Well of the Damned

Chapter 39





Cirang lay on the lumpy mattress for what seemed hours, turning first onto one side, then the other, unable to shake the nagging feeling something was wrong. She tried to sleep. The gods knew she was exhausted and needed about three days of doing nothing but sleeping and sitting on her arse, not to mention a half hog, a dozen loaves of bread and a barrel of wine. Or ale. She wasn’t picky.

Once or twice she started to fall asleep but jerked awake with visions of blood and claws and a sharp gasp of death.

The demon’s gone, Cirang. Kinshield’s just a man, and not even a fearsome one.

With a sigh, she swung her legs over and sat on the side of the bed, head hung, listening but hearing nothing out of the ordinary.

She put on the mail shirt, strapped on her weapons and slung the knapsack over her left shoulder, but just as she put her hand on the bar to slide it across, something made the fine hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand up. She couldn’t have said what it was other than instinct, the warrior’s intuition honed by years of fighting.

Pressing her ear to the door, she heard the eery silence that came just before death.

Just in case, she dug into her knapsack for the remainder of the serragan powder, tapped some onto the palm of her left hand, and quietly drew her sword, which she used to push the bottom bar to the right, unlocking the door. She waited. If no one was there, she would feel awfully foolish, but better to feel foolish than to die a third time. If Kinshield had somehow tracked her here, he’d have with him Daia and Brawna at least, and perhaps others as well. The queen had her guards, and the lordover’s armsmen would surely be at the king’s beck and call. An entire army could be standing outside her door now, ready to arrest her or worse, carry out the king’s execution. She had, after all, killed Vandra, the warrant knight Calinor, and the surgeon and his wife, whose names she’d already forgotten.

No, she thought. If he had all those battlers, they’d have just broken down the door and stormed the room.

She lifted the other bar and eased the door open, peeking out through the crack. No one there. She opened the door a bit more and waited, but nothing happened. She looked out, ready for the battlers there to take her down, but the street was clear.

She let the powder fall back into its bag, tied the bag closed and tucked it into the top of her boot. The feeling of being constantly pursued was no delusion, though she felt ridiculously self-conscious. She went around the building to the street and checked in both directions. No one seemed to be paying her any attention, and so she walked calmly but alertly towards the temple.

The entrance consisted of two wide doors into which symbols of divinity and angels and other crap were carved. Inside, long benches were arranged in rows on both sides of an aisle that led to the altar, where the golden flames of dozens of candles flickered. Behind the altar on a dais was a tall marble statue of a bald-headed man, his hands clasped in front of his navel. The statue was standing in the sacramental font.

As soon as Cirang walked in, the worry that had nagged her dissipated. So profound was the difference that for an instant, she wondered whether the god Asti-nayas really was present. She looked up without thinking towards the heavens. More symbols of divinity had been painted on the temple’s arched ceiling, many of which were accented by gold and gems. Magic, she knew, was strengthened by gems, but how were gems relevant in a house of worship? She was certain the religious doctrines forbade the use of magic within the temple. Did all temples have gems embedded in their ceilings? She searched her childhood memories of visits to the temple with her parents but couldn’t recall ever seeing gems.

Several people were seated on the benches near the front of the nave, closest to the altar, their heads bowed in reverence. At the altar, a cleric in a plain brown robe was chanting, waving his arm in the gesture of subservience. He tapped his forehead, chest, and navel, and bowed. Forehead, chest, navel, bow. No one seemed to notice her enter, and so she took a seat on the bench closest to the door and watched.

One woman, a plump redhead, stood and climbed the three steps beside the altar to ascend the dais. A woman in a white robe bowed with her hands clasped like the statue’s were. Under the hood that covered her hair, a lace veil covered her face, obscuring her identity. She was perfect.

The acolyte dipped a ladle into the font and poured the water into a small cup. The worshiper raised it to her lips and made the gesture of subservience before handing the cup back and descending the steps. She didn’t retake her seat on the bench but instead strode down the aisle towards the door. As she passed Cirang, she smiled and nodded.

One by one, the other worshipers repeated the ritual and left. Cirang wondered whether she would be discovered here because the people who were leaving would remember her if questioned by Kinshield. She rose and went to the altar, her footsteps loud on the bare wood floor. Except for the chanting cleric and the acolyte serving the sacramental water, she was alone.

On each side of the altar was a closed door. She opened the one on the right and looked inside, but it was too dark to see anything. The cleric was busy chanting, his eyes closed and his hand moving. The acolyte was kneeling before the statue at the base of the font on the dais and spared her not even a glance. Cirang took one of the candles from the altar and, cupping its flame with a hand, carried it into the room. No one noticed her. Too trusting, she supposed. Their own faith will be their downfall. She snickered.

The room appeared to be a supply room, with several buckets stacked neatly against the wall and three wooden yokes with ropes attached to each end. There was a public well not far away, and so Cirang surmised this was how they kept the font filled. She lifted a hatch in the center of the floor and peered into the darkness. If nothing else, it might be a good place to hide until she could dump the wellspring water into the font. Quietly, she climbed down into the cellar.

About the size of her old gaol cell, it was musty like any other cellar but furnished with a straw-stuffed mattress on the floor, small pillow and wool blanket, and an overturned crate as a table. It would do. It would do nicely.

She set the candle on the crate and her knapsack beside it, and then lowered herself onto the bed with the groan of a much older woman. She didn’t know how much sleep she would get until she was discovered, but she was willing to take her chances. If one of the clerics lived here, he’d better be prepared to call on his god to save him, because nothing else would. She unstrapped her weapons, blew out the candle and embraced the darkness.

With none of the worries that had plagued her at the inn, she fell into a comfortable sleep and dreamed of grateful people dropping coins and gems at her feet as she ladled cup after cup of water into their eager mouths.