Read Online Daughter of Witches: A Lyra Novel by Patricia Collins Wrede - Free Book Online Page A

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