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

by Katy Rose Pool

  His voice petered out and Anton wished to pull him close, to take his face in his hands and kiss him. He didn’t move.

  “It’s just that . . .” Jude looked down. “You were right.”

  Anton’s heart pounded in his throat. “About what?”

  Jude met his eyes. “That I won’t let myself have the things I want. That it’s easier this way.”

  Anton felt helpless in the heat of Jude’s gaze, reckless hope soaring in his chest. “And what do you want?”

  Jude looked at him, and looked at him, and just as Anton thought he was about to turn away, Jude leaned into him and pressed their lips together. It felt like something Anton had manifested out of his own longing as he yielded to Jude, clutching at his shoulders and letting him press him back against the cushions.

  He could think only of how Jude had looked at him on the top of the lighthouse in Nazirah, the Godfire flame flickering behind them, the dark green sea churning below them. It had felt like something sliding into place.

  Jude broke away abruptly, lifting himself up on one elbow, panting. “Anton.” He sounded as terrified as he had the first time they’d kissed.

  “You should have what you want, Jude,” Anton said fervently, desperately. “You should have everything you want.”

  Jude’s chest rose and fell with a labored breath. “I don’t want to ask too much of you. I can’t.”

  “What are you talking about?” Anton asked, brushing his thumb along Jude’s jaw. Jude shivered and caught his hand.

  “I mean I will protect you,” Jude said, his thumb pressing on the bones of Anton’s wrist. “I will stay by your side until you ask me to leave. But I didn’t defy the Order and abandon my Guard so that you’d—” He broke off, looking down at their joined hands. In a low voice he said, “I won’t ask for more than you want to give.”

  Anton saw the hurt in Jude’s eyes, the uncertainty, and understood suddenly what he was trying to say. He wanted to pull Jude down and kiss him again, to let it be that simple. But simple was a flirtation with a deckhand. Simple was kissing a boy who made eyes at you over a glass of magnolia wine. This wasn’t simple—it was messy, and true, and sacred, because it was theirs.

  “I told you that I knew what that kiss meant to you,” Anton said, sitting up. “But I never told you what it meant to me, did I?”

  Jude’s eyes were somber in the low light. He shook his head.

  “You know that I . . . didn’t have the easiest childhood,” Anton said, because it seemed like the place to begin. “When I was young, wanting things meant hurting when I never got them. So my whole life I just . . . tried to survive. Whenever someone tried to get close to me, I showed them what they wanted to see, gave them whatever it was they wanted from me and never asked for anything in return. It was easier that way.”

  Jude’s hands twisted in the fur beneath them. Anton reached out to still them.

  “But when I met you, you were . . . you tried so hard not to want anything. I didn’t know what to do with that,” he said with a helpless shrug. “But you still protected me, and I just—I liked you.”

  Jude was looking at him now, his fingers warm beneath Anton’s.

  “I like how serious you are and how funny you can be. I like the little crease you get between your eyebrows when you’re worried.” That very crease furrowed Jude’s brow now, and fondness bloomed in Anton’s chest. “You surprise me, all the time, and sometimes I think I’d do anything, absolutely anything, to make you smile. And when we kissed I finally admitted it to myself. What you made me realize that day on the lighthouse.”

  Jude had climbed up there with him. He’d faced down Anton’s worst nightmare. He hadn’t even hesitated. No one had ever done that for him before.

  “I’ve been running for a long, long time,” Anton said, touching his thumb to Jude’s brow. “And you were the first thing that ever made me want to stay.”

  “Oh,” Jude said faintly.

  “Jude,” Anton said, taking Jude’s face between his hands, thumbs against his temples.

  Jude leaned into him, closing the space between them until it disappeared completely. They kissed again, sweet and unhurried, Jude’s hand a warm anchor on Anton’s back.

  “Your Grace called out to me,” he murmured against Anton’s cheek. “I found you.”

  Anton dipped to kiss his throat, beneath his jaw.

  “That means,” Jude said, brushing their lips together again, “I get to keep you.”

  Trembling, Anton shucked Jude’s jacket off and untied the laces on his shirt until the soft fabric fell open, baring his chest. He felt Jude hold his breath as Anton pressed his palms there, fingers beginning to trace a familiar pattern over his collar.

  The white Godfire scars stood out against his tan skin. Anton brushed his hand over one and Jude reached out to still his wrist. There was no shame in his eyes, just hunger, and something too tender to name. Anton leaned down, touching his lips to one thin, white scar that ran across Jude’s collarbone. He offered the kiss like an apology, a benediction.

  Jude brought Anton’s wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss to his racing pulse, his eyes dark with the same intensity they’d held when he had promised to protect him. Anton caught Jude’s hand, curling his thumb over one knuckle.

  Whatever waited for them in Behezda, whatever nightmare crept in the edges of Anton’s mind, he could face it. As long as Jude was with him. And in each touch and breath and kiss Anton found the thing that had eluded him his whole life.

  Hope.

  45

  JUDE

  JUDE WOKE TO THE SIGHT OF AN UNTOUCHED BED ACROSS THE ROOM AND A tuft of straw-blond hair sticking up from the blankets beside him.

  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling in stunned silence. He’d kissed Anton. Had, in fact, kissed him until the early hours of the morning, stopping only when sleep started to claim them both.

  His chest warmed to think of it, but fear lurked at the edges of his mind. Despite Anton’s assurances last night, Jude could not forget what had happened the last time he’d put his heart in someone else’s hands.

  “Stop thinking.” Anton emerged from the blankets.

  Jude had seen him in the morning before but not quite like this. He was mussed and warm from sleep, his dark eyes blinking. The sight of him made the warmth in Jude’s chest spread to his toes. “What should I do instead?”

  Anton gently combed his fingers through Jude’s hair, pushing it off his forehead. “I have some ideas.”

  The upturned corner of his mouth was begging to be kissed, so Jude did, pressing his thumb into the soft dip of Anton’s waist where he had dreamed of touching him since the first night they’d met.

  “Jude,” Anton murmured. “Jude.”

  It was impossible that he could have this, after wanting it for so long. That he could have Anton warm beneath his hands, his pulse trembling against Jude’s lips. That anything this precious could be his.

  “We’re going to miss our train.”

  Jude froze, his hand halfway up Anton’s shirt. “What?”

  “The train,” Anton said, pushing himself up on one elbow. “To Behezda. We need to get going if we want to catch it.”

  He rolled off the bed, out of reach, and started tugging on his clothes while Jude stared, heat creeping up his neck. Reluctantly, he scooped his shirt off the floor and pulled it on and then reached for his boots.

  At the train station, Anton volunteered to get their tickets, and then led Jude to the sleeper cars to board. Jude stowed their luggage in a compartment and then entered the private room that Anton had secured with the money the Nameless Woman had given them. There was a small table with a lamp on it, two chairs, and one bed that folded down from the wall.

  One bed.

  Jude looked at Anton.

  “This was the only room they had,” Anton said innocently.

  An image from the night before appeared in Jude’s head—Anton curled in Jude’s arms, sha
dowed by the dying fire as he tilted his head up for one last kiss before he fell asleep. Jude, helpless to do anything but oblige.

  “I’m sure it was,” Jude said, smiling as he backed Anton into the room and kissed him to drown out the thought of what came next.

  They disembarked the train at Behezda station the next afternoon. Like everything else in Behezda, the train station was carved out of the red rock face of the surrounding canyon. They walked beneath the shadow of the red cliffs above and out into the city square, a cobblestone plaza centered around a dribbling fountain, bordered by arched gates.

  “Are you sure you don’t need a scrying pool to use your Grace?” Jude asked, steering Anton into a side alley.

  “I’m sure,” Anton replied. He held the Relic of Sight in his hands and closed his eyes.

  Jude had only seen Anton scry once before. At the lake, it had seemed like Anton had nearly been overwhelmed by his power, and it had taken all of Jude’s strength to stop himself from grabbing Anton’s hand and leading him out of that place.

  Now, he just watched as Anton clutched the Stone, his lips forming wordless shapes. He was trembling, his face creased with pain. Abruptly, he jerked backward, dropping the Stone and stumbling back against the wall. Jude lunged toward him, catching him by the elbow.

  “What is it?” Jude asked, steadying him.

  Anton’s eyes blinked open, his breath coming in quick puffs. “Sorry. It’s . . . I felt the Chalice. But I also felt something else.”

  “Are you all right?” He placed a hand on Anton’s back to soothe him.

  Anton gulped in another deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I don’t know. The Stone’s power is . . . overwhelming.”

  Jude slipped Anton’s hand in his and thought of the promise he’d made him, and with sudden clarity understood what it meant to Anton. That even without his Grace, without his power, he could still protect him. “I’ll be right here, no matter what. Even if I have to dive into your nightmares after you.”

  Anton looked up at him with a shaky smile. Taking another breath, he curled his hand around the Stone again. It glowed softly against his palm as he closed his eyes, his whole body wracked with tension. Jude could only watch, completely helpless. They needed to do this, he reminded himself. They needed to find the other Relics. They needed to repair the seal on the Red Gate. It was only now, watching Anton, that Jude considered what this impossible task might cost him. Stopping the Age of Darkness could cost Anton his life.

  With a sharp cry, Anton collapsed to the ground. The Stone pulsed with faint light against his collar.

  “I saw it,” Anton gasped as Jude knelt beside him. “I know where the Chalice is. But . . . it’s impossible.”

  “What?”

  Anton’s dark eyes met his. There was horror in them, a deep terror that Jude felt in his bones.

  “It’s my brother,” Anton said. “Illya has the Chalice.”

  46

  EPHYRA

  THEY GAVE HER FIVE DAYS TO DECIDE.

  On the fifth day, the guard arrived. He was young, maybe even younger than her, with a baby face and eyes that had never seen violence.

  “I’ll face them,” she said.

  They didn’t have prisons in Behezda. What they had was the amphitheater. They told her she had a choice. Face her crimes, or be sold into servitude without a trial.

  She waited her turn in the amphitheater. There were other criminals who went before her—some that, if she were to meet them as the Pale Hand, she likely would have killed.

  The accused stood in the middle of the pit, their hands bound to a pole behind them. In front of the pole was a table. On the table was a single knife.

  Those that the accused had wronged could approach, one by one, and demand their retribution for what had been done to them. A finger. An arm. An eye. Sometimes they simply scarred their face, as a warning to the public of what the accused had done. And sometimes—sometimes they laid down the knife.

  Mercy.

  “You’re going to have to face them,” the guard said. “Everyone you wronged.”

  “That’s going to be difficult,” Ephyra replied coolly, “as they’re all dead.”

  He shoved her forward roughly.

  “Mercy,” the woman at the edge of the pit claimed as they walked Ephyra to the center, “is not forgiveness. It is for those who were wronged to give, or not.”

  They tied Ephyra to the pole.

  “The woman you see before you is known as the Pale Hand,” the woman went on. “She has killed countless in this city and others. She has used the Grace of Blood—the Grace of our founders—to do it.”

  “She doesn’t deserve mercy!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  The woman cut a hand through the air to silence them. “Deserve? Mercy cannot be deserved. It cannot be earned. Only given. Who will give it to her?”

  Silence fell over the crowd.

  “Who has been wronged by her?”

  No one’s going to stand up, Ephyra thought. If no one came, would they let her go? Or would they kill her?

  Someone emerged from the crowd.

  “I have,” said a voice. The voice was familiar, but it couldn’t possibly belong to the person she thought it did.

  Because that person was dead.

  This was just a trick, like how she’d heard Beru’s voice in the tomb of the Sacrificed Queen.

  And yet somehow, impossibly, Hector Navarro was striding toward her. He stopped by the table and picked up the knife. Gripping it in his hand, he locked eyes with her.

  Ephyra could only stare at this specter of her greatest sin as it stared back at her.

  “The Pale Hand killed my family,” the specter said. “Took everything from me. And then she . . . she tried to take my life.”

  He stepped up to Ephyra, the knife flashing in his hand.

  “For that,” he said, “there is no forgiveness.”

  He raised the knife. Could a hallucination kill her?

  The knife swung down and Ephyra squeezed her eyes shut. But the blade did not pierce her skin. Instead, she felt the ropes around her wrists give and fall away. A voice next to her ear whispered, “Beru needs your help.”

  Ephyra’s eyes flew open. “Is . . . is this my punishment?”

  His brows furrowed. “What?”

  Ephyra slumped against the pole and looked away. “Beru’s dead. So are you.”

  “Beru’s alive,” he said. “And I’m—you know what? We don’t have time for this.”

  He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the pole. Ephyra recoiled.

  “You can’t . . . you can’t touch me.” She was dreaming. This was all a dream and she’d wake up on the floor of that dingy cell, alone. Waiting for her punishment.

  “You murdered me, so I think me grabbing your arm is a burden you’ll have to bear,” he replied drily.

  “This isn’t real,” she said. “You’re not real. You’re dead.”

  “Not anymore,” Hector replied. The crowd roared in Ephyra’s ears.

  Four members of the City Watch surrounded them. “This is not how mercy is given. Either you take retribution or you leave her.”

  Hector glanced quickly at Ephyra, shoving her behind him before turning to face the City Watch. Behind his back, he tossed the knife. Ephyra lunged to catch it.

  The City Watch rushed at them. Hector kept his sword sheathed, using only his fists to defend them, but even Ephyra could see it would be more than enough. He moved so quickly she could barely parse his movements, dodging, blocking, sweeping, maintaining his position between Ephyra and the City Watch. Ephyra backed up, brandishing the knife, looking for any other attackers.

  A moment later, Hector was back at her side, the members of the City Watch sprawled on the ground around him. The crowd above surged.

  Ephyra stared at Hector. “Are you actually rescuing me right now?”

  “Looks like it,” Hector replied. In the distance, Ephyra saw more of the City Watch adv
ancing from the edges of the pit. Hector grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the tunnel that would lead them out of the arena.

  More members of the City Watch choked the exit of the tunnel. But the narrow quarters gave Hector an advantage—they were forced to face him one at a time.

  In a flash, Hector had the first two on the ground, and a third pinned against the tunnel wall.

  “Go!” he cried, heaving the City Watchman into the others so they were forced to retreat.

  Ephyra didn’t hesitate. She charged through the fray, ducking and sliding out of reach of the Watch, slashing their outstretched arms with her knife when she could not avoid them.

  She emerged out into the sunlight, Hector at her heels.

  They raced away from the arena, the shouts of the City Watch in their ears, and into the narrow, cobbled streets. They zagged down streets and alleys, up narrow stairways and through crumbling archways, losing whoever was left on their tail. Ducking into another alley, Ephyra suddenly pulled up short, grabbing Hector and shoving him against the wall, her hand at his throat.

  “Were you lying in there?”

  His eyes were wide with fear and she wondered, with some satisfaction, whether he was thinking about the last time they’d come face-to-face.

  “Were you lying? About Beru?”

  “She’s alive,” Hector said. “I swear she’s alive.”

  She let go of his throat but kept him pinned, searching his face for the lie. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Beru was alive. She was alive. Ephyra felt even more like she was in a dream. Had the Daughters lied to her? Was Hector lying to her now?

  “The Daughters of Mercy told me she was dead.”

  “The Daughters of Mercy tried to kill us,” he said, breathing hard. “Abandoned us in the desert. But we lived.”

  Ephyra turned, covering her face with her hands. Beru. Alive.

  “How are you alive?” she asked. “I killed you.”

  “Someone brought me back,” Hector replied. “I don’t know who.”

  There was only one other person Ephyra knew of who could raise the dead.