Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  Gate to Kandrith

  By Nicole Luiken

  Sarathena Remillus, daughter of the newly elected Primus of the Republic of Temboria, has been given a mission: discover the secret of slave magic. Anxious to escape the corruption and treachery of the capital, Sara welcomes the chance to finally prove herself far away in Kandrith, the tiny nation of former slaves.

  Accompanying her on the journey is Lance, a Kandrithan to whom Sara owes her life. Lance despises the nobility, and is determined to resist his desire for Sara, despite her attempts to entice him into divulging the secret of his magic.

  Soon their travels become fraught with peril, and Sara discovers she’s fallen victim to the ultimate betrayal. To end a war between two nations, she will have to make the ultimate sacrifice…

  134,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  It’s hard to get excited about the month of March. The weather in this part of the world isn’t quite spring, and if it’s still cold, can make a long winter feel even longer. There are no fun holidays to look forward to except the green beer, corned beef and cabbage of St. Patrick’s Day, and the school season is at a point where the kids are starting to whine about having to wake up in the morning and go.

  That’s why I’m excited about our 2012 March releases at Carina Press. The variety and excellence of the stories give us a reason to anticipate and enjoy the month of March! The rich diversity of these books promises a fantastic reading month at Carina.

  Kicking off the month is mystery author Shirley Wells, returning with her popular Dylan Scott Mystery series. Joining her book Silent Witness at the beginning of March is BDSM erotic romance Forbidden Fantasies by Jodie Griffin; Christine Danse’s paranormal romance Beauty in the Beast; and a romantic steampunk gothic horror that’s like no steampunk you’ve ever read, Heart of Perdition by Selah March.

  Later in the month, fans of Cindy Spencer Pape will be glad to see her return with another paranormal romance installment, Motor City Mage, while Janis Susan May returns with another creepy gothic mystery, Inheritance of Shadows. Historical romance lovers will be more than pleased with A Kiss in the Wind, Jennifer Bray-Weber’s inaugural Carina Press release.

  I expect new Carina Press authors Joan Kilby, Gillian Archer and Nicole Luiken will gain faithful followings with their books: Gentlemen Prefer Nerds, an entertaining contemporary romance; Wicked Weekend, a sexy and sweet BDSM erotic romance; and Gate to Kandrith, the first of a fantasy duology that features wonderful world-building. Meanwhile, returning Carina authors Robert Appleton and Carol Stephenson do what they do best: continue to capture readers’ imaginations. Grab a copy of science-fiction space opera Alien Velocity and hot romantic suspense Her Dark Protector.

  Rounding out the month, we have an entire week of releases from some of today’s hottest authors in m/m romance, as well as some newcomers to the genre. Ava March kicks off her entertaining and hot m/m historical romance trilogy with Brook Street: Thief. Look for the other two books in the trilogy, Brook Street: Fortune Hunter and Brook Street: Rogue, in April and May 2012. Erastes, who can always be counted on to deliver a compelling, well-researched historical, gives us m/m paranormal historical romance A Brush with Darkness, and science-fiction author Kim Knox makes her debut in the m/m genre with her sci-fi romance Bitter Harvest. KC Burn gives us the stunning m/m contemporary romance First Time, Forever. Joining them are new Carina Press authors Dev Bentham, with a sweet, heartfelt m/m romance, Moving in Rhythm, and Larry Benjamin with his terrific debut novel, m/m romance What Binds Us.

  As you can see, March comes in like a lion but will not go out like a lamb. All month long we offer powerful stories from our talented authors. I hope you enjoy them as much as we have!

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  For my writer’s group (AKA The Cult of Pain)

  Acknowledgments

  My writer’s group critiqued this novel chapter by chapter, month by month, and their suggestions made it a much better novel. I’m afraid to list everyone for fear of forgetting a name, but here goes: Aaron, Ann, Barb, Billie, BJ, Cheyne, Eileen, Jennifer, Karen, Kevin, Kirby, Marg, Mari, Rachelle, Sue, Susan. Special thanks to Mari Bergen for chivvying me about character and description while still remaining enthusiastic about the story. Also thanks to my wonderful editor, Stacy Boyd, who encouraged me to ‘revise and resubmit’.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Almost time.

  Sara’s stomach compressed into a hard knot as the tall, cadaverous high priest of Nir, the God of War, strode in to the banquet hall.

  Seeking reassurance, Sara touched the crossbow she’d secretly had mounted to the underside of the head table. Hidden by the blue tablecloth, her fingers found the crossbow bolt she’d loaded, the cord she’d cranked back still taut, ready to fire as soon as she gave a hard pull on the lever.

  Her mouth felt as dry as the desert. The circular hall’s white dome seemed to press down on her as if she were an insect trapped under a bowl. Eight long tables radiated out from the head table’s dais in the middle, each seating two hundred men and women. The rise and fall of so many people talking battered her ears like a sea of sound, most of them ignorant of the drama playing out.

  They would assume Nir had come, like the other priests, to confer a blessing on her father, the new Primus of the Republic of Temboria. Was she the only one who noticed the way Nir ignored protocol and headed straight toward her father? All high priests were called by the same name as their god, but Nir seemed to believe he was the God of War incarnate.

  Her hands felt icy. Now that the time was at hand, her contingency plan seemed inadequate.

  When Primus Vidor died unexpectedly two weeks ago without heirs, the Senate had been divided between two candidates: the wealthy Lord Favonius and General Pallax, whose military victories had won Nir’s favor. No one had been more shocked than Sara when Aleron Remillus had emerged as the compromise choice after four days of deadlock.

  In one stroke, her father had elevated their minor House to a major power, secured the future of Sara’s beloved younger brother and rid their family of crippling debt, but he’d also made enemies, most notably the priest from the powerful Temple of Nir.

  Her father believed he’d placated the temple with a large “thanks offering” immediately after his selection, but, unlike her father, Nir was not a consummate politician. His
response to the Senate’s failure to vote as he wished was apt to be a lot more…direct. And violent.

  Sara’s nerves tightened at Nir’s approach. He scowled as he was forced to wait for the diminutive priest of Cepi, the God of Small Favors, to grant his benediction.

  Archers stood watch on the second-floor inner balconies to guard against assassination, but most legionnaires worshipped the God of War. She did not trust them.

  Again, her hand went to the crossbow lever. If Nir drew his sword, she would—

  A man’s hand slid up her thigh. Sara flinched, barely sucking back a shriek.

  “Lady Sarathena, have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” young Lord Claudius Pallax asked from his seat on her right. He leaned in close to be heard over the clank of dishes, blue eyes soulfully wide.

  The compliment left Sara cold. Claude seemed to think paying homage to her beauty gave him the right to paw her body. “No, tell me.” Only Aunt Evina’s strict instructions kept a smile on Sara’s lips as she peeled his hand off her leg for the third time that evening.

  The wild hoyden that still lived inside her wanted to punch the leer off Claude’s overly red mouth, but Sara no longer had the luxury of ignoring political realities.

  Her demand stymied Claude for a moment. He paused to eat a honeyed fig. “You look…like a goddess,” he said at last.

  “Don’t say that,” Sara said lightly, her attention on Nir as he shifted from foot to foot. “If you make the Goddess of Desire jealous of me she might turn me into a fawn.” In the stories, pretty girls were always being transformed into wild animals. In truth, Sara had never quite understood the supposed horror of such a fate.

  She held Claude’s sweaty hand at her side, as much to keep him from touching her as to prevent him from discovering the hidden crossbow. He rubbed his thumb across her wrist. “If you were a fawn, I’d keep you in my garden and feed you from my hand.”

  Sara didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Even as a deer she wouldn’t be allowed to run free.

  Claude kept talking. Sara smiled glassily; Cepi had glimpsed Nir behind him. His flowery speech stumbled to a halt. He blessed her father and hurried off, his bald head gleaming under the hundred-candle light of the chandelier.

  Nir swept up to the head table, his gray eyes burning in his olive complexion. Disdaining the elaborate folds of the toga, he wore a legionnaire’s breastplate and old leathers. A scabbard and sword hung at his hip. Though his cropped, gray hair showed his true age, his body moved like a warrior’s, without stiffness.

  Sara held her breath—yes, he’d stopped in the right spot. She’d calculated the angle of the crossbow precisely. Because of the dais, her arrow should take Nir in the throat—and, if she missed, fly harmlessly over those seated at the banquet tables.

  Of course, if the blonde cuorelle—one of the hundreds of female Heart Slaves acting as servers tonight, every one of them exotically white-skinned—pouring wine at the table on the right stepped into the line of fire…I will not miss.

  Her father began the ritual. “To Nir, the God of War, I offer the heart of a racha. May it find favor with you.”

  Despite the anxiety knotting her belly, Sara felt a surge of pride watching her father. Age and illness had shrunk Primus Vidor into a scrawny stick of a man. Her father was a robust man of forty, powerful in body and in mind. The silver border of his rank shone against the folds of his deep blue toga as he waved forward a platter of meat, still bloody.

  A voluptuous cuorelle knelt gracefully and held the dish aloft.

  Nir curled his lip, and Sara’s body flushed with hot temper. How dare he? The racha was a fierce predator with razor-sharp claws that inhabited the deserts of Qi. The meat had cost three thousand gold coins. Eat it, you swine.

  Still Nir said nothing. Sara felt sweat pool between her breasts as the cavernous hall fell silent in a spreading circle. Lady Pallax stopped tittering over the risqué story Aunt Evina was telling; Claude ceased bragging about the sweet filly he’d purchased.

  “This sacrifice is unworthy,” Nir cried in ringing tones. His hand swept up—

  Almost, Sara triggered the crossbow, but Nir’s hand didn’t touch his sword. He flipped up the platter instead.

  The poor cuorelle shrieked, covering her face. The silver tray hit the table, then fell to the floor with a hellacious clatter. The racha meat tipped off, splattering blood on the cuorelle’s bare feet and sleeveless tunic. All two thousand Republicans in attendance gasped.

  Her father’s jaw tightened, but he remained calm. “I’m distressed that the meat displeased you. Another platter will be brought from the kitchens. Julen?”

  Her father’s chief toady bowed from his place standing behind the head table and hurried off.

  The second platter, Sara knew, had been intended for the consumption of those at the head table. There was no third. Sara’s mouth tasted of ashes. Her crossbow and all her meticulous calculations were useless. Nir needn’t resort to assassination; all he had to do to block her father’s ascension to Primus was reject the next offering and refuse to give him Nir’s blessing.

  She watched helplessly as another cuorelle brought out the second platter and knelt in front of Nir, her eyes submissively cast down.

  “This sacrifice—” Triumph shone in Nir’s eyes—but then, in the next moment, something changed, broke.

  Nir blinked. He looked…uncertain.

  “If you try it, I’m sure you’ll find the meat to your liking,” her father said.

  With yellowed fingernails, Nir jerkily picked up the racha heart. Instead of taking a ritual bite, he stuffed it all into his mouth and chewed desperately at the tough meat. Sara’s own gorge rose, but Nir managed to swallow it down without choking.

  Nir shot her father a scorching glare. His hand went up as if his arm had been yanked and traced the sign of the god’s blessing over Sara’s father. Teeth bared, but still silent, Nir turned sharply away from the table, almost stumbling in his haste to leave.

  Everyone else began to talk again, but Sara was too disturbed. What had just happened? Studying her father’s bland, controlled face, Sara thought she saw satisfaction gleam in his eyes. Had he found some way to subtly blackmail Nir?

  She wished he’d told her his plans and saved her worrying. Not that she’d told him about the crossbow.

  The scrape of a knife on a plate brought her back to her surroundings. She would ask him when the feast ended—there were still ten more courses to come. She stared down with revulsion at the peppered songbirds’ tongues curled on her plate.

  Mouth dry, she drained the last of the red wine from her silver goblet. Hiding a grimace at its faint metallic aftertaste, she smiled at Lord Claudius Pallax, eldest son and heir of General Ambrosius Pallax, Nir’s candidate.

  Claude’s father had been sent to quell an uprising in the distant province of Gotia, but by now word of Primus Vidor’s death would have reached him. He could be marching toward Temborium even now, leading an army of loyal legionnaires… House Remillus’ fortunes could turn so quickly: a bloody coup, her father beheaded, herself either hastily married off or, worse, dedicated to the Temple of Nir, her beloved seven-year-old brother slain—

  Sara would do anything to prevent that.

  Her father and Aunt Evina had decided the best way to secure an alliance with House Pallax was for her and Claude to wed. Quickly. That way, when General Pallax returned he would find the marriage already taken place and his wife and son living in the Primary Residence as “honored guests”—hostages, if needed.

  Claude leaned closer to her. “You look flushed. Shall we go for a stroll? I can show you my new mare.”

  Cool air sounded wonderful. When had the room become so stifling? Sara almost accepted, before Claude’s gaze dropped to her breasts and she realized this was just one more attempt to hustle her off somewhere alone.

  “No, thank you.” She redirected the conversation. “Your mare sounds marvelous. Will you take her with you when
you join the Legion?”

  Claude’s shoulders hunched, an almost palpable cloud of resentment rolling over him. “Perhaps,” he mumbled. His father wanted Claude to follow in his footsteps and become a legionnaire. Claude, ably assisted by his mother, was resisting. Sara suspected the friction between Claude and his father was a large part of why Claude wanted to marry her, the daughter of his father’s political rival.

  Sara hadn’t understood Lady Pallax’s motives until Aunt Evina had enlightened her. “I’m afraid Lady Pallax has run up a rather large gambling debt. As her steadfast friend, I bought up all her promissory notes and told her not to worry about little things like interest or repayment. So, you see, when I asked her to promote the match between you two, she couldn’t refuse.”

  In all likelihood, Sara would marry Claude within the week.

  She told herself, again, that things could have been worse. Claude wasn’t physically repulsive. He had all his teeth and a full head of curly brown hair—even if he persisted in powdering it with gold dust. Nor could Sara complain that he was too old—he was ten months younger than she. Claude wasn’t cruel, although his mind moved at a snail’s crawl. Aunt Evina would say that made a good trait in a husband. Truly, Claude wouldn’t make a terrible spouse.

  But she dreaded the thought of lying with him.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Claude’s wide forehead. As the evening wore on, muggy heat had filled the room, but Claude looked…anxious. Why?

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, low-voiced.

  Four bull-necked cuoreons carried the sixteenth dinner course, a roast giraffe imported from across the Kunal Sea, into the hall on two long poles. The smell warred with the thick, sweetish odor of burning incense. Sara’s stomach dipped. She opened her mouth to tell Claude she felt ill, then paused. She sensed something expectant in his expression.