“And yet you entered anyway.” Hykos stroked his shaven upper lip. “Somehow managing to sneak in through the secret tunnels—tunnels an Earaqi should have no knowledge of—and getting into the Hall of the Beyond without being caught.” A smile broadened his face. “Just the sort of resourcefulness that makes for a good Keeper’s Blade.”
His words caught Issa off-guard. She’d expected recrimination, anger, even denouncement and punishment. Hykos’ approval left her speechless.
“Truth be told, I’ve never seen anyone fight the way you did,” Hykos continued. “The dirty tricks and ruthless cunning of an Institute-trained fighter, but with the grace and skill honed over years at any of the Academies. Hell, the way you took down the Silver Sword with a Striking Serpent guard, then took down those Darting Arrows with what was clearly a Silver Sword attack, that’s the sort of skill that takes years to master.”
He fixed her with an expectant look, as if waiting for her to divulge her secrets. Issa remained silent. Killian had made her swear that she would never speak of where she’d learned to fight. For her protection as well as his, he’d insisted.
Hykos gave a dismissive wave. “There are a few bad habits I’ll have to hammer out of you, but you’ve got the foundation well enough. Best of all, you know how to do more than just swing that blade of yours around.”
Issa stared down at the huge two-handed sword in her hands. Killian had made her train with a flammard—one he’d forged in his own smithy from premium Voramian steel—daily, hammering the movements into her until her arms ached and her lungs burned. She was here thanks to him. She just hoped she’d get a chance to tell him that.
Hykos seemed not to notice her sudden somber mood. “Until the ritual that confirms you as a full-fledged Keeper’s Blade, that sword is just another weapon—a good one, made of the finest Shalandran steel, but as lifeless as a wooden spear or a chunk of stone. But all that changes after the Anointing.”
He drew his own two-handed blade from its sheath on his back and held it with reverence. “You will be bonded with your blade. The steel chose you, recognized something within your soul that makes you worthy to wield it.” His eyes returned to her and his voice filled with wonder. “With that bond, the sword will give you power like you could never imagine.”
Excitement fluttered in Issa’s stomach. Everyone in Shalandra had heard tales of the Keeper’s Blades and their legendary abilities. She doubted most were fabricated or exaggerated out of proportion, but if even a fraction held a grain of truth, the Blades were warriors to be feared. And she was going to become one of them.
Hykos sheathed his sword. “But until the Anointing, you will undergo the Blades’ training regimen. I warn you now, it will be more difficult, more demanding than you could expect. It’s not too late to walk away.”
Issa shook her head without hesitation. “Not a damned chance!”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Hykos smiled. “Then our training begins now with a visit to the armory.”
He led her through the stone hallways and corridors of the Citadel of Stone. Thankfully, Issa had a good sense of direction, and the layout of fortress was organized.
The center of the Citadel of Stone was dominated by an enormous training yard—doubtless it would double as a staging ground in times of war. All Issa had to do to get around the Citadel was cross the yard and find an entrance that led toward her destination.
Hykos, however, took her on a more circuitous route to introduce her to the rest of the Citadel. Her room had been located along the western side of the Citadel, on the second floor. After descending to the ground level, Hykos led her around the interior and pointed out the important areas she needed to know: common room, kitchens, a library, classrooms where she’d receive her academic lessons, Grand Chapel with its statue of the seven-faced Long Keeper, and, finally, the armory and smithy on the southern side of the training yard.
Issa’s jaw dropped as she strode into the armory. The first chamber she entered was easily fifty feet wide and thirty across, lined from floor to ceiling with swords of every conceivable size and shape. The entire western wall held row after row of two-handed training swords, both wooden wasters and dull-edged metal blades. The three chambers beyond contained axes, polearms, bows, crossbows, daggers, and more weapons she’d never dreamed of—every conceivable tool of killing from every part of Einan and even Fehl across the Frozen Sea, Hykos explained.
The sound of clanging hammers brought a smile to her face. She’d spent hours in Killian’s smithy, both to learn how to maintain her weapons and equipment and to strengthen her arms. The tang of hot metal, the loud hiss of quenching steel, and the rhythmic pounding of mallets were as familiar to her as sun and rain.
Her heart sank as she saw a familiar face in the smithy. Not him!
“If it isn’t the lowborn?” The Dhukari youth—Hykos called him Kellas—sneered at her. “I thought I smelled dung.” He stood clad in a full set of black, spiked armor, complete with a snarling lion helmet, his two-handed sword in a sheath on his back.
Issa gave him a sweet smile. “That’s what happens when you wipe your face and arse with the same hand.” She had no need to fear him; they were both Blades-in-training, chosen by the Long Keeper. And, she noticed for the first time, he stood a few inches shorter than she. When she drew herself to her full height, he had to look up at her.
Hykos chuckled, as did the hulking Blade beside Kellas—Issa guessed he was the one Hykos had called Byrach. Kellas, however, bristled and turned a bright shade of red.
“Listen here,” he snarled, “you were lucky in the Crucible. But just because you’re a Blade doesn’t make you a true Dhukari, just as wearing this armor doesn’t make you a true warrior. You don’t have the skill!”
Issa cocked her eyebrow. “That’s not what I remember.” She stepped closer and shot him a mocking smile. “I distinctly recall you kneeling in the sand waiting for my blade to take off your empty head.”
“You little—!” Kellas roared and lunged for her.
Issa tensed, ready to deflect his attack, but the huge Blade moved first—snagging the collar of Kellas’ armor and hauling him roughly backward.
“Save it for the training yard,” Byrach barked. “Once she’s armored up, you’ll be free to take out your hostility on each other.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it!” Kellas, once free of Byrach’s grip, gave her a smug smile. “We’ll see how lucky you are when there’s no one to save you from my blade.” He followed Byrach out of the smithy but shot one last sneering glance over his shoulder as he left.
Hykos gripped her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Insecurities always shout the loudest. A confident warrior is silent. Let your blade do the talking.”
Issa nodded. She couldn’t wait to get in the training ring and wipe that smug arrogance off Kellas’ face.
“Let’s get you that armor.” Hykos led her through the smithy. The familiar smells of coal smoke, heating metal, and burning beeswax washed away her irritation at Kellas. She welcomed the oppressive heat of the furnaces, the repetitive whoosh of the pumping bellows. To her, the smithy had been a place where she could forget about the world and focus on pounding steel into its proper shape.
“I believe this belongs to you,” Hykos said with a grin.
Issa’s drew in a sharp breath. “Keeper’s teeth!”
There, on an armorer’s dummy, hung the most beautiful suit of armor Issa had ever seen. Made of black Shalandran steel, it was comprised of segmented plates that had been fitted together with the skill any artisan would envy. Even before she put it on, Issa could see that the articulated plate mail would offer incomparable freedom of movement, yet provide more effective protection than even the Indomitables’ solid steel breastplates.
Hykos helped her put it on—a surprisingly complex task involving nearly twenty buckles, belts, and straps that had to be secured just so—and stepped back. “How does it feel?”
Issa took an experimental step, then picked up her blade and swung. “Amazing! It’s so light and moves so easily.” Every joint, from the shoulders to the knees, had enough flexibility to allow a full range of motion without sacrificing the ability to repel her enemies’ attacks. The spikes on the shoulders, elbows, and knees would serve as offensive weapons in close-quarter combat. The flat design of the breastplate made it suitable for men and women alike, providing ample cushioning and protection without crushing her breasts.
Hykos nodded. “Only the finest Shalandran steel is used for the armor, just as with the blades. It’s strong enough to deflect a crossbow bolt and the thrust of a sword, yet weighs less than Voramian or even Odarian steel. With that armor, you are as unstoppable as death itself.”
Issa marveled at the armor. “It’s truly a work of art!” She knew firsthand just how much effort went into crafting every piece—Killian had insisted she learn the basics of blacksmithing so she’d have the skills necessary to repair her own weapons and armor. Swinging his ten-pound hammer had strengthened her body and lungs. He truly had given her everything she needed to be ready for this moment.
But why? The question had plagued her for the last two years. Killian was Intaji, above her caste, and had no relation to her grandparents. He had no reason to help her. Yet he had, never asking anything in return. When she’d posed the question, he’d answered by saying, “The time will come when you understand. When that day arrives, we will speak of this again.”
Hykos clapped her on the shoulder. “Ready?”
The impact snapped her from her thoughts. “Yes.”
A small smile played on Hykos’ lips. “Then I think it’s time you teach Kellas the lesson he’s been begging for.”
Chapter Eleven
From his perch atop the driver’s bench, Evren tried to overhear what Brother Modestus was saying to Hailen. The Cambionari priest spoke quietly, his rumbling tone too quiet for Evren’s ears to pick up over the clatter of the wooden wagon wheels and the steady clop, clop of the horse’s hooves.
With a frustrated sigh, he settled against the wooden seat back and resigned himself to a long morning of traveling through the rocky, boulder-strewn landscape. At least the myriad of stones, many larger than a Voramian house, provided something to look at, perhaps even take his mind off his worries.
He’d had a fitful night of rest, his sleep plagued by dreams of Hailen being consumed by fire or screaming as Soulhunger devoured his life force. When he’d awoken covered in sweat and breathing hard, the gruff Modestus had already been awake and tending to their small fire. The meager breakfast of trail biscuits and dried cheese hadn’t lifted Evren’s spirits.
What the hell does it even mean, using Serenii magic?
He’d heard Hailen’s stories of Enarium, from the strange glowing Keeps to the crystals lining the walls of Khar’nath to that eerie swirling void of blackness at the uppermost room of the Illumina. The magic of the Serenii was said to be as old as Einan itself, enabling the ancient, immortal beings to shape the world to their wills. The thought of Hailen using power like that sent a shudder down Evren’s spine.
He had no true understanding of how it worked—few on Einan understood the Serenii relics, weapons, language, or constructions—but he had little doubt that using the power came at a price. Just the fact that it relied on Hailen’s blood was bad enough. The Hunter had shown him Soulhunger’s magic, the way the steel devoured blood, the brilliance of the gemstone as it fed. What if the Serenii magic consumed Hailen? Could wielding that power ultimately kill him?
He doubted Hailen knew, and couldn’t be certain if the Cambionari knew either. No one had wielded this magic on Einan for thousands of years, it was said. His years spent as an apprentice Lectern in the Master’s Temple had exposed him to some of the oldest histories and written records in existence, and he’d heard of none that contained more than a few threads of information, the barest hints and allusions, on the Serenii power.
The Hunter’s time in Enarium made him the closest thing to an expert. Even Graeme and the information brokers in the Hidden Circle knew less than what the Hunter had learned during his brief contact with the Serenii being known as Kharna. If he knew that Hailen was learning to wield the power of that ancient race, would he let the boy continue his education with the Cambionari?
Right now, the Hunter wasn’t here, so it fell to Evren to protect Hailen. He’d talked Brother Modestus into bringing Hailen along to Shalandra, in part so he could keep an eye on Hailen but also so he’d have company on this journey into the unknown.
Brother Modestus would keep Hailen safe in the House of Need in Shalandra so Evren could be free to focus on his task. When it came time to flee the city with the stolen relic, Hailen would return with him. Evren would be able to visit Hailen during his stay in Shalandra—an occasional relief for the inevitable loneliness.
What happened to me? Evren shook his head. When did I go soft?
Life on the streets of Vothmot had tested his limits, forced him to make hard choices and take actions he’d regretted. He’d preferred to be alone; no one to use against him, no weakness for enemies to exploit. Yet over the last three years, Evren had grown accustomed to their odd little family. The Hunter, Kiara, Hailen, and even Graeme—in the role of the quirky uncle—had come to replace those he’d left in Vothmot long ago.
He’d accepted the challenge of stealing the Blade of Hallar so he could prove his worth to the Hunter and Kiara. Having Hailen on hand made him feel a little less alone on what could prove a truly challenging endeavor.
A smack on his shoulder snapped Evren from his thoughts.
“Seven!” called Hailen.
Evren shot a glance over his shoulder. Hailen, who appeared to either have finished his lesson or grown bored of Brother Modestus, had climbed up onto one of the grain sacks and now sat behind Evren like a cat perched on a comfortable sofa.
“You sure about that?” Evren asked.
A grin split Hailen’s broad, flat-nosed face as he nodded. “Seven, definitely.”
“You really sure?” Evren placed extra emphasis on the word. “You know what happens if you’re wrong.”
“Seven, seven, seven!” Hailen bobbed up and down eagerly.
Evren’s face grew serious. “Seven it is, then.” After a moment, he smiled and shook his head. “Damn, you just got lucky!”
“Not lucky,” Hailen insisted. “I know you, Evren.”
He pointed to the knife in Evren’s belt. “One.” His finger indicated Evren’s right forearm, left forearm, and both boots. “Two, three, four five.” After a pensive pause, he tapped the wooden seat behind Evren’s lower back. “Six, for sure. I know you’ve got seven, but I can’t decide if it’s—”
With a flick of his right wrist, Evren produced two daggers from his forearm sheaths. “Close enough.” He slipped the throwing knife back into its sheath and handed the straight, double-edged stabbing blade to Hailen. “You win.”
Hailen took the blade with a triumphant expression and held it up. “I’m getting better at this.” He scrambled up onto the seat beside Evren, while Brother Modestus settled into a relaxed position in the back of the wagon.
“Or I’m getting predictable.” Evren grinned. “I’d better change things up for next time, or else I might run out of knives.”
The game was a favorite of Hailen’s. Perhaps his enjoyment stemmed from the fact that the Hunter and Kiara strenuously objected to the prize. They’d made it clear that they’d rather the boy didn’t carry bladed weapons, not until Hailen had some training. Both the Hunter and Kiara had been too busy for Hailen, so Evren had taken to teaching the boy what he knew. Mostly bareknuckle boxing and the sort of dirty knife-fighting tricks common in street brawls, but also a few of the sword skills pounded into Evren over the last few years of training with the Hunter and Kiara. Hailen was far from holding his own in a fight, but at least he wasn’t the same helpless, terrified young boy he’d been when Evren first met
him.
The boy had changed a great deal since that first day on the trail to Vothmot. Then, he’d been losing his mind to the Irrsinnon, the madness inherited from his Serenii ancestors. The Hunter had found a cure for Hailen in Enarium, freeing him from the curse’s grip. It had also wiped away the extreme innocence and naiveté that had marked Hailen as Melechha. Now, Hailen could almost pass for a “normal” eleven year old—all except for those strange violet eyes and the fact that his blood could be used to wield world-shaping magic.
“How does it work?” he asked Hailen. “How does your blood, or any blood for that matter, activate the magic?”
“I don’t know!” Hailen threw up his hands, temper flaring. “Father Reverentus and the other Cambionari are convinced it works so they’re teaching me a lot of what they call ‘magic words’ that should help. But it’s so much to remember, and I never get to have any fun. Ever!” He slapped a hand against the wooden bench in frustration.
“You’re very possibly the most important person alive on Einan right now,” Evren told him. “I know that’s a big burden, but imagine what you could do once you learn how to use the Serenii magic properly.”
“Yeah, the Hunter says the same thing all the time.” Hailen sat back, arms folded across his chest. “It’s like everyone’s expecting me to do something amazing just because I happen to have some weird, old blood.”
“Don’t you want to learn to do magic?” Evren’s eyes widened. “If I could do what you can—”
“I want to learn,” Hailen said, his tone bordering on plaintive, “but I’m sick of being locked up all day in that stuffy temple. I want to run around and be free like you.”
Hailen’s words surprised Evren. Were their roles reversed, Evren was certain he’d throw himself into learning magic with the same intensity he’d dedicated himself to his training with the Hunter. For years, he’d only had his skill, wits, and strength to keep him alive. A hard life on the streets had taught him to value every tool and weapon at his disposal.
Heirs of Destiny Box Set Page 10