Her father shrugged. “Her mind was weak. I can use my own blood, but the amounts needed…” He shook his head sadly. “Fortunately, the blood of my blood—my children’s—works just as well.”
Her brother. “You leave Sylvanus alone!”
“I will,” her father said. “For as long as I can. Unfortunately, there’s rather less blood in a boy than in an adult—he’ll probably only be good for one ceremony, so I’ll have to use him wisely. I suppose I’ll have to marry again. Not to Evina, though. She’ll need to be young enough to bear children. All the better if she pops them out one a year.”
He was taunting her, but Sara couldn’t keep herself from giving him what he wanted. “You’re a monster.”
He laughed richly. “Oh, Sarathena. I haven’t even started yet.”
He grabbed her free arm, then forced the other down onto the sharp point of one of Vez’s teeth. Skin shredded, and blood began to trickle from her wrist down into the pit, into Vez’s gold-plated mouth.
“Awake, Master, and feed!” he called in the stentorian voice he used to give speeches to the Senate. “With my blood I call you! Awake!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Goddess filled him.
Though the healing usually passed through Lance’s hands, any part of his body would do, and Madam Lust lay on top of his legs.
Lance held back. The power and healing began to burn, pressing against his own skin as if it wanted out. No, he thought. And Loma answered.
He’d only heard Her voice twice before. It was music and balm and new life at once. It made him want to weep, for he had just killed.
“Do you mean to withhold mercy? She is a lonely, sad woman. Can you not pity her?” the Goddess asked.
“I leave her soul for you to judge,” Lance said, “but I will not heal her. She has been on this road for years. Alive, she will only hurt more people.”
“As you will.” Loma’s presence faded.
“Is she dead?”
The sudden question jarred Lance. “Yes.” It should be safe now for him to touch her.
He tried to roll the body off of him, but only succeeded in pushing her down to knee level. Her mouth was slack, her eyes wide with surprise. Madam Lust suddenly looked like a dumpy middle-aged woman instead of the terror of his childhood.
“I won’t pretend I’m sorry,” the second prisoner said, “but you’ve only made matters worse for yourself. Unless rescue is likely?” he asked hopefully.
Lance remembered the shrewd look on the Primus’s face as Sara denied that she loved Lance. He would be watching her closely. “No,” Lance said roughly. “No rescue.” Neither was escape likely. His uncle’s forget-me sacrifice wouldn’t work while he was chained any better than becoming a shandy—his captors would just forget to feed him. Perhaps he would have an opportunity later. More likely Ottavio would kill him on the spot.
I’m sorry, Wenda. I tried.
* * *
Sara clamped her free hand over the gash in her wrist, but blood still trickled through her fingers down into the pit. She was losing too much blood.
“You astonish me, Sarathena,” her father mocked. “No screams, no curses heaped upon my head?”
Sara blinked, surprised that he would dare speak during a ritual. But his god was Vez, who delighted in cruelty.
“What would be the point of screaming at you?” Sara asked coldly. “You are the servant of Vez. You are already far more cursed than I could ever wish.” And if she did curse him, she would only strengthen Vez.
Her father laughed, but the sound was unconvincing. “Vez has granted me great power. House Remillus was insignificant when I first began to serve the God of Malice. Now I’m the Primus. My enemies are cursed, not I. Consider—Vez’s high priest could have massacred any House to harvest power. Favonius fell at my word. House Arranius will be next.”
Bleakly, Sara wondered how many Houses would fall before the remainder realized the cause.
“Vez is greater than any other god and so are His rewards to His chosen acolytes.”
Sara shook her head. “You live in fear. You love nobody, and nobody loves you.” She remembered what Lance had said. “When was the last time you laughed and truly felt happiness, rather than mean-spirited vindictiveness over someone else’s trouble?”
He didn’t answer.
“You are cursed,” she repeated, but the words seemed weak. Her blood still ran, feeding Vez.
If she troubled her father, he hid it well. “Emotions are for the weak. Haven’t you learned that yet?” His tone was distracted.
“What’s happening?” Wenda asked harshly. She turned her head from side to side, looking at the walls in fear.
At first Sara didn’t know what she meant. Then she saw that the light inside the chamber had changed, thickened. The temple now had a distinctly cyan tinge.
“My Master comes,” her father said.
A blast of wind issued out of Vez’s mouth and screamed around the room—
The blue devil had arrived.
* * *
The door opened.
Lance glanced up, but saw only a servant, someone unimportant. He returned to brooding. When Dulcima appeared, Lance had taken it to mean that they would succeed in rescuing Wenda. But Cadwallader’s memories of how Wenda escaped had kept changing. Perhaps it would happen years from now, after Kandrith had been reconquered—
The door closed, then a moment later opened again. Concentrating, Lance saw a female slave in the doorway. Why didn’t she give the alarm?
“I meant to do something,” she muttered. “What was it?”
He’d heard his uncle voice the same words many times, because of his sacrifice…
“Rochelle?” he guessed.
“Lance, is that you? What— Goddess of Mercy, is she dead?”
“Yes.” He struggled to remember she was there. Rochelle, Rochelle, Rochelle, he repeated under his breath. “Rochelle, the keys are on the floor. Can you free me?”
“That’s what I came here for,” she exclaimed.
Something was rustling on the floor, but it didn’t seem important— Lance startled when Rochelle freed his right hand. He’d forgotten her again. He took the keys from her. “I’ll do the rest. You should go now. Take your son and go. Loma bless—” Who?
Lance stared down at the key that had appeared in his hand. How had it gotten there?
It didn’t matter. He freed his other wrist and then his ankles. Pushing Madam Lust aside, he climbed off the bed.
“How did you get free?” the second prisoner blurted. “Never mind. Quick, before someone else comes.” He held out his own manacled hands.
“Free me first!” Claudius said. “My father will reward you.”
Lance looked at him with dislike. He wouldn’t have left any man to Madam Lust’s tender care, but since she was dead he saw no need to free the lordling. “Keep your voice down, or I’ll knock you out.”
The second man posed more of a problem. Lance knew nothing of him except that he’d incurred either Madam Lust’s or the Primus’s wrath for something.
“Free me and I’ll watch your back,” the second man offered.
Good enough. With an eye to the door—a servant could come through at any moment—Lance bent over the second man’s manacles. Then stopped. The man’s face, though dirty and unshaven, struck a familiar chord. “Marcus?”
A sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t recognize me.” Pause. “I failed your sister.”
“Wenda? What news do you have of her? Is she alive?”
“She was when last I saw her,” Marcus said.
Lance inserted the key in Marcus’s manacles. “What happened?”
“I delivered her to the Primary Residence as ordered.” Marcus coughed, looking embarrassed. “I promised Wenda I’d escort her to the market, that sort of thing. But nobody would let me see her. Then we heard about Lady Sarathena’s death and the war. I grew frantic. I made too much of a fuss about seeing Wenda
. Someone hit me over the head. I woke up a prisoner.”
Lance studied Marcus as he chafed his wrists. How serious were the legionnaire’s feelings for his sister? Frantic implied a deeper level of caring than mere worry.
“Hurry up,” Claudius whined.
“Sara’s alive,” Lance told Marcus. “We came to the Republic to rescue Wenda.” New strength filled him. “Will you aid me? You’ll have to go against your Primus,” he warned.
“The Primus is a dungtoad,” Marcus said, face cold. “It’s been driving me mad, imagining Wenda in his hands.”
“Good.” Lance helped the other man to his feet, then searched for his clothes. Their shredded state made him angry all over again. He used his cut sleeves to knot together the front and back of his shirt, but his brown vest was ruined and the best he could do with his trousers was a roughly wrapped loincloth.
“What about me?” Claudius asked, wiggling frantically.
Lance hesitated.
“It might be best to leave him,” Marcus said. “If he’s chained he won’t be blamed for what’s happened here, and he’ll be a liability when we try to break out Wenda.”
“No! Don’t leave me. My father is General Pallax. He’ll give you gold—a fortune,” Claudius promised.
Lanced turned in astonishment. “You’re General Pallax’s son?”
“Yes!”
“Praise the Goddess,” Lance said formally. He remembered the promise Sara had extracted from the General. “I’ll not only free you, I’ll take you to your father.”
“Father sent you! I knew he’d come, I knew it,” Claudius babbled as Lance unlocked his manacles.
Lance didn’t bother to set him straight. “Keep quiet and follow me.” Except at the cell door he realized he didn’t know which way to go.
“From what Evina let slip, Wenda is this way,” Marcus said, pushing past him. He led the way to a wine cellar and swung open a wall of shelving to reveal a secret passageway. As he stepped inside, Lance noticed the ex-legionnaire had coiled a length of chain around his hand as a makeshift weapon. Lance helped himself to a small lantern hanging on the wall and followed.
“Where are we going?” Claudius whined.
Lance ignored him. Had they taken Sara this way too? Lance hesitated, but decided Sara would likely be safe with her father for awhile. Wenda was in more danger.
They followed the tunnel in silence, punctuated by a few grumbles from Claudius and a few corresponding threats from Marcus. Some distance later, their tunnel joined with a different, wider passage or stone. Unfortunately, it soon branched.
“I don’t remember which way to go,” Marcus admitted. “I was still a bit woozy from the first beating.”
About to choose at random, the Goddess suddenly showed Lance the way. A rat ran across his foot. He started to kick it and then realized it was a refetti—Sara’s pet. Without hesitation, it scampered down the left-hand tunnel.
“This way.” Lance started to run. He kept going even when the rocks bit into his bare feet.
* * *
“What’s happening?” Wenda screamed above the sound of the wind.
I don’t know, Sara started to say, but then she remembered being in the center of that whirlwind, of the devil shrieking in her ears and roaring down her throat, choking her…
“Close your mouth!” Sara yelled. “Cover your nose! It wants to go inside you.”
Her warning came just in time. The blue devil surrounded Wenda and spun faster and faster. Wenda’s red hair whipped around her face. The devil howled in frustration at being blocked.
It meant to hide in Wenda’s soul this time. The Watcher at the Gate would no longer be fooled by a purple soul, but if Wenda flew on Dulcima or was winched up the cliff, she would bypass the Gate and its Guardian.
Sara couldn’t let it happen.
The blue devil had risen from the pit where her blood dripped. It was feeding on her blood. Or perhaps her blood was only a symbol for the act of cruelty done to her by her father, and that was what it truly fed on. Either way, stopping the blood flow might weaken the devil.
Sara released her wrist to fumble at her chain. She ignored the renewed trickle of blood and placed a link of chain over one of Vez’s razor teeth. She leaned back and pulled with all the strength of her body.
The link didn’t break. She yanked again—and the link snapped off the point of the tooth. She fell backward and gouged her still-manacled wrist on a different razor point.
Defeated, she went back to holding the cut closed. Her arm felt weak and cold.
Enraged, the blue devil picked up Wenda and slammed her down on the stone floor with force enough to break bones. Wenda’s face was a rictus of pain, but she kept her lips pressed tight together and her hand over her nose.
She couldn’t hold out much longer.
The whirlwind lifted Wenda to the limit of her chain and dropped her. Her head cracked against the iron post, and she collapsed, bonelessly. Her mouth fell slack.
The blue devil roared with triumph and funneled down into Wenda’s open mouth.
Sara longed to avert her eyes, but if she ever saw Lance again, he would want to know his sister’s fate.
But when only half the whirlwind had gone inside Wenda, it suddenly slowed. Sara’s eyes narrowed. Something was pulling on the blue devil. For a moment the tug of war held, then the flow reversed directions.
What—? Sara followed the column of air with her gaze and saw her father standing by the temple door. In his hands was the Qiph box, open. Terror and satisfaction warred on his face.
A howl of rage. The room shook, but the devil couldn’t free itself from the pull of the carved box. The luck-cursed thing did work—but only on full-fledged blue devils, not on servants like her father.
As Sara watched, the last tendrils of wind were whisked into the box. The carved lid slammed down of its own accord.
Her father had saved Wenda. Unfortunately, Sara doubted his reasons were benign.
* * *
If Claudius hadn’t been such a valuable hostage, Lance would have been tempted to let him die when the arrow took him in the throat.
The man did nothing but whine. They were going the wrong way. He needed a woman, and there weren’t any cuorelles down here. He was in agony. His feet hurt. He wanted clothes. And on and on.
Since Lance’s own body was bruised and hurting, he resented the way the lordling dragged his steps. They needed to keep the refetti in sight.
“Careful,” Marcus said, slowing suddenly. “There’s a tripwire.”
Only, of course, Claudius wasn’t listening. “I order you to turn around. My father would—”
Twang.
The heavy crossbow bolt pierced his throat, but still didn’t shut him up. “Gah!” he gargled.
Sighing, Lance laid one hand on Claudius’s shoulder and yanked the arrow out with the other. Blood sprayed. “Goddess,” he prayed with clenched teeth, and only when Loma came, filling him with peace, did Lance realize She might not have. A worry he hadn’t consciously voiced lifted from his heart. He hadn’t offended Her by letting Madam Lust die. He still had Her blessing.
“How did you— What— What—” Claudius babbled. He patted his throat, searching for the wound, his eyes wide.
Marcus, too, was staring. “I knew you healed me after the waterfall, but I didn’t see— That was remarkable.”
Lance brushed aside the compliment. “It was the Goddess. Where’s the refetti?” He feared they would lose the way, but six steps farther down the passage the lamplight showed the refetti sniffing the air.
The creature turned in a slow circle. It wobbled drunkenly then fell over on its side.
Was it injured? Lance’s own feet were bleeding from the sharp stones embedded in the floor. Poisoned?
Lance reached out to heal it, and green sparks shocked his fingertips. He drew his hand back.
The emerald fire expanded into a large ball with the refetti at its heart. It gave off no hea
t, but the refetti screamed, a high-pitched, all-too-human sound.
About to wade back in and call on the Goddess for help, Lance noticed that the refetti was…unfolding. Its limbs grew longer, and its chest broadened. Its fur shrank, its snout pushed in, and its tail dwindled until it was no longer a refetti at all, but a man.
Claudius whimpered with fear and backed away.
“Quiet or I’ll belt you,” Marcus said absently. “Who is that? Is he Qiph?” His hand went to the chain wrapped around his wrist.
A Qiph had run Marcus through with his sword and sent him over the falls. “He’s on our side,” Lance said quickly.
The emerald fire winked out, leaving a Qiph warrior groaning on the floor, his naked body curled up into a ball. Lance laid his hand on the youth’s shoulder.
Deep in the healing trance, Lance didn’t move when one of the Primus’s guards came around the corner, his face set and suspicious. Lance felt a surge of hate: It was one of the men who’d held Lance for his beating. “What’s this then?” He had his sword out.
Marcus smiled at him, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Opportunity.” Marcus shook loose a coil of chain and swung it. The chain tangled the guard’s sword; Marcus gave a sharp jerk, and it fell to the ground.
The guard reached for his dagger, but Marcus stepped in close and hammered him twice in the stomach. A grunt escaped the guard. He bent forward. Marcus grabbed his hair and pulled the man’s face down into his rising knee. One smash, and the guard was down, bleeding and unconscious.
It was brutal and efficient and silent. Lance watched with rising respect. Yes, this man might very well do for Wenda. He understood the “protect” part perfectly.
While Marcus armed himself with the fallen guard’s sword, dagger and breastplate, Lance turned back to his patient. The Qiph warrior had stopped shuddering and had gotten to his feet. He looked feral, ready to bolt.
Lance tried to calm him. “Do you remember me?”
A cautious nod.
“What happened? Why have you changed back to a man?” Lance asked urgently.
The Qiph shook his head as if to clear it. “Perhaps the spell wore off,” he offered, his accent giving his voice a musicality a Republican’s lacked. “Or the Pathfinders in my homeland freed me. I do not know.”
Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 40