Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  If his wan face was any indication, he felt miserably sick and weak, but as usual he didn’t complain.

  “How long before you get well?” Sara asked. How long before the Goddess stops punishing you? But she couldn’t ask that outright without betraying that she’d learned the secret.

  “If you mean the fever, it should pass in another day or two,” Lance evaded.

  Feeling helpless, Sara cleared her throat. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  He seemed to understand, his face was full of compassion. “There’s nothing you can do, Sara.”

  Yet she couldn’t bear to just walk away and leave him to suffer. “What would Wenda do if she were here? Or your mother?”

  “Nothing,” Lance said firmly.

  Sara disagreed. “I wager they would talk to you. Make the time pass a little faster.”

  “Yes,” Lance admitted. “But you don’t have to.”

  “Time is running slow for me too. Shall I tell you about my wild childhood?” she asked lightly.

  “I’d like that.” He sounded sincere.

  “Very well.” Sara crossed her legs and settled herself more comfortably on the floor. After a moment’s thought, she told him about the first time she saw a calf being butchered. “I shouted at the servant to stop. He kindly explained that this was where veal and beef came from. I was quite horrified and swore I’d never eat meat again.”

  “Wenda said something similar once about lamb.”

  “Ah, but I went a step further. I forbade everyone on the estate to eat meat. My policy lasted for about two weeks, as I recall, when I got tired of porridge and bread. After that, I graciously allowed older animals to be slaughtered, but no cute little calves or lambs. Don’t look at me like that,” Sara said, swatting him. “I was only ten.”

  “You were ten, and they listened to you?”

  She shrugged. “Father was away, and Mother didn’t care so long as she got her medicines.”

  “Was there no other adult to contradict you? No aunts? No teachers?”

  “No one of a rank equal to mine or who could stand up to my will.” Sara huffed a small laugh. “I ran wild.”

  He shook his head is disbelief.

  “Oh, yes, it’s true. I think Father made Felicia my maid to steady me, but pretty soon I corrupted her.” Sara related some more tales—the time she climbed onto the roof and fell off, the time she decided to ride her father’s prize stallion and took him too close to a mare that was in season—and the afternoon passed reasonably swiftly.

  “And now it’s your turn to tell me something,” Sara said. In the main room, she could hear Valda bustling about, making supper, but the drawn curtain shut them in their own little world.

  “Fair enough.” Lance inclined his head. “What do you want to hear? How the first time Wenda got on a horse she rode it backward?”

  “Actually,” Sara flushed, “if you don’t mind, there’s another tale I’d like to hear.”

  Lance lifted his brows.

  “How did ‘Prince Lance’ get that?” She pointed to the slave brand on his wrist. “Were you captured in battle? How long were you…in the Republic before your father ransomed you?”

  Lance shook his head. “I wasn’t ransomed. My father, and my whole family, were captured at the same time.”

  “But—” Sara had never heard that the King of Slaves had been captured.

  “We lived in Gotia before you conquered it. The battle happened somewhere to the west of us. Father went to fight, but he lamed his horse, and the battle was lost by the time he arrived. A week later a company of legionnaires enslaved my whole village.” Lance’s face could have been carved in stone.

  His words were terse, but she could see it all happening in her mind. Everyone Lance had ever known humbled and put in chains, beaten if they resisted. Babies crying, families split apart…

  Her lips felt numb. This was not the story Sara had wanted to hear. “So your father wasn’t yet king,” she said inanely.

  “No.” Lance gave a short laugh. “That came much later, after we’d escaped. I think we were in Kandrith for four years before my father became the Kandrith.”

  “Was he a nephew of the previous king?” Sara asked, still trying to understand. “A counselor the king appointed?”

  Another headshake. “We never met the previous Kandrith. Which was probably a good thing,” he added cryptically.

  “So how did your father become the Kandrith?” She wondered if Lance got his physique from his father. “Is he a great warrior?”

  Lance threw back his head and laughed. “What does physical strength have to do with being a good Kandrith? The Seer chose my father. He foresaw that my father would make the best Kandrith.”

  “A Seer?” Sara asked. She wondered what someone would need to sacrifice in order to foresee the future.

  “Cadwallader is…a bit strange.” Lance smiled nostalgically. “The first time I met him, he asked me where my father the Kandrith was. I told him my father was in the barn, but he wasn’t the Kandrith.

  “Cadwallader looked surprised, then said, ‘He isn’t? Well, we’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?’ and marched off to the barn.”

  “Your father was in a barn?”

  Lance nodded. “Yes, he was up to his armpits in blood and muck, helping a ewe give birth. Cadwallader ignored both the sheep and the stink and told my father he was the next Kandrith.

  “My father went very still. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Of course, I’m sure,’ Cadwallader said. ‘I remember the future better than you remember your name. Now swear the oath so we can go eat some of that delicious bread your Protector’s baking.’

  “My father said the bread could wait, but the lamb couldn’t. He delivered it, and then he said the oath.”

  “Right there? Without washing? No ceremony, no celebration?” Sara was appalled. A barn was no fit place to receive kingship.

  “Wenda was the only one who wanted to celebrate. She was eleven and thought it was exciting and wonderful. She didn’t understand why Father looked so grim and Mother so sick. Even I didn’t truly understand.” Lance’s eyes had a faraway look.

  “I must confess, I’m not sure I understand either.”

  “Only a fool wants to be Kandrith, and no fool is ever chosen,” Lance said. “The Kandrith is his country. He must care for it and suffer for it at the expense of all else.”

  Sara frowned, unsure what Lance meant by ‘suffer for it.’ “If it’s so dreadful, why didn’t he refuse?”

  “He couldn’t. Cadwallader wouldn’t have chosen a man who evaded responsibility.”

  * * *

  That night Sara couldn’t sleep.

  In Temborium, just after sunset would have been ludicrously early to be abed, but there had only been three lighted houses in the village when Valda had announced she would be spending the night at her friend’s. “My old bones dislike sleeping on the floor, and Madge has a feather bed that’s big enough for two.”

  Lance had fallen asleep directly after supper, and Sara had gone to bed soon after. But it wasn’t the early hour or the faint sound of laughter drifting in through the window that was keeping Sara awake.

  The swelling on her forehead had given her a fierce headache. The near darkness should have been soothing, but in the absence of distractions her head seemed to throb more.

  For two hours, she tossed and turned on her rug. The pain and the denied need to sleep had her near tears.

  “Sara?” Lance’s voice came softly from the alcove.

  “Yes?” She tried not to sniff.

  In the banked glow of the fire, she saw him pull back the curtain. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s my headache.” She felt like a baby complaining about a paltry headache when Lance still had a fever and was lying in bed weak as a kitten. “It’s keeping me awake.”

  Lance made an exasperated sound. “Come here then and I’ll cure it.”

  Sara struggled to resist the
temptation. “But won’t doing magic make your fever worse?”

  Silence. “You know then.”

  Vez’s Malice. Heart thumping, Sara pretended not to understand. “Know what?”

  Instead of getting angry as she’d feared, Lance only sighed, a soft sound in the dark. “You were bound to find out sooner or later. So tell me, now that you know how our magic works, what do you plan to sacrifice to the Goddess?”

  Sara looked at him blankly.

  “Your health? Your sight?”

  The thought of going blind scared her. She had seen the blind beggars in the streets too often, clutching their alms bowls. She could not abide being so helpless. Traveling with Lance had made her doubly sure she wanted to keep her health. “No.”

  “Your hands?” he continued. “Being human, as the shandies have? Your life?”

  “No, of course not.” She thought about it. What would she be willing to sacrifice? Her hair? Her little finger? Such small things would not be worth much.

  He studied her in silence for a moment. “Then what good is it to you? To anyone from your country? It is slave magic, because only slaves are desperate enough to pay the price for using it.”

  Sara thought of what Julen had said of an army of shandies, but regular legionnaires wouldn’t be willing to give up their humanity. They had too much to lose. Nir could threaten a slave’s family, but once the knowledge got out, what was to stop the whole family from changing?

  Had all her effort been for nothing, then?

  No. Sara’s shoulders straightened. “I love my father and my brother. If they were threatened,” as they were by whatever had caused the massacre, “then I would sacrifice something to save them. And so would many Republicans.”

  Lance made a scoffing sound. “Fewer than you think. So you’re determined to get this information to your father?”

  Sara saw no point in lying. “Yes. Loma is the Goddess of Mercy, not just of slaves.”

  “I’ll have to try and stop you,” Lance said.

  “I know.” Sara tensed.

  “And yet you’re still here.”

  Here, in the intimate dark, with him. “I’m the Child of Peace,” Sara said evasively. “I’m prepared to honor that.”

  “Good.” Lance’s head shifted on the pillow. “I suppose that means you’ve sent Julen off in your place?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’ll make you a bargain,” Lance said. “I won’t raise the alarm tonight, if you let me heal you and—”

  “No,” Sara interrupted. “You’re still too weak and my headache’s not that bad,” she lied. “I won’t risk sending you into a relapse.”

  “Healing you won’t make me sicker,” Lance told her. “I’ll be sick every day for the rest of my life, regardless of whether I ever heal another soul or drown myself in ale and self-pity.”

  Sara frowned. “You weren’t sick when we first met.”

  Lance tapped his knuckles. “Arthritis.”

  Sara remembered. And after the swelling had gone down, he’d immediately started to sneeze. “But you were well when we left Gatetown. Weren’t you?”

  “Rash on the back of my neck,” Lance said mildly.

  “Oh.”

  “Now will you come here?”

  Sara gave in. She crawled over to Lance’s pallet. The movement sent tiny daggers of pain into her head.

  Lance’s fingertips grazed her shoulder and glided up to her hair, loose and unplaited for the night. “Goddess have mercy.” His hand curved around her skull, bringing with it the familiar feeling of heat and the scent of wildflowers. The pain lifted.

  Sara moaned with pleasure. “That feels wonderful.”

  “Bend your head. My arm’s weak.”

  Sara obeyed, awkwardly resting her head on the blanket near his hand. The pain was completely gone. So completely that she soon shifted restlessly, becoming aware of his half-naked body. “Are you done?”

  His fingers flexed in her hair then released. “Yes, of course.”

  Cautiously, Sara lifted her head a fraction of an inch. Pain descended with the force of an anvil. With a cry, she grabbed his hand and pulled it back to her head. At the touch of his fingers the pain dissolved again.

  “It didn’t work?” Lance sounded mystified.

  “No.” Sara bit down on her lip.

  “That’s not right. The Goddess’s touch should completely cure you, even after I remove my hand.”

  “Your magic has no limitations?” Sara didn’t know whether she should laugh or cry when she automatically fished for more information.

  “Two. Death and insanity. I cannot cure the mind.” Lance sounded grim. “It worries me that you still feel pain.”

  It worried Sara, too, but just then a huge yawn split her face.

  “Never mind.” Lance sounded amused. “We can talk about it in the morning. Lie down—carefully.”

  Sara did so, while Lance kept his hand on her head. After a bit of shifting, they arranged themselves with some degree of comfort. It should have felt embarrassing and awkward to lie beside a half-naked man. Instead she found peace in Lance’s touch and quiet breathing. Her eyelids sagged closed.

  * * *

  Lance knew he should sleep, too—his body needed more time to heal—but he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes just yet. In the morning, he would send some men and the village Finder out to round up Julen—even if he didn’t get lost again, Lance doubted he would get very far on foot. Then he and Sara would be at odds once again, but for now he had this time to study the woman sleeping in the curve of his arm.

  Sara was still breathtakingly beautiful, but there was a vulnerability around her eyes that hadn’t been there before, or perhaps he just hadn’t seen it.

  She’d meant the stories she’d told him that afternoon to be amusing, but to him they spoke of appalling neglect. Neither of her parents had troubled to even see to Sara’s basic safety. Her stories had made him angry—an emotion that made him uneasy.

  Feeling desire for or even liking Sara was one thing, but this urge to protect her could only lead to trouble. She was a noblewoman, the daughter of the Primus of a country inimicably opposed to his own and a spy. For all that he was no prince, Lance was his father’s son, the sometime Child of Peace and an itinerant healer with no house or income of his own to offer any woman. There could never be a future between them.

  In a few days, they would arrive at his father’s hall. Lance had intended to visit for two weeks, but now he resolved to leave after a few days. He needed some distance from Sara, time for this attraction to subside into something more manageable.

  It was the right decision, but knowing they had so little time left together didn’t make it any easier to sleep.

  He woke up to the gentle sound of rain. From the gray quality of the light, he judged it to be not yet dawn. He was aware, too, of a weighted misery in his limbs. His fever had risen again, yet not even that could dispel the ache of desire he felt for the woman beside him. He turned onto his side so he could watch her, just as she opened her extraordinary blue eyes.

  “Feeling better?” he rasped. His hand was no longer in her hair. He’d withdrawn it sometime during the night.

  “My headache’s gone,” she said, but her eyes were as wary as a doe’s.

  “Good.” A silence fell between them, the kind that seemed to thrum.

  Sara broke it first. “I should get up before Valda returns.”

  “It’s barely dawn,” Lance said. “Stay.”

  She hesitated, then rolled onto her elbow.

  “If you get up, then I’ll have to rouse the village to search for Julen,” Lance told her. “Which would be a shame, because I don’t want to get out of bed yet.”

  She lay back down, but now she was tense, all the lovely lassitude stolen away.

  “I want to kiss you.” Lance smiled ruefully. “I want to, but I’m not going to.”

  A cute little frown appeared between her brows. He wanted to
laugh at her obvious confusion. “I’m just going to lie here beside you instead—and hope that you’ll kiss me.”

  Sara wet her lips and almost made him groan as desire stirred more forcefully. “Why?” she asked carefully.

  He felt light-headed. “Because I love your mouth, and when you kiss me you press your breasts against my chest.”

  That just made her frown harder. She bent forward suddenly, and his heart kicked into a gallop, but all she did was lay a hand on his forehead. “Your fever’s up,” she accused.

  “Yes.” Lance nuzzled her hand. “Kiss me, Sara. Please,” he added huskily.

  Her hands fell on either side of his head. Her closed lips pressed briefly against his, shushing more than kissing. When she sat up again, her face was becomingly flushed, and her hair tumbled down her back in a sensual mess. “There. Happy now?”

  “You didn’t open your mouth,” Lance complained. “I want to taste you.” He must be more feverish than he’d thought. The bluntest things were falling out of his mouth. He wanted more than just a kiss: her warm breasts in his palms, her thighs straddling him…

  “Lance!”

  Had he said that last bit out loud? He groaned and didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or desire. “I’m dying—” to make love to you, he started to say.

  “You’re not dying!” she said fiercely, and then she was kissing him again, dripping salty tears onto his face, her mouth hot and open.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sara threw herself into the kiss as if by doing so she could keep Lance’s fever at bay. As if she could burn out that false heat with the fire that lived between them, life winning over death.

  Needing to be closer, she straddled his hips. Her silk nightgown hiked up. Lance groaned and surged up under her, so that the bulge in his underwear pressed against her opening. It felt so…good. Sara rubbed herself against his hardness and bent to kiss him again. His warm hands kneaded her breasts as their tongues danced together.

  She sent her hands racing across his chest in a frenzy of exploration. She loved the swell of his muscles, the tautness of his skin, the line of hair bisecting his chest, his musky scent.