Well of the Damned (29 page)

Cirang
put the other boot on, stood and walked around a bit. They weren’t
as stiff as she’d have liked, but they would get her to
Nilmaria. There would be time then to have a new pair made. She went
to pick up her knapsack. With dry boots on her feet, she could use
the night to increase her distance from her pursuers. There was
likely a road from this house to Ambryce, so she wouldn’t have
to stumble along the riverbank. If the couple had horses, they would
make do with one fewer. She put her right foot on the chair and began
to strap on the dagger sheath.

“She
hasn’t thanked us for any of it,” Bessa whispered to her
husband loudly enough for Cirang to overhear. “A little
courtesy wouldn’t hurt, after all we’ve done.”

Cirang
smirked. Why should she thank them? Gratitude was a ridiculous
emotion that served no purpose other than to promote goodwill.
Because she’d never see these people again, she didn’t
see the point in nurturing a relationship with false praise and
gratitude.

“Leaving
so soon?” Ondray asked.

“Yeh.
If anyone stops to ask—” It occurred to her that,
although she’d given the couple a false name, Kinshield would
ask about her by description. Learning from them when she was here,
when she left, and her physical condition would give him an
advantage. That was, if there were anyone here to tell him.

She
drew the dagger and spun. Ondray was closer. She punched the knife
once through his throat and once into his belly, and turned to Bessa
before he was even dead on the floor. Her eyes were wide, but she
barely had time to inhale for a scream, much less get an arm up to
block a blow. Cirang sliced across Bessa’s throat to loose a
spray of blood. Its warmth spattered her face and hand. She stepped
out of its path and around the woman’s body, and then stabbed
her in each kidney.

Cirang
bent over, clutching her stitched ribcage. The exertion had drained
the last of her strength, and she realized what she needed was a good
night’s sleep.
No, Kinshield will find me
, a small voice
in her mind told her. Not if she darkened the house as if no one were
home. Perhaps, if luck were with her, he would pass by the house
while she slept.

She
took a moment to sit and rest. Only the sound of her own heavy
breathing broke the silence of the house. The two bodies lay askew
but with their hands entwined.
How sweet
, she thought wryly.
They’d reached for each other as they lay dying.

She
lifted the gray rug and pulled the ring on the cellar’s hatch.
It opened with a creak. Though she was tempted to hunt around for
anything useful down there, she didn’t want to climb up and
down the ladder and chance ripping more stitches. She pressed one
hand to her wound to keep from taxing it while with the other she
dragged the bodies to the edge and rolled them in with a push of her
foot. They thudded on the cellar floor, and she closed the hatch and
covered it back up. The blood on the floor would just have to wait.

She
returned to the room where the surgeon had stitched her wound, wet a
cloth and used it to clean her face and hands, wiping carefully
around the self-inflicted wounds in her hand. They’d opened a
little while she was stabbing, and she didn’t want the dead
people’s blood mixing with hers. She should have had him stitch
the worst of those cuts while he was at it.

There on the floor was the shard
Ondray had removed from her ribcage. She rinsed it off in the bucket
and examined it. It was about two inches long and triangular. One of
those inches had been buried inside her. Surprisingly, it hadn’t
punctured her lung. She’d keep it as a reminder of her
adventure. It would make a good conversation piece.

Damn
it, s
he thought, looking down at herself. Some blood had gotten
on her tunic, and she’d ripped up her spare for bandages. She
searched the house, opening chests and drawers and armoires until she
found a couple of shirts that suited her. One was plain white and
buttoned down the front; the other was a pullover tunic in the style
she preferred. This would do for now. She pulled off her boots and
clothes, threw the bloody shirt in the corner and extinguished the
lamps and candles. She lay on the bed with her hands clasped over her
full and naked belly.

For
the first time in three months, her dreams were pleasant and her
sleep restful.

Chapter 32

To
the south, the Flint River originated at the bottom of a series of
waterfalls from high atop the mountain. During the spring, it ran
fast and cold from the snow runoff. This time of year, the water
level should have been fairly low and the current gentle, but the
rain had swollen it to overfull. The roar of the river was deafening.

As
Gavin and his companions traveled down the riverbank, they followed a
pair of foot-sized puddles led downstream. Despite Gavin’s
glowing light ball, the tracks became harder to discern as night
fell, looking like every other puddle along the water’s edge.

“We’re
all tired, and the horses need a rest,” he said. “Let’s
stop here for the night.”

They
camped on a stretch of flat ground close enough to the forest to put
up his lean-to. While Brawna undressed the horses and Daia hunted for
firewood, both with the aid of a light ball, Gavin set out with his
dagger for some fresh meat. With the help of his magic, he killed
four rabbits with four throws and returned to camp with their meal.

“It’s
not much, but we don’t have time to dress the elk I saw.”

“Or
a way to haul the uneaten meat,” Daia said. “We’ll
be in Ambryce tomorrow. We can make do until then.”

“I’ll
dry the wood and you can skin these.” He tossed the rabbit
carcasses one after another to Daia, who tried to wrangle them into
her arms.

“Daia
Saberheart, Rabbit Juggler,” Brawna said, as she gathered the
empty waterskins.

Gavin
laughed. Despite the young battler’s shyness, she charmed him.
She looked for things to do rather than sit idly, and he appreciated
that about her.

Daia
skinned and gutted the rabbits. By the time they had the rabbits
ready to cook, Brawna had returned with the filled waterskins and had
brought two more armloads of firewood. Gavin used his magic to dry it
and set it ablaze, and they cooked and ate the meat.

“Can
you use your eye thing to find Cirang?” Daia asked. “It’d
help to know how far away she is or whether Calinor and Vandra have
found her.”

“Yeh,”
Gavin said. He linked his haze with Daia’s and sent his hidden
eye high overhead. It sped along the river, where he spotted Calinor
and Vandra below. They, too, had stopped for the night, but oddly,
their hazes were one atop the other, rather than side by side. It
almost looked like they were—
Oh!
Gavin thought. They
were. Though he was intrigued by the way the two hazes blended with
each other near the edges, he didn’t want to invade their
privacy, and so he sent his hidden eye farther downstream. Some
distance away, perhaps a couple hours’ ride from Calinor and
Vandra, he came upon the unmistakably dark, turbulent haze of the
kho-bent battler inside a building.

Judging
from the way it hovered in one spot, he guessed Cirang was asleep in
someone’s house. The hazes of two horses were in a nearby barn.
Had she found a vacant house? People didn’t generally travel
without their horses. He hoped to hell she hadn’t murdered the
owners.

If
only he had a way to communicate with Vandra and Calinor at this
distance, he could tell them to stop at that house. Perhaps they
would, if only to ask the residents if they’d seen their
black-haired fugitive.

He
pulled his hidden eye back to his body’s present location.
“Yeh, I seen her.” He described what he’d seen to
the others, leaving out the intimacy between the former Viragon
Sister and his longtime friend. If their relationship extended beyond
physical gratification, it would be up to them to announce it or not.
Gavin found himself hoping Calinor was of a mind to settle down with
one woman, whether it was Vandra or another. He deserved to find the
happiness a family would bring.

They
rolled out their bedrolls and lay down. It was a quiet night, and no
one spoke much. Gavin suspected he knew where their thoughts were,
and voicing the same questions over and over would do them no good.
Only answers would satisfy them now.

He
dozed for a few hours, though he never fell into a deep enough
slumber to dream. He awoke with a worry he couldn’t explain:
Vandra and Calinor were in danger.

“Daia,” he whispered.

Always
on alert, she sat up with a start and looked around. “What’s
wrong?” Her hand reached automatically for her sword.

“Nothing.
I need your skill for a minute.”

“Oh,”
she said quietly, lying back down. “You don’t have to ask
every time. If you need it, take it. Consider it yours to use as you
will.”

“I
didn’t want to do it while you were asleep. That seems wrong.”

She
smiled. “You might not be the most refined man I’ve ever
met, but deep down, you’re still a gentleman. Go ahead. I’ll
stay awake.”

Once
connected with her power, he sent his hidden eye to where he’d
seen Vandra and Calinor earlier, but they weren’t there. He
found them making their way downstream, walking by the glow of the
setting Moon towards the house where Cirang slept. An uneasy feeling
twisted his gut. He tried to tell himself they would surprise her,
but he couldn’t shake the notion something bad was about to
happen.

“Oh,
hell,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Let’s go.
Vandra and Calinor are almost there.”

Chapter 33

A
noise brought Cirang out of a dream and fully alert. At first, she
thought it was a nightmare that had stirred her. She heard a board
creak, not like the settling of a house, but more like the settling
of a foot upon the floor, accompanied by a soft jingle. Moonlight
cast pale-blue light through the two windows in the great room.
Quietly, she patted the mattress beside her, found the handle of the
dagger and gripped it. Slowly, she sat up and then eased herself to
her feet, careful not to make a sound.

“Hell’s
teeth. There’s a lot o’blood here,” said a man in
the other room.

“Be
alert,” a woman said quietly. “The killer might still be
here. I’m going to look down here.” The cellar hatch
squeaked.

Footsteps
approached slowly but heavily, their owner obviously not accustomed
to being stealthy. Cirang sidled up to the wall and waited with her
arse and shoulder blades against it, the doorway on her right. Her
nakedness didn’t bother her — in fact, it made her
quieter. As a Viragon Sister, she’d earned a reputation for
recklessness in battle, and perhaps rashness, but now she also had
Tyr’s confident calm. Her mind was especially alert and clear,
as if she knew an instant in advance what would happen.

As
the intruder neared, she could hear his heavy breathing. The smell of
sweat, not entirely unpleasant, preceded him. His dark form, tall and
broad, entered, sword raised in the right — and more distant —
hand. She flipped the blade in her hand and thrust in a back-hand
motion, felt the beard across her knuckles, felt the knife lag as it
pierced his throat. She pulled it back out and cocked her elbow again
for another strike.

Then
she saw his face. It was Calinor, the ’ranter who hunted Tyr
for years. He’d come close to catching him a time or two, and
he had no intention of letting Tyr off with a brand on his forearm.
At last we meet again, just in time to say good-bye.

Another
strike of the knife wasn’t needed. He staggered a moment, and
she stepped towards him and yanked the sword from his hand as he
slumped with a satisfying thud to the wooden floor.

“Calinor!”
a woman called out. She ran, jingling, to the doorway and stopped
just outside the room. “Cirang, is that you?”