Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Read online

  The shandy snarled and batted weakly at her, but missed.

  She counted her heartbeats. When she reached one thousand, she poked it again. This time it didn’t move.

  Sara dragged Lance four feet upstream until he lay not far from the shandy’s broad yellow side. She closed his hand around the shandy’s tail, then took up guard with the spear.

  The shandy’s blood stopped flowing. Damaged muscle knitted together again, and fur grew over the gaping spear wound. The scent of flowers drifted through the air.

  The shandy stirred, ears flattened. Baring its teeth again, it turned its head toward Lance.

  Sara rapped its nose to draw its attention to her. Another ripping snarl and a swipe from its claws. She readied her spear to kill it, but then it opened its eyes and cocked its ears. “Sarrra? Why did you hit me?”

  It looked at Sara’s face when it asked the question. Lance had told her that meant a person was talking to her and that she should reply. She supposed the rule also applied to shandies.

  “I hit you because you hurt Lance.”

  “Lance?” The shandy sniffed. “He’s herrre? He must have healed me.” The great cat lunged to its feet, but didn’t attack. “The spearrr! I need to tell him—I have to find—” The shandy stopped speaking, gazing down at Lance’s prone body. “What’s wrrrong with him?”

  “He has a stomach tumour. You clawed him, then he fell in the stream and almost drowned,” Sara recounted, still holding the spear.

  The shandy made its peculiar wordless noise again. “Oh, no, I hurrrt him? I’m so sorrry.”

  “Yes, you hurt him,” Sara answered the question. The apology was irrelevant. “Are you going to attack him again?”

  “Of courrrse not,” the shandy growled. It paced forward and sniffed Lance. “How can we help him?”

  “He needs to warm up. Lie beside him.” Sara put down the spear, then fetched a blanket from Lance’s abandoned pack and spread it over him.

  The shandy curled its large body around Lance while Sara gathered sticks and kindling and piled them on the muddy bank. She removed the flint and striker from Lance’s belt purse and struck several sparks. One took and she fed the tiny flame.

  Once the fire was established, Sara examined his scratches. Only a little blood seeped out, but the cuts were already puffy and swollen.

  “Will he rrrecoverrr?” The shandy flattened its ears.

  “I don’t know,” Sara said. An infection on top of his tumour might well kill him. Her hand shook, and she dropped the bandage. Odd. She wasn’t usually clumsy.

  “Wenda told everrryone what you did, the sacrrrifice you made. I wanted to say how grrrateful we all arrre.”

  Sara kept bandaging.

  When she finished, the shandy stood up. “I’m sorrry, but I can’t stay any longerrr. The man who spearrred me, my prrrisoner—I have to rrrecapture him beforrre the rrrain wipes away his trrrail. If he escapes, the Rrrepublic will invade Kandrrrith again. I can’t let that happen. I prrromised I’d guarrrd him and instead I—” The shandy hung its great head for a moment. “I have to make it rrright. Do you underrrstand?”

  “No.” Lance was more important than a prisoner.

  “Lance will underrrstand. If I pass a village, I’ll send help.”

  The big cat returned to where it had bled, sniffed the grass, then bounded upstream.

  Sara fed the fire and counted her pulse. Every thousand heartbeats, she checked Lance to make sure his skin was warm and that he breathed.

  Lance had instructed her to continue down the road if he died, to seek first Julen and then Lance’s sister. She usually did what Lance said, but didn’t think she would this time.

  Other people were like dim shadows, easy to ignore. They moved and talked, but possessed no meaning. Sara didn’t trouble to remember their names. Lance mattered. His voice resonated in her ear. She heard everything he said. To her perception, he seemed sharper, as if outlined in light.

  He tethered her to life.

  If he died, she would sit here until she wasted away.

  Chapter Two

  A muscular man burst out of the trees, snatched up the spear she’d dropped and shouted, “Don’t move!”

  From her place next to the fire, Sara looked up. She catalogued his face—olive skin, dark hair, blue eyes, bumpy nose, clean-shaven—and noted his legionnaires’ uniform, then resumed her counting.

  He wasn’t Lance, so he couldn’t be important.

  “Show me your hands!” the man bellowed, rushing closer.

  Sara ignored him. Two hundred and thirty two, two hundred and thirty-three—

  The legionnaire spared Lance one glance, then ignored him and prodded her arm with his spear. “I said, ‘Show me your hands.’”

  Her flesh dented under the pressure, the point almost breaking the skin. He was attacking her. That meant she should hurt him back until he stopped or retreated. Sara stood up and drew back her leg to kick.

  Unexpectedly, he laughed, and the point of the spear dipped toward the ground. “Diwo smile on me, it is you.”

  Sara hesitated.

  “Lady Sarathena Remillus.” He laughed until water leaked from his eyes. “Finally, the Goddess of Luck has taken pity on me. I’ll take you with me to Temborium. How great a reward will the Primus give for the safe return of his daughter, do you think?”

  The question made no sense. “Primus Pallax doesn’t have a daughter.”

  He stopped laughing. “Vez’s Malice. Your father isn’t Primus anymore?”

  “No.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I shouldn’t be surprised. We all expected General Pallax to take a run at the Primacy. I suppose he killed your father.”

  That wasn’t a question so Sara didn’t tell him how her father really died.

  “Still, you’ll be worth something to House Remillus.” He circled her, assessing her from all sides.

  Sara waited, still undecided as to whether he was a threat.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “No.”

  “Too much to hope for.” His brow lowered. “Maybe... Do you have an uncle?”

  Her mother had had a brother, who was a minor priest of Cepi, God of Small Favours. “Yes.”

  “Good. I expect he’ll be happy enough to find someone willing to marry damaged goods—sorry, sweet, but you are.”

  Sara didn’t think she was either damaged or sweet.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “No argument? Someone knocked the arrogance out of you since we last met.”

  Sara didn’t tax her brain trying to remember him. She’d met hundreds of legionnaires in her years in the Republic.

  Another pause. “Let’s move out.” He gestured to the woods with his spear.

  Did that constitute a threat? Sara gave him one more chance. “I’m not leaving Lance.”

  “Lance?” The legionnaire looked down. “Is that the sick man’s name? Do you share his bed?”

  Sara usually had her own pallet, but she shared Lance’s on chilly nights. Lance would hold her against his warm chest, his breath stirring her hair, and she would go to sleep listening to his heartbeat. “Sometimes.”

  The legionnaire’s lip lifted on one side. “Don’t worry, after a night in my bed you’ll forget all about the barbarian.” He slapped her buttocks.

  Ah. He was attacking. Quick as a striking snake, Sara snapped out her leg and kicked him in the testicles. He choked and folded in half, clutching his groin. He dropped the spear in the stream.

  Sara fished for it, but he knocked her hand aside. “Vicious twotch.” He scooped up the spear before it could float awa
y and pointed it toward her despite his crouched position. “You’re going to pay for that later.” Slowly, he straightened, teeth bared. “Now, let’s go.” He watched her carefully. If she tried to kick him again, he would dodge.

  Lance had told her to stop fighting if she was outmatched and wait for a better opportunity.

  But Lance was unconscious. If she left with the legionnaire, Lance wouldn’t know where she’d gone. What if a better opportunity never came? If she followed this man out of Kandrith, she might never see Lance again.

  What if he died without someone to care for him?

  The thought was like the wrong number in a long mathematical sequence. Jarring. Unbearable.

  Sara planted her bottom on the muddy bank. “I won’t go.”

  “Oh, yes, you will. I’ll drag you by the hair if I have to.”

  Could he drag her by the hair? Wouldn’t her hair break under the weight of her body? At the very least, dragging her would slow him down. Sara stayed seated.

  “Nir’s Sword,” the man swore. He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. “Up!”

  Sara went limp. He dragged her up the bank and over forest ground rough with broken sticks and stones. Pain radiated from her scalp. She could feel individual hairs being yanked out by the roots—-each a separate sharp pull. Fascinating.

  After five feet, the legionnaire dropped her beside a willow tree. His lungs heaved, breath coming fast. He poked her leg with the spear. A white spot appeared, then turned pink again. “Up, you lazy twotch.”

  Sara stayed where she was. Obdurate.

  He jabbed her again, drawing blood. The stinging from her scalp was already fadng, but the spear wound throbbed. Perhaps because it was deeper? So many types of pain, all interesting.

  Lance wouldn’t like it. But he would heal her. And that was even better.

  If she stayed with Lance.

  The man’s cheeks flushed, and he bared his teeth. “Get up now, or I’ll shove this through your heart.” He jiggled the spear.

  Lance couldn’t heal the dead. Sara rolled to her feet in a single smooth motion. Warm blood trickled down her calf.

  “That’s better.” The legionnaire stopped showing her his teeth.

  Sara watched his movements. She had a small belt knife, but the spear gave him a longer reach. She needed to get it away from him or lure him closer and take him by surprise. “We should bring food with us.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re stalling, but it’s a good idea. Grab the sack.”

  He kept pace beside her as she retrieved Lance’s travel pack. His stomach growled.

  “You’re hungry.” Sara set some bread on a nearby log and sawed off two slices with a long knife. She held the knife loosely in her hand as if forgotten.

  When he reached for a slice, she struck. She drove the knife down through the back on his hand, deep into the wood.

  He screamed and tried to pluck it out.

  She drew her belt knife and pinned his left wrist to the log, too. While he shrieked and cursed, she picked up the spear, then prodded him in the back. “Stop trying to free yourself.”

  He stilled.

  She began counting her pulse again. She hadn’t quite reached three thousand beats when the shandy burst through the line of pine trees screening the stream.

  The cat shandy stumbled to a halt, breathing ragged. “Sarrra, arrre you well? I came as fast as I could once I rrrealized his trrrail looped arrround. What happened?”

  Before she could answer a horse and cart drew up on the road. A middle-aged woman and a black-haired man climbed down.

  “I asked the villagerrrs to come,” the shandy said.

  The man had longer legs and reached the campsite first. “What’s going on? Is that your escaped prisoner?”

  “Yes,” the cat shandy said. It and the man began to talk to each other. Sara put down the spear and returned to Lance’s side. His forehead felt cold and clammy to her touch.

  The middle-aged woman came and crouched at Sara’s side, examining Lance. She clicked his tongue. “He’s in sorry shape.” She stood up and addressed the man and the shandy. “I suggest you tie up your prisoner so we can get the Kandrith’s brother in the wagon.”

  “Will he—?” The man didn’t finish his sentence, but the woman still answered.

  “It’s in Loma’s hands.”

  The man bound the prisoner’s wrists a few inches apart with a belt then yanked out the knives. The prisoner’s red-rimmed eyes watched Sara as she cleaned off her knife and returned it to her belt.

  The cat shandy growled. “Don’t even think it.”

  He flinched.

  Think what? Sara didn’t understand, nor did she care enough to ask.

  “Rhiain, your prisoner’s bleeding. If you want him to last the journey, best heal him. Or kill him here and now.” The middle-aged woman stared at the legionnaire.

  He lifted one corner of his lip. “Old woman—”

  The cat shandy cuffed him. He fell to one knee, but its claws were sheathed. He wasn’t hurt.

  “Tempting, but the Kandrrrith grrranted him his life,” the cat shandy said.

  While the cat shandy nudged her prisoner over to Lance for healing, the curly-haired man approached her. “Lady Sarathena?”

  Lady Sarathena Remillus was her old name. She stared at him.

  “Don’t you remember me? It’s Julen.”

  Julen. Sara searched her memories. A man by that name had worked for her father. This man’s green eyes and curly black hair matched her memories of Julen, but when he’d worked for House Remillus he’d always been clean-shaven and worn elegant clothes. This man had a beard and wore shapeless trousers with brown patches on the knees. Still, she supposed it must be him since he knew her name.

  “I remember,” Sara said.

  “Save the talk for later,” the middle-aged woman said. She removed the blanket covering Lance and folded it into quarters. “We need to get him into the wagon.”

  The cat shandy pushed her prisoner aside. His brow wrinkled, he stared at his healed hands.

  Julen peered down at Lance’s swollen stomach. “Loma’s Mercy, what’s he been eating? A horse every morning for breakfast?” He looked at Sara so she answered.

  “No. He had oatmeal this morning, then vomited it up along with some blood.”

  The woman clucked her tongue.

  Julen pursed his lips and shook his head. “Well, let’s get him in the cart.” He grabbed Lance under the arms while Sara and the woman each took a leg. The three of them could barely get Lance off the ground. “On the count of three, heave,” Julen said when they reached the cart. “One, two, three!”

  They strained together, but Lance’s buttocks hit the edge of the cart, and he spilled over the edge, landing on his stomach.

  Lance convulsed and woke screaming. He curled into a ball on his side and wheezed.

  “Lance?” Julen reached for him, but stopped short.

  Lance’s breathing remained harsh, but after a moment he focused on their faces. “Valda. Julen. Sara, you found him. Well done.”

  “Delighted to see you, too,” Julen said. “Are you going to die in my cart?”

  Lance laid his hand on top of his stomach and bared his teeth. “That depends. Are you done trying to kill me?”

  “We’ll take it slow,” the woman said. “Sara, you sit with Lance.”

  Sara obeyed. Lance laid his head on her lap.

  Once
they were moving, Lance shut his eyes again. Sara steadied him against the jostling of the cart while Julen led the horse.

  When they arrived at the village, doors opened and six villagers streamed out. They asked questions, but directed them at the middle-aged woman so Sara paid no heed.

  “He can’t stay in my house. My daughter and her brood are due to visit tomorrow,” the woman said.

  “He’s welcome, but not her with those Devil Eyes,” a short man said.

  “They can both stay with us,” Julen said.

  The men carried Lance into a small house and laid him on a pallet next to a cradle. While Julen started a fire, the women covered Lance with a second red-and-white plaid blanket and removed his sandals. Sara took note. Ought she have done that the other times he’d passed out?

  “Where’s Iorweth?” the woman asked.

  “Helping her cousin. She’ll be back soon.” Julen gestured to the cradle. “Meghan likes to nap afternoons, then keep us awake at night.”

  The woman huffed out a breath then started to leave.

  Julen put his hand on her shoulder. “Wait. What should I do about him?”

  “Care for him like you would anyone else who was ill. He’s in Loma’s hands. He is Her priest.” She left.

  Julen stared at Sara. She stared back.

  He cleared his throat. “I can hardly believe you’re here. May I say how glad I am that you’re alive?”

  That was a question. She should answer, but it didn’t make sense. “You just said it.”

  Julen paused with his mouth open, then laughed—a strange noise Lance claimed people made if something was “funny.” “So I did. I’m happy to see that you didn’t get your head chopped off.”

  Sara’s head had been chopped off, but Julen hadn’t asked her a question so she said nothing.

  “You wouldn’t believe the rumours we’ve heard out here in the sticks.” Julen watched her closely.

  She scanned the one-room cottage, but didn’t see any sticks. Logs for the fire, yes, sticks, no.