Well of the Damned

by K. C. May

  “I have only trousers and tunics,” she said, “no dresses or skirts.”

  “Don’t give her the king’s colors,” Adro said, “but old battler clothing’s fine. She was a Viragon Sister, after all.”

  “What?” The battler looked past him into the bathing room. “Cirang, what’re you doing here? What’s going on?”

  “Mirrah, thank Yrys,” Cirang said, turning around, “someone with some sense. Tell this addlebrained meat puppet I’m no malefactor.” She held up her shackled wrists.

  Adro shifted to block Mirrah from entering. “She’s here to answer the king’s questions, not yours. May she borrow your clothing or not?”

  Mirrah shot him a cold glare. “Does Daia know about this?”

  “She was present when the king told me to bring her.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Mirrah marched out of the barracks.

  Adro and Cirang shrugged at each other, and then shared a smile. She wasn’t bad looking — full lips, square jaw and calm, brown eyes. If she was acquitted as she expected, he would invite her for a tumble, or two if it went well.

  A few minutes later, Mirrah returned with Daia, who gave Adro a nod. “Is everything all right?”

  “She hasn’t had a bath in three months,” Adro said. “Thought she wouldn’t want to go before the king smelling like sewage. She just needs something clean and dry to wear.”

  Daia turned to Mirrah. “What’s the problem?”

  “I didn’t know— I mean, I have nothing to give her.”

  Daia went around the barracks opening satchels and chests, rummaging through other battlers’ belongings until she found a clean set of beige clothing, which she shoved into Adro’s arms. With a wordless glare at Mirrah, Daia stormed out.

  “How about taking the shackles off while I bathe?” Cirang asked.

  Adro unlocked and removed them. “Don’t try anything you’ll regret.”

  He waited in the doorway, his back to Cirang, while she bathed with the assistance of two serving girls. The temptation to turn and look at her, to see her lean, muscular and completely nude body was strong. The fact that she sang to herself and chattered at him made resisting even harder. The muscles in his neck twitched, and every time she asked him a question, like was he married or wasn’t it difficult to get a warrant tag with a brand on his arm, he felt the overwhelming need to clear his throat before answering. Old urges bubbled to the surface, and he tamped them back down as best he could. A visit to the brothel later would help.

  Finally, the sounds of water splashing stopped. “Give me the clothes,” she said.

  “Please?” Adro prompted.

  “Give me the clothes now, or I’ll go before the king naked.”

  Adro sighed and tossed the clothes onto the floor behind him. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be polite.”

  Cirang snorted. “On the contrary. It would wound me deeply.”

  The sumptuous sound of cloth rustling made sweat break out in his armpits. It had been years since he’d been with a woman who wasn’t being paid for her company.

  “All right,” she said. “I suppose you’ll want to put the shackles back on me.”

  When he turned around and saw his prisoner, clean and dressed with her wet hair combed back, he breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes went to her full lips, now pink and alluring. He didn’t know what it was about her, but she tempted him in ways he hadn’t been tempted in many years. Not since Gavin Kinshield had carved his initials into Adro’s forearm, branding him as a malefactor for his crimes of seduction and debauchery.

  Chapter 15

  Cirang limped ahead of her escort with iron shackles binding her wrists. Her feet beat a crooked rhythm on the floor compared to Adro’s steady one, while the chain between her hands jingled.

  She suspected he was watching her backside as he followed, directing her through the palace. She could tell he wanted her, and perhaps she’d let him have her in exchange for a favor of her choosing. He was fairly handsome with his blond hair and blue eyes, but she suspected he knew his dimples made women swoon. He used them like they were a weapon.

  On any other day, she might have better enjoyed the palace’s wide hallways, high, sculpted ceilings and ornamental mouldings, the wood-paneled walls, marble floors and lofty bearing. Powerful men and women had walked these halls, leaving behind a palpable sense of significance. Today, though, she thought forward to the king’s pronouncement. He alone would decide her fate. Convincing him to release her would be her life’s biggest challenge.

  Lilalian Whisperblade rounded a corner and stopped short on seeing her. Cirang gave her a half-smile. The last time she’d seen Lila was when the two of them had served Brodas Ravenkind in his quest for the throne.

  Over the years, they’d at times been intimate, though for Cirang’s part more out of a desire for advancement within the Sisterhood than any kind of attraction to or preference for women. She would do it again if she thought it might help her cause. Lila had put in a good word to the former guild master on Cirang’s behalf on more than one occasion and had a fondness for Cirang that had seemed to run deeper than friendship or the typical camaraderie of belonging to the only guild of women battlers.

  “Lila, is that you?” she asked, pausing. “You changed your hair.” For years, Lila had worn her long, blond hair so tightly braided, it pulled the sides of her face taut. Now her hair was cropped short, almost to her skull, making the blue of her eyes more prominent. “You’re looking well.”

  “Cirang,” Lila said with a pained expression. “I wish I could say the same. You look haggard. Gaol doesn’t agree with you.”

  “Your treason has been forgiven, and you walk freely in the palace, whereas mine has not, and I walk in shackles with a guard. Perhaps a word from you to our king would help convince him what a loyal and obedient servant-of-the-sword I am.”

  “No,” Lila said flatly, her face reddening. “Even after being freed from Ravenkind’s influence, you made your choice to stand by him. I can’t help you.”

  “I wasn’t freed until he was dead. You must believe me. My necklace was made from a different gem than yours was.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I believe you,” Lila said, “but I wish you luck convincing King Gavin.”

  “It matters to me.” Looking up seductively through her lashes, Cirang reached out with her shackled hands to caress Lila’s arm.

  “The king’s waiting,” Adro said, pushing her lightly from behind.

  Cirang was surprised at how easily playing the seductress came to her and wondered whether Adro could be plied with her charms. “I miss you, Lila,” she threw back over her shoulder, though she couldn’t see the blonde’s reaction. She could only hope whatever affection Lila still felt for her would be useful someday.

  “Listen,” Adro said quietly as he gripped her upper arm, “when you meet King Gavin, don’t bother plying him with flattery. He won’t be softened by pretty words.”

  “Do I strike you as the flattering sort?” Cirang shot back.

  “You could stand to be more polite. Contrite, even.”

  “I did nothing wrong, and I won’t apologize for the misdeeds of others. Keep your inane opinions to yourself.” She wondered if this man ever shut up.

  “Fine. I’m only trying to help.”

  A guard standing outside a door crossed her arms at their approach. “Well, if it isn’t the traitor. I’ll bet Brawna would like to see you now, maybe hawk up a wet one right in your face as you did to her.”

  Cirang recognized the round face and curly, brown hair of Ragetha, a weak-minded girl who couldn’t hold her liquor. She’d fallen off a three-stair stoop after a couple of ales last winter. “How’s the knee?” Cirang asked with a smirk.

  “It’s fine.” There was a snarl in her voice. “How’s the shoulder?” She clapped Cirang hard on the left shoulder.

  Pain shot through her shoulder and chest, buckling her knees with its intensity. She let out a groan.

 
Adro, his hand still gripping her arm, kept her on her feet. “Whoa. Careful.”

  “Godless trull,” Cirang said under her breath before remembering the insult was distinctly Nilmarion. She had to be more careful.

  “Wait here,” Ragetha said. “I’ll see if the king is ready to receive you.” She knocked lightly on the door, slipped in, and shut the door behind her.

  Excitement replaced the pain, racing through Cirang’s arms to her fingers, which wiggled uncontrollably while she waited. Her ability to convincingly portray herself as Cirang Deathsblade would be put to the test because Daia had known Cirang, and Kinshield had met Sithral Tyr. With the memories of both at her command, she was confident that, without his shadow reading ability, Kinshield would soon realize he couldn’t prove she had committed any crime and would be forced to let her go free.

  The door opened, and Ragetha exited. “Go in. He’ll see you now.” She stepped aside to let them pass.

  Cirang entered a room lined with bookshelves and comfortably furnished with a desk and four chairs facing it. Gavin Kinshield stood beside the desk, leaning against the mantle of a grand fireplace with his arms crossed. He was the same man Tyr had known – enormous in both height and build, and imposing with a long scar disfiguring one side of his face his two-day beard couldn’t cover. The sword on his back, its gemmed hilt rising above his left shoulder, added to his impressive figure.

  The last time she had seen him, whether as Cirang or as Sithral Tyr, Kinshield had been wearing stained beige and brown cotton, with scuffed boots and a single leather glove on his left hand as he faced first Tyr’s associate, Toren Meobryn, and later Ravenkind at the rune cave. Now the former ’ranter wore crisp, black trousers and shiny boots, and a blue tunic embroidered with white. Although the shirt was of typical battler fashion with loose sleeves and a V-shaped neckline, it was expertly tailored to fit his muscular physique. Still, there was something different about him, something that went deeper than fancy clothes and a jeweled sword.

  When she walked in, he was standing with his shoulders square, one knee bent and a boot turned onto its tip in a comfortable, confident pose, but when he turned his eyes on her, his face went dark. His body tensed, and he clenched his fists as if he were trying to restrain himself.

  On the other side of the desk and similarly clothed stood the swordswoman Daia Saberheart, hands clasped before her. Cirang had known her from the Viragon Sisterhood, where they both learned and honed their skills as battlers, but Sithral Tyr knew her as his executioner. The memory of those impossibly light-blue eyes, hard with concentration and intent as she plunged her sword into Tyr’s gut, plagued Cirang’s darkest dreams. Sweat formed under her arms, but she clenched her teeth and gripped her will, determined not to show weakness.

  Kinshield gestured to a chair a couple feet in front of him. “Sit.” He positively seethed, every vein in his neck and forehead standing erect almost to bursting.

  Cirang bowed low before him before sitting as instructed, with her knees together and her shackled wrists lying in her lap. Adro stood behind her. She was confident she could put on a convincing show, but she wanted to give the appearance of being demure and respectful.

  At the desk sat a striking blond man with a mustache, a quill in his hand ready to write. “Good afternoon, Cirang,” he said. He had a refined look about him — chiseled features, well-dressed, and obviously learned enough to be skilled with a pen. “I’m Edan Naredus, epithet Dawnpiper, and I’ll be writing the questions and your answers for the record. Please speak clearly and don’t nod or shake your head or use any hand gestures in reply. All answers must be verbal.”

  On the desk before Edan were two books, one of whose cover was familiar — a journal Tyr had once owned.

  The fact that Crigoth Sevae’s journal was within reach meant something. The most valuable information in it had to do with the Rune of Summoning, but Kinshield already knew about that. According to the stories she’d heard in gaol, he’d used the rune to rid the realm of the demon Ritol and end the beyonder invasion. Was he looking for something else?

  “I understand,” Cirang said. “It’s my life’s greatest honor to make your acquaintance, my liege. Daia, you’re looking prim as usual.” She smirked, knowing Daia would expect her to be insulting rather than congenial. “Before we begin, I want to lodge a complaint about the Lordover Tern.”

  “What complaint?” Daia said with a scowl. Her feud with her father had been well known at the Sisterhood, and so it surprised Cirang that she would leap so quickly to the lordover’s defense.

  “His warden ravished me, yet the lordover did nothing to punish the abuser or keep me safe in his gaol. Surely the king would find him complicit in the attack.”

  “She’s lying,” Daia said to the king, pointing.

  “Not only that,” Cirang said, “he doesn’t give me enough to eat or clean rags for my menses. I’m treated like an animal, though the charges against me will be proven untrue. I haven’t had a bath in three months.”

  “You look clean to me,” Edan said.

  “She was filthy when I retrieved her,” Adro said. “I let her bathe in the barracks before I brought her here.”

  Kinshield narrowed his eyes at her, though he didn’t seem to be looking so much at her as through her. “Something’s wrong with her haze.”

  “My what?” Cirang asked.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Daia asked.

  He continued to stare. “She’s completely kho-bent, like a beyonder. All the zhi’s been removed.”

  “What do you mean?” Daia asked.

  “I’ll explain later. Adro, when you take her back, tell the warden I want to talk to him about these accusations.”

  Adro nodded.

  Kinshield studied her for several heartbeats. “Who are you?”

  “I was born Cirana Delusiol, but I answer to the name Cirang Deathsblade.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not who you are, is it?”

  Cirang smirked. He could try to reason it out, but he was just a stupid ’ranter. Chances were good he knew nothing of soulcele tokens and the mystical practices of Nilmaria.

  Edan asked, “Is she not Cirang Deathsblade?”

  Kinshield glanced at Daia. “Is she?”

  Daia crossed her arms. “She looks and sounds like Cirang.”

  Kinshield nodded as he continued to study Cirang. “I remember her face from the rune cave, helping Ravenkind escape. She’s different now.”

  Daia tapped her chin with one finger, the same gesture her father, the Lordover Tern, had used. “You’re right. Could three months in gaol have taught her some humility?”

  “That’s not it,” he said. “She’s not even the same person.”

  From the way Kinshield’s eyes sparkled, Cirang could tell he was toying with her. Did he know? How could he?

  “Remember what Jennalia told you?” Kinshield asked.

  “I remember, but I can’t say I fully believed it.”

  “Who’s Jennalia?” Edan asked, scribbling furiously. “And what did she say?”

  Daia narrowed her eyes at Cirang. “Jennalia’s the mage who enchanted Gavin’s sword. When I showed her the ugly, green cat figurine I found in the dead Nilmarion’s satchel, she warned me to bury it. Cirang knows what I mean, don’t you?”

  Before Ravenkind had summoned the demon Ritol, she’d found the figurine in Daia’s saddle bag and was curious about its surprising weight. It was heavier than its size suggested, but she didn’t know what was inside. Sithral Tyr did. It was the soulcele token immuring his tainted soul, and it had fallen to the ground and shattered when the demon killed Cirang. Tyr’s spirit had then moved from one broken vessel to another.

  Kinshield studied her a moment longer. “What part did you play in the death of my brother, Rogan Kinshield?”

  She decided this time to tell Cirang’s story, because Kinshield’s new wife and sister-in-law had been witnesses to Cirang’s presence at the beheading. They had undoubtedly to
ld him what they’d seen and heard. “I tried to stop him. I tried to convince Ravenkind that showing mercy would be in his own best interest, but he was bent on revenge.”

  Daia looked at Gavin. “Ask her about JiNese. The story she told Lilalian was that I killed her during a fight with beyonders, but I wasn’t even there. Ask her what happened.”

  “Awright,” Kinshield said, “tell us how JiNese died.”

  She cursed under her breath. This was the one murder Cirang had committed that she had no plausible excuse for. Sithral Tyr had not been present, and Daia knew Cirang and JiNese had been traveling together, returning to Sohan from Tern. She opened her mouth, intending to weave an elaborate, impromptu lie, but before she could utter a single word, Kinshield held up a hand to stop her.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I’ll know when you’re lying. If you lie to me, this’ll go worse for you.”

  Judging from the inability of the lordover’s shadow reader to separate truth from fiction in Cirang’s words, she doubted Kinshield could do any better. “What I told Lilalian was mostly true. We were attacked by beyonders on the way back to Sohan, only it was I who threw the knife – Daia’s knife – and accidentally hit JiNese in the back. I altered the story to blame Daia.”

  He crossed his arms. “I warned you. Lying at your hearing is a crime. It’ll be added to your list of offenses.”

  She gaped at him, shocked he could discern the lie where the other shadow reader couldn’t. She set her jaw angrily. “We had an argument, all right? An argument about Daia. She was going to ruin my chances for the promotion the guild master had promised me. Harsh words turned to pushing, and pushing turned to fists. The next thing I knew, she was lying in the dirt, and I was pulling my knife out of her back. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do, and so I took the knife I’d stolen from Daia, and put it into the wound.” She looked up, willing tears to flood her eyes. She pinched the skin between her thumb and forefinger to help. “I didn’t intend to kill her. I was overcome with anger and lost my senses. After that, I swore that I would never hit someone in anger again.”