Storm of Chaos Page 2

  Killian’s expression hardened. “I need to see the others for myself.”

  “Are you insane?” Evren demanded. “You want to go toward the sickness?”

  “They are my Mumblers!” Fury burned in Killian’s dark eyes. “I swore to protect them, just as they swore their loyalty to help me. I owe it to them to at least try!”

  The man’s words added fuel to the fire of Evren’s curiosity. Who the hell is Killian, really? The question had plagued him since the encounter with Issa, the Keeper’s Blade that had fought beside them to rescue Killian from the clutches of the Ybrazhe Syndicate. Issa and Killian had recognized each other, and there had been a real spark of familiarity, even friendship between the young Blade and the middle-aged blacksmith.

  Then there was the matter of his fighting skills. When trapped by the Ybrazhe, Killian had removed the brace supporting his lame left leg and used it to form a strange triple staff—a weapon he’d wielded with impressive skill.

  Now, he revealed another trait uncommon among other self-styled thiefmasters Evren had met over his hard years on the streets of Vothmot. He had a sort of innate nobility, a devotion to those loyal to him that exceeded that of a master to his underlings. The worry in his eyes revealed genuine interest in his Mumblers, similar to how commanders worried about their trusted soldiers.

  Just one more layer to the enigma.

  Yet now wasn’t the time to worry about Killian. They had more important things to deal with—like the matter of dead and dying Mumblers.

  “Fine,” Evren said, but he made no move to step out of the doorway. “But I’m going with you.”

  Killian’s expression darkened, and for a moment Evren feared the blacksmith might simply barrel through him. The man was twice his weight, half a hand taller, and far broader in the shoulders, with arms and hands heavy with muscle.

  Yet Evren wouldn’t be cowed. He met the man’s anger with calm defiance. “We’re partners, Killian. That means we’re in this together. If your people are suffering, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  The sight of the boy on the floor had sent his mind racing toward Daver, the young apprentice that had escaped the Master’s Temple with him. Daver had been weaker and smaller than Evren, defenseless against the threats facing him in the Temple and on the streets. Evren had fought to protect Daver—he’d damned well do the same for these youths, who had no one but Killian to look out for them.

  After a moment, Killian threw up his hands. “Fine, just get the fiery hell out of my way!”

  With a nod, Evren stepped out of the way. “Let’s go.”

  Scowling, Killian stomped from the forge. Evren fell in beside him, his pace matching the blacksmith’s limping gait easily. He didn’t bother trying to engage the man in conversation—the storm in Killian’s eyes and the permanent glower told Evren exactly what he was thinking. He worried for his Mumblers, and with good reason.

  A handful of Mumblers shadowed them down Smith’s Alley, west along the Artificer’s Courseway, and through Industry Square. By the time they turned south to descend Trader’s Way, nearly fifteen of the young boys tailed them. None approached—word of Undon’s demise must have spread among them like wildfire.

  Killian’s limp made for slow progress, and the sun had just begun its descent toward the western horizon by the time they reached the Slave’s Tier. The golden afternoon brilliance made the squat, crumbling buildings appear even more weathered. Dust seemed to cover everything, washing out any trace of color and painting the lowest level of Shalandra in a pale veneer that brought to mind Undon’s face as the Azure Rot claimed him.

  Evren’s gut clenched. What will we find in the safe house? One look at Killian’s brooding expression made it clear the smith’s thoughts ran along the same vein.

  Killian stumped east along the Way of Chains, toward the section of Shalandra reserved for the Kabili slave caste. Just before reaching Auctioneer’s Square, he turned south down a side street that connected to a narrow, debris-clogged lane just short of the wall ringing Shalandra’s southernmost edge.

  The blacksmith’s steps led straight toward the door of a decrepit single-story building with collapsing stone walls, sagging thatch, and crumbling steps. No Mumblers were in sight, but Evren instinctively knew that this was the safe house.

  He steeled himself before entering, and even still he was unprepared for the sight that awaited him. Twenty children, none older than Hailen, lay silent and lifeless on the floor. Blood trickled from the corners of their wide-staring eyes and gaping mouths, dried and crusted atop the still-oozing sores that stained their hands, faces, and ragged bodies a foul azure. They had died hours before and the reek of corpses left to rot in the sun assaulted Evren’s nostrils.

  His stomach roiled so violently he staggered out of the building and into the fresh air, struggling to keep down the meager contents of his stomach. He gasped for air and leaned on his knees, his legs trembling. Yet, try as he might to clear the image of those bodies from his mind, he could not. He doubted he ever would.

  He’d seen men die, even sent a few to their deaths with his own hands. He’d watched his own mother die of the Bloody Flux, her body ravaged by dysentery, dehydration, and spine-shaking fever. None of that could compare to the sheer horror of seeing those blue-blistered husks that had once been living, breathing children. Children like Hailen.

  Killian emerged a few seconds later. The blacksmith’s strong face had gone ashen, his dark eyes tinged with grief and horror. His shoulders stooped beneath an immense burden and he sat heavily, muttering something Evren didn’t catch.

  “What’s that?” Evren asked.

  “This…” Killian lifted sorrow-filled eyes to Evren. “This isn’t the Rot.”

  Evren had seen those suffering from the Azure Rot. “Are you sure?” His face scrunched up. “There’s no mistaking those blisters. And the way it ravages their bodies is—”

  Killian shook his head. “It’s too fast. The Azure Rot should have taken weeks to kill them, days at the very least.” His expression grew haunted, as if at a painful memory. “Some unfortunate souls have lived in agony for years.”

  He fell silent, a vacant look in his eyes.

  Pity set Evren’s chest aching. Who did he lose to the Rot? That expression reeked of loss—the same look that filled Briana’s eyes when speaking of her father.

  “This is something different.” Killian’s tone grew ominous. “Something worse. And we’re going to find out what.”

  Evren raised an eyebrow. “We are? Don’t you think it’s a job better-suited for the Trouveres? And, we’re not exactly without troubles of our own.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “We’re in the middle of Ybrazhe territory, and you just finished saying that the Syndicate’s coming after you.”

  “We will deal with Blackfinger and his thugs, too,” Killian growled. “But I cannot let this go unanswered. The Mumblers…” He swallowed hard. “My Mumblers, they deserve better than to die like this. And this new plague, if it goes unchecked, it could kill thousands. Fiery hell, it could kill everyone in Shalandra!”

  Evren hesitated. They did have bigger problems to deal with than a plague: the Ybrazhe Syndicate, the Gatherers, the Necroseti and the Keeper’s Council, not to mention his mission to steal the Blade of Hallar. He’d come to Shalandra to get his hands on the Im’tasi weapon, which would aid the Hunter in his quest to save the world from the Great Devourer.

  Yet a part of him knew Killian was right. If it was Hailen lying there, I’d do the exact same thing. Hell, I wouldn’t rest until I found a solution. Even if this new form of the Azure Rot was contained to the Slave’s Tier, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t eventually spread to the rest of the city. The same Flux that killed Evren’s mother had devastated Vothmot, claiming more than five thousand souls—men and women, children and the aged, from the lowest beggar on the streets to members of the Caliph’s own household. Hailen, Briana, Kodyn, and Aisha might not be safe even in the sanctuary of th
e Temple of Whispers.

  “So be it.” He blew out a long breath. “We’ll deal with the Syndicate and find the reason for this new Rot.”

  “Good.” Killian nodded, his expression subdued, yet a hint of gratitude sparkled in his eyes. “I’ve got contacts among the Ministrants and the Trouveres I can reach out to. They’ll know about this for certain.”

  Ministrants served the Bright Lady, goddess of healing. The white-robed sisters at the Sanctuary dedicated their lives to ministering to the infirm and suffering.

  The Trouveres were priests of the Bloody Minstrel, god of sickness, plague, and horrible music. While their fellow priests, the Malady Singers, roamed at will to deliver bloodstone amulets said to ward off disease, Trouveres were only permitted to leave their temple, the Hall of the Cruori, in time of mass outbreaks. Their bird-faced masks, with curving beaks and dark black eyes, kept out the miasmas of the bodies they collected and carted away for disposal. They followed in death’s wake when their counterparts and the Ministrants failed to ward off the Long Keeper’s gaze.

  Evren couldn’t help shuddering—the last time he’d seen those horrible masks, his mother had been one of those carted away.

  He swallowed hard. “If it helps, I can talk to the Secret Keepers. Maybe they’ll know something.” A scant hope, yet he had to do something before the Azure Rot claimed more lives. Lives that could include the people he cared about if the plague spread out of control.

  Killian’s frown knitted his bushy eyebrows together, but he nodded. “So be it.” He stood, slowly, and Evren was surprised by how much the man appeared to have aged in the last minute. The grey in his beard and hair stood in starker contrast than it had moments earlier. In place of the efficient warrior that had driven off the Syndicate thugs the previous night stood an old man weighed down by the burdens of his past…and present.

  He opened his mouth to continue, but before he could, one of the Mumblers ran up to him. The boy whispered something Evren couldn’t hear.

  “Thank you.” Killian nodded at the boy. “Find the others. Tell them to pull out of the Slave’s Tier unless absolutely necessary. Blackfinger’s going to be on the warpath soon.”

  “Yes, Killian.” The boy turned and scampered away, disappearing down a side street, heading north toward the Way of Chains.

  Evren cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

  “Business,” Killian replied, his tone brusque, reticent. “But I’ll send word to the Sanctuary and the Hall of the Cruori at once.”

  The clear dismissal in Killian’s tone rankled, but Evren swallowed his irritation. After what the blacksmith had just endured—torture and near-death at the hands of the Ybrazhe and now the deaths of twenty Mumblers—Evren could bite his tongue.

  “Guess that means I’m off to the Temple of Whispers,” he said.

  Killian nodded. “I’ll leave a few Mumblers posted around the Temple District. The moment you get anything—”

  Evren held up a hand. “Get word to you, yes, I know.”

  “We must stop this plague and soon.” A shadow passed over the blacksmith’s dark eyes and his tone grew ominous. “If we fail, this new form of the Azure Rot may very well kill everyone.”

  Shalandra truly would be the City of the Dead.

  Chapter Three

  “I can speak to the dead.”

  The words sounded so strange even as they left her mouth, yet Aisha knew they were the right ones. She’d borne this secret for so long—since leaving Praamis, where only Ria had known the truth. Now, saying it aloud seemed to lift a burden from her shoulders.

  Hailen and Briana stared at her in shocked silence, their eyes moving slowly between her face and the object in her hand. The stone set into the pendant had once been black, but the moment she’d touched it, the color had changed to a brilliant blue-white. The light of Thimara, the dead Secret Keeper, set the stone glowing.

  But it was her eyes that truly held them rapt. Once more, Aisha glanced into the polished silver mirror and found that spark of blue-white light dancing in her dark brown eyes. The spark of the Kish’aa, the spirits of the dead that only she could see, hear, and speak to.

  “W-What do you mean?” Briana fumbled for words. “S-Speak to the dead?” Her confusion mirrored the puzzlement etched into Hailen’s face. They had both seen the stone change color, watched her lost in a trance, yet it seemed too much to wrap their heads around.

  Aisha hesitated only a heartbeat. She had wanted to share the weight of her secret, yet had kept it to herself for fear her friends would think her mad. Now, the choice had been taken from her hands. Hailen and Briana had borne witness to her gift. She could hide no longer.

  “I am a Spirit Whisperer.” A profound sense of relief washed over her. For weeks, she had tried to resist the bone-deep fatigue, which grew harder to ignore with every new discovery of her abilities. Now, just speaking the words aloud seemed to lift a mountain off her chest.

  She drew in a deep breath. “In Ghandia, there are those who can communicate with the spirits of the dead.” Her eyes met Briana’s. “On our journey from Praamis, do you remember that we spoke of the Kish’aa? The spirits of our ancestors?”

  A glimmer of recognition shone in Briana’s eyes. “I-I think so.”

  “To most of the world, the Kish’aa are little more than myth and legend, as invisible and intangible as a night wind. But there are those with the gift to see, hear, even speak to the Kish’aa.” Aisha gave the stunned pair a small smile. “In my language, they are the Umoyahlebe. Or, in your tongue, the Spirit Whisperers.”

  “Spirit Whisperers.” Hailen spoke the word as if trying on a new coat or pair of boots.

  Briana frowned. “And you are this Uyo…Umo…”

  “Umoyahlebe.” Aisha’s smiled broadened. “And yes, I am. My father was a Spirit Whisperer, and I bear his gift. I can see the spirits of the dead all around us.”

  Hailen flinched, his hand dropping to his dagger, and his eyes darted around him. “Where?”

  Aisha chuckled. “There are no Kish’aa in here. We are alone in the room.”

  Briana smiled at the boy’s nervous reaction, and the humor seemed to push back her befuddlement.

  “But out there,” Aisha said, thrusting a finger in the direction of the temple’s exit, “near the Sanctuary, clustered around the Keeper’s Crypts, throughout all of Shalandra, the spirits of the dead wait and watch.”

  Hailen’s eyebrows squeezed together as he frowned. “What do they want?” he spoke in a whisper.

  “Vengeance,” Aisha replied. “Justice. Closure. Peace.” She turned to Briana. “To send a message to the ones they love most.”

  Briana’s face paled. “M-My mother?”

  Before Suroth’s death, Briana and her father had lived in a mansion on the Keeper’s Tier, Shalandra’s highest and wealthiest level. There, in the rooftop garden where the Arch-Guardian cultivated exotic plants from around Einan, Aisha had encountered the spirit of Briana’s mother. Radiana had died giving birth to Briana, but she had lingered in this life to watch over her child. Her spirit had only passed on to Pharadesi, the afterlife, after she fulfilled her mission by protecting Briana from the Gatherer attack.

  But she had spoken through Aisha. Not through words, but through inescapable emotions and feelings that bubbled up from the core of her being.

  Aisha nodded. “And Eldesse and Osirath.” Two of the servants in Suroth’s household—Briana’s personal body servant and one of the guards at the gate—had been murdered the night the Gatherers abducted Briana and dragged her away to the city of Praamis. They persisted until they could pass on the message that they had not betrayed her, as Suroth once suspected.

  Moisture glimmered in Briana’s eyes. “My mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You…saw her? Spoke to her?” She dropped to a seat on her simple bed.

  Aisha nodded.

  Emotions warred on Briana’s face. “What…was she like?”

  “Beaut
iful.” Aisha crouched in front of Briana and took the girl’s hand. “You have her smile, and her strength of spirit. But more than anything else, she wanted you to know how much she loved you. That was the thing that kept her tethered to this world.”

  Tears came full and fast now, sliding down Briana’s cheeks, yet a hint of joy glimmered in the Shalandran girl’s eyes. She had lived her entire life with only her father’s stories to serve as a link to the woman that she would never know. Yet to hear the truth—that her mother had cared about her so much that she had refused to go to the afterlife all these years—seemed to ease some pain deep within her.

  Briana’s arms encircled Aisha’s neck and pulled her close. Aisha held the girl as she cried, comforting her with her silence and the strength of her presence. But these were no tears of sorrow or loss. These held mingled joy and relief.

  “I’m sorry,” Briana said when she finally drew back. “I know with everything going on, you’re probably dealing with so much—talking to the dead!” She hurried to scrub away the tears. “I’m sorry for making it all about me.”

  “No matter.” Aisha smiled and squeezed the girl’s hand. “Truth be told, it makes my burden a little easier to bear, being able to share it with you.” She turned to Hailen. “Both of you.”

  The pale-skinned boy stood silent behind her, an awkward, embarrassed expression staining his face. He blushed but tried to return her smile.

  “But what about your eyes?” Briana asked, drying the last moisture from her cheeks. “Why are they like…that?”

  Aisha resisted the urge to glance in the mirror—she knew too well what she’d see. “I can’t really explain it perfectly because, to be honest, I don’t understand it all. But let me try to explain it like my father did.” She scrunched up her face in thought. “Within everyone there is a spark of life, the energy that sustains us all. Most simply call it the soul.”