Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  “No,” the Goddess said, compassionate but firm. “I will NOT accept your soulgift.”

  “How are babies’ new souls made?” Sara continued.

  “It is not something I can do,” Loma said, her voice heavy with shared grief. “Nor any single one of my siblings. It is a magic we wrought together at the beginning of time, a cycle that renews itself.”

  Sara fell silent. Her last cut healed over.

  Lance had one more question. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His throat rasped. Why let him hope? For the Goddess had known. When he thanked Her for giving Sara back her soul, She had said it was none of Her doing.

  “I am sorry, my child.” Her arms seemed to embrace him, but he stood stiffly in their circle. “I hoped to spare you the misery of this knowledge and protect you as much as I could from my brother’s spite.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Lance said in a low voice, as the Goddess stepped back into Her own world. His fists clenched. For the first time that he could remember, he was angry with his Goddess: toweringly angry with the kind of hot fury that would not fade for weeks or months.

  Then he looked at Sara, and his heart broke all over again. Her brow was only faintly wrinkled, her gaze abstracted as if she were thinking hard.

  “Come here.” He opened his arms. “We’ll find a way out of this, I promise.”

  Sara stepped into his embrace. His throat tightened until he wanted to howl with the unfairness of it all. Every pain-staking step forward Sara had taken was now wiped out. False.

  He pressed his lips to her forehead, uncertain whether he was comforting Sara or himself, just knowing he needed to hold her.

  “Lance.” She kissed his chin, then his cheek and lips. Her beautiful blue eyes brimmed with worry and regret, blank no longer. He glimpsed Sara-who-had-a-soul.

  The moment stretched.

  “I know why you’re important now,” she said.

  “Why?” Lance asked, baffled. Important how?

  “Because Sara-who-had-a-soul loved you.”

  Sara put her hand behind his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Lance let himself drown in her sweet taste and the press of her breasts against his chest.

  Passion flamed between them, and he grasped it with both hands so he could forget the coming tragedy. Right now their child still lived, and Sara was here, fully with him for the first time in months. He scooped her up in his arms and strode away from the fire, seeking privacy in the darkened forest.

  Branches sighed far overhead in the soft wind, but all else was still, the forest life wary of the nearby camp.

  He crowded her against the massive trunk of a redolent cedar and slanted his mouth against hers. She kissed him back, wrapping her legs around his hips.

  Urgently, he freed himself from his trousers and slid inside her wet heat. He knew he wasn’t going to last long so he set his fingers at the top of her mound and stroked her to a quick climax.

  She convulsed in his arms, sending him over the edge.

  When he opened his eyes again, she was pushing at his chest, her eyes wide and frantic.

  “What is it?” If someone had intruded on them, he would send them away with a flea in their ear. He glanced behind, but no one was there.

  Sara unhooked her ankles and slid to the ground.

  “Sara?”

  “The baby moved,” she said, her face in shadow.

  Awe and helpless grief choked him. Their baby. Unable to speak, he put his hand on her stomach.

  She stepped away from him. “No. When you touch me, the connection between my body and the baby’s soul grows stronger.”

  His arms dropped. He felt hollowed out as he completed the rest of her reasoning. “And the babe’s grows weaker.” Bitterness coated his throat. Now he couldn’t even comfort her.

  Grief threatened to hammer him into the ground, but he refused to surrender to it. Sara and the baby both still lived and shared a soul.

  Lance drew in a harsh breath. “I’m not giving up, on you or the baby. We have five months until the baby is born. We’ll find some solution. Until then...” he broke off. He didn’t know what he was saying.

  “I should return to Tolium,” Sara said.

  Lance blinked. “What?”

  He strove to make out her expression, but the filtered moonlight didn’t provide enough illumination. Her voice was cool, logical. “Because Sara-who-had-a-soul loved you, I am drawn to you. If I see you every day, I won’t be able to keep my distance. It will be easier if we are apart.”

  Lance’s every instinct rose up in protest. His woman, his baby, he needed to keep them near and protect them. “No. It’s not safe.”

  “Neither is travelling with rebels,” Sara pointed out, still annoyingly logical.

  “You don’t know anyone in Tolium. You have no place to stay,” Lance argued.

  She fell silent, and for a moment he thought he’d convinced her. “I can go to the Temple of Mercy or Fertility. They both take in pregnant women.”

  Lance shook his head. “We’ll go back to Kandrith. Wenda will look after you.” He hated to abandon his mission, but Sara and the baby were more important. Perhaps Rhiain would want to stay and continue aiding the rebellion.

  “No,” Sara said. Any other time he would have been happy to see her arguing with him, instead of obeying without question. “The journey would mean weeks in close company.” Her hand went to her stomach. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the baby moved while we were mating. I think he moved because the soul bond almost snapped and he was distressed. If we travel together, I’m almost certain to miscarry.”

  The worst of it was, if the baby’s soul bond had snapped yesterday, before he knew Sara was pregnant, if she’d simply had a heavy menstrual flow and her soul suddenly back, he would’ve been happy. This was why Cadwallader had tried to avoid telling him, and how the Goddess had hoped to keep the truth from him. For a moment he damned Relena for opening his eyes.

  But now that he knew, he couldn’t unknow. He couldn’t bear the thought of his son dying soulless, ceasing to be, consigned to the outer darkness. He had to try to save them both. To do that he needed time to find a way. If living apart from Sara gave him that time, then that’s how it would have to be.

  Lance bowed his head, conceding defeat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sara dropped a carafe. It shattered on the stone floor of the temple stillroom, splashing her sandalled feet with mercia. Her toes promptly went numb.

  The acolyte of Loma, an older woman with a round face, scolded her and set her to cleaning up the mess. Sara obediently mopped up the syrup-like potion with old rags and picked up the shards of broken pottery, but she nicked her fingers twice because her mind kept wandering.

  She kept thinking about Lance, replaying memories of how his face had looked and the soft way he’d kissed her lips when he bid her goodbye.

  He wasn’t here and wouldn’t visit for another nine days, so why was she spending all her time thinking about him? Why did doing so make her throat ache and her eyes burn?

  The acolyte stopped fussing over the loss of the precious potion and patted her shoulder. “The first days are hard. You miss you
r man, I know.”

  Was that it? Yes. She missed Lance. Though she had suggested their separation, it felt strange and wrong.

  “Perhaps we should find a different task for you,” the acolyte mused. She smoothed back a wisp of gray hair that had escaped her kerchief and looked around.

  The stillroom of the Temple of Mercy where the precious mercia potion was distilled from plants was equipped with a large table, a fireplace and shelves. Dried plants hung in bundles from the ceiling, sweetening the air. The temple itself was unprepossessing compared to the ornate, gilded temples Sara had visited in Temborium.

  Since Lance couldn’t safely enter Tolium until the search for the governor’s escaped slaves died down, Willem had escorted Sara to the temple. He’d asked the elderly priestess that Sara be cared for and given light work because of her pregnancy.

  The acolyte set her to hanging wet laundry next. Sara repeated the same mindless movements, her thoughts still focused on Lance.

  She didn’t like being separated from him. How long would she have to tolerate it? Lance had said he would think of something, but he would be busy training the ex-slaves. What if he couldn’t come up with a solution?

  The thought that they might have to endure a long separation only to have the baby still die, soulless, at the end raised an unfamiliar emotion in her chest. Something hot and angry and...and resentful. Maybe she should just rejoin him and let nature take its course.

  But then she thought of how the baby’s death would affect Lance. It would make him sad. Wound him, in some way beyond the physical.

  And Sara didn’t like the idea of Lance feeling bad because she— Because he was important.

  She should try to help him.

  Yes. As soon as the thought occurred to her Sara knew it was the right decision. She set her mind to solving the problem of her soullessness while her body went through the motions of hanging laundry.

  Reach into the basket and pull out a wet dress.

  The Goddess of Mercy had said that new souls were created from a magic wrought by all the gods and goddesses at the beginning of time.

  Drape the sodden bodice over the rope strung between two trees.

  Loma would do anything to help Lance, but she couldn’t do it on her own. Loma’s magic sprang from the worship of her followers, from prayers and sacrifices.

  Nudge the basket sideways with her foot.

  No sacrifice was great enough to equal creating a soul, and a soulgift would only transfer the problem, not solve it.

  Bend and pick up another piece of clothing. Repeat. Repeat.

  And then Sara remembered another source of magic. She stood stock still, cold water dripping down her arms, thinking hard.

  Sometime later, the acolyte came out into the yard and scolded her for leaving the laundry to set, still wet, in the basket. “Are you simple-minded?” the woman asked.

  Sara pushed past her, through the temple gate, and started down the street to find Esam, the Qiph Scholar.

  * * *

  Sara identified the Qiph tent in the market by its green stripes. A brown-skinned middle-aged man smiled and held up a bolt of red silk as she approached. “Most beauteous lady, I have for sale the finest Qiph silk. Just feel—” He broke off when she moved around the table piled with fabric and ducked past him into the tent behind.

  The back wall of the tent was pinned open, allowing sunlight to spill in. A young Qiph man bent over a low table, painting letters on parchment.

  “Esam.” Sara’s shoulder’s relaxed. Finding him still in Tolium should save her time. “Can a woman walk the Men’s Path to Holiness?”

  “What?” Esam looked up, dark eyes widening in surprise. “Lady Sara? I wasn’t expecting you.” He smoothed a hand over the rows of his black braids, spattering ink from the brush still in his hand, then stood. His head almost touched the ceiling.

  The middle-aged silk-seller had followed her in. He said something sharp in Qiph, to which Esam nodded. The merchant shook his head—disapprovingly?—then retreated to the front stall and began to hawk his wares to other passersby.

  Sara repeated her question. “Can a woman walk the Men’s Path to Holiness?”

  His head jerked back, nostrils flaring. “Of course not!”

  Her stomach tightened. Her plan wouldn’t work, then. Almost, Sara turned and walked away, but...”Why?”

  “Because—because women are not men, because that is not the Path laid out by the Holy Ones.” His voice rose, drawing attention from the Qiph merchant in the stall outside.

  “Has any woman tried to follow the Men’s Path?”

  “No!”

  Why was he shouting? Sara persisted. “Has no Qiph woman ever been enslaved?”

  “Well, yes, I have heard of such happening,” Esam admitted. “But that is not the same as following the Men’s Path.”

  Sara nodded to show she understood the distinction. “Is magic only gained if one purposefully follows the Path?”

  “I don’t know.” Esam’s brow wrinkled. “I am not a Pathfinder.”

  Sara considered this. “Could a Pathfinder answer my questions?”

  “Perhaps, but you won’t find any Pathfinders in the Republic. Lady Sara, what is this about? You are Temborian. Why do you want to know about the Qiph Way?”

  Sara explained about the baby’s soul. By the time she reached the part about the baby being born soulless and refusing to eat, his eyes shone with moisture.

  He captured her hands. “I am so sorry.”

  His reaction puzzled her. “Why? It’s not your fault.”

  “No,” he agreed, first squeezing then releasing her hands. “This is the work of the Defiler.”

  The Qiph called Vez, God of Malice, the Defiler. Loma had also spoken of her “brother’s spite,” which supported Esam’s supposition. But knowing the cause didn’t help her gain her objective.

  Sara continued laying out the chains of logic she had forged. “The Goddess of Mercy cannot grant me a new soul. A different kind of magic is needed. I wish to earn magic by walking the Qiph Way, but I have only five months until the baby is born. After that it will be too late. In slave magic, the greater the sacrifice the greater the reward.” An old person’s Lifegift would make a fruit tree, but the saints’ Lifegifts had raised the Red Mountains. “The Women’s Path is shorter than the Men’s, with only three steps.”

  “Yes. Water-Bearer, Mother and Dowser.”

  “That disparity suggests that the same might be true with Qiph magic, that more magic might be earned with harder steps.”

  Esam’s brows drew together. “I hadn’t thought of that. You may be right. I do not know. My mother always said us children turned her hair white.”

  “Of the Women’s Path, motherhood is closed to me, and Tolium has plenty of water from the river, they do not need dowsers. I can bear water, but I do not think five months of doing so will earn me enough magic to create a new soul.”

  “It does seem unlikely,” Esam conceded. “Usually a minimum of two years is spent on each step.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question. Can a woman gain magic by walking the Men’s Path to Holiness?”

  “I’m sorry, Sara, I just don’t know. I’m not a Pathfinder.” He shook his head.

  “But you do not know that they can’t.”

  “No.”

  Good enough. Sara moved on to her next question. “Which step on the Men’s Path is consi
dered the hardest?”

  “It depends on which one the person finds hard. My two years as a Warrior passed quickly. I fear my two years as a Scholar will feel much longer.” He quirked his lips.

  He was avoiding answering her. “I think Slave would be the most difficult step,” Sara said.

  Esam stared at her, but said nothing to refute her reasoning.

  Sara turned to go.

  “Wait!” Esam sounded alarmed. “Where are you going?”

  “To the slave market to sell myself.”

  “But—but you don’t even know if your plan will work! You have only the flimsiest of evidence.”

  “If I do nothing, the baby will die,” Sara said bluntly. Lance wanted the baby to live and have a soul; therefore she did, too. “Unless you have a better suggestion?” She waited.

  His mouth opened then closed. His shoulders sagged. “No.”

  She exited through the tent’s rear flap and pushed her way between the Qiph tent and a covered wagon back out into the busy marketplace.

  Instead of returning to his scholarship, Esam followed her. “What is your plan?”

  “I will find a Republican and sell myself to him.” She spotted a brown-haired man in a toga perusing metalwork across the street and headed toward him.

  Esam stopped dead, then had to skip forward to keep up. “Oh, no, Sara. That is a very bad idea. If you are set on doing this, I will help you. We can do much better than selling you to the first person you meet.”

  Sara absorbed that. “In what way?”

  “Stipulations,” Esam said. “We need to find you a kind master, or mistress, who will give you light duties.”

  Sara shook her head. “No.” She stepped around two women carrying baskets who’d stopped to haggle with a butcher.

  Esam hurried after her. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  She kept her gaze on the brown-haired Republican, who’d started moving through the crowd again. “If I’m not treated like a slave, how will I gain enough magic to earn a soul in five months?”