Lance groaned, his hips lifting off the bed.
She wanted him inside her, a sweet ache. She was so wet, it would only take a few thrusts...
“Please,” Lance panted.
“Roll onto your side, facing away from me.”
He obeyed, and she plastered herself against his back, loving the friction of his hair-dusted legs against hers. Reaching around, she grasped his erection and began to stroke it, teasing both of them by first speeding up, then slowing down her rhythm.
Finally, he couldn’t take it any more. “Sara!” He broke the rules and wrapped his own hand around hers, showing her what he wanted.
In revenge she bit his shoulder and smiled when he convulsed.
Her body continued to tingle for a long time after, and they both lay very still, as if afraid to move and break the moment. At last, Lance sighed, kissed her temple, and, before she could search out his lips, stood up. He dressed in silence.
He’d barely finished when they both heard Fitch’s voice from down the hall.
Lance blocked the door. “Don’t do this,” he implored
Sara couldn’t meet his gaze. “I have to.”
As she followed Fitch out of the temple, she ignored his chatter, dwelling on her last glimpse of Lance’s face. He hadn’t been angry, as she would have expected. Instead his face had sagged as if with fatigue. After some struggling, she named the emotion she’d seen there.
Despair.
Chapter Eighteen
“She’s all yours,” the grizzled legionnaire said to Wettar. “Crazy twotch,” he muttered under his breath.
With some reluctance, Sara dismounted from Nir’s pretty mare, letting her hand trail over her glossy black hide in farewell. She’d enjoyed riding the newly healed horse.
“What did you do to him?” Wettar asked, after the legionnaire had led the horse away. “Did you give him that black eye?”
“Yes.”
Wettar rolled his eyes. “I don’t even want to know.”
Agreeably, Sara didn’t tell him, though the matter had been simple enough. The legionnaire had felt that being her escort gave him the right to her body. He’d been surprised when she’d fought instead of simply lying down and spreading her legs. When he’d realized forcing her would leave visible marks for Nir to see, he’d given up and sullenly put her up on her black mare.
Wettar gestured for her to take a seat on a log beside a small fire. “Take off the bandage.” She obediently unwound the linen strip and let him study her heart brand. “It looks healed. Does it still hurt?” He pressed on the skin.
“No,” Sara said. The bandages had been Fitch’s idea, to disguise the fact that her brand shouldn’t be fully healed yet.
“Close your eyes.”
Seconds after Sara complied, she felt a small pain on the back of her neck, as if Wettar had pricked her with a needle. Interesting.
“Did you feel that?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you felt.”
“You poked my neck with a needle.
“Does that hurt?”
“A little.”
“So you can feel pain then?”
“Yes.”
“Open your eyes.”
She did. Wettar picked up her palm and, watching her carefully, stabbed the needle all the way through. He held her hand tightly, but Sara didn’t pull away. “How about that? Does that hurt?”
“Yes. It’s deeper.”
A little bubble of blood showed at the entry spot, and the needle was slick and hard to hold. It took him several tries to pull it out the other side. Sara watched with interest.
He stared at her when he finished. “I’ve seen hardened men branded. Warriors, who didn’t allow themselves to scream, but they feared the brand. Their eyes followed it, their bodies flinched. You weren’t afraid at all. You looked bored when you grabbed the brand.”
Sara waited, but he didn’t ask a question.
“I will inform Nir that you are well and able to resume your duties. While you’ve been sick, he’s taken Cassia back to his bed. But every day he inquires about your health.” He paused, looking at her.
Sara didn’t know what he wanted her to say.
“I usually stay out of squabbles between slaves, but I’ll give you a word of warning. Cassia hates you. Do not eat or drink anything that has passed through her hands.”
“Hate” was another word that no longer held much meaning for Sara, but she dutifully promised not to eat or drink anything Cassia gave her.
Wettar shook his head, as if unconvinced of her sincerity.
* * *
Nir sought her out late that evening, crouching down and shaking her awake in her rolled-up blanket. His bare chest gleamed with sweat in the firelight, as if he’d been practicing swordwork, but he reeked of incense. From a ceremony, perhaps? She forgot sometimes that he was the high priest of the God of War.
Before she could sit up, he unsheathed his sword and held it to the pulse in her throat. The tip pricked her skin and sent drops of blood sliding down. “Before, you said that you were not Sarathena. Who, then, are you?”
“I am Sara-without-a-soul.”
Then he made her relate the whole story of how she’d lost her soul. By the time she finished, his face was flushed with blood, though his swordhand didn’t tremble. “So you will be like this always? Beyond my reach?”
“No.” Sara explained how she hoped to earn a new soul.
Nir dismissed the Qiph Way as “barbarian superstition,” concentrating his questions on her unwilling theft of the baby’s soul.
Finally, he smiled with closed lips and removed the blade. “Then all I need do to possess you, is wait.” He squeezed her breast hard, but walked away without forcing himself on her.
Instead of falling back to sleep, Sara frowned. Something about their conversation bothered her.
Perhaps, she had made a mistake.
Perhaps, she should not have told him.
* * *
Lance lay, head pounding, on his pallet under the stars. Even the soft sounds of the sleeping rebel camp—clothing rustling as someone shifted position under the bedclothes, the whicker of a horse in the paddock, and the wind moving through the trees—sent shards of pain through his temples.
When Fitch came back, he’d taken one look at Lance and shook his head. “You’re going to fight me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Lance had said truthfully. And then the bloody bastard had coldcocked him.
When Lance had regained consciousness untold moments later, Fitch had had the nerve to shake his head and mutter, “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, priest.”
Instead he’d tied Lance facedown on the back of a horse, a fate almost worse than death. The beast’s jolting trot had been the worst possible treatment for his concussion, rattling his brain in his head. He’d quickly become dizzy, his vision blurred, and he’d passed in and out of consciousness. He was honestly surprised the trip hadn’t killed him.
He needed quiet and rest, but how could he sleep while Sara was in danger?
Just the thought of Sara enslaved to that sadistic bastard Nir, who’d terrified her as a girl, made bile flood Lance’s mouth. He dry-heaved, having long since vomited up his last meal. Thoughts disjointed, he tried to plan an escape...as soon as sitting up didn’t make his head fall off his shoulders.
He ignored the fact that he had no idea where the rebel camp was in relation to Tolium and that he would probably become lost half a mile into the woods. He had to find Sara and rescue her.
Even if she didn’t want to be rescued.
The thought hammered at him along with the pulse throbbing in his temple. Sar
a had chosen her path.
But, his heart cried, she didn’t understand what slavery was like, the pain and degradation that went with the brand.
Except Sara without-a-soul didn’t fear pain. Nor was she easily terrified. Nir would bed only her body. In a strange sense, Sara—his Sara—was safe.
For now.
Until the baby’s soul pulled free and her body and her emotions reconnected.
“Loma!” he called through clenched teeth, not caring who he woke. It wasn’t a prayer this time, but a demand. “You will tell me when Sara gains a soul or if her life is in danger. You. Will. Tell. Me.”
A faint scent of lilacs and sadness. Yes.
The agony in his head raged unabated, but something inside him relaxed. As angry as he was, on some level, he still trusted Loma to keep Her word.
He eased into sleep.
* * *
Cassia was glaring at her again.
A measure of impatience stirred inside Sara while she knelt in the cold stream, scrubbing Nir’s linen tunic against a stone. She didn’t understand why Cassia wasted so much time being angry at her, when Sara did nothing to her.
Wettar called it hatred, not anger, but Sara found it hard to believe that anyone—even someone as foolish as Cassia—could hate her. Hatred was like some greater version of dislike, wasn’t it?
She’d hated Nir once. A sudden memory overwhelmed her: shuddering at the touch of his fingernail, cold sweat gathering on her skin, a mental flinch at the very thought of being in his power—and hot rage at the thought of Nir striking out at her father.
The strength of the memory disturbed her. Nir still bedded her at least once a week. When he took her body, he held her chin and stared into her eyes. It seemed to Sara that he was waiting for her to respond in a certain way—and felt disappointed when she just lay there, passive.
Could he want her to hate him?
Sara’s brow pleated while she wrung out the clean tunic. No, she must be wrong. It would make no sense for Nir to desire her hate.
Cassia shared his bed often, and she didn’t hate Nir, therefore—
Cassia suddenly pointed at Sara. “Lice!” she cried. “I saw lice moving in Sara’s hair!”
Wettar hurried over, and Cassia repeated her accusation. “Sara has lice, and she’s getting them into Nir’s clothes.”
Wettar raised an eyebrow, but he took the wet clothes and thrust them at Cassia. “It’s good of you to take such concern for your Master,” he told her. “Cleanse them thoroughly to be certain they aren’t infested. Sara, come with me.”
Sara straightened her cramped legs. Her soaked skirts dripped water down her legs. In the brisk breeze her skin contracted, and the fine hairs stood on end.
Wettar sighed. “The other women tuck their skirts out of the way when they wash clothes in the stream.”
“I know,” Sara said, keeping pace beside him as they walked back to the stockade.
Her answer made him sigh again.
After they passed the sentry into the stockade, Wettar asked her, “Do you have lice, or is Cassia inventing things?”
Sara thought about it. “I don’t know.”
“Does your scalp itch? I haven’t seen you scratching.”
Her scalp had prickled and tingled more than normal lately, ever since her usual blankets had been exchanged for a blue set. It hadn’t occurred to her to scratch the prickly spot. “My head feels different.”
“Well, let me take a look then. Sit.”
Sara sat on the grass and waited while Wettar fetched a comb from his tent. Instead of running the wooden teeth the length of her hair from scalp to tip, he used it to shift her hair around, studying her scalp.
“Hmmm. Yes, you definitely have lice.” He stepped away. “I’ll have to shave you.”
Cassia returned with the wet laundry while Wettar was stropping his razor. Her lips curved up in a self-satisfied smile.
Why did she care that Sara had lice and had to have her head shaved bald? Sara didn’t understand. Wettar frowned at Cassia, but allowed her to watch the process and gather up the long curly brown strands of hair afterward.
Sara felt a faint tug of—curiosity? What did Cassia want with her hair?
The question didn’t seem important enough to overcome the drawbacks of speaking to Cassia. Sara forgot about it until five days later, when Cassia appeared in camp wearing the now-repaired blue silk dress Nir had ripped off Sara’s body the first night and a wig of Sara’s former hair.
Cassie paraded up and down in front of Sara. “It’s not as pretty as my own hair, of course,” she said, touching the wig, “but once in a while a man enjoys a change to spice things up.”
Sara habitually ignored whatever Cassia said, but something about this latest foolishness bothered her. “What man?”
Cassia’s mouth dropped open. “Nir, of course!”
There was no “of course” about it. Both Wettar and two legionnaires regularly bedded Cassia. Sara tried again. “Do you intend to wear the wig while bedding Nir?”
Cassia’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
A warning bell rang in the back of Sara’s mind. “I don’t think you should.”
Cassia screeched. “As if I’d listen to you, you jealous twotch!”
Jealousy meant wanting something that someone else had. Sara didn’t want anything Cassia had.
What did she want? The question jolted Sara. She’d become a slave to gain magic, so that the babe inhabiting her womb would be born with a soul. But she only wanted that because Lance desired it so much. What did she, Sara, want?
The question itself was dangerous, a sign that the baby was losing their tug of war with his soul. But the answer came before she could block it. She wanted Lance. That’s all. Just Lance. His warm presence, and deep voice and familiar bearded face. Yearning hollowed her stomach, the sensation as strong as physical hunger.
Don’t think about him.
She tried to refocus on Cassia, but the coeurelle had finished yelling and stamped away. Toward Nir’s empty tent.
Once again, the certainty crept over her that Cassia’s plan was beyond foolish. Ill-conceived. Bad. The feeling persisted, so Sara went to find Wettar.
He groaned when he saw her. “What is it this time? Not enough vegetables? Or perhaps the baby has a craving for fresh veal?”
“Cassia is wearing my old hair as a wig and one of my dresses. She intends to seduce Nir when he returns.”
Wettar waited, then said, “And...what? You wish to wear the wig yourself?”
“No.” The only difference she’d noticed between being shaven and having hair was that her head was cooler. She had no desire to wear a wig.
Wettar sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
Sara considered. “Stop her.”
“Why?”
Sara opened her mouth, but couldn’t find the words to explain the niggling feeling she had that it was wrong for Cassia to wear the wig. “She looks like me.”
“And?”
Sara didn’t know what else to say.
Wettar’s lips quirked. “I’ll do nothing. In my opinion Cassia has made her own bed and must lie in it. Go to sleep, Sara.”
Sara went to bed, but failed to sleep. Nir had returned. Cassia’s screams kept the whole camp awake.
After two thousand one hundred and fifty-two heartbeats, Wettar shook Sara’s shoulder. “Get up. I should have listened to you,” he said. “He’s going to kill her.”
Obediently, Sara pushed back the blankets and rose. The chill night air burrowed under her loose shift and made the fine hairs on her arms and legs rise.
Wettar scanned her body, his gaze lingering on her stubbled head instead of her breasts. His face screwed up in a grimace. “That head!” he m
uttered. “What was I thinking?”
“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Sara said.
“We need to cover it up,” Wettar said. “But not with a wig. That would make him angrier. A scarf?” He strode over to Cassia’s pallet and handed Sara the torch to hold. He began rummaging through her clothes.
“Aha! Try this.” Wettar traded a tasseled pink silk scarf for the torch.
Sara wrapped it around her neck.
“No,” Wettar cried. “Cover your head with it.”
Sara draped the scarf over her head and tied it under her chin.
Wettar groaned, but then Cassia screamed again. “It’ll have to do,” he decided. “Hurry.” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her along at a rapid walk toward Nir’s tent.
From inside, Cassia sobbed and begged, “Please, no.”
The whip answered her.
“How many women slaves has Nir killed?” Sara asked after Cassia stopped screaming.
“Only three since I became slave master,” Wettar said. “Since then I’ve made a point of sending the girls he’s bored with into the beds of some of his promising officers. They do well in battle, ask for the girl, or get her pregnant, and the papers are transferred. I’ve already made up Cassia’s. Just get her out of there.”
Silhouetted against the tent wall, Nir’s looming shadow raised his arm, then brought it down. Crack! Sara couldn’t see Cassia, but she screamed hoarsely as the whip bit into her flesh.
“Go in and distract him,” Wettar whispered.
Before Sara could ask how, he pushed her through the tent flap.
Warmed by braziers, the air inside was stifling, and Nir’s half-naked body glistened with sweat.
Cassia was fully nude, save for the brown wig lying askew on her head. Blood ran in rivulets down her lacerated back. Fetters manacled her hands to a steel post. She knelt in front of it, weeping.
“Are you going to kill her?” Sara asked.
Nir kept his back to her, but his shoulder muscles bunched. “Yes. Have you come to plead for her life?” he asked, tone idle.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 33
