Cadwallader’s memories of the future were like Lance’s memories of childhood: uncertain and often triggered out of order. Sometimes, very rarely, they could even be changed. But she knew that as well as he did. “Goodbye, Mother.”
He walked up the mountain toward the Republican camp and didn’t look back.
* * *
Entering the Republican camp was easy, getting to the General took time.
Any hopes Sara had cherished that the camp would be small were dashed on the sharpened timber wall. It enclosed enough room for a town.
Her escort raised a hand to the sentries in the watchtower as they approached. Although puzzled by her presence, the men let them through the gate with only a couple of ribald comments. Sara learned that her escort’s name was Gaius Mendicus. He scowled at the guards, but didn’t reveal her identity until he reported to his centurion.
The centurion clearly didn’t know what to make of her story, but decided that he dared not risk treating Sara as other than what she claimed to be. He sent her to his commanding officer.
Gaius went along with her to retell how he’d slain a ‘monster.’ Sara supported his story, but carefully gave no hint that Olwydd had been anything but a dumb beast.
As they were bumped up the chain of command, Sara took advantage of the opportunity to study her surroundings. The encampment was only half full, but she counted six rows of tents before a strange contraption near the edge of the cliffs caught her eye. As she watched, a team of eight slaves turned the handle of a giant winch. Four ropes as thick as a man’s arm descended from the winch down the cliff.
As they stood outside the tribune’s tent waiting for admittance, the ropes groaned, and a platform came into view. Half of it was covered with meal sacks and supplies, the other half, balancing it, held six rather nervous legionnaires—the arriving army.
At least they didn’t have cavalry.
“Who built the winch in the first place?” Sara asked.
Gaius puffed up his chest—then paused as a grizzled captain came out of the tribune’s tent. He tensed and saluted.
The captain had obviously heard her question because he looked at her with suspicion from underneath beetled brows, probably wondering if she were a spy. “Go ahead and tell her,” he grunted.
Gaius glanced uncertainly from Sara to his captain. “One of the men in my century is a skilled climber—”
The captain snorted and crossed his hairy arms. “What’s this Mendicus? Modesty, now? Gaius here was the climber. Tell her your heroic tale.”
Under his captain’s eye, Gaius became much less expansive and told Sara only the bare bones, how he’d scaled the cliff with nothing but his hands, pulling a rope up with him. Then two more men had climbed the cliff with the help of the rope, and the three of them hauled up an engineer and materials using a harness until they could build the winch.
“How brave!” Sara smiled as if impressed and tried to hide her dismay. She stroked the refetti in her pocket for comfort, trying to calculate how many trips up and down the cliff would be needed to bring up a full Legion. How long before the army was ready to march?
Not long enough. General Pallax must have arrived in Kandrith about the same time she had. Sara pictured him racing to Temborium upon the news of Primus Vidor’s death only to be met with the news of her father’s confirmation as Primus and his wife and son’s imprisonment. Her father must have sent him straight here instead of to Qi. From the advanced state of the invasion, her father must have had provisions for the Legion already laid in. Another week undiscovered, and the invasion would have been unstoppable.
It might still be. In her mind’s eye, Sara compared this camp to the Kandrithan army’s pitchforks and makeshift weapons—and winced. Kandrith had Farspeakers and Movers and shandies, but she doubted it would be enough. Not without a Kandrith to lead them and call down large-scale magic. Unless she and Lance succeeded in rescuing Wenda or Cadwallader declared someone else the new Kandrith, the country would fall.
The thought preyed on her all through her interview with the tribune and her subsequent walk to the general’s quarters. The big circular tent was easily recognizable from its two banners: a large one for the Third Legion and a smaller orange one for House Pallax. Their escort spoke to an aide, who looked unbelieving, but must have passed the message on because moments later Sara alone was bidden to enter.
Despite the red-tinged dimness from the tent fabric, Sara recognized General Ambrosius Pallax—not from his resemblance to Claude, which was frankly non-existent, but from the air of absolute authority he wore. It, more than the golden sword clasps on his cloak, signaled his rank.
Without his plumed helmet, the general proved to be of only average height. His dark hair was cut military-short, but an incipient beard shadowed his chin, and hair covered his arms. His close-set blue eyes were intense and jewel-hard, whereas Claude’s always seemed diluted.
“Lady Sarathena Remillus, Aleron’s…daughter,” General Pallax said, voice edged.
He accepted her identity. Good, that simplified matters. Unfortunately, it sounded like he blamed her for the arrest of his wife and son.
“Leave us.” General Pallax gave a curt nod, and his subordinates filed out. The aide looked torn.
“I wasn’t expecting Primus Remillus’s daughter to fall into my hands today like a ripe plum.” He stepped in too close, intimidating her. “Nir himself must have sent you to me.”
Sara saw murder in his eyes, but no lust or cruelty. That gave her the courage to stand her ground. “General Pallax, I need your help. I must return to Tembor—”
“No. Your father,” his teeth ground together so hard Sara feared for his molars, “is holding my son hostage. My apologies, Lady Sarathena, but you are not going anywhere. You will remain here as my guest while I arrange for the release of my son.”
“I’m sorry that Claude is being imprisoned—”
“Are you?” His voice could have been used to chip rocks. “Pardon me, Lady Sarathena, but it does not seem that way to me. I blame you for his situation.”
“Very well.” Sara straightened her shoulders. “Your son is a loathsome dungtoad who drugged me with jazoria, so no, I’m not sorry for his plight, but I am willing to see him and your equally amoral wife go free in exchange for taking me back to—” She stopped because General Pallax was looking at her with a strange expression.
“You don’t know.”
“Know what?”
Instead of answering, he crossed the tent to a small, iron-bound chest. When he opened it, Sara saw it was full of salt crystals. Her nostrils wrinkled. There was something else, some smell…
General Pallax thrust a hand into the salt and drew out a severed head by its hair.
Sara gagged as she recognized Lady Pallax. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, but details continued to play across her mind. The skin shrunken over the face as the salt dried it… The mouth hanging open as if in mid-scream… The skin at the neck in ragged shreds from being hacked off…
The axe—
Sara’s vision grayed for a moment. When she fought free of the memory, the general was saying, “—had this delivered to me as a message, to show how serious he was.”
Sara kept her eyes closed. “I didn’t know.” Why was she surprised? Her father had sent Sara to die; Lady Pallax’s life would mean nothing to him.
Now that she thought about it, this explained the jazoria Claude had doubtless been ‘encouraged’ to give her. When her father decided he needed to send her to Kandrith with the blue devil, it left him with no hold over the Pallaxes. But drugging the Primus’s daughter gave him a pretext to arrest Claude and Lady Pallax.
A click told her the chest was locked again. Sara shut the lid on her own memories and faced General Pallax. He seemed satisfied with her reaction.
“As I said, you won’t be going anywhere.”
She thought furiously. She couldn’t let the general know that she was useless as a hostage. “He won’t
believe that you have me, unless he sees me. Send me to Temborium with a group of men that you trust.” House Pallax was numerous, the army here was sure to have a few cousins or nephews about.
“I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not letting you out of my sight until Claudius is safe.”
“As you wish,” Sara said. “When do we leave?”
He gave a harsh crack of laughter. “You’re just as self-absorbed as my wife—was. We’ll go after I’ve won this war. If your father’s spies report that I’ve withdrawn, he’ll make good his threats against my son.”
Vez’s Malice. “Claude’s life is the only hold he has over you, a great general who commands the loyalty of the Legions. My father won’t dare kill him.”
“Perhaps not.” The general’s voice sounded lifeless. “But he’s threatened Claude’s sword arm and his testicles. Claudius isn’t much of a man—yet. I let his mother coddle him, but he is my only hope of grandchildren, of continuing my line. I was injured some years ago and shall not father any more myself.”
Sara bit her lip in despair, unable to find any words to convince him.
“I’ll have a tent set up for you—” General Pallax started to say, then they both turned their heads toward the doorflap as a commotion began outside.
“Sara!”
She recognized Lance’s bellow. Her heart lifted.
The general caught her arm in an iron grip as she ducked beneath the tent flap. He didn’t try to keep her in the tent, but pulled her along toward the tangle of legionnaires.
Lance appeared to be fighting four of them at once with his fists. Only, Sara’s heart lurched, his hands were already chained, limiting his effectiveness.
Perhaps she should be thankful for the chains, because none of the legionnaires had drawn their swords. Three of them held the two ends of his chains, trying to tie him down like they might a wild horse, and the fourth had an ugly horsewhip that he swung at Lance’s back and shoulders. The knotted leather hit with a horrid crack and a rent appeared in Lance’s vest.
Lance ignored the blow. He wrapped a fist around one chain and yanked on it. The bearded legionnaire holding it stumbled forward. Lance swung both fists together into the man’s chin. The legionnaire let go of the chain and flew backward. He landed on his rump almost at Sara’s feet.
“Enough!” General Pallax roared.
The legionnaires jumped to attention. Lance stopped swinging too. His lip was split, but the corners of his mouth lifted when he saw Sara. Despite the circumstances, she felt a flood of warmth at seeing him again.
“Report!”
Under General Pallax’s glare, the tallest legionnaire who held the whip gulped and started breathlessly, “He surrendered. Just came up to the gate, showed us his osseon mark and let us chain him. I thought a big one like him would be perfect for the winch, but halfway there he started yelling, asking for some twotch—” He caught sight of Sara and stopped, tongue-tied.
Sara smoothly stepped forward. “General, this man is in my employ.” They would read that as her slave. “We were separated in the woods.”
Lance’s lips twisted, but he didn’t contradict her.
“Remove his chains and release him into my service.”
“No.” General Pallax cut her off. “Look how he holds himself. He is no osseon.”
“He has the bone brand,” the tall legionnaire told him, but he sounded doubtful now too.
General Pallax stared into Lance’s eyes. “Some men aren’t slaves, no matter what chains they wear. That’s why osseons are encouraged to sire children. Often even the fiery ones will buckle down then.”
Lance bared his teeth.
“And sometimes having children just makes them more determined,” General Pallax finished. “Something smells here.” He turned, lightning-quick on Sara. “Is he your lover?”
Did one time make them lovers? Sara wished it did, but tried to look affronted. “Of course not!”
“Hmm. I don’t trust him, not even chained to the winch. He has some plan, you can see it in his eyes.”
All the legionnaires were scrutinizing Lance now. He stared back without a trace of humility or fear. Sara wondered how she could possibly have once mistaken him for a slave.
“He’s not worth the trouble,” the general said. “Kill him.” He turned to leave.
“No!” Sara wrenched free of the general. One corner of her mind thought that he’d let go too easily, that he’d ordered Lance executed to provoke her into action, but she didn’t slow her headlong rush forward.
Lance began to spin two feet of loose chain in front of him, creating a weapon. The metal links whined evilly, slicing through the air. The two legionnaires holding the second chain tried to yank Lance off his feet, but he set his legs and stayed steady. The two remaining legionnaires drew their swords. The bearded one flanked Lance while the tall one coolly waited for the spinning chain to falter so he could plunge his sword through Lance’s heart.
In one of his endless dinner-table monologues, Nir had warned her never to approach a legionnaire on his blind side, that they had drilled so hard and so often that some responses were below the level of thought.
Sara darted in among the men, coming in on the tall legionnaire’s left. She grabbed clumsily at his dagger.
Before she could pull it free, he pivoted and whipped his sword around—but stopped short of running her through. His sword dipped from her chest to her stomach. “Hey, now, none of that.” He grinned at her as if she’d done something amusing.
Until Sara threw herself onto his blade.
The swordpoint bit her stomach, but it wasn’t deep enough. She grabbed the naked blade with her hands as the horrified legionnaire tried to pull back. Palms streaming blood, she took another step, impaling herself, before he yanked it out.
“Unnnh.” Sara fell to her knees on the hard-packed dirt and put her bloody hands over her stomach. She swayed, light-headed. The sunlight felt like a hammer on her head, and her limbs seemed to dissolve. She’d gotten what she’d wanted—a non-fatal wound in a spot where she would still be able to talk—but the pain was a hundred times worse than she’d expected. It roared like a racha beast inside her, eating thought.
Loma, don’t let me faint. If she did, she and Lance were both doomed.
Voices. Faces above her, looking down.
The tall legionnaire who’d stabbed her could have been staring his own death in the face. He almost gibbered, trying to explain. “She came right at me. I couldn’t—she came right at me.”
General Pallax’s blue eyes flashed with murderous fury as his precious hostage died, but his voice was controlled. “I saw the whole thing, legionnaire. She ran onto your sword on purpose.” Then rage got the upperhand. “Brown-haired twotch.” He kicked the ground, hard.
Somewhere Lance was yelling. “Let me go to her! Sara! I can help her!” Chains clanged, and Sara heard the crack of the whip again, but he still lived.
Sara panted, forcing herself to focus on the general. She beckoned him closer, whispered, “You can still…get your son back… The osseon…he’s a priest… He can…heal me… I’ll help you…if you let…him live.”
Instantly, General Pallax had himself back under control. “Bring the osseon.”
Sara felt sick and dizzy. She tried to focus on the general’s face. Had he agreed? She wasn’t certain.
Then Lance was kneeling on the ground beside her, his hands enlarging the hole in her dress. “What did you think you were doing?” His voice was clipped. She seemed to have made everyone angry with her. “How many times are you going to get yourself killed this week?”
Sara didn’t think that was entirely fair—last time he’d been the one to chop her head off. But it was true that she hadn’t thought before flinging herself into danger. The alternative, to stand by and watch Lance be killed, was unthinkable.
Because she loved him.
The realization ought to have filled Sara with panic. Passion had been her d
ownfall before, but somehow, perhaps because she was on the edge of death, it didn’t seem alarming, only right. Love was different than infatuation. She saw Lance clearly, but still loved him. How could she not love Lance, with his rock-solid integrity and his great heart?
“Goddess of Mercy,” Lance prayed, eyes closed.
Then the choir was singing in her head, vibrating inside her rib cage. The smell of wildflowers was so real Sara expected to turn her head and see a meadow. And his hands—no, Her hands—gave off the warmth of a fire, taking away the chill. Sara could feel her blood clotting—
Too soon. Lance wasn’t safe yet.
Sara pushed Lance’s hands away. “Wait.” She stared at General Pallax. “Do you agree? I swear—” cold sweat bathed her forehead. She wanted the warmth back, wanted Lance’s touch, “—I’ll kill myself if you harm Lance.” General Pallax would know now that she and Lance were lovers, but she didn’t care. She just wanted him safe.
The general met her eyes. “Agreed.”
“Now may I finish?” Lance asked sarcastically. He didn’t wait for her reply, just set his hands on her again, and it felt so good Sara wanted to weep.
As the pain receded to a distant shore, Sara found herself gazing into Lance’s eyes. He was there too. It wasn’t just the Goddess; one didn’t subsume the other. She became conscious of his strong, sure hands on her just above her belly button.
Their gazes locked, and she tried to decipher the fierceness she saw in his eyes. Was he angry over her recklessness, or at the deal she’d made?
She touched his cheek. “Don’t be mad.”
“Ah, Sara.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again she saw some painful emotion there.
Her heart clenched. Could he feel something for her, after all? Something deeper than desire? But no. She remembered the axe he’d wielded at her execution. He was probably just relieved to have found her, his key to rescuing Wenda.
Chapter Twenty
Sara paced the confines of the small tent where General Pallax had put them, feeling as restless as a caged racha beast. Unfortunately, the simple plan she and Lance had come up with involved waiting until his mother attacked the camp, then escaping over the cliff in the confusion.
Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 33