Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (4 page)

He wondered that the other Warriors could continue at all, even with veils drawn over their noses and mouths. They’d been working for hours under the Pathfinders’ directions, laying out the bodies. Esam had been spared only because he had a role to play in the coming ceremony.

He should have listened to Nabeel. His weapons master had had a great deal to say about Esam’s foolishness in volunteering to participate in the Pathfinders’ ritual. Yesterday’s conversation played over again in his mind.

“Spar with me.” As soon as the Pathfinders had retired to their own tents, Nabeel had tossed Esam a wooden practice blade.

Esam had hardly gotten his sword up when Nabeel struck him to the ground with a hard blow. A grizzled man in his forties, Nabeel’s braids were as thick with beads as his body was thick with muscle. Esam had grown taller than him last year, but Nabeel was much stronger.

Esam sprang up again, angry, but Nabeel knocked his attack aside with contemptuous ease. Normally, in a sparring match, Nabeel would tell Esam what he was doing wrong, or slow down certain moves. Not today. This bout was nothing more than a punishment.

“Fool!” Nabeel hissed after he’d given Esam three more bruises. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Holy work against the Defilers,” Esam said warily.

Nabeel looked exasperated. “Listen, young fool—I find this errand of the Pathfinders…dubious. It’s one thing to seek out the Defilers in Qi, but traveling so far into the Republic is madness. Their magic would be better spent winning another foot of green land from the dunes.”

Esam didn’t understand. “But you’re coming, too.”

“A Warrior does not refuse a Pathfinder. But you, you volunteered what they couldn’t have asked. You risk your soul by being the ritual’s focus.”

“The Pathfinders said—”

“I know what they said. But you are old enough to know that intentions often differ from results. If you never come home, I am the one who will have to tell your father what happened to his youngest son.” Another lightning attack. Esam fell on his backside again.

“I’m sorry, Weapons Master.”

“I’ll tell the Pathfinders to find another,” Nabeel said, relaxing.

To do so would bring great shame upon them both. For the first time, Esam felt a touch of true fear—the danger must be great if Nabeel was willing to do this—but he shook his head. “No, I must take part in the ritual.”

His refusal angered Nabeel. Esam suffered a blow to the torso and a jab to the kidneys and managed only a weak cut of his own in return. Then Nabeel’s foot hooked behind his knee. Esam found himself flat on his back, the wooden sword prodding at his throat.

“And if I say you won’t?” A growl.

“I must.” Esam closed his eyes briefly. “I am a Warrior with no horse.” His brave, beautiful mare had died of an arrow wound in a minor raid. “A Warrior with no horse is not a Warrior.”

Nabeel frowned. He knew Esam’s father raised horses. “Why don’t you ask your father for a mount?”

“I have been a Warrior for three years.” Since he turned fifteen. “Father will say it is time I took the next step on the Path. He promised my mother one of her children would follow the Path of the Holy Ones.” Esam stopped there. Nabeel knew the rest; that Esam’s mother was dead, that his two older brothers had failed to follow the Path.

For a moment Nabeel still looked puzzled and then realization hit. “If you take part in the ritual, the magic you’ve gained from following the Warrior’s Path will be used up. You won’t be able to take the next step on the Path for another two years. Your father will have to give you a horse.”

Esam nodded.

“Ungrateful whelp.” Nabeel hit Esam a ringing blow on the ear.

Esam knew he deserved the pain for conniving against his father, but he abhorred the thought of becoming a Scholar, of staying inside all day, painting delicate lines on fragile parchment. Two years of such would be a lifetime. “You’re still a Warrior. You’ve never taken the next step,” he said hotly. “What would you do?”

“I wouldn’t be a fool,” Nabeel said, but then he relented. “Listen and you may yet survive. Once the ritual begins you must not cry out or move—no matter what.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.” Esam lifted his chin.

Nabeel cuffed him. “Did I mention pain? This is magic, boy. Do you know what that means?”

Esam licked his dry lips. “The Holy Ones—”

“The Holy Ones were the Holy Ones,” Nabeel said impatiently. “These are Pathfinders. I do not trust them.” Nabeel stared at him, brooding. “Tomorrow we will see what you are made of, young Esam. Do not shame me.”

And now the time had arrived. The bodies were all laid out in a V, men on the left, women on the right. The Warriors moved back, and the Pathfinders said a brief invocation. Sacred emerald fire blazed outward and rapidly consumed the bodies.

Esam’s relief lasted until a Pathfinder came and began to anoint his body with the hot ashes.

He stood very still, not flinching.

“These are the dead. Run fast,” the Pathfinder intoned as he covered Esam’s bronzed legs with soot. His hoarse, ruined voice contrasted with his youthful clean-shaven face. “These are the dead. Beat true.” He smeared the ashes over Esam’s heart.

Esam breathed through his mouth. His skin crawled at the thought of what the ashes had been.
Dead people. Dead people on my skin.
The sensation only worsened as the Pathfinder daubed his way upward, smearing the inside of Esam’s ears. “These are the dead. Hear their cries.” Esam’s eyes stung as the ashes covered his eyelids. “These are the dead. See their faces.”

Esam’s hands twitched with the need to wipe the filth away. To distract himself, he stared at the thick scars ringing the throat of Pathfinder. Had he once been hanged? His vocal cords had clearly been damaged. Four Pathfinders were taking part in the ritual, but only this one would continue on with Esam’s party and not return to Qi. The Pathfinder looked too young for the emerald Holy Eyes inset in his forehead. The gems were said to be windows for the Holy Ones to observe the world, but it was the Pathfinder’s intense black gaze that made Esam nervous.

It struck Esam that this man, like every Pathfinder, had spent at least two years as a Warrior along the Path. What had made him give up the joy of riding like the wind down a steep hillside howling war cries, the brotherhood of Warriors? Esam couldn’t understand it. Maybe if he lived to be as old as Nabeel, he would want to take the next step on the Path. Maybe.

Finally, the young Pathfinder finished anointing Esam with ashes and moved away.

Instantly, the others involved in the rite stepped into place. They formed two lines fanning out from Esam in the shape of a V. The shorter line of three women on his right came forward first.

The Water-Bearer, a slender girl of about fifteen in a simple white dress with a needle-thin green stripe, approached shyly. She held her upper body erect and used one hand to steady the ewer of water balanced on her head. Her black hair fell in a curtain down her back. She offered him the ewer, and he gladly drank. With her symbolic gift, emerald flames began to crackle at his toes. They did not burn, but Esam could feel a quiet hum of power in the soles of his feet as the magic gathered.

Milk from the Mother came next. The woman bore a resemblance to the Water-Bearer—her mother?—but had strands of gray in her hair and a fuller-hipped figure. The green stripe on her dress was wider, indicating she’d progressed farther down the Path. Her expression serious, she offered him a rag soaked in milk to suck, as might be offered to an ailing babe. Esam’s pride rebelled, but he dared not break the ritual. He sucked from the rag—and almost stumbled as power slammed into the back of his knees. Magic.

Last on the woman’s Path was the Dowser. Her kinky gray hair floated unbound around her shoulders, and her striped dress hung on her narrow frame. She pressed a peeled Y-shaped branch of Joshua wood into his hands with her age-spotted ones, and more power buffeted Esam.

The magic continued to rise, engulfing his legs as the beardless youth on his left, the Camel-Herder, stumbled forward and laid a camel-hair blanket across Esam’s shoulders. Task completed, the boy looked relieved. Esam wished his own part in the ceremony was over.

Next Esam faced Nabeel, who represented Warriors. Esam stood straighter as Nabeel drew his curved blade and made a swift, shallow cut across Esam’s chest. Esam breathed through clenched teeth to control the pain. Harder to fight was his panic when he realized a green glow hid his lower body. He felt as if he were being swallowed.

The Scholar took Nabeel’s place. Esam would have known him for a Scholar even without the hand-wide green stripes on his robe. He was short and slight, the sort who had probably hated being a Warrior, and had ink-stained fingers.

He painted a word on Esam’s chest. The brush tickled, but Esam was conscious only of the rising green fire—up to his ribs now. It seethed like snakes. Worse was the sense of potential power looming over him, power enough to crush him.

The Slave shuffled forward next. His serene expression contrasted with his branded cheek as he draped his slavechain around Esam’s neck. The cold links made Esam’s skin crawl. This man too, had once been a Warrior. How could he have willingly become a slave?

The magic rose to Esam’s neck and danced on the surface of his skin. Standing still became a torture.

Only one man remained in line, the same man who had anointed him. Pathfinder was the last step on the men’s Path to Holiness. The front of his robe was green and the back white, signifying a single stripe. He used his fingernails to pry off one of the emeralds over his eyes, leaving a raw, red spot behind, then pressed the stone to Esam’s forehead—

With a roar, the magic shot up and over Esam’s head. Emerald fire ran down his throat. He breathed it in, swallowed it. It swarmed in his blood and crackled in his bones. His body
became
magic and began to change.

Esam broke his word to Nabeel. He screamed until he could scream no more.

* * *

Two hours passed in a haze of utter misery for Sara.

The muddy token from Vez’s temple proved to be for House Favonius, not House Remillus, and she was safely back in her new rooms at the Primary Residence, but that was the only bit of relief she had. Her maids, Rochelle and Felicia, fussed over her with cold cloths, but the jazoria continued to burn through her.

Worse, her thoughts kept returning to those moments she’d spent in the dark with her rescuer. She kept imagining what it would have felt like if he’d touched her. Cupped her breasts in his large hands. Covered her body with his own—

Just the thought of it made her press her legs together, made her liquid with desire.

“Lady Sarathena,” Rochelle touched her arm. Looking into her cuorelle’s sympathetic gray eyes, Sara was struck by the sudden conviction that Rochelle had once been drugged herself.

Rochelle didn’t speak of the years before coming into Sara’s service, and Sara didn’t ask.

“Lady, your father is here.”

Sara closed her eyes. She didn’t want her father to see her like this. She was a Remillus; she had her pride. “Help me to the bed.”

She ripped off the cold cloths and yanked on the nightgown her dark-haired maid, Felicia, brought her. Though even the blue silk coverlet felt unbearably hot, she arranged herself modestly sitting up in bed, before nodding to Rochelle to open the door.

Her father hesitated one step over the threshold, and Sara realized he was remembering her mother and the years that she’d spent as an invalid before her death.

“Sarathena.” Touches of silver gleamed at the temples of her father’s dark hair, and worry etched his face. “The captain of the guard informed me what happened. Be assured, the Pallaxes will pay for this insult.”

Words jumbled up inside Sara. Did that mean she would not marry Claude after all? If so, she would be relieved.

But six years ago, after her foolishness beggared their House, Sara had sworn an oath to Hana, the God of Justice, that she would wed whoever was necessary to save her family. “General Pallax may still be on his way to take the capital with his Legions. If Claude was merely…overeager then we may still need the marriage to go through.”

“He kidnapped you and would have raped you,” her father said flatly. “I don’t know whether the scheme was his own or if he has been in communication with his father. Either way, he will be punished. This I promise you.”

Sara shook her head. She didn’t want revenge if the cost was her father’s life. “But—”

“It’s done.” He smiled grimly. “Having General Pallax’s family in prison may prove a better threat than our original plan. Trust me to play the game, Sara.”

Sara bit the inside of her cheek. When her father closed a subject, it stayed closed.

He patted her hand and then frowned at it. “You’re still burning up.” He looked accusingly at her maids.

Rochelle shrank back against the wall, but Felicia made a small curtsey. “She was given a large dose of jazoria. The physicker says there is nothing to be done but wait it out.”

“Ridiculous,” her father said, blue eyes crackling with authority. “There’s no need for her to suffer like this. Have a sleeping draught brought to her.”

Felicia left at once. Sara expected her father to leave, too, but he continued to sit by her bedside even after the draught arrived and she drank it down—it tasted pleasantly of mint. He held her hand as she lay back on the pillow. “Sleep, Sara, I’m here to watch over you.”

For the first time in hours, Sara felt safe. She closed her eyes and, in the next moment, tipped over into sleep. Her dreams that night were dark and terrible, full of malice.

Sara woke with a pounding headache and a vile taste in her mouth. She was, on the whole, disinclined to get up.

Her maids had other ideas. They whisked away her blue coverlet, then stripped off her nightgown.

Sara flopped back down and turned her face onto her pillow. “Let me die in peace.” Her throat felt raw, as if she’d been screaming in her sleep all night.

“I know you must feel awful,” Rochelle said softly, “but you have to wake up.” Everything about Rochelle was unobtrusive, from her voice to her modest gray dress.

Sara didn’t move. Her head…

“You’re being too nice,” Felicia told Rochelle. “Watch. Sara, Master Julen’s waiting just outside. If you don’t get up right now, I’m going to open the door,” she pointed dramatically at the entrance to Sara’s sitting room, “and he’ll see you naked.”

Rochelle was the sweetest maid anyone could want. Felicia was raven-haired, petite and ruthless. The Elysinian cuorelle had been with Sara since they were both twelve-year-old girls, and she was Sara’s closest friend. Felicia could get away with murder and knew it.

Sara sat up in alarm. “Julen?” she croaked. She couldn’t swallow around the thick, sour taste in her mouth. She hadn’t felt this awful since the time Aunt Evina had forced her to consume most of a bottle of wine.

Jazoria was even worse. And people used the drug willingly? Sara tried to focus past the spike of pain in her forehead. “Why is Julen waiting for me?” Julen was her father’s favorite toady.

“He’s here to escort you to your Honorable father,” Rochelle said.

“He didn’t say why, only that it’s urgent,” Felicia added.

Sara waited. She could see from the excitement in Felicia’s green eyes that there was something more.

“We’ve been told to pack you a trunk of clothes,” Felicia said. “You’re going on a journey.”

Before Sara could ask where, Rochelle offered her a drink. The water washed away the horrid taste in Sara’s mouth, and a quick splash of her face in the painted china basin helped wake her. Unfortunately, her headache remained. The hollowness of her eyes in the silver-framed mirror reminded her unpleasantly of how her mother had appeared in the days of her final illness.

“Ouch!” Sara yelped as Rochelle pulled her hair while trying to remove the snarls with an ivory-backed brush.

“Pardon, my lady.” Rochelle seemed ready to cry. Her gray eyes were bloodshot, and her ash-blond hair hung loose instead of in its usual sleek knot.

Sara opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but Felicia caught her eye and mouthed, “Tulio.” Ah. Sara understood. Rochelle’s freeborn son had been sickly since birth. In the next minute, Rochelle found an excuse to rush out of the room.

Felicia took the opportunity to speak privately, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, how does jazoria feel?”

Sara almost snapped her friend’s head off.
Weren’t you there? Didn’t you see?
“It was awful.”

Felicia frowned in disappointment. “All of it? I know the last part was, but I thought that was because you were denying yourself.”

“I didn’t like it,” Sara said tightly. “My body stopped listening to my head.” She shuddered.

“That can be nice when it’s with someone you trust,” Felicia offered.

Sara didn’t believe her. She would never like it.

Pity formed in Felicia’s eyes. Pity for Sara. Sara felt a bite of envy. Felicia had lovers. Felicia was happy and carefree.

“But the jazoria did work? You felt desire?” Felicia asked anxiously.

They’d talked about jazoria as a solution to Sara’s…problem last year. At the time, Sara’s father had been cultivating a marriage between Sara and the wealthy Lord Favonius. Sara had been pleased. Though fifteen years older than her, she’d enjoyed Lord Favonius’ dry humor.

And then one night they’d had a little more privacy, and he’d kissed her. He hadn’t been rough, but he’d put his hands on her body as if he already owned her—and panic had hit Sara like a fist. Instead of turning him aside with a light laugh, she’d torn herself away. His pride offended, he’d taken a step toward her, and Sara had drawn her belt knife. Then she’d run to her room and cried and cried. Felicia had calmed Sara down and suggested using jazoria, but the betrothal had fallen through, leaving their House still in debt and Sara riddled with guilt.

Sara laughed without humor. “Yes and no. The jazoria took away the fear. It made Claude more tolerable—but it wasn’t Claude I wanted to drag into a dark corner.”

“Who, then?” Curiosity lit Felicia’s green eyes.

“Someone unsuitable,” Sara confessed.

“An equitain?”

About to say no, Sara’s mind seized. Perhaps her rescuer had been an equitain. He’d never said he was a cuoreon, and she could not remember a slavechain on his person. And his behavior had been…puzzling, starting with his astounding offer to help and ending with his complete lack of fear of Claude. If he were an equitain from one of the old families who’d been citizens for two hundred years, it could explain his attitude.

Sara’s silence made Felicia leap to the wrong conclusion. She looked half-scandalized, half-titillated as she glanced at the door. “Not Julen?”

“No!” The very thought horrified Sara. “More the opposite of Julen.”

“What? Ugly?”

Like most women, Felicia had the bad taste to find Julen handsome. Sara glared at her. “Not ugly. Just not elegant. He was…brawny.” She remembered the feel of the equitain’s muscled chest under her palms. “There’s something wrong with me,” she concluded glumly.

“No, there isn’t. Lots of women prefer a bit of muscle.”

Yes, and they made crude jokes about those ladies and their cuoreon—or worse, sanguon or osseon—lovers.

“Raise your arms.” Felicia popped a sleeveless blue day dress over Sara’s head. Its drapes were more modest than last night’s gown, and its only ornaments were the two silver buckles at her shoulders. An attached cape swished behind her.

Five minutes later, Sara entered the hall.

Julen swept a low bow, then straightened. Sara was tall for a woman, but he had three inches of height on her.

Sara gave him the barest nod that he was entitled to as a citizen of the Republic. She dreaded the day when he earned enough money to buy a title and she would be forced to curtsey to him.

“Good morn, ladies. Your beauty brightens the day,” Julen said extravagantly. “Exquisite Felicia, sweet Rochelle.” He kissed their hands even though the cuorelles were far below his station, making Felicia dimple and Rochelle blush. If one excused his permanent smirk, Julen was disgustingly handsome with a golden-brown complexion, raven-dark hair and sculpted cheekbones. Equitains were forbidden the toga, but extra material at the front of his tunic created a similar draping effect. Julen’s clothes always fit him to perfection: snug trousers showed off his lean legs, and the color of his tunic matched his green eyes.

When she was fifteen, Sara had thought Julen the height of elegance. He still was, but compared to last night’s rescuer Julen suddenly looked like a twig.

Julen bowed over Sara’s hand. “And the beauteous Lady Sarathena. Not even the sun can outshine you.”

Rudely, Sara jerked her hand away. Julen watched, unoffended,
amused
, smiling with perfect teeth. She disliked every black curly hair on his head a little more.

Felicia reproached Sara with a look.
How could anyone not adore Julen?
her eyes asked.

Most women looked at Julen and saw only his charm, the same way Claude only noticed Sara’s perfect face. Sara saw Julen’s naked ambition. He would sell his grandmother into slavery if it gained him a title. He’d worked for Sara’s father for years, but his only true loyalty was to himself.

Sara strode down the hallway, sandals whispering against the gray flagged stone. Though the hallway was broad enough to run a troop of legionnaires down, five abreast, Julen walked a half-step back at her elbow. If she had to put up with him, Sara decided she might as well make use of his talents. “Where do I journey?” she asked curtly

“To see your Honorable father.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Sara bit back the words
and you know it.

Julen arched a wicked black eyebrow. “If my lady would be so kind as to tell me what she did mean, I would, of course, be delighted to answer.”

Sara spoke through clenched teeth. “Felicia said I’m going on a journey. Where to?”

“Your Honorable father hasn’t informed you?” Julen needled.

“Obviously not.” Sara’s headache surged to the fore.

“Perhaps your Honorable father wishes to surprise you.” Julen smirked.

“Perhaps I should have my father hang and quarter you,” Sara retorted. She regretted the words immediately. She usually had better control, but the jazoria headache had frayed her temper.

“Lady Sarathena!” Julen affected shock. “If I have offended you in some way, I beg your most gracious pardon.” He sank dramatically to his knees.

“Oh, get up.” Sara eyed him with disfavor as he rose—how else?—gracefully.

She almost gave up then. The journey was probably only to the family estate in Elysinia—her father had been promising her a visit to Sylvanus, her seven-year-old brother. But giving up would mean Julen had won. “Tell me where I’m going.” They resumed walking.

“It pains me to admit that your father did not confide your destination to me.” Julen attempted to look pained.

Sara shot him a skeptical look. “You know everything that goes on in our household.” Among other things, Julen was her father’s spymaster.

“Everything except what lies in your heart, Lady Sarathena,” Julen said fulsomely.

Once the words would have given her a little glow; now all she felt was impatience. “Tell me or I’ll think you’ve lost your touch.”

“You journey to Slaveland,” Julen said softly.

Slaveland! Sara hesitated mid-step. A journey to one of the provinces, Gotia or Elysinia, she could have understood, or even to one of the neighboring countries, like Qi, that the Republic traded with, but Slaveland was different: barred to all outsiders, mysterious and barbaric. Slaveland existed as a constant thorn in the Republic’s side, a blot on any map, surrounded on all sides by the Republic.

“Loma’s Mercy, why?” Sara asked.

Julen’s eyes glittered. “It is rumored that the Primuses of the Republic have a covenant with the Kings of Slaveland.”

Before Sara could question him further, they reached their destination. A blue-clad page ushered them through a stone arch and into the Primus’s audience chamber.

The room had an impressive, domed ceiling, decorated with frescoes, but the walls looked naked—the red House Vidor tapestries had been removed, but there hadn’t been time yet to replace them with hangings of Remillus blue. Her father dominated the room effortlessly.

Her father’s sapphire blue eyes met hers as he dismissed the scribe he’d been dictating to.

“Honorable Primus, the Lady Sarathena.” Julen bowed.

“My thanks, Julen.” Her father nodded. Sara waited, but he didn’t dismiss Julen from the chamber. “Sarathena,” her father said warmly. “How are you this morn?”

Julen was pretending to be a wall, the perfect servant, only there when needed, but Sara felt conscious of his gaze as she reclined on a couch. Did he know what had happened to her last night? Almost certainly, she decided with an internal wince. “I’m fine,” she said dismissively.

“Truly?” her father asked, looking deep into her eyes.

Sara felt uncomfortable. “I have a headache, nothing more.”

Mercifully, her father took her at her word. “However unfortunate last night’s events, it may prove to be a good thing that a marriage into House Pallax is no longer in the offing,” her father said. “I have urgent need of you elsewhere.”

The journey. Sara wrenched her mind back into focus.

Her father smiled whimsically. “Do you remember how you once told me you wanted to travel? I may finally be able to grant you your wish.”

At age ten, Sara had wanted to become an acolyte of Jut and travel everywhere—but not to Slaveland. “I’ve always wanted to see the mighty waterfall on the Vaga River,” she evaded.

“I had in mind the mountains,” her father said, “the Red Mountains of Slaveland.” His blue eyes caught and held hers. Many a political enemy of her father’s had faltered under that gaze and found themselves agreeing when they’d meant to disagree. Sara wasn’t immune to his charisma.

“Why?” she managed to ask, but she knew. She’d been born a daughter and held only one value. Perhaps she should have let Claude take her virginity. If she had, she wouldn’t be shipped off now to a hostile country as a bride to a barbaric king or princeling.

God of Miracles, no.
She prayed to Bas, but not to Hana, God of Justice. She would keep her oath to wed whoever was necessary to save her family, no matter how hard.

“The King of Slaves has rejected our current ambassador. He doesn’t believe the man speaks for the Primus, for me. He will accept only a child of my body as the man’s replacement. He claims there is some long-held tradition of this practice—they call it the Child of Peace or somesuch. Sylvanus is too young. Which leaves you.”

He asked her to go as his ambassador, not in an arranged marriage? Surprise and relief threw Sara off-balance. “But—but I’m not a man,” she stammered.

“You are my daughter,” her father said quietly. His eyes never left hers. “I have faith in you.”

Sara felt herself flush with pride.
Her father had faith in her.
She had a use beyond the marriage bed, after all. But Slaveland… “Slaveland isn’t even a quarter of the size of our smallest province. Why do we care what their king wants?”

“The matter is complicated.” Her father studied her, as if weighing how much to tell her. “I received word by courier pigeon this morning of an…attack.”

The change of subject threw Sara. “Where?”

“Lord Favonius’s country estate in Elysinia. Over two hundred people were massacred.”

“Loma’s Mercy.” Sara closed her eyes for a moment. So many deaths were hard to grasp. “And Lord Favonius?” She had liked him once.

“Dead,” her father said bluntly, “along with his new wife and children and sister. House Favonius has been decimated. It will fall to a cadet branch.”