Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  “Your reasoning is sound.” Ennolar’s expression softened slightly, his annoyance dimming. “Hand it over, and I will have my people ascertain its precise purpose and origin.”

  Kodyn hesitated, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

  “On one condition,” Aisha spoke up.

  Three pairs of questioning eyes turned toward her.

  “Your situation here is precarious enough,” Uryan’s fingers said. “You are in a poor position to strike a bargain.”

  Aisha shrugged. “All the same, if you want the vial, you’ll deal.”

  The two Secret Keepers exchanged glances. “Speak,” Ennolar finally said in the hand language. “What is your condition?”

  “That you tell us as much about it as you are able to.” Aisha met their stubborn refusal with her own calm defiance. “You said we can’t know its true effects, but there has to be something you can say. Tell us what we are permitted to know and it might help us find out who’s responsible for Councilor Angrak’s death.”

  Uryan’s frown deepened, but Ennolar’s expression grew pensive.

  Aisha drove on—she recognized the look of an opponent in a negotiation ready to give in. “And, as soon as you know about the poison in the grain, you’ll tell us about that, too. After all, we’re the ones fighting to save Shalandra.”

  Long moments of silence stretched on. When Ennolar didn’t immediately shut down Aisha’s request, Uryan turned a disapproving look on the short, bald man. Yet her scowl rolled off Ennolar like a wave crashing onto a rocky cliffside.

  Finally, Ennolar nodded and held out a hand for the vial. His fingers said nothing, but Aisha saw acceptance written in his eyes.

  Kodyn seemed to come to the same conclusion. He placed the vial in Ennolar’s hand with a grin. “See, we can all play nice!”

  Scowling, Uryan whirled and stalked from the room. A thoughtful Ennolar left a few seconds later. The wall slid shut behind them, leaving Aisha and Kodyn alone in the empty, lamplit chamber of stone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Evren didn’t give the Ybrazhe thugs time to carry out Blackfinger’s orders. The word “soil” hadn’t yet formed on the man’s lips before Evren moved, spinning to the left so quickly his right arm tore free of his captor’s grip. His right hand struck out, steel flashing, and blood sprayed in the lamplit air.

  He’d needed a way to get at the one dagger the Syndicate thugs hadn’t found; his gibes had earned him a painful punch to the gut, yet his theatrical collapse had given him a chance to slip the blade from its hidden sheath in his boot. Now, he drove the tip into Goble’s throat, slicing the artery and punching deep enough to strike bone.

  The huge, scowling thug fell back with a cry of pain. His grip on Evren’s left arm loosened as he clapped both hands to the gushing wound in his neck. In that instant, Evren tore his twin jambiyas free of Goble’s belt and spun to slash at the thug on his right. Cloth and flesh parted beneath the razor-sharp steel and the thug yelped, blood dripping from the wound in his forehead and stinging his eyes.

  All this happened between heartbeats, so fast Blackfinger barely had time to open his mouth to cry out. The world seemed to slow around Evren as he leapt toward the Syndicate leader, daggers flashing. Blackfinger fell back and managed to raise his arms to ward off the attack. Evren’s daggers raked twin furrows along Blackfinger’s forearms. The man’s shout cut off in a garbled howl as crimson seeped from the bone-deep cuts.

  Evren didn’t follow up the attack; even the slightest delay, and he’d never get out of there alive. But instead of trying to fight his way through the four thugs that guarded the stairs to the main floor, he sprinted right through the mushroom field.

  “Get him!” Blackfinger’s angry shout echoed behind him a heartbeat later.

  Evren’s gut clenched but he refused to slow. His boots trampled deep gouges into the loamy soil, crushing ear-shaped mushrooms. A vicious sense of satisfaction filled him as Blackfinger cried out in pain and outrage—either at Evren’s escape or the damage to his precious Ivory Brackets, it didn’t matter. The pursuing thugs would only increase the destruction and Blackfinger’s fortune in fungi would be ruined, at least this crop.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Blackfinger’s curse rang off the walls. “He’s headed for the fruiting channel!”

  Hope surged within Evren as his eyes fixed on the neat rows of sacks arrayed along the far wall of the mushroom farm. Their sides had been sliced open, revealing rich, dark-colored earth within. The first signs of whitecaps had given him the idea for his desperate escape.

  Mushrooms required dark, damp environments, but in order to properly blossom, they needed to be exposed to fresh air and light.

  The sacks held mushroom spawn, the pieces of already-fruited toadstools that would dig roots into the soil and grow into new mushrooms. The fact that they were laid out neatly on the far side of the room meant one thing: there was a way out somewhere over there!

  Evren couldn’t fight his way through a horde of Syndicate thugs, but he could outrun and out-climb the heavy-necked bastards any day.

  “Don’t let him get away!” shouted Blackfinger.

  Grunted curses and angry shouts answered the call, but Evren was beyond fear. Adrenaline set blood racing through his veins. His arms and legs pumped as his eyes scanned the roof for any hint of an opening.

  There!

  A wooden trapdoor was set into the ceiling, a deadbolt on the inside holding it closed. Evren didn’t pause to contemplate his plan, but raced forward, stepped onto the sack, and threw himself into the air with every shred of strength. Though he lacked Kodyn’s height and arm length, the stone ceiling stood low enough that he could reach the lock. Barely.

  His fingertips grazed the cold metal, and for a moment he feared he’d missed his mark. Yet the bolt’s knob caught on his fingers and thunked home in its casing. The wooden trapdoors dropped open, narrowly missing his head. Bright sunlight spilled into the basement and a wave of fresh air drove the stink of rotting vegetation and damp earth from the room.

  “No!” Venom and fury echoed in Blackfinger’s voice. “Stop him, you fools!”

  Evren shot the man a one-fingered salute and leapt. Even as he hurtled upward, he tossed his daggers out of the trapdoor and reached for the edge of the doors. His hands closed around the edge of one wooden door and he hauled himself upward. Something grazed his heel as he clambered out of the fruiting channel onto the golden sandstone streets of the Slave’s Tier. Looking down, Evren saw three thugs where he’d been standing mere seconds earlier. The clubs and daggers in their hands and the fury in their eyes promised suffering.

  He didn’t give them a chance to carry out their threats.

  Scooping up his jambiyas, he whirled and raced away from the trapdoor, out into the back alleys and side lanes of the Slave’s Tier. His speed carried him past watchful Ybrazhe thugs and thieves, who seemed stunned to find the young man that had been their captive minutes earlier racing away. Long seconds passed before they recovered enough to give chase.

  Yet Evren hadn’t gone more than three streets before the shouts of alarm began to ring out in the streets. The thugs he raced past were alert, some even wary enough to grab at him. He warded off their grasping hands with vicious dagger strikes, but every second of delay could cost him his freedom. All it took was a few clever Syndicate thugs to get ahead of him and cut him off.

  Instinct kicked in and he sprinted east, deeper into Syndicate territory. A smart fugitive would try to head west, toward the Path of Sepulture that would lead up to the Cultivator’s Tier and the Artisan’s Tier beyond. Blackfinger would expect that, so that would be the first place he’d send his thugs.

  Evren’s only hope lay in outrunning his pursuers until he got clear of Syndicate territory. He could lose the Syndicate thugs farther east, in the busy crowds in front of the Hall of Bounty, the Lower Wellspring, and Murder Square.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder and cursed. Syndicate thugs boiled from
every shadow, alley, and doorway. Their looks of confusion turned to anger and they quickly joined their comrades in pursuit of the fleeing thief.

  Damn it!

  To his horror, the broad avenue in front of the Lower Wellspring and the Hall of Bounty stood nearly empty. Only a handful of desperate-looking Mahjuri and Kabili waited in line, dull-eyed and haggard. A single company of ten Indomitables remained of the fifty or sixty that had stood guard less than an hour earlier. Where they'd gone, he didn’t know, but they wouldn’t bother to help him if it meant facing thrice their number of Syndicate thugs. Too many innocent people would die in the clash, and Evren couldn’t afford that on his conscience.

  His breath burned in his lungs and fire coursed through his legs. He felt his body crying out for rest, yet he couldn’t slow. His pursuers might not match his speed, but they outnumbered him by far. It would take just one getting around in front of him to cut off his escape and he’d be in serious trouble.

  The sight of an equally-empty Murder Square sent worry thrumming through Evren. Where is everyone? All of the Mahjuri and Kabili that had roamed the streets mere hours ago couldn’t have all disappeared.

  Then he rounded a corner and came upon a scene of total chaos. Hundreds of black-armored Indomitables marched along the Way of Chains, down side streets, and into every alleyway. Men and women with black headbands stood silent and sullen, blood trickling from split lips, broken noses, and deep gashes in their foreheads. Fiery-eyed Indomitables raged against their comrades, shouting obscenities.

  “They’re harboring the Gatherers!” raved one. Beneath his black helmet, which bore the vertical silver stripes of an Indomitable Dictator, his face was a purpling mask of rage. “Don’t you care that they killed our comrades?”

  “Of course I care!” shouted back a tall, broad-shouldered man. The blue band of his helmet revealed twin horizontal stripes, marking him an Executor, one of the highest-ranking officers in the Indomitable legion. “But the guilty parties are being punished. Your job here is done, Dictator. Report back to the Fortress at once, before…”

  Evren didn’t hear the rest of the conversation—he was too busy racing through the streets, deeper into Indomitable-filled territory. Yet everywhere he turned, he found only chaos and violence. Not all of the Mahjuri on the streets stood watching the turmoil. Some lay in lifeless heaps, bones shattered, blood staining the golden sandstone around them, friends and family weeping silently beside them.

  What in the frozen hell happened here? Evren slowed to a fast walk, keeping his head down to avoid drawing attention. He wore a red Earaqi headband yet at that moment, it felt that the only safe people were those clad in black half-plate armor. Anyone else, especially someone carrying a pair of bared daggers, would be suspect.

  The sense of wrongness increased with every step, just as the piles of bodies grew higher. Doors had been kicked or chopped open, revealing homes cluttered with overturned, shattered furniture. The presence of the Indomitables thickened until Evren knew he couldn’t go any farther east. Luck and his innate thief’s skill had kept him out of the Indomitables’ eyes, but that could change at any second. He’d take his chances that the Syndicate hadn’t blocked off Trader’s Way.

  He had just turned to go back the way he’d come when a shout echoed behind him. “You there!”

  Ice seeped into his veins, but he forced himself to ignore the call, to keep walking.

  “Earaqi! Stop!”

  Evren tried to control the panicked beat of his heart. Keep calm, and they’ve got no reason to suspect you. No reason but the daggers tucked into his belt.

  “Arrest that Earaqi at once!” came the shout.

  That shattered it. Evren took off at a run, ducking between two patrols of Indomitables and racing down a side street. He headed north, away from the Way of Chains, deeper into the maze of alleys that would take him far from the black-armored soldiers filling the Slave’s Tier. The sound of booted feet and shouts of “Stop, Earaqi!” rang out behind him.

  Fear lent wings to his feet. He had no idea what had happened here, what those Mahjuri had done to earn such brutality and violence, but he didn’t stop to find out. He had blundered into a turmoil far worse than anything that awaited him back in Syndicate-held territory.

  If he didn’t escape, he might be the next one to end up lying dead in the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dread sank like a stone in Issa’s gut as she marched through the gate to the Cultivator’s Tier. An impassable barrier of Earaqi, easily five thousand strong, obstructed Death Row. They glared defiance at her and the Indomitables marching Aterallis to his trial. Unlike the Mahjuri, these men and women bore fewer signs of starvation, thirst, and disease. Hard labor had strengthened their muscles and broadened their shoulders. They had the strength to resist; they could turn the tense situation into a bloodbath.

  Horror surged in Issa’s gut. She recognized many of the angry faces in the crowd. Too many. Belris the miller’s carter, whose broad shoulders she’d ridden as a child. Maryan and Sudara, the daughters of Isnalas, the woman who served with Issa’s grandmother on the Keeper’s Tier. Bannon, Gartin, Morroth, and a dozen more of the laborers who worked the fields beside her grandfather.

  “Make way!” she shouted. “By orders of the Pharus, make way.” She tried to sound authoritative—mimicking Tannard’s gravelly growl and Lady Callista’s calm, collected assurance—but her voice sounded small. She could not shout a city into submission. Especially not a city that stared at her with open hatred.

  Acid surged in her throat. She had no desire to harm her own people, but she had orders to follow. If Aterallis truly was guilty of Kellas’ murder and the deaths of the Indomitables, he deserved to stand trial for his crimes. Duty and loyalty to the Keeper’s Blades won out over her personal opinions and desires. She wouldn’t raise a hand unless provoked, but if push came to shove, she’d shove with every shred of strength she possessed.

  Knots tightened in her shoulders and back as four young men stepped from the crowd. They wore plain knee-length shendyts and simple tunics, leather sandals, and headbands of cloth dyed bright crimson. The absence of kohl made the anger in their eyes seem darker, deeper.

  Issa raised a clenched fist and brought her company of twenty Indomitables to a halt just two paces from the four Earaqi youths.

  “You cannot do this!” protested one. “He has done nothing wrong.”

  “He is accused of murder,” Issa replied. She kept her voice neutral, suppressing her emotions, but tried to maintain an air of authority. “Like all citizens of Shalandra, he will stand trial before the Pharus and the Keeper’s Council to answer for—”

  Fire blazed in the young men’s eyes. “Rot that! The Child of Gold preaches peace, not violence.”

  “Tell that to the dead Indomitables found in the alley behind his dwelling,” Issa snapped. “Or to the Keeper’s Blade crucified in Murder Square.”

  Dark mutters ran among the crowd, and the people at the front of the line shuffled from foot to foot. Tension hung so thick in the air Issa could cut it with a knife. Fists clenched, faces hardened, and shoulders tightened.

  Issa didn’t bother to speak to the crowd—she could not sway the minds of five thousand angry Earaqi. Yet if she could convince these four men to move out of her path, to let her through and do her job, the crowd might follow their actions.

  “You say you follow his message of peace?” Issa spoke in a voice pitched low for their ears only. “Then prove it. Right now, the people behind you are one wrong word away from violence. How would the man you call Hallar Reborn feel if your actions led to that violence?”

  The four men didn’t flinch from the intensity of her voice, yet they exchanged hesitant glances.

  Issa pushed on—they were so close to seeing reason. “The Pharus has no reason to want him dead. If anything, it’s in the best interests of Shalandra to let your Child of Gold continue to spread that message of peace. He will stand a fair trial
and if he is innocent, he will be acquitted.” She stepped forward. “But if you don’t move aside now, you will force my hand. I have my orders. The blood of every man, woman, and child that suffers will be on your head.”

  Indecision warred in their expressions, doubt written in four pairs of dark eyes.

  “Ask yourselves,” Issa said, “what would Aterallis do?”

  The simple question drove home the final nail. The defiant glares softened, replaced by grudging acceptance. With a little nod, the four men moved out of the road.

  Shocked whispers and mutters ran among the crowd. They hadn’t heard Issa’s words, but they could not mistake the young Earaqis’ actions for anything but compliance.

  Issa marched forward, her company of Indomitables following in synchronous step. The sound of their booted feet echoed loudly in the silence as they came abreast of the four youths. The Earaqi let them pass without complaint or contest.

  A moment later, the crowd parted as if by an invisible hand.

  Issa refused to let relief show on her face. She kept her spine stiff, her head held high as she marched up Death Row, through the thousands of Earaqi. Those in the rear didn’t know what had transpired, but they imitated those in front of them and stepped aside.

  Knots formed in Issa’s shoulders as she led her Indomitables up the main avenue and through the gate to the Artisan’s Tier. There, thousands more people lined Death Row to watch the procession. Yet the faces that stared at her lacked the open hostility and belligerence of the Earaqi—instead, the Intaji and Zadii looked on with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

  Issa let out a long, shuddering sigh as they reached the Defender’s Tier without incident. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The Earaqi had followed their procession up the hill and now clogged Death Row. They stood unmoving, defiant statues carved of flesh and bone, their eyes following her as she helped lead their Child of Gold to judgement.

  Through the gates, Issa caught sight of a company of Blades waiting on the Warrior’s Path. Lady Callista stood at their head, her face set in a grim mask of stone.