Well of the Damned

by K. C. May

  People cheered when she exited, and louder when she waved. Though he was taller than nearly everyone in the crowd, except for the few small children sitting on the shoulders of their fathers, from his vantage point, Gavin could only see Feanna from the waist up. He clapped and whistled with the rest of them while he scanned the faces of those around him. If Cirang was here, he would find her, though he still hadn’t seen her haze.

  Suddenly the crowd went quiet. Alarmed, he turned to look at Feanna. His first thought was that Cirang had attacked, but that wasn’t what he saw. His eyes were deceiving him.

  Daia took him by the arm and spun him around. “Don’t look.”

  “What the hell?” He turned back around, resisting her attempts to keep his eyes averted. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing — his wife in the arms of the man he trusted to protect her, while Tennara and Lilalian worked to pull them apart. He started to push his way through the crowd, intending to rip Adro’s head from his shoulders.

  “No,” Daia said, grabbing his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Don’t. You can address the matter privately. This isn’t the time.”

  His eyes burned as he looked down at his champion. His thoughts tumbled, and his fists clenched and unclenched.

  His eyes hadn’t deceived him. His wife had.

  Cirang trembled with excitement as she watched the queen and her guards leave the temple, walking so fast she thought their arses had caught fire. She wished she could follow them, to watch what happened next, but that would have been far too obvious. It was a fairly large building, but the crowd outside was loud enough to hear. They cheered and clapped — and went suddenly silent. Had the queen simply left, their racket would have faded down the road, but they just stopped, as if a giant jar had been placed over them, trapping them with their own noise. Cirang’s curiosity burned within her.

  The remaining worshipers looked up, and one man even got up to see what was happening. If only Cirang could go without giving herself away. The man returned without a word and retook his place on the bench to continue his prayer. The noise outside never returned.

  People came and went through the afternoon and into the evening, their numbers growing once the queen had departed and the men-at-arms no longer restricted access. No one questioned her. No one suspected she was anyone but a proper acolyte performing her duties. A cleric came to take her place at the sacramental font so she could have supper.

  She descended into her little cellar room to get a few coins from her purse and to grab her empty waterskin. The smell from the dead body was growing stronger, and soon it would become noticeable in the rest of the temple. Tonight, after the twelfth hour had rung, she would drag the body outside and dump it in an alley. As she was climbing the ladder, she found the High Cleric waiting at the top for her.

  “Altais,” he said quietly, “I need a word with you.” He was a short man, lean and strong, with a warm but commanding presence, the kind of man Tyr would have enjoyed corrupting.

  She bowed her head. “Yes, High Cleric?” The clerics, nuns and acolytes often assumed names of heavenly bodies like stars and constellations when they took their vows, but she realized she didn’t know his, and she hadn’t asked Marita before she’d died.

  His hesitation was enough to tell her he was annoyed by the way she’d addressed him. “Seer Mirfak. No matter who is taking sacrament, you don’t look at their faces. Do you understand?”

  “Did the queen tell you I looked at her? How would she know?”

  “She didn’t have to,” Mirfak replied. “I saw you from the guidance chamber.”

  She snapped her head up to look into his eyes. Her blood quickened and warmed. “Spying on me?”

  “Calm yourself, acolyte. Pride disrupts the spirit’s poise.” Seer Mirfak put a warm hand on her shoulder. Cirang wanted to push it off, but she restrained herself. “When the Queen of Thendylath comes to our temple, it’s my responsibility to ensure her communion with Asti-nayas is pleasant, uninterrupted by gawkers, and unspoiled by poorly executed ritual. I wanted to assign Seer Nembus to the task, but you assured me yesterday you would carry it out perfectly.” He looked down at her body with hands spread open. “I see something has changed in you, which explains your lapse.”

  Shit. He knew. She was ready to grab him by the robe, push him into the cellar opening and run, but a moment’s hesitation saved her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Altais,” he said gently. “Know your baby is safe in the arms of Asti-nayas now. Are you in pain? Do you need tea?”

  For a moment, Cirang’s mind froze, unable to understand what the hell he was talking about. Then she remembered Marita had been with child. She bowed her head to feign grief and put one hand over her belly the way she often saw pregnant women do. “No, I’ll be all right.”

  The High Cleric touched her head and both shoulders while saying something in a language she didn’t understand. “Be at peace. I’ll have Seer Nembus tend the sacrament for the rest of the evening so you can rest and mourn your loss. This evening, we shall bury the remains.”

  She nodded, but her mind was racing. She would have to cut the baby out of Marita’s body if she wanted to continue her charade. Although she’d completed her objective, she had no idea when Kinshield would leave Ambryce. She had to stay here until he and his puppets were gone. Earlier, she’d glimpsed Brawna on the street between the inn and the temple, evidence they were still actively searching for her.

  “I won’t keep you from your supper. Rest easy, Altais. The Savior is with you.”

  She left through the temple’s rear door, not looking back until she was around the corner, and then she slowed her pace. A smile spread over her face. She’d fooled even someone who knew the dead girl. She could probably walk right past Gavin Kinshield without him noticing her in this robe and veil.

  A fight broke out in the street between two women over a hat. They were snarling and pulling hair and trying to kick and bite and scratch each other, seemingly unmindful of the rain, while bystanders stood, aghast, watching. Two men dressed in fitted trousers and brocaded jackets, presumably their husbands, cheered them on, even tossing coins onto the ground and betting on the outcome.

  Cirang twisted her mouth in thought. She must have given the sacrament to more than a hundred people that day. Though she’d kept her head properly bowed for most of them, she’d seen the trousers of the men and the skirts of the women. She knew without a doubt she’d served these people. She looked around her at the citizens still dressed in their finest clothes, their temple-attending clothes, who walked around with snarls on their faces or leering grins or haughty smirks. The dull quality of their eyes reflected a kindred spirit — a soul like her own that loathed weakness and hungered for riches. The water. It must have changed them. The Well of the Enlightened.

  A thought startled her. Was this what it meant to become enlightened? To recognize that the true nature of the world was chaos and seek to free it from the bonds of order?

  She saw the way others looked at them with disgust or fear on their faces. Those wretched plebs didn’t understand. The enlightened were liberated from the constraints of morality, free to pursue their goals unhindered by fear of reprisal. She had to make them see, for if people thought the enlightened ones mad or violent, they wouldn’t pay money to drink the wellspring water. She’d have to continue to feed them the water secretly through the sacrament. True, it wasn’t likely to make her rich, but she was leaving Thendylath for good anyway. She smirked. It was a hell of a parting gift.

  This is retribution for going back on our bargain, ’ranter king. How does it taste?

  The taller woman in the brawl swung a powerful uppercut that lifted her opponent off her feet and landed her on her back. The victor snatched the crumpled hat from the unconscious woman’s hand and brushed the mud off amid the cheers of her companion.

  Cirang backed away, grinning, and then started up the street with a warm satisfaction. She’d had no idea that this
— the way she’d been since Tyr had first killed the gem smith — this was enlightenment. No wonder Crigoth Sevae wanted to distribute water from the wellspring. He understood. He’d already achieved enlightenment.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the hours that had passed since her last meal, and she made her way up the street to a tavern, watching for battlers or armsmen who might look twice at her. In the past, she had to put up with the jeering men who were still unused to seeing armed women wearing men’s clothing, but now she was dressed as an acolyte.

  When she walked in, the place suddenly quieted. The patrons, mostly men, looked down as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. Cirang smiled under the veil and wondered how easy it would be to get a free meal. She took a seat at a table in the back corner.

  “Doma,” the tavern wench said with her head bowed respectfully. “What can I get for you?”

  Cirang supposed she couldn’t order ale without raising every eyebrow in the tavern. Wine was probably acceptable, but she was thirsty, and wine would dull her thoughts and make her sloppy. “Only bread and water,” she said. “I haven’t enough money for anything else.”

  A man sitting nearby turned his head slightly. “Get what you want, Doma,” he said softly. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “Why would you do that?” Cirang asked.

  “My sister took vows at the temple in Keyes. She gave up everything to serve the Savior. I hope someone’s showin’ a kindness to her.”

  Cirang inclined her head. What a sap. She bet he would give up some coins if she asked, but she would wait a few days, maybe start coming here barefoot while she waited for news of Kinshield’s departure to circulate. She ordered meat and bean pie. Once it was set before her, she folded her veil just enough to reveal her mouth. She devoured her meal, barely tasting it. It calmed the rumble in her belly, which was all that mattered.

  She listened to the conversations around her while she ate.

  “Couldn’t believe my eyes,” one man said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d’ve thought the blond buck was King Gavin.”

  “She went after it, didn’t she? Tongue and everything, right in front o’half the city,” someone else raved.

  “Those two women battlers looked just as surprised as everyone else.”

  “Did you see the blonde one? She looked ready to run the buck through on the spot.”

  Cirang suppressed a chuckle. What delicious mayhem! She was sorry she missed it, but couldn’t help but wonder whether the water also caused uncontrollable randiness, or was their attraction to each other already there, just waiting to be set free?

  Finished with her meal, she rose and put her hands on the sap’s shoulders. “Come to the temple later to take the sacrament and receive a blessing from the Savior Himself.”

  “I will, Doma. May He bless you for your good work.”

  Cirang filled her waterskin at the public well and returned to her cellar room. She sat cross-legged on the pallet and went over her plan. She would need to buy perhaps a hundred waterskins to start with, and a wagon to hitch her horse to. A small one was best, because the path was narrow and the footing unsure.

  She uncapped the skin and took a long draw. The water went down cool and refreshing, every mouthful. It was crisp and delicious in a way that went beyond mere taste. She drank until her thirst was quenched. When it was empty, she shook the remaining drops into her open mouth and cursed. No matter. The well was nearby. She rose, intending to go up and fill it again, though she knew she should be careful. Dusk hadn’t fallen yet, and Kinshield might make his way to this part of the city to search for her, though he was probably going mad over his wife’s infidelity by now.

  The fear of being discovered and captured weighed heavily on her shoulders and made her heart pound. Her apprehension rose as it had when she’d approached the mud pit in the mountains. What’s going on here? As she gripped the sides of the ladder to climb, she caught sight of the naked corpse lain unceremoniously in the corner. The waterskin fell from her hand.

  Cirang staggered and sank to her knees on the cold, hard floor. Her chest felt as if it were being crushed by an invisible hand. She’d done that. She’d killed a pregnant girl no older than sixteen, practically a child herself. A child whose only failing was trusting Cirang while she posed as a First Royal. This girl and her unborn baby were only her latest victims. She’d done so many bad things. Wretched things. So many people she had hurt. So many she’d betrayed.

  A low moan started in Cirang’s chest and rumbled up her throat. She cried into her hands. Where had she gone so wrong? How could she have let things spin so madly out of control? The faces of the children Sithral Tyr had sold into slavery came to mind. The son and wife he’d abandoned, parting with hurtful words. The gem smith and former shaman of his clan he’d stabbed over and over, the various drunken men and prostitutes whose throats he’d slit for the coins in their pockets — all returned to haunt her memory. JiNese, the Viragon Sister whom Cirang had murdered. Feanna kidnapped to sacrifice to the demon Ritol. Vandra and Calinor — both dead by her hand.

  The hand of evil.

  She cried harder. Her heart hurt, and she tried to rub away the pain with one fist. Why was she suddenly so sorrowful about these things when she’d spent so many months as Cirang, years as Tyr, free from the burden of guilt, even thinking herself superior for it? Thinking herself enlightened.

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked at the waterskin on the floor. Could that have been the reason? Had she not emptied all the wellspring water into the font? Surely she had. Perhaps only a few drops remaining were sufficient to work their magic on her.

  In a rush of clarity, Cirang understood. The water from the wellspring enlightened those who were lost in the darkness. It corrupted everyone else. Adro and Queen Feanna were now trapped in sinister madness.

  And it was Cirang’s fault.

  A new wave of sobs shook her body, and her head ached from the tears, the remorse, the knowledge of what a horrible person she’d been. And now, because of her actions, the woman to whom she should have pledged her life and service was an agent of evil. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

  Someone knocked on the cellar hatch and lifted it. Light bathed her from above. “Altais?” The High Cleric’s voice, soft with understanding and kindness. She looked up into his gentle eyes. “What’s going on down there?”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth, realizing how loud her cries must have been. She took a deep breath and swallowed. “Nothing,” she called. “I’ll be up in a moment, and then perhaps we can talk.” She looked at Marita’s stiff corpse and felt her heartache renewed as did the flow of tears. There was a hitch in her voice as she said, “There’s something I need to confess.”

  They would need to drain the sacramental font. Drain it, scrub it with lye soap, and scrub it again. No more people must be allowed to drink the water. But what about Queen Feanna and the others who’d been corrupted? Was there a way to help them, to turn them back to the decent people they’d been? If anyone could do it, Gavin Kinshield could. Perhaps drinking the water again would reverse the effect, and she had the second skin of it. She climbed wearily to her feet. That was it. She had to find King Gavin. She had to tell him what she’d done.

  Chapter 47

  Cirang gathered her belongings, making sure she had the second full waterskin, put the strap of the knapsack over her shoulder, and climbed the ladder out of the cellar room. She paused briefly on the way up to cast one more sorrowful look at Altais — Marita. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll be punished for what I did to you. I swear it. I’ll get everything I deserve.”

  Seer Mirfak and two other clerics stood by with hands clasped while she exited the cellar unveiled. “Who are you?” he asked. “What have you done with Altais?”

  Cirang hung her head. “I’m Cirang Deathsblade, disgraced Viragon Sister.” She told them everything — about murdering the girl in the cellar, abou
t pouring the wellspring water into the sacramental font. They stood silently, probably too horrified to articulate a response. She couldn’t look them in the eye and see their loathing. It was a wonder Asti-nayas hadn’t struck her down for the crimes she’d committed in His house. She offered to help bury Marita, but Seer Mirfak declined.

  She bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to express how—”

  “Go, Cirang,” Seer Mirfak said with a sneer. “There’s nothing more to be said.”

  “You must empty the font and take the water out of Ambryce to spill it into the ground. Please hurry, before anyone else drinks it. Scour the font before you refill it.”

  “We have it under control,” Seer Mirfak said.

  She started towards the rear door and paused before pushing it open. “Remember — no one must be allowed to drink the water in the font. No one.”

  “Yes, Cirang. We heard you. Now go.”

  She pulled the veil down over her face, too ashamed to show it, and put the rain cloak over her robe. The cleric nearest the door, whose name she didn’t know, looked at her with a cold glare. She gasped. His eyes. They were as flat and dead as were those of the people fighting in the street. No. He couldn’t have.

  “You took the sacrament,” she whispered. She turned around and looked at all the clerics. Even Seer Mirfak looked different, like a statue with ice for eyes. They all looked at her with vicious snarls, like monsters in a tale told around campfires.

  This can’t be happening.

  She turned and ran, hoping they wouldn’t give chase. At the street she headed left at a fast walk, towards the inn, turning now and then to look over her shoulder. They weren’t coming after her. They were clerics, not battlers. They’d leave her be. If her horse — Calinor’s horse — was still in the inn’s stable, she would ride to the lordover’s manor and turn herself in. If it wasn’t, she would walk.