Kalanon's Rising

by Darian Smith

  The hinges squealed. Brannon held his breath and kept moving. The door had opened just enough to squeeze through.

  The nearby guard started to turn.

  Ambassador Ylani shrieked and stumbled, landing on her hands and knees in the grass. “Oh, my dress! Ahpra’s Tears, I hate mud!”

  The guard chuckled, his eyes glued to the spectacle.

  Brannon slipped through the gap and out of sight.

  The inside of the barn was dark and dusty. The smell of sawdust and straw filled his nostrils. Spikes of sunlight pierced the darkness from chinks in the wall beams, like javelins thrown by the gods. Long wooden crates were stacked three high, in orderly rows, turning the barn into a kind of warehouse. He could imagine shoppers wandering the aisles created by the rows of crates, rummaging for a bargain once the tops were popped open.

  There were no markings on the outside of the crates to give any indication of their contents or origins. The wood they were made of was simple pine, sanded smooth and nailed tight.

  Brannon pulled out his dagger again and used it to pry open one of the crate lids. Inside were bolts of brilliantly colored fabric. He reached out to touch it. Silk.

  “So if the deal hasn’t been finalized yet, what are you doing with crates and crates of silk?” he murmured.

  “Exactly,” Ylani said, making him jump. She moved between the rows of crates with an effortless ease, as though she’d been there the whole time.

  “How did you get in here? Past the guards?”

  She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. “I was a spy, remember?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I assume this is what you wanted me to see.”

  “That’s part of it,” she said, her grin fading. “The only legal import of silk into Kalanon is through me and should have the ambassadorial seal on the box. This doesn’t. But that’s not the biggest thing. Help me unwrap one of the bolts.”

  The fabric unrolled easily, falling in ripples to pile on the ground like a many layered pastry confection. When at last the final piece fell away, Brannon felt his insides twist. Disappointment flashed through him in a hot flash, leaving sweat on his forehead and a foul taste in his mouth. At the center of the bolt of fabric, the pole the silk had been wrapped around was a sword.

  Brannon set it down and stepped back. “They’re all swords, aren’t they?”

  Ylani shrugged. “Unless you think somehow we picked up the only one.”

  He took a deep breath. This was bad. Very bad. He’d trusted Roydan his whole life. Aldan trusted him. What was he up to? “Maybe he’s after a monopoly in Nilarian steel as well as silk. He’d make a fortune with that.”

  “He would,” Ylani admitted. “But why import just swords? And anyway, it’s illegal for Nilarians to sell our steel or the methods for making it. Our government knows exactly why we had the upper hand for most of the war. We’re not stupid enough to give away the secret. Roydan and someone in Nilar are going against both governments, and I think your prisoner, Fressin, is the go-between.”

  Brannon nodded, steeling himself. “All right. You’ve convinced me there are definitely questions Roydan needs to answer. I’ll talk more to Fressin when we get back. What does all this have to do with the murders I’m investigating?”

  “Nothing, as far as I can tell,” Ylani said. “It’s all just a horrible coincidence. But Latricia died wanting you to know what was going on. I had to honor her wishes. Somebody needs to report Roydan to the king.”

  “Agreed. But for now, we need to get out of here without anyone knowing we’ve seen this, and bring anyone who might have illegitimate royal blood back to the inn for safekeeping.” He bundled the silk and sword back into the crate and replaced the lid.

  “Do you really think we need to?” Ylani gestured toward the outside. “They have plenty of militia standing guard and I gave them a huge supply of Ula’s spirit pouches yesterday. They’re probably just as safe here as anywhere.”

  “Maybe,” he said, moving toward the door. “But we need to give them the option. People have the right to know who’s being targeted.”

  He raised a finger to his lips and pressed up against the door opening, peering outside. The guards were gone. He gestured Ylani closer and looked again. There was no one. “Something’s up,” he whispered. “But this is probably our best chance to get out of here.”

  She nodded and Brannon wished they hadn’t left her muted green cloak behind. Ambassador Ylani was not the kind of woman who went unnoticed. Especially in that dress.

  He nudged the door open a little further, then slipped part of the way out. Sure enough, the coast was clear. “Come on.”

  He made it a few steps before Ylani grabbed his collar and pulled him back. “Stop!” she hissed. “Get back!”

  A second later, the body of a dead militiaman fell on the spot where he’d been standing.

  “Blood and Tears!” Brannon looked around and up, trying to see where the man had come from. On the roof of the barn stood Morgin Vere. He had blood on his shirt and on his hands.

  “Better call an undertaker,” he said. “Whoops, that’s me!” Then he dissolved into giggles.

  Brannon exchanged a look with Ylani. “Um, Morgin? Are you okay?”

  The young man cocked his head to one side as he looked down at them. He was standing right on the edge of the roof, the tips of his feet hanging over the edge. “Are you?”

  “Morgin, be careful, okay?” Brannon called. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Morgin shook his head. “Nope, I can’t.” He stepped off the edge and plummeted to the ground. He landed easily, knees bent, and smiled. “All safe.”

  “Ahpra’s Tears,” Ylani swore. “It’s him, isn’t it? The live Risen.”

  Brannon gestured to her to stay behind him. “Morgin,” he said. “What have you done? There’s blood on your hands.”

  Morgin pointed a red finger at him. “Don’t ask questions, Sir Brannon. You were nice to me. I like you and it’s me who chooses who lives and dies now. Just me.” He shook himself and pointed the finger at his own head. “In here.”

  Brannon fingered the spirit pouch in his pocket.

  “Do you know what’s in there?” Morgin said, suddenly. “In that barn, I mean?”

  “No, Morgin,” Brannon lied. “What?”

  The young man leaned forward. His freckles stood out starkly against his very pale skin. “The deliveries,” he whispered. “Mustn’t mess up the deliveries. Mustn’t!” He sighed and absently licked the blood off one of his fingers. “So many people telling me what to do. Not for much longer. I’m going to inherit Sandilar, you know. Finally get what I deserve. No more heirs. Just me.”

  Brannon felt himself go cold. “Have you been inside the manor, Morgin?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “But what about Ula’s protections?” Ylani said. “I delivered them yesterday. How did you get in?”

  “No little spirit packets,” Morgin said, shaking his head. “They didn’t use them. And I’m getting so much stronger now.”

  Brannon fought the urge to draw his sword or dagger. No doubt the manor guards had done so and it hadn’t helped them one bit. His fingers closed on Ula’s spirit pouch. It was the one thing he had that they hadn’t used. “What did you do, Morgin? Who did you kill?”

  Morgin blinked slowly. “Who I had to.”

  “You mean Roydan’s other illegitimate children? So that you could be heir?”

  Morgin frowned. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  Brannon pulled the spirit pouch out of his pocket but Morgin had already lunged forward. The mayor’s son backhanded Brannon and he flew back into the wall of the barn, slamming into the wood with enough force to crack the boards. The little packet dropped from his fingers.

  Ylani screamed and Morgin turned his attention toward her. Her scream also caught the attention of a remaining guard, who rounded the side of the barn at a run. He had a crossbow in his hand, stopped, aimed and fired.


  The bolt struck Morgin in the neck. He growled, a thick guttural sound, and ripped it out. He leaped, crossing the distance between him and the guard in a single bound, and plunged his hand into the man’s chest, punching through his rib cage like it was spun sugar. A moment later, he pulled out the man’s lung and a piece of bone. He flung it on the ground and turned back to Brannon and Ylani.

  “People won’t be so disrespectful when I’m the duke,” he said.

  Brannon scrambled toward the spirit pouch and snatched it up. His back and legs ached, and his shoulder, where the blow had caught him, felt pulverized, but he forced himself to stand next to Ylani, and held out the pouch like a shield. “Stay back.”

  Morgin walked steadily toward him. “I’m much stronger now.” Fresh blood dribbled from his fingers like a tiny waterfall, leaving a thin trail of red on the grass.

  Brannon shook the pouch. “Come on. Come on!” He was only a few steps away.

  Ylani stepped forward, leaned over his hand and spat onto the spirit pouch. A big glob of saliva trailed down the side of the leather like a large, wet slug.

  Brannon stared. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Ylani said. Her face was flushed. “It’s to activate it. A sacrifice or spirit price? Something like that. Ask Ula.”

  Morgin’s face had changed with Ylani’s action. It was as if all the humanity was stripped away, his eyes dark and soulless. Then that inhuman face began to show fear.

  The pouch in Brannon’s hand began to vibrate—just a small thing, like a tuning fork or a plucked string on a bow. The ground beneath their feet trembled and the wind changed direction and blew past and through him, like an avenging spirit—like Ula’s protecting earth spirits.

  The wind touched Morgin and he hissed. “Kaluk faa lek!” he said. “Shaa le khul.” Then he turned and leaped, and in a couple of bounds he was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Taran opened the door to Jessamine. Her blond hair was tied up in its usual ponytail, but a few wisps had come loose and dangled enticingly next to her face. Her blue eyes met his and she smiled like the sun sparkling on the water on a summer’s day.

  “Um,” he said. “Hello.”

  Jessamine held up a glass of water. “Drink for the prisoner.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Go right in.”

  “I could get one for you as well, if you like,” she said, brushing past him.

  “No, that’s okay.” He was about to follow her inside, when a movement caught his eye.

  Tomidan Sandilar sat on the floor in the corridor. His small frame was hunched over, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them in a hug. He rocked back and forth and stared at the carpet where his mother’s blood had obliterated the pattern in a dark, sticky mess.

  “Tommy?” Taran called. “What are you doing here? Where’s your nanny?”

  The boy said nothing for a long time and Taran began to wonder if he’d even heard, when he finally spoke. “Why did that happen to my mama?”

  Taran swallowed. He looked back at Jessamine. She was holding the glass of water to the prisoner’s lips. He looked up and down the hall. There was no one else to talk to the boy. This was the worst part of being a priest: having to interact with people.

  He took a few steps and crouched down beside the boy, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know, Tommy. We’re trying to find out.”

  Tomidan looked up at him, his eyes big and wet. “Will the Hooded One look after her and Daddy now?”

  Taran’s chest contracted, his breath almost gone. “Yes.”

  “Who will look after me?”

  Taran fought the urge to look away, and instead laid a hand on the boy’s other shoulder. At this, Tommy flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around Taran and clinging tight.

  “I don’t know yet, Tommy,” Taran choked. “But you have lots of people who love you. Your nanny, your grandfather, the king. You’ll be okay.” He held the boy for what seemed a very long time, until finally Tommy pulled away and looked him in the eye.

  “Really?”

  Taran nodded. “Yes, really. I know it hurts now, but you’re going to be okay. I lost my parents when I was about your age and I turned out okay, didn’t I?”

  The beginnings of a smile tried to push through the tears on Tommy’s face for just a moment. “Yes.”

  “Okay then. Now, why don’t you go and find your nanny, because she’ll be worried about you. And then maybe you could have a talk to Karia. Do you know who she is?”

  Tommy nodded. “She brings me extra pudding at dinner.”

  Taran smiled. “She’s nice like that. And she lost somebody she loves recently too. So maybe she’ll understand what you’re feeling.”

  Tommy wiped his eyes with his palms. “She might need a hug then.”

  “I’m sure she does.” They both stood up and Taran watched as the little boy walked away toward the staircase. He hoped he and Karia could bring some comfort to each other for a while.

  When he turned back to the room, Jessamine was standing in the doorway. “You’re very sweet, you know.”

  Taran felt his face go red and shrugged. He moved to enter the room, expecting her to move, but she didn’t.

  “No, really. What you said to that little boy was really lovely. He needed that.”

  Taran blinked, not quite sure what to say.

  Jessamine moved forward and before he realized what was happening, she kissed him. His eyes flew wide open, then slammed shut as her lips pressed against his, moving softly in slow gentle nibbles. His body froze as her hands slipped around his waist, sliding like fire to the small of his back. His own hands somehow found their way to her hips and hovered, like trembling moths. Then it was over and she pulled away.

  “I need to find Ula,” she said, and gently pressed her nose against his before breaking their embrace.

  “Oh.”

  She sauntered off, hips swaying, and disappeared after Tomidan down the stairwell.

  Taran stared after her, his breath fast and his skin tingling.

  “You think she likes you.” The mocking voice trailed up his spine from inside the room.

  Taran stepped inside and closed the door before turning around to face the man who was still bound to a chair, immobile. “Shut up, Fressin.” He paced the room, his hand drifting to his lips. It was the strangest thing. He could still feel the warmth of her kiss as if it was still there, some disembodied entity with a life of its own, reminding him of the impossible. Jessamine Tral had kissed him!

  As he turned around, he caught Fressin staring at him. The assassin’s eyes were narrowed. “You’ve been away from the House too long,” he said. “You’ve forgotten. People like us don’t have love. There’s no usefulness in it.”

  Taran felt his chest tighten. “So you do recognize me.”

  Fressin laughed. “Of course. I nearly shit myself when I saw you on that boat. I couldn’t believe it. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

  “That’s actually how I prefer it,” Taran said.

  “I get it,” Fressin said. “You must be seriously deep undercover. I mean, after that thing with the contract on the Kalan king, nobody would ever have expected to see you again. I mean, there was no way to get out of that. How did you survive?”

  Taran looked away. The clock ticked extra loud and he took a slow, deep breath and said nothing. He could almost hear Fressin’s mind working it out.

  “By the Wolf. You betrayed them.” The assassin’s voice was soft and breathless. “You warned the king and he’s hidden you all these years. They killed your team! Other Children of Starlight died because you reneged on a contract. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  Taran felt his hands press together like a pleading prayer. He wanted his old friend to understand. Wanted it so badly. But he knew he wouldn’t. “It wasn’t right, Fressin.”

  The assassin frowned. “What wasn’t? Killing King Aldan?” He shrug
ged. “It was the job. You know that. Once the contract is taken, that’s it. That’s the deal.”

  “Not just Aldan. All of it.” He gestured around him. “The Children of Starlight. Killing people, who don’t deserve it, just because someone else wants them dead. Don’t you see? It’s wrong. I couldn’t live that way anymore.”

  Fressin stared at him as if he were something new and dangerous. “You’ve bought into your own cover. You really think you’re a priest.”

  Taran chuckled, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. “No. No, I’m nothing like a priest. Not really.”

  They watched each other for a long time. Taran wished there was something to say that would bring understanding, but every time he opened his mouth to speak, he knew Fressin would only laugh. There had never been any crisis of faith in Fressin, growing up; he had never questioned the ways of starlight. Not like Taran had.

  “You know I’ll tell the House you’re alive when I get back,” Fressin said at last. “They’ll come after you.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess that means you’ll have to kill me to keep your cover.”

  Taran swallowed. “Yes.”

  “You won’t want your new friends finding out about you either, I suppose.” Fressin took a deep breath. “So, when will you do it?”

  Taran met his friend’s eyes for the last time. “I already have.”

  Fressin glanced at the empty glass on the table. “Oh. The drink the girl brought. I didn’t even see you near it.” He coughed. “At least you haven’t forgotten your skills.”

  Taran closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Forty

  The common room at the Knox Inn and Tavern was crowded chaos. The story of what had happened the night before had spread, along with the fact that somehow there was a plan to protect the inn from another such attack. Villagers shouted over each other trying to book rooms, while others demanded to know the secrets to protect their own homes. Draeson’s ward-dogs were on every door, many of them barking at the jostling villagers. The guards, still without new orders, as far as Brannon was aware, were now performing a filtering function to keep more customers out and try to calm down the more unruly ones. This brought them into conflict with Dargin Knox, who was fully aware that this chaos, while difficult, was good for business and his best chance to fund the repairs needed for the burned-out rooms upstairs.