Well of the Damned (41 page)

When
she walked in, the place suddenly quieted. The patrons, mostly men,
looked down as if they’d been caught doing something wrong.
Cirang smiled under the veil and wondered how easy it would be to get
a free meal. She took a seat at a table in the back corner.

“Doma,”
the tavern wench said with her head bowed respectfully. “What
can I get for you?”

Cirang
supposed she couldn’t order ale without raising every eyebrow
in the tavern. Wine was probably acceptable, but she was thirsty, and
wine would dull her thoughts and make her sloppy. “Only bread
and water,” she said. “I haven’t enough money for
anything else.”

A
man sitting nearby turned his head slightly. “Get what you
want, Doma,” he said softly. “I’ll pay for it.”

“Why
would you do that?” Cirang asked.

“My
sister took vows at the temple in Keyes. She gave up everything to
serve the Savior. I hope someone’s showin’ a kindness to
her.”

Cirang
inclined her head. What a sap. She bet he would give up some coins if
she asked, but she would wait a few days, maybe start coming here
barefoot while she waited for news of Kinshield’s departure to
circulate. She ordered meat and bean pie. Once it was set before her,
she folded her veil just enough to reveal her mouth. She devoured her
meal, barely tasting it. It calmed the rumble in her belly, which was
all that mattered.

She
listened to the conversations around her while she ate.

“Couldn’t
believe my eyes,” one man said. “If I didn’t know
better, I’d’ve thought the blond buck was King Gavin.”

“She
went after it, didn’t she? Tongue and everything, right in
front o’half the city,” someone else raved.

“Those
two women battlers looked just as surprised as everyone else.”

“Did
you see the blonde one? She looked ready to run the buck through on
the spot.”

Cirang
suppressed a chuckle. What delicious mayhem! She was sorry she missed
it, but couldn’t help but wonder whether the water also caused
uncontrollable randiness, or was their attraction to each other
already there, just waiting to be set free?

Finished
with her meal, she rose and put her hands on the sap’s
shoulders. “Come to the temple later to take the sacrament and
receive a blessing from the Savior Himself.”

“I
will, Doma. May He bless you for your good work.”

Cirang
filled her waterskin at the public well and returned to her cellar
room. She sat cross-legged on the pallet and went over her plan. She
would need to buy perhaps a hundred waterskins to start with, and a
wagon to hitch her horse to. A small one was best, because the path
was narrow and the footing unsure.

She
uncapped the skin and took a long draw. The water went down cool and
refreshing, every mouthful. It was crisp and delicious in a way that
went beyond mere taste. She drank until her thirst was quenched. When
it was empty, she shook the remaining drops into her open mouth and
cursed. No matter. The well was nearby. She rose, intending to go up
and fill it again, though she knew she should be careful. Dusk hadn’t
fallen yet, and Kinshield might make his way to this part of the city
to search for her, though he was probably going mad over his wife’s
infidelity by now.

The fear of being discovered and
captured weighed heavily on her shoulders and made her heart pound.
Her apprehension rose as it had when she’d approached the mud
pit in the mountains.
What’s going on here?
As she
gripped the sides of the ladder to climb, she caught sight of the
naked corpse lain unceremoniously in the corner. The waterskin fell
from her hand.

Cirang
staggered and sank to her knees on the cold, hard floor. Her chest
felt as if it were being crushed by an invisible hand. She’d
done that. She’d killed a pregnant girl no older than sixteen,
practically a child herself. A child whose only failing was trusting
Cirang while she posed as a First Royal. This girl and her unborn
baby were only her latest victims. She’d done so many bad
things. Wretched things. So many people she had hurt. So many she’d
betrayed.

A
low moan started in Cirang’s chest and rumbled up her throat.
She cried into her hands. Where had she gone so wrong? How could she
have let things spin so madly out of control? The faces of the
children Sithral Tyr had sold into slavery came to mind. The son and
wife he’d abandoned, parting with hurtful words. The gem smith
and former shaman of his clan he’d stabbed over and over, the
various drunken men and prostitutes whose throats he’d slit for
the coins in their pockets — all returned to haunt her memory.
JiNese, the Viragon Sister whom Cirang had murdered. Feanna kidnapped
to sacrifice to the demon Ritol. Vandra and Calinor — both dead
by her hand.

The
hand of evil.

She
cried harder. Her heart hurt, and she tried to rub away the pain with
one fist. Why was she suddenly so sorrowful about these things when
she’d spent so many months as Cirang, years as Tyr, free from
the burden of guilt, even thinking herself superior for it? Thinking
herself enlightened.

With
tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked at the waterskin on the
floor. Could that have been the reason? Had she not emptied all the
wellspring water into the font? Surely she had. Perhaps only a few
drops remaining were sufficient to work their magic on her.

In
a rush of clarity, Cirang understood. The water from the wellspring
enlightened those who were lost in the darkness. It corrupted
everyone else. Adro and Queen Feanna were now trapped in sinister
madness.

And
it was Cirang’s fault.

A
new wave of sobs shook her body, and her head ached from the tears,
the remorse, the knowledge of what a horrible person she’d
been. And now, because of her actions, the woman to whom she should
have pledged her life and service was an agent of evil. “I’m
sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

Someone
knocked on the cellar hatch and lifted it. Light bathed her from
above. “Altais?” The High Cleric’s voice, soft with
understanding and kindness. She looked up into his gentle eyes.
“What’s going on down there?”

She
clapped a hand over her mouth, realizing how loud her cries must have
been. She took a deep breath and swallowed. “Nothing,”
she called. “I’ll be up in a moment, and then perhaps we
can talk.” She looked at Marita’s stiff corpse and felt
her heartache renewed as did the flow of tears. There was a hitch in
her voice as she said, “There’s something I need to
confess.”

They
would need to drain the sacramental font. Drain it, scrub it with lye
soap, and scrub it again. No more people must be allowed to drink the
water. But what about Queen Feanna and the others who’d been
corrupted? Was there a way to help them, to turn them back to the
decent people they’d been? If anyone could do it, Gavin
Kinshield could. Perhaps drinking the water again would reverse the
effect, and she had the second skin of it. She climbed wearily to her
feet. That was it. She had to find King Gavin. She had to tell him
what she’d done.

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?”