Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The hours seemed to drag on as they stood guard before the Tomb of Hallar. Hykos remained solemn and silent throughout their watch, and Issa didn’t dare speak for fear of breaking some unspoken rule. Her mind filled with the gravity of Tannard’s words and his warning against her failure. The weight of her armor and the throbbing aches of her body only added to the burden resting on her shoulders.

  Finally, the next pair of Keeper’s Blades came to replace them on guard. With a silent salute, Hykos and Issa marched off down the path that descended through the tombs.

  Issa’s eyes roamed over each of the tombs she passed. The stone faces of the ancient Pharuses seemed to mock her, and the black sarcophagi of the Keeper’s Blades reminded her that she could never be as strong or unmovable as the mountain. She would always fail. It didn’t matter that the Invictus asked her to do the impossible. Issa had spent the last five years training to be stronger, better, faster, and smarter. Tannard had smacked her over the head with the truth of her own limitations and it rocked her to her core.

  Darkness had fully fallen by the time they stepped out of the tunnel and into the Citadel of Stone.

  “You okay?” Hykos’ words echoed with concern. “You’ve had a tough day, but—”

  “Don’t!” Issa growled at him. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “I’ve none to offer.” Hykos held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Just a friendly word of advice from someone who’s been where you are.”

  Issa bit back on the retort threatening to burst from her lips. “And what’s that?”

  “You only die when you quit fighting.” Hykos shrugged. “Until then, nothing but the Long Keeper himself can stop you.”

  Issa had no doubt he meant the words to be a kindness, but right now, they just rubbed her failings in her face.

  “Thanks,” she snarled. Whirling, she stalked away down the hall that led toward her room. Emotions roiled within her as she marched through the empty, bare stone corridors and into her chamber. She hurled her sword and scabbard onto her bed and nearly tore off her armor. The weight and closeness suffocated her, squeezed at her lungs with a fist of iron. Finally free of the burden, she collapsed into her bed, exhausted physically and mentally overwhelmed.

  It’s too much! The thought echoed over and over. The harsh training, the starvation and sleep loss, the endless demands on her body and mind, Invictus Tannard’s cruelty. All of it was intended to break her, and she had just about reached the point where she felt as if she’d shatter.

  She’d felt like this before; Killian had pushed her hard, training her mind and body in anticipation of the hardships inflicted upon her in the Blades. Yet though the blacksmith had been surprisingly kind—when not forcing her to work harder—he wasn’t the one that had gotten her through the ordeal.

  Issa was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming desire to see her grandparents, to feel their arms around her, to hear their soothing voices and loving words. She didn’t know if she was permitted but didn’t care. She had to do it before her new life broke her soul.

  She fled—armor and sword still on her bed—and hurried back the way she’d come. The Citadel of Stone would be locked at this time of night, but Tannard had shown her another way out.

  The entrance to the tombs stood open, and the dust and stink of death welcomed her as she hurried into the cool silence beneath the mountain. Instead of heading up the hill, however, she turned south and began the descent toward the crypts on the lower tiers.

  The tombs would be empty at this time of night, she knew. All ceremonial burials took place at sunset and sunrise. Aside from the guard patrols, few of the superstitious Shalandrans traveled the Keeper’s Crypts. None would risk tempting the Keeper’s wrath by disturbing the dead.

  Massive, ornate Dhukari tombs soon gave way to smaller, simpler tombs that belonged to the Alqati, Shalandra’s martial caste. The Indomitables were given homes on the Defender’s Tier but earned only a modest wage from the Pharus for their defense of the city. Their tombs lacked the decorative flairs and towering stature of the wealthy Dhukari. Instead, they were the same simple sarcophagi of the tombs of the Keeper’s Blades, all laid out in neat military order, though made of golden sandstone rather than the treasured shalanite. The hilts of the Indomitables’ sickle-shaped khopesh swords protruded from the top of the sarcophagi. Every warrior was buried in full armor, their blades ready to be drawn in defense of Shalandra when Hallar returned.

  Issa’s stomach did a nervous backflip as she heard the sound of booted feet. The black-armored soldiers had the honor of guarding the crypts on all but the Keeper’s Tier, and they took their task seriously. She barely had time to duck into the shadows of a sarcophagus before the troop of Indomitables marched past at a brisk pace.

  She waited until the clanking of their half-plate armor faded into the distance before letting out the breath she’d been holding. Heart hammering, she slipped quickly down the path that cut through the Alqati tombs. The next patrol would be passing in five minutes, but the Earaqi crypts were at least half an hour of downhill travel.

  The journey took nearly twice that long, given that she had to keep an eye and ear out for the patrols. Frustration mounted within her as she hid behind a small obelisk dedicated to an Adept, servant of the Swordsman, god of heroism and smithing. The obelisk, and the small forest of identical monoliths surrounding it, matched the Swordsman’s Temple on the Artisan’s Tier.

  She crept through tombs dedicated to the rest of the Venerated, priests serving the twelve lesser gods of Einan, which led to the mausoleums of the intellectual Zadii and industrial Intaji. The Intaji tombs bore the symbols of their crafts: hammer and anvil for blacksmiths, compass and ruler for architects, mallet and chisel for stonemasons, and a hundred more. The crypts, mausoleums, and sarcophagi were decorated with the same lavish artistry that the Intaji had demonstrated in life.

  The tombs on the Earaqi tier were simple: plain stone coffins and sarcophagi, few with a decorative flourish or two. Some had simple engravings on their coffins, but many were bare. Hard-working laborers could scarcely afford to eat well, much less pay an Intaji stonemason to carve a lavish tomb for them. Somewhere among this sea of stone, Issa’s parents lay to rest under the Keeper’s sleepless gaze.

  She breathed easier as she stepped out of the Keeper’s Crypts and onto the darkened streets of the Cultivator’s Tier. The night was cool, with a gentle breeze kicking up dust, but it washed away the smells of the dust and decay behind her.

  She tensed as a figure shambled out from a side street onto Commoner’s Row a short distance ahead. Her hand dropped to her belt, only for her to remember that she’d left her sword back in the Citadel of Stone.

  Yet, to her relief, the man didn’t move toward her. He didn’t even seem to see or hear her. He looked more skeleton than human, with yellowed and jaundiced skin revealing the blue tracery of veins, bulbous eyes, and a slack expression. Issa didn’t know what strong drink or opiate he’d gotten his hands on, but it had left him little more than a husk of a human.

  She ducked down a side street to avoid the man—her grandparents had warned her to be wary of anyone who appeared more dead than alive, for they had the least to lose. The back street was neat and clean, yet Issa caught sight of strange words painted onto a fresh-scrubbed brick wall.

  Child of Spirits, she read. She’d seen similar words—Child of Gold and Child of Secrets, among others—dotting the three lower tiers of Shalandra, but she’d taken care to avoid the fiery-eyed young men that always seemed to be hanging around the paintings.

  A few hundred yards up the road, she returned to Commoner’s Row and hurried through the Cultivator’s Tier toward her grandparents’ home. With every step, the burden on her shoulders grew until she feared it would overwhelm her.

  Warmth flooded her as she caught sight of the familiar squat stone building. A sudden wave of homesickness washed over her. Here, she’d been safe, loved, an
d cared for. Why had she defied her Savta and Saba and fought to join the Blades? The decision, which had seemed so right at first, now heaped mountains of misery on her head.

  Issa slipped around to the tiny garden in the back of the house and tapped softly on the rear door. Savta would be up at this time—her grandmother rarely slept more than a few hours a night. A lump rose in her throat as she heard the familiar shuffling of slippered feet, the thunk of the deadbolt being pulled cautiously open, and the creaking of the hinges Saba had forgotten to oil for the tenth year in a row. Golden light spilled over Issa, framing the silver-haired figure in the doorway.

  “Issa?”

  At Savta’s voice, the dam of emotions within Issa’s chest burst. The fragments of her confidence, held together by nothing more than her iron will, shattered beneath the burden of her shame, misery, and the pain coursing through her body. Her legs seemed to sag and she almost collapsed onto her grandmother. Savta’s arms wrapped around her and held her tight, so warm and comforting.

  Issa broke down. “I can’t,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I tried, Savta, but I can’t!”

  “Peace, nechda.” Savta’s voice soothed her. “You are safe here.”

  A long minute passed as her grandmother cradled her, until Issa’s tears dried up. The weight of her failure and exhaustion dragged at her limbs, and it took all her strength to stay upright as Savta led her to the table. She dropped into a chair—the same chair where she’d shared every meal with her grandparents for the last seventeen years—and buried her face in her hands.

  “What is the matter, nechda?” Aleema’s hand rested atop Issa’s shoulder. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s too much, Savta.” Issa’s words came out in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve given all I have and it’s not enough.”

  “Nonsense.” Her grandmother’s voice was calm, comforting. “You are the strongest person your Saba and I have ever known. There is nothing you cannot do.”

  “But there is!” Issa lifted her tear-stained face to her grandmother. “The Invictus, Tannard, he asks the impossible, then beats me when I fail.”

  The word elicited a strange reaction from Aleema. Her face tightened, the wrinkles in her aged face freezing in a featureless mask, and something dark glimmered in her eyes. “This Invictus, Tannard, he is the one training you?”

  Issa nodded. “He is cruel, harsh, and no matter what I do, he always stacks the odds against me so I fail.” She realized how petulant she sounded—like a spoiled child stamping her foot because she didn’t get her way—but at that moment, she just needed someone to understand her pain.

  “But, nechda, you’ve always known it would be difficult to become a Keeper’s Blade.” Aleema’s eyes fixed her with a gaze at once compassionate and stern. “Was that not what drove you in the first place?”

  “Yes, but…” Issa found herself at a loss for words. She had known that her chances of becoming a Blade bordered on impossible, but she’d driven on anyway. To her, that impossibility was the most appealing thing about it.

  Aleema gave her a soft smile. “When you were young, barely five years old, your Saba and I would take you to an olive grove just outside the city. There was one tree, little more than a stump with a few low branches, that you were determined to climb. Time and again you fell from the tree, sometimes so hard we worried you had hurt yourself. But every time, you bounced up, that stubborn look on your face, and ran at the tree again. We tried to help you, even tried to stop you, but you refused to give up. Do you remember what happened the day after your sixth nameday?”

  Issa shook her head. She had little more than a faint memory: bright sunlight dappled through tree branches, the crunch of dried leaves underfoot, and the comforting presence of her grandparents.

  “You climbed the tree, nechda.” Aleema placed a hand on Issa’s. “You sat on the highest branch in the tree, looking like the Pharus perched on his throne. You had triumphed finally, after all that effort. Then you did the one thing neither of us expected.”

  “What?” Issa asked.

  “You set about climbing another tree.” Aleema’s eyes brightened, a broad smile on her beautiful face. “That is how you have always been, Granddaughter. Stubborn as a farmer’s mule, yet as unstoppable as a runaway bull.” She grasped Issa’s hands in hers. “Nothing can stop you, nechda. The only one who can stop you is you. You only fail when you stop fighting.”

  Issa’s eyes widened. Hykos had said almost exactly that same thing hours earlier. Yet, hearing them from her grandmother now drove the point home. Issa’s burden didn’t lighten, but she felt her resolve hardening, her spirit growing stronger to bear the weight. The love in her Savta’s eyes and the smile on her face reminded Issa who she was.

  “You’re right.” She straightened, scrubbed her cheeks, and squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “I am the way I am because you and Saba taught me to be this way. You would not back down from this, so neither will I.”

  Aleema chuckled. “Do not blame your hardheadedness on me. That’s all your Saba’s fault.”

  As if on cue, a loud snore echoed from the double-sized cot. Issa and Aleema giggled together, and suddenly the weight on Issa’s shoulders seemed to dissipate. She had needed to see her grandparents—she’d thought she wanted their commiseration, but that was a childish expectation. In truth, she had simply needed to hear the truth from someone she loved.

  “Thank you, Savta!” Issa threw her arms around her grandmother. “Truly, thank you.”

  Aleema returned the embrace. “Of course, nechda. You may become the bravest, strongest Blade in the Keeper’s army, but we will always be here to remind you where you come from.” She pulled away and fixed Issa with a somber stare. “You are the daughter of greatness, and no matter what happens, know that you are always loved.”

  Issa felt a tear slip down her cheek—of joy, this time, mingled with gratitude. The Long Keeper had chosen well to give her such wonderful grandparents.

  “Now, off with you!” Aleema’s tone suddenly grew bossy, insistent—the grandmother Issa remembered. “Get back to the Citadel of Stone before anyone discovers you are missing.”

  “Yes, Savta.” Issa ducked her head, feeling like a ten-year-old child again.

  “But first, take one of these.” Her grandmother bustled into the kitchens and returned a moment later with a small, sticky ball made of tiger nuts, honey, chopped dates, and seasoned liberally with cinnamon.

  “A tiger nut sweet?” Issa’s eyes widened.

  “Your favorite.” Aleema beamed as Issa devoured the treat. “You’re looking positively starved. Aren’t they feeding you properly up there?”

  “Not really,” Issa said through a mouthful of sweetness.

  “Well, they’d better start!” Aleema’s eyes flashed, and she waved a finger at Issa. “Else I might have to come up there and—”

  “Oh, look at the time.” Issa grinned and stood. “You’re right, I do need to get going.” She threw her arms around her grandmother and pressed a kiss to the top of the old woman’s head. “Thank you, Savta.”

  “Always, nechda.” She pulled free and beamed up at Issa. “Go with the Long Keeper’s blessing and our love.”

  A bright smile stretched Issa’s lips as she slipped out the back door and into the Shalandran night. She’d come here burdened down and now left light as a feather.

  Savta was right, she thought. Impossible’s exactly what I specialize in. The harder the better.

  She had no doubt Tannard would throw more challenges at her tomorrow—and every day for the rest of her training. So be it. The visit had reawakened her determination. Let him do his worst. I will not break.

  Her step was lighter, the burden lifted from her shoulder as she hurried through the empty, darkened back streets toward the Keeper’s Crypts. She’d rather avoid a run-in with the Indomitable patrols; they’d want to know what business an Earaqi girl like her had away from home at this hour.

  She had j
ust turned down the side street that led back to Cultivator’s Row and the entrance to the Keeper’s Crypts when the sound of sandaled feet sliding on stone caught her attention. Heart in her throat, Issa ducked into the shadows of a building and out of sight an instant before dark, cloaked figures appeared around a bend in the broad avenue.

  Peering out, Issa caught a glimpse of light from a shuttered lantern held. The thin beam of light didn’t illuminate the figures’ faces, but it shone on the arm of the man that carried it—and on the strange tattoo inked into the forearm: a crescent moon and star set in the middle of a circle, with two right-angled lines connected.

  Issa pressed her back against the sandstone wall as the men reached her hiding place, then passed without a sideways glance at her. The seconds seemed to drag on until the sound of shuffling feet faded into the distance and Issa could finally release the tension in her muscles.

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. Did they just come from the tombs?

  The Keeper’s Crypts should be empty at this time of night. The Indomitables patrolled the tombs more out of reverence and tradition than any real need; no Shalandran dared profane the sacred resting place of their dead.

  The men could have come from any of the decrepit, abandoned buildings bordering the western cliff. Only the most desperate Mahjuri on the Slave’s Tier dared live that close to the Keeper’s Crypts. The Earaqi refused to live within the shadow of the cliff, so the squat stone homes ought to be empty.

  So did they come from the tombs? If so, what were they doing in there?

  The question followed Issa as she entered the Keeper’s Crypts and made her way back up toward the Keeper’s Tier. She was so busy mulling it over that she nearly ran into a patrol of black-armored soldiers. Only the Keeper’s luck and her training saved her; she ducked out of sight behind a Zadii bookkeeper’s ledger-shaped headstone barely in time to avoid being spotted.

  That snapped her back to her surroundings. If she wanted to reach the Gate of Tombs and get into the Citadel of Stone unnoticed, she’d have to pay more attention.