by Darian Smith
“You’re sure?”
Jordell pursed his lips and reached for a wet cloth and bowl to wash the cut. Across the room the blond woman was doing the same with the abdominal wound. “Yes, Sir Brannon, I’m sure. You were very precise. Nothing vital was hit and you know it. You sterilized your sword beforehand?”
Brannon felt his face flush. “Yes.”
Jordell shrugged. “There you go then—not even much chance of infection. You did all you could for the fool. Now, for goodness’ sake, lay back and try not to be one yourself!”
Brannon did as he was told and held still as his mentor pulled needle and thread through the cut on his shoulder, tugging the flesh gently back into place. He separated himself from the pain and let the detached part of his mind simply observe. He’d experienced Jordell’s stitching many times in the war. On so light a wound, he probably wouldn’t even be left with a scar.
Unlike his opponent. The blond haired girl was about to work on the stomach cut and, at her age, it was unlikely she was as deft as the Master.
“Jordell, why don’t you stitch the Raldene boy? That girl doesn’t look too experienced.”
The old physician didn’t even look up. “Jessamine? She’s perfectly adequate to the task. Better than most at her level.” He pulled the thread tight on the last stitch and cut the thread. “Actually, she’s even been requested by of some of the nobility—your friend, Duke Roydan, for example.”
Brannon sat up and flexed his arm a little, testing the stitches. “Really? Roydan?” He looked across and watched as the girl continued to work. She looked very young. “I’m surprised she’s high enough level for that.”
Jordell shrugged. “She’s not. But she’s very talented and he’s asked for her specifically.”
“Ah.” Brannon grinned. “He always did like a pretty face. She should be careful there.”
“Well then, it’s lucky she’ll have you to guide her.” Master Jordell beamed. “She’s your new apprentice.”
Brannon’s grin vanished. “What? No! It’s still a bad idea for me to have an apprentice.”
“Second childhood!” Jordell teased. Then his voice grew serious. “It’s not optional.”
Brannon sighed, the energy that had sustained him through the fight draining away in a rush. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed at his eyes. When he pulled them away, nothing had changed. “Fine.”
Master Jordell turned and called across the room. “Jessamine, let one of the others finish up, would you? I want to introduce you to your mentor.”
“Yes, Master Jordell.” The girl waited until one of her colleagues had taken the needle, then fairly bounced across the room. Up close, she looked even younger than Brannon had thought. Blue eyes peered at him from beneath a slightly too-long fringe of blond hair that had escaped the ponytail. Her small nose was kept company by a scattering of freckles to either side. Her pale lips were parted slightly in an open smile. “Sir Brannon,” she said, bobbing into an almost curtsey. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Brannon stifled another sigh. She was going to be difficult to keep track of. Roydan wasn’t the only man in court to like a pretty face. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Jessamine,” he said. “I’m told you’re ready to apprentice. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-two, sir.”
Brannon turned to Jordell, an eyebrow raised. “Really? A twenty-two-year-old? My raw recruit days are well behind me.”
“It’ll do you good,” Master Jordell said. “Anyway, the girl can’t help her age. You went to war younger than that.”
“True. I’m not sure when it started looking so young though.”
Jordell snorted. “Wait until you’re my age!”
“No thanks.” He turned back to the girl, who had watched the exchange with her head tilted to one side. “My apologies, Jessamine. I’m a little out of sorts today. Apparently you’re very skilled already, so I’m sure you’ll do fine. Even if I’m not sure what you’ll learn from me at court.”
She straightened up with a smile. “No problem, sir. I hope you don’t mind that I asked to be matched with you. When I heard the famous Bloodhawk needed a physician’s apprentice—”
Brannon held up a hand to stop her. “Do you want to be a physician or a soldier?”
“A physician, of course.”
“Then don’t talk to me about Bloodhawk. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Brannon is fine.” He stood up and pulled what was left of his shirt around him. The top of her head barely reached his chin. “Now, tell me about your patient.”
“Well, he’ll need some time to heal and we’ll have to work his arm to get full movement back to his shoulder, but, for the losing side of a trial by combat, he’s in remarkably good shape,” Jessamine said, leading the way back to where Darnec Raldene lay, now sleeping thanks to an application of fumes. “Although he must be very skilled because he managed to cut the King’s Champion and people say that’s only happened once before.”
Brannon studied Darnec’s wounds. The thigh damage was minimal. The skewered shoulder had two physicians working on it still. The abdominal cut was stitched surprisingly well, a red belt across his middle with black notches all the way across. “Good work. Put the stitches a little closer together next time, but good.” He looked up at her and pointed to the scar on his own cheek. “And if you really believe I got through the entire war with only one scratch, you’re an idiot.”
Jessamine grinned. “No. But I have to admit, the legend of it is appealing.”
Brannon rolled his eyes. “Appealing to idiots. But there may be hope for you yet.”
She gave her little curtsey-bob again. “I hope so.”
“Sir Brannon Kesh!” A voice sounded loudly from the doorway where a messenger in full court livery waited for an answer.
“Yes?”
“The king has sent for you. Something’s happened to his cousin.”
Chapter Two
Brannon forced himself not to run as he hurried through the corridors of the royal palace. His footsteps sounded like hoof beats on the marble tiles, echoed by the lighter, more rapid taps of Jessamine trying to keep up. His suggestion to Master Jordell that she begin her apprenticeship another day had fallen on deaf ears so she would simply have to follow him as best she could.
The corridor leading to the king’s private audience chamber ran along the east side of the palace and was lined with open windows showing all of Alapra spread below. Anyone approaching was reminded of the huge domain ruled by the monarch they were about to speak with. Raised up as the palace was, it was possible to see not just the older stonework buildings like the courthouse and town palaces of the Kalan elite, but beyond to the lesser neighborhoods and even to the edges of the city, where new wooden buildings had been hastily constructed during the war to house those driven from their homes as the Nilarian invaders cut their way ever closer to the river Tilal. Here and there, blue and gold banners heralding the upcoming fiftieth birthday celebrations for the king draped buildings and crossed streets, giving the city an air of festival it hadn’t had for as long as Brannon could remember.
With the messenger’s words replaying in his mind, Brannon felt as though it had taken hours to quickly change and travel the short distance to see his friend the king. When the gilt door handles of the audience chamber finally came into view, a small bubble of relief swelled in him, and he slowed his steps, took deep, calming breaths, and allowed the guards to let them inside.
The chamber was richly and comfortably appointed. There was no throne, but then Aldan had never needed the trappings of royalty to command respect. The walls held heroic frescos of kings and queens of old in colors that competed with the sunlight.
King Aldan and two others sat at a small table near the window. One of them was Duke Roydan, the king’s cousin. The other was a stylish young man in his early twenties. They looked up as Brannon led Jessamine forward. Roydan’s eyes were red and tears gleamed wetly on his grizzled face.
>
Brannon faltered. “What’s happened?” He’d known the older two since the beginning of the war and the seven years since and he’d never seen Roydan weep.
“Take a seat, Brannon,” the king said. His eyes flickered over Jessamine. “Who is this with you?”
“My apprentice.”
Aldan frowned a moment, then nodded. “Right. The physician thing.” He fixed Jessamine with a stern look. “You may stay, but you are to repeat nothing of what you hear, understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Brannon ignored the exchange, trying instead to catch Roydan’s eye. The man turned away, his body shaking in silent sobs. “Aldan, what’s going on? What’s happened?”
The king sighed. “Keldan was killed last night. They found his body in a room at the Blue Rose this morning. Apparently he was tortured.”
Brannon felt his eyes widen and his stomach dropped away. “But . . . why?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
Brannon stared at his king for a long time, trying to process what was being said. Keldan, the son of his longtime friend, had been murdered. “You want me to investigate. I . . . Ahpra’s Tears, I saw him last night. At the Blue Rose. It must have been just a little while before . . . ” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The pain in both men was too clear. This was not a loss in battle—they had experienced plenty of those. This had been a personal attack—a family member slaughtered in a place he believed to be safe.
Brannon might not be of royal blood, but these men were family to him just the same. They’d protected each other since long before Aldan inherited the crown. Their lives and responsibilities since the war might have molded them differently, but at heart they were still three young men fighting back to back against the Nilarian horde. He saw the same feeling in Aldan’s eyes and the king gave a small nod. One of their number had been wounded. They would hunt down those responsible and pay it back in kind.
Brannon reached out to squeeze his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get whoever did it, Roydan. I’ll find them.”
Roydan turned to meet his eyes with a fierce hardness in his face. “They killed my heir, Brannon. My first son! I’ve not even been allowed to see his body. You bring his murderer to me and I’ll take my revenge with a sword!”
King Aldan leaned forward and the sunlight caught the silver in his golden beard. “It’s best you don’t see him yet, Roydan. I don’t want you remembering him like that.”
The duke’s face darkened with fury. “He’s my son. Do you think this memory could get any worse?”
Aldan sighed.
“My Lord Roydan.” Jessamine’s voice was soft and gentle. “Perhaps you and I could take a break. I brew an excellent comforting tea.”
Roydan was still and for a moment Brannon wasn’t sure if he had heard, but then he shook himself and nodded. “Yes.” He stood up and followed Jessamine. “A cup of your tea would be good.”
“She’s good, that apprentice of yours,” Aldan said as the door closed behind them.
“So it seems,” Brannon said.
“I suppose you can brew medicinal teas as well, now?”
“I can.” Brannon nodded, then offered a weak smile. “But I doubt Roydan would drink it.”
The king chuckled softly. “You’re probably right. You never were much of a cook.”
The young man at the table leaned forward. Brannon had almost forgotten he was there. “Even I remember that,” he said. “Your attempt at a campfire stew was possibly the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And that’s saying something.”
He had brilliant blue eyes that were quite striking beneath dark, stylishly cut hair. His clothes were flattering and modern enough to be fashionable while being individual enough to catch attention. Brannon frowned. “Do I know you?”
The pretty young man smiled. “Maybe if you think really hard, you’ll remember.”
“I hardly think this is the time to play games,” Brannon began, but then trailed off as the man turned his head and stretched his neck. Curled between the edge of his jaw and his earlobe was a tattoo of a sleeping dragon. Brannon blinked and looked again. “That’s not possible.”
“That’s what I said when he first showed up like that,” King Aldan said.
Brannon looked between the two men, his mind fumbling for understanding. “Magus Draeson? But . . . but . . . you’re old!”
“Ever the wordsmith, I see,” Draeson drawled. “Aldan, do you really think this murder could be a political attack?”
The king shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I need people I can trust to investigate it.” He looked from one to the other. “Both of you.”
Brannon held up his hands. “Whoa. Before we go any further I’m going to need more of an explanation as to why the oldest man I’ve ever met now looks twenty-three.”
“I’ve been keeping out of the sun,” Draeson said.
“At the Battle of Tilal, you looked decrepit.”
The mage shrugged. “Yes, well, I’ve had time to study since then. I’ve learned some new tricks. Why shouldn’t I do something nice for myself after chasing you lot around for more than three hundred years?” He turned to the king. “Speaking of which, you haven’t forgotten the deal, I trust. That’ll need to be settled.”
Aldan waved them both to be quiet. “Yes, yes. We can all talk when the current issues are dealt with. In the meantime, I need you to work together and find out what happened to Keldan and why. Brannon, you’re my representative in this. Take what resources you need. I’ll send you what help I can, but I trust my champion and my mage have the skills between them to solve this. Soon.”
“Of course.”
“Now go. I’ve ordered the room where Keldan was found guarded until you arrive.”
They rose to their feet and bowed. As he turned to leave the room, Brannon hesitated. “My apprentice, Jessamine . . . ”
The king nodded. “Yes, take her with you, definitely. It will be good for you to have a young pair of eyes on the team.”
Brannon nodded, his lips pressed together. There was no getting rid of the girl now. He’d just have to make the best of it. “Thank you.”
He followed Draeson from the audience chamber, watching the magus for any sign of the age that had crippled his body a decade ago. There was none. The man walked with the energized stride of the youth he now appeared to be.
“Draeson, this deal you mentioned. Is it something to do with your . . . ” He waved his hand to indicate the mage’s new body.
“Why? You think the king pisses the Fountain of Youth and forgot to mention it? My magic is my own, Brannon. Nothing to worry your soldier boy head about.”
“Then what is the deal?”
Draeson smiled, the expression turning his attractive face into a sculpture of handsome innocence. “None of your business.”
Chapter Three
The Blue Rose in daylight was a more somber affair than at night. Music came from a quiet string quartet and the staff served light lunches and scones with tea. On a sunny day like this one, most of the patrons were in the outdoor area. On a day when a murder had taken place on the premises, there weren’t many patrons at all.
The day manager, a short, rounded woman in a mauve dress and gray hair, met them at the door. “Sir Brannon,” she said, her eyes roving over Jessamine and Draeson before settling back to him. “You and your friends are here regarding the incident?”
Brannon nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mala. Can you tell us what happened?”
She swallowed and glanced at the customers. “Of course, dear. Why don’t we go inside?”
The bar was deserted at this time of day. Mala hoisted herself up onto one of the stools, increasing her height almost to that of Jessamine. “Nasty business,” she said. “Horrid.”
“I saw Prince Keldan arrive last night, just before ten o’clock. Did any of the staff see him?”
Mala’s head bobbed like a cork in a bathtub. “That’s r
ight. He’d booked one of the private rooms early yesterday but didn’t come to use it until late, just as you say. He’s a good friend to the Blue Rose. The staff all like him ’cause he tips well. And the lads say his lady friends are always worth looking at twice.” She reached out and patted his hand. “You know how boys are.”
Brannon gave her the expected chuckle and she jiggled with mirth.
“Did he have a lady friend with him last night?” Jessamine asked. “Or his wife, perhaps?”
“Oooh, asks the right questions this one,” Mala cooed. “Or the wrong ones! The likes of Prince Keldan don’t bring a wife here, my dear. But, yes, he did have a lady friend with him last night.”
“So I recall,” said Brannon, remembering the giggling cloaked figure. Exactly the sort of girl Keldan liked to play with. His father too, for that matter. “And is she still here?”
Mala looked horrified. “Is she dead in the room too, you mean? No, thank Valdan. One of them like that is more than enough. No, I don’t know what happened to her, but she’s gone.”
“I take it once they checked in, they weren’t disturbed,” Draeson said. “So when did you realize something was wrong?”
“Not until I went up to get the breakfast orders.” Mala shuddered. “I’ll not forget that shock in a hurry. And I don’t envy you the job of looking at it now.”
Brannon shrugged. “Best we get it over with then.”
Mala led them to a back corridor and upstairs to a closed door with an armed royal guard on either side. The guards snapped to attention when the saw Brannon. “At ease,” he told them. “Unlock the door and wait here while we’re inside. We won’t want to be disturbed.”
“Good luck with that,” Mala muttered while one of the guards reached for the key she held out. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She made the sign against evil and hurried back downstairs.
