Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  One look at her armor and the Indomitables let her through the gate without question, though they shot wary glances at Kodyn. To her relief, they said nothing, simply let them pass unstopped.

  They pounded past the Warrior’s Path, up the incline, and toward the gate that opened into the Keeper’s Tier. Her eyes drifted toward the enormous golden sandstone building that dominated the uppermost level of Shalandra. The seven spires—one for each of the Seven Faces of the Long Keeper—rose like shining fingers thrust into the clear blue sky.

  That was her destination: the Hall of the Beyond, the place where Angrak would undergo the final rituals to accept him into the Keeper’s Council. She just had to find Lady Callista before Angrak reached the temple and they could arrest the Dhukari for his complicity with the Ybrazhe—and perhaps the Gatherers—and treason for his theft of shalanite.

  Come on! Issa willed herself to run faster. We can’t be late.

  Her heart sank as she caught sight of the knot of well-dressed men, women, and children clustered around the last gate. The Indomitable officer’s words flashed through her mind. The Keeper’s Tier would be thick with Dhukari, Alqati, and any member of the lower castes that would be permitted to watch Angrak’s procession to the Hall of the Beyond. Less than half an hour remained for her to reach Lady Callista. She’d never make it if she didn’t get through these crowds.

  “Move aside!” she shouted. “Make way!” Fatigue deadened her voice and strained her lungs, yet she forced herself to keep running.

  Thankfully, the people at the gate heard her shouts. One look at her racing up toward them and they scrambled out of the way with alacrity. Yet as they reached the gate itself, the long lines of people forced them to slow. Issa shouldered her way to the front of the queue, where the Indomitables allowed her and Kodyn—on her explicit orders—to pass.

  Through the gate, the crowds thinned out enough that they could resume their mad dash. Here, Kodyn’s lack of armor made for easier progress. He could dart between walking people and dodge palanquins with an agility only possible for someone not weighed down by twenty pounds of steel. Issa’s throat grew hoarse, her voice ragged, from shouting at people to clear a path. She fought down the near-overwhelming urge to bull over those too slow to get out of her way.

  “This way!” She turned west on the Path of Gold, toward the golden sandstone temple looming in the distance. The lofty spires and towering walls drew closer with every step, yet the sun refused to slow its steady rise to the pinnacle of the sky. She could almost feel the minutes slipping by, time passing at an inexorable pace. Though her lungs begged for air and her muscles threatened to give out, she dug deep within herself and summoned one last burst of speed.

  Just in time to see a dense wall of people stretched across the broad avenue, too thick for her to charge through. The procession must have passed her, which meant these were the people marching along behind the rear of the honor guard. An honor guard that Lady Callista would lead—one of her duties as the Lady of Blades, regardless of her feelings toward the Necroseti.

  No! This wasn’t how it ended, not so close to triumph. She had an image of charging Tannard’s ranks with her Indomitables, bursting through and ringing that bell to claim her victory. Only this time, it wouldn’t be a training exercise—the fate of Shalandra depended on her reaching Lady Callista before noon.

  Roaring a wordless cry, she raced toward the packed line of people. The cheers and shouts drowned out her cries so she lowered her shoulder and drove into the ranks of well-dressed Dhukari and Alqati. Like a plow through soft earth, she sliced through the lines, knocking people aside and hurling them to the ground. A few snarled up at her—snarls that trailed off when they caught sight of her black armor and snarling lion helmet—but she had no time for apologies. All she could do was keep running, keep pressing through the ranks.

  She burst through the foremost line of people so suddenly she staggered, off-balance, and would have fallen if not for Kodyn. The young man grabbed her arm and steadied her. With a thankful nod, she took off up the street, racing along between the slow-moving honor guard of Indomitables and the cheering, shouting crowd.

  Despair dragged on her limbs as she saw Angrak at the head of the procession, less than fifty yards from the threshold of the Keeper’s Temple. Swallowing the acid that surged in her throat, Issa scanned the crowd until her eyes fell on a familiar figure. Tall, imposing, clad from head to toe in black plate mail, a huge two-handed sword on her back, Callista Vinaus strode at the head of a company of ten Keeper’s Blades just five yards behind Councilor Angrak.

  “Lady Callista!”

  The cheers of the crowd drowned out her call. She summoned every last shred of speed, one fatigue-numbed foot in front of the other, pounding along toward the front of the ranks. Kodyn followed in her wake, lending the strength of his arms and the breadth of his shoulders to clear a path.

  Closer now, just twenty yards away. Councilor Angrak’s palanquin had reached the gate of the Hall of the Beyond. In less than a minute, he’d pass through the walls. Once within the safety of the temple, he would be beyond their reach.

  Desperate, Issa tried once more. “Lady Callista!” The shout, backed by the force of her desperation, cut through the din, echoing along the street between chanting cries.

  Issa’s heart leapt as Lady Callista’s helmeted head swiveled toward her. She shoved free of the crowd and stumbled the remaining distance to the Lady of Blades.

  “My lady!” she gasped. Exhaustion dragged at her legs and she fell to one knee. “My lady.” It was all she could say, all the strength she could muster. Every ounce of strength went into staying upright when her body screamed at her to collapse. She’d pushed too hard, run too far, fought too long without food and rest.

  Yet, somehow she managed to summon the energy to pull out the glass jar and deed of property and raise them to Lady Callista. “My lady.” A final breath, then the burden on her arm diminished as the Lady of Blades took the items from her.

  “And there’s this.” Triumph shone through the runnels of sweat streaming down Kodyn’s face as he held out the two parchments.

  Lady Callista snatched the documents and studied them for a brief moment. She tore off her war mask and fixed Issa with a beaming smile. “It is enough.”

  Issa felt her strength give out, and exhaustion dragged her head low. A strong hand gripped her arm and pulled. Looking up, she found Kodyn trying to help her.

  “Come on,” he told her. “Stand up. This is your victory, too.”

  He helped her up, grunting with the effort, and supported her under one arm. Issa blinked the blur of fatigue from her vision and fixed her eyes on Lady Callista.

  Councilor Angrak’s palanquin had stopped to unload its passenger. The fat Necroseti was dismounting to cross the threshold on his own feet, as tradition demanded. Those seconds of delay cost Angrak everything.

  Lady Callista marched toward the priest, surrounded by ten Keeper’s Blades in full black armor. Five raced ahead to bar the man’s entrance into the temple while the Lady of Blades headed directly for Angrak.

  Stunned surprise and amazement rippled through the crowd of the Dhukari and Alqati lining the streets. Over the sound of their shocked mutters, Issa heard the strong, clear voice of Callista Vinaus, Lady of Blades, ring out across the Path of Gold.

  “Angrak of the Dhukari, by order of Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres, Guardian of Dawnbreaker, Chosen of Hallar, Word of Justice and Death, and Revered Servant of the Long Keeper, I hereby arrest you for treason!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The barked words came from behind Evren. He glanced over his left shoulder to find the Indomitable Dictator glowering at him.

  “I’m helping him get home.” Evren gestured to Killian, who leaned against his right side for support.

  “He’s going nowhere until he answers a few questions,” the officer snapped. He studied Killian throu
gh narrowed eyes. “Starting with why the Ybrazhe was so interested in him in the first place.”

  Evren tried to keep his expression nonchalant despite the clenching in his gut. “Does it have to be now, in his condition? Poor old man’s so banged up he can hardly walk.”

  Killian looked anything but old—he had the barrel chest, thick arms, and broad shoulders of his profession—yet he did an admirable job of appearing bedraggled. The bruises ringing his eyes, a pair of split lips, and skinned hands sold the façade well enough.

  “Sit,” growled the Dictator.

  “Dictator Lykis, yes?” Killian’s tone was calm, a pleasant smile on his face. The expression sent a shiver down Evren’s spine. He looked and sounded like the Hunter—the assassin was at his most dangerous when he appeared controlled and congenial.

  “What’s it to you?” the officer scowled.

  “Allow me to give you the only answer you need to hear right now.” Killian leaned forward and whispered something in the Dictator’s ear. No more than a few words, but it had a marked effect on the man. His jaw muscles worked and his eyes darkened, his spine going ramrod straight as Killian pulled away.

  “Of course.” The Indomitable nodded and stepped aside. “I’m certain we can find you in your smithy if we require anything else from you.”

  “Thank you, Dictator Lykis.” Killian’s bland smile widened. “And do give Executor Tuckyr my regards, won’t you?”

  The Dictator’s pale-faced silence was his only response.

  With a nod, Killian set off at a slow shuffle, wincing with every step and leaning on Evren for support. Evren grunted beneath the blacksmith’s prodigious weight but kept moving. The last thing he needed was for any of the Indomitables or the Keeper’s Blade, Etai, to start asking too many questions. Questions he had no intention of answering.

  To his relief, the Blade was busy conferring with the other Dictator and snapping orders. Though young, she seemed to handle the pressure of the situation with surprising adroitness. Evren couldn’t help wondering who she’d been before she joined the Keeper’s Blades.

  But the fleeting thought faded the moment they stepped outside. Six bodies lay on the streets—four Syndicate thugs, most likely the watchers, and two in the black half-plate armor of the Indomitables.

  “Poor bastards,” Killian muttered beside him. Evren was surprised to hear genuine sorrow in the blacksmith’s voice. It was good to know that Killian, despite his devious and scheming mind, was still a decent man at heart. Or, at least decent enough to mourn the men that had died to rescue him.

  Evren’s mind raced as he helped Killian hobble through the streets that led from Miller’s Alley to Smith’s Alley. What in the bloody hell was that with Issa? The Keeper’s Blade hadn’t just recognized the blacksmith—there had been a spark of genuine warmth between the two of them, a familiar, friendly banter only developed through frequent interaction. They know each other, and more than just a passing acquaintance. But how? And what’s the connection between the blacksmith and the Keeper’s Blade?

  Killian had waved away his earlier question; he determined he’d try again later, once the blacksmith was in a more receptive mood. Right now, Killian seemed unwilling to do anything more than get off his feet and lick his wounds.

  As they shuffled into the forge, Evren caught sight of two small boys staring at them from a three-story building on the far side of Smith’s Alley. By the time he had settled Killian into the smithy’s lone chair, the two boys had descended from their perch and slipped through the door.

  “Spread the word,” Killian told them in a quiet voice. “The Ybrazhe’s been dealt with, for now. It’s safe to come home.”

  With silent nods, the boys raced out of the forge and disappeared from view.

  “What do you mean, dealt with?” Evren’s eyes narrowed. “We took down thirty, maybe forty of the Syndicate altogether. That can’t be all of them!”

  “Not even a quarter.” Killian shook his head. “The one you killed—”

  “Annat?”

  “Aye, him.” Killian nodded, a movement that elicited a wince. “He was the leader of the Syndicate Crewmen set to expand into the Artisan’s Tier.”

  Evren’s eyes narrowed. “Just one small crew for the whole tier?” In Vothmot, the city had been divided by the local street gangs into nearly twenty different territories, each ruled by crews ranging from ten to a hundred thieves, thugs, and killers. It seemed impossible that just forty men could run a sector of Shalandra the size of the Artisan’s Tier.

  “Think of them as an expeditionary force.” Killian pressed a finger to his bloody lip, wincing. “They were set to deal with the Black Widow and, evidently, me. Maybe they thought my Mumblers might be a threat or just wanted me out of the way. But whatever the case, Annat and his crew were operating on their own here in the Artisan’s Tier, under orders from Blackfinger.”

  “Blackfinger?” Evren cocked an eyebrow. “Let me guess, he’s the top dog of the Syndicate?”

  “That’s the one.” Killian sighed and leaned back in the chair. “He runs everything, but he lets his crew leaders handle the day to day business. Which is good, because it means Annat probably didn’t tell Blackfinger everything he knew about me and my Mumblers.”

  “I sense a ‘but’,” Evren said.

  “But, the fact that Annat and his crew were wiped out by the Indomitables means the Ybrazhe are going to step up their efforts to turn the people against the soldiers.”

  Evren had seen the angry glares and muttered curses hurled at the Indomitable patrols. The Ybrazhe were clearly working overtime to stir up unrest among the lower castes.

  “And Annat’s death doesn’t mean the Artisan’s Tier is safe,” Killian continued. “Blackfinger’s just going to see it as a setback. He’ll double down on his efforts, which means next time we’ll have to deal with twice as many men.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Evren asked.

  “Do?” Killian pretended surprise at the question.

  “Yes, do.” Evren gave a derisive snort. “Don’t bother trying to pull the ‘innocent artisan’ shite on me, Killian. You and I both know that you’ve already started working on a plan to piss in the Syndicate’s porridge. So, Partner, tell me what you’re planning and maybe there’ll be something I can do to help.”

  “You want to help me?” This time the surprise was genuine. “Even though it means you’ll be going up against the Syndicate again?”

  Evren shrugged. “A punch knocks them down as well as anyone else I’ve met.”

  “And what of your quest for the Blade of Hallar?” Killian asked. “You would give that up?”

  “No.” Evren shook his head. “I’ll still keep working on that.” He shot Killian a wry grin. “But if I’ve got a few extra minutes of spare time here and there, I figured I might as well do what I can to help.”

  Truth be told, he couldn’t do much about it himself. He was counting on Briana and Hailen to decipher the riddles in Suroth’s journal before the Anointing of the Blades, just over two weeks away.

  For a moment, Killian said nothing, simply fixed him with that piercing, appraising stare of his. Evren met the man’s gaze without hesitation. He had nothing to hide, no secrets to conceal from the blacksmith. Killian knew what he wanted and what he was willing to do. In a way, that meant Killian knew him as well as anyone else in Shalandra. That made him as close to a friend as he had with Briana, Aisha, and Kodyn.

  The tension in Killian’s face relaxed. “So be it.” The smile that spread his face held genuine warmth, and he extended his hand. “We are, after all, partners, right?”

  Evren shook hard enough to make the blacksmith wince. “So, what’s the plan, then?”

  Killian stood and bustled deeper into the shadows of the forge. When he reappeared, he moved with surprising speed, appearing far less injured than he had minutes earlier. Evren couldn’t help admiring the blacksmith’s brazenness. The pained act had been nothing more than a fa
çade to dissuade the Indomitables from asking too many questions.

  Which reminded him. “What did you say to that Dictator?”

  Killian gave him a sly smile. “Secrets only hold power as long as they remain so. Which is why I keep this so well-hidden.” He set a book on the table—the proverbial “little black book” to a tee, even down to its palm-width size and the black-dyed leather cover. Opening it, he flipped through the pages, his expression musing.

  Evren tried to sneak a peek at the book’s contents but found it was written in what looked like gibberish—likely a cipher similar to that used by Arch-Guardian Suroth. In fact, it looked almost exactly like the cipher Suroth had used. So close that they could almost be identical, though it would take a Secret Keeper to tell for sure.

  Just one more mystery to add to the list. From the first time they met, Killian had proven himself an enigma. A blacksmith who recruited children to spy on the highest-ranked people in the city. A cripple who could fight with the skill of a trained warrior. An artisan that could forge masterpieces like his marvelous leg brace triple staff and the handheld crossbows hanging on the wall. A collector of secrets who had a mind and temperament like a Secret Keeper, and perhaps the knowledge of one as well.

  Curiosity burned within Evren. He desperately wanted to know the truth of Killian—who in the bloody hell was this blacksmith? Yet he knew he would only see as much as Killian allowed him to. The time might one day come when Killian told him more, but until then, all that mattered was that they understood each other.

  “Here!” Killian shot Evren a fierce grin and tapped a finger against a page of the book. “Over the years, I’ve been slowly collecting a store of information on the Ybrazhe, and Blackfinger specifically. I knew a day like today would come, and I fully intended to be prepared to deal with the Syndicate when it did.”