The Right Of Blood - Chapter Three

THE RIGHT OF BLOOD

TIRAMOUR CYCLE VOLUME ONE

NOVEL BY

JOSHUA KANE



3

Bard Informants: Excepted from the secrecy laws of the Magical World due to both their ability to keep secrets and in many cases their status as social out-casts within their own society.  Often chosen due to an as yet unexplained resonance.  Bard informants are used by the Bright Shields, and Guardians alike.          



Cale Donovan shifted nervously in the narrow mouth of an alley in the city of Tenant, Washington.  The chill spring morning of the sixteenth of May, had given way to a rather warm afternoon; and sweat beaded on his tanned brow.  Every few moments he glanced at his watch.  He’d sent the message, in the usual manner less than five minutes previously, but the nature of the situation seemed to cause time to drag.  How long it would really take them to respond, he didn’t know.  This was not the type of situation he normally reported.

         At just two months short of his twenty-eighth birthday, Cale was a tall man, with blond hair, green eyes, and a rather square face.  His jaw line was rather blunted, the edges crisp, but squared off.  Of Irish descent, his accent had endeared him to a few people in his life, but never enough to make up for his being an orphan and social out-cast.  While he had worked hard to become a teacher, he had few friends among the faculty at the High School where he taught, and was almost never asked around for drinks.  While people loved his accent, and talked with him frequently, they always felt there was something odd about him, but were never quite able to tell what it was; and so they just simply limited the amount of time they spent with him.

      Even Cale’s students spent as little time with him as possible.  If it wasn’t for the fact that he was one of only three teachers to teach Sophomore English, he would probably have very few students indeed.  Cale never let the bother this all caused him to show upon his face at work.  Of course, he never let anyone see his wrists either.

         Damn, Cale thought.  Where are they?

         There was a terrible thing unfolding in the house directly across the alley, Cale knew it.  Yet, he could do nothing more than send the information along.  That was his task, after all; to pass information.

         Three years previously, on a cold winter night in 2006, Cale was shocked to have a knock on his front door, as few other than the delivery man ever came by.  His shock at having a visitor had been quickly replaced by the sight of the visitor himself.  The man on his step had been wearing long black robes, like the kind one saw in old fantasy movies only crossed with what looked almost like a business suit.  He’d had short auburn hair, cerulean eyes, and a face like a Greek statue.  The scene was made even odder by a weird sensation deep in Cale’s stomach.  A sort of, well not familiarity, but something like recognition.  As if Cale knew what this person was, even if he didn’t know who he was.  More surprisingly to Cale, the impression did not seem to come from the stranger’s attire, but seemed to be a wholly internal assertion.

         “Cale Donovan,” the man said, and there hadn’t been a note of question in the words.  “I’m Tristan Evans.  We need to talk, may I come in?”

         Cale never knew why he’d done it, but he’d let the stranger in.  It had been, at the time, the oddest conversation of his life.  A self-proclaimed wizard, who had even demonstrated his magical power by melting and restoring all of pots and pans in the kitchen, Tristan had informed him that witches and wizards lived in secret all around the world, and that sometimes they needed to rely upon Bards (“Non-magic peoples,” Tristan explained) for information when odd, unexplainable things happened in the non-magic world.  Things that could only have to do with real magic.

         Tristan explained how most informants were chosen, explaining that there seemed to be an odd resonance, the ability for the Bard in question to—with relative ease—accept that magic existed, and to even see the more subtle signs that were supposed to be invisible to every Bard.  This resonance, made them perfectly suited for positions as informants, even if no wizard had ever been able to understand it’s cause.

         After an hour and a half of conversation, during which he’d gotten little real information about these witches and wizards living in secret, Cale had found himself agreeing to take on a position as an informant, in addition to his job as a High School English teacher.  He’d been told time and again that it needed not interfere with his job, only rather that he should just keep his eyes and ears open.

         Now, for three years he’d been doing just that, sending messages and information as things came up.  This incident, however, was of a type he had only had to deal with once before.  That previous experience made him all the more nervous; and dragged time ever slower.  He glanced at his watch again: Only thirty more seconds had passed.  “Damn,” said Cale aloud.

         An hour ago, Cale had been out for a walk.  As he’d moved down the main street, he’d felt an odd pulling in his gut that he associated with coming near a person of magical capability.  It didn’t take him overlong to find the person.  The witch walked right past him; turning to stare momentarily.  There was something disturbing in her eyes, and he noticed that after she turned away, she seemed to pick up her pace immensely.

         Following her at a safe distance, he’d learned that the resonance could only be felt within twenty feet or so, he tracked her back to the house across the street.  He’d had to be exceedingly cautious as he followed her, though; she was extremely careful, always looking back at what she must have felt were unexpected moments.

      The house itself was little more than a shack.  Moving quickly to get a good look around the property, he’d found a back window that was mostly painted over, but the few small patches where he could see through gave him all the information he needed.  Tied to a bed, a young man, no older than nineteen lay naked and battered.  He’d seemed to have been highly abused, and Cale had no idea how long the victim had been there.  He couldn’t even tell if the young man was a wizard or not.  What he could tell, was that there was a barrier of magic around the place, some sort of protective field.  He prayed that it would shield the resonance from the witch he’d tracked.

Knowing she would be nervous, potentially deadly to the youth trapped in the building, Cale had immediately sent his message to the Bright Shields, and had crossed into the alley to wait.

      Finally, after what had seemed an interminable amount of waiting, he heard the sound of portals opening behind him.  Turning, Cale watched as a dozen men and women in both black robes and green exited three tall ruptures in reality.  The portals themselves showed a large sloping lawn, with other people going into other portals.  The images presented by the open holes in reality, seemed to shimmer and ripple, as if looking through the water of a pool.

      Cale looked over the newcomers briefly.  Seven in the green robes of the Guardians (Tristan had explained that the Guardians were the normal constabulary of the magical world), and five in the black of the Bright Shields (something rather like a cross between the FBI and the CIA, he’d been told) including, Cale saw, Tristan himself.

      Tristan approached Cale, even as the portals winked out of existence.  “You have not seen her leave?”

      The teacher shook his head.  “No,” said Cale.  “No one’s left the house that I have seen since, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t leave through a portal from the inside.”

      Tristan nodded.  Turning to the accompanying witches and wizards, he began issuing orders.  Less than a minute later, the group was moving forward, surrounding the house across the street; leaving Cale to wait nervously in the alley.



Tristan rushed across the street, heading directly for the back of the house.  Cars passed, and pedestrians moved along.  There were a few looks, as if some couldn’t believe the sight of a dozen grown men and women in odd black or green robes; but in every case, the looks turned to grudging acceptance.  They must be off to some party, was the likely thought in most of the passersby’s minds.

         Tristan would have smiled, had the situation been less urgent.  Bards had a habit of explaining away what they didn’t understand.  That is, if they didn’t destroy it out of fear first.  Every day, witches and wizards moved about them, and in most cases the small amounts of magic that were unavoidable, even in public, seemed to go unnoticed; or were, at least, explained away.

         A witch using magic from across a street to nudge a person out of the path of a falling piano, or beam, for example, was often attributed to a miracle.  A wizard putting out the dangerous fire in a auto-accident, or healing life threatening wounds before even first responders could arrive on the scene: All most often attributed to miracles.  Perhaps they were.  Often situations like that were improbable to say the least; a witch or wizard being in the right place at the right time.

         Reaching the back of the house, Tristan found the painted over window.  Looking carefully though the small patches void of paint, he saw to his relief that the young man was still tied to the bed, and watched his chest rise and fall shallowly.  The witch involved must have decided that she was in no danger from the odd resonance she’d surely felt with Cale, else she’d have already either killed the boy or moved him.

         A moment’s inspection of the magical barrier told Tristan that it’s purpose had been to prevent portals from opening directly into or out of the house; but, thankfully, the witch was either inept or overconfident as it was not designed to detect magic.

         Turning to the left, Tristan quickly located the back door; knowing his squad had been given orders to breach in just over two minutes.  A quick, quiet spell later and the mundane, Bard lock clicked open.  Inept, Tristan thought.  The witch hadn’t even magically sealed the doors.  Pushing the door quietly open, on surprisingly well oiled hinges, Tristan crept inside.

         He found himself in a mud room.  There was a door in front of him that led into a hall.  Turning to his right, he move down the hall quietly, carefully.  The witch didn’t seem to be in sight.  Tristan traversed the distance to the door, behind which would be the room with the painted window, in just seconds.  Finding it ajar, he pushed slowly open.

         The room beyond was bare of furnishings other than the bed to which the naked youth was bound.  Other than the bed and the young man, the room was totally empty, not even the witch waited to attack Tristan.  The bed was little more than a metal frame with a thin, lumpy mattress; there was no pillow or blankets.  The youth was bound spread-eagle, and gagged with what looked like his own sock.  There were numerous abrasions on his chest, arms, legs and abdomen, mixed with large and small yellow, black and blue blotches where he’d bruised from apparent beatings; his right eye was swollen shut entirely, and his left eye was wide with fear.  The youth made no sound however.  Probably afraid of what will be done to him if he does, thought Tristan.

         Moving forward quickly, Tristan pulled the sock from the youth’s mouth, and pointed his wand at the bindings.  “Nonligo,” he muttered; the ropes holding the victim’s wrist fell away.  A second spell aimed at his ankles freed the young man entirely.  He did not seem remotely phased by the use of magic.

         The sudden freedom from the gag and restraints seemed to stir something in the youth, and he opened his mouth to speak.  Putting a finger to his lips, Tristan silenced him.  “I’m here to help.  Where’s the one that did this to you?” whispered Tristan.

         “L-living room.”  The young man’s whisper was rough and cracked, he seemed to have gone without water for at least a day.  “She always spends the afternoons there.”

         Nodding, Tristan looked his watch.  Less than thirty second until his squad breached the house.  He had to act quickly to ensure the safety of the victim.  “Stay here, I’ll be back shortly for you.”

         The youth nodded.

         Moving through the door, Tristan raised his wand, muttering, “Defendo portium.”  Behind him, the air in the now fully open door shimmered.  He advanced down the hall, counting the time down in his head.

         Twenty seconds….

         He reached a corner in the hall.  To his left, the door opened into the mud room; ahead of him there was an arch into the kitchen.  The corner turned to his right.  Moving around it, he made his way down the second hallway.

         Fifteen seconds….

         Coming up to the end, he saw the living room open before him.  It was nearly as devoid of furniture as the room in which the youth had been imprisoned.

         Ten seconds…

         There were only two chairs, a small table with an old oil lamp on it, and very worn sofa.  One of the chairs sat with it’s back to the hall, the witch was sitting in it.  She didn’t seem to hear Tristan’s approach.

         Five seconds….

         Tristan cautiously moved to the back of the chair.  The witch remained still.  Was she waiting for him to move in front before making a move, or was she totally unaware of him?  Deaf perhaps?

         Tristan rounded the chair and got his look at the witch just as the front door and windows burst open, his squad pouring in amongst shouts of: “Drop your wands and surrender!”

         Staring down into the chair, Tristan held up his hand, calling the squad to a halt.  Blood had poured profusely from a gash in the witches neck.  There was a look of total surprise on her face, and her wand lay on the floor beneath her right hand, where it had fallen from her lifeless fingers.



Three hours later, Tristan sat alone in his office writing his report.  The room was of medium size, with airy fogged glass walls.  Mist Glass, from which they were made was one of several magical achievements that were, by some, considered as proof of the superiority of the Magical over the Non-magical.  One side—always the side facing inward—was touch sensitive.  When touched, the glass could become anywhere from totally opaque to utterly transparent, depending on the empathic input from the person touching it.  It was incredibly difficult to break by non-magical means; and was formed entirely with magic from very little sand.  The whole of Tristan’s office had taken probably no more that twenty pounds of sand.  The entire building, the Bright Shield National Headquarters, would have taken no more than a ton.

         The rest of the office was appointed with light wooden bookshelves, an oak desk with matching chairs in a rather contemporary Bard-esque style, and some potted plants; including three lotuses resting in a shallow, water filled basin, near the back of the office, where the Mist Glass was currently clear—the last rays of the setting westward bound sun painting the white blossoms a violent crimson-orange.  A large Oriental Rug covered much of the floor, and a small sofa rested opposite the desk, behind the guest chairs.  Clearly etched on the currently clear glass door leading into the office from the reception and staging area beyond, were the words:

Tristan Evans

Chief of BSNH Security

&

Head of Abduction Taskforce

         As the sun dropped lower, three small, fragile looking crystal lattices began to emit a clean, white light; countering the growing darkness.  Tristan’s pen scratched away at the paper before him, a cup of tea long since cold and forgotten nearby.  Minutes ticked past as he worked, rather absorbed; pausing only long enough to glance vacantly at one of the bookshelves, clearly deciding what phrase or word to use in his report.

         It was during one of these moments, when a knock sounded on the door, clear and ringing—the sound of a knuckle on thick glass.  The sound was followed a second later by the click of the latch and the creak of hinges that the building’s maintenance staff had not yet oiled, despite the volume of requests Tristan’s secretary had put in.

         Looking toward the door, Tristan watched silently as Director Samuel Metcalf—National Director of the Bright Shields—stepped in.  The Director was of average height, but his black robes did not quite conceal the fact that he was slightly overweight.  He was balding, what was left of his once black hair was now mostly steel grey.  He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and what seemed to be a permanent scowl; which in truth was a slight paralysis of the left side of his face, pulling the muscles down on that side.  He had a distinct limp in his left leg.  Dark green eyes looked out from behind his glasses.

         “What can I do for you, Director?” asked Tristan mildly.

         “A small number of things, actually,” said Metcalf as he limped across the office; his voice was a strong baritone, with no hint of his advancing age.  He waved a hand at one of the chairs opposite Tristan.  “May I?”

         “Of course, Director.”

         Metcalf seated himself with some seeming difficulty; his leg bending stiffly.  Metcalf looked over the papers on the desk in front of him, noting what Tristan had been working on as he’d entered.

         “Your report on today’s rescue, and the homicide of the abductor?”

         Tristan nodded.  “Yes.”

         “Identified him yet?”

         Tristan nodded again.  “Yes, Duncan Gibb, 19.  Wizard.  Lives with his Aunt, he’s been helping her raise kids after his Uncle died, along with his own parents in an accident four years back.”

         “Where’s the victim now?”

         Moving the paperwork to the side, Tristan replied: “He was taken to Aleri Hospital.  He’s in the Critical Watch Unit.”

         “His injuries were that severe?”

         “Oh yes.  He’d only been there a few days…not really long enough for anyone to report him missing, since it was over the weekend; and he often spent his weekends away from home, it appears.”  He paused.  “Still, whoever the witch was, and whoever else was involved, they were quite cruel to him.  He suffered massive internal injury, in addition to the lacerations, and the bruising.  All in addition to severe mental and emotional trauma, brought on by his situation.  The staff tell me that there is evidence of sexual torture, as well.” 

         “Good Lord!”

         Tristan nodded, his features grave. “They are not sure what his mental and emotional state will be, but they expect he will make a complete physical recovery.”  He looked at the paperwork for a moment, then continued: “His statements, what little coherency we’ve had from him, indicated that they were interrogating him.  They wanted information about something.”

         “There was definitely more than one perpetrator then?”

         “Oh yes, we can be certain of that.  While I doubt the young man ever saw more than just the witch, there was no way he could have killed her…his bonds were magical and there was no other wand found in the house.  Further, inspection of the body, and the wand show that it was not suicide.  There simply had to be someone else involved.”

         Metcalf nodded thoughtfully.  “How did this other party get out?  Your staff, and your informant, have all sworn they did not witness anyone else leave.”

         Tristan took a drink of his cold tea and grimaced at the bitterness that had crept into it as it had cooled.  Setting the cup back down, he said: “As to that, it may have been that the other perpetrator, our murder, was exempted from the portal shield that was on the shack.  Or he left through the back door before my men were in place.  It was not magically locked.”

         “But,” said the Director, “why leave the victim alive?”

         “Two possibilities, of course.  Either he did not expect anyone to show up, and simply left the young man to die of starvation and dehydration after he or she had killed their partner; or, they were startled, interrupted by us before they could finish him too.”

         Metcalf nodded.  “Any idea what information they wanted out of the victim?”

         “Not much.  He works for one of our research labs up in Bellevue.  They have a number of projects going that he’s connected with, including research into new defensive spells.”

         Metcalf frowned for a second, as if the information meant something to him, but didn’t give voice to what he thought he knew.  Instead, he changed the subject.  “You say his parents are dead…along with his uncle.”

         Tristan’s stomach fell slightly, but he nodded.

         “It’s been little over ten years since your parent’s murder.  I am sorry we never caught the killer.”

         For a moment, Tristan flashed back to seeing his mother’s lifeless body; to holding his father’s bleeding corpse; hearing his father’s last words of praise and love.  He remembered rushing to his grandmothers, fearing for her life as well.  Yet, that was all he remembered.  He’d been told they found him unconscious in the workshop; that he must have been hit by some stunning spell, but that his grandmother was alive and well; though the attackers had fled.  When he’d given his statements, he’d told of coming home to find his mother dead and his father dying; massive damage had been done to their house.  Everyone told him not to blame himself for not getting home in time to see the killer.  But, he did; every day.

         Shifting in his seat and clearing his throat, Tristan said, “He left very little evidence.  My father didn’t have time to identify him; assuming he even knew who the killer was.  It didn’t help that I was hit by hex before I could see who was attacking my grandmother, either.”

         Metcalf nodded.  “I have noticed that while the official investigation is on hold, you’ve continued to investigate in your own time.  Any new leads?”

         “No, Director.  None.”

         “A shame.”

         “You didn’t come here for an idle chat about my parents’ murder investigation; and you could have waited until morning for my official report.  Something else is on your mind, Director.”

         Metcalf smiled slightly.  It was a wolfish smile that gave an impression of wildness to the older wizard.  “I do indeed.”  A moment’s pause, then, “As you know, Deputy Director Nagami is retiring.”

         “Yes, my father-in-law did inform my wife and I of his intent to ‘Settle down, before the ground swallows me whole,’ as he put it.”

         Metcalf nodded.  “As you know, it is the right of an outgoing Director or Deputy Director, whether national or local, to put forth the name of a possible successor.  It is then up to the Board of Successions to determine if the candidate is acceptable, or if they feel there is a better candidate—in which case there is a general election.”

         Tristan looked at the lotus plants in the basin, now glowing an ethereal white in the light of the three, glowing, Sea Glass lattices; the sun nothing more than a faint orange smudge back-lighting the distant hills.  “My father-in-law nominated me, I assume, or else you would not be telling me this.”

         “Indeed,” said Metcalf.  “But, further, the Board of Successions has decided that they do not have a better candidate.  There will be no election.  You are to be appointed as Nation Deputy Director of the Bright Shields.”

         Tristan tried not to swallow his tongue.  He’d only been with the Shields for ten years and a month.  While it was true he’d moved up the ranks quickly, becoming head of the main campus’s security two years previously; he’d never expected such a promotion.  Even with his father-in-law being the Deputy Director.  Few had shown him favoritism; and he’d quashed the attempts of those that had tried.  He had moved up on his own skill; but was he ready for this?

         Tristan forced his momentary self-doubt away.  He knew that Kaito Nagami was not a man to play favorites.  The man was not frivolous with praise.  It had taken a full year of dating the man’s daughter to get on the man’s good side.  If Kaito thought Tristan was ready, then he’d just have to face the challenge and come out the other end.

         There was, however, one thing that he knew would become problematic.  “This is going to make people feel slighted.  There are those that have been here much longer than me.”

         “True,” Metcalf said, his tone oddly whimsical.  “Only some, I think.  Most here know that your father-in-law does not play favorites.  Many trust him, and so they will trust his choice.  Besides, those that complain should be reminded that ultimately the Board of Successions chose you; and decided not to put forth a candidate of their own for election.”

         Tristan nodded.

         “I know you well enough to know you’ve already had your moment of self-doubt—brief moments like that have plagued you since your parents’ deaths.  But, I know that they always passed quickly.  You will easily prove to any naysayers that your father-in-law’s choice was not frivolous, nor unworthy.”  He paused.  “Now, it will be in the evening paper, you should go home and tell Jessica before she reads it.  News like this should come straight from her husband, don’t you think?”