Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (20 page)

“It’s all right,” Lance told her. Some sacrifices were harder than others. “How’s she doing?” He nodded at the pregnant woman.

“She’s in a bad way. She had some convulsions around sunset, and I haven’t been able to wake her since.”

Lance went straight to the bed and knelt down by Iorweth. He placed his hands on her and prayed. He could—and had—healed in his sleep, but he’d always thought it more polite to ask the Goddess for her blessing.

As always She gave it with abundance. Little healing brought only a shadow of Her, here and then gone. This woman and her baby were gravely ill, close to death. Lance felt the Goddess inhabit him. Humming filled his ears. Her gentle hands pressed down over his—

—and the grotesque swelling under Iorweth’s skin receded. Her cheeks flushed with new health. She looked younger, the same age as her husband. Young and pretty.

Her eyes opened on a gasp.

“You’re going to be fine,” Lance told her. His voice rasped. “I wear the Brown.”

Iorweth smiled tremulously, as the last of the extra fluid drained from under her skin. “Oh, that’s much better. Thank you.” Then worry stole over her face. “The babe?” She put her hands on her belly.

Lance was there before her, cupping the taut surface. “Goddess,” he prayed again. She hadn’t left him, only stepped back a little. She came forward, and the red glow of Her healing filled the room.

Iorweth’s stomach bulged suddenly. “He kicked!” she said excitedly. “He hasn’t done that in days.”

The Goddess left Lance. It was like losing the warmth of the summer sun and being plunged into cold gray quicksand. Lance swayed with Her passing, his own weakness surging back, sucking at him. He had just enough time and sense to sit down before he fell down.

* * *

Sara shifted from one foot to the other, impatient. The two women were hugging and talking and laughing. Sara was glad the woman and her baby were better, but couldn’t either of them see that Lance was about to pass out?

She cleared her throat.

“Who are you? Where’s Huw?” the mother-to-be looked confused.

“I’m Sara. Your husband’s on his way,” Sara explained impatiently. “Lance needs a bed. Now.”

The cottage only had the one bed. Sara lifted her brows at the older woman. The woman looked to be in her forties, her unbound brown hair streaked with white. She looked kindly, and more importantly, capable.

The woman turned and spoke to Lance. “I am the Widow Valda. You and your companion may stay with me. It’s the least I can do. Iorweth, you’ll be all right now?”

The pregnant woman nodded.

Valda’s house proved to be next door. It was just as plainly furnished as Huw and Iorweth’s place, but it had two rooms instead of one and a plenitude of braided red and pink rugs. Onion and garlic bulbs and other bundles of kitchen seasonings hung from the ceiling and spiced the air, but the walls were bare save for an iron key hanging over the mantel.

The second room was a small bedroom, an obvious add-on to the rest of the house. Sara guessed it dated from the time when the widow had both husband and children. A gray blanket provided the only door and a straw mattress lay on the floor. Lance made it there by leaning heavily on Valda and Sara, then collapsed, face-first.

Valda set her lantern down on a corner shelf and removed her wet cloak.

Sara copied her, hanging her cloak on a hook by the door. Her refetti took the opportunity to poke his nose out of her pocket and explore.

“What’s that?” Valda asked, eyeing the rodent with disfavor. She stripped off the red vest she was wearing and threw it violently into a corner.

“My pet.”

Valda shook her head, but said no more about it, approaching Lance. “Help me roll him over.”

Sara put one hand on Lance’s hip and the other on his thigh—even through the cloth she could feel muscle. He was so heavy it took them two tries to flip him over onto his back.

“Now those wet clothes need to come off.” Valda undid Lance’s vest and wrestled off his shirt. Nor did she stop there, moving on to his trousers. Face flaming, Sara averted her gaze. Valda snorted in amusement, but covered up his lower body with a blanket.

“Do you have any more blankets?” Sara asked.

“Yes, but he don’t need them.” Valda took Sara’s hand and laid it on his chest.

Sara drew back in shock. Already the fever heat was building in his muscles, burning off the chill.

Valda bustled out of the room, the curtain swinging closed behind her. Sara sat down heavily, too tired to care that there were no chairs, only a dirt floor.

Valda returned within moments. “Here.” She handed a pan of water and a rag to Sara, who accepted them unthinkingly then didn’t know what to do. Valda made a small noise in the back of her throat. “It’s for his fever. Wipe his skin, see?” She dipped the rag in the pan then swiped it across Lance’s face. He didn’t even blink. “Cool him down while I warm up some broth, hey? Do all of him you can reach. Don’t worry about the bedding.”

It sounded easy enough. Sara bathed Lance’s face with the cool water, first his wide forehead, then his cheeks, then his neck. His beard brushed her fingers giving her pleasurable frisson. She was very aware of how strong his face was, even asleep, how male.

She’d moved onto his shoulders when Valda finished feeding up the fire and poked her head into the bedroom. “Do you have a change of clothes with you?”

Sara shook her head. Her bag had been left behind in the rush. She spared a brief thought for Julen, left with the luggage in the rain. He was not going to be happy.

“Thought so,” Valda said. “You can wear this.” She pulled out a voluminous white nightgown.

It was faded and worn, and Sara accepted it with gratitude. She slipped back into the main room and changed in front of the fire. Her arms felt chilled, but even the lure of warm flames couldn’t keep her away from Lance for long. She returned to the small bedroom.

“He’s a strong one, hey,” Valda remarked, nodding at Lance’s muscled chest as she got back to her feet. “Lots of those who wear the Brown don’t take care of themselves—spend all their time drinking—but he looks pretty fit,” she said critically. “He must have worked a forge when he was enslaved.” She left.

“Did you?” Sara asked softly, even though she knew Lance couldn’t hear her. She desperately wanted to know more about his time in chains, but hadn’t dared ask. His muscles looked different than the ones legionnaires got from their sword work.

The fever heat Lance gave off was a bad sign, yet it felt wonderful to touch, as if he could warm all the cold places inside her.

Her wipes had slowed into something perilously close to caresses when Valda reappeared with the promised broth. Sara pulled back, startled, but Valda seemed to notice nothing amiss. She’d brought two bowls and gave one to Sara. “Eat, while I feed him.”

Sara dipped her spoon in the golden broth, feeling oddly jealous as Valda efficiently stuffed two pillows under Lance’s head and shoulders, propping him up. Sara wanted to feed Lance, to be the one sitting there when he finally opened his eyes—which was silly.

“Wake up,” Valda said firmly. “You need to eat.”

Lance’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then closed again, but he obediently opened his mouth and took a little broth.

Sara tried a spoonful and found it surprisingly delicious. She applied herself and soon scraped the bottom of the bowl.

Lance drifted back off to sleep after only a few mouthfuls. His forehead puckered when Valda shook him, but he refused to wake.

“You sleep now too,” Valda said to Sara, in her brusque way. “I’ll bathe him for awhile, then wake you.”

Sara found a blanket and lay down on a braided rug in front of the fireplace. She had to position herself awkwardly to keep all of her on the rug and off the cold ground. She’d just decided that she couldn’t possibly sleep, when she dropped off.

Moans woke her. The curtain had been hooked back out of the way on a peg, and she could see straight into the small bedroom. Lance groaned and thrashed his head. In the uneven splash of candlelight, his skin looked flushed with heat.

“He’s delirious,” Valda said grimly when Sara got up. “The cloths aren’t helping. This fever’s a bad one. Pray to the Goddess he doesn’t die.”

“Isn’t there anything else we can do?” Sara asked, heart in her throat.

Valda huffed a short laugh. “I have medicines.” She pointed at some herbs hanging from the rafters above her kitchen table. “For anybody else, I would just crumble two lowal leaves in some hot tea. It brings fever down, quick. But not him.”

“Why not?” Sara asked, angry. Was Valda denying Lance the medicines because he was a stranger? “I can pay—”

Valda’s upraised hand cut her off. “Money does no good. Medicines do not work for One who Wears the Brown. He’ll just have to fight it out.”

Sara could have screamed. “Can’t we try the lowal leaves? Maybe they’ll work this time.” She remembered Felicia having a lowal infusion once; it had worked on her.

But Valda just shook her head sadly and got up. “The rain’s stopped. Bathe him while I visit the privy.”

“No. You have to—” Sara stopped dumbfounded as Valda walked away from the argument. Then came hot fury. How dared she? Didn’t she know who Sara was? She opened her mouth to
order
the woman to come back and explain herself—then shut it. She felt as if she’d had a bucket of cold water dumped over her head. Because, of course, Valda didn’t know she was Lady Sarathena Remillus or the Child of Peace. She might not even know Sara was a Republican. After all, Sara was dressed like a Kandrithan woman, and there were many cuorelles with skin as brown as her own.

Valda was her host, not her servant, not her slave.

Sara had always tried to treat cuores with respect, asking not ordering, but apparently it had all been a sham because if Sara had had power over Valda, she would have threatened the other woman to make her help Lance.

No wonder Felicia left me. I would have ordered her without even knowing it.
The realization tasted bitter.

“Wenda!” Lance shouted, in the grip of some fever dream. “Madam Lust, don’t!”

Sara touched his forehead, and they both flinched away. It was like touching a coal. The fever was too high. Lance wasn’t going to make it until morning, strong blacksmith’s body or not.

A hot ball of panic formed under Sara’s breastbone. She stood up. She was
not
going to sit here, helpless, as she had when her mother died. She plucked two dried leaves off the hanging lowal herbs Valda had indicated and hurried to the fireplace where a cauldron of broth simmered over some embers. Lacking tea, Sara scooped some soup into a bowl and quickly crumpled the leaves into it. They wanted to float on the top like green scum, but she forced them down with a spoon.

Then back to the bedroom and Lance. She propped his head up with pillows as Valda had done. “Lance, you need to wake up.” She shook his shoulder urgently.

He flailed his hands, but didn’t wake.

Valda would be back soon. “Wake up!” She slapped his face. His eyes opened in befuddlement, and she shoved a spoonful of soup between his lips. Most dribbled out, but a little got in. “Come on, Lance, stay with me.”

He groaned, eyes closing again.

Sara wiped tears from her eyes and ruthlessly slapped him again. She got another half spoonful down, but after that he turned his head away.

“You have to!” Sara raged at him. “It’s medicine. You need it.”
You’ll die.
The words were locked in her throat.

Miraculously, Lance heard her through the fever. He opened his eyes. “Sara,” he rasped.

A wave of relief swept her, but all she said was, “Open your mouth.”

He pawed feebly at her wrist. “No. No medicine. Wenda will die.”

“What?”

But his eyes were closing. His head sagged back onto the pillows. “They’ll all die, every one. No sacrifice. Can’t, can’t…” He lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The words made no sense. Sara told herself they were just delirium, unimportant.

If she held his nose and poured the lowal herbs down his throat, she calculated that he’d swallow enough of it to help. But— What if there was some real reason that Lance shouldn’t have the medicine?

Should she respect his wishes?

Sara narrowed her eyes. She was not going to let Lance die. She didn’t care if his words were true—what was Wenda’s life to her? If Wenda loved her brother, she might
want
Sara to give him the medicine and save his life.

But the rationalization felt hollow, and she didn’t try to give him any more medicine. Instead, she waited.

A few moments later, she heard the outer door creak open. A draught of cold, wet air touched her face as Valda appeared in the doorway carrying a lantern.

Sara opened her mouth to begin the argument anew, but just then the somewhat mangled bundle of lowal herbs fell at Valda’s feet.

“You didn’t!” Instead of looking angry, as Sara would have expected, Valda’s eyes rounded with horror.

Although unsettled by the woman’s out-of-proportion reaction, Sara seized on the chance to wring some information from her. She held up the soup threateningly. “He’s only had a spoonful, but I’ll pour it all down his throat unless you give me a good reason not to, right now.”

Valda blinked.

“Speak! Why can’t those who wear the Brown have medicines?”

“Because,” Valda wet her lips, “because it will undo his sacrifice.” She set down the lamp.

“Do you mean the thing—” Pig? Lamb? Pet lamb? “—Lance sacrificed will come back to life?” It didn’t seem like much of a reason to Sara. Unless Lance had sacrificed a man—perhaps, a very bad man, who’d deserved to die— Sara’s jumbled thoughts ground to a halt.

Valda hadn’t replied. She looked confused.

Sara tried again. “He said Wenda would die. His sister.”

“Likely.” Valda nodded.

“Why?” Sara’s voice rose perilously close to a scream. “Explain it to me.” She held Lance’s nose closed and pressed the rim of the bowl to his lips.

“Usually, those who wear the Brown make their sacrifice when someone they love is dying,” Valda said. “If you use the medicine, his sister—and Iorweth and everyone else he’s saved from death—will die. I assume you haven’t been in Kandrith long, since you don’t know our ways, but I promise you he’ll not thank you for healing him.” Valda held out her hand, her mien that of a stern mother talking to a child. “Now give me the bowl.”