Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  In Evren’s experience, the lavish decorations of temples screamed of abused wealth. The priests he’d been cursed to encounter were little more than men as enslaved to their own greed, lusts, and passions as the congregations they tended to.

  Though he had to admit the House of Need in Voramis appeared to stand as a definite exception.

  Unlike the grand constructions that surrounded the Fountain of Piety in Divinity Square, the temple to the Beggar God appeared to be one strong gust of wind away from collapsing. Time and the elements had worn away the façade, leaving featureless and crumbling stone. The crooked wooden roof looked to be the most solid part of the temple, and Evren wouldn’t trust it with a feather’s weight. He cast a nervous glance at the brick-and-mortar doorframe, but thankfully it didn’t collapse on him.

  He took a deep breath to calm the racing beat of his heart, despite the instincts screaming at him to flee. The last time he’d been in a temple, a priest had died at his hands, and he’d very nearly killed a fellow apprentice. Even now, just the thought of putting himself in the hands of priests—priests like those that had abused him and forced him to fight to survive—sent a shudder of fear down his spine.

  Swallowing the surge of acid in his throat, he entered the temple. The interior was clean, at least. Scuffed and faded wooden pews faced the altar to the Beggar God at the far end of the main room. A statue of the Beggar—a hunched, twisted figure wearing ragged clothing and stretching out a pleading hand—stood in silent vigil over the chamber.

  Evren hurried past those watching eyes and down the plain stone corridor that led away from the temple’s main room of worship. Few people outside of the Beggar Priests and their Beggared children ever saw this section of the House of Need. Though not fancy, it at least appeared able to withstand harsh weather. The low ceiling and stone floors were as plain as the walls, and the doors looked solid enough to stay closed.

  Definitely a far cry from the Master’s Temple in Vothmot. He’d served as an apprentice to the Lecterns, priests to Kiro the Master, and their temple had reeked of opulence and wasteful luxury. All the gorgeous trappings had concealed the true horrors of the temple from the outside world.

  Evren couldn’t help a nervous clenching in his gut, an instinctive tightening of his fists, as he strode through the unadorned halls. He had no idea what Father Reverentus, head priest of the Beggar God in Voramis and leader of the Cambionari, wanted with him. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  He brightened as a gaggle of Beggared children ran past, laughing, shouting, and jostling each other. The Beggar Priests accepted orphans and raised them in the House of Need. That alone had earned a measure of Evren’s trust—it was a far cry from his experience in the Master’s Temple in Vothmot, his home city far to the north of Voramis.

  His eyes scanned the crowd of children for Hailen but caught no sign of the young boy. He must be at his morning lessons with one of the priests, he thought.

  “You are Evren?”

  The question from behind Evren caught him off-guard. He whirled, fists coming up to defend himself, teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. He’d be damned if he let these priests—

  “Oh, dearie me!” The pudgy, middle-aged priest behind him flinched, ruddy cheeks going pale in surprise. “A-Are you…?” He swallowed and struggled to regain his composure.

  Evren recovered first. “Yes, I am.” He let out a silent breath and lowered his fists. On streets of Vothmot, either you were always on your guard or you were dead. “I was told Father Reverentus is expecting me.”

  “H-He is.” Slowly, the color returned to his cheeks and, with a jerky nod, swept a hand down a hallway. “This way, young master.”

  Evren hid a grin as he fell in step behind the priest. Young master. I like that.

  As the priest led him through the plain stone corridors, Evren couldn’t help smirking at the way the lantern light played tricks with the contours of the man’s wax-shined bald head. This nervous-looking man was a far cry from the cold, dead-eyed Lectern Uman and the others he’d fought to escape in Vothmot.

  Finally, the priest stopped at a door as unadorned as the rest around him, raised a hand, and rapped on the wood.

  “Enter,” came the voice from within. An aged voice, yet a strong one.

  Pushing open the door, the priest gestured for Evren to enter.

  Evren swallowed a flutter of nerves as he saw Father Reverentus sitting in a stuffed armchair. Father Reverentus had a lined, weathered face with a sharp nose, strong chin, and liver spots dotting his scalp and the skin of his arthritis-twisted hands. He sat with a pronounced stoop to his shoulders, but there was nothing ancient about the sharp intelligence that gleamed in his piercing blue eyes.

  “Thank you, Brother Mendicatus.” The old priest nodded his bald head. “That will be all.”

  “Of course, Father.” With a bow, the portly Mendicatus retreated and shut the door behind him.

  Father Reverentus sat in silence for long moments, his eyes fixed on Evren’s face. He might have looked like a kindly grandfather, but the burning intensity of his scrutiny belied his appearance. Life on the streets had taught Evren to size people up in an instant, and everything about Father Reverentus told Evren that this priest was far more than he appeared.

  “The Hunter has told me of you,” Father Reverentus said. “Of your history with the Lecterns and your escape to freedom.”

  Evren tried to hide the sudden tension in his shoulders and spine. Only the Hunter and Kiara knew the full truth of Evren’s past; he hadn’t told Hailen, for the boy was far too young to hear such terrible stories. Now, it seemed, Father Reverentus had learned of it as well. Evren trusted the Hunter had a good reason to relay that information to the old Beggar Priest, but he’d reserve judgement until he found out why he’d been summoned here so early in the morning.

  Father Reverentus steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “It might surprise you to learn that I know more about your story than you expect. I was familiar with Lectern Uman, but if I’d known the truth of what went on—Keeper, what might still be going on—I’d have done exactly the same thing in your position.”

  Evren said nothing. No one, not even the Hunter or Kiara, knew that Uman’s death had been an accident. The street crews in Vothmot had mostly left him alone once they found out what he’d done, and that nugget of misinformation suited him just fine.

  The old Beggar Priest gave a dismissive wave of his gnarled hand. “But that is neither here nor there. What matters now is that the Hunter tells me that you can be trusted.” He gave Evren a little smile. “He went so far as to call you capable and reliable. High praise, coming from him.”

  Evren struggled not to grin. The Hunter had done little more than grunt his approval during their training sessions when Evren turned aside a quick blow or disarmed his opponent. Coming from the Hunter, that truly was high praise.

  “As you know,” Father Reverentus continued, “we have come to a certain…understanding with the Hunter.” The words seemed to stick in his throat. “As our goals seem to be aligned, at least in the matter of ridding the world of the threat of demons, it is in all our best interests to cooperate. At least, that is what I have been able to convince my brethren in Voramis to see. As for the rest…” He shrugged his slim shoulders.

  Evren nodded. The Hunter, once the most famous and highest-paid assassin in Voramis, had uncovered a terrible truth three years ago: demons, a race of otherworldly, bestial creatures known as the Abiarazi, hadn’t been scoured from the world thousands of years earlier during the War of Gods, as most of Einan believed. Instead, they had used their skills at shifting shape to conceal themselves among the humans, impossible to differentiate except for the deep black color of their eyes.

  The Hunter had shown him the shape-changing skill, shifting his face from his own hard, dark visage to a handsome youth, an old man, then back to his normal features in the space of a few seconds. Evren had shuddered the first time he s
aw those eyes, like two pools into nothingness. Had he not known the truth of who the Hunter was—not only a Bucelarii, half-human offspring of the demons, but a man willing to fight his own people to save the ones he cared about—Evren might have fled then and there.

  “From what I am given to understand,” Father Reverentus said, “the Hunter is away from Voramis at the moment. The Hidden Circle alchemist, Graeme was it?” He scanned a parchment on his desk and nodded. “Graeme informed me that the Hunter had departed to Praamis in search of an Abiarazi he believed to be there.”

  Evren nodded. “Yes.” The Hunter had departed almost three weeks earlier. Given the ten-day journey to the nearby city of Praamis, he ought to return soon.

  “A matter of great importance has come to my attention.” Father Reverentus sat up straighter in his chair and fixed Evren with that piercing, intense stare. “Typically, I would pass the information to the Hunter, but if his information proves correct and there is a demon in Praamis, I believe his hands will be a tad too full to deal with it himself. And, I’m given to understand you have unique skills. Skills that could prove quite advantageous in this circumstance.”

  Evren raised an eyebrow. “Skills of a thief, you mean?”

  “Precisely.” Father Reverentus inclined his head. “When the Hunter mentioned that you were quick enough to lift his purse in the Court of Judgement in Vothmot, I believed I had the right man for the job.”

  “And what’s this job, then?” Evren sat back, trying for nonchalance to cover his burning curiosity and the nervous anxiety roiling in his stomach. He couldn’t help wondering what sort of job the Beggar Priest wouldn’t handle in-house. One that required a thief, no less.

  Father Reverentus stroked the white beard that hung to his emaciated waist. “How familiar are you with the city of Shalandra?”

  Evren shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

  “Ah.” The old Beggar Priest’s face tightened. He reclined in his stuffed, cloth-upholstered armchair once more and pursed his lips. “The City of the Dead, some call it, an entire city built around the worship of the Long Keeper, god of death.”

  Evren’s eyes widened a fraction. “Worshipping the Long Keeper? Are they mad?” He made the warding gesture that all superstitious Einari knew would keep away the eye of the sleepless god. Where the Long Keeper walked, he left only death in his wake.

  Father Reverentus’ face twisted into a frown. “Perhaps, and yet that is the god they have chosen to worship.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “But the only part of their dark worship that should interest you is the Blade of Hallar, the city’s most sacred relic. And, I believe, a weapon much like the Hunter’s dagger, Soulhunger.”

  Evren sat bolt upright. Soulhunger was a magical weapon with a gemstone that consumed the life energy of its victims to feed Kharna, the Serenii trapped in the city of Enarium. Evren hadn’t seen the dagger at work, but he’d heard tales of the Hunter recovering from mortal wounds thanks to Soulhunger’s blood magic. A weapon of immense power and, in the wrong hands, a truly dire threat indeed.

  “The Blade of Hallar is said to have belonged to Hallar, the first Pharus and founder of Shalandra,” Father Reverentus explained. “My Cambionari brethren in the Beggar Temple in Shalandra have long been interested in it, but only recently have they been able to ascertain that it is truly one of the Im’tasi weapons forged by the ancient Serenii for the Bucelarii to wield.”

  “So why don’t they just nick it, then?” Evren cocked his head. “No one would think to accuse a Beggar Priest of stealing it.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.” A smile tugged at the old priest’s lips. “But, alas, it is out of our reach.” He sighed and shook his head. “The Blade of Hallar is kept under constant guard by high-ranking Keeper’s Blades, the elite warriors of Shalandra, in the most secure room in the Palace of Golden Eternity. It is only ever brought out of its vault four times a year. Once every four months for the Ceremony of the Seven Faces, and once more for the Anointing of the Blades.”

  Evren frowned. “Let me guess, one of these ceremonies is going to take place soon, and you want me on hand to nick this blade?”

  “Precisely.” Father Reverentus nodded. “The next crop of Keeper’s Blades will be anointed before the Four-Bladed Storm sweeps over Shalandra. If you are as clever a thief as the Hunter believes, it may be that you are better-suited for the task than even he. After all, his manner is far more…direct.”

  Evren chuckled. “You could say that.” The Hunter’s Bucelarii healing abilities, strength, and speed made him impossible to kill—for any who didn’t know his secret weakness, of course. The fully human Evren had to resort to cunning, trickery, and stealth where the Hunter opted for a frontal assault.

  “Once you have procured the Blade of Hallar,” Father Reverentus continued, “you simply need to get it to the House of Need in Shalandra. From there, my Cambionari brethren will smuggle you and the weapon safely out of the city and back here. I will not lie and tell you the job will be easy, but you will have as much assistance as we can offer.”

  “How much time do I have?” Evren asked. “Before the next time this fancy sword will be brought out?”

  Father Reverentus scanned one of the parchments strewn across his desk. “One month, give or take a few days. The Crucible will be taking place now, and those chosen to join the Keeper’s Blades will be anointed at the next turn of the moon.”

  One month. Evren frowned and pondered the job. Not a lot of time to figure out something this complex.

  “The journey to Shalandra should take less than ten days,” Father Reverentus said, “giving you almost three weeks to find the way to retrieve the sword.”

  “Three weeks?” Evren’s eyebrows shot up. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”

  Father Reverentus’ eyes flashed at Evren’s disrespectful tone, but Evren didn’t flinch. He’d lost his fear of priests the night he killed Lectern Uman. The Lectern had tried to stop his escape from the Master’s Temple and Evren had lashed out—in self-defense and protection of a fellow apprentice. The priest had deserved a far less kind fate, given the abuse he’d heaped on Evren’s head—and all the apprentices. Yet even now, after years had passed, Evren still couldn’t forget the wide-eyed horror in Lectern Uman’s eyes as the blood leaking from his shattered skull stained the water of his bathing pool a deep crimson. Some memories never truly faded, but left an indelible mark on the mind.

  “I have just now received all the information required to undertake this quest,” Father Reverentus said after a long moment, his tone sharp-edged with irritation. “Were time not such a constraining factor, I might have waited until the Hunter returned from Praamis.”

  Evren snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, eh?”

  Father Reverentus leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do not take this matter lightly, young man. This mission is of absolute importance, not only to us as the defenders of Einan, but to the Hunter. My efforts to gain access to the Im’tasi weapons stored in the vaults beneath the Beggar Temple in Malandria have been met with fierce resistance. My brethren in Malandria have not forgotten what the Hunter did to Lord Knight Moradiss, Father Pietus, and the other Cambionari. Their blood still stains the carpets and their spirits cry out for vengeance.” Anger tinged his words and blazed in his blue eyes. “Only the fact that the fate of Einan is at stake has held us back.”

  Evren met the priest’s anger with cold calm. The Cambionari, the demon-hunting secret priesthood of the Beggar God, had forced the Hunter’s hand, but he wouldn’t try telling them that. Better try to turn a stone into wine than change a priest’s mind.

  Yet, despite the unveiled threat in Father Reverentus’ words, Evren knew the priest was right. The Hunter had sworn to aid Kharna, the Serenii locked away in Enarium, in the fight against the Devourer of Worlds, a being of chaos that sought to unmake Einan and all of reality. The Serenii-forged Im’tasi weapons were invaluable tools in his mission to feed Kharna t
he life force required to sustain him.

  At the moment, the Hunter had just three: Soulhunger, the long sword he’d taken from the Sage in Enarium, and a third sword that had once belonged to the First of the Bloody Hand. Kiara wielded the First’s sword and the Hunter had entrusted the Sage’s weapon to Graeme and the Hidden Circle, a group of rogue alchemists and information-brokers, for study. A fourth such weapon would prove vital in the Hunter’s quest—perhaps the Hunter would even trust Evren to wield it. Gods knew he’d trained enough hours in the last three years to feel confident swinging such a blade.

  “I’ll do it,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll find this Blade of Hallar.” It would be damned near impossible to learn his way around a new city, find a way into the palace, and come up with an escape route all in the space of three weeks, yet people had believed escape from the Master’s Priests in Vothmot equally impossible. He’d do it, if nothing else to show the Hunter that he was truly ready to aid in his quest.

  Father Reverentus’ face brightened. “Excellent!” He reached for the little bell sitting on his desk and rang it, a tinny tinkling that echoed surprisingly loud in the small chamber.

  A moment later, the same portly priest poked his head into the door. “Yes, Father?”

  “Brother Mendicatus, provide young master Evren here with everything he will require to accompany Brother Modestus on his journey to Shalandra. And inform Modestus that he leaves within the hour.”

  “Of course, Father.” Mendicatus bowed to the old Reverentus, then stared expectantly at Evren.

  Evren stood and was about to follow Brother Mendicatus from the room, but Father Reverentus’ voice stopped him.

  “This mission is a heavy burden for one so young to carry, but I trust the Hunter when he says that you are strong enough to bear it.” The old priest leaned forward and fixed Evren with that piercing gaze. “Perhaps everything you have endured in your past has been to prepare you for this moment in time. May the Beggar strengthen your arm and guide your steps, Evren. The fate of this world may very well rest on your shoulders.”