Well Of The Damned Part 21

"After almost four weeks o'this, you got to wonder if the rumors're true."

"Bah! Just lies born o'jealousy."

Cirang quit listening as her mind spun. As a child, she'd followed her parents to the temple every month to pay homage to the G.o.d Asti-nayas, but she'd never truly believed in an all-powerful supernatural force that ruled people's lives. Tyr had subscribed to the Nilmarion belief that humans were spiritually governed by twelve G.o.ds, not just one. Though the two faiths were different, the people of Thendylath and Nilmaria shared a common goal: a good life and a better afterlife. A more prosperous life. More power, more money, more s.e.x, more wisdom, greater health. Communing with the Savior Asti-nayas by drinking the blessed water within the temple was said to grant these things and more to worshipers He deemed worthy.

In her waterskins, Cirang had the power to enlighten the people of Ambryce and make them see that Asti-nayas was but a fairy tale. Once she gave them this, they would know the twelve true G.o.ds and worship them properly. For that, they would owe her. They would do things for her, just as they'd done for Tyr.

Inspired by her new purpose, she turned the horse back the way she'd come and circled around the central merchant district to avoid the traffic while she formed a plan in her mind: to hide in the temple until she was sure it was safe to leave the city. Yes, it was risky, but the payoff was well worth it. The chances of Kinshield looking for her there were slim. She pulled off the mail shirt, stuffed it into her knapsack and then rode to the temple to scout the area.

The Spirit of the Savior Holy Temple of Asti-nayas was one of the most beautiful buildings in Ambryce with its tall, arched roof and four bells in the belfry that rang the hour from dawn until midnight. Its reddish bricks stood out against the dull beige and gray of the surrounding shops and houses. The cas.e.m.e.nt windows were made from different colored gla.s.s, arranged in patterns that resembled symbols of the faith. Before she could get started, she needed a place to keep the horse for a few days.

Just down the street, a sign reading The Good Knight Inn hung by one corner from the eve of a small, dilapidated building, and swung in the breeze with a rhythmic squeak of its rusty chain. She tied her horse to the hitching post, jogged up the porch steps and opened the door. A musty smell a.s.saulted her nose, and the floor creaked under her as she approached the counter.

A man pushed past an ugly brown curtain. He was average height with graying hair, and his right arm ended just below the elbow, probably from crossing the wrong person. "Help you, Lady Sister?" he asked.

"I need a room for a couple of days," she said, ignoring the erroneous t.i.tle. She should have taken Calinor's warrant tag from his body so when she wasn't wearing the mail, she would have another badge to win people's trust. That was a problem she could address later.

"You got a horse?"

Cirang nodded.

"Then that'll be five pielars per night."

She paid the man for three nights and held her hand out for the key.

"We got no keys here. Take whichever room you like. They're all empty. Bar the door from the inside. If you got somethin' valuable you want to keep safe, you can leave it with me."

He followed her outside and whistled for the stable hand. A boy of about twelve sprinted over, gave the horse's neck a pat and untied the reins. "What's his name?" he asked.

She didn't know. It had a broad, golden face with a white streak that went halfway down, and a neatly trimmed forelock of darker gold. The first name that came to mind was Calinor. Naming the horse after the 'ranter who'd hunted Tyr for so long was a symbol of her domination over the slain battler. She settled on a shortened version of it. "This is Calin," she told him as she untied the saddle bag.

"Come on, Calin," he said softly. "Let's get you some hay."

Cirang chose the room farthest from the inn's office. A rope dangled through a hole in the door up near the top, and when she pulled it, the bar on the inside lifted, and the door swung open.

It was about ten feet square with a wide bed, small table with a pair of candles atop it, and two stools. With the door barred shut, the only light came in through the cracks between the door and its frame and the gap around the rope pull. She set her knapsack on the stool and saddlebag on the table, unstrapped her weapons, and lay down. The bed was straw-filled and lumpy, but better by far than any bed in a gaol cell.

Chapter 38.

Uncaring about the rain tapping his head, Gavin stormed towards the stable, with Daia and Brawna following behind. Gavin grabbed Golam's reins, mounted and started off, with the others scrambling to catch up.

"If we hurry to the market," Daia said, catching up to him on her horse, "perhaps you can find Cirang before Queen Feanna even arrives."

He nodded, having already formed the same plan. It gave him comfort to know Daia understood him well enough to antic.i.p.ate his thoughts, his plans, even his words. Should have married her instead, he thought angrily.

"Rikard," he yelled as he approached the gate. "That woman who left the message. She's a traitor, murderer and thief and needs to be brought to justice. I need whatever armsmen you can spare to search the city and apprehend her."

Rikard's jaw dropped open. "But she was wearing your colors, my liege."

"She murdered a true First Royal Guard and stole that armor. Arm your men with a description of her and send as many as you can."

"Yes, sire. Most of us are preparing for the queen's outing, but I'll awaken those who guard at night. Oh, and sire? You asked whether-"

Calinor rode up on the white mare and reined in.

"Ho there," Rikard said, holding his sword to block Calinor's approach. "Move back."

"He's with me," Gavin said. "Treat him as you would a First Royal Guard."

"Oh. Yes, sire. You asked whether that woman has come to see the queen - and she hasn't - but someone else has. I thought you should know, in case- Gavin c.o.c.ked his head. "Who?"

"Two women. Twins. They didn't say their names, and so we refused to request an audience with her on their behalf."

Alarm made him stiffen. They must have been the twins Adro had seen wandering in the palace. "What did they look like?" Gavin didn't know what business those women would have with the queen, but their business with her was also their business with him.

"They were more erstwhile ladies with gray in their black hair. Blue eyes, angular faces. Nicely dressed but not wealthy. They arrived on foot, as near as I could tell, but I didn't actually see them approach."

"How was their demeanor? Angry? Friendly?"

Rikard looked into the distance for a moment. "I'd say more cool than friendly, but not angry. No more so than some of the merchants or department directors who come to meet with the lordover."

"I want to know what business they have with my wife," Gavin said. "If they return, detain them, but be cautious. At least one of them might have some skill with magic."

"Yes, sire."

Outside the guarded gate, they were met by the throng of eager citizens, now crowded around. Though he understood their excitement at seeing the first king in more than two hundred years, Gavin's mood was already soured. He had neither the time nor the patience to deal with them but didn't want to leave them with a poor impression of him.

"Make way," Daia shouted, taking the lead. She parted the crowd for him.

He held his left hand out and downward as he followed, letting the people touch him as he pa.s.sed. A few tried to grab his hand, perhaps to shake it, but Golam moved steadily forward, ripping his hand from those tenuous grasps. At last, the crowd thinned, and the horses broke into a trot on Daia's lead.

"Calinor says we should take Brewer Street to Worsted," Brawna said from behind him. "The lordover's guard told him they cleared that route so Queen Feanna's carriage can get to the orphanage with the fewest delays."

Gavin turned in his saddle and grinned. "Good idea." The crowd had fallen behind, and most had given up the chase, though the people on the street ahead were beginning to notice his presence. They turned onto Brewer and met three soldiers blocking the road.

"The street's closed," one of them said.

The other two gaped at him. "K-King Gavin?" one said, a young man about Brawna's age with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed gape.

"The same," Gavin said. "Let us pa.s.s."

At that, they snapped to attention and saluted, flattened right hand against the chest, before stepping aside for him.

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," said the first one. "I didn't recognize you."

"You won't make that mistake twice," Gavin said with a grin as he rode by. The street ahead was lined primarily with houses, with no one on the street. Behind him, two of the soldiers teased the other for forbidding the king's pa.s.sage. "Let's stop a minute to check Cirang's location." He hadn't yet mastered using his hidden eye while also doing something else, even something as natural to him as riding his warhorse, and doing so would have been like riding blind.

He sent his hidden eye up over the tops of the buildings. Below, he saw his own haze and those of his party. He continued searching towards the crowd gathered to await Feanna's arrival. All the hazes were normal human hazes of white, yellow and blue. He expanded his search and found Cirang's dark haze in the western part of the city, away from both the orphanage and the shops where the people gathered. Cirang wasn't moving. In fact, she was in a building, and judging from the stillness of her haze, he would swear she was asleep.

He released the hidden eye and nudged Golam forward again. "She's on the west side o'town."

"Leavin' the city?" Calinor asked.

"No, stopped. Maybe at an inn."

"Wouldn't it be odd if she was at the same inn where you and I first met?" Daia asked.

He snapped his fingers. "That's it. I'm certain of it."

"Seriously?"

"Maybe she's resting now so she can travel at night," Brawna said.

"She's got to be exhausted," Gavin said. They all were. He realized then they all looked as haggard as he felt.

"And she's injured," Daia added. "If not for the crowd following you everywhere, we could take her by surprise."

"How about me and Brawna go to the inn while you go get your book?" Calinor whispered. "We don't have to take her alive, right?"

He had a point. There was no need for all four of them to go, and the crowd following him would surely awaken Cirang and give her another chance to slip away. He hated leaving the responsibility to others, especially when it was just the two of them. Cirang had already taken Calinor by surprise once and nearly killed him, and Brawna was a less experienced and skilled battler than Cirang was. "You're right. I'll be in the way if I go, but take those three guards with you." He tossed a thumb back over his left shoulder. "The innkeeper's name is Trayev. Ask him if she's there afore you break down the door."

"Where should we meet you after we're done?" Brawna asked.

"Good question. Guess that depends on when you're done."

Calinor grinned. "No reason to let her sleep. I'll have the innkeeper pound on the door, sayin' something's wrong with her horse. When she comes out, she gets two swords in the ribs, one from each side." He nodded at Brawna, and she smiled back at him.

Gavin clapped Calinor's shoulder. "Then we'll see you at the lordover's for supper."

"Be vigilant. She's crafty," Daia said.

"No one knows that better than I do," Calinor whispered, pointing at his scarred throat.

Chapter 39.

Cirang lay on the lumpy mattress for what seemed hours, turning first onto one side, then the other, unable to shake the nagging feeling something was wrong. She tried to sleep. The G.o.ds knew she was exhausted and needed about three days of doing nothing but sleeping and sitting on her a.r.s.e, not to mention a half hog, a dozen loaves of bread and a barrel of wine. Or ale. She wasn't picky.

Once or twice she started to fall asleep but jerked awake with visions of blood and claws and a sharp gasp of death.

The demon's gone, Cirang. Kinshield's just a man, and not even a fearsome one.

With a sigh, she swung her legs over and sat on the side of the bed, head hung, listening but hearing nothing out of the ordinary.

She put on the mail shirt, strapped on her weapons and slung the knapsack over her left shoulder, but just as she put her hand on the bar to slide it across, something made the fine hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand up. She couldn't have said what it was other than instinct, the warrior's intuition honed by years of fighting.

Pressing her ear to the door, she heard the eery silence that came just before death.

Just in case, she dug into her knapsack for the remainder of the serragan powder, tapped some onto the palm of her left hand, and quietly drew her sword, which she used to push the bottom bar to the right, unlocking the door. She waited. If no one was there, she would feel awfully foolish, but better to feel foolish than to die a third time. If Kinshield had somehow tracked her here, he'd have with him Daia and Brawna at least, and perhaps others as well. The queen had her guards, and the lordover's armsmen would surely be at the king's beck and call. An entire army could be standing outside her door now, ready to arrest her or worse, carry out the king's execution. She had, after all, killed Vandra, the warrant knight Calinor, and the surgeon and his wife, whose names she'd already forgotten.

No, she thought. If he had all those battlers, they'd have just broken down the door and stormed the room.

She lifted the other bar and eased the door open, peeking out through the crack. No one there. She opened the door a bit more and waited, but nothing happened. She looked out, ready for the battlers there to take her down, but the street was clear.

She let the powder fall back into its bag, tied the bag closed and tucked it into the top of her boot. The feeling of being constantly pursued was no delusion, though she felt ridiculously self-conscious. She went around the building to the street and checked in both directions. No one seemed to be paying her any attention, and so she walked calmly but alertly towards the temple.

The entrance consisted of two wide doors into which symbols of divinity and angels and other c.r.a.p were carved. Inside, long benches were arranged in rows on both sides of an aisle that led to the altar, where the golden flames of dozens of candles flickered. Behind the altar on a dais was a tall marble statue of a bald-headed man, his hands clasped in front of his navel. The statue was standing in the sacramental font.

As soon as Cirang walked in, the worry that had nagged her dissipated. So profound was the difference that for an instant, she wondered whether the G.o.d Asti-nayas really was present. She looked up without thinking towards the heavens. More symbols of divinity had been painted on the temple's arched ceiling, many of which were accented by gold and gems. Magic, she knew, was strengthened by gems, but how were gems relevant in a house of worship? She was certain the religious doctrines forbade the use of magic within the temple. Did all temples have gems embedded in their ceilings? She searched her childhood memories of visits to the temple with her parents but couldn't recall ever seeing gems.

Several people were seated on the benches near the front of the nave, closest to the altar, their heads bowed in reverence. At the altar, a cleric in a plain brown robe was chanting, waving his arm in the gesture of subservience. He tapped his forehead, chest, and navel, and bowed. Forehead, chest, navel, bow. No one seemed to notice her enter, and so she took a seat on the bench closest to the door and watched.

One woman, a plump redhead, stood and climbed the three steps beside the altar to ascend the dais. A woman in a white robe bowed with her hands clasped like the statue's were. Under the hood that covered her hair, a lace veil covered her face, obscuring her ident.i.ty. She was perfect.

The acolyte dipped a ladle into the font and poured the water into a small cup. The worshiper raised it to her lips and made the gesture of subservience before handing the cup back and descending the steps. She didn't retake her seat on the bench but instead strode down the aisle towards the door. As she pa.s.sed Cirang, she smiled and nodded.

One by one, the other worshipers repeated the ritual and left. Cirang wondered whether she would be discovered here because the people who were leaving would remember her if questioned by Kinshield. She rose and went to the altar, her footsteps loud on the bare wood floor. Except for the chanting cleric and the acolyte serving the sacramental water, she was alone.

On each side of the altar was a closed door. She opened the one on the right and looked inside, but it was too dark to see anything. The cleric was busy chanting, his eyes closed and his hand moving. The acolyte was kneeling before the statue at the base of the font on the dais and spared her not even a glance. Cirang took one of the candles from the altar and, cupping its flame with a hand, carried it into the room. No one noticed her. Too trusting, she supposed. Their own faith will be their downfall. She snickered.

The room appeared to be a supply room, with several buckets stacked neatly against the wall and three wooden yokes with ropes attached to each end. There was a public well not far away, and so Cirang surmised this was how they kept the font filled. She lifted a hatch in the center of the floor and peered into the darkness. If nothing else, it might be a good place to hide until she could dump the wellspring water into the font. Quietly, she climbed down into the cellar.

About the size of her old gaol cell, it was musty like any other cellar but furnished with a straw-stuffed mattress on the floor, small pillow and wool blanket, and an overturned crate as a table. It would do. It would do nicely.

She set the candle on the crate and her knapsack beside it, and then lowered herself onto the bed with the groan of a much older woman. She didn't know how much sleep she would get until she was discovered, but she was willing to take her chances. If one of the clerics lived here, he'd better be prepared to call on his G.o.d to save him, because nothing else would. She unstrapped her weapons, blew out the candle and embraced the darkness.

With none of the worries that had plagued her at the inn, she fell into a comfortable sleep and dreamed of grateful people dropping coins and gems at her feet as she ladled cup after cup of water into their eager mouths.

Chapter 40.