Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  Which sounded like a quote. The only oppressed Gotians Lance had noticed were slaves in Tolium. Most of the rebels seemed to be poor but freeborn or Grasslanders.

  “I want to help,” Rhiain continued. “Arrren’t you going for the same rrreason?”

  Lance was going to heal the wounded, not fight. But he supposed he was asking a lot from Rhiain to stay behind at the camp with the women, children—and cripples. Fitch had forbidden Edvard to go, but the boy had thrown a fit. “I’m going. You owe me that much. I deserve to be there when you kill him.”

  Lance had been wondering who he meant ever since.

  Rhiain’s resentful growl brought Lance back to the present. “I bet you don’t expect Sara to stay behind.”

  They both knew Sara wouldn’t tolerate being separated from Lance for so long. If he hadn’t ordered her to keep helping Glenys prepare supper, Sara would’ve jumped up and accompanied him to the stream.

  Lance sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “I suppose you’re right. I’m just worried about the battle.”

  Rhiain gave a chuckling laugh. “Don’t be! Fitch is a great warrior.”

  He had damn well better be. Because as far as Lance could see, Fitch was the rebellion. If he were killed, Gotia’s bid for freedom would die alongside him.

  And Kandrith would be next on Primus Pallax’s list.

  “Well, take care,” he told Rhiain. “I don’t want to spend all my time healing you up, understand?” He emptied the bucket into Glenys’s washtub. Two more pailfuls ought to do it.

  Willem cleared his throat. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Lance looked sharply at the scarred man. “What?”

  Willem sighed and stopped scaling the silver fish he’d caught earlier. “You’re still forbidden to leave the camp.”

  Lance’s nostrils flared, anger elevating his pulse. He didn’t know the details of the upcoming raid, but he knew it was the most ambitious attack Fitch had mounted so far, more a declaration of war than a true raid. Fitch had announced his intention to kill the Republican governor of Gotia at his home villa and strip it bare for much-needed supplies.

  According to Fitch’s information, the estate had a garrison of only thirty, but they would be operating almost under the nose of a Legion stockade a mere five miles away. If the governor’s men set off a signal fire or a rider escaped, reinforcements would descend on Fitch’s forces like an anvil.

  It was a huge gamble. If Fitch could pull it off, it would make the Republic of Temboria look like fools, but Lance didn’t like their chances.

  Maybe you had to be a gambler to win against the Republic.

  That wasn’t Lance’s concern. The soon-to-be-injured were. Most wounded would die on the two-day trek back to the rebel camp. Even if Lance had still been flat on his back with the flu, he would’ve insisted on accompanying the rebels—in a cart, if necessary.

  “Fitch’s orders be damned,” he spat. “I’m going.”

  “I can’t allow that,” Willem said. “I’ll have you confined if I have to.”

  Sara put down her half-plucked pigeon and stood at Lance’s side, her hand on her knife, no doubt poised to gut Willem if he tried any such thing.

  Lance took a deep breath and reminded himself Willem wasn’t the one he was angry at. “Where’s Fitch? I need to talk to him.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Rhiain said anxiously. “He might listen to me.”

  But Willem was shaking his head. “Fitch went ahead to Tolium to see if he can recruit more men. We’re to meet up with him tomorrow.”

  Lance met the veteran warrior’s eyes. “Willem, you know what a difference a healer will make on the battlefield.”

  Willem nodded. “Yes. You saved my life.”

  “Then you know Fitch is wrong.”

  “He’s my chief,” Willem said simply. “I swore to follow him. My complete loyalty is to him.”

  Frustration burned Lance’s blood. From what he’d seen, Willem’s oath meant little to Fitch, who favoured his childhood friends among the Grasslanders over the Gotians.

  Battle prowess and a noble lineage shouldn’t be enough to make a leader. If Gotia had a Seer to select the best man for the job, Lance was certain Willem would be picked before Fitch.

  Lance played on that knowledge. “And what about the men who follow you?” he asked. “Don’t you owe them and their families their best chance of survival? What if Jenas is hurt again?”

  Willem closed his eyes, and Lance felt a little ashamed of the guilt he had laid on the man. But not enough to stop.

  “You can come to Tolium and plead your case to Fitch in person,” Willem said at last. “But you must give me your word that you will abide by his decision.”

  Lance didn’t want to make any such promise, but after a moment he nodded. “I so swear.”

  * * *

  Tolium possessed sixteen Temples of Wine. The first three Lance tried were pleasant well-lit taverns, but no one would admit to seeing Fitch. The fourth one was a dirty hole. Willem had assigned his son to escort Lance and Sara, but Jenas had gotten tipsy and lingered at the third temple saying he’d catch up later. Deciding that Sara would be safer alone on the street, Lance quickly ducked inside. Still no Fitch.

  Lance exited, stopping in surprise when he saw a Qiph man talking with Sara.

  The slender young man smiled tentatively. “Lance? It is you? I remember you as...bigger.” Sunshine gleamed on the four green glass beads woven into his numerous black braids.

  Lance blinked. Was it—? “Esam?” The Qiph warrior had helped them in their battle against the blue devil.

  White teeth flashed in Esam’s brown face. “Yes. It is good to see you. And Lady Sara. I have been talking to her. She shows some improvement?” Esam looked hopeful.

  Lance smiled, relaxing. “Yes. She has a new soul. She’s still growing into it, but she’s much better.”

  “Good, good. I asked several Pathfinders, but all they could suggest was walking the Path of the Holy Ones. It would take two years to build up any magic—much longer than I think you would like.” His brown eyes twinkled.

  “Yes,” Lance agreed fervently. The three of them moved aside to let an oxen team hauling manure pass. “So what brings you to Tolium?” he asked.

  “I have forsaken the brotherhood of the sword and taken the next step on the Men’s Path. I am now a Scholar.” He smiled wryly. “Or at least I am learning to be one. It may take me the full two years just to master the brushstrokes! I am travelling with my second cousin’s caravan, writing up slave contracts.”

  Lance’s face darkened. “You’re a slaver?”

  Sara touched his elbow. “It is part of the Qiph Way.”

  “What?”

  Esam cleared his throat. “The Path of the Holy Man. Camel-Herder, Warrior, Scholar, Slave, then Pathfinder.”

  Lance struggled to understand. “So your people sell yourselves, willingly?”

  Another flashing smile. “Not everyone, no. And only for two years. But those who wish to follow the Path, yes. I have sworn an oath to do so myself. I do not enjoy being a scholar, but I think I will find being a slave worse.” He grimaced as if he’d tasted something bitter. “As you might imagine, the contracts are very important.”

  Lance was skeptical. “How do you get the Republicans to honour their contracts? It’s too easy for a slave to disappear or for new links to be added to a slavechain for trumped up reasons.”

  Esam flashed another smile. “At first they did try to cheat us. But we file copies of the contract with the Temple of Hana and keep one of our own, and if they cheat then we refuse to sell them the silk that the ladies like so well. Soon, they learn it does not pay to cheat the Qiph. It is to enforce a contract that we are lingering in Tolium. One of our people is the slave of Gov
ernor Garius. He is very good at accounts and the governor is determined to hold him until the very last day of his contract.”

  Lance still thought it was barbaric. “Two years is a long time to be a slave under a cruel master. Especially for a woman.”

  “Oh, no,” Esam said at once. “The Path of the Holy Woman is different. Water-Bearer, Mother and Dowser. No slavery.”

  “It still sounds very strange to me,” Lance admitted.

  “It’s a kind of sacrifice,” Sara said.

  Lance started to object. If that were true, then wouldn’t every slave have magic? But no, it was the willingness of the Qiph men to undergo slavery that made it a sacrifice. Just as people who just happened to fall sick couldn’t heal, whereas he had deliberately sacrificed his good health to the Goddess.

  “That’s very good, Sara. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Esam bowed. “Please excuse me, I must rejoin my cousin.” He left, his green-striped robe trailing across the flagged stones.

  Lance wished he could’ve warned Esam about the coming raid on the governor’s estate, but he couldn’t risk rumours of the raid getting out. Guiltily, he promised himself that he would look out for a Qiph slave.

  * * *

  The sound of drunken singing preceded the next Temple, styled The Wine God’s Son. Even better, Lance could hear a bass voice bellowing about the “glories of Gotia.”

  Lance went down the four steps to the recessed door and entered the pleasantly shady Temple, Sara at his heels. The furnishings were plain, long wooden tables and benches, but bowls of red grapes added a touch of colour, and the flagged floor was swept clean.

  The gray-bearded priest coming toward them was neatly attired. And sober. He made a pleasant change from the stinking sot at the last establishment.

  Looking over the priest’s head, Lance saw Fitch sitting with eight other men. Some were dressed as Bertramus had been in tunics and trousers instead of in plaids, but all were pale-skinned and light of hair. Fitch raised his clay cup. “To freedom!”

  The other men raised their own cups and drained them dry.

  “Please have a seat,” the priest said, bowing. “Will you partake of the God of Wine’s largesse?”

  Lance was about to refuse, but hesitated, eyeing Fitch. It didn’t seem as if he would be leaving anytime soon, and if Lance approached him in front of an audience Fitch’s answer would likely be no. “How much for some ale?” He didn’t have much coin. Plus, anything stronger would exacerbate his current affliction: a toothache.

  The priest’s round face set in lines of disapproval. “No charge.” He nodded stiffly.

  Lance knew he’d said something wrong, but not what.

  “And the lady?”

  Before he could order on Sara’s behalf, she spoke, the words clearly a ritual. “I would be honoured to partake in the God of Wine’s harvest.”

  The priest bowed, clearly conveying that he approved of Sara, and left.

  Ah. He’d been rude to pick ale over wine in Tol’s temple. “No charge for wine, either?” The Republican system made no sense to him.

  “The first cup is free. After that service becomes very slow until one contributes to the Temple.” Sara pointed to the flushed young man who was tossing a handful of coins into the Temple’s small shrine.

  “Another round for me and my friends!”

  Lance sized him up at a glance. From the cut of his clothes, a merchant’s son. The heart brand of a coeuron showed on his wrist, likely earned off when he was but a boy.

  Exactly the sort of romantic fool Fitch was looking for with time and money on his hands, no memory of slavery and a deep longing to not be ashamed of being a Gotian.

  The priest brought red wine for Fitch’s table and Sara, but somehow kept forgetting Lance’s ale. With increasing impatience, Lance listened to Fitch’s impassioned speech about the “glory of Gotia” and “our ancestral lands.”

  Shouldn’t he be talking about “freedom”?

  An older man stepped partway inside the temple. He waved off the priest and raised his voice, “Breslin? I need you in the shop.”

  The young man climbed unsteadily to his feet, and most of his companions likewise suddenly had places they needed to be.

  Fitch swaggered to his feet. “The shop? If you’re ready to be a man, to fight as your ancestors did, come join us. Or, of course, you can stay in the shop and serve the enemy.”

  Breslin flushed pink with mortification. “Most of our customers are Gotians—we have a butcher shop—”

  Fitch sneered.

  Breslin’s father seemed to know who Fitch was. “Join you in being slaughtered?” he asked angrily. “Word is you lost men at the bog and are now trying to replace them.”

  “The Legion’s losses equalled ours,” Fitch said, stung. “In a few days’ time, we’ll strike a true blow to the enemy. The Republicans will know that they are safe no more and cower in their villas. Your son could be part of history. A father should not hold his son back out of cowardice.”

  The father’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t protest the insult. “Breslin, now!”

  Looking miserable, Breslin slunk out. So did the others.

  Fitch slammed his hand on the table in disgust. “More wine!” he bellowed.

  Instead the priest finally brought Lance his ale.

  Fitch noticed them for the first time. His eyes narrowed in fury.

  Lance’s heart sank. It had been a mistake to follow Fitch inside. He wouldn’t want witnesses to his failure.

  The priest lingered at their table and shook his head. “The wine flows when that one is here. He’s good for business, but he stirs up the young pups. I fear he’s bad for Gotia,” he said sadly. “The Legions will be sent.”

  Lance winced at the picture that brought to mind. He couldn’t deny the truth of it: the Republic’s Legions would crush Fitch’s rebellion and the countryside would suffer. He reminded himself that Wenda had charged him to teach the rebels magic, not to win hopeless battles. The best way for Gotia to achieve independence was through sacrifice. But first he had to persuade Fitch to take him seriously.

  He stood up, but Fitch was already storming out. “Come on, Sara.”

  Sara calmly drank the last of her wine before following. Lance realized he hadn’t touched his ale; another insult, most likely, but one he didn’t have time to rectify. He took her arm and hustled her after Fitch.

  He could hear some sort of commotion on the street, and when he went up the steps he saw a herd of sheep being driven through town.

  Everyone else waited in doorways for the herd to pass, but Fitch waded straight out into the noisy mass. Unwilling to lose his chance, Lance followed.

  Ewes baaed and butted into his knees, forcing him to move at an angle toward Fitch and fight for any progress. Fifty animals must have gone by before he caught up.

  “I need to speak to you,” he called, grabbing Fitch’s shoulder.

  “Well, I don’t want to hear it.” Fitch shook him off. “Go back to camp where you belong. Tell Willem he’ll hear about this later. Right now I have more wine to drink.”

  Lance blocked the other man’s way. “I’m not a child. You will speak to me with respect.” It was too much. All the emotions of the past week came boiling up: the frustration of resisting Sara’s willing body until she was fully herself again, his growing worry that he was going to fail in his mission, and the itch of wanting to heal but having no patients.

  “Or what?” Fitch asked, the light of battle coming to his eyes. “You’ll pray for mercy for my soul?”

  Lance slugged him in the jaw. “Or that.”

  He might lack Fitch’s skill with a sword, but his arms bulged with muscle from his youthful blacksmithing and his toothache was not very weakening. Time to have th
is out.

  Fitch flew backward, deflecting off a terrified sheep, but came up quickly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His lip bled, but he didn’t wipe it. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin.

  “Sara,” Lance said without taking his eyes off his opponent, “this fight is between Fitch and me. Don’t interfere. Absolutely no knives,” he added sternly.

  She didn’t reply, and he couldn’t see if she’d nodded. Fitch was advancing on him.

  Lance set the parameters, raising his voice in order to be heard over the tumult. “Just the two of us. Bare-handed.” He turned so that they faced each other while dirty white sheep streamed around them.

  “Agreed.” Fitch gave a short nod, then attacked.

  The bastard was quick, Lance would give him that—he landed two blows on Lance’s chest and ducked Lance’s returning uppercut—but Fitch wasn’t a pugilist. He swung his arm in a roundhouse arc instead of punching straight from the shoulder, robbing his blows of power, and his training as a swordsman had him aiming his blows at Lance’s chest.

  Lance shrugged off another blow to his shoulder and plowed his own fist into Fitch’s stomach.

  Fitch grunted, air escaping, but when Lance tried to follow up with a jab to the gut Fitch twisted aside and landed a wicked right cross.

  Pain exploded in Lance’s jaw as his rotten tooth tore free of the gum. He spit the bloody tooth out. The injury made him furious, and he recklessly stepped in close to Fitch, accepting two more punches to the chest, in order to slam his own powerful fists into Fitch’s body. One in the solar plexus, making him double over, then a second to his too-handsome face.

  The skin split just above Fitch’s eyebrow, and blood poured into Fitch’s eyes. A sheep butted him, preventing him from retreating.

  In his own red haze, Lance pummeled his opponent three more times. The last blow sent Fitch staggering off-balance. He tripped over a sheep and fell on his arse. Baaing in outrage, the ewe trampled his legs.