Well of the Damned (13 page)

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 told 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.”