Trial of Stone

by Andy Peloquin

  Glad to see I’m not the only one who thinks that.

  “At this rate, she’ll be lucky to reach the Anointing alive, much less with all her limbs attached.”

  “Maybe that’s his intention,” the man said. “Maybe he’s planning to recruit her for his special crew of killers hunting down the Gatherers.”

  “That’s just a rumor and you know it, Gerrad,” the woman replied.

  “You hear it from enough lips, it’s bound to have some truth in it. The way the Gatherers have been ramping up their activity lately, there’s no way the Lady of Blades is going to let them continue unchecked. Even if the Pharus is too blind and stupid to move against them.”

  “Careful,” Talla warned. “We serve the Pharus as well as Lady Callista.”

  “Sure, just like we serve the Keeper’s Council and the Necroseti.” Gerrad gave another snort of derision. “It’s words, nothing more. The Lady of Blades and the Elders are the only ones who deserve—”

  “She’s not coming in this way.” A new voice, a familiar one, interrupted the conversation within the kitchens. “I spotted her heading down toward the deep storage where Fiaugh ages the cheese and hams.”

  Hykos? Confusion furrowed Issa’s brow. What is he doing?

  “Rannus and Churia are waiting for her there,” Talla replied.

  “They’re waiting by the main stairs, but something tells me they’re not clever enough to expect Issa to take the stairs beside the library.”

  “Watcher’s beard!” Gerrad cursed. “Of course they won’t.”

  “Go,” Hykos told them. “I’ve yet to eat, so I’ll stay here and keep watch while I break my fast.”

  Issa couldn’t make out Gerrad’s response, but the conversation died out, leaving only silence. A moment later, the window opened and a small cloth-wrapped bundle flew out. Issa caught it before it landed in the rotting mess of garbage.

  “I’m sorry.” Hykos’ words drifted through the open window. “I can’t go against an Invictus, especially not Tannard. I’ll do what I can to help, but now it’s up to you to survive this.” His voice grew solemn. “And you have to survive this. You’re too good to fail. The Keeper’s Blades need you.”

  The window closed, leaving Issa alone in the refuse heap. Opening the bundle, she found a small chunk of soft goat cheese, a quarter of flatbread, and a handful of dried dates. A pitiful meal, but far more than she could have hoped for.

  Tears of gratitude welled in Issa’s eyes as she devoured the food. How Hykos had known she was coming this way didn’t matter at the moment. He had helped her, a quiet gesture of defiance toward the Invictus’ cruel treatment.

  Grim resolve hardened into a ball within her as she slipped back toward her room. She had little doubt that a great deal more suffering lay ahead; Tannard had proven himself a cruel, ruthless trainer, and he’d taken a special interest in her.

  Yet she wouldn’t face it alone. That small glimmer of hope was more than enough to keep her from giving up.

  He won’t break me, she swore in her mind. I’ve come this far, and nothing’s going to stop me from becoming a Keeper’s Blade.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nervous tension tightened Evren’s shoulders as the wagon rattled the last few paces toward Shalandra’s West Gate. The gate was a massive construction of steel-banded stone easily forty feet tall, suspended from iron chains thicker than his arms, and set in the seventy-foot stone wall that surrounded the base of the city. The wall, like the rest of Shalandra, appeared to have been hewn from the golden sandstone of the mountain upon which it sat.

  Shalandra looked like someone had cut the circular mountain like a pie and built a city into the removed slice. It was constructed into six levels: the largest at the bottom, and each growing progressively smaller as they rose toward the enormous building—Evren guessed it was the palace—at the pinnacle. The city faced due south, with both the western and eastern edges marked by sheer cliffs that rose hundreds of feet above the golden stone buildings.

  A company of eight guards stood at the gate. All wore heavy black-burnished armor—a strange type of half-plate mail that encased their upper bodies in solid steel while leaving their legs free for quick movement—and carried long sickle-shaped swords. Their helmets were flat on the top but rimmed with spikes, bearing a strange blue ring around the forehead. Even stranger, they wore dark kohl around their eyes, and their faces bore five black dots like beauty marks painted onto their skin. An unusual affectation, similar to the way Voramians painted their cheeks with beet juice to add color to their pale skin.

  One of the guards studied him through narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide what to think of the young man driving a wagon. His goods bore the mark of a Malandrian merchant, yet he could almost pass for Shalandran.

  Over the last day, as traffic on the road had increased, Evren had noticed that the people of Shalandra bore strong similarities to the people in his home city of Vothmot. Voramians, Praamians, and Malandrians tended to be pale, but Shalandrans had skin of a deep, golden bronze—a shade lighter than the people of Vothmot, colored like almond peels. Their eyebrows were thinner, their eyes smaller and rounder, but with similar tight jawlines, prominent noses, and dark, wavy hair.

  “What is your business in Shalandra?” the guard demanded. It seemed he’d decided that Evren was a foreigner. That might have to do with the fact that Hailen sat on the wagon seat behind him—with his brown hair and cream-colored skin, he stuck out among the sea of Shalandrans. The accent reminded Evren of his own home in Vothmot far to the north, though slightly harsher, hardening the syllables and making the vowels rounder, more musical.

  “Hauling a load of grain for my father.” The lie came easily; Evren had rehearsed it in his mind the last two days. “He took ill the day we had planned to leave Voramis, so it falls to me to bring it.”

  “Alone?” The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know there are bandits on the road?”

  There are at least ten fewer now, Evren thought. Outwardly, he forced a grin and jerked a thumb at Hailen. “I’ve got him along for protection.”

  Hailen gave the guard a bright grin. “Hello!”

  The guard snorted and shook his head. “I’ll need to inspect your goods.”

  “Of course.” Evren reached back and twitched aside the tarp. His eyes went to Brother Modestus’ bloodstains still on the wooden walls and floor of the wagon. They hadn’t had the water to scrub it out; he could only hope the guard didn’t care enough to question the sight.

  The armored man eyed the bloodstains curiously for a moment, then hopped up onto the wagon and poked around among the sacks and crates. A few seconds later, he jumped down and strode alongside the wagon to stand in front of Evren.

  “Follow the eastern road, the Path of Sepulture, up to the Cultivator’s Tier,” he instructed. “From there, take the Commoner’s Row eastward, toward the Trader’s Way. That road will take you up to the Artisan’s Tier. There you’ll find Commerce Square, where you can sell your wares. If you plan to spend the night in Shalandra, you’ll find lodgings in the Foreign Quarter on the western edge of the Cultivator’s Tier.”

  “Got it.” Evren nodded. He had no idea what those street names referred to, but he’d figure it out.

  “Only in the Foreign Quarter.” The guard’s expression grew severe. “We have opened our city to your kind, but Shalandra is not yours to roam freely. If you’re found outside the Foreign Quarter after dark, you will be detained and questioned.” The tone of his voice made Evren suspect that there would be few questions involved, but an abundance of beatings and incarceration.

  “Understood!” He kept a smile on his face, but inwardly he cursed. He’d have a hard time sneaking up to the palace to steal the Blade of Hallar if he couldn’t move around Shalandra unhindered.

  Lucky for me, I could probably pass for a local. Even the accent’s not too hard to manage with a bit of practice.

  “A word of warning,” the guard said as Evr
en gathered up the reins. “Cover your heads.”

  Evren frowned in confusion.

  The guard tapped the blue band on his helmet. “Only the Kabili go bare-headed in Shalandra. If you don’t want someone thinking you’re a slave, cover up.”

  “Thank you,” Evren said, though he still didn’t understand the meaning.

  “You can find headbands and headdresses in Commerce Square.” The guard pointed to Hailen. “You’ll want to get him one first before someone mistakes him for a slave escaped from a Dhukari or Alqati household.”

  “I certainly will.” With a nod, Evren flicked the reins and set the horse in motion.

  As he drove through the gate, he was surprised to find himself in a broad tunnel. The city wall was at least thirty feet thick and made of solid stone. The passage had been carved wide enough for two wagons to pass at once, but Evren’s keen eyes spotted multiple slits and openings in the wall, ceiling, and ground. Clearly this passage had been built for defense first and commerce second. If the gates were ever sealed in time of war, it would take more than an army to get through.

  Through the gate, Evren found himself riding into a world of gold and dust.

  Every building on the lowest tier of Shalandra had been carved from the gold-colored rock of the mountain. Most were squat single-story constructions, barely better than stone boxes with openings for windows and doors. The morning sunlight seemed to set the sandstone aglow with an almost enchanted luster, yet there was nothing magical about the crumbling walls and the thick layer of dust that covered everything.

  The people had the same crumbling, weathered look of the buildings they called home. All wore black headbands, little more than cords of rope or strips of faded fabric. Their clothing hung in tatters from their gaunt shoulders and bony ribs. Their bronze skin was darkened by the sun and cracked with lines of age and weariness.

  A pall of listlessness hung over the people around him—few moved about, and those that did shuffled along, stooped, gazes downcast. Most simply remained where they sat or lay in the pitiful shade of their crumbling houses. Conversations were held in quiet, furtive voices.

  Evren had seen hard conditions—both on the streets of Vothmot and the Beggar’s Quarter in Lower Voramis—but they paled in comparison to this. At least in those cities, people made an effort to break out of their poverty. They fought, stole, even killed each other, but they tried to survive. Here, it seemed the poorest simply abandoned all hope and waited for death to claim them.

  For some, that wouldn’t be long. A few of the people lying in the rubbish looked three breaths from the Long Keeper’s arms. While all around him were emaciated, haggard even, a handful had found a new threat to their existence: disease. Blue blisters dotted their bodies, most crusted over but with pus oozing from the worst of them. Those affected lay where they’d fallen, too weak or ravaged by illness to move, get into the shade, or even cover up.

  Sorrow and pity panged in Evren’s chest. This is no way to live, he thought. No one should be condemned to such a miserable existence as this.

  The avenue, which the guard had called the Path of Sepulture, ran straight north from the gate, up the hill that would lead him toward the higher tiers. Another wide thoroughfare ran along the lowest tier from east to west. The streets were littered with rubbish, crumbled stone, shattered bricks, and thatch blown free of the roofs. More than a few of the ragged people simply lay on the piles of garbage, drunk, unconscious, or perhaps even dead.

  As his carriage rumbled up the Path of Sepulture toward the higher tier, he caught sight of a patrol of the black-armored soldiers marching past. He couldn’t help noticing the marked effect of the guards’ presence.

  The hushed conversations stopped and people hustled out of the patrol’s path with frightened expressions. But beneath the fear he sensed an undertone of anger. Glares followed the retreating backs of the marching soldiers. Some brazen men and women even spat—long after the guards had passed, of course.

  Evren had lived on the streets, and he’d grown adept at reading the mood of the individuals that made up large crowds. Happy, distracted people made easy marks, but angry throngs were more likely to turn violent, and woe to the pickpocket or thief that made the mistake of getting caught in the middle. He’d have to be blind to miss the subtle undercurrent of discontentment and hostility directed at the guards.

  Maybe the people aren’t as content with their terrible lot in life as they seemed. That never boded well. Once, nearly a decade earlier, the citizens of Vothmot had revolted in response to the Caliph’s harsh treatment. It had taken the better part of a year for the Wardens of the Mount to restore order, even after the cruel Caliph had been dragged out of his palace fortress and stoned to death in the Court of Judgement.

  Something on a nearby wall caught his attention. The words “Child of Secrets” had been painted onto the golden sandstone in bright red—paint or blood, he couldn’t tell from this distance. As his wagon rumbled up the road, he found the same words twice more.

  A fifty-foot wall separated the first tier from the second. The gates stood open, with only a quartet of black-armored guards on watch. They let him through with barely a cursory glance at the contents of his wagon. He guessed that they were stationed there to keep out the wretches in the lowest tier—anyone else could come and go as they pleased.

  The Path of Sepulture continued up to the third tier, but Evren turned east as the guard had instructed. The second tier—the Cultivator’s Tier, the guard called it—was arrayed in the same precise layout of streets: the broad avenue known as Commoner’s Row running east to west, with smaller streets intersecting. Good. He smiled. If the three higher tiers are laid out the same, it’ll make getting around a whole lot easier.

  On the second level, however, the buildings were far better-preserved than those on the lower tier, with whitewashing to cover the stone. Some even had second-floor additions built with sun-baked clay bricks. The roofs were still simple thatch, but in good condition. Hundreds of women and children wielded brooms, filling the air with the dust they swept out of their stone-floored houses. All along the avenue stood cloth-covered shops and stalls built from whatever scraps of wood, brick, and stone the people could cobble together.

  As Evren traveled east along Commoner’s Row, he found the streets cleaner and neater as well, free of the debris that clogged the lowest tiers. People wore simple clothing—the men wearing skirt-like garments of wool and canvas, the women clad in knee-length dresses that clung to their bodies like a sheath. All wore red headbands of woven fabric or wool—the bright cloth a sharp contrast to the dull colors of their garments. A few even had those strange black dots painted onto their face, though no eyeliner.

  A few lighter-skinned Praamians, Voramians, and even Malandrians moved among the people. They dressed in clothing native to their city, but to Evren’s surprise, he found they all wore green headbands.

  Suddenly, Evren understood what the guard had meant about covering up. Everyone in Shalandra wore some sort of headband or scarf covering on their foreheads. And color has something to do with status in this city, he realized.

  Those on the lowest level wore black headbands, with green marking foreigners and red marking the people of the Cultivator’s Tier. One man wearing a brown headband had the callused hands of a stonemason, while a man with an elegant white feathered headdress wore a fancier version of the men’s skirts, complete with a loose cloak draped over his shoulders.

  Perhaps, if I get the right headband and clothing, I can trick my way into the upper levels to get close enough to the Blade of Hallar. There was little doubt in his mind that the enormous building on the uppermost tier of Shalandra would be the Palace of Golden Eternity—the place where Father Reverentus had told him he’d find the Blade of Hallar.

  Hailen, however, would have to get one of those forest green bands. No sense trying to pass off the pale-skinned boy as a Shalandran.

  Again, he spotted the strange words “Chil
d of Secrets” painted on the wall of a house set into a back alley. A short distance away, just as he approached the broad avenue the guard had called Trader’s Way, he caught sight of a new one.

  Child of Spirits? He arched an eyebrow, curiosity burning. Given how carefully the people on this tier cared for their homes, it seemed strange that they would allow such defacement. So what does it mean? It has to be important.

  The sounds of booted feet marching toward him snapped his attention back to the road. A twenty-strong patrol of the black-armored guards approached, and from their purposeful stride, it was clear that they had no intention of moving out of the road. Evren was forced to quickly steer his wagon to one side to make way for the patrol. One of the guards even snarled a curse at him for not moving fast enough.

  He snorted. Quite the friendly lot, aren’t they? Then again, what city guards ever are?

  Trader’s Way was a massive avenue—wide enough for four full-sized wagons—that ran north to the third tier and south to the gate on the lowest tier. It seemed to provide the most direct route from the marketplaces on the upper tier to the vast swaths of farmland and grazing pasture that radiated southward outside the city wall.

  On the Artisan’s Tier, the mercantile establishments seemed more permanent, with countertops of solid stone, strong brick pillars, even the occasional clay-tiled roof among the sea of thatch. The quality of the wares on the Artisan’s Tier far exceeded that of the goods sold on the lower tier. No woven rush baskets or clay pottery and cookware up here.

  To the east, Evren caught sight of quality steel tools, knives, and farming tools mingled with wrought-iron decorations and ornate painted ceramic pottery. Massive wheels of white cheese sat beside man-height piles of fresh-baked flatbreads. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and other sharp spices drifted up from a stall heaped high with pastries covered in bright-colored, elegantly swirled frosting. Jewelry of gold, silver, and precious metals studded with twinkling gemstones hung from metal stands, under the watchful guard of stern-eyed men clad in padded jerkins and carrying iron-studded truncheons. Everything that could be crafted by an artisan’s hand, heart, and mind stood on display for the people of Shalandra.