“I found her by the swamp,” Edvard said proudly.
“I capturrred you,” Rhiain corrected him.
Fitch’s jaw dropped open, and then he smiled, showing white teeth. “You can talk. Amazing! Who taught you?”
“My motherrr,” Rhiain said, confused. Didn’t every child learn from his or her parents?
“She’s come to join the rebellion,” Edvard said, anxious to take credit.
“That’s the best news I’ve had all week,” Fitch said fiercely. “A war-beast come to fight for our cause! Much better than some milk-water priest—”
Rhiain missed the rest of what he said because Edvard yanked her mane when he tried to dismount and his bad leg folded up under him. He fell on his rump and turned red to his hairline.
Fitch ignored his brother, circling around Rhiain. “Who trained you?”
“To fight? I mostly taught myself—it’s like hunting—but Dyl gave me some tips. He’s a shandy like me, only a wolf, not a racha.”
“And how many others are there like you?”
Rhiain counted in her head. “I know of eleven.”
“And do any of them also intend to take up our cause?”
“No.” For a moment Rhiain felt ashamed, but Fitch only nodded and took a step closer.
“Are you sure you should be getting so close to it?” the scarred man broke in.
“Don’t be such an old woman.” Fitch met Rhiain’s gaze. “Come with me into camp. We have much to talk about.” He began to walk through the tall firs.
Edvard trailed behind, unable to keep pace, but Rhiain happily fell in step beside Fitch. She basked in his attention as she answered his questions. Here was someone with as fierce a heart as her own. Someone who wasn’t frightened of her form, but saw the advantages of it.
Someone who might want to become a shandy himself one day.
Chapter Twelve
“Yesterday was day ten,” Sara said, putting down her empty bowl. Her gaze met his directly.
Lance promptly dropped his whittling knife. Day ten. Sara’s promised “extra reward” for not hurting herself...”Ah, this isn’t the best time or place.” He stared blankly around the busy camp, struggling to think against the burn in his blood. “Perhaps, tonight we can—”
“Now.” Sara stood up. “I’ve already waited nine hours. No one needs healing. No one is talking to you. You are not gravely ill. Now.” She sat down on his lap and looped her arms around his neck.
Panicked, he stood up, dumping her off, but she clung to his shoulders. Her breasts pressed against his chest. “Sara.” Her name came out as a groan, but he put his hands on her waist and lifted her away. His broken finger twinged. “We can’t do this right now. Anyone can see us.”
Sara’s mouth set. She walked straight up to Glenys, who was boiling laundry a few feet away. “We need privacy. May we use your lean-to?”
Glenys looked startled. “What for?”
Lance gazed off into the distance, embarrassed. He felt as if he should offer to translate for Sara, but perhaps this way she would see that it was better to wait for darkness and—
“We need privacy to remove our clothes,” Sara said.
Lance’s face flamed, nor did the thought of Sara naked do much to cool the rest of his body.
“You want to tup, now, in the middle of the afternoon?” Glenys shot Lance an exasperated glance, which he pretended not to see.
“Yes,” Sara said baldly.
Another wave of heat swept over him.
“Can’t you wait?” Glenys asked.
“Yes, of course,” Lance said quickly. He pulled Sara a few steps away. “This isn’t our camp. We need to be polite and be accepted by the people here.”
Sara stared at him. “Ten and a half days have passed since I last hurt myself. You agree that I have met your terms and you owe me a reward?”
“Yes,” Lance said cautiously.
“Good.” She narrowed her gaze, assessing, then started toward the fire.
She was going to walk into the flames. Lance swept her off her feet into his arms at the last moment. He examined her skirts anxiously, but nothing seemed to have caught fire.
Glenys raised her eyebrows.
He tried to smile, but only grimaced. His pulse pounded. “On second thought, I don’t believe we can wait.” Sara relaxed in his arms. “Is there somewhere we can go? Fitch forbade me to leave the camp.”
“You can’t use our lean-to, I just aired the bedding.” Glenys pursed her lips. “I suppose you could use the old lookout. It’s empty now that the camp’s expanded so much.” She pointed to a camouflaged platform forty feet up a large cedar. “She’ll be happy to be useful again.”
“She?” Lance asked, setting Sara on her feet.
“Henyfar,” Glenys elaborated. “She’s one of the children who were transformed into an Undying. She seeks to atone for those she Turned before Loma took away her bloodthirst. Willem swears by her arrows.”
One of the Undying, but not an evil one. Lance swallowed. Think of her as a Grandfather tree.
Obviously deciding that there had been enough talking, Sara took Lance’s hand and led him to the tree. He followed dumbly, like a lamb to slaughter. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Henyfar had thoughtfully protruded evenly spaced stubby branches to make a ladder up her trunk. Sara preceded him up, giving him glimpses of slender calves.
Three wide branches cradled the plank floor of the lookout. Numerous windows provided both fresh pine-scented air and a good view. The structure proved surprisingly sturdy underfoot when Lance climbed through the trapdoor—and that was the last he noticed of the treehouse. Sara captured his full attention.
Holding his gaze, she pulled off her blouse and stepped out of her split skirts to stand naked before him.
Goddess, she was beautiful.
As long as you keep your trousers on, you’ll be all right. Lance knew he was lying to himself, but he didn’t care because believing the lie meant he could touch her, kiss her...
He was in deep trouble.
* * *
“I don’t understand,” Sara said when she could talk again. She’d spent the last ten minutes whimpering and moaning with pleasure.
“Understand what?” Lance asked from where he’d retreated across the width of the treehouse. His face was hectic, and his breathing harsh.
“How is this pain, the pain of incompletion, better than other pain like your broken finger?” Her breasts were swollen from his kisses and his beard, her lips similar. The flesh between her legs throbbed with need.
He stilled, then bowed his head and groaned. “Oh, Sara, you slay me. I didn’t mean to cause you pain. Come here.”
Sara went, though in truth the intensity of the ache interested her. How could something hang so perfectly between pleasure and pain so that her body felt strung too tight?
She expected Lance to heal her as he had her burned hands and her broken bones, but instead he set his hands on her hips and pulled her astride his thigh. He kissed her deeply, tipping the balance back over to pleasure, though her body cried out for more. For completion.
For him.
Then he touched her between her legs, pushing one finger inside her. Everything inside her tightened.
Near mindless she reached for him. Her hand closed around his penis despite the barrier of his trousers and squeezed. She heard him moan just before another stroke of his fingers sent her crashing over the knife-edge into a deep sea of pleasure.
* * *
Lance reddened with embarrassment when he and Sara climbed down from the snug treehouse and found Rhiain and an unknown boy waiting for them at Glenys’s fire. He t
ugged his tunic down and hoped his lingering arousal wasn’t too obvious.
He resolutely didn’t think about what Rhiain’s keener senses might have heard earlier. “Rhiain, it’s good to see you. I was worried. Any injuries?”
“Nothing of note,” she demurred. “Lance is a healer,” she told her companion. “Lance, this is Edvard. He led Sara and me to camp.”
Sara, of course, had neglected to mention him. “My thanks.” Lance inclined his head. The boy looked about sixteen, with a shock of white-blond hair that hid his eyes.
“I met Generrral Fitch,” Rhiain purred. “I’m going to show him my battle moves tomorrrow.”
Lance stifled his first rude response—that he hoped she knocked Fitch on his arse—and said mildly, “Your meeting went well, then?”
“Of courrrse.” Rhiain studied him curiously. “He seemed surrrprised when I told him we’d trrravelled together.”
“I’ll just bet he was,” Lance muttered, darkly amused at the thought of Fitch being blindsided.
Rhiain tilted her head inquiringly.
“Sorry.” Lance grimaced. “I’m afraid my meeting with Chief Fitch didn’t go well. He’s not very impressed with those who Wear the Brown.” Lance felt awkward, discussing their plans so openly in front of an audience, but asking for privacy might be viewed with suspicion.
“Fitch only respects warriors who can fight as well as him,” Edvard said. “And he’s good at everything—horsemanship, swordwork, even archery.”
“You know him well?” Lance asked, surprised.
Rhiain coughed a laugh. “They’re brrrothers.”
Edvard nodded glumly.
Lance glared at Rhiain. She could’ve mentioned that earlier. What if he’d said something insulting?
“If Fitch is more inclined to listen to you, that’s good news,” Lance said awkwardly. He wished the boy would go away.
“To me?” Rhiain washed one paw. “I’m not the Kandrrrith’s brother.”
No, but Rhiain was a formidable fighter. To be charitable, some of Fitch’s rudeness to Lance might’ve stemmed from disappointment. Fitch must be desperate for troops, fighting a losing war against superior forces. Lance’s talent was only good for the aftermath, but anyone could look at Rhiain and understand the possibilities for warfare.
“Did he ask how you came to be a shandy?”
She shook her head, making her mane swing.
“Telling him your story might help him understand how powerful slave magic can be,” Lance suggested. Not that he knew Rhiain’s full story, only that she’d turned shandy as a child.
Rhiain grunted; Lance didn’t push.
“Where is he?” a heavily accented voice demanded.
Looking up, Lance saw Spring Colt bull his way through the Gotian camp. Dark glances were exchanged, but no one challenged him. The Grasslander warrior’s hair was now caught up in its proper horsetail. The colour in his cheeks was a little high, but that seemed due to anger, and his deerskin vest displayed two healthy arms. Lance smiled, pleased with his patient’s recovery.
Spring Colt shoved past Edvard as if he didn’t exist, then scowled down at Lance. “Winter Grass say you did not enter the tent, but Willem’s woman say you heal me. This is lie! I battle Mek and win.”
Winter Grass came to a stop a few steps behind her brother. For a second anxiety shone in her eyes before she masked it with stoicism.
For her sake, Lance picked his words with care. “You battled Mek for ten days. Only someone very strong could have survived so long.”
Spring Colt’s chest puffed out with pride. “I am strong!” He held a sun-bronzed arm over his head.
“Wait,” Edvard said, picking himself up off the ground. “I saw Spring Colt’s arm. It was badly gashed. Where are his scars?”
But the Goddess’s healing didn’t leave scars. Lance grimaced. While he could appreciate Edvard’s desire to get back at a bully, the boy was not helping. They had an audience of at least a dozen now, watching Spring Colt twist his head to study his bicep and shoulder.
And then, just to make things perfect, Fitch arrived. The crowd parted for him. “Causing more trouble, priest? What’s going on?”
“Spring Colt says Lance didn’t heal him, but he doesn’t have any scars,” Edvard summarized.
“Impossible.” Fitch folded his arms. “Winter Grass would never have let him into Mek’s tent.”
Lance didn’t want to betray Winter Grass, but he needed Fitch to respect his healing abilities. “The Goddess of Mercy healed Spring Colt—from outside the tent.”
Spring Colt frowned. “He say his Goddess is stronger than Mek. This is lie! His Goddess is puny, weak thing.” He spat in contempt.
Rhiain growled, and Lance bristled in turn.
“The Goddess of Mercy is not weak, and I’ll prove it,” Lance said recklessly. He lifted his arms and addressed the listening camp. “Is there anyone who is ill or has a broken bone? Come forward and be healed.”
No one moved. Whether out of caution or because nearly all of them were naturally healthy young men, Lance couldn’t tell. He tried again. “Does anyone have a cut or a bruise?”
Heads turned, but no one stepped forward.
Sara stood up. Before Lance could stop her, she made a swift cut down her forearm with her knife. She held her arm up so everyone could see the blood dripping down.
Lance gritted his teeth. She’d hurt herself. Again. “No reward for six days,” he muttered. He raised his voice for the sake of the watching audience. “Goddess of Mercy, hear my prayer!” He grasped Sara’s arm, and the crowd drifted closer as the flesh knitted together under the Goddess’s aegis.
A murmur of appreciation. Even Fitch looked impressed. I’m winning them over.
Then Edvard lurched toward him. Lurched, because there was something horribly wrong with one of his legs. A clubfoot? “Can you heal me?”
Lance felt his heart sink. Of all the bad luck...He could feel the camp and Fitch watching him, judging. And then he saw the hope shining in Edvard’s eyes, and shame writhed in his belly over his own selfish concerns.
“How long ago was your leg injured?”
Edvard’s smile dimmed, sensing Lance’s mood. “Three years ago.”
Worse and worse. Still... “Let me take a look.” Lance crouched down. He kept his face impassive. This was nothing so simple as a clubfoot. The limb was grossly malformed, almost lumpy. It was a wonder the boy could walk at all.
There were scars, but there was something precise about them...something not caused by nature. The sight made him sick. If Lance had to guess, he would say someone had taken a hammer to the boy’s leg. He was looking at cruel, malicious, deliberate damage. Torture.
“Well?” Edvard asked harshly.
Lance looked him straight in the eye. “If I had seen you while your leg was still healing, I could’ve helped you. But once the body heals over, there’s little I can do. I’m sorry.”
“Pah.” Fitch wheeled and stalked away. Spring Colt and Winter Grass followed.
Lance could understand Fitch’s disappointment. What he couldn’t understand was Fitch walking away without first comforting his brother.
For an instant Edvard looked stricken, then his face set in stony lines. His control was very good for his age. But then pain was a good teacher.
Lance had learned control young, too.
“I can’t heal you, but I can take away some of the pain.” Lance put his hands on Edvard’s shoulders. He sensed a blister on the boy’s foot, rubbed there by the awkward way he had to walk, and a couple old bruises, probably from a fall. A small surge of heat passed through his hands, but the illness was so small that he felt only a whisper of the Goddess’s presence, no more than the brush of Her skirt.
Edvard took a deep b
reath. From the surprise on his face he was almost never without pain of some sort.
“Feel free to come to me every day,” Lance said. “It’s no trouble.”
Edvard pushed back his shock of white-blond hair, frowning. “But...isn’t there a cost?”
“The Goddess of Mercy did the healing,” Lance soothed. “And She doesn’t charge supplicants. I am but her instrument.”
“That’s not true,” Rhiain said, unexpectedly. “You pay for the healing with your ill health every day. Look, you can see his finger is swollen. Lance is the bravest man you’ll ever meet,” she told Edvard.
“Hardly,” Lance scoffed. “Your sacrifice is just as great as mine.”
Rhiain chuffed. “Oh, no. Shandies are lucky. Ours is hardly a sacrifice at all.”
Lance blinked. The mere thought of giving up his hands made him shudder—but Rhiain obviously felt differently.
He was glad for her, but he had a terrible suspicion that the true depth of her sacrifice wouldn’t be paid until she fell in love.
* * *
“I can’t talk you out of this?” Lance asked Rhiain grimly while he stooped to fill Glenys’s bucket with water. Lance had spent the first week in the rebel camp laid low with the flu. Fitch had spent the same time courting Rhiain. He seated her beside him at mealtimes, took her hunting, asked her opinion, even wrestled with her.
The trouble was Fitch was courting her as a warrior—someone he wanted to woo to his cause—and Rhiain was reacting like a lovesick girl. It was Gaius Mendicus all over again, but Rhiain couldn’t seem to see it despite Lance’s gentle hints.
On their journey, Lance had grown protective of Rhiain. She looked so formidable, but inside she was so young.
Rhiain wrinkled her lips, showing her sharp teeth. “I don’t underrrstand. Why do you want me to stay behind?”
“We didn’t come here to fight in Gotia’s rebellion,” Lance said, a touch more sharply than he’d intended. “We’re here to act in Kandrith’s interests.” He hefted the bucket and began threading his way back through the camp to Willem’s fire.
Rhiain tossed her mane. She didn’t even seem to notice when the four nearest rebels tensed, hands going to weapons. None of them attacked—Fitch had made it clear she was his favourite. “It’s the same thing! Fitch needs to win this battle so he can attract more followers to his cause and free Gotia from its oppressors.”
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 19
