Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (3 page)

Temple? Most temples were scrubbed free of mud by diligent dedicants. Only one—

“I don’t want to say His name, Lady,” Gelban said.

Vez, God of Malice.
She’d entered
His
temple. Sara’s heart jumped as her memory supplied an image of a temple courtyard full of black mud with Vez’s statuary facial features rising up out of them. She must be walking on the obscenely long, lolling tongue, about to pass through Vez’s mouth into the courtyard. Although Vez’s assassin-priests had been outlawed over one hundred years ago and his worshippers driven into hiding, no one had dared pull down the God of Malice’s temple.

“You don’t know who might be out here in the dark,” Gelban said. “Please, come back to the carriage.”

Sara tried to think. Was Gelban right? The dark seemed suddenly malevolent. All types of scum were rumored to come out at night to search the mud for the gold coins thrown by those buying a curse. She could end up with her throat slit or sold into slavery. In comparison, the early wedding night Claude wanted was nothing.

“Where is the little twotch? We’ve lost her.” Claude swore with surprising viciousness.

The degree of anger and resentment in his voice made Sara uneasy. Claude sounded different from the petulant boy-man who had been courting her. She’d thought that since Lady Pallax bullied him, Claude would be a manageable husband. Now she saw that she had been wrong. Claude would be a petty tyrant to those in his power.

“We have to find her soon,” Claude said. “The physicker said the potion would only make her fertile between now and midnight.”

Fertile? Sara felt a lurch of panic. Jazoria shouldn’t make her fertile. It was brewed by the priestesses of Jazor, the Goddess of Desire. Claude’s physicker must have mixed it with something from the Goddess of Fertility’s temple.

Her determination to escape Claude hardened. A pregnancy would make marriage to him inescapable.

Ducking her head to avoid the sharp statuary teeth, Sara entered the mouth and the Temple of Vez.

Inside, her foot came down in ankle-deep muck. The mud in the courtyard was said to be studded with sharpened stakes. Vez only wanted worshippers who hated enough to be careless of losing a little blood. And if they died later…the God of Malice played no favorites.

Mud squelched as Sara pulled her foot free. All too easily she could imagine that the sucking mud was a pair of hands grasping her ankles, pulling her down.

“There!” Gelban held the lamp high, and yellow light painted the length of the tongue. “Something white!”

Her gown—it was reflecting the light. Sara ran as fast as she could, heedless of the possible stakes. One of her sandal straps broke, and she almost fell.

Running footsteps slapped behind her. The lamplight jerked and juddered, casting crazy black shadows everywhere. Sara’s breath came in deep sobs. Every step she took became shakier, her weakened body threatening to revolt.

The mud. The mud would cover her white gown. Sara threw herself down and rolled in it. The chill ooze made a pleasant shock on her jazoria-fevered flesh, but it reeked as if it were not mud at all—not dirt and water, but dirt and blood.
Now they’ll be able to smell me.

As she struggled to get up, her palm came down on something hard with a sharp corner.

The most dedicated petitioners slogged through the mud to one of Vez’s large brass ears and whispered the name of the one he or she bore malice. The less brave threw tokens of the hated House into the mud from safety.

Irrationally afraid that the token was of House Remillus, Sara pocketed it.

She’d taken too long to get up. Someone, not Gelban, caught her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Got her!”

For a moment she stood there, passive, her body relieved that it didn’t have to fight anymore. She could relax. Give in—

No.

Sara raised her hands and smeared a glob of mud over her captor’s eyes and mouth.

“Gahh!” He let go of her in confusion.

Sara wobbled away. Her toe brushed something sharp.

Close by, her pursuer screamed. Her imagination filled in what had happened. The sanguon’s bare foot coming down on a sharpened stake, his weight driving it up through flesh—

Sara made herself turn away from his pain. Gelban would help him. She had only herself.

Pushing her legs through the ooze, Sara steered away from where Vez’s ears should be. She would not risk her name being said in Vez’s hearing. Her luck ran ill enough.

The lamp remained back at the mouth. Gelban must be reluctant to enter the temple. Sara tried to remember which direction to go. Left?

In the next instant, she ran into a wall. No, not a wall, for she rebounded slightly, felt cloth and muscle underneath—a man as big as a wall. Large hands grabbed her shoulders.

Sara tried to twist free, but he held her with ease. His silence frightened her. Why didn’t he call out to the others that he’d found her?

He’s not one of Claude’s men.
She would have remembered someone this tall and broad. Which meant her captor was the river scum she’d feared and Claude had become the more attractive option.

She drew breath to scream—and his hand clamped over her face, smothering her.

Why was he doing this again? Lance of Kandrith struggled to keep the highborn lady in his arms from biting him, without hurting her.

“Enough of that,” he whispered, giving her an angry shake. “I’m trying to rescue you. If this is some lovers’ game, don’t let me keep you.” He let her go—and the lady clung to his hand, making him grind his teeth in pain.

Pain was part of Lance’s daily life and had been for a decade and a half, since he was thirteen years old, but today was worse than usual. The knuckles on his right hand were so red and swollen with arthritis his fingers resembled claws. The left only felt better in comparison. If he kept his hands still, he could tolerate the low ache they gave off, but every time he moved them…

Wine dulled the pain, but it also dulled the mind. Lance had seen too many of those who wore the Brown turn into drunken sots. He would not treat the Goddess’s gifts so shabbily. Instead, he endured.

“Rescue me?” she whispered. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me. I saw you jump from the carriage.”

Sheer happenstance had put him on the street at the right time. He’d attended the feast in hopes of finding out whether the new Primus would keep the Pact, but had been seated too far away to do other than get occasional glimpses of the back of the man’s head. When the feast dragged on, he’d decided to step out for some fresh air.

“Do you want help or not?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. His hands were killing him, and the two sides of his nature were in conflict. One side insisted she was smaller than he, female and in need of protection; the other side shouted that she was a highborn lady—contemptible by definition.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “I need an escort back to the Primary Residence, but only if doing so won’t get you into trouble with your master.”

Lance stilled. She thought he was a slave. He was caught between being amazed by her concern—few nobles worried about the fate of a random slave—and angry at her patronization. Dark amusement won over both. “I won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

Both of them froze as they heard mud squelch only a few feet away, in the dark. Her kidnappers.

Silently, Lance put his arm around her back, leading her deeper into the courtyard. Within a few steps he bumped against something. His pain-crippled fingers brushed a stone wall and found a rounded doorway.

He gingerly took the lady’s hand and placed it on the wall so she could feel it, too, then stepped up and through the opening. She followed.

Unfortunately, the small room was a dead end, with no other exit. The walls were curved and too short for the lady to stand straight, much less Lance. He exerted pressure on her shoulder with his forearm until she knelt. Lance sat and tried to curve his back into the wall. At least the room was free of mud. He couldn’t understand what a swamp was doing in the middle of a city.

“Bring the lamp,” a man called. “I heard something.”

Lance leaned forward and whispered as soft as a baby’s breath, “If they seem likely to find us, stay here while I go out and fight.”

She nodded, and he resumed listening to the men searching the mud fifteen feet away, his body tense.

Sara shifted restlessly on the wonderfully dry floor. Now that she’d stopped running, the jazoria was rising inside her again, the heat engulfing her. She wanted to pant and gasp. Her skin felt sensitized.

She was aware in every nerve that a man sat scant inches away, so close she could feel his body heat and smell the musky scent of male sweat. In the reflected lantern-light Sara couldn’t make out more than the broad outlines of his face: a strong jaw, shaggy brown hair, too long to be a legionnaire’s but too short for a noble’s, and a close-cropped beard and mustache. His voice had been gruff at first, but he acted as if he could protect her instead of the other way around. No one had ever done that for Sara before—usually she protected the weak.

Of their own volition, her hands came to rest on her rescuer’s broad shoulders. They stayed there a moment, measuring, then slid down to his muscular chest.

His tunic had the soft feel of many washings and the open leather vest he wore was supple and smooth. She flexed her hands, fascinated by the way she could feel his individual muscles under his shirt. She traced first the square pectoral muscles then his abdominal ones. She had counted six of them when he suddenly seized her hands. “What are you doing?”

His voice was a rough whisper, but she could feel his heart racing.
He desired her.
She inched closer, wanting to press her breasts against him—

A pair of polished black boots squelched nearby, bringing lamplight with them.

Another man ran up. “No sign of her, milord. We—”

“You’re useless,” Claude said viciously. Sara heard a ringing slap and a stifled cry of pain. “Can’t even find one witless girl.” Another slap.

Sara winced at the sound, but better an open-handed slap than a punch or a kick. Slaps stung but did little damage. The sanguon would be all right.

She’d watched Claude’s slaves carefully, but had never seen a bruise or a cut on them. None of them had ever looked at Claude with terror or the awful blank faces of those who’ve been taught not to show fear.

Claude was petty, but he wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t Nir. Sara clung to that thought, not even noticing when her fingernails cut into her palms.

“And now,” Claude raged on, “what am I going to tell my mother?”

Sara tensed, waiting for another slap. Instead, she heard a low voice say, “You could tell her you’re a coward.” Her rescuer had left the room behind Vez’s eye and entered the fray.

* * *

Lance was in what might politely be called a bad mood. First, his hands hurt as if a horse had stepped on them. If he hadn’t known the arthritis would go away in a few days, he would have been tempted to cut them off.

Second, of course, was the girl herself. The girl he could not make up his mind about. One moment she’d been pitiable, the next she’d tried to seduce him.

She’d been very clever. A straight grab for his rod would have repulsed him. Instead, she’d caressed his chest, exploring his muscles as if he were a work of art and gradually drifting lower, teasing him.

Lance knew himself to be susceptible right now because he had not lain with a woman in the nine months since he’d left the country of Kandrith. He scorned the nobility almost as much as they scorned him for being a barbarian, he’d been given little opportunity to meet any shopkeepers’ daughters, and he’d sworn not to touch any of the slaves. He would not risk lying with someone who didn’t think she could say no, or worse, who might have been commanded to sleep with him.

He’d been on the verge of doing something very stupid, namely kissing her, when the idiot lordling showed up. The lordling made an excellent target for Lance’s anger.

After what happened to his sister, Lance had vowed that he would never again stand silent while someone else was beaten. He ducked through the round doorway and came out issuing his challenge.

A red handprint burned on the cheek of one of the slaves, though he kept his eyes downcast in submission.

Lance’s hands clenched into fists—and pain scored his knuckles. Taking a swing at the lordling would hurt Lance almost as much as his target, so Lance lowered his head and butted him hard in the chest.

The lordling, a short pudgy fellow, fell on his rump in the mud, eyes bulging in shock.

Before Lance could admire his handiwork, the lordling’s slaves placed themselves between Lance and their master. Having no desire to hurt them, Lance stood off. His six foot four height made it easy to look menacing.

Not one of the slaves ran. He hadn’t really expected any of them to take the chance—most would have families that would be punished in their place—but it still saddened him to see it. The man who’d been abused now bent solicitously over his master, helping him to his feet.

“You dirty slave,” the lordling said, glaring at Lance. “Tell me the name of your master. I’ll have ten links added to your slavechain for this!”

If Lance had been a slave, the threat of ten more years of indenture would have been a crippling one.

But he wasn’t a slave. Not anymore.

He laughed, about to tell the lordling to stuff it, when a female voice rang out. “Leave him alone.”

Instead of staying in hiding, the fool woman entered the circle of lamplight.

She must have fallen at some point because her gown was caked with mud. The ridiculous, filmy creation had no sleeves, no back, and a draped neckline, which probably showed an artful glimpse of cleavage when it wasn’t wet. Now the fabric was more brown than white and it…clung.

It took a moment for his eyes to lift to her face. There was a small streak of mud on her chin, and some in her hair, but Lance barely noticed.

She was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Lance was familiar with the beauty of new mothers gazing at their babes, of sunsets and mountains, but he realized now the women he’d thought beautiful were merely pretty. This woman’s every feature was perfect. Her oval face, her straight nose, her high cheekbones, her full lips…even the arch of her eyebrows was elegant.

Her eyes… A shock reverberated through him.
She had blue eyes.
Blue eyes were very rare in Kandrith. He’d always thought of blue eyes as cold, but hers were warm and as deep as a mountain lake.

The lordling looked equally taken aback at the sight of her. He gaped for a moment, then stretched out his hand. “Come with me, Sa—”

“Don’t say my name!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Or I’ll say yours.”

This strange threat worked. The lordling blinked, then recovered. “You need to change into clean, warm clothes.”

“I am quite warm enough, thank you,” she said coldly.

The lordling’s eyes shifted from her to Lance. “If you don’t want to see your champion flogged, come to the carriage now.”

“No,” she said, showing an astonishing faith in his ability to knock heads. “Listen.” She talked over the lordling when he tried to interrupt. “My aunt must have reported my absence. The legionnaires are on their way—I can hear them now.” So, Lance discovered, could he. She wasn’t bluffing. “It’s time for you to leave.”

The lordling hesitated while men on horses galloped down the main road.

“Fan out,” one of them shouted, “check the temple.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Shall I scream for help?”

The lordling scowled at her, and Lance tensed, ready to butt heads again, but the lordling backed down. “Let’s go,” he said to his slaves. They left.

Lance spat in the mud after him.

The lamplight retreated with the lordling’s group, so Lance was startled when the lady laid a hand on his arm.

“You have my deepest thanks,” she said. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, please let me know.” She paused as if waiting for an answer.

Was she offering him her body? He couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t tell. “I don’t need a reward,” Lance said harshly because, Goddess help him, he was tempted.

“Nevertheless, I am in your debt.” She didn’t sound ashamed or angry at his rejection. Perhaps he’d misunderstood her. Or perhaps she was merely shameless.

A new lamp appeared. A legionnaire was approaching.

“Loma, Goddess of Mercy, watch over you. Now run!”

Exasperation filled Lance. “Why should I run?” He’d done nothing wrong.

He could see the outline of her face now, enough to know that she was staring at him. When she spoke her voice was husky. “Please. Claude is from a powerful family, and I may not be able to protect you. It’s better if he never learns your name or what House you belong to. Please go.”

“Not until I know you’re safe,” Lance said firmly. “You go meet him.” He used his forearm to give her a little shove between her shoulder blades.

He heard her expel an offended breath, but to her credit she didn’t argue, hurrying toward the legionnaire. “Over here!”

The lamplight struck gold glints from her long brown hair. Even with the ends draggled in mud, she still looked beautiful, still held herself as a noble did, her posture shouting her importance. Moments later the legionnaire had given her his cloak and was calling for assistance. Lance faded back into the shadows.

He wondered if he would ever see her again. If he did, she would likely stare right through him. That was fine—good, in fact. Lance had no desire strike up any sort of acquaintance with a highborn lady. But for some reason the thought of her pretending they’d never met irritated him like a sore tooth.

* * *

Esam, Warrior of the Qiph, waited stoically for the Pathfinders of the Holy Ones to finish. He’d been standing in one spot for so long that his shadow now touched the low, stone wall ten paces in front of him. His striped robe lay folded at his feet, his sword across it. He’d been allowed only to keep his braids and beads of valor.

He studied his shadow because he didn’t want to watch what the Pathfinders were doing behind him. As a Warrior, he was familiar with death, but this…what had been done here was a far cry from death in the heat of battle.

Esam tried to focus on the vivid greenness of the pasture. In the deserts of Qi, plants grew so lushly only at an oasis. Here, deep in the Republic of Temboria, green grass covered the land like a carpet.

But even that sacred symbol of life seemed tainted. Esam could look away from the roofless manor and the blackened and burned buildings, but he couldn’t unsee what he had seen.

He hadn’t been there when the ritual was performed, but he could read the signs. The fire had been set to drive the occupants out—the rich from their manor, the slaves from their hovels. Most of the two hundred dead had died on the sharpened stakes set in front of the doors. Sometimes as many as four men had been skewered by the same stake…

The charnel stink of the bodies, already starting to decay in the hot sun, filled his nostrils.

Worse than the smell was the low buzzing roar made by the shifting blanket of flies that covered the dead. His gorge threatened to rise. Esam swallowed it back, reminding himself that the dead were heathens, not Qiph.