Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  But her aunt had paused at the top of the steps. “Come on, Sara. What are you waiting for?”

  As the moment spun out, Sara felt caught between two tides. She wished Lance had explained what he meant by “I don’t trust her.” Sara didn’t precisely trust her aunt either—Evina’s basic nature was selfish. But that didn’t mean Evina wasn’t fond of Sara or that the plan wouldn’t work.

  It was the lack of another alternative that decided Sara. There was no one in the Republic that Sara trusted more than Evina. They would have to take the chance.

  Sara mounted the steps and felt a flood of relief when Lance shadowed her. She dropped back a step. “I’ll try to distract my aunt while you heal my uncle. It would be a bad idea to trumpet your gift here.”

  Lance tried to speak, coughed, and nodded instead.

  After a short walk down the hall, they entered the dining room. Although tiny in comparison with the Primary Residence, the room could hold a hundred people, and it took Sara a moment to locate her uncle. He reclined on a lavender couch along one wall, supported by three servants. One held a linen napkin, the other a silver urn, while the third tucked a blanket around his legs.

  Uncle Paulin’s broad forehead was wrinkled, his skin-tone verging on purple. His eyes protruded, and he was panting like a dog. His lips and tongue were flecked with black. As they approached, he clutched his stomach and writhed.

  Sara had never known Uncle Paulin as more than a vague presence, someone more interested in eating honey-figs than in conversing, but it disturbed her to see him suffer.

  “How’s he been treated?” Aunt Evina snapped. “Has he vomited yet?”

  “No, Mistress.” The third man straightened, and Sara recognized Ottavio’s bald countenance. “He won’t take the purge.”

  “His tongue’s probably too swollen to swallow,” Aunt Evina said off-handedly.

  Sara stared at her aunt. She’d known there was no love lost between Aunt Evina and her husband, but her aunt sounded like she was discussing an animal.

  Uncle Paulin’s expression was one of terror. He knew he was dying.

  “Who did this?” Evina demanded.

  No one said a word, but every eye suddenly went to the cuorelle pacing ten feet away.

  Sara drew in a sharp breath. It was Rochelle. But a very different Rochelle from the one Sara had last seen. The modest gray dress had been replaced by a lurid yellow one with a deep decolletage. Her ash-blond hair hung loose to her waist instead of being secured in a roll and straggled as if she had not combed it in days. Worst of all were her eyes. They twitched in her blank face. She looked mad. She looked like a poisoner, but Sara refused to believe it of gentle Rochelle.

  Sara squeezed Lance’s hand. “You’ve got to heal him,” she whispered urgently. If Paulin died, Rochelle would be arrested and put to death.

  “No,” Lance said hoarsely.

  “What do you mean, no?” Sara whispered furiously. “You wear the Brown. Doesn’t your goddess require you to heal the dying?”

  “It’s my choice.”

  “So choose to heal him!”

  While they argued, Ottavio waved forward two cuoreons.

  “Easy now.” One of them gently took hold of Rochelle’s arm. She flinched, but didn’t fight.

  Lance stepped in front of Rochelle. “Why did you poison him? Does he deserve to live?”

  Hatred wiped away the blankness on her face. “No. He got what he deserves. I hope he suffers.”

  Acid ate at Sara’s stomach. She’d only heard Rochelle ever speak of Nir with that degree of loathing. “He raped you.” A statement, not a question. She rounded on her aunt in fury. “How could you let this happen?”

  Evina cocked an eyebrow. “You said to give her light work. There are plenty of cuorelles who prefer work on their backs to scrubbing floors.”

  “I trusted you to keep her safe.” Sara felt like she was bleeding inside. She should have taken more care, should have brought Rochelle and her son with her. They’d be safe in Kandrith now.

  Now Evina looked irritated. “I offered her jazoria. It’s not my fault she wouldn’t take it.”

  “Mistress!” the cuoreon with the napkin cried. “He’s failing!”

  More of Paulin’s tongue stuck out of his mouth now, swollen and black. His body shook as if palsied, and a death rattle issued from his throat.

  Sara turned back to Rochelle—and was jolted to see that Lance was whispering to her. No time to ask why. “Rochelle, ask him to heal Paulin,” Sara pleaded. She took her cuorelle’s cold hands in her own. “Think of Tulio!” Though the boy had been born free, with no family and patrons he would be at risk.

  But Rochelle shook her head. “No. Let him die. Tulio will be taken care of. I’ve been promised so.”

  Promised. As if greased, Sara’s gaze slid over to her aunt. When Paulin gave a last gargle and died, Sara saw the tiny smug smile, the satisfaction. Her aunt had planned this. She’d put Rochelle up to it, probably even given her the poison.

  Why? Her aunt had loathed her uncle for years, so why act now? It couldn’t be infidelity; both of them had taken other lovers. Evina had an eye for handsome men like Julen, but Sara had often suspected she had a more long-term lover—a married man. Was that it? Did Evina want to marry again? Perhaps her lover’s wife had suddenly died, or, a darker thought, been murdered too?

  A tall, spare man rushed into the room, breathless. “I was called?” From the clanking rack of bottles he carried, Sara identified him as a physicker.

  Evina moved back to let him examine the body, wringing her hands as if in anguish. “Please, is there anything you can do?”

  Sara turned away from the false drama, sickened. Lance had stepped back and the two burly cuoreon guards were looming over Rochelle again. She glared at them. “I wish to speak to my—my maid.” At the last moment she couldn’t bring herself to say cuorelle. Heart slave.

  The cuoreons drew back.

  Sara spoke to Rochelle in a low voice. “I’m so sorry. For what happened to you in this house. I meant for you to be safe!” she bit out.

  But Rochelle didn’t look angry. She shook her head wearily. “It’s my punishment for betraying you.”

  Sara went cold. “What do you mean?”

  “The night of the feast, the night before your journey. I let him take you.” Rochelle looked away, ashamed.

  Let who? Sara almost asked. But the answer was obvious. “My father?” That was the night the blue devil had been attached to her soul.

  “He came with two men and carried you away while you were drugged asleep.” Rochelle began to shake. “He threatened to give Tulio to Nir. So I did nothing.”

  “No.” Sara laid her hand over Rochelle’s. “You couldn’t have stopped him—he’d have killed you if you’d tried. You were right to keep Tulio safe.”

  Rochelle wasn’t comforted. “I should have at least told Felicia or you the next morning. But I was too afraid. You saved me from Nir, and I let you down. This is my punishment.”

  “No,” Sara said again, almost in tears. “Evil was done to you. You are not punished. Nothing you’ve done could ever have rated that kind of punishment. And if you had told me the next morning, I wouldn’t have believed you. I thought my father loved me,” she added painfully.

  The pity in Rochelle’s eyes said it all.

  “Sara,” Lance said, a warning in his tone.

  She looked up and saw Evina’s steward hovering nearby. “Yes, Ottavio?”

  “Are you ready to retire?” he asked. “Mistress Evina asked that a room be prepared for you.”

  Sara didn’t want to leave, but there was little she could do for Rochelle right now. “In a moment.” She turned to the guards. “Rochelle is legally my responsibility. You will treat her gently.”

  They bowed their heads in acquiescence, though Sara knew that if her aunt overruled her they would likely do nothing.

  “This way,” Ottavio murmured. They followed.

  The
physicker was pulling a blanket over Paulin’s purple face as they passed. Evina clung to his elbow. “What—what do I do now?”

  He patted her elbow, either fooled by her act or willing to accept it for gold. “You need do nothing, Lady Evina. I will notify the high priest of Mek. His acolytes will come and prepare the body. It’s late. I advise you to rest. There’s a potion I can give you.”

  “Will the priests take her away too?” Evina waved a hand in Rochelle’s direction. “The poisoner?”

  “No, Hana’s priests will deal with her in the morning. Just detain her for now.”

  Sara stiffened, but made herself keep walking. Later, she promised herself. She was not going to leave Rochelle to her fate. If they could rescue Wenda, they could rescue Rochelle and Tulio too.

  Ottavio showed Sara to a lovely yellow bedroom, one of the few in the house that had escaped Evina’s mania for shades of purple. It also had a small dressing room with a cot for a maid. Ottavio looked at it dubiously—Lance’s arms would hang off the sides, and he was at least a foot too long—but Sara said firmly, “It’s fine.” She would not tolerate having Lance down the hall.

  “Shall I order a late supper?” Ottavio asked.

  Sara’s belly rumbled. “Yes, thank you.”

  Ottavio went to the door and beckoned. A middle-aged cuorelle brought in two plates of roast chicken and hot rolls and set them on a small table. He’d obviously ordered it as soon as she and Evina arrived.

  A second cuorelle brought an even more welcome gift: clothes. The silk gown was gauzy by Kandrithan standards, but it was clean. Sara could hardly wait to wash up and change.

  The cuorelles left in silence, but Ottavio lingered as she sat down in front of the meal. When she started to take a bite Lance trod on her toe, a clear warning in his expression.

  He was right. Eating in the house of someone who’d recently been poisoned was unwise. Pretending not to understand, Sara smiled at Ottavio. Had he been the one to procure the poison for Rochelle? “It looks delicious.” She took a big bite, chewed and swallowed.

  A look of faint satisfaction came over Ottavio’s face before he bowed and left.

  The moment he was gone, Sara spit the portion she hadn’t swallowed into her napkin. “Well, that should convince him,” she said to Lance.

  “Did you swallow any?” Lance demanded, his face pale.

  “A small amount.” Sara grew worried. “It doesn’t matter though. You can heal poison. Can’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lance said tersely, to her relief. “But I can do nothing if she’s given you a sleep potion or jazoria.” He seemed to be swallowing a host of other words.

  She’d been reckless again. Unhappily, Sara realized she’d come to rely on Lance’s magic. “I can understand a sleep potion,” Sara said after a moment. Such would keep her quiet and out of the way while Evina sent for Hana’s priests to arrest Rochelle. “But why would my aunt give me jazoria?” There was something going on here that she didn’t understand. Lance had been frantic to get away since the carriage stopped—before Uncle Paulin’s murder.

  A muscle ticked in Lance’s jaw. “Jazoria is a favorite trick of Madam Lust’s,” he said after a moment.

  Sara’s eyes narrowed. She’d heard Lance mention Madam Lust before, during one of his bouts of delirium. “Who is Madam Lust?”

  “Your aunt.” Lance’s words were blunt, his gaze absolutely level.

  Sara wanted to ask if Lance could somehow be mistaken, but she would not insult him in such a way. “Tell me.”

  “Madam Lust is the vulgar name that the slaves called the noblewoman who bought my family. She picked out my father from the slave block—inspected him like a horse.” Lance’s fists clenched.

  Sara had never been to the slave market—it was unfitting for an unmarried woman—but she’d heard stories…

  “But she bought the whole family,” Lance continued, “including my uncle, so we were grateful at first. We were sent to a country estate. We heard rumors, but Madam Lust spent most of her time in the city. For the first six months we didn’t see her at all. We settled in. Father and my uncle worked the smithy, and I helped them. Mother washed laundry, and Wenda ran errands. If she’d left us alone, we’d probably all still wear slave chains.” Lance stopped.

  He seemed to have trouble getting started again so Sara prompted him, “But she didn’t leave you alone.”

  “Working the forge is hot labor. Uncle and Father often stripped off their shirts. One day she came by and saw Father. It was like he was a piece of candy, and she couldn’t resist,” Lance said bitterly. “She had him brought to her in chains that night. When Father came back, he couldn’t look Mother in the eye. She was upset—but she forgave him when Uncle explained about jazoria.”

  Upset was far too mild a word, Sara suspected. To have one’s loved one taken away and used for another’s pleasure… Unfortunately, the tale was a common one, though usually the victim was a woman.

  That her aunt had done it made Sara feel sick. “I’m so sorry—” she started to say, uselessly, but Lance wasn’t done yet.

  “The next time she sent for my father, he refused to go. When the overseer brought bullyboys to drag him, he fought them. He fought until he was bruised and bloody. The house servants said they’d never seen Madam Lust so angry… We didn’t see him again for five days. Mother barely spoke. Wenda and I were terrified she’d killed him. When Father came back, he looked beaten within an inch of his life, but he grinned at Mother, and we knew he’d won. Madam Lust hadn’t gotten what she wanted from him.”

  Sara winced. Being thwarted just made her aunt more determined. She reached for Lance’s hand.

  “A month passed—I think she was giving him time to heal up—and then she made Wenda her maid.”

  Dread coiled in Sara’s stomach. She could see where this was going, and she wanted to throw up.

  “Two days later,” Lance said tightly, “everyone was called into the courtyard to witness a punishment. One of Madam Lust’s favorite dresses had been ripped, and the slave responsible was to be whipped. Ten lashes were ordered.”

  Lance’s hand squeezed hers, but he didn’t look at her.

  “As soon as Father realized it was Wenda strapped to the post, he threw himself on his knees and begged. He swore he’d do anything.” Lance swallowed. “She let four lashes strike before ordering Wenda cut down. She led Father away like a lamb. He didn’t even dare look at Wenda or Mother.”

  It was even worse than Sara had feared. Oh, Aunt Evina, how could you? “How old was your sister?”

  “Only seven. Wenda was bleeding rivers and in shock. We had only a filthy blanket to lay her on. Flies crawled everywhere. She was dying. I’d heard other slaves talk about sacrifices so I prayed to Loma to make me sick and Wenda better,” Lance said simply. “It worked. Her skin healed up under my hands—and then I spent the next two days throwing up.”

  “Wenda is lucky to have you as a brother.”

  Lance didn’t seem to hear her, still locked into the memory. “When I’d recovered enough to notice, I found out Madam Lust had returned to the city and taken my father with her. We didn’t see him again for a month. When he finally came back, he was silent and thin, as if he’d been sick. We escaped that night.”

  “How?” Sara asked. Obviously, magic of some kind.

  “When my uncle heard what I’d done—sacrificed my health to Loma for the ability to heal—he made a sacrifice of his own. He sacrificed being able to remember things for being forgettable.”

  “And he helped you escape?”

  “Yes. The four of us, my family, were recaptured three times, but they never seemed to see my uncle. He would walk right up to them, steal their keys and let us out at night. Mind you, sometimes he’d forget he had the keys in his hand.”

  “What happened to your uncle?” Sara had never heard Lance speak of him before today.

  “Once we were safe in Kandrith he went back to the Republic to try to find his own
wife and child. We never heard, but about three years later it became easier to remember him. We think it’s because he died.” Lance paused, then went on in a different tone of voice. “I told Rochelle to sacrifice remembering things.”

  So that’s what he’d been whispering to her. But— “Remember what things?” Sara frowned. “Rochelle won’t do it if it makes her forget Tulio.”

  “No, she’ll remember the things most important to her, just as my uncle did, but forget smaller things. Call it absent-mindedness. You go into a room and can’t remember what you were doing there. You start a task but wander off before you finish.” Lance looked her dead in the eye. “It is a sacrifice. But if Rochelle makes it, she should be able to escape. We need to go too.”

  Sara nodded vehement agreement. The thought of spending another hour under her aunt’s roof was intolerable. But halfway to the door, her steps slowed. Because they had nowhere to go.

  “Wait,” she said. “Why should we leave?”

  Lance stared at her as if she’d asked why dogs barked.

  “She hasn’t recognized you so far, and if she does she won’t try to reclaim her ‘property.’ Since you’re mine now, she would consider it gauche to steal you.” Her aunt applied a higher standard to how she treated a social equal, like Sara, than how she treated her slaves.

  Lance laughed harshly. “Weren’t you listening? Don’t you understand what that woman is?”

  Sara touched his cheek. “Yes. My eyes have been…opened to her tonight.” A murderess as well as a rapist, someone who could order a girl of seven whipped… Sara closed her eyes in pain, but made herself think coldly—since Lance couldn’t or wouldn’t. “You have every reason to hate her, but Evina is still our most direct path to my father. That’s true regardless of whether or not she betrays me.” Whether or not Evina had already betrayed Sara before—Madam Lust’s fondness for jazoria had raised unpleasant possibilities regarding the night Claude drugged Sara.

  “All we need is to get close,” Sara whispered, leaving unsaid the most important part of their plan: the box. “Besides, if she really tried to drug us, then it’s already too late. There will be guards on the door.”