Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (38 page)

The centurion clapped Lance on the back. “Congratulations,
dedicant. You’ve passed the first test.”

Lance didn’t want to be a dedicant. He wanted to find Sara and
hustle her out of here and— “
First
test?” he
repeated.

The centurion threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

Wettar kept finding more laundry for her to do.

On Sara’s third trip to the small stream, she knelt a few feet
upstream from a group of camp followers busy at the same task in hopes that they
would screen her from casual notice. A naked toddler screamed and splashed in
the cool water. She dared not go too far into the forest for fear of being
accused of attempting to escape.

She’d scrubbed one of Wettar’s tunics and begun the second when
someone called her name. “Sarathena!”

An eight-year-old boy hurtled toward her, his curly brown hair
flopping in his eyes. A pail banged against his leg, slopping water.

How did he know her? She rocked back on her heels, and the
brown-haired boy slid to a stop just shy of her. “Sarathena? It is you, isn’t
it?”

And then the boy sharpened into focus, and she gasped. His
features had matured in the two years since she’d last seen him, but she
recognized Sylvanus Remillus. Her brother.

She pushed a sweaty hank of hair off her face, and Sylvanus’s
mouth rounded in shock.

“You’re not her. I was mistaken.” He scrambled back up the
shallow bank as if he feared catching a disease, cheeks reddened by...shame?

What had she—? Ah. She’d revealed the slave brand on her
neck.

She mused on his appearance while wringing out the finished
laundry. Despite the bucket of water he’d carried, Sylvanus hadn’t looked like a
slave. He’d worn a silk tunic of Remillus blue, and his cheeks had been
plump.

Someone must be caring for him.

Sara’s mood lightened. Sara who-had-a-soul had worried about
the fate of her younger brother. It pleased her to know he was well.

Holding the cold, dripping bundle of laundry at arm’s length,
she walked back to the stockade gate. The sound of horse’s hooves made her step
back out of the way and duck her head, but a roar of rage told her she was too
late.

Moments later a hand on her shoulder spun her around. Sara
stared up into Nir’s furious face, trying to squelch the jump of her pulse.
“Where have you been? Why weren’t you in the Temple of Desire? What are you
doing here?”

“Laundry.”

“Has some other man claimed you?” Nir’s nostrils flared as if
he would locate such a man by scent alone—and then rip off his head.

“I’m your slave and no other’s.” Sara stood still, though her
feet wanted to step back. His fury had an almost physical force like standing
too close to a bonfire.

“No!” Nir gnashed his teeth. “I sent you to Jazor.”

Sara stood her ground and met his gaze, though his chest was
practically touching her nose now. “You didn’t give Jazor my slave papers. Thus,
I’m still your slave.” A tiny thrill of victory went through her at having
outmaneuvered Nir.

“You claim to be my slave, but you’re outside the stockade,
roaming free.”

She hefted the laundry as silent proof, then added, “You cannot
gain your god’s favour with a lie.”

He knew she was right. Her stomach clenched at the fury that
twisted his face. “You want to be a slave? This is how I treat insolent
coeurelles.” He slapped her, knocking her to the ground. She spilled the laundry
and landed hard on her hip.

The
baby
. Sara’s fingers twitched, but she made them
relax. If she touched her womb now, Nir would suspect she once again had a soul.
Nor would it be far from the truth.

She wished for Lance—then recanted. There was nothing he could
do, and he’d never be able to stand by while she took a beating. She forced her
eyes to remain open as Nir drew back his foot and kicked.

Pain exploded in her jaw. Blood filled her mouth.

“Leave her alone!”

She jerked at the shrill voice. Not Lance. Her brother,
Sylvanus. She rolled into a sitting position.

Too late. Nir cuffed Sylvanus sprawling, too.

“No brat tells me how to treat my slaves.” Nir loomed over them
both.

Sara ignored the pain and pushed to her feet; her extra bulk
made her awkward. She tucked the tooth rolling around in her mouth up under her
gum. If she didn’t swallow it or lose it, Lance could heal it back in later.

“My lord.” Wettar suddenly appeared. He prostrated himself.

“I won’t brook intereference from you, either,” Nir growled. He
drew his foot back to kick.

But Sara knew Wettar wouldn’t risk his skin for hers.

Wettar kept his eyes trained on the dirt. “Primus Pallax is in
camp!” he gasped out.

Nir paused.

“It’s true!” Svlvanus shrilled. “I’m his fosterling.”

Nir stopped.

Sara blinked. The expression on Nir’s face suggested that there
was one man who could curb his behaviour, after all.

* * *

Nobody told Lance what the next test was for. They just
gave him a helmet and a sword—Grasslander plunder by the skull sigil on the
hilt—and ordered him to fight the centurion.

“You’re the defender,” the priest said, voice cold with
contempt. “Usebius is the attacker. If he gets past you, he’ll burn your fields
and rape your woman.”

Lance had no fields, but his pulse thudded at the mention of a
woman. Did the priest mean Sara? He glanced around, but didn’t see her. Telling
himself it must be just rhetoric, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in
his muscles.

“Don’t let fear of hurting me hold you back,” Usebius warned
him as they buckled on shields.

“I don’t intend to,” Lance said truthfully. He didn’t like
sticking pointy things into human flesh, but he could heal his opponent if need
be. His own skin was the one likely to be pierced.

He’d never used a sword before. It and the shield hung heavy,
their weight dragging on his arms. This was hopeless.

At the priest’s signal, Usebius yelled a battle cry and
charged.

Lance held his ground, bracing himself as the lethal point of
the sword rushed nearer—He raised his shield at the last minute. The swordpoint
skittered up, missing him. He chopped the edge of his shield into Usebius’s
wrist, but at the same moment Usebius’s shield crashed into Lance’s cheekbone,
bruising him.

Lance rocked back a step, then tried to recover, swinging his
sword wildly. The centurion blocked him, and before Lance could try again,
Usebius’s sword bit at Lance’s neck. “Surrender!” Usebius didn’t even have the
decency to be breathing hard.

If Sara really were behind him, Lance wouldn’t yield as long as
he yet breathed. But this was just a test. He dropped his sword.

Usebius raised his eyebrows at the priest. “He’s strong. He
almost broke my wrist.”

The instant he looked away and the swordpoint stopped touching
his skin, Lance ducked under and lunged forward.

The blade nicked his cheek, but by then he was inside Usebius’s
reach. Lance plowed his fist into the centurion’s belly—only to bounce off his
breastplate.
Ow
.

Grinning fiercely, Usebius tried to knee him in the genitals.
Lance twisted aside and hammered Usebius in the jaw. Usebius stumbled down to
one knee, but fended Lance off with his sword. Lance tried to approach from the
side, but all too soon the centurion was back on his feet and the swordpoint was
back at his throat. “Lie facedown.”

Lance complied.

Usebius rested his boot on Lance’s back. “I think he proved he
has courage. Not many things braver than attacking a legionnaire while unarmed.”
Usebius grinned cheerily down at him. “Foolish, of course, but brave.”

The priest crossed his arms. “He can’t be a dedicant of Nir. He
has no honour. He attacked
after
yielding.”

“He didn’t say the words,” Usebius pointed out. “He just
dropped his sword. I assumed he’d surrendered.”

Down in the dirt, Lance nevertheless felt a surge of gratitude
toward the centurion for arguing his side. It was easy to lump all Republicans
together as scum, like Sara’s father or Claudius. But there were men like Marcus
and Usebius, too. Not evil, just eager to fight and unquestioning of the reasons
why they fought.

The priest harrumphed some more, but eventually conceded that
Lance had proven his courage. Peevishly, the priest declared he was “too busy”
to test Lance further that day.

Usebius helped Lance to his feet, slapped him on the back, then
dumped him on the dubious mercy of a supply clerk. The surly subtribune issued
him a wooden sword and shield, leather wristguards to show his dedicant status
and a bedroll. Usebius then reappeared, gave Lance a quick tour of the camp,
ensuring that he had both a place to sleep and a bite to eat.

Lance was grateful, but by the time the man finally vanished
off to his regular duties and left Lance alone, his nerves were screaming. He
needed to see Sara. Why hadn’t they set up a meeting place?

Ah, yes. Because he’d been out of his head with fever. Now that
his symptoms had receded to a low headache and light nausea, he could see her
plan to sneak him into camp was flawed. Unfortunately, it was too late to come
up with another.

After some thinking, Lance staked out the latrines. His
experience with pregnant women suggested Sara would need to stop by often, but
he lurked in the shadows for two hours before he finally saw her.

He waited until she’d finished before approaching. “Sara?”

She turned, and gladness lit her face.
Her
connection
to
the
baby’s
soul
was
getting
stronger
. Glancing warily around, she held a finger
to her lips—

And then he noticed her swollen jaw and how stiffly she moved,
limping. She’d been beaten. Again.

Rage ignited inside him.
Bastard
son
of
pig
. His fists clenched, and fury raced through his
veins. He wanted to take a sword and plunge it into Nir’s heart. The knowledge
that Nir would disarm him in a few strokes did
nothing
to calm the sizzle in his blood.

Sara laid her hand on his arm. He stared down at the slender
fingers, golden brown against his pale skin, then met her anxious eyes. The
black words died on his tongue.

She’d chosen to endure this for their baby. He wished he could
be a slave in her place, but he couldn’t. The least he could do was to not make
it harder on her by rushing wildly about, frothing at the mouth.

“Just promise me that when you cross the line from finding pain
‘interesting’ to suffering it, that you’ll tell me and we’ll go. No lingering,
no excuses.”

After a pause, she nodded.

No one seemed to have noticed their exchange, but Lance tried
to be discreet in healing her. He let his arm touch hers as though by
happenchance, while they stared off in different directions. Seconds passed, but
nothing happened.

Lance’s chest constricted. Where was the Goddess? With such
injuries, She should have come instantly. He laid his hand on Sara’s jaw,
concentrating on the swollen flesh, and willing magic and healing into her. He
felt a response, slow and sluggish, but real.

Relief was followed by anger. Was Loma punishing him for daring
to be angry at Her? He had a right to his ire. She’d betrayed him.

By the time, Sara finally sighed and relaxed, Lance was
seething. How dare Loma treat him this way, after all his years of service?
Hadn’t he earned Her respect?

He used the anger to bury the tiny seed of fear inside him, but
like many seeds it began to germinate and grow in the darkness.
He
was
losing
his
ability
to
heal
.

* * *

Rhiain wrinkled her nose against the lingering scent of
smoke. Only a day had passed since Nir’s Legion burned half the city of Tolium.
She wished the rain weighing down the dark clouds overhead would fall soon and
wash the air clean.

On the other hand, the stink of ashes might remind this crowd
of what it had lost.

In the early evening, five hundred men had crossed the bridge
out of Tolium and gathered in the cool green twilight of the cedar forest. Some
of them were in shock, but most were angry and more than ready to listen to
Fitch. In addition to the usual younger sons and hotheads, there was a fair
mixture of middle-aged shopkeepers and even a few city guardsmen, one with a
black eye and bandaged side.

Fitch had brought a group of Willem’s archers as his escort,
having ordered his Grasslanders to stay in camp. Rhiain had feared he’d leash
her as well, but instead he’d asked her to watch for traitors from the
shadows.

Rhiain patrolled around the edges of the crowd, staying out of
sight in the trees, but still able to hear and glimpse Fitch.

He stood on a ten-foot-wide stump looking handsome enough to be
a god with his thick golden hair, wide shoulders, and strong chin. A sliver of
melancholy made her sigh. He would’ve made an excellent shandy. Turning her
head, she saw Edvard, standing tall at his brother’s side. He smiled tentatively
at her.

She ducked her head. Ever since he’d told Fitch he wanted to
become a shandy, she’d felt shy and nervous around him. That combined with her
promise to Fitch not to try and influence Edvard’s decision had meant that
they’d spent little time together alone.

Fitch raised his hands, addressing the crowd. “Fellow Gotians,
I am glad to see you, but angry at the cause. I’m outraged at the Republic of
Temboria’s treatment of her loyal people! I’m angry at what the Legions have
done to our beautiful city—burned her shops, attacked her guardsmen, sacked her
homes. I know you’re angry, too.”