Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (23 page)

“Then it’ll have to be the road,” Lance said grimly. “What are
the most dangerous places? Can we parallel the road and skirt around them?”

Willem shook his head again. “We must go through Tolium to
cross the river. Even in small groups, this many osseoes cannot hope to go
unnoticed. Some, like you, bear the brand on a place covered by clothing or are
old enough to claim their forty-year service is paid, but the city guards will
catch the others. Once the tale of the raid on the governor’s estate gets out,
the guards will search every stranger to pass through town.”

Lance found himself smiling. “Then it’s a simple matter of
removing their slave brands.”

“Cutting them off? It’s been tried, but it leaves a distinctive
scar,” Willem said.

Lance kept smiling, waiting for the older man to work it
out.

“Lance’s healing doesn’t leave scars,” Sara said.

Willem stared at him with his mouth open. “If the Republicans
ever find out you can do that, they’ll kill you.”

“Oh, I intend to give them many more reasons than that to want
my head.” Feeling cheerful, Lance clapped him on the back and went to see Relena
to set things in motion. The journey through Tolium would be harrowing and he
was worried about Rhiain and Edvard, but he finally felt as if he were doing
what Wenda had asked him to do: making a difference to the rebellion.

* * *

Rhiain panted, her coat wet with sweat. She was playing
hide-and-seek again, weaving in and out of the trees, but this time
she
was the prey, and she didn’t like it.

Seven legionnaires pursued her. She’d injured one, but a second
had charged her with a spear before she could finish him off.

As the crossbow bolt was still in her backside, each stride
scraped the tip against bone. She fought the instinct to bite at the maddening
spot.

She needed to rest, but her dappled yellow coat stood out in
this forest of red-browns and greens. The tall cedars shut out the sunlight,
leaving little undergrowth to hide in. Instead of grass, a mixture of fragrant
brown and green needles carpeted the ground.

Her pawsteps dragged, and her chest heaved. She couldn’t go on;
time to make a stand. But then she spied a hollow tree trunk. The heartwood had
rotted out from the middle of one of the giant red cedars. Unnaturally, the tree
itself still clung to life, clawing its way up to the sky, the very highest
branches bearing needles.

The arrow in her haunch grated again as she spurred herself to
make one last effort. If she could just reach the hollow before the legionnaires
closed in...But as she came closer, she slowed in dismay. The cedar was a true
giant, fifteen feet in diameter, and the hollow was open on one full third. Four
of her could have sheltered inside.

It was too big to hide her.

But she had no other choice. She could hear the legionnaires’
voices now.

“Where’d it go?”

“It can’t have gotten far. It’s limping.”

“Spread out, and keep your spears ready!”

Rhiain tucked herself into the inner curve of the hollow tree
in the deepest shadow. Dank, cold air sank into her fur, and she wrinkled her
nose at the sweet odor of rot.

Footsteps. Rhiain coiled her muscles to pounce, but then her
ears registered a familiar dragging noise that accompanied each step. She
sniffed. Was it—?

Edvard ducked into the tree hollow. He held a finger to his
lips, signaling silence.

Hope sprang in Rhiain’s heart. If Edvard was here, then surely
Fitch or Lance was close by!

She strained her senses, but only heard the legionnaires tramp
back and forth as they searched methodically. “Where’s Fitch?” she breathed.

Edvard stiffened. “I’m alone. I was worried about you.”

She brushed his shoulder. His concern warmed her, but she
wasn’t sure how much help he could be. She didn’t want to hurt his pride,
though. “What should we do?”

He frowned, his brown eyes dark with worry. “You’re too big.
They’ll see you.” His voice was the merest thread of a whisper. The legionnaires
were uncomfortably close now.

Rhiain rumbled low in her throat. Did he think she was an
idiot?

Then Edvard’s face brightened. He pointed up. “Can you climb?”
he mouthed.

Rhiain looked up doubtfully. The hollow space inside the tree
extended up farther than the exterior opening. She couldn’t see how far; it was
too dark. The thick cedar trunk should bear her weight, but her muscles already
trembled with fatigue.

If she stayed here in the open the legionnaires would find
them. Edvard would get himself killed, and then what would she say to Fitch? She
had to try.

She’d climbed trees as a cub. She’d just run at them and
scampered up like a squirrel, hooking her claws in the bark.

Gritting her teeth, she broke into a stumbling run, the arrow
wound breaking her stride. Ten feet granted her little momentum, but she flung
herself up at the tree trunk anyway.

She clung there a few feet off the ground, all her weight
hanging from her claws.

“Higher,” Edvard urged from right underneath her.

If she fell on his head, it would be his own fault. Rhiain
unhooked her right forepaw and left hindpaw and reached higher. Her limbs shook.
This wasn’t working. She had to let go—

“I heard something!” a legionnaire called, poking his spear
inside the hollow trunk.

Edvard shrank back. “Don’t hurt me!” His voice shrilled,
sounding younger than his age.

“What are you doing in here, boy?”

“Hiding from the monster.” His voice quavered. “Please, save
me.”

Monster
. Rhiain flinched, first
indignant, then hurt. Edvard didn’t really think she was a monster, did he?
She’d thought he was her friend, the first same-age friend she’d ever had.

But she’d thought Gaius Mendicus liked her, and he’d only been
trying to get her to let her guard down. She didn’t always understand how people
thought, what made them lie. Had Edvard lied to her, or was he lying now to the
legionnaire? She couldn’t tell.

“The big cat?” the legionnaire asked eagerly. “You’ve seen
it?”

The third claw on her left pad broke. Her toe smarted. The
smell of blood blended with tree sap. She dug in harder, trying desperately to
hang on a little longer. If she started to fall, she resolved to jump on the
legionnaire’s head.

“Yes. I thought she was going to eat me. She chased me. Back
over there.” Edvard pointed west.

Oh! He
was
lying to the
legionnaire. And he’d said “she” not “it.” He never forgot the way other people
did.

“Nir’s sword,” the legionnaire swore. “It’s doubled back on us.
Men! This way!” He charged off.

“Just a little longer,” Edvard breathed.

Easy for him to say. She was in agony. Rhiain counted in her
head. One. Muscles trembling. Two. How much longer? Three. A whimper built in
her throat. Four.

Then suddenly it got easier. Her claws dug in further,
anchoring her weight so she could relax slightly.

Long moments later, Edvard called up. “They’re gone. You can
come down now.”

Rhiain chuffed in relief. Finally. She angled her upper body so
she’d land on her feet, then retracted her claws and began to jump—

Only her claws snagged, and she remained stuck to the tree
trunk like a fly caught in a web.

She pulled again, one paw at a time, but the wood resisted her
almost as if the tree had grown a layer of new wood over her claws.

“Rhiain?” Edvard sounded nervous.

She pulled harder, lunging backward. Two more claws snapped,
and the sudden shift in weight tore her loose from the tree. She twisted as she
dropped to the ground, but landed awkwardly. Her hind leg collapsed, and she
fell on her side, driving the arrow deeper into her flesh.

A yowl of pain escaped her.

* * *

The last thing Lance did before leaving the villa was
place ewers of water by the stoic nursemaid, the crying tot, the Qiph slave and
the mostly elderly free servants who’d chosen to stay behind. They were chained
to an iron stake in the inner courtyard.

The nursemaid thanked him. The little girl watched him with
wide blue eyes. The ribbon had fallen from her brown curls and dust filmed her
green silk dress. Lance wondered if his and Sara’s child would have blue eyes
like Sara, or brown eyes like his own.

He smiled at her, but she shrank away. As well she might, poor
thing. Pity pierced him, along with guilt for his own part in the death of her
family. Executed in front of her eyes. Lance winced at the thought. He opened
his mouth, but what could he say? Pointless to try to explain to a child that
her father and aunt and uncles had brought their deaths upon them.

He nodded to the nursemaid, then left.

By the time he jogged out the gate, the first wagon was already
rumbling down the stone road toward Tolium.

Blood began to drip from his nose again. Lance wiped it away
impatiently and stared down the road in the opposite direction, searching for
any sign of Rhiain or Edvard. Nothing. A heavy feeling of foreboding settled on
his chest. Conflicting duties pulled at him. Rhiain was a friend as well as a
fellow Kandrithan, and because of her age he felt responsible for her. He wanted
to go after her, but not only did he have a responsibility to the freed slaves
but he doubted Willem would let him wander off into the woods.

And then there was Sara. She wouldn’t let him go alone either.
He was surprised she was still seated on the back of the second wagon, where
he’d arranged for her to ride in case her nausea returned.

His gaze met hers, and despite everything, Lance caught himself
smiling, overcome by a wave of joy so intense it was almost painful.
She
carried
his
child
.

But on the heels of that joy chased anxiety. An almost frantic
desire to keep her and the baby safe burned in his veins. He told himself the
rebels’ precarious situation caused his fear, but part of him knew better. The
black thing that lurked at the back of his mind grew and spread its wings.

If he looked at the black thing straight on, he would know. But
he didn’t want to. Not yet. He clung to the feeling of joy, but it seemed the
harder he tried to grasp it, the more it melted away from him.

“Lance.” Relena gestured imperiously, and he went to her side
gladly. “How do you want to do this?” she asked. “I have some mercia, but not
enough for everyone. Who should we start with?”

For the remainder of the day he busied himself with the mammoth
and grisly task of cutting off slave brands and healing the raw skin. Some
refused, but once they’d seen he could do it, most adults willingly endured the
pain to shed the symbol of oppression. As a result he checked on Sara only for
brief periods to make sure she was well.

And Sara, his usually faithful shadow, kept her distance.

* * *

Sara sat statue-still on the hard wagon bed for hours,
blind and deaf to both the passing grainfields and the conversation stuttering
around her. Her skin perspired in the hot sun, attracting insects, but deep in
thought, she didn’t brush them away.

It took her most of the afternoon to pin down what was
bothering her about her pregnancy: the timing.

She’d most likely become pregnant either in the meadow with
Lance or from Claudius’s rape, on the day before or the day that she gifted her
soul to kill the blue devil. Four months ago.

One month ago, after she’d stepped off the Hall roof, Wenda had
looked at her with her soulsight and espied a very small new soul “the size of a
mustard seed.” But the baby had already been growing in her womb for three
months by then.

Shouldn’t Wenda have seen two souls?

* * *

Rhiain dug her claws into the earth and locked her
whimpers behind her jaw. Her fall had driven the crossbow bolt deeper into her
wound; her flesh throbbed and burned.

Edvard stuck his head out of the wide opening in the hollow
tree and listened. After a long pause his shoulders relaxed. “I don’t think they
heard us.”

“I can hearrr them,” Rhiain growled. Human hearing was
pitiful.

He tensed. “Then we’d better make a run for it.”

Rhiain climbed to her feet and gingerly put her weight on her
hind leg. She winced. “I can’t run like this.” The admission hurt her pride.
“You’ll need to rrremove the arrrow.”

Hesitantly, Edvard came closer and touched the shaft sticking
out of her.

“Don’t trrry to be gentle,” she growled. “Do it fast.”

Unfortunately, Edvard lacked Lance’s strength. It took him
three excruciating pulls to work the shaft free—and it felt like he gouged out
an ounce of her flesh in the process. She tore furrows in the dirt and clamped
her jaws shut. Blood ran down her flank.

The earth darkened, and she had the macabre thought that the
tree’s roots were drinking up her blood.

Edvard removed his tunic, revealing a lean but muscled chest,
and pressed the cloth to the wound. Rhiain panted. She’d grown too used to
Lance’s healing on the journey; she wanted the pain to
stop
. The injury throbbed unrelentingly.

Cub
.
Snivelling
infant
. She called herself names to block the
whimper rising in her throat.

“So who won the battle?” she asked to distract herself.

“We did,” Edvard said proudly.

“Was Fitch injured? Lance, Sara?”

“All unscathed,” Edvard reassured her.

She paused to listen, but the legionnaires still sounded some
distance away. “Did Fitch’s plan work?”

“I don’t know,” Edvard said shortly. “I was back with the
wagons.”

Pity touched Rhiain. Edvard couldn’t fight well because of his
twisted leg. Rhiain hated being injured; being crippled would be awful. She
brushed her shoulder against his in commiseration.