[Lyra 02] - Daughter of Witches Read online

  Lykken blanched. Plainly, it had not occurred to him that he would have to keep the staff of the inn from doing the customary cleaning and laying of the fire for the next patron.

  “Ah, perhaps you had best leave that for later,” he said after a pause. “I can have Hindreth see to it, or Drena.”

  “But it’s my job to clean the rooms,” she insisted. She allowed a sullen note to creep into her voice. “You refused me my half-holiday yesterday because you said my time wasn’t ‘properly employed.’ I’m not giving you a chance to do that again!”

  The innkeeper’s face cleared as he saw the way out of his dilemma. “Yes, well, I may have been a little hasty. Things are rather busy the day before Festival, but now Festival is here! Why don’t you take your holiday today, and enjoy Firstday to the full? Yes, an excellent idea!”

  “Oh, thank you!” Ranira said, trying to pump as much gratitude as she could into the words. “Shall I take care of the corner room first?”

  “No, no,” said Lykken expansively. “I’ll have Hindreth clean it later. You go and enjoy Firstday.” He beamed down at her, obviously pleased at being able to solve his problem and appear magnanimous at the same time.

  Ranira lowered her eyes to hide the contempt she felt, and bowed briefly before she turned to go back down the stairs. “By the time I get back, he will have convinced himself that he let me go out of nothing but kindness,” she thought cynically as she hurried toward the kitchen to replace the broom and firebox. Not that it could make any difference; the innkeeper could not reclaim her holiday once she had taken it. Feeling happier than she had in weeks, Ranira washed the dirt from her hands and went out into the street.

  Firstday was always the best part of Midwinter Festival, Ranira thought as she wandered through the streets. The six-day rituals at the Temple of Chaldon, which began with the Festival Parade, did not start until the second day of Midwinter Festival. Everyone in the city was obliged to attend the rituals, but on Firstday there was nothing for the pilgrims to do but wander through Drinn and enjoy themselves. The inhabitants of Drinn were only too happy to take the coppers of their eager brethren from other parts of the Empire of Chaldreth, and the city streets were full of small booths selling everything imaginable.

  Ranira spent several hours walking slowly past the vendors in the main square just outside the Temple. Though she had no money to spend, she enjoyed pretending she really was looking for a new tunic or a piece of jewelry, and it was pleasant to watch the merchants haggling with more serious buyers. Besides, the booths were the only spots of color in a city of grey stone and brown-robed pilgrims.

  A small stand selling veils and the twisted silk cords that held them in place caught Ranira’s eye. She edged toward it. It took her a moment to reach her goal, for the veil-maker’s booth was wedged in behind a man selling fruits and jam. The shelves, loaded with berry bags and jam pots, nearly hid the little stand Ranira was aiming for.

  The proprietor was a wizened little man who gave Ranira a long, appraising look and then ignored her, allowing her to rummage through the bright veils as she wished. His selection was surprisingly large—coarse linen squares mingled with the finest of embroidered wools. Ranira was wistfully fingering a veil of red silk when a hand touched her shoulder. A smooth voice behind her said, “I believe I have seen you before, my dear.”

  Even during Festival, it was not permissible to speak uninvited to a veiled woman. Ranira turned angrily, then froze in shock. Standing behind her was the priest she had noticed watching as she left the Temple the previous day.

  “Revered Master,” Ranira managed in a strangled voice, lowering her head.

  “I am named Gadrath,” the priest said. “Since I hope we shall become better… acquainted, you may use it.”

  Startled, Ranira glanced up; the predatory smile on the priest’s face made her shiver, and it was a moment before she found her voice again. “It would not be right for a bond servant to presume so greatly, honored sir,” she said, lowering her eyes again.

  “Such piety becomes you, my dear,” the priest said. “There is always a place in the House of Chaldon for a woman of humility.”

  Ranira barely stopped herself from recoiling in terror and disgust. She knew, as did all Drinn, that only two types of women were welcomed into the inner sanctuaries of the Temple of Chaldon: those who were meant as sacrifices for the god, and those who were meant for the pleasure of the priests. She had seen the wretched women who had been cast out of the Temple when the priests tired of them, sometimes only weeks or months after they had entered the Temple doors. A slow anger began to rise within her. The Temple had burned her parents; did they think to degrade her as well?

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

  “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 toward 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 your 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 pushed the priest violently away and wrenched free. The sudden release threw her off balance, and she staggered back 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 fruitseller. The awkward structure 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 berry-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 she would remain unnoticed, Ranira dropped the red veil she was holding and began edging 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. There were fewer people there, and 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. Someone was standing in front of the door, blocking her way. Ranira looked up, and her heart stood still. Three men were standing just outside the doorway of the inn. Two wore the ordinary garb of Temple Watchmen, but the third was dressed in the unmistakabl
e robes of an Eye of Chaldon.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Ranira did not have time to react. “That’s another one, the bondwoman,” said a voice, and her arm was seized from behind. Numb with shock, 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 stood huddled against the far wall, kept apart from the inn’s customers by a flimsy barrier of chairs, boxes, and two Temple guards. A confused, frightened mass of people milled about the rest of the room. Most of them were customers or pilgrims unlucky enough to have chosen to dine 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 said 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, frantically 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 had a glimpse of green leather just before 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 came hurrying over. The innkeeper pointed a thick finger at Ranira. “I knew it! She has been in league with them all along. It is all her fault!”

  “Whatever this girl 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 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 brawling 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 did not move. The guard smiled and moved closer until the point of his sword was touching the leather Jaren wore. 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 in and turned her head. The woman called Mist had risen and was standing by the table. She made no movement, spoke no other word, but those closest to her backed away. Ranira looked back toward Jaren. He had not moved, but some indefinable tension had drained out of him. 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, ripping 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 to recover 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, 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 first 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. 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 snakepits 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 him 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.