Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  “Nir,” Lance spit the word.

  Sara groaned in pain.

  To his surprise, Nir removed the sword from his throat and stepped back. “Go ahead. Attend her labours. My God and I will wait to take our victory.”

  He exited the log, though Lance had no doubt he would guard the entrance.

  Sara moaned again and bit down on her lip hard enough to draw blood.

  Lance lowered himself to his knees and held her clenched fist. Though the Goddess didn’t enter him, he could feel healing flowing into Sara like a stream of water, easy and natural. He could do nothing for the contractions squeezing her womb, but he could take away her back pain and stiffness, and heal her poor, mangled lip.

  Once the contraction eased, Sara clutched his hand and gasped out, “Nir. Switched allegiances. Now serves Vez.” Tears ran down her cheek. “He means to sacrifice the babe.”

  Lance sank back on his butt, mind reeling. And he’d been thinking things couldn’t get any worse...But, really, had things changed that much? “He’s always served Vez.”

  Calming slightly, Sara reached beneath a fold of her skirt and silently showed him her belt-knife. Without a word, Lance touched the haft of his own knife. What good two small knives, meant for cutting up meat, not even long enough to be called daggers, would do against a trained swordsman was debatable, but they were better than nothing.

  “When the time comes, we’ll fight.” Lance had not come this far to let some bully take Sara from him. “But first let’s see how much longer you have to labour.”

  Raising Sara’s dress, he took a look between her legs. And felt his face blanch. The Goddess had cut things quite fine. If he’d lingered any longer on the battlefield...”Your body’s ready. Do you feel an urge to push?”

  “Yes. I’ve been fighting it for the last two contractions,” Sara said. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her cheeks were red with exertion.

  As always her strength amazed him. “I’m here now,” he said gruffly. “Go ahead and push next time. I’ll make it as easy on you as I can,” Lance told her.

  But she shook her head, eyes frantic. “The baby doesn’t have a soul. What if he dies at the moment of birth?”

  Lance’s pulse spiked, but he kept his voice calm. “Being soulless isn’t instantly fatal.” Loma had said the baby would refuse to eat and waste away.

  But she wasn’t soothed. “What if I only survived because I’d already conceived before I gave my soul to the blue devil?” Her voice broke. “He’s so little. How can he survive without a soul?”

  “Stop,” Lance said firmly. “You’re torturing yourself over things you cannot change. You need to focus on giving birth now. We can worry about his soul later.” After, for instance, they’d dealt with the madman lurking outside.

  Her face contorted, obviously fighting a contraction. She tried to hold her legs together, but Lance wedged himself between her knees. “What are you doing?”

  “My plan to earn a seed of magic following the Qiph Way is risky,” she said, panting. “It would be safer if I give the baby my soul. I’m stronger, more likely to survive without one.”

  Every nerve in Lance’s body revolted. “No!” He squeezed her hand, horrified. “Loma’s mercy, promise me you won’t do that.” Tears burned in his eyes and the back of his throat. He scrambled for the right words to persuade her. “I just got you back. I can’t bear to lose you again.” The love he had for their child was mostly potential love. He would do everything in his power to save both of them, but, if he had to choose, he would choose Sara. “Promise me, you won’t leave me again.”

  Sara slowly nodded. “Very well. I won’t leave you. But you have to promise me we’ll be a family.”

  “I swear it,” Lance said rashly. He’d think of some way to deal with Nir. “Now push.”

  She grimaced, her head thrashing from side to side. Her heels slid over the wood until he braced then, giving her something to push against.

  The baby’s head crowned. “He has dark hair,” Lance told her. “You’re doing well, keep pushing—”

  Her face reddened with effort. “Unnnh.”

  Lance moved to support the baby’s tiny head as it popped out. He couldn’t see the cord. “Take a few breaths, rest, then one more push. You can do it.”

  Sara didn’t rest long. She threw her head back and bore down again, back arched. “That’s it. There.” The baby’s body slid out; Lance caught his son. He was heart-stoppingly small: about a foot long, but weighing less than half that of a full-term, chubby infant. As Lance cut the cord, he was icily aware that his son was too silent, too still—He’s not breathing.

  “Just one more push for the afterbirth,” he told Sara, trying to distract her while he slipped a finger in the baby’s mouth, clearing the air passage. A hot pulse of healing passed from the Goddess into the boy’s lungs. Lance let out his own held breath as the babe inhaled his first.

  Lance smiled in relief. “He’s going to—”

  Sara screamed. “Lance!” Her eyes were wide, looking behind him.

  Nir. He’d forgotten the madman.

  Lance hastily set down the babe. Before he could turn, the heavy hilt of a sword smashed down on his left temple. World going dark, falling...

  They’d had less than a moment to be a family.

  * * *

  “The child lives?” Nir inquired offhandedly, crouching beside Lance.

  “Yes,” Sara rasped. No point in lying; Nir would never take her word about the babe’s demise.

  The baby lay quietly on her stomach. Sara pressed his small body to her with one hand and groped for her belt-knife with the other. If Nir tried to cut Lance’s throat, she would—what? Leap from her birthing bed while holding a newborn and somehow kill a trained warrior?

  Despair surged in her like a dark tide. Sara fought it off. As long as all three of them yet lived, there was still hope. The amount of blood running from Lance’s temple worried her. Had Nir staved in Lance’s skull? Loma, watch over your servant.

  Nir casually removed Lance’s belt-knife, tossing it outside the log, then turned and kicked her knife from her hand. He snorted. “Did you think to defeat me with that?”

  While she shook her stinging fingers, he snapped the metal blade in half.

  Without weapons, she felt as helpless as the sixteen-year-old girl she’d once been, at his mercy in a way she’d never felt as a soulless slave.

  A cruel smile curved Nir’s lips. “I’m so glad you’re back, Sarathena.” He scratched his nail down her cheek; his smile broadened when she flinched. “Wait here. I have to finish building Vez’s altar.” He exited the log.

  Sara stared after him in blank incomprehension. He’d given her a reprieve. Why?

  He wanted to raise her hopes before smashing them to flinders.

  She transferred the baby up onto her shoulder and draped the blanket over him to protect his small body from any chill. Rolling onto her knees, she shuffled over to Lance. Even that little effort left her legs trembling, and pain stabbed her groin.

  She examined the bloody gash on his temple with careful fingers. His skull seemed intact, but he didn’t rouse when she shook him or even, in desperation, slapped his face.

  Blinking back tears, Sara sank back down against the curved wood. Just to conserve her strength.

  She kissed the baby’s forehead, cherishing the time with him, even though she knew it was part of Nir’s plan. He no doubt thought it would hurt her more to see the baby killed after she’d had time to cuddle him and feed him.

  With a shaking hand, she cupped the baby’s so-small head. Brown eyes stared up at her. A fierce rush of gladness shot through her at this proof that the baby had been fathered by Lance, not Claudius. Their son.

  He lay absolutely still. He didn’t cry or kick as Rochelle’s
baby had. He didn’t suck his thumb or show any interest in her breast. All he did was breathe—and watch her.

  Because the baby had no soul. She’d stolen it from him.

  Her heart physically ached, as she faced the truth. She’d never know if her desperate plan to accrue Qiph magic and earn a new soul had worked. She and the baby were out of time.

  Sara shivered, her arms tightening around her child, as if Nir were already trying to rip her son away.

  She needed to come up with a plan, but her mind felt sluggish, stunted by fear and fatigue.

  The broken knife lay nearby. Sara eyed the shards distrustfully. Nir would never have forgotten a weapon in a thousand years, which meant he’d left it for her on purpose, to make things more challenging for him when he returned.

  She could still get the arrogant bastard, but she’d have to be very quick. The hilt held only a ragged inch of blade, so she picked up the shard instead. It cut into her palm.

  She considered her options. The hollow log had only one entrance. Escape was impossible: not in broad daylight, burdened with a newborn baby. Nor could she abandon Lance.

  She needed to take Nir by surprise. He was a hardened warrior, but she’d surprised him several times during her time as his slave by doing something most people—people with a soul—would never have considered.

  What would he expect of her? Nir would expect her to pick up the knife shard and protect the baby at all costs.

  A plan forming in her head, Sara said a quick prayer to Loma and made her preparations.

  When Nir returned she was sitting propped against one wall, singing softly to the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

  Nir sneered. “It always amazes me how quickly women get attached to their brats. Even the slavegirls who should know better.” He stretched out a hand. “Give him to me.”

  Sara scrambled to her feet and backed away. She let fear colour her voice. “No. Don’t do this.”

  He smiled and took a step toward her. “But I want to.”

  Sara shook her head and retreated again. Knobby wood pressed against her back. “Vez is the one who wants the baby dead. All these months my lack of reaction has frustrated you. But I have my soul back now. You can use the baby as a threat against me—make me beg.” Sara dropped dramatically to her knees. “I’ll do anything—anything—just don’t kill my baby.” She forced tears to her eyes by tightening her grip on the haftless knife. “Please.”

  Nir leaned closer, teeth bared in a fierce grin. “Foolish, Sarathena. I don’t need the baby for that. You’ll do anything to save your own miserable life. I’m going to whip that smooth, smooth skin of yours, carve my name into—”

  Now. Sara threw the blanket-wrapped bundle at his face, and then lunged forward with the knife shard.

  His hands came up to catch the “baby” and found only cloth. Reflexively, Nir batted the bundle aside and unsheathed his sword, but not before Sara sank the shard into his side. She angled it up under his rib cage, driving it as deep as it would go.

  And then Nir’s blade swept out and opened her throat. Wet blood drenched her chest, a red waterfall. She fell to her knees.

  Nir’s curses rang in her ears. Fatally wounding her had been an accident, a warrior’s trained response to an attack.

  Her gaze sought out Lance six feet away. He could heal her even in his sleep. She tried to crawl to him, but her vision darkened and her arms turned to mush. She collapsed on her face.

  She didn’t want to die. She’d promised Lance she wouldn’t leave him.

  She loved him so much; it was a fierce burning inside her. Instinctively, she knew Nir would kill Lance and the baby in a mindless rage. She would be together with Lance in the lands of the dead, protected from Mek by the Goddess of Mercy. But they wouldn’t be a family, because the baby wouldn’t be with them. He would slip away into gray limbo.

  It was wrong. The soul wasn’t hers to keep.

  Sara closed her eyes and did the last thing she could for her child: gifted him back his soul.

  Sheltered by Lance’s side and arm, the babe began to cry.

  * * *

  Wake or all is lost.

  The Goddess’s vibrant voice and the sound of a baby crying yanked Lance back to consciousness.

  Pain slammed into his head, nausea and dizziness colliding in a stomach-clenching whirl, but he forced his eyes open. And saw Nir ranting and shaking Sara. Her head flopped like a doll’s, blood fountaining everywhere, her eyes vacant, life dimming.

  No. Not again.

  Lance reached for her, a convulsive effort that sent a spike of agony through his head. He touched an ankle, but not hers. Nir blocked his way. Goddess, no, he was going to lose her—

  The Goddess showed him a memory: healing Spring Colt through the conduit of Winter Grass. As soon as he realized what she was telling him, Lance struck his head on the log floor. Stars exploded behind his eyes, his consciousness slipped, but it worked: the Goddess poured her blessed healing through Nir and into Sara.

  * * *

  Sara opened her eyes. She felt absolutely calm, the storm of emotion passed. All the guilt, grief, terror and love she’d experienced were wiped away.

  She’d expected to die. Since she still lived, Lance must have woken and healed her, though he appeared to have passed out again.

  A gaunt man with iron-gray hair held her shoulders. “Sarathena?”

  A baby cried weakly.

  The gaunt man turned toward the sound, then stopped, his mouth opening on a gasp. His hand touched a blood-stained spot on his side. Grimacing, he removed his breastplate and tunic and prodded his bare, unmarked skin. “Where’s the stab wound you gave me? What did your lover do to me?”

  Though she hadn’t seen it happen, Sara worked out the answer. “Lance healed the knife shard inside you.”

  His face grayed. “But that means...”

  “Every time you move, it will slice at your innards,” Sara finished.

  “Then you’ve killed me. I’ll die within a week.” He shifted his weight, then sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Vez’s malice.”

  You called, my priest?

  Though the god was clearly speaking to the gaunt man, the voice echoed inside Sara’s head, too. She wondered what the god wanted her to hear.

  “I’m dying,” the gaunt man said.

  Yes. Your organs already bleed inside you. I can make you strong again. You can crush the girl and her lover and their whiny brat.

  “You can heal me?” the gaunt man asked.

  No. Your body must die. But you can sacrifice you soul to become My servant, a blue devil.

  The gaunt swordsman curled his lip. “A bodiless thing? I’d rather die. I’ll go to the Hall of the Warrior and spend my days fighting, fucking and feasting.”

  But you’re no longer Nir’s follower. You abandoned Him and His halls. Vez laughed; the sound grated in Sara’s ears.

  The swordsman snarled in response, then gasped again, clutching his side.

  I am your only choice. Give yourself to me. Let us rule together.

  The swordsman hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Begone. I was a fool to ever listen to you. Sarathena, come here. You’re going to cut the shard out and then your lover can heal me again.”

  He tried to hand her his dagger. Sara just looked at it.

  He hissed. “I know that you gave up your soul for your brat. And now you don’t care about anything, who lives or dies, the baby, the father, yourself. None of them matter to you. Nor do you hate me.”

  Droplets of sweat formed on his forehead as he eased himself down to his knees. “You’ll help your enemy, because you don’t care.”

  What he said was true. Sara didn’t care. But she could still remember a little of what Sara-who-had-a-soul ha
d felt. The emotions didn’t touch her anymore, and the memories would fade soon, but right now she still remembered. And so, when he—Nir—closed her fingers around the dagger, she didn’t use it to probe for the broken off shard. Instead she stabbed him in the heart.

  He seized her, and she held him while he gargled and bled so that he wouldn’t touch Lance and be healed.

  Once she was certain he was dead, Sara let his body collapse where it would. Then she sat in the hollow log with the dead man and the crying baby and the unconscious man, watching the shadows lengthen on the wall.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Let him up,” Fitch said, striding forward.

  Rhiain and Edvard cautiously backed up. The battle had stopped, but neither side had laid down their weapons. Under Primus Pallax’s shouted orders, the legionnaires had retreated into neat ranks.

  The Primus’s helmet had fallen off when Edvard tackled him. He had short dark hair, not yet touched with gray, and even disarmed and surrounded he gave off an air of absolute authority. “Who are you?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

  “I’m Fitch, grandson of Chief Deglas. And you’re Ambrosius Pallax, my prisoner.” A fierce grin blazed through the sweat and gore of battle painted on his face.

  Primus Pallax lifted one heavy brow. “I may be your prisoner, but your men are surrounded and outnumbered by mine.”

  Rhiain bristled. “I can tearrr out yourrr thrrroat in a blink.”

  “Hush.” Fitch put his hand on her shoulder, but kept his gaze trained on his opponent. “Leave the negotiating to me.”

  Negotiating? Rhiain flicked her ears. She’d expected Fitch to challenge the Primus to single combat, not talk.

  “You’ve lost control of Gotia,” Fitch said. “From this day forward it is a free and independent country. You will withdraw your Legions. All Republicans with estates may leave with their lives and what can be carried on their backs...”

  Rhiain relaxed. Fitch was just laying out the terms of surrender.

  But then Primus Pallax countered with his own offer. “Gotia will remain a province of the Republic of Temboria. I can call up four more Legions just like these.” He waved a hand at his troops. “I can burn your Undying Forest and crush you at will.”