Child of a Dead God by Barb Hendee, J. C. Hendee Read Free Book Online Page A

the hallway, each containing varied items from barrels of dried goods to stacks of blankets and clothing. He saw little of interest until he passed through a doorless opening at the far end, which led into a larger room.

    Long, low tables were bordered by benches instead of chairs—a communal meal hall. Tall, unlit lanterns decorated each table. He picked one up, lifting its glass to light the wick with his smoldering stick.

    He spotted another door in the far back corner and approached to crack it open. Beyond it, he found a kitchen and scullery, neither likely to have any rope, so he turned away, intent upon scavenging further among the outer storerooms. Before he got two steps, he paused.

    A sheaf of papers bound between plain wood planks lay on a rear table.

    Part of Chane did not want to learn any more of this place, but curiosity held him there. He jerked the sheaf’s leather lace, slid aside the top wood panel, and stared at more strange writing.

    Old Stravinan—but mixed with other languages, each passage apparently written by a different author, and with a date above each entry. He flipped through several sheets, finding headings in Belaskian and contemporary Stravinan.

    The entries he could read appeared to be notes regarding treatment of the ill and injured. One set of scribbles explained efforts against a lung ailment spreading through several villages in a Warland province. In places, the notes went beyond accounting, with detailed observations of what had been tried and failed, or had succeeded in caring for the ailing. In some cases, the authors had stated or suggested conclusions concerning future remedies.

    Chane was reading the field notes of healers.

    He shoved sheets aside, scattering them as he paged toward the stack’s bottom. Entry dates below names and places only went back seven years. Yet this place was far older than that. So where had this sheaf come from, and were there more?

    He had already been gone too long. Welstiel would grow agitated by the delay. He had no more time to search.

    Chane hurried to the storerooms. Finding a stack of blankets, he tore one into strips and sprinted for the stairwell to the second floor.

    Welstiel stood scowling with impatience before the first door on the right—the doors of the living. With a sharp jerk, he pulled the wood shard from the handle and opened it. Three monks cowered inside.

    “Why are you doing this?” an elderly man asked in Stravinan. “What do you want with us?”

    White-peppered stubble shadowed his jaw, though he did not look so old. Welstiel ignored him, turning his eyes on the other two in the cell. Both were male and younger than their vocal companion. Welstiel stepped in and snatched one by the neck of his robe.

    The young man tried to pull Welstiel’s fingers apart, but his attempt to dislodge the grip was futile.

    “Where are you taking him?” demanded the elder, rising up.

    Welstiel slammed his free palm into the man’s face.

    The elderly monk toppled, one leg swinging from under him as he fell against a narrow, disheveled bed. The other young one scrambled away into the room’s far corner.

    Chane took half a step toward Welstiel’s back, then choked down the sudden anger he couldn’t understand. He held his ground as Welstiel wheeled and flung the one he was choking into the passage.

    The young monk tumbled across the floor, slamming against the stone wall between the first two iron-barred doors. A flurry of screeching and battering rose up beyond both those portals.

    “Bind him!” Welstiel snapped, and slammed the door shut on the remaining two monks, returning the wood shard to its handle. “I want no excess difficulty when we take him away from those we feed.”

    Chane did not understand what this meant, but he fell on the groveling young monk, pinning him facedown and pulling the man’s arms back to tie his wrists.

    “No, please!” the man shouted. “Whatever you want, I will give you!