Better to have let himself become chained.
Lance felt calmer now that he’d identified to the problem. He sensed no anger from the Goddess, but she was no closer. Obviously, he needed to do something more. Perhaps, something symbolic?
He slid the tip of his knife between his arm and the leather bracers that identified him as a dedicant of Nir, uncaring when he nicked his own skin. Ripping them off, he declared, “I renounce my dedicancy to Nir. I belong only to Loma.”
Welcome back, my son. That was all the Goddess said, but peace flowed into him. Suddenly he understood something he hadn’t before.
The Goddess accepted sacrifices like Rhiain’s out of pity toward the supplicant. Lance’s ability to channel Her healing was different. His sacrifice allowed Her to grant mercy to many.
He’d always thought his unwillingness to lay down his life for Kandrith to be a character flaw. But, maybe, to the Goddess, healing people was of equal or even greater importance.
Similarly, he’d always insisted that he wasn’t a priest of Loma because anyone could sacrifice, but he’d been wrong. He was Her priest—which was what had made his actions the previous day all the more reprehensible. “I’m sorry.”
Forgiven. Can you forgive me for keeping the knowledge of your son from you?
Could he? Lance searched his heart. A hard ember of anger still glowed sullenly in his heart. He could blow on it, fan the flames, or douse it once and for all.
Loma had only meant to spare him torment. He’d omitted things in the past to spare his parents worry.
“I forgive you.”
Thank you, my child. The Goddess touched his forehead in benediction. Now do My work.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vez’s Malice, where was Lance? Sara glared at the narrow slice of forest visible from inside the hollow log. Close to an hour had passed since they’d parted ways.
Three months ago she would have known the exact number of heartbeats.
Sara almost wished she could go back to not having a soul. Just until her labour ended.
If it didn’t kill her.
The thought provoked a jittery panic in her veins. She channeled it into a surge of anger at Lance. Her labour pains were striking closer and closer together, granting little respite. She would give birth soon, and Lance wasn’t back yet.
Where was he? She’d started praying to the Goddess of Mercy a quarter hour ago. What could be taking him so long?
She tried to be logical. He’s on a battlefield. Others need his help.
She loved Lance’s openhearted drive to save others, but right now she didn’t care about strangers. He’d promised her he’d be here. She needed him to stop the hundred and one things that could go wrong during labour. What if she hemorrhaged? What if the baby was in the wrong position? What if the umbilicial cord looped around his neck?
Even if her labour went smoothly, the baby would need Lance. Early babies often died.
Why had she insisted he should go with Edvard?
Why had he listened to her?
Tears overspilled her eyes as she admitted the truth. She’d urged Lance to go and accomplish what good he could because the truth was their son was as good as dead.
She’d killed him when she stole his soul.
Sara cupped her belly. Her throat swelled with regret and sorrow. “I’m so, so sorry,” she told the unmoving lump that was the child. To Sara-without-a-soul the babe had been an inconvenience, something foreign growing in her belly. Instead of delighting in the child’s movements, Sara-without-a-soul had barely noticed them. Sara had missed all the joys of pregnancy. She’d do anything now to feel the baby kick, but he lay ominously still. Unless the labour had tired him, too? She hoped that was all it was, but feared the worst.
Guilt lashed her like a whip laid on her bare skin. She’d stolen her child’s soul. It didn’t matter that it was unintentional, that she’d delayed the moment as long as she could. Horror still filled her, a smothering fog that wrapped cold tendrils around her. What kind of mother was she?
No mother at all.
She hadn’t even loved the babe, merely tolerated it for Lance’s sake. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks, dripping saltily into her mouth.
“I’m so sorry, little one. You didn’t deserve this.” She stroked her belly.
This was the God of Malice’s revenge on her for foiling his plan.
“So sorry.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded hoarse and raw. “I’d take it back if I could.” But negating her soulgift would mean Lance’s death, and she couldn’t do that.
Sara moaned as another wave of pain hit. Would this never end? She closed her eyes; fresh sweat broke out on her forehead. The blanket they’d brought with them from the Legion camp provided only a thin layer over hard wood. Her hips hurt from lying on it.
Finally, finally, the contraction eased. She propped herself up on one elbow so she could glare at the end of the hollow log again, but she hadn’t the energy to summon any anger. More tears threatened, fatigue shaking her body. She needed Lance so badly. Not just his healing skills, but to hold her hand. To grieve with her over their son.
Sara took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to calm herself. By now Lance would be on his way, called by Loma. She just had to wait—
A noise from outside halted her marching thoughts. Her heart lifted. She opened her mouth to call out and then stopped, suddenly aware of just how vulnerable she was right now. Unable to run. Alone.
Another contraction squeezed her womb. Sara bit her lip bloody so she wouldn’t make any noise and groped for her belt-knife through the cresting wave of pain.
A dark shape blocked the log opening. Her heart seized as a tall man ducked inside. “There you are, Sarathena.”
Nir had found her.
* * *
Lance staggered through the bloody aftermath of the ongoing battle, stopping to heal whoever he saw. The Goddess’s almost-continuous presence inside him both intoxicated him and made him want to weep. Though She didn’t rebuke Lance for healing only the rebels, She mourned each dying legionnaire they passed by.
He let his gaze skip over anyone wearing a red cloak until he remembered Usebius. He owed the friendly centurion a debt.
He didn’t find Usebius, but he did find Jenas, facedown. When he rolled the fuzzy-bearded youth over, his flesh felt cold and dead. Lance sank to his knees and swore. Willem wouldn’t be keeping his promise to Glynis, after all.
Heart heavy, he pushed back to his feet and moved on to the next casualty.
By the time Relena joined him, he was numb from the horror and sorrow of it. After ascertaining that the blood streaking her dress and hands wasn’t her own, he dismissed her from his mind and started searching for signs of life among the bodies.
Her hand pressed down on his shoulder with unexpected strength. “Sit down before you fall down,” she told him. “We’ll bring those that can be moved to you.” She turned to her cadre of ten-to twelve-year-old helpers. “Search for survivors in pairs. Make sure you look behind the trees, some of them like to crawl off there to die.”
Time blurred by. And then it ran out.
The Goddess spoke, her voice reverberating inside him: The time of birth is nigh.
Lance finished healing the ex-slave under his/their hands then, weary in every bone, pushed to his feet.
“I have an arrow in the thigh and a nasty stomach wound,” Relena said. “Which do you want next?”
Lance steeled himself not to look. “Neither. I have to go now,” he told her. “Sara’s in labour. She and my child need me.”
A short silence, then, “Nonsense. Women give birth every day alone,” Relena argued. “She’ll be fine. They need you more.” She gestured to the pale, sweating shopkeeper who was holding his stomach
to keeping his guts from spilling out. Lance tried to calculate; maybe he still had time—
But then he thought of his son being born blue and unable to breathe. No. He had to be there at the moment of birth; he should’ve returned long before now.
He took two steps away before Relena caught his arm. “You can’t!” she protested.
Wild rage rose inside him, born of resentment. Why should he have to make such a terrible choice? The responsibility for the lives of all the wounded pressed down on him with the weight of mountains.
He unleashed his anger on Relena, grabbing her bony shoulders and shaking her.
“Stop being so selfish! These are your people, not mine! They don’t need me, they need for one of their own to sacrifice their health and wear the Brown. You want to save them? Then save them.”
“Me?” Relena’s mouth rounded in astonishment. Fear crept over her face, tightening the skin around her eyes. “I—I couldn’t.”
“Then they’ll die.”
Relena recoiled at this harsh truth.
Lance took a deep brath and softened his voice. “You have the power to save them. All you have to do is ask Loma. She’ll do the rest.”
“But—”
He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re a good woman, Relena. I know you’ll make the right choice. I have to go now. Goodbye.”
He turned his back on her and walked away without a backward glance, shutting his ears to the piteous moans of the wounded. He’d done all he could. Their fate lay in Relena’s hands.
He had only one responsibility now.
I’m coming, Sara.
* * *
“Why are you still in labour?” Nir loomed over her. There was dried blood in his hair on one side, but otherwise he seemed to have come through the battle unscathed. “You should’ve popped the brat out by now.”
Sara stayed silent. Her hand tightened on her belt-knife, but from flat on her back the only place she could stab him was his leg, an unpromising target. Just as last time, she would only get one chance against Nir. Until an opportunity presented itself, she needed to stall.
Another contraction seized her. Don’t scream. Relax. Pain is interesting—
Except it wasn’t. Now that her body and soul were connected, pain meant only misery, unrelenting hurt. She clenched her teeth on a groan.
Nir crouched down and flipped back her skirt so he could peer between her legs. She slapped at his hands as he held her knees apart. He ignored her, but straightened a moment later, disgust written on his face.
“Nothing showing yet. Hurry up. I hate waiting.” Nir leaned against the curved inner wall of the giant hollow log and brooded down at her with hooded eyes.
The contraction passed, leaving her sweaty and panting. She felt like a rabbit cornered by a wolf: her heart raced and her nerves quivered with the desire to flee. But all she had with which to protect herself and the babe were flimsy words. “Did Primus Pallax send you to watch over his grandson?”
Nir snorted. “Pallax knows nothing of your escape. I’ll tell him you and the babe died in childbirth.”
Fresh terror jolted through her. “He’ll want proof.”
Nir shrugged. “Then I’ll give him proof.”
Two dead bodies. Sara’s throat dried.
“You were right, you know,” Nir said. His thumb caressed the pommel of his sword.
“About what?” Sara asked faintly. Nir never admitted to being wrong.
“That I’d lost the favour of the God of War. And when I tried to win it back, He spurned me.” His jaw tightened with remembered anger.
Sara held her tongue; instinct warned her that speaking would be dangerous.
“The God of War cast me aside, but I’m still high priest,” Nir said. “From today forward, I serve another god.”
Cold chills slithered down Sara’s spine. “Vez,” she whispered.
“Yes. He’s promised me much.” Nir leaned closer so their faces were only inches apart. “All I have to do in return is take revenge on you. What did you do to make the God of Malice hate you?” he asked casually. “He led me straight to you.”
Her lips felt numb. “I killed his servant, a blue devil.” Her father.
“Is that all?” Nir lifted an eyebrow. He paused. “You haven’t asked me yet what I’m going to do to you.”
Her vision spun. Don’t faint. Stall. Humour him. “What are you planning to do to me?”
Nir smiled, the light in his gray eyes sharp as a dagger. “As soon as you finish whelping, I’m going to take your child and sacrifice it to Vez.”
* * *
Rhiain snarled as another sword poked out of the wall of shields facing her and bloodied her shoulder. She had a dozen similar wounds, but her quickness had so far protected her from serious injury.
She swiped at a leg with her paw, but a second sword sent her dancing back, out of range and frustrated.
“Time to rrretrrreat?” she called to Fitch as they fought on either side of a young fir tree.
Fitch’s strategy was simple. Fade back into the woods, regroup at a set point, like one of the fallen forest giants, ambush the legionnaires from cover, and repeat.
Except they’d run out of ambushes and every clash ground down Fitch’s numbers. Perhaps four hundred men, mostly veterans, remained out of the fifteen hundred he’d started with.
“Can’t,” Fitch gasped, shield coming up to parry a blow. “They’ve flanked us.”
Despair choked Rhiain as she glanced behind and saw two more centuries closing in on them through the trees. Determination flooded her veins. “One last charrrge?” She preferred death in battle to surrendering.
“No. This is what I’ve been waiting for.” Fitch feinted left and jabbed at any exposed foot. “See that standard there? That’s our target. Break through the shieldwall for me, the ring of kingship will do the rest.”
Rhiain purred her assent.
“Close up!” Fitch bellowed and two Grasslanders took their place at the front of the line. There was still some room yet between the two forces of legionnaires.
Rhiain backed up, rolling her muscles to loosen them. She needed room to hit her stride and momentum to smash the shieldwall.
She threw back her head and roared—in defiance, in anger that it had come down to this last roll of the dice. Her roar echoed through the forest. For a second everyone seemed to freeze in place. And then, just before she was about to run down the slope, she heard an answering roar.
Hope lifted her heart.
Another shandy. A cat shandy.
She raised her head, searching. There, a flash of yellow in the trees, heading for the narrow wedge that was still open between the jaws of the legion trap. She roared again, in joy. The ranked legionnaires below shuddered. Yes, yes, there are two of us now.
And then the other shandy joined her, a handsome male as tall in the shoulder as she, with an impressive mane and intriguing black stripes. And Edvard’s eyes. Rhiain pressed her flank against his, fur rubbing on fur, the just-right musky smell transferring from him to her.
Her heart swelled with fierce joy. She might die in the next few minutes, but she was no longer alone.
“Rrrhiain,” Edvard growled. The low rumble ruffled her nerve endings.
There was so much she wanted to say to him—to ask if he’d rescued Lance, how and when he’d made the change, to welcome him on behalf of all shandies, to thank him for choosing racha form—but just then Fitch yelled. “Now!”
Rhiain and Edvard hurtled down the hill together. Rhiain picked her target: a tall legionnaire whose regulation-sized shield left his knees and elbows exposed.
Understanding leaped from her to Edvard like sparks. He charged the legionnaire to the left of hers.
Time moved in jerks
. Shoulder aside the sharp point of a spear. Raise her front paws and smash her full weight down on the shield. Bowl over the tall legionnaire, who then crashed into three others, and then she was in among then, slashing. She clawed at a man’s face, sliced open a hamstring, bit a chunk from a meaty thigh. She barely felt the return blows, mere pinpricks.
Fitch jumped in beside her, swinging his sword. “To the standard!” She saw the golden pole waving behind four brawny legionnaires. So close.
Bright pain sliced along Rhiain’s haunch, but she ignored it, muscles bunching. She leaped over the honour guard standing between her and the standard.
Before the battle Fitch had drilled her on recognizing their target. “We can’t win the battle. Their numbers are too many. But we can win the war IF we capture one man. Primus Pallax will hang back for most of the battle, but there will come a point where he gets impatient or overconfident and closes in for the kill. Then you must strike.”
The whole battle, all the dead, pivoted on this one moment.
Her gaze locked onto the Primus: plumed helmet, red cloak with gold pins, pugnacious jaw shadowed by dark stubble, and close-set blue eyes that narrowed in determination. He drew his sword.
Rhiain feinted with her paw, batting at his sword at the cost of another small cut—
So that Edvard, moving in perfect tandem, could pounce on Primus Pallax from the side. He knocked the general flat and pressed his front paws onto his chest, snarling. “Surrrenderrr!”
* * *
Lance broke into a run at the sight of the hollow log, ignoring the pain in his bruised ribs. Finally. He’d started to fear his sense of direction had failed him in the perpetual green twilight of the forest.
Thirty feet away he heard Sara sobbing. The sound maddened him. Was he too late, the babe dead? He ran faster, every stride jolting his ribs, breath wheezing in and out of his tight chest.
Touching fingers to the roof of the log, he ducked inside the dim space. His gaze found Sara lying on her back, panting, the instant before Nir pressed a swordpoint to his neck.
Lance stilled.
“Ah,” Nir said, sounding oddly satisfied. “The last player in our little drama—the would-be father.”
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 44
