First, she needed to get out of her armor. She’d move more easily without the weight of her heavy plate mail dragging on her.
It took her the better part of half an hour to remove the black-steel armor. Every movement brought a fresh stab of pain, reminded her of another blow that had slipped past her guard. The buckles on her back and sides proved most difficult. Finally, she simply pulled the armor over her head—sending more agony radiating through her body—and threw it onto the bed.
She slipped off the padding until she stood clad only in the thin tunic she’d found in a neat pile on her bed the previous night. Next she removed her boots and stockings and stood in bare feet. The stone floor was cool beneath her toes. The sensation came as a welcome relief from the heat that coursed through her battered body.
She waited a few minutes before putting her boots on again. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move toward the door. If she stopped and let her body cool down, the aches and pains would intensify a thousandfold. She had to keep going until she succeeded at her mission or collapsed from exhaustion.
The few Blades she passed eyed her with a curious mixture of pity, amusement, and curiosity. Their conversations stopped at her approach, then resumed in whispers once they passed her. She had little doubt word of her humiliation on the training ground had spread through the Citadel of Stone like mice through a granary.
To her pain and exhaustion-blurred eyes, the bare stone hallways all looked the same. Yet she knew that she had to head north, then east and down a flight of stairs to reach the kitchens on the ground floor.
Hope surged within her as the smell of baking flatbread drifted up to the second floor. She hadn’t eaten since the previous morning—hunger gnawed at her stomach as she stumbled toward the kitchens.
But the direct route wouldn’t be the way to get what she needed.
Tannard’s words echoed in her mind. “You want food, find it, take it, but let no one see you. A Blade must be clever and stealthy, even in unfamiliar surroundings. If you cannot steal your meal in the Citadel of Stone, you will not eat, Prototopoi.”
She couldn’t enter the common room; Tannard would likely be waiting or have watchers set up to spot her. Her only hope lay in stealing food from the kitchens.
The question is how many watchers will be between here and there? Too many, that much she knew without a doubt. Tannard had proven that his lessons had real teeth—he’d ensure his orders were enforced, no matter what.
But one thing she’d learned from her grandmother was that all kitchens had a back way in. Once, when she’d accompanied her Savta to the Dhukari mansion where she served, Aleema had explained the building’s layout. The kitchens always stood placed on the first floor, well away from the areas the Dhukari frequented. The upper-caste never wanted to see how their food was made; they simply expected it to be served on time.
But the kitchens also were placed close to a rear entrance. This allowed merchants to deliver food to the rear or side access gates without cluttering up the grand front entrance. And it provided an easy way to dispose of the waste generated by the cooks.
The Citadel of Stone had to have a rear or side entrance that led into the kitchens, just like every other grand building on the Keeper’s Tier. Instead of heading through the common room, she could use the alternate route to slip in the back—in the way the garbage went out. It was a desperate plan, as desperate as she felt at that moment. Pain, fatigue, and hunger warred within her; if she could at least solve one, she’d be able to stubborn out the others until sunset.
She half-stumbled down the staircase toward the first floor, but instead of heading east along the stone corridors, she looked for a passage that headed north, outside the rear of the Citadel. Her heart leapt as she caught a glimmer of daylight down a narrow passage.
To her relief, the passage led outside. The stink of refuse and rotting veggies told her she’d made the right choice.
Thank you, Savta!
Raw animal carcasses, sodden flatbread, and putrid vegetable and fruit rinds squelched beneath her boots, but she was beyond caring. She moved in a low crouch, biting her lip to avoid crying out, and crept toward the rear door of the kitchens.
The door stood open, and Issa’s heart sank as she heard quiet voices coming from within the kitchens.
“No way she’s smart enough to go through the refuse heap,” said a man’s voice.
“You didn’t see her at the Crucible or out in the training yard, did you?” asked the second, a woman.
“Barrett certainly painted a picture of her.” The man snorted. “Made her sound like Hallar reincarnated, the way he went on.”
Despite the torment in her ribs and spine, Issa couldn’t help grinning. They’re talking about me.
“Is it just me, or is it bloody insane the way Invictus Tannard is handling her training himself?” the woman asked.
“Definitely not just you, Talla,” the man replied. “When the second-in-command to Callista herself steps in, you know a prototopoi’s either the child of the Pharus himself, the greatest warrior in Shalandra, or the unluckiest piece of shite in the world.”
“The way he had Hykos whale on her today, that was cruel, even by his standards,” the woman, Talla, said.
Glad to see I’m not the only one who thinks that.
“At this rate, she’ll be lucky to reach the Anointing alive, much less with all her limbs attached.”
“Maybe that’s his intention,” the man said. “Maybe he’s planning to recruit her for his special crew of killers hunting down the Gatherers.”
“That’s just a rumor and you know it, Gerrad,” the woman replied.
“You hear it from enough lips, it’s bound to have some truth in it. The way the Gatherers have been ramping up their activity lately, there’s no way the Lady of Blades is going to let them continue unchecked. Even if the Pharus is too blind and stupid to move against them.”
“Careful,” Talla warned. “We serve the Pharus as well as Lady Callista.”
“Sure, just like we serve the Keeper’s Council and the Necroseti.” Gerrad gave another snort of derision. “It’s words, nothing more. The Lady of Blades and the Elders are the only ones who deserve—”
“She’s not coming in this way.” A new voice, a familiar one, interrupted the conversation within the kitchens. “I spotted her heading down toward the deep storage where Fiaugh ages the cheese and hams.”
Hykos? Confusion furrowed Issa’s brow. What is he doing?
“Rannus and Churia are waiting for her there,” Talla replied.
“They’re waiting by the main stairs, but something tells me they’re not clever enough to expect Issa to take the stairs beside the library.”
“Watcher’s beard!” Gerrad cursed. “Of course they won’t.”
“Go,” Hykos told them. “I’ve yet to eat, so I’ll stay here and keep watch while I break my fast.”
Issa couldn’t make out Gerrad’s response, but the conversation died out, leaving only silence. A moment later, the window opened and a small cloth-wrapped bundle flew out. Issa caught it before it landed in the rotting mess of garbage.
“I’m sorry.” Hykos’ words drifted through the open window. “I can’t go against an Invictus, especially not Tannard. I’ll do what I can to help, but now it’s up to you to survive this.” His voice grew solemn. “And you have to survive this. You’re too good to fail. The Keeper’s Blades need you.”
The window closed, leaving Issa alone in the refuse heap. Opening the bundle, she found a small chunk of soft goat cheese, a quarter of flatbread, and a handful of dried dates. A pitiful meal, but far more than she could have hoped for.
Tears of gratitude welled in Issa’s eyes as she devoured the food. How Hykos had known she was coming this way didn’t matter at the moment. He had helped her, a quiet gesture of defiance toward the Invictus’ cruel treatment.
Grim resolve hardened into a ball within her as she slipped back toward her room. She h
ad little doubt that a great deal more suffering lay ahead; Tannard had proven himself a cruel, ruthless trainer, and he’d taken a special interest in her.
Yet she wouldn’t face it alone. That small glimmer of hope was more than enough to keep her from giving up.
He won’t break me, she swore in her mind. I’ve come this far, and nothing’s going to stop me from becoming a Keeper’s Blade.
Chapter Fifteen
Nervous tension tightened Evren’s shoulders as the wagon rattled the last few paces toward Shalandra’s West Gate. The gate was a massive construction of steel-banded stone easily forty feet tall, suspended from iron chains thicker than his arms, and set in the seventy-foot stone wall that surrounded the base of the city. The wall, like the rest of Shalandra, appeared to have been hewn from the golden sandstone of the mountain upon which it sat.
Shalandra looked like someone had cut the circular mountain like a pie and built a city into the removed slice. It was constructed into six levels: the largest at the bottom, and each growing progressively smaller as they rose toward the enormous building—Evren guessed it was the palace—at the pinnacle. The city faced due south, with both the western and eastern edges marked by sheer cliffs that rose hundreds of feet above the golden stone buildings.
A company of eight guards stood at the gate. All wore heavy black-burnished armor—a strange type of half-plate mail that encased their upper bodies in solid steel while leaving their legs free for quick movement—and carried long sickle-shaped swords. Their helmets were flat on the top but rimmed with spikes, bearing a strange blue ring around the forehead. Even stranger, they wore dark kohl around their eyes, and their faces bore five black dots like beauty marks painted onto their skin. An unusual affectation, similar to the way Voramians painted their cheeks with beet juice to add color to their pale skin.
One of the guards studied him through narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide what to think of the young man driving a wagon. His goods bore the mark of a Malandrian merchant, yet he could almost pass for Shalandran.
Over the last day, as traffic on the road had increased, Evren had noticed that the people of Shalandra bore strong similarities to the people in his home city of Vothmot. Voramians, Praamians, and Malandrians tended to be pale, but Shalandrans had skin of a deep, golden bronze—a shade lighter than the people of Vothmot, colored like almond peels. Their eyebrows were thinner, their eyes smaller and rounder, but with similar tight jawlines, prominent noses, and dark, wavy hair.
“What is your business in Shalandra?” the guard demanded. It seemed he’d decided that Evren was a foreigner. That might have to do with the fact that Hailen sat on the wagon seat behind him—with his brown hair and cream-colored skin, he stuck out among the sea of Shalandrans. The accent reminded Evren of his own home in Vothmot far to the north, though slightly harsher, hardening the syllables and making the vowels rounder, more musical.
“Hauling a load of grain for my father.” The lie came easily; Evren had rehearsed it in his mind the last two days. “He took ill the day we had planned to leave Voramis, so it falls to me to bring it.”
“Alone?” The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know there are bandits on the road?”
There are at least ten fewer now, Evren thought. Outwardly, he forced a grin and jerked a thumb at Hailen. “I’ve got him along for protection.”
Hailen gave the guard a bright grin. “Hello!”
The guard snorted and shook his head. “I’ll need to inspect your goods.”
“Of course.” Evren reached back and twitched aside the tarp. His eyes went to Brother Modestus’ bloodstains still on the wooden walls and floor of the wagon. They hadn’t had the water to scrub it out; he could only hope the guard didn’t care enough to question the sight.
The armored man eyed the bloodstains curiously for a moment, then hopped up onto the wagon and poked around among the sacks and crates. A few seconds later, he jumped down and strode alongside the wagon to stand in front of Evren.
“Follow the eastern road, the Path of Sepulture, up to the Cultivator’s Tier,” he instructed. “From there, take the Commoner’s Row eastward, toward the Trader’s Way. That road will take you up to the Artisan’s Tier. There you’ll find Commerce Square, where you can sell your wares. If you plan to spend the night in Shalandra, you’ll find lodgings in the Foreign Quarter on the western edge of the Cultivator’s Tier.”
“Got it.” Evren nodded. He had no idea what those street names referred to, but he’d figure it out.
“Only in the Foreign Quarter.” The guard’s expression grew severe. “We have opened our city to your kind, but Shalandra is not yours to roam freely. If you’re found outside the Foreign Quarter after dark, you will be detained and questioned.” The tone of his voice made Evren suspect that there would be few questions involved, but an abundance of beatings and incarceration.
“Understood!” He kept a smile on his face, but inwardly he cursed. He’d have a hard time sneaking up to the palace to steal the Blade of Hallar if he couldn’t move around Shalandra unhindered.
Lucky for me, I could probably pass for a local. Even the accent’s not too hard to manage with a bit of practice.
“A word of warning,” the guard said as Evren gathered up the reins. “Cover your heads.”
Evren frowned in confusion.
The guard tapped the blue band on his helmet. “Only the Kabili go bare-headed in Shalandra. If you don’t want someone thinking you’re a slave, cover up.”
“Thank you,” Evren said, though he still didn’t understand the meaning.
“You can find headbands and headdresses in Commerce Square.” The guard pointed to Hailen. “You’ll want to get him one first before someone mistakes him for a slave escaped from a Dhukari or Alqati household.”
“I certainly will.” With a nod, Evren flicked the reins and set the horse in motion.
As he drove through the gate, he was surprised to find himself in a broad tunnel. The city wall was at least thirty feet thick and made of solid stone. The passage had been carved wide enough for two wagons to pass at once, but Evren’s keen eyes spotted multiple slits and openings in the wall, ceiling, and ground. Clearly this passage had been built for defense first and commerce second. If the gates were ever sealed in time of war, it would take more than an army to get through.
Through the gate, Evren found himself riding into a world of gold and dust.
Every building on the lowest tier of Shalandra had been carved from the gold-colored rock of the mountain. Most were squat single-story constructions, barely better than stone boxes with openings for windows and doors. The morning sunlight seemed to set the sandstone aglow with an almost enchanted luster, yet there was nothing magical about the crumbling walls and the thick layer of dust that covered everything.
The people had the same crumbling, weathered look of the buildings they called home. All wore black headbands, little more than cords of rope or strips of faded fabric. Their clothing hung in tatters from their gaunt shoulders and bony ribs. Their bronze skin was darkened by the sun and cracked with lines of age and weariness.
A pall of listlessness hung over the people around him—few moved about, and those that did shuffled along, stooped, gazes downcast. Most simply remained where they sat or lay in the pitiful shade of their crumbling houses. Conversations were held in quiet, furtive voices.
Evren had seen hard conditions—both on the streets of Vothmot and the Beggar’s Quarter in Lower Voramis—but they paled in comparison to this. At least in those cities, people made an effort to break out of their poverty. They fought, stole, even killed each other, but they tried to survive. Here, it seemed the poorest simply abandoned all hope and waited for death to claim them.
For some, that wouldn’t be long. A few of the people lying in the rubbish looked three breaths from the Long Keeper’s arms. While all around him were emaciated, haggard even, a handful had found a new threat to their existence: disease. Blue blisters dotted
their bodies, most crusted over but with pus oozing from the worst of them. Those affected lay where they’d fallen, too weak or ravaged by illness to move, get into the shade, or even cover up.
Sorrow and pity panged in Evren’s chest. This is no way to live, he thought. No one should be condemned to such a miserable existence as this.
The avenue, which the guard had called the Path of Sepulture, ran straight north from the gate, up the hill that would lead him toward the higher tiers. Another wide thoroughfare ran along the lowest tier from east to west. The streets were littered with rubbish, crumbled stone, shattered bricks, and thatch blown free of the roofs. More than a few of the ragged people simply lay on the piles of garbage, drunk, unconscious, or perhaps even dead.
As his carriage rumbled up the Path of Sepulture toward the higher tier, he caught sight of a patrol of the black-armored soldiers marching past. He couldn’t help noticing the marked effect of the guards’ presence.
The hushed conversations stopped and people hustled out of the patrol’s path with frightened expressions. But beneath the fear he sensed an undertone of anger. Glares followed the retreating backs of the marching soldiers. Some brazen men and women even spat—long after the guards had passed, of course.
Evren had lived on the streets, and he’d grown adept at reading the mood of the individuals that made up large crowds. Happy, distracted people made easy marks, but angry throngs were more likely to turn violent, and woe to the pickpocket or thief that made the mistake of getting caught in the middle. He’d have to be blind to miss the subtle undercurrent of discontentment and hostility directed at the guards.
Maybe the people aren’t as content with their terrible lot in life as they seemed. That never boded well. Once, nearly a decade earlier, the citizens of Vothmot had revolted in response to the Caliph’s harsh treatment. It had taken the better part of a year for the Wardens of the Mount to restore order, even after the cruel Caliph had been dragged out of his palace fortress and stoned to death in the Court of Judgement.
Heirs of Destiny Box Set Page 13