Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  * * *

  Lance’s chest felt congested—he must be developing hayfever now that his broken fingers were mended—but he didn’t care. He lay back in the amarasave, feeling fiercely satisfied.

  Sara cuddled up to his side, idly tracing his pectoral muscles. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

  Lance looked around at the high meadow. “I could build a house right over there.” He played with the idea for a moment. He and Sara living an idyllic life, feeding on amarasave blossoms and making love whenever they liked, far from his mother and politics in general…

  But even leaving aside the impracticality of such a life, it was one he had no right to. He wore the Brown. Living in isolation would waste the Goddess’s gift.

  All he could offer a wife was a life of poverty, constant traveling and all-too-often unpaid nurse to an invalid. Lance had had vague dreams of someday finding a sensible Kandrithan girl, someone he could leave with her family for weeks at a time and visit as a home base.

  Sara hardly fit that picture, but Lance worried about what she was going to do after they rescued Wenda. She would not be safe with her father. True, she was currently under sentence of death here in Kandrith, but once Wenda took the oath she could pardon Sara.

  If, of course, they both rescued Wenda and survived.

  Suddenly full of determination, Lance sat up and kissed Sara’s mouth. “Time to dress.”

  She sighed and stroked his neck, but nodded. “Yes.”

  After pulling on his shirt and pants, he went to find Sara’s refetti. He brought the furry creature back and set it in the grass by Sara’s still-bare feet. “Refetti, will you talk with me and tell me what you told my father?”

  Sara laughed, a wonderful throaty gurgle. “What are you doing?”

  The refetti cocked its head as if listening, but, of course, it could not speak to him.

  Lance dug a pebble out of the turf and laid it before the refetti. “Touch this rock to answer yes. Touch my hand if the answer is no. Will you talk with me?”

  The refetti touched the rock with its nose: yes.

  “Is this a new trick you’ve taught it?” Sara asked, eyes bright with curiosity.

  “No,” Lance said sadly. She would see. “Refetti, were you born an animal?”

  The refetti licked Lance’s fingers: no.

  “Were you born a man, one of the Qiph?”

  Back to the rock. He touched it twice with his nose, answering both questions: yes, yes.

  Sara looked uneasy.

  Lance took her hand, but kept his attention on the refetti. “Are you the Qiph warrior who tried to kill Felicia in Gatetown?”

  “What?” Sara exclaimed. Lance squeezed her fingers in warning.

  The refetti hesitated, then touched the rock: yes. His body quivered, ready to run.

  Lance hid his anger at the memory of Felicia’s crushed throat. “Were you trying to kill Sara?” He wasn’t certain the refetti knew her name, so he held up their joined hands in illustration.

  The rock: yes.

  Sara sucked in a shocked breath. “Lance…” She stared at the refetti as if it might turn itself back into a warrior at any moment.

  Lance didn’t think it could transform at will or it would have already, but he kissed Sara’s knuckles. “If he tries again, I’ll be ready. He has no sword when he transforms, remember?”

  She settled back down.

  Lance cleared his throat. “Refetti, do you still want to kill Sara?”

  The refetti bumped its nose against his palm: no.

  Lance wished he knew if the refetti was capable of lying. But surely, if it wanted to deceive them, it wouldn’t have admitted to trying to kill Sara.

  “Were you trying to kill her because of the blue devil attached to her soul? The evil inside her?”

  The rock again: yes, yes, yes.

  “We think we know where the evil has gone. We think it is in Sara’s father,” Lance said. He released Sara’s hand and brought out the carved Qiph box. “Will this imprison the blue devil, the evil?”

  The refetti rushed to the rock: yes, yes.

  “How do we use it?”

  The refetti squeaked, and Lance realized he hadn’t posed a yes or no question. But before he could rephrase it, the refetti went to the box and flipped open the lid with clever paws, then looked at them expectantly.

  “That’s all? All we have to do is open the box?” Lance clarified.

  The rock: yes, yes, yes.

  “But you opened the box before,” Sara objected. “When Julen gave it to you after the Qiph attack, I was standing just a few feet away. I felt odd, but nothing happened. I didn’t want to touch it, though.”

  Lance turned back to the refetti. “Does the box need to be touching the blue devil when we open it?”

  The rock and then, after a hesitation, the hand.

  Lance swore and then coughed. And what did that mean?

  “He doesn’t know,” Sara guessed. “The priest was the one carrying the box. His job was just to find me. True?”

  The rock: yes.

  “To be safe, I think we’d better not open the box until your father is touching it,” Lance said. He coughed again, harder.

  Sara looked at him with concern. “You’re ill again, aren’t you?”

  “It’s just hayfever, I think,” he told her. “I should improve once we leave the meadow.” He turned back to the refetti. “Thank you, Qiph warrior.”

  The refetti sat up straighter.

  On to the next problem then. “What would you like us to do with you? Do you wish to accompany us?”

  Five minutes worth of detailed questions established that the refetti wanted to be taken to a priest of his own kind so that his transformation might be reversed.

  As soon as Lance swore to do so, Dulcima approached them, shaking out her wings, obviously ready to go. Was that what she’d been waiting for all along? Him to talk to the refetti? The thought was both eerie and reassuring.

  * * *

  Full night had fallen before Dulcima’s great wingflaps brought them to Temborium. They glided over the city walls unseen by the patroling guards. The city sparkled below them like a reflection of the starry sky above.

  Sara picked out the Primary Residence by its domed roof and only belatedly realized that Dulcima was descending directly toward it. “No! Lance, can you talk to Dulcima?” Sara feared she was incidental to the magical being. “If we go straight to the palace, we’ll be arrested before we even get close to the dungeons and Wenda.”

  “We have the box,” Lance reminded her. “Getting captured might be the most direct way to see your father.”

  Sara thought about it, then shook her head. “No, too many things could go wrong. The palace guards will almost certainly bind you, and they might separate us or confiscate the box. We need another plan.”

  “Better come up with one soon.”

  The nine high spires of Diwo’s temple caught her eye, and Sara made a quick decision. “Dulcima, can you take us there?” She pointed.

  Dulcima neighed and dipped her wings, wheeling in the direction of the Goddess of Luck’s temple.

  Lance turned his head in question.

  “We’ll go to my aunt.”

  “You trust her?”

  Sara felt a niggle of doubt. But ‘Never trust anyone’ was a maxim of her father’s, and she didn’t want to be like him. She shrugged. “She won’t care two pins about Kandrith being conquered, but I’m her niece. She was my mother’s sister—not my father’s. And she loves intrigue. Sneaking me in to surprise my father will appeal to her.”

  Lance inclined his head, accepting her plan.

  They began to descend. Sara let out a small whoop as Dulcima flew between two buildings, then held deliciously tight to Lance’s back as they skimmed over the dark river. Much too soon, Dulcima’s hooves clattered down onto the empty street beside the Goddess of Luck’s green and gilt temple.

  Sara heard voices lifted in drunken
revelry from just around the corner. “Hurry!”

  The moment they dismounted, Dulcima launched herself back into the air.

  “She’ll be back when we’re ready to leave,” Lance said confidently. “She’ll know when. She’s Kandrith’s Need.”

  Yes, but Wenda was the next Kandrith. After they rescued Lance’s sister, would Dulcima fly off with Wenda and abandon Sara and Lance? After all, Kandrith didn’t need them.

  The revelers strutted around the corner then, a group of five boisterous young men. Lance stepped in front of Sara to hide her from view.

  * * *

  The voices of the dead clamored in Esam’s ears. This way! they shouted. The one who killed us is this way!

  Helpless, he followed the scent of the Defiler.

  * * *

  The refetti wriggled out of Sara’s pocket and dashed off down the dark street. Sara made a move to chase it, but Lance shook his head.

  One of the revelers made a jesting remark about hidden treasures, but Lance’s size kept him from investigating. They probably assumed him to be a sanguon or a cuoreon guarding his mistress—an opinion that would change the instant they saw the bedraggled dress Sara wore. Then they’d think them both slaves and Sara fair game.

  By the time the party of drunks had passed, Sara could no longer see the refetti. “What do we do?” she asked, worried. The refetti could be crushed under horse’s hooves or be bagged for the family pot by some beggar.

  “Nothing,” Lance said.

  Sara glared at him.

  Lance sighed. “He’s not your pet, remember? He’s a man, one that’s been transformed, but still a man. He’s probably gone to seek out a Qiph priest. There’s nothing we can do, but proceed with our plan. Where does your aunt live?”

  “On the other side of the river near the Primary Residence,” Sara said. “At this time of night, we have a better chance of catching my aunt at one of Diwo’s gambling houses than at home in bed. She likes to roll dice until dawn.”

  Lance nodded. “Let’s go.”

  At the third gambling house, Sara spotted Aunt Evina’s distinctive lavender carriage. “There.”

  Lance studied the carriage uneasily. “Your aunt’s favorite color?”

  “Yes.” Sometimes Sara thought that was why Aunt Evina had married Uncle Paulin, so she could have lavender as her House color.

  Sara boldly stepped up to the coachman, who was feeding one of the horses an apple. Thankfully, the stout sanguon knew her. His eyes widened.

  “Don’t say my name,” Sara commanded. “Fetch my aunt. Tell her it concerns a horse and a great deal of money.” Aunt Evina owned several racehorses so that should get her attention.

  The coachman left at a quick trot, as if he’d lived so long among horses he even moved like one.

  As the minutes passed, Sara grew nervous. Maybe they should have gone to her aunt and uncle’s villa. If Aunt Evina was winning at cards, she might keep them waiting for hours. And what if she was drunk? Sober, Aunt Evina was as clever as they came, but tipsy…she might make a fuss when she saw Sara.

  “What are you going to tell your aunt?” Lance asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sara admitted. “I’m not sure if I should introduce you as Prince Lance, or an osseon.” It struck her that she didn’t want Lance to meet her aunt at all.

  Aunt Evina was everything Lance disliked in a noblewoman. Sara had changed since journeying to Kandrith, but would Lance see that or would he look at Evina and see all Sara’s old faults magnified? She opened her mouth to remind him that she would have to act the part of the old Sara or risk making her aunt suspicious, but before she could speak, the coachman reappeared, walking a step behind his mistress.

  Aunt Evina wore a low-cut gown of lavender, which did wonders for her bosom, but emphasized her chubby arms. The feathered mask she wore, which glittered with diamonds, looked absurd to Sara. It was considered scandalous for a woman to gamble, so when ladies went abroad they wore masks to protect themselves from society’s censure.

  “Where’s the messenger?” Evina sounded cross, but not intoxicated. She must have been losing. Her fan slapped her palm in impatience.

  Sara stepped forward. “Here I am.”

  Aunt Evina stilled. “Sarathena!” Her shock only lasted for a moment. She gave Sara a quick hug, then looked her up and down. “You don’t look pregnant,” she said bluntly, “or dead.”

  Dead? The word took Sara aback, but, of course, her father must have declared her dead. “No, I’m quite alive. What rumors have reached you?”

  “Why, that the Slavelanders had cowardly assassinated you in the middle of the night.” Her aunt’s eyes watched her shrewdly from the holes in the mask.

  “That’s even worse than I thought,” Sara said lightly. “Praise Loma, I came to see you instead of riding straight up to the Primary Residence’s doorstep! The guards might not have believed who I am, especially dressed like this.” Sara plucked at the ill-fitting gown General Pallax had provided. Horse sweat and grass stains hadn’t improved it.

  “Yes, that is a truly awful gown.” But Evina was only distracted for a moment. “How close are the rumors to the truth?”

  “Well, I did almost die,” Sara evaded. With great will, she kept from touching her neck, aware of Lance watching silently two steps back, like a good slave. “I can’t tell you much more. But I possess vital information that must reach my father’s ears. Will you help me?”

  “Of course, duckling! You didn’t even need to ask,” Evina said effusively. “I’ll send a message to your father as soon as we reach the villa.” She moved toward the carriage.

  Sara’s smile became genuine. This was going to work. “One other thing—it’s probably best if my resurrection be kept secret. It wouldn’t do for rumors to get out before Father has a chance to decide how and when to announce my miraculous return. Vez only knows who reads his mail now that Julen isn’t there.”

  “Julen? Did he go with you then?”

  Sara paused short of climbing into the carriage. “I suppose gossip had us eloping and him the father of my supposed child?”

  “Some versions.” Her aunt’s voice dripped innuendo. “Others had him beheaded for impregnating you.”

  “Father sent him as my adviser,” Sara said firmly.

  Evina’s voice dropped low. “I’d like to ask Julen for some…private advice myself.” She pouted when she saw only Lance standing by. “Where is the delicious Julen?”

  “He had to remain behind in Kah—Slaveland.” Sara took the opportunity to distract her aunt with some gossip. As she and her aunt settled into the carriage and the coachman closed the door, she launched into an exaggerated account of Julen’s wedding day, minus the magic bits. “It all started with a horse—”

  * * *

  Uneasiness skittered along Lance’s nerves like a spider. At the coachman’s offended glare, he’d taken a position standing on the small step at the back of the purple carriage, holding to the leather strap provided. As the horses trotted down the flag-stoned street, he tried to pinpoint what was wrong.

  He could dimly hear Sara and her aunt talking inside and snatches of laughter. He felt separate from Sara and didn’t like it. Was that all? A sense of possessiveness?

  He approved of her reasons for not inviting him inside the carriage. Slaves were all but invisible to nobles, which might be useful later.

  So what was it? He didn’t trust this aunt of hers, though she’d seemed willing enough to help Sara so far.

  And then the aunt laughed loudly—and the hair stood up on the back of Lance’s neck.

  His airway constricted. Sweet Goddess—this wasn’t hay fever. This was asthma. Lance had healed children of the affliction, but never experienced it himself. His chest felt as tight as a barrel wrapped with iron bands. Only a thin trickle of air reached his lungs, and he could barely draw breath.

  The carriage swung around another fast turn, and Lance almost lost his grip on the strap. He hunched over,
struggling to breathe in enough air to stay conscious. Horror saturated his thoughts. If he fell off, Sara would be all alone with her aunt. She didn’t know—she’d spoken of her aunt with wry affection—she trusted the woman.

  But Lance knew. The feathered mask had prevented him from recognizing her, but her laugh had conjured up dark memories from his slave days.

  Lance wheezed desperately. He had to stay conscious to protect Sara from her aunt—whom Lance knew as Madam Lust.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The moment the carriage door opened, Lance took Sara’s hand and pulled her aside—something no slave would do.

  Sara tried to signal him to let go, but he bent his head near her ear. “We need to get out of here.” His voice was oddly hoarse. “I don’t trust your aunt. She—”

  Just then a barefoot cuoreon rushed out of the pillared villa and down the marble steps. “Mistress!” He seemed both relieved and frightened to see her aunt. “Mistress, you must come.”

  “Must I?” Aunt Evina raised an eyebrow.

  The cuoreon threw himself to his knees and bent his head. Sara realized that despite his height, he was just a youth. “Mistress, Ottavio sent me to find you. To tell you Master Paulin has…taken ill.”

  Ottavio was the name of Evina’s steward, Sara remembered. A sanguon who’d stayed with the family after he’d earned off the links of his slave chain.

  Aunt Evina ran her hands through the cuoreon’s curly brown hair as if he were a dog. “And why should I care if my husband has eaten too much boar’s tripe again?”

  “He—Ottavio says he’s been poisoned.” The cuoreon kept his eyes fastened on her feet.

  Evina slapped him. “Why didn’t you say so instead of wasting my time? Take me to him now!”

  With the imprint of her hand on his cheek, the cuoreon lurched to his feet and led the way inside. Evina hurried after.

  Sara bit her lip and followed too. Had her aunt always treated her slaves so, and Sara hadn’t noticed? Or had her days in Kandrith just sensitized her?

  Lance tugged on her sleeve. “Let’s slip away,” he wheezed.