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

by Katy Rose Pool

  “What about the others?” Anton asked.

  Jude shook his head, guilt clawing at his chest. It felt like he was abandoning his Guard all over again. “They’ll be all right.”

  Anton didn’t press the issue, and let Jude lead them slowly through the dark passage. Jude’s wound throbbed steadily with the beat of his heart, and with each step he grew more faint, until he was barely conscious, but still moving, one step after another. After a few silent, struggling minutes, Jude saw the light ahead.

  “The exit,” he breathed. They reached the mouth of the passage. On the other side, tall grass and trees rose around them. Jude stumbled, his hand going out to catch his fall, and found himself on his knees, his head swimming, his chest heaving.

  “Jude!” Anton’s voice cried, but he sounded far away. “Jude, stay with me.”

  Jude couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He laid his head down in the dirt and let the darkness take him.

  15

  HASSAN

  HASSAN CAME TO THE NEXT SCARAB’S WING STRATEGY MEETING PREPARED. He arrived early to the alchemy workshop, claiming the seat at the head of the long table—the seat Arash usually took. Adopting a look of placid welcome, he waited for the others to arrive.

  Khepri smiled and sat beside him, while Zareen shot him a look of mild amusement as she plopped down onto one of the cushions. Arash was one of the last to arrive, and he paused in the doorway for a brief moment before taking a seat beside Zareen. He didn’t look at Hassan, and Hassan schooled his look of satisfaction. He’d already thrown him off balance.

  As the rest of them took their seats, Arash cleared his throat. “Prince Hassan,” he said, his tone pleasantly cheerful. “I’m so glad you’ve put aside our differences to join us. I know that you’re against what we’re trying to do, and I know many of us are interested to discuss your thoughts.”

  Hassan smiled. “Actually, Arash, I’ve changed my mind. I think we should go forward with the coronation plans.”

  He watched Arash’s eye twitch slightly. “Oh. Well that’s wonderful news. We’re pleased to have your support.”

  “Good,” Hassan said. “And as we’re now working together, I thought I would share some ideas as to how we can best take advantage of this opportunity.”

  “There will be time for that—”

  “Disrupting the parade is a great way to get the attention of not only the queen and the dark forces that prop up her rule, but also the Herati public,” Hassan said, as if he hadn’t heard Arash. “We have an opportunity here to appeal to those who are feeling helpless over the coup, to show them that they have something to fight for.” He paused, looking around at the others to ensure he had their full attention. “I think it would be the perfect time to tell the people of Nazirah that their king has returned.”

  He watched the panic flash across Arash’s face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Arash cleared his throat. “It’s a mistake to show our hand already. If we reveal to the public that you’re still alive, those loyal to the Usurper will only target the Scarab’s Wing harder.”

  Hassan turned to him. “I know the people of Herat. If we tell them what Lethia has truly done, they will rise up against her and join us.”

  His gaze flickered over to Khepri. She was the one who’d given him the idea. Let your aunt know you’re still here, she had said. Rather than creating a haphazard disruption, as a fringe group of radicals might, Hassan would issue a direct challenge to Lethia’s claim to the crown.

  “Prince Hassan is the true heir to the throne,” Sefu said. “The public knows that. If they know he’s alive, I think there’s a good chance they’ll throw their support behind him.”

  “I love this idea,” Zareen said. “I’m shaking just thinking about the Usurper’s face when she sees you. How is she going to argue against your right to rule? She’ll be trapped.”

  The rest of the table broke into conversation. Hassan’s plan seemed to be catching like fire, and Hassan watched with satisfaction as Arash’s face grew drawn and grim. But he didn’t offer any counterarguments.

  For Hassan’s part, he could oversee the plans and make sure it minimized the risk of hurting innocents. And by the end of it, everyone would know who led the rebellion. Everyone would know who their king was.

  Over the course of the next few days, more and more of Khepri and Hassan’s refugee soldiers found their way to the Library, led by a search party sent out each evening. Hassan and Khepri established a routine at the Scarab’s Wing base. Mornings were for strategy sessions. In the afternoons, Khepri trained with the other soldiers. Sometimes Hassan joined them, other times he disappeared into the Library’s endless collections of books or perused the workshops where the alchemists and artificers were developing new weapons to use against the Witnesses, and new protections for the Library.

  Today, that was where Hassan found himself, helping Zareen in her corner of the workshop, which was cluttered with beakers of every size and strewn with various brass instruments. Somehow, Zareen seemed to instinctively know where everything was when she needed it, despite the lack of organization.

  “You titrated that?” she asked, pointing to a beaker in Hassan’s hands.

  “Yup,” he answered, setting the beaker down. “What’s it for?”

  “Paralytic powder,” she answered. “It’s not very useful in combat—you have to ingest it for it to work. And it takes forever to make.”

  “What about these ones?” Hassan asked, pointing to a collection of glass cylinders filled with various tinctures.

  “Uh, they’re mood modifiers,” she replied distractedly, squinting as she poured some of Hassan’s mixture into her own. “They calm people down, wake them up, make them feel happy, stuff like that.”

  “So if I drink this I’ll suddenly feel deliriously happy?” Hassan asked, peering at a bright amber glass.

  “If you drink it you’ll probably die, or at least puke,” she answered. “They work through exposure. They store as liquid and release as gas at high temperatures.”

  “Ah, Prince Hassan. Just the man I wanted to see,” Arash’s cheerful voice called from the threshold of the alchemy workshop.

  Hassan looked up at the Scarab’s Wing’s leader. They’d hardly spoken a direct word to each other since the morning Hassan had taken over the strategy meeting, and if they interacted at all, it was usually with Khepri as a buffer.

  “We’re busy, Arash, what do you want?” Zareen inquired, sounding irritated.

  “Just a word or two with the prince here. It won’t take long.”

  Zareen shot a questioning look at Hassan.

  “It’s fine,” Hassan assured her, pleased that she looked to him for permission and not Arash. “Just—maybe try a different catalyst for the paralytic powder. Could help speed it up.”

  He followed Arash into the hallway.

  “Who would have thought the Prince of Herat knew so much about alchemy?” Arash asked.

  “It’s thanks to my father,” Hassan replied.

  “I thought he trained in artificery? My masters at the Library talked about him a lot. They said he was one of the greatest artificers of the Seif line. We all thought his heir would succeed him in that, as well as the crown.”

  Hassan felt a stab of irritation. Arash never missed an opportunity to remind Hassan that he was Graced and Hassan was not.

  “He was a great artificer,” Hassan agreed, ignoring the rest. “But he dabbled with alchemy as well, and I always found it interesting.”

  “You are full of surprises,” Arash said, managing to sound both impressed and condescending.

  “What can I do for you, Arash?” Hassan asked, unable to keep the weary note out of his voice.

  Arash gave a tight smile. “I’d like your help with something.”

  “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?” Hassan asked. “To help the rebel effort. So just tell me what it is.”

  “It would be easier to show you.”


  Arash took him down to the Library’s basement vaults. This was where they kept the most ancient texts, the ones that would be damaged without careful regulation of the air’s temperature and moisture levels. Hassan had been down here only a few times in his life, and every visit had left him feeling claustrophobic and cold. Yet he couldn’t deny that there was something awe-inspiring about seeing such ancient texts in person.

  The original mosaic depicting the founding of Nazirah stretched across the back wall of the vault. Parts of it had crumbled away with age before it had been properly preserved and moved to the vaults, but the main elements of the story were still clear, if faded. Hassan recognized the visage of the first King of Nazirah, as well as the Prophet Nazirah herself. She was placing something on his head—the Crown of Herat.

  “The stories say that the Crown Nazirah gave the first king imbued him with Grace,” Arash said. “They say it allowed him to create great machines, the likes of which haven’t been seen in all the centuries since. But the Crown went missing centuries ago. I want to know what happened to it.”

  “What for?” Hassan asked.

  “We have some of the most brilliant minds right here in this Library,” Arash said, his fingers hovering just over the mosaic. “What if we could make them even more powerful? We could build weapons that would take out the Witnesses in an instant. We could save so many lives.”

  “We?” Hassan asked. “Or you?”

  “All of us,” Arash replied, dropping his arm and turning to Hassan.

  “All of us with the Grace of Mind, in any case. But, you’re right. I’ve been working on something I think could help us reclaim the city. But my Grace . . . it’s not enough for what I want to do. But if you told us where the Crown is—”

  “You’re assuming I know where it is,” Hassan said. “I don’t.”

  Arash pursed his lips. “You’re the heir to the throne. I thought that your family had been keeping it safe all these years. You really have no idea?”

  “None.”

  Arash’s expression tightened. “This could really help, Hassan.” It was the most sincere Hassan had ever seen him. “We need something.”

  They had something. A king.

  Hassan hesitated. “Arash, you do know the stories about the Crown, don’t you?”

  Arash didn’t reply.

  “They say the Crown turned on the last person who wielded it,” Hassan said. “The first king’s grandson. That he used it to build a machine that ended up killing him.”

  “That’s just a story, told to dissuade people from searching for the Crown.”

  Hassan sighed. He wasn’t so sure. “Even if that’s true, I still don’t know where the Crown is. No one does.”

  Arash looked at him with a careful gaze for a long moment. “Well, then. I suppose I should return you to Zareen now. She won’t be happy with me taking her assistant away.”

  That evening, Hassan sat up in bed, Khepri curled against his side, recounting the success of her training session.

  “That armor they’ve started experimenting with is already really impressive,” Khepri said. “The artificers here must be geniuses or something.”

  “Yeah,” Hassan said absently.

  Khepri turned in his arms to face him head-on. “Are you actually listening to me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Hassan said, shaking his head. “It’s just—I had this strange conversation with Arash today.”

  Khepri sighed, and Hassan sensed her fatigue at the subject. She’d already been on the receiving end of a fair number of irritated tirades from Hassan.

  “It’s not what you think,” Hassan said. He quickly recounted his conversation with Arash.

  “What do you think?” he asked when he was done.

  Khepri took a moment, rubbing her thumb absently over the muscle of his forearm. “I think we should try whatever we can to fight the Witnesses.”

  “I thought you’d say that.”

  “Well, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course.” He paused. “But don’t you wonder if . . .”

  “If what?”

  “If putting that kind of power into someone’s hands is dangerous?”

  “Not if they use it to save lives,” Khepri replied. “A tool is only good or evil depending on how it’s used—and by whom. Do you think I’m dangerous?”

  Hassan leaned into her, smiling. “Very,” he said against her lips.

  She laughed, pushing him away. “You know what I mean. Is what Arash wants so wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Hassan said, sobering. “It’s . . . there are stories about the people who wielded the Crown that don’t end well. I’m afraid if Arash has it . . .”

  “Arash wants to save this city as much as we do.”

  “I know,” Hassan said. “But what if the Crown’s power proved to be too much for him and he accidentally hurt people, or destroyed the city? I’m not saying he would do it on purpose. But the Crown . . . there’s a reason my family hasn’t gone looking for it.”

  “We need to focus on the things we can do,” Khepri said. “Which is more than it was a week ago.”

  “Do you worry . . .” Hassan trailed off for a moment. Even with Khepri, it was difficult for him to admit his uncertainty. His fear. “Do you worry about what’s going to happen after all this? If we defeat Lethia and drive the Witnesses out?”

  She pressed her lips together, plucking at a stray thread in Hassan’s sleeve. “Do you?”

  Hassan nodded. “I just hope that winning doesn’t mean losing sight of who we are and what we believe in. I hope it doesn’t end in a choice like the one we made with the lighthouse. Letting it fall into Lethia’s hands or letting it fall, period.”

  Khepri’s face crumpled in sadness. “Oh, Hassan. You don’t regret the choice we made, do you? Even if the lighthouse isn’t there anymore—”

  “I know,” he said. “We did what we had to.”

  She took his hand, kissing his knuckles. “Whatever happens from here, we’ll rebuild. You, and me, and everyone who loves this city, this kingdom.”

  He closed his eyes and Khepri pressed in closer, kissing his shoulder.

  “But first, we have to take back the country,” Khepri said. “Right now that means using every tactic at our disposal. And taking allies wherever we can find them.”

  He knew she was right. But he couldn’t shake the fear that Arash and his rebels were proving everything the Witnesses said about the Graced to be true.

  16

  ANTON

  ANTON MADE THE HIKE TO THE OUTPOST IN LESS THAN AN HOUR, HIS HEART pounding the entire way. He couldn’t stop picturing the Witnesses stumbling upon Jude’s unconscious body.

  Once he’d packed a bag full of anything useful he could find—food, bandages, a fire starter, a tarp, and anything else they might need—he started making his way back down the hill. He wanted nothing more than to sprint back to Jude but had to force himself to tread quietly and listen for signs of the Witnesses.

  Only the sound of wind and the flow of the river greeted him as he reached the edge of the clearing. He stopped between two trees, focused on the other side of the clearing, where Jude lay hidden in the soft brush.

  A branch snapped loudly.

  Anton froze, hardly breathing for almost a full minute. Maybe it was just an animal, or a branch that had fallen on its own.

  Then a voice hissed through the clearing.

  “Keep searching!”

  Rustling grass and snapping twigs followed.

  Anton ducked behind a tree, setting his pack down silently. The footsteps neared. He pressed himself farther back.

  “They can’t have gone far,” another voice said, higher, much closer. Too close.

  Anton fought to keep his breath silent. He gazed up at the tree branches above him, calculating how long it would take to climb up and considering whether the Witnesses would see.

  “Wait,” the first voice said.

  The footsteps stopped.<
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  “There,” the voice said. “Look over there.”

  The footsteps sounded like they were getting farther from Anton again. He let out a relieved breath.

  “They could be hiding in the brush.”

  Jude. Anton’s heart kicked in his chest. He peered around the side of the tree and the sight in front of him made his blood go cold. Four Witnesses were striding across the clearing, heading straight for Jude’s hiding spot.

  Anton held his breath as they surrounded the brush, poking into it. One of them was mere feet from where Jude’s head lay. He reached into the brush, and Anton tensed, ready to act, though he didn’t know what to do exactly—rush at the Witnesses, call out to them and distract them, just something. The Witness was right on top of Jude. Anton stepped out from behind the tree.

  But then the Witness turned away. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

  Anton’s stomach dropped. There was no way the Witness would have missed Jude from his position, which meant the swordsman was simply gone.

  Anton barely had the presence of mind to slip back into the shadows as the Witnesses crossed the clearing and disappeared through the trees. Heart hammering, Anton stayed perfectly still, breathing hard, for another few long minutes until he was sure the Witnesses weren’t coming back.

  Then he grabbed his pack off the ground and sprinted across the clearing to kneel down by the brush, searching desperately for Jude. But the Witness had been right. He wasn’t there. Had he been taken by an earlier patrol? Had he wandered off to bleed out in the woods alone?

  Anton pushed himself to his feet, wanting to call out to Jude, but terrified the Witnesses would hear him.

  A low groan drifted through the air.

  “Jude?” Anton said, pitching his voice a shade lower than usual.