Free Daughter of Witches: A Lyra Novel by Patricia Collins Wrede

reached the Temple, the guards headed east around the wall, away from the great iron gates that opened into the main courtyard. At a small wooden door in the black stone wall, the guards stopped and knocked. A moment later a bald man in black robes opened the door a crack. One of the guards stepped forward, and after a whispered consultation, the door swung wide.
    The hallway inside was dark and windowless. Only the Templeman’s hand on her arm kept Ranira from stumbling during the time it took her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The door-keeper-priest moved silently in front of the guards, carrying a torch that gave off almost as much smoke as it did light. Three times the party halted while the doorkeeper opened heavy doors of wood and iron to allow them to pass.
    The last door, at the end of the hallway, opened into a small open area not really large enough to be called a room. In the opposite wall were two more doors. The doorkeeper went straight to the one on the left and began fumbling with his keys.
    “There,” he said as the door opened. He held out a key to the first guard. “Use the empty cell right at the bottom of the stairs. It will do nicely for now.”
    The Templemen exchanged looks, and the first one stepped forward. “Master Lanarsh,” he said, bowing deeply as he took the key, “I would not presume to question you, but the High Master Gadrath has chosen this one as the Bride of Chaldon. Is there nowhere more suitable?”
    “Not if he wants her guarded well,” the little priest snapped. “And I assume she didn’t volunteer for the honor.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Ranira. Suddenly he darted forward and ripped the veil away from her face.
    Reflexively, Ranira’s hands came up to hide her face. The doorkeeper-priest chuckled. He crumpled the little square of linen and tossed it aside. “She’s pretty enough, but if she’s to be a Bride, something will have to be done about those bruises.”
    “The High Master Gadrath has declared her the Bride of Chaldon,” the guard repeated stiffly.
    “Gadrath is not yet High Priest of the Temple, though he acts like it,” Lanarsh said. “And in this House I am High Master. As soon as Benillath sends the official declaration, I will set up another room and move her, but not before.”
    The guard bowed again. “As you will it, my lord.”
    The doorkeeper chuckled again and turned away. He handed the single torch to the first guard in an almost absentminded gesture. The guard bowed a third time, then waved the rest forward with his free hand.
    The stairs were narrow and slippery, and the dim light cast by the torch did not make it any easier for Ranira to keep her footing. Behind her she heard grunts and muffled curses as the guards slid on the polished stone. At the foot of the stairs, the guard with the torch stopped and waited while the others finished their descent.
    “Hold this.” The first guard thrust the torch at one of his fellows and began fumbling with the lock on the heavy wooden door at the foot of the stairs. It swung back unexpectedly, and the Templeman stumbled into the cell. One of the other guards snickered, then coughed as the stench reached him.
    “Phew! Smells like Lanarsh hasn’t cleaned these cells since the last Festival,” someone muttered.
    “ High Master Lanarsh to you,” another guard said. “And if you want to stay out of the House of Correction, you’ll remember it, too.”
    “We can’t put them in there!” the first speaker objected. The voice sounded young, but Ranira could not tell which of the guards was speaking.
    “Correction isn’t supposed to be pleasant. Come on, let’s get them in and get out of here,” another guard said. There was a mutter of agreement, and Ranira found herself pushed forward into the small, dark opening. She heard a curse as the strangers were shoved in after her, probably Jaren’s voice, from the sound of it. The door clanged shut, plunging the small cell into darkness, and