Tailing an unsuspecting mark was as easy as stealing coins from a passed-out drunk, but it grew harder when the one being followed suspected pursuit. He’d made a show of pretending to return to Suroth’s for Snarth’s sake. As long as the Mumbler didn’t think anyone knew he was away from whatever task Killian had given him, he wouldn’t expect a tail.
But to sell the ruse to Snarth, he’d had to gamble that the Mumbler wouldn’t actually return to Killian’s with his message. The urgency in Snarth’s eyes had told Evren that the youth had somewhere important to be. He’d taken the chance that Snarth would wait a minute or so to be certain Evren truly had gone before continuing on his original path.
His gamble paid off. Less than two minutes later, Snarth appeared from up the road. Evren ducked deeper into cover and waited until Snarth passed. The Mumbler cast wary glances around him, but he never saw Evren sliding out into the street behind him.
Let’s see where you’re off to, Evren thought with a grim smile.
He tailed Snarth toward Death Row and, to his surprise, down toward the gate that led to the Cultivator’s Tier. The boy cast furtive glances over his shoulder, but Evren kept out of Snarth’s direct line of sight. He hung back, keeping a wide enough gap between them that the flow of traffic obscured him from Snarth’s questing gaze but allowed him to keep a close eye on the Mumbler. After losing Kuhar, he wouldn’t take any chances with Snarth.
Finally, Snarth seemed to decide that he wasn’t being followed, for he picked up his pace, his steps more determined. Evren actually had to jog along to stay within safe tailing distance as Snarth descended to the Cultivator’s Tier, then farther downhill to the Slave’s Tier.
The Mumbler turned west on the Way of Chains, past Auctioneer’s Square. Evren’s gut clenched; the square was packed at this time of the morning, the sale of men and women—not just bronzed Shalandrans, but people from all over Einan, including pale-skinned Voramians, thin-eyed Hrandari, and the swarthy desert dwellers from the Twelve Kingdoms—in full swing.
Evren had to push his way through the thick crowds, but thankfully it seemed Snarth was having the same difficulty. By the time he burst free of the throng fifteen minutes later, the Mumbler had gained a few yards on him. Evren hurried just enough to close the gap then once more settled into a pace suitable for tailing the boy.
His curiosity grew with every step. Snarth could truly be on a mission for Killian, but his reaction to his earlier encounter with Evren made that seem unlikely. The question nagged at Evren: what business does a Mumbler have in the Slave’s Tier.
His answer came half an hour later as Snarth ducked into a side street that intersected with the Way of Chains. Evren paused at the corner, glancing sidelong down the street in time to catch a glimpse of Snarth turning onto a smaller back road running parallel to the main avenue. Again, Evren peered around the corner rather than stride out into the alleyway.
His caution proved well-founded. The alley stood empty save for three tough-looking men sitting in front of a doorway. Though the house looked as decrepit and ordinary as every other stone buildings around it, the way the thug-looking men straightened at Snarth’s approach made it plain that they were guarding it. The question was: what was important enough down here to require guards? And who in the Slave’s Tier, the poorest level of Shalandra, could even afford guards?
Evren couldn’t hear Snarth’s hushed conversation with the thugs, but whatever the Mumbler said seemed to work. One stood and pushed the door open. Evren ducked out of sight as Snarth glanced around. When he peered around the corner again, Snarth had disappeared and the door stood closed.
Well, that complicates things.
Evren hesitated, uncertain what to do. He couldn’t walk in the front door, so he’d have to find another way in.
His eyes traveled to the golden sandstone wall that served as the northern border of the Slave’s Tier. A contented smile broadened his face. His training with the Hunter and Kiara hadn’t been limited to learning weapons. The Hunter, in particular, had placed special emphasis on the ability to climb: cliffs, walls, the sides of buildings, anywhere he could find handholds and footholds.
Evren had watched in breathless awe as the Hunter scaled the Palace of Justice, Voramis’ tallest building. The Hunter had insisted Evren take a turn climbing Dead Man’s Cliff, the sheer rock face a half-day’s ride outside of Voramis. He’d even set up a climbing wall of sorts in the warehouse that had become their center of operations over the last year.
That’ll do nicely. The house Snarth had disappeared into was built right up against the rock face. If Evren could slip into the nearby alley without alerting the guards, he’d have no problem scaling the rock wall. Surely he’d find a balcony, window, or rooftop to give him an unseen way into the house.
A passing trio of Kabili women gave him the perfect opportunity. The guards’ catcalls filled the air, and one of the women shouted in reply. This led to a loud exchange of Shalandran insults—very creative, and riddled with slander about the guards’ ancestry—that distracted the men long enough for Evren to slip into the alleyway.
Evren grinned as he studied the cliff face. Sandstone was easily eroded and fairly fragile, but offered excellent friction and plenty of handholds and footholds for climbing. It took him less than a minute to scale high enough up the jagged wall to peer over the lip of the second-story window.
The window looked into a small room, more like a low attic set beneath the thatched roof. A crude table stood in the middle of the chamber, with five rough-looking men seated in the rickety chairs that surrounded it. Their rough, scarred hands and grim faces immediately brought back memories of the time Evren had lived on the streets.
These are definitely the sort of men that make a living through vice and crime.
At that moment, the door opened and Snarth entered the room.
Chapter Thirty-One
Though Aisha still had the better part of four hours until her noon appointment at the Temple of Whispers, a sense of urgency drove her to depart Arch-Guardian Suroth’s mansion just after the morning breakfast. She’d picked at her meal, her stomach a mess of knots. Though her conversation with Briana had given her a shred of hope, her gloom had returned with the overcast morning.
The Whispering Lily would give her the ability to not only see the spirits, but actually speak with them—to answer their call, as her father had told her. Yet, until she could find a way to counteract the effects, she feared what would happen if she took it.
For the tenth time since leaving Suroth’s house, she touched the small pouch hidden beneath her simple servant’s garb. The pouch contained a few Whispering Lily petals she’d plucked. She hadn’t dared to use it yet—she didn’t know when she would summon the courage to take the risk. But she carried it for the same reason she’d ridden toward the graveyard at Rosecliff. Her mother had taught her not to flee her fears, but to confront them. Few things terrified her more than the thought that she would turn into that same dead husk of a human that her father had. Keeping the flower close was her way of defying that dread.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about the flower or its effects, at least not right now. For the next few hours, her mission to the Temple of Whispers would consume her full attention. The challenge of moving through the streets unobserved by anyone watching would prove a welcome distraction from her troubles.
Her outfit provided ample cover for her mission. She wore a servant’s kalasiris free of insignia with a headband—strips of Dhukari gold and Earaqi red braided together—to mark her as a low-caste servant in a high-caste household. Nessa, the Steward, had insisted that no one would interfere with or question her as long as she wore the headband. A loose, flowing cloak completed her ensemble.
She felt naked without her assegai, but she hadn’t hesitated to leave it with the rest of her weapons back at Suroth’s mansion. Shalandran servants didn’t carry weapons, at least not in plain view. Years spent training with Ria, Errik, and
the rest of House Serpent had accustomed her to fighting with a wide range of weapons both bladed and bludgeoning, as well as bare-handed.
Besides, what are the chances that someone’s going to attack a Dhukari’s servant?
If it came down to it, Kodyn had lent her a pair of flat throwing daggers, which she’d tucked beneath the wide red-and-gold silk sash around her waist.
Her greatest concern at the moment lay in being spotted. She had no idea who’d watch her—she and Kodyn had been in Shalandra for all of a day and night—but that didn’t stop her from taking her usual precautions. Her short time in the city had proven that Arch-Guardian Suroth had enemies that wouldn’t shy away from killing servants or kidnapping the Councilman’s daughter.
As always, Aisha took the most circuitous route possible. Only one road led from the Keeper’s Tier to the Artisan’s Tier, but three broad avenues connected the Artisan’s Tier to the lower two levels of Shalandra. Aisha descended Death Row toward the Slave’s Tier and cut westward through Auctioneer’s Square.
Acid rose to her throat as she spotted the familiar choclat-colored skin and broad features of her people. Not just Ghandians, but Issai and Tanirians as well. All people like her, ripped from their homes and dragged thousands of leagues away to live as slaves.
But hers weren’t the only ones to be enslaved. Men, women, even children with skin of every shade—from pale white to rich bronze to the midnight black of the Dynari tribe far to the east of Ghandia—stood on the auctioneer’s platform and watched in mute, defeated silence as their lives were sold to the highest bidder.
The Kish’aa hung thick around the stone columns and wooden stockades behind the platforms. Countless people had died here: thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands over the centuries of Shalandra’s existence. The spirits of the dead fixed lifeless eyes on her, their mouths gaping in wordless cries, little more than whispers too low for her mind to comprehend.
What are they saying? The thought of what she’d hear if she took the Whispering Lily sent a shudder of fear down her spine. Her father had never had a moment’s peace; the cries of the dead had haunted him and stolen his mind.
It took all her willpower not to clap her hands over her ears, to break into a run to flee the dead. They tugged at her, the energy within their blue-white glowing forms pulling at her. They wanted her to come closer, to make contact with them. She was their only connection to the living. Without her, they would fade into obscurity, even their names forgotten by time, left to drift on the winds invisible to all but her.
She sucked in deep, gasping breaths and picked up her pace to get through Auctioneer’s Square at a fast shuffle. Anyone following would have to speed up, making them more visible to her as well.
Once free of Auctioneer’s Square, Aisha ducked into the shadows of a side street and waited, eyes fixed on the Way of Chains. For nearly fifteen minutes, she remained motionless and silent, until her heart slowed its hammering. When she caught no sign of pursuers, she resumed her trek through Shalandra.
Her steps led due west, toward Traders’ Row. Just beyond the broad avenue stood another square, similar to Auctioneer’s Square but with far more dried, crusted blood staining the platforms. Murder Square, Briana had called it. Here, the Indomitables carried out the harsh sentences imposed upon the people ground beneath their heels. Thousands of Kish’aa hovered around Murder Square, the combined sparks of their lives so bright she could barely look at them.
Shalandra truly was the City of the Dead, and she alone could see and hear them.
Thankfully, her path turned to the north, and she sighed in relief as she climbed toward the Cultivator’s Tier. The guards took one look at her headband and let her through without a second glance. The tier, home to the Earaqi laborers that made up the largest percentage of Shalandra’s population, was neat and clean, the streets laid out in a precise order that the haphazard buildings of the Slave’s Tier had lacked. Fewer of the dead hovered in the air, their numbers diminished enough that she could ignore their pleading looks and silent cries.
After a quick search for any sign of pursuit, she turned westward, toward the Foreign Quarter. From there, it would be a quick climb to the temples that stood in the shadows of the cliff that served as Shalandra’s western border.
Her fists tightened as the ghostly figures grew thicker. Every step led her closer to the Keeper’s Crypts, toward the mass of Kish’aa clustered there. Their whispers rose to a dull hum at her approach, like a fly hovering inside her ear. An almost tangible energy crackled in the air. The spark of Radiana’s life flowing within Issa burned like a match touched to kindling.
Issa clenched her jaw and forced herself to keep moving despite the strange sensations coursing through her. The writhing, seething mass of blue-white light called to her, tugged at the core of her being. The souls of the dead pulled her toward them, their lifeless, empty eyes fixed on her. The hum in her head grew to a pulsing, thrumming that rattled against the inside of her skull until she had to grit her teeth against the pain.
By the time she climbed the Path of Sepulture to the Artisan’s Tier, she had all but forgotten to search for any sign of pursuit. She cast a glance backward but her eyes refused to focus. The wordless cries of the Kish’aa pushed into her thoughts and tore at her mind.
Relief washed over Aisha when she finally turned eastward, away from the Keeper’s Crypts tombs. The tugging sensation diminished with every step away, yet she could not truly escape it. The dead remained behind her, and they would not let her go so easily.
She tried to push the humming to the back of her mind as she entered the Temple District on Shalandra’s Artisan’s Tier. The temples here were massive buildings; none near the size of the Hall of the Beyond on the Keeper’s Tier yet still unique marvels of construction.
All had been carved from the stone of the mountain, but each had been built in their own style. The Master’s Temple was the grandest, nearly half again as large as the other temples, with a huge marble statue of Kiro dominating the courtyard in the center of the horseshoe-shaped building. An army of Shalandran heroes stood silent vigil in front of the squat, sturdy Temple of Derelana, each statue carved in lifelike size and bearing the features of the greatest warriors in the city’s history.
The Temple of Prosperity, home to the Illusionist Cleric, bore the same bizarre façade that seemed to play tricks with Aisha’s eyes if she looked too closely. For a moment, the swirling lines carved into the golden sandstone shifted to form ghostly figures of the dead. When Aisha blinked, the images seemed to change to form the gently rising hills and swaying grasses of her homeland.
The Swordsman’s obelisk rose thirty paces into the sky, a white marble dagger that reflected the sunlight with dazzling brilliance. Aisha had to shield her eyes as she hurried past.
Aisha’s destination, the vault-like Temple of Whispers, was just beyond the obelisk. Built from the same golden sandstone as the rest of the temples, somehow the stone seemed to have lost its brilliance, turned a dull ochre as if to match the muted brown robes of the priests that served there. The only opening Aisha could see in the entire temple was the enormous concave steel door at the front.
Two Secret Keepers stood silent vigil before the door. As she approached, they stepped forward to bar her entry to the temple, fixing her with a questioning gaze.
Her fingers flashed in the hand signing Briana had taught her. “Ennolar is expecting me.”
The Secret Keepers’ eyebrows rose to disappear beneath their white headbands. When they made no move to get out of her way, Aisha repeated her silent statement.
After a moment, one of the Secret Keepers nodded. “Wait here,” his fingers said. He strained to open the steel vault door enough to slip through, but his companion didn’t lend a hand.
Less than a minute later, the same Secret Keeper stepped out. “Come.” A single gesture, universally understood in any language. He made no move to enter, but stepped aside to make way for her.
Even inside their temple, it seemed, the servants of the Mistress guarded their secrets from the world outside.
Aisha nearly jumped as a section of stone wall in front of her slid aside in utter silence. Ennolar—she recognized the short, bald-headed man from the previous night’s party—appeared in the opening and strode toward her. “What do you want?” his hands asked.
For answer, Aisha reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver coin Kodyn had given her—the Black Widow’s coin bearing the depiction of an eight-legged spider.
The Secret Keeper studied her through narrowed eyes. After a long moment of silence, he nodded. “The light-skinned one did well in sending you. You pass for a Shalandran far better than he, Ghandian.”
The fact that he knew where she was from came as only a small surprise to Aisha—Ria had told her the story of Ilanna’s visit to the Temple of Whispers in Voramis and the many wonders she’d encountered there. No one outside the Mistress’ priesthood knew the full breadth and depth of the knowledge stored in these halls.
He pressed a finger to his lips. “No words. The walls have ears, but within this room, we are unobserved.”
With a furtive glance around, he reached into his dull brown robes and produced a leather scroll tube. “Here.” He held it out to her. “As promised.”
“Thank you.” Aisha took the scroll tube and tucked it into the large pocket in her flowing cloak. The large, heavy tube sat awkwardly, but she could make it work.
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