Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Something on a nearby wall caught his attention. The words “Child of Secrets” had been painted onto the golden sandstone in bright red—paint or blood, he couldn’t tell from this distance. As his wagon rumbled up the road, he found the same words twice more.

  A fifty-foot wall separated the first tier from the second. The gates stood open, with only a quartet of black-armored guards on watch. They let him through with barely a cursory glance at the contents of his wagon. He guessed that they were stationed there to keep out the wretches in the lowest tier—anyone else could come and go as they pleased.

  The Path of Sepulture continued up to the third tier, but Evren turned east as the guard had instructed. The second tier—the Cultivator’s Tier, the guard called it—was arrayed in the same precise layout of streets: the broad avenue known as Commoner’s Row running east to west, with smaller streets intersecting. Good. He smiled. If the three higher tiers are laid out the same, it’ll make getting around a whole lot easier.

  On the second level, however, the buildings were far better-preserved than those on the lower tier, with whitewashing to cover the stone. Some even had second-floor additions built with sun-baked clay bricks. The roofs were still simple thatch, but in good condition. Hundreds of women and children wielded brooms, filling the air with the dust they swept out of their stone-floored houses. All along the avenue stood cloth-covered shops and stalls built from whatever scraps of wood, brick, and stone the people could cobble together.

  As Evren traveled east along Commoner’s Row, he found the streets cleaner and neater as well, free of the debris that clogged the lowest tiers. People wore simple clothing—the men wearing skirt-like garments of wool and canvas, the women clad in knee-length dresses that clung to their bodies like a sheath. All wore red headbands of woven fabric or wool—the bright cloth a sharp contrast to the dull colors of their garments. A few even had those strange black dots painted onto their face, though no eyeliner.

  A few lighter-skinned Praamians, Voramians, and even Malandrians moved among the people. They dressed in clothing native to their city, but to Evren’s surprise, he found they all wore green headbands.

  Suddenly, Evren understood what the guard had meant about covering up. Everyone in Shalandra wore some sort of headband or scarf covering on their foreheads. And color has something to do with status in this city, he realized.

  Those on the lowest level wore black headbands, with green marking foreigners and red marking the people of the Cultivator’s Tier. One man wearing a brown headband had the callused hands of a stonemason, while a man with an elegant white feathered headdress wore a fancier version of the men’s skirts, complete with a loose cloak draped over his shoulders.

  Perhaps, if I get the right headband and clothing, I can trick my way into the upper levels to get close enough to the Blade of Hallar. There was little doubt in his mind that the enormous building on the uppermost tier of Shalandra would be the Palace of Golden Eternity—the place where Father Reverentus had told him he’d find the Blade of Hallar.

  Hailen, however, would have to get one of those forest green bands. No sense trying to pass off the pale-skinned boy as a Shalandran.

  Again, he spotted the strange words “Child of Secrets” painted on the wall of a house set into a back alley. A short distance away, just as he approached the broad avenue the guard had called Trader’s Way, he caught sight of a new one.

  Child of Spirits? He arched an eyebrow, curiosity burning. Given how carefully the people on this tier cared for their homes, it seemed strange that they would allow such defacement. So what does it mean? It has to be important.

  The sounds of booted feet marching toward him snapped his attention back to the road. A twenty-strong patrol of the black-armored guards approached, and from their purposeful stride, it was clear that they had no intention of moving out of the road. Evren was forced to quickly steer his wagon to one side to make way for the patrol. One of the guards even snarled a curse at him for not moving fast enough.

  He snorted. Quite the friendly lot, aren’t they? Then again, what city guards ever are?

  Trader’s Way was a massive avenue—wide enough for four full-sized wagons—that ran north to the third tier and south to the gate on the lowest tier. It seemed to provide the most direct route from the marketplaces on the upper tier to the vast swaths of farmland and grazing pasture that radiated southward outside the city wall.

  On the Artisan’s Tier, the mercantile establishments seemed more permanent, with countertops of solid stone, strong brick pillars, even the occasional clay-tiled roof among the sea of thatch. The quality of the wares on the Artisan’s Tier far exceeded that of the goods sold on the lower tier. No woven rush baskets or clay pottery and cookware up here.

  To the east, Evren caught sight of quality steel tools, knives, and farming tools mingled with wrought-iron decorations and ornate painted ceramic pottery. Massive wheels of white cheese sat beside man-height piles of fresh-baked flatbreads. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and other sharp spices drifted up from a stall heaped high with pastries covered in bright-colored, elegantly swirled frosting. Jewelry of gold, silver, and precious metals studded with twinkling gemstones hung from metal stands, under the watchful guard of stern-eyed men clad in padded jerkins and carrying iron-studded truncheons. Everything that could be crafted by an artisan’s hand, heart, and mind stood on display for the people of Shalandra.

  The marketplace to the west was filled with fresh fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds, spices, grains. The entire southern edge of the market was dedicated to butcher’s stalls, where the shadow of the wall provided a modicum of shade to keep the raw meat cool. Another section was dedicated to fabric of every conceivable hue and texture, bolts of wool, cotton, and linen, even powdered dyes ground from beetle shells, berries, and minerals.

  Traffic was heavy as the sun approached high noon. A sea of men, women, and children flowed in through the twin marketplaces in a steady stream. Here, the disparity between the classes of Shalandrans became painfully obvious.

  Those in red headbands wore clothing of roughspun wool, linen, and faded cloth. White and brown headbands indicated a higher level of wealth, though many still had the hard hands and broad shoulders of laborers or the perpetual stoop of intellectuals that dedicated their lives to hunching over books and scrolls. Evren saw few headbands of solid gold or blue; instead, people wore headbands with gold or blue braided with the other colors. These wore better-quality skirts and longer dresses, made of finer quality fabrics. Some even bore symbols or markings—an educated guess told Evren they proclaimed them servants of one of the upper-tier households.

  Evren turned his wagon into the western market. He had no desire to waste time selling the grain, but he needed the coin. Brother Modestus’ purse had been dreadfully light, and he’d only had a few copper bits on him when he’d met with Father Reverentus. A bit of gold would go a long way toward facilitating his task of finding the Blade of Hallar.

  Hopefully I can find a merchant or the servant of some nobleman to take it off my hands.

  Farther to the west, beyond the marketplace, Evren caught sight of towering buildings that bore a strong resemblance to the temples of the Thirteen in Vothmot, Malandria, and Voramis. The architecture and decorative flourishes differed from city to city, but there was no mistaking the lofty grandeur of a building erected to worship one of the gods of Einan.

  Evren’s heart leapt as he found an empty stall—four brick pillars supporting a terracotta tile roof, with a stone counter at the front. That’ll do nicely.

  He pulled his wagon into the small space next to the stall and set about unloading his grain. Hailen tried to help, but the eleven year old wasn’t yet strong enough to lift the eighty-pound sacks.

  Evren had just dropped the second sack of grain onto the counter when an angry voice echoed behind him.

  “Hey! That place is not yours to claim, lowborn.”

  Evren turned to find a man stalking toward him.
Anger blazed in the man’s dark eyes, and his three chins wobbled in time with his belly, which drooped disgustingly low over the hem of his white-and-blue skirt. A golden headband soaked with sweat encircled his heavy forehead.

  “What’s that, now?” Evren cocked an eyebrow at the man. “What did you just call me?”

  “Silence, Kabili!” The fat man drew himself up to his full height. “Your kind has no place in this market. This space is reserved for my enterprises. You cannot simply install yourself here, among your betters.” He waved a pudgy finger at Evren’s face. “I will be gracious enough to allow you to move your cart and get out of here. If not, I will be forced to summon the Indomitables to haul you away.”

  Evren’s gut tightened. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” A part of him knew he was only making trouble for himself, but he had no desire to put up with this arrogant prick’s tirade.

  “Do not speak to your betters with such disrespect, Kabili!” The man raised a hand to slap him.

  Evren’s instincts, honed over years of bareknuckle boxing in the Master’s Temple in Vothmot, kicked in before he realized it. He smacked aside the open-handed blow with contemptuous ease and brought his right hand around for a powerful cross punch right into the man’s jaw.

  The fat man reeled like a drunken sailor, hand clapped to his face. “You dare?!” His eyes flew wide as his round face purpled in anger. “You dare strike a Dhukari, slave?”

  “I’m no slave,” Evren spat back.

  “Bareheaded wretch!” The man glared at Evren. “I will have you whipped in Murder Square as a lesson for any of you accursed Kabili that raises a hand to your betters.”

  Evren’s gut clenched as he saw the flat-topped, spike-rimmed helms of a guard patrol moving through the crowd. Keeper’s teeth!

  The fat man saw them, too, and his eyes lit up. “Guards!” he shouted, his voice plaintive and shrill. “Guards! Arrest this slave for—”

  Evren leapt forward and drove his fist into the man’s face. The fat man sagged on wobbling legs and hit the ground with a jarring thump.

  Evren whirled toward Hailen and held out a hand. “We need to go, now!” The fat man’s plaintive cries had attracted the guards’ attention.

  Hailen jumped down and seized his hand. “Where?”

  “Away from here!” Without hesitation, Evren darted into the crowd, dragging Hailen along behind him.

  Years as a thief had trained Evren to slip through even the thickest throng with the speed of a serpent. The black-armored soldiers were coming from the west, but Evren knew the best way out of the marketplace was to the east. He ducked under a hanging roof, darted between stalls, and slithered around the press of people. The guards’ shouts echoed behind him, but he left the armored men in the dust in seconds.

  He just had to get out of the marketplace and back onto Trader’s Way. From there, he’d have plenty of escape routes to choose from: up, down, or farther west.

  To his dismay, another patrol was marching up from the Cultivator’s Tier below. More guards stood at the entrance to the higher tier. No chance he’d have time to talk his way through those soldiers before his pursuers caught up.

  His only way out was east, through the artisans’ marketplace. He just had to avoid the jewelry stands with their sharp-eyed guards. Gripping Hailen’s hand, he raced across Trader’s Way and dove into the bustling traffic.

  With Hailen in tow, he darted through the press of people, ducked beneath stall awnings, and squeezed through narrow gaps in the shops. He still retained the quick reflexes that had kept him alive on the streets of Vothmot, but his training with the Hunter had broadened his shoulders to the point that he found himself bowling people aside rather than slithering through them. That only made things worse; the shouts of angry, jostled shoppers would call the guards’ attention.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder and cursed as he spotted the spiked, flat-topped helms bobbing along behind him. He’d gained a few paces on the guards but he was a long way from outrunning them.

  As he ran, he snatched a handful of scarves from the stalls he passed—a green one for Hailen, and red, blue, and brown for him. The guards were searching for a two bare-headed youths, but the headbands would give them cover. He just had to get Hailen out of sight long enough for the commotion to die down.

  Luck turned against him as he snatched a white headband. “Thief!” the stall’s owner shouted. “Runaway slave!”

  Evren’s heart sank. No way I can go back through there now. He’d just have to keep running farther west until he could find someplace to hole up.

  He burst free of the press of people crowding the marketplace and raced up the broad avenue that spanned the longitude of Shalandra. An intersection stood twenty paces ahead, opening up onto a row of grain mills to the north and lumber mills to the south. Wood and wheat dust thickened the air as Evren ran past, but he could see nowhere to hide from the pursuing guards.

  At the next intersection, the stink of potash and other foul tanning chemicals twisted Evren’s nose and set his stomach churning. He raced on without hesitation. If he got that reek on him, the guards would be able to find him just by smelling him.

  The third intersection offered him hope of concealment. The clangor of hammers and the reek of burning metal hung heavy. Smithies and forges always had darkened corners and storage rooms where a pair of fleeing thieves could hide.

  “This way!” He hauled Hailen down the side street that led north.

  He scanned the forges as he ran. The blacksmiths paid him no heed, but he had little doubt they’d raise a fuss if he entered their premises. To his horror, he saw the northern edge of the tier—a solid stone wall that rose nearly a hundred feet—looming closer. He was running out of somewhere to run, so he had to find a place to hide.

  His heart leapt as he saw a brick wall a few dozen paces up the road. He had no idea what lay beyond, but the wall was short enough for him to scramble over yet tall enough to provide him concealment from his pursuers. Without hesitation, he raced toward it.

  “Here!” He helped Hailen scramble up onto the wall, then pulled himself up after the younger boy. Relief flooded him as he saw an open expanse of dirt—some sort of courtyard, he guessed—at the rear of a smithy. Heart hammering, Evren tried to control his breathing as he listened for any signs of pursuit. If the guards had spotted them leaping over the wall, they’d be in trouble. He could only hope they’d been fast enough.

  Something sharp pressed into his back, just between the discs of his spine. “Make any sudden moves,” said a low, cold voice, “and you’ll never walk again.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kodyn had to admit Shalandra was as breathtaking as Briana had said.

  From the massive stone wall surrounding the city to the monolithic buildings of the uppermost tiers, it radiated a golden brilliance in the morning light. The towering cliffs to the east and west and the broad expanse of green pasture and wheat-heavy farmlands to the south served to frame the city’s beauty.

  Since they’d passed the shalanite mines hours earlier, Kodyn had felt the nervous excitement mounting within him. The reality of his situation had begun sinking in: he was about to enter a new, unfamiliar city, with no one but himself and Aisha to count on. He’d come hoping to do the impossible—steal the Crown of the Pharus and bring down the Gatherers that had kidnapped Briana—and now the scope of his task settled in his mind.

  To prevent himself from feeling overwhelmed, he focused on studying the people flowing past him. Most wore simple skirt-like garments and tight-fitting dresses—shendyts and kalasiris—made of linen, wool, and cloth, but he’d seen more than a few people clad in elegant robes dyed bright blue, red, green, and black, threaded through with gold and silver strands. These were conveyed around on covered litters, boxes suspended from wooden poles carried by servants wearing simple clothing. According to Briana, their ornate gold headbands and headdresses marked them as Dhukari, the Shalandran equivalent of the nobility.r />
  Briana had also schooled him and Aisha on the basics of life in Shalandra. Control of the city was divided in two—Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres was the monarch and the final authority on all things legislative and judicial, while Callista Vinaus, the Lady of Blades, served as the second ruler, commander of the Shalandran armed forces, the Indomitables that doubled as their army in times of war and law enforcement in time of peace.

  The true power in Shalandra was the Keeper’s Council—the six most powerful priests of the Necroseti, the servants of the Long Keeper, and Briana’s father, Arch-Guardian Suroth of the Secret Keepers. The Keeper’s Council propped the Pharus up as their figurehead while using their wealth and authority to manipulate the city to their whims.

  The seven castes of Shalandra lived on five tiers: the Kabili and Mahjuri on the Slave’s Tier, the Earaqi and foreigners on the Cultivator’s Tier, the Intaji and Zadii on the Artisan’s Tier, the Alqati on the Defender’s Tier, and the Dhukari on the Keeper’s Tier. Above them all, built into the highest point of the city, stood the Palace of Golden Eternity, home to the Pharus of Shalandra and the place where Kodyn would find the Crown of the Pharus. How he’d get there remained to be seen. His Undertaking began by returning Briana safely to her father’s home on the Keeper’s Tier.

  The black-armored Indomitables at the gate reminded Kodyn of the Duke’s Arbitors: a highly-trained fighting force that took its job seriously. Their spiked helmets and half-plate mail were meticulously cared for, their hooked sickle-swords well-oiled and sharpened to a razor edge.

  One of the Indomitables, a man whose helmet bore two strips of silver in the blue band emblazoned on his forehead, snapped a smart salute to Ormroth. “Welcome home, Ypertatos.”