Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (40 page)

She’d acted without thinking, but now her heart thudded behind
her breastbone. Loma’s mercy, what had she done?

She’d endangered herself and the baby—to avoid a slap. A slap
was nothing compared to what Nir could, and would, do to break her.

Had he noticed the significance of her evasion, drunk as he
was? Sara’s hope died when he threw back his head and laughed in triumph. “Well,
well, look who’s come out of hiding and wants to play? Lady Sarathena
Remillus.”

Bluff
. It wasn’t too late yet. “I’m
not hiding.” She stood straight and smoothed out her expression just as Aunt
Evina had taught her all those years ago.

Nir leaned close and breathed hotly in her ear. “Oh, I think
you are, Sarathena.”

She didn’t flinch.
Control
.

He tweaked her nipple, then viciously pinched it.

Sara kept her face blank, but the effort made sweat break out
at her nape. Before, pain had meant nothing. A sensation like hot or cold, but
now...it
hurt
. She groped blindly for a way to
disconnect her body and the soul, trying to stand aside and analyze the pain.
For a moment it worked, and relief blossomed inside her, but that very emotion
tightened the cord again and the pain hit her like a fist. She wanted to scream,
to pull away from the source,
to
make
it
stop
.

Despair thickened her throat. Her plan to follow the Qiph Way
of the Slave seemed foolish and doomed. Nir would never let her go, not
alive.

No. Wildness rose in her, the urge to fight. If the plan had
failed then there was nothing to be won in continuing to act like a slave. What
would Sara-with-a-soul do?

She would fight with every fiber of her body. She would
eliminate the threat to herself and her baby.

Nir wouldn’t rest until he broke her, body and soul. So she
would just have to kill him first.

Once the decision was made, Sara regained some of her slipping
control. She remained passive while Nir tore open her dress and scratched her
tender flesh. She accepted the pain as necessary to lure him closer.

She would have to strike without warning; she could never hope
to overpower him in a fair fight.

It had to be soon, before he pushed her down on the bed. She
wouldn’t have any leverage under him. Her hand crept toward the belt-knife on
her hip. Even wine-hazed, Nir would notice the instant she drew the blade. She
would have to strike fast—

He grabbed her chin and gazed into her eyes. “That’s right,” he
crooned, “show me your true self. Show me Lady Sarathena.
Show
me
your
hate
.”

She stepped in close and stabbed upward.

* * *

Lance tried to be inconspicuous as he warmed his hands
at the fire nearest the high priest’s tent. He’d seen Sara enter a short time
ago, but he wasn’t close enough to hear what was going on inside. The
uncertainty was driving him insane.

Had Nir noticed Sara’s healed jaw? Was he questioning her?

Or rutting on her body?

Why else call for a slave girl in the middle of the night?

Lance closed his eyes, repeated his litany.
It’s not Sara in there, it’s Sara-without-a-soul. Pain
doesn’t mean the same thing to her. She’s survived two months of being a
slave already. You promised not to interfere with her plan to gain magic
following the Qiph Way. Also, you may have noticed you’re in the middle of a
Legion stockade. If you rush in there, you won’t save Sara, you’ll get
yourself killed.

All sound, logical reasons, but, Goddess, he hated this. His
teeth ached from clenching them. Every moment spent outside while she was at the
mercy of that monster was an eternity. He prided himself on his high pain
tolerance, but this was unbearable.

What if the bastard beat her again? Kicked her in the stomach?
He wouldn’t put anything past Nir. What if she was hemorrhaging right now?

A red haze rose in his mind, and Lance found himself on his
feet.

He had to get closer and find out what was going on. If anyone
challenged him, he’d make up some excuse. Tell him he had a message from Pallax,
or Fitch for that matter. Something.

* * *

She missed his heart.

The knifepoint skipped off a rib bone and sliced a line across
his upper chest.

Before she could try again, Nir hooked her knee out from under
her. She fell backward, and he came down on top of her, heavy as a mountain on
her pregnant belly. His hand gripped her wrist, while his hardened penis ground
against her through the layer of her dress. Blood dripped from his shoulder, but
he was smiling at her, a glint of insanity in his eyes.

“Why, Lady Sarathena, have you forgotten your lessons?” he
mocked her. Wine fumes assaulted her. “Where’s the best place to kill a
man?”

“Up, under the ribs and into the heart,” she recited. She knew
the answer from the endless dinners sitting next to him in Temborium when he’d
been her father’s honoured guest and she the bait her father was dangling in
front of him.

“Where else?”

“A quick slash across the neck.”

“And instead you cut my chest.” He tsked. “Does that mean you
don’t want me dead, after all?” His free hand caressed her neck, then tightened
to just shy of choking.

He was playing with her
. Rage
blasted through Sara. “Let go of my wrist, and I’ll show you how well I’ve
learned my lessons,” she snarled.

He twisted her wrist, sending bright sparks of pain up her
nerves, then released her hand. “Do it!”

Instead Sara smashed her forehead into his nose. While he
reared back in pain, she aimed for another weak spot he’d taught her—his
ear.

His arm blocked her. She scored his biceps before he wrestled
the knife away and tossed it aside. Smiling, he began to force her thighs
apart.

Sara’s heart thrashed like a wild thing. Even knowing it was
useless, she kept fighting. Tears formed in her eyes as he effortlessly held her
down.

He laughed. “I told you, you couldn’t hide from me forever,” he
gloated.

And the fear, like a rampaging bull, snapped the slender thread
that bound her baby’s soul.

The shared soul became hers alone. The full weight of her
emotions hit her. Dread. Terror. Fury and sick hatred for Nir.

She felt a warm gush between her legs.

* * *

A scream ripped through the restless noises of the
Legion at night.
Sara
.

Lance sprinted for Nir’s tent, almost colliding with a small
boy running in the other direction. Lance sidestepped and burst through the tent
flap.

In the yellow torchlight, he saw an older man grappling with
Sara on the floor. He seized Nir by the shoulders, yanked him off Sara and threw
him to the ground.

The older man didn’t stay down, rolling to his feet, naked. A
trickle of blood ran from one nostil, but a feral smile shaped his lips.

Lance bared his own teeth. This was the man who’d raped and
branded Sara. Hatred boiled in Lance like molten iron.

“You’re interfering in matters that do not concern you,
dedicant,” Nir slurred. “Leave now and I may let you live.”

In answer, Lance plowed his fist into Nir’s jaw.

Nir flew back a foot, knocking over a corner brazier. Glowing
coals scattered across the ground. Neither Lance nor Nir paid them any mind, too
intent on one another.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw Sara climb cumbersomely
to her feet and begin kicking dirt over the fires.

Nir rose, murder in his eyes. No doubt if he’d had his sword
and armour, he would’ve made mincemeat out of Lance, but as it was...Lance
absorbed a chest blow, then slugged Nir twice in the belly. Nir folded in half,
his face an unhealthy gray.

Leisurely, consumed by cold rage, Lance moved in and
administered a thorough beating. Black eye, kidneys, shot to the ribs, ear—he
had no mercy in him, not for this man.

The old buzzard was tough; he reeled, but stayed on his feet.
He tried to snatch up a spear, but Lance drove him back with a flurry of blows.
Right uppercut to the jaw. Left to the abdomen. Repeat.

“Finish him,” Sara urged.

“Soon.” The raw need to punish Nir pounded in his blood. The
rage and hate roiling inside him didn’t want to be put aside yet. He hammered
his knee into Nir’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

“
Lance, please
.” Then she added in
a small voice, “My water broke.”

His head whipped around. “What? But you’re only six months
along.”

Their gazes met, and he saw despair cloud Sara’s blue eyes. He
suddenly couldn’t breathe for the boulder pressing on his chest.
The
babe
.

Nir lunged for the spear on hands and knees.

Lance stomped hard on Nir’s fingers. Lance tried to wrestle the
spear away, but Nir clung to it with both hands, and Lance succeeded only in
pulling Nir to his feet.

“She called you Lance.” Teeth bared. “You’re her lover.” He
spit in Lance’s face.

Lance recoiled, and Nir used the spear shaft like a
quarterstaff and clipped Lance in the jaw. His teeth clacked together, but he
hung on grimly.

They were still jockeying for possession of the spear when a
burly man suddenly pushed his way inside the tent. “What’s going on here?” he
bellowed.

A quartet of red-cloaked legionnaires took up positions around
the exit, two outside, two inside. Bodyguards.

Primus Pallax.

Cursing inwardly, Lance released his grip on the spear and
stepped back, hands in the air to show the legionnaires he was unarmed.

“What’s going on?” Pallax repeated. “Sylvanus said you were
killing Lady Sarathena.”

Focused on Kandrith’s mortal enemy, Lance didn’t notice Nir
moving until the butt of the spear smashed into his throat. He collapsed to the
ground, choking.

“Stand aside. I’m about to disfigure Sara’s lover,” Nir said,
looming over Lance with the spear. His swelling eye and bloody nose and bruises
only made him look more crazed.

“Stop him!” Sara cried.

“Vez’s Malice,” Pallax swore. “That’s—”

“Lance. Her lover.” Nir ground out. He raised the spear. Lance
tensed, ready to roll.

“Hold,” Pallax ordered. “He may be her lover, but he’s also a
spy. He’s the Queen of Slaves brother.” Pallax smiled, broadly. “A hostage. And
dropped into my hand like a ripe fig, praise Nir.”

Wenda was not going to be pleased, but at least Pallax would
keep Lance alive.

He started to sit up, but Nir jabbed the spear butt into his
ribs. Gasping in silent agony, Lance writhed on the ground. Sara cried out in
sympathy while the legionnaires smirked.

“I don’t care whose brother he is,” Nir snarled. “I’m going to
whip the skin off his back, then carve out his liver. Slowly.”

“Please,” Sara appealed to Pallax, speaking quickly. “My labour
has begun. The babe—who may be your grandson—is two months’ early. Without
Lance, both the babe and I will probably die in childbirth. You’ve seen him heal
before. You know what he can do.”

“She’s lying. She can’t be in labour,” Nir said.

In answer, Sara put Pallax’s hand on her belly as it hardened
with a contraction.

Pallax swore. “Nir, your revenge will have to wait. I won’t
risk my grandson’s life.”

“Fool! She’s not carrying your grandson!”

While the two men traded shouts and insults, Lance wondered if
he dared creep closer to Sara and lay a hand on her ankle.

Of course, if her early labour stopped then Pallax would have
no reason to keep them together. Lance subsided, breathing carefully. From the
feel of them, he thought his ribs were merely bruised, not broken.

Pallax stood, hands on hips, glaring up at Nir. “I’m taking
them both into my custody. Bluntly, I don’t trust you not to kill him—or her
either. I have a use for both of them alive, and if I let you cripple him, his
value as a hostage drops. Neither of them is going anywhere. Your revenge can
wait.

“Furthermore, I’ve received a reply from Chief Fitch. We go to
battle tomorrow. I need my high priest focussed. I need you to pray to Nir and
petition Him for His favour, not play with your slave girl.”

A pulse throbbed in Nir’s temple, but Pallax won out. At his
gesture, the quartet of stone-faced legionnaires yanked Lance to his feet. He
gasped, his ribs protesting.
They’re
not
broken
, he repeated to himself. He couldn’t afford
for them to be.

Pallax offered Sara the support of his arm. Her normal golden
brown skin tones had paled to a sickly yellow.

Outside the tent, the small boy who’d helped Lance win his
dedicant status was all but dancing from foot to foot with impatience. “Sara!”
he cried, but Pallax shook his head, curtly.

The boy bowed his head, abashed.

Lance wondered how the boy knew Sara, but the question was
quickly swallowed by the pain of walking with bruised ribs.

A dizzyingly short time later, Pallax had evicted a young
officer from his tent and settled Lance and Sara inside. He provided them with a
fire, a pot of water and clean blankets for the bed for Sara to give birth
on.

And a set of manacles and a long chain for Lance.

“Do you need anything else?” Pallax asked while a legionnaire
pounded a four-foot iron spike through the slavechain into the ground.

“Some swaddling to wrap the infant in,” Lance replied
distractedly. His hands itched. He needed to touch Sara soon if he was to have a
chance of stopping the labour. A half-formed plan bloomed in his mind: they
could pretend Sara’s labour stretched for hours until the camp had emptied out
for tomorrow’s battle, then lure the guard left behind—

“Are you the father?” Pallax asked abruptly, and Lance
remembered his talk of grandsons.