The arrival of the Guardians shattered the breathless moment. One stone wall slid open and the eight brown-robed Secret Keepers entered the room.
Briana stood, and all trace of uncertainty faded as she once more donned the façade of the confident Dhukari, daughter of Arch-Guardian Suroth.
“Guardians, thank you for making time for us.” Briana spoke aloud—a kindness for his sake, Evren guessed, as she seemed to understand the silent hand speech as well as the Secret Keepers. “Evren has something important to ask you.”
Evren’s gut tightened as eight pairs of skeptical eyes turned on him. The Secret Keepers stared in silence, their faces expressionless. Evren felt like a dying man beneath the watchful gaze of circling vultures. His mouth was dry and he once again felt that instinctive urge to run. Yet he shoved down his anxiety and spoke in as confident a voice as he could muster. “The Azure Rot is getting worse. It’s killing faster now.”
He recounted his visit to the Slave’s Tier and his discovery of the dead Mumblers, though he kept Killian out of the story.
“From what I understand, the Azure Rot takes weeks or months to finally kill its victims. This happened in the space of a few hours.” He fixed the priests with an unflinching stare. “I need your help to figure out how it changed and what’s causing it.”
Two of them—the bald man that seemed to be in charge and a grey-haired woman that looked as if she’d freshly sucked on a tart Vothmoti lime—exchanged glances. Their fingers flashed too fast for Evren to even begin to understand. Thankfully, Briana translated for him.
“Thimara, the primary Secret Keeper responsible for studying the Azure Rot, succumbed to the disease just two weeks ago,” Briana said. “She had made good strides of progress into uncovering the root of the illness, but if, as you say, it is turning fatal in such a short time frame, it means the disease has either mutated or been changed somehow.”
Evren frowned. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I just said.”
The bald man glared at Evren, and the movement of his fingers grew sharper, his gestures clipped.
“Disease does not simply change on a whim,” Briana translated. “There is always a cause behind it. But until we pinpoint its origin, we cannot determine what caused it to spring up in the first place, or what caused this latest change.”
Evren’s heart sank. Damn it! His mind raced as he tried to figure out his next move. Killian’s going to the Sanctuary and the Hall of the Cruori. Maybe he’ll come up with something that—
“Wait.” Briana’s voice cut into his thoughts. Evren glanced at her. She was no longer translating the Guardians’ hand gestures, but a pensive frown twisted her face. “What if it isn’t a disease?”
Eight faces turned inquiring glances on her. Evren didn’t need to know their silent language to understand the questions in their gestures.
“You said it yourself; disease doesn’t change for no reason.” A thoughtful frown twisted Briana’s lips and furrowed her forehead. “So what if it’s not actually a disease? What if it’s actually poison?”
Chapter Eleven
Aisha’s words had an instantaneous effect on the wizened Ghandian. Immediately, he slammed the door, bolted it, and whirled on her.
“You are Umoyahlebe?” he demanded in Ghandian.
“Yes,” Aisha replied.
The shaman’s hand darted out to snatch at her left wrist. Aisha’s instincts, honed over years of training, kicked in and she whipped her arm out of his reach. She crouched, right hand reaching toward the wooden shaft of her assegai.
“Little sister, do not be afraid.” The man held up his hands, palms open. “I do not seek to hurt you, merely to sense your power for myself.”
Aisha forced herself to relax, to release her grip on the short-handled spear. After her captivity by the Bloody Hand, she would never allow herself to be grabbed again, by man or woman.
The Ghandian held out a hand. “Trust me, one Spirit Whisperer to another.”
Though it took every ounce of willpower, Aisha extended her arm and placed her hand in the man’s. The moment their skin touched, a surge of energy rushed from the pendant around Aisha’s neck and sizzled down her arms. Blue-white light leapt from Aisha’s fingers, darting into the Ghandian man’s, and back into her palms. The spark of Thimara’s life flowed up her arms and through her chest into the pendant once more.
“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 give 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 skelet
on. 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.”
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