Was that disappointment on the priest’s face? Lance hardly cared. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under some blankets and sleep. With Sara, preferably.
The test seemed a silly game, but Sara had asked it of him so, sighing, he resumed his examination of the offered weapons. He hefted the dagger in his palm. Something felt odd about the weight. On impulse he scratched the blade; yellow gleamed underneath the gray paint.
He tossed it back on the blanket. “Made of bronze, not iron,” he said shortly.
A crossbow was next. Lance had never fired one, and he examined the mechanism closely. One cranked here and then a lever ought to have drawn back the cord, but nothing happened.
Down it went. “It’s broken,” he said.
The priest ground his teeth. Lance began to enjoy himself a little. He was in a lousy mood; why not share it?
The double-headed axe was dull. The bejeweled sword had a nicked blade, and the spear’s shaft was half-rotted.
“These are all bad weapons,” Lance said.
The priest smirked, crossing his arms. “And yet you must choose.”
Lance looked at the centurion. “Is there a forge around here somewhere?”
The centurion raised one eyebrow, but nodded. “By the stables.”
Lance looked the priest in the eye. “I’m still not ready to make my choice.” He picked up the axe and the sword.
He expected the priest to object, but apparently this was still allowed under the rules because the priest followed, fuming.
The forge rang with the sound of hammer and tongs. If not for Lance’s headache, he might have appreciated hearing the rhythmic music of his childhood. A clubfooted slave boy worked the bellows, his face smeared with ash and red from the heat, while the blacksmith hammered at a sword.
At the priest’s irritated wave the blacksmith gave up his spot at the anvil for Lance to work.
Lance started by prying up the useless gaudy rubies on the pommel and carelessly tossing them aside. The slave boy scrabbled after them in the hard-packed dirt, then reluctantly handed them over to the gimlet-eyed priest.
A few knocks with the hammer straightened the crooked cross-piece. The nick on the blade took longer. Lance started with the whetstone, grinding at it, then used sand to scour away the rust. When he was satisfied, he reheated the metal and then pounded it flat with his hammer, over and over, until the nick was gone.
At least an hour had passed by then, and the priest was sweating in the heat from the forge. Lance himself felt better, his fever easing.
“Are you done yet?”
“No.” Lance paused for a dipperful of water, then rewrapped the pommel in braided leather to provide a firm grip that wouldn’t grow slippery with sweat. He studied the finished project with satisfaction.
“It looks well,” the priest said grudgingly. “Is that your choice?”
Lance smiled at him. “Oh, no, I just couldn’t bear to see a sword so mistreated.” He turned to the axe and sharpened it on the whetstone until it could cut whiskers.
The priest shifted from foot to foot. “The axe, then?”
“I haven’t made my choice yet.” Lance slung the axe over his shoulder and strode off. By the time he exited the stockade and entered the forest he was leading a small cavalcade. The centurion had acquired two friends, and a little brown-haired boy was tagging along, too. The boy carried a bucket, but seemed in no hurry to fill it.
Lance took his sweet time finding a fallen branch of the right thickness, then used the axe to cut it down to the right length for a quarterstaff.
The priest hissed in outrage. “You can’t treat a war axe like that!”
“It won’t be any duller when I finish than when I found it,” Lance said tartly. He sat on a stump and began trimming away excess twigs.
He lost some of his audience, all but the centurion and the little boy, who still looked entertained, and the priest, who humphed and fidgeted.
“How long will this take?” the priest burst out, waving away a cloud of gnats.
Lance eyed him coolly. “The wood still needs polishing. Several hours ought to see the job done.”
The centurion coughed unconvincingly, blue eyes twinkling.
The priest drew himself up importantly. Since he was shorter than both Lance and the centurion, the gesture was wasted. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. I insist you make your choice now. Is the quarterstaff your choice? Or the axe?”
Lance stood up. “Neither. I choose my hands.” He held them out for the priest to see. They were large hands, callused, and had acquired a small cut on one finger and a burn across one knuckle from his work today. “They’re better than any weapon, because I can use them to do many things. As you have seen.”
The priest bared his teeth in satisfaction. “Hands are not allowed.”
Lance’s stomach curdled as if he’d eaten green apples. He’d been having so much fun at the priest’s expense, he’d forgotten how serious the consquences were. He needed to stay in camp, near Sara, and out of chains.
He’d out-clevered himself. Fool.
“But hands are permitted,” a little voice piped up. The brown-haired boy frowned with all the seriousness of an eight-year-old.
The priest puffed out his chest like a pigeon. “I am a priest of Nir,” he declared grandly. “Whoever told you hands were allowed shall receive a penance from me.”
“My sponsor told me.”
“And? Who is your sponsor?”
A spark of rebellion lit the boy’s blue eyes. Lance decided he liked the kid. “Primus Ambrosius Pallax.”
Lance choked, torn between amusement at the priest’s swallowed-a-bone expression and the urge to swear. Because Primus Pallax knew Lance’s face and name from the recent invasion of Kandrith. If they came face to face, he’d be arrested as a spy.
The priest hemmed and hawed. “It’s very unorthodox, but perhaps in one of the older texts...I’ll have to consult them.” He straightened and glared at the boy. “In the meantime, don’t you have chores to do?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy squeaked and ran off.
“What happens if my choice isn’t accepted?” Lance asked the centurion, low-voiced, as they hiked back to the stockade.
“There’s usually one good weapon among the choices—the plainest knife. If you make the wrong choice, the priest breaks your inferior weapon in front of you and you’re whipped and thrown out. Of course, with that brand on your wrist, they’ll probably just chain you,” the brawny centurion said cheerfully.
Better and better.
Lance hunched his shoulders and kept his head down as they entered the Legion camp, hoping not to be recognized.
The priest led them back to the stone-slab altar of Nir and ducked inside his tent to consult his holy text. A short time later he came back out, scowling. “Hands are acceptable.”
The centurion clapped Lance on the back. “Congratulations, dedicant. You’ve passed the first test.”
Lance didn’t want to be a dedicant. He wanted to find Sara and hustle her out of here and— “First test?” he repeated.
The centurion threw back his head and laughed.
* * *
Wettar kept finding more laundry for her to do.
On Sara’s third trip to the small stream, she knelt a few feet upstream from a group of camp followers busy at the same task in hopes that they would screen her from casual notice. A naked toddler screamed and splashed
in the cool water. She dared not go too far into the forest for fear of being accused of attempting to escape.
She’d scrubbed one of Wettar’s tunics and begun the second when someone called her name. “Sarathena!”
An eight-year-old boy hurtled toward her, his curly brown hair flopping in his eyes. A pail banged against his leg, slopping water.
How did he know her? She rocked back on her heels, and the brown-haired boy slid to a stop just shy of her. “Sarathena? It is you, isn’t it?”
And then the boy sharpened into focus, and she gasped. His features had matured in the two years since she’d last seen him, but she recognized Sylvanus Remillus. Her brother.
She pushed a sweaty hank of hair off her face, and Sylvanus’s mouth rounded in shock.
“You’re not her. I was mistaken.” He scrambled back up the shallow bank as if he feared catching a disease, cheeks reddened by...shame?
What had she—? Ah. She’d revealed the slave brand on her neck.
She mused on his appearance while wringing out the finished laundry. Despite the bucket of water he’d carried, Sylvanus hadn’t looked like a slave. He’d worn a silk tunic of Remillus blue, and his cheeks had been plump.
Someone must be caring for him.
Sara’s mood lightened. Sara who-had-a-soul had worried about the fate of her younger brother. It pleased her to know he was well.
Holding the cold, dripping bundle of laundry at arm’s length, she walked back to the stockade gate. The sound of horse’s hooves made her step back out of the way and duck her head, but a roar of rage told her she was too late.
Moments later a hand on her shoulder spun her around. Sara stared up into Nir’s furious face, trying to squelch the jump of her pulse. “Where have you been? Why weren’t you in the Temple of Desire? What are you doing here?”
“Laundry.”
“Has some other man claimed you?” Nir’s nostrils flared as if he would locate such a man by scent alone—and then rip off his head.
“I’m your slave and no other’s.” Sara stood still, though her feet wanted to step back. His fury had an almost physical force like standing too close to a bonfire.
“No!” Nir gnashed his teeth. “I sent you to Jazor.”
Sara stood her ground and met his gaze, though his chest was practically touching her nose now. “You didn’t give Jazor my slave papers. Thus, I’m still your slave.” A tiny thrill of victory went through her at having outmaneuvered Nir.
“You claim to be my slave, but you’re outside the stockade, roaming free.”
She hefted the laundry as silent proof, then added, “You cannot gain your god’s favour with a lie.”
He knew she was right. Her stomach clenched at the fury that twisted his face. “You want to be a slave? This is how I treat insolent coeurelles.” He slapped her, knocking her to the ground. She spilled the laundry and landed hard on her hip.
The baby. Sara’s fingers twitched, but she made them relax. If she touched her womb now, Nir would suspect she once again had a soul. Nor would it be far from the truth.
She wished for Lance—then recanted. There was nothing he could do, and he’d never be able to stand by while she took a beating. She forced her eyes to remain open as Nir drew back his foot and kicked.
Pain exploded in her jaw. Blood filled her mouth.
“Leave her alone!”
She jerked at the shrill voice. Not Lance. Her brother, Sylvanus. She rolled into a sitting position.
Too late. Nir cuffed Sylvanus sprawling, too.
“No brat tells me how to treat my slaves.” Nir loomed over them both.
Sara ignored the pain and pushed to her feet; her extra bulk made her awkward. She tucked the tooth rolling around in her mouth up under her gum. If she didn’t swallow it or lose it, Lance could heal it back in later.
“My lord.” Wettar suddenly appeared. He prostrated himself.
“I won’t brook intereference from you, either,” Nir growled. He drew his foot back to kick.
But Sara knew Wettar wouldn’t risk his skin for hers.
Wettar kept his eyes trained on the dirt. “Primus Pallax is in camp!” he gasped out.
Nir paused.
“It’s true!” Svlvanus shrilled. “I’m his fosterling.”
Nir stopped.
Sara blinked. The expression on Nir’s face suggested that there was one man who could curb his behaviour, after all.
* * *
Nobody told Lance what the next test was for. They just gave him a helmet and a sword—Grasslander plunder by the skull sigil on the hilt—and ordered him to fight the centurion.
“You’re the defender,” the priest said, voice cold with contempt. “Usebius is the attacker. If he gets past you, he’ll burn your fields and rape your woman.”
Lance had no fields, but his pulse thudded at the mention of a woman. Did the priest mean Sara? He glanced around, but didn’t see her. Telling himself it must be just rhetoric, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in his muscles.
“Don’t let fear of hurting me hold you back,” Usebius warned him as they buckled on shields.
“I don’t intend to,” Lance said truthfully. He didn’t like sticking pointy things into human flesh, but he could heal his opponent if need be. His own skin was the one likely to be pierced.
He’d never used a sword before. It and the shield hung heavy, their weight dragging on his arms. This was hopeless.
At the priest’s signal, Usebius yelled a battle cry and charged.
Lance held his ground, bracing himself as the lethal point of the sword rushed nearer—He raised his shield at the last minute. The swordpoint skittered up, missing him. He chopped the edge of his shield into Usebius’s wrist, but at the same moment Usebius’s shield crashed into Lance’s cheekbone, bruising him.
Lance rocked back a step, then tried to recover, swinging his sword wildly. The centurion blocked him, and before Lance could try again, Usebius’s sword bit at Lance’s neck. “Surrender!” Usebius didn’t even have the decency to be breathing hard.
If Sara really were behind him, Lance wouldn’t yield as long as he yet breathed. But this was just a test. He dropped his sword.
Usebius raised his eyebrows at the priest. “He’s strong. He almost broke my wrist.”
The instant he looked away and the swordpoint stopped touching his skin, Lance ducked under and lunged forward.
The blade nicked his cheek, but by then he was inside Usebius’s reach. Lance plowed his fist into the centurion’s belly—only to bounce off his breastplate. Ow.
Grinning fiercely, Usebius tried to knee him in the genitals. Lance twisted aside and hammered Usebius in the jaw. Usebius stumbled down to one knee, but fended Lance off with his sword. Lance tried to approach from the side, but all too soon the centurion was back on his feet and the swordpoint was back at his throat. “Lie facedown.”
Lance complied.
Usebius rested his boot on Lance’s back. “I think he proved he has courage. Not many things braver than attacking a legionnaire while unarmed.” Usebius grinned cheerily down at him. “Foolish, of course, but brave.”
The priest crossed his arms. “He can’t be a dedicant of Nir. He has no honour. He attacked after yielding.”
“He didn’t say the words,” Usebius pointed out. “He just dropped his sword. I assumed he’d surrendered.”
Down in the dirt, Lance nevertheless felt a surge of gratitude
toward the centurion for arguing his side. It was easy to lump all Republicans together as scum, like Sara’s father or Claudius. But there were men like Marcus and Usebius, too. Not evil, just eager to fight and unquestioning of the reasons why they fought.
The priest harrumphed some more, but eventually conceded that Lance had proven his courage. Peevishly, the priest declared he was “too busy” to test Lance further that day.
Usebius helped Lance to his feet, slapped him on the back, then dumped him on the dubious mercy of a supply clerk. The surly subtribune issued him a wooden sword and shield, leather wristguards to show his dedicant status and a bedroll. Usebius then reappeared, gave Lance a quick tour of the camp, ensuring that he had both a place to sleep and a bite to eat.
Lance was grateful, but by the time the man finally vanished off to his regular duties and left Lance alone, his nerves were screaming. He needed to see Sara. Why hadn’t they set up a meeting place?
Ah, yes. Because he’d been out of his head with fever. Now that his symptoms had receded to a low headache and light nausea, he could see her plan to sneak him into camp was flawed. Unfortunately, it was too late to come up with another.
After some thinking, Lance staked out the latrines. His experience with pregnant women suggested Sara would need to stop by often, but he lurked in the shadows for two hours before he finally saw her.
He waited until she’d finished before approaching. “Sara?”
She turned, and gladness lit her face. Her connection to the baby’s soul was getting stronger. Glancing warily around, she held a finger to her lips—
And then he noticed her swollen jaw and how stiffly she moved, limping. She’d been beaten. Again.
Rage ignited inside him. Bastard son of pig. His fists clenched, and fury raced through his veins. He wanted to take a sword and plunge it into Nir’s heart. The knowledge that Nir would disarm him in a few strokes did nothing to calm the sizzle in his blood.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 39
