Issa looked between her grandparents, her confusion mounting. “What truth?” She struggled to form the words.
Saba started to speak, but Savta pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Hush, Nytano, save your strength. I will tell her.”
Nytano smiled up at Aleema. “In this, as in everything else, I yield to you, qamari.”
Aleema forced a smile, but pain etched the deep lines of her face. She turned to Issa. “Though we have loved you as our own for these seventeen years, the truth is that we are not your grandparents.”
Issa’s brow furrowed. Her mind struggled to comprehend the words.
“For years, we have concealed our true identities, at the request of one we loved as the daughter we would never have.” She squeezed Nytano’s hand. “Yet now, you must know who you truly are.”
A chill numbness descended over Issa and she found herself unable to speak; what could she possibly say in the face of this revelation?
“Your parents still live.” Aleema met her eyes. “Mother and father both. You know them as Callista Vinaus, Lady of Blades, and Amhoset Nephelcheres, Pharus of Shalandra.”
Issa felt as if a charging horse had slammed into her gut. Her lungs refused to draw breath and her heart seemed frozen between beats. Again, the words seemed an impossibility.
“Your mother, Lady Callista, loved you more than life itself, which is why she had to give you up.” Aleema’s voice had grown somber, a solemn look in her dark eyes. “For if her enemies knew of your existence, they would not stop until you were dead. Nothing, not even all of the Keeper’s Blades, could keep you safe. Only we could.”
She smiled down at Nytano, who returned her smile. “Your grandfather and I. There was a time when we, too, served the city of Shalandra, as Ypertatos of the Keeper’s Blades. We could never have children, but the young Callista became as our daughter. Your Saba was Lady Callista’s Archateros, then her mentor as she rose in the ranks to finally become Lady of Blades.”
Issa couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She remained rooted in place; the truth had shattered something within her.
“And when the day came that Callista came to us with the truth of her pregnancy, we were overjoyed for her.” Aleema’s face fell. “Until she told us who the father was.”
“The…Pharus.” It seemed so strange to say the words aloud.
Savta nodded. “Amhoset was still young, his power not yet consolidated. His father had ceded too much of the Pharus’ power to the Keeper’s Council. If anyone found out he had an illegitimate child, and with the Lady of Blades no less, that child would become a weapon in the battle for power. Lady Callista chose to give you up to save your life.”
The words washed over Issa like a tidal wave. She struggled to breathe, but the truth threatened to drown her. “How?” was all she could manage. “You’re…Earaqi!”
Aleema smiled. “The best disguise we could conceive of. No one would think to look for two Keeper’s Blades or the daughter of the Pharus on the Cultivator’s Tier. Lady Callista could be certain that you were safe, occasionally send her people to keep an eye on you. But she knew she couldn’t shield you directly. Obscurity was your best shield against those who would use you, or kill you.”
The Keeper’s Council. Issa knew that beyond a shadow of doubt. The Necroseti would have used her, would have killed her without hesitation. Anger flared bright within her, pushing back at the numbness that had settled into her limbs. Because of them, I had no parents. Because of them, my entire life was a lie!
“Forgive us, nechda.” Nytano’s voice was little more than a whisper. His eyelids grew heavy, the color leaching from his face. “For all our mistakes.”
Issa drew in a ragged breath. Sorrow and confusion thickened her throat, made it difficult to speak. Yet even if she’d had the strength to force out words, she wouldn’t have known what to say.
“We did everything we could to keep you out of the Necroseti’s notice,” Aleema said, a remorseful tone to her words. “Refused to let you train, or to enter the Crucible. If you had received the Long Keeper’s blessing from your mother, you would have passed the trials of steel and stone.” Her eyes darkened. “You would no longer be able to escape the Council’s notice. We couldn’t risk someone learning the truth.”
Issa’s eyes widened a fraction. Suddenly, she understood her grandfather’s anger at the news of her triumph in the Crucible, her acceptance into the Keeper’s Blades. With one action of defiance, an action she’d done for their sakes, she had rendered their lives of sacrifice a waste.
A sob burst from her throat. “Oh, Saba, forgive me!” She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his armored chest, heedless of the blood staining its metallic surface. “If I’d known you were trying to protect me—”
“No, nechda,” he said, his voice little more than a faint whisper. “You…chose well.”
Issa pulled from his embrace, tears slipping down her face.
Nytano beamed up at her. “You…are a true…servant of…the Long Keeper.” A gauntleted hand pressed to her cheek. “And I…am proud…to know…you followed…in our footsteps. And to call…you my nechda.”
Sobs shook Issa’s shoulders, tears choking off her words.
“Before…I go…to my final…rest,” he said, “one final…word of advice.”
“Yes, Saba!” Issa managed to get out.
“Forgive…her.” He fixed her with a piercing gaze. “She did…what she thought…best.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “And always remember…strike first…”
“Strike true,” Issa finished.
Nytano’s eyes brightened even if smiling proved too much effort. “Farewell…nechda.” His gaze went to Aleema. “And you…qamari. Until…we meet…in the…Sleepless Lands.” His eyelids drooped, and his hand tightened around Aleema’s.
Savta pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Until then, rohi.”
Closing his eyes, Nytano relaxed in the arms of his beloved Aleema for the final time.
* * *
Issa hadn’t budged from her grandfather’s side for hours, or it could have been days. She couldn’t move, couldn’t release her grip on Saba’s hand. Even as the brightening sky washed his bloodless face in a pale light, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
A part of Issa wanted to scream, to wail, to pound at his chest and demand he open his eyes and see her once more. Just once more, please. Yet he looked so calm, so peaceful, she couldn’t disturb his rest.
He had earned his place in the Sleepless Lands. A true servant of the Long Keeper.
Bone-deep weariness permeated every fiber of her being. It went beyond the exhaustion from the previous days’ exertion—the weight of loss had come crashing down onto her with far more force than she could ever have anticipated. The gravity of what her Savta had said only added to the burden. Her mind felt shattered, the fragments of her consciousness too scattered to think clearly. She could only stare numbly at the corpse that had once been the strongest, bravest, wisest man she’d ever known.
“Nechda.” Her grandmother’s voice echoed from beside her. Quiet, gentle, yet firm as ever. “Come away from here. Let us—”
Issa shrugged off her grandmother’s hand. She didn’t want to leave her grandfather’s side. He was gone—she knew it, even if her mind struggled to accept it. Yet when she left him, she would never see him again. He would be interred in the crypts, his body set to guard the Tomb of Hallar like all the other fallen Blades. But if she remained by his side, she’d have him for just a few moments more.
The sound of clattering metal, groaning wood, and scraping rock sounded from somewhere behind her. Booted feet tromped over the ground toward her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up.
“What are you doing?” Her Savta’s shout echoed nearby.
“Issa of the Keeper’s Blades.”
The stern voice speaking her name pierced Issa’s consciousness. She managed to tear her eyes away from her grandfather and l
ook toward the man who had spoken. He wore a burnished steel breastplate, black robes, and carried a spear. Twenty armed and armored men of the Necroseti’s private guards stood arrayed in a solid wall behind him.
The Necroseti guard fixed her with a solemn glare. “By order of the Keeper’s Council, you stand accused of the murder of High Divinity Tinush and the attempted murder of Councilor Madani!” He snapped his fingers. “Arrest her!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Any day now!” Evren grunted beneath the weight of the heavy beam. “Here I thought you smiths knew a thing or two about hammering.”
Killian only grunted and pounded faster, driving the finger-length nails through the locking beam and into the wooden door frame. The thump, thump of the improvised battering ram jarred Evren with every blow, but at least the steel door was holding firm. If only Killian could get the damn nails in place!
“That’s one done!” called the blacksmith. “Get that other hammer and help me here, damn it!”
Evren cast around until he found the tool indicated—a miniature version of the smith’s hammer Killian wielded—scooped it up, and set about pounding nails into the opposite side of the beam. The ache in his right arm, courtesy of a Ybrazhe club, grew with every strike. But given the alternative of the thugs and their angry mob breaking through the front door again, Evren chose to push through the pain and keep hammering.
Finally, the last nail had been driven into the beam, and Killian’s Mumblers raced forward with wooden support beams scrounged up from somewhere within the forge. Remnants of shattered, cracked, and splintered wood around the entrance were all that remained of the previous defenses.
“Serias, take Evren and do a perimeter check,” Killian ordered. “Make sure there are no other weaknesses.”
“Yes, Killian!” The boy nodded.
Evren recognized the youth— a few days earlier, he’d freed Serias from Annat, a particularly nasty Syndicate thug. The swelling in the boy’s split lip had gone down, but it would be days before the bruise around his right eye would disappear.
“This way!” Serias beckoned.
Evren hesitated, glancing at the training yard, where Issa and the white-haired Keeper’s Blade fought. He saw no sign of the man that had been holding the yard when they entered.
Her grandparents, huh? The thought boggled Evren’s mind. And here I thought she was just a simple Earaqi before being chosen as a Keeper’s Blade.
Yet at that moment, with the battle raging all throughout the smithy, he had no time to ponder the question. He followed Serias through the forge, around the glowing furnace, and down a side corridor that led around the opposite side of the building. There, he found three Syndicate thugs sneaking through a back entrance.
The three froze at the sight of him and Serias, but recovered a moment later. Raising their swords and clubs, they charged.
Serias whipped out a pair of throwing darts and, in the space of a heartbeat, threw both. The hand-length missiles punched into the throat and chest of the foremost thug. The man went down, hard, and didn’t get back up.
“Get behind me!” Evren shouted and leapt ahead of the Mumbler. His jambiyas flashed in the darkness of the corridor, twin edges razor-sharp and flying with blurring speed. Evren ducked a decapitating strike and lashed out with two quick strikes that severed the next thug’s tendons, just below both knees. He drove his daggers into the man’s throat. Blood gushed over his hands.
The last thug tried to strike past his sagging friend, but the narrow corridor hampered free movement. His sword clanged off something metallic hanging over his head. A heavy iron wheel rim fell from its perch above the doorway and thumped off his bare skull. The thug staggered, dizzy, his eyes crossed. Evren finished him with a dagger thrust to his gut.
“We need to bar the door!” Serias was rushing past, a dagger in his hand. He reached the doorway just as a Syndicate thug stepped through it. The man leered down at the small boy and brought his club around for a skull-crushing blow.
Evren snagged Serias’ robes and dragged him backward, just in time to avoid being brained. The thug’s club struck empty air and he stumbled forward. Right into Evren’s fist. The over-the-shoulder blow crashed into the man’s jaw and knocked him to the ground.
Evren’s eyes went wide as he recognized the man. Houl! Even dazed, the man’s face appeared creased in a permanent scowl. As he struggled to push up to his hands, Evren brought his dagger across in a vicious slash. Steel parted flesh and carved a hole through gristle. Houl fell, hands clasped to the wide tear in his throat.
“Help me shove him out the door!” Evren called. He seized Houl’s tunic and struggled to drag him out the back entrance. Houl stood nearly twice his height and could easily be thrice his weight, but the clash of steel, the screams of pain, and a wordless roar filled Evren with a sense of urgency. If any of the thugs or rioters got past Issa and the Blade guarding the training yard, they could get in the back.
I’ll be damned if I let that happen!
With effort, he and Serias managed to half-drag, half-shove Houl’s huge corpse clear of the doorway. Together, they hauled the heavy door shut and nailed the wooden locking bar into place. The effort drained the last of Evren’s strength. He’d run too much, fought too hard, and on too little food, water, and rest. He needed a break.
“Come on!” Serias beckoned. “We’ve got one more window to check.”
Groaning, Evren followed the young boy into the smithy’s back room—Killian’s bedroom, judging by the mess of blankets, straw-tick mattress, and stuffed down pillow. The window there had been smashed, but it was too narrow for any but a child or very small man to fit through. It took less than five minutes to board it up.
Finally, the job was done—and, it seemed, the sounds of battle had fallen silent. Relieved, Evren clambered off the bed. An overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep filled him; he fought it off with a heroic effort of will. He reached for the food he’d tucked into his pouch, only to remember he’d given it to Issa a few hours earlier. She’d needed it more than he at the time.
Now, however, he wasn’t certain he could go on without something to eat or drink. Relief flooded him as he spotted a bottle of wine sitting on Killian’s nightstand. He took it without hesitation and emptied its contents, little more than a mouthful. If the blacksmith complains, I’ll remind him that I just finished saving him. Again.
Evren’s stomach chose that moment to growl.
Serias eyed him. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
The boy nodded. “Be right back.”
Evren sagged to a seat in the hall, weariness and hunger turning his limbs to lead. Serias returned a minute or so later, carrying a small morsel of cold sausage and white cheese wrapped in herbed flatbread. Nothing had ever tasted so good!
The Mumbler disappeared at some point in the meager meal, but Evren didn’t move from his seated position until every crumb had been eaten, every scrap of herb and flour licked from his fingers. Between the wine and the food, he actually felt as if he could stand once more. His muscles still ached from the fight, especially his right shoulder, but at least his legs held him upright as he stood.
“So, you’re still alive, eh?” Killian’s voice drifted down the corridor. He strode down the hall toward Evren, his limp returned and more pronounced than ever. Indeed, he seemed to wince with every step. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though you look like you’ve been trampled by every mule in Shalandra.”
“Your city can’t kill me that easily,” Evren shot back. Despite his irreverent tone, Evren felt a surge of relief to find the blacksmith alive. He’d actually worried for Killian—a part of him had come to respect, even like the old man.
Then again, given what he’s wearing, there’s a lot I don’t know about him. Like who in the fiery hell he really is.
He studied the man from helmeted head to booted toe. The snarling lion helm made his somber, bearded face seem somehow more warlike and fierce, an
d the spikes on his shoulders and elbows added to his already impressive breadth. Then there was the matter of that great bloody big sword he carried. He’d wielded it with skill that far surpassed anything Evren had expected; if it wasn’t for his leg, he might actually give the Hunter a run for his money. But the blacksmith’s armor had one addition none of the others’ did: reinforced bands around his right knee to support his weight.
“You going to explain what this is all about?” Evren gestured to Killian’s armor.
Killian shot him a wry grin. “If you’re not clever enough to figure it out by now, you don’t deserve an explanation.”
“A Keeper’s Blade, eh?” Evren cocked an eyebrow. “The way you fight, makes sense.” He glanced over the bloodstained armor and sword. “Though as for the rest, the Mumblers and the spying and all, that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a Keeper’s Blade would do.”
Killian tapped the steel brace on his leg. “Former Keeper’s Blade.”
“How’d it happen?” Evren asked.
“I took an Eirdkilr arrow to the leg.” Killian winced at the memory. “Some of those barbarian bastards coat their arrows in dung or poisons. The wound festered and turned bad, destroyed my knee. Nearly lost the whole leg. Hells, I was lucky to escape that battle in one piece!”
“The Keeper’s Blades would let something like a busted knee stop you from serving?” Evren pursed his lips. “Seems a pretty cruel thank-you for your years of service.”
“Not exactly.” Killian shrugged. “Some of us have to find other ways to serve our city. For me, that meant keeping an eye on the other side of things. Things that can’t always be dealt with through swords and battles.”
Evren nodded understanding. Suddenly, Killian made a lot more sense to him. “Are you even a blacksmith, then? Or is this all just a front?”
Secrets of Blood Page 32
