Daughter of Witches: A Lyra Novel (7 page)

“A bondwoman is seldom free to do as she wishes,” she said finally. She knew it was a weak response, but with the priest’s gaze upon her she was unable to find a better one.

“That need not concern you,” Gadrath answered. “I am of sufficient rank to make arrangements, if it pleases me.”

Ranira swallowed hard and remained silent. After a moment, the priest went on, “You may be sure I shall be kinder to you than your bondholder. Shall I have him fined for mistreating you?” He reached out and touched the purpling bruise at the side of Ranira’s head, and the girl shrank back from his touch.

The priest frowned. “There is nothing to fear, girl,” he said impatiently. “Have I not observed the courtesies? Now, I doubt that bondholder will refuse to assign your bond to the Temple of Chaldon. In a day or two it will all be settled. But there is no reason to wait until then. Come.”

Gadrath reached out and took hold of her arm. “No,” Ranira whispered, and her pent-up anger burst free. “No!” she shouted. She wrenched free, pushing the priest violently away. The sudden release threw her off balance, and she staggered backward into the crowded square, away from the veil-maker’s stand. She had a brief glimpse of the astonishment on the priest’s face before he reeled backward into the heavily laden shelves separating the veil-maker’s booth from that of the fruit seller. The shelves teetered alarmingly, showering soft purple fruit and sticky red jam on the unfortunate priest.

Silence descended on those bystanders who were near enough to see clearly what had happened. No one dared to laugh at the spectacle of a Temple priest covered in juice and sliding on the crushed pulp every time he tried to regain his feet. No one quite dared to go to his assistance, either, though the crowd edged closer until Gadrath was the center of a ring of silent, brown-robed people.

Hoping to remain unnoticed, Ranira dropped the red veil she had been holding and edged away from the disaster. She had to force herself to go slowly. Every minute she expected to hear outraged cries from the direction of the fruit stand, ordering the crowd to seize her, bind her, return her to face the priest’s vengeance. The crowded square was oppressive. There were too many people, too close. She wanted to run.

An eon later, she reached the edge of the square, where she could move more freely. Trying to retain some shred of composure, she started down one of the streets with measured paces. The light hurt her eyes. Every dark-robed pilgrim looked at first glance like one of the black-clad Temple Watchmen.

Something jogged her elbow; she whirled, stifling a scream. It was only one of the pilgrims, an apologetic young man in the ubiquitous brown. A little shaken by her own reaction, Ranira exchanged polite apologies with him and continued on. Slowly, she began to recover from her panic. The priest doesn’t even know my name, she reassured herself. He can’t examine everyone who comes to the Temple, no matter how important he is. Unless he knows my name or Lykken’s, he can’t find me again except by accident.

She had almost succeeded in reassuring herself when she reached the Inn of Nine Doors. A clump of people were standing in front of the door, blocking her way. Ranira looked up, and gasped in shock. Two of the three men in front of her wore the ordinary garb of Temple Watchmen, but the third was dressed in the unmistakable robes of an Eye of Chaldon.

R
ANIRA DID NOT HAVE
time to react. “That’s another one, the bondwoman,” said a voice, and her arm was seized from behind. Numb with terror, she made no protest as the guard hauled her inside the door and through the inn to the large dining hall.

The room was crowded. Lykken’s servants huddled against the far wall, kept apart from the inn’s customers by a flimsy barrier of chairs and boxes, overseen by two Temple guards. A confused, frightened mass of people milled about the rest of the room. Most of them were customers—pilgrims unlucky enough to have chosen to eat at the Inn of Nine Doors that morning.

The guard who held Ranira stopped at one of the tables. A Temple priest sat there, amid a clutter of paper. “Another one of the staff,” the guard said.

The priest made a note. ‘‘You are Ranira, bonded to Lykken who owns this inn?”

Ranira nodded. The priest looked pleased. “That is the last of them, then,” he said in a satisfied tone. “Put her over there with the rest of the servants, and go help with the pilgrims. With a little luck we can be finished with most of them before the High Master of the Eyes arrives.”

The guard nodded and pushed Ranira over to the barricade that enclosed the employees of the Inn of Nine Doors. Ranira stumbled into the midst of the crowd. Her hands came up instinctively as she collided with someone, and she barely managed to keep from falling. As she regained her balance, she looked up to apologize. She found herself staring into the red, angry face of Lykken.

“You!” he hissed, seizing her arm in a painfully tight grasp. “You pit snake! After I’ve kept you fed and clothed and given you a place for six years. It was you! I should have known better than to take the bond of a witch-child!”

Ranira’s teeth rattled as Lykken shook her. She could not have replied even if she had wished to. Suddenly Lykken pushed her away, and she stumbled again. “You hate me!” the innkeeper shouted. “That’s why you did this—to ruin me!”

“I… I have not done anything,” Ranira said jerkily. “What do you mean?”

Lykken’s face became even redder, and he raised a hand. Ranira cringed, but the innkeeper was only pointing. “There! Can you deny you told the Templemen they were here?”

As Ranira’s eyes followed the pointing finger, she suddenly understood. The three strangers were sitting calmly at the rear of the room, just on the other side of the chairs and a little apart from the rest of the customers. Two more Temple guards and an Eye of Chaldon stood close beside them, watching. The veiled woman did not appear to notice. She was speaking in a low voice to Jaren, who did not seem quite so much at ease. From time to time the man’s hand moved unconsciously to his empty scabbard. The “sick boy” drooped over the table, still keeping up the pretense of illness.

Ranira looked back at Lykken. “I didn’t tell anyone,” she added angrily. “You have no one but yourself to blame. If you weren’t so greedy this would not have happened.”

“How dare you!” The innkeeper reached out, but Ranira dodged away in time. “You slimy little thief! Witch-child! You should have burned with your parents.”

Most of the room was watching now, but Ranira knew better than to expect any of them to help her. She continued to duck Lykken’s wild swings, backing away as best she could. It was impossible to run. Suddenly Lykken bellowed and lunged forward. Ranira jumped back and bumped against the low barricade that separated the staff of the inn from the rest of the room. For a long moment, she fought for balance. Then something shifted, and she crashed to the floor in a pile of rope and broken chairs.

Lykken moved forward in triumph. Ranira pulled against the ruins of the barricade, trying to avoid him. The innkeeper’s first kick landed hard against her side. Through the explosion of pain, she felt ribs grind together. Another blow fell, and she twisted away and rolled to her knees. Lykken grinned and shifted to aim another kick before she could rise.

A shadow fell across Ranira’s face. She glimpsed green leather, and then Lykken went reeling backward into the wall. Suddenly, Jaren stood in front of her, turned slightly so that she could see the almost imperceptible smile on his face.

Lykken climbed slowly to his feet as the Temple guards hurried over. The innkeeper pointed a thick finger at Ranira, “I knew it! She’s been in league with them all along. It is all her fault!”

“Whatever she has done or not done, you will think twice before abusing her again, innkeeper. Even if she is your bondwoman.” Jaren said, spitting out the last word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Before Lykken could do more than turn red, one of the Temple guards had shoved himself between the two men. “Back where you belong,” he said brusquely to Jaren. “We will not permit disturbances among prisoners.”

Jaren looked at him coldly. “You did not seem so anxious to avoid a disturbance when it was a large man beating a small girl.”

The Templeman drew his sword and stepped forward. “The High Master will deal with all of you when he arrives. Now, go.”

Jaren remained where he was. The guard moved closer, until the point of his sword touched Jaren’s leather vest. But Jaren still did not move.

“Jaren.” The soft voice broke the tension between the two men. Ranira let out the breath she did not know she had been holding, and turned her head. The woman called Mist had risen to her feet. She made no movement, spoke no other word, but those closest to her backed away. Ranira looked back toward Jaren. He still had not moved, but he no longer looked like a cat preparing to spring.

Jaren looked past the Temple guard to Lykken. “Don’t trouble her again, innkeeper. Next time I will not stop with one blow.” He turned and started back toward the table where Mist was standing.

Lykken’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of anger and hate. He lunged forward, ripped the sword from the surprised Templeman’s hand, and thrust for Jaren’s back. Ranira cried a warning, and without thinking, she grabbed one of the pieces of broken chair from the floor and threw it at the innkeeper. She saw Jaren whirl and duck, saw the sword in Lykken’s hand grow red, saw the broken chair leg hit the innkeeper just before the Temple guard knocked him unconscious. As Lykken slumped to the floor, the Temple guard stepped forward and recovered his sword.

In the stunned silence that followed, Jaren turned toward Ranira. Blood welled from between the fingers he pressed tight to his side, and the half-bow he gave her made him wince. “Little sister, I owe you a life,” he said.

The Templeman standing beside Jaren laughed. “Much good may it do her! Chaldon will have you both before long.”

Jaren turned his head. The Templeman fell back a pace, and his sword came up. Jaren smiled. “I am Cilhar,” he said softly. “What will come is never sure. Remember that, Templeman.”

“When you have finished discussing the nature of the future with your prisoners, Hirnlan, perhaps you can find time to explain to me just what has been going on,” said a new voice.

The Templeman lowered his sword and straightened abruptly. “High Master,” he croaked.

Cold chills ran down Ranira’s back as she scrambled to her feet. The High Master of the Eyes of Chaldon was the most feared of the Temple priests, for he controlled the Eyes, and the Eyes of Chaldon hunted down disbelievers and witches and punished those who dared to disobey the dictates of the god. It was a measure of the gravity of Lykken’s offense that the High Master himself had come to the Inn of Nine Doors. In all her life, Ranira could not remember hearing of a foreigner attempting to stay in Drinn during the Festival. The crowd parted as the new arrival moved toward the Templeman. In the fist instant that she saw him clearly, Ranira swayed in shock. The High Master of the Eyes of Chaldon was the priest Gadrath! She bit back a gasp of fear and dismay, and tried to melt into the press of people.

He did not notice her at once; his attention was on the unfortunate Templeman. “I asked for an explanation,” he said in a tone of exaggerated patience.

The guard paled and swallowed. “Lord, there was a disturbance. He,” pointing at Jaren, “struck this man before we could intervene. I ordered him back to await your pleasure and judgment. The other attacked him as he turned to go, but I knocked him out before he could do any real harm.”

“Indeed?” Gadrath’s eyes narrowed. “You must think me a fool, Hirnlan. I am not blind, to overlook a wounded man and a bloody sword. Make your tale complete, or share the fate I choose for this one!” Gadrath nudged Lykken’s recumbent form with his foot. The innkeeper stirred and moaned.

“High Master, Revered Lord, he wrenched my sword from my hand without warning and struck the foreigner before I could stop him,” the guard stammered.

“Without warning?” Gadrath’s smile was half sneer. “Then you shall tend the snake pits in the Temple until you know the meaning of the words. If you survive, that is; the snakes of Chaldon are swift as well as silent.”

The Temple guard stumbled back, and people recoiled from him in horror, as if the mere touch of his clothing might force them to share his punishment. Gadrath smiled again and turned to another of the Temple guardsmen. “To lay hands upon a Templeman is death. The innkeeper is of no use to us. See to it.”

The guard hauled Lykken to his feet and prodded the dazed man toward the door of the dining hall. Ranira was too numb to feel horror as she watched them leave. A muffled scream came a moment later, cut off abruptly. Ranira shuddered, and tears came unbidden to her eyes. Lykken had been cruel, greedy, and stupid, but at least he had been familiar. Now she was alone.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of her name.

“Ranira? Oh, a bondwoman. You say he accused her of bewitching him? Well, where is the girl then?” A priest gestured in answer to Gadrath’s question. The High Master turned toward her.

Gadrath’s eyes met hers, and the priest was suddenly, dangerously, still. Then he drew a long breath, and smiled coldly. “So? I must think on your fate, my dear. It will take a moment or two to find something appropriate.” Ranira shivered at the menace in his voice.

With a brief nod of satisfaction, Gadrath turned away from Ranira to the three foreigners. “These, you will take to the Temple. Hold them in the House of Correction until tomorrow. We will begin the rites of purification after the procession.” The priest paused thoughtfully. “Yes. We will make a public spectacle of the unbelievers. Mid-Festival will be suitable, I think. The inn is confiscated; call an ironsmith to see to the bonding of the staff.”

Someone on Ranira’s right moaned. Gadrath ignored the sound and looked speculatively toward the frightened crowd of customers. “These others—a fine. You have their names recorded? Then, release them once they have paid; it will give the tale a chance to spread.”