“Listen here,” he snarled, “you were lucky in the Crucible. But just because you’re a Blade doesn’t make you a true Dhukari, just as wearing this armor doesn’t make you a true warrior. You don’t have the skill!”
Issa cocked her eyebrow. “That’s not what I remember.” She stepped closer and shot him a mocking smile. “I distinctly recall you kneeling in the sand waiting for my blade to take off your empty head.”
“You little—!” Kellas roared and lunged for her.
Issa tensed, ready to deflect his attack, but the huge Blade moved first—snagging the collar of Kellas’ armor and hauling him roughly backward.
“Save it for the training yard,” Byrach barked. “Once she’s armored up, you’ll be free to take out your hostility on each other.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it!” Kellas, once free of Byrach’s grip, gave her a smug smile. “We’ll see how lucky you are when there’s no one to save you from my blade.” He followed Byrach out of the smithy but shot one last sneering glance over his shoulder as he left.
Hykos gripped her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Insecurities always shout the loudest. A confident warrior is silent. Let your blade do the talking.”
Issa nodded. She couldn’t wait to get in the training ring and wipe that smug arrogance off Kellas’ face.
“Let’s get you that armor.” Hykos led her through the smithy. The familiar smells of coal smoke, heating metal, and burning beeswax washed away her irritation at Kellas. She welcomed the oppressive heat of the furnaces, the repetitive whoosh of the pumping bellows. To her, the smithy had been a place where she could forget about the world and focus on pounding steel into its proper shape.
“I believe this belongs to you,” Hykos said with a grin.
Issa’s drew in a sharp breath. “Keeper’s teeth!”
There, on an armorer’s dummy, hung the most beautiful suit of armor Issa had ever seen. Made of black Shalandran steel, it was comprised of segmented plates that had been fitted together with the skill any artisan would envy. Even before she put it on, Issa could see that the articulated plate mail would offer incomparable freedom of movement, yet provide more effective protection than even the Indomitables’ solid steel breastplates.
Hykos helped her put it on—a surprisingly complex task involving nearly twenty buckles, belts, and straps that had to be secured just so—and stepped back. “How does it feel?”
Issa took an experimental step, then picked up her blade and swung. “Amazing! It’s so light and moves so easily.” Every joint, from the shoulders to the knees, had enough flexibility to allow a full range of motion without sacrificing the ability to repel her enemies’ attacks. The spikes on the shoulders, elbows, and knees would serve as offensive weapons in close-quarter combat. The flat design of the breastplate made it suitable for men and women alike, providing ample cushioning and protection without crushing her breasts.
Hykos nodded. “Only the finest Shalandran steel is used for the armor, just as with the blades. It’s strong enough to deflect a crossbow bolt and the thrust of a sword, yet weighs less than Voramian or even Odarian steel. With that armor, you are as unstoppable as death itself.”
Issa marveled at the armor. “It’s truly a work of art!” She knew firsthand just how much effort went into crafting every piece—Killian had insisted she learn the basics of blacksmithing so she’d have the skills necessary to repair her own weapons and armor. Swinging his ten-pound hammer had strengthened her body and lungs. He truly had given her everything she needed to be ready for this moment.
But why? The question had plagued her for the last two years. Killian was Intaji, above her caste, and had no relation to her grandparents. He had no reason to help her. Yet he had, never asking anything in return. When she’d posed the question, he’d answered by saying, “The time will come when you understand. When that day arrives, we will speak of this again.”
Hykos clapped her on the shoulder. “Ready?”
The impact snapped her from her thoughts. “Yes.”
A small smile played on Hykos’ lips. “Then I think it’s time you teach Kellas the lesson he’s been begging for.”
Chapter Eleven
From his perch atop the driver’s bench, Evren tried to overhear what Brother Modestus was saying to Hailen. The Cambionari priest spoke quietly, his rumbling tone too quiet for Evren’s ears to pick up over the clatter of the wooden wagon wheels and the steady clop, clop of the horse’s hooves.
With a frustrated sigh, he settled against the wooden seat back and resigned himself to a long morning of traveling through the rocky, boulder-strewn landscape. At least the myriad of stones, many larger than a Voramian house, provided something to look at, perhaps even take his mind off his worries.
He’d had a fitful night of rest, his sleep plagued by dreams of Hailen being consumed by fire or screaming as Soulhunger devoured his life force. When he’d awoken covered in sweat and breathing hard, the gruff Modestus had already been awake and tending to their small fire. The meager breakfast of trail biscuits and dried cheese hadn’t lifted Evren’s spirits.
What the hell does it even mean, using Serenii magic?
He’d heard Hailen’s stories of Enarium, from the strange glowing Keeps to the crystals lining the walls of Khar’nath to that eerie swirling void of blackness at the uppermost room of the Illumina. The magic of the Serenii was said to be as old as Einan itself, enabling the ancient, immortal beings to shape the world to their wills. The thought of Hailen using power like that sent a shudder down Evren’s spine.
He had no true understanding of how it worked—few on Einan understood the Serenii relics, weapons, language, or constructions—but he had little doubt that using the power came at a price. Just the fact that it relied on Hailen’s blood was bad enough. The Hunter had shown him Soulhunger’s magic, the way the steel devoured blood, the brilliance of the gemstone as it fed. What if the Serenii magic consumed Hailen? Could wielding that power ultimately kill him?
He doubted Hailen knew, and couldn’t be certain if the Cambionari knew either. No one had wielded this magic on Einan for thousands of years, it was said. His years spent as an apprentice Lectern in the Master’s Temple had exposed him to some of the oldest histories and written records in existence, and he’d heard of none that contained more than a few threads of information, the barest hints and allusions, on the Serenii power.
The Hunter’s time in Enarium made him the closest thing to an expert. Even Graeme and the information brokers in the Hidden Circle knew less than what the Hunter had learned during his brief contact with the Serenii being known as Kharna. If he knew that Hailen was learning to wield the power of that ancient race, would he let the boy continue his education with the Cambionari?
Right now, the Hunter wasn’t here, so it fell to Evren to protect Hailen. He’d talked Brother Modestus into bringing Hailen along to Shalandra, in part so he could keep an eye on Hailen but also so he’d have company on this journey into the unknown.
Brother Modestus would keep Hailen safe in the House of Need in Shalandra so Evren could be free to focus on his task. When it came time to flee the city with the stolen relic, Hailen would return with him. Evren would be able to visit Hailen during his stay in Shalandra—an occasional relief for the inevitable loneliness.
What happened to me? Evren shook his head. When did I go soft?
Life on the streets of Vothmot had tested his limits, forced him to make hard choices and take actions he’d regretted. He’d preferred to be alone; no one to use against him, no weakness for enemies to exploit. Yet over the last three years, Evren had grown accustomed to their odd little family. The Hunter, Kiara, Hailen, and even Graeme—in the role of the quirky uncle—had come to replace those he’d left in Vothmot long ago.
He’d accepted the challenge of stealing the Blade of Hallar so he could prove his worth to the Hunter and Kiara. Having Hailen on hand made him feel a little less alone on what could prove a truly ch
allenging endeavor.
A smack on his shoulder snapped Evren from his thoughts.
“Seven!” called Hailen.
Evren shot a glance over his shoulder. Hailen, who appeared to either have finished his lesson or grown bored of Brother Modestus, had climbed up onto one of the grain sacks and now sat behind Evren like a cat perched on a comfortable sofa.
“You sure about that?” Evren asked.
A grin split Hailen’s broad, flat-nosed face as he nodded. “Seven, definitely.”
“You really sure?” Evren placed extra emphasis on the word. “You know what happens if you’re wrong.”
“Seven, seven, seven!” Hailen bobbed up and down eagerly.
Evren’s face grew serious. “Seven it is, then.” After a moment, he smiled and shook his head. “Damn, you just got lucky!”
“Not lucky,” Hailen insisted. “I know you, Evren.”
He pointed to the knife in Evren’s belt. “One.” His finger indicated Evren’s right forearm, left forearm, and both boots. “Two, three, four five.” After a pensive pause, he tapped the wooden seat behind Evren’s lower back. “Six, for sure. I know you’ve got seven, but I can’t decide if it’s—”
With a flick of his right wrist, Evren produced two daggers from his forearm sheaths. “Close enough.” He slipped the throwing knife back into its sheath and handed the straight, double-edged stabbing blade to Hailen. “You win.”
Hailen took the blade with a triumphant expression and held it up. “I’m getting better at this.” He scrambled up onto the seat beside Evren, while Brother Modestus settled into a relaxed position in the back of the wagon.
“Or I’m getting predictable.” Evren grinned. “I’d better change things up for next time, or else I might run out of knives.”
The game was a favorite of Hailen’s. Perhaps his enjoyment stemmed from the fact that the Hunter and Kiara strenuously objected to the prize. They’d made it clear that they’d rather the boy didn’t carry bladed weapons, not until Hailen had some training. Both the Hunter and Kiara had been too busy for Hailen, so Evren had taken to teaching the boy what he knew. Mostly bareknuckle boxing and the sort of dirty knife-fighting tricks common in street brawls, but also a few of the sword skills pounded into Evren over the last few years of training with the Hunter and Kiara. Hailen was far from holding his own in a fight, but at least he wasn’t the same helpless, terrified young boy he’d been when Evren first met him.
The boy had changed a great deal since that first day on the trail to Vothmot. Then, he’d been losing his mind to the Irrsinnon, the madness inherited from his Serenii ancestors. The Hunter had found a cure for Hailen in Enarium, freeing him from the curse’s grip. It had also wiped away the extreme innocence and naiveté that had marked Hailen as Melechha. Now, Hailen could almost pass for a “normal” eleven year old—all except for those strange violet eyes and the fact that his blood could be used to wield world-shaping magic.
“How does it work?” he asked Hailen. “How does your blood, or any blood for that matter, activate the magic?”
“I don’t know!” Hailen threw up his hands, temper flaring. “Father Reverentus and the other Cambionari are convinced it works so they’re teaching me a lot of what they call ‘magic words’ that should help. But it’s so much to remember, and I never get to have any fun. Ever!” He slapped a hand against the wooden bench in frustration.
“You’re very possibly the most important person alive on Einan right now,” Evren told him. “I know that’s a big burden, but imagine what you could do once you learn how to use the Serenii magic properly.”
“Yeah, the Hunter says the same thing all the time.” Hailen sat back, arms folded across his chest. “It’s like everyone’s expecting me to do something amazing just because I happen to have some weird, old blood.”
“Don’t you want to learn to do magic?” Evren’s eyes widened. “If I could do what you can—”
“I want to learn,” Hailen said, his tone bordering on plaintive, “but I’m sick of being locked up all day in that stuffy temple. I want to run around and be free like you.”
Hailen’s words surprised Evren. Were their roles reversed, Evren was certain he’d throw himself into learning magic with the same intensity he’d dedicated himself to his training with the Hunter. For years, he’d only had his skill, wits, and strength to keep him alive. A hard life on the streets had taught him to value every tool and weapon at his disposal.
Yet Hailen had a point. The boy had spent the first six years of his life cooped up in the House of Need in Malandria. During his travels with the Hunter, he’d suffered more than Evren could imagine. Then, upon his return to Voramis three years earlier, his time had been divided between the Hunter’s safe houses and the Beggar Temple with Father Reverentus. He hadn’t had anything close to a happy childhood.
“You’ve a responsibility, boy,” Brother Modestus’ gravelly voice echoed from the back of the wagon.
Evren shot a glance over his shoulder at the Cambionari.
Modestus’ eyes fixed firmly on Hailen. “You’ve the power to change the world, make it better. That’s a gift and a burden.” He sat up straighter and drew his sword from the cloth-wrapped bundle he carried everywhere he went. “My knowledge and training makes it my duty to safeguard the world from demons. I don’t know what your gift is intended for, but there’s no doubt about it, you’ve a responsibility to protect those who need you.”
Evren had heard those words, or something similar, from the Hunter. The assassin was the last of the Bucelarii, half-human and half-demon. He had accepted the burden of protecting Einan by ridding it of his demonic Abiarazi ancestors. That responsibility had taken him to Praamis, which explained why Evren found himself traveling to Shalandra in the Hunter’s place.
Hailen’s expression had grown solemn, his shoulders slumped. “But it’s so much!” he whispered, almost a whimper, and tears glimmered in his eyes. “So much that could go wrong if I mess up.”
“That’s why you learn,” Brother Modestus replied. A hint of compassion slipped into his usual gruff tone. “A swordsman practices so he doesn’t mess up the next time he fights an enemy. Knowledge is power, and power keeps you and those you love alive.”
The taciturn Modestus’ sudden talkativeness shocked Evren. The Cambionari had spoken more words in the last minute than he had the entire previous day.
“Drop that sword, old man, and get yer hands up high!” A voice called from the boulders on the side of the road. “You, boy, pull those horses to a stop.”
Evren whipped toward the sound and found himself staring down the length of a crossbow bolt. The steel tip pointed at his face, and though its owner—a lean, rangy man clad in rust-red clothing, with a face pitted and scored by pockmarks—stood more than thirty paces away, Evren doubted the shot would miss him. If it did, it could strike Hailen. He’d never take that risk.
Brother Modestus climbed to his feet in the back of the wagon. “We’ve little of value to steal. Just grain to sell in Shalandra, but nary a copper bit between us.”
“That sword’s mighty fine,” said the man, evidently the leader. Greed sparkled in his hungry eyes. “Hand it over and half the grain, and we’ll let you go.”
The word “we” set Evren’s heart hammering. He scanned the boulders for any more enemies. Red cloaks the same color as the sandstone concealed them, but not as well as they imagined. Evren counted four, two with crossbows, but there could be more.
“The grain is yours.” Brother Modestus waved at the sacks piled on the back of the wagon. “But not the sword.”
The bandit leader’s eyes narrowed. “You stupid or something?” He swung his crossbow around to point at Brother Modestus’ chest. “You’ve one sword, old man, and we’ve more than a dozen blades between us.”
“Which is why I’m happy to part with the grain.” Modestus’ face could have been carved from stone for all the fear he showed. “The sword’s priceless.”
&nb
sp; “Even more reason for us to take it!” the bandit snapped, and the second crossbow pointed at Modestus. “Hand it over now, and the grain with it, and consider yerselves lucky we let you live, you crazy old bastard.”
“No.” Modestus shook his head.
The bandit leader’s expression grew confused, as if he couldn’t understand why his threats had proven ineffective. “Don’t mess with us! We’ve already had our big score stolen from us. You don’t give us what we want, we’ll leave yer body for the crows and dune jackals.”
Brother Modestus said nothing but made no move to hand over the sword.
“Drop him!” shouted the bandit leader.
The crossbow strings twanged in unison and two steel-tipped bolts flew through the air, straight toward Brother Modestus’ head.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of clashing steel set Issa’s heart pounding, a thrill of excitement coursing through her. She’d spent so many years training and practicing in the secret of Killian’s forge—to be in the company of warriors, the most renowned in Shalandra, set her pulse racing.
The heat of the smithy faded behind her as she stepped out into the broad training yard. The sun had just begun to peek its brilliant face over the horizon, and a welcome chill hung in the dawn air. Solid walls of golden stone surrounded the yard, like sentinels bearing witness to the prowess of the newest Keeper’s Blades.
In the middle of the cleared space, two armored figures struck at each other with massive two-handed swords. Even with his helmet on, Issa instantly recognized the swaggering arrogance of Kellas. She guessed the second, smaller figure being battered around the training ground was Etai.
The Mahjuri girl had wielded an estoc in the Crucible, and she looked ill at ease with her huge flammard. It weighed twice as much as her shorter, lighter sword, the blade alone nearly her height. She deflected rather than blocked Kellas’ blows, but her smaller frame couldn’t absorb the punishment from the Dhukari boy’s blade. Within seconds, Etai’s sword lay in the dust, Kellas’ tip at her throat.
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