soul or no soul, something’s not right with her.”
And here was the other reason Sara wouldn’t be staying at the Hall. His mother had quickly reverted to her earlier dislike of Sara.
“Soul or no soul?” Wenda said sharply. “Are you implying that I’m incompetent? I know what I see, Mother.”
“I didn’t say otherwise.” Their mother sighed. “I only meant that something clearly isn’t right with her.”
With Sara. Say her name, Mother.
Wenda refocused on him. “Lance, it’s one thing to travel alone in Kandrith where everyone will gladly shelter One who Wears the Brown, but the Republic is another matter. It’s a miracle you didn’t die of some illness or weren’t re-enslaved on your journey out. I don’t trust Sara to look after you when you’re ill. Take her if you must, but don’t leave Gatetown without a third companion, by order of your Kandrith. You and your mission are too important.”
* * *
After three hours chasing after Cadwallader, Lance grew impatient and went to the Seer’s rooms, determined to wait him out.
The other times he’d checked, the rooms had been empty, but this time Cadwallader stood at the window. He stared at Lance reproachfully. “It’s unkind of you to dump my clothes on the floor.”
Since Cadwallader’s clothes were still neatly folded in the open wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, Lance ignored this remark. “Am I the one who’s giving you a headache, or is it Sara?”
Cadwallader nodded to someone behind Lance. “Both of you keep changing the future, but it’s the soulless one’s fate that changes.”
Unsurprised, Lance turned to find that Sara had shadowed him. “She has a soul,” Lance said sharply. “Wenda’s seen it.”
But Cadwallader shook his head. “That soul isn’t connected to her body yet.”
“What do you mean?” Lance asked, even though the words rang true. If her body and so
ul were disconnected, it explained why her fall off the roof hadn’t made her scream. She could feel pain, but to her it was just a sensation, neither good nor bad.
The pity on Cadwallader’s face caused a chill to crawl over Lance. “What do you remember?” Lance asked. If Sara’s soul was at stake, he would refuse the mission to Gotia. Wenda could bloody well find someone else to act as her example.
Cadwallader flinched and clutched his head. “Stop that. You just changed my memories again.”
Guiltily, Lance reached out and eased the other man’s headache, but couldn’t help asking, “Did it work? Does staying in Kandrith save Sara?”
Sadness filled Cadwallader’s gray eyes. “No. Though you strive mightily to prevent the coming tragedy.”
Despair and anger welled inside Lance at this injustice. Why was this happening? He’d only just begun to hope again. How could Loma let—
No. He wouldn’t think like that. He had to have faith that the Goddess of Mercy would save Sara. He took a deep breath. “You said ‘yet.’ So it’s possible for the soul to become connected to Sara.”
“Yes. But by then you won’t want it to.”
Lance wanted to shake him. “Why?”
“There are some things it’s cruel to reveal out of turn,” Cadwallader said. “This is one of them.”
Infuriating old man. Lance held on to his temper. Cadwallader had sacrificed his past for the good of Kandrith. He owed the man respect. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Anything helpful?
“Most futures have only one fork. Hers has at least half a dozen. You changed her future once when you decided to go to Gotia and again when you insisted on taking Sara with you. But no matter how the path forks, they all converge on one event. The last choice of whether to keep the soul will fall to Sara, and her choice seldom changes.” He nodded respectfully at Sara.
She stared back blankly.
* * *
On the eve of their departure, Wenda added another, unwelcome, addition to Lance’s party: the Gotian envoy.
It was hard to tell who was the most dismayed by Wenda’s pronouncement, Lance or the envoy. Lance swallowed his own protest—a guide would be useful, even a fat, foolish merchant like this one.
The merchant, one Bertramus of Tolium, didn’t seem to realize Wenda’s mind was made up. “But—but—my cousin needs money, mercenaries, swords, not—”
“And I’ve told you Kandrith can’t spare any of those things.” Wenda shifted impatiently on her carved throne.
Bertramus appealed to Marcus. “My lord, surely you can see—”
“Address my husband again instead of me and I’ll have you evicted from this court.” All humour had been wiped from Wenda’s face.
“How can I return to my cousin empty-handed?” To his credit, Bertramus looked distressed at this failure.
“You won’t be empty-handed,” Wenda said more calmly. “I’m sending you my brother, whose value is greater than fifty legionnaires.”
Bertramus’s gaze darted from Lance to Wenda. “Ah, I’m sure he’s a mighty warrior but...”
Lance interrupted. “I wear the Brown.” He tapped his vest.
A blink of incomprehension.
Lance tried again. “I’m a healer.”
“A physicker?”
Lance despised the incompetent potion-brewers, but he knew from experience that no words would convince Bertramus of the difference. It didn’t matter. They would be travelling together for weeks. Bertramus would see for himself.
“It is, of course, most generous of the Kandrith to spare her brother, but—”
Wenda interrupted the flow of honeyed words. “My mind is made up. You may leave.”
Dismissed, Bertramus bowed and left, but his face was as red as if it had been slapped.
Wenda addressed the space slightly to Lance’s left. “I’m sorry to saddle you with him, but the Goddess knows I’ll be happy to get rid of the pestilential man.”
“He’s not particularly persuasive, is he? Why do you suppose the Gotians sent him?”
“I believe he’s the leader’s cousin.” She grimaced. “Maybe this Chief Fitch wanted to get Bertramus as far away from him as possible. If so, it’s the most encouraging sign we’ve had that the chief has some sense.”
Because rebelling against the Republic of Temboria’s Legions qualified more as an act of insanity. But so, too, could the Red Saints who founded Kandrith have been considered mad. Lance tried to take heart from that.
* * *
Bertramus spent the first two days of the journey to Gatetown convinced Rhiain wanted to eat him and his borrowed horse. Afterward, Lance wished he hadn’t tried quite so hard to prove Rhiain was safe, because he spent the next day listening to Bertramus boast about his success in buying and selling olive crops. He proudly proclaimed his former master had removed five links from his slavechain in appreciation of this talent.
In a desperate effort to divert the flow of information into a useful stream, Lance asked if Bertramus really was Chief Fitch’s cousin.
“Oh, yes, though just third cousins. My grandfather was one of his grandfather’s sworn warriors. On the eve of the last battle, when the great Chief Deglas realized he’d been betrayed, he made all of his warriors swear fealty on the ring of kingship to his only surviving son, a babe in arms.” Bertramus smiled as if retelling a favourite story. “My grandfather swore he and his heirs would rally to the chief’s son when he returned. An oath I’ve kept to Deglas’s grandson, Fitch,” he said proudly.
Lance wondered how many of the other descendants had kept their grandfather’s oath. Not all, he’d bet.
The merchant had typical Gotian colouring, fair skin and sandy hair, but his name seemed like a Temborian version of the Gotian name, Bertram.
“I take it Chief Deglas lost the battle?” Lance tried to remember if he’d ever heard his father talk of a man by that name. Their own area of western Gotia had fallen to the Republic’s legions much later, when Lance was a child. And every village had had its own chief.
“Only because he was betrayed,” Bertramus said staunchly. “When he finally fell, a circle of twenty dead legionnaires surrounded him.”
Lance didn’t argue with this unlikely story. “Your grandfather?”
“Enslaved.”
“And the babe?”
“His mother spirited him away to be raised among her own people—she was half-Grasslander. Deglas’s son died of a fever, but his son is Deglas’s true heir. Fitch has been training with the sword since he was a boy of five, and defeated his weapon’s master when he was but nine.”
There followed a long, tedious description of the paragon’s doings: warriors he’d defeated, battles he’d won—though Lance suspected skirmishes would be a better description—as well as Fitch’s legendary prowess with women.
His knee had recovered. Lance wondered if he should ask the Goddess for her next gift to be deafness.
“But, of course, you’ve made your own conquests, haven’t you?” Bertramus grinned slyly.
Lance tensed when he realized the merchant was referring to Sara. Bertramus’s eyes had almost popped out of his head when he’d seen Sara with her hair freshly washed. Lance didn’t like the way Bertramus watched her.
Most people were unnerved by Sara’s ghost-like presence. Not Bertramus. “You’ve got the perfect woman there—beautiful, silent and obedient.”
Lance clenched his fists. He doesn’t mean to be offensive. He’s trying to flatter you. “Sara is not my conquest.”
Bertramus didn’t listen. From the avid way he licked his lips, he was lost in some lustful fantasy. “Some men say they want a hot wench in their bed, but I say an obedient one is best of—”
Lance yanked the portly man off his horse. Bertramus let out a star
tled yelp as he hit the ground, and the horse shied away. Lance gripped the front of the other man’s tunic and pulled him closer so they were eye-to-eye. “Don’t ever speak disrespectfully of Sara again.”
Fear and resentment mixed in Bertramus’s expression. “My apologies,” he babbled, “I didn’t know—you said she wasn’t your wife!”
“I did say that,” Lance said politely while tightening his grip so that Bertramus’s collar choked him. “But I don’t recall saying she was a twotch. Do you recall me saying that, Rhiain?” The shandy, who’d been ranging ahead, frustrated by their walking pace, had dashed back to see what the problem was.
“No, I don’t.” Rhiain growled, and Bertramus paled. He looked on the verge of wetting his pants.
Disgusted, Lance released him. “You will treat Sara—no, let’s make that all women—with respect. Understand?”
Bertramus nodded, but glared resentfully at Sara as he dusted himself off. “She sleeps next to you. How was I to know she wasn’t your pleasure slave?”
“We don’t keep slaves in Kandrith.”
“Well, whatever you call them, then. Your leman, your concubine,” he said petulantly.
Lance took a deep breath, reminding himself that they needed this man’s goodwill. “We don’t have those either. Women make their own choices here, including who they lie with.”
Disbelief.
Lance didn’t feel like explaining that a man’s superior strength meant less in Kandrith because a woman had the option of turning into a shandy capable of ripping out a man’s throat. “Just do as I say.” He turned to Sara, who was hovering at his elbow. “If he tries to rape you, disembowel him.”
If it came to that, he’d have to heal the man afterward—they wouldn’t be able to even find this Fitch without him—but no need to tell Bertramus that.
“I will.” Sara stared at Bertramus with no expression.
Bertramus blinked uncertainly.
Lance sighed. Unfortunately, he judged the other man the type to dismiss women as lesser creatures. He would likely backslide and have to learn the hard way.
* * *
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 8