Trial of Stone

by Andy Peloquin

  “As for you,” Killian said with a smile, “you can pass for a Shalandran just fine. You’re almost the right color to blend in, and your accent is similar enough to ours that few will pay it much heed. A bit of kohl and crushed malachite around your eyes will have you looking like one of us in no time. With the right headband, you’ll be free to move around the streets and do whatever you need to do.”

  Evren hesitated. Throughout the conversation with Killian, Evren had watched the Mumblers moving through the smithy. He knew the signs of young men being exploited and defiled: physical bruises and injuries, quiet and withdrawn natures, indications of fear directed toward their abuser, anxiety, an instinctive submissive nature, and deep, dark shadows in the eyes that spoke of inner torment. The boys showed none of those signs—they appeared like any other children serving in a street gang or thieving crew. Hard-eyed and wary, perhaps even quick to violence like Snarth, yet nothing indicated anything inappropriate about their affiliation with Killian.

  Killian might be on the wrong side of the law, but he didn’t appear to be an evil, ruthless, or self-serving man. That alone made him someone Evren might be able to work with.

  He’d come to Shalandra for the purpose of stealing the Blade of Hallar, and now this man was offering him help—a bargain that Killian likely got the better end of, certainly, but nothing in life came free. Evren could play servant for a few days, even weeks, if it got him in a position to steal the Im’tasi weapon and get it back to the Hunter.

  Better, it gave him somewhere safe to stash Hailen until he figured out what to do with him. He wasn’t convinced the Cambionari in Shalandra were the best choice—the Hunter trusted Father Reverentus well enough with Hailen’s secret, but Evren didn’t know what manner of men called the House of Need in this city home. He wouldn’t entrust Hailen to their care until he was certain of them.

  As long as Hailen can play the part convincingly, of course. He’d have to give the boy a few pointers on being a more convincing liar. But if Hailen could play “mute servant”, they had a real shot of making this work.

  For now, Killian’s offer was his best choice. With a nod, he thrust out his hand. “Deal.”

  Killian grinned and shook. “From the moment we met five minutes ago, I told myself, ‘This is a smart one’. Glad to see you proved me right.”

  Evren stifled a derisive snort. “Who’s this man we’ll be serving?” he asked. “The one who’ll get me close enough to steal the sword.”

  Killian smiled. “Arch-Guardian Suroth, high priest of the Secret Keepers.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Everything ached.

  Ow. The thought slammed into Issa’s mind as a persistent throbbing in her skull dragged her back to consciousness. Even drawing breath hurt—she’d taken a pounding blow to the breastbone that sent spikes of pain radiating through her entire chest.

  Yet, as her eyes opened and she caught sight of the stern face hovering above her, she knew she would have no rest.

  “On your feet,” Tannard growled. “Your duties await.”

  Duties? Issa’s brow furrowed in confusion, her sluggish mind trying to make sense of the Invictus’ words. She hadn’t expected anything to take her away from her usual exhausting routine of training and lessons.

  She clenched her jaw against the pain as she rolled over onto her stomach. Sand filled her mouth, grinding to grit between her teeth. It was a minor irritation amidst an overwhelming barrage of the pain racing through her back, neck, shoulders, arms, and legs. As she came to her feet, the pounding in her head intensified and the world spun wildly around her. Only sheer effort of will kept her upright.

  “Get your armor and weapons and meet me at the Gate of Tombs in five minutes,” Tannard rumbled. “If you’re late, you’ll get no dinner.” The Invictus’ face was as hard as shalanite as he spun on his heel and stalked toward the front gate.

  Issa’s heart sank. No way I can limp back to my room, gear up, and get to the front gate in five minutes. The buckles on her armor alone would take her the better part of ten.

  Then she caught sight of Hykos slinking through the halls of the Citadel toward her. The Archateros kept an eye on Tannard’s retreating back and, when the Invictus had disappeared through the arched doorway, he slipped toward her. She wanted to cry out in relief and gratitude as she spotted her armor and flammard in his arms.

  “I thought you’d need this.” Hykos grinned and held out her gear. He stood in full plate armor, two-handed sword in its sheath on his back. “Figured you could use a hand after that beating.”

  Issa grimaced. “That bad, huh?” For the first time, she noticed the training field was empty, the Indomitables gone. “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Half an hour.” Hykos’ face tightened.

  “And my men?” she asked. “How bad did they get hammered?”

  Hykos shook his head. “They won’t be walking for a few days. They don’t have the Keeper’s blessing like we do.”

  “The Keeper’s blessing?” Issa asked as she struggled to pull on her armor. The movements sent pain racing through her battered body.

  “One of the marks of his favor,” Hykos explained, tapping his forehead, where he bore the circular scar identical to hers. “What could be mortal wounds for most people might not kill us in the end.”

  Issa’s eyebrows shot up. “The Long Keeper makes us immortal?”

  Hykos laughed. “Do you feel immortal right now?”

  “Not even a little.” Issa shook her head.

  “Good, because you’re not.” Hykos’ expression sobered. “Too many prototopoi have died because they waded into a fight they had no hope of winning. We heal faster than the average person. A wound that might take a week for most to recover from will have us down for five days. A shattered bone will take six weeks to heal compared to eight for any normal person. The Long Keeper will claim us one day, but until then, he expects us to serve him efficiently. Not much you can do to serve from a bed.”

  Issa’s mind raced as she dissected his words. She always had considered herself fortunate—not only had she avoided most of the injuries common to youths running around the Cultivator’s Tier streets, but on the occasions that she had been injured, she’d recovered far faster than others. Even the bruises sustained from her first beating in the training grounds had only pained her for a day or two.

  “Damn!” she breathed. “That’s going to come in handy next time Tannard decides I’ve got to face the entire cohort of Indomitables alone.”

  “Hey, from what I saw, you did pretty damned good.” Hykos clapped her on the shoulder. “Hell, if it wasn’t for Kellas and that last line, you might actually have broken through. And that runner of yours came damned close to the pennant. Next time, if Tannard doesn’t up the stakes, you’ve got a good chance of winning.”

  “So of course he’s going to make it even harder,” Issa growled. “He’s determined to make my life impossible!”

  Hykos’ eyes slid away from hers. “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “Why?” Issa’s voice rose to an angry shout. “What did I ever do to earn his ire?”

  “Nothing.” Hykos shook his head. “Way I heard it, the Invictus didn’t even know you were alive until you fought in the Crucible.”

  “So why in the bloody hell is he getting off tormenting me?” Fury bubbled up from within Issa’s chest. “Why does he want me to fail?”

  “I don’t know,” Hykos said. “But I do know that you’ve got a choice to make.”

  “A choice?” Issa cocked her head.

  Hykos smiled. “Let him win, or fight to prove that you deserve your place here as much as any of us.” He winked at her. “And, from what I’ve learned of you, I’m pretty damned certain which you’ll choose.”

  Issa tried to return his smile—she liked hearing he had confidence in her—but couldn't. Right now, with the weight of her armor and sword adding to the pain throbbing through every fiber of her being, she wanted to give Tannar
d the satisfaction of seeing her quit. She was too exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and banged up to continue pushing. Tannard wanted to push until she reached the end of her rope—she was getting there fast.

  “Let’s go.” Hykos’ words registered through the gloom filling her mind. “We shouldn’t keep the Invictus waiting.”

  It took all of Issa’s strength to put one foot in front of the other as she followed Hykos from the training yard toward the arched entrance to the western wing of the Citadel of Stone. A long hallway led deeper into the solid stone fortress, in the direction of the towering cliff face that served as the western boundary of Shalandra’s uppermost tier.

  The Gate of Tombs was an enormous rectangular stone archway, easily thirty feet high and twenty wide. A single wrought-iron gate stood perpetually open on its hinges—it looked as if it would take a dozen strong men to swing it closed.

  Issa’s mouth went dry as she caught sight of Tannard waiting at the Gate of Tombs. The Invictus’ face was an unreadable mask of stone and he said nothing as they approached, simply turned and stalked into the Keeper’s Crypts.

  The Keeper’s Crypts served as the final resting places for all the dead of Shalandra. Tombs, graves, and mausoleums had been carved from the very stone of Alshuruq—some estimated there were millions by now. Shalandrans were interred on the crypt that corresponded to their castes. Only the wealthiest and most powerful of Shalandra spent their eternal rest on the uppermost tier’s crypt. Intaji stonemasons spent their lives vying to be chosen by the Dhukari and Keeper’s Blades to carve the tombs on the Keeper’s Tier.

  Once, long ago, Issa had visited the crypts on the Cultivator’s Tier, and she’d marveled at the ornate scrollwork and images carved onto the simple stone coffins of the wealthier Earaqi. The artistry of Dhukari tombs stole Issa’s breath. The crypt’s ceiling rose fifty feet overhead, barely enough room for the pillared mausoleums and sarcophagi covered in gilt and silver leaf. Colorful images frescoed onto the golden sandstone walls and high-relief carvings depicted the heroic deeds of the deceased. Statues with stunningly lifelike features displayed the faces and forms of those long dead. A million precious stones twinkled like the stars in the sky, casting beams of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and brilliant white light on the solemn walls and high-arching domes.

  The oil lanterns hanging on the wall bathed the entire crypt in a golden-red light that seemed to make everything glow with a stunning brilliance. Yet there was no mistaking the pall of death that hung over it all. A dusty, dry scent, like corn husks left out too long to wither in the sun. Even the sweet reek of incense, left burning at the Dhukari tombs, failed to drown out the smell of desiccated flesh and bone. If anything, it only added to the funereal scents that filled the Keeper’s Crypts.

  Tannard led them a few hundred yards into the mountain before turning his steps north. Issa’s muscles ached after her beating, and even the gentle incline sent pain shooting through her body. But as she climbed, she couldn’t help noticing the way the tombs began to change. The lavishly-decorated mausoleums of the Dhukari gave way to sarcophagi that bore little ornamentation. Yet, instead of golden sandstone, these sarcophagi were made of midnight black shalanite—worth far more than all the wealth of the Dhukari. Etched into the lid of every sarcophagus was a two-handed sword with a familiar flame-shaped blade.

  The tombs of the Keeper’s Blades, Issa realized. A reverent hush gripped her; for a moment, it seemed her pain faded as she stared in awe at the final resting places of Shalandra’s elite warriors.

  “Today, you failed.” Tannard broke the eternal silence of the tombs, his voice as hard and cold as the shalanite coffins surrounding them. “Had it been real life and not some staged child’s skirmish, you would be lying in one of these.” He gestured to the nearest sarcophagus. “Read the inscription.”

  The stone coffin Tannard indicated looked new, as if someone had just been laid to rest there. She read the words etched into its lid aloud. “Kalune and Lakani, gathered to the Long Keeper’s arms.” A sad, almost pitiful inscription. She turned a curious expression on the Invictus. “Who were they?”

  “The Intaji youths who claimed the blades in the Crucible with you,” Tannard replied. “They passed the trial of steel, but failed the trial of stone.”

  Issa’s sucked in a breath, her blood running cold. They died? She’d watched the Necroseti haul away the boys on a stretcher. Their faces had been flushed red and purple, the mark of the bloodstone a burning white on their foreheads. Yet, in everything that had happened this last week, she’d forgotten about them.

  “Carry this memory with you always.” Tannard fixed her with a piercing glare. “The Long Keeper’s wisdom is not for us to understand; when he decides that it is your time, you too will be placed to rest here.” His expression darkened to a scowl. “But it is up to you to earn that place!”

  Issa recoiled from the intensity in his eyes and voice, and it took all her willpower not to retreat a step.

  “The blade chose you and the Long Keeper marked you, but you must prove your worthiness to serve him every day.” Tannard jabbed a finger into her thick steel breastplate. “Through your deeds, your dedication, your determination. Every time you fail, every time you falter, you insult the Long Keeper and prove yourself unworthy.”

  He whirled and seized Issa’s gorget, pulling her close until their faces were mere inches apart. “Do. Not. Fail.” He spoke in a low, harsh voice. “When the day comes that you are laid to rest beside your fallen brethren, what will your stone say?”

  Fear froze the words in Issa’s mouth. Defeat had scrambled her brain, and the ferocity of the Invictus’ tirade overwhelmed her. It was as if the strong, proud champion from the Crucible had been shattered, leaving only the nervous Earaqi girl Issa had been when she started training with Killian. Tannard hadn’t just beat down her body—he’d crushed her soul beneath his heel and spat on the splinters.

  Tannard released her armor so suddenly Issa stumbled. He rounded on his heel and strode farther up the hill. “Follow me.”

  A fist of iron squeezed Issa’s lungs, and it took a supreme will of effort to stand when she felt a heartbeat from collapsing. Yet Tannard gave her no time to recover. Issa was forced to hurry after him through the sea of black tombs. She didn’t try counting—there had to be thousands of them, stacked like neat boxes ready for the market, each bearing the corpse of a Blade fallen in the Long Keeper’s service. Each sarcophagus bore the name of its inhabitant, the mark of the two-handed flammard, and a summary of their life and death.

  Then came the Tombs of the Pharuses. Each stood nearly a hundred feet tall, with a stone high-relief carving depicting the face of the Pharus, with ornately carved details that set Issa’s head swimming. Beloved names like Nofre-kat the Bloody, Anhurmes Thoth III, Thema Amenthes of the Golden Sunrise, and Sen-ma Ramerabai, victor of the Thousand Skull War and hero of Harabai Pass. Despised names like Tachus Snakespine, Pen-Amen Rere, or Odion the Defeated. Every one of the Pharuses since Hallar himself to Mordus Khnemu Nephelcheres, father of the current Pharus.

  The sight of such splendor humbled Issa. She felt like a trespasser, a thief stealing among the greatest and most powerful rulers of Shalandra’s history. A failure.

  Her gut clenched as she realized Tannard’s true destination. She had heard the tales of the Tomb of Hallar—everyone in Shalandra had—yet she never dreamed of laying eyes on it. Now, the Invictus marched her toward the holiest place in the city.

  The Tomb of Hallar was nothing like the rest of the Keeper’s Crypts. It lacked the lavish ornamentation, high-relief carvings, and intricate stonework. It had been carved from the single vein of shalanite close to Alshuruq’s peak, a solid mass of midnight stone that stood out for its simplicity among the golden sandstone surrounding it. A single slab of shalanite guarded its entrance, its surface marked with thousands of strange-looking symbols.

  “This,” Tannard said, gesturing toward the black stone wall, “this is the Blades’ grea
test honor. What you see before you is the Tomb of Hallar.”

  Hallar, Shalandra’s founder and the first Pharus, had defeated the tribes of the four mountains—Alshuruq, Zahiran, Shahkukha, and Dalmisa. Under his rule, which lasted more than six decades, the city of Shalandra had been carved from the mountainside. He had created the system of castes and the five tiers of Shalandra, which had led to peace and prosperity at a time when war gripped Einan. This tomb, his final resting place, hadn’t been opened in more than two thousand years. In the center of the slab, at the height of Issa’s chest, was a small, perfectly circular hole. Whatever key was intended to be used to open this door had been lost for millennia.

  To Issa’s knowledge, no one but the Pharus, the Keeper’s Council, and the Necroseti ever visited the Tomb of Hallar. Yet the two men who stood solemn and silent before the slab bore the black spiked armor, snarling lion helmets, and two-handed flammards of Keeper’s Blades.

  “You might have noticed that the Citadel of Stone is set on the west of the Keeper’s Tier.” Tannard spoke in a quiet voice. “What is an insult to the rest of Shalandra is our highest honor. For thousands of years, since the beginning of our great city, the Keeper’s Blades have been set to guard this place. Not only in life, but also in death.”

  Issa’s eyes wandered over the black shalanite sarcophagi that stood arrayed in neat rows—was it her imagination, or did they resemble battle lines?—in front of the Tomb of Hallar. Each bore the same depiction of the two-handed sword, but the inscriptions on the lid were longer, more detailed.

  Her eyes roamed over the inscriptions of the tombs nearest her. “Abethar, Invictus, called Moonspear, fallen at the Battle of Eagle’s Crest.”

  Issa sucked in a breath. Abethar was Shalandra’s most renowned general during the Hundred Weeks’ War, which ravaged the entire south of Einan more than eight hundred years before her time. He’d earned the name Moonspear for his ability to fight in the darkness as well as other men fought in the day. In the Battle of Eagle’s Crest, he’d killed more than three hundred enemies before succumbing to his own wounds.