Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  She had no throat with which to scream.

  Her eyes rolled. She saw the basket in intricate detail: the delicate weave, the criss-crossing fibers stained by gushing blood…

  Shock slammed through her. Her head had been severed from her body. She couldn’t feel her legs or wiggle her fingers. Her heart no longer beat. Yet she lived.

  She didn’t want to live like this. Not for another second. “Please.” Voiceless, her lips formed the word, a prayer to any god that would listen.

  Her vision dimmed, and she embraced the darkness. The God of Death stalked her on soft footsteps.

  Someone grasped a handful of her hair and pulled her head out of the basket. As if through a black veil, she saw Lance’s desperate face—

  —and, horribly, she saw her own body, legs kicked straight in a spasm of death, headless.

  Then Lance held her facedown over the stone block and pressed her head back onto her neck. “Don’t die, Sara. Live a little longer,” he pleaded. “Goddess, help me.”

  Perhaps because she was so close to passing through Mek’s door, Sara saw the Goddess this time: the round face and simple robes, the capable hands and, most of all, the kind eyes. Her eyes pierced Sara with pity as She began to shake her head.

  Sara was glad. The mercy she needed now was death.

  “Please,” Lance said, voice anguished.

  The Goddess’s expression grew tender. Sara saw love in Her gaze. And pride. The Goddess of Mercy felt compassion for every living being, but Sara thought Lance was Her favored son. “I will try, Faithful One.”

  Loma stepped somehow inside Lance and put Her hands over his. Power radiated out of Her, so much power, but most of it spilled on the floor, wasted, unable to flow into Sara’s severed body.

  Just as Sara could sense the heat and power pouring out of the Goddess, so too could she see the cord running from Lance to Her as his sacrifice flowed into Her.

  It wasn’t enough. Horrified, Sara realized the Goddess was weakening herself, bleeding power to no purpose. It had to end. Sara started to tear her spirit free from her broken body—

  “No, curse it!” Lance lifted one hand and slammed his little finger against the edge of the stone block. The splint shattered, and he slammed it down again, rebreaking the fragile bone and snapping his ring finger too.

  Lance’s sacrifice traveled up the cord, and the Goddess kept none of it, feeding the magic straight back into Sara. This time it exceeded some threshold. Sara’s body jolted as healing magic poured into her in a torrent.

  The edges of her neck melded together, veins and nerves connecting. With it came the return of pain. She felt the first kick of her heart and drew her first gasping breath. She smelled springtime. The pain began to ease, chased out by the power coursing through her.

  The Goddess retreated, or perhaps Sara’s more human vision could no longer see Her.

  Sara moved her fingers, awed and astounded when they wiggled. Experimentally, she tried to speak. “Lance.”

  “Shhh.” Lance brushed her hair back with a trembling hand. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I need to heal you more before you can get up.”

  Sara lay limply, too weak to stand. Her heart galloped, and she felt dizzy.

  She was alive. Lance had cut off her head and then, with the Goddess’s help, healed it back on.

  Cut off her head.

  Nausea ambushed her, and she retched.

  Lance patted her back and made crooning noises.

  The scratch of a key in a lock, and the manacles released their cold grip on her wrists. Gently, Lance helped her sit down on his lap behind the block. He laid her head on his shoulder and folded her close. “Sara.” His voice rasped. “I thought I’d lost you. It took so long to get everyone out of the room, I thought I’d run out of time.”

  Sara pulled away so she could look at him. “You saved my life.” The words came out slurred; her throat not yet fully healed.

  Lance nodded. He bent his head to kiss her.

  She punched him in the stomach as hard as she could. He barely grunted, but his look of surprise was worth it.

  Anger trembled through her. Because he could have let Bors cut off her head and still healed her. “Don’t ever kill me again. I didn’t like it.”

  She sounded idiotic, but Lance understood. He shuddered. “No. Never again. I’d seen a man beheaded once before. I remembered that he hadn’t…died right away. I planned to heal you from the first, and I knew I needed to be close by to act, so when you asked for me… But it was a mistake. I ought to have let Bors do it. His hands would have been steadier.”

  His reasoning made sense, but Sara’s hurt remained. Lance might have saved her, but only because he needed her help to rescue his sister. If he’d felt anything more than lust for Sara he wouldn’t have been able to swing the axe.

  Sara touched her neck, expecting to find a seam looping across her throat like a grim necklace, but her fingers found only smooth flesh. It seemed wrong not to have even a scar as a memento. The axe whistling down—

  A noise from the corridor made them both flinch, but no one came in.

  “We need to go,” Lance said abruptly.

  Sara trembled. “Yes, of course.” She forced herself to her feet, but her mind refused to work. “Where?”

  “I’ll pretend to carry you away to be buried, then find you a disguise, and we’ll go to the courtyard and be Moved with the others to the battle. It’s the fastest way to the Republic.”

  Sara didn’t understand, but held her tongue. They lacked the time for detailed explanations. If anyone so much as peeked into the throne room, a cry would go up. And she didn’t want to get her head cut off a second time. Once was enough.

  * * *

  When his mother found out what he’d done, she would accuse him of committing treason. She’d be right. No matter how Lance might dress it up and say he was doing it to rescue Wenda, he had willfully broken the Pact. And he didn’t care. He’d do it again.

  When he’d thought he was too late and he would have to live with Sara’s death on his hands for the rest of his life, he’d gone crazy inside.

  He could not bear for Sara to die. He loved her. The raging physical attraction between them was only part of it. Her kindness, her ability to admit that she’d been wrong, her courage and her passion for life all spoke to something deep inside him. He even found her misplaced loyalty to her father admirable.

  She came first, before Wenda, before his mother, before Kandrith. It was a good thing Cadwallader picked the person most suitable to be the next Kandrith instead of the Kandrith’s eldest child.

  For all her iron, Lance knew his mother felt—had felt—the same way about his father. She Protected the Kandrith, and today she’d failed. What Lance had done was going to hurt her even more. He regretted that, but it didn’t change anything. He hoped she’d forgive him when he brought Wenda home. In the meantime, he would just have to make sure they weren’t caught.

  He turned to Sara. “Lie down behind the stone block.” Once she did only her feet would show to a casual glance.

  Sara shuddered, but obeyed.

  “What is it?”

  Sara stared at him as if he were insane. “I’m lying beside a puddle of my own blood.”

  Blood had ceased to horrify Lance once he’d received the Goddess’s gift, but he would remember Sara’s life running out of her in nightmares for years to come.

  Out in the hall Lance intercepted a woman carrying a load of rough gray blankets, obviously on her way to the Mover. He relieved her of two of them, scowling so hard that she didn’t even ask what he needed them for.

  It took him longer to locate his pack. Someone had moved it from where he’d left it; he eventually found it in his rooms at the foot of his bed. Scooping it up, he left at a near run. He’d left Sara alone—unprotected—for close to ten minutes now.

  Loma was merciful. The throne room was still empty when he returned. He knelt beside her.

  Sara ros
e up onto her elbows, but Lance pushed her back down. “Wait. I’m going to carry your body out of here.” But first he took out the Qiph box and wrapped it in a blanket until it was roughly spherical. “Your head,” he said shortly.

  Sara looked queasy at the idea.

  Lance used the bigger of the two blankets to bundle up Sara, but her feet still stuck out. He set the ‘head’ on her stomach. “Remember, you have to lie perfectly limp no matter what happens,” he reminded her.

  She nodded. He loosely draped the last fold of blanket over her face, then picked her up. He needed two hands for the job, and his broken fingers shrieked pain. He would have to resplint them later.

  Before he reached the door, Brendan slouched inside, scowling. Thank the Goddess Wenda was smart enough not to marry him. Brendan would be a disaster as Protector.

  “What are you doing?” Brendan asked, as if it weren’t obvious.

  “What are you doing?” Lance shot back. “Shouldn’t you be in the courtyard, getting ready to go to battle?” Brendan used to pick on Lance when they were boys—until Lance outgrew him by half a foot.

  Brendan’s face flushed. “You’re the one holding things up. Your mother won’t let anyone in here to grab a weapon,” he nodded at the walls, “until you’re through. She sent me to get rid of the body.”

  “No need. I’ve got her,” Lance said shortly.

  Brendan smiled nastily and stepped in front of Lance. He obviously felt safe taunting Lance, because he knew Lance wouldn’t put Sara’s body down.

  Anger ignited in Lance’s gut. “Out of my way.”

  Brendan didn’t move. “Oh, no. Your mother gave me specific orders. I wouldn’t want to be accused of shirking my duty.” He smirked. “Besides, your fingers look broken. You need help.”

  Before Lance could dodge, Brendan snatched up the blanket-wrapped “head”

  Lance went cold. He couldn’t grab it back without dropping Sara. “Put it back right now, or I’ll kill you.”

  Brendan sneered. “Kind of light isn’t it? Her head must have been empty.” He tossed it up in the air. The blanket slipped part-way off before he caught it again. “Hey, this isn’t—”

  Lance didn’t give him a chance to finish. He set Sara on her feet—or tried to. She stayed limp and crumpled to the floor. Lance drove his fist into Brendan’s chin with all the power of chest muscles developed swinging a hammer.

  Brendan fell. “You broke my jaw!”

  Lance doubted the man would’ve been able to talk if that were the case. He fastened his hand around Brendan’s throat. “Shut up, or I’ll kill you. And don’t think,” his eyes narrowed, “that I won’t just because I wear the Brown. It’s your life or hers, and I choose her. Sara?”

  “Yes?” She sat up, making Brendan squeak.

  “Give me a hand.” Since most of the weapons were on the opposite wall, Lance judged the best place to hide Brendan was behind the executioner’s block.

  Brendan stared first at Sara, then at Lance. “You’re mad. Your mother’s going to kill you. All for a Republican twotch!”

  Lance stuffed a handkerchief in Brendan’s mouth. He used Brendan’s own sash to bind his hands behind his back and one foot to his hands. “Change of plan,” Lance said tersely to Sara as the Goddess healed Brendan’s bruises and jaw. “We’ll have to go to the courtyard directly.”

  By the time he finished, Sara had arranged the second blanket over her head like a shawl. Since the call had gone out, the courtyard would be teeming with people. If the Goddess was merciful, Sara should pass for a stranger.

  * * *

  “You must go first, before me. We can’t be together in case someone wants to talk to me,” Lance murmured.

  Sara dug in her heels. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

  “To the Mover. We need to get to the Republic quickly and the war is the fastest way.”

  Which told Sara precisely nothing.

  “Just follow everyone else into the courtyard.” Lance placed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. Before she could respond, he gave her a little shove between the shoulderblades with his good hand. “Go!”

  Sara didn’t want to go. She realized in that instant that she didn’t want to be separated from Lance, ever. He had become her safety. If someone hurt her, Lance would heal her again.

  Appalled by her cowardice, Sara walked into the hallway. She received a couple of odd looks from people busy on their own errands, but no one screamed an alarm.

  Once outside in the grass of the courtyard, she felt less conspicuous. There was a crowd, as Lance had promised. More than that, a line. Sara joined the end of it and kept her eyes lowered to conceal their color.

  The line moved forward with agonizing slowness. Sara had progressed perhaps a third of its length when a furry shape nudged her ankle. Her refetti had found her somehow. She scooped him up, and he enthusiastically licked her hand, as if happy she was alive. “I’m glad to see you too,” Sara whispered, before putting him in her pocket.

  “Smelting pot!” A dumpy older man and his tall—son? apprentice?—trundled an iron pot down the line. As they passed, people threw in bits of metal. Queerly, many of them were keys like the one Valda had had over her mantel. Someone threw in an iron spoon, and another dropped in about twenty links of chain—a slave chain, Sara realized. “I hadn’t had a chance to melt it down yet,” the man said.

  And that explained the mystery of the keys with no locks. It must be customary to have one’s slave chain reforged into a symbol of freedom.

  Sara shook her head when her turn came, her skin crawling with the sensation of eyes on her. If just one person recognized her—

  “Where’s your weapon?” the apprentice asked. He had curly blond hair that reminded her of Claudius Pallax, and he seemed to be just as rude. “You’re going to a battle, you know, not off to feed the chickens.”

  Lance hadn’t told her she should be armed. But, yes, once Sara looked up she saw that the people in line with her did carry makeshift weapons: a few pikes and swords, but mostly axes and pitchforks.

  “He’s right, Miss,” the blacksmith, spoke up. “You should go to the Great Hall and pick out a weapon.”

  Vez’s Malice. Sara dared not leave the line; Brendan might be discovered at any moment and a search instigated. She shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she mumbled.

  “Then why go?” the apprentice demanded, his face full of frustration. Clearly, he wanted to go off to battle and fight, not stay here and melt down bits of iron into swords. Most of the people in line were men, Sara noticed. The few women present looked fiercely determined and bore pitchforks or cleavers.

  “She can help me with the wounded,” Lance called out from about ten people farther down the line.

  “You wear the Brown?” the smith asked.

  Lance nodded. Sara noticed he’d wound a strip of cloth around his broken fingers.

  “Then go to the front of the line,” the smith said, exasperated. “They’ll need your hands desperately.” He raised his voice. “All healers, red vests and shandies to the front of the line!”

  Sara tried not to show her panic as Lance moved past her. She felt horridly vulnerable.

  The queue ended at a peculiar stone hut. It was circular with a thatch roof, but it looked far too small to be a granary. Sara had thought that people were going inside the hut, but Lance stood outside it—then disappeared.

  He’d been moved to the battle. By magic.

  More details became clear as Sara approached the head of the line. The stone hut had a wooden door—no, more of a window, that swung open at waist-height. Someone sitting inside would reach out, lay hands on the person in line—and they would vanish.

  As the line ahead of her dwindled, Sara’s tension ratcheted higher. Any moment now she would be denounced, escape snatched away—

  Sara tried to distract herself by working out the magic in her head. The person in the hut was a Mover, therefore he must have sacrificed his ability to m
ove. The idea brought to mind statues, but the Mover could clearly move his hands. So…?

  Then it was her turn. Still no outcry.

  The Mover proved to be a middle-aged man with bushy red sideburns and close-set brown eyes. “To the battle?” he asked.

  Sara nodded, jittery. He leaned forward and clasped her elbows—and it was like being healed by Lance. A bell-like tone shivered in the air, and Sara smelled spring flowers; a wave of heat raced over her body. Startled, Sara tried to take a step back, but the Mover tightened his hold. Just before the magic whipped her away she saw through the window, down inside the hut—

  Instead of two legs in trousers, the Mover had but a single leg swathed in black robes. His feet were bare and had grown together, toes dug into the ground. Sara felt nauseous. The stone hut had no door, because the Mover was rooted to the spot.

  —wind roared around her, spinning her, sucking at her breath. Before she could panic, her ears popped, and she was thrown onto her hands and knees on a patch of grass. Her blanket fell off her head, and she hastily fumbled it back on.

  An elderly man in a red vest took her arm and helped her up. “Move along, before the next person arrives.”

  Sara moved a few paces aside and then stopped as disorientation struck hard. The courtyard and Hall were simply gone. She was partway up a mountain, standing in a field of tree stumps. A woodcutter’s cottage and a scattering of outbuildings lay on one side and deep forest on the other.

  For the first time, she understood how Kandrith had remained its own country for so long. The ability to send messages over long distances and to move troops instantly were both huge advantages. Advantages Kandrith desperately needed, because a battle was raging in front of the cottage—a lop-sided fight between farmers with pitchforks and trained legionnaires with swords and shields.

  Sara would have turned away had she not suddenly recognized Lance’s broad back in the thick of it. He was unarmed, without so much as a cudgel to defend himself.

  * * *

  When Lance arrived on the mountain, half a dozen legionnaires and their prisoners were holed up in the woodcutter’s cottage. His mother stood fearlessly out in front and called for them to surrender.