Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Yet instead of anger, a smile broadened the Secret Keeper’s face. “Temper like that, there’s no doubt about it. You’re the Arch-Guardian’s daughter, no doubt about it.” His expression saddened and he gave Briana a little bow. “My condolences on your father’s passing. All of us in the Temple of Whispers feel his loss keenly.”

  “Good.” Briana’s face hardened. “Then I believe the Guardians will want to hear what I have to say.”

  Again, the man bowed. “I will inform them that you have come.” He turned and, with visible effort, hauled the huge vault-like door open—again unaided by his fellow Secret Keeper—and disappeared inside.

  Briana turned to the Keeper’s Blade. “Archateros Hykos, I must ask you to remain out here while I enter the Temple of Whispers. The Secret Keepers will not permit any outsiders to gaze upon the mysteries of the Mistress.”

  Hykos’ expression grew stubborn. “My lady, I have my orders from the Pharus himself. I must remain by your side at all—”

  “Do you truly believe I will be in any danger among the priests that served my father?” Briana shook her head. “I will be safer in the Temple of Whispers than anywhere else in Shalandra.”

  Hykos looked ready to argue but, when his eyes roamed over the squat, solid stone building and enormous steel door, he seemed to reconsider. “So be it.” He nodded. “This ground is sacred to the Mistress’ priests, and I will respect their wishes.”

  “Thank you.” Briana gave him a smile—the same polite mask she’d worn when flitting among the Dhukari at her party in the Palace of Golden Eternity. “Aisha and I will return shortly.”

  “As you say.” The Keeper’s Blade drew his huge sword and settled into a guard stance before the steel door.

  Again, Aisha was struck by the absence of spirits clinging to the young man’s sword. According to Briana, his rank of Archateros meant he’d served in the Keeper’s Blades for more than four years. In all that time, has he never killed anyone? One look at his unlined face and bright, if wary eyes made that clear. He is more fortunate than most warriors.

  In Ghandia, Aisha’s mother had been a fierce warrior. She had slain many enemies on her road to becoming nassor, warrior chieftainess of the Ukuza tribe. Yet she had always maintained that the best solution was to avoid violence whenever possible. Many of the tales of her mother’s victories spoke of battles won without a single drop of blood shed—her reputation alone had often sufficed to dissuade enemies from taking up weapons against her.

  Aisha hadn’t been so fortunate. In her service to the Night Guild, she’d had no choice but to take up arms—both in her own defense and the defense of those under the protection of House Phoenix. She had made her first kill at the age of fifteen; a drunken patron had pulled a dagger on one of the fancy-ticklers that had spurned his unwanted advances. Aisha had been forced to put an end to the man to prevent him from stabbing her or anyone else in the pleasure house. The training Master Serpent and her own Master of House Phoenix diametrically opposed her mother’s worldview.

  Though Aisha had never shied from violence, she’d tried her best to live up to her mother’s words. She never sought out a fight, yet never hesitated when someone was in danger. She’d killed the Gatherers to keep Briana safe. She wouldn’t lose sleep over their deaths.

  Yet, sometimes she found herself wishing she could go back to the innocent, carefree girl she’d been on the plains of Ghandia. Laughing, racing with her younger sister among the herds of gazelles, running through the tall grasses, hunting with her mother and listening to her father speak of the Kish’aa.

  A lifetime ago. A girl that had died the day the Bloody Hand captured her and dragged her away in chains.

  She could never go back. All she could do was keep moving forward. Forward to her destiny as a Spirit Whisperer, come what may.

  The huge steel door swung open and the Secret Keeper stepped out. “Be welcome to the Mistress’ house,” his fingers said.

  Aisha followed Briana through the opening and stepped into the room. Once again, that oval-shaped alchemical glass globe in the ceiling filled the chamber with a soft illumination. To her surprise, what had been an empty, featureless room on her last visit was now filled with people: five women and three men—including the short, bald Ennolar—clad in the dull-brown robes of Secret Keepers. The eight priests sat on throne-like chairs made of the same dark grey stone as the blank walls, floor, and ceiling. Chairs that hadn’t been there the last time she’d been here, yet appeared far too heavy and ponderous for even a team of oxen to move.

  So where the hell did they come from? One more secret among the myriad guarded by the clerics of the Mistress.

  Briana bowed to the eight figures, and her fingers moved in the silent hand language. “Honored Guardians.”

  “The Mistress’ grace be with you in this trying time, young Briana, daughter of our beloved Arch-Guardian,” Ennolar replied. “Though it may be poor consolation, know that your father’s death will not go unpunished. The foul Gatherers that perpetrated this villainy will face justice.”

  “It is for that precise reason that I have come.” Briana lifted her head. “I would see the bodies of the assassins slain in the Palace of Golden Eternity.”

  One of the women spoke next. “Why do you come to us for that?” Her stern face grew more suspicious, her close-set eyes narrowing to tight slits.

  “My father always spoke of the Secret Keepers’ knowledge of the human anatomy,” Briana responded without hesitation. “Both in life and in death. He also spoke of his agreement with the Pharus, that should the need arise, the Secret Keepers would put that knowledge to use divining any secrets that could be uncovered.”

  A little smile played on Ennolar’s lips. “Indeed.” It was neither acknowledgement nor dismissal, simply a bland response to Briana’s statement.

  Aisha’s grasp of the hand language had progressed quickly enough that she could understand most of the silent conversation, though she had to guess to fill in a few gaps.

  “The Pharus is questioning the Gatherers that survived the attack,” Briana continued. “But I suspect that he has sent the bodies of the slain here to be examined with the precision and capability only possessed by the Secret Keepers.”

  “And if we are in possession of these bodies?” asked another Secret Keeper, a man with a full head of tightly-curled hair and a bushy beard to match. “You may be the Arch-Guardian’s daughter, but you are still an outsider. The Mistress’ secrets are not yours to know.”

  “I do not expect you to accept me into the order of the Secret Keepers.” Briana’s expression turned resolute. “But I do expect you to aid me in pursuit of vengeance for my father’s death. The Gatherers may have wielded the blade, but there is no doubt in my mind that the Necroseti bear an equal measure of blame.”

  “You intend to take on the Keeper’s Priests?” Ennolar’s expression grew skeptical. “Perhaps we ought to conscript you into our order, if only to keep you from throwing your life away!”

  “That would be a mistake,” Briana retorted. “With my father gone, the Necroseti do not fear me, a simple Zadii. The Gatherers have no use for me anymore. To my enemies, I am nothing more than a piece on a Nizaa board that can be ignored and abandoned.” She raised a clenched fist. “But they underestimate me and my friends. We have sworn to take them down, by any means.”

  “A noble vow, but empty without the actions to back them up,” said another, a woman with hair dyed a deep purple and thick lines of matching purple paint on her eyelids.

  “So help me back them up.” Briana turned an angry glare on each of them in turn. “You were my father’s allies, the people he trusted more than anyone in the world. You shared secrets and truths that I will never know. You were his friends, his family. If you turn me away, you dishonor his memory.”

  The eight faces grew hard. “You come to us first with pleas, then with insults?” one Secret Keeper’s florid, rotund face reddened with anger. “We respected your f
ather, but our duty is to the Mistress above all others.”

  “Then offer me what help you can!” Briana’s eyes blazed as her fingers flashed at a speed almost too fast for Aisha to follow. In that moment, she seemed to grow taller, stronger, her voice ringing with conviction and determination. “I do not ask you to break your vows to the Mistress or your oaths of service to the Temple of Whispers. But do not turn me away empty-handed. Ask yourselves this: what would my father do in your position?”

  The eight exchanged glances and though their fingers never moved, Aisha saw a silent debate raging in their eyes.

  Finally, Ennolar nodded. “So be it.” He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Briana. “For your father’s sake, we will share with you the secrets of the dead, few as they may be.”

  Briana let out a breath and seemed to deflate. “Thank you!” The tone of command had gone, replaced by relief. Once again, she was transformed into the petite, unassuming young woman Aisha had known in Praamis.

  “Do not thank us yet, daughter of secrets.” The stern-faced woman shook her head, her thin lips pressing into a tight line. “Our examination of the Gatherers’ bodies yielded little. A few hints and clues as to who they are, but nothing to indicate where they can be found. Or, at least not on the two bodies the Pharus sent us.”

  “Two?” Briana’s eyebrows shot up. “I heard there were dozens of Gatherers slain!”

  “Perhaps.” Ennolar’s lips twisted into a frown. “And we intend to request that they are all sent to us for further examination. Some of our findings may prove useful if they can be corroborated.”

  “Then tell me what you did find,” Briana said. “What can you tell me about who they are?”

  “Earaqi, both of them, judging by the contents of their stomachs,” the stern-faced woman replied.

  “Too well fed to be Kabili or Mahjuri,” put in the curly-headed Secret Keeper, “but too wasted to be Zadii or Intaji.”

  “Their clothes bore stains of hard labor, as common among the Earaqi,” Ennolar continued. “As well as dust that could only have come from the Keeper’s Crypts.”

  “Or the Serenii tunnels beneath the city,” put in the purple-haired woman.

  Ennolar frowned but inclined his head. “Which lends credence to our theory that a high-ranked Necroseti is leading the Gatherers. There are few in Shalandra that know the secrets of the Serenii tunnels outside of the Temple of Whispers. Not even the Pharus or the Lady of Blades know the full extent of the passages.”

  Aisha digested the information. The fact that the Gatherers were Earaqi meant little to her, though the revelation that the cultists might be using the Serenii tunnels explained what made them so difficult to find.

  “We have set people to combing the Serenii tunnels,” Ennolar’s fingers said, “but the network is so vast that it would take us a lifetime to examine thoroughly. I fear that, too, will prove a dead end. Without Thimara to work her art on the bodies—”

  “What?” The word burst from Aisha’s mouth with a force beyond her control. The sound echoed eerily loud in the chamber, which had remained silent save for the rustling of robes.

  She swallowed. “Who was Thimara?” At the name, the spirit within her had flared bright and hot, like an ember fanned to a glowing coal by the breath of life. The sparks of Thimara’s life danced between her fingers and set her nerves crackling with raw energy.

  Eight pairs of eyes narrowed at her, eight faces creasing in frowns of disapproval at her outburst.

  “What is she to you?” demanded Ennolar. “You could not have met her during your short time in Shalandra.”

  Aisha hesitated. She didn’t dare speak of the woman’s spirit; they would think her mad. Her mind flashed onto the names carved into the windowsill.

  “I found it written in the stone of the house where we are now staying,” Aisha signed quickly. “It seemed such a strange coincidence to hear her name.”

  Ennolar’s frown didn’t soften, yet the suspicion left his eyes. “She was one of us. A Guardian of the Secret Keepers, the ninth.” His gaze darted toward the stern-faced woman. “She succumbed to the Azure Rot despite our best efforts to treat her.”

  Aisha’s gaze was drawn to the middle-aged, thin-lipped woman with the perpetual frown. Sorrow suddenly filled the priest’s eyes, far more than had been present as they spoke of Suroth’s death. “Another of our brethren fallen,” she signed with sadness

  “We all mourn her passing, Uryan,” Ennolar said. “But she is in the Long Keeper’s arms now.”

  Aisha sucked in a quiet breath. Uryan! The second name carved into the windowsill, joined within the heart. She meant something to Thimara, which was why the spark had flared to life. She ached to press more—for Thimara’s sake as well as her own—but Ennolar continued speaking before she could raise question.

  “But without Thimara to conduct a thorough examination on the Gatherers’ bodies, we have uncovered all we can.” Ennolar’s face twisted as if the words were sour to him.

  “I thank you,” Briana said with a little bow. “For your time and the respect you have shown my father by helping me.”

  “The daughter of our Arch-Guardian will always be welcome,” Uryan said. “And, perhaps the day will come when you, too, will take up the mantle of your parents.”

  Her ominous words sent a shiver rippling down Aisha’s spine. The way she signed those words, it appeared as if she intended to give Briana no choice in the matter.

  The Secret Keepers truly would die—and kill—to protect their goddess’ secrets.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kodyn was moving even as the thug lifted his crossbow. He leapt into the shadows of the room opposite the window and ripped the sword from his sheath. The moment the bowstring twanged, he charged the bowman, blade driving forward in a low thrust.

  A meaty thwack sounded behind him just as his blade punched into the man’s gut, just above the belt. With a high-ringing cry of pain, the man fell back, crossbow falling from his hands and clattering to the ground. For an instant, his huge bulk blocked the doorway.

  That instant was all Kodyn needed.

  “Go!” he shouted to Evren as he raced toward the window. His gut clenched as he caught sight of the Black Widow slumped face-down on the floor, a dark stain spreading outward. He didn’t need to check her pulse to know she was dead—there was no mistaking the sound of a crossbow bolt driving home in flesh.

  Yet he paused as his eyes lighted on the purse in her hands. Suroth’s words echoed in his mind. “In the wrong hands, this can be used for truly terrible things.” He couldn’t let these bastards get their hands on whatever it was the Arch-Guardian had intended to give the Black Widow.

  The sound of crunching wood echoed behind him as he bent to scoop up the purse. Light flooded the room as Evren burst through the shutters and out of the window. He landed lightly on the brewery’s thatched roof and slid down the slope toward the ground.

  Kodyn followed without hesitation. He dove through the window and landed in a roll, coming to his feet in time to slide after Evren. Something flew up and past his face, close enough to ruffle his hair. He gasped—there had been an unmistakable flash of steel. As he slid down the roof, he glanced up and found a thug slumped over the windowsill, a dagger buried to the hilt in his neck.

  Eyes wide, Kodyn glanced down at Evren. The young man stood in a fighting crouch, throwing dagger still poised to throw. Kodyn dropped the one story to the street beside him, flexing his leg muscles to absorb the impact. Reflexes honed over years on the Perch and the Hawk’s Highway saved him from twisting his ankles on the shattered remains of a rotting wooden beer barrel. The moment his feet hit the ground, he took off running.

  “That way!” He thrust a finger down the back alley.

  Evren took off first. Kodyn paused only long enough to cast a glance over his shoulder. A brutish face appeared above the slumped-over corpse of the thug, dark eyes fixed on him.

  “Run!” Kodyn shouted as loud as he co
uld. “Into that alley!”

  Evren didn’t need to be told twice; even with his shorter legs, he reached the narrow street five steps ahead of Kodyn. Kodyn marveled at the young man’s speed and agility. Evren had the build of a Fox but the grace and celerity of a Serpent.

  Yet right now, running wasn’t the best plan. The assassination attempt had given them an opportunity he’d be a fool to let slide through their fingers.

  “Evren!” he hissed as they rounded the corner and ducked into another alleyway out of sight of The Banded Brothers Brewery’s rear exit. “This way!”

  Ahead of him, Evren skidded to a halt and looked back. “What are you doing?”

  “Up here!” Kodyn thrust a finger toward a nearby rooftop. “Quickly!”

  Confusion furrowed Evren’s brow. “Why hide when we can lose them in the back streets?”

  “Because we don’t want to lose them,” Kodyn insisted.

  Evren’s eyes went wide as realization dawned. Without hesitation, he raced toward Kodyn. “Give me a boost.”

  Kodyn crouched, fingers interlaced between his bent legs. When Evren stepped onto his hands, he straightened and pushed upward. A grunt escaped his lips as he shoved. Evren might be smaller than him, but the boy’s compact frame had heavy muscles.

  Evren grabbed on to the roof thatching and hauled himself up with ease, then turned and reached down a hand to Kodyn. Kodyn stepped back, took a quick running start, and vaulted off a first-floor windowsill to get enough height. His fingers closed around Evren’s wrist and he felt the young man’s grip tighten around his hand. With surprising strength, Evren hauled him upward until Kodyn could scramble onto the sloping roof beside him.

  Together, they clambered up the roof, scaled the upper ridge, and dropped onto the opposite sloping side. They lay side by side on the rooftop, gasping for breath, shielded from view.

  “What the bloody hell was that?” Evren hissed. “They killed the Black Widow!”