Kalanon's Rising

by Darian Smith

  Behind him, Morgin Vere cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but, whatever it is . . . does this mean I have it too?”

  Draeson turned to see the undertaker standing, trembling, with his arms spread wide. Clearly traced beneath every visible part of his skin were the lines of veins and arteries, beaming with golden light.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Brannon watched through the window as they carried the body of Caidin Ray, wrapped in a sheet, to the cart that would take him to the morgue. The undertaker had been told to keep him, untouched, until further notice. In a case like this, Brannon couldn’t be sure they’d seen every piece of evidence the body had to offer. He couldn’t face it if some vital clue was washed away or buried before he thought to search for it.

  As Mayor Shillia directed the men on securing the body and driving slowly, he couldn’t help wondering if what she’d said that morning was true. If he’d locked up the blacksmith last night, would the young man in the cart still be alive?

  He shook his head. It didn’t add up. Shillia herself had confirmed that neither of the Gruuls had been to Alapra in years, nor received any visitors from there that she knew of. So how could they be connected to the murder of Keldan? He was sure the murders were done by the same person or, he shuddered to think, group of people. It was clear there had to be a purpose uniting them all; he just couldn’t be certain what that purpose was. But the look of fear in Kholi Gruul’s face when he thought Ula might believe he’d given away too many secrets of Djin magic, made Brannon think that, whatever that purpose was, the blacksmith would not have wanted any part of it.

  He turned away from the window. The tavern had started to fill with regular customers again, but the atmosphere was dim. Ula sat at a table with several large bowls containing dirt, ash, chaff, and clay. She’d also laid out several large pieces of leather, a bottle of ink, and a sharp knife. She claimed she could do something to protect the village.

  Brannon moved closer and laid his hand on the back of the chair next to hers. “Do you think Kholi Gruul is the murderer?”

  Ula looked up at him as if studying his face. She gave a tight shake of the head, setting the beads in her dreadlocks clacking together. “No. I not believe. Kholi is shaman. Will always have love for life. More interesting to me is that you do not think him murderer. Why?”

  Brannon shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure about him. I don’t think he’s a killer but he’s definitely involved. I just don’t know how much. I wish he’d told us who he shared the pillow talk with and exactly what he told them.”

  Ula put down the piece of leather she was working. “I know what he told.”

  Brannon’s grip on the chair tightened. “You do?”

  “Yes. It be the runes. The ones painted on all the bodies but this last one. They be the runes of Kholi’s tribe. They could only come from him.”

  Brannon pulled out the chair and sat down. “So he is involved. He gave them the key to creating a Risen. He must have known what it would be used for.”

  Ula shook her head again. “No. Those runes be nothing. Every tribe shaman have different runes because they not important. He give away something that be nothing. Distraction only. Yet somehow they find out the true knowledge.”

  “And what is that?”

  She patted his hand. “Not for you. No shaman tattoo on your shoulder.” There was a finality in her tone that did not brook challenge.

  Brannon stroked his scar while he thought. “So the runes on Keldan’s body were the same? They’re all from Kholi’s tribe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any chance that someone else from his tribe is in Kalanon?”

  Ula snorted. “Kholi only Djin of his generation to leave our home. Only shaman too.”

  “Blood and Tears.” Brannon stared around the tavern room, his mind mulling it over. This, if nothing else, linked the murders here in Sandilar with that of Keldan back in Alapra. But with no clear evidence of anyone who had been back and forth between the two. The bigger question was, had the blacksmith finally given up the true secrets or had the culprit figured it out some other way?

  The few townsfolk inside stared back at him with blank eyes. Karia Knox and her father were still nowhere to be seen. The kitchen was being run by other staff, turning out simple, late breakfasts of scrambled eggs and porridge and bread.

  “You should have told me about this before, you know. Even if you thought he was innocent. You’re the only other Djin around here. If you start holding back information, people are going to wonder why.”

  Ula nodded to the items on her table. “That is why I make these. Kalan buildings have no protection from kaluki. No spirit bricks in their walls. Most of my things were stolen last night, but from these local ingredients I can still make totems to ask the earth spirits to protect the buildings and keep Risen out.”

  “So you think there really is a rogue Risen out there.”

  Ula shrugged. “I do not know, but I would rather be safe if there is.”

  Brannon nodded thoughtfully. “So would I. I wish there was a way to know for sure.”

  She shrugged again and went back to spooning dirt into a leather pouch.

  The door opened and Jessamine, who had supervised the wrapping of the body, came into the room. Brannon caught her eye and she hurried over to join them. She raised an eyebrow at the contents of the bowls on the table.

  “I’d have gone with the porridge, myself.”

  Brannon gave her a weak smile. “Have you eaten yet?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I could stomach anything just yet.” She sat down at the table and started fiddling with a piece of straw that had fallen from one of the bowls. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. It’s a long way from training at the College.”

  Brannon thought about it for a moment. “Actually, it’s not. This is just like figuring out a difficult diagnosis. You look at all the symptoms and try to find what fits. And if you can’t, then you try to learn more about the patient’s history and symptoms and possible diseases until you have enough information to make the call. Solving this is the same.”

  Jessamine dropped the straw and tugged her ponytail tighter, her expression thoughtful. “Okay, so currently we’re not sure what fits the ‘symptoms’ we have so . . . the next step is to find out more. You’ll be talking to Karia about the latest victim. Maybe I could ask around town and see if anyone saw anything suspicious last night.”

  “Excellent,” Brannon agreed.

  “Do you think Kholi will tell you anything else?”

  Brannon shrugged. “I hope so. He’s given information to someone. Chances are good that it’s someone who’s involved.” A burst of inspiration struck him. “Check the graveyard. If someone really did successfully perform the raising ritual last night, there has to be a body missing somewhere. If they didn’t kill a fresh one, that means they got one that was already dead.”

  Jessamine grimaced. “Thanks. I was happier not thinking about that.”

  Brannon chuckled. “Yeah, sorry. Will you be okay? I don’t need to tell you to run away if you actually do see a Risen, do I?”

  She shuddered. “No, after bodies in cupboards and assassins on boats, I am starting to learn to be careful.”

  “Not quite what a physician’s apprentice should be learning, but it’s something! Take someone with you, just in case.”

  She smiled. “Will do.” She started to get up, then sank down again, her head tilted to one side. “What if that’s what the murderer is doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Learning. First he tries to do a raising, then he succeeds. Maybe he’s someone’s apprentice. Like me. Learning the ropes?” Her eyes flickered to Ula, who appeared absorbed in her work and now had several little pouches lined up on the wooden table. “But then, who would be the teacher?”

  The door opened again and the noise in the tavern fell silent.

  A tall, slender woman w
ith dark hair glided into the room. “I’d like a room please,” she said. Her dress was deep russet silk with black trim, over black lace-up boots that showed the dust of the road. A small black hat with silk flowers in the same color as the dress sat daintily at an angle on her head. Men made way for her as she moved gracefully past. Brannon knew those closest would smell the hint of spice and vanilla.

  “Who is that?” Jessamine breathed.

  Brannon sat up straight. “That is Ambassador Ylani Shaylar of Nilar.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “What, in the name of the Hooded, is she doing here?” Brannon muttered as he watched Ylani speaking to the woman behind the bar. He found himself rising to his feet and crossing the room. When she passed a few coins across the counter and turned to point toward her luggage, he was right there.

  “You’re a long way from Alapra,” he said.

  A little smile graced her lips. “As are you, Sir Brannon. Are you following me?”

  To his surprise, he felt himself blushing like an idiot. “Actually, I was here first. Maybe you’re following me.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

  Brannon felt his calm face slip. Between the murder and the difficulties with the mayor, not knowing who to trust or how to make sense of the clues, his brain was already swirling. Now this? He forced himself to stand straighter, pushed his shoulders back, and raised his chin. He was not some raw recruit to be flustered by a pretty face.

  “You realize there have been several murders here connected to the one I questioned you about in Alapra?” he said. “It seems awfully coincidental that you should show up here as well.”

  Her smile vanished. “No, I didn’t realize that.”

  Brannon shook his head. She was baffling. “You were the one who first told me about the other murders. You must have known where they took place.”

  She bit her lower lip. “I did, didn’t I? My information was . . . incomplete.”

  “So, then why are you here?”

  She shrugged. “Business. Lady Latricia and I are negotiating import rights for Nilarian silk.”

  Brannon blinked. “The deal Keldan was after? And his father?”

  “Many people have shown an interest in this deal, Sir Brannon. But I find Lady Latricia to be uniquely persuasive. More so than her husband.”

  “And why is that?”

  Ylani laid a finger over her lips. “Business secrets. You understand. We’ll be going up to the Manor shortly, but I like to have my own base so I suggested we stop here and get a room. It’s nice to have a bit of independence, don’t you think?”

  The door opened and a gust of fresh air stirred the smell of beer, porridge, and people. Draeson and Taran entered the tavern along with Lady Latricia, her son Tomidan, and some servants.

  “Look who we found,” Draeson commented, leading the way to where Brannon and Ylani were standing. “I see you found one too. So many suspects all in one place.”

  “Magus Draeson,” Ylani said. “A delight, as always. Will you be sticking with just the wild accusations today, or adding a dash of hypocrisy as well?”

  Brannon bit down hard on the chuckle that threatened.

  Draeson’s eyes darkened. The dragon tattoo that lay across his throat like a necklace shifted like a restless sleeper. “There’s no good reason for you to be here, Nilarian. Yet, wherever there’s a threat to Kalanon or the royal house, there I find Nilar. If we prove you have something to do with what’s going on here, it’ll take more than clever words and pretty dresses to save you.”

  Brannon felt the hairs on the back of his arm lift. The urge to chuckle was gone.

  “Believe me,” Ylani said, her voice soft but framed by the sudden quiet. “I want matters resolved as much as you do. I have no interest in reigniting old quarrels. Both our countries need peace.”

  Brannon did believe her. There was something in the tone of her voice and her expression that seemed genuine. Jaded as he was from seven years with court politicians, he thought this foreign ambassador had just spoken the truth as she knew it. Or perhaps it was the truth as he, himself, knew it. He knew what he would become in wartime. The murderer they hunted hadn’t even scratched the surface of the deaths Brannon had caused as the famed Bloodhawk. A few short years as a physician had yet to redress the balance.

  Draeson, however, seemed unconvinced. He leaned forward, his finger raised, when Ula joined them, her hands full of the little pouches she’d been making.

  “The wizard returns,” she said, beaming at Draeson. “Did you learn a useful thing?”

  Draeson gritted his teeth. “I’m not a wizard. I’m a mage. Try learning that useful thing.” And with that, he pushed past and made his way up the stairs.

  “Nicely done,” Brannon murmured under his breath.

  Ula blinked at him with exaggerated innocence. “I not know Kalan very well. Get words mixed up sometimes.”

  “Indeed.” He turned back to Ylani. “If you’re serious about wanting to keep the peace, maybe try not to irritate the four-hundred-year-old magus.”

  Her lips twitched upward. “That’s much more difficult than it sounds.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Brannon gave a wry grin, then caught Brother Taran’s eye. “Taran, I’m interviewing Karia shortly to see what she knows about her fiancé’s death. Would you like to join me? She might find it comforting to have a priest present.”

  The young man’s face paled. “Um, I’m more of a solitary monk. A very private order. I don’t know if I’d be much help with that sort of thing.” He held up a satchel. “Also, I have these samples to test.”

  Brannon nodded. “No problem. Do the tests. I can handle it.”

  Ylani raised a hand and her silk sleeve slid back to reveal a wide silver bracelet. “I wonder if perhaps I could help? I know I’m a foreigner here, but I’m good at reading people. I might be able to pick up something a Kalan would miss.”

  Brannon hesitated. The idea of one suspect being part of the interview for another was inherently flawed. And yet she had a point. “Perhaps you could help. When you get back from your business at the manor, of course. I’ll be talking to the Djin blacksmith. Ula has spoken with him already but perhaps you would have better luck—as one outsider living in Kalanon to another.”

  She nodded graciously. “Of course. As one outsider to another.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Taran made it almost to the door of his room when he heard Jessamine’s voice behind him. The ward-dog sniffed at him, then settled back down as if going to sleep. He turned the handle and dropped the satchel of blood samples inside before turning to see what she wanted.

  She smiled at him as she strode along the corridor. Her blond ponytail bobbed gently in time with her steps. “Hey, Taran. I was wondering, when you do the testing, could I help? Maybe you could teach me? I find all your chemicals and things really fascinating.”

  Taran gave a kind of half shrug. “I guess, if you want to. I mean, most of what I know is poisons. The rest are chemicals for making them or treating them or testing for them. It might not fit with a physician’s beliefs.”

  She frowned. “I don’t see why not. Who better to know about treatments and tests for poison than a physician? What if someone came to me looking for help? Besides, lots of medicines are poisonous in the wrong dose so I know a lot of that sort of thing already. Maybe it could be my specialty or something.”

  “I guess so.” Taran nodded and gestured into his room. “Come on in, then. I was just about to start.”

  She grimaced. “I can’t right now. I have to go check out the graveyard. Brannon’s worried that maybe one of the bodies was used to make a Risen so he wants me to take a look. You could come with me?”

  Taran hovered in the doorway, uncertain. “Um.”

  Jessamine’s nose wrinkled. “I’d rather not go alone.”

  “Oh, right. Of course.” He glanced into the room, then pulled the door shut. The tests could wait
. “I’ll come with you.”

  The graveyard was on the edge of town and even in daylight had a somber, eerie feel to it. A line of crypts ran through the middle with a well-manicured path linking them to the gate. Each tomb was intricately carved and decorated with paint, flowering plants, and, in some cases, gold. Surrounding the crypts were the graves of common people, those without noble blood or enough wealth to afford a crypt. The graves varied greatly in age and care. Some were indicated only by wooden markers, others by elaborate stone statues or simple plaques with writing etched deeply or worn away by time.

  “There are a lot of graves here,” Taran said. They strolled between them, checking each for signs of disturbance. So far, it seemed every blade of grass was in place. “Any ideas for narrowing it down?”

  Jessamine shook her head as she prodded at the ground covering one grave with her toe. “Not really. I think Ula said newer bodies make for a stronger Risen, but I don’t know. Maybe the crypts? Disturbing as it sounds, they might be easier to access than digging someone up.”

  Taran grimaced. “You might be right.”

  The first crypt door was painted with an image of Ahpra’s weeping form on one side, reaching across to her husband, Valdan, on the other. Between them was the Hooded One in the form of a huge mountain wolf, guarding the underworld. The wolf’s baleful eyes stared out in challenge to anyone approaching to disturb those inside. The latch clicked open easily and the well-oiled hinges made no sound.

  Sunlight spilled into the musty darkness, illuminating several stone sarcophagi and a wall of square, painted panels, each representing the life of the person entombed behind them. A large space in the center of the burial slots was filled with a family tree, a tiny wolf head beside each name of a deceased.

  Taran inspected the wall first. “These are plastered over after they’re occupied, then painted. You’d have to smash your way through the panel to get inside.”

  Jessamine traced the edges of one with her fingertips. I guess that means these are safe then.” She pointed to the sarcophagi. “What about those?”