The warrior reined in a few paces away from them, his eyes fixed on the rocks to the east. “Any of you hurt?” He spoke in a voice at once gruff and polite, as deep as a rumbling zabara bull.
“No,” Kodyn replied. “We had it handled, thank you very much.”
The bronze-skinned warrior ignored the response until he seemed content that the danger had passed, then he sheathed his huge flame-bladed sword in the scabbard that hung from his saddle and turned a stern gaze on Kodyn. “Don’t they teach you any manners in Praamis, young man?”
Kodyn bristled, but the comparison was apt. The man—the bandits had called him a Keeper’s Blade—had to be closing in on forty, with broad shoulders, strong hands, and the confident posture that only came with years of training and experience. His eyes were as dark as Briana’s, set beside a strong nose, and he wore his beard pulled into a tight braid at his chin, oiled to keep it tight, with shaven cheeks and moustache. His accent also matched Briana’s—a mellifluous rhythm that emphasized harder syllables while softening the vowels.
“Yes, they do,” Aisha said. She used her hips to push her horse into motion and walked it forward until she was between Kodyn and the armored warrior. “You have our thanks, sir…?”
“Ormroth, Ypertatos of the Keeper’s Blades of Shalandra.” The warrior bowed in his saddle. “I am surprised to find you traveling in such a small company. I’d thought even Praamians and…” He looked her over curiously, as if trying to decide where she was from. “…and others knew that this area is notorious for bandits and highwaymen.”
“We are unfamiliar with these roads.” Aisha shook her head. “But, as you can see, we are capable of taking care of ourselves.” She gestured to Kodyn’s sword and her weapons.
“Perhaps you are.” Ormroth pursed his lips, which tugged the corners of his mouth up and pulled his oiled beard tight. “All the same, more dangers may lie down the road you travel. I suggest you turn back and return to Praamis unless you have business in the south.”
To Aisha’s surprise, Briana spoke up. “They do.” The Shalandran girl kicked her horse forward and moved toward the warrior. “You say you are an Ypertatos in the Keeper’s Blades? Show me your mark, Dhukari.”
Ormroth fixed Briana with a stern glare. “Who are you, taltha? Where is your headband?”
“Taken from me by the same men who held me prisoner.” Briana sat straighter in her saddle. “You bear the armor and carry the sword of a Blade, and I see the gold on your helm. But I demand you show me the Keeper’s mark.”
Aisha exchanged a glance with Kodyn. Beneath his outward bravado, she saw confusion that mirrored hers. Neither of them understood Briana’s words, yet something about the girl’s manner indicated that this warrior was more friend than foe.
But life in the Night Guild had taught Aisha to be prepared. She flashed Kodyn the silent hand signal for “sword” and “fight”—both gestures Briana had taught them. Kodyn gave her an almost imperceptible nod, his hand creeping toward the hilt of his sword. Aisha made no outward move, but inside, her muscles tensed, ready to fight if need be.
After a long moment, the warrior reached up and removed his helm—shaped like the head and snarling fangs of a lioness. On his forehead, he bore a circular scar as thick across as the tip of Aisha’s finger.
Relief filled Briana’s expression. “Thank the Long Keeper! I am Briana, daughter of Arch-Guardian Suroth.”
Ormroth’s eyes widened a fraction. “My lady!” He bowed in his saddle again, deeper this time. “I had no idea you were away from Shalandra.”
Aisha allowed the tension to drain from her shoulders and her muscles relaxed. There was no mistaking the deference in the man’s tone—he would be no threat, at least not to Briana.
“As I said, I was taken from my father’s house. I’m certain he will look favorably upon the man that returns me safely to his arms.” Briana’s voice grew solemn, almost ceremonial. “As a member of the Dhukari, I insist that you accompany us back to Shalandra and offer the protection of your sword and skill.”
“It would be my honor, my lady.” Ormroth hesitated. “However, I must inform you that I am already on a mission for my Lady of Blades. That must be my first priority. I trust that your companions will aid me in protecting you and, by the grace of the Long Keeper, together we will reach Shalandra without further mishap.”
The exchange, too, puzzled Aisha. She’d known that Briana was the daughter of Suroth, the highest-ranked Secret Keeper in Shalandra. But Ormroth’s deferential treatment and the way Briana commanded his service made it sound like she was royalty.
“If you will wait for me here,” Ormroth said, turning his horse around, “I will return shortly.”
“Of course.” Briana nodded.
With a click of his tongue, Ormroth set his horse into a gallop. Up the road, at least a quarter-league to the north, Aisha caught sight of two figures on horseback.
The three of them watched in silence. The moment Ormroth had ridden out of earshot, Kodyn rounded on Briana. “What in the bloody hell just happened?”
“What do you mean?” Briana’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“He just did what you told him!” Kodyn shook his head. “Believed that you were who you said you were without question. If it was me, no way I’d have taken you at your word just like that.”
“Life in Shalandra is not the same as you are used to,” Briana explained. “Our city is divided into seven castes. The Mahjuri are the outcasts, the Kabili the slaves, and the Earaqi the servants, farmers, and unskilled laborers. Then there are the Intaji, the artisans, smiths, cobblers, and any others who build or craft with their hands. The Zadii are the intellectuals, the healers, philosophers, architects, engineers, and teachers, along with the priests of the twelve gods, all but the Long Keeper. His priests are among the Dhukari, the highest-ranking caste in Shalandra.”
“You called him Dhukari, right?” Aisha said.
“Yes.” Briana smiled at her. “The Keeper’s Blades are specially chosen by the Long Keeper, and that honor elevates them from whatever caste they were born into. They are higher than the Indomitables and the rest of Shalandra. Only the Necroseti, the Long Keeper’s priesthood, and the high councils—the Elders of the Blade and the Keeper’s Council—outrank them.”
“You said seven castes.” Kodyn frowned. “I counted six.”
Briana nodded. “The Alqati are warrior and military caste. The Indomitables, Shalandra’s army, and their families. They are second only to the Dhukari in standing.”
“But why did he just accept that you were who you said you are?” Kodyn insisted.
“In Shalandra, the caste society is rigid,” Briana explained. “When one is born into a caste—be it slave, outcast, artisan, or warrior—it is nearly impossible to rise above their station. No Shalandran would claim to be of a higher caste; it is an unfathomable, unforgivable deceit.”
Aisha found this concept unnecessarily complex. In Ghandia, every villager had their own purpose, but there were no ranks like the Praamian nobility or the Shalandran castes. The village elders were chosen according to their age and standing among the tribes, but blood and wealth never came into play in Ghandian society.
“So you’re telling me that he accepted that you were of this Dhukari caste just because you said you are?” Kodyn sounded incredulous.
“Yes.” Briana said it as if were the simplest thing in the world.
Aisha spoke up. “Before he recognized you, he called you taltha.”
Briana gave her a little smile. “It is the Shalandran word for ‘little sister’. Sort of like how a Praamian elder calls a youth ‘lad’, only more polite and reserved for young women.”
The sound of drumming hooves grew louder and the three of them turned to find Ormroth and the two other figures riding toward them. The two wore simple, dust-covered travel garb and rode horses that were sturdy but lacked the raw power of the Blade’s warhorse. A single spot of color stood out from th
eir dull outfits: headbands made of gold-colored thread.
“They are Dhukari as well,” Briana whispered to the two of them. “That, and the fact that they travel in disguise in the company of a Blade means they are returning from the sale of Shalandran steel.”
Aisha sucked in a breath. Shalandran-forged steel, made using the special shalanite ore found exclusively in the mountains around Shalandra, was considered the best-quality steel on the world of Einan. The city only permitted a fraction of the steel to be traded, always at an exorbitant rate. If these men had just returned from selling a shipment, they would be loaded down with a fortune in gold.
Suddenly, the bandits’ words made sense. Somehow they knew these Shalandrans were coming, so the ambush was for them. She, Kodyn, and Briana had simply been unlucky enough to arrive first.
Ormroth and his companions reined in before Briana. The Blade introduced the two as Arhin and Feasah. Immediately upon learning Briana’s name and parentage, Arhin dug into his pack and produced a golden headband.
“It would be my honor to present this to the daughter of Arch-Guardian Suroth,” he said, and bowed low in his saddle. The strip of woven-gold cloth bore a trio of bright blue gemstones—clearly of great value, yet he offered it without hesitation.
“Thank you.” Briana gave a little bow of her own and accepted the headband. She let out a little sigh as she wrapped it around her forehead, as if someone had just restored her sight or replaced a lost limb.
“Come, my lady,” Ormroth said. “We must hurry. I doubt the bandits will return, but I would not risk your safety and that of my companions.”
“Of course.” Briana turned her horse back toward the south. Aisha kicked her horse into motion beside the Shalandran girl, and Kodyn moved to ride on her far side.
Ormroth took the lead on his huge warhorse, and the two Dhukari nobles rode behind him, with Kodyn, Aisha, and Briana bringing up the rear. Aisha’s hand never strayed far from the shaft of her short-handled assegai spear and she found Kodyn remained vigilant, ready to draw his sword at a moment’s notice.
Jagged cliffs pressed in around the road, rising high to the east and west and blocking out the sunlight. A chill fell around them as they rode through the bluffs. A nervous tension thrummed within Aisha—if more bandits were to attack, this would be the place.
At the head of their little column, Ormroth drew his massive two-handed blade.
Aisha’s heart stopped. The steel, black as midnight, seemed alive with blue-white energy, as if lightning sizzled along the length of the blade. To her horror, dozens of transparent, ethereal shapes clung to the sword’s curving edge. Men and women, spirits of the dead, all bound to that strange sword. Pleading eyes turned toward her, and ghostly mouths opened to voice a whispered plea.
Last night, on the bluff overlooking Rosecliff, Aisha had decided to face the spirits. Now, seeing them so close, she nearly recanted her decision. She could feel them pressing at her mind, could almost taste the energy crackling from the dead.
Long ago, during one of his more lucid moments, her father had tried to explain it to her. “Within us all is a spark of life. It burns brightest at our birth and slowly fades as we age, until it is exhausted out at the end of our lives. But for those lives snuffed out too early, the spark does not fade, does not die. It remains all around us in the form of the Kish’aa, the spirits that only a Spirit Whisperer can see and touch. Some few, those with the favor of the Kish’aa, can even learn to control those sparks.”
Her father had tried to control the sparks, to channel the energy of the Kish’aa, and it had cost him his sanity. She’d lost her father to the spirits, and now they had come for her.
Somehow, impossibly, these strange swords managed to collect the energy of the dead. The energy sizzling along its length would, in the right hands, make it a truly powerful weapon.
And only Aisha could hear the wailing of the spirits tethered to the blade.
Chapter Ten
Issa leapt out of her simple cot the moment the door to her room—little more than a stone cell with a bed and chair, really—opened.
The newcomer was a well-built man a year or two her senior, with a broad, handsome face, dark eyes, and hair that hung in a braided tail down to the small of his back. Though heavier than her, they were a match in height and the width of their shoulders.
He smiled at the sight of her fully-dressed, flammard gripped in her hand. “Not even dawn yet, but you’re already eager to begin your training, I see.”
“Very.” Issa nodded and returned his smile.
“My name is Hykos.” The man extended a strong, callused hand. “I’m to be your instructor for the duration of your training in the Citadel. In public, you may address me as Archateros.”
“Issa.” Issa shook his hand. His grip was firm, confident, with force that Issa thought could crush stone.
“I expected you’d need a few moments to dress,” Hykos said, grinning. “But if you’re prepared, we can depart for the training yard at once.”
Issa fell in step behind Hykos and followed him out of the small room she’d been assigned the previous night. The man wore the full plate mail of the Blades, yet he moved with an easy, relaxed step. His armor made virtually no sound, a far cry from the clanking metal plates of the Indomitables’ breastplates, backplates, and shoulder guards.
“To everyone else in the Citadel of Stone,” Hykos said, “your name is not important. Until you are confirmed into the Blades at the Anointing in a month’s time, you will simply be referred to as Prototopoi.” He shot her a little smile. “It means ‘novice’, but the way some of those here say it, it sounds more like ‘idiot’ or ‘incompetent’.”
Issa nodded. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”
“Those accepted into the Blades are Defteteros for the first six months after confirmation. The training and duties remain the same, though there is far less mockery from the higher-ranked Katoteros. It takes four years of training to reach the rank of Archateros, ten to become an Ypertatos and twenty to reach Invictus. All of the Elders of the Blades are Invictus, and only Lady Callista herself is Proxenos.”
“If you’re Archateros,” Issa asked, “that means you’ve been here four years?”
“Five,” Hykos corrected. “I was fourteen when I was chosen by the Long Keeper.”
Issa glanced up at his forehead. He wore no helmet, but instead a golden headband with a silver disc in the center of his forehead—a sign of his rank and status as Dhukari—which covered the mark left by the trial of stone. Her fingers went to her own forehead and found the skin still sensitive to the touch. The burning pain had gone, but it would likely be tender for a few more days.
“Piece of advice,” Hykos said. “Don’t bother with a headband until the pain goes away. Friction with the silver can rub it raw.”
“Thanks.” Issa nodded.
In the pre-dawn light, the Citadel of Stone seemed a cold, forbidding place. Carved from the golden sandstone of the mountain, it was as solid, blocky, and practical as a fortress should be. The walls were bare of ornamentation or color. The closest the Citadel came to any form of décor was the myriad of weapons hanging on the wall—bladed weapons, polearms, daggers, axes, and hundreds more Issa didn’t recognize.
“I saw you fight in the Crucible.” Hykos shot her a sidelong glance. “When you walked in with those two short swords, I thought for sure you’d end up dead. The way you brought down that ox proved me wrong. Then you saved Etai from Kellas, and I knew there was no way I’d let Archateros Byrach ruin you. I claimed you as my prototopoi before he could.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Byrach fights with the grace of a bull in heat.”
Issa chuckled. “Then I’m definitely glad you chose me.”
“Answer me this, though.” Hykos stopped and fixed her with a stern glare. “You weren’t chosen to fight in the Crucible, were you?”
Issa’s stomach bottomed out. Every year, the Necroseti v
isited the Academies and Institutes of the Seven Faces of Shalandra to test the youths. Their testing revealed those chosen by the Long Keeper to enter the Crucible and attempt to claim one of the blades.
Issa hadn’t been tested, hadn’t been chosen. She’d dreaded this moment since she first stepped out onto the sands of the Hall of the Beyond. With Hykos’ dark eyes boring into hers, she had to tell the truth.
“No,” she replied in a quiet voice. “I wasn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” Hykos folded his arms over his chest, his gaze piercing and his scrutiny intense. “There were only supposed to be sixty-four candidates. How did you get in?”
Issa hesitated. If she told the truth, she could get Killian in serious trouble. He’d been the one to show her the hidden way into the temple’s tunnels, had told her what she needed to do to blend in with the other candidates.
“Did you use the secret tunnels?” Hykos asked.
Issa stiffened. “Y-You know about the tunnels?” Killian had called them one of Shalandra’s best-kept secrets.
“Of course.” Hykos snorted. “Every Blade learns the hidden ways around Shalandra, though that’s not something we like to publicize. I’m certain the Indomitables, Necroseti, and the rest of the priesthoods wouldn’t look favorably on our being able to get into their strongholds without their knowledge.”
Issa felt her gut twist into knots. Hykos had discovered her secret; the only question remained what he’d do.
The Blade narrowed his eyes. “The Necroseti testing would have marked you as worthy, which means you didn’t undergo their tests. Why not?”
Issa’s eyes slid away. “My grandparents refused to allow it.”
Every year, Savta and Saba locked her inside her room on the day the Necroseti visited the Institute of the Seven Faces on the Cultivator’s Tier. When she tried to sneak out, Saba would be waiting for her. She’d never seen her grandparents so determined in her life. She hadn’t understood it, but resented them for it.
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