Aisha regained her balance and tore her arm free of the grip, suppressing a shudder at the unwanted touch. She glared her defiance up into the cold, hard eyes of the Keeper’s Blade.
“How did you know this attack was coming?” he demanded. The questions came fast and furious. “How much can you tell me about the enemy? What are their numbers? Where are they coming from?”
“I don’t know!” Aisha growled. “But I do know Hallar’s Warriors have raided the tombs of your fellow Blades and are arming themselves with your swords.” She gestured to the huge flammard that hung in its sheath on his back. “There are at least a hundred in the crowd there.”
Though the Kish’aa had only taken down a third of their number, Aisha hadn’t yet exhausted the reserve of spirits within her. The spirits she’d absorbed as Imbuka tried to kill her. Pushing back on the painful memory, she focused on the voices echoing in her mind. She could feel the tug on her body; the souls of the dead cried out for vengeance, pulling her toward those that had wronged them.
“I can find them in the crowd,” she told the Blade. “I can point them out to—”
“You’ve done your part, girl!” growled the hulking man. “Now it’s time you get out of the way and let the real soldiers handle this.”
He spoke as if he hadn’t just seen her stop a charging mob with nothing but her empty hands. Perhaps he hadn’t seen it, or he simply didn’t know what to make of it. Normal people had no capacity to understand things like the power gathered from the dead.
She had no time to explain the truth to him. The crowd hadn’t yet fully recovered from seeing their front ranks knocked back by an invisible hand, or their leaders writhing and twitching on the ground, slain by some unseen power. They milled about, their momentum shattered. Angry shouts echoed from the throng as the militants tried to whip them back up.
The hard-eyed Blade turned back to his men and began shouting orders. “Re-form that front line! Get those defenses shored up. Pull in tight on the left flank before they attack!”
The cries of Hallar’s Warriors grew louder, more impassioned. Slowly, the Earaqi at the front of the mob began to regain some semblance of cohesion.
“Get ready!” The Keeper’s Blade unslung his massive sword. “They’ll hit us any second, but…”
Aisha never heard the rest of his words. The moment his black steel blade cleared its sheath, she caught sight of the Kish’aa bound to his black steel blade. Dozens of them, their blue-white forms lighting up the darkness. They turned empty eyes on her, their mouths open in wordless cries.
One spirit in particular drew her eye: tall, with an innate nobility in his eyes and a confident smile on his handsome face, yet he wore the simple robes of a low-caste, his head bared.
Aisha sucked in a breath. She’d seen the man once before, heard him speak to crowds on the Cultivator’s Tier. The one the crowd had called “Child of Gold, Child of Spirits, Child of Secrets”. Aterallis!
Aisha’s eyes snapped to the sword and the man that held it. This Keeper’s Blade was the one that had executed Aterallis.
Imbuka’s words slammed into her mind. “And may the spirits guide your steps and fill your mouth with wisdom.” The memory of the ethereal voices speaking through the Spirit Whisperer’s mouth, his words echoing with supernatural power, had been burned into her mind. It seemed impossible to even consider, yet how could she not? Hours earlier, she had seen through the eyes and heard through the ears of the spirits.
Can I do this, too?
Aterallis’ eyes fixed on her, his expression pleading. Yet not for vengeance. A single word echoed within her mind. Peace.
For the sake of Shalandra, Aisha had to try.
“Sir!” she leapt forward and seized the Blade’s arm. “We don’t need to fight!”
The heavily-armored man whirled on her. “Get the bloody hell off me!” He tried to shrug her off, but Aisha refused to be shaken. She clung to his arm with a grip as hard as the steel beneath her fingers.
“Let me talk to them!” she demanded. “I can calm them down, restore peace.” The plan sounded insane, but the only other alternative was battle, the death of hundreds of Shalandrans on both sides of the barricade.
“You’re mad, girl!” the Blade snarled. “You’ve already nearly gotten yourself killed once. Isn’t that enough?”
Aisha met his disdain with burning defiance. “Are you willing to let your men die?” She thrust a finger toward the crowd, which seemed to have regained some of its earlier confidence and now had resumed their march on the barricades, albeit more slowly. “Give me a chance to speak and this could all end now!”
The Blade snarled a curse at her, but he didn’t yet order an attack.
Keeper take him! Aisha had no more time to try and convince him. With her left hand, she reached for the flame-shaped blade. The moment her fingers closed around naked black steel, the voices of the spirits bound to the sword slammed into her. So many voices, so many slain by this Blade.
Gritting her teeth, Aisha pushed back against the voices, fought them to silence. She needed just one.
Come, she beckoned to Aterallis. Come help me save your people.
Energy crackled through her veins as she pulled the man’s spirit through her fingers. An audible snap echoed in her mind, a sudden tug on her thoughts, and Aterallis’ voice echoed in her thoughts as clearly as if he stood beside her.
“What are you doing, you damned fool?” The Blade’s growl echoed in her ear, and he tore the sword from her grip. Aisha barely released it in time to avoid having her fingers severed.
The man’s brow furrowed as he hefted his sword, as if testing an unfamiliar weapon. His eyes snapped to her. “What did you do to my blade?” he snarled. “Dictator Jaksin, arrest her at—”
Aisha shoved off the armored man and sprinted toward the barricade, vaulting over in a single bound. The crowd tensed at her approach, men and women raising weapons in anticipation of an assault. But Aisha ground to a halt before them and raised her empty hands high.
“People of Shalandra!” Her voice echoed up Trader’s Way, reverberating from the stone houses bordering the avenue. “Listen to me, for the sake of the one you loved. Hear the words of Hallar Reborn!” Those were her words, yet she’d had to find some way to stall the people.
It worked.
The front ranks of the mob slowed, their weapons faltering. In the distance, the shouts of Hallar’s Warriors echoed among the throng as the militants tried to drive home the attack. Yet the sight of Aisha and the still-smoking bodies on the ground gave them pause. The scent of charred flesh still hung in the air.
Aisha brought her left hand up to the pendant around her neck. Instantly, the voices in her mind sharpened to crystal clarity. The fallen Blades and those once bound to the looted swords clamored for vengeance against the militants still in the crowd.
Yet at that moment, Aisha needed only one voice. The voice of peace.
Please, begged Aterallis. Help me put an end to the violence and bloodshed. Help me restore unity to my people.
He had spoken of peace, yet violence consumed Shalandra. The chaos had all begun with his death, but perhaps through her, he could undo the damage. Or, at the very least, put an end to the suffering.
Aisha hesitated a heartbeat. When she’d used the Kish’aa to spy on the militants, she had nearly lost her mind to the realm of spirits. The Inkuleko had claimed Imbuka when he gave in to the power coursing through him. If Aisha allowed Aterallis to speak through her, to take control of her, she might become Unshackled.
Yet, as she stared at the people around her, the hatred and resentment that twisted the hungry, gaunt faces, the fire burning in those dark eyes, she knew she had to take the risk. If she didn’t, too many more would die.
Speak your words, she told the spirit. I will be your voice.
“Blessed are you, children of eternity!” Her voice echoed with impossible strength, ringing out all along Trader’s Way so even those in the r
ear of the crowd could overhear. “You who suffer, who know misery in this life. For in the life beyond, in the arms of our blessed Long Keeper, you will be rewarded. Every act of kindness, compassion, of restraint will be judged and you will be given justice for all that you endured.”
Eyes flew wide all around the crowd. The Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri recognized the message, if not the voice. Aterallis’ presence within Aisha bolstered her confidence, filled her with a calm sense of certainty. She knew that the people could find peace. She simply had to help them find the path.
“Look at those who stand in your midst,” she shouted. “Those who wear the guise of your brothers, who speak pleasant words, but who seek to twist your faith and trust in the Long Keeper.” She thrust a finger toward the nearest militant. “Behold, the guilty!”
All eyes turned on the man, whose face went white in stunned surprise and nervous panic. He gripped his stolen flammard tighter and tried to shout a retort.
“The guilty sought to use your faith against you.” Aterallis’ voice through Aisha drowned out the man’s words, yet they lacked the strength and conviction of a moment earlier. Instead, they were tinged with Aisha’s anger against the men that had wreaked such havoc in the city. Aterallis had preached peace, but to put an end to the suffering, Aisha had to resort to violence. “Yet their guilt is not yours to determine. Their judgment is not yours to mete out. Let the Long Keeper’s justice be served!”
Hand held high, she tapped into the spirits stored in the pendant at her neck. Go! She commanded them, pulling them from deep within the black stone and pushing them toward her upheld fingers. Find those who desecrated your tombs and stole your swords. Punish the evildoers and defend your city, as you swore to do in life and in death.
Hundreds of blue-white sparks shot from her fingers. Though the power of the Kish’aa was visible only to her eyes, all in the crowd saw their effects. The lights shot through the darkness and struck the militants still in the crowd. Some were hurled from their feet and sent flying through the air, the anger of the slain Blades knocking them about with the force of a hurricane. Others simply collapsed where they stood. They jerked and writhed on the ground, screaming, lightning crackling through their bodies. The stench of burning flesh rose thick in the air as a hundred militants died, slain by the spirits they had provoked to wrath.
“They have been judged!” Aisha’s spirit-enhanced voice boomed out over the throng. “Let the peace of the Long Keeper be restored once more. Let us seek not anger and violence, but the path of righteousness, of justice, and virtue.”
“Virtue?” spat one man. “Easy for you to say, but we’re bloody starving! How can anyone be virtuous or peaceful when they’ve nothing to put in their bellies or that of their children?”
“You speak the words of Aterallis,” cried another, “yet where were you when they executed him?”
“The people must rule!” A third voice added in, and was quickly joined by scores more. “The people must rule!”
“You wish to rule?” Aisha’s voice thundered up Trader’s Way. “Or, is what you truly wish justice, the right to choose your own paths, to give your loved ones the lives you desire?”
The chants and cries fell silent. Faces grew pensive as the words settled over them.
“Power is a burden reserved for those blessed of the Long Keeper,” Aisha called. “Not the ones who elevate themselves to positions of power of their own greed and selfish ambitions, but those truly chosen to rule. The men and women who seek to bring order, peace, and plenty to this city. Our city.”
This seemed to both anger and mollify the crowd at once.
“The Long Keeper has chosen a path for each of us.” Through Aisha, Aterallis fixed each of those in the crowd with a solemn gaze. “For some, it is to toil, to till the earth, to produce an abundance that brings life until the hour of our deaths. For others, it is to work with our hands, to create the beauty that honors our god long after we are gone. Many are called to battle, to war and blood, while others are called to peace.”
The words confused Aisha. It almost seemed as if Aterallis was agreeing with the caste system that had condemned some to lives of misery while others basked in grandeur and opulence.
“Every man, woman, and child is given their places in this world,” Aterallis continued. “It is up to us to make peace with our stations, to embrace the paths chosen for us, to walk them with gladness in our hearts. To do that is to honor the Long Keeper’s will, to bow to his wisdom. When the time comes that we stand in judgement before him, will he bless you for acceding to the destiny laid out for you, or will you tell him that you defied his commands and chose your own path?”
Silence hung over the crowd, a thick blanket unbroken even by the sounds of shuffling feet or rattling weapons.
“Our actions in this life dictate our fate in the next.” A deep-rooted sense of joy hummed within Aisha. Aterallis had lived and died by the faith that drove him, a faith he sought to encourage in the people before him. “Blessed are you, children of eternity, for your choices. Your choice to bring peace even when violent men seek to drive you to anger. To seek the face of the Long Keeper even when it feels too distant, too impossible. To you will be given blessings not only in the next life, but this one as well.”
“Damn blessings!” shouted the first man. “We want food!”
“And so you shall have it,” Aisha called back. “But not through violence and death. How much of your brothers’ food have you stolen? How many of your sisters have you killed as you stole their property? Yet you remain hungry. Peace is the only means to achieve your desires.”
Murmurs ran among the crowd, and anger darkened the eyes of those around her.
“Speak to the Pharus, the servant of the Long Keeper, and he will listen.” Aterallis’ voice rang with such confidence, as if he somehow knew that Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres would cede to the crowd’s demands. “But only if you lay down your weapons. As the Long Keeper has chosen him, so too, you must choose those among you to raise their voice before the Keeper’s servant. Together, we will entreat the Pharus, beseech him in the name of the Faces of Justice and Mercy. Peace is the only way.”
“We lay down our weapons, the Indomitables will just arrest us!” growled the one who had spoken. “We’ll be executed, every man, woman, and child. Our weapons are the only things to keep those who rule over us in check. They protect us!”
“Those weapons do not protect you,” Aisha called back. “They do not guarantee your rights, and they will convince no one to listen to you. All they bring is more bloodshed. But lay down your arms, surrender to peace, and your voices will be heard. This, I swear, in the Keeper’s name and my eternity in the Sleepless Lands.”
This brought a chorus of surprised mutters from the throng before her. No Shalandran would swear such an oath lightly.
Aterallis tugged on Aisha, turning her to face the Keeper’s Blade behind the barricade. “Servant of death, chosen of the Long Keeper, do I have your solemn vow that you will not arrest any who lay down their weapons?”
Anger flashed in the man’s dark eyes and his face deepened to a scowl.
“Peace, at the price of your oath!” Aisha thrust a finger at him. “Or are you truly the evil they perceive you to be? A man so married to violence and death that nothing else will satisfy you?”
After a long, tense moment, the Blade lowered his sword. “By my eternity in the Long Keeper, any man or woman that sets down their weapons will leave this place unhindered.”
“And the ones chosen to raise voice to the Pharus,” Aisha persisted. “They will be escorted to the Palace of Golden Eternity to parlay with the Word of Justice and Death, and thence allowed to return home unhindered.”
The Keeper’s Blade clenched his teeth, but nodded. “It shall be so.”
Aisha turned back to the crowd and lifted her empty hands.
“The choice is yours, people of Shalandra.” Aterallis’ spirit flared bright within her, th
e power of his confidence echoing in her words. “Do you choose the way of peace or violence?”
Silence met her ears. Not a soul moved. Thousands of angry Earaqi, Mahjuri, and Kabili stared at her, a war of indecision raging in their eyes.
A sword thumped to the mud. Another clattered on stone, followed by a third, a fourth, and more. All throughout the crowd, weapons dropped from unclenching fingers, a veritable hailstorm of steel and wood that sounded deafening in the silence. Slowly, one at a time, the raging mob began to disperse.
The crowd had chosen.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Darkness shrouded Evren like a cloak as he sprinted through the back alleys of the Artisan’s Tier. Dawn lay just an hour or two off, but he’d spent enough time on these streets to pick his way through the early morning shadows.
A single thought pounded in his mind, pulsing in time with his hammering heart. Get to Lady Callista and save Issa!
He had no idea how the Necroseti had found them so quickly—doubtless, Madani, infuriated at Tinush’s death, had flooded the streets with his spies. But how had the guards broken through the riots gripping Death Row? Perhaps they hadn’t. The tense silence that hung over the Artisan’s Tier seemed almost eerie after the chaos and bedlam that had gripped the city only moments earlier. Something had changed. Perhaps the Ybrazhe’s failure had shattered the rioters’ spirits. Or the Indomitables, led by the Keeper’s Blades, had succeeded in restoring order. Whatever had happened, the storm sweeping Shalandra seemed to have stilled…for now.
Yet that only made Evren’s task all the more difficult. The Necroseti guards had reached the smithy and found Issa, which meant the way would be clear back up to the Keeper’s Tier. A nagging doubt told Evren that the guards wouldn’t take Issa to the palace. After Tinush’s death and his assault on Madani, the Keeper’s Priests would doubtless be holed up in their temple stronghold.
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