Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  For the first time in years, Aisha allowed herself to simply wander. Her red cloth headband marked her as Earaqi, and the hour was early enough that the Indomitables wouldn’t question her presence. She had no need to hurry back to the Temple of Whispers—Briana and Hailen would still be wrapped up in their study of Suroth’s journal. Kodyn should have returned by now, and Evren with him. Between the two of them and the army of Secret Keepers, Briana would be safe.

  And the last thing Aisha wanted was to be locked away in the gloomy, windowless stone Temple of Whispers. She needed the open sky, the cool night breeze, and the darkness. A few minutes of solitude would give her time to grapple with the burden that weighed heavily on her.

  Ahead of her, people had gathered on Commoner’s Row. Fifty or sixty young Earaqi men and women, with a few Intaji youths mingled among them, milled about, speaking in hushed whispers and casting furtive glances at Aisha as she passed.

  Yet Aisha barely saw them. The threat of the Unshackling—Inkuleko, as Imbuka had called it—loomed largest in her thoughts. If she didn’t find her way among the Kish’aa, the means of controlling the power of the spirits, her mind would shatter and lose its connection to her body. She would become that empty shell, a husk like her father.

  One path led to madness, the other to death. She faced a choice, yet had no choice at all.

  She knew what her mother would do— Naledi, warrior chieftainess of the Ukuza, would charge into battle and scream defiance into the face of her fear. Her father, the Umoyahlebe, would ponder his options and search for a logical approach, a way to understanding. Ria, her mentor and the Master of House Phoenix, would attack the problem from all sides, never relenting until she triumphed. Master Gold, Kodyn’s mother, would laugh at the danger and find a way to outmaneuver it.

  Yet none of these people that she admired stood here in her place. She wrestled with the dilemma alone. No clear way forward made itself visible, at least none she could see. Any choice could lead her down the paths to life, death, or insanity.

  What would you do? She found herself speaking to the spark of life in the pendant. You were a Secret Keeper, Thimara, a priest that had dedicated your life in service to a mission, to a god. So if you discovered that you had some great power, what would you do with it?

  An image flashed through Aisha’s mind: Thimara, sitting hunched over a table piled high with parchments, images, and instruments.

  Find answers, make a decision, the Secret Keeper’s presence seemed to say. No other way forward.

  Aisha shook her head. Easy for you to say. You knew what you had to do. You had the Guardians to tell you what path to take.

  The gift and curse of choice, Thimara replied, her voice barely above a whisper in Aisha’s mind. Freedom to go where you will, mingled with the burden of responsibility.

  There was no escaping that truth. No matter what path Aisha chose, it was her choice to make. She couldn’t lean on her father’s wisdom, her mother’s courage, or Ria’s fierce determination. She had to make a choice; hiding from reality wouldn’t solve the problem.

  So be it. Aisha’s fists clenched by her side. If the choice is mine, then I choose to embrace my destiny.

  Her father had told her she would “find her destiny in the City of the Dead”. Already, she had discovered the Whispering Lily, learned that she could master the spirits, and found the ancient Serenii pendant with its marvelous abilities. Whatever lay in store for her, whatever difficulties were ahead, she would face them as she had everything else: a grin on her lips and steel in her heart.

  Resolve hardened within her as she stalked up Trader’s Way and west along the Artificer’s Courseway toward the Temple District. Commerce Square was thankfully empty at the late hour, the streets beyond dark and quiet. Aisha welcomed the silence, the cool shadows of night. Rest would clear her head to approach the challenges that lay in her future.

  She steeled herself as she approached the Temple District. Outside the Sanctuary, hundreds of blue-white lights illuminated the darkness. The spirits of the dead clustered around the temple that had been their final resting place. As one, they turned to face her, their empty eyes locked on to her face as their cries set her head buzzing.

  Aisha clenched her jaw and reached for the pendant around her neck. The moment her fingertips brushed the stone, the low hum diminished, sharpened, and coalesced into individual voices.

  With a gasp, she released the pendant, and the droning, ringing sound flared loud in her mind. When she gripped the Serenii stone, the voices became clear once more.

  Keeper’s teeth! Aisha sucked in a breath, fingers locked around the pendant, her mind racing as the dead clamored in her thoughts. I can hear them so clearly, and without the Whispering Lily!

  The spirits surged toward her, but Aisha made no move to flee. She could face them, could control them instead of letting them control her. Somehow, this pendant around her neck seemed to amplify her innate Umoyahlebe abilities. She could almost feel the stone twitching in her grip, as if drawing the spirits toward it. Can it sense the Kish’aa like I can?

  It seemed impossible—the stone was inert, a lifeless chunk of rock brought up from the ground. Yet few people on Einan understood the full power of the Serenii, who were said to have had the ability to reshape the world as they saw fit. Had the ancient people somehow found a way to hear, see, even control the Kish’aa? Had they had the same abilities she now possessed?

  Another impossibility, but she’d seen the way the ancient artifacts responded to Hailen’s blood. The Serenii had left behind countless marvels yet to be unlocked. Was this pendant another such?

  Aisha’s mind flashed back to something Hailen had said the previous night. He’d spoken of the Serenii “magic” and the words used to activate it. “Words aren’t what matter. It’s the sounds and reverberations that cause the effect.”

  A realization slammed into her with near-physical force. What if the Serenii stone can somehow “hear” the voices of the Kish’aa?

  The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. If she could hear the cries of the spirits, perhaps the Serenii had found a way to attune this chunk of rock to the sounds and reverberations of the dead. Could that be any more implausible than a dagger that consumed human souls or an ancient city that harnessed the power of the sun?

  Suddenly, she was gripped by a burning desire to race back to the Temple of Whispers and share her thoughts with Hailen and Briana. They could help her puzzle through the mystery of this strange pendant, perhaps even find something within Suroth’s journal that could help her understand the artifact’s purpose and uses.

  Her feet fairly flew as she raced the last few hundred paces to the Temple of Whispers. Two Secret Keepers stood outside—not the same two that had been on guard when she left hours earlier—but they let her through the vault-like door without question. One led her in silence through the plain stone chamber within, opening the wall for her. Aisha hurried down the short corridor toward Briana’s room.

  The stone door had barely slid open before Aisha burst into the chamber. “Briana, I—”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her excited cries before they woke Hailen. The room was dark, the glowing gemstone dimmed to a soft blue glow. Hailen lay sleeping on one of the room’s two beds. Briana, however, was nowhere in sight.

  Aisha’s brow furrowed. Where is she? She glanced around. And where are Kodyn and Evren, for that matter? They should both have returned by now.

  She contemplated waking Hailen to find out, but the deep lines of exhaustion etched into his face stopped her. The boy had been through a great deal over the last few days. If he had found a few minutes of peace amidst the turmoil of their lives, who was she to disturb him?

  A smile tugged at her lips as she stared down at the sleeping boy. Nkanyezi would be about the same age by now. She hadn’t seen her little sister in years, perhaps never would again. Yet in some ways, this boy—along with Briana, Kodyn, Evren, and her fel
low Phoenixes of the Night Guild—had taken her family’s place. Just as she fought to protect Briana and Kodyn, she could do the same for Hailen.

  Silent as a stalking leopard, she strode toward the wall and slid to a comfortable seat in the corner. She laid her assegai across her lap and leaned her head against the cool stone. Her eyes closed of their own accord, the excitement of the previous days fading in the face of exhaustion. She would rest until Briana returned or Hailen awoke. Answers about the pendant and her powers could wait.

  Yet, as sleep dragged her deeper into its depths, a glimmer of hope settled deep within the core of her being. Her visit to Imbuka had given her more questions yet clarified her thoughts and feelings on the matter of her Umoyahlebe abilities. Come what may, she had chosen not to run, but to face the fear and fight.

  That, at least, she could do. She was her mother’s daughter, a warrior. Destiny weighed heavy on her, yet no matter how ponderous the burden, she would bear it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evren matched the Secret Keepers’ pace as they hurried west toward the Hall of Bounty. The sight of so many corpses filled him with a sense of urgency. If the Azure Rot truly was poison in some form, the death toll could climb into the hundreds, perhaps thousands, by the time they uncovered the source and ascertained the type of poison. Who knew how long it could take to formulate an antidote and spread it around Shalandra? Half the Slave’s Tier could die before they put an end to the plague!

  A long line of people formed in front of the Lower Wellspring. Men, women, and children held glass jars, wooden pails, leather skins, and anything else they could use to haul water. The crowd parted for the Secret Keepers with questioning glances.

  Dread sank like a stone in Evren’s gut as he saw the queue before the Hall of Bounty. The line stretched to the Way of Chains and disappeared around the corner. There have to be more than five hundred people! All of them would die the moment they consumed the poisoned grain.

  The Ministrants doling out the food and the Indomitables guarding the entrance to the Hall of Bounty looked up at the Secret Keepers’ approach. Surprise showed on the faces of the white-robed women and black-armored men. It was rare to see the mute, brown-robed priests outside their vault-like Temple of Whispers.

  Guardian Tianath drew a scroll from within her robes and proffered it to the officer in charge, a man with the blue band and horizontal silver stripes of a Sentinel.

  “What’s this now?” the man asked, narrowing his eyes at the parchment.

  The Secret Keeper thrust her chin toward the scroll, gesturing for the man to unroll it. The Indomitable complied, squinting down at the words written thereon. His eyes grew slowly wider as he read.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” the Sentinel gasped, his face darkening. “How is this—?”

  The Secret Keeper pressed a finger to her lips and shot a meaningful glance at the people behind him. Her message was clear: the contents of the scroll—likely a missive from Guardian Ennolar detailing their suspicion of the poison—would only cause havoc and panic among the Mahjuri.

  The Sentinel struggled to regain control of his expression, but his face had gone white, his eyes dark with suspicion. “Whatever you need, you have it.”

  The Secret Keeper thrust a finger toward the huge wooden double doors of the Hall of Bounty.

  “Go!” The Indomitable waved a hand for them to pass.

  “Hey!” An angry cry echoed from behind Evren as the Secret Keepers moved through the line of Indomitables that guarded the entrance. “That’s not fair!”

  “Wait your turn like the rest of us,” came an answering shout.

  “Damned Zadii, you have your own food!” a third voice snarled. “Go back to the Artisan’s Tier and your fancy temple!”

  Dozens of voices took up protest, until a chorus of angry shouts rang out among the people.

  None of the crowd made a move—Secret Keepers had a reputation for ferocity when pushed to a fight, and the instinctive reverence for priests of the Thirteen made violence against clerics paramount to sacrilege. Which might explain how the Keeper’s Council had gotten away with their misdeeds and treachery for so long. Lady Callista and the Elders of the Blade were the only counterbalance to their power; unless the Indomitables or Blades interfered directly, the Necroseti could operate with impunity.

  At that moment, respect for the priests was the only thing that stopped the throng from turning violent. Evren wanted to shout, “They’re trying to save your lives!” But he knew that would do no good. Worse, it would incite panic and could set off the already angry throng. Until we find and contain this poison problem, no one can know the truth.

  He made to follow the priests into the Hall of Bounty, but the Sentinel stopped him. “You’re no Secret Keeper.”

  “I’m with them!” Evren thrust a finger at the retreating backs of the brown-robed figures.

  “Sure you are.” The officer snorted. “You and everyone in this line.” His face hardened and he shoved Evren. “Get out of here, Earaqi, before I arrest you for trying to sneak more rations. You’re not the first one to try doubling down by going to another tier for food.”

  Evren’s fists clenched, anger surging within him. He’d been walking right behind the Secret Keepers when they’d approached the guards, yet the Indomitable either hadn’t seen him or didn’t care. Whatever the case, the grim light in the guy’s eyes made it clear: Evren wouldn’t get through in one piece.

  Stifling a frustrated curse, Evren backed down from the confrontation and retreated from the Hall of Bounty. No sense fighting my way in when I can just hang back and wait for them to come out. He’d be nearby when the priests emerged, ready to accompany them to the Temple of Whispers to uncover the truth of the poison.

  Evren’s stomach tightened as he saw blue, oozing blisters dotting the skin of dozens of the men and women in the line. He steered clear of them, even though he was all but certain it was the old form of the Azure Rot. Those poisoned by this new toxin wouldn’t have the strength to join the line. They died in hours, not days or weeks.

  “Get out of here, Earaqi!” An angry shout echoed from beside Evren. “There’s little enough food for us without you coming and taking what’s ours.”

  Evren turned to find a rail-thin man looming over him. The Mahjuri’s black rope headband somehow made the anger in his eyes seem even darker.

  “Go back to your warm home and daily job,” the man growled. His lips curled into a snarl, which made his gaunt features appear even more skeletal. “Leave us to our poverty.”

  The statement raised Evren’s eyebrow. He makes it sound like the Earaqi lead lives of luxury. Evren had seen the poverty on the Cultivator’s Tier. The Earaqi had simple homes, sparse furnishings, and clothing one wash away from threadbare. They did have jobs—many serving in the homes of the Dhukari, though most labored in the farms and fields outside Shalandra—but earned a pittance. I suppose to someone who has as little as the Mahjuri, it’s luxury indeed.

  Evren didn’t slow, but kept moving away from the crowd, crossing the Way of Chains and ducking into the shadow of a crumbling one-story home. He settled onto a stoop, eyes fixed on the Hall of Bounty. He wanted to be there the moment the Secret Keepers emerged. The sooner they got the grain back to the temple, the sooner they could begin working on the antidote to combat the poison.

  Once again, he was struck by how sickly even the healthy Mahjuri appeared. Gaunt ribs, bony shoulders, protruding cheekbones, and wasted limbs, every one of them. Their clothing was ragged, their skin stained by mud and sandstone dust. Most stood listlessly, too hungry and thirsty to do more than wait their turns.

  It’s a sick, cruel joke, poisoning their food. Acid rose in Evren’s throat. They have so little—nothing, really—and the one thing that could keep them alive is actually killing them.

  Evren had seen monsters up close; the Stone Guardians in the Empty Mountains had been literal demons with stone skin, eyes as black as midnight, and talons long enou
gh to open a man from crown to crotch. Yet they paled in comparison to the monstrosity of this despicable act.

  Evren’s eyes stopped on one particularly haggard woman. Blue blisters dotted her skin, pus oozing in sickly runnels down her arms, face, and chest. She looked a heartbeat away from collapsing, never more to rise. Yet somehow she’d managed to drag herself here and stood waiting in line for food—food to put in the mouths of the two young children that clung to her skirts.

  A lump rose to Evren’s throat. Thoughts of his own mother flashed through his mind. She’d looked much the same in her final days as the Bloody Flux ravaged her body. She, too, had fought to her last breath to make certain he was cared for.

  The woman crumpled. Her body, so emaciated and starved, barely made a sound as it struck the hard stone of the Way of Chains. The clay pot in her arms shattered and sprayed red shards across the street.

  “Mama!” The two children cried out, bending over their mother. Small, filthy hands shook the woman’s shoulders, pawed at her pale, blue-veined face. She gave no response. The Azure Rot had claimed her.

  Vomit rose to Evren’s throat. The sight sickened him—not just the dead woman and her children, but the reaction of the other Mahjuri in line. The man ahead of her glanced back with an irritated scowl, shook his head, and shuffled forward to put space between him and the wailing children. The woman behind her simply stepped around the corpse and took her place in line without a word.

  An angry shout rose to his lips. Look at her! he wanted to rail. She’s one of you. How can you treat her like refuse? Yet it would do no good. The Mahjuri knew only an existence of misery, hunger, thirst, and deprivation. Evren had seen what that did to people—it sapped their willpower and crushed their humanity. Desperation could drive men to dire action, but hopelessness and despair stole the will to live. The dull, vacant expressions on the faces of those around him made it clear: they were simply killing time until starvation, age, or disease claimed them. Either way, the Mahjuri had no hope of anything resembling happiness.