The Kallanon Scales (10 page)

“Eight of us
have knowledge of the Mysor mystery and we keep it that way. We
remain together and when apart we cover our backs. The ceremony
goes ahead, but none here will prepare for it until we have buried
our dead. We do this duty together.” He glanced at Vannis. “Do you
want to go to the Palace first?”

“The Forest,
and maybe that will numb me enough to see Raken without … the
Forest first. You go to the Palace for Lycea.”

Torrullin drew
breath. “We remain together. A delay will make no difference
now.”

“You sought
her signature.”

“Emptiness,”
Torrullin whispered.

Vannis gripped
his shoulder. “The Forest first.”

Worlds shudder
over the injustice.

~ Alari’s
genocide

The Great
Forest

T
he bodies lay under a
tree.

Together in
death as in life - Shep had known that. Shep hung back, but the
others stood over what remained of Kisha and Kylan.

Their clothes
were torn and there were numerous burns on their arms and legs.
There were cuts in line with the veins under the skin, with those
veins exposed. Streaks of dried blood patterned their arms.

Kisha’s fair
hair was scorched and Kylan’s lay in dark bloody clumps at the base
of the tree.

Tymall turned
aside to retch.

Here, in the
Great Forest, darak entered, and no trace remained.

We shall find them,
Torrullin
vowed.

They dug
graves beside the house and laid them reverently into the rich
earth of the bountiful Forest.

No one said anything over twin mounds of freshly turned soil.
Quilla brought water from the Well and sprinkled it liberally. The
dark soil pushed immediately aside as new shoots reached for
sunlight. In a few days, the mounds would be rich with Forest
flowers and thus it should be for two people who lived closely with
the magic surrounding them.
That
was the prayer, the blessing, the farewell, for
no words could do so.

Torrullin
climbed the steps into their home, indicating he preferred to do it
alone. Vannis had enough to cope with and Taranis and his sighs he
could not deal with.

He wandered,
recalling how proud Kylan was of his new house and how Kisha
squealed. The two made the small space beautiful. They had not
needed much, only each other. They were blessed in life. Somewhere
beyond they ran hand-in-hand through fields covered with
flowers.

The mortal
left, the immortal missed them forever.

He stood a
while in the nook where Kylan kept his herbs. He touched the
comforter Kisha sewed in preparation for winter. He found Kylan’s
desk in the guest room, piled high with papers and books, files and
rolled sheets.

It was an
orderly mess and spilled over onto the single bed. Kylan was happy
here, busy. He turned to go, and something caught his eye. A tiny
scrap of paper had fluttered out of sight and mind to the floor
behind the front foot of the desk, torn, as if someone grabbed a
sheet from the surface, tearing it.

Five arrows rotated from a central dot, and five names, among
them
Dantian.
Had
Kylan
found
the
map? Why had he not called?

He put the
scrap in his pocket. This was why they were murdered. He left the
house, and outside muttered an enchantment that would keep it
safe.

They left for
the Palace.

The White
Palace

Raken lay
spread-eagled on the floor of her and Vannis’ bedchamber,
naked.

Pinned with
rusty iron spikes through wrists and ankles, an intricate pattern
carved into her torso with a sharp instrument, no doubt the same
that exposed veins in the Forest. Severed fingers and toes were
arranged in a parody of reality. Dark blood stained the floor.

Vannis, white
and silent, led them to her, body taut as a bowstring, and
Torrullin took one look and manhandled him out, flinching at the
low moan of despair. He set Krikian and Tristamil to hold him, and
Vannis screamed and began to fight, but they held him, the blue
fire of kin crackling where Vannis and Tristamil made skin
contact.

Back to the
grizzly scene. Taranis ashen. Tymall green. He sent Tymall out as
well. Given what his son was, it surprised that this caused the
young man discomfort. Perhaps the lessons learned this day would
turn him from one path onto another.

Quilla was
stoic, dependable in a crisis. He gestured to Shep and the two
removed the spikes, a gory task that had Shep gagging, but he
swallowed it with determination. Rusty spikes. It did not make
sense.

Torrullin
assessed Raken’s injuries, holding tight to his emotions. She told
them nothing, which was why they took the trouble. Yet, given the
time between the meeting in the valley and Vannis returning to
check on them, there was not much of it to entertain this elaborate
act. It meant the murderers were waiting, already finished at the
Forest. The plan was in place and put into motion when Vannis left
the grounds.

Raken, you should have surrendered,
but he knew she would never betray Vannis.

He bent over
the pattern upon her torso, thinking it a symbol, but the lines
blurred into confusion. He drew breath, wanting, like Vannis, to
lash out.

Taking the emerald robe Taranis handed him from the bed, he
dressed her with care, noting she was not sexually abused. Taranis
bent to the grim task of collecting severed digits. Torrullin saw
again the pirate in action upon
Little
Paradise
, heard her laughter floating
across the deck, remembered the time she saved him from a fall off
the battlements above, how he kissed her afterward, striking out at
Vannis, at the world, and how she understood and comforted
him.

They were true
friends the way Vannis and Saska were friends, but unlike Vannis
and Saska, had they been the last two people in the universe, they
would not have remained friends. Always there was an underlying
attraction, one never acted upon, but it made their bond
particularly strong. Gods, he would miss her.

Taranis
wrapped fingers and toes in a silk scarf; this Torrullin placed in
the pocket of her gown, and the four of them wrapped her hands and
feet before carrying her from the place of death.

Vannis wailed
when they brought her out, collapsing to his knees. The fight left
him when he saw she was covered.

“Leave her
with me. I swear to do nothing but sit here with her until you
return.”

Torrullin and
Taranis lowered her to the floor. She appeared to be sleeping and
seemed far younger and more vulnerable. Vannis gathered her into
his arms and rocked her, crooning. Her fiery hair spilled over his
arms.

Reining in
emotion, Torrullin said to his sons, “You do not have to come.”

“We do,”
Tristamil replied, a quaver in his voice, and Tymall could only
nod.

Yes, they did.
Torrullin looked to Quilla. “Stay with Vannis in case someone
returns.”

Quilla
inclined his head, and the six set off.

The Palace was
empty. Why had no one raised the alarm? Where were the guards? Why
had this veil of silence hung over these deaths?

They made
their way to Lycea’s wing, thinking to find her in her bedchamber,
but she was not there. They found her on the battlement. She ran,
that was evident from the untidy way she lay, as if halted in
mid-flight, and her hair was windblown.

She gave them
chase to have come this far, and kept them too long occupied in it,
or they were disturbed, possibly by Vannis’ arrival earlier, for
she was untouched.

A single slim
blade protruded from the base of her skull, someone of skill tossed
it from a distance. There was little blood. The kill was clean and
swift.

Torrullin
breathed a sigh of relief, the only emotion he dared allow. His
sons would not have to live with the horrendous images of torture,
not to their mother. He looked at them as they approached, and saw
only masks.

He knelt to
retrieve the knife, but Taranis stayed his hand and did it before
turning her over. Her eyes were open and contained vestiges of the
fury that caused her to flee. She had not been afraid. Tristamil
pointed at the knife she clutched in her right hand. She would not
have betrayed Torrullin either.

Torrullin
smoothed her hair, remembering the birth of the twins, and the
rainbow pool. He loved her once the way a man loves a woman. He
thought Saska leaving was hard, but this was worse; this was
final.

He lifted and
carried her to the ground floor, muscles quivering with strain, but
he needed to, as Vannis wanted to be alone with Raken. His sons
followed in silence, with Taranis, Shep and Krikian bringing up the
rear.

They buried
the two women in the Palace gardens, in which both women got hands
and knees dirty. Here there was no magic water, but the Palace had
been a sacred site and would look after its own.

As it had not
in the last moments of life. Torrullin frowned. What happened to
the staff and guards? Were they dead also? The dead could offer no
insight.

Tristamil
knelt beside his mother’s grave. They had not the opportunity to
make it right and now it would never be. He wanted that
opportunity, desperately. He rose blindly, into Taranis’ arms. He
did not pull away, rested his head on his grandfather’s shoulder.
Now there was no need to deny family. He loved his mother. He loved
Taranis.

Tymall turned
away.

“Let us go,”
Quilla whispered.

They returned
to the Keep.

Valleur do not
surrender. Valleur fight.

~ Ancient
Oracles

The Keep

I
t was night as they made their way
to the kitchens.

The staff
sensed tragedy and retired early, but Torrullin noticed there were
added guards on duty and the Dragon doors were shut, the latter
despite hundreds of guests encamped nearby.

Seeing the
guards at his doors put him in mind anew of the Palace, and he had
a word with the night’s commander.

The head cook
left a cold buffet and this they brought to the table, eating
because they needed strength. Taranis set about brewing coffee.

“Go to bed,
Tris, Ty. You have a big day tomorrow,” Torrullin said when he
gauged they had eaten as much as they could force down.

Tymall led the
way out.

Enchanter, I
have duties at the Temple. I shall return in the morning.

Very well,
Quilla. Thank you for today.

Quilla
vanished.

Krikian looked
up. “Will he be all right?”

“He has
transported direct to the Temple,” Torrullin murmured. “Krikian,
find an empty bed upstairs. Rest now. My thanks for your help.”

Krikian
swallowed and, taking his coffee with him, left the kitchen.

“Shep, what
did they die of exactly?” Torrullin asked. Shep Lore was head
administrator at the hospital in Galilan.

Shep’s eyes
flicked around. “Kylan died of head wounds, Kisha by loss of blood.
Those are the direct causes, but any number of their injuries could
have killed them. Um, Lycea …” He swallowed hard. Lycea was his
family. “The knife. She died quickly.” He managed to smile. “She
gave them quite a chase, I think.”

Torrullin
found a smile somewhere as well. “That she did.”

“Raken?”
Vannis asked, staring into his mug.

Shep glanced
at his Vallorin, who nodded. “Blood loss, my Lord.”

“Was she in
pain?”

Shep did not
dare reply.

“Shep, thank
you,” Torrullin murmured.

The purple
figure waddled away.

The three of
them sat on, sipping coffee. They dared not reach for sleep.
Nightmares waited there. Reality.

“Lord
Vallorin?”

Torrullin
looked up. The guard commander stood in the doorway.

“We found the
guards in the dungeons. They cannot remember how it happened.” The
man was clearly at a loss.

That explained
that. A touch of sorcery coerced them into blindness, and kept them
from interfering. “The staff?”

The man licked
his lips. “Scattered in the grounds, in a daze. They heard screams
and felt such fear it urged them to flight. My Lord, did something
happen at the Palace?”

“Yes, but I am
not discussing it. Have a word with the staff. Nobody speaks of
this.”

The man bowed
and retreated.

“Nothing
there,” Taranis sighed.

“Expected.”

Taranis
brought out the knife, laid it on the table. It was slim, of
quality stainless steel, unmarked and folded blade into hilt. He
tapped it. “This is an assassin’s weapon.”

“Origin?”

“Commonplace
among assassins. It cannot help us.”

“Then get rid
of it.”

Taranis nodded
and waved it into the ether.

Vannis looked
up, face ravaged. “Why did none of them call? The Well is sacred,
the Palace is sacred, and they were not safe. Why? How?”

“Whoever did
this veiled the area,” Torrullin said.

Vannis’ head
sank down.

“They were
Mysor protectors,” Taranis said, “for whatever reason. The Mysor
hide something and kill to keep it that way.”

“The Mysor are
too stupid to do this,” Vannis muttered.

Torrullin’s mug slid across the table when he shoved it. It
slid off the other side, to shatter. “Krikian said there was a
golden race in the Zone and he said it meant goodness.
I
say there are
Valleur.” Vannis raised his head. Torrullin stared back at Vannis.
“I know you thought the same this morning.”