Well of the Damned (6 page)

Mornings,
before the doors were opened, were Gavin’s favorite part of the
day. The room was quiet enough he could hear himself think, and the
clouds that darkened the morning sky left the room too bright to use
lamps but dim enough to ease his tired eyes.

Above
him, the sculpted ceiling had escaped virtually unscathed from the
two hundred years the Chatworyth Palace had been Ritol’s
prison. The beyonder Ritol — what many called a demon —
had smashed every piece of glass and furniture, ripped long furrows
into valuable paintings, torn doors from hinges, and broken them into
splinters. Though there were still some deep scratches and gouges in
the once-beautiful marble floors beneath Gavin’s stiff, new
boots, they bothered him less than the starkness of the room. Without
rugs or furniture, every footstep, voice, and rustle of clothing
echoed.

Once
the room filled with people, the constant noise would wear on him,
making every problem the people brought before him that much heavier
upon his shoulders. He knew he couldn’t fix everyone’s
problems, but his goal was to make life a little easier for the ones
suffering the most. Some came not to ask for aid, but to hear the
hope in his voice as he took his first unsteady steps towards
rebuilding his kingdom.

His
personal attendant brought a cup of the hot, brown drink his wife had
introduced him to and set it on the heavy writing table before him.
Its aroma tickled his brain and beckoned his tongue. The chair
creaked under his weight, unusually loud in the large, empty room, as
he leaned forward to bring the steaming cup to his lips.

“May
I bring you a fruit pastry, my liege? Perhaps a bit of duck or pork?”

“No,
thanks, Quint. Just the coffee is fine for now.” His kitchen
servants were going to make him plump with all the food they cooked
for him, and he hadn’t had a real battle since he fought the
last beyonder almost three months earlier. Without the daily travel,
fighting or labor he was used to, he would grow weak and soft at
twenty-six years old, a notion that saddened him. Though he felt good
from yesterday’s work along the riverbank, he needed more to
keep his body firm and his reactions sharp. Maybe he’d start
doing drills with the guards at dawn.

He
sipped his coffee and leaned back to let his mind drift back to the
things that needed doing.

The
door in the back of the room creaked open. Edan came in and sat down,
setting his writing supplies on the table before him. His blond hair
was combed, his face freshly shaven but for the mustache that framed
his ever-smiling mouth. “Good morning, Gav. I hope you don’t
catch your death from working in the rain yesterday. How did you
sleep last night?”

The
relentless rain had turned the city into a dreary, muddy mess, and
its constant patter on the roof and against the newly glazed windows
reminded him of the destruction it brought, the lives that were lost,
and his inability to do a damned thing about it. The work building up
the riverbank had brought sleep more quickly than usual. “Well,”
he said. “You?”

“Not
badly.” Edan nodded to Daia Saberheart as she strode in and
took her seat to Gavin’s left. “Though I stayed up too
late reading.”

“Again,”
Daia added with a grin. Her hair, tied in a long braid that
perpetually trailed down her back, was still damp from her morning
practice in the training yard. She wore the loose-fitting trousers
and half-sleeved tunic that had become the customary uniform of his
guards since he’d adopted blue and gold as the royal colors.
They hid her bulging muscles well, though one could plainly see by
the thickness of her neck and her corded forearms she was lean and
strong, despite her natural beauty. She flashed her remarkably
pale-blue eyes at Gavin. “Good morning, my king. Edan.”

“And
to you,” Edan said. “I’ve been making good progress
getting through the pile of messages.” Starting almost the very
day the palace was unlocked, messages had begun to pour in —
requests for aid, congratulations from people he’d saved or
helped over the years, offers from parents for infant daughters to
wed any princes Gavin might soon father.

At first, Edan had tried to read
them all as they arrived, but the king’s demands on his time
required him to hire an assistant, who’d separated the messages
into two stacks, one marked urgent and the other trivial. Though the
rate of their arrival had slowed somewhat, new messages arrived every
day, along with invitations and gifts as gestures of goodwill from
the leaders of foreign lands, some of which Gavin had never heard of.
One day, he would need to begin inviting them to visit or accepting
their invitations to travel, but he had many problems to solve and
people to care for before he could entertain or enjoy a vacation. For
now, all he could manage was a polite reply, penned with Edan’s
help, of course.

“Anything
I should know about?” Gavin asked.

“The
Master Scholar from the Tern Institute of Science reports he has men
who specialize in studying weather, and they’ve determined that
the cloud patterns and continuous rain are unlikely to be naturally
caused.”

Gavin
turned to him with a scowl. “Are you saying this rain is caused
by magic?”

“That’s
what they’re suggesting. I’ve never heard of such a
thing. Have you?”

Gavin
shook his head, troubled by the notion. If it were caused by someone,
then whom? And why? Did Thendylath have a foreign enemy that planned
an attack? Flooding rains would be one way to wear down its target.
“We got to find out who’s doing it.”

“Do
you have ears in the city?” Daia asked.

“What
do you mean?” Gavin asked.

“My
father has people all over Thendylath — merchants, craftsmen,
even whores — agents who report rumors they hear. He pays them
depending on how valuable the information is.”

“Might
the Lordover Tern be willing to share his information?” Edan
asked.

Daia
snorted. “That depends on what he can get in return, aside from
the king’s goodwill.”

“Let’s
send a message,” Gavin said. “Ask him.”

Edan
pulled out a clean sheet of paper from his stack. “Consider it
done.”

In
the distance, the bell in the temple tower clanged nine times,
marking the beginning of another long day. Two guards, women who had
trained and served in the now-disbanded Viragon Sisterhood, went to
the double doors and waited for Gavin’s nod. The metal locks
clanged, the bars were lifted, and the doors scraped open on squeaky
hinges. A sense of dread settled on his already weary shoulders.

People
who had been waiting in the rain for hours, perhaps overnight,
bustled into the room, eager for a chance to plead their need to the
king. Most were poor, judging from their lack of a rain cloak and the
stained and threadbare clothing that clung wetly to their thin
frames.

The
wealthy tended to send a message asking for a private appointment, as
if they were above standing in line with the common people. They
failed to remember the king was himself common born and had no
tolerance for the haughty attitudes of the wealthy. Although Edan or
his assistant brought him these messages, they went mostly ignored,
though from time to time when Gavin was in a foul mood, he sent back
a reply stating simply, “The king receives petitioners every
morning between nine o’clock and noon.”

The
first petitioner of the day was a frail boy no older than ten. He
shuffled forward, leaving a wet trail on the floor behind him. Water
dripped from his dark hair onto his already soaked clothes. Without
sufficient flesh on his frame, he shivered uncontrollably and
clutched his arms to himself. He wore a shirt meant for a smaller
child, and his mismatched shoes were not only different colors but
different sizes as well. A rope around his waist held up his sagging
trousers.

He
bowed to the king and smiled. Already three of his teeth had rotted
out, and the black spots visible on the remaining front teeth
indicated they would be next. What got Gavin’s attention most
of all was the indentation on the side of the boy’s skull. It
looked like he’d been hit in the head with something very
heavy, or maybe kicked by a horse or ox. That might explain why his
right eye was turned so far to the right, only a portion of his iris
showed.

Inwardly,
Gavin cringed and wondered if his magic could fix this old injury. He
suspected not. All the healing had already taken place. “How
can I help you, young man?”

The boy’s teeth chattered as
he said, “Me an’ my brother… I was wonderin’
if mayhap… M’Lord King, some chil’ren on the
street says our Lady Queen oft helps us who ha’n’t any
parents.”

Feanna
had always had a special passion for helping orphaned children, as
evidenced by her adoption of four of them before Gavin had met her.
That passion had grown since she became queen. With the power and
means to help orphaned children, she had a narrow focus every day
that sometimes left her own adopted children wondering when they
would see her. Every child deserved a loving home, enough food to
eat, and clothes to wear.

Gavin
himself had been orphaned at the age of twelve, but he’d been
lucky enough to have an older brother who was willing and able to
take him in and feed him.

For
all the others, there was the orphanage, but rumor had it the
children were barely better off there than they were living on the
street. In some cases, they were worse off. Stories of abuse and
neglect were too numerous to discount. In fact, she was visiting the
orphanage in Tern this morning to see firsthand the conditions there.

“I
know it’s a kindness an’ I don’t ask fer my own
sake,” the boy said. “I can take care o’myself, but
my brother… He’s only five years old. Our papa died
afore last harvest, an’ my brother wasn’t even old enough
to lace his boots.” He hung his head and lowered his eyes. “I
promised Papa I’d look after him, but I can’t get us
enough to eat with just my sling. He ha’n’t grown any in
the last year, an’ his belly hurts all the time. Papa always
said stealin’ is wrong, but not many people throws out food.”

Gavin
cringed. This boy was hunting rats in the street for his food.
“You’re right,” he said. “My wife has a
passion for looking after children like you and your brother. She’s
away this morning though, visiting the orphanage. Did you take your
brother there?”

“Yeh,
m’lord— uh, Lord King, but they said they was full an’
couldn’t take nobody else.”

What
would a king do?
he thought. A king would help his people,
especially those who couldn’t help themselves. “Awright,
listen. Go get your brother and bring him here. You can wait for the
queen in the dining hall, and I’ll have my cook fix you a
plate.” He beckoned one of the guards and instructed her to
keep an eye out for this boy returning with another.

The
boy’s mouth dropped open in disbelief at first and then widened
into a smile. He bowed deeply several times, thanking Gavin profusely
as he did.

“Off
you go then.” Gavin smiled, wishing all the people were as easy
to please and help.

The
morning brought one request for aid after another, most having to do
with problems caused by the rain. Businesses were suffering, people
weren’t getting enough to eat, cesspits were overflowing into
the street, the river water was too dirty to drink, and there wasn’t
enough dry wood to burn to boil water. Gavin asked himself,
what
would a king do?
But he had no answers, only a question: why was
this happening?

A
messenger, dressed in the Lordover Tern’s red and black livery,
entered at the back of the hall. His face was familiar enough that
the guards checked him quickly for weapons and let him through
without an escort.

“Good
morning, my lord king,” he said, handing the message to Gavin.

“Hail,
Hanik. How’s the little one?” Gavin broke the seal and
handed the folded note to Edan without looking at it.

“Much
better, sire, thank you. She can’t stop talking about how you
healed her arm.”

Gavin
smiled. “Give your wife my best.”

Hanik
nodded with a crooked smile. “Thank you, sire. I will.”

Edan,
looking at the note, said, “The Lordover Tern writes he’s
questioned Cirang Deathsblade extensively with the aid of a
well-respected shadow reader. He concludes she is blameless for the
crimes with which she is charged, and requests you hear her for
yourself within a week’s time or he’ll exonerate her and
set her free.” He tossed the message onto the table
dismissively.

“Can
he do that?” Gavin asked.

“According
to current law, the limit on her time in gaol without a formal
hearing is three months, and she’s been in gaol for nearly
that,” Edan said. “You should question her yourself. Your
magic will tell you if she’s lying.”

“If
her lips are moving,” Daia said, “she’s lying. She
was well known at the Sisterhood for her ability to sell rubbish no
matter its stench.”

Edan raised his brows in
encouragement. “She helped Ravenkind escape justice. If she’s
truly blameless in Rogan’s death, you’ll know.”

Gavin
sighed heavily and rubbed his brow.

“I
know you don’t want to do this,” Edan said, “but
you need to make a judgment. Once you get this task done, it won’t
be tapping your shoulder every other day.”

Gavin
nodded. “Write a reply to tell him we’ll send someone to
get her tomorrow morning.”

Chapter 8