The first of the Agents of Kalanon mysteries is available for preorder. Each book in the series features an action packed murder mystery in the fantasy world of Kalanon for Brannon and his team to solve. Magic, murder, and mayhem, with a backdrop of a country recovering from war and a supernatural battle brewing.
Check out the first couple of chapters below:
Prologue
he gas lamps on the street corners
of Alapra cast deep shadows. Keldan Sandilar skulked in their darkness with a
woman of dubious repute. He felt a kind of thrill across his skin as he moved
through the back streets, that had little to do with the coolness of the night
air. The son of a duke, mere steps from the Kalan throne, rarely had occasion
to skulk. Here, in the capital, he had a lifestyle that could be publicly
enjoyed. His name was a skeleton key for the highest echelons of society and
there wasn’t a craftsman or trader who wouldn’t throw open their doors, day or
night, for his convenience.
But tonight was for activities best kept in darkness.
“We really should have done this somewhere else,” he
muttered, as they neared their destination. “They know me at the Rose.”
The floral fragrance from walled, scented gardens mixed with
that of horse manure and lantern smoke. The sound of laughter and music spilled
from up ahead and the full moon slipped from behind a cloud. Keldan’s footsteps
sounded very loud on the familiar cobblestones. He was grateful, at least, that
he had left the carriage some distance away.
His companion shrugged. “It was your choice, Your Highness. And
a wise general fights on familiar ground, they say. Don’t worry, my employer is
very discreet.” Her voice lowered to a throaty purr as she added, “And so am
I.”
Keldan noticed the front of her cloak had parted and the cut
of her bodice offered an inviting glimpse of bosom. He chuckled. “Thus far I
have enjoyed our dealings very much. I’m sure that will continue.”
The Blue Rose came into sight ahead and Keldan’s steps
quickened. The sooner they were in a private room, the better. The Rose was an
elegant, stone and plaster, converted manor house built well before the war. A
mosaic path led up to the wide double doors, through an outdoor dining area
ringed by balustrades and climbing, steel-hued roses. The area was strung with
colored lanterns, giving it a joyful air. There were few patrons outside this
time of night, however. The main action was inside, where some of the best
singers and dancers the city had to offer were regularly seen on the ballroom’s
stage.
He had almost reached
the door when a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out into the light. Keldan
recognized the man’s easy movement well before the familiar scar came into
view. He gestured for his companion to move and tried to step aside before the King’s
Champion saw him but, exposed as he was in the center of the mosaic path, there
was nowhere to go.
“Prince Keldan.” The man known as Bloodhawk nodded in
Keldan’s direction. “Good to see you. How’s your father?”
Keldan forced a smile and walked forward. Of all the timing!
“Very well, Sir Brannon. You know Father—he’s a prize stallion. I can pass on
your regards when I next see him.”
Brannon nodded. “I’d appreciate it. I don’t get to see him
as often as I’d like these days. Nor you, in fact. Would you care to join me
for a drink?”
Keldan wondered, as he often did seeing Sir Brannon’s simple
clothes and military style haircut, how he managed to stay so well connected at
court. The reality and the legend were strange bedfellows in this man. “Another
time. I’m afraid I have business to attend to right now.”
The girl giggled at that, giving the perfect vapid
impression. She’d arranged her cowled cloak so that the comely shape of her
body was unmistakable beneath the fabric, but the details of her face were
lost.
Brannon’s expression barely flickered. “Of course.” He
inclined his head slightly to them both. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“That could’ve been a disaster,” Keldan murmured as he
guided the girl through the back corridors of the Blue Rose to the VIP area and
then into the private room he’d booked. “The last thing I need tonight is for a
war hero friend of my father to discover me making a deal with Nilarians.”
She pushed back her hood and flashed him a pretty smile as
he closed the door behind them. “It’s just a meeting. To be honest, I think
you’ll have to be an even shrewder businessman than your father to get a deal
with my employer.”
Keldan felt his jaw tighten. He turned his focus to the
room, allowing the tension in his body to ease.
It was a room he’d used many times before, decorated in his
favorite sky-blue and deep mahogany. The fresco cherubs always made him smile
to think of all they’d witnessed in that spacious, four-post bed. Today, there
was a box on the scroll-worked writing desk in the corner.
“Yours?” he said as the girl stripped off her cloak and laid
it across the bed. The gown underneath clung to her curves.
“My employer’s. I had it sent over earlier to make things
easier for us.”
Keldan smiled. “Easy is good.”
Her full lips twitched upward. “It has its advantages. Shall
I set up?”
He nodded, moving to the liquor cabinet. A decanter of his
favorite wine had been set out and he poured himself a glass while the girl
opened the box and laid its contents on the desk. A selection of fabric
swatches, pots of pigment, a knife, and some brushes.
Keldan wondered if his father had ever seen the secrets of
Nilarian silk. He doubted it. The old man was too bound up in the old enmity to
have gotten so close. He was a shrewd businessman, all right, but Keldan’s own
skills were nothing to be sniffed at and this extra, personal touch of showing
interest in the details would secure the deal. He was certain of it.
He lifted the wine to his lips and savored the taste of
successfully out-dealing his father. Delicious.
“I should go and fetch my employer now,” the girl said,
turning away from the carefully arranged desk. She lowered her head a little
and looked up at him, slyly. “Perhaps I could come back after the business is
completed?”
Keldan chuckled softly. “You do that. I’ll be here all
night.”
As the door closed behind her, Keldan wondered which outcome
he was looking forward to more—the closing of the business deal or the return
of the girl. Already he could feel his body reacting to the excitement of both.
His stomach fluttered and his skin felt more sensitive, like a cool breeze was
brushing through the room. His lips, especially, tingled as though from a
phantom kiss.
He took a breath and shook it off. He wasn’t some nervous
virgin at his first ball. He tugged at his sleeve, straightened his back, and
considered how he would greet the Nilarian.
The tingling in his lips intensified.
Keldan frowned. He took a few steps toward the bed before
the tingling began in his legs as well. His toe caught on the thick carpet and
he fell, sprawled, face down on the bed.
The sensation spread up his thighs, and crippled his hands
and forearms. His tongue felt like a handful of needles in his mouth. Then the
tingling was replaced by a terrible numbness, swallowing his body’s ability to
move, like a mouse down a cold, reptilian throat. He struggled against it and
almost managed to pull himself up before his muscles gave out completely and he
fell back on his face.
The world huddled close around him, pressing in with his
fear. A shout for help produced only a weak sound, muffled by bedding. After
that, it was an effort to draw in enough air just to stay conscious. Time was
lost. There was nothing in existence but his own fast-beating heart and loud,
rasping breaths.
A rivulet of sweat ran across the skin of his forehead,
grazed the side of his temple, and slipped into his wide open eye with the
sting of salt. The sensation penetrated his panicked mind: the numbness was wearing
off. Perhaps the paralysis would too.
Relief almost deafened him to the sound of the opening door.
Footsteps approached the bed.
“Ah,” said a voice. “I believe you’re almost ready.”
Keldan tried to respond but the paralysis had now completely
taken his voice.
The footsteps moved over to the desk. “Here we are.” The
scrape of the knife blade on the wood as the intruder picked it up was
unmistakable. “Now, let’s have some fun.”
Chapter One
rannon was trying to not kill a man.
It wasn’t easy. The hot sun pricked at his skin and he blinked salt from his
eyes. The air smelled of dust and sweat and the tang of blood. Not a lot. Not
like it once was. But there, nonetheless. This tiny battleground, circled with
stone and law, was enough to remind him of things he’d rather forget.
The court building was one of the older structures in
Alapra, grand with carved masonry and walls painted with historical murals. The
magistrate and witnesses needed a clear outcome and, technically, that meant
death. They huddled around the edges of the arena in their formal robes,
waiting for the moment they could go back into the courtroom and approve the
blood result in ink.
Brannon watched his opponent approach again, nose bloody,
and pitched his voice so the magistrate wouldn’t hear it. “You can still back
out of this, you know, Darnec. Plead guilty.”
The younger son of the Earl of Raldene had been caught
stealing to pay for gambling debts and had chosen trial by combat rather than
magistrate. He had the pride of his family name and the confidence of his youth
egging him on. He almost had the skill to back it up, but not the experience.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” young Raldene sneered.
Brannon sighed. “Yeah, I would. But, hey, it’s your trial.” Over
the younger man’s shoulder, Brannon could see Master Jordell and a small team
of physicians. And an undertaker.
Darnec swung his sword and Brannon quickly moved to block it
with his own. The clang echoed loudly in the arena. Brannon pushed his
opponent’s sword aside with his blade, then twisted it to strike at Darnec’s
shoulder. The young man was too quick, and slipped away before he could be cut.
“You’ve been taught well.” Another swing and block, followed
by a lunge.
“I may not have fought in your war, Bloodhawk, but I know my
way around a blade.” This time Darnec faked a move to the left, then swung for
the jugular.
Brannon dodged, and his own sword snaked across the younger
man’s thigh, sharp and fast. Red licked out from the blade’s bite. Brannon
stepped back. “Imagine if you applied that discipline to the rest of your
life.”
Darnec’s eyes stayed on Brannon. He shifted his weight,
testing his wounded leg. “It’s a bit late for that now,” he said.
Brannon shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Darnec took a slow breath and the point of his sword drifted
slightly downward. Then he took another. Brannon began to hope. The Earl of
Raldene would be embarrassed to have a son sent to the mines for thievery, but
when the sentence was done, he would still have his son.
“Perhaps not.” With those words, Darnec launched himself as
if from a catapult, his sword aimed at Brannon’s heart.
Brannon turned his body and rammed forward his arm, blade
vertical, pushing the thrust aside but it sliced his left arm, just below the
shoulder. Blood and Tears! The boy was quick.
Or, he thought, I’ve gotten slow.
The fight was on in earnest now. Darnec was a demonic fury,
intent on Brannon’s death. His sword thrust and swung again and again. Each
time was intended a killing blow. Each time, it was blocked.
Years of battle experience gave Brannon a kind of detached
calm when fighting. He could see where the blade was intended to go almost
before it began to move. His muscles remembered even when he would rather not. He
saw an opportunity in the younger man’s style and lashed out. His sword spiked
Darnec’s thigh and pulled back. The muscle was damaged, but he had stayed clear
of the artery.
Darnec screamed, but kept fighting.
The opportunity rose again. This time Brannon slashed across
his opponent’s stomach, tearing through leather and cloth. Flesh and muscle
parted, but not enough to expose entrails.
Darnec clutched at the wound with his left hand, his voice
an animalistic sob as it came away covered in blood. He gripped the hilt of his
sword with both hands and swung hard.
Brannon double-handed his own sword, bringing it up to meet
head on. The arena rang with an awful crack and the younger man’s blade
shattered against the Bloodhawk’s.
Darnec’s eyes widened. He stared at the stump of his sword
and then at Brannon, his mouth open and wordless.
“Nilarian steel,” Brannon said, hefting his own blade. “I
got this in that war you mentioned.” He turned to the magistrate. “I believe
that satisfies the requirements of defeat.”
The robed figure shook his head. “Not yet, Champion.”
The sound of boots scuffing the dirt provided a warning. Brannon
turned in time to see Darnec lurch toward him, the remnant of his sword
outstretched.
“Oh, for Blood’s sake!” Brannon grabbed the boy’s wrist with
his left hand and twisted his arm up and away, bringing his own sword up to
skewer Darnec’s shoulder. Darnec screamed and his knees buckled. Brannon let go
of his wrist and pulled his sword free, giving him a nudge so that he fell
forward onto the ground. “Now?”
The magistrate nodded. “Now.”
Brannon turned and strode from the arena. He brushed past
Master Jordell and into the medical annex. The old physician followed him in,
green robes billowing at the shoulders.
“You’re angry.”
Brannon scowled. “I’m fine.”
Master Jordell chuckled, his face becoming even more
wrinkled than usual beneath his mop of white hair. “Then I’d hate to see you
irritated.” He gestured and a servant hurried forward. “Here, let this lad
clean up your sword and you sit down with me a while.”
Blood dripped down the blade and onto Brannon’s fingers. “How
can you expect me to mentor an apprentice physician when I can be called up to
do this at any time?” he asked, handing over the sword.
The medical annex of the courthouse was set up to deal with
the results of trial by combat. It was a requirement that both parties be
assessed here after the fight. The room was divided by a long bench covered in
bandages, needles and thread, scalpels and bone-saws. To either side of this
was a mirror image of bed and hot bath.
Brannon walked across to one of the beds and sat down.
“The reason I expect it,” Master Jordell said, “is because
it is part of what you have dedicated your last six years to.” He hooked a
stool from the center bench and sat facing Brannon. “You’re a physician now, no
matter what else you are, and physicians at your level are required to take an
apprentice.”
Brannon snorted. “You don’t see the hypocrisy in my teaching
anyone healing?”
Master Jordell’s eyes grew flinty. “No, I do not. Your role
as King’s Champion did not stop you seeking physician training. Nor did your
history as a war hero. I don’t see why they should become an impediment to you
now.”
“But . . . ”
“No buts. Part of your training is to mentor others as I
have mentored you. Just do your duty, Brannon, and stop behaving like a child!”
Brannon sat up sharply. “A child?”
Jordell’s face was impassive. “Clearly. You’ve only recently
come to your new career. Thus, this is your second childhood. Some wait for
senility, but you were always an overachiever.”
Brannon shook his head slowly, a chuckle low in his throat. “Now
I see why you had that boy take my sword. Don’t you have something better to do
than pester me? Seeing to the Pride of Raldene, perhaps?”
“He’s in good hands. Get out of that shirt and I’ll stitch
your arm.”
As if summoned by their words, the other physicians entered
the room, Darnec Raldene carried on a stretcher between them. The young man was
pale and sweaty, but conscious.
“He’s losing a lot of blood,” Brannon muttered as they
placed Darnec on the other bed. Two of them pressed wadded bandages over the
leg and shoulder wounds while a young woman with a blond ponytail peered at the
abdominal slash.
Master Jordell pushed him back with surprisingly strong
hands when he tried to get up to take a closer look. “He’ll be fine.” The old
man picked up a pair of scissors and Brannon knew better than to resist as his
shirt was cut away from his still bleeding shoulder.
“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.”
