Trial of Stone

by Andy Peloquin

  “You called him Dhukari, right?” Aisha said.

  “Yes.” Briana smiled at her. “The Keeper’s Blades are specially chosen by the Long Keeper, and that honor elevates them from whatever caste they were born into. They are higher than the Indomitables and the rest of Shalandra. Only the Necroseti, the Long Keeper’s priesthood, and the high councils—the Elders of the Blade and the Keeper’s Council—outrank them.”

  “You said seven castes.” Kodyn frowned. “I counted six.”

  Briana nodded. “The Alqati are warrior and military caste. The Indomitables, Shalandra’s army, and their families. They are second only to the Dhukari in standing.”

  “But why did he just accept that you were who you said you are?” Kodyn insisted.

  “In Shalandra, the caste society is rigid,” Briana explained. “When one is born into a caste—be it slave, outcast, artisan, or warrior—it is nearly impossible to rise above their station. No Shalandran would claim to be of a higher caste; it is an unfathomable, unforgivable deceit.”

  Aisha found this concept unnecessarily complex. In Ghandia, every villager had their own purpose, but there were no ranks like the Praamian nobility or the Shalandran castes. The village elders were chosen according to their age and standing among the tribes, but blood and wealth never came into play in Ghandian society.

  “So you’re telling me that he accepted that you were of this Dhukari caste just because you said you are?” Kodyn sounded incredulous.

  “Yes.” Briana said it as if were the simplest thing in the world.

  Aisha spoke up. “Before he recognized you, he called you taltha.”

  Briana gave her a little smile. “It is the Shalandran word for ‘little sister’. Sort of like how a Praamian elder calls a youth ‘lad’, only more polite and reserved for young women.”

  The sound of drumming hooves grew louder and the three of them turned to find Ormroth and the two other figures riding toward them. The two wore simple, dust-covered travel garb and rode horses that were sturdy but lacked the raw power of the Blade’s warhorse. A single spot of color stood out from their dull outfits: headbands made of gold-colored thread.

  “They are Dhukari as well,” Briana whispered to the two of them. “That, and the fact that they travel in disguise in the company of a Blade means they are returning from the sale of Shalandran steel.”

  Aisha sucked in a breath. Shalandran-forged steel, made using the special shalanite ore found exclusively in the mountains around Shalandra, was considered the best-quality steel on the world of Einan. The city only permitted a fraction of the steel to be traded, always at an exorbitant rate. If these men had just returned from selling a shipment, they would be loaded down with a fortune in gold.

  Suddenly, the bandits’ words made sense. Somehow they knew these Shalandrans were coming, so the ambush was for them. She, Kodyn, and Briana had simply been unlucky enough to arrive first.

  Ormroth and his companions reined in before Briana. The Blade introduced the two as Arhin and Feasah. Immediately upon learning Briana’s name and parentage, Arhin dug into his pack and produced a golden headband.

  “It would be my honor to present this to the daughter of Arch-Guardian Suroth,” he said, and bowed low in his saddle. The strip of woven-gold cloth bore a trio of bright blue gemstones—clearly of great value, yet he offered it without hesitation.

  “Thank you.” Briana gave a little bow of her own and accepted the headband. She let out a little sigh as she wrapped it around her forehead, as if someone had just restored her sight or replaced a lost limb.

  “Come, my lady,” Ormroth said. “We must hurry. I doubt the bandits will return, but I would not risk your safety and that of my companions.”

  “Of course.” Briana turned her horse back toward the south. Aisha kicked her horse into motion beside the Shalandran girl, and Kodyn moved to ride on her far side.

  Ormroth took the lead on his huge warhorse, and the two Dhukari nobles rode behind him, with Kodyn, Aisha, and Briana bringing up the rear. Aisha’s hand never strayed far from the shaft of her short-handled assegai spear and she found Kodyn remained vigilant, ready to draw his sword at a moment’s notice.

  Jagged cliffs pressed in around the road, rising high to the east and west and blocking out the sunlight. A chill fell around them as they rode through the bluffs. A nervous tension thrummed within Aisha—if more bandits were to attack, this would be the place.

  At the head of their little column, Ormroth drew his massive two-handed blade.

  Aisha’s heart stopped. The steel, black as midnight, seemed alive with blue-white energy, as if lightning sizzled along the length of the blade. To her horror, dozens of transparent, ethereal shapes clung to the sword’s curving edge. Men and women, spirits of the dead, all bound to that strange sword. Pleading eyes turned toward her, and ghostly mouths opened to voice a whispered plea.

  Last night, on the bluff overlooking Rosecliff, Aisha had decided to face the spirits. Now, seeing them so close, she nearly recanted her decision. She could feel them pressing at her mind, could almost taste the energy crackling from the dead.

  Long ago, during one of his more lucid moments, her father had tried to explain it to her. “Within us all is a spark of life. It burns brightest at our birth and slowly fades as we age, until it is exhausted out at the end of our lives. But for those lives snuffed out too early, the spark does not fade, does not die. It remains all around us in the form of the Kish’aa, the spirits that only a Spirit Whisperer can see and touch. Some few, those with the favor of the Kish’aa, can even learn to control those sparks.”

  Her father had tried to control the sparks, to channel the energy of the Kish’aa, and it had cost him his sanity. She’d lost her father to the spirits, and now they had come for her.

  Somehow, impossibly, these strange swords managed to collect the energy of the dead. The energy sizzling along its length would, in the right hands, make it a truly powerful weapon.

  And only Aisha could hear the wailing of the spirits tethered to the blade.

  Chapter Ten

  Issa leapt out of her simple cot the moment the door to her room—little more than a stone cell with a bed and chair, really—opened.

  The newcomer was a well-built man a year or two her senior, with a broad, handsome face, dark eyes, and hair that hung in a braided tail down to the small of his back. Though heavier than her, they were a match in height and the width of their shoulders.

  He smiled at the sight of her fully-dressed, flammard gripped in her hand. “Not even dawn yet, but you’re already eager to begin your training, I see.”

  “Very.” Issa nodded and returned his smile.

  “My name is Hykos.” The man extended a strong, callused hand. “I’m to be your instructor for the duration of your training in the Citadel. In public, you may address me as Archateros.”

  “Issa.” Issa shook his hand. His grip was firm, confident, with force that Issa thought could crush stone.

  “I expected you’d need a few moments to dress,” Hykos said, grinning. “But if you’re prepared, we can depart for the training yard at once.”

  Issa fell in step behind Hykos and followed him out of the small room she’d been assigned the previous night. The man wore the full plate mail of the Blades, yet he moved with an easy, relaxed step. His armor made virtually no sound, a far cry from the clanking metal plates of the Indomitables’ breastplates, backplates, and shoulder guards.

  “To everyone else in the Citadel of Stone,” Hykos said, “your name is not important. Until you are confirmed into the Blades at the Anointing in a month’s time, you will simply be referred to as Prototopoi.” He shot her a little smile. “It means ‘novice’, but the way some of those here say it, it sounds more like ‘idiot’ or ‘incompetent’.”

  Issa nodded. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

  “Those accepted into the Blades are Defteteros for the first six months after confirmation. The training and dutie
s remain the same, though there is far less mockery from the higher-ranked Katoteros. It takes four years of training to reach the rank of Archateros, ten to become an Ypertatos and twenty to reach Invictus. All of the Elders of the Blades are Invictus, and only Lady Callista herself is Proxenos.”

  “If you’re Archateros,” Issa asked, “that means you’ve been here four years?”

  “Five,” Hykos corrected. “I was fourteen when I was chosen by the Long Keeper.”

  Issa glanced up at his forehead. He wore no helmet, but instead a golden headband with a silver disc in the center of his forehead—a sign of his rank and status as Dhukari—which covered the mark left by the trial of stone. Her fingers went to her own forehead and found the skin still sensitive to the touch. The burning pain had gone, but it would likely be tender for a few more days.

  “Piece of advice,” Hykos said. “Don’t bother with a headband until the pain goes away. Friction with the silver can rub it raw.”

  “Thanks.” Issa nodded.

  In the pre-dawn light, the Citadel of Stone seemed a cold, forbidding place. Carved from the golden sandstone of the mountain, it was as solid, blocky, and practical as a fortress should be. The walls were bare of ornamentation or color. The closest the Citadel came to any form of décor was the myriad of weapons hanging on the wall—bladed weapons, polearms, daggers, axes, and hundreds more Issa didn’t recognize.

  “I saw you fight in the Crucible.” Hykos shot her a sidelong glance. “When you walked in with those two short swords, I thought for sure you’d end up dead. The way you brought down that ox proved me wrong. Then you saved Etai from Kellas, and I knew there was no way I’d let Archateros Byrach ruin you. I claimed you as my prototopoi before he could.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Byrach fights with the grace of a bull in heat.”

  Issa chuckled. “Then I’m definitely glad you chose me.”

  “Answer me this, though.” Hykos stopped and fixed her with a stern glare. “You weren’t chosen to fight in the Crucible, were you?”

  Issa’s stomach bottomed out. Every year, the Necroseti visited the Academies and Institutes of the Seven Faces of Shalandra to test the youths. Their testing revealed those chosen by the Long Keeper to enter the Crucible and attempt to claim one of the blades.

  Issa hadn’t been tested, hadn’t been chosen. She’d dreaded this moment since she first stepped out onto the sands of the Hall of the Beyond. With Hykos’ dark eyes boring into hers, she had to tell the truth.

  “No,” she replied in a quiet voice. “I wasn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Hykos folded his arms over his chest, his gaze piercing and his scrutiny intense. “There were only supposed to be sixty-four candidates. How did you get in?”

  Issa hesitated. If she told the truth, she could get Killian in serious trouble. He’d been the one to show her the hidden way into the temple’s tunnels, had told her what she needed to do to blend in with the other candidates.

  “Did you use the secret tunnels?” Hykos asked.

  Issa stiffened. “Y-You know about the tunnels?” Killian had called them one of Shalandra’s best-kept secrets.

  “Of course.” Hykos snorted. “Every Blade learns the hidden ways around Shalandra, though that’s not something we like to publicize. I’m certain the Indomitables, Necroseti, and the rest of the priesthoods wouldn’t look favorably on our being able to get into their strongholds without their knowledge.”

  Issa felt her gut twist into knots. Hykos had discovered her secret; the only question remained what he’d do.

  The Blade narrowed his eyes. “The Necroseti testing would have marked you as worthy, which means you didn’t undergo their tests. Why not?”

  Issa’s eyes slid away. “My grandparents refused to allow it.”

  Every year, Savta and Saba locked her inside her room on the day the Necroseti visited the Institute of the Seven Faces on the Cultivator’s Tier. When she tried to sneak out, Saba would be waiting for her. She’d never seen her grandparents so determined in her life. She hadn’t understood it, but resented them for it.

  “And yet you entered anyway.” Hykos stroked his shaven upper lip. “Somehow managing to sneak in through the secret tunnels—tunnels an Earaqi should have no knowledge of—and getting into the Hall of the Beyond without being caught.” A smile broadened his face. “Just the sort of resourcefulness that makes for a good Keeper’s Blade.”

  His words caught Issa off-guard. She’d expected recrimination, anger, even denouncement and punishment. Hykos’ approval left her speechless.

  “Truth be told, I’ve never seen anyone fight the way you did,” Hykos continued. “The dirty tricks and ruthless cunning of an Institute-trained fighter, but with the grace and skill honed over years at any of the Academies. Hell, the way you took down the Silver Sword with a Striking Serpent guard, then took down those Darting Arrows with what was clearly a Silver Sword attack, that’s the sort of skill that takes years to master.”

  He fixed her with an expectant look, as if waiting for her to divulge her secrets. Issa remained silent. Killian had made her swear that she would never speak of where she’d learned to fight. For her protection as well as his, he’d insisted.

  Hykos gave a dismissive wave. “There are a few bad habits I’ll have to hammer out of you, but you’ve got the foundation well enough. Best of all, you know how to do more than just swing that blade of yours around.”

  Issa stared down at the huge two-handed sword in her hands. Killian had made her train with a flammard—one he’d forged in his own smithy from premium Voramian steel—daily, hammering the movements into her until her arms ached and her lungs burned. She was here thanks to him. She just hoped she’d get a chance to tell him that.

  Hykos seemed not to notice her sudden somber mood. “Until the ritual that confirms you as a full-fledged Keeper’s Blade, that sword is just another weapon—a good one, made of the finest Shalandran steel, but as lifeless as a wooden spear or a chunk of stone. But all that changes after the Anointing.”

  He drew his own two-handed blade from its sheath on his back and held it with reverence. “You will be bonded with your blade. The steel chose you, recognized something within your soul that makes you worthy to wield it.” His eyes returned to her and his voice filled with wonder. “With that bond, the sword will give you power like you could never imagine.”

  Excitement fluttered in Issa’s stomach. Everyone in Shalandra had heard tales of the Keeper’s Blades and their legendary abilities. She doubted most were fabricated or exaggerated out of proportion, but if even a fraction held a grain of truth, the Blades were warriors to be feared. And she was going to become one of them.

  Hykos sheathed his sword. “But until the Anointing, you will undergo the Blades’ training regimen. I warn you now, it will be more difficult, more demanding than you could expect. It’s not too late to walk away.”

  Issa shook her head without hesitation. “Not a damned chance!”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Hykos smiled. “Then our training begins now with a visit to the armory.”

  He led her through the stone hallways and corridors of the Citadel of Stone. Thankfully, Issa had a good sense of direction, and the layout of fortress was organized.

  The center of the Citadel of Stone was dominated by an enormous training yard—doubtless it would double as a staging ground in times of war. All Issa had to do to get around the Citadel was cross the yard and find an entrance that led toward her destination.

  Hykos, however, took her on a more circuitous route to introduce her to the rest of the Citadel. Her room had been located along the western side of the Citadel, on the second floor. After descending to the ground level, Hykos led her around the interior and pointed out the important areas she needed to know: common room, kitchens, a library, classrooms where she’d receive her academic lessons, Grand Chapel with its statue of the seven-faced Long Keeper, and, finally, the armory and smithy on the southern si
de of the training yard.

  Issa’s jaw dropped as she strode into the armory. The first chamber she entered was easily fifty feet wide and thirty across, lined from floor to ceiling with swords of every conceivable size and shape. The entire western wall held row after row of two-handed training swords, both wooden wasters and dull-edged metal blades. The three chambers beyond contained axes, polearms, bows, crossbows, daggers, and more weapons she’d never dreamed of—every conceivable tool of killing from every part of Einan and even Fehl across the Frozen Sea, Hykos explained.

  The sound of clanging hammers brought a smile to her face. She’d spent hours in Killian’s smithy, both to learn how to maintain her weapons and equipment and to strengthen her arms. The tang of hot metal, the loud hiss of quenching steel, and the rhythmic pounding of mallets were as familiar to her as sun and rain.

  Her heart sank as she saw a familiar face in the smithy. Not him!

  “If it isn’t the lowborn?” The Dhukari youth—Hykos called him Kellas—sneered at her. “I thought I smelled dung.” He stood clad in a full set of black, spiked armor, complete with a snarling lion helmet, his two-handed sword in a sheath on his back.

  Issa gave him a sweet smile. “That’s what happens when you wipe your face and arse with the same hand.” She had no need to fear him; they were both Blades-in-training, chosen by the Long Keeper. And, she noticed for the first time, he stood a few inches shorter than she. When she drew herself to her full height, he had to look up at her.

  Hykos chuckled, as did the hulking Blade beside Kellas—Issa guessed he was the one Hykos had called Byrach. Kellas, however, bristled and turned a bright shade of red.