Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  The murderer had emblazoned the words onto the wall behind Kellas, painted in the murdered Blade’s blood.

  A fist of iron squeezed Issa’s heart and her mind reeled. How could this happen?

  It seemed impossible to even consider. Kellas was a Keeper’s Blade, blessed by the Long Keeper himself, a strong and competent swordsman. Issa hadn’t liked him—his hauteur and scorn of her lower caste had more than earned her ire—yet she could recognize his skill as a warrior despite his prototopoi status.

  Sheer horror rooted her in place. If the Gatherers can do this to one of us, what else are they capable of?

  The Gatherers had already invaded the Palace of Golden Eternity, attempted to assassinate the Pharus and the Keeper’s Council, slain Arch-Guardian Suroth, and attacked the Artisan’s Tier in an attempt to capture Briana, the Arch-Guardian’s daughter. Issa had dared to believe her raid into the Keeper’s Crypts had eradicated the last of the cultists. The grisly sight before her proved that the death worshippers were far from defeated.

  A terrible thought sent a shiver down her spine. What if they did this in retaliation for my attacking their hideout? She had been the one to lead a small company of Indomitables into the tombs to attack the Gatherers’ sanctuary. Is Kellas dead because of me? She’d loathed the Dhukari and when the chance had come to take out her frustrations on him in the training yard, she’d relished every moment. Yet never had she wanted him dead. Not like this.

  “Prototopoi!”

  A sharp command pierced Issa’s chilly stupor. She blinked, swallowed the acid surging into her throat, and turned toward the speaker.

  “Keep the crowd back!” Callista Vinaus, Lady of Blades, the highest-ranked military officer in Shalandra, shouted at her. The commander’s strong features were hard but a fire of fury blazed in her eyes. “Now!”

  The authority in Lady Callista’s voice snapped Issa back to reality. Sensation flooded her limbs and she sucked in a shuddering breath. The roar of the crowd washed over her, nearly deafening her. People shouted, wept, or hurled curses. A few openly cheered.

  Fear sent adrenaline racing through Issa’s muscles and spurred her to action. She raced to join Invictus Tannard and the other Keeper’s Blades forming a solid wall of black steel, flesh, and grim-eyed determination between the crucified body and the surging, seething crowd. None of the ten Blades had drawn swords, yet one look at the anger and hatred in the eyes of the wretched Mahjuri swarming around them told Issa that the situation could grow dire. The crowd could turn into a raging mob in a heartbeat.

  Issa risked a glance over her shoulder and found Lady Callista leaping onto the platform and striding toward the body on the cross. The Lady of Blades closed a mailed fist around the nail driven into Kellas’ right wrist and tore it free with a mighty wrench. A second Blade supported the Dhukari’s limp body as Lady Callista ripped out the three remaining nails.

  The roar of the crowd swelled, the animosity thick as a storm cloud that filled Murder Square with an almost tangible tension. Lean, ragged figures in black headbands of tattered cloth and fraying rope glared at the heavily-armored figures arrayed before them. Issa felt a hundred eyes hurling menacing looks her way.

  “Death to the Dhukari!” called a voice from the throng.

  “SILENCE!” Lady Callista’s voice boomed out like a thunderclap above the voice of the crowd. The woman had turned away from the Blade’s body and now faced the multitude. The command in her voice had an instantaneous effect. The voices of the crowd dimmed to a low hush, fearful and reverent in the face of the Lady of Blades.

  “This man was Dhukari,” Lady Callista shouted, thrusting a finger at Kellas’ corpse, “yet he was also a servant of the Long Keeper. He swore oaths to protect the city of Shalandra—each and every one of you—until his final breath. And this is how you repay that vow? You scorn his corpse, mock his death?” A storm of fury cracked her usually stoic mask. “Have you no shame?!”

  Issa could feel the rage emanating from the woman, and the forcefulness of Lady Callista’s presence humbled her. This was no highborn gentlewoman navigating the cesspool of Dhukari politics. The Lady of Blades that stood there was a beast of battle and blood, a force of nature, an authority so imperious and imposing that the crowd fell silent beneath her furious glare.

  “The Keeper’s Blades are your shields against darkness and danger!” Lady Callista’s eyes drove burning daggers into every man and woman in the throng. “Remember that next time you open your mouth to cheer at the sight of this desecration.”

  The ragged, gaunt-cheeked Mahjuri actually exchanged glances, the shame burning in their eyes. An all-consuming silence descended over Murder Square—not so much as a child’s cry or the shuffling of sandaled feet broke the stillness.

  “And to the evildoers out there, heed this warning.” Lady Callista raised her voice until it seemed to ring off the golden sandstone walls. “You have raised your hand against the Keeper’s chosen. We are coming for you. We will find you. And when we do, you will give answer to the Long Keeper for your crimes against one of his servants.”

  With a nod to the Blade that carried Kellas’ body, the Lady of Blades descended from the execution platform and strode toward the crowd.

  Tension coiled Issa’s muscles into knots. Lady Callista’s speech had shamed the Mahjuri but hadn’t dulled the fire burning in their eyes. Just days earlier, an innocent man had been beheaded on this very platform, all because the Indomitables needed to blame someone for the desecration of a statue of Hallar.

  Issa held her breath. One wrong word, one tiny action would be all it took to set fire to the kindling of the Mahjuri’s anger—anger at being mistreated, deprived of food and water, condemned to a life of poverty and misery.

  Yet the crowd parted in silence before the Lady of Blades, opening a path to the Way of Chains. A few white-haired Mahjuri even bowed their heads and closed their eyes as the Blades bore Kellas’ broken, bloodied corpse away from Murder Square. The only sound to break the stillness was the tromp, tromp of heavy boots as Invictus Tannard, Issa, and the other Keeper’s Blades formed ranks behind their commanding officer and their fallen comrade.

  * * *

  An hour had passed in silent vigil, and still Issa couldn’t shake the memory of Kellas’ face. Pale, his features slack, all traces of the man he’d once been—proud, domineering, calculating, and confident—washed away by death.

  Everywhere she looked, she could see that face etched into the blank stone walls of the Secret Keeper’s temple. She doubted she would erase that memory anytime soon.

  Issa glanced to the figures beside her. Lady Callista had insisted that Issa and Invictus Tannard were to be permitted entrance into the Temple of Whispers, to carry Kellas’ body to the Secret Keepers for examination. Tannard’s face had grown even harder than usual, his expressionless features hardening into a cold, stony mask. He said nothing, simply waited in silence for his commander to speak.

  The three of them straightened as one sandstone wall slid open—no door or seam she could see, but such was the mystery of the Temple of Whispers—and a trio of brown-robed Secret Keepers emerged. At the fore of the group strode a short, round man. His white Zadii headband made his shaven and waxed head appear a perfect oval shape, with only a single braided lock of hair hanging down his back. Behind him came two women, one with dark purple hair and eyeliner to match, the other with a hatchet-face drawn into permanent lines of displeasure.

  “What has your examination uncovered?” Lady Callista asked.

  Without a word, the foremost Secret Keeper handed the Lady of Blades a parchment. Lady Callista took it, and her face grew harder as she read its contents.

  “You’re certain?” she demanded.

  The bald man nodded and reached out a pudgy finger, tapping on a few lines scrawled onto the papyrus.

  A low growl emitted from Lady Callista’s throat as she studied the scroll one last time. “Thank you,” she said to the rotund priest. “If y
ou find anything else, you will let me know at once.”

  The Secret Keeper’s fingers moved in a series of gestures, and he bowed.

  Lady Callista narrowed her eyes. “And when this matter is complete, Ennolar, we will have words about your replacing the Arch-Guardian on the Keeper’s Council. Your standing amongst the Venerated makes you best-suited to take Suroth’s place.”

  The bald man’s florid face froze, his expression growing unreadable, his spine rigid as the stone walls surrounding them.

  “The Anointing of the Blades is two weeks away,” the Lady of Blades said. “Despite the Necroseti’s recent attempt to set up one of their own as the final Councilor, there must be a Secret Keeper. You are the only ones who know the secrets of the Vault of Ancients and the rituals of the Anointing.”

  The priest, Ennolar, hesitated a long moment before bowing. The other two Secret Keepers mirrored his obeisance. In near-perfect unison, the three turned and strode from the room.

  Silence hung in the room as the wall slid shut behind the departing priests. Tannard’s rumbling voice shattered the tense stillness. “Tell me.”

  Lady Callista’s jaw muscles worked and the fires of rage burned in her eyes as she turned to face Issa and the Invictus. “Poison.”

  The single word punched into Issa’s stomach with the force of a charging ox. Somehow, it made the Dhukari’s death even worse. Not the glorious end in battle of a warrior, but cold-blooded murder plotted by a coward.

  Tannard took the parchment from Lady Callista and read it in silence.

  “The Secret Keepers found traces of Crimson Deathcap poison in his organs.” Lady Callista’s face darkened. “Or, the liquefied sludge that remained. The only mercy is that he died before they crucified him.”

  The Invictus held the scroll out to Issa. “Read it.”

  A tremor ran through Issa’s hands as she took the scroll. The words written there seemed to blur, her eyes refusing to focus. Only a few words—words like “seizures”, “loss of muscle control”, “paralysis”, and “total organ failure”—registered in her mind.

  It felt so strange to see such a cold, analytical dissection of a human being—not just anyone, but one that had been alive mere hours earlier. To think of Kellas dying this gruesome death, his body dissolving from the inside out, killing him despite the Keeper’s Blessing, sent a shiver of revulsion down Issa’s spine.

  “What are your orders, Proxenos?” Tannard’s voice had gone cold, emotionless.

  “Bring him to the Citadel.” Lady Callista’s shoulders seemed to droop beneath a great burden, and her expression grew solemn. “We will commit him to the Keeper’s Crypts at sundown. He deserves the final honor of joining the ranks of Blades guarding Hallar’s final resting place.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Tannard bowed.

  “And once he is laid to rest, we will find those responsible.” Lady Callista’s mailed fist clenched so hard her gauntlets creaked. A fire as hot and bright as Dalmisa’s volcanic heart burned in her eyes. “By the Faces of Justice and Vengeance, we will make them pay!”

  Chapter Two

  Evren thought he’d vomit as he stared down at the corpse on the floor of Killian’s forge. Beneath the ragged clothing and the thick layer of dirt, blue blisters dotted the boy’s skin, oozing noxious pus. The same sickly blue crept up the veins of his neck and turned his pale, slack-featured face a hideous color.

  Shock paralyzed Evren for a long heartbeat. He gaped at the youth—the Azure Rot had claimed the boy before his eyes.

  “Keeper’s beard!” Killian’s gasp echoed beside him.

  Three small figures darkened the door of the smithy, casting shadows across the metal shaving-strewn floor. Three young Mumblers, around the same age as the victim on the floor, stopped dead, their faces going as pale as their lifeless comrade.

  “Stay back!” Evren shouted. “Don’t get near him!”

  The three froze, and their eyes widened in panicked horror as they caught sight of the body on the floor.

  “Destes, get to the Hall of the Cruori and summon a Trouvere!” Killian barked an order. “Kellin, Benem, spread the word among the other Mumblers that they’re to stay away from the smithy until the Bloody Minstrel’s priests have hauled Undon away.”

  For a moment, shock and horror held the boys petrified.

  “Now!” Killian roared.

  The shout snapped the Mumblers from their stupor. They nearly collapsed over each other in their hurry to race out of the smithy—to obey Killian’s order or escape the sight of their dead comrade, it didn’t matter.

  Evren turned to Killian. The blacksmith’s bronzed face had gone pale, his brow furrowed as he moved toward the corpse.

  “No!” Evren seized the man’s huge wrist and hauled him back mid-step.

  Killian rounded on him and tried to tug his hand free. “I need to see—”

  “No!” Evren refused to release his grip. “If you get too close, the miasma released by the body could get you, too.” He was no Ministrant or Trouvere, but he’d learned of what the Lecterns called “miasmatic theory” during his years in the Master’s Temple. Every corpse released noxious vapors, or a miasma, that spread disease. “One breath and you’ll wind up dead like him!”

  Killian growled but made no move to approach the body. After a moment, he shook off Evren’s hand and limped toward the door without a word.

  “Where are you going?” Evren called.

  “It’s none of your concern,” Killian responded without looking back.

  Evren leapt forward and interposed himself in the doorway. “You’re going to the Slave’s Tier, aren’t you? To the safe house that he just came from?” He thrust a finger toward the body in the middle of the smithy.

  Killian’s expression hardened. “I need to see the others for myself.”

  “Are you insane?” Evren demanded. “You want to go toward the sickness?”

  “They are my Mumblers!” Fury burned in Killian’s dark eyes. “I swore to protect them, just as they swore their loyalty to help me. I owe it to them to at least try!”

  The man’s words added fuel to the fire of Evren’s curiosity. Who the hell is Killian, really? The question had plagued him since the encounter with Issa, the Keeper’s Blade that had fought beside them to rescue Killian from the clutches of the Ybrazhe Syndicate. Issa and Killian had recognized each other, and there had been a real spark of familiarity, even friendship between the young Blade and the middle-aged blacksmith.

  Then there was the matter of his fighting skills. When trapped by the Ybrazhe, Killian had removed the brace supporting his lame left leg and used it to form a strange triple staff—a weapon he’d wielded with impressive skill.

  Now, he revealed another trait uncommon among other self-styled thiefmasters Evren had met over his hard years on the streets of Vothmot. He had a sort of innate nobility, a devotion to those loyal to him that exceeded that of a master to his underlings. The worry in his eyes revealed genuine interest in his Mumblers, similar to how commanders worried about their trusted soldiers.

  Just one more layer to the enigma.

  Yet now wasn’t the time to worry about Killian. They had more important things to deal with—like the matter of dead and dying Mumblers.

  “Fine,” Evren said, but he made no move to step out of the doorway. “But I’m going with you.”

  Killian’s expression darkened, and for a moment Evren feared the blacksmith might simply barrel through him. The man was twice his weight, half a hand taller, and far broader in the shoulders, with arms and hands heavy with muscle.

  Yet Evren wouldn’t be cowed. He met the man’s anger with calm defiance. “We’re partners, Killian. That means we’re in this together. If your people are suffering, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  The sight of the boy on the floor had sent his mind racing toward Daver, the young apprentice that had escaped the Master’s Temple with him. Daver had been weaker and smaller than Evren, defenseless agai
nst the threats facing him in the Temple and on the streets. Evren had fought to protect Daver—he’d damned well do the same for these youths, who had no one but Killian to look out for them.

  After a moment, Killian threw up his hands. “Fine, just get the fiery hell out of my way!”

  With a nod, Evren stepped out of the way. “Let’s go.”

  Scowling, Killian stomped from the forge. Evren fell in beside him, his pace matching the blacksmith’s limping gait easily. He didn’t bother trying to engage the man in conversation—the storm in Killian’s eyes and the permanent glower told Evren exactly what he was thinking. He worried for his Mumblers, and with good reason.

  A handful of Mumblers shadowed them down Smith’s Alley, west along the Artificer’s Courseway, and through Industry Square. By the time they turned south to descend Trader’s Way, nearly fifteen of the young boys tailed them. None approached—word of Undon’s demise must have spread among them like wildfire.

  Killian’s limp made for slow progress, and the sun had just begun its descent toward the western horizon by the time they reached the Slave’s Tier. The golden afternoon brilliance made the squat, crumbling buildings appear even more weathered. Dust seemed to cover everything, washing out any trace of color and painting the lowest level of Shalandra in a pale veneer that brought to mind Undon’s face as the Azure Rot claimed him.

  Evren’s gut clenched. What will we find in the safe house? One look at Killian’s brooding expression made it clear the smith’s thoughts ran along the same vein.

  Killian stumped east along the Way of Chains, toward the section of Shalandra reserved for the Kabili slave caste. Just before reaching Auctioneer’s Square, he turned south down a side street that connected to a narrow, debris-clogged lane just short of the wall ringing Shalandra’s southernmost edge.

  The blacksmith’s steps led straight toward the door of a decrepit single-story building with collapsing stone walls, sagging thatch, and crumbling steps. No Mumblers were in sight, but Evren instinctively knew that this was the safe house.