by Darian Smith
It was a good point. There had been only one attacker on the road, and only he and Draeson knew what had happened, as far as he was aware. These were Roydan’s men and he couldn’t imagine his friend doing anything to harm his family . . . but Roydan wasn’t here, and it wouldn’t be the first time an underling had done something foolish while his lord was away.
Brannon moved forward slowly, his hands spread. “She’s safe now.”
“She and the boy would be safer at the manor,” the captain said.
Latricia shook her head. “I told Fressin, we’ll stay here with my guest, Ambassador Ylani. The King’s Champion is here with his team. It’s as safe as any place in town.”
“Sounds like the lady has made her decision,” Draeson said. The tiny dragon on his temple snarled.
The captain stepped back. He licked his lips, looking from side to side, then gathered himself. “In that case, our orders are to stay and guard Her Ladyship and Duke Roydan’s heir.”
Brannon jerked a thumb toward the door. “You can do that from outside, can’t you? Set up a perimeter. There’s no need to disturb the other patrons. We’ve got it covered in here.”
The captain glanced at the men with him, then back to the door where, no doubt, many more waited. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his decision. “Off you go then, men. You heard the Bloodhawk. Set up a perimeter around the inn. Nothing gets in or out without my say-so.”
Brannon kept his face neutral and his body stiff as the militia oozed back out into the night, leaving behind muted anxiety like an oily residue throughout the room. When the door closed behind them, he approached Latricia.
“What was that about?”
The widow opened her mouth, then paused. Her eyes flicked to Ylani and then to Draeson. “Just what he told us,” she said. Her fingers clenched on Tommy’s shirt. “They’re here to offer protection.”
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I think there’s more to it than that.”
Her face was a mask of sweetness. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“The truth would be nice,” he muttered under his breath.
He felt a hand on his elbow and turned to see Ula beside him. Two of the Djin woman’s dreadlocks were twisted around each other and hanging over her face, giving her a lopsided air. She held up a handful of the little mud and leather packets she’d spent the day making. “Soldiers not enough,” she said. “We have our own protection.”
When he turned back to Latricia, she and Tommy were gone.
Chapter Thirty-two
The armed militiamen outside looked like muscular marionettes from the window of Brannon’s upstairs room. They were strung along the side of the inn like a chain of festival decorations complete with lanterns, reminding him once again of the king’s birthday celebration and the deadline for solving this case.
He sighed and set one of Ula’s little pouches on the windowsill. As if the situation wasn’t complicated enough already.
A soft and familiar voice addressed him from the open doorway. “Feels a little like being a prisoner of war, don’t you think?”
Brannon turned as Ylani stepped into the room. The gentle light of the lamp was flattering, giving her an air of mystery and attraction.
“Something you’re familiar with?” he said.
She gave a delicate shrug. “Once or twice.”
Brannon felt his eyebrows rise. “What were you doing in the war?” Somehow he couldn’t imagine Ylani as a soldier.
“I did my part, just like everyone else.” She trailed a delicate hand along the edge of the wooden bed end. “My family were traders before the war so I knew your country and its language. That was considered an asset.”
Brannon folded his arms. “You were a spy.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “There are worse things to be.”
He considered how many men and women had died at the end of his sword. “Perhaps. But how can you expect us to trust you now?”
“Because the war was a long time ago and because I’m being honest with you now. Which is more than we can say for the man whose soldiers are outside right now.”
“Do you know something about that?” Brannon asked. “What’s going on between Latricia and the manor? Why isn’t she staying up there, really?”
Ylani nodded toward the window. “There are many more of those men at the manor. More . . . protection.”
“And?”
“Have you noticed that, in this ring of guards they’ve made to surround the inn and protect us from whatever is out there, more than half of them are facing inward?”
Brannon couldn’t help glancing out into the night. He had noticed. “Kalan soldiers are trained to be vigilant. We can’t be sure that whoever is behind this isn’t already inside the inn.”
Ylani held up one of the little leather packets. “Isn’t that what Ula’s bags are for? How much do you trust Duke Roydan? They’re his men after all.”
Brannon felt his hand clench. “Roydan and I served throughout the war together. I trust him with my life.”
Ylani chewed her lip for a long moment. “Fair enough,” she said at last. “Maybe he doesn’t know what is happening in his town.”
“What do you mean by that?” Brannon asked, but she had gone. “Really?” he said to the empty room. “Be all cryptic and then disappear. Brilliant.”
He took the few steps to the door and looked out into the hallway, but Ylani was already out of sight. The ward-dog, curled up and snoozing while the door was open and he was inside the room, raised its head and sniffed at him.
“Fat lot of good you are,” he said.
The trouble was, Ylani’s words had stuck. How was it that Roydan didn’t know what was happening at home? King Aldan had told them he’d intercepted the message from Sandilar’s mayor, but there had to be other communications that had mentioned the murders. Even in his grief stricken state, Roydan must have expected and read reports from home—mining reports, household reports, yet more urgent requests for help from a town with a killer on the loose. How could he have missed them all without getting suspicious?
The answer was likely surrounding the inn at this very moment. Roydan had gotten suspicious. It would explain the strange behavior of his militia. What it didn’t explain was their numbers. Even with so many here, surrounding the inn, there had to be many more back at the manor and guarding the prisoners in the mines – they wouldn’t skimp on those posts. Exactly how many men did Roydan have?
And more importantly, why did he have them?
He shook his head and scooped up another few of Ula’s pouches. Roydan was an old army man. Of course he would always have militia at the ready. It was a habit that was hard to break—not to mention a smart move for the Duke of Sandilar, protector of the gold mines Nilar had started the war over in the first place. It should take more than a few cryptic comments from a Nilarian woman he’d only just met to make him question his old friend. No matter what direction his men were facing.
He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. The ward-dogs on the other doors raised their heads to look at him, but remained silent.
There was one way to put his mind at rest. Whatever was going on with Roydan’s militiamen, it had to do with Lady Latricia. She would be the best one to ask about it. And this time he would insist on answers. He’d had enough of people hiding things. This whole Hooded investigation had been rife with secrets, and what had it gotten them? Two more murder victims in just one day of having arrived in Sandilar. It was time to take off the gloves.
Mayor Shillia was in the hallway. She strode toward him with a face like a mountain wolf snarling over a fresh kill. “Those idiot men outside won’t let anyone leave,” she growled. “Do you have any idea how stupid that is? People can’t get home to their families. How is that protecting anyone?”
Brannon sighed. “They’re not my orders, Shillia. Try talking to the captain.”
“I did. He says the o
rders are from the new steward and that he has the authority of Duke Roydan.”
“Well then.” Brannon spread his hands helplessly. “Have you met the steward?”
“No. And you can be sure I’ll be talking to Roydan about him when he gets back. Can’t you use your authority as King’s Champion to get them to back off?”
“For what reason, Shillia? Their orders are to protect us. I can hardly say that’s unreasonable after what’s been happening over the last twenty-four hours. I suggest you get a room and stay put until morning. We can address it then. In the meantime, be grateful you’re in a place with an armed guard.” He hefted Ula’s pouches in his hand. “And other protections as well. This is probably the safest place in town. Unless you had somewhere else you need to be tonight?”
She scowled. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Good.” As she turned to leave, Brannon thought of something and called her back. “Shillia, you sent word to the capitol about what was going on here, didn’t you? Asking for help?”
“Of course,” she tilted her head to one side, flashing a glimmer of a gold earring. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Brannon nodded. “Part of it. Can I ask, how many messages did you send?”
Her head straightened up and the earring vanished beneath her hair. “Six. Why? How many were received?”
He shrugged and gave his most disarming smile. “I don’t know. I was just curious. Take one of Ula’s pouches. They’re supposed to go in every room.”
Shillia’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she let it pass, taking a pouch from his outstretched hand. “I’m surprised that woman has any spit left after the amount she dribbled into these,” she muttered.
Brannon turned away before she could change her mind, searching for the room Keldan Sandilar’s widow shared with their son.
Latricia’s door had no wards on it. The bare wood was adorned only with a small bronze plaque stating the room number, which provided the base from which hung a knocker shaped like a leaf. Brannon reached for it, then hesitated. There was a sound inside the room.
He hissed for Shillia’s attention and gestured her to come closer. They listened.
For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, then he heard it again: A yelp of pain and fear.
He put his shoulder to the door, turned the handle and burst inside.
Tomidan Sandilar sat on the bed. He looked up as Brannon entered, his eyes wet and his small lip trembling. Beside him and holding his hand, was his mother. Latricia’s mouth made a perfect O shape.
On the other side of the boy was Draeson. The mage held Tomidan’s arm steady with one hand and had laid his own arm over the top of it. The dragon tattoo clung to the underside of Draeson’s wrist, the little dragon’s head and neck bulging out of the skin. It had twisted like a serpent to bite Tommy’s arm. The boy’s blood ran along his arm and the dragon lapped at the wound.
“Blood and Hooded Tears!” Brannon said. “What are you doing?”
The dragon pulled back from Tomidan’s arm and hissed at him. Blood dripped from its tiny fangs. Shillia squealed.
“This is none of your business, Brannon,” Draeson said. “Leave it alone.”
“Really? None of my business? You’re bleeding a six-year-old!”
“My Lady,” Shillia said. “How can you let him do this to the Heir of Sandilar?”
Latricia looked away. “It’s complicated.”
Brannon laid a hand on his sword hilt. “Uncomplicate it.”
Neither Latricia nor Draeson said a word. Tomidan moved closer to his mother. Discomfort poured out from the three of them, filling the room in a flood.
“You know what I think, Magus Draeson?” Shillia said at last. “We’ve had a spate of killings with strange rituals in this town. Now here you are with your magic and your bad attitude, conducting some kind of ritual with the grandson of our duke. How do we know it wasn’t you this whole time?” She waved her hand over him and turned to Brannon. “Magic could be behind everything. Maybe he used it to lift Caidin and ram him onto the signpost deliberately to make it look like one of these Risen creatures had to be behind it.”
Brannon felt his stomach tighten as he met Draeson’s eyes. The mage was different from what he’d been in the war. More than just physically, he thought. Then, he’d been a grouchy old man but now . . . How well did he really know him? “You lifted me over the fence in the Sandilar house in Alapra,” he said. “You could have done it. And you were the one to find Kholi Gruul. You could have killed him yourself.”
Draeson stood up slowly. The tiny dragon on his forearm flicked out a tongue. Its lines seemed darker, more present somehow.
Brannon’s hands clenched. Only an intense effort of will stopped him from drawing his sword. If it came to that, he knew, the weapon would do no good.
The mage took a long slow breath in, then let it out just as slowly. The muscles in his face were hard with barely contained tension. “Blood and Tears, you people frustrate me,” he said. “No matter what I do for this country, there’s always a point at which someone points to me and says, you’re not like us.” He lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers manically, his mouth twisted in scorn. “You withered the crops. You brought the bad weather and disease. You killed everyone when we weren’t looking. The level of ignorance in the general population is astounding.”
“And did you?” Brannon asked. “Do those things, I mean. Particularly the killing part. I can handle a little bad weather.”
Draeson snorted. “Perhaps you can. You’ve grown up a bit since your youth.”
“At least one of us has. How about you answer the question?” Brannon glanced across to where young Tommy sat, his face pale, his hand clamped over the bleeding wound in his arm. “All the questions.”
A wave of heat blew out from Magus Draeson, burning across Brannon’s skin, like the door had been opened into a furnace. The air in the room shifted and the drapes moved. It was followed by a blast of intense cold that made the women gasp and the hairs on Brannon’s arm stand on end.
He held his ground. Then, slowly and deliberately, he took a step forward. “I’m not scared of you, Draeson.”
A muscle in the corner of Draeson’s eye twitched, just a bit, then he gave a resigned sort of half-chuckle. “Fine,” he said, and sat down on the bed.
Brannon let go of the breath he’d been holding. He forced his hands to relax at his sides. No fists.
“You’ll remember,” Draeson said, “that when I lifted you over the fence, there wasn’t a mark on you.” He held up his hand. “No fingermarks.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Mayor Shillia said.
Brannon knew. “Caidin’s body had bruises on it from where his killer had grabbed him and lifted him up. We could tell that he’d been gripped around the throat. That’s how the killer held him and drove him onto the spike. It’s why we were looking for someone with exceptional strength.”
Draeson pointed to him with both hands. “Exactly. Yes, I could have lifted him up there with magic, but there would be no bruising. As for Gruul, he was dead when I found him, as I told you. Couldn’t you make anything out about his time of death?”
Brannon shook his head. “It’d been within the last few hours. It was hard to get more than that.”
“Rigor mortis?”
“He was starting to stiffen up when we left,” Brannon admitted. “Which does make it more likely he was killed before you got there.”
“There you go.” Draeson leaned back, a smugly satisfied smile on his face.
“And the boy?” Brannon said, pointedly.
The smile vanished. “A private arrangement between myself and his mother.”
Brannon raised an eyebrow. He looked from Draeson to Latricia and back again. “I don’t think so. Spill it.”
It was Latricia who finally spoke. “I approached the magus,” she said. “My husband provided him a service when he was alive,
as payment for a deal with the royal family. I offered him the same payment in return for protection for Tommy and myself.”
“What payment?” Brannon’s mouth seemed very dry. His stomach felt heavy. He needed to hear them say it.
Latricia’s voice was barely a whisper. “Blood.”
“It’s not as bad as you think,” Draeson said.
His eyes seemed somehow hollow as Brannon stared at him. He wondered how many more secrets the mage had beneath that flawless young man’s face. How could trading in blood not be as bad as it seemed? “Is this how you became young again?”
“No, of course not. This deal is far older than that.”
“Then explain.”
Draeson sighed and hunched forward, resting his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees. “You remember I told you about my early life learning to become a mage?”
“You said it was a lot of study,” Brannon said.
Draeson snorted. “An understatement, but yes. The first major task of a magus is to overcome the limited human lifespan. The study of power takes longer than any normal man can live. Mages guard the secret of their longevity very carefully. Each of us has come to it in his or her own way.”
“I thought you had teachers. Didn’t they teach you the secret?”
The mage shook his head. “No. They taught the tools and encouraged me in the ways of power, but I, like every other mage, had to find the answer for myself. Each of us does. It’s a rite of passage. Proof that we are worthy of the power to follow.”
Despite himself, Brannon found himself being drawn forward. “And your answer was a child’s blood?”
“No. Not blood. A bloodline. My bloodline. The royal family. I managed to marry one of my great nephews to one of the princesses and bound myself to their line. I knew that of all the families in Kalanon, the royal line was most carefully guarded and most likely to endure. As long as they survive, so do I.”
“But how?”
Draeson rolled his eyes. “It took me a lifetime to figure it out, Brannon. Do you really think you can grasp the secrets tonight? Suffice to say, the royal line and I are bound forever. All I need to keep living is for the descendants of Valdan to keep breeding and stay on the throne.”