Well of the Damned (21 page)

They
arrived at mid-day on the fourth day of travel. Sithral Tyr had found
the cellar by chance three years earlier when his horse’s
hooves thumped the wooden hatch as he rode across it. The hollow
sound and whine of rotting wood had stopped him. The original
farmhouse, situated nearby, had burned to the ground long ago,
leaving only its brick foundation and a few scattered remnants of
rotted wood and broken glass. Apparently no one had discovered the
hidden cellar about twenty paces away.

It
had taken Tyr a couple of hours to cut back the overgrowth and scrape
away enough soil to find the unhinged end. Once he had the hatch
open, he’d tied a rope to his saddle and lowered himself down
to discover a trove of ancient treasures. After a few days of sorting
through the books and papers and weeks of inquiring about the names
mentioned within, he came to realize some of these items might have
value. Unfortunately, he’d sold the first journal to Ravenkind
before he understood just how valuable it was.

The
battler Toren Meobryn, indebted to Tyr for helping to divert blame
for a murder onto another man, had helped him build this shack. Tyr
hadn’t spent much time here, but he’d squatted long
enough to claim legal ownership of the abandoned land.

Though
Cirang hadn’t legally inherited the property upon Tyr’s
corporeal death, she was probably the only one alive who knew what
treasures lay hidden beneath it. As far as she knew, Ravenkind had
been the last visitor, and Toren’s body was undoubtedly rotting
in the weeds beside Tyr’s.

Cirang
swung her foot over the saddle and slid to the ground. The animals
were tied to the nearby trees, and the entire contingent of
travelers, five people including herself, crowded inside.

The
shack was nothing to boast about, consisting of a single room about
two paces by three. Tyr had built it large enough to hide the cellar
hatch, which was its only real value.

“Where’s
the damned journal?” Kinshield asked. “This had better
not’ve been a trick.”

“Patience,
patience.” Cirang lifted her chin towards the pallet. “Move
that aside. The cellar opening is underneath.”

Brawna
dragged the pallet to the adjacent corner, and Vandra pulled up the
small rug that covered the cellar hatch. Kinshield squatted, grabbed
the iron ring, and pulled the hatch open.

“I have a candle in my pack,
my liege,” Brawna said.

Kinshield
winked at her. “Who needs a candle?” He opened his palm,
and on it appeared a glowing ball of light.

“Let
me go down first,” Daia said. “There’s no telling
what’s down there or how sturdy the ladder is.”

Kinshield
nodded, and Daia climbed down. He squatted beside the top of the
ladder and let the light ball drift down to her.

After
Daia signaled it was safe, Kinshield descended. When Cirang started
down the ladder, he told her to wait. Anger and apprehension knotted
her shoulders. They were down there meddling in her things, things
Tyr had collected over many years. When she heard something fall to
the ground, she nearly burst through her own skin.

“There’s
a lot of crap down here,” he said. “Where’s the
journal?”

“It’s
locked in the chest. You’ll need me to open it for you.”

“A
gargoyle lock,” Daia said. “Did you put this on the
chest, or did Tyr?”

The
magic of the lock enabled only the person who placed the gargoyle to
remove it. “Tyr did.” She hoped that didn’t mean
the chest was locked forever.

“Then
I should be able to remove the gargoyle,” Daia said. “Tyr’s
dead.”

The
tone of her voice, the pride and superiority, made Cirang’s
blood run hot. When Daia let out a yelp, she laughed loudly. It
served her right. “Guess I’m not as dead as you think.”

“Awright,
come down,” Kinshield said. “Vandra, you come too.”

She
wasn’t sure the ladder would hold up after Gavin’s use,
but she and Vandra made it down without incident. Brawna stayed up
top.

The
cellar was about four paces square — larger than the shack
above, and far more interesting. Shelves lined the left and rear
walls, containing some of the original items she’d found there
— mostly books and papers and a few gems and trinkets. Over the
years, Tyr had added to the already rich collection of old treasures
whenever he happened upon something interesting. The chest containing
the more precious items sat on a few pieces of lumber on the right,
raised off the moist dirt floor.

She
went to her knees beside the wooden chest. On its lid sat a medium
brown wooden gargoyle about five inches tall. Though she knew it was
made from a different piece of wood placed there long after the chest
was built, there was no line separating it from the chest’s
lid. They appeared to be made from the same log.

Doubt
stilled her hand as she reached for it, her hands still bound. If it
didn’t recognize her and Tyr as being the same person —
possessing the same spirit — she would receive a painful shock,
as Daia had. She tapped it with one finger. Nothing happened. More
confidently, she took hold of it and pulled. It came away as easily
as though it had merely been resting on top.

“Give
me the gargoyle,” Kinshield said. “You won’t be
coming back here.”

“I
agreed to give you the book. The rest of these things are mine by
rights.”

Daia
snatched the gargoyle from her hand and gave it to Kinshield.

“I’ll
lock it,” he said.

Vandra
reached into the chest and picked up a wooden box. “These
carvings are spectacular,” she said. “Did you make them?”

As
a carver, Tyr’d had a fondness for wooden sculptures, ornate
utensils and knife handles, decorative onlays, puzzles and toys, and
often spent time carving something whimsical during his travels
across Thendylath. Sometimes he sold them, other times he gave them
to the children of his unsuspecting dupes. His specialty, though, was
a type of box that had a hidden compartment only he knew how to open.
He wondered whether his skill with a chisel was lost forever in these
untrained hands.

“Don’t
touch what doesn’t belong to you,” Cirang snapped as she
took the box from Vandra. Inside the hidden compartment of this
particular box was a small, silk bag of serragan powder Tyr had
brought from Nilmaria. The serragan weed didn’t grow in
Thendylath, and so the powder was practically unknown.

“None
o’this belongs to you either,” Kinshield said, “Cirang.”

Cirang narrowed her eyes at him
and lifted one side of her lip. “Shall we quit the pretense? We
all know I’m not truly Cirang. Yes, I created these items. I
was apprenticed to a carver very young and had earned my indicia.”

“What’s
indicia?” Vandra asked.

“The
designs sewn into a Nilmarion’s skin are mostly ward lines,
though some around the eyes are indicia, which indicate his
profession, birth clan, and sometimes station.” Cirang
retrieved the journal, handed it to Gavin, and rose to her feet. “Be
careful with it,” she said. “It’s the original
copy.”

He
opened it gingerly, taking care with its old pages and binding. Daia
and Vandra, standing beside him, looked on.

“Oh,
look. There’s a map,” Vandra said.

“So
Sevae actually found it?” Gavin asked.

“Let’s
see what it says.” Daia began to read some of the passages
aloud.

It
was quite by accident that I overheard old King Dantrek on his
deathbed confide to Prince Arek there exists a wellspring high in the
mountains that his father, King Ivam, had some interest in for its
secret, magical properties. According to legend —
a legend King Ivam had worked hard to discredit —
drinking of the Well of the Enlightened had the potential to
permanently raise a person’s spirit to the purest form. Not
only would this effect eliminate crime, it would also inspire a sense
of community such as the world has never seen, eliminating hunger and
poverty. I have never heard of this wellspring, but the notion of it
intrigues me. I will endeavor to learn more about it.

With
their attention diverted, Cirang turned her body slightly away and
opened the box’s hidden compartment to confirm the bag was
still there. She removed it and hid it in her closed hand, feeling
the powdery substance within. Nobody noticed. With a smirk, she
nonchalantly bent to scratch an itch and tucked the bag into the top
of her boot.

They
wouldn’t have a chance.

“What
are you doing?” Vandra asked.

“I
had an itch. Is that a crime?”

“Watch
yourself.”

I
waited a month after King Dantrek’s funeral before asking King
Arek about the wellspring. His reaction was not only surprising but
alarming in its intensity. The mere mention of the wellspring made
him fly into such a rage, I feared he would burst a vein. He
instructed me in no uncertain terms not to bring the matter up again,
and would not answer my questions about it. I’d never seen such
anger in him before or since, for I fear to broach the subject until
the emotion of having lost his father fades with time. If I want to
know more about the wellspring, I’ll need to research it myself
clandestinely.

“Is
this the only other journal Sevae had?” Kinshield asked.

Daia
knelt and examined the other books.

Cirang
nodded. “I know of only two. You already have the other.”

“You
might be interested in these, Gavin,” Daia said. “Here’s
one called ‘A Treatise on the Influence of Gems in Magic
Casting’ and this one — ‘Spiritual Consequences of
Practicing the Dark Magics.’”

“Awright,
grab those and let’s go. We can read more on the way. Wait.
What’s that you have?” Kinshield took the small box from
her hands.

“Only
something I— Sithral Tyr once carved. I would like to keep it,
if you don’t mind, for sentimental reasons.”

He
opened the main compartment and, seeing it was empty, shut it again
and handed it back. “Suit yourself.” Kinshield closed the
chest and put the gargoyle on top.

After
everyone climbed back up, Brawna closed the hatch, and Vandra covered
it with the rug and pallet before leaving.

They mounted up to begin the long
ride back to Tern. “I fulfilled my part of our bargain,”
she told Kinshield. “Now it’s your turn. Set me free, and
then we will be upscores.”

Kinshield
cocked one eyebrow at her. “I never said I’d set you
free. I said I’d be lenient, and that means you get to live
another five years in gaol before your execution.”

At
first, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Five–
you can’t be serious. That’s what you call leniency?”
Anger hardened every muscle in her body. “You’re an
honorless cur, no more suited to being a king than I am. Even
Ravenkind had more integrity than you have, you wretched, toothless,
dim-witted—”

Something
hard hit her in the head from behind, slamming her face into the
mule’s rump. Black spots filled her vision and then all light
and sound faded, replaced by whispers in the darkness and black
claws, agonizing twists of her spine and sharp breaths, until the
pain in her hip yanked her mercifully to consciousness. Something
rocked her forward and back, grinding the pain through every fiber in
her body. She opened her eyes to find herself lying on her right side
in the wet dirt with a boot on her hip.

“Get
up,” Daia snapped.

“Sorry,
King Gavin,” Brawna said, sheathing her sword. “I
couldn’t help myself.”

A
dark rancor passed over Cirang like a portentous storm cloud. Brawna.
That worthless trull would be the first to die.

“It’s
awright. You owe her that and more. Shackle her hands behind her
again.”

“Please,
no.” Cirang pushed herself up slowly, the muscles in her arms
trembling. She would make them pay, perhaps slit their throats after
she incapacitated them. “I beg forgiveness, Your Majesty,”
she said quietly, feigning remorse. “I was angry and stepped
out of line. You’ll have no more trouble from me.”

Kinshield
snorted. “You’re kho-bent. It’s in your nature to
cause chaos. Mount up and let’s go.”

Daia
and Vandra helped her mount and secured her feet into the stirrups.
Cirang watched Vandra expectantly, afraid she might glimpse the bag
of dust in the top of her boot, but as luck would have it, she didn’t
appear to notice. Soon, they were back on the road, and Cirang
apologized several more times over the next few hours. In fact, she
was nothing but polite and agreeable, asking for nothing during their
stops aside from a swallow of water, bit of bread if they could spare
it, and help standing back up when she needed to piss.

They
were still a few hours’ ride from the nearest town when night
fell. The travelers found a site close to a creek to make camp.

“If
you loosen the rope at my waist, I’ll help look for firewood,”
she said.

Vandra
laughed. “You don’t think we trust you enough to unleash
you, do you, dog?”

“I
won’t run off,” she said. “You have my word.”

“The
word of a traitor is like no word at all,” Brawna said.

“Any
wood we find,” Daia said, “will be too wet to burn.”

“Not
too wet for me,” Kinshield said. He held up his fingers and
blew on them as if to extinguish burning candles. “Any wood
will do. Brawna and Vandra, see to it, will you?”

Vandra
handed the leash to Daia. “Of course, my liege.”

While
they were gone, Kinshield put his hand out, angled towards the
ground, and steam began to rise from the earth. Little by little the
ground dried enough to sit beneath his magical rain canopy. He was a
more powerful mage than she’d realized — definitely
something she would keep in mind later.

When
they returned with an armload each, Kinshield used his magic to turn
the water in the wood to steam. His adulators cooed their approval
and awe. Cirang wanted to make retching sounds but decided tricking
them with her false praise would work better in her favor, and so she
joined them. They prepared a meal of reconstituted dried meat and
potatoes. They untied her for supper, and to her surprise, Kinshield
offered to share his bedroll with her so she didn’t have to sit
on the dirt. She crossed her feet and lowered herself into a
cross-legged posture, mindful of the bag hidden in her boot. She laid
her shackled wrists over it and surreptitiously tucked it deeper with
two fingers.