Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 5

  Sara laughed without humor. “Yes and no. The jazoria took away the fear. It made Claude more tolerable—but it wasn’t Claude I wanted to drag into a dark corner.”

  “Who, then?” Curiosity lit Felicia’s green eyes.

  “Someone unsuitable,” Sara confessed.

  “An equitain?”

  About to say no, Sara’s mind seized. Perhaps her rescuer had been an equitain. He’d never said he was a cuoreon, and she could not remember a slavechain on his person. And his behavior had been…puzzling, starting with his astounding offer to help and ending with his complete lack of fear of Claude. If he were an equitain from one of the old families who’d been citizens for two hundred years, it could explain his attitude.

  Sara’s silence made Felicia leap to the wrong conclusion. She looked half-scandalized, half-titillated as she glanced at the door. “Not Julen?”

  “No!” The very thought horrified Sara. “More the opposite of Julen.”

  “What? Ugly?”

  Like most women, Felicia had the bad taste to find Julen handsome. Sara glared at her. “Not ugly. Just not elegant. He was…brawny.” She remembered the feel of the equitain’s muscled chest under her palms. “There’s something wrong with me,” she concluded glumly.

  “No, there isn’t. Lots of women prefer a bit of muscle.”

  Yes, and they made crude jokes about those ladies and their cuoreon—or worse, sanguon or osseon—lovers.

  “Raise your arms.” Felicia popped a sleeveless blue day dress over Sara’s head. Its drapes were more modest than last night’s gown, and its only ornaments were the two silver buckles at her shoulders. An attached cape swished behind her.

  Five minutes later, Sara entered the hall.

  Julen swept a low bow, then straightened. Sara was tall for a woman, but he had three inches of height on her.

  Sara gave him the barest nod that he was entitled to as a citizen of the Republic. She dreaded the day when he earned enough money to buy a title and she would be forced to curtsey to him.

  “Good morn, ladies. Your beauty brightens the day,” Julen said extravagantly. “Exquisite Felicia, sweet Rochelle.” He kissed their hands even though the cuorelles were far below his station, making Felicia dimple and Rochelle blush. If one excused his permanent smirk, Julen was disgustingly handsome with a golden-brown complexion, raven-dark hair and sculpted cheekbones. Equitains were forbidden the toga, but extra material at the front of his tunic created a similar draping effect. Julen’s clothes always fit him to perfection: snug trousers showed off his lean legs, and the color of his tunic matched his green eyes.

  When she was fifteen, Sara had thought Julen the height of elegance. He still was, but compared to last night’s rescuer Julen suddenly looked like a twig.

  Julen bowed over Sara’s hand. “And the beauteous Lady Sarathena. Not even the sun can outshine you.”

  Rudely, Sara jerked her hand away. Julen watched, unoffended, amused, smiling with perfect teeth. She disliked every black curly hair on his head a little more.

  Felicia reproached Sara with a look. How could anyone not adore Julen? her eyes asked.

  Most women looked at Julen and saw only his charm, the same way Claude only noticed Sara’s perfect face. Sara saw Julen’s naked ambition. He would sell his grandmother into slavery if it gained him a title. He’d worked for Sara’s father for years, but his only true loyalty was to himself.

  Sara strode down the hallway, sandals whispering against the gray flagged stone. Though the hallway was broad enough to run a troop of legionnaires down, five abreast, Julen walked a half-step back at her elbow. If she had to put up with him, Sara decided she might as well make use of his talents. “Where do I journey?” she asked curtly

  “To see your Honorable father.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” Sara bit back the words and you know it.

  Julen arched a wicked black eyebrow. “If my lady would be so kind as to tell me what she did mean, I would, of course, be delighted to answer.”

  Sara spoke through clenched teeth. “Felicia said I’m going on a journey. Where to?”

  “Your Honorable father hasn’t informed you?” Julen needled.

  “Obviously not.” Sara’s headache surged to the fore.

  “Perhaps your Honorable father wishes to surprise you.” Julen smirked.

  “Perhaps I should have my father hang and quarter you,” Sara retorted. She regretted the words immediately. She usually had better control, but the jazoria headache had frayed her temper.

  “Lady Sarathena!” Julen affected shock. “If I have offended you in some way, I beg your most gracious pardon.” He sank dramatically to his knees.

  “Oh, get up.” Sara eyed him with disfavor as he rose—how else?—gracefully.

  She almost gave up then. The journey was probably only to the family estate in Elysinia—her father had been promising her a visit to Sylvanus, her seven-year-old brother. But giving up would mean Julen had won. “Tell me where I’m going.” They resumed walking.

  “It pains me to admit that your father did not confide your destination to me.” Julen attempted to look pained.

  Sara shot him a skeptical look. “You know everything that goes on in our household.” Among other things, Julen was her father’s spymaster.

  “Everything except what lies in your heart, Lady Sarathena,” Julen said fulsomely.

  Once the words would have given her a little glow; now all she felt was impatience. “Tell me or I’ll think you’ve lost your touch.”

  “You journey to Slaveland,” Julen said softly.

  Slaveland! Sara hesitated mid-step. A journey to one of the provinces, Gotia or Elysinia, she could have understood, or even to one of the neighboring countries, like Qi, that the Republic traded with, but Slaveland was different: barred to all outsiders, mysterious and barbaric. Slaveland existed as a constant thorn in the Republic’s side, a blot on any map, surrounded on all sides by the Republic.

  “Loma’s Mercy, why?” Sara asked.

  Julen’s eyes glittered. “It is rumored that the Primuses of the Republic have a covenant with the Kings of Slaveland.”

  Before Sara could question him further, they reached their destination. A blue-clad page ushered them through a stone arch and into the Primus’s audience chamber.

  The room had an impressive, domed ceiling, decorated with frescoes, but the walls looked naked—the red House Vidor tapestries had been removed, but there hadn’t been time yet to replace them with hangings of Remillus blue. Her father dominated the room effortlessly.

  Her father’s sapphire blue eyes met hers as he dismissed the scribe he’d been dictating to.

  “Honorable Primus, the Lady Sarathena.” Julen bowed.

  “My thanks, Julen.” Her father nodded. Sara waited, but he didn’t dismiss Julen from the chamber. “Sarathena,” her father said warmly. “How are you this morn?”

  Julen was pretending to be a wall, the perfect servant, only there when needed, but Sara felt conscious of his gaze as she reclined on a couch. Did he know what had happened to her last night? Almost certainly, she decided with an internal wince. “I’m fine,” she said dismissively.

  “Truly?” her father asked, looking deep into her eyes.

  Sara felt uncomfortable. “I have a headache, nothing more.”

  Mercifully, her father took her at her word. “However unfortunate last night’s events, it may prove to be a good thing that a marriage into House Pallax is no longer in the offing,” her father said. “I have urgent need of you elsewhere.”

  The journey. Sara wrenched her mind back into focus.

  Her father smiled whimsically. “Do you remember how you once told me you wanted to travel? I may finally be able to grant you your wish.”

  At age ten, Sara had wanted to become an acolyte of Jut and travel everywhere—but not to Slaveland. “I’ve always wanted to see the mighty waterfall on the Vaga River,” she evaded.

  “I had in mind the mount
ains,” her father said, “the Red Mountains of Slaveland.” His blue eyes caught and held hers. Many a political enemy of her father’s had faltered under that gaze and found themselves agreeing when they’d meant to disagree. Sara wasn’t immune to his charisma.

  “Why?” she managed to ask, but she knew. She’d been born a daughter and held only one value. Perhaps she should have let Claude take her virginity. If she had, she wouldn’t be shipped off now to a hostile country as a bride to a barbaric king or princeling.

  God of Miracles, no. She prayed to Bas, but not to Hana, God of Justice. She would keep her oath to wed whoever was necessary to save her family, no matter how hard.

  “The King of Slaves has rejected our current ambassador. He doesn’t believe the man speaks for the Primus, for me. He will accept only a child of my body as the man’s replacement. He claims there is some long-held tradition of this practice—they call it the Child of Peace or somesuch. Sylvanus is too young. Which leaves you.”

  He asked her to go as his ambassador, not in an arranged marriage? Surprise and relief threw Sara off-balance. “But—but I’m not a man,” she stammered.

  “You are my daughter,” her father said quietly. His eyes never left hers. “I have faith in you.”

  Sara felt herself flush with pride. Her father had faith in her. She had a use beyond the marriage bed, after all. But Slaveland… “Slaveland isn’t even a quarter of the size of our smallest province. Why do we care what their king wants?”

  “The matter is complicated.” Her father studied her, as if weighing how much to tell her. “I received word by courier pigeon this morning of an…attack.”

  The change of subject threw Sara. “Where?”

  “Lord Favonius’s country estate in Elysinia. Over two hundred people were massacred.”

  “Loma’s Mercy.” Sara closed her eyes for a moment. So many deaths were hard to grasp. “And Lord Favonius?” She had liked him once.

  “Dead,” her father said bluntly, “along with his new wife and children and sister. House Favonius has been decimated. It will fall to a cadet branch.”

  “Who did it?” Sara asked, remembering the token she’d found in the mud at Vez’s temple.

  Her father shook his head, his expression bleak. “We don’t know. There are no witnesses—not a woman or child was spared. They were killed by magic.”

  “Magic?” Sara said blankly. Magic wasn’t something she had ever spent much time thinking about. She knew in general how it worked, of course. The gods conferred certain powers on their chosen priesthood. If prayer wasn’t working, you could pay one of them to perform a specific rite. If the rite was a popular one, like relieving pain, a made-up potion could be purchased.

  “Yes, magic,” her father said. “Our priests lack the power, and the Grasslander barbarians to the north have no magic. That leaves the Qiph tribes in the south, who spend most of their time feuding with each other, and the King of Slaves, who has always hated our country.” He paused. “Have you ever wondered why the Republic allows Slaveland to exist within our borders?”

  “I always assumed it was geography, that its Red Mountains are impassable,” Sara said hesitantly.

  “No mountains are completely impassable,” her father said. “No, the reason Slaveland still exists is because of the strength of their magic. Slaveland is said to be an entire nation of priests. I don’t believe that, but there’s no doubt their magic is stronger than ours. I don’t say Primus Tembor was wrong to forbid the temples’ darker practices, but there’s no denying that over the last century our priesthood has grown weak.” He made a face. “Until recently, I thought that was a good thing.”

  Sara nodded agreement, thinking of Nir.

  “Slave magic is different. Crude, but strong,” her father said with distaste. “And that’s why I need you to go to Slaveland and discover the secret of their magic.”

  Sara’s breath caught. What was being asked of her was enormous and frightening, but at the same time it was what she had always dreamed of: a chance to be more than a pretty doll.

  But… “Elysinia is closer to Qi than to Slaveland. What makes you certain the King of Slaveland is responsible for the massacre?”

  “The message I received reported a small party of Qiph in the area, but insisted they arrived after the massacre had already taken place. I do not know what the Qiph are doing in the Republic—though I intend to find out,” her father said grimly. “It may be that they are working together with the Slavelanders, or it may be that the Slavelanders wish the Qiph to be blamed in their stead. Once we go to war with the Qiph—”

  “Once?” Sara interrupted. “Don’t you mean if?”

  Her father shook his head. “As soon as word of the massacre gets out, the Senate will howl for blood. They’ll place no credence on the word of one spy.”

  Sara winced. Of course, her father would have set a man to spy on his rival Lord Favonius’s comings and goings, but he couldn’t admit doing such before the Senate…

  “I’ll have little choice but to send out a punitive force,” her father continued, “even though doing so will play right into Nir’s hands. Nir will claim that we need a strong general to lead the Republic in time of war.”

  Sara frowned. “Couldn’t you delay sending out the Legions until you have more information?”

  “If I delay, Lord Favonius’s supporters will claim I’m dragging my feet because we were rivals, perhaps even whisper that I ordered the massacre. I’m caught either way. My worst fear is that once we’re embroiled in a war with Qi, the true culprits will strike again.”

  “It’s doubtful that Lord Favonius was a random target,” Julen said, speaking up for the first time. “The attack must’ve been planned weeks in advance. It’s probably sheer chance Lord Favonius himself was killed. If they expected him to become Primus, then the attack could have been meant to devastate him and weaken the Primacy.”

  The politics didn’t interest Sara. “Sylvanus.” Her mouth dried. “You must move him. He isn’t safe.”

  “Where can I move him?” Her father opened his hands, palms out in a show of helplessness. “Wherever I send him, he would just become a hostage.”

  “Aunt Evina—” Sara started.

  “Is here in the capital,” her father finished. “Paulin controls their estate and has no especial fondness for me. No, I’m afraid Sylvanus is still safest on our estate in Elysinia.” And House Remillus’s original estate in Temboria itself had been sold a generation before to pay debts.

  Sara opened her mouth to demand that her father send her there, but what could she do against magic that had killed two hundred men and women?

  Her father returned to the subject of her journey. “I have others investigating Qi, but you are the only one who can pass through the gate into Slaveland.”

  “I can’t be the first to try to discover their secret.”

  “No,” her father admitted. “Many spies have been sent over the years. Most are turned back at the border. Those who do enter, never return. I’m sending you into danger,” her father said bitterly. “I know it, and yet I must. I need to send someone I can trust. Will you go, Sarathena?”

  Sara didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

  “As Primus of the Republic, I give you my thanks. As your father, I shall pray for your safety.” Her father stood up. “Now then, there is still much to do if you are to leave this afternoon.”

  “So soon?” Sara asked in dismay.

  “There’s no time to waste.” Her father counted on his fingers. “Three days at most until the news of the massacre breaks. A week to wrangle out a course of action. Three more days for a courier to be sent to the closest Legion—that’s if General Pallax doesn’t ride into the city. If he does, I’ll be saddled with him. Two more weeks to equip a Legion and set them marching for the border. In a month we’ll be hopelessly embroiled in a war with the Qiph, and the Slavelanders will be free to strike again.”

  Sara felt daunted. “Unless I ca
n uncover proof of the Slavelanders’ guilt.”

  “No,” her father said. “I told you, it’s too late to stop the war with Qi. What I need from you is the secret of the Slavelander’s magic, so that we can protect ourselves from future attack.”

  Sara shivered. Yes, Sylvanus must be protected.

  She stood up. “I will leave you then. As you say, there is much to do.” Her maids would already have begun packing both her trunks and their own. She suddenly realized that Rochelle couldn’t go. Not with an ailing child, and it would be too cruel to separate them. She would need another maid to replace Rochelle as well as a cook and enough guards to stand all the watches…

  Sara’s mind was busy sorting, but she paused on the threshold of the chamber. “Can you offer me any advice on how to accomplish my task?”

  Her father chuckled. “Ah, Sarathena, I don’t think you understand how most men are affected by your beauty…what a man will do for a smile from you.”

  Sara’s heart turned to stone in her breast. So. This wasn’t any different from bringing in an advantageous marriage offer. She was still to use her body.

  How stupid of her to think otherwise. As her father had gently pointed out a time or two, she had no head for politics, and her ability to add and multiply numbers quickly wouldn’t be much help in this kind of situation.

  Sara schooled her face into blankness. To keep her family safe, she would do whatever she had to do.

  “Is something amiss, Lady Sarathena?” Julen asked with fake solicitude.

  “Of course not,” she said at once. “I was just thinking I shall have to add a translator to my household.”

  But her father shook his head. “No need. Most, if not all, Slavelanders will speak Tembori. They must, just to communicate among themselves. Slaveland is a hodge-podge of peoples—Gotians, Elysinians, Grasslanders—whose only common trait is that they were once Republican slaves.” He paused. “In any case, I’m afraid a household is impossible. You are permitted to bring only one companion. The King of Slaves mislikes foreigners crossing his borders.”

  “Only one?” Sara repeated, aghast. “But, without my own household, who will protect me from poison and assassination?”