Well of the Damned

Chapter 47





Cirang gathered her belongings, making sure she had the second full waterskin, put the strap of the knapsack over her shoulder, and climbed the ladder out of the cellar room. She paused briefly on the way up to cast one more sorrowful look at Altais — Marita. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll be punished for what I did to you. I swear it. I’ll get everything I deserve.”

Seer Mirfak and two other clerics stood by with hands clasped while she exited the cellar unveiled. “Who are you?” he asked. “What have you done with Altais?”

Cirang hung her head. “I’m Cirang Deathsblade, disgraced Viragon Sister.” She told them everything — about murdering the girl in the cellar, about pouring the wellspring water into the sacramental font. They stood silently, probably too horrified to articulate a response. She couldn’t look them in the eye and see their loathing. It was a wonder Asti-nayas hadn’t struck her down for the crimes she’d committed in His house. She offered to help bury Marita, but Seer Mirfak declined.

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to express how—”

“Go, Cirang,” Seer Mirfak said with a sneer. “There’s nothing more to be said.”

“You must empty the font and take the water out of Ambryce to spill it into the ground. Please hurry, before anyone else drinks it. Scour the font before you refill it.”

“We have it under control,” Seer Mirfak said.

She started towards the rear door and paused before pushing it open. “Remember — no one must be allowed to drink the water in the font. No one.”

“Yes, Cirang. We heard you. Now go.”

She pulled the veil down over her face, too ashamed to show it, and put the rain cloak over her robe. The cleric nearest the door, whose name she didn’t know, looked at her with a cold glare. She gasped. His eyes. They were as flat and dead as were those of the people fighting in the street. No. He couldn’t have.

“You took the sacrament,” she whispered. She turned around and looked at all the clerics. Even Seer Mirfak looked different, like a statue with ice for eyes. They all looked at her with vicious snarls, like monsters in a tale told around campfires.

This can’t be happening.

She turned and ran, hoping they wouldn’t give chase. At the street she headed left at a fast walk, towards the inn, turning now and then to look over her shoulder. They weren’t coming after her. They were clerics, not battlers. They’d leave her be. If her horse — Calinor’s horse — was still in the inn’s stable, she would ride to the lordover’s manor and turn herself in. If it wasn’t, she would walk.

People nodded at her or greeted her with “Good evening, Doma,” as she passed. No, no. Couldn’t they see her wretchedness? She wished she’d taken the time to change into her bloody clothes, the ones that showed the world what a true devil she was. She deserved no kindness from these people. Earlier that very day, she’d have slain them without a moment’s hesitation if they had something she wanted. Behind the veil, tears spilled down her cheeks.

She heard the jingle of mail and paused to look around. Brawna exited a shop behind her and continued down the street towards the temple. This was Cirang’s chance. She pulled up the bulk of her cloak and robe and ran, slowing when she was about two paces behind the battler.

“Brawna,” she said. When the girl turned around, Cirang tossed the sword and dagger she’d taken from Vandra to the ground at Brawna’s feet, as well as her knapsack that contained the mail shirt and the skin of corrupted water. Brawna glanced at the weapons with confusion on her face. Cirang lifted the veil.

Brawna drew her sword and pointed it at her. “Cirang Deathsblade, by the power granted to me by King Gavin of Thendylath, I hereby carry out your sentence of execution.”

“Brawna, wait,” Cirang said. “Please. I must speak with King Gavin at once.”

Around her, people stopped in the street to watch, many wearing expressions of disbelief or horror. A couple of them, with malicious glee in their voices, urged Brawna to slay the nun.

“If there’s a thought left in your head when I deliver it to him, you can talk to him then.”

“I have an urgent message. Please, Brawna. Hundreds of lives are at stake.”

“Give me the message. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Cirang shook her head. “I deserve punishment for my crimes, and I’ll submit to it peaceably, but he deserves the opportunity to question me to his satisfaction before I die.” She gestured to the onlookers, whose numbers were growing every moment. “Are you prepared to explain to these people why you killed an unarmed nun who surrendered to you?”

“We don’t care why. Kill her!” someone said.

“You’re no nun,” Brawna said. “You’re only dressed as one.”

“You speak the truth. I’m no nun,” Cirang said loudly, looking around at the spectators. “I’m an impostor. I’ve committed heinous crimes for which I deserve execution.”

“Kill her!” the voice in the crowd cried.

To Brawna, Cirang said more softly, “I have important information the king desperately needs to hear, but if you were instructed to slay me without hesitation, I submit to the king’s will.” She knelt on the hard stone street. Her robe soaked up the rainwater on the ground, and the cold seeped into her bones. The day was dreary, but her life was dismal. Never had she felt uglier or more worthless. “Though I don’t deserve your mercy, I beg you to give me a quick death.”

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” two voices chanted. Then three. Then more.

Cirang clenched her eyes tightly shut, waiting for her third and final death. The sound of rain falling drowned out all but the pounding of her heart. She deserved this death, but like the coward she was, she feared the instant of pain before her life ended.

Instead, a hand gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet, to the crowd’s grumbled dismay. “You are an impostor,” Brawna said, “not the Cirang Deathsblade I know. You’ll answer to the king for your deceit.” She picked up the knapsack and weapons. “Let’s go.”

They marched wordlessly to the Good Knight Inn and entered the office. The innkeeper came out of the adjacent room, his one hand on his hip. “What’s goin’ on here? Doma, are you all right?”

“She’s no nun,” Brawna snapped. “It’s Cirang.” Recognition rounded the innkeeper’s eyes and mouth. “I need you to bring my horse and an extra. I’m taking her to King Gavin.”

“You and your friend took the white horse back with you last night, remember?”

“Then I need to borrow one,” Brawna said. “If I don’t return it, you can take the matter up with King Gavin. You two are old friends, right?”

He stepped outside, put two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly. Moments later, the stable hand came running around the corner. “Fetch the First Royal’s mount, and bring Lizzie too.”

The boy looked at Cirang with the slack jaw of youth. “Saddled?”

“Yes, saddled. Run, boy,” the innkeeper said.

“When you see Calinor, tell him I found her and took her to the king.” Brawna said.

“I will,” the innkeeper said.

“Calinor’s alive?” Cirang asked. “Oh, praise the light. He’s alive.” Her knees weakened with relief, and she let herself sink to them. “He’s alive.”

Brawna gaped at her. “Who are you?”

“King Gavin left maybe an hour ago,” the one-handed man said. “Didn’t say much, but I could tell he was fumin’. You don’t know what happened to get him so red, do you?”

Brawna shook her head and looked at Cirang. “It’s probably your fault, whatever it is.”

Cirang hung her head, recalling the talk in the tavern. “It is. It’s my fault.” Adro would probably be imprisoned. Or worse.

Brawna rummaged through the knapsack, pulled out the dirty tunic and trousers and tossed them at Cirang. “Put these on. I won’t let you milk sympathy from anyone by wearing those robes a minute longer.”

Cirang presented her side to the innkeeper so he wouldn’t glimpse her private parts when she pulled the trousers up over her hips. Though she had her corset on, which covered her breasts, she turned her back to him to pull off the robe and quickly pulled the tunic over her head. Once she was dressed, she tossed the robe back to Brawna, who stuffed it into the sack.

The stable hand yelled that he was back. Cirang put the cloak back on and preceded Brawna outside to find a saddled horse waiting, a spry black mare. She approached the animal cautiously, hoping it wouldn’t object too much to her presence. The mare stood still while she mounted, even looked back at her as if in greeting.

“This is Lizzie. Be kind to her and she won’t buck you off,” the boy said, handing the reins up.

“Give them to me,” Brawna said. “She’s my prisoner. I’ll have the horse returned by morning.”

Cirang reached forward and rubbed Lizzie’s neck. “Thank you,” she said to the innkeeper. The words felt foreign on her tongue, having not spoken them in perhaps years, but the gratitude was genuine. With her head bowed, she followed Brawna through the gloomy city, hoping the king would hesitate long enough to hear her warning before he struck her down.