Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  “Strip her!” came the call.

  Issa was shoved face-first against the wall. She grunted and tried to resist, sharp spear tips pressed against the back of her head. The Necroseti’s guards weren’t taking any chances with her.

  Rough hands tugged at the buckles, clasps, and belts that held her armor in place. The guards made no effort to be gentle; they hauled at the segmented plate mail hard enough to send spikes of pain radiating through Issa’s bruised ribs and wounded legs. She growled as wandering fingers slipped beneath her jerkin and groped her breasts, her sides, slid down to her pants. She’d die fighting before she allowed anyone to defile her like that.

  “Shackle her,” came the order.

  The spear points never wavered as the guards pulled her away from the wall, spun her around, and shackled her hands. All twenty of the silver-armored spearmen remained wary-eyed, hesitant. They might not know she was simply a prototopoi, and the Blades’ reputation had been earned through countless battles in the past.

  “In!” The leader of the company, the one that had arrested her and dragged her away from her grandfather’s side, thrust his chin toward the nearest cell. “Chain her hands to the wall.”

  Issa bit down on the surge of fear. She couldn’t break free now, but perhaps she could find a way to slip her bonds. The chains were heavy but perhaps the Keeper’s blessing would aid her. Head held high, she marched into the cell. She’d bide her time until a chance came to escape. The sun had just begun to rise over the eastern horizon, and she had plenty of time before her scheduled execution.

  The spearmen didn’t lower their weapons until she had been firmly shackled to the wall. Even when they did, the wary nervousness burned bright in their eyes. They backed out of the cell one at a time, their gazes never leaving her.

  “Enjoy the hospitality,” sneered the leader. “Perhaps a bit of hunger and thirst will sap some of that defiance against the Keeper’s chosen.”

  Issa gave him a cold, hard smile. “I am the chosen. The men you serve are nothing but greedy, traitorous cowards hiding behind their titles.”

  “Blasphemer!” The guard spat. He whirled on his heel and strode out of the underground chamber. His men trooped out behind him.

  The sound of their booted feet slowly faded, leaving Issa alone in the cell. She gave her shackles an experimental tug, then another, harder. Even when she threw all her weight against them, they refused to budge.

  Next she tried the cuffs encircling her wrists. They proved a bit more promising, as they were large enough for her to fit part of her hand through. However, unless she snapped one of her thumbs, there was no way she could scrunch up her palm enough to slip it out.

  Let’s save that plan for a last resort.

  She scanned the cell, searching for anything she could use to escape. A long, slim stone lay on the ground a few feet away.

  Stretching to the length of her chains, she managed to hook a boot around the stone and pull it closer. She picked it up and studied it. Evidently someone had passed the hours spent imprisoned here trying to chip at it. One side had almost been honed to a crude edge.

  Issa stepped close to the wall and set to work trying to sharpen the rock. She knew it would be next to useless—what could a stone do against spears? But at the moment, she needed a distraction, something to occupy her mind. Killian had trained her to always look for another weapon, whatever it took to win the battle.

  The matter of Killian brought back thoughts of her grandparents. The blacksmith had also worn the armor of a Keeper’s Blade, and he swung that flammard with far more expertise than Issa expected, even after years spent training with him. She’d wondered how he had obtained his skill with weapons, but she’d never imagined he was a Keeper’s Blade. An Indomitable, at most, and a battle wound could explain his lame leg easily.

  Tonight had revealed a great many truths: about Killian, about the people she had called her grandparents, about her true parents, and about herself.

  And she’d be damned if she went to her grave without finding out more. She had to demand an explanation from Killian, her Savta, Lady Callista, even the Pharus. She had to be there when her grandfather’s body was consecrated in the Citadel of Stone and laid to rest in the Keeper’s Crypts.

  Chains or not, death sentence or not, she would have answers. She wouldn’t stop fighting until she was dead. That was how she would honor the man that had raised her.

  Gritting her teeth, she leaned into the effort. The scrape, scrape of stone on stone filled her world for what felt like hours. Sweat soon streamed down her face, her back, and her hands. The moisture on her palms rendered the stone slick. It slipped, and her hands ground against the hard wall.

  Issa hissed as the stone clattered to the floor. Blood welled from the scrapes, but she ignored the throbbing in her fingers. She had no time for pain if she wanted any chance of breaking free.

  As she stooped to recover the half-sharpened stone, a sound caught her ears. Quiet footsteps, slipping down the tunnel, coming toward her. The early morning light flooded the passage and cast a shadowy figure across the stone floor.

  The lamplight shone on the face of a silver-armored man, one of the Necroseti guards that had arrested her. Issa’s brow furrowed; the Necroseti wouldn’t bother with food or water, so what in the bloody hell was this man doing here, alone and without his spear?

  Slipping toward her cell, the man produced a key and inserted it into the lock. The door clanked loudly and swung open with a groan of rusted hinges. He slipped into her cell, his movements furtive, his eyes darting. Steel glinted in the dim light of the lamps; a dagger, short and sharp, held by the man’s side, ready to strike.

  “Tethum wanted you alive,” the man hissed. “But he’ll settle for your death!”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The sun had just begun to peer over the eastern horizon as Aisha led the crowd’s chosen spokespeople up Death Row toward the palace.

  Five men and two women strode beside her: a Kabili husband and wife respected among those working the shalanite mines; a white-haired Mahjuri herbalist and soothsayer, accompanied by one of the men that had followed Aterallis’ teachings; and three Earaqi farmers from the most prosperous of the Shalandran fields. They had been selected as the delegation to present the lower castes’ demands to the Pharus.

  Tens of thousands of eyes watched in utter silence as the procession marched along the broad avenue, escorted by a company of thirty black-armored Indomitables. The soldiers’ khopeshes remained sheathed, but the rigidity of their postures and the tension knotting their shoulders spoke of their fear at being surrounded by so many people—people that had wanted them dead mere hours earlier.

  The Invictus, Tannard, marched at the head of the column, a solid presence of steel and confidence. He ignored the crowds, almost disdainful, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  The spirits within Aisha hummed to life for a moment, tugging her attention to her left. She caught a glimpse of ten Indomitables hurrying along the Artificer’s Courseway, heading west toward the Keeper’s Crypts. They carried the stolen flammards to their final resting place—and the Kish’aa, once more bound to the swords, to their eternal duty.

  The souls of the fallen Blades had been returned to their blades, but the pendant around Aisha’s neck still held dozens more. The spirits of those slain by the strange black steel blades. Imbuka had shattered their bonds, severing the connection to their swords that had once held them prisoners in death. Their spirits buzzed with confusion, uncertain what to do with their freedom.

  Aterallis, however, burned bright within her, a brilliant intensity that filled her with determination and resolve. He ached to bring peace to Shalandra—his mission in life, and now he would fulfill it in the beyond.

  The guards at the gate to the Defender’s Tier saluted the Invictus and parted to make way for the procession. They stared at Aisha and the people behind her in a mixture of reverence, awe, and worry. News of the
final battle must have traveled fast, yet the soldiers seemed unable to believe that the violence had ended. Many refused to release their swords, though they made no move to attack.

  The riots had been put to rest, for now. If the Pharus didn’t grant some of the peoples’ concessions, the situation could get out of hand once more.

  Trust in Amhoset. Aterallis’ voice echoed in her mind. He cares for his people.

  The sight that awaited her on the Keeper’s Tier drove the belief home in her mind. A pavilion tent of gold-and-white cloth had been erected on Death Row, a few hundred paces south of the Path of Gold. Within the tent stood a table surrounded by a dozen chairs, all plain, straight-backed wooden seats with soft cushions. Tannard’s messenger had only been dispatched a few hours earlier; the Pharus had put this all together in haste, doubtless intended to prove the earnestness of his desire to see peace.

  Aisha saw no sign of Lady Callista, though close to twenty Blades joined the hundred or so Indomitables that formed an honor guard around the pavilion. Around them, thousands of Dhukari and Alqati crowded the lane, eager to take part in the historic moment, even as simple spectators.

  A flash of recognition surged Aterallis’ spirit as Aisha saw the Pharus. Amhoset Nephelcheres stood in the center of Death Row, clad in a pure white shendyt and tunic, a plain golden circlet around his forehead. The simplicity of his garb only enhanced his regal bearing as he stepped forward.

  “Distinguished representatives of the Earaqi, Mahjuri, and Kabili, we greet you in the name of the Long Keeper.” The Pharus didn’t bow, but inclined his head—the greatest respect a monarch could show his subjects. “We are honored that you have chosen to sue for peace and put an end to the bloodshed. It is our greatest desire that order is restored to our city.”

  His eyes darted to Aisha, then quickly back to the delegation behind her. Aisha’s eyebrow quirked up slightly. Had the messenger told him of the role she’d played—or Aterallis, through her?

  “We, too, desire nothing more than a peaceful resolution to this conflict.” He placed his hand to his heart and, for the first time, spoke without the royal “we”. “I, Amhoset Nephelcheres, swear by the Keeper and my eternal rest in his arms that I will give your requests due consideration.”

  “Requests?” One of the Earaqi farmers stepped forward. “This ain’t no trade negotiation. You need us to tend the farmlands, work your mines, build your walls. You want us to work, and we want to eat. We were promised a chance to voice our concerns, and that’s what we came here to do. Either you give us what we want, or—”

  “Ware your words!” snapped the Invictus. “Remember that you address your Pharus, chosen of the Long Keeper, rightful ruler of Shalandra.”

  “Aye, so we do!” Another man stepped forward, the Kabili miner. “The same Pharus that permitted us to starve while the Dhukari grew fat on fancy feasts. We scratch out a living in the deepest, darkest corners of Alshuruq while he basks in wealth and power.” His lip curled into a snarl. “A man that condemns his people to such suffering is not worthy of our respect.”

  Aterallis’ spirit flared bright within Aisha, bringing to her mind the image of what she’d seen in the militants’ hideout. “But what if the Pharus can offer you food aplenty?” Aisha spoke up now. “Enough to feed your families and stock your larders?”

  All eyes turned toward her. Even the Pharus looked her way, though he managed to conceal his surprise.

  Aisha smiled and bowed. “As per your instructions, Bright One, I tracked down those truly responsible for all of the turmoil.” Aterallis’ words flowed through her lips. “And, as you predicted in your wisdom, they have been hoarding food.” She turned to the delegation. “Food, clothing, blankets, all that belongs in the hands of your people.”

  The Pharus’ rigid expression cracked and a hint of a smile tugged at his lips, as if he understood what she was doing. But she could take no credit for the plan; Aterallis had been born and raised Dhukari, lived the life of politics in high society.

  Stunned surprise greeted her statement. The seven low-caste delegates exchanged curious glances.

  “Thanks to your foresight, we know that the ones to blame are those ones that call themselves Hallar’s Warriors, and the Ybrazhe Syndicate.” Aisha shot a glance at the Pharus. “Blackfinger himself has confessed to his crimes, is that not so, my Pharus?”

  “It is so.” This time, his expression revealed no surprise. Aisha had gambled that Lady Callista had clued the Pharus in on the results of her interrogations of Blackfinger and the other prisoners they’d brought. “The ones who call themselves Hallar’s Warriors are guilty of murdering the Keeper’s Blade and the Indomitables, and they planted the evidence that led the Keeper’s Council to convict Aterallis of the crime. They, together with the Ybrazhe, armed your young men and women, drove them to raise their hands in violence. All under the orders of the Keeper’s Council.”

  Angry murmurs echoed among the Indomitables behind the Pharus, as well as the Dhukari and Alqati onlookers lining Death Row.

  “You expect us to believe the Keeper’s Council is really behind this?” asked the Earaqi farmer, suspicion plain on his face.

  “We can offer proof that the Divinities conspired with the Gatherers, Ybrazhe, and Hallar’s Warriors to stir up unrest in our city, to incite you good people to anger. To steal your food, to poison your water, to inflict you with the pestilence known as the Azure Rot.” Sorrow lined the Pharus’ face. “To think that those who call themselves your fellow Shalandrans and servants of the Long Keeper could take such appalling action brings us immeasurable grief.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes, silent for a long moment.

  The delegates’ expressions changed, softened. A few even mirrored the Pharus’ posture.

  When the Pharus straightened, his face had once more grown confident. “But we cannot let the actions of a few outliers cause suffering for the rest of our fair city. We desire nothing more than to see the wicked punished, but the innocent have endured enough already.” He raised his hands. “The past cannot be undone, just as the dead cannot rise from their graves. Yet perhaps, by the grace of the Long Keeper, we may be able to move toward a brighter tomorrow.”

  The Earaqi seemed to accept the Pharus’ words, even welcome them, but the Mahjuri and Kabili proved less tractable.

  “If you can prove the Keeper’s Council is behind all this,” said the miner in a slow voice, “we will try to look past all that your Indomitables have done.” He glared at the soldiers lined up behind the Pharus; the Mahjuri had suffered most at the Alqati’s hands. “But not without reparations made!”

  The Pharus inclined his head once more. “You have our word as Pharus, servant of the Long Keeper, chosen of Hallar, that we will do everything in our power to ensure such tragedies never occur again. And that the future of all Shalandrans offers far more hope and promise than our past.”

  The seven delegates exchanged glances. Even the Kabili and Mahjuri seemed to accept the Pharus’ statement.

  The Pharus gestured toward the pavilion. “You speak of a better Shalandra, the same one your Child of Gold preached. That begins here, now. Not with swords and bloodshed, but with words and honor.” A smile broadened his handsome face. “Come, my friends, let us begin to build the city of tomorrow.”

  The delegates hesitated, uncertainty in their faces. The Mahjuri moved first, husband and wife striding toward the tent and taking their seat in the cushioned chairs. The Earaqi moved next, with the Kabili bringing up the rear, the miner offering a hand to escort the aged soothsayer to her seat.

  Aisha made no move to enter. Her part in this matter was done.

  Yet at the Pharus’ beckon, she moved forward to stand before Shalandra’s ruler.

  “I don’t know what you did or how you did it,” the Pharus whispered, no longer speaking with the royal “we”, “but all of Shalandra owes you a debt, one I fully intend to repay.”

  “Not me, Bright One.” Aisha smiled. “You have At
erallis to thank.”

  The Pharus smiled, yet a hint of grief shadowed his eyes. “Even from beyond the grave, my good friend offers one parting gift.”

  Had she not already felt Aterallis’ flare of recognition as she approached the Pharus, the words would have caught her off-guard. Even still, it seemed strange to imagine the Pharus friends with the man that had preached bareheaded and barefoot in the streets.

  The Pharus’ expression grew wistful. “I was happy to see him cast off the shackles of his family, and of Dhukari society. He was always happiest when free of the trappings of wealth.” He shook his head sadly. “It will forever be my greatest regret that I could not prevent the Council ordering his execution.”

  Aterallis’ feelings surged within Aisha, and words poured from her mouth with a force beyond her control. “He has the peace he desired, his rest in Pharadesi.” A rush of emotions thickened her throat. “I think he’d want you to know that he did his best to honor your friendship. His words of peace were his way of showing you he cared.”

  For a heartbeat, the Pharus seemed too stunned to react. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” He appeared lost in a memory, torn by grief. Yet he recovered a moment later. “Thank you.” With a nod, he turned to enter the pavilion and join the delegates.

  Heat flared within her veins and energy sizzled up her arm. Aterallis’ form materialized before her, a bright smile on his face.

  Thank you, he whispered in Aisha’s mind. For bringing peace, and allowing me to bid my oldest and closest friend farewell.

  The man’s memories flashed before her eyes: two young boys laughing and playing in the Terrestra, chasing each other through the Palace of Golden Eternity. Young men sharing a silent drink, one offering the comfort of his presence as the other wrestled with the burden of his destiny. Whispered secrets of hidden love, of hearts broken. Aterallis and Amhoset Nephelcheres before he donned the robes of the Pharus. Simpler times, the best of friends.