Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  And a set of manacles and a long chain for Lance.

  “Do you need anything else?” Pallax asked while a legionnaire pounded a four-foot iron spike through the slavechain into the ground.

  “Some swaddling to wrap the infant in,” Lance replied distractedly. His hands itched. He needed to touch Sara soon if he was to have a chance of stopping the labour. A half-formed plan bloomed in his mind: they could pretend Sara’s labour stretched for hours until the camp had emptied out for tomorrow’s battle, then lure the guard left behind—

  “Are you the father?” Pallax asked abruptly, and Lance remembered his talk of grandsons.

  Lance straightened his spine and looked him directly in the eye. “I am.” It was a vow.

  Pallax glanced down, flexing his fingers. “She didn’t betray you?” A casual question.

  Anger leaped like a flame in his chest. “Being raped isn’t a betrayal—” He stopped, caught by the triumph flaring in Pallax’s blue eyes.

  “So Claudius could be the father.”

  “I won’t let you take the babe,” Lance said quietly. Since he was in chains, Pallax likely didn’t take him seriously, but he meant it. He’d escaped from fetters before.

  Unfortunately, the first time had been from Pallax’s Legion camp during the invasion of Kandrith. Lance listened in stunned fury as Pallax turned to the sweaty legionnaire leaning on his sledge. “Better hammer in a second spike. This one’s strong.”

  So much for that plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As soon as they were alone, Sara flung her arms around his neck. “Lance! I’m so sorry I endangered you. I never should have brought you here,” she babbled.

  “You couldn’t have stopped me.” His arms closed around her in turn, slavechains clanking. Only his tender ribs kept him from crushing her to him. “Sara,” he murmured into her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

  Then her lips were on his, hot and desperate. Forgetting all the reasons they shouldn’t, he kissed her back, all but inhaling her mouth, hands cradling her head, tongue stroking hers. Desire burned out of control inside him like a wildfire. Her incoherent words of love only inflamed him further.

  And then her belly muscles rippled. He pulled back, breathing hard, and put his hand on her womb. “It’s probably false labour, but I should—”

  “The tether snapped,” Sara said in a small voice. “The baby’s soul is no longer shared between us. It’s bound only to me.”

  All the blood rushed from Lance’s head, leaving dizziness behind. His chest ached with anguish. He loved Sara and needed her to have a soul, but Goddess the price...

  He kissed her hands. “We’ve been expecting this,” he reminded her. “It was only a matter of time.” It’s not your fault, he wanted to add, but he feared the words would make her think he blamed her.

  Lance took a deep breath, forcing calm. “Which came first, the breaking of the babe’s soul tether, or the labour?”

  Sara’s forehead creased. “The soul string snapping.”

  Worse and worse. He’d hoped he could stop the labour and the child would live for another three months in Sara’s womb, giving them time to find a solution. But if the labour had come on afterwards, it might mean the babe was dead inside her.

  He tried to erase the dread from his expression. “Let me have a look at you.” Closing his eyes, he laid his hands on her swollen belly and—

  The Goddess didn’t come.

  Fiercely telling himself Her absence might mean the labour was natural and neither babe nor mother was in distress, Lance pushed gently against the taut skin.

  The babe pushed back. He could clearly feel a hand or foot. A wave of relief threatened to flood Lance’s eyes with tears. “The child lives,” he told Sara.

  “I’m so afraid,” she whispered. “Now that I have my soul back, my plan to follow part of the Qiph Way seems foolish. Impossible. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  It had always seemed crazed to him. But they’d been so desperate...”Don’t give up yet,” he said bracingly. “There may yet be something Loma can do for the babe. Right now, we need to concentrate on getting you and the babe safely through the labour. We can worry about his soul afterward, agreed?”

  She nodded, her eyes watery.

  * * *

  As dawn crept closer, Lance tried to hide his anxiety. Sara had been labouring on and off throughout the night and now lay with her eyes closed in exhaustion on the sweat-stained sheets. The brazier that warmed the tent had also turned the air heavy and stifling. His chest felt tight.

  Because the babe was underage and small, Lance had expected the labour to take less time, but matters were not progressing as they should—in part, he feared, because the soulless babe wasn’t cooperating.

  Sara moaned as another contraction woke her. Her exhaustion especially worried Lance. Because his touch should have helped her.

  He almost never felt the Goddess’s presence for healing something as inconsequential as fatigue. It didn’t mean anything that he didn’t feel Her now, he argued with himself.

  Lied to himself.

  He ought to pray directly to the Goddess, but an aggrieved anger held him back. He didn’t deserve to be treated so.

  Lance hung onto his anger and didn’t acknowledge his growing fear that he’d damaged his ability to heal.

  * * *

  Rhiain’s ears pricked up at the sound of someone tramping toward her through the forest, breaking twigs and scuffing up dirt.

  Since she made the shopkeepers nervous, she’d risen at dawn to patrol the fringes of their temporary camp, but it had only made her more restless. Nervous excitement rippled over her pelt. Had Fitch come to tell her it was time for battle?

  A shift of wind told her who it was just before Edvard stomped into sight.

  “Fitch put me in the reserve!” Temper flushed his face, making his white-blond eyebrows stand out. “He promised we’d fight side by side, but he’s still treating me like a cripple!”

  “That’s not trrrue,” Rhiain defended Fitch’s decision.

  “I may not be as good with a sword as him, but I’m better than some of the others he’s taking!” Edvard burst out.

  Rhiain’s throat ached in sympathy for her friend. It must seem to him that he was being slighted, but...if she’d been chief, she would’ve put Edvard in the reserve, too. She didn’t want him to get hurt, especially without One who Wore the Brown at hand.

  Edvard hadn’t been there when Fitch explained his battle plan. To his troops, Fitch had preached victory. When speaking to his trusted warriors, his view had been much more pessimistic.

  “They are too many, and we too few. We cannot win a straightforward fight. We must lure them into the woods, but they’ll suspect an ambush if we retreat too quickly. They must believe they’ve routed us and pursue at speed.”

  Using the same cold-blooded logic, Fitch had decided to use the inexperienced ex-slaves and Tolium recruits on the front lines and reserve his veterans for the ambush. Fitch himself would lead the vanguard, taking the most dangerous and honourable position.

  “The reserve is important,” Rhiain offered. Fitch was just trying to keep his brother alive.

  Edvard shot her a withering look. “What would you say if you were in it?”

  Rhiain growled deep in her throat. She would have hated it if Fitch had relegated her to the rear.

  “See?” Edvard said.

  Rhiain was saved from replying when Relena hailed them.

  “There you are.” Determination was etched on the former slave’s broad, lined face. “I have twelve women organized to help with the injured, but I can’t find your friend, the priest. Is it true he ran back to Slaveland?” Relena’s
lips twisted bitterly. “Not that I’d blame him for wanting to avoid the slaughter, but it leaves me in the lurch.”

  “He didn’t run away!” Rhiain flattened her ears, bristling. “He went to save Sarrra. He’s in the Legion stockade.” She’d scented him earlier, while scouting for Fitch.

  “So close?” Relena breathed. Her gaze became intense. “What are you waiting for?” she scolded. “Save him and bring him back here...so he can save them.” She flung out a bony hand, indicating the crowd of former slaves and inexperienced city-dwellers.

  Even from fifty feet away, Rhiain could sense their unease from the way they shifted and kept touching their makeshift weapons. They were either silent or too loud, in defiance of their fear.

  Rhiain flexed her claws in distress. Fitch needed her help to break the cavalry and hold the line of battle. He depended on her.

  But Relena was right, too. Before there could be any hope of victory, there would be a slaughter. The wounded would need Lance desperately. And, once healed, they could rise up and fight again. An army that renewed itself would be invaluable to Fitch.

  Lance had said he’d done all he could, but she knew him. He couldn’t stand by without helping while someone was in pain.

  She raked the needle-strewn soil in indecision. Maybe there was still time—

  Her head snapped up at the distant roll of drums. The harsh rhythm announced that the Republic’s Legions were marching to battle.

  Edvard patted her shoulder, brown eyes wells of sympathy. “Go fight by my brother’s side. I’ll free Sara and Lance. I can get inside the stockade without getting killed.”

  “But how will you get back out?” Rhiain asked. The legionnaires wouldn’t all march to battle; they’d leave a small force to guard the stockade.

  Edvard vibrated with excitement. “Trust me, Rhiain. I can do it. I know I can.” He stood taller now that his leg was straight, and in the weeks since he’d started assisting Lance at the forge his chest had filled out and his arms had grown brawny.

  Fitch was wrong to think of him as a boy. He was a warrior like her.

  “Of courrrse I trrrust you. Thank you.”

  An awkward silence fell.

  “I have to go.” She took two steps, then turned back and nuzzled Edvard’s cheek, scent-marking him as hers.

  * * *

  Time seemed to slow while Sara labored, then skip forward during her shrinking recovery period.

  When yet another contraction—her two hundredth?—eased, the sudden silence startled Sara. She realized she could no longer hear drums or centurions bawling orders or armor rattling. The Legions had marched out to battle. Turning her head she saw that yellow daylight had replaced the pink and golds of dawn.

  “Rest.” Lance massaged her neck, chains clanking.

  She’d just relaxed her tense shoulders when the tent flap opened.

  They both froze, but it wasn’t Nir or Pallax, but rather a small boy in a blue toga.

  Joy pierced her. “Sylvanus!” Sara held out her arms.

  Her brother hesitated in the doorway. “Are you really Sarathena?”

  “Yes, I am.” She blinked, but tears overflowed down her cheeks. They were the first tears she’d shed since gifting her soul.

  “Who—?” Lance started to ask.

  “Lance, this is my brother, Sylvanus,” Sara said softly.

  Lance dipped his head in a polite greeting. “Thank you for bringing aid to your sister last night.”

  A glow of love warmed Sara’s heart. Lance was being very gracious considering they might have killed Nir and escaped last night if not for Primus Pallax’s sudden appearance.

  Sylvanus glanced at Lance, but didn’t reply. Of course not; in his eyes Lance was just a slave. Sara almost ordered him to show more respect, but held her tongue. The issue could wait. A boy of eight only copied the behavior of others. He could learn better.

  “How did you come to be a slave?” Sylvanus asked, voice shrill. “Did you run out of money? You could have gone to Primus Pallax. He wouldn’t have let you starve.”

  “I had my reasons,” Sara said firmly. “Is Primus Pallax treating you well?”

  Sylvanus shrugged. “He’s stern, but he doesn’t beat me. He says I’m a good pupil, and he’ll sponsor me to become a dedicant when I’m older.”

  Oh, will he? Sara tamped down a surge of anger at this generosity—but, of course, the Remillus estate would’ve been confiscated. Sylvanus would have to make his own way in the world, and joining the Legion and rising through the ranks was an honourable career by Republican standards. “Do you want to stay with him?”

  Sylvanus looked blank. “I have to. I’m his ward.”

  “You could come with us,” Lance offered generously.

  Her brother blinked. “Where?”

  “To Kandrith. You call it Slaveland,” Sara said. “Lance and I live there.”

  At this exaggeration, Lance squeezed her shoulder in gratitude. She smiled back up at him, though really where else could they go? Wenda and she would just have to learn to tolerate one another.

  Sylvanus screwed up his face in bewilderment. “Why would I want to leave the Republic?”

  The cozy domestic picture forming in her mind vanished. Sara blinked, but didn’t try to change her brother’s mind. “I’m glad you’re well and cared for.” She cleared her throat. “Did you bring a message from the Primus?”

  “What? No.” He glanced out the tent flap where a line of light showed. “I’m assisting the blacksmith today. He’ll expect me to return soon. Here.” He took two steps forward and thrust something small and hard into Sara’s hands. “I have to go.” He pivoted and started to push through the tent flap.

  She might never see him again. “Wait!” Sara cried, seized with grief and longing at this severing of her last link to her childhood.

  He looked back over his shoulder, almost vibrating with the desire to leave. A shaft of sunlight lit gold threads in his curly brown hair.

  Emotion thickened her throat. “I love you. Always remember that. And—and—” She flailed for some last bit of sisterly wisdom. “Don’t trust Claudius.”

  An impatient nod, and then he was gone, taking the sunlight with him. The tent flap closed, wrapping them in shadow.

  Lance stood behind Sara and put his arms around her, rocking her against him. He said nothing while she wept.

  Another labour pain descended. She set her teeth while it grew and crested.

  “So what did he give you?” Lance asked, patently trying to distract her.

  She opened her palm and showed him the small iron key that opened his fetters.

  * * *

  Sara exhaled gustily as the contraction slackened. The labour pains were getting stronger, but were still far enough apart that she could walk in between. Now or never. She nodded to Lance, and he hauled her to her feet, wincing as he jarred his sore ribs.

  Lance opened the tent flap and helped her through into bright sunshine. Her eyes watered.

  “Walking will help her labour,” Lance told the dim shape of their guard.

  Sara held her breath. Please, let it be that easy.

  “I think not.” The voice was flat. And familiar.

  Vision clearing, she saw Wettar barring their way with a long black whip.

  His ear had been cut off.

  His shaved scalp made the mutilation obvious: a gory line of dried blood led from the ruined hole down his neck. Sara swallowed back bile.

  “It’s Wettar,” she whispered to Lance. “Nir’s slave master.”

  Wettar’s eyes were dead. “Go back inside the tent. If you escape, Nir promised to pull out my entrails and feed them to me.”

  “Do you still have the ear?” Lance asked, no doubt planning to heal it back on.r />
  The odd question didn’t faze Wettar; he shook his head, as incurious as a snake. “Nir fed it to the fire.”

  Strange, yesterday she’d thought she’d seen Wettar clearly for the first time and judged him a coward. But now she realized that Sara-without-a-soul’s sight had been pitiless. Today, she saw a man shocked and reeling from betrayal. A man who’d begun life as a sanguon and kept serving the same master, perhaps out of habit or fear, never actually losing his slave chains.

  “You’re a free man,” she told him. “You don’t have to serve Nir. You can just walk away. He’ll be too busy chasing me to spare any thought for you.”

  For a moment Sara thought Wettar might do it. Nir had had no right to cut off his ear, and somewhere inside, Wettar must be angry about it. But then he shook his head. “I have no desire to see my own guts. Get back in the tent.” He uncoiled the whip. The braided leather slithered restlessly over the ground as if alive.

  Lance pushed Sara behind him and lowered his voice. “Run when I say run. No arguments.” Gaze fastened on Wettar, he feinted to the left.

  The whip cracked out. A line of red appeared on his forearm.

  “Run!” Lance lowered his head to charge.

  Sara had taken only three steps when a roar shook the camp.

  She stopped. Lance stood still. Wettar’s eye widened, startled out of his abnormal calm.

  The few other clerks and slaves in the vicinity dived for cover at the sight of a huge cat shandy bounding toward them. Relief flooded Sara’s veins. “Rhiain.”

  “Not Rhiain,” Lance breathed. Sara quickly saw her mistake: this racha was just as large as Rhiain, but the mane was white-blond and instead of markings like dappled sunlight, the shandy’s handquarters were streaked with black, the better to hide in shadows. “It’s Edvard,” Lance said. “I’d bet money.”

  Wettar shakily raised the whip. “Stay away!”

  The shandy snarled, exposing rows of sharp teeth.

  Wettar’s nerve broke. He ran, stumbling over his own feet.

  “I’m herrre to rrrescue you!” Edvard rumbled proudly. Though much deeper, his voice was still recognizable as the boy Sara had known.