Well of the Damned (28 page)

“What
are they saying?” Daia asked.

“Shh.
I’ll tell you in a minute. Why does drinking the water disrupt
the khozhi?”

“The
essence is anchored in the center of the body. When the water,
infused with our essence, reaches the stomach, the essence of the
consumer draws it out of the minerals, reversing the khozhi balance.”

“I
was told the wellspring has destroyed cities,” Gavin said. “How
could that happen?”

“Many
years ago,” the guardians said, “explorers from the
country on the east side of this mountain range discovered our
spring.”

“Osgan,”
Gavin said. “I know of it.”

“We tried to drive them away
with illusion, but one of them managed to fill a container with our
water before he fled. This individual returned many times to take the
water, realizing the illusions were our only defense, and he was in
no danger from them. Eventually, many people were affected by the
water and changed from zhi-bent to kho-bent. Their violence ravaged
the city, and the country’s leaders destroyed it and everyone
within it.”

No
wonder King Arek wanted knowledge of the wellspring to be lost. Well,
Gavin would take it further and erect magical boundaries to prevent
anyone from repeating the mistake of the Osgani people.

With
his curiosity sated and Cirang getting farther away with every
passing minute, Gavin bid good-bye to the guardians and watched them
disappear back into the still, blue water. As he and Daia headed back
down the mountain, he told her everything the guardians had told him.
She’d heard the legend of the destruction of Tanecia, but
didn’t know it had anything to do with the wellspring. He
thought about how he might build a barrier to the spring so the story
of the Osgani would never be repeated in generations to come.

They
went left at the fork, towards Ambryce. Before long, they came upon
the landslide and saw Brawna below, picking up rocks and tossing them
a short distance away. She waved when she saw them. The safest way
down was to follow the trail back downhill until the mountain slope
was gradual enough to make their way across to where the rubble lay.

“Have
you found the journal?” Daia asked just as Gavin opened his
mouth to do the same.

Brawna
wiped sweat from her brow with her sleeve. “No, only her boot.”
She’d taken the saddle and tack from Vandra’s dead horse
and strapped it to the back of her mount. Already a pair of circling
condors were urging the humans to leave them to their meal by
swooping down as if to land and then rising again into the air.

“We’d
better get going if we want to catch up,” Daia said.

“Where’s
Calinor and Vandra?” Gavin asked.

Brawna
looked toward the south. “They thought they could catch up to
her, and so they went in pursuit.”

“Damn
it. They’ll get themselves killed.”

Daia
gave him a doubtful look. “Vandra’s wise to the serragan
powder now. Cirang can’t best the two of them.”

He
hoped she was right, but he wouldn’t bet coin on it.

Chapter 31

Cirang
walked along the water’s edge towards the city, making sure she
wasn’t leaving tracks. If Kinshield had managed to follow her
this far, she couldn’t count on him thinking she’d been
killed in the landslide. When the sun began to set, her path became
harder to see, but she slowed her pace and kept going. The pain in
her ribs was matched by the pain in her hip. Over three months
sitting in gaol, her joints had grown stiff and her muscles weak,
despite her attempts to exercise in the cell. To make matters worse,
the rocks were shredding her bootless foot. Every step prompted a
wince.

She
came upon a house with light emanating from its glazed windows. It
was set back from the river, safe from overflowing banks during a
heavy rain or spring snow melt but near enough to easily retrieve all
the water a family needed. Someone wealthy lived here, judging from
the fine brickwork of the walls and the neat stone path leading to an
ornately carved door well-fitted into its frame. She banged on it
with the underside of her fist.

A
lean woman with gray-streaked brown hair opened the door, surprise
and curiosity on her freckled face. “Lady Sister.” She
surveyed Cirang quickly. “Oh, you’re injured. Come in.
Ondray, come quickly!” she shouted over her shoulder. “Here,
let’s sit you down over here. What’s happened to you?”

Cirang
let the woman take her wet cloak and help her to a chair. It felt so
good to sit, to relieve her aching feet, she groaned. “Got
caught in a landslide,” she said, letting her exhaustion drag
her voice. “I lost my horse.” She set her knapsack on the
floor beside the chair.

“And
a boot, looks like,” the woman said. “You’re
limping.”

The
house wasn’t large like Ravenkind’s manor in Sohan had
been, or the one before that in Lalorian, but it was far larger than
the cottage where they’d both died. A big iron stove was
ablaze, creating relaxing warmth and a comfortable yellow glow on the
dark-gray woven rug. The walls were bare but for the curtains
covering the windows. These people were obviously wealthy enough to
afford glass in their windows, though they lived more modestly than
the wealthy city merchants she’d known.

The
door across from Cirang opened and a tall man came in pulling on a
blue shirt. “Bessa, who’s this?”

“A
Viragon Sister. She’s injured.”

“Are
you a healer?” Cirang asked to Ondray’s back as he went
to retrieve a black leather satchel on a nearby table.

“I’m
a surgeon,” he said with a note of superiority. “I heal
using science, not magic.” He returned and set the bag on the
floor. “Now, let’s take a look at your feet. I heard
Bessa say you’re limping.”

“My
feet are fine. I need help with this.” Cirang lifted the hem of
her tunic to show him the shard of stone buried in her skin. Blood
oozed out around the edge, but not as much now as before.

“Hmmm,”
Ondray said, clearly more intrigued than alarmed. “Bessa, dear,
bring towels — as many as you can find. What’s your name,
Lady Sister?”

“Cir-
Serpentsbane,” she said, drawing on an old memory. “Agasa
Serpentsbane.” Agasa was a childhood friend who’d been
slaughtered by a snake-like beyonder. A friend for whom she’d
vowed to get justice. The epithet was one she’d made up that
day, when she set her sights on becoming a Viragon Sister.

From
his satchel Ondray pulled a thin, rectangular wooden box. The carver
within her scoffed at the simplicity of it, but when Ondray opened it
by sliding the top along its length until it was free, Cirang had to
admire the design. Ondray took a round spool of thick brown thread
from the box and slid the lid back into place. He unrolled about two
feet of thread and used his teeth to sever it from the spool. Next,
he pinched one end between his fingers, making the fibers stick
together. He then alternately held the end in the flame of a candle
and rolled it with his fingers. She could see it was becoming stiffer
and sharper, like the fine point of a needle. With one last dip into
the flame, he held it up and blew on it, dissipating the wisp of
smoke that trailed upward. “Here we are. Now, Agasa, I need to
lay you down so I can work. Come with me.” He offered a hand to
help her stand, and she took it, groaning once more from the pain as
she stood. Ondray led her to a bed in an adjoining room and helped
her lie down, picking up her feet and swinging them up onto the
mattress so she didn’t have to tax her abdominal muscles.

Bessa bustled into the room with
an armload of towels and let them fall onto Cirang’s legs.
“These were all the clean ones we have.”

“That
should do,” Ondray said. “Let’s lift your shirt and
remove your corset.”

Cirang
lifted the tunic up to her armpit and began to unlace her corset.
When it was free, Ondray carefully lifted the corset’s fabric
over the shard and laid it aside, revealing her right tit. He was
unflustered as he casually pulled her shirt back down to cover her
breast.

“There
we are. I’ll need you to hold your right arm up over your head.
Do you think you can hold a towel for me?”

She
snorted. “Of course. I walked for hours with one boot and a
rock lodged in my side. I think I can manage that.”

“What
else do you need, dear?” Bessa asked.

“A
pail of clean water, please. That should do it,” Ondray said.
While she was gone, he inspected the wound. “A landslide, you
say?”

“Yeh.
My horse stumbled. Next thing I knew, the whole damned mountain was
coming down on top of me.”

“You
got pretty scraped up. Your face, here on your abdomen, your arms.
I’ll put some ointment on those to reduce the scarring.”

Cirang
wasn’t concerned with beauty, but she remembered her own
reaction when meeting Gavin Kinshield for the first time. Sithral Tyr
had been repulsed by the disfiguring scar. If she had any hope of
gaining people’s trust in Nilmaria, she would need to avoid any
physical blemishes that might prejudice the quirky people.

Bessa
returned with a bucket and set it carefully by her husband’s
foot. “What should I do?”

Ondray
gestured to the bed. “Be ready to hand me clean towels and
rinse the bloody ones. Agasa, this is going to hurt. Take this and
bite down.” He offered a leather disc to her lips.

She
opened her mouth automatically to receive it. The taste of it, the
feel of it between her teeth, sparked a memory of a time several
years earlier when Tyr’s soul had been ripped from his body in
a Nilmarion ceremony. It rivaled his death and Cirang’s for the
most painful thing she’d ever experienced. She spit the disc
out. “No. I— I don’t need it.”

Ondray
raised his bushy, gray eyebrows at her and shrugged. “Suit
yourself. All right, take this towel and be ready to press it hard
into the wound. Bessa, I’ll need you to wipe away the blood
with a wet cloth where I’m working. Try to keep it clean as I
stitch.” She dipped a cloth into the bucket and wrung out the
excess water. “I’ll count to three and then pull it out.
Ready?”

Cirang
nodded.

“One...
two... three.” He yanked the stone shard out. Pain burst in her
side, and she gasped. “Push!” He stuffed the cloth she
was holding into the wound, which only intensified the pain. “Wipe
it.”

Cirang
shut her eyes and gritted her teeth, though a groan gurgled in her
throat. She felt a slight pinch and pull, pinch and pull.
Occasionally Ondray asked for a new cloth or a wipe, but she tried to
focus her thoughts on what she planned to do next: find some way to
distribute the wellspring water, create a roadblock for Kinshield,
hide the journal, and get the hell out of Thendylath.

“There
we are,” Ondray said, dabbing at her wound with a wet cloth.
“Wash it twice a day, and if you can stand it, dribble spirits
on it. After a fortnight, cut the threads and pull them out. And try
not to fall down a mountain or do anything strenuous for the next few
weeks.”

“Hah.
Aren’t you the comedian.”

Bessa
handed Cirang a cup of water, which she guzzled, relishing the cool,
refreshing liquid in her cottony mouth and throat. She checked the
wound, closed with a dozen neat stitches. It looked as if it would
hold. She swung her legs over and stood, letting the hem of her tunic
fall into place. She’d wait until later to put the corset back
on. “I could use something to eat. A piece of bread, if you’ve
any extra.”

“Oh,
Agasa,” Bessa said, “we can do better than a piece of
bread. I’ve cooked a nice stew for supper. There’s a bowl
or two left over. Let me get it for you.” She patted Cirang’s
shoulder. “We’ll have you good as new.”

Cirang
sat at their table and ate their food that tasted like what her own
mother used to cook. Anything cooked with care would taste like
heaven compared to the bland slop she’d been given in gaol or
the dried rations Kinshield had fed her. She ate every drop of the
stew and mopped the bowl clean with a piece of soft, fresh bread.
When she was finished, she pushed back from the table.

“Might you have an old pair
of shoes I could buy?” she asked. “I’m in a hurry
and can’t wait for a cobbler to make a new pair.”

“One
minute,” Bessa said as she turned towards a shoe rack near the
door. “I’ve some boots that rub my feet wrong. Perhaps
they’ll fit you better.” She took a pair of dusty,
knee-high boots and brought them over. For a second, Cirang wondered
whether the woman was going to lift Cirang’s feet and put them
on for her as if she were a toddler. “Try these on.”

Cirang
removed the wrapping from her right foot and slid the boot on. “It’s
a little big on me, but they’ll do.”

“Then
they’re yours,” Bessa announced with a smile. “Though
we’ve a king now, we wouldn’t have been as well off
without the service of the Viragon Sisterhood and the warrant knights
all these years. Ondray and I like to help when we can.”