“My thanks.” Wenda nodded. “Once the prisoners are safe in Kandrith, I’ll take care of the blockade.”
“What do you intend?” Lance’s mother said sharply.
“The Republic cannot be allowed to barricade the Gate,” Wenda said calmly. “We must either make many Gates—”
“I don’t like that idea. Each Gate is a vulnerability,” Marcus said.
“Or we need a moving Gate. One that always exits here, in Gatetown, before the Watcher and the Guardian. Once we demonstrate to the legionnaires that the new gate can’t be guarded, they’ll leave and report their failure to Pallax.”
“A moving gate? How is that possible?” Marcus asked, frowning.
“The Goddess of Mercy will aid me,” Wenda said gently.
As the lower tier of the fountain finished filling with water, the slavechain lifted. The freed father and child figures swiveled.
Lance felt numb, like the moment after a fatal blow when it didn’t yet hurt, but you could see the blood welling. His father had ruled for nine years before giving his Lifegift. Wenda had only been on the throne two months. How could it have come to this point already?
But he knew the answer. The Hostage Pact had protected Kandrith, and Lance had broken it, first to save Sara’s life, and then more selfishly by failing to insist he become the new Child of Peace. They’d had Claudius Pallax, Primus Pallax’s only son, in their hands. If they’d kept him in Kandrith as the Child of Peace and sent Lance to the Republic, the Hostage Pact could have been restored. Only this time Lance would have had to remain in the Republic until Wenda’s children were born and grew old enough to take his place. The Goddess’s gift of healing would have been wasted. And so, when Wenda had offered Lance a way out, he’d taken it. Now they both had to live with the consequences.
“It doesn’t have to be your sacrifice,” Lance’s mother argued, clenching her fists. “Hiram is the Gatekeeper. He may be willing—”
“I can’t ask this of him,” Wenda said. “It’s a job for the Kandrith.”
“He wears Heart’s Blood—”
“You wear Heart’s Blood, and I don’t see you volunteering!”
A terrible silence descended like an axe blade. Lance became aware of the trickling of the water draining from the fountain’s lower tier. He knew what his mother would say before she spoke.
“You’re right. I do wear Heart’s Blood.” His mother traced the edge of the red leather vest she wore.
Lance closed his eyes, unable to watch as all the colour drained from Wenda’s face. “I didn’t mean it.” Her voice trembled. “I’m Kandrith. It’s my responsibility.”
“Hush.” His mother appeared weirdly calm. “It’s only been two months since I lost your father. You and Lance are all I have left of him. Don’t ask me to stand by while you sacrifice your life, too.”
“Wenda’s life?” Marcus said sharply. “What are you talking about?”
They all ignored him. “Someone else—” Wenda started desperately.
“Is me. And you’re too much the Kandrith to stop me. You’ll do what’s best for the country,” their mother said confidently.
“Is it because you’re no longer the Protector?” Wenda asked brokenly. “I know we’ve been fighting lately, but I never meant you to feel unwanted. Kandrith needs you. I need you.”
“You’ll muddle along without me. Being Protector was...a habit for me. It’s something I was good at, not something I ever enjoyed.”
Lance winced. It had never occurred to him that his mother hadn’t liked being Protector, perhaps because she was so efficient at it. She’d been an efficient farmwife, too, but he remembered her humming as she carded wool and laughing at the ducks’ antics when fed. He’d passed off her growing lack of humour to his father’s decline. He’d never thought to ask if she was unhappy.
“You’ve given so much to Kandrith. You deserve to retire to a cottage,” Wenda tried again.
“And what? Dandle the grandchildren you won’t give me because you’re dead?”
Wenda bit her lip.
A bittersweet smile. “Just before we left, Cadwallader took me aside and told me that I would have grandchildren. He remembers them. I’m sure he knew what choice I would make today.” She held out her hands to both Lance and Wenda. “Give your children a kiss from your father and me and remember that we loved you.”
His mother hugged his weeping sister, whispering how proud she was of Wenda and how much she loved her. Lance embraced them both. A weight settled on his heart, but he didn’t try to talk his mother out of her decision. Kandrith needed Wenda. And his mother had never changed her mind for anyone but his father.
After a long time, Lance’s mother transferred her weeping daughter into the hands of her husband. She skewered Marcus with a glare. “She loves you. Be worthy of her.”
“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.
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 ev
er 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.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 10