Well of the Damned

Chapter 4





“Cirang Deathsblade. Get up. The lordover wants to see you,” the warden said. He unlocked and opened the cell door. Over his red and black uniform, he wore a dripping wet, leather cloak. Behind him stood a guard, similarly dressed, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as if Tyr had the strength to attack and flee.

“So soon? And I was just getting comfortable.” Tyr’d been in this gaol cell for nearly three months without being questioned as the chancellor’d promised, but the warden just stared at him blankly. There was no sport in taunting a man too stupid to know he was being taunted.

Though the rain’s incessant drumming on the roof irritated the ears and made him long for a single moment of silence, the worst part was when it had started soaking into the rear wall of his cell. A puddle had appeared at the junction of the floor and wall and had grown to cover almost a third of the cell.

Tyr avoided stepping in it when he stood. Though he’d be walking in the rain shortly, he took care to keep the dry area dry, in case he had to come back after his hearing. Of course, it wouldn’t be long before the entire gaol was flooded and he’d have no dry spot to stand on.

The warden had told him he was the king’s prisoner, yet every time Tyr asked for an audience with Kinshield, he was told the king was busy with important matters and couldn’t be bothered with the likes of her. “Is he taking me to the king?”

“You can ask him yourself.” The warden tossed Tyr a wet cloth, followed by a bundle of white fabric. “Clean yourself up, and then put that on.”

Tyr dropped the gown to the ground, where it began to soak up water. “I’m not wearing that. Not for the lordover, not for the king, not for anyone.” Despite the body having female parts, Sithral Tyr had always been a man, and he would dress as one. Even she wouldn’t have submitted to it. The last time she’d worn a gown was before she’d joined the Viragon Sisterhood when she was fourteen.

“The Lordover Tern has more traditional values,” he said. “The meeting’ll go better for you if you do.”

Cirang had met the man before, and Tyr knew from her memories the warden spoke truly, but he stood defiantly silent. He wouldn’t wear a dress, and they couldn’t force him into one.

“Suit yourself. At least clean up so you don’t offend him with your stench.”

Tyr started to unlace his trousers and stopped, mindful of the men’s blatant stares. He’d never been modest before, but in this body, he was vulnerable to the disreputable longings of a man. Could he best the warden a second time? The question wasn’t one Tyr wanted to put to a test, and so he turned around. “Close the door and step away from the window. I won’t have you gawking while I make myself presentable.”

The warden licked his lips and grinned but stepped back into the corridor and shut the door.

Tyr used the cloth to wipe his face and hands clean and then let his trousers slide down to his ankles. Three puncture scars puckered the skin on the front of his left hip, a permanent reminder of how Cirang Deathsblade had met her end. If he twisted his torso and craned his neck, he could see the other two in the back, but he didn’t need to. Even the gentlest swipe of the cloth told him the injury hadn’t fully healed. Marring his chest, shoulder and back on the left, a similar wound made him wince when it came time to wash his upper body. He ran the cloth under his arms and between his legs, reminded again the body wasn’t the one he was born in.

He paused, unsure whether he’d imagined the hot breath on his neck or it was real. He turned to find the warden standing only inches away with one hand down the front of his trousers. He grabbed Tyr by the hair and yanked him up close. “Don’t fight and it won’t hurt as bad.”

Something poked his belly. Something Tyr didn’t want to think about. “Don’t. I’ll tell the lordover,” he said.

“I’ll tell the lordover,” the warden said in a mocking voice. “You think Celónd cares about a dirty wench like you?” His breath was hot in Tyr’s ear. He shoved Tyr away with a laugh. “Soon, bitch, but not today.”

With the trousers bunched around his ankles, Tyr stumbled and barely caught himself. He yanked his trousers up and laced them, then smoothed the tunic’s hem into place. “Not any day, if you value your life.”

The guard snapped iron shackles onto Tyr’s wrists, tossed a cloak over his shoulders, and gripped his upper arm as they walked past the other cells filled with hooting, lustful men and outside into the rain. The injury to his hip made his step uneven, though the pain wasn’t as bad now as it had been at first. Tyr squeezed his eyes shut against the rain and trusted his escort to lead him.

They entered a building in which the foyer was clean and stylish, decorated by a statue of a breaching whale. A handsome man in a trim, red and black suit met them at the door. “Wipe your boots,” he said. “I won’t have you tracking mud across the lordover’s floor.” Satisfied Tyr and his guards had wiped their feet sufficiently on the small rug, he led them down the hallway, knocked twice on a closed dark oak door and opened it. Inside, Dashel Celónd, the wiry, redheaded Lordover Tern, sat at a wide desk, writing.

From his pinched expression and stiff shoulders, the lordover struck Tyr as a churlish and resentful man who made snap judgments. This wasn’t the kind of person Tyr could easily manipulate, nor was he in the position of doing favors for Celónd to win his loyalty, as had been his favored business strategy when he’d been a man. Without his resources, reputation, and exotic look, he needed a new approach, and he had what men wanted.

It was time for Sithral Tyr to abandon his identity as a Nilmarion man and start thinking of himself as the swordswoman, Cirang Deathsblade. He didn’t need to adopt her weaknesses, but he was stranded in her body, perhaps forever. It was time to explore her strengths.

“The king’s prisoner, my lord,” the guard said.

Cirang smiled seductively and stepped in.