“You look weary. Would you like to ride up in front of me?” the fat man asked. He kicked his horse’s flanks with his heels so that the white mare ambled closer to Sara.
“No,” Sara said. This was the fourth time he had offered.
“I can’t help but notice that your man isn’t taking as good a care of you as he should. This saddens me. You have a rare beauty and should be treated like a queen. If there’s any way I can help you, please let me know.”
Sara usually ignored the fat man’s words, but she pondered this offer for the next two hundred steps. “There is one thing you can do.”
“Yes?” His lips curved up, and he stared down the bodice of her new green dress.
“You could break my arm.”
His mouth dropped open. “Wh—what?”
She considered his pudgy arms, unsure if he had the strength. “Or perhaps my finger.”
His round face flushed pink. “Are you mad? No!”
The fat man was weak, but his horse had to be strong to carry him. Sara moved behind the mare and twisted her tail until she kicked Sara’s shin.
Sara had anticipated the crunch of breaking bone, but it didn’t come. Nor was the pain as intense as when she’d plummeted to the courtyard. On the other hand, since her mind wasn’t overwhelmed with pain messages, it allowed her to concentrate on what she did feel.
Her fingers found only a few drops of blood beading her skin, but Sara could feel blood collecting underneath, swelling into a bruise. The wound throbbed in time with her heart.
Experimentally, Sara stepped forward. The leg continued to hold her, but the extra weight did add little jolts of pain—
“Sara!” Almost too soon, Lance rushed to her side.
The fat man started babbling. “It’s not my fault! She made the horse kick her.”
Lance dropped to his knees in the grass and pushed her skirt up so that he could lay his hands on her bruise.
Sara concentrated on each sensation: Lance’s callused fingertips lightly pressing, the widening of his pupils as the Goddess filled him, the healing warmth flowing under her skin, the scent of wildflowers.
The pain eased, then drained away to nothing. The Goddess left.
But Lance didn’t release her. His brows drew together. “Is what he says true, Sara? Did you deliberately goad the horse into kicking you?”
“Yes.”
“See? Before that she asked me to break her arm.”
Sara didn’t spare a glance at the fat man, watching Lance.
His facial muscles moved in a complicated way. “Sara, do you like pain?”
Sara thought about the question. Liking indicated a preference. “I find pain interesting,” she admitted.
Lance’s body gave a short jerk.
“There’s something wrong with her,” the fat man said shrilly. “She’s—”
Lance’s head whipped around. “Get out of here. Now.”
The fat man booted his horse’s sides. The mare broke into a trot.
Lance put his hands to his forehead and bowed his neck. “Goddess, what am I going to do?”
Loma didn’t respond, but Rhiain did, which confused Sara.
“What’s wrong?” the shandy asked.
Lance didn’t look up. “Cadwallader says Sara’s soul is disconnected from her body. She thinks pain is interesting. That fat lecher is right. Something is wrong with her. And I don’t know how to fix it.” The last words were muffled.
Rhiain snorted. “I think you’rrre wrrrong.”
Lance lifted his head. “What?”
“I don’t think Sara hurrrt herrrself because she likes pain, even if pain doesn’t botherrr herrr as much as it should.”
“Then why—?” Lance looked first at Rhiain, then over to Sara.
“I did it so you would heal me,” Sara told him.
The skin around his eyes wrinkled. “So you like being healed.”
Sara was silent, unsure if that was a question.
Rhian blew air out of her nostrils. “No. She watches you all the time—just like I used to watch Gaius.” Rhiain looked at the ground. “I’d trrry so harrrd to think of something I could do orrr say to impress him. I would’ve gladly let a horrse kick me, if it meant he paid attention to me.”
“Is that true, Sara?” Lance’s voice sounded softer. “Do you want my attention?”
“Yes.”
Liquid sheened the surface of Lance’s eyeballs. “You don’t need to hurt yourself to get my attention, Sara.” More face wrinkling. “Not anymore. I promise.”
* * *
“You sound hoarrrse,” Rhiain remarked at camp that evening after they’d eaten and gathered around the bright, crackling fire.
Lance cleared his throat. It was true. He’d spent the afternoon talking to Sara while they walked up and down hills. She’d soaked up every word—but still only responded when asked a direct question. Lance was determined not to feel disappointed. Her desire for his attention was a step forward, and his plan was working: she hadn’t hurt herself again.
“You should grrroom her.” Rhiain licked her own shoulder.
Lance blinked at the mental picture that conjured up. While both he and Sara could probably stand a bath, he didn’t want Sara stripping down to wash up in the stream with Bertramus about. The merchant had been uncharacteristically silent all afternoon, as if offended by something Lance had said or done.
Lance couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Baths will have to wait until tomorrow when we reach Gatetown,” he told Rhiain.
“Bathe in waterrr?” Rhiain flattened her ears. “I meant, you should brush her furrr.”
Rhiain’s cat-like reaction to the idea of a bath amused Lance. “Well, Sara? Shall I brush your hair?”
“I don’t know.”
Across the fire, Bertramus sniffed, no doubt outraged by the idea of a man waiting on a woman. That made up Lance’s mind. He fetched the brush from the bottom of his pack and had Sara sit while he knelt behind her. After a day toiling up and down hills, wispy straggles of hair had escaped her braid.
First he removed the tie, then unplaited the braid with his hands. Freed, it fell to her mid-back. The hair felt thick and healthy, but some of the inevitable road dust had dulled the rich brown.
From habit he began to brush it with brisk efficiency, but slowed when his strokes hit a tangle. He couldn’t trust Sara to tell him if it hurt, so he had to be very careful not to pull. And there was no reason to rush, was there? He took his time, being thorough, admiring the way the firelight cast shifting flickers of gold among the wavy strands.
And then Sara leaned back into his touch. Lance suddenly became aware that she was sitting between his spread thighs, close enough that he could feel her warmth.
An answering heat rose in return. He wanted to pull her closer, flush against his hardening body. Kiss the nape of her neck and cup her breasts, while she moaned and arched her back—
But they weren’t alone, and Sara was more likely to ask him why he was kissing her neck than do any of that. Because she wasn’t herself yet.
Her soul is disconnected from her body.
What had Cadwallader meant? Frustrated, Lance eased his aroused body away from Sara’s tempting one—only to have her scoot right back up against him. He swallowed. “Sara?”
She turned her head. “Yes?” Her eyes were calm blue pools, echoing none of the desire thrumming through him. But then she hadn’t screamed when she stuck her hand in boiling water either.
Disconnected.
His pulse jumped. Maybe his task was to connect body and soul.
“What do you feel when I brush your hair?” What had made her lean back against him, seeking his touch?
“My scalp tingles
.”
“Does it hurt?”
She shook her head.
Do you like it? But that was the wrong question. “Does it feel pleasant?”
“Yes.”
Triumph surged through Lance, but he had to be sure. “And is pleasure as interesting as pain?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
Praise Loma. Lance closed his eyes, feeling a rush of hope. He resumed brushing her hair even though his arm muscles protested.
He had a way to reach her now, a bridge he could build between her body and the tiny spark of her soul.
Chapter Seven
Rhiain boldly entered Gatetown, loping between timber-and-thatch cottages. Having no desire to either terrify little children or be pricked with arrows, she’d learned to approach most towns with caution, but Gatetown was the home of Shandy House. The people here merely moved aside for her. One cheerful boy smiled and waved.
When her destination came into sight, Rhiain slowed, suddenly wondering if her mother might be in residence. Second thoughts struck. What would her mother say when she found out Rhiain had been careless enough to let a prisoner spear her?
Rhiain paused in the dusty street. If she hadn’t promised Lance she’d deliver a message to Dyl, she might’ve turned around. Instead she sniffed the air, relieved when she didn’t catch the musky leopard scent of her mother. Dyl’s wolf scent teased her nostrils. Fresh.
Encouraged, she padded up to the barn-like front door of Shandy House and gave a polite rumble to announce her presence.
The bottom half banged open, and Dyl’s youngest granddaughter, Leora, spilled out. “Rhiain!” the six-year-old girl yelled. She fearlessly ran up to Rhiain, yellow braids bouncing. “Can I ride on your back?”
“Hmmm.” Rhiain pretended to think about it. “I suppose.”
Small hands grabbed her mane, and Leora swung herself up onto Rhiain’s broad back.
Rhiain stalked forward, careful not to let Leora fall. “I’m looking for you grrrandfather. Is he inside?”
“Oh, yes. Mama’s making dumplings today, and you know how he loves dumplings.” A giggle. “He says we’ll never get rid of him if Mama keeps cooking like this.”
Rhiain made a mental note to say she’d just hunted. She’d chosen to become a shandy at Leora’s age. The human food she remembered had been watery, tasteless gruel, nothing like the rich taste of fresh meat. She didn’t miss cooked food at all, but Dyl had chosen to Change after he turned thirty, and he still hankered after certain dishes.
Leora’s mother waved at them through the window, but didn’t come out. Rhiain did a slow circuit of Shandy House and quickly attracted other little riders. Soon three of them bounced on her back. “Faster, faster!” the smallest boy urged her.
“No, Daniel,” Leora told him. “Grandpa says it’s not safe to go fast.”
“When I grow up, I’m going to run the fastest,” the boy said. “I’m going to be a shandy like Grandpa.”
“A wolf shandy?” Rhiain felt a pang. There were getting to be quite a crew of wolf shandies. Both of the newest-Changed, from the invasion two months ago, had chosen wolf form. If he didn’t change his mind, Daniel would make six.
There were only two cat shandies, Rhiain and her mother, and they didn’t even look like the same species. Rhiain was a racha, mostly. She’d found out afterward that only male rachas were supposed to have manes, though hers was more like a woman’s hair, the same tawny colour as her fur. Her mother had modeled her form on the smaller leopard. She had spots and could hide well.
Rhiain had liked being unique when she was a girl, but now it felt...lonesome.
Lance intended to ask Dyl to accompany him on the dangerous trip into the Republic of Temboria. If Dyl accepted, then he would be the one to set an example for the Gotians. A wolf example.
Resentment surged through her. How was she ever going to find a mate if there were no other cat shandies?
It wasn’t fair.
And so, instead of passing on Lance’s request that Dyl travel with him, she found herself telling Dyl that she would be accompanying Lance and Sara to the Republic.
* * *
Lance sent Rhiain ahead to Shandy House instead of going in person because he was footsore, tired and filthy. He needed a bath.
And so did Sara.
The mere thought of Sara in conjunction with a bath spiked his internal temperature as they entered the inn’s shady courtyard. He tried to distract himself by wondering which of the two Grandfather trees flanking the path, their branches burdened with fruit, was the Lifegift of the innkeeper’s elderly mother—the lemons or the olives?
It didn’t work. Bath. Sara. Naked skin...
Part of him wished Rhiain had never put the idea into his head, but her suggestion had merit. Even if he restricted himself to gently washing Sara’s hair and soaping up her back and arms, there was a lot of pleasure in simple touch that he could use to connect her soul to her body. His own discomfort would be worth it if she stopped hurting herself.
Despite his good intentions, he had to clear his throat. Twice. “Spiro—”
Bertramus shouldered forward. “Innkeeper, I’ll have your best room, the corner suite like last time. And have that sweet little maid of yours bring some supper up.” He winked.
Spiro’s expression became flatly unfriendly: the chambermaid was his daughter.
But the innkeeper’s frown lightened to relief when he saw Lance. “Praise Loma, you’re here.”
Lance laid aside all thoughts of a bath, certain that someone must be deathly ill.
But Spiro’s next words disabused him. “The Kandrith wishes to see you at once.”
“Wenda’s here?” Lance asked, startled.
“Yes, out by the fountain. The Mover brought her here this afternoon after Hiram Farspoke her. We weren’t sure he would be able to reach her, but—”
“Hiram sacrificed his speech to become a Farspeaker?” Lance recognized the name of the Gatekeeper, and his tension twisted higher. “When? What’s happened?”
Spiro’s mouth turned grim. “Hiram says eighty legionnaires set up camp one hundred feet from the Gate. They’re arresting anyone suspected of being an escaped slave.”
Kandrith was more than a small country; it was a haven for escaped slaves. A beacon of light. And now Primus Pallax wanted to snuff them out like a candle.
“Wenda will stop him,” Lance said. He had confidence in her ability, but dread settled in his gut like undigested meat at the thought of what further sacrifices she might need to make.
He patted Spiro’s shoulder, then headed for the fountain in the square.
Behind him, Bertramus started bleating about how he needed a room and a hot meal.
Sara trailed Lance like a living shadow.
They found Wenda standing slightly above the crowd on the wide stone bench surrounding the fountain. Except for the vivid contrast of her red robes Wenda might have been part of the white marble tableau: a father and child, backs bent before the overseer with a whip, and, one tier up, Loma, the Goddess of Mercy.
Flanked by both her mother and Marcus, Wenda addressed the crowd of Gatetown men and woman, plus two wolf shandies. The men clutched makeshift weapons, and the shandies growled.
“I’m certain you could overcome eighty legionnaires, but—”
“Just let us at them!” A stout man shook his hoe.
Marcus, standing at Wenda’s right, looked far less
certain of this victory of hoes over swords. “Listen to the Kandrith!” he bellowed in his captain’s voice.
Lance noticed a few resentful looks—everyone knew Marcus had been a legionnaire—but the crowd fell silent.
“Primus Pallax is trying to provoke an attack,” Wenda said. “If we do so, the peace he’s sworn to keep will have been broken by us and he will bring in an entire Legion.”
“So we’re just supposed to swallow this pigswill?” another man demanded.
“Never!” Wenda said fiercely, her blind gaze impassioned. “I’m going to teach Primus Pallax that Kandrith can’t be defeated, because we have the Goddess of Mercy on our side!”
The statue of Loma wept, waters splashing into the fountain.
Lance turned cold. Wenda meant to sacrifice something to the Goddess. She already had it planned out.
What would it be? Another limb? He tried to work out what sacrifice could defeat eighty legionnaires, and kept coming up short. Horror touched him. Surely, Wenda couldn’t be planning to use her Lifegift already?
Marcus didn’t understand the danger, but Lance’s mother did—they’d gone through it all before when Lance’s father was Kandrith. Her eyes met Lance’s in grim communication. They would fight this. Lance shouldered his way forward.
“Lance is here,” Marcus informed his blind wife.
Wenda raised her hands to the crowd. “I need to speak to my brother. I will call on you should your help be needed.” Marcus helped her down off the bench.
The crowd dispersed slowly as, filled by Loma’s tears, the waters in the lower fountain tier rose.
“What are you planning?” Lance’s mother demanded, her knuckles turning white.
Wenda ignored her. “Lance, I’ll need you to free the captive slaves. Hiram says they’ve penned up two women and a child—after shooting the husband. Can you do it?”
Lance spoke slowly, “If they’re playing by the rules and only capturing escaped slaves, Sara can pose as my owner. Bertramus, too, can walk free.” Perhaps Dyl could pose as Lady Sarathena Remillus’s guard dog? If he was willing to come. Rhiain hadn’t brought an answer yet. “We’ll do it,” he vowed. He didn’t mention the high risk of failure. Wenda understood.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 9
