As the Shadow Rises: Book Two of The Age of Darkness

by Katy Rose Pool

  “Yes, and you tried to kill me,” Illya replied. “Which I think we’d all agree is worse than kidnapping.”

  “I didn’t try to gain your trust first!”

  But by the expressions of Shara and the others, Ephyra could tell Illya had already done his damage.

  “All right,” Ephyra said, taking a step back. “That’s it. I’m not listening to this anymore. You can all do whatever you want, but there’s no way I’m working with this guy.”

  She threw up her hands and stomped back up the stairs, out of the hideout.

  The desert heat had cooled into evening. Ephyra plunked herself down beside two sand skiffs tied up by one of the statue’s toes.

  She knew exactly what was happening below. She’d seen how easily Illya had sunk his poisonous claws into Shara and the others.

  Shara, who thought herself invincible, believed that even if Illya was lying to them, she could still get what she wanted without putting the rest of them in danger.

  Only Ephyra knew how wrong she was.

  A few minutes passed, and then Shara emerged out of the statue. She was alone.

  “You’re going to let him out,” Ephyra said. It wasn’t a question. “We’ll keep him on a leash,” Shara replied, moving past Ephyra, toward the sand skiff tied up beside her.

  “You’re making a huge mistake,” Ephyra said, getting to her feet. “He may seem charming and sympathetic now, but the next thing you know he’s got six paid swords behind him and he’s holding a knife to your throat.”

  “Kinky,” Shara said, eyebrows raised.

  Ephyra drew the dagger from her belt and held the point at Shara’s throat. “Don’t ignore me. I’ve dealt with this guy before. If you don’t get rid of him, we’re all going to pay the consequences.”

  Without missing a beat, Shara reached up and plucked the dagger from Ephyra’s grip, using it to cut through the skiff’s ties.

  “Your concern has been noted,” she said. “But let me remind you who’s in charge here, as it seems you’ve forgotten. Let me also remind you that I didn’t become the youngest, most successful treasure thief in the Pelagos by making stupid decisions. You can either trust that I know what I’m doing, or you can go find someone else to track down Eleazar’s Chalice for you.”

  Ephyra glared at her. Shara didn’t blink.

  “What will it be?”

  Frustration bubbled in Ephyra’s gut. She pressed her lips together.

  “Great,” Shara said brightly. “Now help me set up camp.”

  They left Illya in the cell while they camped in the first room of the hideout. Once Ephyra was certain the others were asleep, she lit a lamp and crept over their sleeping forms and pushed open the wall to the hidden chamber.

  Illya was sitting behind the bars, his elbow slung over one knee. He looked up as she approached. “Something told me you’d come in here sooner rather than later.”

  “You are absolutely shameless, do you know that?” Ephyra asked, coming closer. “I’ve met a lot of liars in my life, but you’re something else.”

  He smiled, his face half-shadowed by Ephyra’s light. “Everything I’ve ever told you has been true. To some extent. But if you want me to be honest with your little crew, maybe I can start with the fact that you’re a legendary killer known as the Pale Hand.”

  Ephyra stopped. Panic rose in her throat. She swallowed it down. “You’ve no proof of that.”

  He shrugged.

  In an instant Ephyra was up against the bars. “Say anything and I’ll kill you. We both know I don’t need a knife to do it.”

  Illya’s smile grew. “You know, you never said why you’re searching for the Chalice.”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “Does it have something to do with your sister?”

  She glanced at him, startled.

  “Just a guess. You were so desperate to find her the last time we saw each other, and yet she’s not with you now, is she?”

  Ephyra regretted ever telling him anything about Beru. “Why don’t you tell me something?” she asked. “Back in Pallas Athos, you tried to capture me along with Anton. Why did the Witnesses want me?”

  “You’re Graced,” Illya said. “And powerful.”

  “Is that really it?” Ephyra asked. In the back of her mind, she heard Beru’s low warning the last time they’d spoken. An Age of Darkness is coming. And we’re the ones who will cause it.

  “Why, what else would it be?” Illya asked.

  Ephyra narrowed her eyes. Did he know about the prophecy, too? As always with him, she couldn’t tell truth from lies. Easier just to assume it was all lies. But that meant she would get nowhere.

  “You may have convinced Shara you can be trusted, but you will never, ever, be able to convince me,” she said. “Do us both a favor and stay away from me.”

  One corner of Illya’s mouth tugged up into a twisted smile. “You’re the one who came to me.”

  Ephyra turned on her heel. “Not a mistake I’ll be making again,” she called over her shoulder as she strode from the room.

  “We’ll see,” Illya’s voice, quieter than hers, floated after her, echoing in her head until sleep finally found her again.

  10

  ANTON

  THE HIEROPHANT SWEPT DOWN THE CORRIDOR, TORCHLIGHT GLINTING OFF the gold mask that obscured his face. Two robed figures flanked him.

  He drew to a stop in front of a circular room. Another robed figure guarded the door.

  “Take me to the prisoner,” the Hierophant said.

  “Yes, Immaculate One,” the robed man said, heaving open the heavy door.

  The room was dim, reeking with the scent of burned flesh. It was unfurnished save for the table in the center. A man lay on top of it, his skin raw and scorched in places, scarred over in others. Tattered robes hung around his thin frame, and his ankles and wrists were chained down to the table. Another man stood at the perimeter, holding a torch of white flame.

  The Hierophant drew closer to the prisoner.

  “No more,” the prisoner moaned, his voice trembling. “Please, no more.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” the Hierophant said, in a voice that was almost gentle. “I’m here to listen.”

  “L-listen?”

  “Yes. You are going to tell me where the covenant is.”

  “I don’t know,” the man on the table whimpered.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you.”

  The Witness holding the Godfire torch lowered the flame to the prisoner’s chest. Screams echoed through the room, desperate, almost animal noises. The Witness withdrew the torch and the screams cut off.

  “I see you will not make this easy for either of us,” the Hierophant said, sounding tired. “You are not the first follower of the Lost Rose I have tracked down. Some of them gave up their secrets quite easily, but others took more . . . convincing.”

  The Hierophant laid a slender hand on the man’s shoulder lightly, and the Witness lowered the torch again, its flame dancing above the prisoner’s skin. The prisoner whimpered, his body jerking against his chains.

  “I don’t know where the covenant is,” the prisoner gasped. “I don’t even know what that is. The secrets of the Lost Rose are kept hidden even from its members.”

  “You are stalling,” the Hierophant said. “You truly expect me to believe that you’ve never heard of the only written record of the Lost Rose? Of the Relics they protect, and what they can do?”

  The prisoner glanced at the Godfire flame, drawing closer to his skin. “I—I’ve never laid eyes on it.”

  “So you do know of it,” the Hierophant said, satisfied. “I thought so. And I think you know exactly where it is. I think that you believe you will protect this secret from me, until your dying breath, because you fear what will happen if I find it. But I assure you, whether or not you die screaming on this table, what happens next has already been set in motion. The ancient power you have tried to protect will be unleashed
, to propel us into a new and glorious era.”

  The prisoner did not answer, his face warped with anguish.

  “But if you die here without giving me what I want,” the Hierophant went on, almost tender, “your daughter will be next. We will rip this secret from her, and your death will be for nothing.”

  “No,” the prisoner rasped. “No, please. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” He flinched as the masked man stroked a long finger over his forehead.

  “I’m listening.”

  Anton startled awake, light bursting behind his eyes.

  “What is it, boy?” His grandmother stood over him. Her face was cracked and wizened, her mouth set cruelly, her eyes like two black marbles.

  “I was dreaming, Babiya,” he said, blinking in the dark.

  “Anton,” she croaked. “My child. Come home. You belong with us. This is your destiny, just like it was Vasili’s. You will finish what he began.”

  “No,” Anton tried to say, but no sound came out of his mouth. “No, no, I’m not. I won’t be like him.”

  He was sinking. Hands reached down to grip him. Anton thrashed and fought against the hold, but it did not let up. He breached the surface of the water and found himself floating in a crumbling fountain. He pushed himself up and climbed over the rim, toppling into a courtyard filled with amber light and bustling voices.

  He knew this place.

  “There you are.”

  He knew that voice, too. He turned. Surrounded by the shadowy, indistinct figures of the rest of the crowd stood the Nameless Woman. She looked exactly like she had the last time Anton had seen her. Her dark painted lips formed the hint of a smile.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” the Nameless Woman went on. She was suddenly right in front of him. She held out her hand. In it were four playing cards, one in each suit—cups, crowns, stones, swords. Anton’s fingers closed around the cards.

  “How did you find me?” Anton asked.

  “You think my powers only work when we’re awake?” she asked, sounding amused. She waved her hand, and she was suddenly holding a glass of dark wine.

  He shook his head. “You’ve never done this before.”

  “You were never ready,” she replied.

  “I’m not ready now.” Anton swallowed. He tasted ice in his throat. “I’m going to be just like him. They’re going to make me. It’s happening already. There’s a light in my vision and the light, it wants—” He stopped. The light wants? That wasn’t what he intended to say. “It drove him mad. It’s going to do the same thing to me.”

  The cards in his hands were gone. Instead, he held a sword. It felt heavy, but Anton knew he could not drop it.

  “Endarrion,” the Nameless Woman said. “You’ll find it there.”

  “What?”

  Something passed over the Nameless Woman’s face, like a shadow. “Anton,” she said, the glass in her hand cracking, wine spilling from it like blood. “Wake up.”

  Anton sat up, gasping in the darkness. His sheets had been pushed off the bed, his neck and forehead damp with cold sweat. He raised a shaking hand to his face to wipe at a stray tear.

  The images from his dream swam behind his eyes. The Nameless Woman, his grandmother . . . and the Hierophant. It had felt so real, like he’d really been in that room, watching the Witnesses torture that prisoner, his screams ringing around them.

  He’d never seen the Hierophant before, but he knew that was who the masked man was. He’d dreamed of him, but not in such visceral detail.

  Could it be real? Or had it been conjured from Anton’s own terror?

  But it was impossible. It was a dream, nothing more. Just his mind churning through its worst fears.

  He gazed out through his window at the black sky, cold dread pitting his stomach as he thought of what awaited him in the morning. More nightmares. More of the same. The thought of facing it again made him suddenly, impossibly weary, a kind of exhaustion that sleep could not soothe.

  What was he even doing in Kerameikos? Subjecting himself to some test devised by people who didn’t care about him, only the visions in his head, the way his grandmother had, the way his brother had, the way the Hierophant had. It didn’t matter to them what Anton wanted, and it never would. And if their digging and prodding turned him mad, they wouldn’t care, either.

  The thought came to him, sudden and inevitable—he could leave.

  It would mean at least a week’s hike in either direction—Anton wasn’t sure exactly where in the Gallian Mountains they were, but he knew if he followed the river long enough, he’d hit a coast eventually. From there, he would figure the rest out. He always did. He would be alone, but he’d been alone his whole life. Why should now be any different?

  It was supposed to be, a voice in the back of his mind whispered. This time, you were supposed to have someone to protect you.

  He shoved the thought away viciously, climbing out of bed and throwing a few changes of clothes into one of the sheets, tying it up like a sack. He slipped outside, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could, and crept across the darkened courtyard toward the barracks’ storeroom. In the absence of the fort’s usual noise, the rush of the river sounded twice as loud.

  The storeroom was unlocked, the door slightly ajar. Anton supposed that as isolated as they were here, they didn’t need to worry about petty thieves.

  He crept inside, tapping on the incandescent light until it illuminated the cavernous storeroom. Starting down the first row of shelves, he began gathering his provisions, fingers skimming the shelves and plucking out whatever looked serviceable—a few root vegetables, a skin of water, a sack of grain. He turned the corner to the next row of shelves and peered at a row of unlabeled jars. He grabbed one at random, opening the lid to sniff at it carefully.

  “Why is it,” a voice spoke from the darkness, “that whenever I can’t sleep, there you are.”

  Anton jumped, fumbling and knocking a stack of crates into the nearby shelf. The jar broke open at his feet, spilling salt grains all over the floor.

  Anton didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, he stared ahead, eyes adjusting to the dimness until he could see Jude half leaning against the shelf that ran along the storeroom’s back wall. His posture was crooked and slumped, like he was hurt.

  “You dreaming about me, Jude?” Anton asked. This was, he realized, the first time they had been face-to-face since arriving at Kerameikos. Since the Tribunal had barred them from seeing each other.

  Jude’s head lolled to the side, his gaze focused on Anton. “First the Hidden Spring,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard him. “Then on the ship. Now here.”

  An uncharacteristic bitterness suffused Jude’s words, and there was something else about his voice that sounded wrong. As Jude lifted a jug to his lips and took a long gulp, the whole image of him came together. The heavy slump of his shoulders. The unfocused gaze. The slur of his words.

  Jude wasn’t hurt. He was drunk.

  The impossibility of this simple fact rendered Anton speechless for a long moment. He recalled the disdain with which Jude had refused even the smallest cup of wine by the crew of the Black Cormorant in Pallas Athos. Before arriving in Kerameikos, Anton had assumed all the Paladin abstained—but it was just Jude. Until now, anyway.

  In the silence that stretched between them, Jude raised the jug of wine, taking a long drink from it.

  “All right,” Anton said, kneeling at Jude’s side and gently tugging the jug away from him. “I think that’s enough.”

  Dealing with overindulgent patrons was something Anton had gotten a lot of practice at when he’d worked as a server at Thalassa Gardens. This wasn’t any different, really.

  Jude let Anton drag the jug away from him, his eyes unfocused and bleary.

  Anton set the jug down behind him. “Why don’t we get off the floor?”

  Jude wiped at the corner of his mouth with his palm. “I am exactly where I belong.”

 
Anton swallowed and pushed himself to his feet. He stood there, considering Jude for a moment.

  “What are you doing in here?” Jude asked, as if the question had just occurred to him.

  “Nothing, Jude,” Anton said, hitching the sack up on his shoulder. “Go back to your room and go to sleep. You look terrible.”

  Jude’s gaze caught on Anton’s sack of stolen goods, and he lurched to his feet abruptly. He stood over Anton, his cheeks flushed from the wine and his eyes burning in the dim light. “You’re leaving! You—You can’t do that. You’re the Prophet.”

  Anton set his jaw. “So?”

  “This is where you belong,” Jude said sharply. He wasn’t slurring anymore.

  “Says who?” Anton retorted, turning to leave.

  Jude spun and took a wavering step toward him. His brows drew into a taut line. “Says . . . me. I say. I won’t let you do this.”

  A sudden stroke of anger flared inside Anton, a spark of the resentment that had been kindling inside him since they reached Kerameikos. “Really? The drunk swordsman who can barely stand up straight is going to stop me?”

  Jude flinched and then went rigid, steeling himself.

  “You are the Prophet,” he said, raising his voice. “You are destined to fulfill the final prophecy and stop the Age of Darkness. I have spent my whole life praying for you, waiting for the day when the world would find its savior. Yet you turned out to be nothing but a coward.”

  “At least I’m not hiding down here and drowning my problems in a bottle of wine,” Anton replied evenly. “You’re the one who’s so obsessed with your duty, Jude. You know none of that means anything to me, so why should I pretend that it does?”

  Jude’s mouth twisted. “If the Prophets were still here, they would be laughing at us for ever pinning our hope on you.”

  Anger grew bright in Anton’s chest and behind his teeth as he met Jude’s blazing eyes.

  “Then find someone else,” he bit out. “Let me go, and find someone else to be a savior or whatever it is you think I am, because I never wanted any of this.”