Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Read online

  “They won’t dare touch a hair on your head,” her father said grimly. “While their magic makes Slaveland strong, it is not impregnable. They won’t risk open warfare with the Republic. Or they would not have resorted to this cowardly attack in the first place.”

  Sara appreciated her father’s attempt to reassure her, but knew that if she was caught spying, she risked death.

  So she wouldn’t let herself be caught.

  Taking a deep breath, Sara took refuge in practicalities. “What about my maid? Does the companion rule include her?” She would need another woman as a chaperone for the journey if nothing else.

  “Servants aren’t companions. They can’t mean to exclude your personal maid,” her father assured her. “Why don’t you ask your friend Hespera to accompany you?”

  Sara shook her head. Hespera was an acquaintance, not a friend, and, in any case, no highborn girl’s family would permit her to come.

  Sara tried desperately to think of someone else. Aunt Evina would never leave the gambling pursuits and amusements of the city. She had no cousins.

  “Might I suggest a suitable companion, my lady?”

  Sara looked up at Julen’s handsome, smiling face and knew she would hate whoever he suggested. He was enjoying rubbing her nose in the fact that she had no friends. Instinctively, she struck back. “Why, Julen, how kind of you to volunteer.” Satisfaction surged through Sara at Julen’s horrified expression. She savored it for a moment before letting him off the hook. “It’s too bad Father can’t spare you.”

  “You know, that’s an excellent suggestion,” her father said thoughtfully. “I should have thought of it myself. I’ll feel much better for your safety if Julen is there to steer you. And he knows how to send messages in ciphers.”

  Sara fumbled a protest—several protests—but they did no good. Her father’s mind was made up. “Unless you can think of someone more suitable?” he asked pointedly.

  For the life of her, she could not.

  Chapter Four

  Four hours later Sara found herself traveling in a carriage with Julen. It had mesh windows to keep out insects and plush burgundy seats, but it was, essentially, a box on wheels. A small box.

  After the white-pillared and domed Primary Residence and the fabulous tiered fountains of the Temple District had dwindled into more ordinary streets, Sara found herself with nothing to look at but Julen. She fervently wished she’d never mockingly suggested him as her companion.

  Julen smiled as if he could read her thoughts. “So here we are. Together. Alone.”

  He was trying to intimidate her. Sara scowled. “We’re not alone, or have you forgotten how to count?” Because of the secrecy of her mission to Slaveland, Sara lacked a proper chaperone, but Felicia was sitting beside her. And eight legionnaires disguised as outriders accompanied their plain black carriage. At least a few of them ought to be within earshot if she screamed, even on the noisy cobblestone streets they were rattling down.

  Julen didn’t even glance at Felicia. “A wise cuorelle never tells her mistress’s business.”

  Aunt Evina’s cuorelles probably turned a blind eye all the time, but Sara didn’t play those games, and Julen knew it.

  “You flatter yourself,” she said coldly.

  “My lady?” Julen spread his hands in false innocence. “I only meant that since we are alone, I would like to take the opportunity to express my…humble gratitude for the wonderful opportunity you have given me.” A wealth of rage lay behind the exquisitely polite words.

  Her father had just become Primus. From Julen’s point of view, he’d been exiled on the eve of new vistas of power opening up in front of him. The opportunity for graft alone was enormous.

  “No need to thank me,” Sara said with an edge of her own. “It was my father who insisted.” And, oh, how she’d tried to change his mind.

  Julen’s charming mask slipped. “Your father promised me much, including a title, if I helped him become Primus.”

  Sara raised her eyebrow. “If my father gave you his oath, he will keep it. I’m sure he’ll reward you, suitably, when we return from Slaveland.”

  “The promises of noblemen are easily given, and harder to collect,” Julen said cynically. “My father’s captain promised him a place of honor on one of his estates for saving his life in battle, and yet when my father became crippled that place of honor shrank to the size of a small hut. I will not be pushed aside so easily. We both know a title by itself is worth less than the position I held. By the time we return, your father will have replaced me.”

  Sara shrugged. “Then you’d better hope your replacement is less competent than yourself.” To prick his pride, she imbued her tone with doubt even though she knew Julen to be an excellent spymaster.

  “I did not get this far in life by hoping,” Julen said with withering contempt. “I think it would be much better over all if, in a day’s time, you decide on a different companion and send me back to the capital with apologies to your father.”

  “I’d like nothing better than to be rid of you,” Sara told him. “But my father made me promise to keep you near.”

  Julen waved this away. “I’m sure, with a little thought, you can come up with some excuse.”

  “I will not break my oath for you.”

  Julen leaned forward. “I don’t think you quite understand. I sold part of my soul to get where I was—the Primus’s right hand. I’m not going to let you throw it away on a whim because I annoyed you.”

  An answering flame of anger burned in Sara, obliterating the flicker of guilt she felt. “Annoyed me? I loathe you, for reasons you know very well.” Reasons which had nothing to do with his constant mockery and only partly to do with the callous way he had treated her when she was fifteen and naive enough to have tender feelings for him. She blamed Julen for the worst day of her life and all the terrible consequences that had followed.

  “Now that I think about, I’m glad I suggested you as my companion,” Sara said starkly. “Because you’re correct—my father will find a new right hand. And that means that as soon as we return to the Republic I’ll never have to speak to you again.” She looked him dead in the eye. “Bearing your company now is well worth the price.”

  And Julen looked away. She saw the guilt on his face.

  Felicia looked wildly curious. Not even she knew all the details of that terrible day. Nor was Sara inclined to share them even now.

  Unfortunately, Julen’s attack of conscience only lasted until the carriage passed through the city gates into the country. For the next hour, as they traveled down a well-maintained stone road that ran as straight as an arrow, Julen began his campaign to be sent back to Temborium, by making himself obnoxious.

  He showered her with syrupy compliments until Sara thought she would go mad. “Your eyes are the sapphire blue of the Kunal Sea on a sunny day. No, nothing so common as that. Let me try again, even though I am doomed to fail. Your eyes are the blue of a summer sky, celestial orbs of wondrous beauty.”

  If he intended to wear her down, he would fail. Sara tried to ignore him.

  “Your lips are like pink roses that have been brushed with dew…”

  It didn’t help that Felicia could hardly contain her mirth. Sara glared at her maid and wished she’d taken Rochelle with her instead.

  She’d found it surprisingly hard to say goodbye to Rochelle. Rochelle had wanted to come along, and only after Sara had pointed out how hard the journey would be on Tulio had Rochelle ceased arguing. The degree of her fervency had worried Sara; she’d begun to think of all the things that could happen to a cuorelle with no nearby protectors. If some steward decided Rochelle should scrub floors, who would be there to say no? Worse, hundreds of people had business in the Primary Residence. What if Nir’s eye fell on her?

  In the end, Sara had decided Rochelle and her son would be safer with Aunt Evina. She’d penned a swift note, praising Rochelle’s skills and asking that she be given only light work, and sent t
hem off.

  “What about her ears?” Felicia asked, breaking Sara’s reverie. “Aren’t they pretty too?” She blinked innocently.

  Julen obliged. “My lady’s ears are like snail shells.”

  He was giving her a headache. Sara gave up on pride.

  “Enough. Julen, hand me your dagger.”

  “Of course, Lady Sarathena.” He drew it, then hesitated. “Might I enquire why you need it?”

  “So I can stab you through the heart with it,” she said coldly. He had no right to question her.

  Julen smiled faintly, but handed over his dagger. Sara used the hilt to rap on the roof of the carriage, sparing her knuckles. Within moments the carriage swayed to a halt beside a field of green grain, the heads just beginning to fill out.

  Sara didn’t wait for the coachman to jump down, but opened the door herself and climbed out.

  The captain, a fit-looking man of thirty, trotted his horse up. “Is there a problem, Lady Sarathena?” His name was Marcus, she remembered, and he’d seemed competent when she spoke to him earlier.

  “I want to stretch my legs,” she told him.

  Captain Marcus nodded politely, but said no more. Sara appreciated his restraint.

  Felicia descended too. She looked questioningly at Sara; Sara shook her head—she didn’t want to be attended right now—and Felicia smiled up at the captain. Felicia liked handsome men, and Captain Marcus qualified despite his unfortunate jug-handled ears.

  He dismounted, which conveniently put him on the same level as Felicia, and began to walk his horse. Sara sent the lovely chestnut gelding a covetous glance. She wished she could ride instead of being sequestered inside the stuffy, bumpy carriage, but it was, of course, unladylike.

  Sara felt the rest of the outriders’ eyes on her like a heavy hand, but her rank and their captain’s scowl kept them from approaching her as she walked a short ways into the field. Within moments, all the outriders not assigned to watch the road had been drawn into Felicia’s orbit, leaving Sara in peace.

  The wind rippled through the grain like ocean waves. Sara trailed her hands through the green wheat and felt the tension flow out of her.

  The field was small, bounded by an orchard and a neat stone wall, but it reminded her of the Remillus estate in northern Elysinia, which bordered on the grasslands. Sara had run wild in them as a girl.

  Aunt Evina disdained the country as boring, but Sara would trade all Temborium’s frantic socializing for the endless horizon of the prairies. Sara never realized how penned up she felt in the city until she drove outside and the walls disappeared.

  She turned to walk a little farther and suddenly noticed the second, equally plain carriage in their entourage. Her father had told her that the ambassador from Slaveland was returning to his country, but not why. Sara’s eyes narrowed in speculation. A high-ranking ambassador might well know the secret of his country’s magic. If he had been recalled in disgrace, he might be persuaded to part with the information for a large bribe.

  Then she wouldn’t have to enter Slaveland at all.

  Sara instantly decided to switch vehicles. She could start to fulfill her task and avoid Julen at the same time. She headed toward the second carriage with purposeful strides.

  Its door opened just as she arrived, and a tall, brawny man jumped down. The ambassador didn’t seem to be in a good mood; he was swearing creatively and holding his right hand tight against his chest.

  He had light skin and looked younger than the graybeard Sara had expected. Then he straightened up, and she stopped breathing.

  It was him. Her rescuer from last night.

  Sara’s first thought, that he must be the ambassador’s servant, died a quick death. The carriage door hung open, the compartment obviously empty. Which meant—

  She found herself staring at his chest. The same thickly muscled chest she’d caressed last night while drugged. A horrible tide of heat crept over her, embarrassment and…something else. It couldn’t be attraction; the jazoria had worn off hours ago.

  She didn’t want to look up, afraid of what she might see on his face: contempt, lust, amusement. But she was a Remillus. Remilluses didn’t hide.

  Sara met his gaze and saw that he looked as appalled as she felt. “Did you know?” Sara asked baldly.

  He shook his head.

  Oddly, Sara believed him, and she relaxed. “I didn’t know who you were either.”

  A hard light entered his brown eyes. “You thought I was a slave.”

  Sara shook her head. “Only at first and only because your hair and clothes are not those of a noble. But you gave yourself away in a hundred small ways. This morning I decided you were an equitain.”

  In the dark, she’d primarily been aware of his body, his face hidden in shadow. Now she noticed the strength of will stamped on his square jaw and the intelligence in his brown eyes.

  He didn’t look appeased. In silence, he extended his wrist toward her, turning it so that she saw the bone brand seared into his flesh. At some point in his life he’d been a Bone Slave, an osseon.

  Sara winced. She’d bungled this badly; she should have realized someone from Slaveland might be a former slave, but she’d assumed an ambassador would have been at least a generation removed from such poor beginnings. When she dared look up, he regarded her with a coolly expectant expression—probably waiting for her to throw up her hands in horror.

  “Let’s start over,” she said instead. “I am Lady Sarathena Remillus, but please call me Sara.” She gave him her most bewitching smile and held out her hand to be kissed.

  Unlike most men, he didn’t smile back or look lascivious. He clasped her fingers for a bare instant then dropped them as if burned.

  Sara’s fingers curled involuntarily as if she could hold the sensation in. How could such a simple touch make her so aware of his strength and maleness?

  “I’m Lance,” he said.

  Lance, not Lord Lance? Was he being informal, or did he lack a title? Informal, Sara decided. He had to be of high rank to be an ambassador.

  “Lance, I have a favor to beg of you. Something was spilled in my carriage, and it reeks dreadfully. Could I ride with you, until the smell clears away?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We won’t be alone,” Sara assured him. “My maid will be there to insure propriety.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” Lance raked his hand through his sandy brown hair and winced.

  He was going to say no.

  Disappointment warred with relief. In her own carriage she would be safe from this unwelcome awareness.

  Brutally, Sara reminded herself there was more at stake than her own comfort. Two hundred dead at Lord Favonius’s estate… Not a woman or child spared. Such an attack must not happen again. She had to discover the secret of slave magic, and Lance represented a golden opportunity to accomplish her goal quickly.

  “Please—” She’d intended to bat her eyelashes as Evina had taught her, but she saw how that single word, please, stopped him. She remembered how he’d risked bodily harm last night for the sake of a stranger. Instantly, she knew all she had to do to get her way was play on his sympathy.

  “In a few days’ time, I’m going to be leaving the Republic to live among strangers for months, if not years. It will make things so much easier if, when we arrive, they’re not all strangers.” The words sounded true because they were true.

  It worked. Lance nodded once. “Fine, then. Now excuse me, I want to stretch my legs.” He walked off without another word.

  Sara told herself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be able to avoid her once they were in the carriage.

  * * *

  Lance knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he wedged his large body into the carriage and Lady Sara’s knee brushed his, sending a jolt of heat through him.

  But what choice had he had? Ordering another carriage would delay their party, and it was vital that he deliver the Child of Peace to Kandrith. After being deni
ed an audience with the new Primus for a week, Lance had been all but certain that the man intended to repudiate the Pact, imperiling Kandrith. And then today, Lance had abruptly been informed that he and the Republican Child of Peace would be leaving for Kandrith within the hour.

  Lance didn’t know what to make of the coincidence that the woman he’d rescued last night was Primus Remillus’s daughter. Perhaps the Goddess had steered his steps that night.

  Regardless, he wouldn’t be able to relax until they crossed the border. If doing so meant sharing transportation, then he would, but, Goddess help him, he hadn’t comprehended how small the cursed carriage would feel with the two of them inside it.

  The three of them. The maid was squeezed in there too. Lance ignored Lady Sara and smiled at her slave, a vividly pretty Elysinian. “Good afternoon.” Here lay salvation.

  He expected Lady Sara to fly into a fury at his rudeness in not pretending her slave was a patch of upholstery, but she only smiled. “This is my maid, Felicia. She’s been my companion since we were twelve.”

  Pretty words—companion, maid—but the slavechain on Felicia’s wrist spoke the real truth.

  Felicia dimpled up at him, but he read speculation in her eyes. She would have heard of his country.

  As the coach lumbered into motion, Lady Sara turned to Felicia. “So what did the outriders say? How far do we travel today?”

  “Captain Marcus wants to push on to Jessary tonight. It’s about another five hours travel,” Felicia said.

  Lady Sara let out a small sigh, but didn’t complain. “That will give us plenty of time to get acquainted.” She smiled at him, and Lance felt as if he were staring into the sun. She’d been beautiful in the moonlight. By day she was almost blinding: luscious golden-brown skin and full pink lips that tempted—

  “Tell me about Slaveland,” she invited.

  Her words struck his temper. “It’s a corrupt cesspool. But why ask me? You’re the one who lives here.”

  Lady Sara looked bewildered for an instant, before returning to the artificial manners typical of nobles that he found so infuriating. “I was referring to your homeland, not the Republic of Temboria. What do you call it, if not Slaveland?”