Well of the Damned (31 page)

“I’m
fine,” he said, turning to look at her. “Vandra didn’t
make it.” He looked at Vandra lying face down in the congealed
and drying blood. She was as lifeless as the wood beneath her. He
could do nothing for her except find Cirang and dispense justice. “If
only I could’ve saved her.”

“Oh.”
Brawna hung her head.

“It
was Vandra’s time to die,” Daia said as she exited a
nearby room.

Gavin
shook his head. In spite of all he’d been through in recent
months, he still didn’t believe in destiny. Would a god,
whether it be Asti-nayas or Yrys or some other, truly use the hand of
a murderer to carry out his plan? “Vandra was attacked by the
same person twice. There’s no destiny in that, only murder.”

“There’s
a lot of blood in there,” Daia said, pointing at the room she’d
just come from. “A pail of bloody water, towels soaked in it,
some thread and a needle on the floor. I’m willing to bet
Vandra got a good cut in. Looks as though she tried to stitch herself
up.”

“If
she’s injured, she’ll be slower,” Gavin said.
“Easier to catch.”

“She
cut her hair and stole Vandra’s armor,” Daia noted.

“Seems
she stole my voice too,” Calinor whispered. He touched his
throat, now wrinkled and scarred. “She took us by surprise.
Didn’t even hear her breathe.”

“No
doubt,” Gavin said. “She’s crafty.”

“But
with the armor,” Daia argued, “she could pass herself off
as one of the First Royal Guards.”

Gavin
nodded solemnly as he rose to his feet. “She’s probably
heading to Ambryce.” He was confident Feanna wasn’t
gullible enough to fall for Cirang’s tricks again. She’d
been betrayed once before by the battler, taken to Ravenkind to be
offered as a meal to the demon Ritol, along with her three adopted
daughters. “Feanna knows Cirang and won’t be tricked by
her lies this time. Her guards are skilled and sharp-minded. They
won’t let her get close.”

The
elder battler stood unsteadily. “Better get goin’.”

Gavin
put an arm around him to hold him steady. “Whoa. Easy. You lost
a lot o’blood. It’ll be a few days afore you feel like
your old self.”

“We’ll
get you some food and rest in Ambryce,” Daia said. “You’ll
be good as new.”

Calinor
nodded. “Food. Yeh, I could use a bite.”

“I
wonder what that’s about.” Daia followed the bloody
footprints clumped near the edge of a small rug, which she pulled
aside to reveal a cellar hatch. She opened it and peered into the
darkness. Gavin pushed his light ball down into the cellar for her.
“Two bodies,” she said. “Probably the owners of
this house. Two more murders Cirang must pay for.”

“Yeh,
and afore she kills anyone else,” Gavin agreed.

“We
should bury them,” Calinor whispered.

Gavin shook his head. “There
ain’t time. We’ll send someone from Ambryce to take care
o’the dead. I saw the hazes o’two horses in the barn
earlier. Think you can ride?”

“Try
to stop me,” Calinor replied.

Chapter 35

Ambryce
was just as Cirang remembered it: dirty and dilapidated, with whores
and beggars on every corner and children running through the wet
streets picking pockets and stealing wares from the merchants who
stood by their carts, looking miserable. Unlike the highbrows of
Tern, the people in this city didn’t let the rain stop them
from their business. They walked around, huddled under cloaks and
dashing from one awning to another. They were used to hardship.

Decades
of corruption in the city’s government had won several gamblers
much of the taxpayers’ money and had left the previous lordover
destitute and suicidal. After his death, his son took control and
worked to restore the city, but progress was slow, residents were
wary of authorities, and the underpaid soldiers were themselves too
impoverished not to look the other way when a few coins fell into
their purses. It had never bothered Sithral Tyr, for the people were
ripe for corrupting and would do whatever he needed of them with a
minimum of prodding.

It
occurred to her that the Gwanry Museum would be the ideal place to
leave the journal for Kinshield. Tyr had known the curator well, a
scrawny, bug-eyed man who thought he was too clever to play by the
rules. The advantage was Cirang’s; Laemyr Surraent wouldn’t
know her in this body.

As
she rode through the city, people smiled at her, some waving or
calling out a greeting, addressing her not as Lady Sister as they
would have done in recent months, but as First Royal. She didn’t
know them, but they seemed to hold her in some regard. She stood out
here with her mail and shiny new sword and the magnificent warhorse
beneath her. It was best to conduct her business quickly and leave so
as to be noticed by as few people as possible. When Kinshield got
here, she didn’t want him to easily learn what direction she
went, when she arrived or when she left.

At
the museum, she dismounted and tied the warhorse to the hitching
post. The ever-present ache in her side was annoying, but it was her
back that made every step excruciating. She winced, trying to support
her back with one hand on her injured hip, as she limped up the two
steps to the stoop. The bells on the door jingled when she entered.
She took off the wet cloak and hung it on a hook in the foyer.

A
tall, slim woman bustled into the room and greeted her with a warm
smile. Gray streaks in her brown hair, and wrinkles around her eyes
and mouth gave away her advanced age, though she seemed spry and
alert. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Welcome to the
Gwanry Museum of History. I’m the assistant curator. I see
you’re wearing the king’s colors. King Gavin has been a
frequent and favored visitor here. I hope you’ll send him my
warmest regards. How may I assist you today?”

“How
now, Tolia,” Cirang said. “King Gavin is on his way to
Ambryce, and I’ve found something he would be interested in.
I’m on urgent business and can’t wait to hand it to him
myself. I need to leave it in a safe place.”

Tolia’s
eyes widened. “Oh! You can leave it with us. I’ll be
happy to put it in our vault for him. Will he know to come here for
it?”

Cirang
nodded as she limped over to a bench in the entry way and eased
herself down. Another minute standing on her feet felt as though her
back would break again. A week abed would do her much good. “I’ll
leave a message with the lordover’s soldiers.”

“Dear,
are you hurt? Do you need something?”

“Pain
tea would help, if you have it.”

“Charla?”
she called over her shoulder. “Come here, please.”

A
young woman came into the foyer from a back room. She was a redhead
with freckles everywhere she had skin, and her large, brown eyes were
unblinking as if she were in a daze. “M’lady?”

“Do
we have any pain tea for the First Royal Guard?”

“Yes,
I’ll brew some. I’ve hot water on, so it’ll only
take a moment.” Charla ducked back into the other room, and
Tolia put a gentle hand on Cirang’s shoulder.

“Can
I get you something else?”

Cirang brightened. “Yes,
actually I need a piece of paper, quill and ink. I need to pen a
message.”

“Yes,
of course. You can sit at my desk here.” Tolia gestured to a
table and chair in the corner of the adjacent room on the right. “May
I help you?”

Cirang
waved off her assistance and climbed to her feet, suppressing a moan.
She limped over to the desk and eased herself back down into the
chair, setting her knapsack on the floor beside her.

Tolia
took a sheet of fine white paper from a shelf above the tabletop,
uncorked the bottle of ink, and set a clean quill before her. “I’ve
excellent penmanship, if you’d like me to pen the note for
you.”

“No,
I’ll do it.” Cirang had had poor handwriting and a worse
command of spelling, but Tyr had been quite literate. It was his
skill she relied on as she composed the message.

Tolia
set out a stick of blue sealing wax. “I’ll fetch a flame
while you write.”

Cirang
dipped the quill into the ink pot and wrote her message. With one
hand, she waved the paper in the air to dry the ink, and with the
other, she drew Sevae’s journal from her knapsack.

Tolia
returned with a slender candle, cupping its flame behind one hand.
“Here you are.”

Cirang
handed her the journal. “This is for the king. Make sure he
gets it.”

Tolia
took it and held it in both hands. “Yes, I’ll keep it
safe and deliver it to him myself. What is it, if you don’t
mind my asking?”

Cirang
glared at her as she folded the message. “It’s none of
your business, and don’t you dare read it after I’m
gone.” In truth, she didn’t care one way or another
whether Tolia knew what was in the journal, but there was no reason
she couldn’t have a little fun while she was here. “It’s
the king’s business and no one else’s.”

“Of
course,” Tolia said. “Forgive me. I should have known
better.” She cleared her throat, and for a moment, neither said
anything. “May I ask, how did you know my name?”

Had
the woman not given her name when she introduced herself? Cirang
thought back to Tyr’s last visit. He’d sent a thief to
steal a priceless necklace from Queen Calewyn’s tomb, and the
curator had hired Kinshield the warrant knight to get it back. Tyr
had been displeased and had gone to Ambryce to teach Laemyr Surraent
a lesson. While Cirang had never met these people, she knew Kinshield
had. “King Gavin mentioned you and Mr. Surraent before I left
Tern,” Cirang said. She used the flame to melt the wax and let
it drip onto the paper’s exposed edge.

Tolia
clapped her hands together delightedly. “Oh! I hope he spoke
well of me. Us, I mean.”

Cirang
smirked. So Tolia had designs on a married man. A king, no less. And
Cirang was in a position to stir up a little mischief. “I
really shouldn’t say this,” she said with a teasing
drawl, “but he spoke very highly of you in particular. I
overheard him telling his adviser that had you been a few years
younger—” She stopped and bit her lip. “I’ve
said too much. Forget I said anything.”

“No,
please,” Tolia said. “I beg of you. Tell me. If I’d
been younger, what?”

Cirang
beckoned with a finger for her to lean down and lowered her voice
conspiratorially. “He’d have proposed to you instead of
to Queen Feanna. You must never repeat that to anyone. Swear to me.”

“Yes,
I swear,” she said breathlessly with a hand to her heart.
“Thank you. You can’t know what that means to me.”

“That
information is for you only,” Cirang reminded her. “I’d
lose my job and earn the king’s wrath if he ever found out I
told you this.” She pressed her thumb onto the glob of warm
wax, sealing her message shut.

“It’s
our secret,” Tolia said with a smile.

Charla
returned carrying a steaming cup and saucer. “I made it strong,
so perhaps you should drink it slowly.”

Cirang
took the cup and sipped the hot liquid. It was almost hot enough to
burn, and she blew across the liquid’s pale-green surface
within the cup. Its familiar scent was comforting, reminding her of
days when she was a girl and her mother nursed her after she’d
fallen from a tree or horse, or fought with one of the neighbor boys.
She sipped until it was cool enough to drink, and gulped it down. It
would be a half hour or so before the pain would subside, but it was
a comfort to know the process was under way. She couldn’t
afford to wait around for the tea’s pain relieving properties
to take effect.

She
stood and shouldered her knapsack once more. “Don’t
forget.”

“You have my word. And thank
you, First Royal.”

It
would have been amusing to watch secretly when Kinshield showed up to
claim the journal. She didn’t have anything against Tolia, but
Tyr had never been fond of her either. She’d often tried to
keep him from visiting Surraent upstairs, especially the last time
when he’d been so angry. Cirang remembered how Tyr had shoved
the older woman so hard, she fell onto her backside, but he didn’t
care. He gave Surraent quite the thrashing that day, repayment for
sending the ’ranter after him.

Getting
back on the horse hurt like hell, but the tea would start to work
soon, and by the end of the day, she would be leaving Ambryce for her
new life. Having something to look forward to helped keep her mind
focused.

Her
next stop was the lordover’s manor. The ride from the museum
was roughly an hour at a walk, and despite the rain, the streets were
too crowded to trot or canter. She didn’t intend to go onto the
grounds, just to approach a guard of sufficient rank to entrust with
her message.

The
Lordover Ambryce’s home and offices sat inside a fortified
compound, evidence of past corruption that had angered criminals and
law-abiding citizens alike. According to stories, an eight-foot brick
wall was erected around the property about twenty-five years earlier.
A paved road led to its iron gate, kept closed and locked at night.
Although Cirang suspected there was a secret entrance and exit, this
was the only public road. Two guards stood at the gate to stop and
question everyone who approached.