Well of the Damned

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 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.”

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.”

“I knew it,” Daia muttered. “Murderous traitor.”

Kinshield ignored her. “Tell me about Brawna Beliril. How did she end up with Sithral Tyr?”

Cirang had to tread lightly here. She was innocent in this, but Tyr was not. “Brawna was given explicit instructions to bring the rune solver back with her from the rune cave, but instead she returned with her fellow Sister’s dead body draped over her saddle. Ravenkind questioned her about the rune solver — you as it turns out — and later gave her to Sithral Tyr for safekeeping.”

“And the stab wounds in her leg and abdomen? Were you responsible for those?”

Cirang shook her head vehemently. “I may have spat on her and encouraged the other Sisters to do the same because we thought her a traitor, but I didn’t hurt her, nor did Ravenkind. If she was stabbed, then that was Sithral Tyr’s doing.”

“What was your relationship with Sithral Tyr?”

“I had none,” Cirang said. “I met him for the first time that day and only spent an hour or so in his presence.”

“Was Toren Meobryn with him then?”

“If you mean the stony-faced blond battler, yes. The two of them took Brawna away in Tyr’s carriage.”

“What do you know about the green cat figurine Daia mentioned?”

“It belonged to Sithral Tyr. Ravenkind was keeping it as a tool of influence, and when Tyr gave him that sword you’re wearing, Ravenkind returned the figurine. It was very dear to Tyr.”

“Let’s talk about the kidnappings,” Kinshield said.

Cirang held up her hands, palms out. “As I told the lordover, Ravenkind’s magic gave me no choice. He commanded me to bring those women and children. I had no power to resist.”

The king studied her for a moment. “Are you saying you regret your actions?”

She sighed and let her hands drop into her lap. “I just told you I didn’t do it freely.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

He was trying to get her to admit to weakness. To express remorse. She felt none, but she knew what words he wanted to hear. “Yes,” she said, making no effort to hide her contempt. “I regret it. I’m sorry for my actions. I wish I could have saved your brother, but I couldn’t. Seeing him beheaded made me puke, and for that display of weakness, Ravenkind fed me to his pet monster.”

Kinshield raised his eyebrows. “How did you survive, when Ravenkind didn’t?”

“I— I don’t know. Maybe some ’ranter-mage showed up just in time and healed me.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Think back,” he said, “to the first time me and you met.”

Her first memory of Gavin Kinshield the warrant knight was in a tavern in Saliria. He was big and sweaty with an old, battered sword on his back, not the gemmed one he wore now. But that had been Tyr’s experience, not Cirang’s.

“You had a necklace,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

“Ravenkind gave it to me. He gave one to Lila and two dozen of the most loyal Sisters. He used it to control us. You know that.”

“What about the other necklace?” Adro asked.

“No,” Cirang snapped. “There was only one.” She realized she’d made a serious mistake by telling Adro that story. He needed to shut the hell up.

“What other necklace?” Kinshield asked.

“On the way here,” Adro explained, “she told me you extorted a priceless necklace from her. Those were the words she used.”

Kinshield smiled, showing the gap between his teeth and looking more like the peasant he was than a king. “Now I understand,” he said. “She’s not Cirang anymore.”

“She must be,” Daia said. “No one else would know about JiNese.”

“And nobody but Sithral Tyr would know about the necklace stolen from Queen Calewyn’s tomb.”