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

by Katy Rose Pool

  Dawn had broken in the time they’d been inside the tomb, the sun’s glare turning the sandstone blood red.

  Ephyra stumbled away from Illya and collapsed in the sand. She closed her eyes and breathed, not knowing how long she sat there.

  “You’re alive,” a voice said.

  Ephyra didn’t turn to look at Shara standing behind her.

  “You got the Chalice,” she went on.

  Ephyra dug her fingers into the sand.

  “What happened to her?” She heard Shara ask Illya.

  Ephyra got to her feet. Gripping the Chalice, she faced Shara. The others were standing with her, Parthenia propped against Numir. Hadiza was not with them.

  “I killed them,” Ephyra said, enunciating each syllable clearly. “The Daughters of Mercy killed my sister, so I killed them.”

  Shara’s face was a swirl of confusion and fear.

  “Now the Chalice is mine,” Ephyra said. “And if you try to take it from me, I’ll kill you, too.”

  Shara’s expression resolved into anger. “No, you won’t.”

  “I won’t have to kill you,” Ephyra said. “If you stay around me, you’ll die anyway. You were right, Shara. I’m cursed.”

  That was what Hector had said, too, in his own way. A harbinger of darkness. A pale hand in the night, bringing death and destruction wherever she went.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Shara asked, her eyes flicking to the Chalice.

  There’s something dark inside of us. It was one of the last things Beru had ever said to Ephyra.

  Ephyra could feel the darkness inside her now, clawing at her insides like a frantic, trapped beast. It would tear her heart to shreds, and Ephyra would tear the world to shreds just to make it feel one ounce of her pain. This was her destiny.

  “Just stay out of my way,” Ephyra said, “and you won’t have to find out.”

  She turned and started walking east, toward the sun and Behezda. A few seconds later, she heard Illya’s footsteps behind her. He had no choice but to follow.

  Ephyra held the Chalice close and kept walking. She could feel its power coursing through her still. The dark thing inside her grinned wickedly.

  34

  JUDE

  TWO TORCHES BURNED AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE TEMPLE OF ENDARRA. ANTON and Jude stood side by side at its steps, the river flowing gently beneath the walkway. Jude’s gaze rested on the darkened threshold of the temple.

  “We don’t have to go in,” Anton said, his eyes soft. “We can just leave, right now, you and me.”

  “We need them.” Jude dug his nails into his palms. “I let my feelings get in the way of my duty before, with Hector. It could easily happen again.” It already had. “They’re waiting for us.”

  Without waiting for Anton’s reply, he began to climb the stairs, apprehension threading through his bones. At the top he paused, dipping his forefinger and his thumb into the chrism oil in one of the wide ceramic dishes that sat before the entrance.

  Anton walked past him to go inside, and without thinking, Jude caught his wrist, reeling him back. Anton looked up at him, inches away, as Jude drew the pad of his thumb across Anton’s forehead, leaving behind a glistening streak of oil. Anton blinked in surprise and Jude stepped back, releasing him.

  Jude shook himself, dipping his fingers in the oil again to consecrate himself. He wasn’t sure what had come over him. It was an incredibly intimate act, to consecrate someone before entering a temple of the Prophets. Only parents did it for young children, or married couples for each other. Jude had no business consecrating the Last Prophet, even if Anton had no idea how to do it for himself.

  When he turned back, Anton was exactly where he’d left him, staring at Jude, his cheeks coloring. He touched the line of oil on his brow and Jude looked away as they entered the temple, balling his treacherous hands at his sides. He had to pull himself together.

  The same acolytes who had greeted them before stood in the circular antechamber, the Guard fanned out behind them. Upon seeing them, Penrose broke away from the others and strode toward the temple entrance.

  “Jude.” There was affection in her eyes as she came toward them. “You’re safe. Both of you.”

  Relief coursed through him. The acolytes had told them that Penrose and the rest of the Guard were safe, but he hadn’t truly let go of his worry until now.

  Petrossian pulled up beside her. “Is that—the Pinnacle Blade? How?”

  Jude rested his hand on the hilt. “It’s a long story. There’s much we need to discuss. Is Father with you?” His gaze swept briefly over the gathered Paladin.

  Penrose’s face crumpled. “The acolytes didn’t tell you?”

  Jude stilled. “Tell me what?”

  “The . . . the Witnesses,” Penrose said, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes were wide and haunted. “They killed him.”

  The words howled in his ears like a merciless wind. A storm of grief crashed over him.

  No.

  “I’m so sorry,” Penrose said, and she sounded it. “You are the last of the Weatherbourne line.”

  Jude crumbled. He covered his face with his hands, a wretched sob rising in his throat, and he trembled with the effort of keeping it down. He and his father had never been close. If the elder Weatherbourne felt affection for his heir, it had been wrapped up in his hope for Jude’s devotion to their shared duty. And sometimes, it had been enough. His belief in Jude had made him feel like he belonged.

  He felt as if his world had already shattered but this—this was the final piece to break. How could the Order of the Last Light exist without Theron Weatherbourne?

  “Do you know what that means, Jude?” Penrose asked. “You need to be Keeper of the Word.”

  “No,” Jude said, desperate. “No, I—the Tribunal—”

  Penrose shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The Prophets were very clear that the Keeper of the Word must be from the Weatherbourne line. No other can stand in your place.”

  “So you put him through all that,” Anton said, “for nothing?”

  The vehemence in his voice was enough to shock Jude out of his grief for a moment.

  “Anton,” he said sharply.

  “No,” Anton said, his dark eyes flashing with challenge. “Either they think you’re fit to be Keeper of the Word or they don’t. It doesn’t change what I already know. I need you.”

  Jude watched Penrose’s gaze flicker to Jude, and Jude dropped his eyes. Anton’s declaration made his chest feel light. But he also knew how Penrose would read into it.

  “I see,” she said.

  “There’s something else you should know,” Anton said. “We aren’t planning to stay in Endarrion. Or go back to Kerameikos. We’re going north.”

  Penrose looked taken aback by Anton’s commanding tone for a moment. There was a new certainty in him, a decisiveness that Jude had only seen glimpses of before.

  “Why north?” Osei asked.

  “I need to go back to where I was born,” Anton replied. “I think that’s where the Relic of Sight is.”

  “The Relic?” Penrose asked. “What does that have to do with—”

  “You remember the dream I had about the Hierophant?” Anton said. “He’s after the Relics—all of them. We need to find them before he does, to stop the Age of Darkness.”

  Penrose watched him with careful eyes. Jude knew that if Anton tried to tell them the rest of what the Nameless Woman had said, the Guard would react as Jude had. It was a ridiculous story, but Anton seemed sure about needing the Relic of Sight.

  “We need to go somewhere safe,” Penrose said. “The Witnesses found us at Kerameikos. We’ll need to find a place where we can protect you.”

  “They already attacked us in Kerameikos,” Anton said. “Where else can we go that will be safe from them? Where will we find safety if the Age of Darkness begins?”

  “He’s right,” Osei said. “Our best chance is to keep moving.”

  “We should do as h
e says,” Jude said, startling the others. “Anton is the Prophet. He says finding the Relic of Sight will help him. So we should go.”

  Penrose watched him for a moment, and Jude got the distinct sense that she was seeing something brand-new in him. He wasn’t sure if it was something she liked. But then, he realized, it didn’t matter. His father was gone. She was Jude’s to command. They all were.

  They boarded Lady Bellrose’s barge, which was docked outside the temple. The barge, which Jude noted was actually named The Bellrose, was outfitted with a skeleton crew. Jude was wary of allowing anyone else to know what they were doing and where they were going, but he swallowed his objections.

  “Who is this Lady Bellrose exactly?” Osei asked.

  “An old friend of mine,” Anton answered. “She helped us get away from the Witnesses.”

  “And she’s just giving you a riverboat?” Penrose asked.

  “Loaning,” Anton replied. Along with more money than they could possibly need for the journey, but Anton didn’t elaborate. “She wants to help. She won’t do anything to hurt us.”

  It was clearly not the answer Penrose was looking for, and when her gaze rested on Jude he could not bear to return it. He looked instead out at the water, thinking of the last time he had spoken to his father. His faith in Jude had not wavered, not once. He trusted Jude, trusted his devotion to the Prophet even in turmoil. Jude looked over at Anton, and realized that he was the only other person who believed in him like that.

  They settled in a room on the upper deck with glass walls that overlooked the rest of the ship as they set sail along the river, the sun sinking below the horizon. The Guard peppered Jude and Anton with questions, wanting to know what had happened to them since escaping Kerameikos. Anton took over answering most of them, which Jude was grateful for, and when it was dark Jude slipped out onto the outdoor deck.

  The cool night air was a balm as he sat down, letting his legs dangle off the edge. He didn’t know what waited for them in the Novogardian Territories, but he knew the Nameless Woman was at least right about one thing. If he didn’t get himself together, he would remain utterly useless to everyone.

  “Jude?” Penrose stood behind him. “Are you all right?”

  He wanted to lie to her. More than that, he wanted to believe the lie. He shook his head. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you a while ago.”

  She waited, holding on to the rail, knuckles turning white.

  “My Grace is gone,” he said.

  Her mouth fell open in surprise. In horror. “Oh, Jude.”

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to face it,” he said, coming to rest his hands on the rail beside hers. “I thought there was some way to regain it, because the Godfire didn’t seem to affect me the way it affected the others.”

  “And is there?” Her voice was wracked with hope.

  “Anton thinks so,” Jude said. “Lady Bellrose . . . it’s hard to get a straight answer about anything from her, but she says that it’s not gone. That there’s some weakness in . . . me.”

  “If there’s a way to get your Grace back, you will,” Penrose said, her eyes intent. “I know you. And there’s no one whose faith is stronger than yours. Remember your Year of Reflection. Remember what it felt like to free yourself from the shackles of the world. Free from self-doubt.”

  Jude nodded, exhaling slowly. It was the same thing he’d been telling himself for weeks. Years, really. Because despite what Penrose thought, Jude had never really been able to free himself from doubt. Not during his Year of Reflection. Not when he became Keeper. Not even when he’d found Anton.

  But doubt—doubt he could live with. Doubt was an old friend. Comfortable. But there was something far more dangerous to contend with, something that tripped wildly through his chest when he looked at Anton. Something that made him question not himself, but everything else he knew. The Order. The Prophets. Something he was beginning to think he would never be rid of.

  Maybe something he didn’t want to be rid of.

  35

  HASSAN

  THE FIRST FEW NIGHTS WERE THE HARDEST. HASSAN DIDN’T KNOW EXACTLY where to go after leaving the Library. He wound up returning to the neighborhood where he and Khepri had been squatting before finding the Scarab’s Wing and spent the next few nights staying in a variety of different abandoned homes, moving often because he knew Lethia’s soldiers were patrolling. Maybe even searching for Hassan specifically.

  Without the Scarab’s Wing and without his own soldiers, who’d been subsumed by the rebels, Hassan had to think carefully about his next move.

  Which was why, six nights after leaving the Great Library, Hassan marched up to the palace gates and announced himself to the guards.

  “My name is Hassan Seif,” he said to the two guards idling outside the gates.

  He recalled what Lethia had told him back in the throne room when he’d first discovered her betrayal, about not wanting to spill his blood. He trusted that it had been true—after all, she’d had countless opportunities to get rid of him in Pallas Athos.

  But then, she’d left him to die in the lighthouse that day.

  The guard started laughing. “Nice try. But the prince is—”

  “Dead?” Hassan asked. “Died in the fire that took down the lighthouse? Is that what they’ve been saying?”

  The two guards looked at each other.

  “My name is Hassan Seif,” Hassan repeated. “And I have a message for Queen Lethia.”

  The soldiers dragged him to the throne room. Hassan still remembered the last time he’d been brought here as a prisoner, the shock and betrayal of seeing Lethia on the throne. It was just as infuriating now, and she looked more at home there than ever, lounging in a dark green and black kaftan studded with emeralds, her dark, graystreaked hair arranged into an elaborate swirl of braids.

  “Nephew,” she greeted. “I’m surprised you’ve come to pay your respects. I thought you’d be hiding out with your little friends—the ones who tried to ruin my coronation.”

  “They’re not my friends,” Hassan replied.

  She raised an eyebrow. It was an expression Hassan recognized well and it made a part of him suddenly miss her, a longing like a punch to his gut.

  “You’re working with them, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I was,” Hassan replied. “It turned out we didn’t have quite as much in common as we thought.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I know they’ve been a thorn in your side,” Hassan said. “Reminding everyone in this city how illegitimate your claim to the throne is. Showing people they can fight back.”

  “And?”

  “And I can help you take them down.”

  This seemed to actually surprise Lethia, but she recovered quickly. “Why would I believe that? You are, after all, known as the Deceiver.” A small smirk accompanied these words.

  “Because their leader hates me,” Hassan replied. “And I’m not terribly fond of him, either.”

  “You also hate me.”

  Hassan swallowed. He didn’t want to show her how untrue that was. A part of him hated her. Another part of him still loved her, even knowing everything she’d done.

  “Well, I’ll consider your offer,” Lethia said. “Obviously I can’t let you leave here.”

  “Obviously,” Hassan replied, and he saw that he’d surprised her again. “Can’t allow the Crown Prince of Herat to go walking about when everyone thinks I died in the lighthouse.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I actually did think you’d died in the lighthouse.”

  “Then consider me risen from the dead.”

  Lethia addressed the nearest soldier. “Take him upstairs.”

  The soldiers took Hassan up a familiar staircase and down a familiar hallway.

  His chambers. For a moment he wondered if this was Lethia’s way of being tender, allowing him to return somewhere that felt safe. But he
knew she was only trying to hurt him more—make him a prisoner in his own palace, in his very own rooms.

  He was brought dinner and even dessert by the servants. Some of whom Hassan even recognized. They clearly recognized him, too. He was treated well.

  But he was still a prisoner.

  When night fell, Hassan changed into the soft silks he’d once slept in and lay down on the bed, his chest tight. The room was just as he had left it, like he was fourteen years old and just returned from a trip down the river with his parents. He turned his face into the pillow, shoulders shaking with sobs.

  After a few minutes, he calmed himself, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, shivering. The room was unbearably cold without Khepri beside him, too quiet without her laughter and soothing voice. Just over a week ago, he’d been reading poems aloud to her, pausing to explain the more obscure references as she laid her head in his lap and toyed teasingly with the tie on his shirt.

  And then she’d betrayed him. Told him to go, like all her faith in him was suddenly gone. Was everything between them over? He didn’t want to believe it, but she’d made her choice. And now it was time to make his.

  The next morning he was summoned, but not by Lethia.

  The Hierophant looked exactly as Hassan remembered from the lighthouse—dressed in pure white robes, his face hidden behind a glinting gold mask.

  “Your Grace,” he greeted softly as Hassan stepped inside the palace library. “So good of you to join me.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to address you as the Immaculate One,” Hassan returned.

  The Hierophant made a sound almost like a laugh. “Of course not.”

  “Well, you wanted to talk to me,” Hassan said. “Here I am.”

  “Yes, here you are. In the hands of the people you profess to hate most,” the Hierophant said. “The queen told me about your offer. I must say I was very intrigued. What could have convinced you to turn on your comrades like that?”