by Darian Smith
“The lids are heavy, but they could be moved.”
Jessamine braced herself with both hands against one of them and pushed. Nothing happened. “Not by me,” she said, falling back at last, her chest heaving.
Taran took her place, feeling a little self-conscious as he pushed his muscles to their limit against the stone. His arms protested and he couldn’t hold back the grunt of effort that escaped his throat, but the lid of the sarcophagus moved.
“Oh, brilliant!” Jessamine exclaimed, clapping her hands excitedly. “Well done.”
Taran smiled. He’d only shifted it by a few finger spans but it felt like he’d moved the whole world.
Jessamine edged closer. “Can you see inside? Is there, you know, someone home?”
Taran’s smile faded. “I’ll check.” The smell coming from the opening was like fungus and old meat and sewerage. Taran felt his throat spasm and the sharp taste of acid on his tongue. He’d seen the freshly dead many times before—often creative forms of death—but never the effects of decay.
“The body is still in there.” He pulled away and quickly moved around to push the sarcophagus closed. “Hooded Blood. We’re going to have to open them all.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’ll take forever. Let’s split up. You do the crypts since I’m not strong enough anyway and I’ll check the graves.”
“You sure? I thought you didn’t want to do this alone?”
“Well, I won’t really be alone. How about we call out to each other between each one and make sure we’re okay?”
“Okay.”
He watched her leave, her slender figure silhouetted in the doorway for a moment before she slipped out into the sun. He shook himself. “Focus on the job at hand. Distractions get you killed.” The words made him smile. Distractions of any sort—and particularly pretty girls—were in short supply at the Third Alapran Monastery and the worst such a thing was likely to bring was the rage of a bishop. It was nice to be out in the world again, even if it required more care.
He pushed open the second sarcophagus. This one, thankfully, did not have the stench of the first one. The corpse inside had withered away to something resembling dry sticks. He pushed the lid closed again and walked to the door. Jessamine was walking between gravestones a short distance away.
“Everything okay?” he called.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Feeling a little foolish, he went back inside the crypt and opened the next sarcophagus. This one also contained an ancient skeleton. The remnants of long hair clung like loose tapestry threads to her skull and a golden bracelet circled the bones of her left wrist. He wondered who she might have been as he covered up her resting place once more.
He went back to the door again, and called out for Jessamine.
Her head appeared over the top of a statue of a kneeling mourner. “Are you starting to feel silly yelling back and forth so often? Because I am.”
Taran grinned. “Yeah, a bit.”
“Let’s just call out if we find something or if we get scared.”
“Agreed.”
The rest of the sarcophagi in the first crypt proved uneventful and he moved to the next, noting Jessamine had moved a little further away as he did so. She seemed to have worked out a system and was moving through the graves with purpose. The door on this crypt stuck a little and there were a lot of cobwebs inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, however, he found it was a very similar layout to the first. It had the same kind of wall of undisturbed plaster panels and a few carved or painted sarcophagi for special family members.
The smell, for the most part, was bearable now. He found he was able to block it out and even made a sort of game out of guessing which sarcophagus would have the oldest bones and which the most disturbing corpse. One had been buried with its head removed, the skull tucked down beside its knees. Another had been buried with many pieces of colored glass, like tiny stained glass windows for him to look at through eternity.
Taran moved through the next three crypts, faithfully checking and searching each one. None appeared to have bodies missing. Nor was there any sign of disturbance.
He began to relax. This search was really just a formality anyway. If there was a Risen out there—and having seen what had happened to Caidin Ray, he had to admit it was likely—chances were it wasn’t with an older body. Up until now, whoever was responsible had always killed someone new every time they tried their ritual. The mayor was checking the populace to see if anyone was unaccounted for in case the same was true again. This job, he thought, pushing open yet another stone tomb, was about crossing every disgusting t and dotting every smelly i.
As he pushed the door closed on another crypt and, squinting in the strong sunlight, made his way to the next, Taran wondered what the next move would be. Up until now, the investigation team had been following along behind, picking up clues like breadcrumbs trailing from a baker’s cart. They needed to think about where that cart was headed so they could reach the market ahead of it.
He took a deep breath and enjoyed the freshness of the air as he climbed the steps to yet another crypt door. Jessamine was somewhere out of sight and he envied her the chance to be out in the sunlight instead of the darkness of the tombs. His muscles ached and he knew he would feel pain in them tomorrow.
He paused, trying to put himself into the mindset of the person behind it all. They were clearly intent on creating a Risen, but why? What was the next step in all this?
As he faced yet another heavy stone sarcophagus lid, he had a realization. Using a Risen gave someone extra strength. The physical strength to do heavy tasks, but also psychological strength in terms of generating fear in others. This was about accumulating power. Whoever was behind this wanted control.
“So,” he murmured to himself. “If I’ve just had my first real success and am on my way to building an army or taking over or whatever it is . . . what’s the next step?”
Another of his old master’s sayings came to mind: see the problems before they are problems and remove them. So what might the perpetrator of all this perceive to be potential problems for his grand scheme? Whatever that grand scheme might be?
Taran felt the chill of the crypt cut through his cowled, woolen tunic as if it was made of paper. The biggest potential problem for the perpetrator was the team of king’s agents investigating his crimes and trying to stop him. The next logical step would be to remove them.
“Blood of the Wolf!” He pulled a knife from the sheath in his sleeve and ran out into the sun. “Jessamine! Jessamine, are you all right?”
The graveyard was quiet but for the sound of summer crickets. Taran turned full circle, his eyes scanning the gray stones, flowering shrubs, and occasional weeping willow for any sign of movement. “Jessamine?”
The hilt of the knife pressed hard into his palm, a sharp spot of cold in the searing sun on his chilled skin. Jessamine had asked him to come so that she would be safe and he had left her alone. If something had happened to her because he had left her vulnerable, he didn’t know how he would face Sir Brannon.
He started walking, his steps increasing with his heart rate. She had to be here somewhere. Surely he couldn’t already be too late?
He called out again, and this time there was an answering yelp.
“Jess?”
She squealed and there was a thud. Taran ran toward it. He rounded a huge stone representation of the gates to the Hooded One’s realm, to see a figure on the ground.
Jessamine was sprawled, half on the grass and half across a moss-covered gravestone. She moaned and rolled over and Taran could see blood on her sleeves.
He quickly knelt at her side, checking her for any major wounds. “Are you all right? What happened?”
She waved him away and sat up, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m a clumsy idiot, is all. I tripped and scraped my arms on that.” She pointed to the offending stone.
Taran felt the tightness in his
chest loosen a little. “Really? You’re sure you’re okay? That’s all it is?”
She nodded, her expression sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Taran flushed. His gaze traced the ground. “What was it that tripped you?”
“It was . . . ” She frowned as she stood up, eyes searching for the offending object, but there was none. “I don’t know. That’s weird. I guess I really am just clumsy today.”
“Or not.” Taran eyed their surroundings. “Let’s stick together now, okay?”
He slipped his knife back into the sheath in his sleeve and they walked slowly back toward the crypts.
“Did you find anything?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve been right around the whole place and I can’t see anything that looks freshly dug up. What about you?”
“Not yet. But I haven’t finished checking.”
“Well, let’s get it over with.”
Taran sighed and looked back toward the crypts that huddled together like gossips. He could almost hear them cackling at him as he led the way back to the next one in the row. Now that he’d found Jessamine unharmed, his fear had left, taking his enthusiasm for the task with it. But at least he would have her with him for these last few. Then they could go back to the inn and work on testing the blood samples.
He froze with this foot on the first step and Jessamine collided gently with his shoulder.
“What is it?”
“The door’s open.”
“So?”
“So I haven’t been in this one yet. Someone else has been here.”
Her mouth formed a startled circle and Taran edged forward, straining his eyes to try to see into the gloom of the crypt.
Something rattled inside.
Taran felt Jessamine’s fingers close tightly around his arm.
“Who’s in there?” he called.
There was a thud and a creak as the door opened wider. A boy of maybe six or seven stepped out into the light, his hair a mop of dark-honey and his face grave.
Jessamine’s fingers loosened. “Tommy? Tomidan Sandilar?”
Taran felt a burst of relief and confusion. “You’re the boy that was at the inn earlier. The one with Lady Latricia and Ambassador Ylani.”
The child nodded. “Lady Latricia is my mother.”
“What are you doing here? Where’s your nanny?”
“I wanted to tell Grandma about Daddy. She might wonder where he is. Nanny thinks I’m sleeping. She’s boring.” The boy squinted at Taran’s cowled tunic. “You’re a priest.”
Taran nodded and the boy took his hand, tugging him toward the crypt.
“Come and see.”
Taran shot a look at Jessamine, who shrugged. There didn’t seem any harm in it, so he let Tommy lead him inside.
This crypt was at least twice the size of the others he’d been in. The sarcophagi were all carved in intricate likenesses of the deceased and then painted with gold leaf. Some even had canopies over them like four-poster beds to give the illusion of sleep. The walls were painted elaborately with images from the history of the Dukes of Sandilar. A lantern and matches were on a shelf just inside the door. Taran quickly lit it so they could see more clearly.
“Here.” Tomidan pulled Taran forward and pointed to the family tree. “Somebody ruined it.”
The light from the lantern spilled across the large, scroll-worked representation of the Sandilar family, past and present. Deep scratches had been gouged across it, scraping the paint from the stone in harsh lines. Names had been crossed out and a huge X carved through the entire thing.
Tommy tugged on his sleeve. “Why’d they do that?”
Taran stared from the vandalized image to the upturned face of the boy beside him. His shoulders raised in a helpless shrug. “I . . . I have no idea.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Very few guests ever saw the kitchen of the Knox Inn and Tavern. The wide doors swung in both directions and opened into a broad space with long preparation tables and three wood-burning ovens. Stacked baskets held bushels of vegetables and fruit, waiting for chopping. Ready-to-pluck geese hung from the ceiling over a basin, and a sheep carcass slow-roasted on a spit over a low fire in preparation for the evening meal.
As Brannon walked in, Dargin Knox looked up from kneading a knob of dough larger than his head. “We’re behind with the cooking and don’t need any more distractions.”
Brannon opened his mouth to say that people wouldn’t complain if the meals were late after a murder had taken place on the premises, but then changed his mind. Perhaps they would. People had short memories and little tolerance when problems started affecting them personally. “Karia?”
“She’s not here.”
“Do you know where she is?”
The man’s fist punched into the dough. “She wanted time alone.”
Morgin, who had squeezed through the door behind Brannon, touched his shoulder. “I know where she’ll be,” he said.
Brannon followed him back through the tavern room where Ula was creating more of her spirit pouches, spitting into each one in turn and murmuring incantations. Draeson joined them as Morgin headed outside, then turned away from the courtyard, where stable boys were scrubbing at the blood on the cobblestones, and led the way around the back of the building. A thin path was fenced on one side with a hedge and sported weeds pushing their heads through every crack. It opened into a wider space some distance round and several large wooden doors punctured the side of the inn like holes in a belt.
“Before they expanded the stables, they used to keep the horses around here. Nobody comes back here now.” Morgin pushed open one of the doors. The hinges shrieked a protest.
Brannon and Draeson followed Morgin inside.
The space was clearly designed as a stable but had not been used as such in some time. The floor was packed hard dirt and the feed trough was empty. There were pegs on the wall for hanging tack and the like, but while a dim lantern hung from one, the rest held nothing but cobwebs.
Karia Knox sat on the floor, her body turned into the corner, her face hidden from sight. Her shoulders trembled. “Go away, Morgin. I can’t deal with you right now. Just leave me alone.”
“Miss Knox,” Brannon said, making his voice as gentle as possible. “We need to talk to you about your fiancé. We need you to help us catch the person who killed him.”
Karia turned to face him, her eyes were red and puffy even in the dim lamp light. “Do you think you will catch who did this, Sir Brannon?”
He nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
“And we are the best.” Draeson added, with an expansive wave of his arm. Brannon turned to shoot him a glare, thinking the mage was about to put the moves on the grieving girl, but Draeson’s face held a distracted kind of intensity that was at odds with his playboy mannerisms.
Karia had already shifted around to face them square on. She hugged her knees to her chest. “What do you need to know?”
Brannon lowered himself down to eye level and sat with his back against the wall. After a moment, Draeson and Morgin did the same. “Well, how well liked was Caidin? Did he have any enemies?”
She shook her head, her hair falling forward until she reached up and tucked it behind her ear. “No, not at all. Everybody liked Caidin. I mean, I know I’m supposed to say that because I loved him, but it’s true. He was a truly wonderful man.”
“The town golden boy,” added Morgin.
Brannon raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
Morgin shrugged.
“He’d always help out anyone who asked him,” Karia said. “He was really good that way. That’s how we met.”
“Any idea why someone would want to kill him?”
“No.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I don’t know why they would want to kill anyone in our town. This whole thing has been horrible.”
Draeson leaned forward. “Karia, who are Caidin’s parents
?”
“Good question,” Morgin murmured, just loud enough to be heard.
Karia glared. “Rogan and Melly Ray are good people. Honest farmers and upstanding members of this community. There’s nothing wrong with having them as parents. We can’t all be the bastard son of a duke.”
“Of course there’s nothing wrong with having them as parents,” Brannon said, puzzling over her words.
Draeson leaned forward even more. “Are you sure they are his parents?”
She blinked at him. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
The mage said nothing, but leaned back with a thoughtful expression. Silence held for a moment as Brannon wondered what Draeson was getting at and if he should intervene with a new question. Eventually Morgin spoke again.
“If he was some sort of changeling, then maybe it’s for the best.” He put his hand on Karia’s shoulder. “He was never really good enough for you.”
The girl shoved the intruding hand away. “For Ahpra’s sake, Morgin, would you leave it alone? Take a Hooded hint: I’m not interested in you and no amount of bad-mouthing my dead fiancé will change that! Get lost!”
The young man jerked back as if her words had burned him. He stood and raised his fist and, for a moment, Brannon thought he might have to restrain him. Then he turned and slammed it into the wall beside him. The wooden beam cracked and split beneath the force of the blow. “I don’t understand you,” he wailed.
Karia sighed. “And you never will. Go away, Morgin.”
Red-faced, Morgin fled.
Brannon looked between the empty doorway and the girl on the floor. “Do you think one of us should follow him?”
Draeson shrugged. “Why? He has to learn about rejection sometime.”
“He’ll be okay,” Karia said. “I’ve been harsh with him before. He always comes back like a little puppy, telling me how his daddy is Duke Roydan and that makes him better than the rest of us.”
Brannon felt his eyebrows raise. “His father is Duke Roydan?”
“The mayor was the duke’s mistress for a while. I thought everyone knew that.”
