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

by Katy Rose Pool

  After they ate, Illya cleaned up, almost fastidious, while Ephyra watched from the bed.

  As he went to wipe down the table she rose and went to him, backing him against it. He turned to her and kissed her again. Ephyra lost herself in it, in him, the clawing creature inside her silent for now.

  Heat scorched through her and she felt some part of her recoil in disgust while she pressed closer. It was both blessing and punishment, and each was a relief.

  When she woke the next morning, Illya was still there.

  Ephyra didn’t know how long they’d been in Behezda. She slept through the days, waking only in the afternoon to choke down whatever food she could stomach. At night she haunted the city, keeping the Chalice close. Its power flowed through her, filling in her empty cracks and gnawing pain. She could feel its longing, its need for her to tap into its well of strength. She traced her fingers over it at night and imagined sucking the esha out of every person on the street.

  She felt out of control in a way she never had before.

  The only times she felt in control was in Illya’s arms. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t have to. Ephyra sought oblivion and Illya was happy to give it to her.

  It didn’t change anything between them. At least not in the ways she would expect. He was never soft with her—he’d taken what she said in the tomb to heart, and didn’t try to win her over anymore. Every night they spent tangled in the sheets together only seemed to make her hate him more. And hating him made her want him more. And wanting him made her hate herself. He was the worst person she knew, the worst person she’d ever met who she hadn’t killed, and finding release with him was easy, because she destroyed everything she touched and she didn’t care if he was destroyed, too.

  She wanted to destroy him. She wanted to burn everything down. She wanted to be the Pale Hand again, to punish everyone—herself most of all. She let Illya do it instead. She didn’t know why he was still here, why he’d stayed with her, whether he wanted the Chalice for himself or just wanted to burn down everything the way she did.

  It didn’t matter. He had stayed, when no one else had, and if that didn’t prove how awful she really was, she didn’t know what would.

  But that gnawing darkness would not let go, no matter how much she tried to drown it in Illya. And then there was the part of her she was afraid to even look at. Beyond the rage, beyond the grief. She couldn’t even name it. But she knew what it was. Relief. Part of her was relieved that Beru was gone. And she hated herself for it.

  She woke one night, after passing out beside Illya, and sat up in the dark. The Chalice was sitting on the bedside table. She remembered what it felt like to pull from its power, killing the Daughters of Mercy in the tomb of their dead queen.

  She reached over and picked it up. She ran her fingers over the divots and engraved lines, mesmerized.

  “I think it recognizes you,” Illya said.

  Ephyra startled, wrapping her hand around the stem of the Chalice. “What are you talking about?”

  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and then kicking off the thin blanket. “I need to show you something.”

  He tapped on one of the incandescent lights and went over to the other side of the room, rifling through his things.

  Ephyra sat perched at the edge of the bed, alarmed.

  “You remember when you found me in the Thief King’s hideout?”

  Ephyra nodded.

  “Well, I didn’t just find the mirror and the other clue,” he said, coming back to the bed. “I also found this.”

  He held an envelope out to her. It had clearly already been opened, the wax seal missing.

  Ephyra took it with a shaking hand. She opened the letter hastily, pressing her fingers to her mouth when she saw that it was written in her father’s unsteady scrawl.

  “You read this?” she asked Illya.

  He held his hands out and shrugged. “I was looking for clues about the Chalice.”

  Ephyra did not have the energy to be angry.

  “I’m going to go for a walk,” Illya said, heading toward the door. “I’ll let you just—I’ll be back.”

  Ephyra waited for the door to shut behind him before looking back down at the letter.

  Dear Badis, she read, and then had to stop. This must be her father’s letter to the Thief King, the one that had prompted Badis’s brief warning.

  If the Chalice exists, you don’t want to go looking for it.

  The only thing you’ll find is a quick death.

  Badis had been right, in the end. And it wasn’t just her father who had found death.

  Heart pounding, she read on.

  Thank you for the gifts you sent last month, the girls loved them. I do regret that it’s been so long since my last letter. The fact of the matter is that I have a favor to ask of you, and it’s not exactly the usual kind.

  Ephyra wiped at her eyes. Her father’s writing was so familiar, she could almost hear his voice, the gentle, hesitant way he spoke.

  But first I should tell you about my daughter.

  Ephyra sucked in a bracing breath.

  My eldest, Ephyra, did not have the most welcome start in life. When Cyrene was pregnant, she became very ill. It seemed impossible that she or the baby would survive. When we took her to a healer, they could not help her. But in my travels I had heard of a man, spoken of in hushed whispers. A powerful healer, more powerful than even the Daughters of Mercy. Eventually, I found someone who claimed to have met him. They told me where I could find him.

  I returned home and packed up Cyrene, who was mere weeks away from giving birth. I knew that if we did not find this healer and persuade him to help us, the journey would kill her. But if we stayed home, she would die anyway. We went.

  We found him out in the desert, in an oasis. We didn’t know who he was, then. By the time we found him, it was almost too late. Cyrene was near death. The healer told us he would help us for a price. At that point I was desperate. He told me he wanted me to find Eleazar’s Chalice. With no other choice, I agreed.

  He healed Cyrene. Ephyra arrived two weeks later, perfectly healthy. We went on with our lives. We had another daughter. All was well, so we thought. And then the man who had told us where to find the healer came to me again. He told me he had lied to me, that the man he had led us to was not a healer—that he was a necromancer. That he’d kept himself alive for over five centuries. That he’d once been known as the Necromancer King. I didn’t believe him at first. I had no reason to. I brushed him off.

  Months later, Ephyra’s Grace manifested. The Grace of Blood. Neither I nor Cyrene had any ancestors with Grace. Of course, that is not so rare. But the things that our little girl could do with her power . . . it was like nothing I had ever seen.

  Ephyra swallowed, eyes stinging. She remembered clearly the fear with which her parents had reacted when she’d begun using her powers for the first time. How once, she had accidentally killed a lizard in their yard just by touching it, and how her parents had looked at her afterward. Like they were afraid of her. She used to make plants grow out of seeds in the yard, just for the fun of it, until her parents caught her once and sharply told her to never do that again. Ephyra had cried herself to sleep that night, certain that her parents hated her, hated her Grace.

  She had been right.

  We have done our best to keep Ephyra’s Grace hidden from the world. We fear that if anyone were to find out what she is, if word were to spread . . . the Necromancer King would find us. I fear he has already done so, and I fear what he will do to make sure we make good on the deal I made that desperate day. If I can find Eleazar’s Chalice . . . I know it is much to ask you, to get involved in this. But please, my friend. I must protect my family.

  Yours in desperation,

  Aran

  Ephyra closed her eyes, the tears falling freely as she clutched her father’s letter in her hand. For the first time, she understood why her parents had seemed so afraid of her. They ha
d feared only what her power would bring upon them. They had been disgusted only by the reminder of the choice they had made, to trust a man who called himself a healer.

  But with this understanding came grief, deeper and more desolate than anything she’d ever felt. Her parents had been right to fear. Ephyra’s power had brought death to their door. And this thing inside her, this darkness—it had a cause. The Necromancer King. It seemed impossible that he could still be alive after so many centuries—after Hadiza’s story of how the Chalice had turned on him, the Daughters defeating him. But the yawning terror in her chest told her it was true. The worst villain in the history of the world had made Ephyra what she was—a monster.

  Illya returned what must have been an hour later to find Ephyra still sitting on the bed, reading and rereading the letter.

  “You’re not afraid of me,” Ephyra said, looking up at him.

  He hesitated by the threshold. Perhaps her words were not entirely true. But then again, he’d come back.

  “Do I need to be?”

  Yes, the dark thing inside Ephyra answered. Everyone should be afraid of her. “You read the letter. You know what I am. Who made me this way.”

  He came closer, walking all the way over to the bed to sit beside her. “I don’t believe anyone made you this way. The Necromancer King may have given you a piece of his power. Perhaps most of it. But that power is yours to wield.”

  And look at how she had chosen to wield it.

  “The Daughters of Mercy knew,” Ephyra said. “They must have. They were scared of me.”

  “Of course they were scared of you,” Illya said. “They’ve spent their whole lives trying to uphold the rules. The natural law of life and death. But you’re more powerful than they are. And you don’t follow their rules. That’s what separates the powerful from the weak. The powerful get to make the rules, and the weak have to follow them.”

  Ephyra didn’t feel powerful right then, but she had while facing the Daughters. She’d lived on scraps for so long, killing because she had to and hiding in the rotten corners of the world because she was afraid. It had started with her parents’ fear, with the guilt they’d thrust onto her because of what they had done.

  And now, she had nothing. Nothing except all the power in the world. Power to face down the Daughters of Mercy and anyone else who tried to tell her how she ought to use it. Her parents, the Daughters of Mercy, the world—all of them feared her, and not because she had the power to kill but because her power meant she could break their rules.

  She rolled out of bed. The Chalice was warm. It wanted her to use it.

  “What are you doing?” Illya asked.

  “Get up,” Ephyra said. “You’re going to help me.”

  “Help you do what, exactly?”

  “Find me a victim.”

  The man’s home was at the edge of the city. Ephyra found him there, alone.

  He was a swindler, Illya had said. Taking advantage of the poorest and most vulnerable, promising them aid and then robbing them of everything they had.

  Ephyra stepped through the front door.

  The man jerked his head up. “What are you doing in my home?”

  “What you do to those families,” she began, “does it keep you up at night?”

  He took a faltering step back. “W-what are you talking about?”

  “I just want to know if you’ve ever once thought about the people you’ve cheated. The ones who have been left destitute because of you.”

  “H-how did you—”

  “That’s what I thought,” Ephyra said, grabbing his throat.

  The Chalice burned against her hip, where it was tucked among the folds of her makeshift cloak. Draining his esha was easier than ever. It felt right. Beru wasn’t here anymore to make her feel guilty. And she didn’t. These bastards got exactly what they deserved, and Ephyra was happy to be the vehicle of their comeuppance. It felt familiar.

  This was her purpose. The Pale Hand was her destiny. She had the power to decide who lived and who died—not according to the laws of nature, not the tenets of right and wrong, but by her choice.

  She was always meant to be the Pale Hand of Death. The Prophets had seen it, or so Beru had said. And now Ephyra did, too.

  The man dropped to the ground, the pale handprint bright against his skin.

  38

  ANTON

  ANTON HAD BARELY SLEPT A WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH SINCE THEY’D SET SAIL on The Bellrose. He dreamed of the lake, over and over, and every time, Jude was there. Anton supposed that he should count himself lucky to get to see Jude in his dreams—he certainly saw little of him while they were awake.

  Since the night they’d kissed, things between them had been strained. Anton puzzled over it. Jude wanted him, he knew that—he’d told him as much, he’d kissed Anton back, and Anton could see it in how his gaze tracked him across rooms. But every time Anton wobbled too far into his orbit, Jude got this dark look in his eyes and a tightness in the bow of his mouth. Like wanting Anton was a punishment he had to endure.

  So the days passed as they traveled north through the river gorge that cut between the Novogardian mountains. Anton spent his time making friends with the ship’s crew, avoiding the Guard whenever he could, and trying to forget their destination. He grew more and more anxious as the days ticked by until even the Guard could tell something was wrong.

  “You don’t wish to go back there,” Annuka said one night, when she was keeping watch over him.

  “Not a lot of happy memories,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Annuka said, and she did sound sorry. “It can be hard to return home.”

  “It’s not really my home,” he replied. “Nowhere is.”

  She nodded. “I understand. My home was not a place, either. It was people—my tribe. And when they disappeared, so did my home.”

  He could tell from the crack in her voice that this was painful to talk about, perhaps especially now that another home, Kerameikos, had also been taken away from her. He’d never known that kind of sadness. As far as he could tell, home was just whatever hurt most when you left it behind.

  She looked at him, smiling but sad. “But we must never give up on finding a home. Sometimes you must make one for yourself.”

  “How?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

  “You find something you want to come back to,” Annuka replied. “And then you stay.”

  The next morning when Anton rose and went out to the deck, the air was freezing. They were close to his village, maybe a few hours away. Anton sidled over to one of the rails and leaned against it, looking out at the river and the surrounding mountains, capped with snow.

  “There’s ice in the river,” said a deckhand named Adrien. He sounded offended. “Ice. In the middle of summer!”

  “Welcome to the north,” Anton said, stretching back against the rail.

  “I can see why you left.”

  Anton laughed. “Yeah, that was the reason. I just can’t stand the cold.”

  “Well, if you need help warming up,” Adrien said lightly, flashing his teeth, “just let me know.” He jogged off to help his crewmate secure the throw line.

  Anton watched him walk away, amused. He turned back to go inside and saw Jude standing by the door that led into the main corridor. The look on his face made it clear he’d seen Anton’s exchange with Adrien.

  Jude turned abruptly on his heel, retreating into the corridor. Anton hesitated for a moment and then followed, cursing under his breath. He caught up to Jude halfway down the hallway, and looped his arm through Jude’s elbow to drag him into the adjacent room.

  “What are you doing?” Jude demanded.

  “I thought we could talk,” Anton offered. “You know. That thing we used to do.” He glanced around and realized he’d dragged Jude into the Nameless Woman’s private collection room, where they’d been caught sneaking around during her party.

  Jude coolly stepped away from Anton. “Fine.
What is it you want to talk about?”

  “You could start by telling me how you are.”

  “I’m fine,” Jude replied.

  “Is that why you won’t be in the same room as me?” Anton asked. “Why you can’t even look at me sometimes?”

  Jude tensed, and when he looked at Anton there was anger in his eyes. “And what should I be doing instead? Should I be flirting with the deckhands and pretending that you never—” He glanced around and lowered his voice to a hiss. “That you never kissed me?”

  “You wanted us to pretend it didn’t happen. To go back to normal.”

  Jude shook his head, looking at one of the glass walls and let out a hollow laugh. “You didn’t need to make it seem so easy.”

  “You turned me down, so stop acting like I’m the one who hurt you,” Anton said, an edge of anger creeping into his voice.

  “It wasn’t like that, and you know it,” Jude said hotly.

  “Then how was it?” Anton demanded, pushing into Jude’s space.

  “I saw how you were at the Hidden Spring. How you were with Evander and with—” He waved his hand to indicate the deckhand. “You flirt and you do whatever you want because it doesn’t mean anything to you, but every time I look at you all I can I think about is that kiss and I can’t stand it.”

  Anton’s breath caught in his throat and his gaze flickered from Jude’s bright green eyes to the bow of his lips. Anton could still remember what those lips had felt like on his own. That kiss had been an impulse, a disastrous attempt to comfort Jude. But now, wanting to do it again—that was just selfish.

  Jude seemed to realize their closeness and reeled back. “You don’t get it. To you, that was just a stupid kiss. But to me? It could ruin everything.”

  His voice broke on the last word and Anton couldn’t help but think of another argument, in the storeroom in Kerameikos. Jude’s bitter defeat. The reckless request Anton had made, knowing it would change nothing. Come with me.