Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  In the Gatherer attack, Hailen had proven that he’d fight to his last breath to protect Briana. Kodyn had to hope that it never got that far.

  The Secret Keepers were fearsome warriors, yet he had no idea how many remained in the Temple of Whispers to keep out the rioting mob. Aside from the Guardians, he’d only seen the eight Secret Keepers that accompanied him and Aisha to the Heartspring—Watcher only knows how many of those survived that attack!—three priests who had answered Briana’s summons or brought food, and two standing guard outside the front door. That solid steel door would hold, but only if they got it closed in time. Even a hundred Secret Keepers might not stand a chance against a mob of Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri two hundred thousand strong.

  He knew it was foolishness running toward such violence. If the three of them got swept up in the chaos, they could wind up trampled, cut down, or clubbed to death by the angry mob. His pale Praamian skin could make him a target for the darker Shalandrans.

  Yet he didn’t care. For Briana and Hailen’s sake, he had to try.

  Sweat soon streamed down his face and his legs ached from the hurried descent. The gasping breaths of Aisha, Evren, and Issa matched his, but he refused to slow. A deep-rooted urgency drove him on.

  He tried to keep track of their progress as he ran, but it proved difficult in the dimly lit tunnels. White glowstones gave way to crimson, the only change that he could see. He couldn’t count the hammering beats of his heart to mark time—his only hope lay in guessing.

  Triumph surged within him as they reached an intersection. Yes! He’d traveled this path only hours before.

  “Here!” he shouted, and darted down the right-hand tunnel that led west, toward the Temple District.

  A hundred paces farther, the passage ended at a blank wall. Without hesitation, Kodyn held the glowing green lampstone up toward the wall.

  Again, nothing happened. No runes flared to life. The wall remained inert and lifeless.

  What in the fiery hell? They’d needed Suroth’s gemstone to exit the tunnels into the palace. So why isn’t it working here?

  “The lockstone!” Evren gasped from behind him. “On your right. Just press it. No resonator stone needed.”

  Brow furrowed, Kodyn scanned the passage to his right. Sure enough, set into the wall was a square black gemstone, identical to the ones in the Secret Keeper’s temple. When he pressed it, it clicked into place and the wall slid open.

  Evren had recovered enough to speak without gasping. “I figured it out the hard way earlier this afternoon. I wasted an hour getting up to the Keeper’s Tier, only to find that there was no way to get out of the passage that opened into the Citadel of Stone. I had to retrace my steps and find another way out—halfway between the Citadel and the damned Hall of the Beyond. Cost me far too much time.” His brow furrowed, and a shadow flashed in his eyes.

  An idea sprang to Kodyn’s mind. Like in the Temple of Whispers, certain openings could be operated with just the lockstones set into the wall. However, for the more secure locations, such as the Secret Keepers’ private rooms, the priests’ black rings were required. It made sense that the lower-tier exits were unlocked, but access to the Citadel of Stone and the Palace of Golden Eternity proved far more restrictive.

  “You needed this.” He produced Suroth’s sparkling blue gemstone. “It’s a resonator stone that opens the doors on the upper tiers. We needed it to get into the palace.”

  “Whoa!” Evren’s eyes widened in surprise, his gaze fixed on Kodyn’s hand. “Where did that come from?”

  “Suroth,” Kodyn replied.

  Even as the words left his mouth, the question slammed into his mind once more: Why did Suroth want the Black Widow to have this? The spymistress had been the one to inform him about the Secret Keepers’ map. If she had both knowledge of the Serenii tunnels and the resonator stone to open the secret ways onto the upper tiers, she could do all sorts of terrible things. And somehow Suroth had been complicit in whatever the Black Widow had planned.

  His mind rebelled against the truth. Suroth had been a good man. He’d worked for Shalandra, aligned himself with the Pharus for the good of the people. Yet the evidence was irrefutable. Suroth had also had a relationship with the Black Widow. Only one explanation came to Kodyn. Was he playing both sides?

  He couldn’t ask the Arch-Guardian, but the next chance he got, he’d press the Black Widow for answers. Suroth had to have had a reason—Kodyn simply needed to ask the right questions to find out what.

  The tunnel’s exit let out onto a narrow alley set in the sandstone wall dividing the Artisan’s Tier and Defender’s Tier. The alleyway was empty, the night cool and quiet. Yet the unmistakable roaring of an angry crowd echoed in the near distance. They stood just a few streets from the Temple District, mere paces from the mob attacking the Zadii and Intaji.

  Swallowing a surge of fear, he reached for his sword. A hand stopped him from drawing the blade. He turned and found Evren shaking his head.

  “That’ll draw the wrong kind of attention.” Evren released his grip on Kodyn’s arm and drew his twin curved daggers, tucking them out of sight in his sleeves.

  Kodyn nodded. “Good thinking.” His light skin, honey eyes, and leather armor already stood out enough. Add to that the green headband of a foreigner and a drawn long sword, and all eyes would be on him.

  Releasing his sword, he unsheathed a long dagger. “Stay tight. Anyone gets in our way, we run. No way to run, we lie our way out of it. We fight as a last resort.” Fighting a mob would get them killed. “There are only four of us—”

  “Three,” Issa cut him off with a shake of her head.

  Kodyn turned to her. “What?” His brow furrowed; she was no coward, so why did she plan to abandon them now?

  “My grandparents.” Anxiety shone in Issa’s eyes. “They live on the Cultivator’s Tier. I have to get to them, make sure they’re safe.”

  Kodyn hesitated. They could use Issa’s help getting into the Temple of Whispers, but she was right to worry about her family. He nodded. “Go.”

  Aisha clasped the tall, broad-shouldered Blade’s hand. “May the spirits watch over you.”

  “And may the Faces of Justice and Mercy guard your path.” With a nod to Kodyn and Evren, Issa slipped down a side alley and raced off to the west.

  Kodyn let out a breath. Good luck to her. When it came down to it, family mattered more than anything else. He’d fight and die to protect his family—the two people beside him, Briana, Hailen, the ones he’d left back in Praamis. Right now, his family was in trouble and he’d be damned if he let anything as trifling as a bloodthirsty mob stand in his way.

  “Let’s go.” He peered cautiously down the street. Empty. “The Temple of Whispers is just a few streets east.”

  “Keep an eye out for instigators.” Evren’s jaw clenched, grim resolve etched into the worried lines of his face. “We might have stopped Blackfinger’s Ybrazhe, but there could be more Syndicate out there stirring up the mob. Or Hallar’s Warriors. Whoever they are, they’re the ones that are causing all this trouble. They’re the ones leading this crowd.”

  As if a horde like this could be led, Kodyn thought, but didn’t say aloud. All mobs began with a few strong-willed individuals directing the action, yet once things turned violent, all sense of cohesion and organization faded before passion. Anger, hatred, and resentment triumphed over rational thought when crowds grew large enough.

  “I’ll take the lead,” Aisha said, pushing between them. Her assegai remained sheathed, but Kodyn had seen what she could do with the dagger held in her hand. “They’ll be far less likely to attack a woman.”

  Kodyn wanted to protest, but she was right. Men tended to be at the forefront of mobs, and their natural instincts caused them to lash out at male enemies but hesitate, even for a moment, when confronted by a member of the opposite sex. Besides, Aisha had already moved ahead of them. He fell in a step behind her, Evren at his side. The Ghandian might be the tip of
the spear, but he and Evren would watch her back.

  No one’s laying a finger on her if I have anything to say about it.

  He owed her his life. She’d saved him back in the Serenii tunnels, somehow. He’d been dying from the poison, his body succumbing to its toxic bite. Then agony had flooded him, as if a bolt of lightning struck him. The sizzling, crackling energy had filled him with more torment than he’d ever imagined possible.

  But then the pain had faded and he opened his eyes to find Aisha had crouched over him, that strange blue-white light in her eyes. The sparks in her choclat-brown eyes were permanent, even though her pendant had gone dark. It made her even more beautiful than he’d imagined possible.

  Again, thoughts of the kiss washed over him. It had caught him by surprise, the way Aisha had suddenly pulled him close. He’d imagined the moment many times, had daydreamed about it for years. Yet he’d always hesitated to make any move. After all she’d endured during her captivity by the Bloody Hand, he had done his best to be cautious of anything that could bring back those horrible memories. Both of his mothers had made it clear that he had to be careful. Even someone as physically strong as Aisha could have inner scars and vulnerabilities.

  Somehow, the fact that she had kissed him made it all the better. It felt like a clear signal that she was in a place where she could be more than just friends.

  That realization certainly complicated things. He had always wanted to be with Aisha, yet Briana had thrown him for a loop. The Shalandran’s poise, elegance, and strength of spirit drew him to her. He found himself torn between the two.

  He almost felt relieved when a handful of sword- and club-wielding Earaqi stampeded past them. The three of them ducked down a side alley, cutting south to evade the throng. He pushed worries about Aisha and Briana from his mind. I’ve got to focus on staying alive!

  His heart leapt to his throat as he followed Aisha onto the Artificer’s Courseway. The main avenue was awash with thousands of shouting, jostling, raging men and women. Their cries of “Bring on the Final Destruction!” echoed all along the broad streets, ringing off the lofty stone walls of the temples lining the avenue.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Kodyn pulled up his hood and shrank deeper into his cloak. Aisha and Evren provided him cover to move through the crowds without drawing too much attention.

  The crowds thinned in the center of the Artificer’s Courseway, but the southern and northern sides were consumed by violence. The lower-caste Shalandrans had found convenient targets on which to unleash their anger: the Zadii.

  Three temples stood between Kodyn and the Temple of Whispers. Knots of angry men and women surged toward the stone statues and solid gates of Temple of Derelana. Dozens of Warrior Priests clad in shining splinted mail wielded long swords and swung shields, trying in vain to fight back the mob surging toward them.

  White-robed Ministrants streamed into the protective shelter offered by the priests of Derelana—the Sanctuary’s doors hung ajar, their hinges shattered, and shrieks of terror, pain, and rage echoed from within. In their rage, the lower castes had forgotten who ministered to their wounds, pains, and ailments. They only knew that Ministrants had the food, water, shelter, and wealth they craved.

  The black obelisk to the Swordsman stood beyond the Sanctuary. The crowd battered against the iron-banded doors that had been shut and barred. Even as Kodyn passed, the sound of cracking wood and groaning metal pierced the throng’s angry roars.

  People jostled him as they ran past, nearly knocking him from his feet. One, an aging, emaciated Mahjuri with a hunched back, fell in the crush of people. Before he could stagger to his feet, dozens of rioters trampled him. Crimson stained the golden sandstone of the street, and the man’s crushed, shrunken chest rose once, twice, then stilled in death.

  Kodyn’s eyes flew wide at the sight of the man’s deformed spine. He sucked in a breath as a memory slammed into him: a short, bald man with a deformed face stood among the crowd on the Keeper’s Tier, watching Councilor Angrak being led away by Lady Callista.

  Handsome’s accomplice! His blood turned to ice in his veins. I know where I’ve seen him.

  Yet as he rounded the corner, all thoughts faded from his mind at the sight of the Temple of Whispers. The light of the rising sun shone on a scene of chaos and violence. Hundreds of rioters crowded around the front of the temple, shouting, screaming, pressing forward to join battle. Five Secret Keepers struggled to haul the massive steel door closed, while a dozen more brown-robed priests fought the mob bare-handed. Yet theirs was a losing battle. Rioters had already secured rope to the door and prepared to drag it open.

  No way they’ll survive that! The bloodied, battered Secret Keepers had managed to repel the crowds, but Kodyn could see them tiring. In a matter of seconds, they’d be crushed beneath the angry mob and a tide of homicidal men and women would flood the Temple of Whispers.

  Hailen and Briana would be dead in minutes. Nearly a thousand enemies stood between Kodyn and his friends. It would take a miracle to save them.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Issa had no armor to protect her and only a crude cudgel and short sword for defense, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except getting to the Cultivator’s Tier to protect her Saba and Savta.

  She raced through the back lanes of the Temple District, ducking down side streets and narrow, muddy alleyways. The Zadii kept their streets far cleaner than the Mahjuri and Kabili, yet they could never prevent all the build-up of debris, crumbling stone, and waste that accumulated in the smaller streets.

  That slowed her pace but also meant that the rioters tended to steer clear. She preferred to take the less-congested route even if she couldn’t run at a dead sprint. Fighting would waste far more than she’d expend skirting ankle-thick mud.

  She wanted to trust that the Earaqi wouldn’t attack their own, but the Fifty-Day Revolt had taught her that no one was safe from a mob whipped into a frenzy. She forced herself not to think what would happen if the chaos reached her grandparents’ house—worry would only slow her down.

  Her gut tightened as she reached the Path of Sepulture and found it thick with people. With only a moment’s hesitation, she dove into the crush and shoved her way down toward the Artisan’s Tier. Beyond the Artificer’s Courseway, the crowds thinned enough that she could run unobstructed.

  The chants of “Bring on the Final Destruction!” grew fainter behind her as she approached the Cultivator’s Tier. There were fewer Earaqi down here—most had settled for taking their anger out on the Zadii and Intaji—but bareheaded Kabili and Mahjuri with coarse black headbands roamed the streets. Anger darkened their eyes and their fanatical chants rang off the walls of the simple stone houses around her.

  But the Cultivator’s Tier had been Issa’s home for seventeen years. She knew all the quickest ways to reach her grandparents’ home without using Commoner’s Row. A good thing, too. Bands of Earaqi hundreds-strong moved along the broad avenue like a herd of stampeding cattle. Like all those on the Artisan’s Tier, it seemed they had lost their senses to the madness. Looters raced out of homes, leaving screaming mothers, crying children, and bleeding fathers in their wake.

  Chaos and death gripped her home. Issa’s heart broke as she saw her people suffering.

  Furett, a strong-willed teamster that worked in the fields, drove a dagger into the heart of Mosir, the man he’d worked beside for the better part of a decade. Kindly Poltuma the washerwoman lay silent, her open eyes staring sightless into the darkened sky, crimson staining the front of her simple kalasiris from a gash in her chest. Behind her, Sheldra, just a few years older than Issa, ransacked her house and emerged carrying a bloodstained sword in one hand and the washerwoman’s only treasure, a necklace of blue ceramic beads. A worthless trinket, yet the man had killed for it!

  All around her, the people she’d known her entire life turned their pent-up hatred and rage on each other. Men and women that had lived peaceful lives filled with back-breakin
g labor and servitude now sought to cast off their yokes through violence. Yet their actions did nothing but harm fellow sufferers—the true culprits, the Keeper’s Council, would never feel their wrath.

  Anger burned in Issa’s gut with the heat and intensity of Dalmisa’s volcano. She could understand their hate, their enmity. She felt it toward the Necroseti, the ones who clad themselves in priestly robes yet sought to achieve their own ends. They had fanned the flames of the people’s anger. They had condemned Aterallis to death based on falsified evidence—evidence they had likely planted. They had instructed the Ybrazhe to spark the riots.

  They deserved to suffer, not her people.

  And I will make certain they do! Issa gritted her teeth and spurred herself to run faster. By the Faces of Justice and Vengeance, I swear it.

  A wall of shouting Mahjuri swarmed the streets ahead, blocking the way to her grandparents’ home. Issa ducked down a side alley and cut between two houses. The door to Skelmos’ house stood ajar, and the shouts of Raksey the farmer echoed from within his neighbor’s abode. The two had hated each other for decades and now that enmity—over some nonsensical slight long forgotten—boiled to the surface.

  Issa burst into the alleyway beyond, only to find herself confronted by a group of five men emerging from the house of Notan the carter. All five wore black rope headbands and ragged Mahjuri tunics. Blood stained their fists and splattered their gaunt, haggard faces. Two of the men passed Notan’s prized leather wineskin back and forth, while the other three split one of the flatbread loaves for which Notan’s wife, Enasa, was renowned.

  Before she could flee, the Mahjuri spotted her. They fanned out quickly, surrounding her with leering eyes and snarling grins.

  “You’re not getting away from us that easily, Earaqi!” snarled the largest of the group. The other four licked their lips as they moved closer, yet they shot a glance at the speaker, clearly the leader of the pack.