Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Read online

  He should have listened to Nabeel. His weapons master had had a great deal to say about Esam’s foolishness in volunteering to participate in the Pathfinders’ ritual. Yesterday’s conversation played over again in his mind.

  “Spar with me.” As soon as the Pathfinders had retired to their own tents, Nabeel had tossed Esam a wooden practice blade.

  Esam had hardly gotten his sword up when Nabeel struck him to the ground with a hard blow. A grizzled man in his forties, Nabeel’s braids were as thick with beads as his body was thick with muscle. Esam had grown taller than him last year, but Nabeel was much stronger.

  Esam sprang up again, angry, but Nabeel knocked his attack aside with contemptuous ease. Normally, in a sparring match, Nabeel would tell Esam what he was doing wrong, or slow down certain moves. Not today. This bout was nothing more than a punishment.

  “Fool!” Nabeel hissed after he’d given Esam three more bruises. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Holy work against the Defilers,” Esam said warily.

  Nabeel looked exasperated. “Listen, young fool—I find this errand of the Pathfinders…dubious. It’s one thing to seek out the Defilers in Qi, but traveling so far into the Republic is madness. Their magic would be better spent winning another foot of green land from the dunes.”

  Esam didn’t understand. “But you’re coming, too.”

  “A Warrior does not refuse a Pathfinder. But you, you volunteered what they couldn’t have asked. You risk your soul by being the ritual’s focus.”

  “The Pathfinders said—”

  “I know what they said. But you are old enough to know that intentions often differ from results. If you never come home, I am the one who will have to tell your father what happened to his youngest son.” Another lightning attack. Esam fell on his backside again.

  “I’m sorry, Weapons Master.”

  “I’ll tell the Pathfinders to find another,” Nabeel said, relaxing.

  To do so would bring great shame upon them both. For the first time, Esam felt a touch of true fear—the danger must be great if Nabeel was willing to do this—but he shook his head. “No, I must take part in the ritual.”

  His refusal angered Nabeel. Esam suffered a blow to the torso and a jab to the kidneys and managed only a weak cut of his own in return. Then Nabeel’s foot hooked behind his knee. Esam found himself flat on his back, the wooden sword prodding at his throat.

  “And if I say you won’t?” A growl.

  “I must.” Esam closed his eyes briefly. “I am a Warrior with no horse.” His brave, beautiful mare had died of an arrow wound in a minor raid. “A Warrior with no horse is not a Warrior.”

  Nabeel frowned. He knew Esam’s father raised horses. “Why don’t you ask your father for a mount?”

  “I have been a Warrior for three years.” Since he turned fifteen. “Father will say it is time I took the next step on the Path. He promised my mother one of her children would follow the Path of the Holy Ones.” Esam stopped there. Nabeel knew the rest; that Esam’s mother was dead, that his two older brothers had failed to follow the Path.

  For a moment Nabeel still looked puzzled and then realization hit. “If you take part in the ritual, the magic you’ve gained from following the Warrior’s Path will be used up. You won’t be able to take the next step on the Path for another two years. Your father will have to give you a horse.”

  Esam nodded.

  “Ungrateful whelp.” Nabeel hit Esam a ringing blow on the ear.

  Esam knew he deserved the pain for conniving against his father, but he abhorred the thought of becoming a Scholar, of staying inside all day, painting delicate lines on fragile parchment. Two years of such would be a lifetime. “You’re still a Warrior. You’ve never taken the next step,” he said hotly. “What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t be a fool,” Nabeel said, but then he relented. “Listen and you may yet survive. Once the ritual begins you must not cry out or move—no matter what.”

  “I’m not afraid of pain.” Esam lifted his chin.

  Nabeel cuffed him. “Did I mention pain? This is magic, boy. Do you know what that means?”

  Esam licked his dry lips. “The Holy Ones—”

  “The Holy Ones were the Holy Ones,” Nabeel said impatiently. “These are Pathfinders. I do not trust them.” Nabeel stared at him, brooding. “Tomorrow we will see what you are made of, young Esam. Do not shame me.”

  And now the time had arrived. The bodies were all laid out in a V, men on the left, women on the right. The Warriors moved back, and the Pathfinders said a brief invocation. Sacred emerald fire blazed outward and rapidly consumed the bodies.

  Esam’s relief lasted until a Pathfinder came and began to anoint his body with the hot ashes.

  He stood very still, not flinching.

  “These are the dead. Run fast,” the Pathfinder intoned as he covered Esam’s bronzed legs with soot. His hoarse, ruined voice contrasted with his youthful clean-shaven face. “These are the dead. Beat true.” He smeared the ashes over Esam’s heart.

  Esam breathed through his mouth. His skin crawled at the thought of what the ashes had been. Dead people. Dead people on my skin. The sensation only worsened as the Pathfinder daubed his way upward, smearing the inside of Esam’s ears. “These are the dead. Hear their cries.” Esam’s eyes stung as the ashes covered his eyelids. “These are the dead. See their faces.”

  Esam’s hands twitched with the need to wipe the filth away. To distract himself, he stared at the thick scars ringing the throat of Pathfinder. Had he once been hanged? His vocal cords had clearly been damaged. Four Pathfinders were taking part in the ritual, but only this one would continue on with Esam’s party and not return to Qi. The Pathfinder looked too young for the emerald Holy Eyes inset in his forehead. The gems were said to be windows for the Holy Ones to observe the world, but it was the Pathfinder’s intense black gaze that made Esam nervous.

  It struck Esam that this man, like every Pathfinder, had spent at least two years as a Warrior along the Path. What had made him give up the joy of riding like the wind down a steep hillside howling war cries, the brotherhood of Warriors? Esam couldn’t understand it. Maybe if he lived to be as old as Nabeel, he would want to take the next step on the Path. Maybe.

  Finally, the young Pathfinder finished anointing Esam with ashes and moved away.

  Instantly, the others involved in the rite stepped into place. They formed two lines fanning out from Esam in the shape of a V. The shorter line of three women on his right came forward first.

  The Water-Bearer, a slender girl of about fifteen in a simple white dress with a needle-thin green stripe, approached shyly. She held her upper body erect and used one hand to steady the ewer of water balanced on her head. Her black hair fell in a curtain down her back. She offered him the ewer, and he gladly drank. With her symbolic gift, emerald flames began to crackle at his toes. They did not burn, but Esam could feel a quiet hum of power in the soles of his feet as the magic gathered.

  Milk from the Mother came next. The woman bore a resemblance to the Water-Bearer—her mother?—but had strands of gray in her hair and a fuller-hipped figure. The green stripe on her dress was wider, indicating she’d progressed farther down the Path. Her expression serious, she offered him a rag soaked in milk to suck, as might be offered to an ailing babe. Esam’s pride rebelled, but he dared not break the ritual. He sucked from the rag—and almost stumbled as power slammed into the back of his knees. Magic.

  Last on the woman’s Path was the Dowser. Her kinky gray hair floated unbound around her shoulders, and her striped dress hung on her narrow frame. She pressed a peeled Y-shaped branch of Joshua wood into his hands with her age-spotted ones, and more power buffeted Esam.

  The magic continued to rise, engulfing his legs as the beardless youth on his left, the Camel-Herder, stumbled forward and laid a camel-hair blanket across Esam’s shoulders. Task completed, the boy looked relieved. Esam wished his own part in the ceremony was
over.

  Next Esam faced Nabeel, who represented Warriors. Esam stood straighter as Nabeel drew his curved blade and made a swift, shallow cut across Esam’s chest. Esam breathed through clenched teeth to control the pain. Harder to fight was his panic when he realized a green glow hid his lower body. He felt as if he were being swallowed.

  The Scholar took Nabeel’s place. Esam would have known him for a Scholar even without the hand-wide green stripes on his robe. He was short and slight, the sort who had probably hated being a Warrior, and had ink-stained fingers.

  He painted a word on Esam’s chest. The brush tickled, but Esam was conscious only of the rising green fire—up to his ribs now. It seethed like snakes. Worse was the sense of potential power looming over him, power enough to crush him.

  The Slave shuffled forward next. His serene expression contrasted with his branded cheek as he draped his slavechain around Esam’s neck. The cold links made Esam’s skin crawl. This man too, had once been a Warrior. How could he have willingly become a slave?

  The magic rose to Esam’s neck and danced on the surface of his skin. Standing still became a torture.

  Only one man remained in line, the same man who had anointed him. Pathfinder was the last step on the men’s Path to Holiness. The front of his robe was green and the back white, signifying a single stripe. He used his fingernails to pry off one of the emeralds over his eyes, leaving a raw, red spot behind, then pressed the stone to Esam’s forehead—

  With a roar, the magic shot up and over Esam’s head. Emerald fire ran down his throat. He breathed it in, swallowed it. It swarmed in his blood and crackled in his bones. His body became magic and began to change.

  Esam broke his word to Nabeel. He screamed until he could scream no more.

  * * *

  Two hours passed in a haze of utter misery for Sara.

  The muddy token from Vez’s temple proved to be for House Favonius, not House Remillus, and she was safely back in her new rooms at the Primary Residence, but that was the only bit of relief she had. Her maids, Rochelle and Felicia, fussed over her with cold cloths, but the jazoria continued to burn through her.

  Worse, her thoughts kept returning to those moments she’d spent in the dark with her rescuer. She kept imagining what it would have felt like if he’d touched her. Cupped her breasts in his large hands. Covered her body with his own—

  Just the thought of it made her press her legs together, made her liquid with desire.

  “Lady Sarathena,” Rochelle touched her arm. Looking into her cuorelle’s sympathetic gray eyes, Sara was struck by the sudden conviction that Rochelle had once been drugged herself.

  Rochelle didn’t speak of the years before coming into Sara’s service, and Sara didn’t ask.

  “Lady, your father is here.”

  Sara closed her eyes. She didn’t want her father to see her like this. She was a Remillus; she had her pride. “Help me to the bed.”

  She ripped off the cold cloths and yanked on the nightgown her dark-haired maid, Felicia, brought her. Though even the blue silk coverlet felt unbearably hot, she arranged herself modestly sitting up in bed, before nodding to Rochelle to open the door.

  Her father hesitated one step over the threshold, and Sara realized he was remembering her mother and the years that she’d spent as an invalid before her death.

  “Sarathena.” Touches of silver gleamed at the temples of her father’s dark hair, and worry etched his face. “The captain of the guard informed me what happened. Be assured, the Pallaxes will pay for this insult.”

  Words jumbled up inside Sara. Did that mean she would not marry Claude after all? If so, she would be relieved.

  But six years ago, after her foolishness beggared their House, Sara had sworn an oath to Hana, the God of Justice, that she would wed whoever was necessary to save her family. “General Pallax may still be on his way to take the capital with his Legions. If Claude was merely…overeager then we may still need the marriage to go through.”

  “He kidnapped you and would have raped you,” her father said flatly. “I don’t know whether the scheme was his own or if he has been in communication with his father. Either way, he will be punished. This I promise you.”

  Sara shook her head. She didn’t want revenge if the cost was her father’s life. “But—”

  “It’s done.” He smiled grimly. “Having General Pallax’s family in prison may prove a better threat than our original plan. Trust me to play the game, Sara.”

  Sara bit the inside of her cheek. When her father closed a subject, it stayed closed.

  He patted her hand and then frowned at it. “You’re still burning up.” He looked accusingly at her maids.

  Rochelle shrank back against the wall, but Felicia made a small curtsey. “She was given a large dose of jazoria. The physicker says there is nothing to be done but wait it out.”

  “Ridiculous,” her father said, blue eyes crackling with authority. “There’s no need for her to suffer like this. Have a sleeping draught brought to her.”

  Felicia left at once. Sara expected her father to leave, too, but he continued to sit by her bedside even after the draught arrived and she drank it down—it tasted pleasantly of mint. He held her hand as she lay back on the pillow. “Sleep, Sara, I’m here to watch over you.”

  For the first time in hours, Sara felt safe. She closed her eyes and, in the next moment, tipped over into sleep. Her dreams that night were dark and terrible, full of malice.

  Chapter Three

  Sara woke with a pounding headache and a vile taste in her mouth. She was, on the whole, disinclined to get up.

  Her maids had other ideas. They whisked away her blue coverlet, then stripped off her nightgown.

  Sara flopped back down and turned her face onto her pillow. “Let me die in peace.” Her throat felt raw, as if she’d been screaming in her sleep all night.

  “I know you must feel awful,” Rochelle said softly, “but you have to wake up.” Everything about Rochelle was unobtrusive, from her voice to her modest gray dress.

  Sara didn’t move. Her head…

  “You’re being too nice,” Felicia told Rochelle. “Watch. Sara, Master Julen’s waiting just outside. If you don’t get up right now, I’m going to open the door,” she pointed dramatically at the entrance to Sara’s sitting room, “and he’ll see you naked.”

  Rochelle was the sweetest maid anyone could want. Felicia was raven-haired, petite and ruthless. The Elysinian cuorelle had been with Sara since they were both twelve-year-old girls, and she was Sara’s closest friend. Felicia could get away with murder and knew it.

  Sara sat up in alarm. “Julen?” she croaked. She couldn’t swallow around the thick, sour taste in her mouth. She hadn’t felt this awful since the time Aunt Evina had forced her to consume most of a bottle of wine.

  Jazoria was even worse. And people used the drug willingly? Sara tried to focus past the spike of pain in her forehead. “Why is Julen waiting for me?” Julen was her father’s favorite toady.

  “He’s here to escort you to your Honorable father,” Rochelle said.

  “He didn’t say why, only that it’s urgent,” Felicia added.

  Sara waited. She could see from the excitement in Felicia’s green eyes that there was something more.

  “We’ve been told to pack you a trunk of clothes,” Felicia said. “You’re going on a journey.”

  Before Sara could ask where, Rochelle offered her a drink. The water washed away the horrid taste in Sara’s mouth, and a quick splash of her face in the painted china basin helped wake her. Unfortunately, her headache remained. The hollowness of her eyes in the silver-framed mirror reminded her unpleasantly of how her mother had appeared in the days of her final illness.

  “Ouch!” Sara yelped as Rochelle pulled her hair while trying to remove the snarls with an ivory-backed brush.

  “Pardon, my lady.” Rochelle seemed ready to cry. Her gray eyes were bloodshot, and her ash-blond hair hung loose instead of in
its usual sleek knot.

  Sara opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but Felicia caught her eye and mouthed, “Tulio.” Ah. Sara understood. Rochelle’s freeborn son had been sickly since birth. In the next minute, Rochelle found an excuse to rush out of the room.

  Felicia took the opportunity to speak privately, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, how does jazoria feel?”

  Sara almost snapped her friend’s head off. Weren’t you there? Didn’t you see? “It was awful.”

  Felicia frowned in disappointment. “All of it? I know the last part was, but I thought that was because you were denying yourself.”

  “I didn’t like it,” Sara said tightly. “My body stopped listening to my head.” She shuddered.

  “That can be nice when it’s with someone you trust,” Felicia offered.

  Sara didn’t believe her. She would never like it.

  Pity formed in Felicia’s eyes. Pity for Sara. Sara felt a bite of envy. Felicia had lovers. Felicia was happy and carefree.

  “But the jazoria did work? You felt desire?” Felicia asked anxiously.

  They’d talked about jazoria as a solution to Sara’s…problem last year. At the time, Sara’s father had been cultivating a marriage between Sara and the wealthy Lord Favonius. Sara had been pleased. Though fifteen years older than her, she’d enjoyed Lord Favonius’ dry humor.

  And then one night they’d had a little more privacy, and he’d kissed her. He hadn’t been rough, but he’d put his hands on her body as if he already owned her—and panic had hit Sara like a fist. Instead of turning him aside with a light laugh, she’d torn herself away. His pride offended, he’d taken a step toward her, and Sara had drawn her belt knife. Then she’d run to her room and cried and cried. Felicia had calmed Sara down and suggested using jazoria, but the betrothal had fallen through, leaving their House still in debt and Sara riddled with guilt.