He and Issa leaned on the wall, gasping for air. Fear set Evren’s knees shaking and drenched his clothes in nervous sweat. Bloody hell! He let out a shaky breath. That was too damned close!
“What in the Keeper’s name happened back there?” Issa hissed. “Did you kill Tinush?”
Evren shook his head, too winded to speak.
“So how the hell did he—?”
“His heart,” Evren gasped. “I-I think…the surprise, his heart.” His mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic, panicked jumble. “Madani! He saw you! Do you think…” He swallowed, caught his breath. “Do you think he recognized you?”
“I…” Issa hesitated. “I don’t think so. It was dark and my helmet…” She let out a long breath. “Keeper’s teeth, Evren! We just killed Tinush!”
Guilt nagged in the back of Evren’s mind. He hadn’t intended to kill Tinush; bloody hell, they needed the old priest alive. He had been their only link to the Ybrazhe, as evidenced by the words of the thief, Nahril. Madani clearly knew the ins and outs of the treacherous plot, but without that connection to Tinush, he wasn’t certain Lady Callista could make a move against the Council.
He replayed the conversation in his mind, trying to recall anything else he could use, any more threads to follow. Something Tinush said leapt out at him.
“I did, however, receive confirmation that our order to bring down that accursed stronghold has been delivered. Our confederates will stir up the crowd and unleash them shortly before dawn.”
Stronghold. That word echoed over and over in his thoughts. It sounded wrong, as if it didn’t belong.
What stronghold could he be talking about? The Fortress? The Citadel of Stone? Both seemed unlikely targets for Syndicate thugs. Perhaps the Halls of Bounty? The Ybrazhe could want access to the food. Then again, if the Council had stockpiled foodstuffs as Madani said, they wouldn’t need to control the Halls of Bounty.
The memory of steel spikes, barbed wire, and stone walls slammed into his mind. No!
The Ybrazhe had concentrated their efforts around one place, after more than a week of concerted threats against the same man. It made no sense and yet Evren couldn’t deny it.
Realization froze his breath in his lungs. “They’re going after Killian!” he said. “The Syndicate is going to storm the smithy!”
Chapter Thirty-One
The sight of Hallar’s Warriors entering Imbuka’s house froze Aisha in place. She stood in the middle of the street, too stunned and confused to move.
What in the fiery hell? The question rocked her to the core. What are they doing?
The spirit of Shishak the Queenslayer flared within her, the sudden burst of heat snapping her from her trance. Instinct kicked in and she ducked into the shadows of a nearby house. With wary caution, she slipped toward the small, decrepit building. Her ears pricked up for any sounds of nearby threat. Silence hung in a thick blanket over her, almost deafening compared to the chaos flooding the rest of Shalandra.
Again, Shishak’s spirit burst to life as the doorway opened. The two men that had entered moments earlier appeared once more. Aisha flattened herself against the walls, her heart hammering, eyes fixed on the bundles in their arms. Yet these stolen swords, the black steel flammards of the Keeper’s Blades, no longer glowed with the blue-white light of the Kish’aa. They were inert metal once more.
Aisha’s eyes flew wide as the truth slammed into her. Imbuka is absorbing the power!
The whirlwind of confusion once again gripped her mind. Imbuka, a Spirit Whisperer, was in league with Hallar’s Warriors. They had brought him the swords so he could absorb the Kish’aa bound to the blades. Yet the why of it escaped her. She couldn’t understand why he, a Ghandian and Umoyahlebe, would have any reason to take part in the Shalandran power struggle.
The spirits of the Keeper’s Blades within her pulled on her limbs, beckoning her to approach. Shishak filled her mind with an overwhelming desire to charge into battle, to bring down her enemies in a glorious blur of steel and death. Yet beneath the lust for battle, Aisha felt a deep sense of loyalty emanating from the spirit. Shishak wanted to reclaim her sword so she could return to her final resting place and fulfill her final mission as a Keeper’s Blade. Duty above all.
Aisha touched the pendant at her throat and Shishak’s voice in her mind sharpened. I must return! I must stand guard before the Tomb of Hallar. I swore an oath.
One I will help you fulfill, Aisha told the voice. I will restore you to your place of honor. But we must be cautious.
Sometimes, caution must be thrown to the wind in the name of duty!
Shishak filled her mind with images of battle: a lone figure in black, spiked armor charging a shield wall; a bloodstained woman laughing as she laid about her with a spear, striking down enemies until the bodies piled high; a desperate fight in the stone halls of the Palace of Golden Eternity.
But not here. Aisha shoved back against the strength of the Blade’s demands. From the fragments of memories, she could sense that Shishak had been determined, an unstoppable force of willpower. Her strength of spirit persisted even in death.
Yet Aisha matched the woman’s will with her own, hardened over years of suffering, determination, and loyalty. She stood her ground, refusing to yield to the insistent pull on her body, the urging in her mind. Perhaps there need not be a battle.
She didn’t know why Imbuka had aligned with Hallar’s Warriors, but she could give him a chance to explain.
Breaking cover, she hurried the short distance to the shaman’s house and pushed through the open door.
The short, dark-skinned shaman stood at the far end of the small chamber, his shoulders hunched and the light of a small lamp shining off his round, bald head. “More already?” he asked without looking up. His gnarled hands ran over the black steel swords laid out on the counter before him and the blue-white lights of the spirits bound to the blade winked out as he absorbed them. Now he looked up. “I still haven’t—” His words died and his lone remaining eye flew wide as he recognized her.
Aisha sucked in a breath. His eye, once a deep, dark brown, now shone bright with the sparkling, sizzling light of the Kish’aa. How much power had he absorbed?
“Aisha.” Horror echoed in his voice, twisted his wrinkled face into a dismayed, sorrowful frown. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in Ghandian.
Dread sank like a stone in her stomach. “What have you done, Imbuka?” she demanded, also in her native tongue.
“What I must!” Fires of anger flashed in his eye, the intensity brightened by the brilliance of the spirits crackling within him. “It is the only way!”
“The only way to what?”
“To save the Umoyahlebe!” He fixed her with a wide-eyed stare. “To save all of them. People like me, like your father.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Like you!”
Aisha’s brow furrowed at the words. What is he talking about?
He slipped around the counter, his brightly colored shuka robes flowing around his hunched and emaciated frame.
“The man of iron offered me what I needed to save our people.” Words poured from his mouth, a pleading tone to his voice. “He offered me the secrets of the Serenii, the secrets of that pendant you wear.”
Aisha’s hand went to the necklace. He knows?
“I sensed it when you came to see me.” Imbuka’s glowing eye dropped to her throat. “It is the only thing that will stop the Inkuleko, the one thing that will save me!”
Aisha took an instinctive step backward. “But you said the Shadow Root—”
“Offers a final escape.” Fear and panic tinged his voice. “But for those of us who want to use their powers, those like you and me, it does nothing. I have spent the last decades of my life trying to find a cure, a solution, anything to stop the Unshackling. I left my home and family to come here in the desperate hope of finding a way. And I did!” He thrust a finger at the pendant. “You wear it now!”
Aisha’s jaw dr
opped. She could find no words.
“Don’t you see?” Imbuka’s words burst out in a frenzied shout. “The ancient Serenii found a way to harness the power of the Kish’aa, to channel the spirits as we do. You can see it in the door to the Vault of Ancients. The spirits open the way! And within, there are many more Dy’nashia like the one you wear!”
Aisha’s brow furrowed. “How do you know all this?” Such knowledge was carefully guarded by the Secret Keepers.
“The Iron Warlord,” Imbuka whispered the name with a mix of reverence and fear. “He knows secrets lost to the ages, secrets not even the Secret Keepers know. He offered me what I need to save my Umoyahlebe brothers.” Again, he thrust a crooked finger at Aisha’s pendant. “He promised me hope.”
“In exchange for what?” Aisha demanded. “Opening the Vault of Ancients for him?” The previous night, as she stood outside the vault, she had seen what happened when the Serenii-made door absorbed the spirits of the dead.
Imbuka nodded. “Once I have opened it, he swore that I would have all the Dy’nashia within.” He dropped his voice to an awe-filled whisper. “Think about it, Aisha! Hundreds of those artifacts, all ours to bring home to Ghandia, to deliver to the Umoyahlebe! We could save all their lives. And not only theirs, but those of their children, and their children’s children. Dy’nashia passed down from generation to generation, a shield against the madness of the Unshackling!”
The thought froze Aisha in place. The Dy’nashia could have saved her father. If he’d had one of these pendants, her life would have been so different. He could have explained the truth of the Spirit Whisperer abilities, prepared her for this gift she now had to discover alone. She wouldn’t have had to watch him descend into madness, lose his mind to the Kish’aa one day at a time. She’d give anything to have him back.
No, not anything. She had lines she would not cross.
“Look at all these Hallar’s Warriors have done!” Aisha protested. “How can you stand by and watch it happen? Even worse, be a part of it?”
“If it means my brothers will live, I would do it a thousand times over!” Defiance sparkled in Imbuka’s eye. “I watched my brother wither away before my eyes. Shadow Root and Whispering Lily left my father a husk, an empty shell where once there had been such strength. At his funeral, I swore I would do whatever it took to find a way to cure the Inkuleko. And now, finally, after all my years of searching, I have finally found it!” His triumphant shout echoed off the stone walls of the small house. “I am so close, Aisha. We are so close. Once I have gathered enough power of the Kish’aa, I will be able to open the vault.” He reached a hand out for her. “Together, we will save our people!”
A part of Aisha ached to accept his offer. If it was the truth, the Vault of Ancients held the salvation for every Umoyahlebe in Einan. No longer would people like her father suffer because of this gift. She could make a difference—not in one life, but in the lives of Spirit Whisperers for generations to come.
Yet something stopped her. The Iron Warlord, the man who had ushered in violence and death on such a massive scale, couldn’t care what happened to a handful of Ghandians halfway across Einan. Someone like that, someone who treated human lives like copper bits to spend and discard as he pleased, he wouldn’t hesitate to use Imbuka. He had only to offer the Umoyahlebe the thing he sought. Imbuka’s desperation made him the perfect mark.
No, the Iron Warlord cared about one thing: the Final Destruction. All of his plans revolved around opening the Vault of Ancients and accessing whatever lay within. He’d kill whoever stood in his way, take whatever he pleased, even turn a city against itself.
Such a man could never be trusted.
“No.” The word came out quietly, a little half-gasp. Aisha stepped backward, widening the gap between her and the wizened Ghandian. “You cannot.”
Imbuka’s wispy eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“Look around you, Imbuka!” Aisha’s voice rose to a shout. “Look at the chaos and violence that surrounds you. Can you truly believe the man that could orchestrate that would ever honor a bargain with you?” She shook her head. “He manipulates you for his own ends. The promise of your dreams fulfilled blinds you to the truth!”
“He will honor his word!” Imbuka’s voice rose to a frantic shout, yet it echoed with more than just human power. The Kish’aa amplified the volume and resonance of his voice. The blue-white glow in his eye brightened to a near-blinding brilliance, but more threads of light began to shine through his skin as energy crackled through his veins.
“When you have spent all your power to open the vault,” Aisha said, “how will you make certain of that? Or will he simply stab you in the back or discard you once he has what he wants?”
She had no idea what the Iron Warlord truly wanted, but she had spent enough time in the Night Guild to recognize a deceiver. Devious bastards who said anything, told any lie to get what they wanted, consequences be damned.
“What choice do I have?” His words echoed off the walls, rattling Aisha’s eardrums. The light pouring from his skin grew brighter, as if leaking from cracks in his flesh. “There is no escaping the Inkuleko. I can flee it no longer. This is my only hope of survival. But by doing this, I can save all of Ghandia!”
Sorrow thickened Aisha’s throat. “By doing this, you unleash suffering on the world. But it’s not too late. Release the Kish’aa, return them to their resting places and their duties, and turn your back on the Iron Warlord.” She held out a hand. “Or give them to me and I will do it for you. The spirits must find their rest. As Spirit Whisperers, it is our duty to—”
Imbuka’s hand whipped forward so fast Aisha barely had time to react. Light burst from his gnarled fingers—not just tiny sparks, but twin barrages of brilliance that crackled like lightning—and streaked toward her. She threw herself to the side and the power slammed into the wall behind her with a concussive blast. The entire wall blew outward with a loud whomph, spraying dust and shards of sandstone. A tapestry woven with rich, colorful Ghandian threads burst into flame, the dried fabric catching alight in an instant.
“If you will not help me,” Imbuka shrieked. “then I will do it alone, as I have all these years.” He held out both hands toward her and light surged toward Aisha. “Your Dy’nashia will save us all!”
Twin streaks of lightning arched from his outstretched hands. Aisha leapt out of their path, but one caught her heel. Pain flared up her leg and she fell hard to the floor.
Again, Imbuka lifted his hands. Aisha staggered upright as he summoned the blue-white light to his fingers. Cracks appeared in his palms, his arms, his face, his wide-open mouth. Light spilled out of the fissures and a scream of pain and rage burst from his lips.
Aisha lurched to the side as the stream of power surged toward her, but Imbuka anticipated her movement. His hands tracked her desperate movements and a bolt of lightning slammed into her leg. The impact hurled her from her feet and slammed her into the stone wall. She crashed into the hard ground, striking her head, and the world spun around her. Agony flared through every fiber of her being, a heat that burned like the sun and chilled like winter’s deepest frost, the power of the Kish’aa ravaging her flesh.
An eternity passed in a heartbeat. The pain receded as the flow of lightning from Imbuka’s hand slowed.
Aisha coughed, weak. “Don’t…do this!” she gasped in her native tongue. Her leg felt on fire and frozen at once, paralyzed by the torment of the spirits’ power. “It’s not…too late…to stop it!”
“Forgive me, little sister.” Remorse twisted Imbuka’s face and sorrow darkened the light shining in his eye. “I have given my life to this search. I cannot stop this close to finding hope.”
Again, the spirits glowed bright in his fingertips and palms. Pain rooted Aisha to the ground, rendered her helpless. She could do nothing but watch in horror as scores of spirits, all taken from the looted swords of the slain Blades, answered Imbuka’s call. Cracks appeared around his body,
the light streaming through his clothing and the fissures in his dark skin.
Power burst from him in a solid wall of blue-white that hurtled straight for her chest. White-hot agony consumed her world.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Panic clutched at Issa’s heart. No!
Yet, she couldn’t deny what she’d heard, or the conclusion Evren had reached. The Keeper’s Council had ordered the Ybrazhe to bring down the stronghold—Killian’s fortified smithy. They wanted the wealth in coin and secrets he had stored within.
“We have to go!” Her words echoed off the stone walls of the passage. “Now!”
“Us?” Evren demanded. “Just two of us? There’s no way we’ll—”
“You don’t understand!” Fear drove her voice to a shout. “My grandparents, they’re in Killian’s smithy!”
Evren’s eyes flew wide. “What?”
“We don’t have time for me to explain!” Issa whirled toward the passage that would lead them out. “They’re attacking before dawn. That means we’ve got an hour or less to get there!”
She had no time to wait. She’d put aside her grandparents’ safety for too long already, for the sake of restoring order to Shalandra. But at that moment, she couldn’t care about the city. All that mattered was her Saba and Savta.
Through the hammering of her pulse, Issa heard footsteps echoing in the passage behind her. Evren caught up and kept pace at her side, a determined look on his face.
Gratitude surged within Issa. It wasn’t his fight, but he’d chosen to stand by her side. She wouldn’t face this desperate battle alone.
She had underestimated the young man with the darting eyes of a thief. He’d never trusted her fully, so she’d never allowed herself to trust him. Yet he had been the one to guide her to the Ybrazhe’s hideout, and he’d helped her rescue Killian. He’d fought to give the rescued Indomitables time to get to safety, then raced back to save Hykos’ life.
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