“Damn!” Kodyn shook his head when he confused the signs for “boy” and “kill” for the second time. “And I thought picking locks was hard!”
Aisha chuckled softly. “It all comes with practice.”
Kodyn’s eyes narrowed. “It looks like you’ve had a bit more practice than me, somehow. You’ve gotten every gesture right.”
A shadow passed in Aisha’s eyes and she drew in a deep breath. ““Back home, in Ghandia, the village elders use similar hand signs to communicate. My mother and father taught me before…”
Kodyn winced as he saw the pain flash across Aisha’s face. “Are the signs the same?” he asked quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from the painful memory of her captivity and enslavement by the Bloody Hand.
“Similar.” Aisha repeated Briana’s gesture for horse. “We have no horses in Ghandia, so this gesture is used to describe zabara, wild beasts of the plains much like horses but with strange green-and-brown striped coats.”
“I’ve heard of those.” Briana’s eyes went wide. “Or, read about them, more accurately, in one of the many books my father filled the house with. Marvelous creatures, said to be almost twice the size of a horse. Twice as fast, too!”
“Yes.” Aisha nodded. “Every child in Ghandia knows to steer clear of the zabara herd during the Uhamaji season when they migrate. Stampedes have destroyed villages and slain mighty warriors too slow to get out of the way.”
Kodyn smiled. It’s good to have her back, he thought. She’d been moody, brooding since their departure from Praamis, but it lifted his spirits to see her open up and talk about life before her captivity. He’d hesitated to broach the subject before, but he’d always wanted to know about her culture, customs, everything about the exotic people on the plains of Ghandia.
“My mother believed that the zabara housed the spirits of the greatest warriors and nassor—the chieftainesses—of our tribe,” Aisha continued. “For only such noble souls could inhabit such mighty beasts.”
“Fascinating.” Briana fixed Aisha with a curious gaze. “I’ve heard the people of Ghandia and Issai don’t worship the Thirteen like we do. Is that true?”
Kodyn didn’t miss the slight stiffening in Aisha’s spine.
“Not the same way you southerners do,” Aisha said finally. “You believe the gods of Einan to be all-powerful, wise beings that see everything from their halls in the heavens, yes?”
Briana nodded. “Every Einari kingdom has their own variations on the belief, according to my father, but they all share the reverence of the Thirteen.”
“In Ghandia, we, too, believe in the Thirteen, but we do not call on them directly,” Aisha explained. “They are too far away to hear us, but the spirits of our ancestors—the Kish’aa, as we call them—intercede with the gods on our behalf. They were once human, so they understand our human needs far better than any god could.”
“I’m sure my father will want to talk with you,” Briana said, her eyes sparkling. “His life’s work revolves around the study of the Serenii artifacts, culture, and writings, but he loves to discuss the theologies and philosophies that have sprung up around the continent.”
Aisha inclined her head. “I’m certain we will have the chance to speak on the matter. However, I doubt I’ll be of much use in the conversation unless I learn more of the hand signs.”
“Did it make talking with your father difficult?” The words slipped from Kodyn’s lips before he realized it. He mentally kicked himself for such an insensitive question.
“I learned to read hand signs before I learned to speak.” Briana’s face showed no sign of offense or insult. “I have never heard my father’s voice, but I have never doubted for a single moment that he loves me. His eyes and hands speak clearly enough.”
Kodyn could only nod. He had blundered into sensitive topics with both Aisha and Briana; best he hold his tongue for now.
He turned his eyes back to the terrain—more of the same wide-open, scrub-covered hill country broken occasionally by steep, craggy cliffs of stark stone.
“What about you?”
Briana’s question caught him off-guard. “W-What about me?” he stammered.
“I met both of your mothers in Praamis,” Briana said with a disarming smile. “I have told you of my father, so what of yours?”
Kodyn’s brow furrowed. A tense silence hung in the air for a long moment before he finally said, “I never met my father.”
“Oh.” Briana’s face fell, and her expression turned guilty. “I-I’m sorry for—”
“No, it’s fine.” Kodyn shook his head. “My mother doesn’t like to talk about him much.”
He hesitated when he felt Aisha’s gaze fixed on him, a burning curiosity in her eyes. She, like all in the Night Guild, had to have overheard the myriad rumors about his parentage, yet she’d never broached the subject with him.
After a long moment, he drew in a deep breath. “She told me he was an apprentice in House Scorpion. Ethen, she said his name was. The first friend she made, the one who made it possible for her to survive the brutal training.”
His own training hadn’t been without its share of challenges, perils, and even a few beatings by the crueler instructors charged with turning clumsy children into capable apprentices. Yet, from the stories he’d heard of the now-deceased Master Velvet, his mother, Master Serpent, and his father had undergone some truly horrible torments when they first joined the Night Guild.
“He sounds like a good man,” Briana said in a quiet voice.
Kodyn nodded. “The few times I’ve heard Mother talk about him, it was always with a sad fondness. She never said it but I think he died trying to protect her, though from what, she doesn’t say.”
A tense silence hung in the air as his words trailed off. Kodyn found himself retreating into himself as he always did when the topic came up. He tried to avoid it whenever possible. Mention of his father brought a strange emotion—instead of the pain of losing someone close to him, he felt an emptiness, a vacuum where something important should be. As if he’d been born blind, mute, or deaf. Where he ought to feel strongly for a father, he had …nothing.
When he’d tried to ask Master Serpent, her mother’s oldest friend, the assassin had refused to give him answers. “Not my place to tell,” Errik had said. “Your mother wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”
Yet, in many ways, Kodyn had enjoyed a far better childhood than most of his fellow Night Guild apprentices. His mother and Ria had done their best for him, and he’d never lacked for love and affection. Many of his mother’s friends—including Errik, the hulking Pathfinder Jarl, and even Darreth in his own awkward way—had served as paternal figures.
Aisha rode her horse closer for a moment; just enough to reach out and casually brush a hand across his arm. Her eyes locked with his and he saw quiet reassurance written there. Once again, he found himself at a loss for words, but he felt a surge of gratitude. No matter what happened, no matter what sorrows lay behind or challenges lay ahead, he could count on Aisha’s strength. Not only her martial skills—she was almost a match for Ria with the assegai spear, and most of the younger Journeymen and apprentice assassins of House Serpent avoided sparring with the young Ghandian woman—but her resoluteness and fortitude of spirit.
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Briana seemed embarrassed that she’d brought up the topic, and Aisha seemed content to keep her thoughts to herself. Kodyn couldn’t think of anything to revive the conversation, so he focused on the road. A few hundred paces ahead, the cliffs closed on in the road and huge boulders littered the land bordering the highway.
As they drew closer to the boulders, a sound reached Kodyn’s ears. He tensed, every sense on alert. It had been a tiny sound, so faint he almost thought he was imagining it. Yet, when he glanced over at Aisha, it seemed she’d heard it, too. Her eyes remained fixed on the road in front of her, but her hand moved slowly toward the wooden shaft of her assegai. Kodyn reached his arms up i
n a wide stretch and when he lowered them again, dropped his right hand onto the saddle horn, a hand’s breadth from the hilt of his long sword.
He pricked up his ears. Years traversing the Praamian sewer tunnels and racing across the Hawk’s Highway—a network of ropes, bridges, and planks that spanned the city rooftops—had sharpened his hearing. There!
The sound came again, quiet but familiar, one he’d heard a thousand times crawling through the Praamian sewer tunnels with the Hounds and Foxes: the scuff of boots on stone.
His gut tightened as he prepared for—
“Hands high!” A loud voice split the silence of the morning. “Keep ‘em away from those weapons, unless you want us to turn you into a prickly pig right now!”
Kodyn’s heart sank as he caught sight of the speaker. The man stood between two huge boulders, wearing a cloak the same dull red as the rocks beside him. In his hand, he carried a loaded crossbow, its tip pointed right at Kodyn’s chest.
Chapter Eight
Nervous knots formed in Issa’s stomach as she marched up the broad stone steps toward the highest room in the Hall of the Beyond. The temple to the Long Keeper dominated the center of Shalandra’s uppermost tier. It was a huge building, nearly a mile long and four hundred paces wide, with seven spire-tipped towers that reached golden fingers into the darkening sky—one for each of the Long Keeper’s seven faces.
Enormous columns twice the width of Issa’s outstretched arms supported domed ceilings of golden sandstone, but few outside of the Necroseti ever saw what was beyond those columns. The populace was only permitted to enter the western side of the Hall of the Beyond, which was occupied by the enormous arena where the Crucible had been held that day. The center and eastern sections of the temple housed the Necroseti’s inner chambers and places of worship.
However, for the ceremony tonight, Issa and the other victors of the Crucible had been summoned to the most sacred chamber in the Hall of the Beyond: the rooftop sanctuary where the monument to the Long Keeper, god of death, stood.
The sanctuary rose above all of Shalandra, its height rivaled only by the Palace of Golden Eternity above it. Like the palace, the Hall of the Beyond was said to have been carved from the very stone of Alshuruq, the mountain known as Dawnbreaker, by Hallar himself. Issa risked a look back over her shoulder. The view from the staircase stole her breath. She could see all the way from the Keeper’s Tier, down across the four lower tiers with their broad avenues and narrower streets, to the vast expanse of farmlands that spread outward from the base of the mountain city.
But the sight of the frowning Necroseti behind her turned her attention back to their procession. The Keeper’s Priests wouldn’t allow anyone to delay their ceremony, which had to take place just after sunset.
Issa studied the four figures beside her. The Mahjuri girl was speechless and wide-eyed, daunted by the grandeur of her surroundings. The arrogant Dhukari youth basked in his triumph, head held high, a swagger in his steps. The other winners, twin boys wearing the brown headband of the Intaji, seemed too young, too small in the company of the older victors. Their eyes darted around, as if afraid of every shadow.
Fire coursed through her calves as she climbed, but she forced herself onward. If the Necroseti priests could ascend the stairs, she could too.
The sun had just touched the western horizon by the time they reached the sanctuary room at the top of the stairs. An enormous statue carved from golden sandstone guarded the sanctuary’s entrance. The seven stern faces of the Long Keeper stared down at her—one each for mercy, justice, vengeance, sorrow, joy, eternity, and change. The stone eyes seemed to follow her as she passed it and strode into the templetop chamber. Her insides trembled beneath that solemn gaze and she swallowed a surge of anxiety.
I’m meant to be here, she told herself, steeling her courage. I won. I was chosen by the Long Keeper.
A thick wall of incense struck her like a blow to the face as she stepped into the sanctuary. Clouds of too-sweet smoke rose from braziers burning at the four corners of the chamber. Hooded figures filled the room, standing silent vigil. A shudder ran down Issa’s spine at the sight of their masks: smooth, featureless white ceramic that made them appear almost corpse-like. The light of dozens of oil lanterns splashed strange, flickering shadows dancing across the midnight black robes the Necroseti reserved for solemn ceremonies.
Within the sanctuary stood another seven-faced statue, the eyes of the Long Keeper fixed on the gold sandstone altar dominating the center of the room. Upon the altar, a horseshoe-shaped cradle of steel glimmered in the lamplight.
Issa’s heart hammered a nervous beat. She’d rarely seen so many priests of the Long Keeper this close, and never the Keeper’s Council. Yet all six of them, including High Divinity Tinush, stood waiting for them behind the altar. Only they—and the seventh man, who wore the dull brown of a Secret Keeper rather than the black of the Long Keeper—wore no masks. Their solemn miens threatened to unnerve her.
Issa and the others halted three paces away from the altar as they’d been instructed. Upon returning from her visit to her home on the Cultivator’s Tier, a pair of Necroseti priests had prepared her for the role she was to play in this ceremony. Now, facing the Keeper’s Priests directly, their words flew from Issa’s mind.
Boom, boom, boom! Issa startled and nearly jumped as the sound of a metal-capped staff striking the stone floor seemed to echo through the chamber. A moment later, a door behind the Keeper’s Priests opened and two figures strode through.
Issa sucked in a breath. The Pharus himself!
Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres wore a gold and black nemes headdress with an ornamental stole and shendyt to match. A ceremonial mask of pristine ivory obscured his features. On his heels came Lady Callista Vinaus. The Lady of Blades wore her full armor of black segmented plate mail with spikes at the shoulders, elbows, and knees. Yet beneath her helmet, she wore a mask depicting one of the scowling faces that adorned the Keeper’s Statue—the war mask worn into battle by all Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades.
Issa swallowed. The most powerful people in Shalandra, here to witness this. A mixture of elation and trepidation thrummed through the core of her being. The eyes of Lady Callista, the Pharus, and the Keeper’s Council seemed to judge her every move. She had won in the Crucible, but would she fail whatever lay ahead? This was everything she’d hoped for, yet now that she was here, it took all her willpower to still her expression to hide her unease.
The six High Divinities bowed to the Pharus, who nodded once before moving to join the figures assembled to the right of the altar. The Lady of Blades received no obeisance from the priests, but strode without a word toward the armored, war-masked figures to the left of the altar. The Elders of the Blades, the highest ranking military officers in Shalandra. The ones that Issa would serve once—if—she proved worthy.
“We stand here, beneath the all-seeing gaze of the Long Keeper, to bear witness to the second trial of the Blades.” High Divinity Tinush’s voice rang out in the chamber with a strength that belied his age. He fixed his gaze on Issa and the others in turn. “The first, the trial of steel, proved that you five were worthy beyond the measure of your foes. The blades, forged from the very stone beneath your feet, chose you.”
His expression grew stern. “But only those who bear the mark of the Long Keeper may join the Keeper’s Blades and serve the Pharus, his representative on Einan. Step forward, worthy ones, and face the trial of stone. May the Long Keeper have mercy on all of you.”
Jaw clenched tight, Issa stepped forward first as she’d been instructed and moved toward the sandstone altar. She caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. The scowling black steel war mask concealed Lady Callista’s features, but the Lady of Blades had leaned forward.
As Issa approached, the seventh man—Arch-Guardian Suroth of the Secret Keepers, she recognized—stepped up to the altar. From within his robes, he drew out a strange-looking object: a metal rod the length
of Issa’s forearm, tipped with a red gemstone that seemed to glow in the torchlight.
Issa’s blood ran cold. Bloodstone. The stone numbered among the most toxic substances on Einan. Said to be twenty times more potent than Voramian cinnabar, it could kill a grown man with a touch.
She resisted the urge to flinch, to flee. Her eyes searched the gaze of the Arch-Guardian and, behind the solemnity, found reassurance written there. He never smiled, but there was a hint of kindness written in his strong face. With a barely perceptible nod, he placed the metal rod into the groove cut into the metal horseshoe-shaped cradle.
Drawing in a deep breath, Issa stepped up onto the stair before the altar and, with only a heartbeat’s hesitation, bent to place her face into the cradle, as the Necroseti had instructed her. The glowing crimson stone loomed large in her view and she gritted her teeth as she touched her forehead to the stone.
The stone was hot, hotter than her flesh, and the contact made her skin crawl. Heat surged into her face, her cheeks, and her forehead. She could feel the sizzling, crackling of her skin as the glowing stone burned its mark into her. When she pulled away a moment later, she had to clench her jaw hard to keep from crying out at the pain.
The world spun around her in a dizzying chaos of glowing gemstones, flickering torches, and black-robed figures. A strong hand seized her arm to steady her, but Issa reeled from the terrible effects of the bloodstone’s toxins. It felt as if a fist of iron hammered against her skull, trying to rip her head from her shoulders and claw its way into her brain.
Something hard struck her knees. She forced herself to focus, to return to consciousness, and found she’d fallen to a kneeling position, one hand clutching the altar. The stone was cool beneath her fingers, an island of peace amid the surging, rushing heat flooding her body. Drawing in a deep breath, she concentrated on that single constant. Even as the room whirled in wild circles around her, she clung to the solid, unmovable object beneath her fingers.
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