Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  “Blessed ancestors!” The Spirit Whisperer leapt back and his eye flew wide. “What is your name, little sister?”

  “Aisha of the Ukuza, daughter of Impela and Naledi.” The names flowed from Aisha’s lips for the first time in years. They sounded so odd, as if she spoke of strange people in unfamiliar places and a past lifetime, not the family she had once known and loved.

  “I am Imbuka of Mhambi.” The man bowed. “The name of Impela the Umoyahlebe was well-known to the Mhambi, as was the strength and ferocity of Naledi, nassor of the Ukuza.” He shook his head, wonder in his voice. “And yet all their renown pales in comparison to the power I feel from you.” He fixed her with his one-eyed squint. “Truly, you are blessed by the Kish’aa.”

  Aisha didn’t know how to respond to that. She could only stare in wordless silence at the shaman—a man who knew of her father and mother, of the life she’d once lived. Now, they had somehow been brought together, a world away from their mutual homes.

  “But tell me, Aisha of the Ukuza, how can I help you?” He sucked on his teeth, producing a loud smack. “Why do the spirits bring you to me this night?”

  “I need help!” The pressure mounting within Aisha threatened to explode. “I need to understand.”

  “Understand what?” the man asked, confusion twisting his face.

  “Everything!” The word burst from her in a desperate cry. “I can see the spirits, hear their voices, but I have only just begun learning to control them. They call to me but I cannot answer all their cries. When I see the Kish’aa, it feels as if I am facing a stampede of zabara, yet I have nowhere to run, no way to escape being crushed beneath their force.”

  “I see.” Understanding filled Imbuka’s expression. “I, too, felt this way when I first discovered my Umoyahlebe abilities.”

  Relief nearly brought tears to Aisha’s eyes. She’d carried the burden for so long, fighting on through the darkness of ignorance. Yet now she had found someone who understood the truth of what it meant, and it felt like finding a spark of light in the blackest night.

  Imbuka rummaged among the jumbled chaos of trinkets, herbs, roots, and instruments littering the floor. “Aha!” He straightened with a great cacophony of popping, cracking joints and thrust out a root as gnarled as his hands. “Here, little sister. This could be the answer you seek.”

  Aisha sucked in a ragged breath and reached for the wrinkled dark brown root, hands trembling with excitement. “What is it?” she asked in Ghandian.

  “Shadow Root.” He met her gaze, a depth of meaning in his eye. “It will give you the peace you seek.”

  Something about the way he said it, the ominous echo in his voice, gave her pause. “What does it do?”

  Imbuka remained silent for a long moment, his expression pensive. “It will silence the Kish’aa,” he said finally. “Close your mind to the call of the spirits.”

  Ice slithered down her spine. “What?” She recoiled from the root in her hand as if from a venomous serpent coiled to strike.

  The Spirit Whisperer nodded. “There is the answer you seek.”

  “No!” The word burst from Aisha’s mind with explosive force. “I did not come to escape my gift,” she growled. “I came for help.”

  “This is help.” Imbuka spoke in a quiet voice. He gestured to the gnarled root in her hand. “Silence is a gift that only a Spirit Whisperer can cherish. I offer it to you, if you will—”

  “Never!” Anger blazed white hot within Aisha. “To turn my back on this would be a dishonor to my father’s memory, and to all Umoyahlebe.” She stabbed a finger at him. “And for you to even suggest such a thing is to shame yourself.”

  She hurled the root at the wizened man, whirled, and stalked toward the door. She’d come for answers but found only a coward. Yet, in many ways, she’d found the answer she sought. When given the chance to be free of what she’d once thought of as a curse, she had learned her true feelings. She saw it as a gift, even if it proved a difficult one to bear.

  “Little sister,” came the quiet voice behind her, “I had to know.”

  The words stopped her cold. She paused, her hand hovering above the door latch.

  “Not all are suited for this gift,” Imbuka said, a note of sorrow echoing in his words. “The Kish’aa chose you, but you must choose them as well. With your words and actions, you prove yourself a true Spirit Whisperer.”

  Aisha’s jaw clenched. This was a test? Anger set her hands quivering as she wrestled to control her temper, to bite down on the sharp words she wanted to hurl at the old Ghandian.

  “Come, Aisha, daughter of Impela.” Imbuka beckoned for her. He produced a chair from beneath the piles of clutter and sat heavily. “Come, and let me give you the help you truly desire. Whatever answers I can offer you are yours, for you have the heart and soul of an Umoyahlebe.”

  The anger drained from her and her shoulders relaxed, fists unclenching. Slowly, she turned and strode toward the old man.

  “Tell me of my gift,” she demanded.

  Imbuka nodded. “Of course.” Curiosity etched the wagon-rut lines of his face. “But surely your father has told you more than I ever could. A Spirit Whisperer more powerful than Impela has not been seen in Ghandia since the days of my father’s fathers.”

  “I…” Aisha hesitated a moment before speaking. “…was not with my father when I first discovered the truth of my abilities. And I have not returned to Ghandia since.”

  “Strange.” Confusion twisted his face into a frown. “Few Umoyahlebe come to Shalandra, and those are usually more experienced, with better control over their powers.”

  “Yet here I am.” Aisha drew in a breath. “And you are the only Spirit Whisperer I have found this far from the plains of Ghandia.”

  “Then I will do my best to explain what you wish to know.” Imbuka frowned, once again producing that strange teeth-sucking sound. “The gift of the Umoyahlebe is to see and hear the Kish’aa, and to wield their power. Yet it takes a strong will to control that power, for the spirits have their own desires. A wise Spirit Whisperer learns to harness those desires to achieve their ends. Fighting the Kish’aa is far more difficult than channeling their power.”

  Aisha nodded. “That, I have experienced for myself.” She had nearly been overwhelmed by the spirits in the Keeper’s Crypts; only the Whispering Lily had enabled her to take control, to convince them to aid her in her efforts to save Kodyn, Briana, and the others.

  “But tell me, what am I supposed to do when the dead surround me?” She shuddered at the memory of the blue-white figures that clustered toward her in the tombs, pleading, calling to her, begging for her help. “When I first approached the Sanctuary, the cries of the spirits nearly shattered my mind.”

  “With time, a Spirit Whisperer learns to shut out the voices they do not want to hear.” Imbuka stooped and picked up the gnarled root she’d hurled at him. “For those who do not have time, the Shadow Root offers the blessing of silence.”

  Aisha opened her mouth to snarl a reply, but Imbuka held up a hand to stop her.

  “A small dose of Shadow Root will give you a few hours of peace. Only if you consume the entire root will the effects be permanent.”

  Aisha studied the root. It bore a strong resemblance to the root of the kava plant, thicker than her middle finger and the length of her palm. The brown skin was thick and covered pale yellow flesh beneath.

  “You know where the Kish’aa are thickest,” Imbuka told her. “As you said, near the Sanctuary and the Keeper’s Crypts.” His eye slid westward, toward the cliff that led into the tombs on the Cultivator’s Tier. “Next time you find yourself overwhelmed, chew on a sliver of the root. A few fibers will suffice to quiet the voices.” He held out the Shadow Root. “Take it, little sister. You may have need of it.”

  Aisha slowly reached out a hand and took it. Even just touching it felt…wrong. The coward’s way out.

  “But I warn you, Aisha of the Ukuza, the Shadow Root will not giv
e you control over the spirits.” He shook his bald, dark-skinned head. “The only way to gain mastery is to open yourself up to the Kish’aa. The more they inhabit you, the easier you will hear and speak to them. Eventually, it will become second nature to commune with the spirits.”

  Aisha frowned as a memory of her father flashed through her mind. His once-happy, smiling face gone vacant, his bright eyes empty and staring into nothingness.

  “And what of the madness?” she asked, still speaking Ghandian.

  “Madness?” Imbuka cocked an eyebrow. “I do not understand.”

  “My father…” Aisha drew in a breath. “…the spirits claimed his mind. The more he spoke to them, the more the realm of the beyond called to him, until only an empty vessel of his flesh remained in this world.”

  “Ahh, of course.” Imbuka nodded, understanding dawning on his face. “Inkuleko.”

  Aisha frowned. The word was familiar, perhaps a Mhambi variant on the Ukuza word for “unshackling”.

  “Only the most powerful of the Spirit Whisperers ever find their minds untethered from this world,” Imbuka explained. “For many, there is no return.” He gestured to the root in her hand. “Shadow Root is the only cure—a permanent one.”

  Aisha’s gut clenched. She hadn’t chosen to be a Spirit Whisperer at first, but now she couldn’t imagine living without that gift. Maybe that’s why my father never took Shadow Root. He didn’t want to give up the Kish’aa and be trapped in this world forever.

  Thoughts of her father sent her mind toward the plant that had hastened the day of his Unshackling. “And what of the Whispering Lily?” she asked.

  Imbuka recoiled and hissed a curse in Ghandian. “Accursed plant!” He made the warding gesture Ghandians used to drive away evil spirits. “It is the work Inzayo Okubi!”

  Ice ran down Aisha’s spine and her hand froze just above her pouch, wherein lay the last three Whispering Lily leaves she’d gathered from Briana’s garden.

  Inzayo Okubi was the evil god Ghandians feared, said to send his Okanele to steal the souls of mankind to stop them from joining the Kish’aa in Pharadesi. He sounded a great deal like the Great Devourer that Evren—and the Hunter of Voramis—had spoken of.

  “But surely—” Aisha began.

  “Evil!” Imbuka hissed. “If you wish to survive the gift of the Kish’aa, you must never touch the Whispering Lily. Using it will only hasten the Inkuleko, drag you deeper into the realm of the spirits. Not even the Shadow Root is potent enough to stop its effects.” He held up a gnarled finger. “Its use leads only to death!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Issa sprinted after the Indomitable that had brought her the news. They caught a Gatherer! Elation burned bright within her, bringing a grim smile to her lips. A second cultist in their grasp, another cultist for Lady Callista’s questioners to interrogate.

  She raced toward the house and pushed past the two Indomitables standing guard outside, barging through the door. Her momentary excitement died the moment she entered. Two Indomitables held a gaunt figure pinned to the ground. One wrenched the man’s arms behind his back while the other knelt atop his neck. The captive made no struggle, but shouted, “This is a mistake! I’m not who you—”

  “Silence, Gatherer!” The Dictator cut off the man’s protests with a boot to the face. Turning to Issa, he thrust a finger at his captive. “We got better than a witness; we captured a cultist. Sir.” He spoke the word as an afterthought, his tone just short of sneering.

  Issa studied the man. He appeared in his mid-forties, with the emaciated frame, protruding cheekbones, and sunken eyes of a skeleton. In the next room, a terrified woman screamed at the Indomitable holding her and the two small children at sword-point.

  No way he’s a Gatherer.

  Issa lifted her eyes to the Dictator. “Get off him.”

  “All due respect,” the Indomitable officer growled in a voice that held only disdain, “but that’d be idiotic. Can’t let him take whatever poison capsule he has hidden around—”

  “Now, Dictator!” Issa cut him off with a slash of her gauntleted fist. “Keep his arms restrained, but he’ll do no good to us if your man snaps his spine.”

  After a moment of hesitation, the Indomitable officer nodded, and the soldier removed his knee from the captive’s neck. The Mahjuri man sucked in a ragged breath and fixed his eyes on Issa. “Please!” he begged. “This is all a mistake!”

  “Of course you’d say that.” The Dictator spat on the man’s head. “Filthy coward! You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

  Issa crouched down beside the prone man and reached for his sleeve. The captive flinched beneath her touch but she held his wrist firmly in place and rolled up the threadbare cloth. The bronzed skin of his forearm bore the marks of a whip, a motley collection of scars, and fresh bruises from the struggle, but no tattoo.

  She stood and rounded on the Dictator. “How do you know he’s a Gatherer?”

  The Dictator’s face hardened. “A reliable eyewitness.”

  Issa allowed the anger burning in her gut to seep into her voice. “Who?” The word came out in a guttural growl.

  “Next door neighbor.” The Dictator lifted his chin, his jaw set in a stubborn line. “Woman by the name of Roethel. Says she saw him sneaking into his house this morning with blood on his hands.”

  “Roethel?” The shout came from the man pinned to the ground. “Don’t you believe that old hag! She’s had it out for me ever since Luaco shattered her window and trampled her basil.”

  Issa turned and studied the man.

  “Please!” he begged again. “On my eternity in the Long Keeper’s arms, I swear I am not a Gatherer.”

  The solemn oath, one no Shalandran would swear lightly, was the final straw.

  “Bring me this Roethel,” Issa barked to the Dictator. “I would hear her testimony for myself.”

  The Dictator’s expression darkened. “Sir, you’d take the word of an accused Gatherer over—”

  “A spiteful neighbor with a grudge?” Issa snorted. “I’m not taking anyone’s word. But I trust my eyes when they tell me that this man is far less likely to be a Gatherer than Roethel is to be a liar.”

  She took a step closer, looming over the officer. “Tell me, Dictator, do you have a family?”

  The Indomitable snapped his mouth shut and pressed his lips into a stubborn line.

  “I asked you a question, Indomitable!” Issa shouted.

  “Yes, sir,” the man finally said.

  “And tell me, Dictator, if you had a family, would you want to hasten the Final Destruction and the end of their lives?”

  The officer’s jaw muscles worked, but finally he shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “I thought not,” Issa snarled. “So I am willing to let this man plead his case, if only so I don’t deprive innocent children of their father and a woman of her husband. A sentiment I’m certain you, as a family man yourself, can understand.”

  A silent war of wills raged between the two of them. The Dictator was easily thrice her age and stubborn as a pack of mules, but Issa refused to let him win. If he had his way, a potentially innocent Mahjuri would wind up dead. She didn’t care if she faced the Pharus himself—she would not stand silently by, not when she could do something.

  After long seconds, the Indomitable officer looked away. “Geiss, Bedict, bring the old woman.”

  Issa’s eyes never left the Dictator as the two Indomitables hurried from the hovel to collect Roethel. The officer actually backed up, a look of mingled defeat and annoyance on his face.

  “And you two!” Snarling, Issa rounded on the Indomitables holding the man down. “Get off him. How is he supposed to speak with his face crushed against the ground?”

  The soldiers didn’t even look to their Dictator for his order; they got off the man and released his arms, though they remained within striking distance, hands on the hilts of their khopeshes.

  The man slowly climbed to his feet, eyes fixe
d on Issa. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quavering.

  “You’re not out of this yet.” Issa’s voice was hard, cold. “Until I hear from Roethel, you’re still under suspicion of being a Gatherer.”

  “See if she’ll swear the same oath.” The man lifted his head, defiance written in his eyes. “She knows the Long Keeper will judge her for a liar.”

  Shrill protests echoed outside the hovel, accompanied a moment later by two Indomitables and a greying woman that could only be Roethel. She wore a black Mahjuri headband and hints of too-dark malachite around her eyes, but the cosmetics did little to soften the angular lines of her prim face.

  “That’s the one!” Roethel fairly screamed, stabbing a bony finger at the man. “Arrest him at once!”

  The accused man’s lip curled into a snarl. “Will your slander never end, Roethel? You already condemned Tonai to a beating and nearly sentenced him to death, all because he refused to marry that harridan you call a daughter.”

  The woman’s face suddenly pinched into a tight frown. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, her tone miffed. “Tonai made the mistake of insulting the Pharus in public. These wise, noble Indomitables don’t make mistakes.”

  Issa’s insides squirmed at Roethel’s ingratiating tone. Her Saba would call the woman “oilier than a year’s crop of olives”. That all but cemented the truth in her mind.

  She stepped toward the woman. “Come.” Her mailed fingers wrapped around the woman’s arms. “I believe Lady Callista Vinaus should hear your testimony herself.”

  “Lady Callista?” Roethel’s thin white eyebrows flew up. “The Lady of Blades? It would be an honor!” She straightened her clothing, as if trying to arrange her ragged clothing to appear presentable.

  “I’m certain she will want to congratulate and reward you for the information that led to the capture of a Gatherer.”