Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  She plucked a handful of green olives and threw them. Two bounced off his chest, but one hit his chin. His brown eyes blinked open.

  “Lance! You have to climb. Fire!” she added, in case he was too deliriouos to recognize the danger.

  “Fire?” His eyes widened. He faced the gnarled trunk, digging his hands and toes into the grooved bark. He pulled himself three feet off the ground, then reached for the branch beside her. His arm swung and missed. He dropped to the ground.

  The wind gusted again, swirling up a cloud of smoke and sparks. She turned her face into her sleeve, striving for air. “Lance!”

  Using the tree trunk, he pulled himself to his feet. “Sara, you have to get out of here. Go. Save the babe.”

  The babe? Indignation shook Sara. The baby only mattered because of him. Because he loved it.

  She only mattered because Lance loved her.

  What was the point in saving the baby if Lance died? What was the point of enduring Nir’s cruelty if not for the future reward of being a family with Lance?

  “No.” She shook her head. “I won’t leave without you. Climb or we all burn together.”

  Their gazes met, and he swore.

  The sparse grass had begun to burn when he jumped and caught the lowest branch, rocking it. Sara edged closer to the tree trunk, making room, but didn’t move higher yet.

  The smoke stung her eyes and lungs, but she refused to look away. His arm muscles bunched, and he pulled his chin level with the branch, then hooked first one elbow, then a swinging foot over. Relief loosened her tight chest as he scrambled onto the creaking branch.

  * * *

  Lance struggled in the coils of a nightmare. At least he hoped it was just a fever dream. He blinked, but Sara didn’t vanish. Her solemn blue eyes watched him through the screen of leaves. For some reason she’d cut her hair even shorter than his mother’s.

  Orange flames nipped from below, and he hastily pulled his feet up.

  “Climb,” she ordered.

  He obeyed, first standing on the branch, then stepping to a higher one. Sara climbed, too, and he positioned himself below her to catch her if need be.

  Then Sara edged farther out on a branch until she touched the stone wall. He squinted at it, full of doubt. The top was still three feet over her head. A pregnant woman should not climb so high.

  “It’s not safe,” he protested. “Come down.”

  “There is no down,” she said. “Boost me up.”

  Of course there was a—He glanced down and saw flames. The leaves around him were drying and curling in the heat, the lower branches starting to smoke. His heart slammed into a faster rhythm. He didn’t like this dream.

  “Now, Lance.”

  Cautiously, he slid his feet farther along the thinning branch. It wobbled, but didn’t break. Sara’s lighter weight allowed her to stand two branches above him, but hers was trembling, too.

  Her fingers dug into the cracks in the masonry. She set her foot on his shoulder and used it as a step. The branch creaked under their double weight; Lance grasped at the boughs above. On an upward bounce, Sara pushed down hard and jumped. She got her arms over the top of the wall, but her body hung down.

  A twig near Lance’s foot caught fire. A column of heat washed over him. He edged farther out along the branch, grabbed Sara’s foot and pushed. She scrambled awkwardly onto the top of the wall.

  The smoke stung his throat and eyes. His back bowed as he coughed.

  “Jump!” Sara yelled.

  He gasped in a partial breath and jumped. His hands slapped down flat on the top of the wall and his body slammed against rough stone. He hung there for a moment, the stone cool against his cheek. Heat from the inferno below roasted his back and crisped the hairs on his legs.

  His head pounded, and his vision swam with the combination of fever and smoke. His fingers began to slip. Any moment now he would fall into the hungry orange flames below.

  Strange. He’d always assumed he’d die of an illness.

  Fingers closed around his wrist. He saw Sara’s face above his, beautiful and unnaturally calm. “Climb.”

  “I can’t.” He slipped another inch.

  “Then we’ll both die, because I won’t let go,” she said simply.

  Fear speared through him, chasing away the fever clouding his thinking. He couldn’t let Sara and the babe die. He dug his fingers and toes into the cracks between stones, scrabbling and clawing upward. Then, somehow, his foot was over, and they sat together on top of the wall beside the burning olive tree.

  “Now down the other side,” Sara rasped between coughs. “You go first. Hang by your hands, then drop the rest of the way. You can catch me.”

  Her words seemed to float by, but after the third or fourth repetition Lance understood. With her coaching, he turned onto his stomach, then slid over the edge. He only hung by his hands for a moment before his fingers slipped, and he bruised his tailbone on the earth.

  At least the air here was cleaner. Lance lay back on the grass, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

  “Lance!”

  Looking up, he saw Sara’s feet dangling over the edge. He remembered that he was supposed to catch her. He stood up and she dropped into his arms, as neatly as if they practiced it every day. He grinned in pleasure at getting something right, even as her momentum sent him stumbling back a step. He fell on his arse again, Sara sprawled on top. Her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Kissing her was the most natural thing in the world.

  For a moment she kept her mouth closed, and hurt flooded his chest. Didn’t she want to kiss him? Didn’t she like him? But then she put one hand on his cheek and leaned down.

  Her lips touched his so softly, and clung so sweetly...He smiled into her eyes and stroked her hair, fascinated by the short feathery cap, so different than before. “Pretty.” His eyelids drifted shut.

  She shook his shoulder. “Lance, you have to get up.”

  “Why?” He kept his eyes closed.

  “We’re too close to the wall. The fire might spread.”

  Lance didn’t want to move. He opened one eye. “If I get up, what will you give me?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “What do you want?”

  He rolled his eyes at her silliness. “Another kiss, of course.”

  She considered for a moment. “I’ll kiss you, but only if you get up now.”

  Lance hauled his aching body to his feet. He swayed back and forth, then placed his hands on her shoulder and looked at her expectantly.

  She rocked up onto her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Her pregnant belly bumped him. He took a step backwards, off-balance. The sky revolved around him in a sickening way.

  “I’m not well,” he confessed to Sara.

  “Yes, I know. Let’s walk now.” She took his hand.

  Lance followed happily. As fever dreams went this was very nice. Usually he dreamt about being burned alive or being alone in the dark and cold. Still, he wished his feet hadn’t grown quite so big. They looked like small boats attached to his legs, and they kept tripping him up. “Stupid feet,” he said.

  “What?” Sara glanced back at him.

  “Stupid feet,” Lance repeated.

  Sara pondered this. “I don’t think any body part is intelligent on its own.”

  Lance studied his body. “You’re right! Stupid fingers. Stupid knees. Stupid nose.” He would have kept cataloguing body parts, but just then a massive shiver racked his body. He halted. The sky revolved again.

  Sara tugged on his hand. “Come on.”

  “I don’t want to.” Lance sulked. “Where are we going?”

  Sara stopped. “I’m going to the Legion camp. But I don’t think you should go there.”

  “Yes, I sh-s
hould,” Lance said, between chattering teeth.

  “Why?”

  Lance knew the answer to that one, which was good, because thinking was difficult right now. “Because I need to be with you.”

  “Why?”

  He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Don’t you want to be with me?”

  Sara’s mouth parted in surprise. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Then we should stay together.” Lance shivered again. “I need to lie down.” He suited action to word. The grass felt soft, but chilly. He shuddered. “Lie down with me,” he demanded.

  Without a word, Sara lay down beside him. He moved them both onto their sides, with her spooned in front of him. She spread her cloak over them like a blanket. Warmer, his tense muscles relaxed, and he rested his hand on the mound of her belly. He fell asleep counting the baby’s small movements.

  * * *

  Sara didn’t sleep. There was something very pleasant about being held by Lance, something too rare to waste in slumber.

  She wished Lance didn’t have a fever; she suspected it was affecting his ability to think. She tried to reason things through on her own.

  Number one, she needed to return to Nir so she could remain a slave and not be war plunder.

  Number two, Lance insisted on going with her.

  What would happen to Lance if they walked into the Legion camp together?

  He had an osseon slave brand. They would either enslave him or execute him as a runaway.

  She didn’t think Lance wanted to be a slave. And she didn’t want him to be executed.

  So maybe he shouldn’t come with her.

  She could get up right now and steal away. But the thought of leaving Lance lying feverish in a field made her twitch, uneasy. She tried to examine the feeling more closely.

  Lance had survived many illnesses; he would probably survive this fever, too, but...But the chances of his getting well were better if she could keep an eye on him.

  Also, being with Lance made her feel...warm? Content? No, safe. Though it was a necessary part of her plan, she didn’t want to return to Nir and place herself in his power again. Having Lance nearby would give her the strength to stay the course.

  So they should remain together. Which brought her back to the original problem.

  Slaves weren’t safe in the Legion camp. Who were safe? Legionnaires were safe.

  Therefore, Lance should become a legionnaire.

  Problem solved, Sara closed her eyes and slept.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Halt!” A scruffy, black-haired legionnaire suddenly stepped forward, barring their way with his spear.

  Lance stumbled to a stop. He’d been concentrating on the placement of his feet, and when he lifted his eyes both the legionnaire and the stockade seemed to appear as if by magic. From the rawness of the earthen ditch into which the palisade timbers had been driven, the stockade had been thrown up only a day or two before.

  “I need to go inside,” Sara said baldly.

  The unfriendly look in the legionniare’s eyes turned to puzzlement. “I know you. You’re Nir’s slave. Who’s this? A runaway?”

  “No,” Sara said, before Lance could speak. “He’s a dedicant. Lance, say these words: ‘I am a warrior. I have come to test my mettle against the followers of the God of War.’“

  “What?” Lance blinked. The black-haired legionnaire looked just as confused as he himself felt. Lance’s head swam. Tolium no longer burned, but smoke lingered in the air. He tasted ashes in the back of his throat.

  “Say them,” Sara insisted, her blue eyes focused on him.

  She was so beautiful. He’d loved running his fingers through her long brown hair, but its new shortness showed off the delicacy of her neck and skull, making her look very feminine. Warmth surged through Lance. He’d do anything for her. “I’m a warrior,” he started, then stopped, his memory failing.

  “He can’t do that, can he?” the legionnaire demanded, outraged. “I mean, he’s an osseon. I can see his bone brand.”

  “He’s unchained,” Sara argued. “Any unchained man may petition to become a dedicant. Lance say, ‘I have come to test my mettle.’”

  “I have come to test my mettle,” Lance repeated obediently. He squinted in the strong sunlight. It was both bright enough to hurt his head, but still early enough in the morning that he was cold. Or perhaps that was the fever?

  ‘“Against the followers of the God of War.’”

  “Against the followers of the God of War.” Lance put his hand to his throbbing head. Something about this seemed wrong, but in his woozy state he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  “Well, this’ll be easy. He can barely stand.” The legionnaire swaggered forward and tossed his spear at Lance’s feet. “Pick it up.”

  Lance stooped and almost fell as a wave of dizziness hit him. The fever had left him weak as well as muddled.

  “No,” Sara said firmly. “Combat isn’t the first test.”

  “Oh? And what is?”

  “Choosing a weapon.”

  “I just gave him a weapon.”

  Sara stared coolly at the legionnaire. “You were once a dedicant. You know that’s not how it’s done.”

  The legionnaire flushed under his patchy beard. He lifted his hand to slap her, but just then a brawny man stepped forward. “She’s right.” His blue eyes glittered with amusement.

  “Centurion!” The scruffy legionnaire saluted hastily.

  The square-jawed centurion smiled, showing a dimple. “Stay at your post. I’ll take the dedicant to the Fourth Legion’s priest to be tested. Lady, I suggest you go see Wettar.” For all the polite phrasing, Lance sensed it was an order.

  Sara nodded and vanished inside the stockade.

  Lance took a step after her, but the centurion blocked him. “Not a good idea. Her master is both high-ranking and jealous. Come with me.”

  Adrift, Lance followed him.

  * * *

  Dismay crossed Wettar’s face when Sara found him dicing with two legionnaires over a bolt of silk. She still felt disconnected from her own emotions, but she was getting better at recognizing them in others.

  Wettar abandoned the game and dragged her inside Nir’s empty tent. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

  “I’m Nir’s slave,” Sara said. “Where else would I be?”

  Wettar rubbed a hand over his bald head. “I don’t understand you, girl. You haven’t become like Cassia, have you? Convinced that Nir beats you because he loves you?”

  Sara didn’t understand love, but she knew it shouldn’t involve hurting people. “No.”

  Wettar broke into a sweat. “Nir’s out of camp right now. You can still sneak away. I won’t tell him you came by.”

  Nir probably wasn’t in camp because he was still searching Tolium for her.

  A slow boil of anger stirred inside Sara. “You knew he planned to take me as plunder. You knew and didn’t tell me.”

  “I’m his servant, not yours,” Wettar snapped. “You seem to get confused on that point sometimes. You forget that you’re no longer Lady Sarathena Remillus.”

  So Wettar knew her full name. Sara wondered briefly if he’d known from the first, but quickly disregarded the question as irrelevant.

  “I thought you were a good slave master, because you asked me to save Cassia,” she told him. “But you were just afraid of being blamed for her death once Nir’s temper cooled. You fear him.”

  Wettar barked a laugh. “He is the high priest of the God of War. Everyone fears him.” His face t
wisted. “Except highborn twotches like you. He’s obsessed with you.”

  The hairs lifted on Sara’s arms, despite the bright sunlight. “And if he’d ridden into camp with me facedown across his horse as plunder, you’d have let him do whatever he wanted to me, without a single protest.”

  “It wouldn’t be my place,” Wettar said, but he averted his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “Since you’re here, you might as well start on the washing.” He seized Nir’s dirty linen and thrust the pile at her.

  Sara was reluctant to take the bundle. Laundry was done at a small stream outside the stockade. Was he hoping Nir would catch her there and claim her as plunder?

  But if she disobeyed Wettar, he would have the right to beat her.

  Trapped, Sara accepted the laundry.

  * * *

  Rubies studded the breastplate of the priest of Nir, and, from the squat older man’s paunch, he hadn’t swung a sword in battle for years.

  “...the temerity of an osseon daring to apply for dedicant training.” The priest spluttered. “Outrageous.”

  “I completely agree,” the centurion said soothingly. “Still, he did observe the forms. He’ll have to be tested. It’s not like he’ll pass them, is it?”

  Lance’s head pounded, and it took far too much effort just to stay on his feet, so he ignored the priest’s sneers and slurs.

  To his surprise the blue-eyed centurion hung around—probably more to laugh at the spectacle than to keep the priest honest, but Lance still appreciated it.

  While the priest bustled about, unrolling a leather cloth on the grass and arranging weapons on it, Lance craned his head, searching for Sara. He didn’t like being separated from her. His instincts urged him to track her down—

  “Choose,” the priest said, stepping back.

  Bending over made Lance dizzy, so he crouched down beside the cloth. He reached for the nearest dagger, and the priest opened his mouth. Lance drew back his fingers. “I won’t make my choice until I have examined all the weapons,” he said clearly.