Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Read online

  Something was wrong.

  Claude put his hand on her thigh again, and Sara left it there while she tried to think.

  She felt strangely removed from the room, from Claude and everyone else. Her heart raced, and her skin felt hot, achy as if with fever. Her breasts felt heavy—

  “Are you hot? Should we step outside?” Claude murmured. A sly smile played around his mouth.

  He’d drugged her. The knowledge struck like a lightning bolt. The wine—there must be jazoria in it. The heat and muzziness she was experiencing were born of desire.

  For a moment, rage overwhelmed the unnatural languidity of her limbs. Sara almost grabbed the cover off the silver chafing dish and clanged it over Claude’s head. How dare he treat her like some cuorelle he wanted to bed?

  Lust glazed his eyes, and his hand crept toward the inside of her thigh. But this time her nerves quivered in anticipation, her body betraying her. Sara twitched and knocked over his wineglass. Red liquid splashed over the blue tablecloth and her white dress.

  “Oh, no!” Sara jumped up. “My gown—it’s stained.” Giving Claude no chance to react, she rushed down off the dais. She needed to be alone, for her head to clear so she could figure out what to do.

  She walked swiftly toward the retiring room, dodging the cuorelle servers, afraid to look behind her for fear she would see Lady Pallax in full pursuit.

  Claude’s mother must be in on the scheme. Claude would never have come up with something this bold on his own. They wanted her well and truly trapped into marriage. But why? Sara couldn’t make sense of it. Had Lady Pallax acquired another debt to someone other than Aunt Evina? Did they need her dowry?

  The laugh would be on them if so. While her father’s ascent to the Primacy meant no one would try to collect on their debts, preferring to be owed favors, at the moment Sara’s dowry was mostly a matter of wishful thinking.

  Sara entered the retiring room at the edge of the ballroom. A gentle fountain splashed into a scalloped marble basin, muting the roar from the banquet. Yet another blonde cuorelle leaped to attention when Sara came in—really, the whole Republic must have been stripped bare, to find so many Gotian Heart Slaves. Most third-generation slaves came from the less-recently-conquered Elysinia province.

  Since Sara had no idea where the girl’s loyalties lay, she ordered the cuorelle out. Alone, Sara cupped a handful of water from the fountain and splashed it on her face, sighing in pleasure at the coolness. She bathed her wrists and temples, but by the time she finished one pulse point the fever had risen in another. Unless she crawled into the cursed fountain this wasn’t going to work.

  And the sensations were worsening. Her gown of fine Qiph silk rubbed against her skin like sandpaper, abrading her nipples until they jutted out in hard points. The flesh between her legs felt swollen. She wanted to tear the gown off, wanted— She barely knew what she wanted. Aunt Evina had always spoken frankly about sex, but Sara had scant practical experience.

  The door to the retiring room opened. Sara straightened, pinning on a cool smile, then relaxed when she saw only her aunt and one of her attendants.

  “Evina,” Sara said with heartfelt relief. Her aunt would know what to do. Six years ago her mother’s sister had taken in hand the wild girl Sara had been and given her the skills she needed to survive in Temboria’s capital.

  “What’s wrong, duckling?” Evina asked, bustling forward in a wave of lilac perfume. Her aunt’s short, round figure showed to voluptuous advantage in a lilac gown with a plunging neckline that made the drapes on Sara’s gown look staid. As always, Evina had piled her dark hair on top of her head in a froth of curls to give herself an extra two inches of height. “Will the stain not come out?”

  Sara hadn’t even tried to remove the wine-blot. “It’s not the gown—it’s Luck-forsake-her Lady Pallax and her snail-brained son. They put something in my wine.”

  Evina glanced sharply at her cuorelle. The girl immediately shut the door and stood guard against eavesdroppers. “Not poison, surely?” Evina asked.

  Sara hadn’t even thought of poison. She considered her racing heart and tingling lips then shook her head. “No, it’s a love potion.”

  Evina laughed. “Is that all? You had me worried for a moment, duckling.”

  “How do I make it stop?” Sara asked grimly. “If I go to the vomitorium…?”

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  “Not now, but I was earlier. The smell…”

  “The fool must have given you too much or mixed the jazoria with a second potion.” Evina put her hand on Sara’s forehead, her green-eyed gaze assessing. “From the size of your pupils, it’s too late for vomiting to do you any good. You’re just going to have to ride it out—one way or another,” she added naughtily.

  Sara bared her teeth. “I will not permit Claude to profit from this underhanded maneuver.”

  “Are you sure?” Evina asked. “You’re setting yourself up for a nasty night. Arousal without relief is very unpleasant, and the effects will only get worse.”

  “No,” Sara said again, but she felt dismay. A nasty night? She’d thought the potion would wear off in an hour.

  Evina looked impatient. “You’re going to have to lie with the boy sooner or later—”

  Sara controlled a flinch at that blunt truth.

  “Why not do it tonight when you’ll actually enjoy it?” her aunt continued. “Jazoria can turn the smelliest dungtoad into a wonderful lover.”

  Sara narrowed her eyes. The moue of Evina’s mouth suggested something… “You’ve used it yourself?”

  Evina raised an elegant eyebrow. “Of course, duckling. So has every other married lady of my acquaintance. Believe me, it’s the only way to endure your uncle.”

  Sara hadn’t wanted to know that. Uncle Paulin was fat and dull, but she’d always assumed there was some affection between her aunt and uncle. The biting contempt in Evina’s voice said otherwise.

  “So, should I set a bird in Claude’s ear that you would appreciate his company in one of the side rooms?” Evina asked. “Ten minutes of tupping versus ten hours of torment.”

  Sara scooped more water onto her face and made herself consider the matter as coldly as possible. She and Claude were almost betrothed. A marriage between them could well save her father and brother’s lives. And she wasn’t at all sure that on her wedding night she could make herself lie down with Claude and simply open her legs. Whenever he put his hands on her, her first instinct was to fight—to tear at him with her fingernails if she had to.

  Beginning her marriage in such a way wouldn’t aid her father.

  Whereas tonight…everything would unfold in a drugged haze. If she could get the first time over with, she might be able to tolerate him.

  And as bedmates went, she could do much worse. Despite herself, Sara remembered how Nir used to sit next to her at dinner, close enough that she could smell raw meat on his breath, and scratch his yellow fingernail down her cheek, the promise of future pain shining in his eyes. The thought of being drugged and in Nir’s power sent a wave of horror through her. Truly, Claude was a better choice.

  She opened her mouth to ask her aunt to send for Claude and then stopped. It didn’t make sense for the Pallaxes to be the ones rushing their fences. Unless the political situation had changed somehow? If some rebel had put a sword through General Pallax’s heart, then the advantages of a marriage to the Primus’s daughter suddenly outweighed the reverse.

  “No message,” Sara said, looking at her aunt with brittle calmness. “I need your help distracting Claude and his mother while I leave through the kitchens. Make my excuses—say I’m ill.”

  “As you wish, duckling.” Evina drifted toward the door. “Whatever you do, don’t try to take care of the problem yourself. The priestess of Jazor will have enchanted the jazoria so that if you climax without a man inside you the symptoms will come back twice as bad.”

  For perhaps five minutes after her aunt left, Sara remained staring
at the door, waiting for rescue. Then a brazen young woman entered. Unmarried daughters like Sara wore white gowns with only sashes of their House color; the woman’s solid emerald dress proclaimed her a married woman of House Arranius. House Arranius had favored Lord Favonius during the recent political wrangling, but despite all her aunt’s coaching Sara couldn’t remember the woman’s name. She didn’t know what House she’d been born into or who she might be the lover of.

  The woman’s sharp gaze said that she recognized Sara. If Sara stayed here much longer, she would become the subject of gossip.

  Sara opened the door to the retiring room and looked both ways. Left lay the wine table where a dozen cuoreons removed the plugs from amphorae and poured jets of red wine. A steady stream of cuorelle servers picked up the full carafes, while another set sailed in and out of the kitchens just beyond. To the right, a row of Republican legionnaires stood on guard in bronze armor and crimson cloaks. Ahead was the main dining hall and—

  Vez’s Malice. The Pallaxes stood not ten feet away. Aunt Evina had her hand on Lady Pallax’s arm and was talking to her.

  Praying to Diwo for luck, Sara ducked her head and hurried into the bustling kitchen. A rush of spiced, steamy air greeted her. Two cuores at a nearby worktable stopped deboning poultry to stare at her, but most of the slaves paid her little heed. Sara cut across the kitchen, skirting the huge firepit, and nipped out the back door into blessedly cooler air—only to come face-to-face with Claude’s stocky Elysinian servant, Gelban.

  Her heart gave an uncomfortable thump. Gelban was a sanguon, a second-generation slave. His slavechain was still long enough to be worn as a belt, and his scarred face gave him an air of roughness.

  While first-generation slaves, osseos, worked almost exclusively in the fields or at other hard labor, sangues were usually given positions in places like the stables or laundry. Most nobles preferred cuores as personal servants because they were considered more refined. Sara had long wondered what Gelban had done to earn his higher position.

  “Gelban!” Sara struggled to think as another wave of heat engulfed her. “Claudius needs you. In there.” She waved a vague hand at the doors.

  Was Gelban suspicious? Just keep walking. He’s a Blood Slave. He won’t dare put a hand on you.

  “Put her in the carriage,” Claude said from behind her.

  Gelban put his hand on Sara’s wrist. “This way, Lady,” he said politely.

  Sara pouted. “I’ve changed my mind. I want to go back inside—”

  “You’re coming with me.” Claude’s breathing sounded harsh. “Mother says I’m to get you pregnant tonight. I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” he said in the tones of a child promised a treat.

  It was so hard to think. Before Sara could decide what to do—scream? run?—Gelban picked her up from behind. She kicked weakly, but Gelban kept carrying her toward the Pallax’s gaudy orange carriage. She struggled harder, but only succeeded in making the horses toss their heads. The blacks were race stock, too proud and nervous to pull a carriage, as everyone but Claude knew.

  Gelban opened the carriage door and laid her down gently on the seat.

  Was that an apology in his brown eyes? It didn’t matter, if so. Gelban was a sanguon. He would not—could not—help her.

  Sara tried to scramble up off the cushioned seat, but her body felt sluggish. Claude crowded inside, and it was too late.

  “Let me go,” Sara said, but the words were soft around the edges, not the demand she’d intended.

  “You don’t mean that.” Claude leered. “I know you’re feeling strange, but don’t worry. I know just what you need.” His hands dug into her shoulders while he stuck his tongue down her throat. She tasted wine.

  The carriage lurched into motion, and Sara fell back on the seat. Claude pinned her in place. He was so heavy, and his hands had multiplied. It felt as if there were at least five of them pawing at her. Dizzily, Sara kept trying to remove them from her person.

  Her head swam. The pressure of his body on hers felt good. It helped the fiery ache in her flesh caused by the jazoria. She arched up against him.

  “That’s right, you want it, don’t you?” He ground his hardened manhood against her through their layers of clothing, laughing when she whimpered with need. “Tonight I’m going to fill your belly. Once I do, Mother’s promised to sign over her dower property to me, and I’ll be free of her purse strings.”

  His speech repelled her, and she turned her head away from his even as she couldn’t help opening her legs. In punishment, he nipped her bottom lip, drawing blood.

  The carriage bounced over cobblestones, then swayed sideways as it took a corner too fast. Claude’s elbow dug into in her stomach, and sickness overwhelmed desire. Sara wedged her arms up between them, turning her face away from his kiss. “Please, stop, I’m going to be ill,” she begged.

  Claude smirked. “You’re just nervous.”

  The carriage bounced again; her stomach heaved. Something in her face must have convinced him. He moved off her and called to his driver to stop, which made the carriage lurch again, even worse.

  Sara was leaning on the door when Gelban yanked it open. She nearly fell at his feet, but managed to cling to the doorframe while her stomach turned inside out. When the long spasm ended, she closed her eyes.

  Claude shifted. “Let’s—”

  Sara vomited again. This time when the nausea faded she felt a touch stronger and more clear-headed.

  Claude held his nose. “Gelban, fetch my pomander. When we get home, have her bathed.” Despite his distaste, Sara knew that being ill would not save her. Her ravishment had only been postponed.

  And, Loma have mercy on her, she would probably cooperate. The jazoria was a fire in her flesh.

  Gelban hurried around to the back of the carriage and began rummaging in a trunk. The coachman still sat on top of the box, holding the blacks in check, and another sanguon armed with a club against thieves stood in back.

  She would never get a better chance. Sara jumped.

  She missed the puddle of vomit, but landed awkwardly, skinning her knee. The jazoria helped her. The pain seemed far away as if it were happening to another Sara.

  A stone poked into her palm. She picked it up and threw it at the horses. Stung, the left one leaped forward ahead of the other horse, almost toppling the carriage. Then the other black broke into a gallop too. The coachman cursed and pulled back on the reins.

  Sara struggled up and ran, stumbling in the dark. They would be back soon.

  Her legs felt like breadsops, weak and shaky. Loma’s Mercy, where was she? The streets all looked strange and forbidding. She plunged down the darkest one while shouts rose up behind her.

  Sara ran, guided only by the moonlit gleam of puddles. The skirts of her gown trailed in muck. The sodden material clung to her legs.

  “Sara!”

  Sara tried to speed up, but her foot slipped in the mud. She found herself slowing, her drugged body unwilling to run any farther. The jazoria inside her whispered to stop, wait, let herself be caught. Let Claude take her. Anything to make the horrible, clawing need go away.

  No. She would not give in.

  Sara looked around, trying to get her bearings in the dark. Which way lay safety?

  Claude called out again, his voice a little nearer. “Sara, be reasonable. You can’t stay out here. Tell me where you are.” From the fear in his voice, he was probably trying to think how to explain to the Primus that he’d lost his daughter. “I’ll drive you back to the Primary Residence. We were just going for a little ride, you needn’t have run,” Claude said self-righteously.

  Did he think she was stupid? Well, yes, of course he did. She’d always played the vapid coquette for him.

  In reality, Sara possessed her father’s stubbornness. If her father couldn’t force Sara to do what he wanted, what hope did Claude have? Sara remembered the prodigious battles she’d had with her father when he’d removed her from the Remillu
s country estate in Elysinia to the capital and told her she had to behave like a lady. It had taken a near tragedy for Sara to finally see that she owed it to her family to marry well. Her will hadn’t been broken, she’d reforged it into something different.

  That same will kept her on her feet now, when she wanted to curl up in a ball and moan. Sara moved farther away from Claude and stumbled upon a raised path.

  “Lady, it isn’t safe, not here.” Gelban spoke this time. “Do you know whose temple you’re at?”

  Temple? Most temples were scrubbed free of mud by diligent dedicants. Only one—

  “I don’t want to say His name, Lady,” Gelban said.

  Vez, God of Malice. She’d entered His temple. Sara’s heart jumped as her memory supplied an image of a temple courtyard full of black mud with Vez’s statuary facial features rising up out of them. She must be walking on the obscenely long, lolling tongue, about to pass through Vez’s mouth into the courtyard. Although Vez’s assassin-priests had been outlawed over one hundred years ago and his worshippers driven into hiding, no one had dared pull down the God of Malice’s temple.

  “You don’t know who might be out here in the dark,” Gelban said. “Please, come back to the carriage.”

  Sara tried to think. Was Gelban right? The dark seemed suddenly malevolent. All types of scum were rumored to come out at night to search the mud for the gold coins thrown by those buying a curse. She could end up with her throat slit or sold into slavery. In comparison, the early wedding night Claude wanted was nothing.

  “Where is the little twotch? We’ve lost her.” Claude swore with surprising viciousness.

  The degree of anger and resentment in his voice made Sara uneasy. Claude sounded different from the petulant boy-man who had been courting her. She’d thought that since Lady Pallax bullied him, Claude would be a manageable husband. Now she saw that she had been wrong. Claude would be a petty tyrant to those in his power.