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

by Katy Rose Pool

  She took his hand.

  41

  JUDE

  JUDE PACED IN FRONT OF THE TENT IN THE CAMP THE PALADIN HAD SET UP about a league away from the lake. The air was growing cooler as the light faded in the sky. Annuka and Yarik were working on starting a fire.

  Anton lay within the tent. Three hours had passed since he had collapsed after touching the Relic of Sight. Jude touched the Stone where it was tucked into his cloak pocket. It felt strangely cold, like it was forged from ice instead of stone.

  “Any change?”

  Jude glanced up and saw Osei standing a few feet away. Jude looked toward the entrance of the tent and shook his head.

  “You should get some rest, too,” Osei went on. “You nearly drowned.”

  “I’m fine,” Jude replied, shaking his head. “I just wish I—”

  “He’ll be all right,” Osei assured him. Then, after a moment, “He dove right in after you, you know.”

  There was something in Osei’s tone that made Jude instantly wary.

  “I think he cares about you.”

  Jude looked away. He could no longer guess at what Anton did or didn’t feel toward him. And it didn’t matter, anyway.

  “He’s the Prophet,” he replied. The same thing he’d said to Anton. The same thing he’d been saying to himself over and over.

  There was a sudden rustling sound and then Anton emerged from the tent, blinking out into the twilight. Osei was at his side at once, asking him how he was feeling. Jude just froze in place, watching as Osei explained what had happened after Anton touched the Relic.

  Anton was silent for a moment. “I saw it again. My vision.”

  Jude’s eyes widened.

  “There was something about it that I didn’t understand, the first time,” Anton went on. “But I understand it now.”

  “What do you mean?” Jude asked.

  Anton took a breath. “The ancient god. The one that Vasili believed spoke to him. The one they say the Prophets killed. He’s real. And he’s going to return, unless we stop him.”

  “This is impossible,” Penrose said. It was not the first time she’d said it. No amount of explanation on Anton’s part had gotten her to budge an inch. “The god isn’t real. There’s no way he’s getting resurrected when he never existed in the first place.”

  “I’m just telling you what I saw,” Anton replied. “You have to admit, no one knows where the Relics came from or how the Prophets got their powers. So isn’t it possible—”

  “No, it isn’t,” Penrose replied sharply. “Because what you’re trying to tell me is that the Prophets were responsible for the slaying of a god. And we know that to be a vicious lie invented to discredit and slander them.”

  “Or it’s the truth that the Prophets tried to bury,” Anton shot back. “But you can’t afford to believe it because it would mean that everything the Order stands for is a lie.”

  Penrose swallowed, flinching like she’d been struck.

  “Jude,” Anton said pleadingly. “You’re the Keeper of the Word. You’re the one who decides. Stop a god from being resurrected, or do nothing.”

  Jude closed his eyes. Anton was right about one thing. If what he’d seen in his vision was true, it meant that the Order of the Last Light was built on lies. Lies the Prophets had told them about where they had come from. Lies that meant that the Prophets—not the Witnesses, not the Hierophant—were responsible for the Age of Darkness.

  He wasn’t sure if he could accept that. And he knew Penrose couldn’t. The Order of the Last Light meant everything to her. It had been her guiding light for her entire life.

  With one stroke, Anton wanted to take that away from her. From all of them. If Jude couldn’t believe in the Prophets, in the Order, what could he believe in?

  “We all need to get some rest,” Jude said. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

  He couldn’t face the betrayal in Anton’s eyes. Nor the fury in Penrose’s. He turned to go back inside his tent.

  Penrose pushed her way in after him. “I need to talk to you.”

  “It can wait until morning.”

  “It can’t,” she said. “It’s about the Prophet.”

  “He’s fine.”

  “But you’re not.” She took a breath. “I know you better than anyone, Jude. I know why you can’t get your Grace back.”

  “Why is that?” Jude asked, his voice turning harsh.

  “Because you can’t detach yourself,” Penrose replied. “Not from him. It’s clouding your judgment.”

  “My judgment is fine.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Penrose said. “This is Hector all over again.”

  “This is nothing like Hector,” Jude snapped.

  “You loved him,” Penrose said, voice hard. “Do you love the Prophet?”

  “What?” Jude asked. He felt like all the air had been punched out of his lungs. “That’s—”

  “You can’t have him,” Penrose said. “Not the way you want.”

  “The way I want?” Jude said. “Since when are we allowed to want anything, Penrose?”

  “We all swore the oath, Jude.”

  “But you chose this,” Jude said. “You spent your whole life in search of the Order. You wanted this life and I—”

  There was bald shock on Penrose’s face. “You what?”

  Jude had been about to say, and I don’t. Those words had been ready to come out of his mouth, and he hadn’t even realized they were true until this moment. He stood there, on the precipice of throwing away his legacy, his duty, his purpose not because he couldn’t live up to them, but because he didn’t believe in them anymore.

  His faith had once been all he had. But that wasn’t true anymore. It hadn’t been true since the day Anton had stormed into the Tribunal Chambers. Since before then, maybe. Now, he had something else to believe in.

  “It’s late,” he said to Penrose, instead of the truth. “Go get some sleep.”

  Penrose turned and whirled out of the tent, leaving Jude alone.

  He laid the Pinnacle Blade and the Oracle Stone out in front of him. The Relic of Sight and the Relic of Heart. The origins of Grace. Anton said they were the key to stopping the Age of Darkness.

  He gathered them again, putting the sword on his belt and the Stone in his pocket and then strode out of the tent and toward Anton’s. Annuka stood on watch.

  She nodded to him as he approached. “You’re early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Jude said. “I’ll relieve you. One of us should get some rest.”

  Annuka left. Jude hesitated at the threshold of the tent and then bit down on his nerves and entered.

  Anton was sitting up on the bedroll, his knees drawn toward his chest. He glanced up as Jude entered and for a moment they just stared at each other.

  “How much longer until the next shift?” Anton said at last.

  “A little over four hours,” Jude replied. “Why?”

  “We need to move fast if we’re going to put enough distance between us and them,” Anton said, pushing himself to his feet.

  Jude froze. “What?”

  “We have to go. I’m never going to convince the Guard that what I saw in my vision is true. You heard Penrose. The only option is to leave without them. We need to stop the Hierophant. We need to seal the Gate.”

  Jude’s heart thudded. He had chosen to leave the Guard once before, but it had been a choice made out of desperation and fear. He’d been afraid of losing Hector, and afraid he would never be the leader the Order wanted him to be.

  “Jude,” Anton said, pleading. His dark eyes seemed to shine in the dim tent. “I can’t do this without you. Please. Bet on me. You’ve done it before.”

  He had. He’d thrown his lot in with Anton at the Hidden Spring. It was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done but—

  It had brought them both here. It had given him this boy, who put his life in Jude’s hands and trusted him to keep it safe. Who kissed him and dro
ve him mad and made him question everything he thought he knew. Who had slowly opened himself up to Jude, and who saw him like no one else ever had. Who had asked him once, to go with him. Jude had never given him an answer.

  “That night in Kerameikos,” Jude said haltingly. “When you found me in the storeroom.”

  “You mean when I found you drunk in the storeroom?” Anton asked, lips quirking into a smile.

  “You told me that it must be hard to believe in something only to have it disappoint me.”

  He still remembered those words, and how they’d cut through the fog of his self-loathing like sunlight. He remembered how Anton had issued them, like a challenge. Daring Jude to say Anton wasn’t the person who should have been Prophet.

  “I should have told you, you never disappointed me,” Jude said. “I was the one who failed you. And the Order . . . the Order failed us both. I was too blind to see it until you said that. You’re always doing that—telling me the things I don’t want to hear.” His eyes caught on Anton’s. “The things I need to hear most. Sometimes it feels like you know everything about me, even more than I know myself.”

  He didn’t let himself look away from Anton. He felt laid bare, letting Anton see parts of him he’d never allowed anyone to see before. Not even Hector.

  And even after seeing them, Anton still wanted Jude with him. He’d told him that, over and over, even when Jude couldn’t protect him. Even when he let fear make him weak.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be what the Order wants me to be,” Jude admitted. He had tortured himself with this thought, agonized over it, but he’d never allowed himself to say it aloud. Now that he had, it was a relief. “And maybe I don’t need to be. Maybe I don’t want to be.”

  Anton smiled at him again and Jude smiled back.

  “Then,” he said, taking Jude’s hand, “what are we waiting for?”

  42

  EPHYRA

  SOMEONE SHOOK EPHYRA AWAKE.

  “Leave me alone, Beru,” she groaned, rolling onto her side.

  Her eyes flew open. And reality hit. Beru was gone. She shot up and found Illya crouched beside the bed.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you should know that the City Watch is looking for you. Apparently they think you’ve murdered several people.”

  “They can’t know for certain it was me,” Ephyra replied, pressing her palms into her eyes. “There were no witnesses. Besides, they don’t even know who I am.”

  She paused, watching him closely as he stood. The morning light made his light brown hair look tawny, his eyes a honeyed gold. He was the only one who knew who she was. But what reason would he have to turn her in?

  She dragged herself out of bed, taking the sheets with her.

  “You’ve gotten reckless,” he said, following her across the room. “You’ve been out almost every night. You’re barely sleeping. Do you want to get captured?”

  “Why do you even care?”

  Illya looked frustrated. “This thing between us—”

  Ephyra laughed, loud and sharp. “Thing between us? You mean the one where you help me kill people and then we go to bed together? What are you even still doing here? Don’t you work for the Witnesses?”

  “I did. When it was convenient. I told you that.”

  She snorted. “Right. And that’s what this is, too. Convenient.” His expression flickered, like she’d actually wounded him, and for some reason it enraged her. “Who’s the next target?”

  “What?”

  “Who is it?” she repeated.

  “I—there isn’t one,” he answered. “It’s been two weeks of this. You need to take a break.”

  But she couldn’t. Beru was dead. If she stopped, she’d have nothing left.

  “That’s not your decision,” she told him, pulling on her clothes.

  “You look terrible,” Illya said, coming up behind her. “You’re running yourself ragged, and I think the Chalice is affecting you.”

  She tugged her tunic over her head. “Remind me why I allow you to speak to me?”

  “Because,” Illya said, drawing closer and winding an arm around her waist, “I’m very charming.”

  “If you’re fond of that arm you’ll remove it,” Ephyra warned.

  He withdrew it grudgingly. “I’m serious—you need to take a day off.”

  “Fine,” she replied shortly, throwing on her cloak. “I’ll find one myself.”

  “You’re losing it,” he called after her.

  “I don’t need moral judgment from a guy who kidnapped his own brother,” Ephyra snapped, tying her mask in place.

  “What would your sister think of you now?”

  Ephyra raised her hand as if to strike him and pulled back at the last second. “Don’t,” she said in a quiet voice seething with rage. “Don’t talk about her.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. It heated her blood and sent shivers through her.

  Abruptly she broke away, pushing him hard against the wall by the throat. “Stay out of my way.”

  And before he could reply, she was gone.

  It was late evening when she found her next victim. A merchant, who would be perfectly innocent if it weren’t for the fact that he was clearly selling something besides carpets.

  He was selling people. Specifically, fighters to provide entertainment in the sandpits. She tailed him through the early evening, and when night fell she made her move. He’d just stumbled out of a taverna and was shuffling down an alley.

  Ephyra secured her mask and leapt down from her position on top of the opposite building. She didn’t bother to make her landing light.

  The man startled, whirling to face her. “W-who are you?”

  “I’d rather talk about who you are.” Ephyra drew closer.

  The man looked confused.

  “Actually,” Ephyra went on, stopping a foot in front of him, “if it’s all the same to you, let’s not talk at all.”

  She leaned toward him and then stopped. She heard movement behind her. Someone else was in the alley.

  The whistle of something flying through the air sounded behind her and Ephyra dodged left just as a crossbow bolt sailed past her, embedding itself in the wall next to her target’s head.

  She turned, eyes scanning the rooftops for her attacker.

  The sound of footsteps echoed from the end of the alley and Ephyra turned to find a dozen members of the City Watch standing there. She took a step back.

  The City Watch rushed at her.

  “Get her hands!” one of them cried. “She’s dangerous.”

  They swarmed her, and Ephyra fought them off as best she could, until one of them had her pinned to the wall face-first, twisting her arms behind her back.

  “Illya,” she cursed, thrashing against the hold. “Sold me out again.” And she had trusted him, like an idiot.

  “Actually, I did,” a different voice said, and then Shara stepped into view. “I’m sorry, Ephyra, but what was I supposed to do? You disappeared with the Chalice and suddenly we’re hearing all about murders in Behezda, and bodies turning up with a pale handprint. We knew it was you.”

  “You should have stayed out of it,” Ephyra spat.

  “That stopped being an option when you came looking for me in Tel Amot,” Shara said. “And after you got Hadiza killed.”

  Ephyra struggled as one of the guards shoved her harder into the wall.

  “Just give up, Ephyra,” Shara said. “It’ll be easier that way.”

  Ephyra closed her eyes, and reached for the Chalice. But before she’d even touched the empty folds of her cloak, she knew it wasn’t there. In her rage she hadn’t noticed the missing warmth and pull from it.

  Illya. He must have taken it when he’d kissed her. He’d probably been waiting for an opportunity.

  She went slack, all the fight going out of her at once, exhaustion burrowing into her bones.

  “You didn’t need to d
o this,” she said to Shara.

  Shara met her gaze evenly. “Yes, I did.”

  She was right. And maybe Illya had been right, too. Maybe she wanted to get caught. Maybe she wanted someone to stop her, because she knew she’d never stop on her own. Beru had died to stop Ephyra from becoming a monster, but she’d become one anyway.

  She deserved whatever happened to her now.

  43

  HASSAN

  IT TOOK HASSAN A DOZEN TRIES TO COPY THE TEXT. HE WASN’T SURE WHAT THE Hierophant knew of the contents of the scroll, other than the fact that it was some kind of agreement. To be safe, he retained most of the original text, and only changed a few key details that he hoped would throw off the Hierophant long enough for Hassan to form a plan.

  When he was done, the real scroll tucked safely away, he lay in bed, reeling from the realization that his father had something to do with these Relics. Had he been trying to find them? Protect them? Was he part of the mysterious Protectors of the Lost Rose? Was that what the compass rose symbol meant?

  He wished, for the thousandth time, that his father were still alive to tell him. He turned onto his side and grabbed a familiar object from the table beside him. The compass his father had given him.

  He flipped it open out of habit, and watched the golden needle twitch on the etched lighthouse. The lighthouse no longer stood. But the compass still guided him there.

  He squinted at it, suddenly focused on the compass rose. A moment later, he was rummaging through the drawers, looking for the scroll. Pulling it out, he looked at them side by side. The compass and the symbol of the compass rose.

  Something deep in his gut told him it wasn’t a coincidence. That the compass was a clue. His father had left it for him—he must have done it for a reason. Maybe for the same reason he had hidden the scroll. The compass was pointing Hassan not to the lighthouse, but to something that had been hidden within it.

  Hassan left the Great Library a little after dawn, slipping out before anyone saw him. The streets of Nazirah were nearly empty at this hour, and the quiet felt almost like peace.