Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (21 page)

Sara hesitated, but Lance moaned again, and she hardened her heart. “If he hates me, so be it.” At least this way he’d be alive.

Besides, it didn’t make sense. Sara had trouble believing the Goddess of Mercy would kill Wenda just because Lance had a little medicine to save his own life. Valda must be wrong. Sara started to tip the bowl.

“If you do this, you spit on his sacrifice.” Valda’s voice was low with passion. “He’ll have endured all these years for nothing.” She took half a step forward as if preparing to rush Sara.

Sara frowned and moved the bowl slightly away. “Endured what?”

“This!” Valda waved a hand, indicating Lance’s feverish body. He groaned again, delirious, and almost spilled the broth. “Do you think this is the first time he’s gotten sick? He could have taken medicines any one of those times
and he chose not to.
His choice. His sacrifice.”

The Goddess has no need for jewelry
, Lance had told her.
A necklace costs you, personally, nothing and therefore has no value to the Goddess.

“What, exactly, did he sacrifice?” Sara asked softly.

“Do you not even know the Rule of Paradox?” Valda asked irritably. “He’s a healer. He sacrificed his health, of course.”

Of course.

“It’s one of the hardest sacrifices, I know of,” Valda said. “You can get used to being blind, to losing a sense, but to choose, every day for the rest of your life, to be sick…” She shook her head. “I likely only have two decades left to me, and I couldn’t do it. I’m fond of Iorweth, but two years ago I broke my hip and was in constant pain for a month until I was healed.. I couldn’t face the thought of having that pain again. But he does, every day.” She nodded at Lance. “He’s the bravest man you’ll ever meet.”

Sara looked at the bowl in her hands and felt sick at what she’d almost done. She deliberately poured the medicine out onto the ground, making a small wet patch in the dirt. “I’m sorry,” she told Valda. “I didn’t understand. Here, it’s my turn.” She picked up the wet rag and starting washing Lance down.

In the black hours of the night, Lance woke. He was dimly aware that he was in a bad way. The fever was taking a steep toll on his body, and he could sense the line separating life from death hovering before him like a thin veil.

He didn’t fear death. He knew the Goddess would welcome him to the other side and that once his body failed the pain would end—a peaceful thought.

Lance had come close to dying before and had always pulled himself back from the brink with grim determination, but this time, when the Goddess held out Her hand and offered to end his suffering, it was easier to turn away. Because someone already held his hand and wept over him.

Lance fought his way back up to consciousness and saw Sara sitting at his bedside. “Don’t cry,” he croaked. He wanted to say more, to tell her what it meant to have her there with him, but his throat was too dry. He squeezed her hand.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes again.

* * *

“Lance!” Sara shook his shoulder. He’d been with her for a moment, but now he’d sunk back down into unconsciousness, perhaps never to wake again. “Lance!”

Valda hurried over, then smiled. “Ah, good. I think his fever’s finally breaking.”

The horrible tension inside Sara eased as she saw the sweat slicking his skin. He’d lived through another crisis, hopefully the last.

“Time to change the bedding,” Valda said practically.

Sara helped roll Lance onto his side so that the damp sheets could be eased out and replaced with fresh ones.

By then Sara was swaying on her feet. “You rest.” Valda pushed her down on the rug. “Poor thing,” she heard Valda murmur as her eyes closed, “it’s not easy to love One who Wears the Brown.”

Sara couldn’t possibly love Lance. She wasn’t
that
stupid, but she fell asleep before she could tell Valda so.

When she woke, a bar of sunlight lay on the floor near her head. Anxious, she rose and checked on Lance. He was sleeping, and his forehead felt only warm. Perhaps a low fever, she judged. Nothing dangerous. An almost-empty bowl sat beside his bed; Valda must have fed him while Sara slept.

Freed from responsibility, Sara lay back down and closed her eyes again. A scratching noise prevented her from drifting back to sleep. Her refetti crouched in the corner, clawing at Lance’s bag.

“Does something in there smell good?” she asked the refetti. All she could see was the corner of the carved Qiph box peeking out. She knotted the drawstring and picked up the refetti. “Leave it alone.”

The refetti hung his head at her scolding. She brought the empty bowl over to her pet for him to lick clean, then froze in sudden realization.

Lance’s bag had been left behind with Julen. Huw and Julen must have arrived.

She ought to have felt relieved that Julen wasn’t lost, but instead she felt almost panicked.

Last night she’d learned the Rule of Paradox, the key to Kandrithan magic. She ought to send Julen straight back to her father with the information—possibly even flee with him herself while Lance was too sick to stop her.

Of course, Valda’s ignorance of her identity and Lance’s illness gave her the perfect opportunity to discover even more about slave magic. She still had a lot of unanswered questions.

Only, that was a rationalization. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Lance while he was so ill.

She knew that was wrong. Her loyalty belonged to her father, her country, to her brother Sylvanus. But the thought of leaving paralyzed her.

Her bodily needs eventually drove her outside. Once she’d attended to them, she hesitated on the privy path.

Sunlight lay on her skin in a warm caress, and a breeze ruffled her hair. She found herself breathing in deep lungfuls of clean air then turning in the other direction.

Valda was pegging laundry by the side of the house, within earshot if Lance called. Sara slipped past her and set off down the dusty lane. A walk would blow the cobwebs from her mind.

Daylight revealed that the village was tiny and poor. Sara counted twelve houses in it; homely cottages with thatched roofs. Most, like Valda’s, were neatly kept, but some were noticeably crooked, as if built by unskilled hands.

Sara could identify only one, or possibly two, places of business. The sound of a hammer striking metal rang from a forge. A three-foot-long key hung over the entrance—evidence of the blacksmith’s skill, perhaps? Except neither Valda’s nor Huw’s house had a lock on the door. Harder to identify was the house with a white banner nailed to the door. What did it signify?

There was no market, no temple—not even one to Loma—no tavern, no inn.

Shading her eyes, Sara looked out across the flat-bottomed valley the village sheltered in. Sheep dotted a pasture like puffs of cloud, and several fields away she saw a group of men haying.

She had just reached the end of the village’s dusty main street when Julen came out of one of the houses.

Sara spun on her heel and hurried around the side of the nearest building. She put her back to a wall and waited tensely for Julen to call her name, but he must not have seen her.

She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet so she circled behind the row of houses. Instead of another street, she found a sluggish, brown creek lined with willows. Large backyards butted against the creek’s banks. Every yard had chickens, but only two had pig pens and one a tethered goat. On the other side of the creek were vegetable gardens.

Everything had seemed so clear when her father explained it in Temborium. The King of Slaves had attacked their country with strange and terrible dark magic and she had to find a way to counter it before he attacked again.

But slave magic, though powerful, seemed terrible only to the person making the sacrifice. So far she had seen no indication that Kandrith was linked to the massacre on Lord Favonius’s estate, whereas the Qiph were clearly involved.

She hadn’t met the King yet, but she had trouble believing Lance’s father could be evil.

As she wrestled with the problem, she happened upon a group of six girls, ranging in age from about four to thirteen, skipping rope with braided twine.

Intent on their game, they did not see her. Each girl wore a different colored dress, and the verses of their rhyme matched their colors. Sara watched, charmed.

A tall, dark-haired girl was first.

“Rowena’s the girl all dressed in red, if it wasn’t glued on she’d lose her head. Red is the color of…”

“Heart’s blood!” shouted Rowena.

Sara fingered her own red dress and thought critically that the washed-out color verged on pink, not at all like blood.

Rowena jumped out, and another girl jumped in. This one wore yellow to match her blond pigtails. They sang a different verse, ending with, “Yellow is the color of…”

“The Beast’s stare!” shouted the girl.

The banner nailed to Shandy house had been yellow. Sara kept listening on the fringes of the willows as they named green the color of the Budding Leaf, gray as Tomorrow, White as Truth and Brown as Mercy.

Then one of the younger girls, a red-headed moppet in green, suddenly spotted Sara and dropped her end of the rope. She pointed.

Sara smiled and walked up to them. “Hello.”

The little girls fell silent.

They must not see many strangers here. Sara made an effort to be friendly. “I enjoyed your song, but I was wondering something.”

Before she could ask what orange stood for, Rowena, the oldest girl, suddenly stepped forward, her wide mouth working as if with fear. She pointed a finger almost in Sara’s face. “Look at her eyes!” she said harshly. “Blue for devil pride. She’s one of
them
.”

“What—” Sara started.

The red-headed little girl ran shrieking in terror and was quickly followed by the others in a stampede, scattering to their separate houses. One of them knocked over a blond boy, who was barely old enough to walk. He immediately set up a horrendous howl as he sat in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. His noise in turn set off the barnyard fowl. They flapped their wings and added to the cacophony.

Sara didn’t have the slightest idea what had just happened. Her stomach flipped, but she ignored it, focusing on the boy. Was he hurt? Should she get Lance?

“Kieron! You get away from her!” Rowena yelled.

The little boy kept crying and waved pudgy fists in the air.

Rowena came closer, within five feet of Sara, body shaking. Though tall, she had almost no bosom and was so bony her wrists looked mannishly big. “Kieron, I said come here.”

Sara listened in disbelief. Why didn’t the girl pick her little brother up? “I don’t see any blood,” Sara said coolly. “He was likely more startled than hurt.” She moved closer.

“No!” Rowena yelled, almost sobbing. “Get away from him! Devil pride! Devil pride!” She stooped, picked up a lump of dirt and threw it at Sara.

It hit Sara’s arm, leaving a streak on the sleeve. “Stop that right now,” Sara ordered tightly.

Rowena skipped back a couple of paces, then snatched up some stones and threw them in quick succession. One hit Sara’s chin, drawing blood, the other stung her elbow. “Get!” she yelled, as if Sara were a stray dog.

Murder swelled in Sara’s heart. She’d teach the little brat not to attack strangers! But adults began to spill out of the houses: an older man with a limp, a grandmother holding a half-plucked chicken and the woman who was probably Rowena and Kieron’s mother. They all had the same frightened but determined look on their face.

A dog two yards over got to its feet and began to bark.

It was all too much, too strange; Sara hastily raised her hands. “I’m going!” She headed toward the the third house from the end where she could see sheets flapping in the breeze.

“That’s right, go!” Rowena yelled, elated.

Sara was almost there when a final stone cracked into her forehead.

She staggered. Instinct kept her going. Five more steps. There, safe.

Once sheltered by the wall she bent over, feeling shaky and scared, close to tears. She touched her forehead and flinched from the swelling bump she found there.

What had just happened? She’d done nothing to warrant Rowena’s attack or make the villagers fear her.

Valda hadn’t guessed that she was from the Republic, but Rowena had known instantly—and hated her.

Her forehead hurt, and her chin was bleeding. Reluctantly, Sara dragged herself inside.

She still didn’t see Valda, but the gray curtain was tacked back. Lance was awake, half-propped up by pillows and looking very weak. Julen sat beside him on a kitchen stool.

Both of them exclaimed when they saw her.

“You’re hurt,” Lance said. “Come here and let me heal you.” He reached out, but Sara ignored him. She wasn’t going to risk him having a relapse for a goose egg.

“What happened to you?” Julen demanded, ushering her to sit on his stool.

“I—” Sara had to stop and swallow. “A girl threw stones at me.”

“Why?” Julen frowned.

“I don’t know. She just—” Sara took a deep breath and told the whole story. “Why were they frightened?” she beseeched Lance. Her head ached abominably. “Why does everyone hate me?”

“They don’t hate you,” Lance said strongly. “They’re just afraid. Don’t you remember what happened in Gatetown?”

“Gatetown?” Sara remembered the man who’d stepped on her dress and the insults from the crowd. “But I’m wearing a Kandrithan dress now.” Her head felt muzzy, and she couldn’t seem to think properly. “I don’t understand.”

“Your dress may be red, but there is a superstition in Kandrith that the eyes mirror the soul.” Lance paused, then continued gently, “Your eyes are blue, Sara.”

She frowned at him. Most Temborians had blue eyes, just as Elysinians had green, and Gotians brown eyes.

“I’ve met enough Republicans to know not all so marked are blue servants, but most Kandrithans do not. I know you’re not evil, Sara.” He patted her hand.

Sara pulled back. “Evil? What are you talking about?”

Lance looked surprised—and troubled. “I know blue is no longer shunned in your country, but you must know what it stands for.”

Sara shook her head.

“Must we?” Julen snorted. He, of course, had green eyes. “We have no idea what superstition you’re prattling on about, and neither do we care. Lady Sarathena has been viciously assaulted, and I demand that this girl be arrested.”

Lance cursed. “I’m sorry, Sara. After what happened in Gatetown, I should have made certain you understood. The color blue is shunned in Kandrith because of blue devils.”

Rowena had said something about “devil pride”, but Sara still didn’t understand. “What are blue devils?”

Lance sighed. “Blue devils are men who have knowingly or unknowingly sacrificed their souls to the Dark God for power.”

“Of course.” Julen smirked cynically. “The talk is always of souls when demons enter the tale.”

“Not demons, bodiless blue devils.” Lance sagged back against the pillows as if the conversation had exhausted him.

“Why blue? Wouldn’t black be a more appropriate color?” Julen mocked.

“Blue devils are blue because they’re blue.” Lance closed his eyes.

“Blue-skinned men? How…interesting.”

Sara didn’t find Julen funny. “He means blue eyes.”

“No,” Lance said without opening his eyes. “Blue servants—men who serve the devils—are said to have blue eyes. Blue devils
are
blue. The Watchers say so. The devils are why we have the Watcher and the Guardian at the Gate. The Dark God is jealous of the Goddess, and he hates Kandrith for nearly all of us here pray to Loma. The Watcher keeps the blue devils out.”

Sara studied Lance closely. He must be exhausted; he was starting to ramble.

“If they’re bodiless, why do they need a Gate? Why can’t they fly over the mountains?” Julen asked, in the tones of one poking holes in a story.

Lance smiled faintly, still with his eyes closed. “Asked my father that once. He said…the Dark God offended the God of Air once…killed His wife, or told Him she’d betrayed Him so that the God of Air killed her Himself…forget which. If the blue devils try to go over…God of Air…destroys…them…” Lance nodded off.