She crept through tombs dedicated to the rest of the Venerated, priests serving the twelve lesser gods of Einan, which led to the mausoleums of the intellectual Zadii and industrial Intaji. The Intaji tombs bore the symbols of their crafts: hammer and anvil for blacksmiths, compass and ruler for architects, mallet and chisel for stonemasons, and a hundred more. The crypts, mausoleums, and sarcophagi were decorated with the same lavish artistry that the Intaji had demonstrated in life.
The tombs on the Earaqi tier were simple: plain stone coffins and sarcophagi, few with a decorative flourish or two. Some had simple engravings on their coffins, but many were bare. Hard-working laborers could scarcely afford to eat well, much less pay an Intaji stonemason to carve a lavish tomb for them. Somewhere among this sea of stone, Issa’s parents lay to rest under the Keeper’s sleepless gaze.
She breathed easier as she stepped out of the Keeper’s Crypts and onto the darkened streets of the Cultivator’s Tier. The night was cool, with a gentle breeze kicking up dust, but it washed away the smells of the dust and decay behind her.
She tensed as a figure shambled out from a side street onto Commoner’s Row a short distance ahead. Her hand dropped to her belt, only for her to remember that she’d left her sword back in the Citadel of Stone.
Yet, to her relief, the man didn’t move toward her. He didn’t even seem to see or hear her. He looked more skeleton than human, with yellowed and jaundiced skin revealing the blue tracery of veins, bulbous eyes, and a slack expression. Issa didn’t know what strong drink or opiate he’d gotten his hands on, but it had left him little more than a husk of a human.
She ducked down a side street to avoid the man—her grandparents had warned her to be wary of anyone who appeared more dead than alive, for they had the least to lose. The back street was neat and clean, yet Issa caught sight of strange words painted onto a fresh-scrubbed brick wall.
Child of Spirits, she read. She’d seen similar words—Child of Gold and Child of Secrets, among others—dotting the three lower tiers of Shalandra, but she’d taken care to avoid the fiery-eyed young men that always seemed to be hanging around the paintings.
A few hundred yards up the road, she returned to Commoner’s Row and hurried through the Cultivator’s Tier toward her grandparents’ home. With every step, the burden on her shoulders grew until she feared it would overwhelm her.
Warmth flooded her as she caught sight of the familiar squat stone building. A sudden wave of homesickness washed over her. Here, she’d been safe, loved, and cared for. Why had she defied her Savta and Saba and fought to join the Blades? The decision, which had seemed so right at first, now heaped mountains of misery on her head.
Issa slipped around to the tiny garden in the back of the house and tapped softly on the rear door. Savta would be up at this time—her grandmother rarely slept more than a few hours a night. A lump rose in her throat as she heard the familiar shuffling of slippered feet, the thunk of the deadbolt being pulled cautiously open, and the creaking of the hinges Saba had forgotten to oil for the tenth year in a row. Golden light spilled over Issa, framing the silver-haired figure in the doorway.
“Issa?”
At Savta’s voice, the dam of emotions within Issa’s chest burst. The fragments of her confidence, held together by nothing more than her iron will, shattered beneath the burden of her shame, misery, and the pain coursing through her body. Her legs seemed to sag and she almost collapsed onto her grandmother. Savta’s arms wrapped around her and held her tight, so warm and comforting.
Issa broke down. “I can’t,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I tried, Savta, but I can’t!”
“Peace, nechda.” Savta’s voice soothed her. “You are safe here.”
A long minute passed as her grandmother cradled her, until Issa’s tears dried up. The weight of her failure and exhaustion dragged at her limbs, and it took all her strength to stay upright as Savta led her to the table. She dropped into a chair—the same chair where she’d shared every meal with her grandparents for the last seventeen years—and buried her face in her hands.
“What is the matter, nechda?” Aleema’s hand rested atop Issa’s shoulder. “Why are you here?”
“It’s too much, Savta.” Issa’s words came out in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve given all I have and it’s not enough.”
“Nonsense.” Her grandmother’s voice was calm, comforting. “You are the strongest person your Saba and I have ever known. There is nothing you cannot do.”
“But there is!” Issa lifted her tear-stained face to her grandmother. “The Invictus, Tannard, he asks the impossible, then beats me when I fail.”
The word elicited a strange reaction from Aleema. Her face tightened, the wrinkles in her aged face freezing in a featureless mask, and something dark glimmered in her eyes. “This Invictus, Tannard, he is the one training you?”
Issa nodded. “He is cruel, harsh, and no matter what I do, he always stacks the odds against me so I fail.” She realized how petulant she sounded—like a spoiled child stamping her foot because she didn’t get her way—but at that moment, she just needed someone to understand her pain.
“But, nechda, you’ve always known it would be difficult to become a Keeper’s Blade.” Aleema’s eyes fixed her with a gaze at once compassionate and stern. “Was that not what drove you in the first place?”
“Yes, but…” Issa found herself at a loss for words. She had known that her chances of becoming a Blade bordered on impossible, but she’d driven on anyway. To her, that impossibility was the most appealing thing about it.
Aleema gave her a soft smile. “When you were young, barely five years old, your Saba and I would take you to an olive grove just outside the city. There was one tree, little more than a stump with a few low branches, that you were determined to climb. Time and again you fell from the tree, sometimes so hard we worried you had hurt yourself. But every time, you bounced up, that stubborn look on your face, and ran at the tree again. We tried to help you, even tried to stop you, but you refused to give up. Do you remember what happened the day after your sixth nameday?”
Issa shook her head. She had little more than a faint memory: bright sunlight dappled through tree branches, the crunch of dried leaves underfoot, and the comforting presence of her grandparents.
“You climbed the tree, nechda.” Aleema placed a hand on Issa’s. “You sat on the highest branch in the tree, looking like the Pharus perched on his throne. You had triumphed finally, after all that effort. Then you did the one thing neither of us expected.”
“What?” Issa asked.
“You set about climbing another tree.” Aleema’s eyes brightened, a broad smile on her beautiful face. “That is how you have always been, Granddaughter. Stubborn as a farmer’s mule, yet as unstoppable as a runaway bull.” She grasped Issa’s hands in hers. “Nothing can stop you, nechda. The only one who can stop you is you. You only fail when you stop fighting.”
Issa’s eyes widened. Hykos had said almost exactly that same thing hours earlier. Yet, hearing them from her grandmother now drove the point home. Issa’s burden didn’t lighten, but she felt her resolve hardening, her spirit growing stronger to bear the weight. The love in her Savta’s eyes and the smile on her face reminded Issa who she was.
“You’re right.” She straightened, scrubbed her cheeks, and squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “I am the way I am because you and Saba taught me to be this way. You would not back down from this, so neither will I.”
Aleema chuckled. “Do not blame your hardheadedness on me. That’s all your Saba’s fault.”
As if on cue, a loud snore echoed from the double-sized cot. Issa and Aleema giggled together, and suddenly the weight on Issa’s shoulders seemed to dissipate. She had needed to see her grandparents—she’d thought she wanted their commiseration, but that was a childish expectation. In truth, she had simply needed to hear the truth from someone she loved.
“Thank you, Savta!” Issa threw her arms aro
und her grandmother. “Truly, thank you.”
Aleema returned the embrace. “Of course, nechda. You may become the bravest, strongest Blade in the Keeper’s army, but we will always be here to remind you where you come from.” She pulled away and fixed Issa with a somber stare. “You are the daughter of greatness, and no matter what happens, know that you are always loved.”
Issa felt a tear slip down her cheek—of joy, this time, mingled with gratitude. The Long Keeper had chosen well to give her such wonderful grandparents.
“Now, off with you!” Aleema’s tone suddenly grew bossy, insistent—the grandmother Issa remembered. “Get back to the Citadel of Stone before anyone discovers you are missing.”
“Yes, Savta.” Issa ducked her head, feeling like a ten-year-old child again.
“But first, take one of these.” Her grandmother bustled into the kitchens and returned a moment later with a small, sticky ball made of tiger nuts, honey, chopped dates, and seasoned liberally with cinnamon.
“A tiger nut sweet?” Issa’s eyes widened.
“Your favorite.” Aleema beamed as Issa devoured the treat. “You’re looking positively starved. Aren’t they feeding you properly up there?”
“Not really,” Issa said through a mouthful of sweetness.
“Well, they’d better start!” Aleema’s eyes flashed, and she waved a finger at Issa. “Else I might have to come up there and—”
“Oh, look at the time.” Issa grinned and stood. “You’re right, I do need to get going.” She threw her arms around her grandmother and pressed a kiss to the top of the old woman’s head. “Thank you, Savta.”
“Always, nechda.” She pulled free and beamed up at Issa. “Go with the Long Keeper’s blessing and our love.”
A bright smile stretched Issa’s lips as she slipped out the back door and into the Shalandran night. She’d come here burdened down and now left light as a feather.
Savta was right, she thought. Impossible’s exactly what I specialize in. The harder the better.
She had no doubt Tannard would throw more challenges at her tomorrow—and every day for the rest of her training. So be it. The visit had reawakened her determination. Let him do his worst. I will not break.
Her step was lighter, the burden lifted from her shoulder as she hurried through the empty, darkened back streets toward the Keeper’s Crypts. She’d rather avoid a run-in with the Indomitable patrols; they’d want to know what business an Earaqi girl like her had away from home at this hour.
She had just turned down the side street that led back to Cultivator’s Row and the entrance to the Keeper’s Crypts when the sound of sandaled feet sliding on stone caught her attention. Heart in her throat, Issa ducked into the shadows of a building and out of sight an instant before dark, cloaked figures appeared around a bend in the broad avenue.
Peering out, Issa caught a glimpse of light from a shuttered lantern held. The thin beam of light didn’t illuminate the figures’ faces, but it shone on the arm of the man that carried it—and on the strange tattoo inked into the forearm: a crescent moon and star set in the middle of a circle, with two right-angled lines connected.
Issa pressed her back against the sandstone wall as the men reached her hiding place, then passed without a sideways glance at her. The seconds seemed to drag on until the sound of shuffling feet faded into the distance and Issa could finally release the tension in her muscles.
Her brow furrowed in confusion. Did they just come from the tombs?
The Keeper’s Crypts should be empty at this time of night. The Indomitables patrolled the tombs more out of reverence and tradition than any real need; no Shalandran dared profane the sacred resting place of their dead.
The men could have come from any of the decrepit, abandoned buildings bordering the western cliff. Only the most desperate Mahjuri on the Slave’s Tier dared live that close to the Keeper’s Crypts. The Earaqi refused to live within the shadow of the cliff, so the squat stone homes ought to be empty.
So did they come from the tombs? If so, what were they doing in there?
The question followed Issa as she entered the Keeper’s Crypts and made her way back up toward the Keeper’s Tier. She was so busy mulling it over that she nearly ran into a patrol of black-armored soldiers. Only the Keeper’s luck and her training saved her; she ducked out of sight behind a Zadii bookkeeper’s ledger-shaped headstone barely in time to avoid being spotted.
That snapped her back to her surroundings. If she wanted to reach the Gate of Tombs and get into the Citadel of Stone unnoticed, she’d have to pay more attention.
The climb to the Keeper’s Tier took nearly thrice as long as the descent. The incline made for slower going, especially as Issa was forced to wend her way through the tombs, mausoleums, and sarcophagi to evade the patrols. She had no way to mark the passage of time deep in the mountains, but she guessed that sunrise lay less than an hour off by the time she spotted the corridor that led from the Dhukari tombs into the Citadel of Stone.
She let out a sigh as she spotted the open gate. It was unguarded, no sign of any Keeper’s Blades.
I made it.
Her relief died stillborn a moment later as a figure stepped out of the shadows.
Fear drove a dagger of ice into Issa’s gut. Hykos.
A frown creased the Archateros’ face and his eyes were dark. “Where in the Keeper’s name have you been?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Evren ground his teeth and forced himself not to growl in frustration as he strode along behind Lady Briana’s palanquin. This servant job is taking up time I should be spending hunting down the Blade of Hallar.
Samall had kept him running all afternoon, preparing the ornate palanquin for the journey to the Palace of Golden Eternity for some celebration or other. Now, he’d been given the unenviable task of hauling a wooden chest—filled with garments in case the Dhukari girl wanted a change of clothing—to the palace.
Now there’s no way I’ll get away to talk to Killian, at least not tonight.
He risked a glance to the attendant supporting the other half of the wooden chest—the same one he’d seen talking with Samall earlier this afternoon. Wherever the man had gone on his secretive errand, he’d managed to return in time for the evening departure to the palace.
Evren’s one consolation came from the knowledge that Samall’s plan—that it was devious, he had no doubt, or else why all the furtiveness?—would take place tomorrow night. He had until then to figure out what it was and how to keep Hailen out of harm’s way. If he could stop the Arch-Guardian’s daughter from being harmed, that would earn him favor with his new master.
But first I’ve got to get through tonight.
The thin leather sandals with their knee-high leather straps that chafed his legs were the worst part of it, though the clothing—a heavy, colorful stole over a thick woolen tunic ornamented with a gold-plated necklace and bracelets to match—came in close second. He’d always hated the long, flowing robes and multiple layers worn in Vothmot, though he couldn’t help admitting that the silks popular in Voramis felt wonderful against his skin. Still, Shalandran garb had proven utter torment.
Worse, he’d been forced to relinquish all but one of his daggers. The sleeveless tunic meant he couldn’t wear his wrist brace and he had no boots to conceal his blades. He had just one throwing knife tucked into the gold-and-blue sash worn atop his shendyt. His twin jambiya lay tucked beneath the wool-stuffed mattress he’d been given in the dingiest, dustiest room in the servants’ quarters. He’d have to rely on his wits and fists if he found himself in trouble.
Not for the first time, Evren found himself grateful for the years he’d spent bare-handed fighting—first in the Master’s Temple, then on the city streets of Vothmot, then training with the Hunter and Kiara. He’d actually managed to land a few good blows during his sparring sessions. Given that the Hunter had the impossible speed, stamina, and strength of his Bucelarii heritage, that was something to be proud of.
Thankfully, the journey to the palace from Arch-Guardian Suroth’s mansion proved far shorter than he’d feared. From what he’d learned, there were just two entrances to the palace: from the huge temple to the Long Keeper he’d heard called the Hall of the Beyond, and at the top of Death Row, the avenue that ran along the eastern side of the city. Suroth’s mansion stood a few hundred yards from Death Row, so they had less than a mile to travel to reach the palace.
Damn, that’s a big wall! Evren let out a quiet whistle as their company approached the huge wall of golden sandstone that ringed the sixth and highest tier, dominated entirely by the palace and its grounds. Fifty serious-looking Indomitables bearing the marks of officers—three or four silver bands through the blue ring around the forehead of their flat-topped, spike-rimmed helmets—held guard at the enormous wrought-iron gate. Yet another obstacle Evren would have to get past to reach the Vault of Ancients.
The Palace of Golden Eternity stood on the far side of an enormous open-air plaza, with an ornate balcony where the Pharus could make an appearance before the people gathered in front of the palace. The plaza was covered by white marble tiles that shone brilliantly in the light cast by the lanterns hanging from the front of the palanquin. Black tiles—made of shalanite, Evren guessed—had been interspersed to produce beautiful rosettes in a symmetrical pattern across the square.
The Palace of Golden Eternity was carved from the same golden sandstone as the rest of the city, but its entire surface was decorated with gold, silver, and black shalanite leaves threaded together in ornate mandalas and rosettes. The palace’s main building—a structure of solid stone pillars and columns supporting high, crowned arches and a balcony that circumnavigated the outer perimeter of both the second and third floors—spanned fully half of the uppermost tier. Evren caught a glimpse of gardens circling the eastern side of the palace and smaller buildings to the west.
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