Daughter of Witches

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Jaren turned his head. The Templeman fell back a pace, and his sword came up. Jaren smiled. “I am Cilhar,” he said softly. “What will come is never sure. Remember that, Templeman.”

  “When you have finished discussing the nature of the future with your prisoners, Hirnlan, perhaps you can find time to explain to me just what has been going on,” said a new voice.

  The Templeman lowered his sword and straightened abruptly. “High Master,” he croaked.

  Cold chills ran down Ranira’s back as she scrambled to her feet. The High Master of the Eyes of Chaldon was the most feared of the Temple priests, for he controlled the Eyes, and the Eyes of Chaldon hunted down disbelievers and witches and punished those who dared to disobey the dictates of the god. It was a measure of the gravity of Lykken’s offense that the High Master himself had come to the Inn of Nine Doors. In all her life, Ranira could not remember hearing of a foreigner attempting to stay in Drinn during the Festival. The crowd parted as the new arrival moved toward the Templeman. In the fist instant that she saw him clearly, Ranira swayed in shock. The High Master of the Eyes of Chaldon was the priest Gadrath! She bit back a gasp of fear and dismay, and tried to melt into the press of people.

  He did not notice her at once; his attention was on the unfortunate Templeman. “I asked for an explanation,” he said in a tone of exaggerated patience.

  The guard paled and swallowed. “Lord, there was a disturbance. He,” pointing at Jaren, “struck this man before we could intervene. I ordered him back to await your pleasure and judgment. The other attacked him as he turned to go, but I knocked him out before he could do any real harm.”

  “Indeed?” Gadrath’s eyes narrowed. “You must think me a fool, Hirnlan. I am not blind, to overlook a wounded man and a bloody sword. Make your tale complete, or share the fate I choose for this one!” Gadrath nudged Lykken’s recumbent form with his foot. The innkeeper stirred and moaned.

  “High Master, Revered Lord, he wrenched my sword from my hand without warning and struck the foreigner before I could stop him,” the guard stammered.

  “Without warning?” Gadrath’s smile was half sneer. “Then you shall tend the snake pits in the Temple until you know the meaning of the words. If you survive, that is; the snakes of Chaldon are swift as well as silent.”

  The Temple guard stumbled back, and people recoiled from him in horror, as if the mere touch of his clothing might force them to share his punishment. Gadrath smiled again and turned to another of the Temple guardsmen. “To lay hands upon a Templeman is death. The innkeeper is of no use to us. See to it.”

  The guard hauled Lykken to his feet and prodded the dazed man toward the door of the dining hall. Ranira was too numb to feel horror as she watched them leave. A muffled scream came a moment later, cut off abruptly. Ranira shuddered, and tears came unbidden to her eyes. Lykken had been cruel, greedy, and stupid, but at least he had been familiar. Now she was alone.

  Her reverie was broken by the sound of her name.

  “Ranira? Oh, a bondwoman. You say he accused her of bewitching him? Well, where is the girl then?” A priest gestured in answer to Gadrath’s question. The High Master turned toward her.

  Gadrath’s eyes met hers, and the priest was suddenly, dangerously, still. Then he drew a long breath, and smiled coldly. “So? I must think on your fate, my dear. It will take a moment or two to find something appropriate.” Ranira shivered at the menace in his voice.

  With a brief nod of satisfaction, Gadrath turned away from Ranira to the three foreigners. “These, you will take to the Temple. Hold them in the House of Correction until tomorrow. We will begin the rites of purification after the procession.” The priest paused thoughtfully. “Yes. We will make a public spectacle of the unbelievers. Mid-Festival will be suitable, I think. The inn is confiscated; call an ironsmith to see to the bonding of the staff.”

  Someone on Ranira’s right moaned. Gadrath ignored the sound and looked speculatively toward the frightened crowd of customers. “These others—a fine. You have their names recorded? Then, release them once they have paid; it will give the tale a chance to spread.”

  Turning back to Ranira, Gadrath smiled with cruel satisfaction. “This one comes with us as well. Truly, this will be a great Midwinter Festival! We will revive an old ritual to accompany the new ones. It has been far too long since Drinn has seen a Bride of Chaldon.” He looked sharply at Ranira as he spoke, but she was too numb to react. Gadrath’s smile faded, and he turned abruptly away. “See to it!”

  The Temple guards bowed as the High Master of the Eyes of Chaldon left the room in a swirl of black robes. A murmur of relief swept through the crowd. The remaining Temple priests pulled a table into position beside the door, and brown-robed pilgrims began filing slowly past. Coins clinked as they paused briefly at the table. None dared to glance at Ranira or the foreigners; few paid any attention to the small group of servants soon to be bound and then sold to enrich the Temple.

  A guard materialized beside Ranira. “It is time to go, Chosen One.” he said. His tone was respectful, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sword and his eyes were hard. Ranira shuddered once, then gave a jerk of her head. She saw five other guards close in around the three strangers before the Templeman put a hand on her arm and turned her toward the door. Like a sleepwalker, she moved forward into the hall and then out of the inn. She hardly noticed the sound of the door closing behind her, and she did not look back.

  Chapter 5

  THE STREETS OF DRINN were even more crowded than they had been when Ranira reached the inn, but the people moved back with a murmuring that died into silence as the Templemen went by. Ranira followed mindlessly, still dazed by the rapid sequence of events. She saw the fear that she could not feel herself in the faces that drew away from the circle of black robes surrounding her. Twice she thought she saw Shandy in the crowd, but the glimpses were too brief for her to be certain.

  When they reached the Temple, the guards headed east around the wall, away from the great iron gates that opened into the main courtyard. At a small wooden door in the black stone wall, the guards stopped and knocked. A moment later a bald man in black robes opened the door a crack. One of the guards stepped forward, and after a whispered consultation, the door swung wide.

  The hallway inside was dark and windowless. Only the Templeman’s hand on her arm kept Ranira from stumbling during the time it took her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The door-keeper-priest moved silently in front of the guards, carrying a torch that gave off almost as much smoke as it did light. Three times the party halted while the doorkeeper opened heavy doors of wood and iron to allow them to pass.

  The last door, at the end of the hallway, opened into a small open area not really large enough to be called a room. In the opposite wall were two more doors. The doorkeeper went straight to the one on the left and began fumbling with his keys.

  “There,” he said as the door opened. He held out a key to the first guard. “Use the empty cell right at the bottom of the stairs. It will do nicely for now.”

  The Templemen exchanged looks, and the first one stepped forward. “Master Lanarsh,” he said, bowing deeply as he took the key, “I would not presume to question you, but the High Master Gadrath has chosen this one as the Bride of Chaldon. Is there nowhere more suitable?”

  “Not if he wants her guarded well,” the little priest snapped. “And I assume she didn’t volunteer for the honor.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Ranira. Suddenly he darted forward and ripped the veil away from her face.

  Reflexively, Ranira’s hands came up to hide her face. The doorkeeper-priest chuckled. He crumpled the little square of linen and tossed it aside. “She’s pretty enough, but if she’s to be a Bride, something will have to be done about those bruises.”

  “The High Master Gadrath has declared her the Bride of Chaldon,” the guard repeated stiffly.

  “Gadrath is not yet High Priest of the Temple, though he acts like it,” Lanarsh said. “And in this
House I am High Master. As soon as Benillath sends the official declaration, I will set up another room and move her, but not before.”

  The guard bowed again. “As you will it, my lord.”

  The doorkeeper chuckled again and turned away. He handed the single torch to the first guard in an almost absentminded gesture. The guard bowed a third time, then waved the rest forward with his free hand.

  The stairs were narrow and slippery, and the dim light cast by the torch did not make it any easier for Ranira to keep her footing. Behind her she heard grunts and muffled curses as the guards slid on the polished stone. At the foot of the stairs, the guard with the torch stopped and waited while the others finished their descent.

  “Hold this.” The first guard thrust the torch at one of his fellows and began fumbling with the lock on the heavy wooden door at the foot of the stairs. It swung back unexpectedly, and the Templeman stumbled into the cell. One of the other guards snickered, then coughed as the stench reached him.

  “Phew! Smells like Lanarsh hasn’t cleaned these cells since the last Festival,” someone muttered.

  “High Master Lanarsh to you,” another guard said. “And if you want to stay out of the House of Correction, you’ll remember it, too.”

  “We can’t put them in there!” the first speaker objected. The voice sounded young, but Ranira could not tell which of the guards was speaking.

  “Correction isn’t supposed to be pleasant. Come on, let’s get them in and get out of here,” another guard said. There was a mutter of agreement, and Ranira found herself pushed forward into the small, dark opening. She heard a curse as the strangers were shoved in after her, probably Jaren’s voice, from the sound of it. The door clanged shut, plunging the small cell into darkness, and Ranira heard a key turn in the lock.

  No one spoke as the muffled sounds of the guards retreated up the stairs. Ranira reached out and gingerly in the darkness, trying to touch a wall, a person, anything to give herself a sense of direction. She found nothing. Behind her, she heard a rustling sigh, then a sudden, startled exclamation. “Mist!” Simultaneously, there was a flash of light inside the cell. Ranira whirled, blinking against the sudden brightness.

  “It is all right, Jaren. No one is watching us, and I would see this place,” said the dark-haired woman.

  Ranira’s eyes cleared, and she saw Mist standing near the door of the cell. Her left hand was clenched around something at her breast. The right was outstretched, and on her open palm was a globe of silver-blue light.

  Ranira watched, in horrified fascination. “Lykken was right. You are witches!”

  Jaren turned his head to look at her. “Not all of us, and certainly not as you mean the word. Have patience; we have no choice now but to explain.” He looked back at Mist.

  “She will not betray us,” the woman said with serene confidence. Ranira felt a sudden, irrational dislike of her.

  “How can you be sure?” the third member of the group, the “sick boy,” demanded. “She is frightened enough already to call in one of those Temple people, if they could hear her.”

  “Arelnath, you are too suspicious. But if you wish, and she permits, I will use truth trance after we have explained,” Mist said. “Will that content you?”

  “You won’t!” Ranira burst out before the other could reply. In her mind, remembered screams sounded in an old dream of terror. “Anything’s better than burning! I won’t have anything to do with witchcraft. You can’t make me!”

  There was a shocked silence. The silver-blue light in Mist’s hand wavered. “They burn witches in Drinn? No, I cannot believe it,” Mist said at last. “Surely you are mistaken, child.”

  “They burned my parents.” Ranira flung the words at that soft, reasonable voice. “They burned my parents.”

  She turned away, shaking with sobs. From far away, she heard Jaren’s low murmur, “It is no wonder she is frightened.”

  “And it is no wonder the Empire of Chaldreth does not wish to be open about itself,” Mist responded with anger. “I knew the Temple of Chaldon did not approve of magic—but this!”

  “There is worse, I fear,” Jaren said grimly. “I tried to warn you, but you insisted.”

  “On staying? But it was the only way to find out what we need to know,” Mist said.

  “What good will knowing do us, or your Temple, if we don’t survive?” Arelnath asked.

  Ranira jerked around. “Survive? You’re dreaming.” Suddenly she was shaking uncontrollably, and her voice began to climb. “We are all going to die. Die!”

  “She’s hysterical,” a voice said beside her.

  “No, Arelnath, I will see to her,” Mist said just as Ranira was seized in a strong grip. For a moment, she fought back; then the silver light flared once, blindingly bright. Ranira fell back as if she had been slapped, and the hands loosened their hold. Ranira found herself staring into the face of Arelnath.

  “I’m all right now,” Ranira said. “Just leave me alone.”

  Ignoring Arelnath’s raised eyebrows and Mist’s look of hurt, Ranira turned away. She had to clench her hands to keep them from trembling. None of these foreign fools seemed to realize what was going to happen to them, she thought. Were they so ignorant that they expected to be released at the end of the Festival?

  Jaren’s voice cut across her reflections, shaking her back into present reality. “What is it you fear?” Ranira did not respond, but the voice came again, insistently. “As the Bride of Chaldon, you surely will not share our fate, whatever that may be. What is it you fear?”

  Ranira turned slowly to face him. A cold calmness descended on her. The only way to stop these stupid questions and unrealistic attempts at reassurance was to tell these people exactly what was happening, so that they would no longer pretend there was some way out of this. Well, she would do so, and she hoped they would appreciate what they heard. Her voice surprised her by being low and steady as she began to speak.

  “You still do not understand, do you? The Midwinter Festival of Chaldon will run for six more days. When the Highest Born agrees that I am to be the Bride of Chaldon, I will be moved to another room. They will give me fine robes, and before the rites begin I will be paraded through the streets in them, and the pilgrims will give me gifts. Of course the Temple guards will only be there to protect me. Why would anyone chosen for such an honor want to run away?

  “For three days more I will be seated in the place of honor in the Temple, next to the High Priest, while he teaches the people the new rites and leads them in the old ones. Then the High Priest himself will perform the wedding ceremony. And consummate it. Publicly,” she added as an afterthought. She stared resolutely at the door of the cell. She was determined to finish, to make them understand, so that they would leave her to whatever little peace and sanity she could find and cling to. “When he is finished, the god will take me. For two days, Chaldon will walk in my body and speak with my voice, and there will be nothing left of me at all. On the last day of the Festival, when both moons are full and Chaldon has accepted the other sacrifices, the nine High Masters will kill me as well.”

  “Other sacrifices?” whispered Mist. Her face was white above the short veil she still wore.

  “There are always sacrifices,” Ranira said with a shrug. “You will not be among them, for witches are burned at Mid-Festival. Of course, since you are foreigners who have disobeyed the Law of the Festival, the priests may choose some other death for you, but it will certainly happen at that time.”

  “Then we have at least two days,” Jaren said calmly. He exchanged a long look with Arelnath, then turned to Mist. “Have you learned enough to satisfy you?”

  Mist shook her head. “No, but this close to the Temple of Chaldon, I should have no difficulty. Make your plans. I will be ready.”

  “What do you mean?” Ranira burst out almost against her will. “You can’t escape; the Eyes of Chaldon can find out anything! They are probably listening right now.”

  “Accord
ing to you, we will all die anyway,” Arelnath pointed out. “What does it matter if we try to escape?”

  “Don’t you understand? The Eyes of Chaldon can hear everything you say!” Ranira repeated.

  “We are not being watched now,” Mist said. “I will know if they try.” She gestured with the globe of light.

  “More witchcraft,” Ranira said. She was not reassured; she had seen too many witches and rebels die at the command of the Temple to have any real hope of escape by magic. Still, it seemed to inspire confidence in Jaren, Mist, and Arelnath, and a small part of her was interested in spite of herself.

  “If you are certain no one watches, Mist, perhaps you would be willing to make a few repairs?’’ Jaren said. He gestured toward his left side, and suddenly Ranira realized that it was not the blue-white light that made him look so strange.

  “Jaren! You should have spoken sooner.” Mist’s voice was full of concern as she walked over to him. She examined his side briefly, then motioned to Arelnath. “I have not the concentration to maintain the light, keep watch, and heal as well. You have some training, do you not?”

  “A little. I spent four months in training on your island, but I am a Cilhar mercenary, not one of your sorcerer folk. I can hold the light and the watch-spell for you, but I do not have enough sensitivity to give much warning if someone comes. It would be better if you could watch, as well as heal.”

  Mist frowned. “We will have to take the chance,” she decided. “He has lost too much blood for this to be an easy task.” She gestured at a darkening of Jaren’s green leather tunic which seemed to cover much of his left side.

  Arelnath nodded and reached out. The ball of light shivered as she touched it. For a moment, shadows flickered eerily in the room. Then the light steadied and brightened. The shining globe, yellow now instead of silver-blue, rested lightly in Arelnath’s palm.

  With a nod of approval, Mist turned toward Jaren. Her fingers moved gently, peeling back the leather to expose the place where Lykken’s sword stroke had landed. Ranira watched in silence, feeling both fascinated and embarrassed. She was no stranger to blood and injury, but a sword thrust was a more serious matter than the bones broken in a drunken brawl. Still, the injury looked more painful than dangerous, except for the unusual amount of blood lost because Jaren had been forced to walk to the Temple with the wound untreated.