Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Evren’s jaw dropped. Bloody hell! The man was as brazen as he was insightful. He’d managed to connect dots that Evren hadn’t even imagined existed in the first place, and somehow he’d come to the right conclusion.

  “Let me speak plainly,” Killian said. “Snarth’s one of my best Mumblers, but you took him down faster than anyone he’s sparred with. That sort of skill would be wasted on the chopping block in Murder Square or lounging in the Pharus’ dungeons. I am always on the lookout for resourceful young men to work for me, and you’re clearly more than capable of handling yourself.”

  “What does ‘work for you’ mean, exactly?” Evren’s eyes narrowed as his mind raced through a thousand different scenarios. Young boys living on the streets of Vothmot often had to resort to desperate things to avoid starvation, but he wasn’t that boy anymore.

  “Gather information to mumble into my ear,” Killian said with a wry grin. “Like all the rest of my Mumblers.”

  Evren frowned. He’d encountered more than a few self-styled thiefmasters, men who offered young boys shelter and protection in exchange for a cut of their profits. Most had been selfish, greedy bastards that cared only for their own enrichment, even at the cost of those that served them.

  Yet Killian didn’t have that conniving, self-interested look that had marked the others. Wary, certainly, and with a cunning that rivaled Kiara’s, but lacking malice. Something about the blacksmith was disarming, friendly even, though it could be simply an act.

  “I’ve shown you my cards, now it’s your turn.” Killian gestured for Evren to speak. “What have you come to Shalandra to steal?”

  Evren didn’t hesitate this time. The truth had served him well enough with Killian thus far.

  “The Blade of Hallar.”

  “The Blade—?!” Killian’s bushy eyebrows shot up but no trace of outrage showed on his face. He whistled through his teeth. “Damn, you’ve got a brass set of bollocks on you, indeed.”

  The man’s reaction came as a surprise. He’d just learned that Evren had come to steal one of the city’s oldest, holiest relics yet hadn’t batted an eyelid. If anything, he seemed impressed.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard just how impossible it is?” Killian asked. “Most secure room in the most secure building in all of Shalandra, that sort of thing?”

  Evren nodded. “It’s been mentioned.”

  “Then you know what you’re up against.” He folded hairy arms over his barrel chest. “Other, more superstitious men might balk at you stealing the Blade. Me, I’m just interested to see if you can pull it off.”

  Killian’s expression grew contemplative and he remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke in a slow voice. “Here’s my offer: I’ll find a place for you and your…brother—” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “—as a servant in the household of one of the most influential men in the city. The very man who carries the Blade of Hallar out of the Vault of Ancients for the Anointing of the Blades. It’s up to you to figure out the vault and how to get out of Shalandra safely.”

  “And how, exactly, can you pull that off?” Evren shot a pointed glance around. “Unless you’re the Pharus’ personal blacksmith, I can’t imagine you’d—”

  Killian cut him off with a chopping motion of his huge hand. “Let’s just say I have the right connections in the right places, yes?”

  It seemed hard to believe; Evren had never met any blacksmiths with any sort of clout beyond their ability to pound metal into weapons. Then again, if Killian was more than a simple smith, he certainly wouldn’t flaunt it.

  Evren narrowed his eyes. “And all you want in return is information.” He’d spent enough time around Graeme to know that the right information in the right hands could build empires as well as topple them.

  “Correct.” Killian nodded. “This certainly isn’t me doing you a favor because of any kindness of my heart.”

  Evren snorted. “Of course not.”

  “I expect you to produce information that will be of use to me,” Killian said. “The only reason I am offering you this bargain is because you have the motivation to keep up your end.” His eyes went to Hailen, his meaning plain. “You want to keep him safe. I want information. Simple as that.”

  Evren hesitated. His primary task at the moment was to ensure Hailen was out of harm’s way—he needed to have that one worry out of his mind in order to focus on his mission of stealing the Blade of Hallar. Killian’s offer certainly came with strings attached, but as long as he knew what those strings were, he could live with that deal.

  “What sort of information are you hoping I’ll gather?” he asked, more to stall for time to think than out of legitimate interest. Spying was spying, no matter what way he cut it.

  “Anything and everything you overhear. Every two days, one of my Mumblers will slip into the Keeper’s Tier and meet you someplace to collect the tidbits you’ve gleaned. You never know what will prove useful to me, so I expect you to leave nothing out. In return, you’ll have work—hard work, but preferable to living on the streets. Better still, your brother here won’t have to worry about being scooped up by the Indomitables for being out of the Foreign Quarter after dark. No Alqati would interfere with a servant of the Dhukari, especially one as powerful as the man you’ll be serving.”

  Evren frowned. The offer seems good, but is it too good?

  Experience had taught him hard lessons, especially when it came to older men that surrounded themselves with young men. He’d fled the Lecterns to escape their abuse. Was Killian the same as the Master’s Priests?

  “As for you,” Killian said with a smile, “you can pass for a Shalandran just fine. You’re almost the right color to blend in, and your accent is similar enough to ours that few will pay it much heed. A bit of kohl and crushed malachite around your eyes will have you looking like one of us in no time. With the right headband, you’ll be free to move around the streets and do whatever you need to do.”

  Evren hesitated. Throughout the conversation with Killian, Evren had watched the Mumblers moving through the smithy. He knew the signs of young men being exploited and defiled: physical bruises and injuries, quiet and withdrawn natures, indications of fear directed toward their abuser, anxiety, an instinctive submissive nature, and deep, dark shadows in the eyes that spoke of inner torment. The boys showed none of those signs—they appeared like any other children serving in a street gang or thieving crew. Hard-eyed and wary, perhaps even quick to violence like Snarth, yet nothing indicated anything inappropriate about their affiliation with Killian.

  Killian might be on the wrong side of the law, but he didn’t appear to be an evil, ruthless, or self-serving man. That alone made him someone Evren might be able to work with.

  He’d come to Shalandra for the purpose of stealing the Blade of Hallar, and now this man was offering him help—a bargain that Killian likely got the better end of, certainly, but nothing in life came free. Evren could play servant for a few days, even weeks, if it got him in a position to steal the Im’tasi weapon and get it back to the Hunter.

  Better, it gave him somewhere safe to stash Hailen until he figured out what to do with him. He wasn’t convinced the Cambionari in Shalandra were the best choice—the Hunter trusted Father Reverentus well enough with Hailen’s secret, but Evren didn’t know what manner of men called the House of Need in this city home. He wouldn’t entrust Hailen to their care until he was certain of them.

  As long as Hailen can play the part convincingly, of course. He’d have to give the boy a few pointers on being a more convincing liar. But if Hailen could play “mute servant”, they had a real shot of making this work.

  For now, Killian’s offer was his best choice. With a nod, he thrust out his hand. “Deal.”

  Killian grinned and shook. “From the moment we met five minutes ago, I told myself, ‘This is a smart one’. Glad to see you proved me right.”

  Evren stifled a derisive snort. “Who’s this man we’ll be serving?” he asked. �
�The one who’ll get me close enough to steal the sword.”

  Killian smiled. “Arch-Guardian Suroth, high priest of the Secret Keepers.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Everything ached.

  Ow. The thought slammed into Issa’s mind as a persistent throbbing in her skull dragged her back to consciousness. Even drawing breath hurt—she’d taken a pounding blow to the breastbone that sent spikes of pain radiating through her entire chest.

  Yet, as her eyes opened and she caught sight of the stern face hovering above her, she knew she would have no rest.

  “On your feet,” Tannard growled. “Your duties await.”

  Duties? Issa’s brow furrowed in confusion, her sluggish mind trying to make sense of the Invictus’ words. She hadn’t expected anything to take her away from her usual exhausting routine of training and lessons.

  She clenched her jaw against the pain as she rolled over onto her stomach. Sand filled her mouth, grinding to grit between her teeth. It was a minor irritation amidst an overwhelming barrage of the pain racing through her back, neck, shoulders, arms, and legs. As she came to her feet, the pounding in her head intensified and the world spun wildly around her. Only sheer effort of will kept her upright.

  “Get your armor and weapons and meet me at the Gate of Tombs in five minutes,” Tannard rumbled. “If you’re late, you’ll get no dinner.” The Invictus’ face was as hard as shalanite as he spun on his heel and stalked toward the front gate.

  Issa’s heart sank. No way I can limp back to my room, gear up, and get to the front gate in five minutes. The buckles on her armor alone would take her the better part of ten.

  Then she caught sight of Hykos slinking through the halls of the Citadel toward her. The Archateros kept an eye on Tannard’s retreating back and, when the Invictus had disappeared through the arched doorway, he slipped toward her. She wanted to cry out in relief and gratitude as she spotted her armor and flammard in his arms.

  “I thought you’d need this.” Hykos grinned and held out her gear. He stood in full plate armor, two-handed sword in its sheath on his back. “Figured you could use a hand after that beating.”

  Issa grimaced. “That bad, huh?” For the first time, she noticed the training field was empty, the Indomitables gone. “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Half an hour.” Hykos’ face tightened.

  “And my men?” she asked. “How bad did they get hammered?”

  Hykos shook his head. “They won’t be walking for a few days. They don’t have the Keeper’s blessing like we do.”

  “The Keeper’s blessing?” Issa asked as she struggled to pull on her armor. The movements sent pain racing through her battered body.

  “One of the marks of his favor,” Hykos explained, tapping his forehead, where he bore the circular scar identical to hers. “What could be mortal wounds for most people might not kill us in the end.”

  Issa’s eyebrows shot up. “The Long Keeper makes us immortal?”

  Hykos laughed. “Do you feel immortal right now?”

  “Not even a little.” Issa shook her head.

  “Good, because you’re not.” Hykos’ expression sobered. “Too many prototopoi have died because they waded into a fight they had no hope of winning. We heal faster than the average person. A wound that might take a week for most to recover from will have us down for five days. A shattered bone will take six weeks to heal compared to eight for any normal person. The Long Keeper will claim us one day, but until then, he expects us to serve him efficiently. Not much you can do to serve from a bed.”

  Issa’s mind raced as she dissected his words. She always had considered herself fortunate—not only had she avoided most of the injuries common to youths running around the Cultivator’s Tier streets, but on the occasions that she had been injured, she’d recovered far faster than others. Even the bruises sustained from her first beating in the training grounds had only pained her for a day or two.

  “Damn!” she breathed. “That’s going to come in handy next time Tannard decides I’ve got to face the entire cohort of Indomitables alone.”

  “Hey, from what I saw, you did pretty damned good.” Hykos clapped her on the shoulder. “Hell, if it wasn’t for Kellas and that last line, you might actually have broken through. And that runner of yours came damned close to the pennant. Next time, if Tannard doesn’t up the stakes, you’ve got a good chance of winning.”

  “So of course he’s going to make it even harder,” Issa growled. “He’s determined to make my life impossible!”

  Hykos’ eyes slid away from hers. “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “Why?” Issa’s voice rose to an angry shout. “What did I ever do to earn his ire?”

  “Nothing.” Hykos shook his head. “Way I heard it, the Invictus didn’t even know you were alive until you fought in the Crucible.”

  “So why in the bloody hell is he getting off tormenting me?” Fury bubbled up from within Issa’s chest. “Why does he want me to fail?”

  “I don’t know,” Hykos said. “But I do know that you’ve got a choice to make.”

  “A choice?” Issa cocked her head.

  Hykos smiled. “Let him win, or fight to prove that you deserve your place here as much as any of us.” He winked at her. “And, from what I’ve learned of you, I’m pretty damned certain which you’ll choose.”

  Issa tried to return his smile—she liked hearing he had confidence in her—but couldn't. Right now, with the weight of her armor and sword adding to the pain throbbing through every fiber of her being, she wanted to give Tannard the satisfaction of seeing her quit. She was too exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and banged up to continue pushing. Tannard wanted to push until she reached the end of her rope—she was getting there fast.

  “Let’s go.” Hykos’ words registered through the gloom filling her mind. “We shouldn’t keep the Invictus waiting.”

  It took all of Issa’s strength to put one foot in front of the other as she followed Hykos from the training yard toward the arched entrance to the western wing of the Citadel of Stone. A long hallway led deeper into the solid stone fortress, in the direction of the towering cliff face that served as the western boundary of Shalandra’s uppermost tier.

  The Gate of Tombs was an enormous rectangular stone archway, easily thirty feet high and twenty wide. A single wrought-iron gate stood perpetually open on its hinges—it looked as if it would take a dozen strong men to swing it closed.

  Issa’s mouth went dry as she caught sight of Tannard waiting at the Gate of Tombs. The Invictus’ face was an unreadable mask of stone and he said nothing as they approached, simply turned and stalked into the Keeper’s Crypts.

  The Keeper’s Crypts served as the final resting places for all the dead of Shalandra. Tombs, graves, and mausoleums had been carved from the very stone of Alshuruq—some estimated there were millions by now. Shalandrans were interred on the crypt that corresponded to their castes. Only the wealthiest and most powerful of Shalandra spent their eternal rest on the uppermost tier’s crypt. Intaji stonemasons spent their lives vying to be chosen by the Dhukari and Keeper’s Blades to carve the tombs on the Keeper’s Tier.

  Once, long ago, Issa had visited the crypts on the Cultivator’s Tier, and she’d marveled at the ornate scrollwork and images carved onto the simple stone coffins of the wealthier Earaqi. The artistry of Dhukari tombs stole Issa’s breath. The crypt’s ceiling rose fifty feet overhead, barely enough room for the pillared mausoleums and sarcophagi covered in gilt and silver leaf. Colorful images frescoed onto the golden sandstone walls and high-relief carvings depicted the heroic deeds of the deceased. Statues with stunningly lifelike features displayed the faces and forms of those long dead. A million precious stones twinkled like the stars in the sky, casting beams of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and brilliant white light on the solemn walls and high-arching domes.

  The oil lanterns hanging on the wall bathed the entire crypt in a golden-red light that seemed to make everything glow with a stun
ning brilliance. Yet there was no mistaking the pall of death that hung over it all. A dusty, dry scent, like corn husks left out too long to wither in the sun. Even the sweet reek of incense, left burning at the Dhukari tombs, failed to drown out the smell of desiccated flesh and bone. If anything, it only added to the funereal scents that filled the Keeper’s Crypts.

  Tannard led them a few hundred yards into the mountain before turning his steps north. Issa’s muscles ached after her beating, and even the gentle incline sent pain shooting through her body. But as she climbed, she couldn’t help noticing the way the tombs began to change. The lavishly-decorated mausoleums of the Dhukari gave way to sarcophagi that bore little ornamentation. Yet, instead of golden sandstone, these sarcophagi were made of midnight black shalanite—worth far more than all the wealth of the Dhukari. Etched into the lid of every sarcophagus was a two-handed sword with a familiar flame-shaped blade.

  The tombs of the Keeper’s Blades, Issa realized. A reverent hush gripped her; for a moment, it seemed her pain faded as she stared in awe at the final resting places of Shalandra’s elite warriors.

  “Today, you failed.” Tannard broke the eternal silence of the tombs, his voice as hard and cold as the shalanite coffins surrounding them. “Had it been real life and not some staged child’s skirmish, you would be lying in one of these.” He gestured to the nearest sarcophagus. “Read the inscription.”

  The stone coffin Tannard indicated looked new, as if someone had just been laid to rest there. She read the words etched into its lid aloud. “Kalune and Lakani, gathered to the Long Keeper’s arms.” A sad, almost pitiful inscription. She turned a curious expression on the Invictus. “Who were they?”

  “The Intaji youths who claimed the blades in the Crucible with you,” Tannard replied. “They passed the trial of steel, but failed the trial of stone.”

  Issa’s sucked in a breath, her blood running cold. They died? She’d watched the Necroseti haul away the boys on a stretcher. Their faces had been flushed red and purple, the mark of the bloodstone a burning white on their foreheads. Yet, in everything that had happened this last week, she’d forgotten about them.